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Harry should have been home already, but he was working late—again—which was why he was there, at nearly ten, when they brought Draco Malfoy in.
He liked working late. The main lighting charms were turned off, leaving only his desk lamp and the vaguely blue glow of the emergency illumination. No one else was in the office; he could work without anyone popping in to ask unimportant questions, to cajole him into coming to the canteen for coffee, or to ask for an update on the report he was scheduled to present at the staff meeting in an hour. He could put his feet on the desk without anyone looking at him askance. This isn’t the 1990s anymore, Harry. We don’t sit around with eye patches and our boots on our paperwork like a bunch of pirates.
Also, he liked his cubicle. He liked its three flimsy walls and the pictures tacked all over them—Ron and Hermione and the kids, Charlie grinning over the neck of a sedated dragon, Teddy waving from a broom. He felt at home here. Certainly more at home than he did at Grimmauld Place. That’s because you don’t have anyone to go home to, Hermione told him.
She didn’t understand. Not everyone needed a partner and kids to feel fulfilled.
Harry liked his job. He liked solving problems and closing cases and working late on most nights of the week because it suited him. He’d made deputy head auror by age 25, and with any luck—that is, if Robards would ever retire or be promoted to head of DMLE—he’d make head auror by 30. His life was anchored by comfortable routine, but he saw enough action to keep it interesting. He wasn’t stressed; he wasn’t bored.
Though sometimes he wished he had someone to go to the chippy with after leaving the office.
He flipped the page of the report on his lap. His right foot was falling asleep on the desk. He shuffled his legs, freeing it and hooking it over his left ankle. Took a sip of his cooling coffee. A bite from his cheese and pickle sandwich.
He could have been eating roast beef at the Granger-Weasley’s instead of the sandwich he’d bought for lunch but hadn’t touched. When Harry had turned down their invitation yesterday, Hermione had looked more troubled than disappointed. “I’m just worried for you, Harry. Are you sure everything is all right? It feels like you’re closing off.”
“Hermione, you’re the one who suggested I take the occlumency training,” he’d joked.
But she hadn’t smiled. She furrowed her brow and hugged her arms to her chest. “We’re here for you. Don’t stay locked up forever. It’s not good.”
The concern in her eyes caused his stomach to do a weird twisty thing. He made himself smile. “I’m fine, Hermione. My job is good. I've not got any psychopathic wizards on my tail. I’m happy; there’s nothing to say.”
In the quiet office, he flipped another page of the report.
Besides, who had time to worry about a lack of a social life when you were eyeballs-deep in investigating an illegal potion ring?
Harry had been heading up this investigation for three months. With every week that passed—with every day—another witch or wizard showed up in St Mungo’s.
The symptoms were never the same. Different effects, different potions. A witch whose skin burned anyone who touched it. Another who’d been irreversibly blinded. A wizard who could not stop laughing. But the lab had traced nearly all of the potions to the same brewer. Something to do with equipment and adulterants.
A lot of good it did Harry. Three months and almost no lead. They’d tracked dealers and found them all obliviated. Staged operations on ultimately empty warehouses. Attempted to place undercover agents; no success.
Lately, they’d begun to post disillusioned aurors outside every suspected illegal brewery location. It was a 24-hour operation, with the aurors taking shifts. A resource-intensive endeavor, and not guaranteed to yield results. At least, not before resources dried up or the head of the DMLE questioned the success of the tactic.
The ordinary magical patrol supplied most of the personnel for the surveillance, but since the auror ranks were smaller, even the interoffice collaboration didn’t ease the strain on their department. Cases were piling up. The few auror teams on unrelated investigations were beginning to grumble about their workloads.
This investigation needed to be wrapped up yesterday. Unfortunately, Harry was not going to solve it at half past nine at night.
He lowered his numb legs and dropped the report into a drawer. He’d have to tackle that in the morning. Right now, his vision was too blurred to make anything of the words.
The only question remained: stop by the fish and chip shop on the way home—he was tiring of it, but it was open late—or stop by Ron and Hermione’s with a hangdog expression? Conveniently for him, they nearly always kept leftovers, a fact which Harry tried not to look at too closely. Ron insisted Harry was always welcome over, but Harry had caught them on their way to bed more than once, and not always to sleep, by the expressions on their flushed faces. He could call ahead like a reasonable person, but then, he honestly didn’t feel like interacting with anyone right now. The cheese and Branston sat wrong in his stomach. Honestly, he wanted to go home, drink a lager, and put something with less…vinegar in himself.
“Auror Potter!”
Harry looked up. A silvery glowing jackrabbit fidgeted in place. Williams. Harry’s heart gave a great, painful beat. Soggy bread and chutney were forgotten.
“We have three of the brewers in the holding cells.”
Before the patronus had vanished, Harry was on his feet. He cursed and patted his pocket for his wand. Williams and his partner, Chesterfield, were on stakeout tonight—at one of the least-likely sites, at that. Alarm and rage coursed through him; they’d had strict orders to call Harry or Robards if they noticed activity. But excitement moved through him, too, propelling him down the hall to the lifts.
“We’re sorry,” Chesterfield said when he appeared in the holding compound. “We would have called, except they were already leaving and—”
“It’s fine. We’ll talk about it later. You said there’s three? No more?”
“Yes, but—”
A grunting from around the corner, a muffled cry of protest. Harry pulled up short.
“Sir—”
Harry surged forward, every nerve alight, because he recognized that voice, even without the clipped consonants and condescending drawl.
Rounding the corner, he came to a stop. Draco Malfoy, face pink, eyes wild, stood rigid and twitching in a body bind.
His gaze met Harry’s. He abruptly ceased struggling. Blood from a split lip smeared his cheek. His black robes were torn at the collar and splattered with grey, as if by a spray of bleach. The regal mouth was frozen in a half snarl, half frown. The eyebrows were drawn together in a way that almost looked startled. But the grey irises were cutting.
Harry looked at Chesterfield. “Where are the other two?”
In that moment, he honestly didn’t care. Screw the other offenders. But he needed a moment to think, needed an excuse to break away from the angry eyes.
Draco Malfoy, in front of him. Draco Malfoy, in the Ministry’s holding cells, caught in a bust on the potion ring they’d been hunting for months.
The last time he’d seen Malfoy was in line at the canteen two weeks ago. Thursday. Harry remembered because the special was meatloaf, when it was normally rosemary chicken, and Malfoy had got into a mild argument with the server over it.
“Lay off, Malfoy. They don’t have your chicken. You can either wait here till next week or pick something else.”
Malfoy sneered. “You’re one to speak, Potter. You’d eat anything they put in front of you.”
“Maybe. If I had no other option and I was hungry. Like I am now. Starve or don’t, but the rest of us would like lunch while they’re still serving.”
The prat scoffed and ordered a salad. Poncy twat.
Harry hadn’t seen him since then, not even the following Thursday, when the rosemary chicken returned to its place on the Daily Special menu. Hadn’t seen him passing in the hall, or across the Atrium, waiting for the lifts.
Malfoy worked some kind of low-level job at the Ministry. Harry had never worked out precisely what his position was. A secretary, he reckoned. Malfoy always had a quill behind his ear, a sheaf of papers in his hands, was always in a hurry—in a graceful, unaffected sort of way. Like he always had something better to be doing, like he couldn’t be bothered with the problems of anyone else around him. Pretentious, even when he was essentially no more than a paper-pusher. But then, once a pretentious prick, always a pretentious prick.
Harry thought it strange that Malfoy hadn't amounted to something...greater with his life. A politician, maybe, or—oh, he didn't know—a smarmy dark artifact smuggler. Not a Ministry errand boy. For all his boasting in school, for all his bluster and preening, Malfoy was an afterthought now—and that was just weird.
It wasn’t like Harry was disappointed for Malfoy. Merlin forbid. Only, he was…surprised, that was all. Surprised, because he knew the intelligence behind those haughty eyes, and Malfoy was… Well, by anyone’s standards, Malfoy was striking. The pointed features somehow suited him in adulthood. The grey eyes and white blond hair were eye-catching and rare. You didn’t forget him, that was for sure.
And anyway. It just surprised Harry. It wasn’t like he was crying into his coffee over thoughts of poor forgotten Malfoy.
That Malfoy was trembling with impotent rage in the grip of an auror-force binding spell.
Williams and Chesterfield must have sent a message to Robards, too. A silvery bull charged into the room. It reared its head and boomed, “Call Potter. We need—”
There was an outraged cry, drawing Harry’s attention away from Robards’ orders.
“Oops,” Williams said with faux innocence, standing over Malfoy’s body, which now lay like a dropped board at his feet. From his place on the floor, Malfoy glared and wailed, his lips locked together by the body bind but still managing to voice his indignation.
“—Malfoy. See what he has to say!”
“Shit,” Harry hissed as Robards’ patronus, having finished its message, dissipated in a burst. He’d missed most of what it’d said. Leveling a glare at Williams, he said, “Pick him up and don’t drop him again. No matter how tempting it is.” To Chesterfield: “Did you hear all of Robards’ message?”
She gave a curt nod. “He wants us to hold Malfoy for questioning.”
Meeting Malfoy’s eyes, Harry said, “Of course.”
***
They brought Malfoy to Interrogation Room Three. Harry ended the binding spell; Malfoy didn’t have his wand, so it wasn’t like he’d get far.
A hard feeling lodged in Harry’s chest like glass. It might have been anger or sharp glee.
Across the table, Malfoy sat with a straight spine. A cup of tea steamed in front of him. He didn’t touch it. He gazed around the room with cool aplomb, as if he hadn’t just been levitated in a full body bind and deposited on the hard chair, as if he hadn’t been dropped on the floor by Williams minutes before that, or caught in a bust.
Now, having recovered from his initial shock, Harry looked at Malfoy closer and noted the anemic pastiness of his skin, the deep creases under his eyes. A vivid bruise spread over his cheek. Harry would have to ask Williams and Chesterfield about that. Other, older-looking bruises mottled his neck. The hard thing in Harry’s chest dug in deeper.
Eventually, Malfoy met Harry’s gaze. Like he’d finally deigned to notice him.
“So,” Harry said. “I’d like to say I’m surprised.”
Malfoy pinched his lips, narrowed his eyes.
“But I guess some people never change, huh, Malfoy?”
Harry folded his hands on the table. His wand pressed against his thigh in its holster. Sometimes he’d leave it on the table next to him, a casual threat and a way to mock the offender; fun, to see who paled at the sight of it, who tried to leap across the table in a wild grab. But those kinds of games would be an insult to Malfoy.
He steepled his thumbs. “I have questions for you, but considering our history, I’m going to give you the chance to talk first. Anything you’d like to tell me?”
Malfoy’s eyes burned hate. Merlin, he looked gaunt. Apparently he’d been missing more than the canteen’s special Thursday chicken.
For a minute, Harry thought Malfoy wouldn’t say anything. But Harry had learned how to apply silence like pressure. Amazing, the leverage he got out of a hard stare. Even Malfoy couldn’t resist. He opened his mouth, and…utter nonsense spilled from his lips. Harry thought he almost made out a word here and there, only for the stream of sounds to dissolve immediately into meaninglessness again.
“The fuck? English, Malfoy.”
Malfoy snapped his mouth shut, squeezed his eyes to slits and spoke again.
Harry listened hard. Occasionally he ran into foreign wizards and witches. He knew enough of French, Russian, Italian, and a few other languages to at least recognize which translation charm he needed. But he shook his head at this.
“Not funny, Malfoy. English, or I’ll start throwing translation charms. And if it takes all night to find the right one, then we’ll be here for breakfast.”
Malfoy let out a great sigh and rolled his eyes heavenward. Then, very slowly, in tones used to explain something to a small child, he spoke more gibberish.
Harry covered his face with his hand. He didn’t care that this exchange was being recorded by charms.
There came a knock at the interrogation room door. Merlin save him. “Yes?” he said, not looking away from Malfoy.
“Sir,” Chesterfield said. “I thought you ought to know…”
A pause, as if she weren’t certain whether to say what she had to say in front of Malfoy. Harry, however, wasn’t going to let him out of his sight. The supercilious shit was up to something.
When Harry didn’t move or comment, she cautiously continued. “When we apprehended him, he was doing the same thing. Williams thought he was fucking with us, but he looked frustrated.”
“Of course he looked frustrated.”
“I mean, I think he might have been trying to tell us something.”
Malfoy’s expression shifted. His eyes gleamed. He nodded.
Harry said, “Are you cursed?”
Malfoy drew himself up, face lighting, but paused. He began to tilt his head, and then he waggled it slowly, neither a nod nor a shake.
“Which is it, Malfoy? Yes, or no.”
Malfoy glanced at the ceiling, perhaps praying for patience. Then he shook his head.
Harry drummed his fingers. “But you can’t talk.”
The pointy features screwed up in consternation. He nodded.
Now thoroughly confused, Harry said, “Can you talk?”
Malfoy shook his head.
Ah. “You can’t talk. Is this a correct statement?”
Widening his eyes, Malfoy nodded, slowly and emphatically.
Right. Fuck.
“Chesterfield? Bring me a parchment and quill, will you?”
“All right.”
But that proved useless. Malfoy’s statement, in his edged handwriting, was just as illegible, all pointy symbols like some forgotten language.
“The fuck,” Harry muttered. He didn’t care that he was unraveling a bit in the middle of an interview, and in front of Malfoy, of all people. He was hungry and tired and beginning to regret the bites of cheese and pickle sandwich.
Malfoy rapped a knuckle against the table. Head in hand, Harry looked at him. Malfoy made a complicated gesture which involved pointing at Harry and pointing at himself, then at both their eyes in a sort of “I’m-watching-you” way. When Harry only stared, Malfoy sighed and spoke nonsense that sounded suspiciously like, “I thought you were more intelligent than this, Potter.” He lifted his hand and made a loose fist and then waved it, as if holding a wand. Then he repeated the movement.
Realization struck Harry. “You want me to use legilimency.”
An immediate, emphatic nod.
“Are you…serious?”
A forceful exhalation, another nod.
It wasn’t well-known information that Harry had become one of the most skilled legilimens in the Ministry. Certainly Malfoy wouldn’t know. But the look in Malfoy’s eyes suggested he wasn’t guessing.
An odd feeling dropped through Harry. Adrenaline and something else. His cheeks warmed.
“Williams. Bring me a consent form.”
He did. Malfoy signed it with an incomprehensible scrawl. Legally, that would do. The two other aurors stood by as witness, and the recording charms captured the action, too. There was no doubt Malfoy had given his willing consent.
Then it was the two of them again, seemingly alone in the room. Williams had offered to stay, just in case Malfoy tried something, like reversing the legilimency. Let him try, Harry thought. A lot had changed since Hogwarts and since the war. Malfoy would be in for a nasty shock.
Anyway. The privacy of the interrogation room was an illusion. Williams and Chesterfield would be watching every twitch they made from the other side of a charmed one-way wall.
“Well, well,” Harry drawled, and Malfoy looked away with a long-suffering expression.
Harry smirked. “I have to say, I never imagined us in this position. I always wondered what went on in that head of yours.”
Malfoy lifted two fingers. At least his nonverbal communication was intact.
Harry grasped his wand. Malfoy stared back, unwavering, but Harry paused.
One pale eyebrow lifted.
At that, Harry made the sharp wand movement. “Legilimens.”
It hadn’t been easy, at first. Snape’s abuse and being tied to Voldemort’s mind had made deep, painful impressions on Harry. He’d only begun the legilimency training program at Hermione’s suggestion—her insistence, really. She’d reckoned it was the only way he’d ever get over the “magi-psychological trauma” of those experiences. It would make him a stronger auror, she said. It was the only way dark wizards could be prevented from taking advantage of his weakness—by him not having one.
Mostly, he’d begun so she would stop bothering him about it. Then, he’d kept on out of sheer stubbornness. It took months to unlearn what he thought he knew about mind magic. More, to build up his occlumency. By the time he began to learn legilimency in earnest, his mind was a fortress. He liked it. He loved it. He reveled in the sense of power; it was the first time he’d ever felt completely in control of himself, and by extension, the world around him. He could relax on pub nights without worrying about his emotions scrawling across his face. He hid boredom during staff meetings. Smirked at the wizards and witches who tried to befuddle him with a look.
In the span of two years, he’d become the auror anyone in the department called when they needed a legilimens.
“He’s a scalpel,” he’d heard Robards growl, once. A high compliment.
With Malfoy, it wasn’t hard at all. Even though Malfoy had asked, even though he’d given permission, Harry expected resistance—there was always resistance—but Malfoy was waiting for him, and he slipped inside as though through an open door.
Then Malfoy was all around him. His posh tones, saturated with scorn and a curious relief. Thank fuck, he said, as articulate as ever. I knew you were thick, Potter, but even I was starting to worry.
Harry felt the words as much as heard them. Crisp and lyrical and with complex overtones he couldn’t begin to identify. Malfoy was relieved, and that surprised Harry. The cool clarity of it, the soothing rush.
Listen, it will be easiest if I just— And with that, Malfoy pressed a collection of thoughts and memories towards Harry.
Harry balked; for an instant, he thought the implausible was happening, that he’d overestimated his own ability. He sensed a flash of consternation, a feeling that came with such an impression of Malfoy rolling his eyes that Harry could practically see it, and then the tight packet of memories opened like a flower, petals all coming apart and surrounding Harry.
He saw—
The Ministry. A briefing with a faceless figure in dark robes. Malfoy searching through a stack of books in a room with no windows. A file in Robard’s curt handwriting.
Shacklebolt: “…your expertise in potions…your reputation…”
“I’m glad I can come in useful.” Malfoy’s voice, dripping irony.
The pieces came together, and the revelation shook him. You’re an Unspeakable.
Clever deduction, Deputy.
Fuck off. Is that why you can’t—
I’m an Unspeakable, not someone who can’t speak.
The last of the memories played out, and Harry understood.
Malfoy, an Unspeakable who’d gone undercover to help suss out the potion ring. More departments than just the DMLE were involved; this news itself shocked Harry. The Ministry’s involvement in the investigation went deeper than he’d known.
But they found you out, Harry thought. And—Merlin—it was a potion. That’s why you can’t talk.
Ah, I am so relieved. Your ability to grasp facts handed to you on a plate remains intact. Thank Salazar.
Harry’s mind spun.
Great, now that we have that out of the way... Malfoy thought. The words slid through Harry’s own thoughts and the flurry of memories surrounding him: The Department of Mysteries, the bitter taste of the curse-potion, the cold bite of air outside the brewery.
Harry could barely sense himself. It was like standing in a storm.
And—
Hold on.
Behind the storm, a locked door.
Malfoy was distracting him from something.
Harry’s own thoughts collected around that realization and filed into a blade that he used to cut through.
Malfoy squawked his indignation, an echo of his cry when Williams dropped him to the floor. Then Harry met the resistance he’d first expected from Malfoy.
Ah. Harry hadn’t experienced resistance before this because Malfoy had been feeding him lies. Of course. He wasn’t an Unspeakable—how had Harry believed that?—but he was a gifted occlumens.
Harry scraped along the wall Malfoy presented, and maybe if Harry were someone else, it would have deflected him. But Harry had known Malfoy almost his entire life, had studied him, fought him.
He found the chink and slid inside, knife-smooth.
Pain.
For an instant, Harry thought it was part of the occlumency, part of Malfoy’s defenses. Then the feeling pulsed and congealed, like an explosion in reverse—and this wasn’t a defense, this was a memory.
Pain so keen, so deep, that he retched with it, but his stomach was already empty. The air was sour with the stench of vomit and urine. His trousers were soaked, had turned cold and itching. Through the haze, he made out a mewling sound—his own.
The men took turns with curses, with kicks. They were playing with him now. And he was bawling. Bawling, like a child, and begging. A little part of his mind stood aside, watching with revulsion.
Coward. Always a coward.
Some of the curses were schoolboy hexes. He fell to his knees and spluttered slugs. And when he was done with that, when he was coughing and crying, his tears ran as lemon juice, eyes stinging harder as he wept, weeping more as they stung.
“Kill me. Just kill me.”
And that little part of himself that watched it all, coolly, calmly, thought, You deserve this.
So, he didn’t struggle. Not that it would have made a difference. He took the bare fists and the crucio and the peppering of stinging hexes and the transfigurations into a pig, a snake, a chair. They reduced him to splinters.
They put him together again. For fun.
Then they used him to test some of their potions.
They liked the gibberish potion. That was a good one. They added the ingredient that would make it permanent. Nice, that he couldn’t talk back. Couldn’t cast spells, wandless and wordless.
Fitting, wasn’t it, for the Unspeakable snake.
Merlin. Malfoy—
And then Harry was being ripped from the memory, from the private part of Malfoy’s mind, and he let it happen.
Seen enough? Malfoy sneered before he threw Harry from him.
Yes. Merlin, yes. Too much.
The cool, stale air of the interrogation room washed around Harry. He half-turned, half-toppled from his chair. Landed on his knees and retched.
It wasn’t a moment before Chesterfield and Williams were there, shouting warnings to Malfoy, putting an arm around Harry’s shoulders.
“Get Robards,” Harry rasped.
***
Harry faced disciplinary action. The Unspeakables didn’t take kindly to the maltreatment of their own. Not that Harry could have known Malfoy was an Unspeakable. Robards argued this fact, argued that it was stupid to have kept the knowledge from Harry in the first place. It was irresponsible and reckless, and if Robards had been able to tell Harry as he’d originally argued, then they wouldn’t be in this predicament now.
There was a discussion about obliviation, but—perhaps fortunately, perhaps unfortunately—they decided against this. Harry was present for one of the meetings. Robards used words like “bullshit” and “imbeciles.” They still had a case to solve, and Harry was still the lead. Malfoy had information they needed. And so help him, if he had to get the minister involved in this mess, he would, because the Ministry had already spent enough time and money on this case, and they couldn’t afford any more setbacks.
So Harry kept his memories and his knowledge, though he wasn’t allowed to share this information with the rest of his team. Which frustrated him, because it was important for the investigation; he’d be continuing with his legs hobbled. He hated the lies.
As it was, Williams and Chesterfield had been confused enough about Harry’s sudden insistence that they lay off Malfoy's binding spells, even more confused when Harry demanded to know if Malfoy had been apprehended with a wand (he hadn’t), and absolutely flummoxed when Robards stormed in and escorted Malfoy away from the Ministry—sans incarcerous.
They only knew that Harry had overstepped with his legilimency somehow and that orders hadn’t been followed as they should have.
Harry insisted on taking the full brunt. After all, he had been the acting authority in the situation. Two weeks’ suspension and a flaying by Robards, who was already trying to run an office that was overwhelmed and understaffed. This gave Harry a lot of time to sit at home and think about that night in the Ministry and how he’d misinterpreted Robards’ orders, which had been to question Malfoy, not interrogate him—and certainly not to break his occlumency walls.
The first night after Malfoy’s interrogation, Harry woke to terrible nightmares.
Hermione and Ron asked him to come by. He declined. He couldn’t meet Hermione’s eyes through the floo.
Mostly, Harry lay on the sofa or in bed, not sleeping, not awake, half-reliving Malfoy’s memories of torture at the hands of the potioneers and his own of Malfoy sitting exhausted and gaunt but so proud at the other side of the interrogation room table.
He wandered into the kitchen but couldn’t eat. An agitated energy slid between his flesh and bone. Harry felt like he’d separate.
He walked up the stairs to his bedroom, stood in the doorway staring at the rumpled covers on his bed, then turned and walked down again.
He sat in front of the fire, staring into the flames. The jar of floo powder rested a few feet away. He never reached for it.
One day, while he sat there, the floo burst to life and he jumped half out of his skin.
Robards’ face appeared in flames gone green. “Potter,” he said severely, as if reprimanding him for conveniently being there when he called. “They reversed the potion.”
He went on to tell Harry that the Unspeakables had already taken Malfoy’s report prior to this via legilimency, but Malfoy was now giving his verbal statement as a formality.
Robards disappeared directly after delivering this news.
Harry wondered why Robards had bothered. It wasn’t like Harry would participate in the interview, and he wouldn’t have anything to do with the case for another week. Even then, he wouldn’t be allowed to interact with Malfoy—of that, he was sure. Robards must have called to update Harry for nothing but the sake of it, and maybe to flout the Unspeakables. Harry didn’t know if this made him feel better or worse.
The floo activated again later that night. This time, Harry was passed out on the sofa with a throw pulled over him when the flames exploded nearly out of the fireplace, and Hermione stepped out, scowling and with her mouth set in a determined line.
“Up, Harry,” she said, fists on her hips, and he could only blink and gawp as she clenched his wrist, all but hauling him into the kitchen.
She dropped her bag onto the table. Harry blanched as she pulled several potion bottles from inside and plonked them down.
“Drink this,” she said, indicating a blue glass vial. The label indicated it was a calming draught, but even so, his heart raced. Hermione glared. He had no reason and no strength to protest. He took it.
That was enough to settle his nerves and his stomach, and Hermione practically force-fed him soup and bread and his favorite cheese. She didn’t ask him what was wrong, only sat by until he’d finished the meal and then escorted him to bed and pressed another potion on him, a draught of dreamless sleep.
Harry had his first night of uninterrupted sleep in a week, and when he woke, he knew what he had to do.
***
Malfoy lived in a terraced house in Chiswick. Harry wasn’t sure what to make of the scene as he walked up the brick-paved pathway past benches, a trimmed lawn, and topiary. A fountain burbled at the center of the front garden. One slender tree stood before each door. The location both surprised him and didn’t. The neatness reminded him of Malfoy Manor’s tidy grounds. It was, however, distinctly muggle.
Harry stopped in front of Malfoy’s home. It looked exactly like the others in the row with its tan brick face, white-trimmed windows, and iron-grey door.
The only unique feature was a basket of flowers hung next to the front window. White daffodils with yellow centers like small suns.
Harry hesitated. He knew he was nervous because his mouth was dry. His occlumency walls had been shattered since the night with Malfoy. He took a moment to reinforce them, but then, that wasn’t the point here, was it.
He knocked.
A minute passed. Malfoy opened the door, buttoned up in a crisp white shirt.
“Potter. What a pleasant surprise.”
It was a shock to hear those crisp tones aloud. Relief and apprehension moved through him, warm and cool currents.
Harry resisted shoving his hands into his pockets. “Hey, Malfoy. I came to see how you were doing.”
“Perfectly fine, as you can see.”
Harry did. The bruises were healed. Malfoy looked a little less pale, but his face was still thinner than it should have been, the cheeks hollowed, sharpening him. Harry remembered the blows to his gut, the sensation of splintering.
“I also came to apologize.”
Malfoy crossed his arms. “How magnanimous of you.”
A sweat broke on Harry’s brow. “Yeah. Well. Listen.” He broke off. Looked around. “May I come in?”
Malfoy regarded him for a long moment. “I don’t know. Planning to barge into my private rooms?”
“No.” Harry scowled. “I’m not, thanks. Though I suppose I deserved that.”
Malfoy huffed. “Well, come in, then. An apology from Harry Potter. I should be comfortably sitting for this. If I faint, don’t bother with a rennervate. Nothing good comes out of you pointing a wand at me. You can floo my mother and explain why I’m sprawled on the floor.”
While Malfoy spoke, he led Harry to the sitting room off the entrance hall. He sat neatly on an upholstered chair and placed his hands on his knees.
That was it. His monologue ended. Harry tried to decide whether the invitation to sit was implicit or not forthcoming.
He sat in the chair across from Malfoy.
The sitting room was neat, an airy space with books along one wall, a fireplace that looked like it was never used, and a large painting of a pastoral scene above the hearth. A grandfather clock ticked in the corner.
“Right,” Harry said. “That was wrong of me, what I did.”
Malfoy raised an eyebrow.
That inexplicably angered Harry. “Well, what was I supposed to think? Of course I thought you were lying. You were a suspect.”
“In fact, I was not.”
“Yeah. Well.” Harry looked away. Felt stirrings of distress at how close to the surface his emotions were. “Do you have to make this harder than it already is?”
“No,” Malfoy said, while his tone implied, Though I will.
Harry sighed. Realized he was fidgeting and stilled his hands. “You’re right. And I’ve received a proper bollocking about it already, not like you’d care.”
“Not particularly.”
“But I thought,” Harry pushed on, “that I could make it up, balance the scales a bit. Thought maybe…you could perform legilimency on me.”
Malfoy stared. Then scoffed. “What, you think you’ll just balance things out by offering me to do legilimency on you? Besides the fact that it’s an utterly rubbish idea, it’s beside the point. I didn’t have a choice.”
“You’re right. It’s not the same. But it’s the closest thing I can think of to make this right.”
“Harry Potter and his sense of righteousness. You can’t stand to have something weighing on your conscience. Well, you’ll have to live with this one, won’t you?”
Harry stared back into the cold eyes. Anger stirred in him, but it was muffled by the sense that he utterly deserved this. He pressed his hands to the armrests, readying to stand. “All right. Well, I tried, didn’t I?”
Malfoy sneered. “Yes, you did.” Then he raised his wand, stabbed it towards Harry. “Legilimens.”
The fierceness of the invasion swept Harry off his metaphorical feet. Malfoy flowed around his weakened occlumency walls, washed over them like a tidal wave, and then Malfoy was in every part of him, completely; Harry was drowning in him.
Harry scrabbled for a moment, fingers scraping for purchase as the riptide of Malfoy’s thoughts dragged him out and out.
Yes, you should have stayed home, Potter, Malfoy said. He scanned Harry’s immediate thoughts: Harry’s regret, which he inspected and then cast aside without a flicker of emotion. More embarrassing was Harry’s state of being over the last week, the worry and the sleeplessness. Serves you right, came Malfoy’s answering thought.
Harry thrashed, trying to throw Malfoy, but it was like a fish struggling against the ocean around it.
Malfoy pushed forward. He rummaged for Harry’s dirtiest secrets, uncovered them with alarming ease. Harry pounding down an alley against orders, wand tight in his hand. Standing over a cowering wizard at the end of the alley, air reeking of burnt hair. Ron pushing him back against the wall, breathing hard. “Mate, what are you doing?” Robards in the office, slamming a file against the desk. “Screw your head on straight, Potter.”
Harry bucked wildly.
What’s this, Potter?
Harry and Ginny snarling over the kitchen table. “Harry, where the hell have you been? It’s one in the morning.”
Him bracketing Ginny’s body, his dick soft, Ginny frustrated and furious. “Ginny, it’s not—”
Oh, it’s not, Malfoy agreed, smug. He tried to slither deeper into that memory, but Harry jerked hard and Malfoy tore away. Laughing, the bastard.
Trouble in paradise, he crooned.
Fuck off.
Harry gathered his strength to a point and shoved Malfoy. He was nearly successful—he felt the other man’s grasp weaken—then Malfoy turned liquid and rippled around him, came together again, slippery as an eel.
Uh-uh, Malfoy said.
Then he squeezed into the recesses of Harry’s mind as if looking for something. As if Harry’s shame and humiliation weren’t enough, and he needed to pry into the places even Harry rarely visited, while Harry writhed and tore at him and gasped.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
Here: the corner of Harry’s memory that still lived in the cupboard under the stairs. Harry lost the energy to fight him, too overwhelmed to push him away. A different horror filled him now. Here was the deepest, smallest part of himself.
Malfoy paused to watch ten-year-old Harry flinch awake to the pounding of Uncle Vernon’s fist on the little door. He jolted upright into a spider web, yelped as the spider scuttled over his cheek. Shrunk back as the door screeched open and Uncle Vernon screamed at him for talking back. Spittle flew.
Harry, miserable and helpless, could only witness it along with Malfoy.
But Malfoy didn’t sneer. He didn’t plunge into the other small, painful memories waiting behind the fragile dam: those of his life with the Dursleys, the nightmares of Voldemort, the aching nights spent staring into the Mirror of Erised. Instead, he backed away quietly and closed the door on that part of Harry’s mind.
Softly—until he turned like a shark, still hunting, sleek and determined. He darted forward, and then he was watching Harry meet Malfoy in Madam Malkin’s. He examined Harry’s vague contempt for 11-year-old Malfoy.
I was a little snot, wasn’t I?
Harry didn’t have time to feel surprise before Malfoy was rifling through Harry’s other memories of him. And this shouldn’t have surprised Harry; Malfoy had always been self-absorbed.
Merlin, you really were stupid, weren’t you? Malfoy remarked as he watched Harry fall apart after casting sectumsempra, lacerated by guilt as keen as the curse.
Fuck— You— Malfoy.
Well, Potter. Since you ask so— What’s this?
Malfoy came up against the last wall, the only one Harry had managed to keep intact because he’d kept it reinforced under layers and layers of protection for so long.
Harry wrenched and snapped like an animal, concentrated his will and threw himself at Malfoy. But again, Malfoy dispersed before reforming, whisper-thin but unbreakable, a rapier, a pick, a crowbar. He stabbed inward, leaned hard.
And Harry was bumping into Malfoy at the Ministry on the way to the lifts. Except he wasn’t bumping into him. He’d memorized Malfoy’s patterns. He put himself in a position to cross paths. He turned down lunch with his colleagues in order to visit the canteen when Malfoy took his break. Because Malfoy was like clockwork. Like clockwork, but with enough unexpected behavior to keep Harry on his toes. To hook Harry’s interest.
Harry was watching Malfoy at a Ministry party. Malfoy looked fey under the soft glow of the lighting charms. Pale, with eyes the grey of polished rock. A civilized predator in his sharp robes. Dangerous but contained, tamed.
Harry was following Malfoy. Not too far, not stalking him. This was a Ministry event. Malfoy was stepping outside. And so what if Harry needed some air at the same time, and Malfoy was in his line of sight, the silhouette of his shoulders against the fairy lights in the garden?
No, Harry thought, desperately.
But Malfoy was inside now, nothing to stop him, and he moved deeper.
Harry lay on the sofa in the drawing room, in his robes but with the buttons undone, hand around his erection. His leg was rucked up, his other hand reaching to slip fingers into his arse, and he was thinking— Malfoy’s mouth around his cock, his slender, clever digits pushing into Harry, the most intimate part of him. Taking him apart, breaking him into elemental pieces, as he did in all of Harry’s fantasies.
All of Harry’s fantasies. Dozens of them—hundreds—a shivering heat haze under Harry’s most profound occlumency walls.
And not only fantasies, but the day-to-day thoughts. Of Malfoy, rushing about the Ministry, always busy and aloof and perfectly kempt. Of what Malfoy would have to say about Harry’s auror colleague, a social climber with the tact of a niffler. Of what he would make of the gala Harry was forced to attend; surely he’d have something to say about the hostess mixing champagne and gin in the larder.
And Harry’s tenderest secrets: his obsession with the peek of skin above the cuffs of Malfoy’s robes, the wrists delicate and blue-veined. The way Malfoy’s jeers warmed his stomach in a way that had nothing to do with anger.
Malfoy pulled out of him, and Harry was on the chair in the sitting room once more, gasping and inside out and emptied. He put his head in his hands. There was a long silence marked only by Malfoy’s harsh breathing and the ticking of the grandfather clock.
Harry had never been so thoroughly mortified in his life. Even when he lived with the Dursleys, he’d never felt so completely squashed. He was nauseous and he hated Malfoy, except he couldn’t hate Malfoy.
The worst thing was, Harry was completely turned on, painfully hard.
Silence, still. Harry knew he needed to move, needed to go. He was dismayed to realize his face was wet with tears.
Sod it. He scrubbed his face, whirled, paced for the entrance.
Footsteps behind him. Malfoy grabbed his arm. Harry shook it hard, but the grip tightened.
“Harry. Wait.” Malfoy was out of breath and tousled.
“I think we’re even now,” Harry said, coldly, looking over his shoulder.
Malfoy maintained his vice-like grip. He gave his head a shake and half-collapsed against the wall. “Stop. Stop for a minute.”
Harry glowered, tears itchy and drying on his face, refusing to break eye contact. Let Malfoy get a good look, if that was what he wanted.
Most painful of all was the fact that he still desired Malfoy. Even now, despite the invasion, longing clawed at him. His walls were down, nothing to contain it. It burned in his body along with the shame, all mixed together so they became the same thing.
Disheveled, mouth gaping, Malfoy was attractive as ever—more so. And Harry burned.
“Let go of me,” he said, firmly.
Malfoy did.
“Well? Is that enough for you, then?”
Slowly, Malfoy shook his head.
Bolder now, Harry turned his body in order to face Malfoy fully. “What do you want, then? What’s enough for you? Want the rest of them? Like to see how I imagined you fucking me?”
Malfoy closed his eyes, covered his face with one hand. Held up the other. “Merlin. Stop.”
Harry couldn’t have said another thing if he’d wanted to. He was strangling on his own fury and humiliation.
Malfoy lowered his hand. “Come back to the sitting room with me. For once in your life, don’t be a stubborn arse.”
“Prick.”
“Don’t be crass, Harry.” Malfoy gave him a smile. Wan but genuine. “Besides, I understand you like a good prick.”
Harry went with him. Maybe it was the lack of malice in Malfoy’s expression. Even the words “don’t be a stubborn arse” had been spoken in an exhausted tone, almost plaintive. Harry, he’d called him.
Harry sat down again, clasping his hands between his knees, hoping to hide the fine tremble. He was weak from the adrenaline rush and the mental battle.
Malfoy sat at the edge of his own seat, hands folded and thumbs twirling, staring at Harry. It was off-putting.
Abruptly: “I am going into the kitchen for a minute. If I leave you there, will you stay? Don’t run off in a fit.”
Bemused, Harry nodded. Malfoy went away. Clean bright sunlight filled the space. The decorative moulding was almost invisible against the white of the wall in the bright light. It was a newer building, but made to look older, a pretentiousness that fit Malfoy.
Malfoy returned with a small tray. He placed a steaming mug on the little side table next to Harry, along with a plate of shortbread biscuits, then sat down with his own.
“Hot chocolate?” Harry said.
Malfoy shrugged.
Harry stared into the mug at the fractured reflection there. “Malfoy—” He swallowed dryly.
“Just drink it, Potter. There’s nothing in it but cocoa, milk, and sugar. I thought you could at least appreciate that. You look like death warmed over. Without the warmth.”
Harry grimaced but took a drink. It recalled the impression of being on the train to school, Lupin leaning close, handing him chocolate. Especially with his walls down, the memory scraped him raw. He took another drink in order to distract himself. He did not touch the biscuits, but Malfoy didn’t seem to mind, only gave a nod of satisfaction when Harry finished the chocolate and placed the empty mug on the table. Admittedly, he did feel better. He gazed at Malfoy warily.
Malfoy set aside his own mug, which was nearly full. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. It occurred to Harry that Malfoy was nervous.
Malfoy played with a ring on his finger. “I admit I didn’t expect that.”
Harry heaved a sigh. “What did you think you’d find?”
“I have no idea. I don’t…”
Harry stared. “What? Did you think you’d find a secret tally of your faults? That I wanked in the shower to thoughts of cutting you apart?”
Malfoy inspected his thumbnail, shrugged.
Harry huffed. “I don’t, all right. I…” His eyes warmed. Too close. His emotions were too close to the surface. He’d almost forgotten what they were like, bubbling under his skin. But he pursed his lips, pressed on. “When I saw you in the Ministry. When they brought you in…” His voice failed. Malfoy regarded him with an inscrutable expression. Harry scowled. “I was really fucking angry, all right? I thought. Fuck. I thought I was sending you to Azkaban.” He covered his face. Fresh tears tracked down his cheeks. Shit. Why was he still here?
Weirdly, Malfoy didn’t seem to be enjoying this. He looked nearly as uncomfortable as Harry felt. He was as white as Harry remembered him being that night Williams and Chesterfield brought him in. The feeling of betrayal was still thick, the sick anger at Malfoy, at himself.
“What do you want, Malfoy?” Harry asked, voice muffled against his hand.
“What makes you think I want anything? Maybe you weren’t raised with manners, but I was, and I am not about to let you go running off like a tear-streaked maiden from a Regency novel.”
Harry stared at him blandly.
“All right. Fine. Sit there, on the floor. No, don’t question me. See? Look.” He slid from his chair. “Like this. Now, you here. That’s a good boy.”
“Oh, fuck off, Malfoy,” Harry said, as he settled onto the floor nearby.
“Wouldn’t you like that, Potter?”
“Fuck off.” But he laughed, despite himself. He put a hand to his mouth, startled and ill and buzzing.
Malfoy smirked. He leaned across the short space between them on the floor, and Harry fell quiet as Malfoy slipped a hand into his pocket, drew out Harry’s wand, placed it in Harry’s hand.
“That’s right, Harry. Go on, then.”
Harry’s hand shook. “I don’t—”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
Harry’s chest was tight. “You want me to—”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure you—”
“Yes.”
Harry made a frustrated noise. “You won’t even let me finish my—”
“Do it, Potter.”
“Legilimens.”
Like the last time, the lack of resistance startled him. He flowed into Malfoy, and it struck him how easy this was with Malfoy. Usually a small part of him balked at entering someone else’s mind, pulled himself back from the alien feeling of someone else’s thoughts. But he leaned into Malfoy like Malfoy was home.
The emotions in Malfoy were different today. Not relieved and cold, but tense.
You are nervous.
Grand observation, Harry Potter.
Nervous, but tinged with anticipation.
Well, then? Waiting for an invitation this time?
The currents of Malfoy’s thoughts, mocking but also…affectionate?…drew Harry farther in. This time, the way to the occlumency wall was clear, no storm of thoughts obscuring it. Harry hesitated, but the mocking thought came again: Shy?
Harry approached. He didn’t have to use force. Just the lightest pressure and he passed inside.
He skirted the edge of the memories of Malfoy’s torture this time. He was reminded of the way Malfoy had carefully navigated his childhood trauma.
Merlin. Malfoy.
Just a few scratches. I survived.
Harry felt wonder and admiration, and the emotion elicited an answering feeling from Malfoy, a warmth Harry had never felt from him before. Harry nearly lost himself in it.
What—
Come here, Malfoy thought, with a tinge of impatience and laughter that had an edge. Not quite cruel, but not kind.
Merlin. Please. No. I don’t need to see this, Harry thought as Malfoy pulled him closer to the images.
Wuss.
All Harry knew was, he’d already suffered for forcing himself into Malfoy’s memories. Viewing them had been punishment enough; now he’d paid with his humiliation. So what did Malfoy want from him?
Such drama, Malfoy sneered, and gave him a gentle push.
He was curled on the floor, half disconnected from himself, hanging onto his body by a thread. He could sense the veil. He could let go if he wanted, could cut the last threads and float away. Only his stubbornness kept him holding on, the unwillingness to let the bastard potioneers get the better of him.
Even that might not have been enough. But— Green eyes. Jaw set mulishly. A heavier, darker hand curled around his own hawthorn wand. Straight broad shoulders in auror robes. A face smirking at him in the canteen queue.
I am going to have my Thursday chicken, fucker.
Lips. Stubbled jaw. The weight of a heavy, familiar gaze.
The sensation of Harry holding him, so vividly imagined, it felt like a real memory. Of Harry taking his hand. Meeting his eye in the hall.
He clung to them. He clung to Harry.
Malfoy, what—
Overwhelmed, Harry surfaced from Malfoy’s mind. He reeled, caught himself with a hand to the floor. Malfoy sat forward, and they leaned against each other.
“You—”
“Fuck. Harry.” Malfoy buried his face in Harry’s neck.
“Malfoy. Draco. Fuck. They nearly—” Harry’s voice broke.
Strong hands grasped Harry’s shoulders. He thought Draco was pushing him away, and he was being pushed, but not very far. Only far enough for Draco to cover his mouth with his own.
Harry mewled his surprise into Draco’s mouth. He gripped Draco’s arms. They must still have had some connection because Harry could feel pleasure that wasn’t quite his own reverberating through him, and Draco made a noise in response to Harry’s own thoughts.
Draco broke the kiss, pressed his forehead to Harry’s. “Now we’re equal.”
“What—fuck—” Harry panted.
“Harry Potter. If I need to spell it out to you, Merlin fucking help me.”
“No. I’m— I’m— No, you know what? Spell it out to me.” Harry grinned.
Grey eyes gleamed at him with a challenge that sent a thrill through Harry.
Draco planted a hand against Harry’s chest and pushed. Off balance in every way, Harry fell back easily. He caught himself on his elbows.
Draco straddled Harry’s lap. The look on his face sent a pang through Harry’s gut. Draco was still buttoned up, but his hair was in disarray.
His long fingers began to unfasten Harry’s shirt.
“Harry James Potter,” he said in lush, mocking tones. He said James like it was sodding. “Champion of the wizarding world. You—” He spread Harry’s shirt open and leaned forward to ghost his lips against Harry’s. Almost, but didn’t, press a kiss to them. Grinned. “—are not the bravest wizard alive. Certainly, you’re not the cleverest.”
“God— Malfoy— Do you talk to all the boys this way?”
“Do I call them all Harry?” He licked a stripe along Harry’s clavicle, even as his nimble hands went to the button of Harry’s jeans.
Harry hissed and stopped holding himself up with his elbows, let himself lie flat on the ground. Draco unzipped Harry’s jeans, and— He slid his hands over Harry’s hips to the floor. And smirked.
Harry gaped, too aroused to respond. Bewildered and thrilled.
“Not the bravest,” Draco whispered. “How does that make you feel?”
Very fucking grateful, actually.
Draco smirked. He leaned over Harry. “Do you know what kept me alive?” he murmured near his ear.
The images were still there at the surface of Harry’s mind, memories of Draco’s experiences, of him thinking about Harry, but he shook his head.
Draco slid a hand into Harry’s boxers. “You.” Gripped Harry’s erection. “I couldn’t die before you. That’s one game I won’t lose. I have to survive you, because in the end, I’m the only person allowed to take you down.”
He freed Harry’s cock, ducked to swallow his length in one graceful movement.
Harry cried out. “Fu—!” Just that. He couldn’t finish the word.
All thoughts fled. Draco’s mouth was hot and wet and teeth and sucking.
Draco slurped off of him. Harry’s vision greyed. Draco said, “I am going to undress you and take you apart.”
Harry blinked. Wasn’t that what Draco was already doing? But he nodded.
Draco smiled, all slyness and teeth. He pulled Harry’s shirt the rest of the way off, Harry moving to accommodate Draco’s hands. Pulled the jeans off, the pants. He loomed over Harry on hands and knees. “Have you ever done this before?”
“This?”
“Any of this. With a man? With your walls down?”
Harry shook his head, shook it again.
A gleam came into Draco’s eyes. He leaned down to bite Harry’s chin, dragged his mouth up to press a quick kiss to Harry’s. “Trust me?”
Harry didn’t need to think about it. He nodded.
Draco’s smile held a hint of something Harry had never seen before—a sweetness, and Harry had the immediate image of a young Draco in the Great Hall receiving a parcel before the Christmas holidays, face lit up with that same genuine pleasure.
Draco whispered it this time: “Legilimens.”
Draco slid into him. Harry lay back, his defenses down. His heart thudded in his chest. Draco was in him completely, he could stop it beating if he wanted.
Never, whispered Draco.
“Harry?” he said.
“Mm?” Harry opened his eyes.
Draco kissed him. Deeply, this time. He slipped his tongue in, caressed him.
In the same moment, Draco went down, down into Harry’s memories.
He kissed away the worst of Harry’s pain and fear. Each kiss a benediction on the frustrated attempts with Ginny. The loneliness. His guilt and regret after sectumsempra, after assaulting Draco’s mind.
Draco surrounded them all with warmth, spread a balm over every hurt.
He pulled away. Harry’s face was wet again. Draco licked the tears. Smirked. Harry could only stare up at him, vision starred.
“Let’s see,” Draco murmured, and Harry couldn’t be sure if he said it out loud or in his mind. It went a little something like this, didn’t it?
Then Draco was sliding a finger into him, and Harry hissed and bucked his hips.
Ah, yes. There he goes.
Draco’s mocking tone was so saturated with affection, it stunned him as surely as the exquisite drag of Draco’s finger. Any time a cohesive thought began to form, Draco pushed a little deeper. What was Draco’s hand, what was his mind? Harry couldn’t separate the pleasure. Draco was splitting him open, filling him up, and this time, it was with the gentlest, most excruciatingly pleasurable of invasions. Harry set himself adrift in it. I am going to take you apart, Draco had said. Yes. Yes.
“Harry.”
Draco was beautiful—hair wild, a sheen of sweat making him glow. Harry projected the image back to Draco, who shuddered and showed him his own image of Harry—wanton, spread open in every way, flushed and hair curling. His desire reverberated with Harry’s own, combining into a frequency that threatened to shatter them.
Draco hissed incoherently.
I thought they reversed that, Harry teased.
Fucker. And he went down on Harry again, smiled at Harry’s stuttering.
Tongue. Musk. Satin skin. Hot mouth. Harry couldn’t separate his own experience from Draco’s.
I can’t— Merlin—
Draco moaned. He reached into Harry, pulled Harry in. Pulled pleasure from the tips of his toes and his core. Pleasure Harry didn’t know he had, all folded up till then, springing open. More than he could handle.
He came with a startled shout. He tasted salt and felt the suck of Draco’s mouth. Twitched, oversensitive.
Draco drew off him, rested his damp forehead against Harry’s thigh. Harry hissed as Draco’s fingers slipped out of him. Let his head thunk back against the floor.
The clock tick-tocked, tick-tocked.
Harry blinked. Realized something. “You came.”
“Fuck off,” Draco said into his skin.
“You weren’t even—” Humping, grinding, touching.
Draco groaned. “All right. Out of my head!”
But Draco didn’t disengage. He stretched his length along Harry’s and buried his nose against Harry’s temple, and Harry felt the gentle lapping of Draco’s thoughts against his. Relief, smugness, echoes of fear and pain. Wonder. And some great, trembling emotion that Harry wouldn’t put a name to yet.
Some time later, after the connection dissipated, Harry realized something else. “You didn’t use a glamour or polyjuice.”
Draco snorted, a breath of warm air against his neck. “Just now occurring to you?”
“Shut up. Why didn’t you?”
“Glamours leave a trace, and polyjuice—you know. They’d have known immediately. Anyway, there’s no better camouflage than my own tarnished reputation.”
Harry had nothing to say to that, only held Draco tighter to his side. Draco tensed at first, then relaxed.
“I’m glad we found you,” Harry said, voice low and intense.
Draco’s head lifted so that Harry could see one squinting eye. “What? Did you think it an accident your stooges found us? That it was good luck or skill on your part?”
“I— I’m not going to answer that.”
Draco gave a “hmph” of amusement and settled back down, then proceeded to describe the plan he’d set in place to flush the potioneers out of hiding and free himself in the process.
Overwhelmed with admiration—and maybe a little turned on again—Harry kissed the top of Draco’s head.
“Not just a pretty face,” Draco said.
“Pretty arse, too.”
Draco smirked.
A little later still, Draco murmured, “You followed me around the Ministry.”
“I didn’t follow you.”
“I had my own crup and didn’t know it.”
“Shut up.”
“Would you have eaten from my hand? Done tricks? Ow! Fucker!”
Harry grinned and released his teeth. “Would have bit you.”
“Tsk. They ought to put you down.”
“Mm.”
Then: “Champagne and gin? Really?”
“Really.”
Draco shuddered. Harry smiled and pulled him closer.
***
Harry closed the file on the potion ring case and dropped it onto his desk.
Almost four months in total, but it was over. Much of the information Draco had collected proved useless since he’d been found out, but it had given them just enough to go off of. Harry had been the one to make the final, vital connection.
“Not just a pretty face,” he’d said to Draco.
“Oh, certainly not a pretty face.”
Remembering the words, Harry smiled.
“Uh-oh,” Junior Auror Diana said, stopping at the threshold of his cubicle. “I don’t like that expression.”
“What? I’m smiling.”
“Smiling on you is suspect.” Her gaze dropped to the closed file. “Wrapping up soon?”
He glanced at the clock. Half past four. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
Hermione came by while he was placing the security charms over his desk as he readied to leave.
“Oh,” she said, surprised. Then, noticing his desk, she looked pleased. “You finished your case. Ron and I were wondering…” Her voice trailed off at Harry’s expression.
“Sorry, Hermione.”
“Harry. I’m so worried about you. You need to make time for yourself.”
“I know.” He pecked her cheek. “I’ve—got plans, actually.”
“What? Oh. Oh! Harry! That’s wonderful!”
She engulfed him in a hug, which was, of course, the moment Robards stepped into view.
***
At quarter past five, Harry knocked on Draco’s door.
“Oh, look. The cavalry has arrived.”
“What— Malfoy, what century are you even from?”
Draco waved a dismissive hand. His expression was impassive, vaguely haughty. But Harry noted how carefully dressed he was, the tension he carried in his shoulders.
Harry didn’t need legilimency to read Draco. He smirked and held out a hand. “Well?”
Giving Harry’s palm a disdainful look, he closed the door behind himself and swept past Harry.
Harry grinned at his back.
“So where are we going?” Draco said.
“The chip shop?” Harry suggested, innocently.
“Chip shop. Anything but a fish and chip shop.”
“McDonald’s?”
“Merlin! You need a keeper.”
Harry’s grin widened. Maybe he did.
They set off down the street, not holding hands, but close enough that their knuckles brushed, and Harry sensed the phantom of a smile at the edge of Draco’s mouth.