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Chapter Text

Draco had always imagined the Dark Lord’s death would be an instant balm to his frayed nerves. He was certain the final destruction of the monster who had terrorized him and his family for so many years would bring about a new, golden age. In his mind’s eye, the dark clouds would clear and bright, pure sunlight would shine upon a new day; a glorious and fearless future.

Instead, the sky continues to be grey, threatening clouds hanging low and menacing over Hogwarts. The air is thick and cloying, and Draco struggles to breathe as the familiar fear claws at his chest. He’s safe, he’s alive, but there’s less comfort to be found in this than he originally envisaged. His mother clings to him, her fingers pressing almost painfully into his arms. His father shivers, half-supported by the wall behind him as his wide eyes nervously flicker around.

It’s clear they don’t belong here, amongst the crying and wounded, sitting hidden in a dark corner and watching with anxious eyes. Streaks of dirt and blood cling to the survivors, their faces full of sorrow. Their desperate words are lost in the muffled chaos as they frantically search for their loved ones.

“We can’t stay here,” Lucius finally rasps, his voice hoarse and broken. Draco agrees but they have few other options at this point.

“There’s nowhere to go, Father.”

“We can’t stay here,” Lucius repeats, lacing his fingers together to stop them from trembling.

Narcissa opens her mouth, her expression a delicate combination of determination and hopelessness. The words of comfort or solution die on her lips as her gaze falls upon a young woman, openly sobbing as she holds a lifeless body in her arms.

“We’re alive,” Draco says, as if this fact will somehow bring peace to their fragile existence. He regrets the words immediately, his vision blurring as he quickly looks down, away from destruction surrounding them.

“Not for long,” Lucius mutters, climbing to his feet. His eyes are red-rimmed and wild. “We have to go.”

“Where?” Draco asks, but his question lands on deaf ears as Lucius stumbles away towards an open, broken door. “Father!”

Narcissa inhales sharply, then quickly stands up and pulls Draco to his feet. Their steps are hurried and clumsy as they follow Lucius outside into the grey and dismal morning light. Ahead, Lucius has broken into a run. Draco’s lungs ache as he sprints after his father, and he can hear his mother, not far behind him, calling after them with a strained and defeated cry.

Draco’s stomach twists with fear as Lucius leads them to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The shadows of the trees look more menacing than ever. Draco hesitates for a moment, nearly losing sight of the back of his father's head, until his mother catches up. She grabs Draco’s wrist with firm, cold fingers and pulls him into the darkness.

Draco is gasping for air by the time they stop, trembling from head to toe as he leans over with his hands on his knees and takes deep, gulping breaths. His father looks similarly winded, leaning heavily against a tall tree, mouth open and eyes bulging wide. They stand in silence for a few minutes, broken only by their heavy breathing and the rustling of leaves overhead.

“I can’t go back,” Lucius finally says, his eyes hard and full of fear. “I can’t return to Azkaban.” He steps forward and grabs Draco’s shoulders, squeezing tightly. “I won’t survive it, I won’t—”

“Lucius,” Narcissa says sharply. Lucius loosens his grip, letting his arms fall to his sides.

“So you’ve brought us into the woods?” Draco asks bitterly, his arms tender where his father’s fingers dug in so fiercely.

“You wouldn’t survive it either.” Lucius shakes his head frantically, matted strands of hair falling in front of his face. “They’ll take you, Draco. They’ll take us all, lock us up and never let us escape.”

“You don’t know that,” Draco protests, but his voice is unsteady and unsure.

“I helped the Potter boy,” Narcissa admits softly. Draco’s head snaps round to look at his mother. “In a sense, I did. He might…we might…”

“No,” Lucius insists. His voice rises, coloured by a tinge of hysteria as he continues. “It’s too late for all of that, now. The sins are too strong, too vivid. We can’t wash our hands of them.” He looks wildly between Narcissa and Draco. “We’re stained, you see?” He holds up his hands in defeat, showcasing the weathered flesh. “They’ll take us, all of us. We’ll be destroyed.”

“We already are,” Draco mutters. His head pounds and he swallows roughly against his parched throat. His mouth tastes of ash and defeat.

“Where can we go?” Narcissa finally asks, breaking the renewed and heavy silence.

Lucius begins to pace, his hands clenching and releasing at his sides. Several minutes pass before he stops in his tracks, eyes bright and feverish as they settle on Narcissa. “The Mulcibers! We’ll go to them.”

“Who?” Draco asks nervously. He vaguely recalls the name, but it takes a moment for him to place it as one of the Death Eaters they housed at the Manor not so long ago.

“Callum owes me.” Lucius nods his head, speaking more to himself than anyone else. “I defended him during a failed mission. The Dark Lord was so angry but I shouldered most of the blame. He’ll help us.”

“Are you certain?” Narcissa asks wearily. Her face is a picture of exhaustion.

“We don’t have a choice,” Lucius states firmly.

Draco is so tired of not having a choice, of being thrust into whatever form of survival he can scrape together, he could scream. He thinks about voicing this, about urging them to return to Hogwarts. Their fates can’t possibly be as grim as his father imagines. Draco pictures himself on his knees, begging the Wizengamot for mercy. He sees their cold, cutting glares, disdain and resentment rolling off their bodies in waves. He imagines his angry fellow classmates; his disappointed former professors; Dumbledore’s sorrowful ghost; and Potter’s bright eyes, vengeful and vivid, the same shade of green as the spell that will inevitably come hurtling towards him, his fate sealed by those he’s wronged.

“Draco?” Narcissa pleads, breaking Draco from his nightmarish fantasy. Her left hand is outstretched, the other firmly clasped with his father’s. Draco sighs heavily, steps forward and takes her hand.

He does his best to ignore the sinking in his stomach as their surroundings fade and they Apparate away.

“You shouldn’t have come here, Lucius,” Mulciber hisses under his breath. His voice carries easily across the quiet room, to the far side, where Narcissa and Draco are standing hesitantly, awaiting their fate.

The Mulciber Estate is cold and uninviting, not unlike the Manor. Despite the large, curved windows which line the expansive walls, little light filters into the room. The late morning sun has finally begun to peek out from behind the oppressive clouds, but the thick, fogged glass keeps the golden beams at bay.

“Please,” Lucius begs desperately. “We don’t have anywhere else to go. The Aurors will be searching for us—the Manor is sure to be crawling with them by now.”

“So you thought you’d bring them to my doorstep, instead?” Mulciber asks coldly.

“Your estate is isolated,” Lucius insists. “It’s unplottable, hidden away from wizards and Muggles alike. They’ll never think to look here.”

“You’d better hope you’re right,” Mulciber growls.

“Father?” calls a small voice. “What’s going on?”

“What are you doing down here?” Mulciber barks, glaring at the young boy who has appeared in the doorway. “Go back to bed.”

The boy looks frightened; his dark eyes are wide and fearful. A young girl appears behind him and places a protective hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry, Father,” she says softly. “We couldn’t sleep last night.”

Narcissa moves over to them, crouching down and leaning in close. “What are your names?”

“I’m Mary, ma’am,” the girl says, nodding her head in greeting, “and this is my younger brother, Henry.”

“Hello,” Narcissa says gently. Mary smiles timidly at her. “I’m Narcissa.”

“Good morning, dear.” A tall, thin woman sweeps into the room. Her eyes are glassy, her voice vacant. She’s wrapped in a delicate white robe, the silky fabric fluttering around her body; she looks more ghost than person. “I didn’t know we had guests.”

“Grace,” Narcissa says, “it’s been some time.”

Grace blinks blankly at Narcissa for a moment or two before her eyes flash with recognition. “Yes, Narcissa, it has. Hello.” Her gaze falls onto Draco. “Is this your son? He’s grown so much since I saw him last. Would you like some tea?”

“Take the kids back upstairs,” Mulciber interrupts roughly, his harsh tone making Grace flinch. “And keep them there, this time.”

“Come, children.” Grace gathers Mary and Henry, holding her arms steady and open wide. Her voice, however, trembles with fear. “Let’s not disturb your father any longer.”

The three of them shuffle from the room, closing the door behind them with a click. Mulciber groans and rubs his face, then turns his attention back to Lucius. He opens his mouth to speak, but any harsh dismissal is cut short by a rush of flames in the Floo. Mulciber immediately steps away, straightening his posture as a man comes through. Draco’s jaw clenches as he recognizes the figure standing before them. Augustus Rookwood was always the most charming of the Death Eaters, and the most dangerous.

“Sir.” Mulciber shakes Rookwood's hand and gestures towards Lucius. “I apologize for the unexpected company.”

“Not at all, Mulciber.” Rookwood smiles widely, all sharp teeth, but his eyes remain cold as he turns towards Lucius. “Lucius Malfoy. This is unexpected. I thought you’d be grovelling before the Ministry, feigning Imperius again.”

“No, never,” Lucius replies. He stiffens his shoulders and stands tall, looking, for a brief instant, like the proud man he once was. The illusion is shattered, however, when he quickly wilts under the weight of Rookwood’s unimpressed stare. “Sir,” he adds, quietly.

“Hmm,” Rookwood hums, appraising Lucius. “You might still be useful. Tell me, is the Malfoy Crypt still intact?”

“It should be,” Lucius responds, unable to conceal the slight tremor in his voice. “It is cloaked with numerous layers of protective spells: it is doubtful that the Ministry will ever discover it.”

“Good, very good.” Rookwood smirks deviously. “And the wards are all controlled by your blood, correct? The Dark Lord’s demise won’t have compromised them?”

“You mean Voldemort?” Draco sneers, unable to remain silent any more.

Rookwood’s eyes narrow but his lips curl into a faint smile when he turns his gaze towards Draco, as if he’s noticing him for the first time. He turns back towards Lucius and Mulciber, his voice colder than before. “Shall we continue this conversation somewhere more private?”

“Of course.” Mulciber gestures down the hall. “Let’s retreat to the study.”

Draco watches his father follow the two monstrous men, already falling into place a few steps behind them. His heart sinks as they disappear from view.

“Mother.” Draco turns to look imploringly at Narcissa. “We have to leave.”

“Draco—”

“This place isn’t safe. I don’t trust Mulciber or Rookwood. We have to go before we get caught up in an even bigger mess than before.”

“If you don’t trust them, at least place trust in your father.”

“Father?” Draco scoffs. “Look at where our trust in him has led us thus far.”

Narcissa's expression turns pained, the truth of Draco’s words clearly cutting into her. Her resolve, however, remains. “Our safety—your safety—is the most important thing right now. You won’t be safe in the Ministry’s hands. I just know it.”

Draco is less sure of that now. Standing in this foreboding house, with its marble floors and cold stone walls, Draco wonders how much safer he and his family will be in this ornate prison. His mother won’t be convinced though—of that Draco is certain—and Draco will never abandon his family.

The door to the study opens with a loud bang and Lucius stumbles out, looking ten years older than when he first entered. The door shuts behind him, leaving Mulciber and Rookwood inside.

“Father…”

“Let’s go.” Lucius’s face is pale and drawn. He walks over to the Floo at the other side of the room, his shoulders hunched close to his ears. “We’re going home.”

“To the Manor?” Draco asks incredulously. “We can’t go there, we’ll be caught right away.”

“No, to the Malfoy Crypt,” Lucius replies. He grabs his wand and casts a mild Lacero on his finger. Crimson drops of blood bead from the cut, stark against his skin. “We’ll be safe there for now. Only those of Malfoy blood can enter and exit.”

Draco watches in horror as Lucius flicks the blood onto the Floo, then dips his still-bleeding hand into the bowl of Floo powder beside it. Draco’s only ever been inside the Malfoy Crypt once or twice: when he was younger, his father brought him there to pay respect to his ancestors and Draco nearly suffocated from the cloying dark magic that pulsed through the air. The idea of staying there indefinitely makes his stomach turn violently.

“Father, we can’t go there,” Draco pleads. “Please.”

“It’s only for a little while,” Lucius mutters, tossing the Floo powder onto the fire. The grate sparks and smokes, acrid green clouds puffing from the embers. “They’ll protect us now…” Lucius’s voice fades, his next words barely audible over the blood pumping in Draco’s ears, “...for a price.”

Draco sleeps fitfully during his first night at the Crypt, unable to drift off for more than a few minutes at a time. He wakes frequently, soaked in cold sweat with his heart in his throat, gasping into the dense, clammy air. Each time, it takes a moment or two to recall his surroundings, to remember that Voldemort is dead and he, Draco, is still alive. The thought provides little comfort, nor do the four walls that close around him, dark, cold and foreboding.

He sits up and shifts uncomfortably against the stone wall, shuddering as the chill seeps through his thin shirt. The Crypt vibrates with dark magic, the far wall littered with ancient artifacts and forgotten family heirlooms. Draco’s eyes slowly adjust to the dark as he gingerly stands and casts a subtle Lumos. He steps quietly, following the soft glow emanating from the tip of his wand. His parents remain fast asleep, huddled on top of a slab of stone which has been poorly transfigured into a makeshift bed.

Tall stacks of musty tomes are piled high, particles of dust dancing along the rays of light emitted from his wand. A small locked cabinet catches his eye, full of various potions shimmering in their ornate vials. The most innocuous (and interesting) objects are a collection of antique brooms, all lined up together in the far corner. Normally Draco would sneer at their aged wood and outdated features, but tonight he’s pleased to discover something familiar.

He spends the rest of his sleepless night tidying their bristles and polishing the warped wood until they shine and glimmer.

The relief at departing the Crypt is soon diminished when he settles into the hard-wood chair in the Mulcibers’ study. Draco forces his face to remain blank, trying to nod at the right moments while doing his best to tune out the conversation that flows around him. Draco would rather be anywhere but here, surrounded by the surviving Death Eaters as they boast about their devious deeds in the last battle. His thoughts stray to the dank prison cells of Azkaban and he shifts uncomfortably; the chair suddenly feels a bit more welcoming.

Draco was initially surprised to see how quickly these renegade Death Eaters came together, but as it turns out, Rookwood is cleverer than he first seemed. He’d been forming the bare bones of this operation long before the Dark Lord’s death. Apparently he wasn’t blind to Voldemort’s growing madness and the way his personal vendettas increasingly derailed the cause of blood purity. When the time came, Rookwood had all of his allies lined up, ready to reform and renew their efforts. Early on, he referred to the new group as 'Purity Seekers', and the name has stuck. It makes Draco sick to his stomach.

There was a time when Draco felt incredibly proud of his lineage. He delighted in sneering at those beneath him and boasting about the generations of Pure-bloods his family stemmed from. That’s all in the past, now. The last year has taught him that blood purity means little in the real world. His blood status didn’t protect him or his family from Voldemort’s wrath; it didn’t make him stronger or braver in the face of tough decisions. Being a Pure-blood has done nothing for his family’s plight, a fact which is never so clear as at moments like this, where Lucius sits at the end of the table, flinching whenever the volume in the room increases. The Malfoys are mostly ignored by the other members as they jeer and compare death tolls. Draco is tempted to chime in and remind them that they lost the final battle, but he swallows the foolish words before they can escape his mouth.

Draco’s skin feels as if it’s on fire, a fierce heat spreading over his face. He’s being watched, carefully. Draco lifts his gaze and locks eyes with Theo Nott. The other boy smirks coldly and nods his head in greeting. Draco was surprised when Theo turned up at the meeting. His father was a Death Eater, of course, but Draco never saw Theo at the Manor during the war. Part of Draco had been hoping to see some of his school friends arrive today, and he was left with equal parts relief and disappointment when none of them showed up. Theo and Draco have never been close, and the nasty glint in Theo’s eye forces Draco to look away and turn his attention to Rhys Jugson.

“I watched him fall, gasping for mercy with his last breath.” Jugson grins cruelly, waving his wand around as he recounts the story. His small dark eyes shine with cold glee. “His Mudblood guts spilled onto the stone, right in front of his Muggle-loving wife.”

Draco cringes in disgust, his eyes drawn to Brandon Jugson, Rhys’s thirteen-year-old son, as he shivers next to his father. Brandon looks frightened, his face pale and drawn as he listens to the dreadful boasting of his father. He keeps his hands steady, though, clasping them so tightly together on the table that the whites of his knuckles show. Draco’s heart breaks for the young boy—he remembers all too clearly how brave he tried to act in the face of his own father.

“Yes, we’ve all sampled the sweet taste of victory from time to time.” Mulciber leans forward, capturing everyone’s attention. “But what’s soon to come will change the Wizarding World as we know it. The Purity Alliance will set things right.” Draco cringes, biting his tongue to keep from scoffing aloud. The name sounds more like a charity group than a band of renegade Death Eaters. Mulciber’s voice turns cold and menacing. “The despicable practice of mixed magical blood will cease to exist.”

A soft scuffling noise catches Draco’s attention. He twists his neck to look behind him, and finds Callum Mulciber’s son, Henry, standing at the door. He listens with wide-eyes and Draco’s stomach twists as he wonders how much the young boy has overheard.

“Your son seems to have joined the meeting,” Draco interupts, nodding his head towards the door.

“Good,” Jugson intervenes before Mulciber can reply, narrowing his beady little eyes. “It’s best to get an early education on the true order of the world.”

Draco turns to glare at Mulciber but the other man avoids his eye, waving his hand dismissively.
He ignores his son and continues his speech without missing a beat. “It’s time we began our plan to rid the Wizarding World of non-magical blood.”

A cheer of agreement fills the room, muffling the sharp sound of Draco’s chair as it scrapes across the floor. He hurries to the doorway, ignored by the rest of the members, rests his hand on Henry’s shoulder and steers him into the hallway.

“Henry!” Mary’s voice rings out loudly in the empty hallway. “I told you to not wander around the house at night.” Henry’s eyes water and his lower lip begins to tremble. “There, there.” Mary wraps her arms around his shaking body. “No need to cry.”

“Where’s your mother?” Draco asks, glancing up towards the staircase lit only by the occasional flickering sconce.

“She’s sleeping,” Mary replies, holding Henry close to her. “She sleeps all the time, lately.”

“Shouldn’t you both be asleep, too?” Draco asks, fidgeting awkwardly. They stare at him with wide eyes and suddenly Draco feels as if he’s towering over them. They’re so small, so delicate-looking. It makes Draco uncomfortable, as if they’ll break if he speaks too loudly.

“We have trouble sleeping,” Mary finally says, patting Henry’s hair as he nods in agreement. “We have these nightmares…”

“Don’t we all?” Draco mutters. Henry begins to pout, his lower lip shaking, and Draco suddenly regrets his words. He clears this throat softly, feeling terribly wrong-footed. “You should go back upstairs.” Draco glances back down the hall, reluctant to rejoin the meeting. “Do you have a chessboard, perhaps?”

“No.” Mary shakes her head, brightening as she adds, “But we do have Gobstones.”

“Fine.” Draco sighs in mock exasperation. “That’ll have to do.”

Mary grins shyly and grabs his hand. Draco flinches slightly, surprised by the gesture, but he forces his body to relax and allows himself to be pulled up the stairs.

A muffled roar of cruel laughter bounces against the closed door as Draco hurries past the next Purity Alliance gathering. Part of him should be alarmed that he wasn’t expressly invited to sit in on this meeting, but mostly he’s relieved to avoid the boastful bragging of the men inside and the new, devious plans they’re forming.

It’s become clearer to Draco that they don’t belong in this isolated Estate; they have no place amongst the arrogant and cruel men who have risen from the ashes of the Dark Lord’s defeat. He’s grateful when he finds his mother in the sitting room, alone.

“Mother?”

Narcissa looks up, her normally neatly pinned hair falling in front of her pale face. There is an untouched pot of tea on the table in front of her. Her hands tightly grasp the edges of a newspaper.

Draco sits down, close to her side and speaks softly. “We have to leave, we can’t stay here any longer.”

“Draco—” Narcissa's voice is equal parts warning and defeat.

“No, Mother,” Draco interrupts. “This is madness. We chose the wrong side, just like Father did last time. We can’t keep making the same mistakes.” He inhales sharply and leans forward. “We should take our chances with the Ministry.”

“It’s too late, far too late.” Narcissa’s hands tremble and Draco is surprised to see that her eyes are glassy and wild; it’s very rare for his mother to lose her composure.

“What’s going on? What happened?”

She shakily passes the newspaper to Draco and his breath catches in his throat at the headline: A Win For The Ministry: Treacherous Death Eaters Apprehended!

Draco frantically scans the article. It’s written in a fierce tone, extolling the brave efforts of the Auror task force which captured Mr Goyle and his son Gregory, and instilling fear in those who would have sympathy for them. The article pronounces Mr Goyle dead, and no longer a threat to society. It offers photographic proof, with a mild warning for the squeamish, of Mr Goyle’s body, torn apart by vicious spells. His bloody face is twisted into an anguished scream. Draco’s breakfast rolls unpleasantly in his stomach. How could the Daily Prophet include such a gruesome photograph in their paper? Is this really what the War has brought out of both sides—an unquenchable thirst for blood and vengeance?

Perhaps even worse than the brutal death of Mr Goyle is the final few lines which speak of his son’s fate. Greg, misguided but certainly not a Death Eater, has been captured and locked away in one of the worst cells of Azkaban. He’s been put into solitary confinement, in the same wing as the most dangerous criminals in the foreboding prison. His trial date has yet to be set and the author of the article snidely implies it may not come to pass at all. Gregory never even got the Mark, never set foot into one of the Death Eater meetings. Anything Greg did during the War was due to Draco’s commands. Guilt and fear twist in Draco’s stomach and he pushes the paper away.

Panic claws at Draco’s chest and his breathing becomes short and quick as he realises he is well and truly trapped. Draco has a Mark, he led Death Eaters into Hogwarts, nearly killed Merlin only knows how many of his fellow students—what terrible fate awaits him if he surrenders?

“Draco, dear.” Narcissa grabs his hands and strokes them soothingly. “Breathe.” Draco takes great, gulping breaths and forces his thundering heart to slow. “We must do what we can to survive.”

“Even if it destroys us?” Draco asks, his voice broken and desperate.

“I’ll protect you, love.” Narcissa squeezes his hands and releases them. “I won’t let you be harmed.”

The meeting next door has clearly concluded: boisterous voices spill into the hallway, sweeping away the quiet atmosphere. Draco looks through the open door and sees young Brandon Jugson stagger out of the meeting. His hands tremble, his face is green and he looks sick to his stomach.

Draco can’t help but think it might be a little too late for that.

The air is too thick.

Every inhale takes tremendous effort, but Draco can’t seem to get enough air in his lungs. The walls must be on the verge of collapsing, the structure already damaged as dark lines spread across the stone.

Draco thought, at first, that they were merely vines, overgrown plantlife taking over the ancient Malfoy Crypt. On closer inspection it became clear to see that these are deep cracks, forged by the dark magic which surrounds and protects the Crypt. It feels little like protection and more like a prison as he tosses and turns at night. There is no sleep and no peace to be found within these walls—not when the air is so toxic and heavy. Draco has no hope of finding rest when he’s choking on tainted magic.

The Mulciber Estate is little better, but at least it’s devoid of his ancestors’ tombs and dark artefacts. Draco’s days are often spent watching over Henry and Mary whenever he can sneak away from the uncomfortable and draining Purity Alliance meetings. He hasn’t been invited to attend an attack yet, but he knows his luck is likely to run out soon. There is a tiny, terrible part of him that almost looks forward to it—at the very least he will be able to go outside.

Despite the Mulciber Estate’s remote location, far from any Muggle or magical dwelling, Draco has been urged to stay inside at all times. The place is tightly locked down, the wards so strong they almost shimmer in the air surrounding the house. Draco is only cleared to Floo directly from the Malfoy Crypt to the Estate. The only Apparition point is in the Entrance Hall, where a portrait of a dour-faced man keeps a close watch, ever ready to report back to Callum Mulciber.

It’s a sunny day when Draco’s skin begins to itch so much with the need for escape that his flesh becomes raw beneath his angry fingers. It seems cruel to have several brooms (ancient as they may be) at his disposal but nowhere to fly them.

His mind strays to the conversation he had with Mary the night before. She had leaned forward, the dark curtain of her hair falling over her face, a secretive smile painted on her lips. She’d whispered excitedly to Draco about a weakness in the wards, right outside the old servant chambers. She told him about a side door which she often sneaked through to play at the edge of the woods surrounding the Estate. Her mumbled confession concluded with a self-satisfied grin; Draco’s heart had clenched at the sweet expression. In that moment she’d reminded him so much of how Pansy used to be, back when they were children, before fear and cruelty changed them both and strained their friendship beyond repair.

He shakes his head to push away the turbulent memories and glances at the line of brooms resting against the wall. He brought them over to the Estate last week, feigning a generous gesture of providing additional transport for the family. The truth is that Draco didn’t like the idea of these collectible brooms being trapped in the Crypt, becoming even more weighed down with the dark magic that saturates the air. Callum Mulciber, however, took one look at the outdated brooms and scoffed with disgust, leaving them here to continue collecting dust.

Draco fidgets anxiously. He can think of a handful of reasons why he shouldn’t even consider this foolish excursion. A soft chirping rings outside and a flock of birds flutter across the sky—that’s all it takes. Draco’s resolve snaps and his misgivings fade away. He needs freedom, even an hour of it, regardless of the repercussions. He grabs the nearest broom and, before second thoughts can creep in, hurries off in the direction of the old servant quarters.

The fresh air on his skin is like a sweet, soothing balm after the constant griminess of the Malfoy Crypt. He stays safe, flying high into the sky, so high the atmosphere thins and his lungs begin to burn. It’s a most welcome pain and Draco delights in the distracting effort of every deep inhale. His caution is hardly necessary, though: there’s nothing around for miles other than dense woods and barren fields.

Eventually his thighs begin to ache, and he slowly descends, spotting a clearing between the tall trees. The wind rustles his hair, gentle and comforting, like fingers threading lightly through his fine locks. Draco is overcome with a feeling of peace as his feet touch the ground. He’s struck by the beauty of the golden sunlight as it filters through the treetops. It’s a perfect day: fallen pine needles crunch lightly beneath his feet, and the only other sound is the gentle babbling of a nearby creek. Draco smiles and stretches, allowing the broom to slip from his fingers and fall to the ground with a clatter. He wonders if he should go for a walk or perhaps take a short nap against a wide tree trunk—the possibilities seem endless. He turns in a slow circle as he weighs up his options, only to freeze when his eyes land on another broom, resting against a tree.

Draco’s pleased grin falls from his face. He’s not alone.

Draco’s heart pounds against his ribcage, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he reaches for his wand. A figure steps out from behind the tree, his frame cast in shadows as he raises his own wand high. A stunning spell forms on Draco’s lips, but before the words can escape his mouth, his wand is quickly snatched away from him.

The wizard steps forward into a stream of sunlight shining from between the trees. Intense green eyes flash angrily, wild hair rustles in the breeze, and a dark brow furrows with caution and determination. Recognition floods Draco and his stomach turns violently.

Of course it’s Harry Potter.

For the briefest moment, they both stand still and silent, the summer air heavy between them. The fingers of Potter’s right hand curl tightly around his wand as he holds Draco’s wand secure in his left. His eyes harden behind his ridiculously outdated glasses, his stance menacing even as his lips part slightly in surprise.

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” Potter demands. Draco’s following silence is clearly not appreciated and Potter storms closer until the tip of his wand is pressed against Draco’s chest. “Did you follow me? Who else knows I’m here?”

“Get over yourself, Potter,” Draco spits, hiding the tremor of fear in his voice. “I had no idea you’d be here.”

“Then why are you here?” Potter leans forward, his expression dark and threatening.

“I was just getting away—getting some air.” Draco shifts nervously but keeps his chin held high.

“Away from where?” Potter’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Where have you been hiding?”

“None of your business,” Draco replies lightly, even as his heart thuds anxiously against his chest.

Potter grabs Draco’s shoulders and shoves him against a tree. The rough bark digs into Draco’s back. “Don’t play games with me, Malfoy. I won’t hesitate in taking care of you.”

“Do you mean turning me in?” Draco growls, feeling his face flush with anger and fear. “Or perhaps you’ll finish me off right here, cast some of those nasty spells you used to rip Mr Goyle apart.” Potter flinches slightly but his wand stays pressed against Draco’s chest as Draco continues. “No, that’s too gruesome for the Golden Boy, isn’t it? You’d rather throw me in a dark cell and let me rot away like Greg.” Potter’s jaw clenches and his wand lowers a fraction. “What’s the matter, Potter? Don’t you like to pretend your side is so very pure and honest?”

“Shut up,” Potter barks, his face burning with rage. “I have nothing to do with the Death Hunters.”

“The Death Hunters?” Draco’s mouth becomes terribly dry. The mere name sends a renewed wave of fear through his body.

“The special Auror task force assigned to round you lot up,” Potter explains bitterly. He looks at Draco again, taking in the fear that Draco is unable to hide. Potter sighs in frustration and lowers his wand all the way. “Where have you been?”

Draco opens his mouth to give a scathing reply but the words die on his lips. Potter’s expression is still firm, but the hatred in his eyes has softened, guarded curiosity taking its place. Draco merely shakes his head and averts his gaze.

“Malfoy,” Potter warns, his tone becoming impatient. “If you’re in danger I might be able to help.”

“Please,” Draco scoffs. “As if the Ministry would have my best interests at heart.”

“Why should they?” Potter bites back, his expression turning hard again. “After everything you’ve done? You were and still are a Death Eater for all we know.”

“You don’t know anything,” Draco hisses. “You have no idea what’s at stake. I would never risk the safety of those I care about for a flimsy promise from you.”

“What’s at stake?” Potter asks. He rolls his eyes in the face of Draco’s silence, his fingers tightening on both of their wands, which remain firmly clasped in his hands. Potter glares at Draco but his eyes become clear and searching. He takes a deep breath, exhales and when he speaks again, his tone is softer. “Why didn’t you name me at the Manor?”

“What?” Draco almost laughs at the absurdity of the question and how quickly Potter has changed the subject. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Just answer the question.” Draco starts slightly as Potter raises his wand again.

“I wasn’t sure it was you. I didn’t want to take the chance of being wrong.”

“You’re lying.”

Of course he is. Draco would recognize his school nemesis in a sea of wizards. He spent six years staring and planning, meticulously plotting the boy hero’s demise—or at the very least trying to get under his skin. Potter waves his wand impatiently and Draco swallows roughly in reply.

“I just wanted it to be over,” Draco sullenly admits. “I wanted it all to end.”

“Wouldn't my capture and death bring a quick end to everything?”

Draco lowers his gaze and grits his teeth. “That’s not the kind of ending I wanted.”

The resulting silence is deafening in the expanse of the empty forest. The babbling of the nearby creek pounds against Draco’s ears, filling his head with a steady buzz. The sun is slowly creeping lower, turning the light golden as it filters through the trees. Draco is startled when his wand his thrust back into his hands.

“You should go,” Potter says softly. Draco stares dumbly at his wand and then up at Potter’s face. He frowns at Draco’s hesitation. “Go, before I change my mind.”

Draco opens his mouth to ask why, suspicious that this could all be a trap but the look on Potter’s face changes his mind. He presses his lips together, snatches his broom and flies off without looking back.

Tick, tick, tick.

The seconds ring out loudly in the empty room, filling Draco’s ears with their incessant sound. He’s tempted to march over to the grandfather clock, smash the ornate glass and stop the hands from moving, but he remains seated. There’s no need to draw unnecessary attention to himself—he already catches the suspicious eye of Rookwood more often than he’d like.

Instead, Draco waits patiently on the sofa, sipping a cup of tepid tea and tapping his fingers against the patterned cushion. His mother was supposed to meet him in the sitting room but she got swept away in calming Henry Mulciber when his screams travelled down the stairs. The poor boy has more nightmares than even Draco—a feat Draco didn’t know was possible.

Lately, Draco’s dreams aren’t filled with the terror of the Dark Lord or being eaten alive by Nagini while his mother watches in horror. Rather, his nights are spoiled with images of torture. Most frequently, he’s locked away in a dark cell as a Dementor creeps closer, ravaging the last dregs of his sanity. Yet, in reality he’s still somehow here, sitting idly at the Mulciber Estate, caught in some of kind of uncomfortable limbo.

Draco wonders, for the umpteenth time, why Potter didn’t capture him and turn him in when they met in the forest. He certainly had the opportunity to—he could have easily overpowered Draco—but he let him go, instead. Draco still isn’t positive that it wasn’t a trap, that he didn’t accidently fall into an elaborate scheme. Draco carefully checked himself when he arrived back at the Malfoy Crypt but despite finding himself clear of any tracking charm or other spell, his unease did not abate.

He’s so tired of being afraid all the time, lost and frightened without a real ally. He suspects his mother shares his feelings, but she, too, is far too cautious to speak these doubts aloud. Draco’s trapped, unable to shake off the fear that clouds his judgment. He wants to be brave, wants to be strong for his family, but he isn’t certain he’s making the right choice. It seems to Draco that he always manages to choose the wrong path.

“Another success.” Travers’s voice travels down the hall, growing ever louder, breaking Draco free from his thoughts. “You did well, Avery.”

“Of course I did,” Avery boasts, ignoring Draco and slapping Travers on the back as they enter the room. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

Rhys Jugson scoffs at them both, pushing past them to search the liquor cabinet for a bottle of whisky. His son trails a few feet behind them, looking wide-eyed and stunned. Jugson locates the bottle and pours himself a generous measure before passing the bottle to Travers. Brandon stumbles, catching the back of the sofa for support. The other three men ignore him, clinking their glasses together before chasing the liquor down.

“Are you alright?” Draco asks softly. Brandon trembles, his face ashen and withdrawn. Streaks of dirt are smeared along his cheek, vivid against his pale skin. “Brandon?”

“So much smoke,” Brandon finally says, his voice small and timid. “And screaming. I didn’t think it’d be so loud.”

“It’s okay,” Draco says, placing his hand on top of Brandon’s shaking one. It seems a cruel thing to say when nothing is okay about the situation, but giving comfort has never been one of Draco’s strong points. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

Brandon looks directly at Draco, his hazel eyes wide and haunted. They’re warm and innocent—so different from his father’s: Rhys Jugson’s eyes are dark, beady and cold. Brandon’s mouth moves soundlessly, his eyelashes becoming wet as words fail him. Draco gently squeezes his hand.

“Brandon,” Jugson barks, shooting Draco a suspicious look. Brandon quickly pulls his hand away. “Don’t just stand around. Go to the meeting room, we’ll need to be debriefed.”

Brandon shudders at his father’s harsh tone but he doesn’t move. Jugson huffs impatiently and marches over to his son.

“Come on,” he commands gruffly, grabbing Brandon by the shoulder and dragging him from the room.

Draco watches in silent despair as Brandon looks over his shoulder and locks eyes with Draco, his expression desperate and pleading.

I’m sorry.

The words never leave Draco’s mouth. How can he possibly help this poor boy when he can’t even manage to save himself?

“We’ll start at Epsom station and work our way out from there.” Rookwood stands at the head of the table, his voice echoing loudly throughout the room. Draco listens with half an ear, choosing to focus on a nick on the wooden table. “We’ll convene at Oak Square once the fire has spread sufficiently.”

“Sir,” Mulciber interrupts, “wouldn’t our efforts be better spent closer to London itself? Why bother with Epsom?”

“Are you doubting my tactics, Callum?” Rookwood smiles warmly but his eyes are cold as ice.

“No, I just—”

“No town is too small or insignificant for our gains. We aren’t just taking back London and the Ministry; we want to expand our territory.” Mulciber nods in agreement, and bows his head, looking properly chastised. “Now, I’ll want four men on this job. Avery, Mulciber, Nott and…” Rookwood looks around, his gaze landing on Brandon. The young boy cowers in his seat, his hands clenched into tight fists on the table.

“I’d like to go,” Draco intercedes. Rookwood snaps his head towards Draco, raising a surprised brow. “Sir,” Draco adds as an afterthought.

“Are you sure you’re up to it?” Theo asks with a snide smirk.

“Quite sure,” Draco replies tightly. In fact the idea makes his stomach turn, but at least Brandon will be able to sit this one out.

“Fine.” Rookwood waves his hand dismissively. “Travers is scouting the area right now. We’ll meet again in a few hours to assign the specific duties.”

Draco is the first to rise, his stomach twisting unpleasantly as he pushes his way through the door. He’s surprised to find Grace Mulciber standing in the hallway, the delicate chiffon of her nightgown falling from one shoulder.

“Mrs Mulciber?”

“Oaks Square,” she says dreamily. “I know that area. My uncle had a bakery on that road. I wonder if it’s still there.”

“Shouldn’t you check?” Draco asks quietly, looking over his shoulder. “Maybe you can warn him before the attack.”

“We don’t talk to that side of the family.” Grace turns to Draco suddenly, her eyes wide and fearful. “Father forbade Mother to ever speak to them again—they’re Muggles.” Grace’s face pinches in disgust but her eyes shimmer with sadness. “It was bad enough that my father married a Mudblood—a lapse in judgement he came to regret.” Draco opens his mouth to reply, though words completely fail him, but Grace quickly cuts him off. Her tone turns hard and angry, and she glares at Draco accusingly, as if it’s somehow all his fault. “We don’t speak of it.”

Draco watches in dismay as Grace stumbles back, her expression becoming placid and blank once more. The rest of the members filter out of the meeting room, brushing past her as she continues to move away, fading into the background like a ghost.

Bright flames lick at the buildings and dark, pluming smoke fills the air. Draco’s pulse thuds, his heart beating so erratically he’s sure it will burst from his chest. Fear swells in his veins but he quickly pushes it away, focusing his wand on the collapsing structure.

There is nothing so terrifying as Fiendfyre and memories of his last encounter with the cursed fire flood, unbidden, into his mind. Draco recalls choking on the acrid air as daunting creatures formed from fierce flames rushed towards him. He was certain he would die, that the fire would swallow him whole.

There’s no time for such haunting memories and, with some difficulty, Draco re-focuses on his task, casting yet another Protego Horribilis on the Muggle buildings. It offers little protection from the enchanted flames, but it does slow the burning, hopefully for long enough to allow the screaming Muggles to escape. He looks around but finds no other Purity Seekers near, no one to catch him in the act. Draco rushes to the next building and redoubles his efforts.

The Muggles pay him no mind as he pushes through the frantic crowd, his dark hood pulled low over his face. Even so, he wishes he had a mask like the others, something to hide behind as he does his best to reduce the damage inflicted all around him.

He nearly runs straight into Mr Nott, the heavy-set wizard laughing cruelly as flames erupt from the tip of his wand. Draco’s stomach twists in disgust and he discretely casts an Oppugno at Nott. Newspapers littered across the street swirl into the air, surrounding Nott and blocking his view. Nott grunts in frustration, stumbling away as the papers continue to attack him.

“Let’s go,” Mulciber shouts from across the road, barely waiting a moment longer before Apparating away.

Draco looks around and sees Aurors popping into view. They surround the area and quickly approach the rest of the Purity Seekers. Draco readies himself to Apparate when a strong hand grips his forearm and drags him down a side street.

“What—” Draco’s surprised shout dies on his lips as Potter shimmers into existence in front him, looking grim and determined. “Changed your mind then, Potter? Finally going to turn me in?”

“Shut up,” Potter hisses, tossing a battered-looking cloak over Draco’s body.

“What are you doing—”

“Just be quiet,” Potter commands, pulling him quickly along several more roads and into a dark, secluded alley.

Sirens sounds in the distance, the shouts of Muggles and Aurors alike fading and muffled between the tall brick walls. Potter pulls the cloak off Draco, the fine material sliding away like liquid.

“Is that a…?” Draco’s words fade into disbelief. Of course Harry Potter has an invisibility cloak.

“What were you doing?”

“What did it look like?” Draco scoffs.

“It looked as if you were casting protective charms,” Potter says, crossing his arms. “So what were you doing if not participating in the attack?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not an idiot, Malfoy.” Draco raises a disbelieving eyebrow and Potter narrows his eyes. “I know what I saw.”

“Just mind your own business, Potter,” Draco says hotly, flustered at having been caught.

“This is my business,” Potter retorts. “Renegade Death Eaters causing mass havoc and destruction is something I’m concerned about.” Potter sighs heavily and tugs at his hair, making it even messier than before. “I don’t understand, Malfoy. If you’re not working with them, why don’t you turn them all in? It’d make both of our lives much easier. I’m sure you’d be cleared of your charges if you handed that lot over to the Ministry.”

“It’s not that simple!” Draco thinks of Brandon, rotting away in a cell like Greg. “I can’t do that, you don’t understand.”

“No, I clearly don’t,” Potter replies bitterly. He looks angry and confused but most of all disappointed. Draco detests the way Potter’s expression makes his stomach clench with misgivings.

“Cheshunt,” Draco mumbles quietly.

“What?”

“That’s where they’re planning the next attack.”

Draco exhales heavily and turns, ready to Apparate away, but Potter’s fingers curl around his wrist.

“Wait.” Draco turns back towards Potter, his heart thudding against his chest. “I won’t turn you in, but only if you continue to help in this way. Give us information, insider intel, and I’ll let you go.”

“I’m not working for the Ministry,” Draco scoffs, trying to shake free of Potter’s tight grip.

“Not the Ministry, not the Death Hunters.” Potter’s jaw tightens. “Just me. You’ll only report to me.”

“It’s impossible. How would I even contact you?”

Potter looks conflicted, his eyes swimming with indecision before he releases Draco’s hand and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a small, gold coin.

“Here.” Potter pulls out his wand and mutters an incantation, some kind of adjusted Protean charm. He holds out the coin towards Draco. “Take this. It will warm up when you’re being summoned. The date and time will appear on the coin when—”

“I know how it works,” Draco cuts Potter off. He unwillingly thinks of Madam Rosmerta and a flash of remorse briefly crosses his face. Potter catches it and frowns at him, eyes accusing. Draco promptly pushes down the guilt. “Where would we even meet?”

Potter considers a moment before replying. “The clearing in the woods, where we met last time.”

Draco sighs in defeat, hesitating even though he already knows he’s going to agree. Potter's hand is still outstretched, a ray of light shining through the alleyway and glinting off the coin held between his fingers. Draco reaches out and snatches the coin. He stares at it for a moment, then at Potter before he steps back and Apparates away.

The meeting is nearly over by the time Draco quietly enters through the open door. He moves discreetly to the back of the room but Theo looks directly at him, his mouth spreading into a devious smirk.

“Why, Draco,” Theo exclaims loudly, “so nice of you to join us. Did you just arrive?”

Rookwood turns sharply towards Draco, pausing in his speech. “Where were you, Malfoy?” His voice drips with suspicion.

“I went to the Crypt after we were overrun with Aurors,” Draco says calmly, taking a seat and willing his racing heart to slow down. “I didn’t realise we were supposed to report back here.”

“Is that so?” Rookwood asks coldly.

“It’s true.” Narcissa sweeps into the room. “I was with him and we Flooed here together a moment ago.”

Rookwood glances at Narcissa, and a long pause follows before he finally nods his head, satisfied. “In the future, Malfoy, be sure to always report directly here for debriefing.”

“Understood,” Draco replies, finally allowing a shaky exhale to escape as Rookwood continues speaking to the room.

Theo watches him closely, clearly unconvinced. Draco wants nothing more than to reach across the table and wipe that smug smile off his face. Narcissa takes a seat beside Draco and glances briefly over at him. Her face is cold and impassive but there are unasked questions in her eyes. Draco turns his gaze away and gives Rookwood his full attention.

Potter’s coin feels unbearably heavy in his pocket.

Draco activates the coin a few days later.

When he arrives at the clearing in the woods, Potter is already there, waiting. He’s barely off his broom when Potter charges forward.

“Well, do you have information for me?”

“You don’t waste any time do you?” Draco remarks as he rests his broom against a tree.

“Malfoy,” Potter warns.

Draco sighs. “I don’t really have much of a choice, do I?”

“There’s always a choice,” Potter says fiercely. “You don’t always have to take the easy way out.”

“Honestly, the easy route would be turning myself in,” Draco says, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of Potter’s disbelieving stare. “It’s true,” he protests.

Draco’s thoughts have often been filled with the idea of just going to the Ministry and being done with it all. He might be locked in a cell, or worse, but at least his fate would be taken out of his hands for good.

“Then why don’t you?” Potter asks wryly. He has such a smug expression on his face Draco is tempted to hit him. He breathes deeply instead and forces himself to relax.

“I can’t stand the Purity Alliance, I won’t deny that,” Draco admits. “My skin crawls around those people, but there are others there too. Those who are innocent and need to be protected.”

“Your family?” Potter asks.

“Yes,” Draco agrees. He hesitates, wondering how much he should actually reveal to Potter. The need to protect himself wars with the desire to finally have a confidant, someone to safely share his conflicting thoughts with. Potter stares at him, blinking owlishly as he waits for Draco to continue. It has to be trap, luring Draco in with an innocent expression, but the words spill from Draco’s lips all the same. “But there are also children, young children who could easily be caught in the middle. What choice do they have?”

“So you’re protecting them?” Potter asks incredulously. His disbelief is palpable and Draco bites the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from saying something he’ll regret.

“Don’t sound so shocked, Potter.”

“I’m not—okay, maybe a little bit.”

“Is it such a strange notion that I might put the welfare of others before my own? Who else is going to look out for them? They need someone to keep them safe.”

“You make it sound like you’re some kind of hero. Saviour of the dark side.” Potter’s voice drips sarcasm but oddly enough Draco’s doesn’t feel slighted. He almost likes the sound of the mock title Potter has given him; if anything, it’s lightened the tension between them just a bit.

“Maybe I am.” Draco shrugs, his lips quirking up despite himself. “You don’t own the market on saviours, you know.”

Draco is startled when Potter laughs loudly at his comment, the skin crinkling at the corners of his eyes. It’s an unexpected noise, filling the quiet of the woods and echoing off the tall tree trunks. Potter shakes his head with mirth, those messy curls falling in front of his face. He looks so different when he laughs, younger somehow. Draco realises he’s staring and quickly averts his gaze.

Potter eventually sobers up, gingerly sits on the ground and begins to pick at the blades of grass. Draco stands awkwardly, a tense silence growing between them before he takes a seat as well. He only notices how close he’s sitting to Potter once he’s already on the ground: it’s too late to move without it being conspicuous.

“So, here we are…” Potter mumbles, trailing off as he continues to pluck at overgrown weeds. Draco watches the dirt collect under Potter’s fingernails as he digs.

“I thought it would be over by now,” Draco admits softly, tearing his gaze away and glancing up at the sky. “Harry Potter kills You Know Who—”

“Voldemort,” Potter interrupts.

Draco resists the urge to roll his eyes, even as the name sends a chill down his spine. “Harry Potter kills Voldemort and we all live happily ever after.”

“Wishful thinking,” Potter scoffs. “Besides, I didn’t really kill him—he sort of destroyed himself.”

Draco is tempted to ask Potter for details, morbid as that would be, but he can’t seem to summon the courage. His thoughts stray to his own misdeeds and he finds himself speaking before he can stop himself. “I couldn’t kill Dumbledore. I thought I would do anything to save my family, but—”

“Not killing doesn’t make you weak,” Potter interjects.

“Maybe not,” Draco agrees. “But I sealed my family’s fate in that moment. I failed them. I felt so weak. Dumbledore was pleading with me, telling me I wasn’t a killer, that it wasn’t too late for me. My resolve weakened, the salvation he offered felt surreal.”

“And you lowered your wand…” Draco snaps his head round to look at Potter, who sheepishly continues, “I was there, I saw the whole thing.”

“Of course you were,” Draco scoffs, but with no real venom. He’s sitting in a beautiful clearing in a dense forest with Harry bloody Potter, spilling his innermost thoughts as if they cost him nothing. At this rate nothing could really surprise him. “You somehow manage to be everywhere, Potter.”

Draco’s mind travels back to that day in the bathroom, sobbing over a sink and despairing over his impossible task. He recalls the anger and shame he felt as Potter appeared, followed by the shock and pain as he lay in a pool of his own blood. Potter’s face turns ashen and Draco wonders if he’s thinking of the same thing.

“The Ministry’s a mess,” Potter says suddenly, breaking the tense silence. “Kingsley is trying to keep it all together but new factions keep dividing everyone up. I barely lasted a day with the Death Hunters…their bloodthirsty hunger for vengeance made me sick.”

“I’m sure you can understand why I’m a bit reluctant to hand myself over,” Draco remarks bitterly. “Your side has turned into rabid beasts.”

“People are angry and scared,” Potter retorts fiercely. “I don’t condone the Death Hunters but I understand where their pain comes from.”

“And that makes it right?” Draco counters. Self-righteous anger climbs up his throat. “What about Brandon Jugson? He’s only thirteen, you know. He’s been dragged into this by his father, with no choice or say in the matter. What will happen to him? He’s only a child.”

Potter shrugs. “Some might say you and I are only children.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like a child.” Draco laughs humorlessly.

“I know what you mean,” Potter mumbles softly.

A few leaves tumble past as a gentle wind blows through the open area. Draco inhales the earthy scent it brings: the air smells like damp wood and moss. There’s something oddly soothing about sitting here in silence, the soft sound of creaking trees filling the empty space between them. Potter sits close, not quite touching, but Draco can feel the heat of Potter’s body coming off him in waves. He mulls their conversation over in his head, and he’s unaware of how much time has passed when he finally turns to face Potter.

Potter is already looking at him, his eyes bright and vivid as he examines Draco closely. Draco isn’t used to seeing Potter this close up when they aren’t snarling in each other’s faces. He’s taken aback by how green Potter’s eyes are, how big they appear behind his round glasses.

“So, will you help?” Potter’s intense gaze makes something in Draco’s chest tighten. The information for the next attack spills from him so quickly, Draco half wonders if Potter has cast some kind of spell to loosen his lips. “Thank you,” Potter says solemnly when Draco has told him everything he knows.

Potter uncrosses his legs and gets to his feet, offering his hand to Draco. Draco’s mind flashes back to when they first met, to that thwarted handshake so many years ago. He hesitates for only one moment before he reaches out and allows Potter to pull him up. Potter’s palm is rough and calloused, and his skin is impossibly warm. Their hands stay clasped a moment too long and Draco clears his throat uncomfortably. Potter blinks once and then hastily releases Draco’s hand.

“I’ll be in touch,” Potter says firmly before stepping away.

For some reason it sounds less like a threat and more like a promise.

Draco watches from the doorway as Nott gulps from an overflowing mug of beer, the pale foam clinging to the sides of his mouth. He laughs roughly and collapses into a chair besides Draco’s father, spilling lager onto the table.

“You should have seem them, Lucius,” Nott slurs. “Begging for mercy, crying useless tears.” Nott nudges his arm but Lucius flinches away from the touch. Nott narrows his watery red eyes. “And why weren’t you there, old friend?” Lucius remains silent, timidly sipping from a goblet. “Ah, better you stay at home. Look at you,” Nott jeers, “you’d be useless out there.”

Nott laughs again, a loud and boisterous bark, and takes another large swig of beer. Draco sighs and turns to walk away, only to bump into a familiar figure.

“What a distasteful pair,” Theo drawls, blocking Draco’s path.

“Move,” Draco commands coldly.

“Who do you think is more pathetic?” Theo asks. “My father or yours?” Draco remains silent, looking over Theo’s shoulder, as he continues. “I suppose yours is far more pitiful. My father, drunkard that he is, is at least more use to the cause than that shell of yours.”

“Fuck off, Theo.” Draco goes to push past, but Theo grabs him by the shoulders and shoves him against the wall.

“What did you say?”

“Let me go,” Draco seethes.

“Don’t you know who you’re talking to?” Theo hisses. “We aren’t at Hogwarts anymore. You aren’t the sweet prince of Slytherin with your goons to fawn over you. Crabbe’s dead, Goyle’s locked away and Parkinson and Zabini have run off and left you high and dry.”

Draco deflates slightly in Theo’s grasp, slumping against the wall. He hates that Theo is right: he’s never felt more alone.

Theo’s eyes darken and his voice turns smoky, “If you need someone to look after you, I might consider it.” Theo cups Draco’s jaw roughly. “I always thought you were rather pretty.”

“I think I’ll pass on your generous offer,” Draco spits.

Theo’s hand slides from Draco’s jaw to rest around his throat. He squeezes tightly as he leans in, so close his lips brush against Draco’s ear. “A new world order is coming,” Theo hisses. “You’d better learn your place.”

“Nott, you’re needed.” Avery seems to appear out of nowhere, though he doesn’t even spare Draco a second look.

Theo releases his hold on Draco, eyes flashing dangerously before he turns and follows Avery down the hall. Draco’s shaking hands touch his throat, tracing the tender spot where Theo held his neck so tightly. His heart pounds with furious fear as he watches Theo walk away.

“You have no idea of the date or time of the attack?”

“I already told you Potter, all I have is the location.”

“Well, that’s not much use,” Potter huffs in frustration. “We don’t have the numbers to station Aurors around there indefinitely.”

Draco clenches his jaw in anger and curls his fists so tightly his fingernails dig into his palms. He’d foolishly been looking forward to meeting Potter today; he was excited to get away from the Estate and the looming, searching stares of Theo and the others. He felt light and almost giddy as the wind whipped around him and sunlight warmed his face on the flight over. Now he’s grinding his teeth in an effort to hold back a nasty remark. He should have known Potter would be insufferably ungrateful.

“They’re becoming more secretive with their information. It’s difficult to get all the details.”

“Try harder then,” Potter bites out.

“Of course!” Draco throws his hands in the air. “Next time I’ll just burst into a private meeting and insist they tell me everything. I’m sure that’ll go over well.”

“Don’t get cheeky with me,” Potter growls, his face flushing. “Don’t forget I could hand you over in a heartbeat.”

“How could I forget?” Draco retorts. “You love to remind me how I’m at your mercy. Tell me, do you get off on holding this power over me?”

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

“No, really.” Draco sneers, crossing his arms. “I’d love to know if you get the same kind of thrill from this as you did back at Hogwarts. Does it excite you just like it did to have everyone fawning over you back then?”

“You’re so full of shit,” Potter scoffs. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Draco asks cruelly. “Doesn’t your adoring public still worship you? Or do they blame you for these new attacks?”

“I said, shut it!” Potter roars, leaning close and grabbing Draco by the shoulders.

“Let go,” Draco hisses, shoving at Potter’s chest.

Potter growls low in this throat, stepping closer and pushing back at Draco. Draco stumbles but charges forward, shoving Potter harder than before. He nearly trips over a raised root, only managing to catch his balance at the last moment. His face is flushed with fury and his mouth hangs open as he pants breathlessly. Draco has barely a moment’s warning before Potter rushes forward, tackling him to the ground.

The pine needles are sharp against Draco’s back as he lands on the ground with Potter’s weight pressing him down. Draco flinches, expecting a punch, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Potter growls and shoves ineffectively at Draco, his pinched face looming close. Draco presses back, digging his fingers into Potter’s biceps as he turns them over. They tussle on the ground for a few moments, fighting for dominance as they push and shove at each other without doing any actual damage.

Draco feels heat pool into his stomach and his breath catches when he realises he’s becoming aroused. He rolls over, ready to push himself away from Potter and stumble away when he feels an unmistakable hardness against his thigh.

Fuck, Potter’s turned on too.

Potter’s eyes widen and his cheeks turn pink but he doesn’t pull away. Rather he arches up, rocking his growing erection against Draco and sliding his leg towards Draco’s groin. Draco surpresses a moan of surprise when Potter’s muscled thigh pushes against his straining cock. Potter growls again, the sound vibrating deep in his throat, and they roll over so Potter’s straddling Draco’s hips. Draco’s trapped prick throbs with need and he pushes up, gasping as he’s rewarded with the firm pressure of Potter’s clothed arse against it. Potter’s palms press into Draco’s shoulders, keeping him firmly pinned to the ground. Draco is helpless as Potter sets the pace, rocking back and forth, rubbing the long line of his erection along Draco’s. Potter’s face is still twisted with anger, but his eyes swim with pleasure. He throws his head back, looking up towards the sky.

The friction is intense as their cocks rub roughly together through the layers of cotton and denim, but Draco gives in to the burning sensation. His bollocks draw in tight; his mouth falls open and he squeezes his eyes shut. He reaches out, gripping Potter’s hips and ruts upwards once, twice, and then he’s coming hard. His prick pulses in his pants, spurting his release against the damp cotton.

Potter lets out a little whine, frantically rocking against Draco’s thigh until he gasps loudly and stills. Draco is certain he can feel the incessant throbbing of Potter’s cock, even through their clothes.

An awkward silence falls over them in the aftermath. Potter rolls off Draco and collapses at his side, breathing heavily through clenched teeth. Soon the cooling stickiness in Draco’s pants becomes uncomfortable and he grabs his wand to cast a cleaning spell over himself. He sits up slowly and glances at Potter, who is still lying there with his eyes tightly shut, and spells him clean as well.

Potter’s eyes snap open, looking startled and anxious as they meet Draco’s. It’s as if the charm has woken Potter from his daze and he scrambles hastily to his feet. He races towards his broom and flies off without giving Draco a second glance.

Draco feels terribly off-center when he stumbles back into the long hallway of the Mulciber Estate. His body is sated and relaxed in a way it hasn’t been in months, but his mind is unsettled and jumpy. His skin feels too tight, stretched over his bones and his clothing is suddenly far too constrictive. The cleaning charm has left his jeans stiff and he longingly thinks of the shower in the guest bathroom. There might be little hot water to spare—the old pipes of the Estate are stubbornly resistant to heating charms—but even standing under a lukewarm spray would be utterly satisfying.

He places the broom with the others, his eyes darting around to check for any onlookers before heading towards the Guest Wing. His breath leaves him in a surprised woosh as a firm hand grabs his shoulder and pulls his into an empty room.

“Where were you?”

Draco exhales a shaky breath when he recognises his mother’s voice. Her eyes are narrowed, her expression pinched. He tries to pull away from her tense grip but she only tightens her hold on him.

“Nowhere,” Draco huffs out, refusing to meet her eyes.

“Draco,” she warns, her voice full of reproach.

“I was—I just—” Draco stutters over his words, swallowing thickly over the lump forming in his throat. He hates lying to this mother. “I just went out. I needed some fresh air, that’s all.”

She peers searchingly into his eyes for a long moment before her expression finally softens. She’s always been able to see right through Draco. Narcissa lets out a tired sigh before releasing her hold on Draco’s shoulder.

“Be careful, dear.” Narcissa’s face is resigned and weary. “It’s a dangerous game you’re playing.”

Draco nods solemnly before turning away and rushing out of the room.

The sky is purple, littered with wispy clouds as the sun dips below the horizon. The last of the sunlight illuminates the treetops, making them appear more gold than green. Draco uses the dying light to guide him as he flies towards the clearing, squinting as the low rays shine into his eyes.

When Draco lands he finds Potter already waiting for him, shifting nervously as he paces back and forth. He startles when he notices Draco’s presence. Potter’s discomfort is contagious; anxiety floods Draco’s veins and he pushes down the rising dread in this throat.

“I don’t have any new information,” Draco reports, gripping his broom too tightly in his hand. The old wood digs into his palm, rubbing roughly against his callouses. “You should have waited for me to summon you, I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time—”

“That’s fine,” Potter interrupts, speaking just a bit too loud. A disgruntled bird squawks in protest at the disturbance, fleeing a tall branch above them. Potter laughs nervously and Draco tries to smile, but his face feels stiff and his skin too tight. Potter looks at the ground, kicking at some loose pebbles. His voice sounds strained and embarrassed when he finally speaks again. “I just wanted to get away, that’s all.”

“Couldn’t you have done that on your own?” Draco asks with a hint of smugness. Potter shrugs. His unease, despite Draco’s previous anxieties, is beginning to calm Draco’s own nerves. He can feel his confidence slowly creeping back in. “What was the purpose of summoning me?”

Potter’s looks up sharply, his jaw clenched but his eyes burning bright. His cheeks slowly heat, his flushed complexion clear to see in the soft light filtering through the trees.

“I...” Potter begins, before frowning and trailing off. “I don’t know, Malfoy.” He sighs heavily and kicks at the ground, taking out his frustration on a tuft of grass.

“I think you do know.” Draco is playing with fire, only this is much more dangerous than the terrifying flames of Fiendfyre. He’s likely to be scorched, burned alive, and yet he steps forward all the same. “What is it that you really want, Potter?”

Potter glares at Draco and it’s the barely restrained anger—more likely for himself than directed at Draco—that fuels Draco’s confidence, making him feel bold. Draco drops his broom and closes the distance in three long strides, pressing Potter firmly against a tree trunk.

“Malfoy,” Potter warns, but his voice is low and husky. “What are you doing?”

“Giving you what you want,” Draco says roughly in his ear before cupping the straining erection in Potter’s jeans.

Potter’s resulting gasp is music to Draco’s ears. He makes quick work of Potter’s fly, slipping his hand past the waistband of Potter’s pants and into the inviting heat within. Potter lets out a needy whine as Draco’s fingers wrap around his stiff cock, and he lets his head fall back against the tree.

It’s messy and quick but Draco absorbs every glorious moment. Potter is open-mouthed, panting heavily. His eyes are squeezed shut and his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. He bucks forward into the circle of Draco’s fingers, rocking into Draco’s sure and steady strokes. Strands of pre-come run down Draco’s knuckles, sticky and hot.

“Please, I—” Potter’s thighs tighten and his eyes snap wide open. “Ohhhh, yes!”

Potter shudders through his orgasm and Draco continues to pump his prick until the last tremors subside. He leans bonelessly against the tree when Draco removes his hand and wipes the excess come on his palm against the coarse bark.

“Should I…” Potter trails off, glancing over at the bulge in Draco’s own jeans. “Do you want me to—”

“Come here,” Draco mumbles, unfastening his jeans and pulling them down his thighs. He grabs Potter’s hand and guides it towards his straining cock. Potter’s touch is unsure and that thrills Draco all the more. He strokes Draco’s cock clumsily, his grip too loose and the pace too slow. “Have you ever even done this before, Potter?” Draco asks.

“What do you think?” Potter mutters through clenched teeth. His cheeks are burning; he refuses to meet Draco’s searching stare.

“Never messed around in the Quidditch locker rooms?” Draco bucks his hips as Potter increases the pace. “What about your ginger weasel of a girlfriend? Didn’t you ever fool around with her? Or was she missing the proper equipment?”

“Don’t call her that,” Potter growls, tightly squeezing Draco’s cock.

“What? Your girlfriend?” Draco says on a moan, the firmer pressure sending sparks of pleasure along his spine.

“Shut up,” Potter hisses, moving his hand faster and harder.

Draco finds himself unable to speak any more, not with Potter fiercely tugging at his aching cock. His toes curl and he tilts his head back as white-hot pleasure shoots through him. Moments later, he spills himself all over Potter’s still-moving hand.

Draco slowly regains his breath and it’s Potter this time who grabs his wand first, casting a cleaning charm on himself. Draco raises an eyebrow at him and Potter sighs heavily before relenting and casting one on Draco as well.

The resulting silence is less awkward this time, but still tense, and Draco finds himself at a loss for what to say. What’s the proper etiquette after wanking off your former school nemesis? It certainly isn't something Draco’s mother taught him when instructing him on social conduct.

Potter shifts restlessly next to him before speaking suddenly, as if as an afterthought. “We broke up.”

“What?” Draco’s brow furrows in confusion.

“Me and Ginny,” Potter admits sullenly. “It wasn’t working. I wanted to be there for her, to protect her, but it turns out she didn’t need my protection. Once all the had smoke cleared, it was like we didn’t even know each other.” Potter presses his lips together and frowns, as if he didn’t actually mean to share that information.

“I see,” Draco replies, unsure of how he’s expected to respond. Apparently Potter gets rather chatty after coming.

“It’s been tense with the Weasleys,” Potter continues though he keeps his gaze averted. “Ever since…”

Since Fred died, Draco finishes silently in his head. He fights back the waves of guilt that crash against him as his own actions in the final battle flood into his mind like the sea at high tide.

“I did what I had to do,” Draco says sternly, regretting the words as soon as they spill from his mouth.

“What?” Potter turns to face him, his expression incredulous and angry.

“I—I was afraid,” Draco adds, upset at himself for speaking, frustrated for feeling the need to justify himself.

“You could have asked for help,” Potter grumbles bitterly.

“No, I couldn’t,” Draco retorts, becoming indignant himself. “He would have killed my family. I had to do it and I had to do it alone.”

“And allow countless others to be harmed as a result?” Potter barks. “You nearly killed Ron. And what about Katie Bell, and—?”

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” Draco protests, rage and guilt swirling in his stomach.

“Is that so?” Potter asks coldly.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Draco sneers. “You don’t have a family to protect.”

Shit.

All the colour drains from Potter’s face. He takes a step back. Then another. “Fuck you, Malfoy.”

Draco hadn’t meant to say that, the words just spilled from his lips. Who does Potter think he is anyway, prodding Draco and pushing him to angrily lash out? Frustration swells in Draco’s chest: the brief moment of afterglow from before has been entirely ruined. Potter glares at Draco as he grabs his broom, scowling at him fiercely before taking to the sky.

Draco stays in the clearing, alone, as dusk settles around him. Eventually he sighs heavily and walks towards his own broom. He isn’t sure why he should give a damn about any of it.

Still, as he takes off, he can’t seem to shake the image of Potter’s wounded, hurt eyes.

“You smell like sex.”

Theo looms in, smirking. He presses his hands against the wall, horribly close to each side of Draco’s face. His light eyes are icy, dancing with mischief and cruelty.

“Fuck off, Theo.” Draco feigns boredom but his heart is pounding in his chest. Theo always seemed so slight at school. Draco isn’t sure when he bulked up so much, but his strong figure is chillingly threatening as he looms over Draco.

“So, where have you been sneaking off to?” Theo leans forward and whispers harshly in his ear. “What exactly have you been doing on these little excursions?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Draco swallows roughly, keeping his voice as steady as possible.

“Don’t play stupid with me,” Theo hisses. “I’ve been watching you carefully, Draco.”

“Let me go.” Draco pushes away from the wall only to be shoved back against it.

“If you’re so desperate for it, you know I’ll help you out.” Theo presses his body against Draco’s. “For a price, of course. But I bet it’s cheaper than whatever hovel you’re running off to to get your cock sucked.”

“Fuck you,” Draco spits angrily.

“Did I guess correctly?” Theo smirks. “I really hope you don’t pay for it. You’re a wizard, for Merlin’s sake. Just go to some Muggle club, cast Imperio and then Obliviate them afterwards. Muggles do have their uses from time to time.”

“You’re disgusting.” Draco pushes, hard, and Theo finally stumbles back, giving way to him.

Draco storms off, ignoring Theo’s cruel laughter as it echoes through the hall.

The earth is soft beneath Draco’s feet and dew clings to blades of grass, glittering in the early morning sun. The air smells like fresh rain and moss, serene and invigorating at the same time. Draco inhales deeply, closing his eyes and allowing the gentle rays of sunshine to warm his upturned face. A twig snaps behind him and his eyes quickly open. He turns around to find Potter approaching him.

Potter’s face is carefully blank but his eyes are full of warring emotions—hesitation, frustration, and a hint of something else, something Draco can’t quite discern.

“Potter,” Draco says.

“You have some information?” Potter asks in a clipped voice, his arms held stiffly at his sides.

“Yes,” Draco sighs, stepping closer. Potter flinches, looking as if he wants to move away, but he holds his ground. “They’re planning a massive attack in Oxford tomorrow afternoon. Almost all of the members will be present—”

“You included?” Potter interrupts.

“Yes,” Draco replies, bristling when Potter narrows his eyes. “I’ll need to be there to limit the damage.”

“Right,” Potter replies. He suddenly looks terribly tired and Draco notices the dark bags under his eyes. “What else?”

“They’ll be using Fiendfyre again, in combination with basic Reductor Curses in order to maximise the damage to Muggle property.”

“Alright.” Potter nods his head, his brow furrowed as he takes in the information.

Draco shifts nervously in the silence that follows. He collects his courage and pushes aside his pride as he steps forward. “I’m sorry.”

“What?” Potter lifts his gaze, confusion and surprise spreading across his face.

“About what I said, last time.” Draco grits his teeth, the apology almost painful as it leaves his lips. “I—I shouldn't have said what I did. It was...unnecessary.”

“Oh.” Now Potter looks uncomfortable, fidgeting restlessly and awkwardly clenching his hands into fists. “It’s fine. Well, it’s not fine but…let’s just not speak about those things in the future.”

“Okay,” Draco agrees. He wonders if he should offer his hand and shake on it. The notion is so ridiculous Draco is hopelessly unable to stifle the laugh that escapes his mouth.

“What’s so funny?” Potter asks, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“Nothing.” Draco shakes his head, feeling lighter than he has in days. “So, if we aren’t talking, what should we do instead?”

“Instead?” Potter’s cheeks stain pink and he ruffles the back of his hair, making it messier than ever.

“Well,” Draco begins, stepping closer to Potter and growing more bold. “How are you going to repay me for sharing this important information with you?”

“By not handing you in,” Potter huffs, though his pupils dilate slightly as Draco draws nearer. “That’s your reward: your freedom.”

“I’d rather have something else,” Draco purrs, closing the distance between them.

“Yeah?” Potter asks, his voice turning nearly shy. “What do you want, then?”

“I want you to suck me,” Draco whispers hotly in Potter’s ear.

Potter shivers against the rush of warm air on his neck. His voice is tight when he replies. “I’ve—I’ve never—”

“I know,” Draco responds. His hands are already reaching down to undo his jeans, his prick filling and thickening in his pants. “Don’t worry, I’ll guide you.”

Potter’s eyes are wide and he swallows thickly, looking at Draco as if he’s mad. Draco has a sharp, aching fear that Potter might back down, might walk away and refuse. He doesn’t. He nods slowly and lowers to his knees, his hands shaking as he pulls Draco’s hard cock out.

“Well?” Potter’s lips brush against the leaking tip and Draco twitches at the contact.

“Now you put it in your mouth, Potter.” Draco tries for nonchalance but his voice is far too shaky for that.

“Prat,” Potter mutters but he opens his mouth and presses forward.

Merlin.

Nothing in the world could have prepared Draco for the wet, velvety heat of Potter’s mouth. Potter tentatively traces his tongue along the shaft of his prick and Draco’s knees nearly buckle. It’s the timidity of it all that arouses Draco the most. He tangles his hair into Potter’s impossibly messy locks and guides his head, setting a slow but steady pace. Potter gags slightly but readjusts, opening his mouth wider and enthusiastically wrapping his lips around the swollen flesh. He’s messy and inexperienced—spit drips from the corners of his mouth—but Draco hardly cares. He makes the mistake of looking down and groans loudly before he can stop himself. The sight of Potter’s vibrant green eyes, large and intense; the rosy hue of his cheeks; the shiny swelling of his plump lips wrapped around Draco’s prick...it sends Draco over the edge. He cries out a warning, so late that Potter barely has a chance to pull back, before he comes undone. Draco’s release pulses out in great spurts, hitting Potter’s swollen lips, running down his chin and falling to the ground.

“How was that?” Potter asks cockily, though the effect is ruined by his hoarse voice. He wipes Draco’s come from his mouth with the back of his hand and adjusts his own cock in his jeans. Draco’s eyes fall to the tented fabric, and with barely a moment’s hesitation he pushes Potter down so he’s lying on his back, straddling his legs in turn. “You don’t have to—”

“Shut up, Potter,” Draco growls, unzipping Potter’s fly to expose his rigid cock to the warm summer air.

Potter’s lips are sealed after that, only parting to emit the occasional strained groan or desperate whimper. Draco sucks eagerly, swirling his tongue around Potter’s swollen head. He doesn’t last very long; in no time at all he’s digging his nails into the earth and arching his hips up towards the sky. He tries to warn Draco, tugging roughly at his arm and stuttering his name, but Draco just continues to suck, swallowing Potter’s bitter release as it fills his mouth.

When Draco has licked Potter clean, he collapses beside him. His pulse flutters madly but his mind feels exceptionally clear. Wispy clouds are visible through the dense treetops and Draco idly watches them pass by. The silence is less awkward than usual. Instead, Draco delights in the gentle babbling of the nearby creek and the soft chirps of restless birds.

“That was pretty good,” Potter says, finally breaking the silence.

Draco turns his head to face Potter, a sarcastic retort on the tip of his tongue, but it quickly dies on his lips. Potter’s eyes are closed, the lines on his face smooth and barely visible.

“Admit it, Potter,” Draco says, returning his gaze to the sky. “That was the best experience of your life.”

“Hardly,” Potter scoffs. “But it’s not a bad way to release tension.”

“Much better than Gobstones,” Draco agrees.

Potter snorts. “What?”

“Never mind.” Draco chuckles himself. He slowly tucks himself back into his pants, but he makes no effort to move. His gaze is drawn to a small black bird with a vibrant orange belly, and he watches as it flits from tree to tree. “Did you know the redstarts only come here in the summer?”

“What?” Potter’s voice is full of incredulous surprise.

“Those birds in the trees up there.” Draco lazily lifts a hand to the sky. “They migrate here during the summer and come autumn they return to Africa.”

“That’s…an interesting piece of information.”

“Don’t be an arse,” Draco rebukes, though his tone is light. “We used get lots of them every summer in the gardens at home. Mother loves birds—she had a huge book about them, and she would read me passages every night before bed when I was younger.”

“Really?” Draco sees Potter from the corner of his eye as he turns his head to glance at Draco. Draco resists the urge to turn and face him fully, instead keeping his gaze fixed on the sky. “Your mother doesn’t seem like the type.”

“The type to enjoy bird watching? What qualifies a person to be the type to have a hobby?”

“I don’t know,” Potter mumbles. “I guess it makes sense. You did have all those peacocks.”

“Ugh, not the peacocks,” Draco groans. “I hated those things, they were terribly mean.”

“Did they insult your hair? It was pretty awful when you used to slick it back.”

“Oh shut it, Potter.” Draco can’t help the small smile that creeps across his face. “Actually, one of those horrid beasts tried to bite my finger off when I went to pet it.”

“Maybe you provoked it,” Potter offers. “I remember you giving Buckbeak good reason to attack.”

The mention of that Hippogriff darkens the mood and Draco sobers up, rolling over onto his side and sitting up. Potter follows his lead, re-zipping his jeans as he gets to his feet.

“I should get back,” Draco says, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other and standing far too close to Potter.

“Yeah, same here,” Potter agrees, blinking slowly. His lashes are incredibly dark and so very thick. How has Draco never noticed that before?

He’s suddenly tempted to lean forward and kiss Potter goodbye. It’s absurd, absolutely ludicrous, and Draco pushes away the urge. This isn’t the conclusion of some romantic date in the woods; there’s no need to kiss tenderly beneath the swaying pine trees.

Draco nods his head brusquely and snatches his broom from the forest floor. He leaves quickly without saying goodbye.

Great plumes of smoke rise from piles of rubble, turning the air thick and acrid. Draco can taste the destruction on his tongue. He chokes on the harsh clouds, his lungs burning as he hurries past another collapsing building. The Purity Seekers are out in full force and his protective spells are doing precious little to prevent the catastrophic damage they’re inflicting. Luckily, all the screaming and chaos provide a welcome distraction, enabling him to be bolder with his casting; he quickly sheds his fear of being caught out.

He stumbles across Brandon whilst dashing to the next burning building. The young boy trembles violently as he watches Muggles rushing out, the enchanted flames growing taller by the second. Brandon raises his wand, mumbling half-hearted curses, but his hands shake and no magic spills from his wand. His heart is clearly not in it—in fact, his pale face is consumed by remorse, his eyes wide with horror at the destruction which surrounds him.

The sharp cracks of Apparition fill the air, then fierce wizards in red cloaks come into focus, scattered around the streets. Finally. Draco permits himself a small sigh of relief. It took the damn Aurors long enough to arrive. He rushes towards Brandon but a large piece of falling debris cuts off his path.

“There are too many of them,” Rookwood snarls, appearing suddenly at Draco’s side. He angrily casts a blasting curse towards an approaching Auror. “We’ll have to retreat.”

Rookwood quickly moves away, issuing orders and informing the others of the change in strategy. The Purity Seekers begin to Apparate away, one after another.

“What about Brandon?” Draco yells over the chaos, but his words fall on deaf and disappearing ears. Draco knows that Brandon is too young to Apparate on his own; he’s never been taught and always relies on other members to side-along with him. “Fuck.”

Draco races towards Brandon, dodging falling debris and twisting flames of Fiendfyre. His heart stops in his chest when he catches sight of the boy, terrified and trapped against a brick wall. A tall Auror with light brown hair and hard, determined blue eyes has him cornered. The Auror’s face is contorted with rage, his wand raised high as Brandon trembles before him.

“Please,” Brandon pleads. His hood is pulled down low but Draco can see the tears in his eyes from here, see the desperation on his face. “Don’t—”

“No mercy for Death Eaters,” the Auror sneers, before the fatal curse slips past his lips: “Avada Kedavra!”

Draco tries to scream but his voice deserts him; he barely makes a sound. His legs feel like lead as he pushes past the escaping Muggles to get closer to Brandon’s falling body. The Auror looks pleased until he steps closer, his expression turning slack as he pulls back Brandon’s hood. There is no deadly renegade Death Eater there, no criminal escaped from Azkaban. Beneath the dark robe is a thirteen-year-old boy, scared and helpless, his face twisted with terror. The Auror looks around quickly and Draco has the sense, through the incessant haze of blood rushing through his veins, to dive behind a pillar. The wizard looks satisfied enough, finding only scrambling Muggles nearby, and he stumbles backwards, disappearing into the crowd.

Draco’s vision blurs. His mouth is dry and his head is pounding as he finally makes it over to Brandon’s body. There are no Purity Seekers to be found, and even the frantic Muggles seem to be thinning in numbers. He falls to his knees, barely noticing the shards of broken glass that litter the ground. Rage and shock boil in his veins. The sounds of crumbling bricks and plaster fade into the background as he lifts Brandon’s body to his chest. He’s so light; he feels almost weightless when Draco cradles him close and rises to his feet.

Draco uses his free hand to gently close Brandon’s eyelids and swallows a silent sob as he Apparates them both away.

The woods look so different at night.

Dark trunks stand tall, black and foreboding as they paint the forest floor in shadows. Their gnarled branches twist upwards, reaching towards the inky sky—black velvet scattered with stars that shine like diamonds.

In any other circumstance, Draco might find it all terribly beautiful. He might lie back and enjoy the glow of the moonlight, perhaps take a moment to appreciate how it illuminates the edges of the fluttering leaves. Tonight, he merely feels hollow and numb.

Potter lands softly beneath the trees. The light of the moon reflects off the lenses of his glasses, obscuring his eyes. Draco’s icy shell begins to melt, a fiery rage beginning to burn in his stomach. He’s not sure why Potter’s arrival makes him so angry—Draco summoned him, after all—but watching Potter stand awkwardly in the clearing, shifting from foot to foot, fills Draco with indignant frustration.

Years of malice and envy settle through Draco’s bones and when Potter offers a small, tentative smile, Draco is overwhelmed by the urge to wipe the friendly expression from his face. There’s a part of Draco, somewhere deep inside and locked away, that knows it’s not Potter’s fault; he didn’t fire the spell that killed Brandon. In fact, Draco isn’t really sure whether Potter was present at all. The Death Hunters were, though—in full force and with a blinding need for bloody vengeance spilling from their pores. Draco thought his disgust was purely reserved for the Purity Seekers and their flawed ideologies, but now a fresh rage burns for the newly formed Ministry and its minions.

“Malfoy?” Potter steps closer. The shine of his glasses diminishes, revealing his searching eyes. They’re so bright, even in the limited light of the moon, and they glow with concern and confusion.

The flames of Draco’s fury rise higher, settling at the back of his throat. He hates Potter, hates the corrupt Ministry, hates the cowardly Purity Seekers, hates himself. He growls low in this throat, stalking towards Potter who, despite looking mildly alarmed, holds his ground.

Potter’s breath escapes him in a surprised exhale and his eyes widen as Draco pushes him against a tree. He’s like supple prey in Draco’s arms, shuddering and silent, his pupils fat with arousal. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes but he lifts his chin to meet the challenge. Draco pauses, centimeters from Potter’s face, watching his expression shift from alarm to confusion to anticipation.

When Potter opens his mouth, an unasked question forming on his lips, Draco leans in. The kiss is brutal and biting, more teeth than tongues, but Potter returns it with the same ferocity. Potter’s wind-chapped lips press firmly against Draco’s, his light stubble scratching Draco’s chin. Potter groans shamelessly into Draco’s mouth; their tongues duel for dominance as Potter begins to rut against Draco’s leg. Draco slides his thigh between Potter’s legs, increasing the pressure to Potter’s growing erection.

Draco pulls away abruptly, breaking the kiss and panting into the cool night air. Potter looks utterly debauched—lips swollen, dark hair messy, cheeks flushed with arousal. He whines at the loss of contact, swooning forward to capture Draco’s lips in another intense kiss. Much to Potter’s displeasure, Draco leans away, releasing his firm grip on Potter’s arms. He moves back towards the center of the clearing, settling on the soft patch of grass growing there. He doesn’t bother looking over his shoulder to see if Potter’s following him.

Draco barely manages to pull off his shirt before Potter’s hands are on him, hot and searching. His rough, calloused fingertips trace patterns on Draco’s exposed chest and stomach, tentatively exploring the raised scars which litter his skin—the scars Potter gave him. His soft touches feel like an apology and Draco’s bitterness from earlier threatens to spill over and ruin everything. It’s all too gentle, too intimate. Draco retaliates with angry teeth, sucking at Potter’s neck and leaving biting bruises on the tender flesh as he quickly undresses him. Potter returns the favor with shaking hands, clumsily removing each article of Draco’s clothing.

Potter looks magnificent: utterly bare and naked to the world. His tanned skin glows in the moonlight and he looks almost ethereal under the scattering of stars which light the night sky. Draco shakes the image loose from his mind, focusing instead on cupping Potter’s growing erection and watching the pinched expression of pleasure spreading across his face. Draco lowers Potter completely to the ground and shifts until he’s kneeling between his thighs, hovering over him before taking Potter’s leaking prick into his mouth. His own cock twitches, leaving a sticky trail of pre-come on Potter’s thigh as he sucks Potter down. Potter is gasping; his legs tense as he arches his hips off the ground.

Draco’s fingers skate over Potter’s dry arsehole, feeling the puckered skin as it twitches beneath his fingertips. Potter fidgets nervously but doesn’t pull away. A swift spell makes Draco’s fingers slick and wet, and he doubles his efforts of pushing and prodding at Potter’s tight hole. Potter’s low moan fills the empty clearing when Draco’s finger finally presses inside, surrounded by tight, brilliant heat. Draco is careful at first, but by the time his second finger joins the first he’s increasing his speed, an urgent pace taking over. Draco pushes his anger and grief away, keeping the turbulent emotions at bay and his attention fixed on Potter’s controlled gasps and clenching muscles.

Draco lifts his head to ask Potter if he’s ready, but before he can speak Potter is nodding his head. His eyes are dark and piercing.

“Go on, do it.”

Draco’s hand feels clumsy as he spreads more conjured lube over his aching cock. Potter’s legs spread readily and with a muttered curse Draco presses in. It’s overwhelming: so hot and so very tight, Draco isn’t sure how he’ll fit inside. Potter is clenching in pain, his face twisted in discomfort. The expression breaks through the haze of lust and anger clouding Draco, and he stops moving, ready to pull out.

“Don’t stop,” Potter says through gritted teeth. “Just give me a second.”

Draco inhales deeply, doing his best to still his trembling body. A few moments later Potter is nodding and Draco continues to push forward, sinking all the way into him. It’s glorious, too much and yet not enough at the same time. He rocks his hips forward experimentally and is rewarded with a sharp cry from Potter. His face is a mixture of pleasure and pain, his eyes wild and determined.

Draco shuts his own eyes, convinced that the sight of Potter spread out beneath him will have him coming within seconds. He picks up his pace, surrendering to the sweet, tight heat of Potter’s body. He’s pushing into Potter now, thrust after fierce thrust, pressing Potter firmly into the damp earth. Potter, however, gives as good as he gets. He growls almost angrily, and raises his hips to meet Draco’s urgent thrusts. His fingers dig sharply into Draco’s sweat-soaked back, the burning pain of their marks welcome against his heated skin.

Draco feels his orgasm approaching, surging through his body like a steam train, ready to derail at any moment. He has the sense to wrap his fingers around Potter’s stiff cock, letting Potter fuck himself into the tight circle of his fist. When Potter groans loudly, spilling himself over Draco’s knuckles, his body clenches around Draco, squeezing his prick unbearably tight. Draco moans with deep satisfaction as Potter milks his orgasm from him, his cock pulsing deep inside Potter’s body.

As the aftershocks fade, Draco rests his damp forehead against Potter’s shoulder, regaining his breath and willing his thrumming heartbeat to slow. Potter winces when Draco finally pulls out, more quickly than he should have, and settles on the ground beside him.

Draco’s startled to find his vision blurring, the corners of his eyes becoming wet. The events of the last few days come rushing back and his stomach tightens unpleasantly. He’s overwhelmed, ready to fall apart and shatter into a million pieces.

“Malfoy?” Potter’s voice is soft and concerned. It makes Draco feel even worse.

“He’s dead.” Draco’s words come out as a broken murmur. “Brandon’s dead. I tried to protect him but I failed.”

“He was the young one?” Potter asks.

“Yes,” Draco hisses, the familiar anger rising in his throat again. “He was only thirteen, just a boy. I had to bring his body back and his father barely flinched, the bastard.” Draco wipes an angry tear from the corner of his eye. “And you know what Rookwood did? He congratulated me. Said it was clever and quick thinking to take his body away so the Ministry couldn’t find it—so that Brandon’s lifeless, innocent body wouldn’t lead the Aurors to us.”

“Fuck,” Potter mutters, his expression sympathetic. Draco doesn’t want his sympathy. He wants to scream, to punch Potter in the face, to be hit back and bleed all over the forest floor. He wants to run away, run further into the woods and never turn back. “I’m so sorry, Malfoy.”

“Don’t,” Draco says tiredly, his heart aching and his throat closing tight.

“You have to come with me.” Potter turns onto his side and tugs at Draco’s shoulder. “Come back with me and we’ll fix this. We can end this once and for all if you join us.”

“I always knew you were a fool, Potter,” Draco snorts unkindly, sitting up and facing away from him. “I won’t hand myself over to the Ministry. I won’t go with you.”

Potter sits up, furiously re-dressing as he glares at Draco from the corner of his eye. “You’re the one being stupid, Malfoy. We could protect you, make sure this kind of shit doesn’t happen again.”

“Protect me?” Draco scoffs, throwing on his pants and scowling at Potter. “Just like you protected Brandon? That Auror killed him as he pleaded for his life, didn’t even blink before the killing curse rushed from his wand. I guess it’s not unforgivable if it comes from the light side, though, is it?”

Potter’s face turns white but his eyes remain angry. He shoves his shirt back on, knocking his stupid glasses crooked in the process. “You need to come with me. I don’t have to ask nicely, Malfoy. I can just take you in if I want. I don’t need your permission or your consent.”

“Are we back to this, then?” Draco sneers. “Don’t make empty threats you can’t carry out, Potter. You won’t take me in, against my will or otherwise. You know what they’ll do to me once you bring me in. You can’t take that risk: you need me too much.”

Draco regrets the words as soon as they spill from his mouth. He meant to say that Potter needs his intel, his insider information, but the expression on Potter’s face speaks volumes. Despite their venomous words, something dangerous and powerful looms beneath the fury and frustration.

Potter chews his bottom lip, uncertainty and pain flickering in the deep green of his eyes. Draco clenches his jaw, afraid of what might be reflected in his own.

“Just go,” Potter finally says, his voice soft and defeated.

Draco doesn’t bother replying—he wouldn’t trust his voice to remain steady even if he had the words to respond. He feels Potter’s gaze burning into him as he finishes pulling on his clothes. When he’s ready, he keeps his head down and quickly snatches his broom from the edge of the clearing. Draco’s self-control doesn’t hold out, though: he can’t resist turning around to take one last look at Potter’s face.

His stomach sinks when he’s met with only empty air and the dark expanse of night.

Chapter Text

The wards shimmer around Harry as he pushes through the front door of Grimmauld Place, precariously balancing several takeaway bags in his hands. Mrs Black’s portrait thankfully remains undisturbed, her abrasive snores muffled beneath the thick black curtain.

He shuffles down the hall and into the sitting room to find Ron and Hermione already there. Ron is sitting on the sofa, his shoulders shaking slightly as Hermione rubs them soothingly. Harry clears his throat awkwardly and sets the bags down on the table. Ron’s head snaps up, his eyes red but dry.

“Will you stay for dinner?” Harry asks, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“No.” Ron shakes his head, shrugging Hermione’s hand from his shoulder. “I have to get back to the Ministry.”

“At his hour?” Hermione asks, unable to mask her disappointment.

Ron’s eyes slide over to Harry before he swiftly looks away. “I have a meeting.” His tone is falsely casual, the underlying tightness seeping through.

“With the Death Hunters?” Harry asks carefully, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. He rips into the bags of food with a little too much force. “How are those going?”

“That's classified.”

Harry clenches his jaw. “Is it?”

“Yes,” Ron hisses, rising off the sofa. “You’d know all about it if you were still part of the team.”

“I’ve seen enough blood and violence, thanks,” Harry mutters.

“And I haven’t?” Ron’s eyes flash dangerously. “Someone has to avenge Fred’s death.”

“We’ve been through this, Ron.” Harry sighs despondently, his expression softening. “Don’t you—“

“So,” Hermione interrupts, standing up and stepping between them. “What about dinner tomorrow night?” She turns to Ron with pleading eyes.

“George and I are going to the Burrow tomorrow night,” Ron mumbles.

The invitation for Harry and Hermione to join never follows. Molly has been very clear to both of them that they’re always welcome, but it hasn’t felt quite right. Harry feels as if there’s an air of discomfort whenever he visits, as if he’s intruding on their grief, and it frustrates him that he’s unable to console them in any way.

“Alright,” Hermione sighs, leaning in for a kiss. Ron presses his lips to hers quickly, the angry red fading from his face but still burning around the tips of his ears. “Owl me later?”

Ron nods in agreement, grunting a strained goodbye to Harry before heading to the Floo. As soon as the green flames die down, Hermione turns to glare at Harry.

“What?” Harry exhales noisily.

“You need to be patient with him. He’s hurting.”

“I know that!” Harry drops the plastic utensils on the table in frustration. “I’ve tried. But I don’t trust the Death Hunters and I can’t believe Ron’s stuck with them.”

“He can’t follow you everywhere, Harry,” Hermione says cautiously. “He has to make his own decisions sometimes.”

“You mean his own mistakes,” Harry mutters.

“Yes, those too.” Hermione moves closer to place a comforting hand on Harry’s shoulder. “He needs a place to vent and let out his pain and frustration. He needs to not feel helpless; to find a place where he belongs.”

“He belongs with us,” Harry protests. “He’s changing, ‘Mione.”

“I know,” Hermione sighs, squeezing Harry’s shoulder before releasing it. “But the war changed all of us.” There’s something pointed in her tone, a hint of reproach, and it hurts Harry more than he’d like to admit.

“Will you eat with me?” Harry gestures to the containers of Indian food now littering the table.

“Maybe later.” Hermione lifts her gaze to Harry, her eyes sad and wistful. “I’m not all that hungry right now.”

Harry watches her go up the stairs before he sinks down on the sofa and tears into a box of chicken curry. His appetite has all but disappeared as well, but he forces himself to eat, chewing his food mechanically without tasting it. He does his best to ignore the defeated twisting of his stomach and the irrecoverable stirrings deep inside his chest.

Harry shifts from foot to foot, wincing slightly in discomfort. He bites the inside of his cheek, ignoring the burning sensation that spreads along his thighs and arse. Harry presses the appropriate buttons, his stomach swooping as the Ministry lift carries him up and sideways to Level One.

The last few meetings with Malfoy have been…intense, to say the least. They exchange few words—just terse greetings and a brief summary of new information—before their clothes litter the forest floor and their bodies meet in the middle. Harry’s never been so sore, so exhausted and utterly drained, as he is after their encounters. He often has difficulty flying back to London afterwards, but the deep sleep he finds when his head finally hits his pillow is worth the mild discomfort. The mind-melting pleasure is also, undeniably, a perk.

The lift doors open and Harry gingerly steps out, increasing his pace as he approaches Kingsley’s office. He firmly pushes his thoughts away from Malfoy and back to the issue at hand. He’s practically fuming all over again when he’s finally granted entry by Kingsley’s secretary.

“Harry,” Kingsley says, gesturing for him to sit. “What can I help you with today?”

“I’ve just heard about the mandatory registering of Pure-bloods,” Harry says through clenched teeth, crossing his arms. “Is it true?”

Kingsley flinches slightly. “Please, take a seat.” Harry narrows his eyes and refuses to sit. Kingsley sighs heavily. “There are certain measures we have to take—”

“That’s ridiculous,” Harry interrupts. “This isn’t any different than the Ministry forcing half-bloods and Muggle-borns to register under Voldemort’s rule.”

“It’s nothing like that,” Kingsley protests. “This is for their own protection, so that we can clear their families’ names and ensure their safety.”

“That’s a load of shit and you know it,” Harry spits angrily. “It’s complete nonsense!”

“Mr Potter.” Kingsley straightens in his chair, eyes narrowing. “Please remember you’re speaking to your Minister.”

Harry exhales deeply and, with some effort, uncurls his clenched fists. “My apologies, Minister.” He fights to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “But even you have to agree that this isn’t right.”

“It’s a time of war, Harry. Not everything we do is going be entirely comfortable.”

“Can I ask you one thing?” Harry says suddenly. Kingsley wearily waves his hand in agreement. “Who’s conducting the registration interviews?”

“Listen, Harry—”

“Will it be the Death Hunters?”

Kingsley flinches at the name. “You know I don’t agree with all of their tactics, but I trust Head Auror Robards. He knows what he’s doing. It’s a dangerous time and some exceptions have to be made.”

“Like killing on sight?” Harry asks coldly.

“What?” Kingsley looks genuinely startled, his eyes becoming wide.

“That was one of the first rules we were taught when I was still a member. In fact, I believe it’s already been enacted.”

“You must be mistaken,” Kingsley replies, though he looks shaken. “I’ll speak with Robards.” Harry’s disbelief must show on his face because Kingsley sighs tiredly before he continues. “It’s a dangerous time,” he repeats. “Even as Minister, there are some things I have limited control over.” Harry opens his mouth to protest but Kingsley raises his hand in dismissal. “Now, if you don’t mind, Harry, I’m extremely busy today.”

Harry grinds his teeth but keeps his mouth shut as he storms out of the office.

The gentle breeze caresses Harry, rustling through his hair and gliding over his body. It’s a perfect summer’s day and he basks in the warm sunlight that streams across his face. His heart feels light as he guides his broom over tall treetops, though his stomach clenches in anticipation when he spots their clearing.

Malfoy is waiting for him when he lands, leaning against a tree with a bored expression on his face. The sun’s rays filter through the trees, illuminating him, the golden light turning his eyes almost colourless. Despite his blank expression, Harry can see the hint of excitement and flash of interest as Malfoy looks him up and down.

“Sorry I’m late,” Harry says, dismounting and resting his broom against a wide trunk. “Have you been waiting long?”

Malfoy shrugs nonchalantly. “Not really.”

“Well?” Harry asks, when Malfoy doesn’t speak again. “What information do you have for me?”

“About that…” Malfoy trails off, picking a piece of bark from the tree. “I don’t have anything new to share.”

“Okay...” Harry furrows his brow. “Then why did you use the coin?” He wants to be upset at having been called here for no reason, but instead his stomach flutters with something else.

Malfoy shrugs again but this time his cheeks turn the faintest shade of pink. “I was bored.”

“Really?” Harry scoffs, but he finds he doesn’t mind. He’s already moving closer to Malfoy, his cock half hard.

“Yes.” Malfoy spares him a haughty glance before pointedly looking away. “Also, it’s my birthday.”

“Oh?” That stops Harry in his tracks. He pauses to shoot Malfoy a questioning look.

“I didn’t really fancy spending it with the deranged Purity Seekers,” Malfoy mumbles, sounding embarrassed. “But I didn’t really want to be alone either,” he adds softly.

“Right.” Harry shifts awkwardly. He’d had no idea it was Malfoy’s birthday. He could have—what? Got Malfoy a present? The idea is ridiculous and Harry quickly pushes it away.

“Well.” Malfoy steps closer, his face brimming with confidence even as his eyes flicker with uncertainty. “Where’s my birthday present?”

“I don’t have one,” Harry mutters, giving Malfoy an incredulous look. “How could I?”

A sly smirk forms on Malfoy’s pink lips, his eyes full of heat and hunger. Harry flushes from head to toe, his cock twitching to full attention.

“I’m sure you can come up with something.” Malfoy waits a beat before tilting his head in mock impatience.

A snarky response is on Harry’s lips but he roughly swallows it, his eyes drawn to the growing bulge in Malfoy’s jeans. Before he can think better of it, Harry sinks to his knees. Malfoy’s smirk widens, morphing into a pleased grin. Malfoy’s fingers toy with his fly before he unzips his jeans and exposes his hard prick.

Harry licks his lips, watching a bead of pre-come glisten on the swollen head of Malfoy’s cock. He darts his tongue out, tasting the sharp bitterness and delighting in the grateful moan that escapes Malfoy’s mouth. Harry smirks and rubs his lips gently against the hot flesh before opening his mouth and swallowing Malfoy down. He relaxes his throat, grasping the base of Malfoy’s prick as he sets a steady rhythm.

“You’re getting good at this,” Malfoy murmurs as he threads his fingers into Harry’s hair.

Harry bristles at Malfoy’s smug tone even as his pulse races and his cock twitches at the compliment. Malfoy is swearing under his breath now, tugging tightly on the strands of Harry’s hair caught between his fingers. Harry hums softly and tries not to choke on Malfoy’s cock when his hips stutter and he mutters a string of incomprehensible words.

Harry sucks hard, stroking Malfoy fast, looking up through his dark lashes to watch Malfoy gasp and splutter.

“Fuck, Potter,” Malfoy moans, “I’m—”

His words are cut off by his own breathless groan. Harry swallows quickly, grimacing slightly at the tartness which coats his mouth before it makes its way down his throat. Malfoy’s fingers are still clenched in his hair, loosening slightly only to tighten again.

“Happy birthday,” Harry says cockily, the effect ruined somewhat by the hoarseness of his voice.

The soreness in Harry’s jaw and aching in his knees is completely swept away by the warm, sated smile Malfoy flashes at him.

Harry’s still smiling when he returns to Grimmauld Place, his body loose and vibrating with leftover pleasure. His skin is sticky with cooled sweat and his mind is consumed with thoughts of a long, hot shower.

“Where were you?”

Harry startles at the sight of Hermione waiting for him by the stairwell. “Bloody hell, Hermione. You scared me.”

Hermione’s eyes merely narrow, taking in Harry’s flushed cheeks and messy hair. “Well?”

“I was out...at the Ministry.” Harry places his broom down, eyes trained on the floor.

Hermione crosses her arms. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” Harry says firmly, searching for a quick escape only to find Hermione blocking the stairs.

“That’s funny.” Hermione’s gaze burns through Harry. “I was just at the Ministry myself and I didn’t see you there.”

“We must have missed each other, then.” Harry shrugs, keeping his face as blank as possible.

“I was there for several hours today.” Hermione says tightly, her features clouded by suspicion. “What were you doing there?”

“Nothing,” Harry mutters, becoming increasingly flustered. “I mean, it’s classified. I can’t talk about it.”

“Really?” Hermione’s eyes flash with hurt and frustration. “That’s the same line Ron loves to give me.”

“Hermione,” Harry pleads, trying desperately to ignore the heat rising up his neck. “Just forget about it, okay?”

“No, Harry, I won’t.” Hermione sighs and softens her tone. “You’ve been disappearing for weeks now, going off hours at a time and no one knows where you’re going.”

“Can’t I just have some time to myself?” Harry’s shoulders tense as he glares at Hermione.

“Of course you can,” Hermione says. “But it’s clear you’re hiding something and the last time you hid something from us the results were tragic.”

“I know what I’m doing, ‘Mione,” Harry exclaims, stung by her accusing tone. “I promise everything is under control. Just trust me, okay?”

“But, Harry—”

“Please,” Harry begs, his body sagging with fatigue.

“Fine,” Hermione relents, throwing her hands into the air. “But you can talk to me, Harry. I’m here for you.”

“I know,” Harry says softly. “Thank you.”

She smiles at him gently, moving aside so he can climb the stairs. His shower that afternoon is less pleasing than he’d hoped, and his stomach remains twisted with guilt for the rest of the evening.

“They’re likely to start the attack at dusk, right as the sun sets.”

“And you’re certain of the location?” Kingsley leans forward, resting his hands on his chin.

“Yes.” Harry nods his head and continues. “The center of Croydon, by Fairfield Halls. I believe they plan to spread out from there.”

“We can plant Aurors around the building.” Jones points to the map. “Also, let’s put a couple of teams in the surrounding residential areas.”

“Alright,” Kingsley agrees. “Jones, can you take the lead on this?”

“Of course,” she replies, standing tall. “I’d prefer to just have my team out there this time, Sir. We had some difficulties with conflicting leadership last time.”

“Jones, we need all the bodies out there we can afford,” Kingsley rebukes sternly. “Croydon is a large area and we want to provide the best possible protection.”

“Croydon, is it?” Robards chips in as he enters the office, a smug smirk painted on his face. Harry’s blood runs cold. “I’ll start the preparations immediately.”

“Sir—” Jones protests.

“You know,” Robards says, smoothly cutting her off, “I am, of course, grateful that Mr Potter is able to provide this insider information, but I’m a bit concerned about his lack of transparency with regard to the identity of his informant.”

“That’s classified,” Harry spits, shooting Robards a dirty look.

“Of course,” Robards replies in a falsely bright voice. “But we have had issues in the past, in this very Ministry, with wizards falling victim to the Imperius curse. How do we know this isn’t some kind of trap?”

Harry growls low in this throat but Kingsley speaks before he can open his mouth. “I’m certain we can trust him. Although, you do raise some valid concerns, Gawain.” He turns to Harry, his eyes apologetic even as he continues. “There’s a chance Harry might not be aware if he’s being deceived.”

“That’s absolute shite,” Jones scowls, before lowering her voice and adding, “Sir. Harry’s known for fighting the Imperius curse, he can resist it easily. I believe we’re right to place our trust in him.”

“Thank you,” Harry mumbles, tamping down his rising rage towards Robards.

“We have to be vigilant.” Robards shrugs, his eyes cold as he turns to face Jones.

“Is that what you call it?” Jones sneers, glaring at Robards. “Were you just being vigilant when you aggressively interrogated my younger sister about her Pure-blood status?”

“Enough!” Kingsley’s voice cuts loudly over the others. He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Thank you for the information, Harry. We’re all very grateful for your help.” He gestures to Jones and Harry. “You both may leave now. Head Auror Robards and I need to discuss how to go forward.”

“What?” Harry asks angrily, unable to reign in the frustration which pours from him in great, heated waves. “That information was for you and Jones and the rest of the Aurors, not for Robards or the Death Hunters.” Harry spits their name with disgust, as if the words themselves taste bitter on his tongue.

“Why, Mr Potter,” Robards retorts, voice hard and eyes cold. “I’m still Head Auror and if your information pertains to Death Eaters then it falls under the jurisdiction of my task force.”

Harry’s vision turns red and blurs around the edges. Jones sneers at Robards but remains silent as she grabs Harry by the shoulder and pulls him towards the door.

“Let’s go,” she mutters. “He’s not worth it.”

Harry picks at the corner of the plain box in his hands, pulse fluttering nervously as he waits for Malfoy. He really should have done this sooner, but he’s ashamed to admit that he forgot all about it. It wasn’t until their last meeting, when Malfoy cursed under his breath at his imperfect cleaning charm, that Harry remembered. Malfoy didn’t have his wand; he was still using a replacement one that clearly didn’t work as well for him. Harry’s thoughts had quickly drifted to the bottom drawer in his bedroom, where Malfoy’s wand lay, unused and almost forgotten. Harry hopes Malfoy’s gratitude at the wand’s return will outweigh his bitterness at its long absence.

Malfoy appears in the clearing a minute later, a shy smile painted on his lips before he draws his brows together and fixes his face into a blank expression. Harry has to hide the grin which threatens to erupt over his own face. He’s not exactly sure when he started to look forward to these meetings so much, but there’s so little joy in his life at the moment that he’s content to chase what small happiness he can find.

“What’s that?” Malfoy asks, gesturing to the box in Harry’s hands.

“Your belated birthday present.”

“Really?” Malfoy’s fair brows shoot up in surprise, a pleased gleam appearing in his eyes. “Can I open it now?”

“Sure.” Harry shrugs, nerves dancing across his skin. He hands over the box, ignoring the tingles which race up his arm as their fingers brush in the exchange.

Malfoy frowns as he lifts the lid, his expression a mixture of pleasure and confusion. “It’s my wand.”

“Yeah.” Harry awkwardly ruffles the back of his hair. “I figured you’d want it back.”

“It’s not really a gift if it already belonged to me.” Malfoy says haughtily, but his lips turn upwards as he pulls the wand from the box.

He examines it carefully, as if inspecting for any damage Harry may have caused. Harry tries to muster up some semblance of offence at the action but he’s too excited by the sight of the pleased expression spreading across Malfoy’s face.

“Lumos,” Malfoy murmurs, his eyes flashing with delight as bright light bursts from the tip of his wand.

He continues to cast a few more rudimentary charms, his smile widening with each successful spell. Harry watches him closely, mesmerised by the childlike gleam in his eyes and the soft laughter that escapes his lips and rings across the clearing. Malfoy’s eyes are bright, more blue than grey today, and they dance with merriment as he levitates a pile of stones and watches them twirl around in the air.

After a few minutes, the small rocks settle onto the ground and Malfoy’s expression sobers. He sighs heavily and turns to Harry, suddenly grim and serious.

“They’re planning something big.” Malfoy moves closer until he’s standing right in front of Harry. “I don’t know all the details yet: it’s a very secretive mission they’re undertaking. I know it involves a dark artefact my father has in his possession, and there’s some sort of ritual that goes with it, but that’s all I have for now.”

“That sounds serious,” Harry agrees, a heavy feeling of dread settling into his stomach.

“I’ll do my best to get you some more concrete information next time,” Malfoy promises. “I have to be careful for now. Theo’s been more suspicious than usual lately.”

“Theodore Nott?” Harry asks. He hadn’t realised there were other ex-classmates involved with the Purity Alliance. The last he’d heard, most of the younger sympathisers had fled the country.

“Yes,” Malfoy admits, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “He might actually be the worst of them.” His fingers trace his throat, lingering on his neck before he quickly brings his hand back down to his side. “But I have it under control.”

“Malfoy,” Harry says, concern colouring his voice. “I wish you’d let me protect you.”

“Potter,” Malfoy scoffs. “We’ve been through this. I can protect myself just fine.”

“I know, but—”

“I don’t need you to save me,” Malfoy insists. He steps closer and places his hand against Harry’s chest. “I think we should focus on what you need.”

“Me?” Harry sputters, his face warming as Malfoy’s fingers trace patterns against the thin fabric of his shirt. “I don’t need anything.”

“We both know that’s a lie.” Malfoy leans forward and nips at his ear, drawing a gasp from Harry’s lips. “You need what only I can give you.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks breathlessly, his cock filling and pressing against his jeans.

“Oh, yes.” Malfoy’s voice is low and seductive. He trails his fingers down Harry’s chest, pausing to brush against his hard nipples. “You’re such a mess, look at you.” Harry opens his mouth to disagree but then Malfoy’s hand dips lower, pressing against the flat expanse of his stomach. Malfoy’s teasing him now, letting his fingertips linger at the button of Harry’s jeans. “Are you sure you don’t need me to rescue you?” Malfoy pops open the button. The sound as he undoes Harry’s zip is startlingly loud in the quiet of the woods. “Aren’t you the one that needs saving?”

“Malfoy,” Harry whines, bucking his hips forward as his erection strains towards Malfoy.

“Don’t worry,” Malfoy murmurs, pulling Harry’s hard cock free and wrapping his hand around it. “I’ve got you. I’ll save you, Potter.”

Harry closes his eyes, thrusting into the tight circle of Malfoy’s fingers. Malfoy pumps his hand steadily and Harry surrenders to the overwhelming sensations of heat, pressure and friction.

It’s the sweetest salvation Harry’s ever known.

Neville slides into the booth beside Harry, handing him a dangerously full glass of beer. The amber foam trembles as he sets it down and Harry leans forward to take a sip before it spills onto the table.

“Thanks mate.” Dean grins, grabbing his pint of lager from Neville’s outstretched hand.

“Cheers,” Ginny says as Ron arrives with the rest of the drinks.

It’s Saturday night at the Leaky, but the place is uncharacteristically deserted. There’s a desolate feel to the air, the atmosphere grim among the few other patrons loitering at the bar.

“Where is everyone?” Harry asks, gesturing at the paltry crowd.

“A lot of people have left the country,” Dean sighs. “Daphne was helping us rebuild until last week when her family snatched her up. I guess they’re moving to Paris.”

“Why?” Hermione asks, frowning into her glass of cider.

“They’re scared,” Neville chimes in. “They don’t know what to expect. Everything keeps changing.”

“They’re in safe hands,” Ron boasts, taking a large gulp of his drink. “We have things under control: we’ve nearly crushed the entire uprising of renegade Death Eaters. The streets will be safe again soon enough.”

“Oh.” Dean bows his head awkwardly. “Well, actually it’s the Pure-blood families that have been fleeing. They’ve been facing a lot of harsh treatment and bias lately—”

“That’s ridiculous!” Ron scoffs. Harry bites his lip and remains silent, exchanging a look with Hermione.

“Anyway,” Hermione smoothly interrupts, “how have things been at Hogwarts?”

“Pretty good,” Neville replies. “We’ve made a lot of progress rebuilding the greenhouses but it’s been slow work in the Forbidden Forest. There are still so many injured creatures in there, and even with Hagrid’s gentle approach, they seem very wary of us.”

“We’ve had a breakthrough with repairs on the protective charms, though.” Dean grins widely, peering at Ginny with adoring eyes. “Gin figured out the right combination of spells to dismantle the lingering dark magic that had settled into the foundations. It’s been really smooth going since then.”

“It wasn’t just me,” Ginny mumbles as her cheeks turn pink. She lifts her gaze and the corners of her mouth curve into a small smirk. “But, I suppose I was the first one to discover the blockage.”

“There we go,” Neville laughs warmly. “Your feigned modesty was a bit surreal there for a second.”

“Oh shut it.” Ginny grins, shooting Neville a mock-dirty look.

Dean chuckles softly, wrapping his arm around Ginny and pulling her close. Harry watches, expecting to feel sparks of jealousy but none arrive. Instead, he smiles at his content friends. Hermione had been so nervous when she confessed to Harry that Ginny had rekindled her relationship with Dean after she and Harry had broke things off for the final time. Harry had been a little surprised, but, just like now, his old friend the chest monster hadn’t come roaring to life at the news.

Instead, Harry’s simply glad to see her happy: to see life and joy shining in her eyes. He couldn't give that to her and, towards the end, he could no longer find comfort in burying his face in her bright red hair. He’s pleased that they’re still friends; that all of them are here together, alive and safe, enjoying a few drinks together.

Hermione giggles at something Ron whispers in her ear and Neville scrambles to his feet, offering to buy the next round as soon as he notices Hannah getting ready to start her shift at the bar. The jealousy finally does arrive then, but not in the way Harry expects. His chest feels hollow and his veins sing with longing as he wishes he had someone to lean against. He’d love to chuckle at an inside joke, squeeze a warm thigh, stare into knowing eyes that understand him easily without needing to speak a single word. He imagines that muscled thigh, those fine strands of blond hair tickling his cheek, vivid grey eyes peering into his.

A foolish fantasy, that’s what it is, imagining Malfoy here with him, smiling and laughing with this friends. Harry can’t picture a world where he and Malfoy can sit together and drink in public. No touch between them could ever occur without them being hidden by a grove of trees, spurred by urgency and desperation. Harry sighs despondently into his glass and swallows the last bitter dregs of his beer.

They’re just finishing their third round when George stumbles in, his eyes glassy and red. He’s hours late and reeks of stale whisky.

“George?” Ginny’s voice trembles with concern.

“Started without you guys,” George slurs, leaning heavily against the table. “S’place down the road, really cheap drinks. Fred used take us there.” Ron stands quickly, wrapping his arm around George’s waist and holding him up before he can slump towards the ground. George squints blearily at Ron. “Good ol’ Ronnie.”

“We should take him home,” Ginny says softly to Ron, standing at George’s other side.

“Don’t wanna see mum,” George complains, reaching blindly for Dean’s half-finished beer.

“Come on, let’s go,” Ron urges, pulling George away. “We’ll sneak you into the Burrow. Mum will never know.”

“Bye guys, we had a great time,” Ginny says apologetically, leaning over to kiss Dean farewell. “Let’s get together soon.”

Harry watches them drag George out of the bar, then turns back his friends, who are all shifting uncomfortably in their seats. The mood is bleak and the emptiness of The Leaky is suddenly more obvious than ever.

“I’ll go and settle up,” Neville says as he gets to his feet.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “I should get back.”

They exchange their farewells with heavy hearts, the carefree sphere they’d carefully crafted over the last few hours splintering into tiny pieces.

Harry’s heart clenches painfully as he lays his eyes on the morning paper.

The front page of the Daily Prophet is dominated by a large spread about the Death Eaters still at large, with various unpleasant photographs accompanying the names of suspected renegade dark wizards. Harry lifts the paper gingerly, knowing what he’ll find, but still feels unbearably anxious as his eyes skim over the article. His flickering gaze stops on the photo of Malfoy, the pain in his chest returning as he stares at the image. Malfoy’s skin looks ghostly in black and white, his pale face smeared with streaks of dirt. His white-blond hair is stuck to his forehead, ruffled and unkempt as his silvery eyes dart about nervously. Harry is lost in himself, deaf to the rest of the world, as he reaches out to gently stroke the photo, following the path of Malfoy’s throat as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down as a result of his anxious gulp.

“Oh, Harry.”

Harry freezes. He hastily drops the newspaper before turning around to find Hermione right behind him, peering over his shoulder.

“I should have known,” she murmurs. “It’s Malfoy, isn’t it?”

“What?” Harry’s heart thuds loudly against his chest, blood rushing in his ears. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Harry.” Hermione crosses her arms, her voice taking on the same tone as she used to use when he and Ron lied about studying for an exam. “He’s the informant, isn’t he?”

“Malfoy?” Harry tries for incredulity, but the look on Hermione’s face makes it clear that he’s failing.

“Come on, Harry.” Hermione shakes her head gently. “Who else could it be? You’ve been sneaking out to see him, haven’t you? That’s where you keep disappearing off to.”

“You’re right,” Harry says, flustered. “I’ve been sneaking out to meet my informant, but it’s not Malfoy.”

“Really?” Hermione asks, unconvinced. “So, who is it then?”

“You know I can’t say,” Harry counters, feeling much like a cornered animal.

“Harry.” Hermione’s expression softens. “Don’t treat me like a fool. I saw the way you were looking at that photograph.” She sighs heavily and sits down on the sofa. “Malfoy...it makes perfect sense in a way.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asks warily.

“You were always at each other’s throats at school. I mean, granted he was an awful prat, but he got under your skin more than anyone else. And then there was sixth year—”

Harry crosses his arms defensively. “What about it?”

“You followed him everywhere. You stared at the map all the time, watching his dot move about the castle.”

“He was up to something,” Harry protests. “I was right about that.”

“Is he up to something now, then?”

“Yes,” Harry insists. “But he has even less of a choice now than he did back then.” Hermione’s lips spread into a smug, knowing smile and Harry inwardly groans. He collapses onto the sofa beside her in defeat. “Alright, Malfoy’s my informant,” he mumbles.

She places her hand on his shoulder. “We have to tell Kingsley.”

“What?” Harry jumps back up, alarmed. “No, we can’t. I promised Malfoy I wouldn’t tell anyone. There’s too much at stake.”

“Exactly!” Hermione nods fervently. “We don’t know if his information is trustworthy or if he’s just playing both sides. It’s too much of a risk.”

“Every tip he’s given me has proved to be true,” Harry insists.

“For now. He could just be luring you into a false comfort before betraying us all.”

“He’s not.” Harry’s voice rises and his hands curl into fists. “Please, Hermione. You have to trust me.”

“Harry.” She turns to him with pleading eyes. “You could be blinded by...whatever’s going on between you.”

“I’m not,” Harry insists, even as the tips of his ears turn red at her implication. “You’re my best friend. You have to trust me with this. Please.”

Hermione’s lips thin as she presses them firmly together. Harry can almost see the flurry of thoughts rushing through her head, assessing the damage of keeping this secret for him.

“I don’t want to see you get hurt,” she says at last, a certain resignation entering her eyes. Harry’s heart clenches.

“I’ll be careful, I promise,” Harry insists, as earnestly as he can.

“Okay,” Hermione agrees reluctantly. “I’ll let it go for now, but we can’t remain silent forever.” She sighs again and stands up, her gaze flickering to the neglected paper on the floor. The image of Malfoy’s frightened face stares at the ceiling, as if he’s pleading with them. “I just hope you’re right about him.”

Debris crumbles from the top of the building, a foreboding creaking filling the early morning air. The structure is teetering on its last legs: large fissures run from the pavement all the way up the tall brick walls.

Harry dodges a shower of raining glass to cast a few stabilising charms before moving to the next building. The street is full of screaming Muggles, pushing past each other as they flee collapsing buildings, desperately trying to escape the magical fires which are burning fiercely in the town center. The Aurors far outnumber the Purity Seekers and, for once, Harry is almost glad to see the Death Hunters on the scene. They begin to cast rapid curses at the Purity Seekers, pushing them further away from town center while Harry and the others reinforce the buildings.

Harry’s just managed to remove a nasty hex from a postbox when he catches a flash of platinum blond out of the corner of his eye. He turns quickly, freezing in place when he sees a hooded figure chase after one of the Death Hunters—Taylor, he thinks. A lock of bright blond hair peeks out from the figure’s gilded mask and Harry knows, without a doubt, that it must be Malfoy.

He’s screaming something but it’s incomprehensible over the chaos of the crowd. He jumps over a mound of fallen debris as he races after Taylor. Harry’s pulse thunders in his ears as he remembers Malfoy telling him that Taylor was responsible for Brandon Jugson’s death. There can only be one reason why Malfoy is specifically seeking him out.

Fuck.

Harry sprints towards the two wizards, pushing through the crowd and following as they disappear down a side street. Malfoy is casting wayward blasting curses, but Taylor dodges each one, throwing spells back at Malfoy over his shoulder. Taylor turns around, sneering as he fires off yet another Stupefy, only to see Malfoy quickly deflect it and continue his advance towards him with a snarl.

Harry is nearly on him when Malfoy raises his wand up high, his hood falling back to reveal his fair hair completely.

“Crucio,” he screams. A jet of red light shoots from his wand, missing Taylor by just an inch.

“Stop!” Harry yells, rushing over to Malfoy and pulling his arm, spinning him round to face him. Malfoy’s eyes are visible through his mask, wild and full of hatred.

A loud crack reverberates off the walls of the alley and they both turn to see that Taylor has Apparated away.

“Fuck, Potter.” Malfoy shoves Harry with full force. Harry stumbles backwards, catching his balance at the last second. “You let him get away!”

“What the hell, Malfoy?” Harry demands between heavy breaths. “What were you doing? Were you really going to cast an Unforgivable on him?”

“You mean like the one he cast on Brandon? I was going to get to the Killing Curse eventually,” Malfoy sneers. “I wouldn’t miss my chance for revenge.”

“And then what?” Harry growls. “Would that bring Brandon back? Or would you just wind up no better than them, blood-thirsty and carelessly seeking vengeance no matter what the cost?”

“Who says I’m better than them?” Malfoy hisses. “You don’t know me, Potter. You like to pretend you do, but you don’t know the first thing about me.”

“You’re not a killer,” Harry insists, grabbing Malfoy’s arm again when he scoffs in response and starts to walk away.

“Stop acting so noble,” Malfoy snarls, trying to pull away. “Don’t act as if there isn’t blood on your hands, too.”

“Malfoy, just stop,” Harry begs, digging his fingers into Malfoy’s bicep.

“Relashio,” Malfoy bites out. Harry’s hand flashes hot, his grip loosening as Malfoy pulls his arm away.

Tension crackles in the air, the silence between them somehow louder than the sounds of crumbling buildings and chaotic shouts in the background. Harry worries his bottom lip and takes a step closer, but his heart sinks as Malfoy swiftly moves back.

Harry reaches out his hand but his fingers close around thin air as Malfoy Apparates away.

The streets are stained red.

Dark smoke curls in the air and clouds of ash fill Harry’s lungs. He fights for each painful breath, ignoring the burning that travels down his throat. His feet won’t move fast enough, slipping on the rivers of blood that flow over cracked cobblestones.

Back up, he needs back up.

He tries to shoot a Patronus into the air but his wand only emits a few silvery wisps. There are no pleasant thoughts to be found in this hell, not when the air echoes with the screams of misery and wind mimics the cold touch of those long since dead.

Flashes of crimson appear at the end of the road. Finally, they’ve arrived. Harry’s relief is short-lived as the wizards turn around. The Death Hunters form a line, their faces grim and eyes empty. Harry tries to call out to them but his voice fails him: only a desperate croak slips from his mouth.

A cry for help sounds from the left, the voice familiar to Harry’s ears. Malfoy! Harry has been searching—for hours, for days—but every alleyway turned up empty and deserted. The Death Hunters’ ears perk up and they turn towards the sound.

Something’s wrong.

They open their mouths to reveal dripping fangs. Sharp claws grow and protrude from their hands. Harry scrambles up the slick pavement, racing blindly until he trips over something large and heavy.

It’s a body.

“No, no, no,” Harry chants as he turns the cloaked figure over. His hands tremble as he traces the ornate golden mask. He breathes deeply and lifts the mask, heart full of dread as he prepares himself to see the face beneath it.

Harry sits up abruptly in his bed, panting heavily as cold sweat drips down his back.

It was just a dream, just a terrible nightmare, he tells himself, but the trembling of his body refuses to subside.

It’s been almost two weeks since he heard from Malfoy.

Harry’s tried, several times, to contact him and set up a meeting. Each and every time he sits alone at the clearing for hours, but Malfoy never shows up. His stomach turns as he contemplates for the thousandth time how he has no idea if Malfoy is even still alive. Yet, Harry has faith that if Malfoy really was dead, he would somehow know. There must be something said for pure instinct, and Harry has to believe that Malfoy is merely still upset and avoiding him.

Harry sighs heavily and turns his head to peer out of the open window. The moon has just set and dawn will arrive soon; the horizon is already turning a pale purple at the edges. He grabs the coin from his bedside and watches the stars slowly disappear, feeling the cold metal warm up against his fevered skin.

“It’s ridiculous,” Harry hisses, slamming the kettle onto the stove.

“I can’t believe it.” Hermione shakes her head, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet. “Will Jones be okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry grumbles. “They’re keeping her overnight just to be safe but it could have been so much worse.”

“They’re certain it was the Death Hunters?” Hermione asks tiredly as she takes a seat at the kitchen table.

“Of course it was. Who else could it be? They were the ones conducting interviews and examining the wands of all the Pure-bloods.”

“But I thought it was only her sister who was taken in for questioning?”

“They still did a scan on Jones’s wand with all the others.” Harry sinks into a chair as well, angrily picking at his tea bag. “And supposedly the Ministry has been getting complaints left and right from Pure-blood witches and wizards about spells going haywire.”

“I just don’t understand how they have the authority to tamper with their magic,” Hermione sniffs.

“It’s because Kingsley lets it happen,” Harry growls. “I’m going to see him first thing in the morning. Everything has got way out of hand.”

Hermione places her hand over his. “Harry, calm down. You can’t just barge in and demand justice—you know it’s not that simple.”

“Jones could have been seriously hurt,” Harry protests. “And, of course the Pure-blood members of the Death Hunters didn’t have their wands tampered with. It’s wrong, it’s corrupt, and if we don’t stop it now, this is all going to lead to a very dark place.”

“I agree with you,” Hermione says softly. “But we have to be smart and patient about this.”

“We don’t have time to be patient!” Harry exclaims. He jumps up from his seat and starts to pace. “We have to do something right away: we can’t let these fractures grow any bigger.”

“You can’t just rush into things, Harry. It’s never worked well for you before.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t remind me of my past failures,” Harry seethes, his face growing hot. “I’m not in a position where I can just sit around and do nothing.”

“Why?” Hermione’s voice rises, a challenge glinting in her eyes. “Because of Malfoy? You’re letting your relationship with him blind you.”

“I haven’t even seen him in weeks,” Harry interjects. “This has nothing to do with him.”

“What about Malfoy?”

Harry’s heart freezes in his chest as Ron’s livid voice fills the kitchen.

“Ron!” Hermione jumps to her feet, nervously wringing her hands. “I didn’t know you were stopping by tonight.”

“Clearly not,” Ron hisses, eyes wild and angry. “What’s this about Malfoy?”

Harry swallows nervously. “Listen, Ron—”

“You’ve been messing about with the enemy?”

“It’s complicated,” Harry protests.

“Really?” Ron’s cheeks are burning with indignation. “It sounds pretty simple to me: you’ve been getting off with Malfoy, having secret meetings while I’ve been working tirelessly to rid the world of scum like him.”

“You don’t understand.” Harry says, his voice hardening. “How could you? You’re blinded by your need for vengeance, playing hero with the blood-thirsty Death Hunters.”

“Is that what’s wrong?” Ron seethes. “Are you upset that you’re not in the spotlight right now, that you don’t get to be the hero for once?”

“Ron,” Hermione begs, but her plea lands on deaf ears.

“Are we back to that again?” Harry throws his hands in the air. “You really don’t know me at all, do you?”

“Apparently not,” Ron hisses, his fists clenching at his sides.

“Ron, please,” Hermione interjects.

Ron turns angrily towards Hermione. “Don’t speak to me. I can’t believe you hid this from me.”

“It wasn’t my secret to tell,” Hermione says brokenly.

“Of course it wasn’t.” Ron’s eyes shine with betrayal, his face crumpled with hurt. “You’ll always choose his side, won’t you?”

Hermione calls after him as he rushes from the room but her cry is lost to the shrill whistle of the kettle. She turns to Harry, eyes full of unshed tears before she turns and leaves the room as well.

A heavy weariness settles into the pit of Harry’s stomach and he collapses back onto the chair, burying his face in his hands.

The woods are saturated in hues of blue, the navy shadows cast by trees turned cobalt by an indigo sky stretching towards a periwinkle horizon. Dusk settles over the treetops and Harry paces nervously beneath their swaying branches, the mild breeze gently ruffling his hair.

Malfoy has finally summoned him. Harry toys with the coin in his pocket, imagining he can still feel the warm glow radiating from the metal.

When Malfoy finally lands, stepping lightly from his broom onto a bed of pine needles, it takes all of Harry’s self-control not to rush forward and capture his lips in a kiss. Instead, he crosses his arms and glares at Malfoy.

“Glad to know you’re still alive,” Harry remarks.

“I needed some space,” Malfoy scowls, but a hint of guilt flashes in his eyes. He steps closer, gaze roaming over Harry’s body. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks,” Harry scoffs bitterly, clenching his jaw. “I haven’t been sleeping well.” Judging by the dark circles under his cool grey eyes, neither has Malfoy.

“I told you I could protect myself,” Malfoy mutters, his eyes trained on the ground.

“I wasn’t just worried about you,” Harry says before he can catch himself. He didn’t mean to admit he was worried at all. Malfoy looks up to peer into Harry’s eyes. “There have been other pressing matters.”

“Like what?”

Harry sighs heavily and settles onto the ground. He tilts his head in invitation and Malfoy huffs, as if it’s a great inconvenience to him, before sitting down beside Harry.

“Hermione and Ron know.”

“What?” Malfoy’s eyes widen, his expression going slack in the dying evening light.

“It’s okay, though,” Harry adds hastily.

“How is that okay?” Malfoy hisses. “You’ve practically sentenced me to death!”

“Hermione’s known for a while now, and she hasn’t told a soul.” Malfoy scoffs in disbelief. “Ron just found out recently. He’s not happy about it but I don’t think he’ll tell anyone.”

“Weasley would turn me in in a heartbeat,” Malfoy sneers, wrapping his arms around himself and rocking back and forth.

“He won’t,” Harry insists. “He was furious, but more at me and Hermione for hiding it from him. Besides, he doesn’t know anything concrete, only that I’ve been meeting you and that we have a...” Harry trails off, blushing and looking away.

“A what?” Malfoy asks wryly. “A mutually beneficial arrangement concerning information-sharing and sexual relief?”

“Something like that,” Harry mutters.

He groans to himself, all the tension from the last few weeks coming to surface: his frustration with the Ministry, his anger with Ron, his fear for Malfoy, the terrible longing for his touch... The flood of emotions he’s so carefully kept at bay begins to batter against his defenses, seeping through the cracks of his crumbling mental walls.

His breath starts to quicken and he clenches his hands tightly into fists to suppress their shaking. Malfoy watches him closely, his eyes direct and searching as Harry’s body begins to tremble. Harry’s cheeks are suddenly searing hot. He keeps his head bowed to hide the wetness collecting on his lashes. He hears rather than sees Malfoy move closer and he starts when a comforting hand touches his shoulder.

“Just breathe, Potter.” Malfoy’s voice is soft and warm. Malfoy pulls him closer, speaking hotly in his ear. “Come here.”

Harry is still wound up, his body vibrating with built up tension, but he allows Malfoy to undress him. Malfoy’s expression is tightly controlled in the dim light, his fingers sure and nimble as he slips them beneath the waistband of Harry’s jeans and pants, tugging them smoothly off.

Harry feels terribly exposed as he sits back to watch Malfoy remove his own clothing. The curtain of nightfall draws over Malfoy’s face and, in the growing shadows, his control begins to slip. His hands become unsteady as he slips out of his shirt, the thin fabric fluttering onto the ground. Malfoy’s expression becomes hungry, his gaze sharp, and his eyes look nearly silver as they glint with desire. When he reaches for Harry, his touch is more urgent than before. His fingers dig into Harry’s upper arms, nails biting into the skin. Malfoy presses hot, open-mouthed kisses along Harry’s neck and chest, his tongue soothing the places where his teeth bite hard enough to sting.

Harry surrenders to the rough press of Malfoy’s hands against his body. He sinks into the damp earth, arching into every frantic caress and biting kiss. He tilts his head, trying to meet Malfoy’s lips for a proper kiss, but Malfoy evades him each time. Harry swallows down the disappointment and gives in to the pleasurable sensations vibrating through his body. Soon enough, Harry’s panting into the cool evening air, spreading his legs as Malfoy’s slick fingers pump in and out of him. When Malfoy finally slides in, eager and quick, Harry releases a silent cry.

Malfoy’s thick cock stretches Harry open, tearing him apart, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. His thrusts are swift but controlled, relentlessly striking the delightful bundle of nerves deep inside Harry’s body. The pleasure builds, spreading through his veins and across his skin.

Harry reaches out to tangle his fingers in Malfoy’s silky hair. He pulls on a handful of blond strands, bringing Malfoy’s face down to meet his, and finally captures his lips with a kiss. It’s been far too long and Harry’s entire body sings at the terribly-missed sensation. Malfoy’s hot tongue against his is like a soothing balm, melting away Harry’s fears and anxieties with the wet heat of his mouth.

Malfoy’s movements slow, his thrusts becoming shallow. Jolts of pleasure dance between them, their magic combining and softly crackling in the air. It’s perfect, utterly divine, and Harry feels something fragile break inside of him, only to carefully knit back together again.

Malfoy’s hard stomach presses against his aching cock and when he bites softly on Harry’s lower lip, everything goes white. His vision blurs and his body trembles as he comes, untouched, his release spurting between their bodies.

Malfoy snaps his hips forward, grunting quietly as he arches his back and thrusts into Harry again and again. His pace increases, quick and desperate, until he’s shouting his own release, filling Harry up with pulse after throbbing pulse.

The stars have risen high in the sky by the time they both regain their senses. The moon stubbornly peeks out from behind a dark cloud and Harry turns to watch the gentle glow light up Malfoy’s blond hair. His pale lashes flutter as he opens his eyes, pupils so wide they look black. Harry reaches out and traces the sharp ridge of Malfoy’s cheekbone, brushing back a few wayward strands of silky hair. Malfoy inhales deeply, his face soft and open before he shuts his eyes again and pulls away.

“Malfoy, I—”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Malfoy quickly interrupts, pulling himself up.

“What?” Harry’s heart sinks in his chest.

“This,” Malfoy hisses, frustration colouring his cheeks. “Whatever it is we’re doing. It’s just a way to blow off steam, that’s it.”

“Oh, is that all?” Harry remarks bitterly, rising up off the ground as well.

“Yes.” Malfoy smiles cruelly but he refuses to meet Harry’s eyes. “It’s just fun and games. There’s no future here.”

Harry crosses his arms, glaring at Malfoy. “So you don’t feel anything?”

“No,” Malfoy insists, turning his back to Harry. “Nothing.”

“Liar,” Harry hisses. “Look me in the eye and tell me that.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Malfoy snatches his clothing from the ground, dressing quickly.

“And you’re being a coward,” Harry retorts.

Malfoy pauses, inhaling sharply before he finishes pulling his shirt over his head. He turns around slowly to face Harry, his features pale and severe in the bright moonlight.

“Say that again,” Malfoy demands quietly, dangerously.

Harry steps forward, encroaching on Malfoy’s space. “You’re a fucking coward.”

Pain erupts in Harry’s face as Malfoy’s fist connects with his nose. Malfoy eyes widen, remorse and fear crossing them before they harden again. He steps back and moves quickly away.

“Go ahead and leave,” Harry shouts as the metallic tang of blood drips from his nose and fills his mouth. “Run away and hide, just like you do from all your problems!”

The discomfort in Harry’s aching nose is nothing compared the agony ripping through his chest as he watches Malfoy retreat, fading into the darkness.

Chapter Text

Draco’s stomach twists unpleasantly as disgust rises in his throat. The taste is bitter on his tongue, his throat working uselessly as he tries to swallow the revulsion seeping through his body.

“The curse will spread quickly, travelling from wizard to wizard through their magic. Once infected, the process will be painful but fast. Only those worthy to carry pure magical blood will survive.”

Draco’s fingernails dig into his palms, his breaths short and choppy. Theo’s eyes remain trained on him, a slick and revolting smile painted on his face.

“We’ll enact the ritual from the heart of London,” Rookwood continues, his voice vibrating throughout the room. “Travers is scouting Diagon Alley right now. We’ll need to set a protected perimeter, one only we can enter.”

“Excuse me, Sir,” Theo’s sickeningly servile voice interrupts, his brows drawn together in curiosity. “How are we going to acquire mixed magical blood for the ritual seeing as we’re all, thankfully, Pure-blooded?”

“That’s not your concern, Nott,” Rookwood replies coolly. His gaze shifts to Mulciber, a small smile forming on his lips. “But you can thank the gracious offering by Mulciber, who’s found use for his half-blood children, after all.”

“Ah, how kind of him,” Theo purrs. He turns his attention back to Draco, a malicious glint shining in his eyes.

“Anything for the cause,” Mulciber agrees, though his voice is unusually tight.

“Malfoy,” Rookwood says sharply. Lucius’ head snaps up, his eyes wild and face pale. “I’ll expect you to bring us the dagger from the Crypt. Given that it’s such a vital part of the ritual, we’ll need to carefully inspect it before we move forward.”

Lucius merely nods his head in agreement, a lank lock of hair falling in front of his face. The sick feeling in Draco’s stomach surges to a crescendo.

“You’re all dismissed,” Rookwood barks. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning to fix the exact location and assign specific roles. I expect each of you to do your part.” His words and gaze cut through Draco like a knife.

Draco rises on shaky legs, allowing the others to pour out of the room while he gets his bearings. He’s nearly made it to the door when Theo blocks his path, his cruel smile taunting and vicious.

“You don’t look too good, Draco,” Theo says, his voice dripping with false concern. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Move,” Draco orders shakily. His head is pounding; he feels as if his brain is throbbing against his skull.

Theo tilts his head in mock confusion. “You aren’t upset, are you? Worried about all those Mudbloods and half-bloods? You heard Rookwood—only some of them will die.” Theo’s sadistic grin widens. “Those who are worthy to carry magical blood will survive the infection.”

“Get out of my way,” Draco hisses, wracked with rage so intense his vision blurs.

“That useless compassion will destroy you.” Theo traces his fingers lightly along Draco’s collarbone, dipping into the hollow of his throat. “You should let me purge you of it.”

Draco’s wand is in his hand before he can even think better of it. A blasting curse escapes his lips and Theo’s body slams back against the wall, clearing Draco’s path. Theo coughs roughly, winded by the sudden impact. Draco clenches his jaw and storms away.

“Your days are numbered,” Theo calls after him, his voice strangled as he struggles to catch his breath. “The end is drawing near.”

“Mulciber!” Draco calls out, catching the older wizard at the foot of the staircase.

“What is it, Malfoy?” Mulciber asks. He sounds bored and his face is lined with fatigue.

“Are you really going to just sacrifice your children like that?” Draco asks, unable to mask the disgust in his voice.

“It’s only a few drops of blood.” Mulciber says, waving his hand dismissively. “Nothing to be concerned over.”

“And what about the curse?” Draco asks incredulously. “What happens when their non-magical blood becomes infected? When it’s attacked by their magical blood?”

Mulciber’s face turns pale but his voice remains steady. “My family is much stronger than they appear. They’ll easily fight it off and then they’ll finally be Pure-blooded.” Mulciber’s expression turns cold and distant. “All will be well and exactly as it should be.”

Grace Mulciber appears at the top of the stairs, her usual white nightgown greying at the edges. Her husband pays her no mind as he charges up the stairs, brushing past her without even a nod of acknowledgement. She slowly walks down, her hand gripping tightly on the banister. Her face, however, remains impassive.

“Mrs Mulciber,” Draco says, reaching out to steady her when she stumbles on the last step. “Are you okay?”

“I look forward to having my husband’s love again,” she responds dreamily, her eyes far away. “That would be quite lovely, don’t you think?”

“What about your children?” Draco’s asks, face twisting in disbelief. “What if they don’t survive it?”

Grace flinches. She shakes her head, nervously tugging at the strands of dark hair that fall across her face.

“It’ll be fine,” she says, though her eyes are hollow and haunted. “All will be fine.” Her voice softens almost to a whisper as she adds, “It’s not so easy to protect one’s children.”

Draco opens his mouth to reply but she sweeps past him, disappearing through a doorway down the hall. His thoughts unwillingly flit to his own mother. He almost thinks it’s a fabrication of his own mind when Narcissa appears beside him, her cool hand wrapping around his arm.

“We don’t have much time,” she murmurs quietly.

“Mother?”

“You must do what you will, whatever it takes.” Her eyes are hard and determined, boring unflinchingly into Draco’s. “I’ll take care of the children, keep them safe.” Her face fills with sorrow, her voice coloured with regret. “I won’t fail them like I failed you.”

“You didn’t...” Draco’s voice fades and he places his hand over hers. “Mother—”

“Hurry,” Narcissa says. “Go now.”

Draco nods, squeezes her hand and hurries away.

Twilight spills across the sky, bands of orange and red melting into the horizon as the sun dips lower and begins to disappear. Draco wishes he could appreciate the beauty of the rising moon against its faded indigo backdrop, but his mind is racing urgently as he descends on his broom into the clearing.

His chest is tight, his thoughts inconveniently returning to the last interaction he had with Potter. Stirrings of regret rise in his body but he firmly pushes them away. There’s no time for such emotions—right now, all that matters is warning Potter about the upcoming ritual. He turns around when he hears approaching footsteps, his stomach leaping, only to clench with dread when an unexpected figure comes into view.

“What’s the matter, Malfoy?” Weasley sneers. “Were you expecting someone else?”

“I need to speak with Potter,” Draco says, keeping his face blank even as his heart pounds against his chest.

“I’m sure you do,” Weasley spits. “But you won’t be seeing him any time soon.”

“Where is he?”

Weasley shakes his head in frustration. “Does it matter? He’s not here. Harry finally came to his senses.”

“You’re lying,” Draco hisses.

“Does it hurt, Malfoy?” Weasley taunts, his eyes dark and menacing. “Being betrayed like that? Does it feel like a knife in your back, a hole in your heart?” Weasley raises his wand, his features lit up with anger. “Can you even begin to imagine the pain you’ve inflicted on so many people with your thoughtless actions?”

Draco thinks of Weasley’s brother, killed in the battle of Hogwarts. He remembers lying curled up on the stone floor, gasping for air and reeling from his taste of near-death. The explosion was bright and powerful, and in the aftermath, Weasley’s screams echoed off the walls as he called for his brother. Draco didn’t cause the fire; didn’t cause the explosion, and yet he can’t deny that every choice he made over the last few years at Hogwarts somehow led them all there. Draco’s hands will never be fully clean of his sins.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Draco finally says, clenching his wand tightly in his fist. If he has to battle Weasley, he will. Potter’s apparently abandoned him; he must survive however he can.

“Isn’t that sweet?” Weasley scoffs, speaking towards the tree line. A few Wizards in crimson robes appear from the shadows and Draco’s stomach sinks further. “He doesn’t want to hurt me.”

Draco’s skin ripples and stiffens as the stunning spell rushes over him, his wrists burning as fierce tendrils of magic bind them together. The all-too-familiar fear overwhelms his senses. His surroundings blur as he’s whisked away.

The holding cell is small and dank, the fetid stench of mould and decay filling Draco’s nostrils. The magical restraints keep him firmly secured against a cold metal chair. He shivers violently, a response to the icy chill of fear, anger and betrayal.

“I won’t speak until Potter arrives,” Draco sneers.

Robards’ cold eyes cut into him. “Oh, we’ll make you speak. Don’t you worry about that.”

“What illegal methods of torture do you have planned for me then?” Draco fights to keep the fear from his voice. He succeeds, but barely.

“Illegal?” Robards raises an eyebrow, twisting his features in mock dismay. “We wouldn’t dare.” His expression darkens as he leans in close to Draco. “But don’t forget Malfoy, this is a time of war. We’ll do whatever it takes to ensure the safety of the Wizarding World.”

Draco tries to spit at him but his mouth is far too dry and nothing escapes his lips. Robards chuckles cruelly, his crude laughter reverberating off the walls as he leaves the cell. Draco tries to keep his rising panic under control but his pulse is racing. Before long, the room is filled with his desperate screams.

Draco’s cries for help fall on deaf ears and soon his throat is too hoarse to do more than force out the occasional broken whimper. He thinks of Greg, wonders what sort of perverse torture he was subjected to before they locked him away forever. The foreboding stone walls seem to close in on him, darkness spreading across his vision.

Draco can’t help but wonder if this is how he’ll die.

Sweat runs down Harry’s back, his t-shirt sticking to the damp, heated flesh beneath it. With a heavy sigh he pushes himself out from under his bed, roughly wiping his dust-covered hands on his jeans. Once again, no luck.

He’s spent the better part of two hours searching for the coin: inside drawers, in every fold and pocket of clothing, even in the biscuit tin. A sense of dread rises in his throat as he realises he’s running out of places to look. If a simple Accio charm can’t locate it, nor manual searching, Harry can only conclude it must be truly lost.

The Floo splutters downstairs and Harry hurries down to greet Hermione, grateful for the break from his fruitless search. He toys with the idea of mentioning the missing coin to her—perhaps even enlisting her help—but he reluctantly pushes the notion away. His obsessive need to see Malfoy again has been consuming him for days and it will do him good to focus on something else.

As soon as he sees her, though, he can tell that something is wrong.

“Harry, I need to tell you something,” Hermione tells him in a flustered rush. “It’s about Malfoy.”

Of course.

“What’s going on?” Harry asks uneasily. The wild look in Hermione’s eyes sets him on edge.

“Before I tell you, you have to promise not to freak out.”

“Okay,” Harry quickly agrees. Hermione shoots him a disbelieving look. Harry shrugs, attempting to appear nonchalant even as his heart begins to pound in apprehension. “I’ll try not to.”

Hermione fidgets nervously, her lower lip reddening as she worries it with her teeth. “I was just at the Ministry and I overheard Taylor speaking with another Death Hunter.” She pauses, exhaling noisily before continuing. “They’ve captured Malfoy.”

“What?” All of the blood rushes from Harry’s face and he reaches out to steady himself against the back of the sofa. His head feels light, his knees unsteady. “When—how—?” His thoughts stray to the missing coin and a terrible feeling of foreboding falls over him.

“I don’t know all the details,” Hermione says apologetically. “They have Malfoy in a Ministry holding cell for now, but Taylor was boasting about how they’re going to pry information from him and then transfer him somewhere more secure.”

“You mean Azkaban?” Harry asks bitterly.

“Perhaps,” Hermione sighs noncommittally, though the look on her face suggests she suspects as much.

“They can’t do that,” Harry insists, blood roaring in his ears. “I have to speak with Kingsley.”

“Harry.” Hermione reaches out and grabs him by the arm. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Harry shakes her off. “I can’t just let him rot there! I have to do something.”

Harry rushes towards the Floo. Green flames swirl around him, not quite blocking out Hermione’s resigned expression as she reluctantly steps forward to follow him.

“This is ridiculous,” Harry growls, face tight with anger.

“Harry, please sit down,” Kingsley replies wearily, gesturing towards the empty chair opposite him.

Harry ignores Kingsley’s request, choosing instead to pace furiously back and forth. “Malfoy’s been my informant the entire time, he shouldn’t be locked up right now.”

“Be that as it may, there are procedures we have to follow.”

“Oh, is that so?” Harry seethes. “So Robards will be following procedures when he tortures him for information?”

Kingsley’s jaw clenches in frustration. “No one said anything about torture.”

Harry scoffs in disbelief, stopping his pacing mid stride as a wave of desperation almost knocks him off his feet. “Please,” Harry urges. “Let me see him. He can be trusted, I swear. You have my word.”

“I’m afraid your word isn’t going to cut it,” Kingsley replies, a trace of regret entering his voice.

“What do you mean?”

“The view within the DMLE is that you’ve become something of a liability,” Kingsley admits. “I barely was able to convince Robards not to take you in for questioning yourself. As of this meeting, you’re suspended from the field and all matters concerning the remaining Death Eaters.”

“What?” Harry’s jaw goes slack, ice-cold horror creeping through his veins. He's suddenly incredibly glad that Hermione insisted on waiting outside; it at least spares him from witnessing her pity.

“You wouldn’t even have half the information about attack locations if it weren’t for me—weren’t for Malfoy.”

“But you withheld important information about who your informant was, and in doing so, committed a breach of trust.” Kingsley rubs his temples with the tips of fingers. “Frankly, it’s out of my hands.”

Harry glares at Kingsley in disbelief, a hundred more bitterly spiteful words climbing up his throat, ready to spill from his mouth. Just before he launches into a new tirade, his thoughts stray to Malfoy, and he remembers just how much time is of the essence. With a curt, scathing nod of his head, Harry storms out of the Minister’s office.

Harry races down the hall towards the lift and almost barrels straight into Hermione.“I need your help.”

“I’m guessing your conversation with Kingsley didn’t go well,” Hermione says, hurrying to keep up with Harry’s rapid pace. “Alright, we can try contacting someone in the Wizengamot Administration Services Team and see if they know anything about an upcoming trial for Malfoy. At the very least, we can get in touch with the Wizard Resources Department and submit a petition for a fair and just hearing.”

“No, Hermione.” Harry stops in his tracks, grabbing her hands and speaking softly. “We need to break him out.”

“Harry,” Hermione hisses, wildly looking around them. “Absolutely not.”

“Please,” Harry begs, lacing his fingers with Hermione’s and squeezing them tight. “I can’t do it alone.”

“Even if I could find a way to get past the guards and sneak him out, it wouldn’t be right.” Her stubborn gaze bores into Harry. “You may believe he’s changed but I think you’re blinded by your feelings. I don’t trust him Harry, it’s too dangerous.”

“Hermione.” Harry inhales deeply and lets out a shaky breath, trying to calm his frantic nerves. “I understand, I do. You have no reason to trust him, or tolerate him at all for that matter. To be honest, I hardly like him most of the time. He’s stuck up and thoughtless and rude…” Harry trails off, his voice softer when he speaks again. “But he’s also oddly kind at times, and he’s scared and trying to do the right thing. If you don’t trust him, can’t you at least trust me?”

“I don’t know about this,” Hermione murmurs, the fierce resolve in her face crumbling ever so slightly.

“Please,” Harry repeats, squeezing her hands gently.

Hermione hesitates, her brow furrowed as she weighs up the risk. “Fine,” she finally mutters, pulling her hands free. “You’d better not make me regret this.” She glances furtively around before leaning in to speak quietly in Harry’s ear. “Now let’s go somewhere else, where we can actually plan without being overheard.”

The wave of relief that washes over Harry nearly knocks him off his feet. He follows Hermione into the lift, unable to conceal the grateful smile which spills over his face.

“Okay.” Hermione points to a spot on the map, pausing to push an unruly curl of hair behind her ear with her free hand. “They’ll be keeping him on Level Ten, in one of the holding cells beside the courtrooms.”

Harry bites the inside of his cheek in order to suppress a soft chuckle. The table is littered with heavy books, numerous maps and even Hermione’s old school essays. It’s almost pleasantly reminiscent of late night study sessions: Harry remembers how Hermione used to drill him and Ron with questions as they yawned and begged to go to sleep. Thinking of Ron sends a sharp jolt of pain through Harry’s chest and he quickly pushes the thought away, refocusing on Hermione’s plan.

“How do we get there? Isn’t that level restricted?” Harry asks.

“For you? Yes.” Hermione smiles proudly. “I actually have access to all levels of the Ministry...well, except for Level Nine, of course.”

“How did you manage that?”

“There’s more to fighting a war than Auror training and dueling Death Eaters,” Hermione sniffs. “My fellow integration specialists and I have been incredibly busy. The whole Public Information Services Office has been overrun for months, helping to ease the fears of Muggle-born wizards and providing facts instead of panic-inducing rumours amongst the Wizarding populace as a whole.”

“That would explain all the pamphlets,” Harry replies, eyes darting over to the boxes in the corner of the room. Hermione wryly raises an eyebrow and Harry hurries on. “Alright, so we get to Level Ten...what next?”

“Well, they’ll likely have some kind of sensor for disillusionment charms, but I doubt they’ll have anything for magical objects. We’ll bring your cloak with us as a safeguard.”

“There’s no way all three of us will fit under it,” Harry protests.

“No,” Hermione agrees. “We’ll have Malfoy slip under it once we find him, just as an extra precaution.”

“And what about us?” Harry asks nervously.

“Well, that’s where it gets tricky,” Hermione blows a tuft of hair from her face and shuffles through a pile of papers. “The actual cells are easy enough to get in and out of: a simple unlocking spell releases the doors from the outside. There’s a catch, though. It will only work with a wand that’s linked with the doors.”

“How do we—”

“There will only be one wizard guarding the door,” Hermione interrupts. “Malfoy isn’t seen as high-risk and Taylor was bragging about how he’s been entrusted with securing their prisoner. It’ll just be Taylor stationed outside the cell. We’ll get his wand off him and use it to open the doors and get Malfoy out.”

“Okay.” Harry puffs up his chest, setting his shoulders back. “I trained with Taylor. I’m pretty sure I can overpower him and knock him out for a bit.”

“That won’t work,” Hermione insists. “If you knock him out physically, he’ll end up unconscious for an hour at best, and then when he wakes up and sees that Malfoy’s missing they’ll be on to us right away. We need something more lasting.”

“You want to kill him?” Harry gapes incredulously.

“No!” Hermione exclaims, horrified. She shakes her head in disbelief. “There’s a spell we can cast. It’s fairly complex, but if we do it properly we can sneak in, get Malfoy out and escape without anyone realising for several hours.”

Harry purses his lips in confusion. “How?”

“Well,” Hermione begins, her eyes lighting up with excitement and pride. “It’s actually a spell I developed myself. I created it as an extra credit project for Magical Theory. The only thing is...well, it’s all theory. I’ve never actually tried it out in a practical sense.” She chews her bottom lip nervously. “Also, it’s a bit morally grey.”

“I don’t mind stooping to their level,” Harry growls, anticipation and interest pumping through his veins.

“I’m sure you don’t,” Hermione replies dryly. She sighs resignedly. “I’m not entirely comfortable with it myself, but...I really do want to see if it works. We can just call this a controlled practical magic test.”

Harry leans forward eagerly. “Tell me more about it.”

“Alright.” Hermione’s expression changes abruptly; now her face is brimming with excitement. “If you take the basic structure of any spell, there are ways to deviate and twist the core components to amplify other spells. It’s different from combining two spells to increase the efficiency, though: you’re actually altering the makeup of the magic, not only by the pronunciation of the spell or the movement of your wand, but the very essence of the magic itself.”

“Um, Hermione?” Harry interjects, his eyes glazing over. “Can you explain it a little more simply?”

“Fine,” Hermione huffs. “Basically, by modifying a certain curse…” she trails off, shifting uncomfortably on her chair, “...in this case, the Imperius Curse, and combining it with other elements of various spells, I can create a false visual that will last for several hours.”

“I still don’t get it,” Harry admits, shaking his head.

“We don’t need to knock out Taylor or sneak around him and hide ourselves,” Hermione explains. “Using this spell, I can create an alternate reality in Taylor’s mind. As far as he’s concerned, he’s just standing there, guarding the cell as usual. When he glances inside, Malfoy is sitting in the cell undisturbed; when he looks around, the hallway appears empty and silent. We can get Malfoy out and leave unnoticed, and it will be hours before the spell wears off and Taylor realises something is amiss.”

“That’s brilliant, Hermione.”

“Oh, well.” Hermione blushes and shrugs. “I did get full marks on the paper.”

“Do you really think it will work?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Hermione says, her jaw tightening determinedly. “But Harry, it won’t be easy. Eventually they’ll realise Malfoy is missing. It’s going to cause havoc at the Ministry and I’m sure you’ll be the prime suspect. Is it really worth it?”

Harry thinks of Malfoy, alone and frightened in that cell, shivering in fear as he anticipates his fate. Harry pictures Malfoy’s haughty smirk and cold eyes and envisages how his pointy features soften when he lets his guard down, his smirk turning into a tentative smile and his grey eyes warming with humour and barely-suppressed affection.

“Yes,” Harry replies firmly. “He’s worth it.”

Harry edges along the wall, his wand clenched tightly in his right hand as he approaches the flickering lights at the end of the hallway.

“It is working?” Harry whispers, trying to ignore the sweat collecting at his temple and spilling slowly down his cheek.

“I think so,” Hermione replies, her voice hushed and focused. “We’ll know for certain soon enough.”

Harry nods silently in agreement, holding the invisibility cloak closer to his body as the narrow hall intersects the main corridor. Sconces line the walls, their sparse light dancing against the stones. Taylor flips idly through a well-worn book, his slouched posture a picture of fatigue and boredom. Harry’s eyes focus on Taylor’s wand, the tip of which is poking out from beneath the sleeve of his crimson robe.

“So,” Harry whispers as he turns to Hermione, nerves and trepidation clawing at his chest. “Does the spell work with touch as well as sight? Will he feel me take his wand?”

“I don’t believe so,” Hermione replies, though the way her face twitches nervously doesn’t fill Harry with confidence.

“Right,” Harry replies. “Here goes nothing.”

He murmurs the Summoning spell, his breath catching as the wand lifts from Taylor’s pocket and floats towards his outstretched hand. Taylor’s brow furrows and his gaze lifts from the book in his hands. Harry’s heart stops in his chest. Taylor, however, merely glances at his robe and, seeming satisfied with his findings, returns his attention to his book.

“Hurry,” Hermione insists. “The effect should last for some time, but it’s more difficult to hold when the three of us are still here.”

Harry casts a simple Alohomora to open the door, then rushes inside while Hermione chants under her breath, her eyes shut tight in fierce concentration.

Malfoy flinches at the sound of Harry’s footsteps. His hair is limp, falling in a pale curtain in front of his face.

“Is it time for the Veritaserum, then?” he asks hoarsely.

“No,” Harry replies softly. He raises Taylor’s wand once more to release the magical bindings holding Malfoy’s wrists together. “We’re getting you out of here.”

“Potter?” Malfoy’s head snaps up and he scrambles to his feet. He falters, his legs unsteady from disuse, and Harry rushes forward to catch him. Malfoy simply scoffs in response. His voice is tight when he speaks again, with more conviction this time. “Saint Potter, always saving me, it seems.”

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Harry says affectionately, his arms unconsciously wrapping around Malfoy’s waist.

Malfoy buries his face in the crook of Harry’s neck and a shuddering sigh escapes his lips. Harry’s fingers tighten their hold on Malfoy’s body, his chest swelling with a whirlwind of emotions.

“Why did you come for me?” Malfoy mumbles against his throat, his lips dry and warm against Harry’s skin. “I thought you’d betrayed me, turned me in. I waited for you at our clearing in the woods. Weasley told me—”

“It’s not true,” Harry interrupts, moving one hand up Malfoy’s back to tangle in his unkempt hair. “Ron must have stolen the coin, he…” Harry’s words die in his mouth, bitterness rising in his throat as the reality of his fractured friendship with Ron fills his mind. “You’re safe now.”

Hermione suddenly pops her head around the corner of the cell. “We have to go,” she hisses.

“Granger?” Malfoy croaks, his voice full of surprise. “How did you—?”

“We’ll explain later,” Hermione insists. “Let’s go.”

“What about my wand?” Malfoy protests, “I need it back, they—”

Hermione sighs, holding up the slim length of hawthorn in her hand. “We’re one step ahead of you, Malfoy. Now, let’s get out of here.”

Harry reluctantly releases his hold on Malfoy’s waist and neck. He reaches out to Malfoy’s face and gently cups his jaw. His thumb traces Malfoy’s bottom lip; the bottomless grey pools of his eyes stare back at Harry with tenderness and surprise. Hermione clears her throat impatiently, but a look of understanding falls slowly over her face. Harry nods and lets his hands drop back down to his sides, then places the cloak over Malfoy and whisks him away.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Harry offers, once they’re all safely in the sitting room of Grimmauld Place.

Malfoy sinks down onto the sofa, still unsteady and trembling slightly. His fingers wrap around his wrists, his expression pinched as he traces the red marks on his flesh. Hermione nods to Harry in agreement as she settles into the chair across the room, her face drawn and exhausted.

Harry’s balancing a tray laden with steaming mugs when he hears Hermione’s stern voice drift along the hallway.

“You’d better not let him down, Malfoy.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Malfoy replies tiredly. “All the information I’ve given Potter has proven true. They’ve been able to prevent and limit the damage caused by several attacks.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“You’re not making sense,” Malfoy scoffs.

“Don’t hurt him,” Hermione commands, her tone firm and threatening.

“I wouldn’t,” Malfoy says earnestly before clearing his throat.

The resulting pause is tense and Harry’s legs feel like lead, so heavy that every step is a struggle.

“You care about him, don’t you?” Hermione softly breaks the oppressive silence.

“Please, Granger.” Malfoy’s disdainful voice wavers slightly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Malfoy,” Hermione warns, her knowing tone obvious even from Harry’s hiding place outside the room.

Harry finally unfreezes and breathlessly bursts through the door. “Tea?”

“I’d really love a shower, actually,” Malfoy says softly, his gaze trained on the floor.

“Up one floor and to the left,” Harry replies. Malfoy nods and moves past Harry, refusing to meet his eye.

“I’ll take some tea,” Hermione says with a smug smile.

Harry’s on his second cup when Malfoy finally emerges from upstairs, pink-faced and clean with his hair clinging to the base of his neck in damp tendrils. Harry watches as a bead of water drips down Malfoy’s neck and collects in the hollow of his throat. Harry’s mouth turns dry and he swallows roughly, tearing his longing gaze away.

“Merlin, I’ve missed hot water,” Malfoy sighs happily. He takes a seat on the sofa, close to Harry, and Harry’s body buzzes at the proximity. He can feel the heat radiating off Malfoy’s freshly washed skin and he longs to reach out and pull their bodies flush together.

“You can’t stay here.” Hermione’s sharp voice interrupts Harry’s feverish daydreams. “This will be the first place they’ll look when they realise that you’re missing.”

“We can keep them out,” Harry protests fiercely. He’s just got Malfoy back; the thought of losing him again so soon makes his stomach twist painfully.

“No, Granger’s right,” Malfoy says, earning a surprised raised eyebrow from Hermione. “I can’t stay here. I have to get back to the Estate.”

“No way,” Hermione huffs angrily. “We didn’t break you out so you can run back to the Death Eaters—Purity Seekers—whatever ridiculous name they’re using now.”

“I have to get back,” Malfoy pleads. “You don’t understand—”

“Oh, don’t we?” Hermione interjects bitterly.

“I have to try and stop the Purity curse,” Malfoy insists.

“What curse?” Hermione asks.

“It’s what I was trying to warn Potter about when I was captured.” Malfoy sighs and glances at Harry. “That’s the project the Purity Seekers have been working on. I just recently discovered all the details. They’re going to perform a ritual at dusk, in the center of London where it can reach the maximum number of people. It’s a highly contagious curse, spread through magic any time an infected witch or wizard casts a charm or spell.”

“What does it do?” Harry asks slowly, dread filling his stomach.

“It infects the victim’s blood, amplifying their magical blood which then turns and attacks any non-magical blood. It’s an extremely painful process, designed to turn all worthy wizards into Pure-bloods.”

“That’s revolting,” Hermione mutters, her voice filled with disgust.

“I know,” Malfoy says quietly. “That’s why I have to try and stop it. I have to get the kids out of the house and try to disrupt the ritual.”

Hermione’s brow furrows in confusion. “Kids?”

“It’s a long story,” Malfoy murmurs.

“Well, start talking, then.” Hermione crosses her arms. “You can’t expect us to just believe you as easily as that.”

“There’s no time,” Malfoy protests. “I have to hurry.”

“Hermione,” Harry turns to her with pleading eyes. “I know you don’t trust Malfoy and I don’t blame you.” Malfoy bristles next to him but Harry places a placating hand on Malfoy’s knee and continues. “But I do. I trust him completely.”

Malfoy’s head snaps towards him, his eyes shining bright with relief. Harry blushes slightly at Malfoy’s intense gaze, his heart clenching at the warm expression on his face.

“Do you?” Malfoy asks softly.

“Yes,” Harry replies fervently, squeezing Malfoy’s thigh.

“Oh,” Malfoy exhales, leaning into Harry’s touch.

“Fine.” Hermione stands, her cheeks a bit pink as she paces the room. “We’re all in far too deep now, anyway.” She turns towards Harry. “We have to warn the Ministry.” She pauses, then addresses Malfoy. “And you should leave as soon as possible.”

“Okay.” Malfoy pulls his gaze away from Harry and turns towards Hermione. “Thank you.”

He stands quickly and Harry scrambles to his feet to follow him across the room.

“Draco.” Harry reaches out, feeling bold. He grabs onto Draco’s arm, pulling him closer. Draco turns slowly to face him, the warm smile on his face making Harry’s stomach flip over helplessly. “Be careful.”

“I will,” Draco promises, allowing Harry to pull him into a kiss. Hermione makes a surprised noise from across the room, but Harry is deaf to the world as Draco’s mouth readily parts for him. His lips are dry but warm, eager and pliant. Their tongues meet, wet and hot, and Harry pours of all his fears and relief into the deep and desperate kiss. When they finally part, Hermione has left the room and Harry’s lips are tingling. Draco reaches out to tuck a loose curl behind Harry’s ear, before stepping back with a pained sigh. “Take care of yourself, Harry.”

Harry tells himself this won’t be their last kiss, can’t be their final farewell. He watches Draco leave and tampers down the rising dread and fear in his stomach.

Draco stumbles out of the Crypt’s Floo and is immediately greeted by an atmosphere of oppressively thick air, vibrating with violent magic. He coughs roughly, squinting in the dark, and searches for anything recognisable amongst the decaying walls.

“Draco!” his mother cries out, rushing towards him and wrapping him in a tight embrace. “You were gone for so long, I was worried. Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Draco replies, squeezing her gently for a long moment before pulling away. “We have to get to the dagger before Rookwood does. We have to destroy it.”

“It’s too late,” Narcissa replies, her eyes widening as a creaking groan sounds overhead. “They’ve already taken it.”

“What’s happening?” Draco looks around nervously. The cracks on the walls are much deeper than before, and a tangled web of green sparks glitters between them.

“I don’t think the artefacts are meant to be removed from here.” Narcissa’s voice grows louder as a faint crumbling sound echoes across the room. “The Crypt is breaking apart: the dark magic is eating itself whole.”

“Where’s father?”

Narcissa shakes her head sadly. “He won’t leave. I’ve been trying for hours.”

Draco curses under his breath and pushes past Narcissa to reach the far end of the Crypt. Lucius sits there, a ghoulish smile on his face as he toys with an ancient sceptre.

“My son.” Lucius nods his head in greeting. “You’ve returned at last. Do you see? They’ve crowned me.” Lucius gestures to the tangled vine of yew resting on top of his head.

“Father, we have to leave.”

“Nonsense,” Lucius retorts. “This is our castle, we can easily wait out the siege.”

“Father, you’re not making sense,” Draco pleads. “The Crypt is falling apart! We have to go, now.”

“Have some faith, son.” Lucius places the sceptre down and calmly folds his hands in his lap. A loud rumble sounds as a fresh crack ravages the far wall, causing plumes of dust and decay to rise up into the air.

“Father,” Draco begs. “Please.”

“This is our home.” Lucius’s voice is cold and distant, his eyes glazed and faraway. “You cannot force me to leave our home.”

A crackle of magic bursts through the air, followed by flashes of green and black which spark into minor explosions. The floor splits and fractures, the gaping hole exposing damp soil and rot.

“Draco!” Narcissa’s voice sounds impossibly far away.

“Dad,” Draco sobs, his voice breaking on the desperate plea.

Lucius tilts his head and considers Draco for a moment before mouthing a silent apology. Draco’s mother’s fingers wrap firmly around his wrist as she pulls him away. He loses sight of his father when they step into the crumbling Floo. Draco watches in despair before being transported away as the structure collapses, his father crushed and destroyed amongst the ashes of the Crypt.

When Draco steps out into Diagon Alley, the atmosphere comes as a surprise. He was expecting heavy rain and howling winds; anticipating dark clouds erupting in the foreboding sky, flashes of metallic light streaking down towards the damp grey street.

Instead, he’s greeted by the fair skies and warm breeze of a mild summer’s afternoon. It feels almost as though the setting sun, golden and bright as it beats against his back, is mocking him. That such a lovely day should exist amidst the oncoming terror seems like a cruel joke. The faint sound of children laughing by Sugarplum’s Sweet Shop rings in Draco’s ears as people rush around in all directions, darting in and out of shops, utterly unaware of their fate.

“Draco.” His mother grabs him by the shoulders and spins him around. Her eyes are red-rimmed and dark with grief. “They’re performing the ritual outside the Ministry Press: they’ve probably started already.”

“Mary and Henry…are they—?”

“Yes,” she interrupts. “I was able to get them to safety but I’m sure they’ve found someone else’s blood to use by now. We have to hurry.”

Draco nods, grabbing his mother by the hand as they begin to rush through the streets, weaving through the unsuspecting crowds. He feels childish doing so, but he refuses to let go of her, even as they approach their destination.

Draco feels a rush of relief when he spots the red robes of Aurors lining the streets, but he’s soon discouraged when he realises the Purity Seekers’ protective barrier has already been put in place. The edges shimmer with thick magic, creating a translucent and pearlescent screen. The Aurors’ spells bounce off the barrier without causing even the tiniest hint of damage.

“They’re using Grace.” Draco’s heart sinks as he watches the trembling woman cling to her husband. She looks truly terrified, her pale arm exposed and laid bare over a bubbling cauldron. He turns to his mother. “Do you think we can pass through the magical barrier?”

“Perhaps, if it’s meant only for Purity Seekers,” Narcissa replies. “Technically that’s both of us, but I’m not sure if they’ve modified the barrier since you disappeared. Your absence was noted at the last meeting. Theodore convinced them all that you’re a traitor to the cause.”

“It’s worth a shot,” Draco mutters, moving towards the edge of the barrier.

An Auror steps forward before Draco can get too close and fires a few blasting curses, only for them to reflect off the barrier in quick succession. The man’s eyes darken and he steps closer, charging through the shimmering line of magic.

Blood, destruction, chaos.

Draco’s stomach turns as the wizard screams in agony, his skin blistering and peeling as he falls to the ground.

“Draco,” Narcissa whimpers, curling her hand around his arm.

“Mother.” Draco turns to her with determined eyes. “I have to try.”

A flash of green catches Draco’s eye from across the road. He flinches, expecting a curse to come hurtling towards him, but when he turns to face the glint of emerald he’s met with something else entirely. Harry’s vibrant eyes shine in the slanting light of the setting sun, glowing and pleading as he stares at Draco. They simultaneously look down at the writhing body of the Death Hunter, twitching against the ground, before their gazes rise to meet again.

Harry’s mouth moves, his hands clenched at his sides. Please, don’t.

Draco offers a sad smile and a defeated shrug of his shoulders before steeling his nerves and rushing towards the barrier.

His blood turns cold, a freezing grip wrenching at his heart and pumping shards of ice through his veins, but the cloying magic fades from his skin and the sensation soon passes. He gasps in startled relief when he finds himself safely on the other side of the barrier. A moment later his mother joins him, sharply gulping for air as she appears beside him.

Draco frantically looks around, his stomach twisting when he spots Theo. Their eyes meet and Theo tilts his head in greeting, a sinister smile forming on his lips.

“Looks like we forgot to lock the traitor out,” Theo sneers, stepping towards Draco.

“You have to break the barrier,” Draco hisses at his mother. She nods and immediately begins to fire spells at the interior of the wall of magic. He turns his attention back to Theo. “I don’t have time for you.”

“Is that so?” Theo scoffs, closing the distance between them. “You still haven’t learned to watch your tongue, have you Draco?” Theo leans in, pressing his wand against Draco’s chest. “Maybe I’ll have to remove it for you.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Draco retorts, firing a swift Bombarda at Theo.

He falls back several feet, landing on his back with a disgruntled moan. The disturbance catches Rookwood’s attention and he moves towards them, stepping away from the simmering cauldron.

“Malfoy, you’ve finally joined us.” Rookwood’s smile widens, his eyes brimming with hatred. “I was so hoping you’d be here for the main event.” He turns to address Mulciber, whose face is ashen and drawn. “Add the final ingredient, Callum,” Rookwood demands. “Let’s see who’s worthy to carry magical blood.” Mulciber’s hand shakes as it hovers over his wife’s arm, the blade a mere inch from her waiting flesh. Her pale face is streaked with tear tracks, and a stream of desperate whimpers escapes her thin, dry lips. “Do it,” Rookwood growls.

“Accio dagger,” Draco shouts. Quick as a flash, the ornate blade slips easily from Mulciber’s loose grasp.

Rookwood snarls and glares at Draco again, baring his teeth and raising his wand. A rush of magic flies over Draco’s shoulder. It hits Rookwood square in the chest, stunning him, and he drops to the floor, unconscious. Draco turns, weak with relief as the barrier crackles and fizzles out around them. His mother offers a tentative smile before she slumps to the ground in fatigue. He steps towards her but is pushed back as the Aurors flood the previously inaccessible area, firing blasting curses and using all manner of spells to trap the ambushed Purity Seekers.

“Traitor,” Avery hisses at Draco, rushing towards him with his wand held high. Draco is quicker, though, and he disarms the older man effectively before an Auror hits Avery with a well-aimed Incarcerous.

The street is alight with a sea of curses, but the Aurors far outnumber the Purity Seekers and this time there is no escape for them. Draco spots Harry from across the crowd, his dark hair sticking to his temples as he deflects curses and charges towards Travers. Draco is struck by an all-consuming urge to run towards him, to grab Harry in his arms and whisk them both away from the fighting, away from the tears and blood, to take him somewhere far away, where the consequences of the war can’t touch either of them.

A piercing cry cuts through the chaos and Draco turns sharply, watching in horror as George Weasley rushes towards Theo. Theo’s eyes are cold and cruel; he waits for Weasley with a smirk which is almost predatory. Weasley is yelling, hollering for vengeance and firing countless angry curses with such poor aim that Theo easily avoids them. He’s running right into a trap. Draco sees it all unfold in slow motion and before he can even think twice about it, he’s racing towards them. The curse forms on Theo’s lips but all Draco can hear is the rush of blood in his ears as he pushes Weasley roughly aside, just in time. Draco isn’t so lucky, though: the brunt of the curse hits him square in the chest.

Someone is screaming—perhaps it’s him. Draco can’t really be sure. There’s a firm pressure pushing down on his body and then he’s falling, sliding, slipping into darkness. The sky above is such a lovely mix of orange and pink, and Draco revels in its beauty before everything fades away.

Rivers of crimson spill onto the cobblestones, staining the street and flowing away. Harry stumbles, tripping over his own feet as he falls to his knees and pulls Draco into his arms. There’s so much blood, too much, and Harry’s heart clenches as he’s reminded of that fateful day in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.

He screams for help, just as he did that day, praying that once again someone will swoop in and heal Draco’s wounds. Harry’s robes become saturated with blood but he pays that no mind, rocking Draco’s body back and forth as his teary eyes scan the surging crowds.

“Harry!” a voice calls out. It sounds hollow and distant in his ears, as though he’s underwater and everything is muffled. He looks up to find Jones standing over him. “The Healers have just arrived, we’ll take him over to one.”

Harry nods numbly, his eyes flickering over to the woman standing beside Jones.

“Draco?” Narcissa Malfoy’s strained voice cracks on the word, her hands trembling as she reaches out.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers, loosening his grip on Draco with reluctance, allowing her to pull him into her arms.

Harry had wanted to protect Draco, to keep him safe. It’s ridiculous notion, a foolish hope. He should have warned Draco properly, told him to stay away. Didn’t he know that everyone Harry cares about gets hurt in the end?

His eyes sting with unshed tears as he watches Narcissa and Jones carry Draco’s limp body away.

The crowds are thinning. All of the remaining Purity Seekers are either captured or dead. Residual magic lingers in the air, but the ritual was never completed and the cursed dagger is on its way to the Ministry, carried by a convoy of Aurors.

Harry sits on a warped wooden bench and watches the proceedings. His mouth is parched, his body heavy, but mostly he just feels numb. Injured Aurors limp around him, patting each other on the back as the uninjured ones close off the scene and direct shaken onlookers away from the area.

He’s reminded of the morning he defeated Voldemort. He feels that same surreal ringing in his ears and that hollow, aching victory. It’s the price of peace, he thinks: tearing everything down before it can be rebuilt again.

The bench shifts beneath him as Ron sits gingerly on the other end, his freckled face streaked with dirt and blood. Harry readies himself for outrage and fury to boil through his blood, for the need to turn towards Ron and spit scathing accusations. The anger never comes, though. The resentment is minimal: all he feels is empty, bitter fatigue.

“Alright, mate?” Ron asks nervously, his voice hoarse. Harry’s tempted to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“Ron,” he says roughly, instead.

“Listen.” Ron clears his throat, the tips of his ears turning red. “I’m sorry.”

“For?” Harry asks, the last fragment of his unsettled energy igniting a tiny spark of spite.

“Well, I could make a list,” Ron mutters, scuffing at the ground with his shoe. “Or you could always make one, you and ‘Mione, and then I could just sign it.”

“Still trying to get out of work, huh?” Harry asks, a hint of humour unwillingly sneaking into his voice.

“Of course.” Ron lets out a relieved chuckle, but quickly sobers up. “I should have listened to you...trusted you.”

Harry clenches his jaw. “You think?”

“I still think he’s a prat,” Ron says quickly, his voice becoming soft. “But I saw him save George—he ran right into the curse to protect him. I guess he can’t be all that bad.” Harry clenches his hands into tight fists, the image of Draco collapsing onto the ground rushing back to him. “Is he going to be okay?”

“I don’t know,” Harry replies, anxiety clawing at his stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Ron repeats, his voice so strangled with grief that Harry lifts his gaze to peer at him.

Ron’s eyes are bloodshot and tired, with dark shadows running beneath them. His face is all sharp lines and harsh angles, his usually plump cheeks hollow and haunted.

“I know,” Harry says softly. It’s the closest thing to forgiveness he can offer at the moment but Ron seems grateful to accept it. He bows his head and reaches out to squeeze Harry’s knee.

“Ron!” Hermione staggers towards the bench, her wild hair messier than ever as it spills loose over her shoulders.

Ron jumps up and falls into her outstretched arms, their embrace long and fierce as they mumble into each other’s ears. Hermione’s face is tear stained when she pulls back, but her eyes are happy and bright.

“Do you have to leave soon? I’m sure you have hours of debriefing ahead…”

“No.” Ron shakes his head. “I’ll deal with it later, they can wait. I’m quitting the Aurors, anyway. Me and George, both.”

“Good,” Hermione says on a shaky exhale.

She drags Ron back onto the bench, sitting between him and Harry, and takes both of their hands into her own. The three of them sit in silence, hand in hand, and watch the street lamps flicker on, casting halos of golden light against the darkening, purple sky.

“It’s really coming down out there.” Harry runs his fingers through his hair, droplets of water dripping from the damp ends and onto the pristine white floor. “I know,” he chuckles softly, “Why didn’t I use an Impervius charm?”

The clock hanging on the wall ticks loudly, filling the silence in the room. Rain beats incessantly against the closed window, muting the light which filters through the glass. Everything is grey outside: the wet pavement, the cloud-filled sky, the thick waves of fog rolling through the streets. Inside, everything is white: the stiff linen sheets; the clean, plain walls; Draco’s pale skin.

“Visiting hours end in a few minutes,” Draco’s Healer says, peeking her head inside the curtain.

“Alright.” Harry turns to face her but she’s already moved on to the next patient. He returns his focus to Draco, meticulously watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. “They tell me your vitals are all fine, and that they’ll be able to wake you up as soon as the major healing of your internal organs is complete.” He toys with the edge of the sheet before he’s unable to resist any longer. He reaches out and places his hand over Draco’s. The flesh is so pale and thin there, it’s nearly translucent. Tiny blue veins spread across Draco’s wrist, the bones vivid and elegant as his skin stretches over them.

“I was wrong, you know.” Harry turns Draco’s hand over, stroking his thumb gently across Draco’s palm. “Calling you a coward and all that. You’re not. You’re incredibly brave.”

The monitoring charms beep softly, their gentle vibrations echoing off the walls.

“Not just in the heroic, Gryffindor sense, either,” Harry continues, a small smile playing on his lips. “You’re brave in ways others could never manage, in ways others wouldn’t survive.” Harry chuckles lightly. “Maybe that’s a Slytherin sort of bravery...I wouldn’t know.” Harry pauses before he admits, “Or maybe I could have known it. You know the Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin at first? I begged it not to. But can you imagine if I had been?” Harry gently squeezes Draco’s hand. “Do you think we would have been friends? Would everything have been different?”

The sky outside darkens even further, brightened only by flashes of lightning streaking across the dense clouds. The downpour becomes heavier, pounding the ground, loud and steady like a beating drum. Harry’s heart matches the rhythm, pounding in his chest as he brushes back a wayward strand of hair from Draco’s face.

“Mr Potter.” The Healer appears at his side. “Visiting hours are over, you’ll have to leave now.”

“Can’t I stay?” Harry begs. “Just a little longer, please?”

The Healer raises an eyebrow, her gaze sliding over to their joined hands on the bed.

“Fine,” she relents with a sigh. “But you’re not staying all night again. No more exceptions.”

“Of course,” Harry agrees with a bright smile. “I promise.”

She shakes her head good-naturedly and walks away, pulling the curtain shut tight behind her.

Harry turns back to Draco. “Did I ever tell you about second year? When me and Ron snuck into your common room?” Harry pulls his chair closer, a smirk growing on his lips. “You’ll love this story…”

“Have you seen my copy of Quintessence: A Quest?”

“Are you sure it’s not already in there?” Harry asks, raising an eyebrow.

Hermione huffs in response, pushing the teetering stack of books further into her bag. She closes the fastenings and wipes her forehead with the back of her hand before sinking onto the sofa.

“So, you’re really going, then?”

“Yes,” Hermione admits softly. “But Harry, you’re always welcome. Molly told me as much. In fact, she wanted me to convince you to move in, too.”

“I know,” Harry replies. “I appreciate it, but I’m fine. I promise. It’ll be good to be alone for a bit. I think I’ll like it.”

“Fine,” Hermione relents. “But make sure you visit often. It’s getting a lot better at the Burrow; I don’t feel like I’m intruding any more. I think everyone is slowly healing and...Ron needs me, as much as he needs his family.”

“Of course he does.” Harry joins her on the sofa, leaning against her side.

“He needs you too,” Hermione adds quietly.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Harry mumbles.

“It’s true.” Hermione insists. “The whole family would love to see you. Ron and George are planning on working together—you know, getting the joke shop back up and running.”

“I’m glad.” Harry smiles softly. “I think they’ll both be happier in that line of work.”

“Definitely,” Hermione agrees. She fidgets slightly before continuing. “Kingsley’s disbanded the Death Hunters. I suppose there’s not much use for them now anyway, but at least it’s over for good.”

“Took him long enough,” Harry scowls.

“Well, I’ll be sticking around at the Ministry for a while.” Hermione shrugs. “I need to ensure that no other extreme faction grows in their absence.”

“And is Kingsley okay with you assigning yourself this role?” Harry asks wryly.

“Oh,” Hermione responds, “I don’t intend to give him much of a choice.”

Harry grins at the sight of her happy flushed cheeks and the resolute gleam in her eyes. No one—not even the Minister for Magic—has a hope of derailing a determined Hermione.

They sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, listening to the gentle crackle of embers from the fireplace and the usual creaking of the house. Harry soon starts to feel sleepy, safe and warm, settled on the soft cushions of the sofa beside the comforting presence of his best friend. His eyelids grow heavy and are just beginning to droop when Hermione clears her throat and turns to him with a somber expression on her face.

“How have you been?” she asks, then tentatively adds, “How’s Malfoy? I heard he woke up a few days ago.”

“I—I haven’t seen him yet,” Harry admits.

“Why not?” Hermione’s brow furrows in confusion. “I’d have thought you’d be the first person there at hospital.”

“I wanted to be,” Harry insists, fidgeting with a loose thread on the arm of the sofa. “But I figured his mother would want to see him first and then there were all the press and reporters lingering around the place. I didn’t want to cause a bigger scene.”

“Well, what about the next day then?”

Harry shrugs, staring pointedly at the floor. “I don’t know. I mean, I knew he had to be questioned by the Ministry. They interrogated me for over an hour the other day about his involvement. I guess I thought I’d run into him there, but…”

“The Ministry released him.” Hermione gives him a searching look. “You should go and see him.”

“I want to give him some space.” Harry’s face heats up and his pulse flickers nervously against his neck.

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione sighs and pats his knee. “Don’t give him too much space. I’m sure he’s pining to see you just as much as you want to see him.” Harry shoots her a disbelieving look but she merely stares him down knowingly. “It’s true. I saw the way he looked at you after we broke him out of the Ministry.”

“Hermione—”

“Just make sure he’s worthy of your heart,” Hermione adds fiercely. She hesitantly reaches into her pocket and pulls out a coin, holding it up so the metal glints gold against the flickering light in the room. “Here, you should have this back. Ron wanted me to give it to you.”

Harry reaches out and takes the coin gingerly from her hand. The metal is smooth against his fingertips and he’s suddenly tempted to do something embarrassing like press it against his lips. He resists the urge and curls his fingers into a fist, trapping the coin into his palm. “Will you thank Ron for me?”

“Fine,” Hermione huffs, her lips twitching into a exasperated smile. “But you two need to have a proper conversation soon. I refuse to act as your personal owl again.”

“I promise,” Harry insists.

The clock chimes down the hall, the sound of its bells ringing loudly against the walls and through the corridor. They stand together and Hermione flashes Harry a sad smile before pulling him into a tight embrace.

“I’ll see you soon,” Harry mumbles into a faceful of her wild hair.

“I know,” Hermione replies, her voice strained with emotion. “Tomorrow night, okay? Dinner at the Burrow.”

“Okay,” Harry agrees, loosening his hold on her and stepping back.

She shoots Harry one last bittersweet smile before grabbing her bags and stepping into the Floo. The house seems quieter than ever as the green flames whisk her away.

Harry firmly pushes away the stirrings of melancholy which threaten to consume him. He sinks back down onto the sofa and rolls the coin between his fingers, watching the fire dance along its metallic surface. He presses the coin into his palm, relishing the weight of it against his skin. The rounded metal heats up, a comforting warmth he’s sorely missed.

The familiar scent of pine needles and moss fills Draco’s nose, earthy and sharp. It’s like coming home: the feel of rough bark against his hand, the steady babbling of the nearby stream, the soft light filtering through the treetops. His stomach twists with longing, his body trembling at the sweet comfort of this wooded clearing.

He’d been sitting at his Aunt Andromeda’s kitchen table, a few days after she’d taken him in, when his mother returned his few items back to him. His wand, thankfully still in one piece, had finally been released by the Ministry. The smooth wood felt incredible in his hand, but it was nothing compared to the coin she slid across the table. Draco’s breath caught in his throat at the familiar golden coin, the metal cool against his fingertips as he picked it up. His mother said nothing, merely smiling at him with knowing eyes before walking out of the room.

Draco stared at the coin all night and most of the next day before he summoned the courage to activate it. Now, he wonders at that decision as he waits in the clearing, his hair blowing in the late summer breeze, the sun setting along the horizon.

The sound of hesitant footsteps echoes off the tall trunks and Draco’s shoulders tighten in anticipation. He steels his nerves and forces himself to turn around.

Harry looks as nervous as Draco feels, his bottom lip swelling as his sharp white teeth chew mercilessly on it. His dark, messy hair curls around the tanned expanse of his throat and his bright red t-shirt highlights the lean muscles of his chest and torso. His hands clench and release, clench and release as he stands in the middle of the clearing. Draco feels stuck, as if his feet are glued to the ground and unable to move an inch. He stares endlessly, soaking in every detail of Harry’s body: the way the dying light reflects off his glasses, the fluttering pulse in his neck, the worn trainers that scuff nervously at the ground.

Draco isn’t sure who moves first, who breaks the spell, but suddenly they’re rushing towards one another. Harry’s hair is just as soft as he remembers, wild and thick against Draco’s fingers as he tangles them in it. His lips slide against Harry’s and he presses his tongue inside, tasting of every corner of Harry’s hot, waiting mouth. Draco feels Harry’s pounding heart against his own chest, notices the way his hands tremble as they glide down his back.

The embrace is wonderful and terrifying, like a Wronski Feint: diving head first into the unknown, hurtling to the ground with no room for reservations. This time, Draco wouldn’t mind crashing. He’s ready to fall and shatter, to allow himself to break if only to receive more of this sweet and consuming salvation.

The frantic euphoria of their reunion eventually dies down and Harry’s kisses become chaste, soft and swift as they land upon the corner of Draco’s mouth, his jaw, his neck. With a disciplined sigh, he steps away, panting slightly as he attempts to regain his breath.

“Hi,” Harry finally says, his eyes wild and his face wonderfully flushed.

“Hi,” Draco repeats, unable to hide the broad smile which spills across his face.

“You look good.” Harry’s cheeks pinken further. “Well rested, and all.”

“Thank you,” Draco chuckles softly.

Harry’s expression turns serious. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been...okay.” A flutter of black and orange catches Draco’s eye and he watches a group of redstarts scatter from a high branch and fly off into the sky. Nearly time for them to return home, he thinks to himself. He returns his attention to Harry, who’s waiting patiently for Draco to continue. “I’m mostly healed, other than a little residual tenderness here and there.”

“And your mother?”

“She’s doing well,” Draco replies. “We’re staying with her sister, for now—”

“Andromeda?” Harry asks, unable to mask his disbelief.

“Yes.” Draco smiles. “I guess we weren’t the only ones keeping secret liaisons. Mother found ways to communicate with her for some time after we arrived at the Estate. I believe they were using a set of two-way mirrors.”

“That makes sense, actually,” Harry says, realisation dawning on his face. “I wondered why Kingsley took my word so quickly about the final attack and ritual, especially given that I’d been marked as a liability. He must already have been warned.”

“My aunt’s been good to us,” Draco admits. “Although, I think I’ll be watching that tiny cousin of mine as retribution for years to come.”

“Teddy?” Harry’s face lights up. “I’m his godfather. I’d be happy to help you with that.”

“I’d like that,” Draco responds, his smile growing tight. “I won’t be leaving London much, in any case.”

“Oh?”

“My mother and I have been given five years on probation. No traveling out of country or too far from London, and we’ll have strict tracking charms on us for five years after that. There are reparations as well, of course. The Manor and all of our funds have been seized by the Ministry, and I’ll be carrying out war relief community service for the next two years.”

“Merlin,” Harry mutters.

“It’s a better fate than I expected,” Draco says firmly, determined not to let Harry pity him. “I did my best to protect those I cared about, but I still need to pay for all the death and destruction my actions caused.”

“Those things were out of your control,” Harry protests, grabbing Draco’s hands in his. “It wasn’t all your fault; you can’t blame yourself for everything.”

“You’re one to talk,” Draco scoffs, but his tone remains kind. He squeezes Harry’s hands and holds them tightly. “I appreciate your confidence in me, but I don’t mind the shame and guilt all that much. I need it, really. It’s what keeps me grounded. I even think, in some strange way, that it’s helped me to stay alive all this time.”

Harry nods solemnly. “I understand.”

The sun dips below the horizon, the remnants of light spilling across the forest floor and setting the woods ablaze with colour. Everything is rich and golden, and even the pine needles glow brightly beneath their feet. When Harry leans forward and their lips meet again, the world vanishes around them, melting away in a swirl of amber and rose.

The kiss is softer than before, their mouths moving gently together, as if one sudden move could cause them both to break. Harry’s skin is warm against Draco’s, his fingers nimble and sure as they remove each article of clothing, one piece at a time. It’s a slow and careful process and by the time they’re both fully undressed, the sun has completely disappeared and the woods are stained in hues of pale blue and lavender.

Their lips connect again, the kiss more heated this time as familiar urgency creeps steadily into their bloodstreams. Draco’s knees weaken and he surrenders to the sensation, allowing Harry to pull him onto the ground. The earth is damp and soft beneath him: blades of grass caress his bare skin, their eager touch mirroring the hungry kisses Harry places all over his throat and chest.

Sharp teeth scrape against tender skin, hands roam over sweat-slick bodies. Harry arches into Draco’s touch, spreading his legs wide as Draco trails his slippery fingers teasingly along his arse before sliding one in, twisting and stretching. Another soon follows. Draco curls his fingers, pushing against the sensitive bundle of nerves inside, coaxing sharp gasps and desperate pleas from Harry’s trembling lips.

Harry’s cock leaks steadily against his stomach, aching and full, leaving a sticky trail in its wake. The sight spurs Draco on and he hastily lines up and pushes inside, groaning at the tight heat of Harry’s body.

Draco reaches out to remove Harry’s glasses and carefully places them down on the grass beside them. Harry blinks owlishly up at him, his lips curving into a teasing smile. Draco answers the coy look by pushing deeper inside, drawing a grateful moan from Harry’s open mouth. He thrusts in earnest, rocking back and forth, digging his fingers into the smooth skin of Harry’s shoulders.

Harry’s vibrant eyes glow in the dusky night, stunning emeralds framed by thick, dark lashes. They swim with lust and affection, burning right through Draco. He can’t help but wonder what emotions are reflected in his own wide eyes as he gazes down at Harry.

Harry’s thighs tighten, his whole body beginning to clench as his face falls slack with pleasure. He scrabbles against the earth with his fingers and he tilts his hips up, pulling Draco deeper and deeper inside his body. Harry’s mouth parts, moving wordlessly as he comes, spilling himself between their bodies. He shudders uncontrollably in the aftermath, incomprehensible sounds flowing free and warm against Draco’s ear.

Draco slows down, willing his pounding heart to calm down as he desperately tries to stave off his own orgasm. He pulls out, nearly all the way, so far that his swollen head catches on Harry’s stretched rim. Harry moans in response and Draco finds he can’t hold back any longer. He presses back in, pumping shallowly once, twice, before shouting his release into the warm night air.

There’s a gentle buzzing in Draco’s head as he gingerly pulls out and collapses at Harry’s side. The babbling of the creek fills his ears, a soft lullaby caressing him with its sweet sounds. Harry shifts beside him and Draco smiles as a subtle wave of magic washes over his skin, sweeping away the sticky residue.

It’s Harry who finally breaks the silence. “We should really try doing this in a bed, sometime,” he chuckles.

“Definitely,” Draco murmurs, nodding in agreement. He turns his head to capture Harry’s mouth once more, powerless to prevent himself from smiling softly into the tender kiss. Draco pulls back slowly and laces their fingers together, turning his head to gaze up at the evening sky.

His heartbeat slows, settling into a quiet thrumming deep in his chest as he stares up at the stars, into the vast and daunting universe, unafraid.