Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Fish fell out of water
Bird stuck on the ground
Chaos giving orders
Everything is upside down
The whole world on a flight path
Wonder where they'll go, ahhh
Trouble's on the outside, I know
So now
All I can think about is you
-“All I Can Think About is You,” Coldplay

There were times like this—when the swollen sun hung warm and pregnant over the Ieranto Bay, refracting the azure waters off the limestone cliffs like a thousand points of mirrored light—when Draco felt he could be happy. When contentment and fulfillment were not just concepts belonging to others, but possibilities available to him.

It had been eight years after all. Eight years after his trial; seven since he was allowed to be something more than the equivalent of a Squib; six since he’d had his family under one roof; five since he’d discovered that certain things were indeed irreparable; and four since he’d left the familiar and painful reality of post-war Wizarding Britain for places unknown. It had been three years since he’d travelled from France to Italy, two since he’d stumbled upon the picturesque village of Nerano, and one since he’d set up roots amongst the ancient olive trees and terraced gardens with his modest villa, its arched windows perfect for watching the moon rise over the old Saracen watchtower as the lapping waves soothed him to sleep.

It had been nine months since he had laid his father to rest—Azkaban, it seemed, not only sucked out your soul, but any remaining will to live—and three months since he’d met Gianpaolo.

Draco reached out, taking his lover’s thick, dark hand into his own, marvelling at the contrast. His own fingers were still long and slender, though less delicate now from the months of fishing in the Recommone bay and hand-picking olives. His body was still lithe and lean, but was now also well-muscled, tanned from the hours spent in the heat of the sun. His pale blond hair was even paler, bleached nearly as white as the exteriors of the homes that dotted the cliffs. He was neither naïve nor humble about his appearance, and knew that his striking looks had only grown more toothsome as the years had unfolded.

He gave a gentle squeeze before biting into his pasticciotto, the delicate pastry giving way as the buttery crust and chocolate custard burst against his tongue.

“God,” he moaned as their hands drifted apart. “Your father is bloody brilliant. How did you grow up with his cooking and remain so fit?”

Gianpaolo shrugged. “Look at where we are, Draco, surrounded by nature’s beauty. I eat well, stay active, and make it a point to find happiness in even the smallest things. La dolce vita, yes?”

Looking at his life objectively, Draco should have had all the ingredients for happiness at his feet—a fulfilling lifestyle and a warm and inviting home, surrounded by incredible food, plentiful magic, sociable townsfolk, and a doting companion to call his own. He still maintained contact with his mother and, to a lesser extent, Pansy, Greg, and Blaise. But as he sipped his cappuccino and watched the colourful boats trolling back to shore, he couldn’t shake a sense of prickling unease.

“Amore mio,” Gianpaolo said gently. “So close, yet so far away. What is troubling that beautiful head of yours?”

Something caught in the wind. It fluttered, hovering in the corner of Draco’s eye before floating out of sight. It reminded him of the dandelion puffs that fascinated him as a child, with the way the cypselae clung to the head, their hold growing less secure with each passing day. A temporary reprieve of sorts—easily disrupted by the vagaries of the wind, or the whimsical breaths of a curious child.

Draco turned towards Gianpaolo as grey eyes met blue. “I’m not sure,” he replied honestly. “I…it’s just that I feel unsettled.” He frowned. “For lack of a better word.”

Gianpaolo looked down at his drink. He traced a finger along the bottom of the rim where the water had collected, darkening the wooden tabletop underneath. “You’re not happy here? Is it…what do you English call it? Homesickness?”

“This place makes me happy. You make me happy,” Draco started, trying not to think about how the words stuck in his throat. It wasn’t that they were untrue. But there was also a difference between being happy, and happiness.

“But not the happiest.” Gianpaolo looked out over the waters, at the sun as it began dipping lower, the yellows mellowing into something less bright and more languid. “Did you know that every night, you look out in the same direction? Towards the place where you once came from?” He hesitated as his lips pulled down in thought. “Perhaps you have unfinished business to attend to. Perhaps there is something, or someone, whom you need to return to, who’s not allowing you to move on. Even with all the changes you’ve already made in your life. Non tutte le ciambelle riescono col buco, si?”

Draco swallowed. Something was calling him, a restless ache that churned within, a growing disquiet that invaded his dreams. “Would that not upset you? If I were to go?“

“Draco. You are my dear friend first, and my lover second. It is true that I would miss every inch of your gorgeous body if you were no longer my amante. But it would kill me to know that I did not have the best interests of il mio migliore amico at heart.” He squeezed Draco’s hand. “Does that make sense?”

“You are so good to me.” Draco sighed, the anxiety currently welling up in his chest causing his fingers to itch as he found himself craving the comfort of the cigarettes which he had given up two years ago. His long fingers drummed on the tabletop. “Perhaps after planting season—”

Gianpaolo reached out, the condensation from his drink slicking their skin as he stilled Draco’s movements. “And then it will be harvest time. One can always find an excuse to avoid the things which are difficult in their lives. But it was one of your English authors who said it best: The beginning is always today."

"Magari,” Draco whispered. He leaned in and kissed Gianpaolo, tasting the sun and sea and sweetness of his lips, even as a fitfulness flared through him. He pushed it down, nearly choking on its bitterness, just as he had done over the last several weeks. But this time, it pushed back, increasingly harder to ignore.

He turned, looking west, as if the answers laid somewhere in the distance.

.~oOo~.

Harry ran in, nearly knocking over Goldstein, who was levitating a stack of charts for their morning meeting.

“Nice,” Ron grinned as Harry skidded to a stop. “Kingsley just left his office, so we’ve got two minutes to get downstairs before Dawlish has kittens.” His smile faltered as he took a closer look at Harry. “Blimey, you look a bloody mess. When’s the last time you got a decent night’s sleep?”

Harry threw on his robes. “Three…maybe four weeks?” He scrubbed at the wrinkled front before throwing both hands up in frustration.

“Nightmares?” Ron asked, his tone neutral. He cast a quick cleaning charm so Harry’s uniform hung spotless and neat.

Harry’s face coloured. “Not the usual ones.”

“Maybe you should think about seeing your Healer again. I haven’t seen you this exhausted since you and Gin divorced.”

“It’s not the same—I’ve no more headaches, I’m not waking up hallucinating or in a cold sweat. And no, I haven’t touched a drop of Sleeping Draught in over eight months.”

“No more voices?”

Just the memory of that soft and seductive drawl—the one that invaded his dreams now, leaving his heart aching and his prick sticky with come—threatened to make him half-hard. “I’m just tired,” Harry protested, strategically rearranging the fabric of his robe. “Going to stay in this weekend. It’ll be nice to do something quiet.”

Ron sighed. “Fuck, Harry, normally I’d be all for that; you know Hermione and I think you’re running yourself ragged. But tonight’s the get-together at the Leaky, remember? It’s Gin’s last weekend before she goes on the road, and she’s bringing Dean. It would mean a lot if you came and showed your support.”

Harry grimaced. Ron wasn’t above employing a bit of guilt in Ginny’s favour and to be fair, he had a point. Harry’s golden image could have been easily tarnished by the news of his bisexuality and the shock of the Potter-Weasley divorce, but Ginny and their friends at least had been nothing but supportive.

“Yeah. Of course I’ll be there.” Harry gratefully accepted the coffee Ron held out and took a deep sip, grateful for the caffeine infusion. “Thanks.”

“No worries. Honestly, you looked like you needed it more.”

“What’s the meeting about, anyway?” Harry asked. He gathered the papers that were scattered about his desk, shoving them under his arm while juggling the cup.

“I think it has something to do with the murders in West Berkshire last night,” Ron speculated as they made their way down the hall.

“Isn’t that Neville’s case? Why would they need us at the debriefing?”

Ron shrugged. “Couldn’t bear to be without our sparkling company?” he suggested as he pushed open the door. His jaw dropped. “Oh, fuck…”

Neville and Kingsley watched their changing expressions with something resembling amusement, while Dawlish glowered. And they weren’t the only ones—the space was filled with a team of Obliviators, someone from the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee, a representative from the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and several other Aurors.

“And a good morning to you too, Weasley and Potter,” Dawlish said as someone sniggered. Harry slid quietly into one of the two remaining seats. “Auror Longbottom was just about to give us the details of the Westwood murders which took place on the night of May the first.”

Neville threw Harry and Ron an apologetic glance. “To recap, we received a call at half past ten regarding a large surge of magical activity in West Berkshire. It wasn’t just unusual in its power and intensity; it was dark enough to spook not only the livestock, but several magical creatures as well. We contacted the local Muggle police, who’d also received eyewitness reports of ‘flashes of lights’ and ‘strange explosions’ in Lambourn Downs.”

The head of the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee spoke up. “Luckily, we had a ready explanation. Given the region’s pagan ties, its Celtic origins, and the ongoing Beltane celebrations, the disturbance was ascribed to some local youths recreating midsummer rituals.”

One of the Obliviators snorted. “Lucky for you, perhaps. Do you know how many Muggles were in the area? This was one of the largest Beltane festivals in recent years. We still have three of our best people out there, swapping memories of the curses with those of drink and drug-fueled revelry.”

Ron looked up, his brows pinched together. “What am I missing? Sounds messy, but contained. I haven’t heard anything to warrant the presence of the leads of five of our best Auror teams.

“Not to mention the Minister for Magic himself.” Harry glanced at Dawlish. “Who were the Westwoods? Were they targeted, or was it a random attack?”

“Henry Westwood was the last of the Berkshire Thorpes, a descendant of one of oldest pureblood families in southern England,” the Head Auror replied. “The family’s castle and fortunes were destroyed in the 1600’s following the Muggle Civil Wars. Alistair Thorpe—along with his wife, his magic, and what little was left of his worldly possessions—reportedly moved north of the River Kennet soon after.

“His wife did not survive the subsequent winter, and Alistair eventually remarried. His second wife was Catherine Coates, whose family bred and handled Thestrals. In fact, the Thorpes lived a rather peaceable existence for the next several hundred years. Most recently, Henry Westwood had taken to breeding and racing Muggle thoroughbreds. He continued the family tradition of breeding Thestrals, although with the growing non-Magical population in the region, their numbers had dwindled, and he only allowed the domesticated beasts to be purchased by a select few.

“By all accounts, Westwood loved his animals nearly as much as he did his family and the surrounding land. Part of his vetting process for any prospective buyer was to evaluate his would-be-purchaser’s home. To make sure that they would not only have necessary resources and space required by the Thestrals, but also to ensure that the land was fairly secluded, so that the beasts would not be mistakenly seen by curious, non-wizarding eyes.”

Neville picked up to the story, drawing everyone’s attention to a large, colour-coded map. “This is where Henry Westwood was found,” he announced, marking the address with a red ball-headed pin. “Along with his wife and twenty-five-year-old son.” He shook his head sadly. “The business was very much a family one. It appears as if Mrs Westwood was caught unawares. She was discovered in one of the bedrooms, the victim of the Killing Curse. Considering the damage sustained on the grounds, the assailants must have attacked Henry and his son as soon as they reached the main house. The Westwoods appear to have put up a valiant fight, but based on our estimates, they were sorely outnumbered, facing at least six or seven attackers.”

The space behind Harry’s right eye began to throb. “The use of an Unforgivable,” Ron said, letting out a low whistle. “A bit excessive for a botched robbery or random attack, yeah?”

Kingsley stood and approached the map. “Although the execution of the murders was sloppily handled in many respects, the thought behind the attack seems well-planned. What the perpetrators didn’t count on was the fact that the victims they encountered that night were not the ones intended.” He waved his wand, illuminating the numbers and letters of the home’s address. “It appears that the potential buyer—and the person whose home Henry Westwood was scouting—was none other than Philip Nott.”

Hestia Silversmith, a Ravenclaw who had graduated two years ahead of Harry and Ron, piped up. “Where were the Notts? Do you think they were involved?”

Kingsley shook his head. “Anything’s possible, but it’s highly unlikely. Mr Nott and his son Theodore were in London, looking at flats. They were staying at Claridge’s, and their presence was attested to by no fewer than twelve of the hotel’s staff. They were… incredibly distraught, to say the least. Apparently, the Notts and Westwoods had become quite friendly. Mr Nott has agreed to be questioned under Veritaserum.”

“The Notts were the intended targets, weren’t they?” Harry asked quietly. “And you suspect that this is part of something larger. Something great enough to involve the Department of International Magical Cooperation.”

“Yes.” Kingsley’s face was grim as several more push pins appeared on the map, filling in the surrounding areas. “There’s been a spate of petty crime in Auror Longbottom’s jurisdiction over the past six months. Nothing which would rouse suspicion on its own, especially given the recent economic downturn. But the crimes have grown more flagrant, with increasingly serious—and now deadly—consequences.”

“On March 15, an antique shop in Bloxham was vandalized. Valuables were destroyed, but according to the owner, nothing of worth was actually stolen despite the presence of some very rare and expensive artifacts. A sum total of forty Galleons, ten Sickles, and seventy-three Knuts went missing from the till. There were things in the shoppe which were easily worth ten times that—even more if they were to be sold on the black market, had money been the perpetrators’ sole intent.”

“Brawn and brains don’t necessarily go together,” Hestia laughed.

“True,” Neville said. “But there is one other bit of information I haven’t told you yet. The owner of the shoppe was Thorfinn Rowle.”

“Thorfinn Rowle. The Death Eater,” Harry said flatly.

“Yes. He’d been trying to eke out a quiet living, and was none-too-happy about having the Aurors involved. He declined further investigation into the incident, even for insurance purposes, and said that he would handle all the repairs and clean-up himself.

“Two weeks later, there was an assault on a wizard in nearby-Bampton. The incident was recorded as an attempted mugging; the victim, an older male in his mid-fifties. He was brought to the local wizarding hospital under the name of Mulaver. It came to our attention because the injuries which the victim sustained were unusual for a typical robbery. I believe that Auror Goldstein was one of the leads on this case?”

“Yes, Minister, I was.” Harry nearly missed the guilt which flashed in Anthony’s eyes before they were quickly shuttered.

“Would you be so kind as to enlighten us as to the findings of your investigation?” Kingsley prompted.

Goldstein nodded. “Of course, Minister. Mulaver was admitted to St Lidwina’s Hospital in Newbury on April the 4th. He was attacked at dusk by a group of three men who made off with his signet ring, a watch fob, and the money which he had on his person—nearly fifteen Galleons in total. Given the state of his clothes as well as the admission records of the Healers who’d treated him, we had no reason to doubt his story.”

“What were his injuries?” Hestia asked. Her quill scratched against the parchment furiously as she began to take notes.

“His right radius and ulna were fractured in multiple areas, along with several small bones in his wrist. He also sustained multiple fractures in his face and jaw—in particular, his right orbit, his maxilla, and mandible.”

“So essentially, the parts which he would need to effectively cast a spell,” Harry said.

“Yes,” Anthony nodded. “His casting hand was so severely damaged that the Healers were unable to set it properly. Even if he were to survive, his ability to use his wand would be equivalent to that of a second-year student at best.”

“What do you mean ‘if?’ Is he still being treated at St Lidwina’s?” Harry asked.

“No.” Anthony’s expression darkened. “Mulaver’s bed was found empty five days into his stay. The Healers tried contacting him; however, the address which he provided on admission came up empty, as did a search of his registered surname. We ended up running diagnostic tests against bone and skin fragments from St Lidwina. His magical signature came back with a positive match for one in the International database.”

“Avery Junior,” the representative from the Department of International Magical Cooperation supplied, his thick mustache twitching importantly as several people gasped. “Unfortunately, we’ve not been able to find hide nor hair of him since. Thus, the question of whether he is even still alive.”

“Why is this the first that we’ve heard of his reappearance?” Ron asked, his hands clenched at his sides. “Avery is a known Death Eater who never faced trial!”

Goldstein hesitated. He glanced at Dawlish, who appeared defensive as he addressed Ron directly. “We took the news of Avery’s discovery very seriously. It was reported to various law enforcement agencies, including several in our neighbouring countries.”

“But why aren’t we doing more to bring him in?” Ron persisted. “Chances are that Avery’s still in England, especially if he didn’t have the time or means to heal his injuries.”

“Avery was no longer considered a threat,” Dawlish said, his face flushed as the muscle in his jaw twitched. “He couldn’t cast, couldn’t write, couldn’t speak. For a prideful pureblood to live the rest of his life as a Squib—to never again know the joy of performing magic—would be a fate equal to Azkaban itself.”

“So now we’re acting as Avery’s judge and jury? Not only for the crimes which he had committed, but also for the ones which were perpetrated against Avery himself?” Harry snorted. “Nice to know there’s no need for the Wizengamot.”

“This was a mutual decision, made by the heads of numerous departments!” Dawlish gritted out. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve been increasingly busy in the last several months with all the civil unrest. I had to make a choice of where to best allocate our resources. Whatever you may think about Avery, circumstances and fate have forced our hand.”

“Perhaps, Auror Potter, it would help if you knew that I was party to this decision as well,” Kingsley said gently. “I hope to show you why prioritising our already strained resources are of the greatest import at this time.” He turned back to the map and waved his wand once more. A large number of pins materialised, dotting the surface. Several of the Aurors leaned in, staring at the patterns they formed. “Last night, I asked Auror Clark and his team to run a search of our database for incidences of crimes committed against individuals with pureblood status.”

Harry barely suppressed an eyeroll as Ron let out an audible groan. Ellis Clark was a brilliant statistician, but his propensity for thoroughly analysing each case from every possible angle made him a thorn in Harry’s side. How Clark had sorted Gryffindor instead of Ravenclaw was beyond anyone’s guess.

“Over the last four months, attacks against purebloods have made up sixty-five percent of the total number of criminal cases in southwestern England. What was even more striking was the fact that there had been a steady uptick in both the rate and number of such attacks from January through April. Out of these, an incredible seventy percent occurred right outside our back door.” He pointed to to the bouquet of pushpins clustered in the center of the map.

“How many cases were there in total?” Goldstein asked. “The area that you’re talking about has a low crime rate historically. It’s sparsely populated and rural—mostly older wizarding estates that have been in the same families for generations. It’s the kind of place where just two or three additional cases a month can skew the stats.”

“True,” Clark conceded. He looked down at his papers. “How about this, then? There were three definitive cases in January, seven in February, eight in March, and fifteen in April. Out of these, none were classified as violent in January and February, whereas there was one in March, and three in April.” He turned towards Goldstein with a smug smile. “I ran the numbers last night. The findings are statistically significant; you could hardly attribute these results to one or two outliers.”

A murmur rippled through the room. “Thank you, Auror Clark,” Dawlish said, giving Clark a pat on the back as the other Auror sat down. “So far, the most serious crimes have been committed against those with Death Eater connections. But until the Westwood murders—which looks to be a case of horrifyingly ill-timed and mistaken identity—none had ever risen to this level of violence.”

Hestia’s quill stopped. “So you think these are linked? Or possibly copycat crimes?”

“Linked, at least in terms of motive. We think that a large number of the attacks are the work of an organised syndicate, with the possibility of some splintered groups and isolated copycats,” Dawlish said.

Kingsley stood, the gravity of the situation evident in his expression. “This is supposition, of course, but the state of affairs in wizarding Britain is ripe for dissent. Jobs are difficult to come by, the prices of products keep rising, and the youth feel disenfranchised. The Second Wizarding War…well, seven years is not a long time. People’s memories are much less forgiving than that. Voldemort’s defeat didn’t bring about with it an abrupt change, despite all the legislation that’s being brought forth. So it’s easy to place the blame on certain groups for the status quo.”

“The social and political climate, combined with the nature of the attacks, suggests the possibility of vigilantism,” Goldstein added. “The fact that the most horrific crimes were made against known Death Eaters points to that as a likely motive.”

“Which is why the majority of our resources will be spent on investigating the situation further and doing what we can to contain the spread of violence, given its potential to escalate and spread.” Kingsley acknowledged the group from the Department of International Magical Cooperation, then turned to the head of the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee. “Padma, I want you and your team to come up with a ready set of explanations should any of this hit the press. Wizarding and Muggle alike.”

“Don’t you think that people have a right to know?” one of the Obliviators asked.

Kingsley shook his head. “At this point, no…at least not for the populace at large. I don’t want us to be a conduit for the spread of fear and panic, or worse, for hate. Of course, those who are at the greatest risk to be targeted will have to be informed.”

“Death Eaters,” Hestia whispered bitterly as the protests in the room grew to a near roar. “You want to have us protect known Death Eaters.”

Harry felt a sense of dread welling up within him as he awaited Kingsley’s response. The pounding in his head grew more insistent as his heart caught in his throat.

“Yes,” Kingsley said finally. “We are increasing the watch on those who are still imprisoned in Azkaban, and will be providing protective detail for several high profile wizards and witches with well-known ties to Voldemort. We are working on public education—Hermione Granger-Weasley and her team are being apprised of the situation as we speak. But that’s a solution for the long-term, and what we need right now is a quick fix.”

Harry looked at Ron with surprise. His best mate shrugged, but Harry couldn’t help but notice how his chest had puffed out a bit at the mention of his brilliant wife.

“I’m going to ask all the Auror leads who are here today to assemble a team of four of their most trusted and competent colleagues. Additional personnel will be assigned to each unit on an as-needed basis. Each team will also be assigned their own Equipment and Spells specialist, to help fast-track your supply requests instead of going through Central.

“I want everyone’s wish list when we reconvene in twenty-four hours,” Kingsley added as the room groaned at the prospect of an early Saturday morning meeting, “with your alpha members, your backup team, and your preferred assignments. Aurors Potter and Weasley, I’d like to speak with you privately. The rest of you are dismissed.”

Harry watched as the rest of the personnel filed out. “Okay,” he said as Kingsley fired a locking spell at the door. “I’m officially intrigued.”

“Harry, you and Ron are not only two of the best Aurors to have graduated from the Academy in the past decade, but your skills in defense are leagues beyond most others with your level of training.”

Ron snorted. “You’ve certainly got my attention now, as well. Why do I get the feeling you’re softening us up for the hard blow?”

Kingsley gave them a small smile. When he next spoke, his voice was tinged with sadness. “The two of you have seen the best and worst in people, on both sides of the war. Despite that, I would hope that you haven’t been so afflicted by life’s difficulties and losses that you still have it in your hearts to do what is morally right.”

“We’re only human, Kingsley,” Harry said quietly. “But I would hope so as well.”

The freckles on Ron’s face stood out against his flush. “Right. What Harry said,” Ron added after the slightest delay.

“I’m counting on that.” Kingsley steepled his head between his fingers, then let out a weary sigh. “Forgive me, gentleman. It’s been a long night.” He clasped his hands on the table in front of him. “As Dawlish had mentioned, the signs point to the work of one group. Not necessarily the most well-organised, mind you. If they had put a bit more effort into it, for example, they would have known that Nott had lost his wife long ago.”

“They could have mistaken Mrs Westwood for one of Nott’s staff,” Ron supplied. “She was found in one of the smaller bedrooms.”

“Or they could have been so blinded by their hatred that it didn’t matter. Guilt by association,” Harry proposed.

“I agree with you, Harry. Ignorance, hatred, and bloodlust are powerful and dangerous motivators.” Kingsley paused, watching them carefully. “In your opinion, who is the most visible and well-known pureblood in Britain who is not currently imprisoned in Azkaban?”

“Narcissa Malfoy,” Harry said without hesitation as Ron nodded. “She has well-known, pureblood lineages on both sides, and Death Eaters in her immediate family. Not to mention that the Manor was a temporary home for Voldemort himself, or that Lucius was a vocal proponent of pureblood rhetoric and hate.”

“Agreed. Look at the map—many of the occurrences were in older towns and villages. Places with a long history of settlement, yet as Auror Goldstein pointed out, rural enough to contain the estates of the oldest pureblood Wizarding families. With attacks in Oxfordshire and Berkshire, it’s logical that the next county to be similarly affected would be—“

“Wiltshire. Blimey,” Ron breathed. “Why would Narcissa stay?”

“It’s her home, Ron,” Harry said. “Lucius is gone, she’s severed her ties with Andromeda, Draco couldn’t be arsed to stick around after the trials, and she’s had to sell a significant amount of her family’s assets for reparations. She’s probably hanging on tightly to what little she has left.” Harry looked down at his feet as Ron shot him a look of surprise at his impassioned response. Although Harry would never consider himself friendly towards Narcissa, her actions at the end of the War made them undeniably linked. And his own inability to let go of Grimmauld Place—for the memories which it held as well as its connection to Sirius—gave them another inch of common ground.

Kingsley coughed. “Actually, Draco Malfoy is back in town. Apparently, the prodigal son returned earlier this week. So now we have two high-profile targets who are in dire need of Auror protection. The best Auror protection the Ministry can offer.”

The roaring in Harry’s ears grew thunderous. “Kingsley…” The word came out slightly strangled.

“We’re owling the Malfoys and informing them of your arrival tomorrow. I want both of you to give me the names of four other Aurors whom you would trust to assist you in your duties as needed. At this time, we are not assigning twenty-four hour surveillance; part of your job tomorrow will be to evaluate the Manor’s defenses, including their wards. However, if the situation warrants, we will upgrade the Malfoy’s protective detail to around-the-clock.”

“And do you have a particular preference as to whom we are assigned?” asked Harry, his voice faint.

“Based on your strengths and the fact that Mr Malfoy’s Mark places him at a higher risk for a direct attack, I am assigning Auror Weasley to Narcissa’s detail and you to Draco’s.” His eyes narrowed in warning. “I trust this won’t be a problem?”

“No worries, Kingsley. We’re on it,” Ron replied as Harry fought the strange, conflicting sensations of unease and anticipation.

“Excellent. I suggest that you spend the next several hours assembling your team. I will give priority to your requests given the sensitive nature of your assignment, but I can’t promise anything else once all the initial teams have been approved. I would hate to have you lose a valuable asset such like Elliot Rogers because you didn’t spend the time to think things through.” He cast a Colloportus at the door. “Have a good rest of your morning, gentlemen. And by ‘good,’ I mean ‘busy,’” he added as he exited with a wink.

Harry sighed. “Subtle as a hippogriff.”

“Crafty as a badger.” Ron gave his hand a squeeze. “You okay, Harry? I mean…it’s Malfoy.”

Harry scrubbed his eyes. “Yeah. I mean, I should be, right? Spoke in his favour at his trial and all.” He hesitated; how could he tell Ron about the childish resentment that had filled him soon afterwards, when he learned that Malfoy had packed up and left without so much as a word of thanks?

“Yeah, but still. It’s the Ferret. If you don’t think you can do it, it’s better to tell Kingsley now. Wanting to do the right thing is different from being able to do it. Maybe we could switch details, or we could ask Dawlish to put Clark’s team on the case instead.” Ron’s face lit up with a mischievous grin. “Could you imagine, Malfoy and Clark? They’d probably—”

“No!” The word left Harry with surprising vehemence as Ron’s eyes widened in surprise. “This is the first case where we’ve been trusted with this level of responsibility, and I’m not about to bugger it up because of some stupid…”

“Some stupid what?” Ron asked, raising a brow.

“Nothing. Christ, I need some sleep,” Harry groaned. He looked despondently at his empty cup of coffee before rummaging through his stack of papers, finally coming up with a blank sheet. “C’mon, let’s go through the candidates. Kingsley pretty much told us we should ask for Rogers,” he said, writing the name down.

“Can’t place him. Is he the guy who came over from MACUSA last month?”

“No, that was Stephen. This is Elliot—he’s tech support. Provides a lot of the specialty equipment, and apparently modifies them with complex and high-level charmwork.” He smirked. “Clark’s been itching to get him on his team for months.”

“Right!” Ron snapped his fingers. “He’s got that fancy leg—a prosthesis that has some kind of Muggle sensor that helps his muscles move more naturally. Rumour is he’s got all these protective charms on it, and it’s glamoured so you can’t tell it apart from the real thing.”

“Someone who is smart, willing to think outside the box, and makes use of the best of both the wizarding and Muggle worlds? Brilliant,” Harry declared as he wrote Elliot’s name on the list. “One down.” He thought about the pretty blonde Auror with quick reflexes and an even quicker tongue who had been a year behind them in training. “What do you think about Samara Davis?”

“Sharp, good instincts. Excellent defensive skills. Muggle-born; got a bit of a chip on her shoulder because of it, but I think it makes her work that much harder to prove herself.”

“Yeah, I agree,” Harry said. “She’ll follow the rules in general, but isn’t afraid to push the boundaries if necessary. So you think she’d be a good fit?”

“Absolutely. Plus…” Ron bit his lip, his face turning slightly red. Despite his obvious discomfiture, he barrelled ahead. “I’ve never seen Davis act unfairly. I'm sure her presence on a case of this nature would be a good example for the other teams.” His flush deepened as he looked at Harry.

Harry shrugged. “Because she’s a Muggle-born witch who’s now tasked with defending purebloods? You're just stating the facts. It’s not so different from the reason why Kingsley put us on the Malfoy’s case, all compliments to our skills aside. All right, then,” he concluded, adding Samara’s name next to Elliot’s. “Who else?”

“Williamson? She graduated second in her class and is completely driven.”

Harry frowned. “Almost too much. Aubrey reminds me of Hermione with her intelligence and dedication, but without the compassion. She strikes me as the type of person whose ambitions would tempt her to place her own interests over those of the team.” He bit his lower lip. “Perhaps even ahead of those she’s supposed to protect.”

“Good point,” Ron agreed. He looked deep in thought, his face lighting up after several seconds “Ben Chapman. He’s only a year out, but he’s one of the best duelers around, both defensively and offensively. Remember how he blew open the black market potions case two months ago? And he’s pureblood, with connections to the Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

Harry thought about the young, friendly, and handsome Auror who had shaken his hand vigorously and for just a moment too long when they were first introduced. He raised his brow. “Huh. Didn’t know that about him. But so are you.”

Ron snorted. “My family’s ties were severed with that group long ago. Besides, our history is now linked with yours.” He scrunched up his face. “I think Chapman’s mom was a Travers. He’d be a good addition at any rate—someone who’s comfortable in the Malfoys' world, yet whose skills and character also fit with those of the team. That is, as long as you can deal with the bit of hero-worship he has going on.”

“If it doesn’t interfere with his work, it’s nothing I can’t handle.” Harry added Chapman’s name to the list. “Two more to go. Edwin Marsh? Not the most innovative, but he’s a dependable partner.”

Ron made a face, waving off the suggestion. “I’d rather not, mate. The guy’s a utter berk. No promises I won’t hex him if I have to be in the same room with him for more than a couple of hours.”

“Zach Harper? The guy’s practically a department staple, and I know you guys can at least talk about food if things get boring.” Harry grinned as Ron gave him a two-fingered salute, jotting down the name of the thirty-four year old veteran. “Okay, one more. What about Max Fletcher?” he asked, thinking about one of the younger Aurors. “He’s smart and has a good field record. He’s got a lot of buzz about him because of all his social activism, and I think he’s hungry to work on a big case.”

“Yeah. I think he’s sat on some of the same committees as Hermione.” A sly look crossed over Ron’s face. “Probably doesn’t hurt that he’s got a reputation for being mysterious and fit.”

Harry shook his head as a dry laugh escaped him. “I’ve never seen him interested in anyone, and he’s definitely not my type. Besides, I’m not ready to date. Especially anyone from work.”

“Especially anyone, period. When was the last time you had anything more than a one-off? Been with someone who could be more than a casual shag? I mean, there’s nothing wrong with it if that’s what makes you happy, but I can’t imagine that’s the case when you look so bloody miserable.”

Harry let out a long sigh. Ron meant well, and he wasn’t entirely incorrect.

“Not going to have much time for much else now that we’re on this case,” Harry muttered. “I’ll put more effort into my personal life once it wraps up.”

He must have been unconvincing, because Ron gave him a sympathetic glance. “So that’s it, then? You, me, Davis, Chapman, Harper, and Fletcher?”

“Yeah. And Rogers.” Harry mulled over the names written on the scrap of paper. “Given their defensive strengths, if we’re going to split coverage, it’d probably make sense to have Harper and Fletcher with me on Draco’s detail.”

Ron gave him a knowing look. “Probably doesn’t hurt that those two wouldn’t hesitate to use more forceful means if the situation called for it.” He sighed. “How the fuck did we end up here? Still, better you than me with the Ferret.”

Harry felt the blood leave his face in a rush. The last time he had seen Draco had been immediately after the trials. His trademark Malfoy beauty had been sullied, his delicate face gaunt and haggard. Part of Harry had felt a shocking sympathy for everything Draco had lost, but after seven years of antagonistic behaviour, all Draco had given him had been a mere nod of acknowledgement before he exited from Harry’s life.

Not just Harry’s life. From his own mother’s. A disappointment and anger welled up within Harry at the thought.

Ron leaned in to whisper. “You okay there, mate? We’re still on for tonight, right?”

Fuck. There was a dull thunk as Harry’s head hit the table. “Yeah,” he croaked. “We are. I could definitely use a drink.”

.~oOo~.

“Hey, Harry.” Hannah gave him a warm smile as he plunked down enough Galleons to cover the next round of Firewhisky and beer. “Haven’t seen you around in awhile.”

“Yeah. Been busy.”

“I know; Neville’s been burning the midnight oil as well. Some nights, I'm lucky if I get to see him at all.”

“Busy. Is that what they’re calling it, nowadays?” Seamus slung an arm around Harry’s shoulders, nudging him good-naturedly. “Must be tough, living life as Britain’s most eligible bachelor.” He pointed to the framed photograph that hung front and center amidst a collection of memorabilia from the Leaky’s more well-known patrons, winking as he gave Harry a roguish grin.

Harry groaned. “Neville promised he would take that down.”

“Oh, no you don’t, Harry; I was there. What my husband said was that he would take it down once it were no longer true. And since all this Auroring business has made you even more fit—” Hannah paused to fan herself vigorously. “Your best bet would be to find some someone nice and be done with it.”

“Been there, done that, remember?” Harry stared at his image, taken from the centerfold of Witch Weekly several months following his divorce. His counterpart’s bared chest glistened prominently from behind the protective glass, the curve of his arse and thighs accentuated by his skin-tight trousers.

Harry winced as his photographic self turned, abdominal muscles rippling as he flashed a cocky grin. He knew that the years following the War had been kind, at least in the looks department. A late growth spurt, the years of rigorous training, and Ginny’s efforts to instill some fashion sense meant the allure of Harry’s celebrity and bachelor status had prospective suitors champing at the bit.

It had been fun, admittedly—at least, in the beginning. But there was still a loneliness underneath it all. The public’s image of him—clean-shaven, square-jawed, well-muscled and self-assured—struck a dissonant chord with the person he felt within. With the boy who grew up feeling confused and unloved, before his world got turned upside-down at the age of eleven, and the confusion started all over again.

With the man who had been haunted by the memories of the Dark Lord he’d defeated; who had lasted in a marriage to one of his closest friends for less than two years; and who had been waking up every morning, hard and aching and lusting over some mysterious man he’d never met.

“Come now, Harry,” Seamus said, his shoulders shaking with laughter as he pulled Harry out of his reverie. “You look bloody amazing in it. Probably accounts for half of Hannah and Nev’s business.”

“More than,” Hannah added, unable to stifle her giggles.

“Alright, you’ve had your fun. Both of you.” Harry couldn’t be arsed to draw his wand, so he flicked his wrist and sent the line of tumblers and bottles over from the bar to the corner table.

His upset must have shown on his face. Hannah poured him an extra helping of the finely-aged whisky which she kept hidden on the lower shelf. “On the house,” she whispered into his ear. “And Harry? All joking aside, we’ll remove it if it bothers you that much.”

“It’s okay, Hannah.” Harry was startled to realise that it really was. “But I’ll take you up on that whisky.” He lifted the tumbler in salute and took a sip, relishing its smooth heat as he made his way back to the table.

“Hey, Harry.” Ginny stood and greeted him warmly, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce hug. She looked beautiful. Radiant. Happier than she had been for the last several years, for sure.

“‘Hey’ yourself,” he grinned. “Hi, Dean.” He leaned over to shake Dean’s hand as Ginny shot him a grateful look. Harry understood why the public show of support meant so much to them, but in truth, their steadfast loyalty was a thousand times more valuable. He pushed down his guilt; tonight was not about him. “How’s your new series coming along?”

“Great! My client wanted a collection focusing on the themes of destiny and fate. Yeah, that was my initial reaction as well,” Dean said, laughing as Harry made a moue of distaste. “I’m not a fan of the idea of predetermination. It made me think about what in life would be most affected if our freedom of choice were lost.”

“How about one’s role in life?” Seamus offered. “Take Harry, for instance. All those prophecies about him, when he was less than a year old.”

“I’d hate to think that my purpose in life was completed by the time I was seventeen. That’s pretty depressing.”

Hermione gave Harry a sympathetic glance. “The thing with a prophecy is that it’s always subject to interpretation. It’s not a fait accompli. And because it’s only a prediction, a person still has the ultimate responsibility for their course of action.”

“I can’t think of anything in this world that’s truly a foregone conclusion,” Ginny agreed.

“How about night and day? The idea that the sun always rises?” Ron proposed.

Ginny shook her head. “Even that can change depending on the season and the latitude, big brother-of-mine,” she said, sticking out her tongue. She feigned horror as Ron shot her an obscene gesture, then returned the sentiment times two.

“You know, there’s a Muggle saying: ‘In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes,’” Hermione said, her eyes lit up with amusement.

Dean grinned. “What if I posed the question another way? What’s the one thing that you would find the least likely to be predetermined?”

Luna glanced up from her glass of elderflower wine. “Oh, that’s an easy one,” she smiled. “It’s love. It’s the answer to most things, really.”

“My thoughts exactly!” Dean nodded vigorously as he gave Luna a high-five. “So love is both a very human and a very personal condition. Now can you think of a type of love where choice would come into question?”

“Arranged marriages.” Seamus toasted his own answer with a hefty swig of beer.

“Marriages between partners can occur for many different reasons. Not all of them are a byproduct of love,” Harry countered, his brow furrowed.

“I know!” Seamus shouted. “Soulmates! Not that I believe in such things,” he added after casting a furtive glance at Dean.

“But many people do. And there are some instances where the selection of a mate could easily be interpreted as predestined,” Hermione mused. “A Veela’s Chosen, for instance.”

Dean nodded. “That’s what I thought as well. Love in its purest form should allow us to retain our own identities, hold on to our own ideas and choices. Yet the idea of finding ‘The One’ throws free will into question. That’s what I want to explore in my next series, through Veela and vampires and werewolves.”

“Having a soulmate doesn’t mean you have to lose yourself, though,” Luna said, turning her attentions to Harry. “Nor does it mean that you’ll never be without disagreements or difficulties. In fact, sometimes the difficulties of our past are necessary to prepare us for the possibilities of the future.”

Ron appeared bemused. “I don’t know about the whole ‘difficulty of our pasts’ thing, but when it comes to freedom of choice, you don’t have to look further than Fleur and Bill. You’d never think that they were anything else but two people who were madly in love with one another. It’s something that goes beyond the way they look, or her Veela blood.”

“It’s true. They’re probably more into each other now than when they first met,” Ginny concurred. “They’re strong individually, but even more so when they’re together.”

“At this point, I’d be happy to find someone with whom I’d want to spend more than one night,” Harry said, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. “Someone who wants me for me.”

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione placed her hand over his. “What you’ve accomplished is part of who you are; you can’t separate yourself from your past. But by the same token, your public persona does not define you. There is someone out there who not only realises that, but will love you more for it.”

“Hermione’s right,” Luna agreed. “And when you find that person, the sex will be brilliant. Because you’ll not only have chemistry, but love and understanding,” she finished as the rest of the group whooped and hollered.

The alcohol and ribald atmosphere had loosened him up, and Harry’s lips twitched at the corners. “I hope you’re right. Although nothing’s gonna be happening for a while. Dawlish’s got us tied up on a big case.”

“Sometimes things happen when we least expect it. And being tied up doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”

“Believe me, Luna, if you knew who Harry was being tied to, you wouldn’t say that,” Ron said as Seamus chortled. “The guy’s a right prat.”

“Who is it? Tell us,” Ginny pleaded. “You can’t leave us hanging like that!”

Harry frowned. “I can’t, Gin. Although I’m sure it’ll be public knowledge soon enough.”

“Oh! Speaking of public knowledge, did you know that Draco Malfoy was back in town?” Harry and Ron’s brows shot up as Luna looked down at the remainder of her drink with a curious expression.

“That’s someone I never thought I’d see again,” Seamus said, shaking his head. “Thought he’d left England for good.”

“His mom’s still here, though. I wonder if his return has anything to do with that? How long has it been since he’d left? Five years?”

“Four.” Harry corrected Hermione without a second thought, as she and Ron gave each other knowing looks. “It was a year or so after his probation was completed. I remember because I had to give him back his wand.”

“I heard he was living it up on the Continent. A friend of mine apprentices at Études; one of the stylists spotted Malfoy in a club in Paris several years back and gave him a job as a fit model. Apparently they wanted him for some editorial work as well, but he turned them down.”

“What, too strenuous for him?” Ron asked as Dean laughed. Harry’s frown deepened; it seemed like the type of posh job and adulation Malfoy would crave.

“I can tell you from my experience with art models that despite appearances, modelling is not easy.” Dean shrugged. “Not sure why Malfoy turned it down, honestly. My friend heard that we’d gone to school together, but once he learned we weren’t close, he didn’t offer anything further and I certainly had no interest in pursuing it.”

“Maybe the time away’s changed him, especially after Lucius’ passing.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t know, Hermione. It’s hard to imagine Draco Malfoy as anything more than a pompous, spoiled git.”

“Well, well, well,” Ron muttered under his breath as the door opened. “Speak of the devil.”

Harry swivelled around so quickly he nearly strained his neck. For some inexplicable reason he knew who it would be, yet seeing of Draco after all these years caused his stomach to churn with irritation.

Malfoy looked good, Harry realised with a startle. He was still tall and lean, but even though he continued to carry himself with impeccable posture, there was a new ease about him which leant a grace to his movements. Gone were the frilly, stuffy wizarding robes of the past, replaced by slim-fitting trousers and a poplin shirt which he wore with the top two buttons undone, exposing the line of his throat and the hint of lightly golden skin underneath.

Harry’s jaw dropped. He nearly let out a groan, suddenly self-conscious about the dark circles under his eyes and his sallow complexion.

“Draco's very handsome, isn't he?” Luna asked dreamily.

Malfoy didn't seem to notice their group, hidden away in the privacy of the back corner. He lifted his hand in a tentative greeting to Hannah.

Hannah quickly replaced her look of surprise with a neutral expression. “Hello, Draco,” she said, her eyes downcast as she wiped down the counter. “What can I get you?”

Draco looked at the Quillboard, his eyes roving over the list of wizarding beers on the left and Muggle beers to the right. “Wychwood Hobgoblin,” he murmured as he read a name halfway down the right column. “How fascinating. Are you sure it’s Muggle?” he asked with a faint smile.

Hannah looked up, her lips tight. “Quite. Muggles are known to make worthwhile things every now and again.”

Draco’s expression faltered. “My apologies; it was an ill-conceived attempt at humour. It’s just that the name sounded magical.” Harry watched as Draco swallowed, his shoulders stiffening. “Well. I’ll have one, then.”

Contrition flashed in Hannah’s eyes. “You’ve got good taste,” she said, her voice growing softer as she bent down to retrieve the bottle of Hobgoblin and a mug. As she poured his drink, Draco scanned the room, visibly startling as he caught sight of Harry’s Witch Weekly centerfold. He remained unnaturally still, the tension in his body apparent as he turned, his incomparable grey eyes finally locking with Harry’s.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat, stunned by some ill-defined emotion. It was as if the last fifteen years had been whittled down into that stare, reasserting its grip. He fumbled his glass, nearly spilling his drink.

A hand on his arm caused him to jump. “Harry? You okay?” Ginny’s brows were drawn together in concern.

Harry took a look around the table—at the faces of those who had fought in, and survived, the War. They had done their best to move on, but nothing could erase the lines in the corners of their eyes, or the slump of their shoulders, or the weight of their immeasurable losses. Suddenly, the sight of Draco Malfoy waltzing into the Leaky looking not only tanned and well-rested but beautiful filled Harry with a sudden fury.

“Harry,” Ginny said again, this time with more urgency as one of the mugs on the table suddenly shattered.

“Mate.” Ron looked at Hermione helplessly as she discreetly spelled away the broken pieces. “Christ, it’s like it’s sixth year all over again.”

“What’s up with Malfoy?” Harry grit out.

Ron leaned in. “Harry, you knew he was back in town. He’s your fucking assignment tomorrow.”

“I know that. It’s just that he’s—” Harry waved a hand around in frustration. “I mean, he’s glowing.”

“You know,” Ron said slowly, “maybe you’d better lay off that next pint.”

“Don’t you see it?” Harry hissed. He cast a low-grade detection spell in Malfoy’s direction. “It’s like he’s charmed himself with a glamour or something.”

“I dunno; he looks like the same pointy-chinned git to me. Maybe just a bit taller, a little less pale.”

“He’s up to something. I know.”

“Look, Harry,” Ron said quietly. “I’m probably even less of a fan of Malfoy’s than you. But you’ve got to get over this obsession, or get Dawlish to assign you to someone else. If you can’t stand to be in the same room with him for even two minutes, how are you going to be at his side, 24/7?”

Harry took a deep breath. He wanted to be fair, to set an example for the other teams, but there was something about Malfoy that challenged his impartiality and judgment each and every time.

“You’re right,” he conceded. “I can do this.” As if to prove his point, Harry lifted his glass towards Malfoy in greeting.

Draco blinked slowly, his pupils widening as his pale lashes fluttered. A predatory look crossed his face as his pink lips parted. He took a step towards Harry, a low purr leaving his throat.

“Malfoy?” Harry whispered, his breath quickening.

Draco stopped in his tracks, shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of a Confundus. “Sorry, Hannah,” he apologised as he broke his gaze with Harry, “but there’s somewhere I need to be. I…it was good to see you again.” He threw down several Galleons, enough to cover the cost of his drink several times over, before hurrying out.

“Well, that went well,” Ron said, mirroring Hannah’s bewildered expression.

Harry stared as the door closed behind Draco. Tomorrow was not only going to be not well, it was going to be bloody impossible.

Chapter Text

The gates leading up to towering walls of Malfoy Manor were just as foreboding as he had remembered, but instead of fear and death, the sweet fragrance of Lathyrus now filled the air. Harry stared at the rolling hills and stone farmhouses in the distance.

“You’d think they’d have the courtesy of having someone greet us,” Davis grumbled. “Aren’t purebloods all about manners and appearances?” It was already unseasonably warm despite the mid-morning hour, and she pushed a stray blonde lock away from her face as she cast a Tempus.

“Easy on the spellwork, Samara,” Harry warned. “Although all the attacks so far have been directed against a specific victim, the group’s methods may be changing. We wouldn’t want to trigger something accidentally.”

“Absolutely,” Zach agreed. He raised his arms and stretched, the buttons of his shirt protesting the move as the material visibly strained. “Indirect approaches are often the next step as radicals grow in strategy and sophistication. It allows for broader damage with less risk—more bang for the buck, as the Americans are fond of saying.”

“Morgana’s breath, what do stags have to do with any of this?” Samara asked, rolling her eyes.

“It’s an idiom. Like ‘hit the sack.’” Zach explained. “They say it on all those shows on the telly.”

Harry chuckled. “Questionable entertainment choices aside, Zach’s right. Let’s keep the wandwork to a minimum until we’ve at least secured the main house.”

“Got it, Harry. My apologies; it would be a shame for anything happen to such a historic structure as Malfoy Manor,” Samara said, averting her eyes as she tucked her wand back into her pocket.

Harry lowered his voice. “Look, I know this isn’t an easy assignment. Not only because of the risks, but because of who we’re assigned to protect. There’ll probably be times when we wonder what the bloody fuck we’re doing. But that kind of thinking has to stop once we step through those gates. Ron and I hand-picked you all for a reason, but if you can’t do what’s required, we’ll get you reassigned to one of the other teams, no hard feelings.”

He looked around, sighing in relief when everyone remained in their places.

“Now for the fun part: given the Manor’s size, we’ll need to put in some extra hours for the next couple of weeks. We can fall back into our regular shifts once all the security measures are in place.”

Ron frowned as he looked out over the Manor’s expansive lawns. “Two weeks to secure something this big seems pretty optimistic to me, Harry. Besides, who knows what kinds of spells have been laid down over the centuries by the Malfoys themselves?”

“Absolutely,” Chapman agreed. “It’s practically a pureblood tradition: take a spell and use dark magic or a familial signature to enhance the spell’s power. Adulterating it in this way makes it more difficult for outsiders to counter. My family’s home is filled with objects that have been on the receiving end of such rituals.”

“Same, Ben. Mine's never used Dark Magic, but we've definitely made use of our magical signatures, even for household things. Like our family clock,” Ron reminded Harry.

“Stuff like that’s not just the province of the pureblood and magical worlds. There are other ways to make even the most well-known spells and magical signatures difficult to read.” Max Fletcher grinned upon seeing Harry’s surprise, a welcome change from his normally thoughtful expression. “You can rearrange certain identifying features, or even hide them behind a lot of background noise. It’s called encrypting; Muggles make use of it all the time in their electronic communications.”

Zach ran his hand along his jaw, his fingers scratching along the sweep of stubble shot through with hints of grey. “Bottom line? You should ask Kingsley to send over some Curse-breakers, Harry. Chapman’s right; there’s bound to be a tonne of wonky magic going on in the foundations here. ”

Harry turned to Ron. “Maybe Kingsley can convince the goblins to lend us Bill. In the meantime, we can perform a search of the Malfoys’ family records to see what they used to protect their home.”

The delicate hint of tiaré and neroli wafted through the air as Narcissa Malfoy appeared on the other side of the iron gates.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr Potter. Most of the records were either lost or destroyed when the Dark Lord took over our home. And what little was left was appropriated by the Ministry when they ransacked the Manor for information to use against my husband. Draco and I, however, will help you the best that we can.” Narcissa turned her attentions to the rest of the group, acting her role as Lady of the Manor. “I apologise for the delay. Mipsy and I were preparing tea in anticipation of your visit. I’m afraid that we quite lost track of the time.” She pressed her hand against a small box to the right of the gate, causing the massive, ornate doors to swing open. Harry’s eyes widened at the subtle charmwork which had been cast over several spots on her sleeves and her skirt.

“Lady Malfoy.” Ben inclined his head in a slight bow. Several others followed suit; Max Fletcher performed a passable imitation of Ben’s greeting, while Zach offered a polite ‘Ma’am,' and Samara a ‘Good morning, Mrs Malfoy,' complete with a thin smile. The group followed her down the long walkway leading up to the home. As they entered, it took several seconds for Harry’s eyes to accommodate to the new environs. It was disconcerting, the contrast between the open sunniness of the outdoors and the stifling darkness of the interior, even if the home had undergone a redecoration or two since its most infamous occupant had departed.

A service had been laid out, complete with tea sandwiches, berries, and freshly-baked crumpets set next to pots of whipped sweet butter, marmalade, and clotted cream. It smelled heavenly; painstakingly arranged on a Limoge platter bordered by engraved goldwork, the elaborate presentation seemed out of sorts in the otherwise sparsely decorated room.

“We appreciate your efforts, Mrs Malfoy—” Harry began.

“Please; call me Narcissa.” She turned to the group with a wan smile. “I have a feeling that we will all become more than passably familiar with one another in the upcoming days." 

“Narcissa. While such hospitality is appreciated, it is neither required nor necessary.” He grimaced as the other Aurors devoured the food, behaving as if they all hadn’t shared breakfast in the debriefing room not one hour earlier. Ron looked up and caught Harry’s eye, his mouth stuffed with hot griddle cake as he shrugged.

Harry sighed, then decided to take advantage of the distraction. “May I speak with you in private?” he asked Narcissa.

She inclined her head in agreement. Once they were in the adjoining hall Harry cast a modified Muffliato, which allowed him to mute their own conversation while remaining attuned to the activity taking place in the room beside them.

“We’ll need to inspect your wards and defenses as well as search for any malicious spells which may have been planted.  I’d like to start with the main house, giving priority to those areas which you use most often.”

“Of course. Do what you must, Mr Potter. My understanding from the Minister’s owl is that an attack is not a matter of if, but of when."

Harry nodded. “There’s another thing that I need to ask.” He hesitated; it had not escaped his notice that there had been only one house-elf, or that Narcissa had prepared breakfast herself, or that the china upon which it sat was more appropriate for a formal dinner than tea. “It’d be best if you refrained from using any charms, at least for now. The property is large, and your furnishings—well, let’s just say they’ve quite the magical history. Anything extraneous would only complicate things further.”

Narcissa lowered her lashes as two spots of colour formed high along her cheeks. “Your request is reasonable and wise,” she said finally. She looked down at her dress, her hands trembling as her thumb and forefinger worried the silk blend. “Even as a child, I enjoyed gardening and baking. And with only Mipsy to help and the gold in our vaults depleted, a new wardrobe seems frivolous, especially when one generally lacks company.” She looked up, her blue eyes bright. “You must forgive a woman her vanity.”

Harry felt embarrassed and indignant over her obvious vulnerability. “Isn’t Draco available to help you out?”

“My son has not been well since his return,” Narcissa said as the silence stretched between them.

“If Draco needs to see someone at St Mungo’s, one of our Aurors can take him over,” he said, eyes narrowed.

“No,” Narcissa protested, “The move back home and all the recent events have been a bit of a strain, that’s all. Draco has been expecting you. He’s out by the gardens, taking in the morning air. I can take you there, if you’d like.”

An excitement thrummed in his veins at the prospect of confronting Draco. “I’d like that.” Harry cancelled the Muffliato. “In the meantime, the rest of the team will begin an inspection of your most utilised rooms. Once these areas have been swept, you should try to limit yourselves to these locations until we’ve had the chance to make our way through the rest of the house.”

Narcissa gave him a wry smile. “I’ll take that under advisement, Auror Potter. But I must warn you, I refuse to be a captive in my own home three times over. I suspect I’d rather take my chances.”

She led Harry down the portrait-lined hall to the east wing, where the amount of light increased steadily as it spilled into the ballroom. Despite its dilapidated state, the space seemed to vibrate with life, aided by the riot of colour from the gardens which were visible just beyond the French doors.

Narcissa paused. Her finger hovered over the wallpaper which bordered the door’s frame, the once-bold, hand-painted material now warped and torn. An inscrutable look passed over her face before she placed her hand over a gilded knob, pushing open the door and stepping out onto the terrace.

“Draco, darling; Harry and his team have arrived.”

The pale white halo of Draco’s hair was even more ethereal in the morning light. Harry watched, transfixed, as he swung his legs over the side of the chaise longue, the lengths of his legs stretching endlessly as he rose. He was dressed in a pair of khaki trousers and a simple white button-down. A slight breeze tempered the force of the sun, but it also had the distracting effect of ruffling the lightweight material of Draco’s shirt so that it accentuated his lean physique. Combined with the pink blush which highlighted his cheekbones—not to mention his bright eyes and impeccable hair—he didn’t look ill at all, just bloody gorgeous, like some unearthly angel.

Something heated unfurled in Harry’s belly as a bird trilled overhead. “It’s been a long time, Malfoy.”

Draco cast a Tempus. “At least fourteen hours, by my estimation,” he drawled.

The muscle in Harry’s jaw twitch. “Please refrain from casting any unnecessary spells until my team’s had the opportunity to survey the premises.”

“Such strong words. Are you always this commanding, or is all that blustering just for me?”

Harry took a step forward. “I said ‘please.’”

Draco inched closer as well. “Only say things if you mean it.”

Something hot lanced through Harry’s chest. “This is just one big joke to you, isn’t it Malfoy?” he asked, fuming. “You may not care if your own life’s in danger, but at least have the decency to consider your mother’s as well.”

Draco’s pale brows drew together, his lips lifting into something sharp and challenging. “Is that what you think I am? Indecent?”

“Gentlemen, please!” Narcissa’s look was thunderous enough to cause both grown men to retreat. “Mr Potter, I apologise for my son’s impolite behaviour. Draco, please assist our guest with whatever he needs. I need to prepare several rooms for his team. I fear if left to Mipsy’s own devices, we could find our kitchen transformed into a literal bed and breakfast.”

“I thought they were only here to strengthen our wards,” Draco began, his cool facade crumbling. Harry watched as he approached Narcissa. He leaned in, speaking urgently in a low voice, his tone changing to one of pleading as Narcissa held firm. “Very well,” Draco finally acceded, with a great show of reluctance. “I’ll give Potter the grand tour. Let me know if you need help with the other rooms as well.” He leaned over and placed a kiss on Narcissa’s cheek, squeezing her hand as she gave him a parting smile.

“I thought you weren’t feeling well,” Harry sniped once Narcissa had left, unable to keep the disdain from his voice. “At least that’s what I was told.”

“I’m feeling well enough, Potter. Although I’ll admit, the sight of you is making me a bit queasy.”

Merlin and Godric both. Harry felt himself tumbling down an all-too-familiar path as he tried to rein in his temper. “Dammit, Malfoy, I’d be more than happy to tell Dawlish that you refused our protection. Just say the word and I’ll get the fuck out of your miserable life. It’s not like I’ve got fond memories of this place, you know.”

Draco went white as a sheet. He spun around with an inhuman speed, so quick that Harry almost missed the chance to unholster his wand before he was pushed up against the balustrade. “Don’t you ever suggest that I take my mother’s well-being for granted,” Draco hissed. “I’d suffer your intolerable presence and a lot more if it means keeping her safe.”

Harry gasped; the air seemed to lodge in his throat, his mind shutting down to everything around him save for the way that Draco’s fingers were gripping the placket of his shirt and the way their bodies were pressed together. The heat of Draco’s breath graced Harry’s cheek, the citrus and musk from his cologne mixing deliriously with the sweet, floral notes of the nearby gardens as images of entwined limbs and a bird’s wings assailed Harry’s senses, and his mind grew foggy with need. Draco’s fingers curled inward, his pupils dilating and the edges of his nails digging into the cloth as Harry tilted into his grasp.

One of them made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a moan. Harry felt his cock harden as their legs slotted together, and it was only with the greatest effort that he prevented his hips from rocking forward as he tried to hold on to the vestiges of his control.

“Back off, Malfoy,” Harry said, the hoarseness in his voice nearly unrecognisable. He ran his wand up Draco’s thigh, digging in the tip. “I don’t care if I’m supposed to be protecting you,” he warned as Draco let out a painful gasp. “If you threaten me or any one on my team, I’ll hex you seven ways ‘til Sunday.”

“Fuck…” Draco let out a noise of frustration, shaking his head as he released his hold. He turned, pacing as if to rid himself of all his pent-up energy until he finally leaned over the railing, his shoulders slumped. “As much as it galls me to admit it, Potter, I need your help. I’ve lost nearly everything. My mother is the one irreplaceable thing I have left.” He tilted his head towards Harry, his grey eyes unnaturally bright.

The frankness of the admission threw Harry for a loop. “Your way of showing it leaves a lot to be desired.”

“Is it so difficult to imagine why I might feel a bit out of sorts? I’ve just returned home, leaving the peaceable existence I created for myself, only to learn that my mother’s life is in danger. And then to learn that it was you, of all people, who was assigned to our protective detail…”

“Me, of all people,” Harry parroted, unable to hide his affront.

Draco ran a hand through his hair, disrupting the strands of his perfect coiffe. “It’s not like things were ever easy between the two of us.”

Harry frowned as he sheathed his wand. “It’s not just your mother’s life that’s in danger here.”

“I’m more than aware; the irony of my ill-timed return hasn’t escaped me. But my mother is strong-willed, and she’s insistent on staying. I’ll be damned if I leave her to fend for herself, no matter how many times she tells me to go.”

“Wait… so you came back to England before you even knew about the threat?” Harry asked, curious despite himself. “What happened? Why now?”

There was a long sigh. “I wish I had some poetic or noble answer to your question. The truth is that it’s easier to know why I left here in the first place—to escape the bad memories and my own sense of shame, thrown in with a bit of wanderlust, if I want to be romantically bohemian about it.  It had crossed my mind to find a job where I could do something honourable, or at least passably respectable. Restore the family honour and all that rubbish.” He gave Harry a sly grin. “But that idea went by the wayside once I reached the Continent. I just wanted to get pissed and have a good shag. To know what it felt like to be free.”

Harry’s gaze was probing. “And did you?”

A fond smile played on Draco’s lips. “I succeeded, at least for a while. I lost myself in the clubs of Paris, found myself in the Lauterbrunne Valley, and reinvented myself on the Sorrento Peninsula. But in answer to your original question?” He lifted his shoulders in an elegant shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe I need to face my past so I can finally let it go.”

Harry followed the line of his gaze out towards the gardens, where a row of peony bushes had already began to bloom. Their bright pink petals were notable against the blanket of green. “You’d be the exception amongst your House if that were true,” he said evenly.

Draco’s gaze grew shuttered. “It’s not like it was easy for any of us afterwards, you know.”

“Yeah. It must be terribly taxing to be a gadabout while the rest of us plebeians work.”

“Is that what you think I do?” Draco’s chin tilted up in indignation. “Sleep until noon, then slip into a mineral bath while being spoon-fed caviar and drinking champagne?”

Harry set his jaw mulishly as he pushed away the thought of Draco taking a bath. “You… well, you certainly look like you’ve been enjoying the good life.” He couldn’t help the bitterness that seeped into his words. Not when he himself was so discontent, or when Narcissa sat alone in a large house filled with faded furnishings and ghostly memories.

“If by ‘the good life’ you mean living a life that fills me with a sense of accomplishment and purpose, then yes, I suppose I am.”

Harry let out an audible snort. “Glad to hear that modelling fits your definition of ‘accomplishment.’”

Draco lifted a brow. “I’m not sure how you know of my past work, but modelling happens to be a gruelling business.” He turned, angling himself against the railing. The movement must have been calculated to show off his profile to a favourable degree, yet it was done with the effortlessness of one born with a natural grace and intimate awareness of their own body. “At any rate, it was more of a lark. I had spent an incredible seven months in Paris, but when I left, my interest in modelling disappeared along with it.”

Harry glared. “Commitment issues?”

There was a long pause. “No, Potter. More like an existential crisis. One that was a lifetime in the making.” His grey eyes clouded over, as if searching Harry out. “The things which were once held as important—purity, power, marrying the perfect witch to beget the perfect heir—well, they lost their meaning after the War. It was terrible, the things we had to endure after Voldemort’s defeat. Our wands were taken away, most of us left penurious and homeless. We couldn’t protect ourselves against the assaults. We couldn’t get a bloody job.” His hands fisted at his sides. “We were just kids!”

“So were we! It wasn’t easy for anyone, Malfoy! None of us were winners, at least not in the way that you think. You think the Weasleys feel victorious after losing Fred? Or that I feel like I’ve won when I’ve lost both my parents, and Sirius and Remus…” He choked as the list of those who had died unfurled further in his head. “Our economy’s shit, crime’s at an all-time high, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a weekend to myself, never mind a whole holiday on the fucking Continent…”

“Poor, poor Potter,” Draco sneered. “So I guess those photographs in the Prophet of you and all your one-offs were for the good of the Ministry, then. It’s so sad to think that you’ve never experienced any pleasure, chasing down Dark Wizards while the public reveres you for it.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about! When I fuck, I don’t have to feel. When I’m doing something dangerous, I don’t have to think. I’m tired of constantly second-guessing what’s inside my head!”  Harry threw up his hands; he didn’t know what it was about Malfoy that made his carefully constructed walls crumble, expelling all the anger and disappointment he’d ever held inside.

The low buzz of the mason bees filled the surrounding space, thick in the late spring air.

“At least you have friends to go out with,” Draco said softly. “People don’t want to hex you; they want you for their next magazine cover. They want to be you.”

“There’s lots of days when I don’t want to be me.” Harry let out a long exhale and scuffed the front of his shoe against the ground. “I’m sick of being the Saviour, or next month’s most eligible bachelor. I’m tired of the expectations, of feeling like all I am is a label. Honestly, disappearing somewhere far away sounds pretty amazing right now.”

The sun inched higher overhead. Draco began to roll up the cuff on his left sleeve. It was an unconscious gesture—one that he’d must have performed quite often, especially in recent years—but he must have remembered that he was back at the Manor and in front of Harry in particular, because he seemed to shrink back into himself as his hand stilled.

Harry looked down at the point where Draco’s sleeve stopped, just short of the twisted lines of his Mark.

Draco huffed out a breath as rolled his sleeve even higher. “Some labels are better than others. What I’ve learned is that running away can’t change who we are.”

Harry looked down at his own left hand. The shape of his fourth finger still had an indentation at its base, as if mourning the loss of the ring which had once warmed it. “Maybe. But sometimes it makes the thought a bit more bearable.”

“Hmmm. Sounds like you’re having an existential crisis yourself.” Malfoy remained quiet after that. As the seconds passed it became obvious he wasn't going to elaborate further.

“So where are you living now?”

A wistful smile crossed Draco’s face. “Nerano—a small village on the Amalfi coast. I can’t say it’s more beautiful than the English countryside, or the Scottish highlands, or the Parisian lights. But in Nerano, the waters are the warmest blue, and the houses cling to the edges of these cliffs that spill into the sea. There’s a small beach where the boats moor in the harbour, and on the calmest of days, the sounds of the waves against their hulls can lull you to sleep.”

It sounded gorgeous, a world apart from where they now stood. Harry realised that he didn’t know this version of Draco at all. “It sounds nice. Peaceful.”

“It is. There’s a grove of olive trees in back of my home. Have you ever tasted freshly-milled olive oil?” Harry shook his head as Draco continued. “Well, it’s spectacular. And then there’s the people…” Draco’s voice trailed as a fond look swept over his face, softening his chiseled lines. It made him look impossibly more breathtaking.

Something squeezed tight in Harry’s chest. “Also spectacular?”

“They saw something in me that made me believe in myself.” Draco lifted his eyes and caught Harry staring, then ruined the moment with a smirk. “Of course, it doesn’t hurt that there’s plenty of fun, fit, and scantily-clad men as well.”

Harry toed his boots against the flagstone, suddenly peeved. “Did you miss anything about England?”

“Of course. My mother is here, obviously, and I still have friends, scattered as they may be. But even without them, a part of me will always belong here.” His grey eyes grew stormy, as if daring Harry to contradict him. “The Manor and its lands are filled with centuries of history and magic. Despite my family’s faults, this place will always have a piece of my heart.”

Harry mulled over Draco’s words. He himself had a wide circle of friends and an extended family in the Weasleys, as well as the adulation of the public in large. Yet Grimmauld Place didn’t feel truly his, and the home which he’d once shared with Ginny had disappeared along with their marriage. It was as if he were the flipped side to Draco’s coin, a thought that should have been comforting, but made him strangely sad.

He let out a sigh. “Speaking of your family’s magic, we’d better get back inside. There’s a lot of work we have to get through.”

The corners of Draco’s lips quirked into a smile. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten that this was a job, and not a social call.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Malfoy. Being around you is like a job and a half.”

“Touché.”

Harry hesitated, then noticed that Draco was grinning. “Truce?” he asked.

The air crackled around them in anticipation. “Truce,” Draco agreed. “So, Potter. Where would you like to start?”

“The place that you love the most; the one where you’d be most likely to be found.” He gave Draco a sly look, one that could almost be considered teasing. “So, I’m guessing it’s the bedroom?”

“I am quite fond of my bedroom, but it’s hardly where I spend most of my time.” Draco led him back into the house and down the hall, finally stopping at a set of double oak doors. “Let me introduce you to my favourite place in the entire house,” he announced as Harry let out an appreciative whistle. “The Malfoy family library.”

.~oOo~.

The shortest recorded truce in Wizarding Britain occurred in 1641, when the Centaurs and the Gytrash put aside their contentious relationship for twelve straight hours to fight the Acromantulas threatening their shared borders.

As it turned out, the détente between Harry and Draco lasted less than five.

“Merlin, he’s fucking impossible!” Harry spat as Max slid into the seat next to him. “It’s bad enough that half the objects in that blasted room reek of esoteric magic, but now he’s treating me like I’m some first year recruit. I can’t do my job if he’s constantly breathing down my neck!”

“Who?” Max asked, oblivious to Ron’s attempts to shush him.

“Malfoy.” Harry prepared to launch into another diatribe, but was interrupted by Zach as he dumped a large brown bag on the table in front of them.

“Sorry I’m late.” Zach plopped down in the last remaining seat, looking none too apologetic as he lifted a plastic container from the bag and peeled off the top. It opened with a hiss; the smell of homemade curry quickly filled the small room, causing five pairs of eyes to pin him down with their greedy gaze. He brought a forkful of rice and sauce to his mouth before turning to his co-workers with an innocent grin.

“Oh, were you guys hungry?”

“I don’t know about the ‘guys,’ but this woman certainly is,” Samara grumbled.

“Why didn’t you say so?” Zach levitated several more containers onto the table. “Sharing is caring.”

“I think I love you, mate,” Ron moaned, digging in. “I wish Hermione would pack me dinner once in awhile.”

“Do you ever fix dinner for her?” Samara asked pointedly as her lips curled over a piece of chicken.

“Trust me; she’d prefer that I didn’t,” Ron laughed.

Samara snatched Zach’s napkin, wadded it and threw it in Ron’s direction. It bounced off his chest, at which point Zach picked it up and used it to dab the corner of his mouth.

Harry tried to tamp down his frustration. “Look, we can have a round-table discussion about everyone’s domestic fantasies, or we can slog through this and get home at a decent hour. How far along are we in clearing the bedrooms and the kitchens?”

“Ugh. There’s so much,” Ben admitted as he looked at Harry apologetically. “Even though the Malfoys gave up a bunch of their assets following the War, there's still a tonne of magical objects within the home. Some have spells I’ve never seen before.”

“Maybe we should move the Malfoys to a safe house instead,” Max said, his brow furrowed. “We could be at this for months.”

Harry shook his head as he remembered Narcissa’s words. “Out of the question. We’re already disrupting their lives as it is,” he said firmly.

Max’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “I just thought it would be easier, all around. I never realised you had a personal interest in watching… I mean, that you’d want to invest more time into…”

“It’s got nothing to do with the Malfoys specifically,” Harry interrupted him brusquely. “I just meant that the fucking War took away so much from all of us, and I think that it would be nice to try to hold on to some sense of normalcy wherever we can. If that means staying in our homes instead of letting some group of vigilante fuckers dictate our lives, so be it.”

“Hello, lovely people. What’d I miss?” Elliot Rogers came in clutching a small box. His face lit up when he saw the food on the table. “For me?” He peered at the various contents, giving an appreciative sniff. “I’ll take your chicken tikka and raise you this.” He held out the closed box with a dramatic flourish.

Harry transfigured a nearby plant into a decent chair. “Hey, Elliot,” he said, motioning for Elliot to sit. “What sort of fun things do you have for us today?”

“I heard that your newest case is giving you a bit of a headache. Unfortunately, I can’t help you out on the personal character front, but this may make the other stuff a bit easier.” He set the unassuming cardboard box on the table and peeled back the flaps.

Everyone else in the room craned their necks to peer at the small, orb-like object inside.

“Uhh… that looks like a Sneakoscope,” Ron said, unable to hide his disappointment. “Nifty tool, but it’s kind of been around for over two-hundred years.”

“It does look like one, but it’s not. At least, it’s not a Sneakoscope as you know it.” Elliot plucked it out of the box and placed it in Ron’s hand. “I’m sure everyone here is familiar with the Sneakoscope. There are cheap versions which are geared towards child’s play, and more sophisticated ones which do a fair job of being a Dark detector. And ever since Stroulger invented it several centuries ago, other devices have been developed to do something similar.”

“Like a Probity Probe or Secrecy Sensor,” Ben said helpfully.

“Exactly!” Elliot’s eyes were alight with excitement. “But as great as they are, all these devices have limited use in the field. The Sneakoscope, for example, whistles—not the best thing to happen if you’re undercover. The Probity Probe needs to be directed at the dark object in question—a tedious activity, especially if we’re talking about a site that contains loads of fun tchotchkes like the Manor. And there’s another way in which the use of such devices is problematic.”

“I’m guessing it has something to do with the practicality of the Sneakoscope as a magical detector,” Harry mused. “Most of the objects in the Manor are probably either inherently magical, or have been charmed with magic somewhere down the line. Even if that magic is dark, it doesn’t necessarily make it dangerous. So if we’re only looking to detect the presence of dark magic, then something like the Sneakoscope can actually provide us with too much information—which can be just as damaging as not having enough.”

“Sort of like the boy who cried wolf,” Zach supplied thoughtfully through a mouthful of naan.

“An excellent analogy, Zach, and bonus points for staying awake during your Muggle Studies class. And Auror Potter, I’ll argue with anyone who states that you’ve come this far based on your name and your fame, because you are absolutely correct.”

Harry laughed as he took the orb from Ron, turning it over in his hand. It was slightly heavier than expected and held a small, circular window that resembled a camera’s lens. “What does it do?” Harry asked, fascinated.

“I looked at some of the technology our friends were utilising in the Muggle crime fighting units. You’re all familiar with the common uses of mobile devices from your second year of training, but did you know there’s a branch of Muggle criminalistics that uses cellular phones to retrieve digital evidence?”

“Mobile device forensics,” Samara said.

“Right. The Muggles use the technology to recover data through its electronic footprint. I tweaked it further by combining it with the detection capabilities of the Sneakoscope so it can record the magical fingerprint of an object at the scene. The information is then transmitted to the Department of Mysteries, where it’s run against our databank of known spells.”

Ron let out a long whistle. “Nice. So you use the properties of the Sneakoscope to detect the presence of magic, and then this Muggle technology lets us know exactly what that magic is.” He leaned back. “That’s bloody brilliant.”

Max stared at the modified Sneakoscope. “Brilliant, indeed. Think of what it could be used for, beyond its use in crime scenes. Healers could use this to diagnose different types of spell damage, or it could be used in professional Quidditch to check for the use of illegal charms. The possibilities are endless.” He tapped the edge of the desk thoughtfully. “Any caveats we need to be aware of, Elliot?”

“Well, yeah. First, that’s my hope—that the applications of this device will eventually be wide-ranging. But because we’re limited for time, I had to put a filter on the results for the reasons Harry had mentioned. Right now, it’s programmed to relay information only on those objects which test positive for dark or esoteric spells. Out of these, any objects which are flagged to be potentially harmful, or which contain unknown magical signatures or spellwork, will be carefully collected by the Curse-breakers and removed from the Manor for further investigation. Speaking of which, we’ll need a sample of Draco and Narcissa Malfoy’s blood.”

Samara wrinkled her nose. “Why their blood? Wouldn’t the magical signature from their wands work just as well?”

“I’m betting it has something to do with the types of spells that we currently don’t have in the database. Things like pureblood rituals. Many are dark and can involve blood magic,” Ben said thoughtfully. “So it makes sense that you’d want that from the Malfoys.”

“I like the way you think, Chapman.” Elliot nodded. “Good thing you have a sound mind; can’t imagine why anyone would be interested in your luscious mane and that hard body otherwise,” he added with a wink as Max snorted.

“Can’t imagine why,” Ben agreed, his cheeks pinking as the corners of his lips curled into a smile.

“So, the deal is this: all of you on the alpha team are going to be my test-Crups. Kingsley’s told me that we’re going to be working with some of the best Curse-breakers around—your brother included amongst them, Weasley. Once we trial this, if this device works the way it should, we’re handing it off to all the other groups.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Samara asked.

“Then I hope you’re all as good with your defensive spellwork as you’re reputed to be. But if it’s any consolation, I haven’t had any fuckups yet.”

Zach pushed his chair back, the legs squeaking against the tiled floor under his weight. “Well, that’s good enough for me.” He looked over at Harry. “Since Elliot solved our problem regarding how to go about screening that museum for cursed objects, does this mean we can adjourn for the night? I still have to thank my wife for the hours she spent cooking for your sorry arses. If you know what I mean,” he added with a lascivious grin.

“God, Harper, sometimes you’re such a pillock,” Samara moaned, causing Zach to waggle his brows.

Ron looked up hopefully. “Harry? Up to you, mate, but I wouldn’t mind saying goodnight to Rose before she’s put to bed.”

Harry took a look around at all the weary faces, which he thought likely mirrored his own. “Yeah, sure. We put in a lot of hours today, and Elliot’s came through with a solution to our biggest problem.” His mind raced through the assignments for the next day. “Great job, everyone. Ron and I will meet with the Curse-breaking team at nine so we can prep them for the day. The rest of you can have a bit of a lie-in; I’ll see you at noon.”

“No such thing as a lie-in when you’re married to someone like—”

“Don’t say it, Zach,” Harry warned as the rest of the team guffawed, “or I’m sparing poor Mathilde your company and making you come in on the earlier shift.”

“I was going to say someone like me!” Zach protested, holding up his hands in surrender.

Harry shook his head as he carefully placed the orb back into its box. “So, what are you calling this device?” he asked Elliot.

“Well, since some Muggles call their mobiles ‘smartphones,’ I was thinking of something along the lines of  ‘SmartScope?’”

“I like it,” Harry nodded, closing the top. If this wonder-sphere could somehow prevent Draco Malfoy from hanging around like a mother hen with his snide comments and his pursed lips and distracting legs, then the scope wasn’t just smart, it was a fucking miracle.

.~oOo~.

Bloody fuck. Harry winced as the Manor’s wards shuddered; the Auror-grade protective spells which they’d laid down yesterday had the unfortunate effect of hampering the act of Apparition, causing the coffee which he was carrying to spill. 

Thankfully, both cups were salvageable. He reached for his wand to clean the stain, then remembered his words of caution regarding the use of unnecessary magic and sighed.

“A great start to a great day,” he muttered as he trudged up the Manor’s steps. He could just see it—Draco’s steely eyes honing in on the state of his clothing, his own crisp, Malfoyish clothes in pristine shape as his perfect brow lifted and those pouty lips spewed forth a slew of disparaging remarks. By the time the front door swung open, Harry was thinking of the possible excuses he could give Kingsley as to why Malfoy had to make a surprise visit to St Mungo’s, the victim of a Meloflors Jinx. Or worse.

Something darted between Harry’s legs as the door flew open, nearly knocking him over.

“Mister Harry Potter!” the house-elf exclaimed eagerly as she peered around his thighs. “All by himself today!”

“Only for a few hours, Mipsy. By noon, you’ll have your hands full with guests.”

The excitable house elf lit up at the news.

“Oh! Mipsy loves having guests!” A wistful look crossed her face. “The Master and Mistress used to have many guests at the Manor. But no more.”

“Mipsy—there will be loads of people coming to visit now,” Harry reminded her gently. “You must be careful who you let in. Not everyone who comes to see Master Draco or Lady Narcissa is a friend, even if they can get past the wards. Do you remember what we spoke about yesterday?”

“Of course Mipsy remembers!” the elf huffed with indignation.  Somehow, her huge eyes narrowed. “Mipsy is not to open the door to anyone who does not show their credentials.” She shot back with a start. “Oh, Mipsy did not ask Mister Harry Potter or Harry Potter’s friend this morning!” she moaned, looking for the nearest wall. “Bad Mipsy!”

Harry’s arm shot out just in time to prevent Mipsy from banging her head against a thick slab of polished oakwood. “Er—Mipsy? Which friend is that?”

“Mister Ronald Weasley, sir. He is with Master Draco in the library. Would you like Mipsy to bring you there?”

“Yes, Mipsy,” Harry said, taking out his badge. Mipsy spent nearly a minute inspecting the laminated card as Harry nodded, to her obvious delight. She motioned for Harry to follow; they passed by the dining room, and the drawing room, and the parlour. Although much of the rooms’ contents had been tarnished or removed over the years, it wasn’t difficult to imagine what could have taken place during the Manor’s heyday, before the costs of restitution and the ravages of war. Harry found himself wondering what it would have been like to grow up surrounded by such luxury, and how it fit in with Malfoy’s reinvented life amidst the blue waters of the Mediterranean and his olive groves.

As they approached the library, Harry heard the muffled sounds of Ron’s voice and Draco’s unmistakable drawl. Curious, he hung back near the partially-open doors, waving Mipsy off with a quiet word of thanks, the two coffees in his hands nearly forgotten.

“The Illuminations chess set forged with elven silver and goblin gold? I’ve only seen this in books.” Ron reached for one of the hand-carved figures. A man sat atop a Griffin, his swordhand raised in protest as Ron turned him over for a closer inspection. He set it back down and picked up the Sphinx. “These are amazing. There’s only like four of them in existence.”

“Three, actually; the set in the Corsairs Hotel was determined to be a fake. And if you think those pieces are incredible, wait until you see the pièce de résistance.”

Ron leaned in, his eyes squinting as Draco carefully removed something from a velvet-lined box. “Huh. Nice.”

Draco huffed. “Why would you think it’s anything but inspired?”

“To have a Veela as King?” He shook his head. “There are so many better choices.”

The miniature Veela turned, hissing its displeasure. Draco plucked another figure out of the box and set it to the Veela’s right, the proximity immediately soothing the creature. “What would you say is the most important of a chess set, Weasley?”

“Oi, seriously?!”  Ron rolled his eyes as Draco crossed his arms and waited expectantly. “It’s the King, of course.”

“While the Veela may not equal the ferocity of the Griffin or the mercilessness of the Sphinx, they do manifest these characteristics to varying degrees. But the reason why they’re so desirable is because they’re equal parts creature and human, and capable of embodying the best qualities of each.” The Veela spread its wings as if in agreement, its finely detailed feathers fluttering as it lifted and preened.

Ron didn’t look convinced. “Even if that were the case, how do you explain the choice of a human as Queen? She’s the most powerful piece on the board.”

Draco seemed to relish this war of wits. His lips curled as if he were withholding a delicious secret while his body tilted forward in anticipation. Harry felt his breath catch as he envisioned Draco hovering over him with the same amount of barely-controlled eagerness, his mouth spilling heated words of challenge against the shape of Harry’s ear…

“In the early stages of the game, the King is weak, vulnerable to those around him. It is only when we near the end of the game that he truly lives up his moniker by defining the actions of the remaining pieces on the board.

“Likewise, the Veela have little to distinguish them at the start, except for their unusual beauty. That all changes when they reach their inheritance, when they have the ability to charm and seduce those around them.”

“But why the human as Queen?” Ron persisted.

Draco let out a slow smile. “It is a poetic and symbolic tribute to the lure of a Veela’s mate. The Queen has the greatest mobility of any piece on the board, mimicking the role of humans within the world. She is also the most important piece in guaranteeing the King’s survival; without her, the King’s chances decrease significantly, even in the hands of a skilled player.”

Ron sank down into his chair, his brows drawn stubbornly together. “Fine, Malfoy. But there’s another way the choice is flawed; how do you explain the concept of queening when Veelas are supposed to have only one mate?”

“First, if you’d paid any attention during Grubbly-Plank’s lectures, you’d know that Veelas can have more than one partner throughout their lives. None, however, will match the singular passion that they share with their Chosen.” He smiled sharply, as if going in for the final blow. “It is their Chosen who brings out the Veela’s best, their Chosen who shows them their truest potential, and their Chosen for whom a Veela would make their greatest sacrifice.”

“Check and mate,” Harry said, laughing as he finally stepped through the door. “Give it up,” he snorted as Ron threw up his hands in defeat. “It’s like trying to win an argument against Hermione.”

Ron nearly drooled as he eyed the cup of coffee. “How long have you been holding out on me?” he demanded.

“Long enough to see you get trounced in a game of verbal chess,” Harry grinned, handing Ron a cup. A small noise drew his attention; Draco looked distinctly uncomfortable, the lighthearted banter from earlier that morning disappearing as he watched Harry and Ron, his expression guarded.

“Morning, Potter.”

“Malfoy.” Harry’s eyes dropped down to his hand and the one remaining cup. He swallowed, then sighed, pushing it forward. “Coffee?”

Draco’s eyes widened, his mouth parting slightly in surprise. “Thank you.” He reached for it, then stopped. “Where’s yours?” he asked suspiciously.

“Erm… spilled it while Apparating,” Harry said, looking down at his robes. He held out the cup again, and this time, Draco took it.

The ends of Draco’s fingers curled over Harry’s thumb; he let out a gasp as a heat spread through him from their point of contact like Fiendfyre. His skin burned, his prick ached, and something animalistic and needy thrummed through his veins. He wanted with an intensity which he hadn’t felt in years, and never quite this strongly.

Harry fought the urge to fall to his knees, choosing to push at Draco’s chest instead. There was a ready accusation on his lips as he looked up, his face flaming, only to realise that Draco must have been similarly affected.

A hint of pink coloured the angles of Draco’s cheeks as his hands were clenched in indignation. “Salazar, Potter; if you wanted to hex me—!”

“It’s not…” Harry gawped as they broke apart. “I didn’t do anything!” He set down the cup and cast a simple detection spell, the results coming up empty.

“Well it certainly felt like you did!”

Ron put down his own cup. “Harry didn’t do anything, Malfoy,” he said as he drew his wand, repeating Harry’s spell. “See? Nothing.” He looked at them warily. “What did you guys feel?”

Harry frowned unsure of the answer himself. “I’m not sure; maybe some kind of magical discharge?” He couldn’t tell Ron about the overwhelming feeling of lust, or that there was something more—something hot and possessive, as well as the strange sensation of feeling settled.

“Right. A magical discharge.” Draco’s breathing was slowing, although his cheeks remained unnaturally flushed. “That’s what it probably was,” he added, somewhat unconvincingly.

Harry indicated the cup with a tilt of his head, unwilling to risk the chance of a repeat performance. “Do you still want it? It’s the best in Islington.”

“It is,” Ron agreed. “Best morning pick-me-up around.”

“So I see.” Draco gave Harry a wry look, then reached out for the cup and took a sip after the slightest hesitation. “Oh! That is good!” he said, looking both surprised and relieved.

Harry exhaled, studiously ignoring the way Draco’s mouth hovered over the cup’s steaming rim. He busied himself by studying the room, fascinated by the morning light streaming through the grimy windows, highlighting several well-worn spots on the rug beneath their feet. An overflowing rack of brooms leaned against the far wall, their ends fairly well-trimmed and handles smooth despite their obvious age and a coating of dust.

Draco followed the direction of Harry’s gaze.

“Mipsy is more of a companion to my mother these days; her eyesight is not what it used to be. I’ve been performing cleaning charms when she hasn’t been watching, but now that you’ve put a temporary ban on unnecessary magic…”

“But…” Harry said helplessly, motioning to the chess set. The rarity of the gold and silver, as well as the precious gems which decorated each figure were worth a small fortune.

“The Ministry allowed us one thing each to keep,” Draco said quietly. “Well, apart from those things which Father was able to hide. Your superiors considered it a magnanimous gesture, even though they never let us forget it. In my father’s case, it was a cane with ties to both the Malfoy and Slytherin lines. My mother chose a necklace that was commissioned by one of the ancestral Blacks as a gift to their only daughter. And this chess set, as frivolous as it seems, was mine.”

“Out of all the things in the Manor, you chose this?”

“I’ve always loved this set,” Malfoy replied. He picked up the King, stroking the wings in a way that seemed almost loving and sensual. “My father spent hours teaching me how to play. It was my favourite thing for as long as I could remember.”

“I have to admit, I’m surprised that your family has a set like this.”

Draco raised a brow. “Whatever do you mean, Potter?”

“Well, it’s a set where Creatures rule the world,” Harry answered uncomfortably. “Where the wizard’s worth is defined by his role as the Chosen to the Veela.” His eyes locked with grey ones in challenge. “One could say subservient, even.”

Malfoy tilted his head. “That’s an overly-simplistic perspective. Have you ever heard of Hallius Van Syle?”

“Yeah. He was the person who designed this chess set, right?” Ron answered as Harry shot him a look of surprise.

“Don’t feel bad, Potter,” Draco smirked. “Given that his family was once part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, Weasley probably knew the answer because of who Van Syle was: one of the foremost sculptors of his time, and a pureblood sympathiser of the highest order. He was commissioned to make this set by the International Society for the Acclimatisation of Creatures, but ended up subverting his benefactor’s wishes by promoting his pureblood ideals to the very end.

“Van Syle created something that was aesthetically perfect, satisfying both the commemoration request and his artistic ego. But by placing the wizard in the role of the Queen, he was basically shooting the I.S.A.C. a giant two-fingered salute.”

“How do you figure?” Harry asked.

“Without its mate, it is practically impossible for the Veela to reach its full potential—the perfect analogy for the Queen’s importance to the King. For Van Syle, that makes the Queen, and not the King, the most powerful piece on the board. In his mind, it was the wizard who towered above all others, even the King of the Creatures.”

“Huh. Well, this Van Syle may have been a gifted artist, but he knows shite when it comes to love,” Ron said. “Love isn’t about bartering, or a competition where one person gets over on the other.”

“Thank Merlin for that, or else you’d be out of luck,” Harry snorted. “No one gets anything over Hermione.”

“Tell me about it. I’m still positive she knew exactly when, where, and how I was going to propose, no matter how much she denies it.”

“How is Granger?” Draco asked curiously.

“She’s gone by Granger-Weasley for nearly four years, and Hermione’s doing well. She got her Healer’s degree, and is now working with the DMLE to help formulate public policy.”

“Any sprogs to keep you up at night?”

“We’ve got a daughter, Rose. And Hermione’s five months pregnant with our second.” A huge smile lit up Ron’s face. “A boy."

Draco laughed at Ron’s obvious pride. “Well, I’m not surprised that you’re well on your way to populating the world. She married a Weasley, after all.”

“Yeah. She did,” Ron said, grinning. “Lucky me.”

Draco took a sudden interest in his coffee cup. “I envy you,” he admitted.

Ron’s expression was priceless. “Oi, Harry,” he exclaimed, slamming down his cup. “Check me for any stray hexes? I thought I heard Malfoy say he envied a Weasley.”

“It’s just nice to see someone living their childhood dream,” Draco protested.

Ron studied Draco. He must have determined that there was nothing disparaging behind Draco’s words because his gaze softened. “And what about you?” he asked. “Any mini-Malfoys in your future?”

“Highly unlikely,” Draco said drily. “There’s no one in my life right now with whom I’ve that level of commitment. Not to mention the fact that I’m unequivocally, and irrevocably, bent.”

Ron shrugged. “There are other options if you really wanted a family: adoption; surrogacy; fertilisation; conception potions.”

“Right. Because it’s not enough that I have the Dark Mark, but now I have to find an incredibly fit and powerful wizard who happens to be gay.”

Ron sipped his drink. “You never know. Stranger things have happened.”

Draco rolled his eyes, then drank his coffee, letting out a sigh of pleasure. Harry tried not to think about why the sound of it made his heart beat just a little bit faster.

~oOo~

Draco stared down at his plate of potted chicken; even though his mother had seasoned it with herbs grown from their garden and spooned the perfectly cooked meat over a thick slice of bread, it was a far cry from the roast pheasant or rabbit he’d enjoyed as a child. Its commonness seemed incongruous against the delicateness of the Delft Blue—nearly as much as the sight of the grand dining room table, which had once entertained aristocrats and dignitaries, now set as a table for two.

The silverware clinked against the edge of the dish, its ping deafening as the sound echoed throughout the otherwise empty room. From the parlour next door, the occasional laughter of the Aurors—two burly men named Zach and Ben, who often looked disappointed at the lack of dangerous, evil-wizard action—filtered over the static of the WWN.

“You shouldn’t fidget, darling. It’s unbecoming.”

A growl of frustration built in Draco’s throat as he watched Narcissa cut into her chicken.

“I think it’s ridiculous that we should go on pretending that the War never happened.” He tried to ignore the guilt which filled him at Narcissa’s stricken expression. “I’m sorry, Mother,” he said, keeping his voice low so as to not attract the attention of the Aurors. “But all this…” He made a motion towards the head of the table—to his father’s chair, which had sat vacant in body for nearly a year, and in spirit for much longer. “Despite all of Father’s faults, he never would have wanted for you to pine away like this.”

Narcissa’s lips thinned. For the first time, Draco noted the creases at the corners of her eyes, the blue in them now shiny. “It is terribly discourteous of you to point out what is so painfully obvious, Draco.”

“Mother.” Draco reached over and rested his hand on hers. His heart ached as he watched her steady her breath. “Father’s gone. This—it’s an illusion. There’s nothing left.”

“These are my memories, Draco. They’re all I have.”

“Your memories are wherever you are.” He frowned. “The Manor, the things that have taken place behind its walls… it’s tainted. It doesn’t belong to us anymore.”

“If I leave, the Dark Lord will have won. The life I’ve led with your father, the times we shared when we were first married. That most perfect and magical day, when you came into my life.” Narcissa looked down, her face weighty with emotion. “This is where my best memories were formed. He can’t take those away from me, too.”

One of the Aurors in the next room laughed as the wireless played a commercial for the new Firebolt 5000.

Draco lowered his hand. “Make new ones, then. Come back to Italy with me.”

“And what of you, darling? Aren’t you clinging to the past as well?”

Draco’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

Narcissa picked up her glass. “I ran into the Millicent at the Muggle farmer’s market last month. She and Gregory are expecting their second child. She might have mentioned that Blaise has settled in with his young family in Venice. And Pansy—”

The knuckles of Draco’s right hand tightened around the fork’s handle. Trust his mother to deflect and parry. “You know that a traditional family is not a possibility for me.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Narcissa interjected, her eyes softening apologetically. “I don’t expect that of you. Merlin knows, you’ve earned the right to your own life, after everything you’ve been through. But I think I’m not the only one holding onto my past. I wonder… if it would be possible for you to eventually forgive yourself? To allow yourself to be truly happy.”

I am, Draco wanted to say, but the lie got stuck in his throat. “The laundry list of unforgivables in my past may be too long to wash clean,” he answered with a trace of bitterness.

“But not impossible. How can you expect others to begin to forgive you and move on, when you cannot do so yourself?” Narcissa took a drink, her lips trembling around the rim. “It’s a mother’s prerogative to want to see their child satisfied in life, darling.”

“I’m twenty-five; you’re hardly responsible for the decisions I make. Or my mistakes.”

“Well, then, I wish it for selfish reasons. To know that your father and I haven’t damaged you irreparably.”

Draco gave her a wan smile. It was good to see that she still wasn’t above employing a small amount of motherly guilt.

“I was a terribly spoilt child. It may take me a while, but I generally get what I want.”

“I hope you do, my dragon. Your father made me so angry at times, yet despite that, I miss him with all my heart. He was terribly flawed, but he was also the love of my life.”

The sounds of the newest Weird Sisters single filtered in from the next room. Draco looked around—at the plain linen tablecloth with its unwashable stain, the damask curtains with their frayed edges, and thought about the days when laughter and brightly-coloured silks and joyous soirées had brought life to the home’s faded walls.

They went back to their meals. Two lonely people, surrounded by their memories, left with only each other.

Chapter Text

“Tighter.” The hooded figure spat at the prisoner huddled at his feet as his companion pulled on the ropes binding the man’s wrists.

“Please.” It came at the end of a wheeze, wet and thick. The prisoner visibly winced as the coarse fibers of his bondage dug into his reddened skin. “Have pity on an old man.” 

“Pity? You want pity.” The mysterious figure snarled as his fist flew forward, colliding with the man’s jaw with a sickening crack. “Walden Macnair—executioner of creatures, friend to bloodthirsty giants and murderer of innocents, expects to be shown mercy?” He threw his head back and laughed, the sound rising maniacally throughout the night. “Don’t worry. You shall be shown all the pity your miserable kind deserves.”

“Your government wants a peaceful transition,” Macnair pleaded, licking his lips. “There’s nothing to be gained from stirring up decades-old hate.”

“That’s interesting.” The man pretended to consider Macnair’s words. “I’ve discovered that such hate is rarely truly buried. It stays raw enough that it simmers just below the surface, easily cultivated. And as for our government—” He parted the folds of his robe with a leather-gloved hand, the unmistakable shape of the Ministry badge causing his prisoner’s eyes to widen. “You should know from personal experience that morality and rules can never be entirely trusted.”

The sudden smell of piss hung thick in the humid night. “I’ll do anything. I can give you the names of some other Death Eaters, tell you where they are hiding…” Macnair began babbling pitifully, the futility of his situation compounded by his delirium, his blood loss, and his pain.

“You will do all that, but not because I’ll bargain with you.” The man’s bright smile gleamed in the moonlight, the shadows from the trees giving a ghastly appearance to his otherwise handsome face. He touched the tip of his wand to Macnair’s leg almost lovingly, lingering for a moment before the cherrywood began to trace a circle below the knee. “Before we get started, however, I have a score to settle. One that’s quite personal.”

His white smile grew even wider as he cast a Diffindo and Macnair’s inhuman screams filled the air.

.~oOo~.

“Auror Potter? A word, if I may.”

What now? Harry tried to hide his displeasure. He had hoped for a quick meeting with Elliot to discuss a possible expansion for the SmartScope, and to acquire several more units for the Curse-breakers who were meeting him at the Manor later that day.

A group of new trainees filed past, en route to their morning classes. Dawlish liked to introduce the speakers for their lectures; he’d often remarked that it helped foster a supportive environment, but Harry also knew that it was a not-so-subtle way of reinforcing his position as the head of the department from day one.

Perhaps if there was a scheduling conflict… “I see they’re about to start the morning lecture, sir.”

Dawlish waved his hand in an irritated gesture. “Goldstein’s taking care of it.”

Fuck. “I have to see Rogers regarding an equipment order,” Harry pleaded, hating the desperation in his words. “I need to catch him before the other teams flood him with their requests. It won’t take more than fifteen minutes—”

Dawlish’s face hardened. “That’s fifteen minutes too many, Potter. Trust me, after what I’m about to tell you, getting a piece of equipment that burps you and wipes your arse is going to be the least of your concerns.” He pushed open the door to his office, the slap of his hand against the wood startling the people inside into silence.

Ron sat in one of the chairs, with Clark and Wallace Danforth, another Auror on Clark’s team, to his right. His tall body was crammed into the uncomfortable seat, his long legs sprawling out at a ridiculous angle in front.

Harry took the last seat, nodding to the others as he wedged himself into the corner. “I take it there’s been a new development in the case?” he asked Dawlish, striving for a neutral tone.

“There was another attack last night. This one was different in that it appears to have been carefully planned and executed.”

“What happened? And who was the target?”

“Forensics just returned with some preliminary evidence. Aurors Clark and Danforth were the ones who were called to the scene. Do you want to take it from here, Ellis?”

Clark’s usually smug face looked pale and ashen, the shadows under his eyes giving him a haunted appearance. “A groundskeeper by the name of Andrew Lyons was walking his dog when the setter reportedly took off for the woods at the edge of their property. When Lyons caught up with the animal, who was barking up a storm, he made a rather gruesome discovery.”

“There were several body parts strewn about the scene,” Danforth added. His voice remained even despite the shocking revelation; Harry remembered that Danforth used to work in the Rescue and Recovery unit prior to being transferred to Clark’s team. “Most of the evidence was too small, or too desecrated by the wildlife to be immediately identifiable—bone fragments or tissue samples, at best. But there was one piece that left no question as to its origin.”

“And that would be…?” Ron prompted.

Danforth smirked. “A human leg.”

Harry’s breath escaped him in a rush. “And we’re sure this was all part of the same crime?” he asked. “It doesn’t make sense; why leave one large piece of evidence, while destroying the rest?”

“We think that the killer—or killers, more likely, given the brutality and thoroughness of the attack—were trying to send a distinct message. They wanted the leg to be discovered.”

Clark nodded in agreement. “The limb was severed with a Diffindo. The margins were extremely clean, and there was evidence that someone had cast a stasis charm and several protective spells after the fact.”

“Bloody fuck,” said Ron, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “That’s awfully personal. Either that, or we’re dealing with one sick pup. Any luck on tracing the magical signature?”

Clark rubbed his face, frustration seeping through the edges. “The strange thing is, it didn’t resemble a magical signature at all. We’re having the people down in forensic ballistics see if they can piece together what could’ve happened after the spell was cast. The good news is that we were able to get an ID on the victim.”

Harry didn’t like the way Clark had paused. “That was fast. Too easy to be true?”

“It was easy because the deceased was registered in both the Death Eater database and as a Ministry employee,” Dawlish supplied. “Walden Macnair.”

“Fuck,” Ron muttered under his breath. “How is this group tracking down all of Voldemort’s supporters when the Ministry hasn’t had any luck?”

“Priorities,” Harry said evenly. Dawlish had the grace to flush.

“You still haven’t asked the most important question, though,” Clark said, his snide attitude returning. “Any guesses as to why you and Weasley are the only other team here?”

Harry didn’t even bother to hide the intensity of his dislike for Clark at that very moment. “No, but I’m sure you’ll be happy to tell us.”

Dawlish sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed before he gestured out the window. “Let me remind you both that any fighting should take place out there, and not in here. The reason you and your co-leader were called in, Auror Potter, is because Clark and Danforth’s area of purview is in the Swindon district of Wiltshire. We have every reason to believe that the Malfoys will be next.”

“We have to increase their level of protection, then.”

“I’m glad you agree. I’ve spoken with Auror Weasley about your progress at the Manor. Am I correct in saying that Narcissa Malfoy has already set up several guest rooms for you and your team?”

“Yes, although we’ve not had the chance to clear all the areas for dark spells.”

“Well I suggest that you focus on those areas first. Because I’m ordering you to provide twenty-four hour protective detail for Narcissa and Draco Malfoy, effective immediately.”

.~oOo~.

By the time Harry and Ron had left Dawlish’s office, Elliot was already busy inservicing the other teams on the use of the SmartScope. Harry sent several frantic owls to the members of his team with their new schedule, made an appointment through the department’s secretary to meet with Elliot at six that evening, then Apparated with Ron to the Manor.

“Hey, Harry!” Someone grabbed him from the side, pulling him into a fierce hug. Harry smiled as the familiar shape of a fangtooth charm pressed against his chest.

“What, I don’t get a ‘hello?’” Ron asked, elbowing Bill’s side. “Nice way to treat your baby brother.”

“I see you all the time. Too much, especially now that Rose is toddling around,” Bill grinned.

“Can’t help it; nowadays, it seems like only Tori and Nikki can hold her attention.” Ron made a face. “Rose is much too curious for her own good.”

“Don’t let Hermione hear you say that. And yeah, the girls are pretty amazing, aren’t they?”  Bill said, as his handsome face lit up with a proud smile.

Ron gave him a nudge. “Like you had anything to do with it. They’re both mini-Fleurs with their bloody Veela genes, and you know it.”

“Not disagreeing with you in the slightest,” Bill said good-naturedly. He stole a look at Harry, who was watching the team of Curse-breakers descend on each of the bedrooms in haphazard fashion with a scowl. “Sorry if we’re stepping on your toes, but we were told to defuse dark curses from any objects which couldn’t be removed from the premises manually. Nifty device that you’ve got here, by the way,” he added, throwing the SmartScope up in the air and catching it with one hand elegantly.

“Yeah. It’s been a huge time saver. We had to fast-track it to go live, but so far, it seems to be working really well.” Harry peered down the hallway and frowned. “Where are Draco and Narcissa?”

“Narcissa’s with two people from your team—an older Auror, and a witch who seems fond of giving him the eye-roll like an exasperated teen. The last I knew, they were in the kitchen.”

“Zach and Sam,” Harry and Ron said in unison. “I’ll meet them there,” Ron added.

“Leave some food for everyone else, Ron!” Bill yelled. Ron flipped him the bird as Harry snickered.

“What about Draco?”

Bill shrugged. “Don’t know if it was all the people around, but he didn’t look too well. We cleared his room first and he’s been locked in, ever since. One of your men is stationed outside. Fletcher, I think?”

Leave it to Malfoy to stir up more drama. Harry counted to ten. “We can’t protect him if he’s by himself behind closed doors.”

“Actually, it’s probably the safest place in the house right now. The room’s clean, the windows and his Floo are warded shut, and there’s an Auror of your choosing standing guard.”

“It’s not up to him to decide.” Most of the Curse-breakers had already moved on from the library and into the parlor. Harry heard a spell sizzle, followed by a distinct yelp. “Maybe you should check on your team?” he suggested.

“No worries, Harry, will do. But knowing your history with Malfoy, I’m guessing the real fireworks aren’t going to be the ones out here.” Bill gave Harry a knowing wink, his long legs eating up the distance as he strode out the library’s doors.

Harry made a right, then a left towards the wing housing the main bedrooms. Everything appeared the same: an endless corridor of heavy doors, without any other distinguishing features. Luckily, Fletcher was seated outside one of them.

“Hey. Heard Malfoy was giving you trouble.” The smirk slid off Harry’s face when he took in Max’s haggard expression. “Merlin, what’d you do last night? Hope it was worth it.”

“Yeah.” Max lifted his head and gave Harry a wry grin. His lashes were long and his lips full and pouty, but without Malfoy’s hard and chiseled angles, it made him look soft and unremarkable. “Had a late night, drank a bit too much,” he said, stifling a yawn. “Had no idea I was going to be pulled for PSD this morning.”

“Sorry about that. I didn’t either, otherwise I would’ve owled you earlier.”

“Yeah, I know.” Max leaned back, the back of his head hitting the wall. “A hangover, I can deal with. But not while Malfoy throws a paddy.”

There was a muffled expletive behind the door. “How long has he been holed up in there?”

“Dunno; maybe around half an hour?”

“Go,” Harry said, making his decision. “Take a break, kip on a sofa for a bit. I’ll take over for now.”

“Thanks, Harry. I owe you one,” Max said gratefully as he got up from his seat. “Be careful if you go in, though. Malfoy’s even more beastly than usual.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Harry laughed as Max sauntered off. He raised his hand to the door, steeling himself as he knocked.

“Go away.” Malfoy’s petulant words were followed by something more sorrowful. “I could hear everything the two of you were saying, you know.”

“And I’d say them again,” Harry retorted. “Come on, Malfoy. Open up. You know I can break through the wards and the traps you’ve set, but I’d prefer doing this the civilised way.”

There was a long, dramatic sigh, followed by sound of shuffling feet and what sounded like ‘Power-hungry prat’ as the door opened a crack. Harry rolled his eyes, then pushed the door open further to allow himself entry before closing it behind him.

“I don’t like Fletcher,” Draco declared. “He’s a self-important, pompous arse.”

Harry held his tongue at the irony. “Do you like anyone here?” he asked, quirking a brow. “It might not be a good idea to alienate all your options, or you’ll end up being stuck with me.”

“Even you’d be an improvement over this.” Draco flopped on the bed, the mattress dipping gracefully under his weight. “I can’t stand it, being around all these strangers.” He stood as quickly as he’d sat, pacing the length of the room and tugging at his collar. “I can’t breathe; I feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin if I stay here another minute. You’ve no idea what it feels like, to be held prisoner here again.”

Harry took a long look. Draco’s golden complexion had already begun to fade, his intense eyes now a dishwater grey. His fingers were curled inward—nearly claw-like—while his shoulders remained tensed, his body restless and trembling.

“Hey.” Harry approached him cautiously. “Hey,” he repeated as Draco stiffened. Harry reached out, resting his hand along the swell of Draco’s bicep as he tried to reassure him.

The shock of magic which poured through him at the contact made Harry cry out. It burned, liquid hot through his veins, whiting out his vision as his heart sped, fluttering against his ribs. The world around him dissolved into a dull roar save for Draco’s gasp, a soft, indecipherable noise that escaped from Draco’s perfect, sexy mouth, causing Harry’s blood to pulse at a fevered pitch.

"Potter,” Draco shuddered as he leaned into Harry’s touch.

A voice in the back of Harry’s mind screamed that this was wrong, but the months of want compounded by countless sleepless nights caused logic to evaporate as everything narrowed down to the sudden need to feel Draco’s body against his. Harry surged forward, nearly sobbing with relief as Draco gripped the front of his robes, angling their bodies so their chests lay flush. Draco’s breath brushed tantalisingly hot against Harry’s cheek, prickling his skin, teasing him with that sweet mouth that lay so close.

Kiss me, he thought, but before he could get the words out Draco had turned his head, the soft press of his lips snatching away any remaining rational thought.

Harry inhaled deeply, unable to get enough of the salty tang of Draco’s skin, the spicy fragrance of his hair and the sharp citrus-notes of his soap. His mouth parted under Draco’s assault, Draco’s tentative licks growing bolder as he sucked and probed that wet heat. Harry pressed closer, unable to stop the grinding of his hips as his cock hardened with each passing second, his fingers splayed against the curve of Draco’s arse, pulling him in, seeking relief. It was as if all these months of wanting, all these years of wondering and waiting, had come down to this.

“God, yes, Harry,” Draco moaned throatily, the swell of his prick rubbing against Harry’s thigh.

Oh, God. Oh fuck. The sound of Draco’s voice—the voice that had haunted Harry’s dreams—was like ice water in his veins.

“It’s you,” Harry gasped, the sound nearly unrecognisable as he took a step back. “You’re—”

Draco moved closer. His pupils were dilated, his gaze almost unseeing as he caged Harry in. “You feel it too, don’t you Potter?” he asked, his voice husky. “I can feel how much you want it. How much you want me to fuck you.” His finger traced a line down Harry’s chest, slow and sensual. “I bet you’re thinking about how it’ll feel, my fingers working your arse, getting you all wet and loose for my cock.” His eyes flicked down to Harry’s obscenely tented trousers, then back up to his parted mouth. “Merlin, you’re practically gagging for it.” The feral smile he wore when he heard Harry’s moan made Harry’s heart race even faster.

He fumbled for his wand, squeezing his eyes tightly as he fought against his lust-filled thoughts. Malfoy’s scent—the way he tasted—was so intoxicating. “Malfoy—wait.” Harry tried to steady his voice, to avoid focusing on the ache that lingered in his groin. “This is mad; you don’t even like me.”

“Actually, Potter, I think I like you very much.” Draco’s eyes were half-lidded, pupils glassy, his voice dripping with seduction as he advanced once more. “Although if you were underneath me, I’d like you even better.”

The discomfiture and uncertainty which he had exuded had disappeared, replaced by something purposeful and determined. Even the pallor which marred his face had changed; once again, Harry could swear that Draco was radiant. Glowing.

It had to be a curse, or a dark spell that was causing them both to act as if they’d just downed several phials of a love potion. “Don’t move any closer, or I’ll be forced to restrain you,” Harry grit out.

Draco lifted his brow and purred. “If that’s your idea of fun,” he smirked.

“Levicorpus! Incarcerous!” The strands of magic uncoiled from Harry’s wand, lashing through the air and wrapping themselves around Draco’s wrists and ankles as he was hoisted above the ground. His body was propelled backwards, landing in a chair with a painful-sounding thump.

“I’m sorry,” Harry apologised. He froze as he caught sight of Draco’s expression, which had morphed from shock to anger, and finally, abject humiliation. “We must have triggered a latent curse. I… I’m going to find one of the Curse-breakers.”

He spun on his heel and ran out of the room to the sounds of Draco’s angry howls, confused by the knowledge that despite the wrongness of everything that had just happened, it had also felt so right.

.~oOo~.

Bill gave one last flick of his wand, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” he said as the last traces of the detection spell faded. “But there’s no evidence of any spellwork on either of you. Well, aside from the ones that Harry had cast,” he added as Harry shifted uncomfortably and Malfoy looked away in embarrassment.

“I don’t understand. Something happened.” Harry hesitated; he wasn’t sure how one went about explaining that they were hit with the sudden and overwhelming desire to be bent over a table and fucked thoroughly by their former enemy. “It was like I was Imperiused, or something.”

Bill looked at him strangely. “I thought you were able to throw off such spells.”

“Okay, maybe it wasn’t an Imperius. But I felt dangerously out of control, almost to the point where I couldn’t think rationally.”

“Did it seem one-sided? Or were you reacting to, or feeding off, one another?”

“I’m not sure,” Harry hedged, suddenly reluctant to discuss it further. “But it was overwhelming.” Almost frightening.

Malfoy broke in. “You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.”

Harry stared. “I recall several instances that say otherwise.”

Spots of colour tinted Malfoy’s cheeks. “Things change. People change. Besides, I’m trapped in a house with the most powerful wizard of our generation and a team of his armed men. I may have done a lot of regrettable things in my life, but I’m not that stupid.”

Bill cleared his throat. “Did you feel something similar, Draco?”

Malfoy hesitated, appearing to choose his words deliberately. “I’ve been feeling restless and uneasy—unusually so. To be fair, it’s something that I’ve felt ever since I returned to England, but in the last several days, it’s been even more noticeable.”

“And that feeling coincided with the time you were placed under Auror protection?”

“Yes.” Draco swallowed, the movement fluid, and it was all Harry could do to stop himself from drooling at the long line of his throat. “I’m sure that part of it has to do with the memories of the last time I was a prisoner in my own home. By the time Harry and his team had arrived, I was already quite undone. I haven’t been feeling well physically, and when Harry went to steady me, I lost control of my emotions as well.”

Harry stared as Draco made his statement. He’d just experienced something so intensely pleasurable he nearly came in his pants like a bloody teenager, but Malfoy made it seem as if the experience had been nothing less than excruciating.

He took a shaky breath and turned, walking over to the window to hide his dull flush as he stared out over the gardens. The sun’s rays were able to penetrate the layers of wards but a pair of turtle doves had no such luck, their search for a roost thwarted once they encountered the invisible barrier. They cooed their frustration, the softness of their underbellies becoming visible as they turned around mid-flight.

Bill and Draco were still conversing when Harry returned. Draco leaned back in his chair with an unhappy expression on his face, while Bill appeared thoughtful.

“I think it might be Draco’s innate magic,” Bill told Harry. “Almost like accidental magic, but more focused. The confinement indoors, especially considering his activity in recent years, combined with the negative associations of being held prisoner in the Manor, are triggering its discharge.”

“So why is this happening only around me?” Harry asked, feeling both frustrated and pleased that Draco had yet to manifest his symptoms with anyone else.

“I’m not sure. Maybe it’s because you symbolise the ‘other side,’ the other choice he could have made in the War.” Bill held up his hands in the face of Harry’s grim expression. “I’m sorry, Harry—I know how much you hate being held as the representation, but you cannot deny its truth.”

“It’s just that I’d just like to be thought of as more than a poster child, for once.”

“Well, another possibility would be your shared history. You and Draco have a personal connection, unlike the relationship he has with the other Aurors. If I were to believe half the stories my brother’s told me, your relationship was filled with intense and conflicting emotion. Given that, it’s not a stretch to think that Draco’s magic could respond in this way around you.”

“So what can we do about it? I can’t do my job if we’re both going to be so…distracted.” A lump grew in Harry’s throat. “Maybe it would be better if I took myself off the job?” For some reason, that was a horrifying thought.

“No,” Draco said wildly, his eyes widening as if he were surprised by his own outburst. “Despite what I may have led you to believe, Potter, I know that you’re the best. Perhaps if you took yourself off my detail and concentrated on my mother’s instead.”

Bill shook his head. “I can only imagine how distressing this is to both of you, but I think that would only be a temporary fix. If my theory is right, then your magic will eventually find another outlet for release. It’s just that Harry is a stronger, and more effective, catalyst.”

“So I’m fucked,” Draco said dully. “My choices are to either put myself at risk for an attack by leaving the Manor, or to be victimised by my own magic.”

Harry swore under his breath. “Maybe there’s something we can use to suppress it? Rein it in a bit?”

“I wouldn’t recommend that,” Bill said dryly. “Dampening Draco’s magical core could have serious effects. On the immediate side of things, it could alter his ability to cast more complex spells—certainly not an ideal situation given the circumstances, Ministry protection or not. And there are consequences for long-term suppression of one’s magical reserves.

“My suggestion would be to look for something protective. Perhaps a piece of jewelry, or a small article of clothing. Something that could be worn discreetly, that could be charmed with defensive and protective spells. That way, you can leave the Manor for short periods, hopefully appeasing whatever is making your magic go haywire. Even though there would still be a risk, the additional protection and that of your Auror detail will decrease the chance of magical core damage significantly.”

“An amulet. We still have a few heirlooms in our possession; these may be even better since our family’s magical signature is already embedded inside them.”

“If you have any on hand, I could take a look. Those would likely be best, as long as their magic doesn’t counteract the protective charms.”

They sorted through several pieces that Draco was able to find on short notice, finally settling on a stunning pendant, its gold, latticework frame adorned with collet-set emeralds and red enamel.

“It was my great-great-great grandmother Cressida’s,” Draco said as Harry admired the handiwork. “She was reputed to be one of the most beautiful and charismatic witches of her time. Family lore is that my great-great-great-great grandfather had this made to protect her from the advances of any unwanted suitors.”

“This could work,” Bill agreed, eyeing the piece over Harry’s shoulder.

“I have a meeting set up with our equipment specialist this evening. Elliot’s brilliant; he might be able to do something on short notice,” Harry said, his chest puffing a bit as Draco’s eyes flared with hope.

“I trust your advice.” Draco placed the pendant back in its velvet-lined box and held it out to Harry. “And thank you both. I can’t tell you what a relief this will be.”

Harry noticed that both he and Draco had been especially careful not to touch each other during the handoff.

.~oOo~.

“Wow.” Elliot let out a low whistle as he studied the pendant from behind his goggles. “This is amazing. It’s easily sixteenth century, and the metal and jewels look to be original. It must have cost a fortune.” His brows lowered, their ends angling towards the bridge of his nose. He studied it for several more seconds before sitting up, pushing at his goggles. “When did you say the Malfoys made this into an amulet?”

“Not sure; Draco said it was his great-great-great grandmother’s.”

“So this came into his family’s possession at least one-hundred fifty to two-hundred years ago. It’s strange; the magic in this pendant seems to have an affinity for only one family line.”

“So you think it’s been in Malfoy’s family for even longer?”

Elliot shrugged. “Could be. Could also mean that it’s not tied to the Malfoys magically, and that his ancestors were swindled into purchasing something that never did what it was purported to.”

“Is there any way to find out?”

“Glad you asked,” Elliot grinned. He walked over to a cabinet in the corner, looking over its contents until he withdrew a glass phial containing a luminescent substance. “It’s Draco Malfoy’s magical signature,” Elliot explained as he teased a small, silver strand onto the flat end of a tiny spatula.

“The one that the Ministry collected when they confiscated his wand?” Harry asked.

“The very same. It’s not the entire amount; the remainder lies somewhere in the bowels of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. But they gave me a sample to help individualise the SmartScope for the Malfoys’ use.” He placed the delicate strand inside a small wooden bowl, then added some re’em blood, dried polypody, and powdered griffin claw. The paste seeped into the strand, turning it a dark red.

“So you’re using the information from his signature to determine whether the pendant was keyed to someone within the Malfoy line?”

“Yes and no. The charm I’m adding has a dual purpose. It will allow us to see if there’s a magical connection between the pendant and Draco’s paternal or maternal lines, if one exists. But its main purpose is to amplify the owner’s strength and healing abilities. Since I don’t have time to layer the individual spells separately, we’re using Malfoy’s signature as the binding agent for the amulet.”

“You mentioned there was only evidence of one magical line. What happens if the pendant was never keyed to the Malfoys to begin with? Or worse, if it belonged to a family they disliked?” Harry asked, his voice faint.

“Then I hope you’re an expert with a Reparo. Or at the very least, that the Ministry’s insurance covers destruction of property.” At Harry’s dismayed look, Elliot burst out laughing. “Don’t worry. It’s highly unlikely that there’ll be a violent reaction. Most of the times, the charm just doesn’t take, unless there’s been a history of severe antagonism between the donor and owner lines. Also, these are purebloods we’re talking about. There’s probably been some intermarriage, somewhere along the way.”

“Fine,” Harry sighed. “But if it doesn’t go well, you’re telling him.” He didn’t want to think about the consequences if he were to return the heirloom in pieces. Draco’s day-to-day irritability was difficult enough to deal with.

Elliot grinned, then repositioned his goggles. He grasped the end of the strand with a pair of micro tweezers and began winding it around the edges of the pendant, pausing several times to concentrate on those areas which contained the more delicate filigree work. The strand shimmered on contact then flared, before slowly dissipating, embedding itself within the stone and the surrounding metal. When he finished, the pendant appeared untouched.

He waved his wand carefully over the margins, muttering a Revelio spell. “It took. Looks like his great-great-great grandmum got her money’s worth, after all.” He put the pendant back in its case and handed it to Harry. “Remind Malfoy that this isn’t a failsafe. There’s no such thing; all this does is increase his chances of survival should he become the victim of an attack. I’ve seen cases where such objects gives the wearer a false sense of security; it can actually lead them to make foolish decisions, and bring even more serious consequences as a result of misguided feelings of invincibility.”

Elliot looked away then, his face twisting into something bitter. It was a surprising look for someone who was usually smiling and with a ready quip on the tip of their tongue. Harry debated delving deeper but was interrupted when the door to the lab flew open with a bang.

“Elliot! Get your sorry arse off the bench, we’re going to be late! Oh—” Max Fletcher resembled a house-elf in that moment as he turned and spotted Harry, his gentle features slackening as his eyes widened. “Hey, Harry. Sorry; didn’t realise you’d still be working.” He leaned against one of the counters, looking suddenly ill at ease.

“Shift ended?” Harry asked, unable to hide his surprise. He’d no idea that Max and Elliot were on such familiar terms.

“Yeah. Ben came in early. And Davis switched with Harper, taking the overnight. Something about Harper’s anniversary.” Max’s face broke out into a slow grin. “You know, despite all their bickering, I do believe she’s fond of the old bugger, at least in a ‘He’s my daft uncle but I love him’ kind of way. Speaking of which, thanks for covering for me earlier.”

“I remind you of your daft uncle?” Harry laughed.

Elliot looked up from where he was cleaning his goggles. “We’re catching a bite to eat, Harry, if you want to come along.”

A weariness fell over Harry. Suddenly, he felt unbearably lonely.

“Thanks, but I’ve got a hot date with some leftover take-out and my bed. Elliot, you’re brilliant. Thanks for all your help.” He placed the amulet in the inner pocket of his robe for safekeeping. He felt his heart beat faster at its presence, and told himself that it was only because he was eager to test out the newly charmed object, and not for any other reason that he looked so forward to seeing Malfoy in the morning.

.~oOo~.

“Your Elliot did a good job,” Malfoy said as he ran fingers gently over the pendant’s smooth curves. “Based on its appearance, I wouldn’t have even known it was modified.”

Harry refrained from imagining they were touching something else. “He’s not my Elliot,” he said a bit petulantly. “But he is good. Amazing, in fact.”

Draco stared at the amulet, his eyes narrowing as he hefted it in his palm as if to discern its magical properties. “What did he do?”

“He added a charm that amplifies your innate strength and healing powers. It may also potentiate any spells that you cast within those categories. But he was also careful to warn that it’s all the charm does. If one were to hit you with an AK, for instance—”

“Then at least I would’ve lived, instead of hiding away like a coward,” Draco spat. He turned the amulet over. “It feels comforting; the magic is gentle, but definitely present. Very natural.” Draco went to his desk and rummaged through the top drawer, eventually withdrawing a leather cord which he threaded through the pendant’s bail.  “Would you mind?” he asked, raising his arms up alongside his neck.

Their fingers brushed as Harry took the ends of the cord. “Could they make these things any smaller?” he grumbled as he fiddled with the gold clasp. He leaned in and immediately regretted his decision as he caught a whiff of Malfoy’s intoxicating scent.

Merlin… Malfoy smelled incredible, like leather and spice, dark magic and sharp citrus, and summer and sex. Harry exhaled, the whoosh of his breath curling around the nape of Malfoy’s neck, causing the fine, blond hairs which lay against it to flutter. Several of the hairs brushed against Harry’s fingers, and he realised to his mortification that his cock was half-hard.

Harry let go of the clasp as it sprung into place, then stepped back. “It’s done,” he choked out, trying to steady his breath.

Draco turned around; the pendant lay against his skin, the colour appearing even warmer against his sun-kissed flesh, which was now tinted with the faintest blush. “I’d like to go out somewhere…anywhere, now that I have this. If you’re agreeable, that is,” he added, his grey eyes stormy and unreadable.

Harry ran his hand through his hair as some of the heat receded. “Lunch, then. At a Muggle venue, and only for an hour.”

“That hour makes all the difference in the world,” Draco said gratefully. “Thank you, Potter; you won’t regret this.

.~oOo~.

Fifteen minutes was all it took for Harry to know he’d made a mistake.

“Oh, Merlin,” Malfoy moaned. The tip of his tongue swiped along the edge of his mouth, collecting the hint of oil which had collected at the corners. “I’d forgotten how amazing fresh olive oil can taste. The hint of acridness, the trace of spice; the hit of pepper at the end.” He took another taste, his tongue moving around in an obscene manner before he sucked and swallowed. “It’s practically orgasmic.”

“Can you stop?” Harry gritted his teeth as the couple next to them tittered.

He hunched down further in his seat and looked around. The restaurant was a place that he’d frequented before, but he’d never recalled the tables being so small, or positioned so close together. It didn’t help that Draco’s legs were so very, very long—so long that they couldn’t rest comfortably under the table. Instead, Draco sat with his long limbs straddling Harry’s on either side, the edges of their knees touching. And it didn’t help that Malfoy continued to make all those pleased sounds in between his bites of bread, or that his mouth formed a slick seal against the rim of his glass, or that his throat rippled enticingly as he tipped his head back, his lips lifting off all pink and wet.

“Stop eating?” Draco drawled as put down his drink. Harry watched as a water droplet inched slowly down the side of the glass, gathering speed until it caught, then spread, between the base and the table top. “But lunch was your suggestion. Or would you rather be doing something else?”

“Aren’t they adorable?” the girl sitting next to them asked her companion in a faux-whisper, complete with an American twang. “They’ve obviously known each other for so long. And they’re still so flirty.”

“Totally dreamy,” her companion sighed. “British men are so hot."

Harry shot them both a baleful glare before turning his attention back to Draco. “Of course you can eat, it would just be nice if you could do so like an ordinary person,” he hissed.

“But Potter,” Draco blinked. “You know that I’m anything but ordinary.”

Harry held his breath, then sighed with relief as Draco shrugged, picked up another piece of bread, dipped it and ate it without further commentary. Harry broke off a piece of bread from the basket as well and chewed, finally giving in to his curiosity once the silence grew deafening.

“Do you regret coming back to England?” he asked.

“I don’t know that I had a choice.” Draco went quiet for a bit as the waitress returned with their entrees, then picked back up once she’d left. “I’ve thought about it a bit, after you’d asked me the first time. I would have come back regardless, once I’d learned that my mother’s life was in danger.”

“Not just hers.”

“Point. The strange thing is, I should’ve been happy in Italy. I live in a town that I truly love, surrounded by beauty and people who accept me. But something kept calling me back, as if there were things here that were left unfinished.”

Harry wondered whether there was someone waiting for Draco back in Nerano, then decided he’d rather not know. “So do you make a living picking olives, or…?”

Draco snorted. “No. I wish I could say that I lived off the land like some modern homesteader, but needs must. I obtain rare potions ingredients for a Potions Master at the Accademia di Studi Magici in Florence. To Muggles, I’m in the import and export business. To the wizarding community, I’m finally doing something respectable. For myself, I get the best of both worlds: a job I enjoy, in a place that I love, while indulging in my love for travel.” His fork hovered over a sliver of calamari and fennel. “What about you? Is being an illustrious Auror everything you’d hoped for?”

“I’m good at it. Ron’s convinced they’re grooming me for Dawlish’s position once he retires.” Harry looked down at his grilled chicken and speared it forcefully, causing the salmoriglio sauce to slosh around its bowl, clinging to the sides.

“For Salazar’s sake, Potter, the poor thing’s no longer alive. And of course you’re good at the whole Auroring thing, any idiot could guess that—you’ve a natural ability for magic, plus you defeated the darkest wizard of our time.” Draco looked at Harry, his gaze unwavering. “But are you happy?”

Harry gripped his fork, the tips of his ears burning. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know; maybe it’s because most of the time, you act like a herd of hippogriffs ran over your pet Kneazle nowadays,” Draco said, returning to his salad.

“First, that’s a terrible analogy, and no, I’m not unhappy.” Harry grimaced as the words rang false to his ears. “I do what I’m needed to do.”

“Do you?” Draco asked, looking at his plate.

“Of course I do! They need…that is, I help in the best way I can.”

Draco sipped his drink. “Help whom?”

Harry stared. “It’s not about acting a martyr, if that’s what you’re implying. It’s about responsibility. But I guess you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you Malfoy?”

“Of course not. What could I possibly know about familial expectations or responsibility?” Draco hissed, pink staining his cheeks.

Harry thought back to the drawing room in which they’d sat earlier that day, the one that could never be scrubbed clean of its deadly memories. “Your family supported a megalomaniacal, murdering madman!”

Draco turned white as a sheet. “Fuck you,” he whispered. “Don’t you think I know that? There’s not a day that goes by that I’m not reminded of it. But it didn't make my defiance of their expectations any easier. They were my family, and I was their child. I grew up believing I was the center of their universe, and that they were mine.”

“At least you still had your family.” Harry pushed his seat back violently, the legs screeching against the floor in protest. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“That’s right; run away, Potter.”

Harry threw down his fork; it skittered across the table, pitching over the edge and onto floor. “You’re mistaken; that was your role.” His eyes flashed angrily as he tried to rein in his magic. He may have been going through life in a half-dazed state, his general dissatisfaction compounded by the lack of sleep and the breakdown of his marriage, but no one—and certainly not Draco Malfoy, of all people—had the right to question his personal choices. “Enjoy the rest of your meal; I’ve lost my appetite.”

He strode to the loo, getting a primal thrill from the sound of the door banging against the wall as it slammed open. A pair of footsteps fell close behind him, followed by the sounds of a locking and silencing spell.

Draco’s slim hand lashed out, grabbing a hold of Harry’s arm and whirling him around as his eyes sparked in anger.

“You survived an Unforgivable when you were a babe, but you run when confronted with the truth,” he bit out furiously. “Is that a privilege that you grant Weasley and Granger as well, or is it reserved solely for me?”

Harry seethed. “They’re my friends, Malfoy. You’re not.”

“Not for lack of trying! That's all I wanted to be when we’d first met, but you refused my hand!”

Harry’s expression was stony and unforgiving. “And then you bullied me and my friends in retaliation.”

“I listened to and believed in the wrong people.”

“You lis—I lived with Voldemort’s voice in my head for years!” Harry roared as Draco flinched.

“And what about now?” Draco persisted, his lips quavering. “After speaking up for me at my trial, I thought you were able to see that I was someone worth saving. No matter what I do, no matter how I try to show my contrition, will it ever be enough?”

“That's not for me to decide! For fuck’s sake, Malfoy, what do you want from me? I’m here, placing my life on the line to guard your sorry arse, aren’t I?” Harry’s vision blurred, the white-tiled walls swimming hot and fast as he tripped over his words. “Why do you even care?!”

“I’ve always cared. Ever since I’ve met you, I’ve cared!” Draco took a step forward, his voice growing  persuasive and determined. “I may not have handled your rejection well, a situation made worse because I was a spoilt and immature prat. But I’ve always cared about what you thought. It's driven my actions, for as long as I can remember.” He was so close that Harry could see the flecks of hazel in his eyes, the sunlight which streamed through the side window framing his entire face in a golden halo.

“I care about you, Harry,” Draco repeated softly. He stood unnaturally still, separated by a hair’s breadth, the heat rolling off of him in waves. “I understand you better than you think.”

“How could you?” It came out as a broken whisper. A part of him was tired of running, of hiding. Of resisting the pull to connect with another human—even if that person was Draco Malfoy. “My life’s been defined by things outside my control for so long. How could you know me, when I don’t even know myself?”

“Harry.” Draco’s graceful fingers reached up as he cupped Harry’s chin gently. “It’s okay to be imperfect. It’s okay to be angry and confused, to tell the world to fuck the bloody hell off.” He tilted Harry’s chin back, exposing the line of his throat. “It’s okay to want things. To be selfish, once in awhile. To do things that may be… unexpected.” His voice was like a caress, low and hypnotic. “What is it that you desire, Harry? That you need?”

The grey in Draco’s eyes had thinned to a sliver, his pupils large and the colour of obsidian. Harry felt his heart race at Draco’s infuriating blend of beauty and antagonism, the lust and desire which he’d harboured ever since he first spotted Draco in the Leaky breaking through all his pent-up frustration and bottled-up anger.

“I had a choice,” Harry whispered as he leaned in closer. “When Voldemort cast an Avada Kedavra on me in the Forbidden Forest, I had choice: to give up, or go on living.”

“Harry,” Draco crooned, the heat of his breath curling around the base of Harry’s neck, causing him to shiver. Draco’s delicate nostrils flared as his eyes grew even darker. “Let yourself live, then. You want this; I can tell.” Draco’s lips brushed lightly against the prickled flesh, causing Harry’s magic to spark as he let out a whimper.

“Oh God, yes.” Harry let out a needy whine as his hand snaked around the back of Draco’s head, pulling him closer. Their lips touched—soft and tentative at first, the kiss turning impassioned as Harry grew bolder.

He leaned back, green eyes wide with surprise as they came up for breath, the hint of pepper and bitter olives on his tongue. Draco pressed against him, begging him for another.

“Wanted you forever,” he growled. His tongue pressed forward, seeking entrance into Harry’s mouth, his fingers pulling at Harry’s hips until they lay flush against one another, the hard lines of their erections straining against the front of their trousers. Draco seemed to know exactly what Harry wanted—how every swipe of his tongue inside the heat of Harry’s mouth would cause him to cling, how the rutting of their hips would make Harry’s knees sway and buckle. How the sight of him, blond hair rumpled, cheeks red and lips swollen, would fill Harry with the urge to feel those spit-slicked lips around his cock so that he could ruin Draco’s perfect facade even more.

“Yes. I want that, too, Harry. Let me show you how much,” Draco said huskily as he sank to the floor.

Harry groaned at the sight as Draco positioned himself, pink mouth between his thighs, long legs splayed against the utilitarian tiles. The sound of his fly being lowered echoed throughout the loo’s walls, the zip of the metallic teeth matching the rhythm of his breaths as they increased in speed.

“Oh, Merlin. Oh, fuck,” Harry shuddered as Draco’s hot breath skated over the front of his briefs, moistening the cotton. His cock twitched as Draco teased the fabric, the tip of his prick reddened, straining at the elastic.

He wanted it now…needed nothing more than to feel Draco’s lips on his heated skin, to see that gloriously pouty mouth stretched out beautifully over his prick, swallowing him down. Draco moaned, palming himself as he tugged Harry’s jeans and Y-fronts down to his ankles, his face greedy with need as Harry’s cock bobbed out in front of him.

“Salazar.” Draco ran his hands along Harry’s legs—up the sides, below his arse, between his thighs—as if memorising each curve and line. “You’re gorgeous, Harry.” He worked his fingers to the base of Harry’s cock, his face in awe as if he truly believed the honeyed words spilling out from his mouth, his fingers encircling the root as he guided Harry’s prick towards his lips almost reverently.

A bead of clear fluid appeared at the slit. Draco’s tongue darted out to catch it, licking and lapping, under and around, the tip swirling around the velvety head. Harry’s cock ached, the tip glistened with precome and spit. Draco hummed as he hollowed out his cheeks, his expression rapturous as he sucked it down.

“We can’t… oh, God, fuck. Fuck." Harry let out a groan as his cock continued to stiffen and swell. He reached back, his hands scrabbling to find the edge of the sink, the porcelain burning ice-hot against his skin. He was torn between watching Draco and closing his eyes, and just revelling in the intensity of the sensations. Draco’s grey eyes suddenly lifted, boring into his own, his sinful mouth opening even wider as he redoubled his efforts and swallowed the entire length of him—lips to root, nose to curls, his eyes hard and glittering as if daring Harry to look anywhere else.

Their sounds filled the small space, loud and filthy. Harry grunted, his hips snapping forward in time to Draco’s nasally exhalations.

“Jesus, Malfoy, your mouth,” Harry rasped as Draco cupped his balls. “It’s bloody brilliant.” He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep from bucking uncontrollably against Draco’s face.

Let go; I want you to use me. Fuck my mouth, Harry. Harry’s eyes flew open at the words, but Draco was still working his cock, his finger tracing a line backwards and insinuating itself in the cleft of Harry’s arse. Harry spread his legs further; he felt his thighs strain, his buttocks clenching as Draco’s finger circled the rim, that sharp face gleaming with something almost victorious as the heat coiled deep in Harry’s groin and his legs began to judder.

The sensations grew too intense and overwhelming. Harry grabbed a fistful of Draco’s hair, his fingers winding around those pale locks as he began to thrust uncontrollably into the tightness of Draco’s mouth, the head of his cock repeatedly hitting the back of Draco’s throat.

“Draco…. I’m going to…” Harry tried to hang on as he felt his orgasm building, but then Draco pushed, the tip of his finger breaching the tight ring of Harry’s opening as his entire world exploded, nearly sobbing in relief as he climaxed into the warmth of Draco’s mouth.

“Draco. Oh God, oh fuck.” A flood of nonsensical words spilled out afterwards, a litany of thanks as Draco stilled and just swallowed, taking it all down. When the last throes of Harry’s orgasm subsided, Draco stood, the end of his tongue swiping at the small drop of come that had accumulated at the corner of his lips.

“You’re so beautiful, Harry,” Draco whispered, his voice low and hard. His tongue brushed along the angle of Harry’s jaw, the scent of sweat and sex clinging to his skin. “So beautifully responsive. It was like you were made for my mouth.” He kissed Harry again, and Harry tasted himself in it, all of the bitterness mixed with salt. Draco pressed against him, his long legs slotting in between Harry’s thighs, the stiffness of his prick unmistakable.

They worked together, two pairs of hands flying frantically to open the buttons and zipper of Draco’s trousers. Harry glanced down as Draco’s cock sprang free, beautifully pink and long, its head swollen and flushed.

Even spent, Harry’s prick gave a valiant twitch. “Your turn,” he breathed as he wrapped his hand around Draco’s shaft and started to stroke. Draco keened, these beautiful little breathy sounds leaving his throat as he swayed forward, his lips latching onto the crook of Harry’s neck.

The strokes grew harder, faster, propelled by Draco’s high-pitched whines as he rutted into the friction of Harry’s fist. He mouthed along the sweep of Harry’s throat, his lips stopping over the part which pulsed along with the beat of Harry’s heart.

“Harry. My Harry. Only you.” Draco nipped at the crook of Harry’s neck as his prick throbbed and stiffened in Harry’s hand, then he sank his teeth into the sensitive skin with a cry.

A heat rushed through Harry as Draco came, the thick fluid of his release coating his hand.

“Salazar, it’s so good, so good,” Draco groaned, his hips pumping several more times before he collapsed, the weight of his body sagging against Harry’s chest.

Harry swallowed. It was more than incredible—having Draco Malfoy fall apart from his hand was the hottest thing he’d ever experienced. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall, his features nearly unrecognisable. His thick shock of hair was wilder than ever, his glasses askew, his green eyes still dazed from the remnants of his lust, his expression sated and almost content.

Draco’s head had settled along the side of Harry’s cheek. After several minutes he lifted it up, exposing the purpling bruise on Harry’s throat. The damning evidence of their activity pulled Harry out of his blissful state as the mottled blotch glared at him accusingly.

“You marked me,” Harry whispered.

Draco fluttered his pale lashes, a lazy grin sweeping his face.

“I did, didn’t I.” He raised his hand, his thumb swiping across the tender flesh as Harry let out a hiss. “Can’t say I’m sorry, though; I kind of like it.” He hesitated. “I can heal it, if you wish.”

Guilt settled over Harry heavily. “Leave it,” he said, shaking his head as he cast several cleaning charms and set himself to rights. “We’ve got to get back to the Manor.”

Draco stiffened. “Potter…”

“We were only supposed to be gone an hour. We don’t even know if…” Harry busied himself frantically, straightening out his cuffs, his eyes sweeping over the small space of the loo as he looked everywhere, anywhere but at Draco.

“Harry. Don’t say it.” There was an unmistakable edge to Draco’s voice.

Harry stilled. “This was wrong. We shouldn’t have done this,” he said quietly.

Something dripped from the faucet, splattering against the porcelain.

“Too good to have your hands soiled by Death Eater prick?”

“No!” Harry looked up, startled by the hurt in Draco’s expression. “I’m supposed to be protecting you! This… it’s a misuse of my role; an abuse of power!”

“Is that what you think?!” Draco snarled. “Do you think I had no choice in what just happened? Do you honestly think that I’d feel so indebted to the fucking Ministry—to the same fuckers who have taken nearly everything from my family and me—that I’d drop to my knees and blow you out of sheer gratitude?”

Harry’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Whatever. It’s not right, and it can’t happen again.”

Draco stared. Those same eyes which had just gazed at Harry with warmth and fondness, now flashed ice cold.

“You’re wrong. You’re wrong, and you’re a coward, Harry Potter,” Draco declared. He flicked his wand to dispel the locking charm on the door before stalking out.

.~oOo~.

Shit.

Harry fumbled his keys, jiggling at the lock until he threw the entire ring back in his pocket and cast an Alomahora. It had been eight hours since he’d left Malfoy seething at the Manor, after which he’d headed straight to the nearest pub and proceeded to get bladdered. After several drinks, his addled brain had also become convinced that it would be a good idea to try to forget his transgressions by flirting with the very fit blond who’d been eyeing him all night.

But despite the man’s good looks and obvious eagerness, Harry had left frustrated and empty-handed. He couldn’t shake the image of Malfoy’s lips stretched wide around his cock, or the way his grey eyes had shone, bright and triumphant, as Harry’s hand had flown furiously over his prick. He couldn’t minimise the power and vulnerability he’d felt, nor the intensity of emotions that rioted through him, as he came apart from Draco’s hands and mouth.

Harry brought his fingers to his throat, their tips brushing the tender bruise. He shuddered, either from the pain or the recollection of the very moment when Draco had bitten him, the capillaries bursting below the surface of Harry’s skin as the mark bloomed.

Light streamed in from the kitchen. Harry frowned, a trickle of unease filtering through his whisky-laden brain as he reached for his wand. His eyes narrowed as the flutter of a robe and a flash of freckled skin crossed over into his line of vision.

Harry acted on years of instinct. He rushed forward, grabbing the intruder’s arm and twisting it behind his back as he dug the point of his wand against the man’s throat.

“Jesus Christ, Harry,” Ron gasped. “That’s no way to greet your best mate…”

Harry released him roughly as Ron stepped back, rubbing his arm warily. There was a small noise in the corner and it was then that Harry noticed Samara Davis, her pretty face drawn as she watched them with a gobsmacked expression.

“What the fuck are the two of you doing here? Inside my home?!” Harry asked as alarm slid into embarrassment.

“We tried to reach you,” Ron said accusingly. “You didn’t respond to our owls. I even sent a Patronus.”

“I was in a Muggle pub. I had a Repello Inimictum and a Protego up.”

“Why would you do that when we’re in the middle of—?” Ron’s eyes hardened as he took in Harry’s bloodshot and bleary eyes, his nostrils flaring from the smell of alcohol on his breath. “Oh. I see.”

Harry knew that Ron disapproved of his activities following the divorce, but thankfully he’d never said anything reproachful, trusting Harry to live and learn from his mistakes. But there was a silent censure in Ron’s gaze now that, given the events of the day, Harry was in no mood to engage in.

“You still haven’t told me why you felt it necessary to break into my home. Along with Auror Davis,” he said, going on the offensive.

“I’m the only one on the team who’s keyed into your wards. Believe me, if there was any other way, we wouldn’t have resorted to this. And Davis is an eyewitness.”

“An eyewitness…what do you mean?” An ice-cold chill crept over Harry as he turned towards Samara, his voice rising in pitch. “You were supposed to be on tonight. Who’s taken your place?”

Ron moved over, putting his arm reassuringly around Samara. “Zach and Ben. We figured between Zach’s experience and Ben’s defensive skills, they were the best people to manage the situation until you got there.”

“What situation?! You still haven’t told me what’s going on!”

“It’s Mr Malfoy, sir,” Samara interjected, her voice wavering. “We think he’s been cursed.”

Chapter Text

Not sure what happened, sir,” Ben swallowed nervously. “Zach and I were guarding the Malfoys after Weasley and Davis left. We never left our posts except to use the loo, and even then, we covered for each other. There’s been no sign of suspicious entry… well, at least in the areas that we were allowed to look, anyway.” 

“What do you mean, that you were ‘allowed to?’” Harry felt the threads of his control slipping away.

“He’s not letting anyone near him, Harry,” Ron hastened to explain. “Whenever someone comes within five feet of his person, he acts like he’s in severe pain. We thought about given him a Calming Draught, but without knowing exactly what he’s been cursed with, we can’t take the chance that it could make things worse. Kingsley’s been notified; Bill and several people from the Spell-Damage ward at St Mungo's just went in.”

“Fuck. I knew we shouldn’t have gone out.” Harry pulled at his hair, cursing the last round of drinks as he thought back on that afternoon. They had been careful to spend their time in Muggle areas, and even then, they’d chosen a restaurant that was tucked away in a discreet, less-travelled location. He’d never left Draco’s side, apart from the minute where he had lost his temper and escaped to the loo.

Harry closed his eyes, his headache growing. A minute could have been enough time for someone to slip a potion into Draco’s drink. If something had happened because he couldn’t rein in his feelings whenever he was confronted by the impossible git…

His eyes flew open. “I have to see him.”

“I don’t know, Harry. His mother’s in with him, along with the Curse- and Spell-Damage teams,” Zach warned. “But even she can’t get near. I’ve never seen any curse like this before. It’s like he’s possessed.”

That was all Harry needed to hear. “I’m the lead on this team, and it’s my decision to make,” he said flatly as he pushed open the door to Draco’s bedroom and barged in.

Merlin and Godric both. The sight that greeted him was…

Draco lay on his bed, the stained and tattered sheets pushed off to the side. He arched and moaned, his torso bared and slick with sweat, the muscles in his neck tensing dangerously as he thrashed about. Bill and one of the Healers were casting furiously, a flurry of lights flashing from the ends of their wands, their bodies sagging under the strain.

“Stop!” Harry cried, unable to bear the look of pain which twisted across Draco’s face as someone attempted a Reparifors. “Can’t you tell this is making him worse?!”

Grey eyes turned towards Harry, pleading and desperate.

“Harry,” Draco croaked, the name a whisper on his lips. He writhed, his body bowing off the bed once more, but this time it didn’t appear to be in pain, but pleasure. In fact, the way that Draco was shuddering, the waistband of his pants drooping lower to expose the outline of his swelling cock and the tops of his golden curls, was almost obscene.

The Tergeo which left the Healer’s wand bounced away from the bed as Harry hurriedly cast a Protego, ignoring the continuing volley of spells as he hurried to Draco’s side.

“Harry—!”

“Mr Potter, wait!”

Someone gasped as Harry approached, grasping Draco’s hand. It was so hot, shaky and feverish to the touch.

“You came,” Draco breathed. His eyes darkened as he tilted his head into the palm of Harry’s hand, inhaling his scent. “You left, but you came back to me.”

Harry tried to ignore the fact that Draco was now almost purring. Or the fact that the sounds of his harsh breaths had tempered into something less strained and more throaty, or that his delicate hips were now rutting into the air as he pressed his face further into Harry’s hand.

“Draco, darling…” Narcissa took a step forward. She let out a gasp as Draco keened and the magic from Harry’s Protego flared wildly around them, holding her back.

“Bill,” Harry said, at a loss for what to do as Draco writhed and moaned. His own face flushed with embarrassment as he felt his traitorous cock harden.

Bill and the Healer who was standing closest to him conferred quickly. “We haven’t been able to detect any signs of a curse on Mr Malfoy,” the Healer determined, “and we can’t perform the remaining tests while he’s in such an uncooperative state. I think it’s safe for us to administer a diluted version of a Calming Draught, but the problem is that he won’t allow any of us to get close enough to do so. Any one of us, except for you,” she amended, looking at Harry’s hand as it rested against Draco’s cheek.

“And you’re sure it will be safe for him to take?”

“Yes. But we have the antidote here, just in case.”

Harry looked at Draco, torn between the sudden urge to shield him from all these outsiders and the possibility of relieving his distress. In the end, it was Draco’s whimpering that dispelled any uncertainties as the plaintive sounds tore through Harry’s heart.

“Do you trust me, Draco?”

Draco closed his eyes. He took Harry’s hand in his own and squeezed. Always, he seemed to say.

Harry dismantled his Protego, eyeing the purple flask which the Healer held out to him. “This looks okay,” he whispered to Draco as he knelt down, his words only loud enough for Draco’s ears. “Sometimes I’m attuned to darker magic—I guess because Voldemort was in my head for so long. But this feels safe.” He popped off the top to the phial and placed it next to Draco’s lips. “Will you take this? So we can find out what’s going on?”

Silver eyes popped open, suddenly burning with intensity. “Don’t leave me, Harry.”

“I promise. I’ll stay here all night, if I have to.” Harry held up the phial once more.

Draco remained silent, then downed the draught in one go. There was a collective sigh of relief when, after several more minutes, he finally gave in to his exhaustion and fell asleep.

.~oOo~.

“Harry.” A hand rubbed his shoulder, more insistent and forceful than the first time. “Harry!”

Harry shifted, his legs protesting the movement as he let out a groan. His bleary eyes took in the unfamiliar surroundings, his head still muzzy from drink as the moonlight streamed in through the trees, casting everything in shadows. Somewhere in the background, Draco sighed.

Harry dropped the hand he’d been holding and scrubbed his face, cleaning his glasses with the hem of his shirt. “Fuck; must’ve dozed off for a bit. What time is it?”

“A little after three,” Bill whispered. “We think we’ve figured out what happened to Malfoy. Thought you might want to know.”

“What? Yeah…” Harry shook his head, trying to clear the fog. “The test results came back already?”

“Most. Not all. I—” Bill stopped as Malfoy mumbled something unintelligible, then smiled in his sleep. “I think it’d be better if I explained outside. Do me a favour; step away from the bed, but not too far, okay?”

Harry frowned, but did what Bill requested. “Okay?” he said when nothing happened.

“Yeah, that’s good. I think he’ll be fine for awhile.” Bill gave a tired smile upon seeing Harry’s questioning scowl. “Don’t worry; it’ll all make sense in a couple of minutes.”

He motioned for Harry to follow him out of the room, taking him three doors down to the conservatory where several voices seemed to be arguing with some urgency.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“But what could have possibly triggered this?”

“Is there anything in his family history that could have suggested an ancestor with the gene, or could this have developed as a result of a curse?”

“I take great offense at that! What Draco has become is extremely rare and beautiful! To consider it the result of a curse—”

“Fleur?” Harry’s brows drew together at the sight of Bill’s wife. “Hermione?” The room hushed as he took in the motley gathering: Ron; Hermione; Bill; Fleur; a stately woman wearing a Healer’s lime-green robe; and Narcissa. “Not that I’m not happy to see you both, but…” Everything seemed a muddled mess; he must have drank more than he’d thought. “What are you doing here? Where’s Zach and Ben?”

“Fleur probably is the most important expert we have right now,” Ron said cryptically. “She came over to assist us after Kingsley granted her clearance. And Zach and Ben are in the library. We’ve erected a Silencio—not so much because of the case itself, but to preserve Malfoy’s privacy and rights.”

The Healer stepped forward, offering Harry her hand. The warmth of her grip reminded Harry of Professor McGonagall; he found her quiet confidence soothing, despite the circumstances.

“Hello, Auror Potter. I’m Healer Eisenberg, one of the researchers on the Dai Llewellyn ward at St Mungo’s. We’ve tested Mr Malfoy for any evidence of potions or a dark curse. Wand diagnostics turned up empty, and Mr Malfoy’s blood results also did not show any wizarding medical malady that we know of. However, there was one thing that was unexpected when we looked at the morphology of his blood cells. Normally, human blood cells are biconcave and disc-shaped. Close to eighty-percent of Mr Malfoy’s red blood cells fit this category, but there was something else. The other twenty plus percent were elliptical, with a bluish-orange tinge.”

“I’m not sure what you’re suggesting,” Harry said slowly. Something constricted in his chest. “Did you say the Dai Llewellyn ward? Are you saying that Malfoy was bitten by a creature? It’s not life-threatening, is it?!”

“That all depends,” Ron said darkly.

Hermione elbowed him in the side, causing him to wince. “Healer Eisenberg and I ran the results against the Ministry’s public databank, looking for a match in terms of the unexpected blood cell’s colour and shape. What we discovered is that Malfoy’s blood contains an avian component.” She looked at Harry, her eyes never faltering. “That Malfoy is a Veela.”

Harry’s world tilted. His legs wobbled and his vision blurred. “But he’s…he’s male. And don’t most Veelas come into their inheritance when they turn sixteen?”

"C'est n'importe quoi! ” Fleur scoffed. “The legend of the Veela has been the subject of so many songs and tales that it is difficult for people to understand what is reality and what is myth. There are males who carry the Veela trait, although it is more commonly seen in females.”

“Epidemiologically, it appears that there is genetic polymorphism as well.”

Harry felt his patience slipping. “English, Hermione,” he growled.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “There are some sequence differences in the DNA when comparing males and females with the Veela trait. This difference creates a situation where it is less likely for the male to transmit the trait to their progeny. In addition, environmental factors can influence the manifestation of the trait. In this case, it’s social pressure. Women, for example, are often valued in society for their beauty, which is why we see so many more female Veelas. Males are traditionally less valued as nurturers, or for their looks, so there is less incentive for the trait to develop. Because of this, we find that the male-to-female Veela ratio ranges anywhere from one-to-five hundred, to one-to-eight hundred, depending on the geographic locale and cultural norms.”

“That’s also a reason why Veelas have Chosens,” Healer Eisenberg added. “Veelas are monogamous by nature. Their survival depends on finding a partner who is appealing…not just on a physical level, but on an emotional one as well. Over the centuries, this instinct has been honed so Veelas naturally gravitate towards that one person who best fulfills this need. Since males cannot rely on pure physical beauty for such a bond to take place, they are heavily dependent on whom their magical biology designates as their Chosen.”

“To put it simply, Harry, Veela males exist, but are exceedingly rare,” Fleur said. “And men may carry the trait, without ever knowing it. In order for a male Veela to come into their inheritance, they need the genes from both of their parents, and something in their environment to trigger it. Vous comprenez?”

“But…I can’t think of anybody in the Malfoy or Black lines who was a Veela. Am I missing something?”

Everyone turned towards Narcissa. She walked over to a writing table and unlocked its top drawer, looking through its contents until she found a small lockbox. She unshrunk it, and pulled out a letter.

“The amulet your team charmed for Draco came from my family. He told you the story?” When Harry nodded, a sad smile tugged on her lips. “Cressida Black was rumoured to be an ethereal beauty. She inspired quite a number of famous poems, and it was said that there was not a day that went by where she didn’t make some poor hapless male fall to his feet.” She handed Harry the thick parchment, the edges of it worn and well-read. “This is a letter from my great-great-grandfather Fitzwilliam to Cressida. I’ve always thought it was the epitome of love and devotion. I wouldn’t be surprised if she were a Veela herself.”

She handed Harry the letter. The tips of his ears turned pink as he read over the flowery declaration, Fitzwilliam Black’s heart and soul laid bare. “But your husband’s family,” Harry said, thinking back to all of Lucius’ hateful, pureblood ideology. “The idea that there could be a Veela somewhere within the Malfoy lineage…”

Narcissa looked faintly embarrassed at the implication. “My husband would certainly have been mortified at the knowledge. I do not wish to shame or sully his memory, or the Malfoy name even more than what he did on his own. But Draco is alive, and my son’s well-being is what guides my decisions.” She straightened, managing to look regal even in her well-worn dressing gown. “I’ve already given Mr Weasley permission to look further into the matter of Lucius’ ancestry.”

“It’s ironic, but not impossible. In fact, it’s just the opposite.” Ron held up a scroll from the DMLE’s laboratories. “Elliot ran a test of Lucius Malfoy’s magical signature and the blood that was kept in our databank after his imprisonment in Azkaban. The sequence confirmed that something called…” His eyes narrowed as he scrutinised the parchment. “…the ‘Hox genes’ contained ‘an enhancer compatible with the expression of avian morphology.’”

“Voila. Veela,” Bill said simply.

Harry turned his head in the direction of Malfoy’s bedroom. It was true that Draco always had had a fascinating beauty and grace, but Harry had always attributed that to all those etiquette lessons, as well as winning the genetic lottery in terms of physical attractiveness. Although perhaps, the latter now made even more sense…

“Does this mean he’s going to have wings? And you mentioned that something may have triggered his manifestation.” His heart dropped as he was struck by a sickening thought. “Do you think his Chosen is someone here in England?” Something squeezed tight in his chest at the idea of Draco kissing a man dressed in elegant, bespoke attire, or playing Quidditch with a well-tanned, muscle-bound bloke.

Bill and Fleur exchanged looks. “We do,” Fleur said.

Healer Eisenberg nodded. “Mr Malfoy may have already begun to exhibit certain signs, which he had been previously ignoring. Certain things can suppress a Veela’s inheritance: stress; illness; the lack of a compatible partner, to name a few. Conversely, the presence of a suitable mate, or even an event that encourages a Veela’s protective instinct, can trigger a presentation. At any rate, there’s nothing to stop the process now that it has started.

“Now, the question of what features manifest is more difficult. Nearly all Veela have an undeniable magnetism,” Healer Eisenberg explained, “but other characteristics such as the manifestation of wings depend on the individual Veela’s ancestral traits and the quantity of Veela blood within them. Wings have not been known to appear in an individual where only one of the ancestral lines contained Veela blood.”

“I don’t have wings,” Fleur said. “I’d dreamt about having a pair when I was growing up, but I am only one-quarter Veela, from my grand-mère.”

“You’re absolutely perfect as you are,” Bill said, kissing her fondly as he drew her near.

“Given Draco’s state, and the fact that there is Veela blood on both sides, he has the potential to manifest quite a range of traits. He may remain simply beautiful and charismatic—although perhaps with a bit of possessiveness when in the presence of an available and suitable partner—to displaying wings during times of mating or stress,” finished Hermione.

“Oh God.” Harry thought about the stories of the winged creatures in his Care of Magical Creatures book and sat down. “Do you think that with the stress of the situation, he could go feral?”

“No.” Hermione gave him an indulgent smile. “Feral states, especially given the preventative measures that are available these days, are extremely rare. And they only occur in Veelas who are nearly full-blooded.”

Harry’s head was spinning from all the information. “Since when did you become a bloody Veela expert?”

Hermione shrugged. “The science of genetics is an important part of any Healer’s training. And when I started to work with the Ministry on public policy, there was a growing debate on creatures’ rights, and whether one could delineate that point where someone would be classified as a “creature” or a “human.” And, as it turns out, we couldn’t.”

“What my wife means to say is that she’s bloody brilliant,” Ron chuckled. “Using scientific evidence to sway votes when people can’t be relied on for their decency and compassion.”

“I’d love to talk about magical biology all day, but there was a reason you called me in. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to check in on Mr Malfoy,” Healer Eisenberg stated.

“I’ll come along—” Harry started, only to be interrupted by Fleur.

“Harry; Bill and I would like to speak with you and Draco’s maman for a moment. Perhaps Ron could accompany the Healer instead?”

“We wouldn’t ask if we didn’t feel it were important, Harry,” Bill said quietly.

Harry felt something stirring within him; somehow he knew that the Calming Draught was wearing off, and Draco was rousing. But Bill and Fleur had never requested anything of him before in the years since he’d known them, and he knew that they wouldn’t have done so for anything frivolous.

“I’ll send for you if something happens,” Ron promised.

“Fine.” Harry tried not to appear petulant as half the room left to check on Draco.

Once the room emptied, Bill sat down in the chair opposite Harry. “Hey,” he said, laying a hand on Harry’s knee. “Long night.”

Harry looked out the window, at the sky which had begun to turn a lavender hue. “Not for much longer.”

“Look Harry—you don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but given everything that’s happened to Draco in the last week, I think I have a possible explanation. Remember when you told me you felt as if you’d lost the ability to think rationally around Malfoy? That you were filled with overwhelming emotion? Malfoy agreed he was similarly affected, and we’d chalked it up to a discharge of his accidental magic.”

“Yeah, of course. I remember.” It wasn’t something Harry was likely to forget. Ever.

Bill exchanged a look with Fleur. She squeezed his hand and gave him an encouraging smile as he turned his attention back to Harry.

“What if you were Draco’s mate? His Chosen?”

“That’s…I don’t see how,” Harry sputtered. “We’ve been at each other’s throats since we were children.”

“You’ve always held Draco’s interest, Mr Potter.” Narcissa moved to the window, her elegant features now pinched and withdrawn. “You are an attractive, good-hearted, successful and magically powerful male. If my son were to have… a mate, I would not be entirely surprised that the person would resemble you.” Her lips twitched ever-so-slightly at the corners. “Draco’s incessant complaints about your school year exploits had proved quite distressing to my husband.”

“And I believe—at least from the stories that Ron used to tell—that Harry may have harboured a slight fascination with your son as well.”

“Wait.” Harry turned to Fleur. “The way that I’m feeling, as if I’m barely in control. That’s not what you have with Bill, is it? Because if that’s what it means to be in love with a Veela, I want no part of it.”

“I can understand your reluctance,” Fleur admitted. “But just because one of you is a Veela in the relationship does not mean that the kind of love you share should be the same as mine or any other Veela’s, for that matter. Yes, Veelas bond strongly with our mates, and yes, for us, there exists a Chosen one. But even though being a Chosen is extremely special, it in no way defines who you are.”

“Fleur and I met when I was your age, Harry. Since I was older, our bond formed and matured relatively quickly until we were married two years later. You and Malfoy, on the other hand, have been circling each other for over a decade. Neither of you were emotionally ready for a relationship when you were children, and you may not have seen your fascination with one another as anything more than an intense preoccupation or even an antagonism.

“But you’re older now. You’ve been spending a significant amount of time around each other, and as chances would have it, you’re both single. You both like men, and if you are Malfoy’s mate, then there’s probably a powerful physical attraction as well. Only the two of you know what happened in Draco’s room the other day, but if you found yourself in a situation that could be considered romantic or sexual, then the Veela in Draco will likely have latched on to the idea of you as his mate.”

“For a Veela who has recently found their Chosen, any time apart is difficult,” Fleur continued. “Our nature encourages us to solidify that bond; our instinct is to nest. The thought that our mates would not want to do so can be a source of great distress.”

Harry thought about the Muggle he’d chatted up in the bar—the casual flirtation, and the aborted near-kiss.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered, the guilt pushing his anger to the fore. “Bloody fucking hell.”

“Please, Mr Potter. If you are Draco’s Chosen…”

“Mrs Malfoy—”

“Please don’t let Draco die.”

Harry whipped around, his fatigue causing him to be loose with his tongue. “I’m sorry, Narcissa. But after everything I’ve been through, I’d like to think that I’ve at least a choice in deciding who I should love for the rest of my life.”

“Mrs Malfoy, Draco will not die,” Fleur said soothingly as Narcissa dabbed the corners of her eyes. “There’s much of Veela lore that is a myth. If Harry is Draco’s Chosen and a romantic connection has been established, then each day apart will eat away at Draco’s happiness. He will not ‘die’ in the literal sense, but any perceived rejection means he will be unable to create a deep and loving bond with someone else as long as his Chosen is alive.”

“I’m sorry, but that's too much pressure, too much responsibility. I don’t want to see Draco hurt, but I’ve earned a right to my own choices as well.” A sudden thought occurred to Harry. “Is there another way? A suppressant, something similar to Wolfsbane?”

Fleur sniffed, her blue eyes turning cold. “Veela blood is not something to be ashamed of or ‘suppressed.’ Draco is special, and his ability to love should be celebrated. Whoever his Chosen is, they would be very lucky indeed.”

“I didn’t mean to imply—” The tension in the back of Harry’s neck intensified as he let out a sigh. “I’m tired and bollocking everything up. May I see him now? Just to make sure he’s all right?”

“Mr Potter; one more moment, if you please. Before you see my son.” Narcissa’s thin fingers were surprisingly strong as she gripped his hand. “You’ve done so much for my family already, admittedly more than we deserve. No matter what happens between you and Draco, I shall always be thankful for that.”

“The matter with the Wizengamot, Narcissa…I didn’t speak on your behalf as a favour. I was just trying to do what was right.”

Narcissa held her hands up. “I understand. I bring it up because I know how much you champion the causes of others. You’ve more than earned the right to live your life as you choose, not that you need my blessing. But in doing so, all I ask is that if Draco fits in that picture in any way, that you give him—and yourself—a chance.”

“What if that’s not what Draco wants?” Harry asked slowly. “How do you know that this isn’t just the Veela side of him, and not anything else?”

“The Veela is a part of him. It doesn’t matter whether he’s full-fledged, or whether it exists within him as the tiniest drop. Ms Granger-Weasley was instrumental in helping me understand that.” She gave Harry a soft smile. “I know my son, at times better than he knows himself. He’s not the same person that he was as a child, Mr Potter.”

“None of us are, Narcissa. That’s part of growing up.” And going to war, Harry added silently.

“That is true. But some needed to grow up more than others. All I ask is that you try to see Draco as he is today—the person he has tried so hard to finally become.”

Harry hedged. “At this point, I’d settle for making sure he’s comfortable.”

“Fair enough. In that case, I’ve detained you for far too long.” She let go of his hand and turned, but not quickly enough to mask her trembling lips or the tears that threatened her face.

Harry made his way back to Draco’s room. The smell of his distress had subsided during the last several hours.

“He’s quiet for the moment, but the Calming Draught should be wearing off soon,” Healer Eisenberg murmured as Harry stood over Draco’s sleeping figure. “I’ve spoken to Auror Weasley and conferred with my colleagues at St Mungo’s. It would be best if Mr Malfoy were to come into his inheritance without any additional sedation, as his body is ideally designed to accommodate for it.”

Harry watched Draco carefully, noting his settling breaths. “What kind of changes are we talking about?”

“The physical changes vary, depending on which characteristics manifest. A Veela with wings, for instance, will develop a broader back, shoulders, and chest, whereas one without may just show a smoothing of their complexion. The entire process should be over soon; he looks to be over the worst part. However, I have left two additional phials of the draught, should you need it.”

“What are some of the other things I should be looking out for? Things that may require additional medical attention?”

The Healer began ticking off each symptom on her fingers. “Poor appetite and weight loss; feeling extraordinarily tired or weak; chest pain; confusion and delirium. If Mr Malfoy continues to be symptomatic after the next twenty-four hours, please give me a call.”

“Would he need potions or healing spells at that point?”

“The treatment would be supportive, more than anything else. The only true cure for these symptoms is to have Mr Malfoy mate with his Chosen. If you haven’t noticed it already, these are also the signs of a broken heart.”

.~oOo~.

“Oi!” Something sharp was poking Harry at his side, rousing him from his slumber. “Do you mind?!”

“Normally when I wake up with another man in my bed, it’s not with them fully clothed,” a masculine voice said with a distinctly sexy drawl. “So forgive me if I do mind, just a bit.”

Harry scrambled up to sitting, trying to untwist himself from the tangled sheets. His hand flailed about the mattress, without success.

“Looking for these?”

A pair of wire-rimmed glasses were pressed into his palm, and Harry quickly set them into place. His surroundings sharpened as he was confronted by Malfoy, who was watching him warily despite the amused tilt to his lips.

“I don’t remember anything from last night. I was hoping you could fill me in. From the looks of things, it doesn’t appear as if we’ve done anything inappropriate.” Draco let out a dramatic sigh. “More’s the pity.”

It all came rushing back—Draco’s whimpers as the Calming Draught had worn off, the growing restlessness that seemed to require Harry’s touch. In the end, Harry had climbed into bed and placed his arm around Draco before he too fell asleep, succumbing to fitful exhaustion.

In the daylight, Harry saw just how compromising that position could be. Draco remained dressed in only his pyjama bottoms—his torso bare, his nipples pink and dusky. His skin was surprisingly smooth, without any noticeable blemishes. He reminded Harry of one of the Elgin marbles, a storied figure carved from alabaster stone.

“You didn’t scar,” Harry marvelled, suppressing the urge to touch Draco’s chest. “From the Sectumsempra,” he added with a touch of guilt.

“Better get your eyes checked, Potter. Despite Professor Snape’s best efforts, no amount of dittany could erase what had happened.” Draco looked down, his bitter expression slowly morphing into one of confusion. He ran to his wardrobe mirror, turning as he studied his body from different angles. Harry stared as the muscles in Draco’s side flexed, the waist of his pants hugging the curve of his arse as he twisted around to get a better look.

“They’re gone,” Draco said shakily. “I don’t understand; I’ve tried every potion and cream there is to lessen their appearance.” He turned back to Harry, accusation in his tone. “What happened to me last night?!”

Harry hesitated. “You were behaving strangely, and there was concern that you may have been cursed. By the time I’d arrived, you had a team of Curse-breakers and Healers attending to you.”

Draco’s eyes were frantic as he jumped out of bed. “And what about my mother? Where is she? Is she all right?”

“She’s probably in the gardens. And yes, she is.” Harry frowned as he watched Draco pace. “You know, this would be a lot easier if you’d sit.”

“The strange thing is, I don’t feel cursed. In fact, I feel better than I have in days,”  Draco mused. He pulled out a chair and sat, his long legs splayed out in front. “Please get on with it, then. With each passing second, the scenarios just grow increasingly morbid.”

“Fine.” Harry made a face. “You were delirious and in pain by the time I got there. They couldn’t find any evidence that you had been poisoned or cursed. We were finally able to administer a diluted Calming Draught, and after you were sedated, the Spell-Damage and Dai Llewellyn teams ran some tests.” He hesitated, his expression cautious as he drew nearer. “Their conclusion is that you are a Veela, and that you’ve finally come into your inheritance.”

Draco stared as Harry held his breath. Suddenly, he erupted in laughter. “Good one, Potter. Now pull the other one.”

“I didn’t believe it myself,” Harry said sourly. “But we have confirmation of the Veela trait being carried within your father’s genetic code, and your mother feels that your great-great-great grandmother Cressida was likely a Veela as well. And given the way you look… well, you’ve never had a problem attracting attention, and you know it.”

Draco huffed, but it was a small, pleased sound.

“There’s one more thing. Fleur Delacour…you remember, the girl from Beauxbatons, who was in the Triwizard tournament our fourth year? She’s married to Bill Weasley and happens to be one-quarter Veela. She and Bill suspect that contact with your Chosen was the event that triggered your inheritance.” Harry swallowed. “And that I am your Chosen.”

Draco swore under his breath. “The Chosen One is my Chosen. That’s mad. Mad, and impossible. Laughable. We’re—”

“I know. But I was the only one who could get you to take the Calming Draught, and you would only accept my touch. And yesterday…  uh, it’s possible that the Veela in you mistook what happened between us in the loo for the beginnings of a relationship.” Harry’s voice lowered. “For the formation of a bond.”

Draco was quiet for a long time. “If what you say is true and you are my Chosen, would you ever consider me as your partner? Your mate?”

“Wait, what?!”

“Look. I’m not happy to hear that my family’s secrets and my supposed heritage were outed in such a humiliating and public manner. But denying what I am doesn’t change its reality. And I guess if I had to be bonded to somebody, I could do worse than the bloody Saviour.”

Harry’s lips thinned. “That’s a pretty big assumption on your part.”

Draco’s eyes raked over Harry’s rumpled form, lingering on his groin. “Are you telling me you’re not in the least bit interested, Potter?”

Harry shifted in his seat. “I’m not ready for a relationship with anyone, Malfoy. I failed in my marriage. Ginny is a beautiful, sexy, and smart woman, and she’s one of my closest friends—”

“That doesn’t mean she was right for you,” Draco interrupted with a possessive growl. “Things may not have worked out with Ginevra, but how do you know it won't with me?” His pupils grew large, dark and intense as he leaned in, his thumb tracing the line of Harry’s jaw. “I remember how biddable you were, how beautifully you pleaded when you came undone from my mouth.”

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Harry snapped, his face flaming as he snatched Draco’s hand away. “You’re not the only pretty boy around who likes to suck cock, you know”

“Really?” Draco asked, his voice razor-sharp. “Just like the twink at the bar?” He sneered as he saw Harry’s shocked expression. “Oh yes; I saw the two of you. I thought I was going crazy. I was getting ready for bed when I felt this horrible pain in my chest. I pictured you taking him against the wall, fucking him mercilessly. I’m not normally possessive when it comes to my lovers, Harry, but at that very moment I wanted nothing more than to track the two of you down and claw his pretty little eyes out. For flirting with you. For laying his filthy hands on you. But you couldn’t go through with it, could you?” he asked smugly.

“Stay out of my head!” Harry’s voice rose in pitch, his face white. “First Voldemort, and now you?!”

“I can’t help what I see!” Malfoy thrust his forearm in front of Harry; the twisted lines of his Dark Mark stood out in stark contrast to his skin, ugly and damning. “Don’t you think I know what it’s like to have a part of him in me as well?”

“For fuck’s sake, how are you even comparing the two? Your Mark…that was your choice!” Everything came rushing back, all the things Harry thought he’d worked through sufficiently with his Mind Healer, as the tidal wave of emotions threatened to bowl him over. “I understand that you were under a lot of pressure, but at least you had a choice in the matter. Where’s mine in all of this?!”

“Potter.” Draco came over and draped his arms around Harry, sucking in his breath when Harry flinched from the touch. “Harry,” Draco tried again, his voice now a soothing murmur. “I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to control this new side of me. But I’ll try. I’d never do anything to purposefully harm you.” He hesitated, and then some of the bravado left his voice. “When I saw you with that man, I saw red. And the pain I’d felt—the sense of anguish and loss. It gutted me. Everything hurt so much. All I could think about was how much I needed you, how I much I craved your touch.” There was another pause, followed by a sigh of resignation. “I was scared and confused. At least now I know why.”

When Harry’s eyes finally lifted, Draco was watching him with a guarded expression.

“I don’t want you to suffer…” Harry said, startling himself when he realised the truth. “I know what it’s like to be afraid and alone.” He stood, his heart pounding as he made his decision. “I’ll settle myself in one of the available rooms. I’ve no idea how often the Veela in you requires our interaction, but I’ll do my best, given the circumstances. But know this: just because I’m helping you doesn’t mean I’m agreeing to a relationship. Certainly not now, and possibly not ever. And if I ever feel compromised, I’m withdrawing the offer.”

Draco looked like he was about to protest, then clamped his mouth shut. “But you’re saying that there might be a chance?”

Harry dragged his hand through his hair. “I don’t know… but I’m willing to try. I know we shouldn’t do anything to could make the bond more permanent before we’re sure, one way or another.”

“And by ‘anything’ I’m assuming you mean sex,” Draco said, his eyes gleaming. “That still leaves a lot of options.” His voice softened. “You’re asking me to court you.”

“Courting? No… I’m asking nothing of the sort!” Harry stammered, his face bright red as he made his way to the door. “I’m heading back to Grimmauld Place to pack up some things. If you can control your Veela hormones until then, I should be back within the hour.”

.~oOo~.

Harry sank down into the large wing chair in the parlour and let out a loud sigh.

Samara looked up from her book. “Hey, chief. Long day?”

“Yeah. Didn’t get much sleep last night. I’m pretty knackered.”

Zach frowned. “How much longer do you think they’ll make you stay on as Malfoy’s personal detail?”

Harry feigned ignorance. “Dunno,” he said, falling back on the excuse he and Ron had thought of. “Probably be a while, especially now that the Prophet’s caught wind of the killings.”

“Right,” Samara snorted. “Wouldn’t help the department’s reputation if Malfoy were to fall while under our watchful eye.”

“Well, I hope they at least comp you the extra time,” Zach said. “It’s not right, having you work these crazy hours.”

“Speaking of which, how are the two of you holding up?” Harry asked, eager to change the subject. “And wasn’t Ben was supposed to be working this shift with Zach?”

“He’s on his way. Appears his date with Elliot ran a bit longer than he’d thought,” Samara added with a smirk.

“Elliot and Ben? But I thought…nevermind,” Harry said, shaking his head. He had enough things to worry about in his own life without playing agony aunt to his team.

Sam let out a laugh. “You didn’t know? They’ve been going out for ages. Ever since Ben’s last year in the Academy. There’s a pool going around on the office on when they’re taking things to the next level.”

“They’re going to get married?”

“Nah,” Sam snorted. “Not yet, anyway. Moving in together.”

“Jesus. Where was I? Did you know about any of this?” Harry asked Zach.

“Nope. Although if you ask my wife, I’m oblivious to most things around me.” He unshrunk a bag from his side, removing several pre-packaged containers. “Sam and I are having dinner. Got plenty extra, if you’d like to join us.”

Harry took a look at the wide variety of savoury dishes. “Your wife is a saint.”

Sam winked. “Isn’t she? Zach must’ve done something right.”

Zach smiled. “I know. The funny thing is, I’m actually not a bad cook myself. But Mathilde enjoys it; it makes her happy, or so she says. The young folks like Sam here may think it’s old-fashioned, but if it makes me and the missus happy, then who’s to say that it’s wrong?”

Harry’s thoughts drifted to Arthur and Molly Weasley. “There’s nothing wrong with it all.”

“Damn right,” Zach said, plating his food. “Life’s too short to live it to everyone else’s expectations. Gotta do what’s right for you, as long as you’re not being a pillock about it.” He motioned to a plastic, circular container in the corner with the end of his fork. “Mathilde made that for you,” he said, turning to Samara. “Toffee pudding with squidgy pears. Secret family recipe,” he added, tapping his brow.

“That woman has a memory like a steel trap,” Sam said, her usually stern demeanour turning soft. “I only mentioned it to her once. Please thank her for me.”

“You can thank her yourself when you bring your girl over next Saturday night. We’re still on, right?”

Harry’s throat grew tight as he found himself wishing for a relationship that was comforting and familiar. “Thanks for the offer, Zach, but I already ate. I’m going to check in on Malfoy. Let me know if Ben doesn’t get here by half past, okay?”

“You got it, Chief,” Sam replied, tucking into her sandwich before launching into an argument with Zach over the Cannon’s draft prospects for the season.

The light under Narcissa’s door was on as Harry passed, something that had been more commonplace after the revelation of Draco’s Veela status. The soft strains of a waltz floated through the doors; he cast a Homenum Revelio, and when the light shimmered with the outline of Narcissa’s form and no other, Harry continued down the corridor, past his own room until he reached Draco’s at the end of the hall.

The door was ajar. There was a faint rustling, followed by the sound of fluttering. Harry’s curiosity was piqued as the noise beckoned to a memory that hovered just beyond the edge of consciousness.

“Draco?” he whispered, sticking his head through the opening. He gasped as he darted back, his mouth dry and tongue suddenly too large for his throat.

Draco was facing the mirror, wearing a self-satisfied smirk. His hair was damp and the colour of spun gold, his body pink and beaded with moisture. He was adorned in little more than a towel that was slung loose around his waist, and a pair of wings that projected majestically from between his shoulders.

They were—otherworldly. Powerful and magnificent, their opalescent feathers spectacular in the way in which their downy softness caught the light. Harry watched, enraptured by their slow and seductive beat. Draco turned, his hand sliding down the planes of his belly, his head tipping forward as he removed his towel, fisted his cock, and started to wank.

Harry wanted nothing more in that moment than to press himself against Draco’s skin. To feel the hot weight of Draco’s prick in his hand. To stroke and twist, his thumb swiping over the velvety head as the heel of his palm brushed against the nest of golden curls.

The flash of shame which tore through him lost out to his lust as he cast a Disillusionment spell and fumbled with the buttons on his trousers. His cock ached as he took it into his hand, his surroundings blurring into nothingness with the exception of his razor sharp focus on Draco—

Merlin. Merlin and Godric both.

Harry growled as Draco widened his stance, his wings extended and arse displayed as he bent over the dresser. The tip of one finger found its way to his hole, the pretty pink whorl loosening slowly as he teased and plundered.

It was wrong, but Harry couldn’t stop, couldn’t tear his eyes away, the illicit thrill and rightness of it all pulling at his gut. He wanted to breathe Draco in, to touch, to consume. He fingered his prick as Draco gasped, his pouty mouth sounding those breathy trills and needy whines. Harry wondered what it would be like to press down in the space between those glorious wings as Draco bucked and bowed and moaned so prettily beneath him.

Something welled up deep in his chest, lashing out against anyone who had dared to taste Draco’s lips, the weight of his cock on their tongue, or the musk of his arse against their mouth. He wanted to dig his fingers into the edges of Draco’s hips—strong enough to bruise, as Draco shuddered beneath him.

Take me, Harry. It’s only you. I’m yours.

Harry squeezed his eyes tight as the heat coiled in his groin and then shouted as he came, the force of it hot and sticky over his hand, spurting onto his clothes. He couldn’t stop, the call of Draco’s allure uneasing. He wanted to look upon Draco’s mouth, swollen and wet, his name spilling repeatedly from Draco’s swollen lips as those grey eyes turned glazed and glassy.

When the fog of Harry’s lust had cleared, Draco had already straightened, his wings retracted. He shouldn’t have been able to sense Harry with the Disillusionment Charm still firmly in place, but his eyes were oddly bright and triumphant.

.~oOo~.

Green flames flared as a headful of wild, shoulder-length locks materialised in Harry’s bedroom.

“Hey, Harry. Is this a bad time?” Elliot took a look at the heavy tome on the table and whistled. “Catching up on some light reading?”

Harry laughed. Given the fact that this was one of the rare moments where he hadn’t been thinking about or wanking to memories of Draco, it appeared to be a very good time, indeed.

“Nah, you’re good.” He held up the book so Elliot could read the cover as his arms strained under the weight. “Just doing some research.”

“Magical Bonds: Life Debts to Life Mates,” Elliot recited, making a face. “Got to tell you, ionic and covalent bonds may be more my thing.”

 “But it’s fascinating. The strongest and most ancient bonds are ones based on the concepts of love and trust. Fidelius Charms and the Bond of Blood, for example. The bonds of lovers.” Harry got up and walked over to the Floo, kneeling beside it. “The Unbreakable Vow is exactly that—unbreakable, except in death. Is there anything equivalent in your area of study?”

“An equivalent in the chemical and physical nature of things? I mean, there are many types of bonds, of various differing strengths. Some of the strongest bonds are the ones that are formed between two oppositely charged molecules; the overall result is a configuration that’s more stable. And it’s not just the bond itself, but its overall arrangement of the molecules that adds to its durability. But as far as I know, there’s not a single chemical bond that can’t be broken.”

“So the most enduring bonds are the ones that are based on unquantifiable concepts in the world around us.” Harry paused. “It’s a sobering thought.”

“Not sobering, Harry,” Elliot said brightly. “It’s magical. Very apropos, don’t you think? Speaking of which…” His head disappeared into the flames, then popped into view twenty seconds later. “I found some time to work on the thing you asked about.” A SmartScope jumped out through the flames, its silver colour setting it apart from the previous gold ones. “Now that we’ve gone live with the SmartScope for the rest of the teams, I used the resources they alloted me to add several new spells into the databank. I also fit all the newer scopes with a com link; if a curse is directed towards one of our potential targets, that information will be picked up by the SmartScope and transmitted to all the other teams.”

“That way, information is disseminated regarding the type of attack and where it occurred,” Harry concluded. “That’s ingenious. It’s definitely more effective than a Patronus.”

“Since your team’s still using the older models, I’ve got a brand new batch to hand out to all of you tomorrow. I wanted to know—since Malfoy’s at the greatest risk, do you want me to place a protective charm on his scope as well? Similar to what we did with the amulet? It wouldn’t be as strong, obviously, but it could boost his defenses marginally.”

“Sounds like it would be a good thing. Any downside to adding it?”

“I’m going to test it out. The additions are designed to be protective; the strengthening properties of polypody are static , but the ones for re’em’s blood and griffin’s claw are tied to their use. When it’s attached to something like Malfoy’s magical signature—”

“It gives his magical core the protection of strength. But if it attaches itself to a curse by accident…”

“Exactly.” Elliot gave him a wry smile. “Exactly what we don’t want to happen.”

“Forget it, then. It’s not worth the added risk.”

“The risk is exceedingly small. Give me some time and let me add the charm and test it out. I could even have it done by later tonight. Max can bring it over, since his shift starts at nine.”

Harry wondered if Ben knew just how much time Elliot spent with Max. Elliot must have mistaken his frown for something else.

“No worries, Harry. I’ll make sure it’s well-tested. I’ll even put it through the simulator before I send it over.”

“Sounds good,” Harry said absentmindedly. “How’s Max, by the way? The last time I saw him, he was feeling a bit chinstrapped. Hope the long hours aren’t getting to be too much.”

Elliot laughed. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Max. He’s got the work ethic of a draft horse for as long as I’ve known him, and the stubbornness to match.”

“The two of you have known each other for a while, then?”

Elliot’s look grew guarded. “Yeah. A bit.”

Harry waited for an elaboration, but none was forthcoming. “Well. It’s always nice to know the people you work with. Makes things easier at times.”

“Right.” The smile on Elliot’s lips was strained. “No question.”

Harry was at a loss, uncertain as to what had just happened. “Well, I’m excited to see what you’ve done with the SmartScope. Kingsley was right; you’re brilliant. We’re damn lucky to have you as part of our team.”

Elliot’s face flushed with obvious pleasure. “Lucky to be part of it. Now if you’ll excuse me—I’d love to chat, but I need to run a few more tests before Max brings the scope over at nine.”

.~oOo~.

When Draco had asked Harry to meet him in the gardens, Harry hadn’t been expecting this.

The sun had not quite set, but the sky was already painted in a wash of pinks and oranges and reds. Draco had strung up at least a dozen strands of fairy lights in the trees, their brightness softening the serrated edges of the hornbeam leaves that sheltered the sky. A light breeze stirred, carrying in its wake the heady fragrance of magnolia from the east garden.

A slow flush suffused Harry’s face as he took a look at the table on the terrace. Two chairs flanked a sturdy, wooden table, which was decorated modestly in white linen and a small epergne filled with hydrangeas in purple and white and blue.

“Is this—?” His face flamed further.

“Dinner, Potter,” Draco replied. There was something different in his drawl. A hesitation. The smallest hitch in his breath.

Draco pulled out a chair and waited. Despite its presumptive nature, Harry was charmed.

“Thank you.” The evening air was intoxicating, and he caught the scent of Draco’s soap as he drew in a breath. “Erm, Draco? The others assigned to your detail; aside from Ron, they’ve no idea—”

“Auror Fletcher is currently occupied. I may have solicited Weasley’s help,” Draco admitted upon seeing Harry’s surprise. “They’re keeping my mother company whilst playing a game of chess. I, on the other hand, am supposedly looking for information as to the potential whereabouts of Father’s dearest friends, and apparently you’ve agreed to watch me in Fletcher’s stead.”

“Ron approved all of this, did he?” Harry murmured.

“He did more than that. He helped to cast a Disillusionment charm. Within the acceptable parameters, of course,” Draco added, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

Harry couldn’t even be arsed about the fact that Ron was privy to Draco’s declaration of his intentions; he knew that, in his way, his best mate was giving Harry his blessing.

His eyes widened as Mipsy suddenly Apparated several feet in front of them.

“Dinner for Master Draco and for the master’s—” She hesitated as Draco gave her a frantic glance. “For Mister Harry Potter,” she finished lamely.

“You look wonderful tonight, Mipsy,” Harry said, smiling.

“Oh, thank you, Harry Potter!” Mipsy beamed, the flower which she had pinned to her pillowcase threatening to fall as she practically danced around with glee. “Mipsy helped the Master with the decorations tonight. It’s been so many years since the master has brought any company to the Manor.”

“Is that so?”

“Mipsy. The wine?” Draco prompted, blushing.

“Erm…actually, Mipsy, I’ll have some water, please.” Harry turned towards Draco. “I wouldn’t want to lose my head or anything.”

“Figure of speech, Mipsy,” Draco hastily explained as the house-elf looked at the wine, terrified. “Her ancestors served for the House of Black,” he clarified to Harry in a low tone. “Being the current occupant of 12 Grimmauld Place, you may be familiar with the unusual decor.” He stood, taking the bottle of Sangiovese from Mipsy’s hand. “If you wouldn’t mind, I think I’d like to serve Mr Potter from here. I’ll call for you if you’re needed.”

“Yes. Mipsy thanks Master Draco for allowing her to help with his special dinner with Mister Harry Potter,” she finished, Disapparating with a crack.

“Special dinner?” Harry asked, unable to resist the urge to tease Draco. He was pleased to see that while Draco’s wine glass now held the red, his own was filled with water.

“I don’t eat like this every day, Potter. Only on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” He looked faintly embarrassed as he distributed the pasta into two large, white bowls, then placed one in front of Harry.

“It smells amazing,” Harry admitted, unable to remember the last time he’d had dinner that hadn’t come from a carton or a pub. The pasta strands were cut into thick and uneven strips, mixed with yellow peppers and walnuts and some kind of cheese. It looked divine; his stomach growled in appreciation.

“It’s scialatielli. It happens to be a favourite of mine. It tastes a bit different from other pastas because milk is used in the place of eggs. Normally, I prefer it with seafood, but fresh shellfish is not the easiest thing to find in Wiltshire.”

Harry wound the strands around the tines of his fork. He lifted it to his lips as Draco watched with rapt attention, letting out a moan as the flavours sang on his tongue. “That’s incredible. My compliments to the chef.”

“Thank you,” Draco said. He sat back in his chair and took a sip of wine, wearing a self-satisfied look.

The thought of Draco in the kitchen, up to his elbows in flour and dough, made Harry grin. “You made this?”

“Yes. One of the many talents I acquired while trying to find myself.”

Harry took another bite, which was just as delicious as the first. “I’ll admit, I feel a bit guilty eating something as delicious as this, surrounded by all of this—” he waved his hand at the twinkling fairy lights as the sun took its final bow, “while the rest of them are inside.”

“Not guilty enough to leave though, I hope?” Draco asked. “Besides, it’s not them, but you that I’m courting.”

A piece of tomato went down the wrong way as Harry set down his fork. “Courting?”

“Getting to know one another, then. Renewing our acquaintance; exploring our connection. Discovering whether we were destined to be together.”

“‘Whether we were destined to be together.’” Harry made a face. “Sounds like something ripped out of the Young Witch and Wizard Romance Section at Flourish and Blotts.”

“What else would you call the pull between a Veela and their Chosen? Forced bondage?” Draco looked at Harry carefully. “Interestingly enough, the thought of that is oddly pleasing.”

“Great. That’s the declaration of love I’ve always been waiting for.”

Draco twirled then stem of his glass between his fingers. “Actually, I’m quite comfortable with the idea of having a mate,” he said, setting the glass down. “There’s something reassuring about the knowledge that not only am I not alone in the world, but that there’s someone out there who’s right for me.”

“There are plenty of people who never get married or have a family, yet who live happy and fulfilling lives.”

“Agreed. But I also know the things which I hold important. Perhaps it’s because the concept of family’s been such an important part of my upbringing, but I want it—not one that involves two children, and a wife, and a stable full of Crups, obviously. I want someone to share my life with. Who accepts my faults, but still pushes me to be a better person.”

“I thought I’d wanted a family; by all rights, I should have had that with Ginny. Crups and all.”

“Just because it didn’t work out doesn’t invalidate the things you feel in your heart.”

“But even if I did… it’s you and me, Malfoy. Even if everything came together in the perfect storm, how could you possibly think that we’d be right for one another?”  

Draco leaned forward, ticking off the reasons on his fingers. “You’re passionate and caring, albeit almost to a fault. Wealth is not important to you, and your magical powers are second to none. You’re admittedly fit, we are physically compatible, and you would look stunning on my arm. I’d be hard-pressed to think of someone else with the same qualifications for a partner.”

The giddiness which Harry had felt disappeared as the smile slid from his face. “Again, Malfoy, not exactly the love confession I’d dreamt of.”

“How about this, then?” Draco inched closer, his eyes the colour of molten silver as it reflected the fairy lights. “When I see you in the morning, I want nothing more than to have woken by your side. When you’ve finished your shower, it’s all I can do to keep from dirtying you up. When you slide into your dragonhide boots and your fuck-me Auror robes, I feel the urge to surrender my body to you. When I stare into your eyes, I see not just their incredible beauty, but my salvation, even as I long for your adoration. Sei tutto cio' di cui ho bisogno, Harry. Tu sei l'unico per me.”

Draco’s words left Harry feeling as if his entire body were buzzing, his final declaration unfamiliar in language, but unmistakable in intent.

“I—I’m not sure what I want,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Not just with us, but with relationships in general. After my divorce, I felt ashamed. I felt like I’d let everyone down… myself included. And then I got angry. I slept around, got pissed, bent the rules—anything to remind me that my life was my own. But it just made for more fodder for the gossip rags, and I ended up feeling even more frustrated and alone.” He caught his lower lip between his teeth, then let out a long exhale. “Probably not one of my prouder moments.”

“You can’t compartmentalise life into boxes. Not everything can be analysed so thoroughly, or else we’d be paralysed by indecision and fear. If I’d thought about all the potential repercussions of leaving England five years ago, I never would have gone. Instead, it was the best thing that could’ve happened.”

“I’d like to trust my instincts more,” said Harry softly, then laughed upon seeing Draco’s look of surprise. “I know; I mean, I trust my instincts in certain things, like when I work a case, or when it comes to my magic. But the War fucked me up. I can’t tell you how many situations I encountered where the things I’d believed in—the people I’d believed in—turned out to be lies. It made me question my judgment. Whether I could ever trust myself to know what was right.”

Draco laid his hand over Harry’s. Some of Draco’s calluses had softened from the weeks of disuse, but there was no question that this was not the hand of a seventeen-year old, frightened and confused child.

He traced the curve below Harry’s thumb. “What is the one thing that makes you happy? Something that you never have to question?”

“Flying,” Harry answered without missing a beat. “From the moment I’d laid my hands on a broom, I’ve taken to flying like a fish to water.”

“Or a bird to air,” Draco reminded him, smiling.

The thought of Draco’s glorious wings—their ivory beauty bursting from the valley between his shoulder blades, caused a shame to bloom so great in Harry’s chest that he needed to unburden his guilt.

“Draco—yesterday, after dinner, I’d passed by your bedroom. Your door was opened, and I’d only meant to check in, to see if you were okay.” The heat and discomfort roiled through him, a combination of the recollection of Draco’s naked magnificence and the violation of his privacy. “Erm…I saw them. Your wings,” he finished lamely.

The look Draco gave Harry wasn’t affronted. In fact, he looked pleased.

“You know that only a Veela’s Chosen can see their nascent wings?”

Harry’s brows drew down into a ‘V.’ “You’re not angry? For spying on you?”

Draco arched a perfect brow. “If I remember correctly, that was something you did quite often and quite well, even when we were children.” He squeezed Harry’s hand, the pressure reassuring. “In this case I don’t mind. Although next time, I’d prefer if you’d ask me directly.”

“Next time?” The prospect caused Harry’s brain to nearly short-circuit. “You’d let me?”

Draco’s smile grew wide and predatory.  He stood, repositioning his hand around Harry’s wrist and pulling him upright. “No more pfaffing about. This time, if you want to see them, you’re going to have to do the work.”

“Here?” Harry glanced back at the Manor, at the lights that were streaming through its massive windows. Only a few people knew of Draco’s Veela status, and even if they couldn’t see his wings, they would get an eyeful of a half-naked Draco with Harry gawking beside him.

“No better time than the present,” Draco said, his voice husky and challenging. “Weasley did tell me that his Disillusionment Charm was tops in his class.”

“It was only marginally better than mine,” Harry replied sullenly, taking a step back.

“Undress me, Harry,” Draco ordered, his eyes going dark.

Oh, God. Harry’s pounding heart and raging libido were the only things working as the rest of him froze. He reached out slowly, his hand trembling as he pressed it against the placard of Draco’s shirt.

“Not that I mind your gentlemanly restraint,” Draco smirked as Harry’s fingers hovered over the line of white buttons, “but even a concealment spell of Weasley’s strength won’t hold forever.”

Harry’s jaw hardened. He flicked his wrist and grit his teeth, delighting in the sound of Draco’s astonished gasp as the buttons popped and skittered onto the ground.

“Fuck.” Draco’s eyes were nearly black upon witnessing the wordless and wandless spell.

It was Harry’s turn to smirk as he slid off Draco’s shirt. He drank in the way in which the soft chambray fabric glided over the planes of Draco’s chest, caressed the swell of his shoulders, teased the gentle arch of his spine. His thirst only grew as Draco took the shirt and placed it on the chair, his lithe back muscles rippling with the movement.

“I’ve been practising a bit,” he said quietly as he turned around and faced Harry. “Learning how to retract and extend my wings. It was a bit uncomfortable at first, besides throwing my balance off kilter. I’ve gotten much better, although I’ve yet to attempt flying.” He hesitated. There was a stillness to his movements, a tension in his posture before he let out a small sigh and let his wings unfurl. They shimmered like ice-crystals under the soft fairy lights, the arc of his plumage sweeping and strong, their entire span cloaked in a silvery and pearlescent hue.

“Holy fuck,” Harry breathed. “They’re beautiful. You’re beautiful,” he amended as Draco’s surprisingly vulnerable expression lifted.

The smallest of the feathers lifted and fluttered. Harry raised his hand, the tips of his fingers brushing over their silky down. In that moment, Draco unbalanced. Harry reacted instinctively as Draco tilted forward, his hand snaking around Draco’s back to steady him, the palm of his hand resting firmly at the juncture of wing and blade.

Draco’s eyes were closed, his mouth parted, his face screwed up into something unseeing.

“Are you okay?” Harry tried to rub slow, soothing circles against Draco’s back, but his actions just caused Draco to shudder and moan. “Are you hurt?! I—” He started to remove his hand, but Draco grabbed his wrist.

“Keep doing that,” he rasped. “It feels bloody amazing.”

Harry resumed his stroking, but this time, he noticed how Draco’s pulse was bounding, his upper lip shiny with sweat, his breaths quickening. Harry’s heart raced as he glanced down, thrilling at the manner in which Draco’s cock was unmistakably tenting his trousers. He stroked the base of his wings again, his movements growing stronger and more assured as Draco rolled his hips in response and moaned.

“God, look at you. You’re like an angel,” Harry croaked, stroking faster and faster.

“I can assure you, what I want to do to you right now is anything but angelic,” Draco said with a low laugh. He grabbed onto Harry’s leg as let out another moan. His hips were beginning to rut uncontrollably against Harry’s thigh as he started to lose coherence. “I want to ruin you. I want to take you, mark you. Have you begging at my feet.”

The words twisted something uncomfortably within Harry. He remembered those times when he and Ron had both suffered Malfoy’s taunts, his bullying remarks and cowardly actions bolstered by the presence of his henchmen. Then Harry remembered that Crabbe was gone while Goyle had departed to places unknown, leaving Malfoy alone. The Malfoy who was now whimpering in his arms; the same person who brewed potions and cooked and fished and hand-picked olives.

“Oh.” Harry startled at the sound. Draco was watching him with an intense expression. “Or do you desire that of me?” Draco asked, his lips hot against the shell of Harry’s ear as Harry straddled his thigh. “Would you rather see me submit to you, to make me atone for my sins?”

“No, I—fuck.” Harry couldn’t think, his mind fuzzy with lust as Draco’s tongue darted out over the column of his neck. He did—he wanted that, to possess, to forget, to have Draco in any way that he could…

Draco turned his head, capturing the corner of Harry’s mouth with his lips. The kiss was soft yet demanding as Harry tilted his head, full of teeth and tongue. He felt the steady thudding of Draco’s heart as they grappled with one another, the hardness of Draco’s prick rubbing insistently against Harry’s hip.

“I want you to fuck me,” Draco whispered as Harry’s cock responded enthusiastically.

Something in Harry snapped as his hands lowered, past the gentle curve of his back as he gave Draco’s arse a proprietorial squeeze. “Merlin, yes. Is this what you want, Malfoy? Me bending you over, my cock fucking your gorgeous arse?”

“Yes,” Draco moaned as he cupped the shape of Harry’s prick with his hand, grinding down with his palm. “I want it all; I want you to bruise me, to pin me down. I want to feel your tongue in my arse—tasting me, licking me. I’d get so nice and wet and loose for you, just like you like it, begging you to fuck me with your gorgeous cock.” He stared down at Harry, his eyes now pitch black. “I want to do everything that you’ve dreamt of, Harry. I’m yours for the taking. Just like you imagined.”

Something about Draco’s words dripped ice-cold over Harry. How could he…

“You knew I was there that night,” Harry hissed. “The night I first saw your wings.”

Draco didn’t deny it. His eyes were half-lidded, his mouth swollen. He still looked filthy, utterly debauched.

“Of course I did. Our bond may be new, but it’s already started. Every day that we’re together, it strengthens bit by bit. I could sense you that night—standing outside my door, giving in to your curiosity. I could smell your arousal when I gave you a show. I could hear you.” He smirked, and the look he wore was no longer charming, but calculated. “Every single, dirty thought.”

Harry pushed back violently, his world destabilised once more. “You had no right,” he spat.

Draco arched his brow. “Honestly, Harry. That’s a bit self-righteous and hypocritical, don’t you think? Considering the circumstances.” He pushed an image into Harry’s head—of himself, arse up, wings out, his fingers moving in and out as Harry stood by the door and watched.

“That’s… it wasn’t right, what I did,” Harry admitted, his voice breaking. “But this. This connection. I had to deal with Voldemort in my head for so long—his manipulation, his thoughts.” He couldn’t get the words out, he was shaking so hard. “Even after he’d died, I relived the visions, the pain.” He touched his scar, which had finally gone quiet after so many years. “I can’t bear the thought of someone being in my head like that again.”

Draco stepped forward, his eyes regaining some of their colour and face paling as Harry moved away. “The connection between a Veela and their mate is a beautiful thing, Harry. It’s no different from someone who loves their partner so much that they can anticipate their needs without any words. Or the connection that exists in the closest of friendships, or a familial bond.” His expression turned cajoling as Harry retreated even further. “Look at Bill and Fleur.”

“It may be right for some,” Harry conceded. “But I can’t bear the idea of being connected to someone like that again. Where they’re privy to my every thought.”

“Oh my God. You’re actually giving me the excuse: It’s not you, it’s me.” Draco choked out, hysteria colouring his voice.

“I’m so sorry, Draco. Truly.” Harry swallowed, unable to bear Draco’s crestfallen expression, or the tug in his heart at the fraying of their fledgling connection. “I don’t want to hurt you; I don’t want you to suffer more than you have to. But this…” He waved his hand in a grand gesture, trying to gather his thoughts, only to come up empty. “I don’t think we should encourage this bond any longer.”

Draco looked away. His wings drooped, their glimmering beauty fading as they retracted. “I think it best if you’re no longer on my detail.”

“Probably,” Harry answered hoarsely.

Draco picked up his shirt. Harry watched in silence as he slipped it on, his pale perfection swallowed up in the cloth. He drew his wand and Banished the dinner, table and all, with one angry flick. “Well, then.”

Harry took a step closer. “Draco—”

Draco lifted his chin. His grey eyes were wet beneath his elegant brow as his lips curled into a familiar sneer. “Good night, Potter.”

Harry held up his hands, defeated. “Okay. I’m going to give you some time to yourself, but I can’t leave you unattended. I have to lift the Disillusionment Charm, all right?” He longed to hold Draco once more, to tell him he was sorry. “If you need me, I’ll be right inside.”

Harry went in, closing the french doors quietly behind him. The fairy lights faded into nothing, leaving him in the dark. He sat alone, with only the shadows for his company, listening to a lone bird’s mournful cry.

Chapter Text

Everything he had was packed: three weeks’ worth of existence stuffed into a trunk measuring thirty-two by eighteen by fourteen inches high. Harry held off on casting the shrinking charm. He couldn’t bear the finality of the act—of returning to the emptiness of Grimmauld Place, of trading the camaraderie of his team for paper-pushing at the Ministry, of not seeing Malfoy’s lazy and knowing smile and hearing his sharp wit.

Of being free from the traces of everything that had happened, and dissolving their fledgling bond.

He headed towards the library, trying to ignore the insistent tug in his gut that drew him in a different direction. He was so caught up in his woolgathering that he nearly walked into the rack of brooms, the old stand wobbling precariously.

Ron stretched out his body, legs forward and arms overhead as he eyed the source of the racket. “Morning, Harry,” he yawned. “Godric, I need a cuppa.” He winced as he rubbed the nape of his neck. “I hate the overnights.”

“Actually, you may be on the day shift more often than you think.” Harry sat down next to Ron and took a deep breath. “I’m asking Dawlish to put you in charge. As the team leader.” He fought the urge to fidget as he threaded his fingers together. “As the only team leader.”

Ron sat up straight, his discomfort from last night apparently forgotten. “What are you on about?” His blue eyes narrowed perceptibly as Harry finally stilled his hands. “What happened last night between you and Draco?"

“Nearly fifteen years of history,” Harry sighed. “Besides, there’s no way things would ever work out between us. I figured it’d be better to let him know now than to string him along. Before the bond between us could strengthen further.”

“Sorry to hear that. You okay?”

“Yeah. Or, I will be. I think distancing myself from the case and being in my own place and my own bed will help.” Harry let out a forced laugh. “You can’t be all that sorry, though, right? Maybe even a bit relieved? Being that it’s Malfoy, and all.”

Ron looked at Harry carefully. His eyes were sharp and observant—the eyes of an Auror who was trained to interrogate, and one who knew his best mate too well. “You haven’t slept well in months, Harry. Being back at Grimmauld Place certainly won’t change that. And Malfoy’s not all that bad. I mean, he’s not the first person I would’ve chosen for you, but you and Gin already gave it a go. And he’s not a bad sort, really. Kind of fun to talk to, even, if you can get past the poncey attitude.”

Harry closed his eyes. The morning sun was streaming through the large picture window, its rays too bright, too stifling and hot. “I can’t. I’m not ready.”

“Ready for what?” Ron’s voice was gentle, but insistent.

“Ready to have a relationship. To let someone in.”

Something sparked in Ron’s eyes—a flash of disappointment and anger. “I love you, Harry, but that’s a load of rubbish. And Hermione and I, and everyone else who loves you, have been giving you a wide berth to work things out. But I’m not going to not say anything if you’re going to sabotage your life and be miserable in the process.”

Harry fought back the protest that had already sprung to his lips. “I shouldn’t enter a relationship when I’m not emotionally available.”

“‘Emotionally available.’ Is that Mind Healer-speak? Or Harry avoidance-speak?” Ron leaned in and continued, not giving Harry a chance to argue. “Whatever it is, it’s bloody blinkered. I know what you have with me and Hermione and Rose. I’ve seen you with my family. I’ve seen you with Sam and Zach and Ben—hell, all the members of our team. My point is that you can have relationships, and bloody great ones at that. So when it comes to Malfoy, what is it that you’re running away from?”

“Merlin, he…” Harry stopped, then considered the question more thoughtfully. “It’s the intensity of everything. He challenges me, makes me feel things that are amazing but sometimes frightening. It’s overwhelming, at times. I don’t think love should feel like that.”

“I don’t think that love should feel like that always. But you’re human. You’re also intense, and passionate, and stubborn as all fuck, and I can’t imagine you being happy in a relationship where you’re not occasionally challenged. You had something stable and pleasantly comfortable with Gin, and that didn’t work out.”

“But…you and Hermione. You’ve known each other forever. Fuck, you’ve been with each other forever. Aren’t you ever afraid that you’re…I don’t know, losing yourself?”

Ron frowned. “I know what it’s like to feel irrational. To be jealous. My resentment of you when we were growing up was made worse by that bloody locket. There were times while wearing it that I thought I was going mad, but it only amplified the insecurities I’d already felt. It didn’t plant feelings in me that weren’t already there.” He looked up at Harry, his blue eyes guileless. “Through it all, I’d always known that I loved you. And now, I’ve grown to appreciate what we have even more.

“What Hermione and I have—yeah, we’ve known each other a long time. And since you asked me if I’ve lost myself with her, I’d have to answer yes, but maybe not in the way that you mean. Falling in love, and spending time with another person, does that. Learning to compromise does that. Being a parent, and learning from my mistakes—all that stuff, can change your perspective on things. But Hermione is just as brilliant and opinionated and stubborn as the day we first met. And I’d like to think I’m still the same guy she fell in love with, as well.”

“But if that’s the case… I mean.” Harry spread his hands. “It’s Malfoy. He was horrible to us when we were kids. Cruel, even."

“That doesn’t mean people can’t change, Harry, especially if they’re willing. There’s a difference.” The tips of Ron’s ears reddened, his face growing bright red. “Look, I know Malfoy pushes your buttons. He always has, and I think he always will. But the way you are with him… it’s the first time I saw something light up in you since you’d divorced Gin. And honestly, the way he stares at you when you’re not looking, like he’s starving and you’re the last chocolate frog…” He made a face, then burst out laughing. “Man. When I woke up this morning, I didn’t think I’d be spending it talking about your love life with Malfoy and my sister.”

Harry gave him a wry grin. “I might be able to deal with it if it was just Malfoy. But it’s also this whole Veela thing. The Allure, the bond. I feel like he can read my every thought, that he’s in my head. That it’s—fuck, that it’s like having a piece of someone inside me. You felt a bit of that when you had Slytherin’s locket.  I can’t go through that again.” Harry buried his head in his hands. “I can’t.”

“From what I know, Allures don’t work like that. You can’t just turn it on and mesmerise someone into doing something they don’t want. It’s not Amortentia, or an Imperius —it just intensifies a feeling that’s already there.”

“How about the time when Fleur came up to you during the Welcoming Feast?” Harry asked, looking up at him accusingly.

Ron blushed even deeper. “I can tell you that if Malfoy had done the same, I wouldn’t have given him my bouillabaisse.”

“Last night, I told him I couldn’t be his Chosen. We agreed that I should remove myself from his case.” Harry looked at Ron miserably as he handed him the SmartScope that Elliot had custom-made for Draco. “I hear what you’re saying, but I feel like if I stay on, I’m just going to bollocks things up even more. I’m asking Dawlish to make you the team lead in my place. Just… keep me updated. Let me know that Draco’s okay.”

Ron’s face was full of regret. “I’m going to support your decision, Harry, but you can’t have it both ways. If you’re not going to pursue a relationship with Draco, then the best thing would be for you to keep your distance and let the bond to break. For both your sakes.”

“I know.” Harry did, and the fact that Ron agreed didn’t make the truth any less bitter.

.~oOo~.

All things considered, it could have been a lot worse. Harry had endured Dawlish’s smug looks and enthusiastic discussion regarding the difficulties of administrative responsibility in the face of departmental incompetence. Kingsley had just sat back and sighed, a look of disappointment and resignation in his face. After the hour-long meeting was finished, Kingsley had simply patted Harry on the back and said, “Well, perhaps it was to be expected.”

Harry was then left with a choice: to push papers as the liaison to the legal department while the Ministry’s team of barristers prepared to prosecute a decades-old, illegal potions case, or to investigate the questionable sighting of several rogue werewolves near the Burton Mere Wetlands.

Harry sighed. Wading through the rushes and sweet-grass in the remote areas of the estuary was still preferable to being so close to the temptation of Malfoy and the case. He pulled out the parchment that rested on top of his folder and headed towards Elliot’s lab.

“Hey, Harry.” Elliot looked up in surprise. “Oh! You’re out of the Manor! Dawlish gave you the day off?”

“Only if you consider collecting fifteen signatures and topping it off with a visit to St Mungo’s to get vaccinated a personal day,” Harry said with a grimace.

Elliot took the paper Harry held out. “Why do you need a vaccination? Oh…” His eyes widened as he read the clearance form. “Seriously? You’re off the Vigilante Killer case?”

Harry just shrugged. After his lengthy discussions with Ron and Kingsley and Dawlish, he couldn’t be arsed anymore to explain. “It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?” Elliot looked curious, but thankfully, turned his attention back to the form. “So you need to hand in the keycode that gives you access to information regarding the case, and any other equipment that you may have received.” He took the rucksack that Harry handed him, and started itemising its contents. “Speaking of which—do you still have the SmartScope that I made for Malfoy? The one with the additional protective charms?”

“I left it with Ron. Last I knew, it was in the library,” Harry said. “Thought it was better if I left it at the Manor, since it was made specifically for Dra—Malfoy.”

Elliot didn’t seem to notice the slip. “It’s okay,” he said, placing the items back in the sack. “It’ll save someone the extra trip to bring it back to him. I can just confirm its whereabouts on the central scanner.”

Harry followed Elliot as he moved to a large monitor. “This looks like one of those Muggle computers.”

“It is. Or at least, it’s similar. I’m using it to track the data obtained from each SmartScope.”

“Wow. What kind of information are you gathering?”

“The possibilities are limitless. Right now, I’m using it to monitor their location and to gather information on the spells encountered. From there, I can analyse for patterns, run stats, disable malfunctioning Scopes… you name it.”

“How does all this information get communicated? I can see a two-way transmission from you to the Scope and vice-versa, but you’re talking about multiple Scopes, over great distances.”

“The Muggles devised something called the Internet and the Cloud; we may have appropriated the technology,” Elliot grinned. He typed something on a keyboard, letting out a whoop when a dot lit up on the screen. “There she is,” he crowed. He tapped his wand on the dot, enlarging it until it revealed not only the Manor, but the outline of what looked to be the library’s walls. “Right where you said it’d be.”

“Fuck. Neat, but definitely a bit creepy.” Harry shook his head as Elliot reduced the image back to its normal size. “Where’d you learn all this stuff, anyway?”

Elliot returned to the rucksack, checking off two more items on Harry’s form, then added his magical signature to the adjoining column. “Both my parents are Muggle. I never even realised that I was a wizard until I was eight. But there’s plenty of magic in the Muggle world; I was always fascinated by how things worked. When I was thirteen, I lost my leg. Once I got myself out of bed, got my head out of my arse, and stopped feeling sorry for myself, I began tinkering around with the prosthesis they gave me to make it better.”  He shrugged. “Anyway, my fascination with technology grew from there. ‘Necessity is the mother of invention,’ and all that.”

“This whole mass communication, Cloud thing. It seems like it could eventually take the place of owls, or Floo calls, or Patronuses…”

“Yeah. It’d be a huge undertaking, though, and honestly, my heart is in inventing things. Working with my hands. For something of this type and scale, there are people who are much better suited than I. Even within my own family.” He looked over the parchment several times, then checked off the last item on Harry’s list. “There you go. All set.”

“Thanks Elliot. I’m sure you’ve heard it a million times, but you’re amazing. The stuff you come up with…” Harry smiled, then held out his hand. “Let’s just say I’m glad you’re on our side.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Elliot shook Harry’s hand. “Take care, Harry.”

.~oOo~.

By half past three, Harry was left with two more departments to clear and the remnants of a half-eaten sandwich.

“Harry!” Ben ran down the hall, the tails of his robes flapping behind him. “I heard you stepped down and left Weasley in charge. Is it true?!”

Harry hesitated. He didn’t want to lie, but he couldn’t tell Ben the whole truth. “I’m really proud of our team. And I went in with all the intentions of doing my best job. But Mr Malfoy and I have known each other for many years, and I’m afraid our history was interfering with my ability to do exactly that. It wasn’t fair to the Malfoys. Or to you.”

Ben was quiet for a moment, and Harry wasn’t sure if it was due to the inadequate response or disappointment. “I’ve looked up to you for a long time, Chief,” Ben said finally. “I know you’re probably sick of hearing it, but it’s the truth. I mean, yeah, I idolised you for all the obvious reasons. But now that I’ve had the chance to work with you, I respect you even more.”

Harry’s brows raised in surprise. “I’m not often the easiest person to work with. Ask Dawlish or Clark.”

Ben laughed, an easy, warm sound. “Dawlish doesn’t like anyone who’s nipping at his heels. But that’s just it—you’re brave, you’re powerful, and you've got a great heart. You’re Harry Potter— but you’ve also been known to bollocks things up a time or two.”

“Or four. Something the Prophet is overly-fond of reporting,” Harry said wryly.

“But that’s not such a bad thing, if you think about it,” Ben said. “Nobody’s perfect. It reminds me that I can do something great one day, myself. Anyway, it’s been a pleasure.”

The look on Ben’s face was so earnest. Something in Harry ached for Ben’s optimism, at how their five-year age gap made all the difference in the world in their perception of it, and of how precious it was. Of how little it could take to break it.

“Erm… Ben?”

“Yeah?” His winsome face flushed. “Sorry if I got carried away there for a bit. Fanboy and all.”

Harry gave him a strained smile. “Better not Elliot hear you say that.”

“Elliot?” A shocked look crossed Ben’s face, followed by one of resignation. “Guess we’re not a well-kept secret.”

“If it’s any consolation, I was probably the last to know.”

Ben sighed. “It’s okay. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t give a rat’s arse who knew the truth. But Elliot… he’s had to fight hard for everything his whole life. He doesn’t want anyone to think he’s made it this far on his connections, even if he is a bloody genius.”

Harry frowned as he tried to think back on Elliot’s dossier. “What kind of connections?”

“Well, I mean me, for one,” Ben said, blushing. “Not that I’ve got a huge name or anything like that. But we started in training together, and soon after we began dating, I got involved in the Back Alley sting.”

Harry nodded. “I remember that. Your Deprimo simultaneously took down Atticus Celius and his store of restricted potions ingredients that he was selling on the black market. You broke the entire case open that day.”

“Yeah. Crazy thing was, it was a stroke of luck. No one had any idea that the reagents were literally hidden right under our feet. And then, of course, there’s Max, who’s always in the papers for his involvement in one high-profile activist organisation or another. There was a period where the two of us were featured regularly in the Prophet.”

Harry tried to hang on to the connecting thread that was weaving in and out of his consciousness. “Wait—what does Fletcher have to do with all of this?”

“They’re second cousins, although Max was more like Elliot’s big brother. Especially after ‘96, when the explosion took Elliot’s leg. I think Max took it nearly as hard. But despite everything, Elliot’s more resilient than anyone I know.” His eyes shone, and for a moment, Harry remembered what it felt like when Draco had looked at him with a similar warmth and desire. “I mean, his life got turned arse over tit by a Death Eater, and now he’s working for the Ministry, inventing things to keep them safe because he refuses to see them as anything more than their individual selves.”

Something in Harry’s heart ached. “Sounds like he’s the best of us all.”

“You’ll get no argument for me. Can’t wait for the day when—”

There was a loud shout, followed by a flurry of activity as a group of Aurors from Clark’s team ran down the hall. The large, pale bear of Dawlish’s Patronus soon followed, its form less corporeal than Harry had previously seen.

“Chapman. Basement Level two, Room of Tactics and Advanced Strategy, immediately.” The Patronus wavered, then faded, then reappeared several seconds later at the end of the hall in front of Anthony Goldstein as the command repeated itself.

Harry grabbed Ben’s wrist. “Ben… I didn’t get a notification.” Harry had already signed out with the communications department, but had not finished all the elements of his security clearance. “Technically, I’m not off the case.”

Ben wrenched his arm away. “Sorry, Harry. Got to go.” His eyes were filled with concern and pity. “Whatever it is, I’m sure if they want you back, they’ll let you know.”

Harry watched as Ben sprinted down towards the lifts. He muttered a curse as he turned, then intercepted Goldstein.

“Now’s not the time, Harry.” Anthony suddenly stopped in his tracks, appearing puzzled. “Shouldn’t you be with your team?”

Harry swallowed. “Everybody’s on their way to TAS. Any word on what’s going on?”

“Can’t say for sure, but I overheard someone saying that there was an explosion at the Bentham residence in Berkshire, followed half an hour later by one in the Everleigh home in Lincolnshire.”

Harry dogged at Anthony’s heels. “Damage or casualties?”

“The first one supposedly occurred in a little-used room without any significant damage, but the second injured Everleigh’s young son and his Auror protector.” They boarded the lift; Anthony was wedged against Harry as six more entered.

“It was an explosion in both cases?” Harry whispered.

“Yes. Word is that it wasn’t a direct attack made against a particular target, but one that was meant to do widespread, indiscriminate damage.” The lift ground to a halt as everyone swayed, the doors groaning with the additional weight as the crowd pushed forward. Anthony stepped out first, picking up the pace. “There were bits and pieces and furniture scattered everywhere, plus metallic debris.”

“Wait… where did the second attack take place?” They were approaching the Room of Tactics and Advanced Strategy, where Dawlish’s stern glare could be seen through the open door.

“Not sure—the bedroom or something?” A bemused expression crossed Anthony’s face. “You know, you’d get better answers if you ask the people in there.”

Fuck. Goldstein would find out soon enough. “Can’t. Took myself off the case today; they’re sending me up to Burton.” Harry winced as an overly-enthusiastic Hit Wizard muscled his way past him.

“Merlin, this must be big,” Anthony muttered under his breath. “All because of some exploding SmartScopes. Gotta go, Harry; good luck up in Burton.”

The rest of Anthony’s words were lost as Harry gasped, unable to keep his legs from buckling.

He is a bloody genius.

I can use it to find each Scope’s location.

His life got turned arse over tit by a Death Eater. 

I used the extra time and resources they gave me to add some additional spells into its databank.

All because of some exploding SmartScopes.

“Draco.” Harry tried to reach out through their connection, almost sobbing with relief when he felt it, present but weak. He sprinted towards the exit, his legs eating up the distance as he made his way past the Ministry’s boundaries and to the nearest Apparition point. He hoped that the Manor’s wards would still let him in. He focused on the fairy-lighted trees at the edges of the West Gardens and began to Disapparate, hoping to Merlin that he wouldn’t be splinched. 

.~oOo~.

There was that dizzying pull, followed by a vague awareness of position and space, as the blur of pinks and greens settled into a magnolia tree’s more familiar, flowery form. Harry did a quick survey of his arms and legs, and the space in between, and heaved a huge sigh of relief.

He craned his neck and squinted, the brightness of the sun masking the details of the ballroom’s dim interior.  Harry had only seen Draco set foot into this room on rare occasions. He might be in the library reading, instead—or the dining room eating, or on the grounds gardening, or in his room undressing, or…

Fuck. Harry hated that the Manor was so bloody huge.

The pointed tip of a wand dug into the vulnerable part of his neck, followed by a gasp.

“Oh fuck! Sorry, Chief. I mean… Harry. I thought you were an intruder. Although I guess you kinda are?” Samara lowered her wand fractionally. “I just did a perimeter check. How’d you get through the wards, anyway?”

“I was hoping that all the red tape at the Ministry meant they hadn’t revoked the last of my security clearance yet,” Harry admitted. That, and the possibility that the Manor may have accepted the bond that existed between him and Draco, as fragile as it was.

“You’ve got some brass bollocks, I’ll give you that,” Sarma said. She squinted, keeping her wand trained. “Do you know what would’ve happened if the wards didn’t let you through?”

Harry winced, thinking about the entrail-expelling curse which had landed him in St Mungo’s after a particularly harrowing raid three years ago. “Pleasant as that thought is, I need to see Ron. If you can’t let me go, can you at least tell him I’m here? It’s a bit of an emergency.”

Samara must have detected the urgency in his voice, or noticed Harry’s ‘let-me-the-fuck-through-or-else’ expression. There was the slightest hesitation as she swallowed. “I never saw you,” she said, turning her back to him. “You have fifteen seconds.”

Harry muttered his thanks, his heart racing as he took off. He cast an Alohomora at the French doors then turned right, the tugging from his connection with Draco growing stronger with each turn. It eased some of his anxiety, reassuring him that Draco was still here. That he was safe, at least for the moment, somewhere close by.

The sounds of Ron’s protest drew Harry to the library.

“Sorry, Malfoy, but the accusations against Wójcik had nothing to do with the Italian team’s failure to qualify for the 2014 Cup. If you think anything else, you’re bloody barmy.”

“An accusation that not only destroyed the morale of the team but lost them practice time and money in his defense. I’d say it had everything to do with it.”

“Well, they’ll have their chance again later this year. I’m taking Rose; figure she’s ready to be introduced to another Weasley family tradition.”

“Speaking of families, you know we’re related by marriage? Through your grandfather Septimus.”

“Guess that means you’re invited. For babysitting duties, of course.” Ron shot out of his seat as the library’s doors swung open. “Harry?!”

“Why are you still here?! Didn’t you get Dawlish’s Patronus?” Harry shouted as Ron and Draco stared.

At that very moment, Dawlish’s bear came lumbering through, looking slightly more exhausted than it had earlier.

“Team Leader Auror Weasley. We need you at Tactics and Advanced Strategy. Auror Chapman is on his way to relieve you.”

“Talk about impeccable timing,” Draco smirked.

The levity in Ron’s face disappeared immediately. “What’s going on, Harry?”

“I don’t have all the details,” Harry admitted. “I was at the Ministry, getting debriefed and my exit clearances out of the way.” He shot a look at Draco, who sniffed and looked away. “They have me tracking several rogue werewolves in Cheshire.”

“You’re about two-hundred miles too far south,” Ron said wryly. “What happened?”

“I was talking to Ben when he got Dawlish’s Patronus. Goldstein and Clark’s groups did as well. Word is that there were two separate explosions within half an hour of each other. The second one supposedly inflicted severe injuries to an Auror and a child. The thing is…Goldstein mentioned something in passing. He said that the debris from the second explosion contained bits of furniture and metal from the SmartScope.”

“And?” Ron’s brow furrowed.

“I met with Elliot Rogers earlier. He showed me what he’s been doing with the SmartScopes—outfitting them so they feed information back to him on a telly, where he can monitor and control them remotely.”

“Sounds bloody brilliant, given how widespread everyone is.”

Draco looked back at Harry, his face pale. “You said that the explosions were within half an hour of each other?”

Harry nodded. “What if Elliot put something in the SmartScopes to make them malfunction? To make them explode?”

Ron grimaced. “That’s a serious accusation, Harry.”

“Ben let it slip that Elliot lost his leg from a Death Eater explosion when he was a teen.”

“Fuck,” Ron swore as Draco stood.

“I know it’s not my place, but maybe you’d better get over to the Ministry.” Draco said quietly.

“I can’t.” Ron shook his head vehemently. “You’re the biggest target out here. Chapman hasn’t arrived, and if they’re planning any more attacks—”

“I’m here,” Harry reminded him. Draco looked displeased, but didn’t comment.

Ron remained silent for a moment, then finally nodded. “Okay. I’ll send my Patronus once I find out some more information.” He walked over to the side chair and picked up his robe, throwing it on in a well-practised motion. “You know I’m going to have to tell Dawlish about Elliot. You’ll be dragged right back in.”

There was a loud thud as a book slid to the floor. “What’s this about Elliot?”

Harry turned. Ben Chapman stood at the entrance to the library, visibly shaken as he stared at Harry.

“Ben… I think that Elliot may have been involved in today’s explosions.”

Ben’s lips twisted, turning the classically handsome lines of his face into something unforgiving and dangerous. “Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong,” he said, advancing towards Harry, his fist tight on his wand. “You’re not going to implicate Elliot! Not after everything he’s been through!”

“Stand down, Chapman.” Ron ordered, drawing his own wand as Harry’s magic began to build around them. He reached into his robe pocket with his free hand and held up the SmartScope Elliot had charmed specially for Draco. “I’m going to Dawlish. One of the Unspeakables can check this out; if Elliot’s innocent, there’s nothing for either of you to worry about.”

The SmartScope began to buzz, its high-pitched hum barely registering in Harry’s consciousness before he heard Draco cry. Draco’s lean, powerful form vaulted over the tea table, snatching the SmartScope from Ron’s grasp. His wings erupted, and the force knocked the tea table over, sending the pink and white porcelain to shatter all over the floor.  

‘Draco! Goddammit!” Harry swore as he knocked into the collection of brooms, his long legs unable to keep up with Draco’s swifter form as the Veela flew towards the massive window at the end of the room. “Protego!” he shouted, casting furiously. “Repello Inimicum!”

Always you, Harry. Draco spared Harry a final glance as he headed for the glass at full speed. The glass splintered with a thunderous crash, tearing at his face, his clothes, and his wings. He burst through to the other side and took off into the air, clutching the vibrating SmartScope like a grotesque Snitch.

The rest of Harry’s protective spells fizzled, unable to traverse the growing distance as Draco began to soar. He ground his teeth in anger and frustration.

“Accio Draco’s broom!” A moment later, a Nimbus 3000 smacked into Harry’s palm. He threw his leg over its worn handle, ignoring the shouts increasing behind him as Ron’s wand moved in a furious figure-eight. The broom shuddered, likely from the years of disuse, then groaned as Harry kicked it forward.

Harry hurtled through the window’s skeletal remains. The gardens and trees began to blur, a mishmash of colours that blended with the pale blue and the bright yellow of the sun. Harry spied Draco high in the distance. Draco turned for a brief moment, his wings filtering the sun’s brightness behind him. His hair surrounded him in a pale halo, the planes of his face hidden in shadow as he hovered—a beautiful, magnificent, avenging angel.

Harry lunged forward, his hand outstretched, his muscles straining from the exertion as the Nimbus laboured from the excessive speed.

“Give me the SmartScope, Malfoy!” Harry shouted, his words nearly drowned out by the wind and the noise in his head.

“You wish, Potter." The words, said softly and sadly, were lost in a fiery explosion as the sun’s brilliance was overtaken by a flare of cobalt blue. The blast of hot air and shrapnel blew Harry backwards as Draco and the world around him faded to black.

.~oOo~.

“I’m fine, I said—bloody hell! What the fuck was that?!”

The Healer’s lips were pulled painfully tight. “That, Auror Potter, is what happens when Ferula and Vulnera Sanentur are performed without the benefit of a Sleeping Draught. You’ve been through our doors enough times to know the protocol.”

“Sorry,” Harry said sheepishly. The apology caused the Healer’s lips to loosen slightly and his face to soften. “I just need to get out of here as soon as possible.”

“What you need, Harry, is rest. Something that I am well aware is foreign to your vocabulary.”

Harry almost protested, but he couldn’t argue with the truth. “I promise I will as soon as we catch the person behind this. But for now, I need you to sign off on my medical release.” He swallowed, suddenly overcome with emotion. “Please.”

“Don’t ruin all my good work,” the Healer said gruffly, scratching his signature on the clipboard beside the bed. “You still have to wait before you head on your merry way, however. There’s someone who needs to see you.”

Right on cue, the door opened. Ron entered, nodding to the Healer as he made his exit.

A tired smile flitted over Ron’s drawn expression. “Only five broken bones and a ruptured spleen after dropping nearly four-hundred feet. Going to have to try harder next time, mate.”

Harry tried to laugh, but was stopped by the sharp pain at his side. “It was your fault for layering all those protective and cushioning spells. If it weren’t for you, I could’ve at least hit fifty.”

“Ben’s, too,” Ron said pointedly. “He casts one hell of a Hover charm. One of the best I’ve ever seen.”

Harry looked down at his feet. “How’s Draco?”

“The Medi-Wizards just brought him up to the fourth floor from the Pit. I don’t know how the git did it…there’s no way he should have survived that blast, with the SmartScope detonating in his hand the way it did.”

“It’s my fault. If I hadn’t left—”

“If you hadn’t left, you wouldn’t have suspected a problem with the SmartScope, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation for a different reason.”

“Elliot—”

Ron frowned at the look on Harry’s face. “You’re off the case, Harry. I’ve already spoken to Dawlish. He’s assigned Clark to look into Elliot’s background. That includes interviewing Ben.”

“Clark.” Harry went up to scrub his hair out of habit, wincing as a burning pain lanced through his arm. “Clark’s the most by-the-book person in the department. It’ll take forever.”

“They can’t arrest Elliot without any concrete evidence, and you know it.”

“But the SmartScopes—”

“Harry,” Ron warned. “You’re already in a lot of trouble because you got through the Manor’s wards and inserted yourself back into a case that you voluntarily left. One in which your security clearances were revoked.”

“In the process of getting revoked.”

“Come on, Harry. You know Dawlish is looking for any reason to cut you down to size.”

“I don’t care! I have to do something…I’m certainly not going to some bloody wetland, waiting around with my thumb up my arse while Draco—” His voice choked; a smattering of tears burned the corner of his eyes, taking him by surprise. “At least let me see him.”

“There’s two Aurors guarding him round-the-clock, and another two waiting to interview him as soon as he’s able.”

“Ron, please.”

There was a long, suffering sigh. “Five minutes. Don’t thank me,” he said, holding up his hand. “I’m only doing this because I know you’re going to find a way in, regardless. And when you end up getting the bollocking you rightly deserve, I want to be the first person to say ‘I told you so.’”

For the first time that day, Harry felt a glimmer of hope. “Have I ever told you you’re the best friend anyone could ever ask for?”

Ron raised his brow. “Just remember that when it’s your turn for sprog duty.”

.~oOo~.

There were a few times where being Harry Potter had its advantages.

The pair of Aurors on duty hadn’t even bothered to check Harry’s credentials, going back to their conversation once Ron flashed his own badge and security clearance. Harry and Ron closed the door to Draco’s room behind them.

The smell of congealed blood and unused potions and antiseptic spells was almost overwhelming. Harry inched forward; the thin, white bedsheet was pooled at Draco’s hips, exposing his torso, where a monitoring spell hummed, creating rhythmic tracings in the air. Draco’s face was drawn, the plane of his chest rising, then falling in shallow huffs. The feathers on his wings, once of unearthly beauty, now drooped, damaged in several areas while others were flecked in the copper remnants of his selfless act. Though his body had become stronger and more defined since Hogwarts, he now looked more frail than ever.

“Wow. His feathers…” Ron’s gaze was wistful.

“You see his wings?” Something flared within Harry’s chest at the realisation that with the maturity of Draco’s wings and the gift of flight, Draco’s beauty was now bared to the world.

“I thought I was hit by a Confundus at first. I had no idea that he had enough Veela in him for them to manifest.”

A part of Harry ached—ached for his own self-absorption, and the missed opportunities. Ached for Draco’s optimism and self-recovery, for his acceptance of who he was, and for what he wanted in life.

A lone feather fluttered to the floor, its lazy path accusing Harry with every whirl.

His head snapped up, everything suddenly clearer. “I’ve got to go, Ron.” Harry said, heading towards the door. “Update me when you hear anything new, okay?”

“Where are you going, Harry?” A look of resignation fell over Ron’s face. “Forget it; the less I know, the better, in case Dawlish threatens me with a Pensieve. Just…don’t do anything bloody stupid, will you?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry answered, his jaw set with determination.

.~oOo~.

The lights in the lab had already come on, seeping under the door. Most of the DMLE were still congregated on the first level; Kingsley had called in the heads of the various Auror teams for an emergency meeting, along with representatives from the International Confederation of Wizards and the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, leaving the halls relatively empty.

“Elliot?” Harry knocked softly. When there was no response, he jiggled the handle. Harry pointed his wand at the uncooperative lock, and opened it with a simple Aberto.

Everything looked to be in order. Several diagrams of defensive spells were neatly tacked up against a board, forming two columns with the words “yes” and “no.” There was a wide array of safety equipment neatly stored in a cabinet to the right, while the housing for the SmartScopes and the vault containing the Magical Signatures sat to the left. The overhead lamps let out a faint hum as a light flickered from the monitor in the corner, the screen’s full view obscured by Max’s figure alongside it.

“Harry.” The air grew suddenly thick. “Why aren’t you with the rest of the leaders in Shacklebolt’s meeting?”

“Wasn’t asked to be,” Harry replied evasively. “I’m looking for Elliot.”

Max’s eyes glinted with suspicion. “They brought him down to assist with the investigation.”

Something wasn’t sitting right. “Why are you here if he’s out?”

“I’m waiting to make sure that he’s all right. Just like I do every night.” Max moved closer. “What’s this about, Harry?”

“I know about you and Elliot,” Harry said as Max’s brows lifted. “Ben let it slip earlier. I had no idea you were related.”

The tension in Max’s shoulders eased. “Distantly related. Second cousins, on my mother’s side. Although I’ve always seen him as a little brother.” He frowned. “It wasn’t exactly a secret, it’s just that Elliot tries so bloody hard to earn every part of his success on his own. Because of his injury; he never wanted anyone to think that he got by on pity or his connections.”

“So Ben mentioned.” Harry took a deep breath. “Look. You probably know Elliot better than anyone else. Has he shown any signs of being frustrated or resentful lately? Disillusioned?”

“What are you saying, Potter?”

“There were three separate blasts today. In three separate locations, with three different teams, all employing a similar mechanism, and all in the vicinity of a SmartScope.”

“Of course it was in the vicinity of a SmartScope! Elliot worked his arse off to make sure that all the security teams were outfitted with them in order to—” His words died as Harry’s implication lingered. “Oh, no.” Max wheezed, his hand coming up to wipe away at his sudden tears. “You couldn’t be more wrong. Elliot is the furthest thing from disillusioned. He’s so forgiving—always seeing the good in people. If anything, he’s illusioned. To a fault.”  Max laughed again, the sound of it high and unpredictable.

Harry stared. “Do you think he’s too forgiving?”

“He lost his leg to a fucking racist, elitist, pureblood ideologue when he was thirteen! His childhood was spent with Medi-Wizards and Mind Healers! What do you think?!”

Harry placed his hand on his wand holster, softly clicking open the flap. “I would think he’s remarkable for keeping his optimism,” he said cautiously.

Max snorted. “Like that means anything, coming from you. You think that because you’re the Saviour, you get a free pass? That your experience is somehow different from the rest of ours? You walk these halls, disregarding protocol, cozying up to Shacklebolt and all your other cronies, then get pissed and fuck half the wizards and witches in London. But none of that matters, because people still fawn over you. Meanwhile, the rest of us are trying to cope with everything that’s happened. How many others do you know who came away from the war with free clothes, or free brooms, or free food?”

“I don’t want any of those things,” Harry said, his face white. “I want to have a normal life.”

“What’s normal, Potter? Risking our lives for the very fuckers that put us in this position? Watching Elliot date a pureblood—one with ties to the Sacred Twenty-eight, no less?”

“Forgiving isn’t the same as forgetting. Maybe that’s what Elliot needs to move on.”

“What, like you? Or are your morals screwed up because you’ve had a taste of Death Eater cock?” He laughed as red heat flooded Harry’s face. “It was transparent and pathetic. The way you and Malfoy flirted and eye-fucked each other like you couldn’t get enough.” Max’s face twisted into something vicious. “I heard Malfoy’s hanging on in Spell Damage. Be a shame if he didn’t make it through.”

Harry nearly cast an Unforgivable. “He’ll be fine. He’s got plenty of protection.”

“Funny thing, that,” Max said, looking at his nails. “How at times, none of that really matters.”

Something tightened in Harry’s heart. “What do you mean?”

“I have to credit you, really. You and Zach, for putting the idea in my head.” Max rolled his eyes at Harry’s confusion. “About the use of passive attacks, that day at the Manor. ‘A broader scope of targets, with less risk to the instigators,’ to quote Zach.”

“More bang for the buck,” Harry finished, his voice strangled.

“That’s right.” Max pressed forward, a manic gleam in his eyes. “It was so easy, after that. Did you know that Expulso and Ex Cappa are so very close in incantation and origin? Yet that tiny difference means everything between the energy it takes for a caster to escape, or to cause an immense explosion.”

“You made a mockery of Elliot’s work.”

“He made a mockery of his own life!” Max spat, his words vicious and violent and laced with hate. “I’ve always had to watch out for him, and this time was no different! A change in the spell and a trigger that could be activated through a central control, and Voilà! Instant gratification.”

For something of this type and scale, there are people who are much better suited than I. Even within my own family.

Harry whipped out his wand, its length shaking with the force of his anger. “Step away from the controls, Max.”

“Now, Harry,” Max drawled. “And ruin all my good work? I think not.” He drew his own wand and pointed it at the table in front of Harry. “Reducto!”

“Protego!” Harry cried, the protective shield manifesting strongly as the workstation was blast into pieces. He aimed his wand at the blinds which covered the window above Fletcher. “Oppugno!”

A spray of purple light was emitted from Fletcher’s wand as he countered. “Relashio!” he cried as the wooden slats and thin cords began to wind their way around him. “Levicorpus!”

“Stupefy!” Harry answered, thankfully dropping back down to the floor as Max threw up a Protego.

“Expelliarmus!” Max cried, grunting in frustration as Harry easily flicked it aside. He whirled around, bringing out a small box which he placed on the floor. “Engorgio! Alomohora!”

The temperature in the room dropped visibly as the lights dimmed and the panes of the windows clouded over. A wraithlike-form emerged, smelling of death and decay, its toothless grin forming a rictus wide and foul.

Harry closed his eyes, railing against the despair that seeped into his psyche. He thought of his parents, of Sirius and Dumbledore, and the Dementor just kept coming closer. Icy fingers clutched at his heart, his movements slowing as he sank to the floor.

Something flared inside him. The remnants of a bond, faint yet insistent. He thought of Draco—of olive oil, of soft grey eyes hidden between the palest lashes, and soft, pink lips and the warm sun.

“Expecto Patronum!” Harry whispered. A silvery wisp gathered strength from the tip of his wand, its corporeal form manifesting in front of him as he stood.

Max let out a cry of rage as a majestic bird swooped down, dispelling the Boggart. Harry barely had time to register his Patronus’ astonishing new form before he was scrambling out of the way; Max had turned, his eyes crazed with fury as he fired his next curse.

“Crucio!” he screamed, and Harry dropped to his knees.

Somewhere, Harry’s wand clattered against the ground, rolling away from his unseeing hands as his body writhed in agony. He could hear Max stumbling in the background. Pain licked up and down his skin, his muscles wracked with each painful contraction as his eyes rolled back in his head.

“Crucio!” Max repeated, his tone sadistic and triumphant.

Harry cried out as his back arched and bowed grotesquely. His addled mind welcomed the pain, pushing aside the space occupied by his self-doubt and frustration, and all the nightmares that had haunted him for years. When the spasms finally stopped, his muscles burned, stripped of any natural movement as he lay helpless on the floor.

“Hope you said goodbye to your little Death Eater, Potter,” Max said, raising his wand once more.

Always you, Harry.

It hit him in that moment, with blinding clarity. Of how clinging to the past was in no way living. Of how his fear of hurting—of falling, of failing—meant that he wasn’t feeling at all.

Of everything that Draco had risked when he offered him his love, and just how much Harry could stand to lose.

He wanted it all. Starting now. Starting today.

Harry pushed through the pain, the voice inside his head guiding him steadily as he grabbed life by the horns, charging forward in a rush.

.~oOo~.

Harry found himself looking into blue eyes that were strangely familiar.

“Ahh, it appears that our most famous patient has decided to rejoin us. How are you doing, Harry?”

Harry attempted to prop himself up on his elbows, but the spinning in his head and the lingering burn in his muscles sent him decidedly in the opposite direction. “Been better,” he admitted. He tried to focus on the Healer’s face or his nameplate, but everything was blurry without his glasses. “Erm…”

“Healer Jacobs,” the man sighed, handing Harry his glasses. “For as many times as you’ve been in and out of here—”

“I won’t forget again,” Harry promised with a sheepish grin. He looked out the window; it was still sunny, the haze in the sky suggesting the slow shift from spring to summer. “How long have I been in here for this time?”

“Three days. Your body was still recuperating from the fall and the multiple injuries you’d sustained earlier when Max Fletcher hit you with the Cruciatus. The spasms caused your muscle tissue to break down further, and sent your magical core into a state of distress from the additional pain. We had to keep you sedated with a Sleeping Draught until your condition stabilised.”

Harry tried to sit up again. “Feels like I got run over by a herd of hippogriffs.”

“Yes, well.” Jacobs cleared his throat. “That’s probably better than feeling nothing at all.” He checked the monitor and scribbled Harry’s readings into his chart. “Your vitals are stable, and your most recent blood tests show that your liver and kidney function have returned to normal. There are several people from the DMLE outside who wish to speak with you; they were set to be notified once you were taken off your sedative drip.”

“How about when I piss or shit?” Harry asked, only half-joking.

Jacobs raised an eyebrow. “If you’d prefer, I can tell them that you’re still not ready for visitors.”

“I don’t suppose there’s anything else you can do? Perhaps a repelling potion?”

“Afraid not. Best advice I can give in this case is the sooner you start, the sooner it’ll be over.”

And the faster I’ll see Draco. “Healer Jacobs…Mr Malfoy was brought onto the fourth floor on the day I sustained my initial injuries. How is he doing?”

“I’m sorry, Harry. That I can’t help you with. Patient-Healer confidentiality.”

Harry sighed as he clutched the sheets in his hand, willing himself upright. “That’s what I thought. In that case, I’m ready, Healer Jacobs. Send them in.”

.~oOo~.

The prickly defensiveness which Harry felt as Dawlish entered eased somewhat as Kingsley followed soon after. He sat up, his still-sore body propped up against the pillows as he refused to let his discomfort show.

“Hello, Harry. How are you feeling?”

“Glad to be alive, Minister.”

“A sentiment that’s widely shared.” There was a pause. “For someone who was no longer involved on a case, you certainly have a way of getting caught up in the middle of it.”

Kingsley gave him a smile. It was a small one, but Harry knew in that moment that whatever else happened, things between him and Kingsley would work themselves out.

“Indeed.” Dawlish was wearing a frown as he shuffled through some of the papers he had been carrying. “It’s truly a talent.” He sighed, his expression long-suffering as he added reluctantly, “Although I suppose in certain situations, a healthy dose of intuition and selfless bravery is extremely valuable and should be commended.”

“Who are you, and what have you done with the Head Auror?” Harry grinned.

“Don’t push it, Auror Potter. I said ‘in certain situations,’ and ‘selfless,’ not foolish.”

“The people who were truly selfless and brave were people like Elliot and Mr Malfoy,” Harry said, a lump building in his throat. He looked out the window, collecting himself. “And people like Sam and Zach, and Ben and Ron…” He turned his attention back to Dawlish. “What happened afterwards? I don’t remember anything after Fletcher cast the Cruciatus.”

“It took a team of four Unspeakables to piece together what had happened, although they’re still sorting out some of the details. We’re hoping that you’ll be able to help us with that, whenever your Healers say you’re able. But from what we were able to gather, the combination of pain with a surge of emotion caused your accidental magic to go awry.”

“The interesting thing is that accidental magic of this sort can often cause indiscriminate injury or destruction,” Kingsley added. “The conditions should have been even worse since you were injured and eventually lost consciousness. But something seems to have guided your action. The Unspeakables detected a third magical signature in the room that day, one besides yours and Mr Fletcher’s.”

Harry scrunched up his brow. “Elliot’s?”

Dawlish shook his head. “Draco Malfoy’s.”

“But that’s impossible! Draco was here, at St Mungo’s.”

“Yes,” Kingsley agreed. “He was, and we have multiple witnesses and the hospital records to confirm it. But there are certain instances where another wizard’s magical signature may be entwined with that of the caster’s.”

The bond. “Oh.” Harry closed his eyes. Surprisingly, the idea no longer distressed him. He reached inside, searching for the thread, holding onto it once he found it. It still pulsed, slowly but surely. He opened his eyes once more, his vision clearer. “What happened to Fletcher?” he asked Kingsley.

“He’s been suspended of all his Ministry privileges and is currently in custody. Once we finish this part of the interrogation, he’ll be sent to Azkaban to await trial under one-to-one supervision. It’s for his safety, as well as that of others.”

“I’m limited in how much I can say at this point, since you haven’t been officially reinstated on the case,” Dawlish added. “Although, all things considered, you will need to be debriefed. It appears that Fletcher has long-harboured a hatred of Death Eaters and their supporters, feelings which escalated after the destruction of Brockdale Bridge in ‘96.”

“The bridge that Voldemort ordered to be destroyed in retaliation for Fudge’s refusal to step down as Minister for Magic?”

“Yes,” Kingsley said. “As you may recall, it caused a mass killing of Muggles; most of the victims were driving over the bridge at the time of the explosion. Both Fletcher and Rogers were born to Muggle families; as it happens, Rogers was in one of the cars that was approaching the bridge as it collapsed.”

Dawlish took something out of his bag and handed it to Harry. “A piece of debris had pierced the exterior of the car he was riding in, pinning Elliot, who was sitting in the backseat. By the time they were able to extricate him and bring him to a Muggle hospital, they were unable to save his lower leg. It was devastating, understandably, to everyone involved. It appears that Elliot’s injury fueled Max’s hatred even further, to the point where he began condemning purebloods and pureblood culture as a whole.”

Harry scanned the yellowed newspaper clipping, his gaze resting on a rebuttal that Max had written to an editorial. In it, he had denounced the attacks as well as the paper’s plea to let the Wizengamot and the courts run their course. Instead, he accused the justice system of being corrupt, and felt that groups such as the Death Eaters could only be stopped if met with equally violent forces.

Harry gave the page back to Dawlish, sickened by the thought that Fletcher had once stood watch over Draco. “Obviously his ideals grew stronger over the years. How did someone like this pass the clearances necessary to become an Auror?”

Dawlish’s face reddened. “Fletcher was exceedingly bright, at the top of his class. He was known as being passionate, but he championed many causes. There was nothing in his behaviour that suggested anything of an extremist nature, at least in a public forum.”

“Our resources have been severely strained after the War, Harry,” Kingsley reminded him. “With the number of lives lost, the loss of the public’s trust in the Ministry, and the financial and psychological toll following the War, it comes as no surprise that interest in working for the DMLE in particular, has been at an all-time low. Our standards were lowered; and people like Max Fletcher were not adequately screened, as a result.”

“The only way we’ll regain interest is by rebuilding the public’s trust,” Harry said.

“Yes. Which is why public liaisons and informational committees which promote two-way communication and education—such as the one Ms Granger-Weasley heads—are so important. That’s also why we cannot continue down the same path we have been taking. We’re setting up a division within the department to look at both the hiring process, as well as continued education and personal support, to reduce the risk of Auror burnout. We were hoping that you and Mr Weasley might be interested in spearheading this initiative.”

“What makes you think that it’s over? This was obviously much larger than a one-person job. Was Fletcher the head of the organisation responsible? Have you captured the rest?”

“The answers to that are: we don’t; we think so; and no,” Dawlish answered. “This is going to be a long and involved investigation, but based on earlier reports and our initial discussions with Fletcher, we believe that the movement started out in small, individual pockets which gradually became more organised under Fletcher’s direction. At least now, we think we’ve cut off the proverbial head of the snake.”

“Then I need to get back out there.”

Kingsley laid a hand on Harry’s. It was confident, warm, and reassuring. “There will always be others, Harry. I think that Head Auror Dawlish’s proposal is the best way to combat it, in the long run. Our efforts won’t be ultimately effective if we don’t start with ourselves.”

“Which is why I’d like you to consider taking some time off,” Dawlish said. “You haven’t had a vacation in three years, and have accrued more personal time than just about anyone else in the department, even the veterans.” His face looked pained for a moment, or at least, as if he’d just swallowed a particularly sour lemon. “You’re a great asset, Harry, one that we don’t take lightly. We’d like to give you a reason to stay with us, for more than the next one or two years.”

“Take the time off,” Kingsley urged. “I’m not saying go and disappear off the face of the earth; we’re going to need to contact you in various capacities as you’re an important part of this case, after all. But take the time you need. That you’ve earned.”

Harry opened his mouth, a protest ready on his lips. Kingsley looked at Dawlish and asked a question, although it was clearly a non-negotiable command.

“If you wouldn’t mind giving me five minutes with Harry in private, John?”

Dawlish gave them both a curt nod, placing his papers back into his portfolio. “I wish you a speedy recovery, Mr Potter,” he said, extending his hand to Harry. “Just not too speedy.”

“Thank you,” Harry replied, shaking it warmly.

“I know that the wisdom of one’s elders is not guaranteed. But once in awhile, experience is the best teacher in life,” Dawlish said cryptically. “I’ll wait for you in the tea shop, Kingsley.”

Harry waited until Dawlish made his exit. “What was that about?”

“It may have something to do with why I asked to speak with you in private. Harry…did you wonder at all how you survived the first blast? Both the Expulso, as well as falling off the broom?”

“I know that Ron and Ben cast several defensive and counter-charms.” Harry’s brows drew in. He knew that even if both had been casting with maximal efficacy and precision—highly unlikely, given the fact that their own safety was in jeopardy—that the chances of Harry surviving such a detonation were still highly unlikely, and Draco’s, not at all.

“I see from your expression that you can understand why we were confused as well. It was a question which boggled our experts. Finally, a team of our best Healers, experts in magical creatures, and Unspeakables came up with what is an improbable, but possibly the only, explanation.”

Harry sat quietly and listened; at the end of Kingsley’s speech, he stared, slack-jawed with amazement. “I need to see him, Kingsley. Please. Even if you have to send another Auror with me, although I hope you won’t. There’s a lot of things I need to say, not the least of which is that I’m sorry.”

“I understand,” Kingsley said. Something that came horrifyingly close to pity filled his eyes. “But Draco was discharged from St Mungo’s earlier this morning.”

Harry jumped out of bed. A pain lanced through his side in protest, and he gritted his teeth as he looked for something to transfigure into wearable clothing. “Well, I’ll just meet him at the Manor, then,” he said, rummaging about.

“Harry.” There was a finality in Kingsley’s voice that made Harry stop short. “Draco informed us that he was leaving the country. For healing purposes. The Healers thought it would be beneficial for him, not the least because of what I had just told you.”

“But you must know where he went.” Harry choked; he had never been one to beg, but he came awfully close in this moment. “You must have his contact information, because of the ongoing case.”

Kingsley patted his hand. “You know that is privileged and confidential information. Draco also insisted that you would not be privy to his whereabouts. But I think if you look in your heart of hearts, you can think of someone who knows, who may be convinced to help you out.”

.~oOo~.

“Mr Potter. I can’t say that your call was entirely unexpected.” Narcissa’s slender body graced the Manor’s doorway, rebuffing Harry’s physical and magical strength with sheer willpower alone.

Harry knew there was a time for sweet, honeyed words, couched in social niceties, and a time for brutal honesty. This was definitely the latter. “I’ve come to ask for your help in finding Draco.”

Her look was nothing short of imperious. “Do you know, Mr Potter, that when my husband was brought to Azkaban, I thought I would not see anything worse in my life than to see his spirit stripped away? I watched him become reduced from a once-proud man who adored his family and all that his admittedly privileged life had to offer, to one who treated each morning as a great disappointment that he was still around to see it. I wept at his funeral—not for the man I had lost, because I had lost him already many years before. I wept because he was finally free from his pain.” She faced Harry, her light blue eyes bright and fierce. “I love my son more than anything else in the world, and I refuse to see him travel in Lucius’ footsteps once more.”

No matter Harry’s personal opinions on Lucius, there was no denying Narcissa’s pain, and he was certainly not foolish enough to shut down the conversation before it had even started. “Your son once told me that he would never hurt me,” Harry said softly. “Unfortunately, I was not as brave or forgiving, and could not say the same. Please…may I come in?”

“I think I may have been mistaken when I let you in the first time, Mr Potter.” She must have noted Harry’s stricken expression, because the press of her lips faded by the slightest margin. “I could, however, be persuaded to go for a walk in the gardens. The anemone and calla lilies are starting to bloom.”

She gathered her wrap and took Harry around the perimeter of the home to a small greenhouse. Unlike the formal gardens with their clean edges and meticulous design, this space was filled with a dense foliage and a rich riot of colour. It was joyous, abounding with life, and seemed much more suited to a homey setting such as the Burrow. It was unexpected and refreshing to see such casual comfort amidst the staid decorum of the Manor.

Narcissa stopped in front of a patch of flowers, splashes of deep pink, white, or purple on their papery petals. “The anemone,” she said with a sweep of her hand. “Unquestionably beautiful, and one of the most popular choices for wedding bouquets. Are you by chance a gardener or a potions aficionado, Mr Potter?”

Harry shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“Look closely. When the wind blows, tell me what you see.”

Within several minutes, a soft breeze passed, the fragile petals opening as it brushed by.

“They open,” Harry said, fascinated as the various plantings did so once more.

“Yes. The buds are too young, but as the season progresses and they mature, any dead petals will be blown with the wind as well. ‘Anemone’ means ‘windflower.’ Part of its significance is to remind us that life is fragile, and to take the opportunities presented to us in their right time.”

“And if we should miss those opportunities?” Harry asked, his throat tight.

Narcissa faced Harry and looked deeply into his eyes. He fought the need to squirm under her observant gaze, and he nearly sighed in relief when she blinked and looked away. “There is more to their story, in their colours. Pink flowers symbolise forsaken love. But white and purple represent sincerity and protection.”

“They’re things I’d like to convince Draco of, if I were given a second chance.”

“You’d have to convince me first.”  Narcissa hummed speculatively, then led Harry down a small, pebbled path. “Did you know that this was Draco’s garden?” At Harry’s look of surprise, she permitted herself a small laugh. “Yes. Apparently, I cultivated his love of horticulture along with my prized roses. He was terribly spoilt, and demanded that he have a section on the grounds to work with for his own. He had an eye for beauty; his floral selections were often the most varied and colourful and fragrant, even if their arrangement was a bit chaotic and wild. Although now that we’ve discovered his Veela nature, I suppose it’s not quite as surprising.”

“Draco is all that. Beautiful and unpredictable, and challenging and wild.”

“Yes. Some may want to control that spirit. Others, may be not up to the challenge.”

“I want him to be all those things. Preferably, with me.”

Narcissa arched a thin brow, a motion nearly identical to her son’s. “Is this your guilt speaking, Mr Potter? Or the bond?”

“I am guilty. And I don’t deny that we share a bond, although it’s fading with each passing day,” Harry admitted painfully. “Looking back, our lives have always revolved around one another. But it’s no longer something that’s unhealthy and obsessive. When I’m with him, I feel alive. I want to be with Draco—not out of guilt, but because I admire the person he’s become, and because he reminds me of who I can be.”

Narcissa looked out over the hills, her eyes sweeping the line where the grass met the cloudless sky. “I need you to be sure. Draco wants you to be happy, but he will not stand by and suffer if you intend to be with someone else. Unrequited love is difficult enough for any witch or wizard, but for a Veela—”

“Then tell me where he is.”

Narcissa’s lips thinned. “I am reluctant, not only because you bring the possibility of yet another heartbreak. After everything he’s been through, my son has finally found a place where he can be free from his past. Where he is content. I refuse to be the one who disrupts that solace.”

Harry’s eyes widened as realisation struck. “You’re not just talking about me anymore, are you?”

Narcissa’s eyes were downcast. She suddenly looked frail, her shoulders sagging as if overcome by the weight of her sadness.

“I don’t know if we can ever be completely free of our past, Mrs Malfoy. But we certainly don’t need to be enslaved by it.” Harry reached out, impetuously grabbing Narcissa’s hand and ignoring her look of surprise. “Come with me. Veelas are creatures of love—all forms, not just romantic. What reason do you have to stay?” he pressed.

Narcissa lowered her lashes. “I will not be a burden to my son.”

“He missed you in the years he’d been gone. He told me so himself.”

For the first time, Narcissa’s composure was shaken. The edges of her lips trembled.

“Narcissa…in the final battle with Voldemort, there was a moment where I was given a choice between life and death, when I had to choose the direction in which I wanted to move. I’d always thought that this would be the most momentous decision I’d ever have to make, but I realise now that life is filled with many crossroads. We just have to be brave enough to make the right choice, and go.”

The sun rose higher. The shrill cry of a lapwing sounded in the distance, while several honey bees buzzed nearby.

Narcissa leaned over and plucked one of the white anemones, her face softening at its buttercup bloom. “Baudelaire once wrote: We leave for the sake of leaving. And without knowing why, we always say, ‘We must go.’ It’s been many years since I’ve enjoyed the pleasures of travel.” She pressed the flower into Harry’s hand, entwined their fingers and smiled. “I’ve heard that Nerano is glorious this time of year.”

Chapter Text

They Portkeyed into Rome that very night, and braved a Muggle tour bus the next morning. Five hours and four tourist traps later, they finally arrived in Nerano’s main square. It was a welcome change from the bus’ cramped interior; the smell of lemon and butterfly orchids wafted along the warm breeze, tinged with the sharpness of the bay’s saltwaters. 

“We’re so close,” Harry protested as they made their way down the footpath towards Marina del Cantone. “If it’s all right with you, I’d prefer not to stop.”

“Nonsense.” Narcissa turned and fixed Harry with a pointed stare. Despite its somewhat frenetic start, the trip already seemed to suit her well. Her pale hair was tied loosely at the nape of her neck, several long strands escaping from their binding. The noon sun shone bright, washing out her worry lines and bringing a touch of colour to her cheeks. “It’s not all right, Mr Potter. We’ve been travelling for nearly twenty-four hours, and you will not deprive me of a well-deserved respite.”

Harry set his jaw mulishly. Narcissa must have noted his obvious resistance.

“You have experienced far more than a young man should at your age, granted, but I’ve still got several more years on you.” Her blue eyes flashed dangerously, brooking no argument. In that moment, she looked every inch the fierce protector who had baldly outplayed the Dark Lord. “You will not approach Draco as exhausted as you are, looking as if you’ve just flown fifty laps around the Quidditch pitch. I know my son. He will be hurt and angry over your rejection, and it will take a considerable amount of persuasion for him to become vulnerable to you once more. I think it’d be best if you could approach that conversation with a clear head and an open heart, and not with an empty stomach.”

Harry sighed. “Fair enough,” he conceded. He looked around, considering the scene before them. The Recommone Bay beckoned with its bright blue waters, its crescent-shaped, pebbled shore dotted with turquoise umbrellas, canary-yellow towels, and sunbathers galore. A strip of eateries lined the base of the cliffs, their bleached-wood frames occupying the former fishermen’s crofts.

They selected one of the restaurants that appeared more established—old enough that it was notable for its lack of modern signage and clean angles, and the way the smoothness of the hand-hewn posts making up its legs faded into the sand.

“Un tavolo per due?” A handsome man approached them with two menus in hand. He was striking with his hazel eyes and olive skin, and the dark, wavy locks that he kept brushed back from his chiseled face.

“Yes, please. And one with a lovely view of the water, if there is one available,” Narcissa answered.

The young man startled at her voice. He gazed at them both—Narcissa in particular—his lower lip drawn in between his teeth as if he were trying to solve a challenging puzzle.

“You are English, yes? Is this your first time in Nerano?” he asked as he led them to a table in the front corner.

“Yes,” Harry answered politely. “We’ve only just arrived, but it’s more beautiful than I ever imagined.”

“Sì. Here, we learn to find beauty in all the things, and to never take it for granted.” He paused. “Are you visiting on business, or for pleasure?”

“I think the ‘pleasure’ is a given,” Narcissa answered smoothly. “How could it not be in a place such as this, no matter our original purpose?”

“Ahh. So there is another ‘purpose,’ then.”

Narcissa graced him with a delicate shrug. “Right now, that would be nothing more than to rest our feet and enjoy the local cuisine,” she said with a deftness that could only come from years of practise in the barbed politeness of pureblood culture.

“What do you recommend?” Harry asked, starting to grow impatient at the edges.

Their host raised a brow in surprise. “Your first day in Nerano, and you’re already in such a rush? If you go too fast, you might miss all that’s been sitting in front of you. Dolce far niente.”

“The joy of doing nothing,” Narcissa translated. “We would all do well to remember that.”

Harry’s lips pulled down in displeasure. “There’s also no sense in wasting one’s time. Especially if your blinders have finally been lifted.”

“I see.” The man gazed at Harry with an intensity that made Harry shift uneasily, before breaking the tension with a sudden smile. “Nerano is famed for fishing,” he said. Harry looked in the direction in which he pointed, where the boats bobbed and the fishermen had cast their nets, far from the rocky shore. “The bonito and shi drum may not seem exotic, but our chef is well-known for bringing out their true flavours. And of course, no restaurant around here could call Nerano home without featuring spaghetti alla nerano."

Harry placed his hand in his pocket. He fingered the object which lay inside, its shape reassuring against his hand. “The last dish you mentioned…is that the pasta that’s made with milk?”

“Ahh,” the man smiled. “You’re thinking of scialatielli. Best ai frutti de mare. A regional delight, and one that’s not easily forgotten.”

“I’ll have that, please,” Harry decided, handing the man his menu.

“And I’ll have the antipasti and the bonito,” Narcissa added. “Along with a glass of your Pinot Noir.” She eyed Harry, who had taken to drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “Make that two glasses.”

“Excellent,” the man said, smiling as he took Narcissa’s menu. “Someone will be by with your drinks shortly. And if you should need my assistance with anything else, please do not hesitate to ask for Gianpaolo.”

Harry gazed out over the sea once Gianpaolo walked away. The small beach was already filled with rows of tanned bodies and the bustling lunch crowd, but he found his attention drawn to the crystal blue waters and the sheer cliffs beyond.

“Have you given any thought as to what you will say?” Narcissa asked, eyeing him thoughtfully.

“I must have thought about it at least a hundred times before I talked to you,” Harry confessed. “And a hundred more, in just the last twenty-four hours.” His eyes flicked upwards as one of the waitstaff brought over their drinks, along with a plate of anchovies marinated in lemon and olive oil. “And for each of those times, I’ve thought of a dozen ways to express how I feel, yet settled on none.”

Narcissa took a small sip of her wine. Her hair ruffled in the breeze; in the background, a seagull yeowed in flight. “I’ve learned that you can be quite persuasive, Mr Potter. Probably never more so than when you speak with the conviction of your heart.”

Harry grimaced. “I won’t have the chance if he hexes me first. Or turns me away.”

Narcissa let out a small laugh. “Draco has been known to be…temperamental, at times, that is true. Sometimes, he does not express his emotions in the best ways.”

Harry thought about the time, on the Hogwarts Express, when Draco had stomped on his face. “I well remember.”

“I’m sure Draco remembers as well, Mr Potter.” She picked up her glass and took a bigger sip than the first.

Harry watched Narcissa sharply. He wondered just how much Narcissa knew about the Sectumsempra he’d cast in Myrtle’s bathroom, although he was quite sure that if she had known the whole story, his arse would still be in England with only regret for company.

Harry sampled an anchovy, surprised at the fresh, firm flesh and the hint of vinegar and spices. The other dishes were just as savoury, and by the time he had tucked into his scialatielli, the gnawing emptiness in his gut had settled into something less unpleasant.

“How are your dishes?” Gianpaolo asked, appearing by their side.

“They’re wonderful,” Harry replied. “I’ve not had this dish very often, but it reminds me of something quite happy.”

Gianpaolo’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “Something, or someone?”

“Both,” Harry admitted, clearing his throat.

Narcissa’s expression softened. “Some of my favourite meals are due to the memories they evoke. Questo piatto è delizioso,” she added, turning her attention back to Gianpaolo. “My compliments to the chef. I must admit, I enjoy cooking, although I’ve never been able to capture the sweetness of fish quite like this.”

“Ahh. My father would be glad to hear that. It is due to their freshness, of course, and the simplicity of his sauces.” He motioned to one of the waitstaff, who listened attentively as Gianpaolo spoke in rapid-fire Italian. The young man disappeared into the back, then returned several minutes later with a much older gentleman.

“This is my father, Marcel,” Gianpaolo said, introducing him to the group. “He is both the chef and owner.”

Harry stared. Marcel was, for all intents and purposes, an older version of Gianpaolo—still handsome and kind-looking, with silvered temples that accented a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair. He carried himself proudly despite the roughness of his hands, the smell of food on his clothes, and his sun-weathered skin.

“Sei bella,” Marcel said, staring at Narcissa. “Per favore, scusa la mia maleducazione, ma tu assomigli molto a Draco.”

Narcissa blushed as Harry nearly jumped out from his seat. “Draco? Did he say ‘Draco?’” he asked wildly, looking at Narcissa.

“Sì,” Marcel replied, lifting his eyes from Narcissa’s face with some reluctance. “Your companion. She has Mister Draco’s fair beauty.”

A roar filled Harry’s head as his heart thudded, picking up speed. “We are here for Draco. Do you know where we may find him?”

Gianpaolo’s gaze roved over Harry, resting on his scar. “May I inquire as to why you are searching for him?”

“I am Narcissa Malfoy. Draco is my son,” Narcissa answered quietly. “And Harry is Draco’s…close acquaintance.”

“Close, but not so close as to know where Draco may be found?”

“It’s a situation that I want to remedy. Desperately,” Harry pleaded.

“You care for Mister Draco, then?” Marcel asked.

“With everything I have,” Harry answered earnestly.  

Marcel and Gianpaolo each appeared to consider the information carefully. “We are making lemon cakes and chocolate-dipped figs today, Mrs Malfoy,” Gianpaolo finally said, breaking the silence. “I am sure my father wouldn’t mind sharing our family’s secrets, if you’re interested in watching.”

Narcissa eyed the hand that was offered her by Marcel. “I’d love to. But I’m afraid I must decline,” she added reluctantly. “Draco—”

“Draco is generally busy at this time of day.” The comment was made so assuredly, so matter-of-factly, that Harry felt his hackles rise. He viewed Gianpaolo through narrowed eyes, wondering just how much he knew of Draco’s daily habits.

“But Harry and I—”

“There is much to see in Nerano,” Gianpaolo interrupted. “It is said that Sirens live near the caves of Ieranto Bay, and that its landscape has inspired many a poet. It is famed not only for its geographical beauty, but also for its wildlife.”

Narcissa blinked. “Aquatic, yes?” she asked.

“Yes,” Gianpaolo answered, not taking his eyes off Harry. “We’ve always had roots with the sea. But I’ve also been fascinated by our birds. If you would like, Harry, I can show you just how magnificent they can be.”

.~oOo~.

The puttering hum of the Vespa shuddered to a stop as they came to a rest at the foothills of the cliffs. Harry looked up, spying the bushy tops and twisted limbs of the olive groves in the distance.

“This is as far as I can take you,” Gianpaolo said, indicating the narrow flight of stairs which ascended steeply. “The rest you must travel by foot.”

The late sun highlighted Gianpaolo’s high cheekbones and plush lips. A swell of jealousy grew in Harry’s chest as he once again wondered about the nature of Gianpaolo’s friendship with Draco. Luckily, there was also a reassuring tug in his gut to remind him that no matter their past, he was Draco’s future.

Harry stood. “Thank you, Gianpaolo,” he said, shaking his hand. “For everything.”

Gianpaolo’s hazel eyes deepened to the colour of the olive leaves. “Draco is very special. But you don’t need me to tell you that.” He let go of Harry’s hand and smiled before turning the Vespa around on the dirt path, the dust kicking out from behind him as he made his way down the well-worn trail.

“Bloody stairs.” Harry winced, trying his best to ignore the cramp which still ached in his side. The breeze picked up, the sharp scent of lemons and oranges urging him on as sweat collected, then dried on his skin.

He reached the top, coming to a  charming villa whose stuccoed white walls were punctuated by large windows that overlooked the sloping hillside. A small terrace was visible on the upper level, and above that, a red-tiled roof.

A heavy wooden door stood sentry. It looked to be as old as its surroundings, its surface well-worn and smooth.

“Hello? Draco?” Harry called out, knocking loudly. When there was no response, he decided to try out back. “Draco?”

The charming exterior of the main entrance could not have prepared him for the exquisite view. The cliffs dove sharply ahead, the vegetation seeming to defy gravity as it clung to their edges. There were several other levels to the home that had not been previously visible, and the patio on the lowest level was outfitted with an outdoor kitchen and a cotto-tiled table. The living space looked out over the waters of the Ieranto Bay, and beyond that, at the Faraglioni rocks which loomed proudly in the distance.

Something bird-like darted in between the cliffs and the coves. Despite the magnificence with which it plunged and swooped, Harry found that it required his full attention to keep it from fading from his view. He bit down on his lip and focused. There, at the margins, was the shimmer of magic and the hint of a wing breaking through the strong Disillusionment charm as the object drew closer.

“Draco,” Harry whispered. The bond beckoned. Draco’s white-blond hair was as bright as a halo, his body tanned and strong. The path of his flight was captivating—an angel’s gift of speed and freedom, but poignant in its solitude.

Time passed as Harry watched, transfixed. Suddenly, Draco darted down with an angry cry, his massive wings flattened against him as he barrelled head first towards the earth. Harry squinted, temporarily blinded as a growing wind kicked up the surrounding dirt. By the time the dust finally settled, Draco was standing before him—feet bare and dressed only in his trousers, his comely shape silhouetted against the Mediterranean sun.

“Potter.” It was impossible to see his expression, but there was no mistaking the fury in his tone. “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to know that you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Harry replied honestly.

Draco angled his head, his profile coming into view. Despite his anger, he had managed to blush, making him appear even more compelling. “I suppose you have a reason for trespassing?”

Harry gave Draco his most winning smile. “There are no trespassing laws in Italy.”

“Stalking, then.” The frost dripped off Draco’s words as he stood, his expression unamused. “I know there are laws for that.”

“Draco, I…” Despite the number of times Harry had thought about this very moment, he found himself at a loss for words. He dug around in his pocket, his fingers wrapping around the chess piece as he pulled it out. With some trepidation, he set it on the table. “When you left England, you forgot something in your haste.”

Draco was silent. He hesitated before picking up the piece, his finger brushing over the wizard’s curves. “I didn’t forget.” He glared at Harry, clenching his fists. “You’ve no idea how hard it was for me to let you go. Our bond had already started to form by the time you’d made your decision. The last two weeks have been painfully difficult for me, to say the least. All that time, and the distance apart…”

Harry swallowed. “You said you would never hurt me. I’m so sorry I couldn’t say the same.” He paused, his throat tightening with remorse. “Do you think you could find it in your heart to forgive me?”

Draco let out a low laugh. The sound wasn’t harsh or bitter, but something sorrowful.

“Forgive, yes. It is something I would never deny another if I had it to give, for I know how difficult life can be without. But more than that…” He paused, appearing to search for the right words. “I’ve survived many things in my life, but the pain of a broken heart was one of the worst by far. Love is intrinsic to a Veela’s nature, Harry. And after all that’s happened, I’m not sure that I have it left in me to give.”

“But you do,” Harry argued. “Look at the person you’ve become. When we were children, I thought you were arrogant and spiteful, thinking only of yourself. In the years that followed, I believed you capable only of familial love.”

Draco growled. “If this is your way of trying to win back my favour, you’re doing a bloody terrible job of it, Potter.”

“I know…but hear me out. When you came back to England, I saw another side of you. The side that loved the life you’d made for yourself in Italy. The one that had nothing to do with money, or power, or prestige. It was the same part of you that grew an anemone patch as a child, merely for the sheer joy of enjoying its beauty. And it’s the part of you that cared enough about me to respect my decision to break our bond, despite the consequences to you.” He laid his hand on Draco’s. “Why did you do it, Draco? What were you thinking, grabbing the SmartScope as you did, knowing it was about to explode?”

Draco stiffened, appearing uncomfortable. “Weasley—he has a child, and another on the way. People who depend on him. People to live for.”

“And you don’t?” Harry asked, his voice hoarse.

“Samara is so much softer than she seems, even though she tries to be tough and brave. She reminds me so much of Pansy,” Draco persisted, ignoring Harry’s question. “And then there’s Mother, and Mipsy.” He looked down. “And you.”

The sound of the waves crashing against the edges of the shore thundered in the distance. “For you to have felt so much for others,” Harry said softly, “why would you think that it wouldn’t be reciprocated?”

Draco grimaced. “I think it’s the Veela in me. If I had thought about the consequences instead of acting in that moment, I’m not sure I would have done the same. I may have chosen a more selfish, or cowardly, path. It wouldn’t have been the first time,” he added pointedly.

“You and the Veela are one and the same, Draco. You’re incredible. And you have so much of yourself to give.” Harry tried to find the words to say all that was in his heart, but all that came out was simply, “I’ve missed you.”

Draco let go of Harry’s hand. “What made you change your mind? It wasn’t that long ago that you had your heart set on breaking our bond.”

Harry’s voice was filled with regret. “When I learned that the SmartScopes had been tampered with—”

“Ahh.” Draco’s grey eyes shuttered. “Guilt, then.”

“No.” Harry stood, moving closer. “It’s because I realised I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. Because I want to be with you. You’re constantly challenging me, Draco. You make me rethink the past, and remind me of why I need to move on. You show me that I can be better, no matter how much I may have fucked things up. When I look at you, I see someone who’s made amends, and who’s stronger for it. I see someone who’s prickly and obstinate, witty and sharp, and thoughtful and sweet. I see someone who’s so bloody gorgeous, he makes me forget how to breathe.” He thumbed the scar that knifed along the top of Draco’s shoulder, still pink and incompletely healed. “Did you ever wonder how you’d survived?”

“Since the War? Every single day,” Draco answered, looking a bit overwhelmed by Harry’s confession. “But if you’re referring to the explosion, I’m guessing it’s because of my Veela blood. That, and a massive amount of good luck.”

“And what about me?” asked Harry. “I may not have been as close to the SmartScope as you, but I was certainly close enough for the result to be deadly. Not to mention, I’d fallen nearly four-hundred feet from my broom.”

A wrinkle formed between Draco’s brow. “You’re the bloody Boy Who Lived. I’m starting to think you’d survive anything.”

Harry let out a wry laugh. “I’ve survived many things I shouldn’t have logically. And I realise now that the thread they all have in common is the thing I’ve been resisting the most.”

“A love bond,” Harry continued hurriedly as Draco arched a brow. “Specifically, the Bond of Blood.”

Draco’s eyes widened in disbelief. “A sacrificial charm. One created out of the purest love.”

“Yes. It was my mother’s act of love that allowed me to withstand Voldemort’s AK as a child. And—if you were to believe Kingsley and the Ministry’s team of top Unspeakables—the same spell that allowed both you and me to survive.”

Draco gawped, the expression turning his otherworldly beauty into something more human. “But that doesn’t make any sense. The Bond of Blood should only work one way. Not to mention that the spell requires both familial acceptance and an incantation for its completion.”

Harry nodded slowly. “I know. It took me awhile to wrap my head around it; even the Unspeakables aren’t entirely sure. But when you flew away to remove the SmartScope as far as you could from the Manor’s grounds, it was viewed as an act of sacrifice, devoid of any selfish gain except to save the ones you loved. And when I flew to intercept you, I did the same.”

“Always trying to upstage me, aren’t you Potter?” Draco rolled his eyes, although the corners of his lips quirked.

“That would be damn near impossible, considering what happened next,” Harry answered. “It turns out that our other bond was the third part of the puzzle. The Veela in you recognised me as its Chosen. In designating me as your mate, I became your family. Perhaps it was your Veela side that cast the charm, causing it to work both ways through our bond. There’s still so much we don’t know about Veela magic; the normal wizarding rules, especially when it comes to love-based charms, may not apply. But the consensus is that your Veela nature—amplified by our bond and the power of your great-great-great grandmother’s amulet—transformed our sacrificial gestures into Bonds of Blood, allowing us both to survive.”

Draco looked down to where the amulet lay against his chest. Emeralds and rubies flashed against his sun-kissed skin as he fingered the leather cord. “So it was Elliot all along?” he asked, staring at the pendant with a look of betrayal. “The person behind the attacks?”

Harry shook his head. “It was Max—who also happens to be Elliot’s second cousin. Elliot lost his leg in the attack on Brockdale Bridge; after all these years, Max still couldn’t let go of his anger over what happened. He held onto the past, letting it blind him.” Harry looked down, shame clouding his expression. “Much like someone else I know.”

“I once told you that I would never knowingly hurt you,” Draco said, his voice filled with understanding. “Flying away with the SmartScope wasn’t the only sacrifice I was prepared to make.”

“I know,” Harry whispered. “You knew what we had, even when I was too mired in the past to see it. To see the gift that was in front of me, the whole time.” He stood, his hands trembling as he placed them around Draco’s waist. Draco’s skin was hot to the touch, and smelled of sea salt and lemons and the wind.

“I want you,” he said as Draco’s breath hitched. “I know this now…with all my heart, and with my eyes fully open.”  Harry leaned in, his lips brushing against Draco’s jaw. “What can I do to show you how much?”

Draco arched his neck and turned his face, catching the angle of Harry’s mouth between his teeth. “I can think of a few things,” he whispered huskily as his wings flared out behind him.

Draco’s lips looked so soft, their pouty sweetness full of salvation and forgiveness, as if they could cleanse Harry of his bitterness and shame. He nuzzled Draco’s jaw, inhaling his scent, delighting at the colour which suffused his skin. “Let me show you, then,” Harry begged, drawing his fingers suggestively along the waistband of Draco’s trousers.

Draco’s eyes darkened right before their mouths crashed, their magic flaring wildly around them. “I’ve never been good at denying you what you want,” Draco groaned once they came up for air. He bared his throat as Harry nipped at the column of his neck, his hands travelling down the length of Harry’s back. “Merlin, you feel so good,” he breathed, his words strained as he pulled Harry closer.

Harry was already hard and aching, his cock reacting as their hips bumped, teased by the swell of Draco’s erection. He couldn’t believe that he’d yet to feel the weight of Draco’s prick against his tongue, to taste the salty musk of Draco’s skin. He slid his fingers below the waist of Draco’s trousers, his mouth watering as Draco let out a needy moan. “I need you,” he growled. “I want to swallow you whole.”

“Do it, Potter.” Draco rasped. He thrust against Harry’s hand, somehow managing to sound imperious despite the fact that he looked half-gone. “What are you waiting for?”

Harry was faint from the sight of Draco’s cock straining against his fly. He got down onto his knees, his fingers betraying his impatience as he undid Draco’s trousers, pushing them to his feet. The bond hummed happily as Draco’s briefs soon followed, building in intensity as Draco’s cock sprang free.

Harry leaned in, groaning as the velvety shaft brushed his cheek, the swollen head butting against his lips.  He parted his lips, tasting the salinity and heat as he started to move, his tongue flattening, devouring every veiny swell and ridge. He swirled and sucked, redoubling his efforts as he felt Draco twitch.

Long fingers carded through his hair. “Yes. Oh, fuck, yes,” Draco breathed. He gripped Harry’s locks and pulled, his hips tilting as Harry widened his mouth, urging him on. Harry glanced up, watching Draco through the curtain of his lashes; he looked magnificent—his cheeks pink, hair damp, and grey eyes stormy as he gave a little thrust. "Merlin, Harry, your mouth.” Draco thrust again, holding Harry’s head still as Harry breathed around his girth, choking slightly. “Fuck,” Draco repeated, staring at Harry, his gaze fervent before squeezing his eyes shut. He thrust again, this time uncontrollably as Harry swallowed him down. “If you keep this up, I’m going to—”

Harry pulled off reluctantly, the head of Draco’s prick appearing reddened and spit-slicked as it left the suction of his mouth. “I want you to,” Harry rasped, his throat hoarse. “I want to take you apart.”

“Not like this. Like this." Draco pulled Harry up, his wings beating seductively as Harry stumbled to his feet. Images of Draco—his long legs straddling Harry’s thighs, the rounded mounds of his buttocks enveloping Harry’s cock, his sun-kissed body writhing in pleasure—pushed forward in waves into Harry’s consciousness.

“Is that what you want?” Harry growled. Draco nodded, his eyes nearly black with lust. Harry reciprocated by sharing his own desires through the bond—of tasting Draco’s golden skin, of Draco moaning and yielding to Harry so beautifully as Harry fingered his arse, opening him up.

“Yes,” Draco hissed, hooking his leg around Harry’s and rubbing his body against him. “I want that gorgeous cock inside of me. I want you to fuck me until I can’t think of anything else.”

“Any one, you mean.” A spike of jealousy shot through him as he thought of Gianpaolo. “No one else,” he repeated, clutching at Draco’s arse. “You’re mine, Draco. My life; my mate.”

“Yes. Only yours.” Draco kissed him, his lips mouthing at the corners as if he couldn’t get enough. “Say it again, Harry.”

“You’re my mate, Draco,” Harry breathed. “Mine.”

The vision of Draco laid out, arching and wanton before him, caused Harry’s prick to throb. Draco swooped in, his tongue licking around Harry’s teeth, tasting his mouth. “Now,” Draco insisted when he finally came up for breath, his swollen lips set in a delicious pout. He tugged on Harry’s shirt impatiently. “Now.”

Harry couldn’t resist. “Now, what?” he teased.

“I want these abominable clothes off,”  Draco insisted, “and then I want to go inside to the comfort of my bed where you’re going to finger me open and fuck me senseless.”

“Oh,” Harry breathed, the heat crawling over his face as another set of filthy images swept through his consciousness, making his prick impossibly harder. He extended his arms as Draco made short work of his shirt, the buttons skittering in a random jig across the patio. "I didn’t need those anyway,” he croaked.

Draco grinned as he tossed the shirt aside, his mouth curving into something sly and sexy. With his tousled hair, sharp lines, and predatory stance, he looked like an Archangel with his wings billowing out and the light haloed behind him.

"Cuore mio. Anima mia,” Draco whispered, his nails scraping over Harry’s heated flesh. His smile grew even larger as he eyed the prominent bulge tenting the front of Harry’s denims. “Vita mia,” he murmured, lowering Harry’s pants and briefs in one smooth movement towards the ground.

Harry kicked his jeans aside. The heat which spread through his body had little to do with the afternoon sun; Draco’s rapt gaze was devouring every inch of the bared flesh, his appreciation obvious through their bond.

“I want you,” Draco growled. He took two steps forward and gathered Harry into his arms, the lengths of their pricks and the hard planes of their chests sliding hotly against one another. Draco plundered Harry’s mouth as Harry met him with equal fervor, their legs a tangled mess as he walked Harry backwards through the villa’s glass doors.

Harry closed his eyes, caught up in their kiss and the press of their bodies as Draco guided them in. He vaguely registered the bump of the doorframe against his back, and the painful thud of a table corner against his hip. A metallic clang resonated nearby, while a ceiling fan fluttered overhead. Eventually, the brightness of the sun against his eyelids dimmed, in deference to the cool darkness of the interior.

He finally opened his eyes when they came to a stop. The bedroom’s stunning appearance—with its pale woods, accented by blue and white linens—was matched only by the azure waters that were visible through a pair of large, arched windows.

“Wow,” Harry started, intrigued by the stone tower in the distance. His next words were garbled as Draco’s fingers curled over his prick. “Fuck…”  

“Eyes here, Potter,” Draco drawled. “You’ll have plenty of time to enjoy the other sights later.” He backed Harry towards the bed, daring Harry to look away as he spread his wings, displaying them to their full span before drawing them in.

“Wait.” Harry reached out, his fingers stroking the downy feathers. He repeated the motion, delighting in the way in which Draco groaned, his lithe body undulating as if the sensation were almost too much. “You’re magnificent,” Harry said reverently. He opened his heart and made himself vulnerable through their bond, sharing all of the visions he had thought of—the endearing, the shameful, the incredibly filthy—his embarrassment waning as Draco accepted each one eagerly.

Draco crawled onto the bed, getting on all fours. Harry didn’t know where to look first—the gentle arch of his spine, the delectable curve of his arse, the adorable dimples at his sides, or the defined leanness of his belly. He pressed his lips to the place where Draco’s wings erupted from between his shoulders: a juncture of cartilage and bone, feather and flesh, Veela and wizard. He nipped lightly as Draco whimpered. The smooth skin purpled beneath Harry’s teeth, the knobs of Draco’s spine pushing against his lips.

“Harry,” Draco whined, thrusting his hips. He went down on his elbows, the mounds of his arse pushed out towards Harry like an offering as he rutted against the sheets.

"Merlin." Harry’s voice was strangled in his throat as he grabbed the base of his prick, taking several steadying breaths as Draco writhed before him. He placed his hands on Draco’s buttocks, his fingers digging into the smooth flesh. “Look at you. You’re dying for it, aren’t you?” Harry prised the flesh apart, a surprised sound escaping as he took in the sight.

Draco’s hole was already beautifully wet, pink and glistening around the rim. Harry swiped at the wetness with his finger; it grew wetter still as he caught a whiff of its earthy sweetness, sending a jolt of lust through him.

Harry’s prick ached, throbbing in response as he leaned down, inhaling the musk. “Fuck, Draco, what is this stuff? You smell incredible...”

Draco’s face was flushed. “Preen oil,” he said shakily. He turned towards Harry, his pupils blown, his face slack with want. “One of the benefits of being part-bird. It’s filled with pheromones. In male Veelas, it’s used as preparation for mating.”

Harry traced the circle of Draco’s hole, sucking in his breath when he discovered that it was already slick and loose. “It’s so fucking hot.” He looked up hesitantly. “Can I taste you?”

Draco didn’t answer him directly. Instead, he pushed out his arse and spread himself apart.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Malfoy,” Harry breathed. He dove in, licking a stripe along the cleft of Draco’s buttocks with his tongue, groaning in satisfaction as a cry escaped Draco’s lips. Draco’s slick flooded Harry’s senses, making him half-crazed with desire as he savoured the sweet liquid coating his tongue.

“Yes. Fuck, Harry, yes."  Draco pushed back against Harry’s face. One hand came up to grip Harry’s head, holding him down. His lush mouth was parted, his breathing coming out in tiny huffs as he wriggled and moaned.

Harry grunted. He pressed forward, the lower half of his face growing shiny and slick, the sloppy sounds of his mouth mixing with Draco’s increasing whines.

“I’m ready, Harry,” Draco moaned. “Salazar, I need you in me.” He swore in a string of colourful expletives, his voice rising in pitch. “Please.”

Harry drew back, wiping the slick from his face as he inspected Draco’s hole. He pushed a finger in, groaning in satisfaction as it sank in slowly. He prodded and twisted, then pulled back gradually before adding one more.

“That’s it, love,” he praised as Draco began fucking himself on his fingers. He leaned forward, one hand supporting Draco’s lower back as he added a third, the fingers sinking down to the second knuckle.

“Let me ride you,” Draco pleaded, barely coherent. His hands scrabbled at the sheets, pulling them up in his fists.

Harry removed his fingers, unable to contain his eagerness as he rolled over and slid onto his back. His prick was hard and swollen, its tip wet and red. Draco climbed on top of him and leaned forward, his cock brushing against Harry’s stomach as he cupped Harry’s chin.

When Draco spoke, his voice was surprisingly tender. “All these years. All these years, and it’s always been you.” He slotted their mouths together as his memories came pouring out.

Harry gasped as Draco’s emotions spilled forward—an avalanche of jealousy and resentment, years of fear and self-pity. There was longing and lust, and anger and shame. There was admiration and gratitude, and remorse and redemption. And through it all, his connection to Harry was omnipresent, magnified by the weight of their interactions.

“I love you,” Draco murmured as Harry lifted his head, chasing him with his mouth. “You’ve been my world for as long as I remember. Even when I was being a bloody arse.”

“And I’ve been obsessed with you for longer than I was willing to admit.” Harry traced the outline of Draco’s perfect mouth with his finger, pressing their foreheads together. “I don’t want to chase after you anymore, Draco. I want to share my life with you. Side by side. Forever.” His voice dropped to a whispered plea. “Do you forgive me?”

Draco looked at him side-eyed. “Considering where you’re about to put your prick, that’s a strange question to ask, Potter.”

Harry snorted softly. “Well, I’m glad. Because I told Dawlish and the DMLE that I wasn’t coming back until I could track you down and make amends with my boyfriend in Italy.”

“You’re not finished with your apology. Not by a long shot.” Draco reached behind, grabbing Harry’s cock and positioning the tip at his entrance. “Make love to me, Harry.”

“God. Oh God, Draco.” Harry took a deep breath as Draco slowly shifted, his arse warm and tight and wet around Harry’s cock. He gripped Draco’s hips, his fingers digging into their sides as his head thudded back onto the mattress.

Draco moaned as Harry thrust, grinding down as the flesh of his buttocks met Harry’s groin. Harry stared, mesmerised at the vision before him. Draco was gorgeous—his face open and vulnerable, wanton and glorious in his need. The thread of their connection burned bright, the golden thread pulsing and flaring.

“It’s us, Harry. It’s always been.” Draco’s wings flared out behind him, larger and more beautiful than anything Harry had ever seen. Harry’s movements grew wild, the tendons in his forearms straining as they continued to fuck.

“I can’t…” Harry gasped, embarrassed at the speed with which he was losing control. He wanted this to last, wanted to savour everything that Draco was giving him…

“Come for me, Harry,” Draco urged. He continued rocking, his fingers interlacing with Harry’s, the tips starting where Harry’s ended, forever entwined. The bond wove itself around their wrists, threading through the space around them, its brightness intensifying between their heads and their hearts. Draco tightened his legs, his buttocks clenching as he came, gripping Harry’s cock.

Harry followed soon after, his vision whiting out as Draco trilled, triumphant and joyous. Harry’s heart caught at the sound, his cock pumping repeatedly as he spilled into the heat of Draco’s arse. Their bond grew taut, their magical cores twisting into a new configuration as the haze of their orgasms lessened, settling into something more grounded.

“Look at you,” Harry marvelled, his fingers reaching out to brush the curve of Draco’s cheek. The fading light and sated bond made his smooth flesh nearly translucent, painting his skin with a shimmering glow.

Harry’s heart felt so full—with love, and gratitude.

He ran his hand along the curve of Draco’s wing as Draco shivered. “How are you so bloody beautiful?” he mused.

“What I am is because of you,” Draco said softly. “Because you saw fit to save me, again and again. When you spoke for me, all those years ago. You showed me that I was capable of being a better person—one who was much better than I’d thought. And when I thought I’d lost everything yet again, you came to me and gave me another chance.”

Harry shook his head. “It was my chance, as well.”

Draco leaned in. He smelled of sex and humility and promise. When he kissed Harry, he tasted of sweetness and life. “Stay with me today, Harry.”

The sound of the tidal waters in the background and the gulls drew their attention to the window. In the corner, the shape of the pale moon was visible against the watercolour wash of the setting sun.

“Today. Forever,” Harry promised. He wound his hand through Draco’s hair, his heart bounding happily as he captured Draco’s mouth and returned his kiss.

And he meant every word of it.

.~oOo~.

“Honestly. How did you ever live in this place?”

Harry coughed, suppressing his laughter as Draco looked at their surroundings with abject horror. “Don’t be such a tosser. Your family was responsible in large part for the decor, you know.”

Draco made a face. “Admittedly, pureblood aesthetics have remained unfortunately stagnant over the last several hundred years. But at least we didn’t live out of cardboard boxes.” He flicked his wand, levitating a medium-sized crate onto the kitchen counter. There was the sound of breaking glass as its contents settled.

Harry winced. “So that’s where the coffee maker was. Good thing there’s a shop right around the corner.”

Draco rolled his eyes, then took two long strides until they were standing toe to toe. “What am I going to do with you?” he asked as he traced a lazy line along Harry’s chin. “You drag me back here under false pretenses, telling me that you’ve the sudden urge to turn...domestic.”

“It's true.” Harry choked, suddenly overcome with emotion. “I just never had the right reasons to do so before. But in my heart, I think it’s always what I’ve longed for.  I know it’s not as pretty as your villa, but I’ve made it very clear to Kingsley that I won’t be resuming my normal work hours—”

“Normal only for you,” Draco said pointedly.

“True. But now I also realise that my insane hours were just another way for me to avoid my issues.”

“But they’re also part of who you are,” Draco murmured. He moved closer, his hands around Harry’s waist as he nuzzled the crook of his neck. “You need the thrill—and the feeling that you’re making a difference. And that’s okay.”

Harry leaned back, giving him a worried frown. “And you honestly don’t mind? Splitting our time between London and Nerano?”

Draco shook his head. “I don’t. We'll have Mipsy to help us out, especially now that Mother’s intent on spending most of her time in Italy with Marcel. Besides, home is wherever you are. We’ll make it work.”

Harry thought back to Marcel and Gianpaolo’s home, and the new flower gardens that seemed to have bloomed overnight since Narcissa’s arrival. “I want you to have a garden here,” he said suddenly, “filled with anemone and orchids, and anything else your heart desires.”

“Anything?” Draco teased, his eyes darkening. “I can think of plenty of things I’d like to do to this dreary old place. Starting with the kitchen.”

“Yeah?” The husky promise of Draco’s voice was already making Harry half-hard. “What did you have in mind?”

Draco banished the dingy coffee mug that sat on the table, then cast a Scourgify for good measure. “The thought of leaving my mark is quite appealing,” he said, catching the lobe of Harry’s ear between his teeth. The heat of his breath curled around it, making Harry shiver. “First, I’d like to bend you over this table and fuck you senseless. Then I want to check out your shower, where I plan on soaping you down, then sucking you off. Later, I want to have a thorough look at the wallpaper in the parlour—while you pin me against the wall and rim me so hard that I’m screaming bloody murder.”

Harry ran his hand along Draco’s spine, resting it on the back of his graceful shoulders. Draco shuddered in response; he was much better at controlling his wings, although the fact that he was still so affected whenever Harry stroked their nubs gave Harry an intense satisfaction. “You don’t need to do all those things to leave your mark,” he said. He placed his hand over Draco’s chest, feeling their bond. It was no longer visible, enduring instead in their breaths and their thoughts.

“I know.” The intimate moment was shattered when Draco gave him a devious smirk. “It still doesn’t mean that I don’t want to fuck you in every room of this house.”

The alarm rang on Harry’s newly-issued mobile from the DMLE. He glanced at the screen, exhaling slowly as Draco fingered the inner seam of his trousers. “We can’t right now. We’re supposed to meet everyone at the Leaky in fifteen minutes.”

Draco cupped Harry’s cock and gave him a rakish grin. “Change in plans?”

“No,” Harry groaned, cursing his mate’s libido as he tossed the mobile onto a nearby chair. “There’s a whole group of people who’ve waited nearly three months to thank you: Ben and Elliot; Sam and Zach; Ron. And if Ron’s there, that means Hermione and Ginny will be, too.” He tried to focus on dragon pox, or Walburga’s portrait in the next room—anything, except for Draco’s wandering fingers. “Besides, we’ve an announcement to make.”

Draco pouted, the expression transforming his handsome features into something soft and adorable. “Is this what I have to look forward to every time we return? A bloody reunion with the entire Auror department and Gryffindor house?”

“I’ll make it up to you when we get back home,” Harry said, his eyes swirling with promise.

“Now. And when we get back home.”

Harry smiled fondly. “You’re insatiable. And incorrigible.”

“I’m part Veela, Potter. I have needs." Draco punctuated his declaration with a roll of his hips.

“Have I told you how much I love you?”

“Only about ten times today.” Draco’s voice softened, his eyes resembling the grey mist after a warm spring rain. “I love you, too. It’s something I don’t think I’ll ever tire of hearing. Or saying.”

“Then I’m going to tell you. Every day. Forever.”

Draco gave him a roguish smile. “For as long as we both shall live?”

A loud noise from the adjoining room startled them. “Wait,” Harry protested, laughing as Draco rubbed against him suggestively. He grabbed a newspaper clipping and a bottle from the counter and stiffly made his way to the Floo, opening up the connection.

The flames flared green as Hannah’s face burst through. “Harry! You’re still here!” Her blue eyes narrowed at his dishevelled appearance. “You are coming tonight, right? Everyone’s expecting you.”

“Yes. Looking forward to it. Although I might be a tad late,” he added guiltily.

“I love you, Harry, but you can’t expect me to keep a bunch of drunk and rowdy Gryffindors peaceably entertained if—Oh!”

Draco burst in with his shirt halfway unbuttoned and hanging loosely from his shoulders. “You should know better than to leave me waiting, Harry, you bloody tease. Oh… hello, Hannah.”

“Er…hi, Draco,” Hannah squeaked, her eyes growing as wide as saucers. Her face flamed red as Draco came behind Harry and wrapped his hands possessively around Harry’s waist. “Harry? What should I tell everyone?”

Harry thrust the bottle of champagne and the clipping into Hannah’s hands. She scanned the article, her eyes growing even larger. “Tell them that the drinks are on me tonight. And that we’ll be there as quickly as we can.”

“Not too quickly,” Draco amended, licking the shell of Harry’s ear as Harry moaned.

“Fine,” Hannah replied, her voice strangled.

Draco looked up, detaching himself from Harry’s neck. “And, Hannah? One more thing?”

“Yes?”  Hannah said slowly.

“That Witch Weekly centerfold you have so prominently displayed behind the bar?” Draco drawled. “I’d consider it a personal favour if you took it down. Because starting now, the Wizarding World’s former most eligible bachelor is officially off the market.”

If Hannah replied, Harry never heard. He threw himself into Draco’s arms and melted into his touch, whereupon they proceeded to snog each other senseless.

~Fin~