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Chapter Text

Being a hit-wizard is not easy.

Being a hit-wizard and Draco Malfoy is even worse.

It’s hard work, without a regular schedule that usually has him working several consecutive sleepless nights, when he gets closer to a target, but he doesn’t mind it, that’s not the problem. It isn’t the morality of the job either, turns out that, when faced with someone who deserves it, Draco has no qualms about taking a life. There could be a long and fruitless discussion about the rightness of killing people and what it means if someone deserves to die, but that isn’t Draco’s problem, is it? There are laws that state the rules and people who decide who needs to be killed, Draco is just the weapon they use and he’s a bloody good one.

No, the problem with his job is not the job per se, the problem is that no one can know about it and that’s what Draco doesn’t like.

He understands it though and has come to accept it in the last few years.

-*-*-*-

In the year following the end of the war, life had been difficult for Draco, he had been released from custody after the charges against him had been dropped, thanks to Potter’s testimony, of which Draco would be forever grateful, even if he would never admit it. But that had left him alone in an empty Manor, with too much time and money and no one to share them with.

His parents hadn’t been as lucky, though Potter had testified for his mother too, she had still been sentenced to 10 years in Azkaban, which was nothing compared to what his father had gotten.

The Dementor’s kiss hadn’t been an option anymore after the new Minister Shacklebolt had gotten rid of them, unfortunately, they had still needed an equal kind of punishment for the worst criminals, which was why, a month after the end of the war and just a week before the start of the Death Eaters trials, a new law had been implemented, stating the replacement of the Dementor’s kiss with the capital punishment. Not a major improvement in any way, instead of sucking out people’s souls, they just killed them off and delivered their bodies to the families.

Lucius Malfoy had been the first lucky tester of the new law, after just a day of deliberation the Wizengamot had decided that his crimes, which had consisted of multiple murders of both wizards and muggles, torture and kidnapping, along with letting the Dark Lord himself live in his house, had been too much, even for a life sentence in prison.

On the morning of the first of August, Lucius Malfoy’s body had been delivered to Malfoy Manor in a plain wooden casket by a couple of gleeful Aurors.

Draco had made the house-elves place the coffin in the mausoleum on the Manor’s grounds, not seeing the need for a ceremony since his mother was in prison and he hadn’t wanted to say goodbye to the man who hadn’t been his father for a very long time.

Effectively parentless, and with a life-ban from contacting any of his old Slytherin friends, not that he thought he had any left to write to anyway, Draco had started a deep cleansing of the Manor. The place had reeked of Dark magic and Draco had spent the better part of the next year going through every single room, getting rid of the cursed objects and magic residues. After the job was done, what was left was the empty shell of the house Draco had known as a child, happy memories mingled with horrible ones, filling his dreams and waking moments.

It hadn’t taken long before Draco had been done with it and, instructing the elves to keep the place in order until the return of his mother, he’d sealed the gates and bought a flat in muggle London.

The flat had been bare when he moved, and Draco had taken great pleasure in choosing the new furniture and picking the colours for the walls. Wanting to blend with the muggle world and actually get to know it, he’d bought as many muggle appliances as he could find, learning to use every single one of them, although not without a few mistakes along the way.

Though the flat wasn’t big by any stretch of the imagination, it was enough for Draco. He had a kitchen, a living room, a study and a bedroom with a connected bathroom.

At twenty, two years after the war, Draco Malfoy had disappeared from the wizarding world and had started a new life in the muggle one. He didn’t work, he didn’t need to with the money in his vault, so he spent his time reading and visiting the muggle world, he still used his wand at home, but he usually could do everything even without it. At night, he went to the numerous clubs in the city, coming home with one and sometimes two willing muggles, male or female didn’t make a difference, the sex was good either way and that was enough for him.

At twenty Draco Malfoy, if asked, would have said that his life was good, plain but enjoyable. He hadn’t felt the need for something more until the evening he had come home from his evening walk in the park to find an owl sitting on his windowsill, a letter tied to his leg.

He never received post, he didn’t have anyone to talk to in the wizarding word, he was allowed two yearly visit to his mother in Azkaban, but no mail and the ban prevented him from reaching out to any of his old acquaintances if he wanted to avoid being arrested, thus making the owl a very strange occurrence.

He had opened the window and retrieved the letter bearing the Ministry crest with trembling fingers, dreading the news that could come with it, but he had been surprised, the short missive explained that the Minister of Magic himself had requested a private meeting with him and that he was asked to come to a specified place at the requested time.

Seeing more trouble in avoiding the summon, Draco had met Kingsley Shacklebolt in a muggle coffee shop on the other side of London the next morning.

The offer he had been given that day had had the potential of changing his life and giving him a chance of redeeming himself. He had accepted, obviously.

-*-*-*-

Seven years later, Draco Malfoy still lives in the same flat in muggle London, still goes on walks in the park and visits the muggle word, this time around though, he has a job, one that no one knows about.

Being a hit-wizard isn’t easy.

Being a hit-wizard when no one knows you are one, is much more difficult.

Chapter Text

Being a hit-wizard is not easy.

When Draco entered the coffee shop on that day, years ago, he had no idea of what Minister Shacklebolt could ever want from him, to his knowledge, he hadn’t done anything that warranted the Ministry’s concern, but there he was, in a beautiful muggle suit, the Minister himself, sipping a coffee.

If Draco hadn’t known better, he would have thought he was dreaming, a hard pinch to his thigh confirmed that indeed that was real, he was about to have coffee with the most important man in Wizarding Britain, except maybe for the Saviour.

Stopping himself immediately from letting his thoughts drift towards the well-known path of obsessing over Harry Potter, Draco focused on the matter at hand, which was going up to Shacklebolt and trying not to make a complete fool of himself.

As he approached the table, said man looked up and, noticing him, he stood up and extended his hand.

“Mr. Malfoy, it’s a pleasure to meet you, thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice.”

Yeah, like he’d had any other option, you couldn’t just say no to the Minister. Deciding that starting the conversation with a snide retort would not help him, he chose to put in practice all those years of etiquette lessons and greeted the man as was the custom. With a slight nod of his head and a shallow bow he took the proffered hand with practised strength and held it for the appropriate amount of time.

“Minister Shacklebolt, the pleasure is all mine and really, it’s an honour for me to be here.”

He took a seat across from the Minister while the man flagged down a nearby waitress.

“Hello. What can I get you today?” the waitress asked them, taking out a notepad and a pen.

Since Shacklebolt already had his coffee, she turned to Draco who ordered an espresso, which, he had discovered in the past year, was one of the wonders of the muggle world.

The waitress took his order with an overly friendly smile and he didn’t miss the longing glance she threw in his direction, she was nice enough he supposed, but he wasn’t looking for anything at the moment and he wouldn’t date a muggle anyway, he hadn’t yet gathered enough knowledge of the muggle world to carry on a conversation without spilling something he wasn’t supposed to say, dating would imply hiding a big part of himself from his partner and that was not something he wanted to do, he was done hiding.

Or so he thought.

But at that moment, a relationship was the last thing he should be thinking about, so he focused on the man across the table, who was looking at him with an amused tilt to his lips, probably having caught the looks the girl had sent him. He told himself he wouldn’t blush at that, but he didn’t know if he had actually managed to avoid it.

The Minister decided to take him out of his misery and started talking just as his coffee arrived.

He busied himself with taking a sip as he listened intently.

“Mr. Malfoy, I know you must be wary of the reason I asked to meet with you, so I’ll get straight to the point. I have an offer for you.”

Draco felt his eyebrows rise against his wish, an offer from the Minister was a huge thing.

He was intrigued though still wary, the man could ask for anything and Draco wasn’t in the position to refuse and they both knew it, he only hoped that whatever was going to be asked of him wasn’t too bad.

“An offer? Of what?” he inquired.

“A job.” The Minister’s face didn’t betray anything, which unnerved Draco, who was usually very good at reading people.

A thing that bothered him was how tight-lipped the Minister was about this alleged job, having no intention of playing his game though, Draco waited for the man to start talking again or get up and leave, he was already there because somehow they needed him, he would not beg to be part of something he could happily live without.

The Minister, sensing his reluctance decided to drop his façade.

“I’ll be honest Mr. Malfoy, the Wizarding World is in a bad place at the moment, I know from our sources that you’ve left it for a few months now.”

Was he being followed? Monitored? Wasn’t he supposed to be free? His expression probably showed all this because Shacklebolt hastily explained himself.

“We are not spying on you Mr. Malfoy, we have the record of the purchase of your new house, that’s how we know.”

He was a bit reassured by that, but he would still make sure to update his wards when he got home.

“Am I right in assuming that you haven’t been keeping in touch with the news?”

“If by news, you mean the Prophet, then no, I haven’t kept in touch.” He said, disgust on his face. He’d stopped reading that rag right after the trials when the pages had been filled for weeks with slander on his family and himself. The public hadn’t taken well to the knowledge that he had been pardoned, even if the crucial testimony had come from their very own Saviour, he hadn’t been keen on reading of all the ways people thought he should have been punished instead, so he’d stopped reading the papers altogether, he hadn’t regretted is decision since.

The Minister seemed to have expected it, because he proceeded to explain him what he had missed.

Apparently, just a small portion of the Death Eaters had been captured following the Battle of Hogwarts, as that was what the last day of the war had been called, around thirty Death Eaters had disappeared from sight and had stayed hidden for a whole year, scattered around Britain.

After a year though, probably tired of hiding, they had started reappearing, a murder here, a kidnapping there, and every time, the dark mark was left shining in the sky, as a reminder that the dark days were not over yet.

The public had become restless, the fear powered by the still fresh memories of war and destruction. People were still grieving the losses and suddenly they were back at another funeral. Too soon.

The Aurors didn’t know where to start, the Death Eaters where untraceable, they couldn’t find a magical signature to track, every known location had been searched from top to bottom, they had found nothing, no leads, no clues, nothing. They were at a dead end.

War heroes had been targeted and killed, the Weasley girl, Ginevra, had been kidnapped one evening as she was heading home from the Weasley’s shop in Diagon Alley and her body had been returned days later to the Weasleys, in pieces.

The news shocked Draco. Sure, he hadn’t known the girl at all, nor he had wanted to, but from what he remembered, she was Potter’s girl, to think that someone would target a person so close to the Saviour and succeed, was bewildering and frankly worrying, it showed that these people had no problems risking their lives to reach their goals. For what he had understood, the Aurors didn’t think the Death Eaters were acting together, there was no mastermind behind their revenge, they just followed the flow, when the first murder was discovered it reignited the flame and soon more followed.

They sometimes acted in public, sometimes in private, they operated in pairs or alone and they weren’t worried about being recognised, they left witnesses with the sole purpose of spreading the dread and terror.

It was chaos.

And the Ministry was at a loss for what to do. They had run out of options, there was only one last chance and apparently, it was him.

“Me?” Draco was floored. They thought that he could help them? Him? The coward who had fled the Wizarding Word that hated him, could stop this? It had to be a joke. If even Potter, who had been taken from Auror training and promoted to active duty after the death of his girlfriend, hadn’t been able to find them, who was Draco to do anything? What did he have that the others didn’t?

And then it dawned on him, why the Minister had been so secretive and reluctant, why he was still looking at him with hopeless resignation in his eyes.

“The mark.” It was not a question, because Draco already knew the answer, he was the only Death Eater who wasn’t on the run, dead or in prison. He was the only one who hadn’t really been on Voldemort’s side. He was the only one who may be willing to help the Wizarding Word. He was their only chance.

Holy shit, he was their only chance.

“You want me to use the connection through my mark to find the others.” Again another non-question, but Shacklebolt nodded grimly anyway.

“I don’t know what else to try, there is no way that those we sent to Azkaban would help us and the connection has to be opened willingly, otherwise it doesn’t work, we’ve checked.”

Draco shuddered, one of the safety measures that Voldemort had added to the mark was that, if the connection that linked his followers to him, was opened forcefully by an external force, the dark magic in the mark would act against both Death Eater and attacker and completely obliviate them, leaving behind two empty shells that would never recover. It was a terrifying prospect and one he was not keen on trying himself. Unfortunately, even with the man dead, the magic still lingered, as dark magic always does, he felt bad for whatever ministry employee had had to discover that first-hand, another casualty of this insane war.

Draco had fled from his responsibilities so many times already that his first instinct, when faced with a choice, was to take everything and run. This time though, he wouldn’t do it, this was his chance at redemption, his second chance of sorts, the one Potter had talked about in his testimony when he’d said that he deserved the opportunity to do something good with his life. He had thought a lot about those words, they had stayed with him as he cleaned the Manor, and then as he started to learn about muggles and their world, being constantly fascinated by them and what they had achieved without magic.

Those words were with him in that moment, when he chose to do the right thing over the easy one.

“What do you want me to do?”

Shacklebolt heaved a sigh of relief, like something very heavy had just been lifted from his shoulders, which was probably true.

“What do you know about hit-wizards?”

Draco blinked. “They’re part of the DMLE. They kill people.”

“That’s … correct, I suppose, if one wants to oversimplify.” Shacklebolt was now playing with the handle of his empty cup, there was something he was trying to get to, but couldn’t bring himself to actually say it. Draco waited.

“Hit-wizards are special corps, they do work for the DMLE, but are regulated only by the Chief of the Wizengamot and the Minister of Magic. They don’t follow the Auror’s code of conduct and generally operate outside the grid, they are tasked with high profile criminals and yes, they are sometimes required to kill some targets. There is a list, known only by me, the Chief of the Wizengamot and the three hit-wizards currently in the Ministry payroll, that list contains the names of dangerous subjects that have been given the green light to be killed if the chance occurs.”

He paused, as if gathering the strength to go on.

“All the Death Eaters on the run, are on that list.”

Ok, Draco could understand that, after all, it was the only logical thing to do when faced with an opponent who wouldn’t think twice about murdering you to save himself. War wasn’t the time for a moral compass.

“Why are you telling me this? From what I heard, this is classified information that only five people, well now six, are aware of. You want me to work with the hit-wizards to help them find the Death Eaters?”

It was something Draco would be willing to do, find the right locations and direct the wizards, it didn’t seemed particularly difficult, but Shacklebolt’s expression told him there was a catch, as did his words.

“Not really, no. How much do you know about the connection in your mark?”

“Not much, I’ve never had to use it on my side, I’ve only gotten summoned from it and I can feel it connecting me to the other marks if I focus on it, other than that, I usually try to forget it’s there.”

He had to stop himself from scratching at the side of his left forearm where the inky black lines forever marred his skin, a habit he had unconsciously picked up after the war.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

Of course it was.

“Voldemort was a very paranoid wizard and went to great lengths to assure his safety, if someone decided to betray him. The mark was one of them, it acts as a sort of Fidelius charm of which he was the secret keeper, and according to what we’ve seen, he still is, even in death. This means that, whenever one of his followers received a summoning or tried to find a location of one of the others, like we would like you to do, he was physically incapable of communicate that information in any form, verbal or written. So you see our problem, even if you were able to locate the errand Death Eaters, you wouldn’t be able to say it to anyone else and you couldn’t even try to apparate them there, because the mark would act as a buffer and redirect your apparition to another location.”

Draco mulled over the new information.

Voldemort was one sick fucker, would he ever stop plaguing the world? Seemingly not.

He was curious though, how could Shacklebolt know so much about the connection when Draco himself didn’t? Never being one to keep his questions for himself, he asked.

Shacklebolt grinned. “Your mother, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco was sure he was gaping in a very uncouth way, but he didn’t care at the moment. His mother? Did they do something to her? Was she alright? Did they force her to reveal these secrets? He had last seen his mother on his birthday in June, but it was November now and he would have to wait until Christmas to be able to visit her again. Would she still be there by then?

He was panicking and Shacklebolt didn’t fail to notice.

“Calm down Mr. Malfoy, your mother is alright, nothing happened to her and nothing is going to happen to her.”

“Then how do you know all this? Why would she tell you? Why would she help you when you threw her in prison after she helped win the war?”

The resentment was clear in his voice. Contrary to popular belief, his mother had never been a Death Eater, she never wore the mark, she just had the misfortune of having married a power-crazed asshole. That his mother had been sentenced to ten years in prison was unbelievable to him. Potter had testified for her, saying that she had saved his life openly defying Voldemort, lying to the greatest legilimens alive and succeeding.

And what did she gain in return? They stole ten years of her life like it was nothing.

And he couldn’t do anything about it, he felt so useless and angry. He deserved to be in prison much more than his mother did, he had actually tortured people, albeit against his will, still he had hurt people, his mother had not, but she had been used as an example, to show that a single good action couldn’t erase the bad ones. It was unfair.

“I understand your concerns Mr. Malfoy.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Do you?”

The Minister didn’t seemed offended by his irreverence, he had, after all, called him because he was his only hope, Draco didn’t think he would be dissuaded from his mission by a bit of attitude.

“I do, and if you decide to help us, I will do what I can to help her and maybe reduce her sentence.”

That was an appealing thought, he could help the Wizarding World and get back his mother. Suddenly he didn’t feel so useless anymore.

“You still haven’t told me why you went to my mother in the first place.”

The minister chuckled, “I didn’t.”

He waited for him to elaborate.

“I would never had thought to ask her for information, I didn’t know she had them, considering the lack of mark on her arm. But she reached out to me. She wrote me a letter, a month ago, telling me that she had read the Prophet and she thought she could help. And she did, we’ve met a few times since and she’s shared with me as much knowledge as she had gained from being the wife of Voldemort’s most trusted follower. It was her idea to use the connection and it was her that sent me here to you.”

Draco was astounded, while the whole of the Auror corps were running around chasing flies, his mother, from prison, had read the paper and found a solution. His chest swelled with pride and he found a smile blooming on his face, the first in a long time.

The smile quickly faded as he remembered the man’s previous words.

“If my mother sent you to me, but we know that I can’t help your hit-wizards catch the bad guys, what option do we have?”

Shacklebolt looked at him expectantly, like he was waiting for him to figure it out on his own.

There was the list, the hit-wizards and the connection, the hit-wizards knew the list and could kill the Death Eaters, but they couldn’t find them. The connection could be used to find them, but Draco would not be able to report the information in any way.

There really was only one option.

“You want me to become a hit-wizard.”

Shacklebolt nodded even if it wasn’t a question.

“I do Mr. Malfoy. It’s our only chance. You are our only chance, if you’re willing to help.”

“I already said I was, but I don’t see how that would work, I’m not trained, I don’t know how to kill people, I’ve never done it and frankly I’ve never even thought I’d need to know how to do it.”

Draco had a lot more questions, but listened as the Minister explained the plan he had devised for him, he would go through the standard hit-wizard training, which, being that there were only three hit-wizards in Britain, was taught by the oldest and most experienced of them, who had already agreed to train him.

The training usually took three years, which was a bit too much time to let the killings go on. When the Minister took out a time-turner, Draco’s eyes nearly escaped his skull. According to Shacklebolt, that was the only remaining time-turner and it was handed down from one Minister to the other and always safely kept in the Minister’s office, well, almost always, as its presence in the coffee shop attested.

Using the time-turner every other day, Draco and his instructor would be able to go over a year and a half of training in a year’s time and be done with everything in two. It was still a lot of time, but it was the best they could do without endangering Draco’s health with the overuse of the time-turner, which was detrimental to their final goal.

Throughout the explanation, Draco listened intently, but couldn’t help thinking that, if everything went as planned, he would become a killer, the one thing he had thought he never would be. Would he be able to do it? Did he have the stomach for it? Could he track down a wizard and kill him in cold blood?

He wasn’t sure.

He knew for a fact that he couldn’t kill innocent people, that awful night in the Astronomy tower had more than proved it, did the fact that these people were the bad guys, the murderers, change anything? He couldn’t tell, but he hoped so.

His thoughts came to a halt when Shacklebolt started talking about a binding contract.

“Excuse me, what? Why would I need to sign a binding contract and not a regular one like all Ministry employees?”

He thought he could see the reason, after all, who would entrust a Death Eater, acquitted or not, with the fate of the Wizarding World, without having some sort of contingency plan? But he wanted the Minister to actually say the words, and according to the shame on Shacklebolt’s face, he was aware of it.

The man cleared his throat trying to gain a bit more time to maybe try and edulcorate his words, but in the end he had to say it.

“You have to understand Mr. Malfoy, that as Minister of Magic, although I do not believe you would act against our goal, I have to respond to a lot of people. The whole of the Wizarding World is under attack again, so soon after the end of the second war, there is distrust everywhere and the names of the hit-wizards are a matter of public record. You can imagine the uproar that would cause if it became known that you’ve been given the licence to kill. At the same time, if it somehow got out, I need to be in the position to justify my actions and yours. The contract would ensure that we’d both followed the protocol and that all your actions had been approved and planned.

The only alternative to a binding contract is a sworn oath, but I don’t think you’d prefer that, the binding of the contract would expire as your task was seen through, the oath would be permanent.”

Draco didn’t have any counter-arguments for that, there was no way he would swear an oath on his magic, not now, not ever.

“What would the conditions be?” he asked warily.

“The main one is that no one can find out about your job, who you are, what you do, for whom you work, you won’t be able to talk about it without feeling extreme pain.” Shacklebolt grimaced “I’m sorry about that, it’s the standard safety measure.” Draco waved him off, he was used to pain and after all, he just had to keep his mouth shut.

“You will be able to talk about it with me, your instructor and the Chief of the Wizengamot, Amelia Bones. To the rest of the world you will continue to live a boring life in the muggle world.”

Draco would have objected to that, because excuse him, but his life was not boring. It was quiet and maybe a bit isolated, but it was safe, he thought better than to interrupt the other man though.

“You’ll still do what you’re doing now, the official image will be one of a rich bachelor enjoying his money and youth, no work, no contacts with the Wizarding World. You’ll still be able to visit your mother and I will be your direct contact to the Ministry. No owls, nothing that can be easily intercepted, everything will be done in person at pre-set dates. You will have an emergency plan laid out if anything happens.

You won’t have a time frame in which you will be required to complete your mission, but you know that timing is of importance in this case.

You will have a salary, obviously, a muggle bank account will be opened under the name of D. Black, you will have access to it as soon as we’ve set it up, muggle credentials, id’s and the like will be provided to allow you to completely live in the muggle world.

Differently from the other hit-wizards, since you would be basically non-existent, you won’t be able to arrest any of the fugitives, your only option will be killing them. You will be taught how to do so without getting caught.

That’s about it. Any questions?”

Draco thought about it for a while, he found the conditions reasonable, considering who he was, he wasn’t naïve enough to think that he could be treated like everyone else, the very reason why he was able to help in the first place was what also made him unreliable. He was a Death Eater, or he had been, not trusting him was logical, and he couldn’t fault that.

Nonetheless, even with the set of restrictions, the prospective of somehow doing something to right some of the wrongs was appealing, not to mention that even with his somewhat dubious morals, he was not going to sit back and watch as the Wizarding World fell again, when he was the only one who could prevent that.

He signed the contract that same day, starting the chain of events that changed his life forever.

Draco trained for two long years under the watchful eye of Robert Martin, head of the hit-wizards, he studied magical offence and defence, tracking and stealth, hand-on-hand combat and martial arts. He learned how to cover his tracks, both physical and magical, how to throw a knife and use a gun. He learned how to cast the unforgivables, all of them and how to resist the Imperius curse. He became proficient at both Occlumency and Legilimency, making of his mind a well-protected fortress. He studied magical and muggle healing, along with advanced Potions and Transfiguration.

After two years, Draco had become a deadly weapon, ready to shoot at a moment’s notice.

He was given a list of the thirty Death Eaters still at large, along with files on each of them, containing everything the Aurors had managed to round up about them and he started his solo mission.

Being a hit-wizard is not easy, but Draco finally can do something good.

Chapter Text

Being a hit-wizard is not easy.

At twenty-seven, seven years after the first meeting with Shacklebolt, five years after officially becoming a hit-wizard, Draco Malfoy is still living his bachelor life.

Anyone looking would see the stereotypical only-child coming from a rich family, with too much insolence and a side of daddy issues. He spends his nights partying and his days sleeping the hangover off, he sleeps with a different partner every night and never calls back, despite owning the latest smart-phone model.

A closer look on Draco’s life would show absolutely nothing new, he’s been living in the same flat he bought seven years ago, with the small kitchen and cosy living room. The only new addition Draco made during the years was adopting a cat. Pongo is a stray Draco found badly injured in the alley behind his apartment building one cold day, two years ago. The vet he went to, told him that they would take care of the cat and put him up for adoption as soon as he was well again, but Draco had looked the poor creature in the eyes and hadn’t had the heart of leaving him there. Fast forward two weeks, Pongo had been welcomed in his new home.

As said, to an outside looker, Draco’s life would seem ordinary, wake up, feed the cat, read the papers while having breakfast, go for a run around the park, come home, read or watch TV, eat lunch, nap with the cat, get ready to go out, feed the cat before going out because a grumpy Pongo is not very good company, go out, party for most of the night, have sex with strangers at clubs, come home, sleep, go grocery shopping on Monday, do the washing on Tuesday, clean the house on Saturday and repeat.

Nothing interesting, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing real. Because Draco Malfoy does not lead a normal life, but only four people know about it.

What almost no one knows about Draco’s life is that, after he gets up in the morning, he feeds the cat and reads the papers while having breakfast, paying attention to any suspicious activity, then he goes out for a run around the park making sure that the tree branches are free of ribbons and Shacklebolt doesn’t need to see him. Back home, he reads reports and files about his next targets, the sound of the TV covering his own voice repeating every detail he needs to know by heart. After lunch he disappears in his room, supposedly to take a nap, instead he presses his hand to the wall next to his bed and, through a door that only his magical signature can open, he gets to his office. The actual door to his office has been disguised as the door to a broom cupboard and has been warded so heavily that only a couple of wizards alive are powerful enough to get through the layer after layer of magical barriers.

His office is the room Draco likes the most, a bit of magical space has transformed the previously small room in one big enough to house a full gym and training area. One wall is entirely covered in weapons and Draco loves his weapons, there are daggers, swords, axes, knives, guns and rifles all neatly arranged next to coils of chains, whips and ropes. He even owns a bow and a crossbow, though he has yet to use them on anyone.

A corner of the office houses a small Potion lab, with a brewing station, a cupboard for the ingredients and one for stockpiling his Potions, most of which have healing purposes, since he can’t go to the muggle hospital with certain kinds of injuries and St. Mungo’s is obviously out of the question.

The other half of the room is dedicated to the planning of the raids, most of the wall is covered by a corkboard on which is pinned everything regarding Draco’s current case, there are maps, photographs and sketches, plans and relevant information. A huge desk takes up most of the floor space, a muggle computer sitting right in the middle. Whatever space isn’t used for Draco’s open cases is filled with paperwork and closed files, the problem with secrecy is that he can’t actually make his reports to the Ministry, so he has to keep all records at home, obviously none of them bear the Ministry crest, so to the outside eye Draco would look like a very meticulous serial killer. The last item in his office/headquarters is a collage of pictures, mug shots of each target on the list Draco was given when he started his job, big red exes marking the already carried out jobs.

Draco spends a few hours in his office every day, going over his files, revising the strategy and the required equipment, making adjustments to the plans and devising new ones. He studies new spells and practices with his weapons.

At dinner he eats with Pongo and then leaves for the night. Most of the bouncers of the London clubs know him by name at this point, he smiles at the bartenders and spends a few hours roaming around the club or dancing, a muffling charm always on his ears as to prevent the constant loud music to affect his hearing abilities. If he doesn’t have work to do for the night, he actually enjoys his time there, he likes the press of bodies on the dance floor, the anonymity of dark corners and hallways, the taste and smell of other human beings on his skin. He never takes anyone home, it’s either a bathroom in a club, a dark side-alley or a stranger’s house. His home is his sanctuary, the only place where he can be himself and no one is allowed there, except for Pongo.

On the nights he has work to do, he leaves early, but never before midnight, he likes to do his work in the first hours of the morning, when most of the world his either sleeping, drinking, dancing, fucking or, like him, up to no good.

When he comes back home, he showers and goes to sleep, waiting for the next time he’ll wake up and start all over again.

Saturdays and Sundays are the only days when he actually does what it seems like he’s doing, he reads and keeps up with the news in the muggle world, he visits museums and tourist attractions, he goes to the cinema or the theatre after the discovery of his passion for musicals and sappy romantic comedies.

The weekends are his muggles days, the ones when he doesn’t have to constantly think about killing people, the ones when he can do what he likes and be himself.

He has no friends, he doesn’t have any contact with the Wizarding World except for his visits to his mother and the meetings with Shacklebolt.

He tells himself that it’s ok, he’s not sure he believes it.

Being a hit-wizard is not easy, especially when it’s the only thing you are allowed to be.

Chapter Text

Being a hit-wizard is not easy, but most of it is enjoyable.

In the five years Draco has been working, he’s managed to cross out 24 out of the 30 names on his list. He started with the less important Death Eaters, partly because he wanted to practice what he had learned in training before going after more experienced wizards, but also because he wasn’t sure he was ready to face the likes of the Lestrange brothers and Dolohov.

Now though, he doesn’t have any other choice, the only ones left are Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, Alecto and Amycus Carrow, Dolohov and Yaxley.

The fun is about to start.

Today is the last of the reconnaissance days that lead up to a mission and Draco, as usual, is clubbing.

His body is sweating as he grinds it against others, following the rhythm of the music, his heart is beating fast inside his chest from both the exertion and the anticipation. A glance at the watch on his wrist tells him that it’s already past one in the morning. Time to act.

With practiced ease he slips through the crowd on the dancefloor and makes his way to the bathroom. Checking that all the stalls are vacant he magically locks the door and starts with his usual preparations.

A cleaning charms gets rid of the sweat and whatever other substance he might have picked up during the night, once body and clothes are in order, he downs the sobering potion he always keeps on himself, disguised as a mini bottle of vodka, he need all his wits and reflexes ready, being intoxicated would hinder his job. After a few moments the potion takes effect and he is ready.

He waves his wand around himself, creating a bubble of silencing charms, no one in the club will notice if he walks without making any noise, because everybody else will be making too much of it, but he will need the silence later on.

Checking his appearance in the mirror one more time, he makes his way out of the bathroom and, with a wave at the bartender, he exits the club.

The street gets quieter the furthest he goes from the club, the coloured lights fade leaving only the yellow tint of the lampposts lining the road. Draco walks past a few drunk strugglers and ducks into a dark side alley, whose only occupants are a dirty bin and the garbage that people haven’t been careful enough to throw in said bin. It’s the perfect place for a change of identity.

It takes a few minutes of precise spellwork, but the time is well spent as the person who remains standing in the alley is nothing like how he was before.

In Draco’s place now stands a short olive-skinned man with curly brown hair and dull brown eyes, the tight clothes have been replaced by shaggy jeans and a cotton grey jumper. There’s nothing remarkable about this person at all, it could be confused for one of the many homeless people roaming the streets and that’s exactly what Draco wants.

The only thing that hasn’t changed is the mark etched on his left forearm. The skull and snake are bit less prominent on the darker skin, but very much still there, which could be a disadvantage in most cases but right now Draco needs it and, as much as he doesn’t like needing anything that His Snakiness has left behind, the mark is fundamental in the process.

Clutching his left forearm, he closes his eyes, with his right hand he traces the black lines and focuses on one thought. Yaxley.

Almost immediately he is able to feel the string of dark magic that connects him to the other man, it’s not a pleasant sensation, it makes him feel dirty, tainted, but he’s gotten used to it during the years.

Focusing on the string he spins on his feet and disapparates. The uncomfortable feeling of being sucked through a very tight tube engulfs him, but he knows he can’t get distracted for even a second for what he is about to do.

He can feel himself getting closer to his destination and at the last moment he pushes his magic outwards, ending the apparition prematurely.

He staggers to a halt outside a small dingy house in what seems to be a poor suburban district, his eyes and ears are alert to any sign of anyone noticing his arrival, even though the silencing charms prevented his sudden apparition to make any noise, caution is never too much.

Satisfied that his presence has gone unnoticed, he falls silently to the pavement, trying to catch his breath. Ending an apparition early always takes a toll on both his body and his magic, but it is necessary. The trace in the dark mark is useful to find the Death Eaters, but if followed, leads directly to the target, which means that Draco would have appeared right beside Yaxley if he hadn’t jumped out at the last second, and that is not what he wants at all, at least for now.

He doesn’t like the vulnerability that comes with being out of focus for a couple of minutes, but he’s found out that, if he tries to apparate while disillusioned, he will outright pass out the moment he touches ground, because his body can’t take the strain of too many charms and the interrupted-apparition at the same time.

Luckily, in the years, he’s noticed that the Death Eaters tend to live in mostly remote areas or in areas where people don’t ask questions and mind their own business, in which the sudden apparition of a stranger would not be noticed.

Even if he did get noticed, Draco has perfected his acting and makes a convincing drunk, aided by the natural dizziness of the apparition and the late hour, he has a plausible excuse for wandering the streets.

Head cleared he stands up and starts examining the place. It’s not the first time he’s been here, all week he’s followed the trace to Yaxley and all week it has led him here. Yaxley seems to have taken residence at the small house he’s landed in front of, it’s not much, a two-story house with barred windows and a dead garden that leads to the front door. Draco would not expect anything better from Death Eaters on the run, in fact, this is way better than some of the shitholes he has dragged most of his targets out of in the past. It has a roof, for once.

Draco can’t see any lights coming from the house but the mark tells him that Yaxley is there, somewhere inside, probably sleeping, Draco disillusions himself and starts casting. He doesn’t cast directly on the house in case Yaxley has put wards on it that would detect his magic, instead he analyses the area around it, he looks for magical traces, signatures, residues left by recent spells and dark magic. 

He doesn’t find much more than he did yesterday, a few basic spells and a couple of apparitions all belonging to the same magical signature, Yaxley’s.

He goes over every spell he detected, one by one. The good thing about magic, is that it always leaves a trace, however feeble, if you look hard enough you can always find it, even days after the spell has been cast. It stays like static in the air, more detailed right after the casting and gradually it deteriorates, moving from its origin and spreading until it’s too rarefied to be picked up by a detection spell.

In this case, Draco looks for the residual traces in the air, since he can’t directly analyze the house, which means that the spells have to be at least a couple of days old to be able to reach the air outside the house.

It’s not precise nor ideal, but it’s everything he can do. If it was any minor Death Eater, Draco wouldn’t think twice about casting on the house, like he did in the past, but this is Yaxley and, as much as Draco hates to admit it, he’s a competent wizard, he wouldn’t live in a place without making sure it’s safe and protected.

Not having a defined image of what to expect is not what Draco likes, but he has collected enough evidence to be able to form an idea of what he will be facing. For the past week all his tests have suggested him that Yaxley lives alone, he didn’t pick up any other magical signature and he knows Yaxley wouldn’t live with a Muggle that he didn’t plan to kill, which doesn’t seem the case since the test for the use of dark magic and unforgivables has come back negative. All the spells he has found are basic house-keeping charms, the odd apparition and a disturbing amount of lubrication spells which have left him with an image he really could have lived without.

This night’s examination gives the same results, it’s comforting to know that nothing evil is happening here, but it’s still possible that Yaxley conducts his businesses somewhere else; unfortunately an apparition can be traced only in the few seconds immediately following it, which means that Draco has no idea where Yaxley goes when he leaves the house, it could be anywhere from the hairdresser, Draco remembers well Yaxley’s unhealthy obsession with braiding techniques, to another Death Eaters hideout.

For the moment he can’t do much more, he has collected all the data he could find and it’s getting late, it’s time to go home, he’ll work more in the morning.

Still disillusioned, he silently apparates behind his apartment building and, making sure that there’s no one in sight, he drops all enchantments, revealing his true immaculate appearance. He cards a hand through his hair to mess it up a bit and undoes the first couple of his shirt buttons, he is going to have to walk past the night janitor to reach his apartment, he needs to look like he’s coming home from the night-club not a stakeout.

He makes his way to the door, slouching his steps to mime being a bit intoxicated, his acting skills work and the janitor doesn’t spare him a second glance as he walks up to the elevator.

Once back in his own safe heaven, he straightens up and goes directly to his room, where he finds Pongo curled on the pillow next to his own, pretending to be asleep like he always does when Draco comes back home at night. He thinks he’s being sly, but Draco can see his little ears twitching at every noise he makes and it’s comforting to know that Pongo waits for him every night, even if he tries to pretend that he doesn’t care one bit.

After a deeply needed shower, Draco puts on his silk pyjama pants and snuggles under the cover, hugging Pongo to his chest, falling asleep in a heartbeat.

-*-*-*-*-

The next morning Draco is woken up by a loud meowing and something wet caressing his cheek, he opens his eyes to find a very hungry Pongo staring at him.

“Do I have the time to at least get dressed before having to feed you? No? Thought so.”

With a sigh he gets up, grabs his night gown and quickly covers his bare chest, it might be July, but the morning in London is still chilly. He grumbles all the way to the kitchen although he isn’t really annoyed with Pongo, he just puts up the act.

It’s the same scene every morning, Draco is woken up by a Pongo in dire need of food, despite having eaten only hours before, and Draco pretends to dread the prospect of having to get up, while he secretly loves the prickly company and alarm clock all bundled together in a ball of grey fluff with yellow eyes.

Leaving a happy Pongo to his salmon breakfast, Draco goes to the bathroom to wash up and get ready for the day. Half an hour later, with his running gear on, he heads to the park.

The day is beautiful, the sun is shining and there isn’t a cloud in sight, finally Draco thinks. Summer has come late this year, the days of really good weather since June can be counted on the fingers of a hand, the last day of July seems to be the start of the good season, or at least, Draco hopes it will, a rainy August wouldn’t be a novelty but it would be depressing.

Once inside the gates of the park, he wears his pedometer and heart rate monitor strap and starts running laps through the trees.

Running is a passion Draco discovered during his training. Before the war, nothing as muggle as physical activity was allowed at the Manor, but being in the relative freedom of the hit-wizard training, Draco discovered many things he never thought he would like, among them, yoga and running.

When he runs, Draco feels really free, he allows himself to forget about everything and, instead, he focuses on breathing and taking in his surroundings. The smells of the earth and the flowers fill his nose, calming his racing heart and swirling thoughts, the rhythmic pounding of his shoes against the ground, the chirping of the birds and the happy cries of the children playing while their mothers chat, catch his attention and he finds a smile beginning to tug at his lips at the sight of the unbridled joy that comes with youth and innocence.

Of course, thinking of youth makes him think of his own terrible upbringing and the innocence that he lost so rapidly to a war that should never have concerned children in the first place. The past is in the past though, and even if Draco can’t say that he has made peace with what’s happened, he forces himself to come back to the present and concentrate on what he can see, not what he can remember.

On the ground, the grass is green, a very light but vibrant green, the grass blades sway with the wind, bees and butterflies zip through them to reach the colourful flowers that dot the sea of green. Raising his eyes he looks at the trees, the green there is different, it’s darker, almost emerald, the leaves reflect the sunlight and shine bright from the thick branches.

Draco loses himself in the beauty of nature, in the calm atmosphere that grounds him and welcomes him with open arms, or branches. It’s peaceful, it’s rejuvenating and for an hour Draco forgets himself and becomes part of the environment. It’s a world with no expectations, untainted by humans, life and death depend on the season, the weather and the meticulous work of bees and other pollinators that make the popping up of new flowers and plants possible. It’s a perfect world and, for an hour, Draco can pretend that every moment of his life is this perfect.

Of course, it isn’t even remotely true.

On the last lap of his run, he looks closely at the tree branches for the ribbon that would mean Kingsley needs to see him or has something to say to him. They chose this method of communication because it’s unobtrusive and not likely to be noticed nor linked to either Draco or Shacklebolt.

Every time the Minister has something to say to Draco, a coloured ribbon appears on one of the lower branches.

Red means urgent meeting, in which case Draco needs to run home as soon as possible and, using the portkey he finds among his morning post, disguised as the Daily Prophet, he has to go to Kingsley to be briefed on the emergency.

Blue means that the Aurors, or someone else in the Ministry, have acquired new information on his targets and he will be sent that information the next morning, again, disguised as the Daily Prophet, a password and his magical signature will reveal the actual files.

White means that the meeting they had previously set for that day, will take place, the time it’s always the same, 10.00 p.m., the place changes every time, sometimes it’s an abandoned warehouse, others a muggle event in which two people speaking quietly among themselves would pass unnoticed. It’s never either of their houses, nor a magical venue, they can’t afford to leave their magical signatures lying around in places where they could be easily picked up by the wrong people, aka the Aurors. Once again, the Prophet serves as a portkey.

Grey means that the meeting will take place, but there has been a change of date. Incidentally, the date on his Daily Prophet that morning will have a printing error and will instead show the new date of the meeting.

Yellow means that someone in the DMLE has an inkling that something might be happening behind the scenes. Getting rid of too many Death Eaters too fast would cause suspicion, since Draco doesn’t leave any traces and all the Aurors can see is that the crime rate is decreasing without reason. The yellow ribbon means that Draco has to lie low for a couple of months and just study his targets without taking out any of them.

Black means that something has happened and Draco needs to stop at once whatever he is doing or planning to do until further info reaches him. He needs to avoid all magical places at all costs and live his life as a true muggle, no investigations, no stakeouts. Black is for very serious matters and is the sign that either someone has discovered his secret or someone who knows about him has been kidnapped or killed. In this case there are two possible outcomes, if an Auror has discovered him, he will surely be arrested and he will need to wait for the Minister to intervene, revealing his undercover mission. In the other case, he needs to wait for the next ribbon, a green ribbon will tell him that everything is good again, he can go on and what has happened will be explained to him during the next meeting. If, instead of a green ribbon, he finds two black ones, the instructions are to burn all evidence of his job and leave the country as soon as possible, because his identity has been discovered by the other side and it’s not safe for him to live in England anymore. Since Draco is able to find the other Death Eaters through the mark and the process also works the other way around, he isn’t really safe anywhere he goes if someone wants to find him and he has already decided that, if the occasion occurs when he needs to choose between leave and fight, he will stay until his or the other’s end.

On Draco’s side, if he needs to urgently contact Shacklebolt, he has an emergency button in his study that if activated will make a similar button appear on Shacklebolt office desk, the colour depending on the type of emergency, purple if something relevant happened that Kingsley needs to be aware of, but it’s nothing dangerous, red for the need of immediate medical assistance and black for having blown his cover to an ally or an enemy. For everything else, Draco is on his own.

This morning, there are no ribbons and Draco makes his way back to his apartment with a smile on his face. No message is a message in itself, it means that Draco has the green light to do whatever he’s planned and this evening he will get rid of Yaxley once and for all.

Back at home and after a shower, he curls on the couch with Pongo, going through his post and eating an apple. He skims the muggle newspapers and a few wizarding ones, the Daily Prophet ends up in the bin untouched, the rag is useful as a portkey, but whatever gets published on it is absolute rubbish and Draco doesn’t waste his time on it.

After lunch, Draco goes to his room for his supposed nap, once in his office he takes out Yaxley’s file from his file cabinet and writes down the information he collected in the early morning, comparing it to the previous ones. He reads again the whole file twice before deciding that he knows the information well enough to recite it in his sleep.

After his strategy is planned, he goes to his weapon wall and takes down a few knives and daggers, he checks to see if the blades are clean and sharp, even if he already knows they are. Satisfied that his equipment for tonight is ready, he arranges everything on the desk and goes to his room to actually take a nap, he plans to be awake most of the night if not all night, he can use a few hours of rest.

At eight o’clock he shares dinner with Pongo and after that he takes out his laser pointer, Pongo loves to follow the red dot and Draco loves to see the little rascal happy. When the cat is exhausted it’s still 10 o’clock and Draco lounges on the couch watching some mindless tv shows for about an hour and then goes to get ready.

His usual night-club attire is already on his bed waiting to be worn, a black t-shirt one size to small that hugs his physique showing his defined muscles and slim waist, a pair of skin-tight dragon-hide trousers that make his ass look delicious, if he says so himself and to finish, dragon-hide knee-high boots and jacket.

He spends a few minutes admiring himself in the mirror, he looks good enough to eat and it will be hard to refuse propositions tonight, but he has work to do and can’t be distracted by the good looking men and women of London. 

After a quick dash to the bathroom to style his hair he goes to his office to get ready for the main event of the night.

The great thing about dragon-hide is that, although to the eye and touch it perfectly resembles muggle leather, it’s still a magical material and therefore can be manipulated to the users’ wishes. All of Draco’s trouser are littered with tiny pockets of wizarding space in which he can stash all the weapons and other equipment he needs for his job, tonight, he takes a few of his combat knives, a couple of butterfly knives, his favourite dagger and a few throw knives in case Yaxley tries to run. Along his right thigh, there’s a slot that easily accommodates his wand and conceals it, so that no one would notice its presence, especially muggles. Lastly, he transfigures a long black rope into a simple black choker and places it around his pale neck.

Now he has everything he needs.

It’s time to hunt.

Chapter Text

Being a hit-wizard is not easy, but the music is not so bad.

The thumping of the bass of some famous disco music travels throughout Draco’s body as he makes his way into the club. As always, his entrance does not go unnoticed and he can feel hungry eyes observing him from around the room.

He ignores them all and goes straight to the bar where Dennis is mixing some elaborate cocktail, throwing bottles in the air and catching them behind his back.

He first met Dennis when he still wasn’t working for Shacklebolt, Draco had ventured into a new club that had just opened in Islington, not far from his apartment in Camden and had found the bubbly bartender quite entertaining.

At the time he hadn’t known the muggle world as well as he does today and had listened carefully as Dennis chatted about whatever he found interesting while working, it was a surprisingly good source of information, if one skipped the useless gossip.

Draco can’t say they are friends, but after years of talking from opposite sides of the bar counter, they are friendly acquaintances. Draco usually visits the club once or twice a month and always stops to listen to the latest news as well as taste the concoctions mixed by Dennis’ skilful hands.

Tonight it’s no different and Draco relaxes while drinking his Aviation, the purple tint of the cocktail lost in the show of stroboscopic lights. Dennis tells him about his new iPhone and the wonders of modern technology and Draco follows the conversation with moderate interest, he does own the new smartphone, but he doesn’t use it very much due to his lack of friends to communicate with.

After about half an hour, he moves to a booth with a new drink, he pretends he doesn’t notice the lecherous glances thrown his way by most of the men and women filling the club, it’s not that he doesn’t like being noticed, because he does, but having to reject offers left and right is not his idea of having a good time. Not making eye contact with anyone, he hopes to discourage any attempt at chatting him up.

Of course it doesn’t always work.

“Hello beautiful.” A man, about ten years older than Draco is staring at him expectantly.

Draco does nothing to conceal his distaste. It’s always the older men that try first with him, Draco doesn’t know if it’s because he gives off the impression of preferring them, if that’s even possible, or if they are just less hesitant about approaching someone. Either way, although he might have indulged in a few of them in the past, mainly to satisfy his curiosity and see if age really equalled experience, and the answer is no by the way, Draco has a type, a thing he has accepted along the years after a long period of denial. This type usually isn’t matched by any of the older men he meets and by few of the ones his age.

Of course Draco doesn’t let something as shallow as looks determine the course of his nights, after all, it’s not like he spends much time looking at his catches when his face his smashed against a wall from the rhythmic poundings. Though when he has the option, he can’t deny anymore, not to himself nor to others, that a fit body, rugged look, messy dark hair and light eyes do something for him.

And yes, Draco is well aware that his type very much describes someone he spent years hating, because even after years of isolation, Draco can’t get rid of Potter, no matter how hard he tries.

Maybe it’s always like this with first crushes, they tend to stick around and make your life miserable every time you think about them Draco tries to reason, but even to his own mind, his guesswork seems faulty. It’s not because Potter was his first crush, as embarrassing as that is on its own, it’s because for seven years, for better or for worse, Potter had been a constant in Draco’s life, always there with a snide remark, hateful glances, wand ready to curse at the blink of an eye and annoyingly heroic acts of kindness and bravery.

How Draco went from considering Potter his archenemy to wanting to snog him silly, still isn’t clear. It was in his fourth year at Hogwarts that one moment he had wanted to smash Potter’s head in the wall and the next his mind had been conjuring images of Draco smashing his lips on the smaller boy’s. That had been quite the revelation and had left Draco flummoxed for a long time.

He had first tried to reason that it must have obviously been the hormones and, as Draco was a teenage boy, it was normal for this kind of things to happen. But then he had started to notice that only Potter elicited that kind of reaction in him, no other girl or boy could get him so angry and aroused at the same time.

Fourth year had been a confusing one.

He had eventually had to admit, to himself at least, because there was no way he was going to ever speak about it with somebody else, that his obsession with Potter had evolved from the petty rivalry they had started in first year to something much more intense. At least, it had on Draco’s side, because from the Gryffindor, he hadn’t received any signal that might have led to believe that there was anything other than deep hatred between the two of them.

Until the day Potter had saved him from Fiendfyre, showing him for the first time that selfless compassion for which he was famous, but that had never been directed towards him before and Draco had fallen a bit more deeper in love with him.

Then the git had testified for him and his mother at their trials and Draco had found himself grateful and hoping that maybe he could show Potter that he had changed and that he would work to be a better person, but Potter hadn’t even waited for the end of the trials before turning around and exiting the chamber, without sparing a glace towards Draco, as if saving his life once again didn’t matter to him. Draco had watched his back as Potter had made his way out of the room and out of his life, a tiny bit of Draco’s heart leaving with him.

Obviously, as much as Draco wanted it to be different, he knew that Potter hadn’t owed him anything and that, if it hadn’t been for his mother saving Potter’s life, he wouldn’t even have testified on their behalf. Still, he had deluded himself that, maybe, there had been a possibility, even if rather small, that he and Potter could end their seven years long acquaintance in somewhat amicable terms. Potter clearly hadn’t wanted that and Draco had respected his wish, after all, who would want to be in the company of a Death Eater, however lousy he had been at it.

Since the day of his trial, Draco hasn’t seen Potter once, or rather, he’s seen the photographs in the papers detailing every bit of the Saviour’s life, but he hasn’t come in contact with the wizard in person and that’s perfectly fine with him. He wouldn’t even know where to start if he accidentally bumped into Potter after all these years.

Of course, that hasn’t stopped him from fantasizing about the man he has seen in the photographs. And what a nice man he has become, Auror training really did a number on the scrawny boy with knobby knees and baggy clothes.

In the most recent picture Draco has seen, which accompanied an article about Potter promotion to Head Auror, because of course the prat excels at everything he does, from slaying basilisks to enforcing the law, Potter had looked delectable in his deep red uniform, while he smiled bashfully at the cameras.

Draco should probably be embarrassed of the number of times he has wanked to that image, but he can’t seem to find even a modicum of regret within himself. The way the red material hugged Potter’s broad shoulders and muscled arms was downright sinful and the square jaw dusted with stubble, the bright green eyes shining behind thin gold frames and the untamable mop of black hair only added to the effect.

If he doesn’t want people salivating after him, Draco debates, Potter simply has to not look good enough to eat. It doesn’t matter that Potter probably doesn’t even try to look good, nor that, being as oblivious as he is, he probably doesn’t even realize the effect he has on people, he simply has no right to be that handsome and play with Draco’s depraved mind, not that Potter is aware of it, but Draco can still pretend, in his mind, that in a perfect world, Potter would care about what Draco thinks of him.

Having gone down the rabbit hole that is thinking about Potter and his past in general multiple times in the past, Draco knows that it’s better he stops know, before it goes too far and he inevitably ends up huddled under a blanket on his couch, eating mint chocolate chip ice cream and crying his eyes out from grief and regret for the stupid boy he had been in school.

Coming back to the present, Draco looks around and the man from before is nowhere to be seen. He must have been lost in his own mind for much longer than he thought. Not that he minds the absence of unwanted company.

His watch tells him that he still has a bit more than an hour before having to leave for work, so he lounges in his seat for a while, sipping his drink and watching the people dancing and generally having a good time.

When enough alcohol is running through his veins, he leaves his place in the booth and heads for the dancefloor.

He gets lost in the sea of tightly packed bodies grinding against each other to the rhythm of the music and burns off some of the tension that has built during the day, in anticipation of tonight’s hunt.

It feels so good.

There, in the middle of bodies slick with sweat that refuse to stop moving, Draco is just another human being enjoying his life and revelling in the anonymity that the muggle world offers.

Of course, he is not the 20 year old who could stay up partying all night and be perfectly fine the next morning anymore and, after about half an hour of dancing, he goes back to the bar for some due refreshments.

Dennis smirks at him. “Already tired old man?”

“Oh fuck off and give me a glass of water.”

Dennis smirks wider, unbothered by Draco’s rudeness.

“Yes Sir.” He hands Draco a glass with a small bow.

Draco rolls his eyes, but takes the handed glass gratefully. “You do know that you’re older than me, don’t you?”

Dennis huffs. “By one year. It hardly makes a difference.”

“Well, look at me dancing and at you here making cocktails. I’d say there is quite the gap.” Draco points out.

“Yeah, but that’s because you’re a rich bastard, not because you’re younger.” Dennis says and Draco cannot argue with that.

“Point.”

He sips the water for a few moments before Dennis breaches the comfortable silence they have fallen into.

“Do you reckon you’ll stop anytime soon?” he asks while wiping the counter.

Draco is momentarily taken aback by the question. His mind goes directly to the dingy house that’s waiting for him after the club, but then he reasons that Dennis doesn’t know anything about his job, so it must be something else.

“What do you mean?” he asks curiously.

Dennis points to the rest of the room with the hand holding the dirty rag he has been using to clean the sticky stains on the black countertop.

“All this, the clubbing, drinking, dancing and fucking. Do you think you’ll eventually get tired of the bachelor life?”

Draco’s automatic response is to deny anything that could imply that his life is not happy or fulfilling. Of course he should love what he does, who wouldn’t. Knowledge that he is living this life only as a cover for his job aside, who wouldn’t like to do whatever one wants, spend money left and right and party all night.

Except that, after seven years of doing always the same thing, it has become harder and harder to really look forward to the next day for Draco.

Had things gone according to pureblood traditions, that is, if there hadn’t been a war, Draco at the age of twenty-seven would have already been married for years and would have probably had a kid or two.

Not that he wanted that, marriage had never been in his plans, the few times he had dared to think about the future in the darkness of his childhood bedroom, but he had always hoped that, if he managed to get out of the war alive, he would be able to stop following orders and live life like he wanted.

Of course he hadn’t taken into account the possibility of being recruited by the Minister of Magic himself to help save the wizarding world from falling down once again, nor he had ever envisioned himself living as a muggle.

Funny how fate doesn’t care about your expectations.

Still, Draco is nearing thirty and he hasn’t the foggiest idea of what to do with his life.

Yes, for now he has a job to do and he will continue until the last of his targets are taken care of, but after?

What will he do? Who will he be? He’s been living a lie for so long that he isn’t sure anymore.

Let’s say that everything goes according to plan and in a year or so his mission is over, then what?

Will he go back to the wizarding world? That doesn’t seem likely, they still hate him.

But then what will he do in the muggle world? Will he look for a real job? With what qualifications? Can you write executioner for the government as a past employment? Somehow he doesn’t think that would be taken too well.

He knows he doesn’t necessarily need to work, he has enough money to last him for the next ten lives, but what meaning does his existence has, if he does nothing all day?

In a year, things will undoubtedly be different because of his mother’s release from prison in a few months’ time, which might be the only beacon of light in the perpetual darkness of Draco’s life.

Shacklebolt, true to his words, has tried to help Narcissa as much as possible after Draco accepted the job. He managed to move her from high security to minimum security, this way, while Draco still can’t visit her more than twice a year, he is able to send her one letter each month and even some books to help her pass the time. Additionally, Narcissa has access to communal areas and some support groups that are aimed to the preservation of the inmates’ mental health and to helping the long-term prisoners re-enter society after years of isolation. For good behaviour Narcissa also obtained a six-months reduction of her sentence, which means that in just five months, as the new year begins, she will be free to go home.

Where that home will be, is still unsure. In the past years, Draco has gone to the Manor only when necessary and left as soon as possible. The structure of the house is still immaculate, the interiors though, are basically bare. During the cleansing, Draco had gotten rid of anything that had been used by Death Eaters or tainted by dark magic, leaving most of the rooms and hallways empty. The only untouched parts were Narcissa’s private chambers, which Draco had instructed the elves to keep clean, but not touch anything and the kitchens, where no one of old Voldy’s posse had bothered to venture, deeming them a place for the servants.

If his mother will want to go back to living in the Manor, Draco supposes it wouldn’t be difficult to have it refurbished, they could probably close a few wings and keep only the main body of the house open, since his mother would be the only occupant.

He would never go back to living there, but he would visit as much as possible. It is safe to assume that nine years and a half of prison will take a toll even on someone as resilient as his mother and leaving her alone in a house full of terrible memories for extensive periods of time would not be wise, even though she would have the house-elves to help her.

If, instead, Narcissa will want a change of scenery, Draco will help her find new accommodations, maybe a small cottage in the countryside, or one of their properties on the French Riviera. He doesn’t think his mother would appreciate the city hustle, but it is possible that after years of isolation she might need to be among people.

Draco knows that worrying about something months away is futile, but he can’t help but be concerned about his mother, she deserves to be treated as the queen Draco knows she is and he will do absolutely anything to ensure that she is safe and comfortable wherever she chooses to stay.

Remembering that Dennis is waiting for an answer, he forces himself to come back to the matter at hand. Of course he can’t give him the exhaustive answer without breaking the Statute of Secrecy and his contract, but he tries to be as truthful as possible.

“I guess I’ll eventually need to slow down. I don’t think I will be able to stay out every night for very much longer.” he says and it’s the truth even if a bit stretched. He will need to keep this lifestyle at least until the end of his mission, then he’ll probably take a long vacation somewhere far away.

“Who knows, maybe I’ll find the one and settle down.” He adds casually.

Then he looks up to see Dennis with his mouth hanging open, the glass he was refilling forgotten in one hand while the other holds the bottle that is precariously tilted, spilling its contents on the now overflowing glass and onto the counter. Dennis doesn’t seem to notice as he gapes at Draco, dumbfounded and not without reason. In the years they’ve known each other, Draco has always been a firm opponent of relationships and commitment in general.

The explanation he has given is that he doesn’t see himself in a stable relationship with anyone and that he is too much of a free spirit to really settle with one person. The real reason is that, while still working for the Ministry, he can’t risk his secret being discovered and it would be quite hard to explain where he goes each night he works, since he would need to stop clubbing if he had a regular partner. Additionally, since dating a wizard is out of the picture, dating a muggle would mean hide a big part of himself and, while Draco doesn’t necessarily need magic in his everyday life, it would still be a relationship based on secrets and lies, which would be unfair to whoever he started dating. Thus leading Draco to a life of permanent bachelorship.

Draco enjoys the sight of his astonished almost-friend for a little while longer before dissolving in a fit of giggles. That is enough to break Dennis out of his stupor and earns him a smack upside the head.

“You asshole!” Dennis shouts indignantly, but he can’t hide his grin. “ You had me worried there for a bit mate, I was this close to having you checked out, because you haven’t drunk nearly enough to be delirious.”

At that, Draco starts laughing, a real laugh that has his eyes crinkle and his stomach hurt. Dennis laughs with him until he notices the mess he’s made on the countertop.

“Oh shit!”

Draco laughs even more.

“Yeah, laugh at my expenses, after all, it’s not your ass on the line if management sees this mess.” Dennis grumbles, but he is not really annoyed, as proved by the smile gracing his lips and the amusement in his eyes as he goes to fetch another clean rag to mop up the spilled alcohol.

They chat amicably for a little while more until Draco heads to the bathroom for his usual clean-up.

As he walks down the dimly lit corridor that leads to the bathroom, he can feel eyes on him, but he doesn’t give it too much thought. In places like this, people are always looking.

Once in the privacy of the empty restroom, he takes a look at himself in the mirror.

His hair is a mess, sticking up at odd angles and darkened with sweat, which also dampens his face and body. His clothes are not in disarray only because they are so tight that they can’t even move along his body, though his t-shirt is sticking uncomfortably to his torso.

Opening the faucet, he collects some water in his cupped hands and splashes it on his face and hair, carding a hand through the blond strands to smooth them down. He could dry his hair with a drying charm, but charms always make it frizzy, so he prefers to keep it wet.

A cleaning charm takes care of most of the sweat on his body, though Draco has never perfected them, which is why he always prefers actual showers. For the moment though, charms will suffice.

Digging in one of his pockets he finds the small bottle of vodka and downs its contents in a single gulp, waiting for the sobering potion to take effect, so he can leave.

He mentally goes over his plan while he waits.

For tonight he isn’t going to wear any glamours, preferring to keep his magical strength at full capacity. Instead, he is going to disillusion himself and apparate to the small house he’s been surveilling all week. Hopefully, Yaxley will be there and Draco will not need to use the connection through the mark and the subsequent interrupted-apparition.

He will need to do a last assessment of the situation, but this time he won’t be wary of the wards and he will cast directly on the house. He needs to keep his presence a secret during his reconnaissance nights, in order to collect useful data, but today he will attack as soon as the inspection charms confirm the situation. After that, the real fun will begin.

He makes a final check to see if all his equipment is still where it’s supposed to be and heads out of the bathroom towards the main area to say goodbye to Dennis, who gives him a wink from behind the counter as he pours some bright pink drink in a tall glass.

He's maybe a couple meters away from the door when-

“Malfoy!?”

Draco stops in his tracks, frozen on the spot. He knows that voice, he hasn’t heard it for years, but he would recognize it even after a century. It’s the voice that has haunted both his dreams and nightmares. It’s the voice he’d listened spewing insults at him, it’s the voice that had cursed him, in multiple occasions. It’s the voice that had snarled his name and it’s the voice that had defended him against the rest of the world.

Draco doesn’t want to turn around, he wants to pretend he didn’t hear his name said after all this time by that voice, for once void of hatred. He doesn’t want to acknowledge the person whom that voice belongs to. He wants to keep walking, exit the club, find a deserted alley and disapparate. He wants to go do his job and forget about that voice, while he watches as life drains out of Yaxley’s body.

He turns around.

Chapter Text

“Malfoy!?”

Draco stops in his tracks, frozen on the spot. He knows that voice, he hasn’t heard it for years, but he would recognize it even after a century. It’s the voice that has hunted both his dreams and nightmares. It’s the voice he’d listened spewing insults at him, it’s the voice that had cursed him, in multiple occasions. It’s the voice that had snarled his name and it’s the voice that had defended him against the rest of the world.

Draco doesn’t want to turn around, he wants to pretend he didn’t hear his name said after all this time by that voice, for once void of hatred. He doesn’t want to acknowledge the person whom that voice belongs to. He wants to keep walking, exit the club, find a deserted alley and disapparate. He wants to go do his job and forget about that voice while he watches the life drains out of Yaxley’s body.

He turns around.

The first thing his eyes land on is the infamous mop of hair, the black sweaty strands shining every colour under the club lights. He traces the curls down to the other man’s forehead where he can’t see it, but he knows a scar lies behind the raven locks.

A couple of centimetres below and grey eyes meet impossibly green ones.

Draco isn’t sure how long they stay locked in each other’s gazes, time loses any meaning as he looks at the man he had thought he’d never see again.

Harry Potter.

Fuck.

Suddenly, he is back to his eleven year old self, full of confidence and all the wrong ideals, hating another child because of a denied handshake. Then he is twelve and calling a young girl a mudblood because he is jealous of her skills. Then thirteen and taunting a boy because he’s seen such terrible things in his short life, that dementors make him faint. Then fourteen and making enchanted buttons to turn the school against a boy who is going to risk his life because adults can’t or won’t protect him. Then fifteen and joining a squad of bullies to follow someone who tortured students with dark artefacts. Then sixteen and cursing and poisoning classmates, letting Death Eaters in the castle and nearly killing the Headmaster. Then he is seventeen and lost, hopeless and alone in a house full of terror, praying for someone, anyone to save him. Then he is placed in front of a disfigured but oh so recognisable face and given a choice, cowardice or bravery. For once in his life, he chooses bravery. Then he is in a burning room, smoke quickly filling his airways and lungs, making it hard to breathe and the same boy he’s bullied for years is zooming towards him, hand outstretched. Then he is in a cold damp cell deep under the Ministry, knowing that he deserves to be there and he will be sent to prison for everything he’s done. Then he’s in a courtroom, listening to the list of his crimes, when suddenly a lone figure stands and demands attention, telling the world that Draco needs to be free, even if Draco himself doesn’t believe it. Then he is in that same room, watching his twice-over saviour leave him behind.

He blinks and he is back at the club. Big pools of green, glazed over by the alcohol, staring at him unwaveringly.

Draco doesn’t know what to feel, his mind is a whirlwind of shock, anger, regret, relief and happiness and it doesn’t seem to want to focus on either one. He feels hot and cold, his clothes are too tight yet not thick enough to protect him from the onslaught of emotions. His breathing his loud in his ears, but his lungs aren’t getting enough oxygen. His fight-or-flight instinct is shouting at him to get the hell out of there, but his feet are glued to the floor.

Draco’s synapses reconnect the moment Potter takes a drunken step towards him, almost falling on his face and catching himself on the wall at the last moment.

Draco flees.

“Malfoy! Wait!”

Draco is already outside when the voice reaches him and, this time, he doesn’t turn around.

Of course it’s bloody Potter we’re talking about and, even almost blindingly drunk, he is as stubborn as a mule and he follows Draco outside, shouting his name in the middle of the street. That gets the attention of every passersby within hearing distance, which is quite extensive since Potter is yelling and doesn’t seem to care that he’s causing a scene, in the middle of the night.

Draco, on the other end, very much cares about not gathering attention to himself and with a groan he turns around and walks back to the shorter man. Even as annoyed as he is, he is able to spare the seconds to enjoy the couple of inches he still has on the Auror. It isn’t much, but Draco will take his victories where he can find them. 

Once he reaches Potter, he grabs one of his arms, resolutely not thinking about the steely muscles he can feel beneath the thin fabric of Potter’s shirt and starts dragging him towards a quieter place, far from the club and the curious looks.

Potter stumbles behind him, struggling to keep up with Draco’s brisk pace and if he sometimes misses a step and comes very near to scraping his face on the pavement, or if he bumps into walls or lampposts, well, too bad.

Once they are alone in a relatively isolated and dimly lit street corner, Draco stops abruptly and feels Potter slam against his back, his reflexes not sharp enough.

Turning around, he regards the other man. Up close, his appearance is even more striking than under the club’s lights.

Potter’s eyes are so big. Without the round glasses, Draco has the full view of Potter’s mesmerizing emerald eyes, even though Draco has to admit that Potter has moved to a much more stylish frame these days, compared to the thick black one he’d used to wear at school. He suspects Granger has to be thanked for that.

Potter’s caramel skin glows under the lights of the lampposts, opposed to Draco, whose pale skin takes on a sickly yellow tint under the artificial light. Another reason to be envious of Potter, as if the list wasn’t already long enough.

Draco’s eyes take in Potter’s attire properly for the first time and he barely stops himself from groaning aloud, because of course the bloody git looks amazing even in a simple back shirt and jeans. It mustn’t have taken more than a couple of minutes for Potter to get dressed and still, he looks like he’s ready for a photoshoot. It just isn’t fair how Potter has it all.

Looks, fame and power, everything Draco has once dreamed to have is standing right in front of him, a loopy grin on his piss-drunk face, which reminds Draco that he is standing in the middle of the street, at two in the morning, with his once rival-turned saviour-turned main star of his wet dreams for a reason, or at least, he hopes there is a valid reason, because if not, he’s going to throw the fit of the century.

There is no way that he will be able to work tonight, he would be undoubtedly distracted by this little incident, not to mention, that it wouldn’t be very smart to leave an Auror alone to go and kill a man, however drunk that Auror may be.

“What. Do. You. Want.” He grits out through teeth clenched from frustration and exasperation. Couldn’t Potter have waited another day to make his less than thrilling return into Draco’s life? Did he have to do it the night Draco had chosen to finally kill Yaxley? Of course, that is only further proof that the universe is playing a sick joke on him, he shouldn’t be surprised by now.

The last time his life has been changed drastically, it was the Minster of Magic that found him, it is only reasonable that this time is the Saviour’s turn. Draco should be flattered.

He could try telling himself that this chance encounter won’t mean anything, but he knows that it’s complete bullshit. Even if he never sees Potter again after tonight, he will never be able to get rid of the memories. The sights, smells, sounds, sensations, he will keep them within himself for a very long time, irrevocably changed by a ghost of his past come back to haunt him.

Realizing that Potter hasn’t actually answered him yet, Draco levels the shorter man with the strongest glare he can muster.

“Potter, I’ll ask you one more time, then I’ll leave your sorry arse here. What do you want?”

Potter for some reason smiles widely, which unnerves Draco even more.

“Mal-Malfoy, long time n-no see.” Potter slurs.

No shit. Draco rolls his eyes.

“Potter.” He warns, patience having reached its limit.

Potter opens his mouth to say something more, but at the same time he tries to take a step forward and trips on his own feet, landing in Draco’s arms, that had automatically reached out to stabilize the other man. Potter grips Draco’s arms weakly but doesn’t seem to be inclined to let go anytime soon. Their position is awkward and not very comfortable for either of them, though no one does anything to change it.

“Wow, you’re so strooong.” Potter sighs dreamily.

Draco would like to say that he doesn’t blush at that, but his ivory complexion doesn’t hide anything. Damn it. He hopes Potter is too drunk to notice.

Unfortunately, he’s proven wrong when a dark finger prods at his cheek, right where Draco can feel the warm from the blood rush and that now is warm for a completely different reason.

Potter watches mesmerized as Draco’s check darkens further, much to Draco’s embarrassment.

“So pretty.”

It’s just a whisper, a drunken man’s rambling, Draco knows that sober Potter would be horrified of his own words and would never mean them, but he can’t deny that hearing endearments, spoken from the lips of someone he’s lusted over for years, makes something do a little flip in his gut.

Shit.

Now it’s not the time to get flustered. Actually, it is never the time to get flustered, not for Draco. As always, Potter is the exception to the rule.

He snaps out of his thoughts when he feels something heavy land on his chest, he looks down and- “What the fuck.” He whisper-shouts.

Potter’s head lies on his sternum, thick black hair tickling Draco’s chin. At first, Draco thinks Potter is hugging him, but then he hears them, soft little snores are coming from the brunet as he sleeps, held in Draco’s embrace.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, this is ridiculous. Potter wake up.” He gently shakes the man’s shoulder, but nothing happens. He tries a bit harder, then a bit more, nothing, Potter doesn’t even stir.

Fuck. What does he do now? He doesn’t know where Potter lives, he’s read in the papers that the Auror lives in a house under Fidelius charm, which is more than reasonable, given his past and his current job, but it’s a pain in the ass right this moment.

He tries a few more times calling Potter’s name and shakes him rather violently, but all he obtains is a sleepy mumble about earthquakes.

Fun-fucking-tastic.

He knows he has only one option, one that he doesn’t like in the least.

He heaves a defeated sigh and draws his wand. He casts a couple of silencing charms on them and strengthens his grip on Potter’s body. With a twist, he disapparates.

They silently appear, right in the middle of Draco’s living room, startling Pongo, who’d been lying curled in a ball on the couch. Draco unceremoniously dumps Potter on said couch and takes a few deep breaths to clear his mind and analyze the situation critically.

The Saviour of the Wizarding World, Head Auror of the DMLE, is sleeping on his couch, drunk off his ass. Draco basically kidnapped him, even if he didn’t have any other choice, apart from leaving him on the dirty pavement. He hopes Potter will take that into account before arresting him, when he’ll wake up in a unfamiliar room with his once-rival.

Draco tries not to panic, while he thinks of what to do.

Once his mind is clear, he apparates to the alley behind his building, leaving Pongo to watch the unwanted guest. He does his usual scene of coming home pissed in front of the doorman, who gives him a polite nod and a small smile that Draco can’t manage to return. Back in his apartment he checks that Potter is still sleeping and goes to his room, locking the door.

He puts his hand on the wall beside his nightstand and watches as the wall glows briefly where his hand is touching it, before the outline of a door traces itself on the plaster and the area within the confines disappears, leaving behind a rectangular hole that he enters without hesitation.

The lights turn themselves on as Draco walks into his study, his focus on the small button on his desk.

He takes the button in his hand and it too glows white before turning back to its normal grey, signalling that it’s ready to be used.

“Activation code: purple.” Draco says and he watches as the button changes from grey to a vibrant royal purple and then disappears.

Shacklebolt will find the button on his desk tomorrow morning and will know that Draco has something important to tell him that can’t wait until their next encounter, which is scheduled for almost a month from now. The Minister will want to know about Draco’s unfortunate meeting with Potter and his subsequent almost-kidnapping.

Since he’s here, he removes the weapons still hidden inside his clothes and puts them back on their shelf as he gloomily looks at them, disappointed that he hasn’t been able to use them tonight.

He comes back to his room as fast as he can, it wouldn’t do for Potter to suddenly wake up alone and decide to wander around the apartment, finding things he’s not supposed the see.

He’s relieved to hear the snoring still coming from the living room.

He changes into his pyjama pants and an old t-shirt before going back to Sleeping Beauty, who hasn’t moved an inch and is still dead to the world.

Great.

His attention is caught by a grumpy Pongo staring suspiciously at their guest. Draco can’t blame him, in the two years they’ve lived together he’s never brought anyone home, the fact that Pongo had to move from his comfortable spot on the couch to make room for Potter just adds to the cat grumpiness and not without reason, but Draco can’t do much about it.

He resolves to let Potter sleep here tonight and make him leave as soon as he wakes up.

He goes to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water and places it on the coffee table near Potter’s head, the man will undoubtedly wake up with a massive headache and Draco is not mean enough to let the man get too dehydrated. In the bathroom cupboard he finds a couple of tablets of paracetamol and he puts them beside the glass of water. Of course he could simply give Potter one of his vials of hangover potion, Merlin knows he brews it in industrial quantities, but he’s supposed to be living as a muggle and have no contact with the Wizarding World, which means no owl orders to the nearest apothecary. He can’t say he brews it himself either, that would require having a brewing station and in his tiny house there simply isn’t the space, not to mention that he would still need to order the ingredients for the potions. Potter will most likely have a lingering headache for most of the morning with just the muggle cure, Draco considers it payment for his disturbance.

Deciding that there’s nothing left for him to do, he casts a charm that will tell him when Potter wakes up, scoops up Pongo and heads to his bedroom.

He lies on his bed for a while cuddling the cat before sleep comes and when it does, he is projected inside his own Sleeping Beauty fantasy.

He imagines himself approaching a large four-poster, the white silk curtains are drawn to hide the bed occupant and are gently swaying in a light breeze coming from somewhere Draco can’t pinpoint, he can’t tell where the light that makes the whole scene look ethereal and surreal comes from either, but he doesn’t bother with the details, it’s a dream after all.

In the blink of an eye he’s standing next to the bed, hand reaching out to grab the shimmering fabric, it’s cool to the touch and so soft, it flows through his fingers like water and Draco watches mesmerized as the light reflects on it, as if millions of miniscule diamonds were woven into the fabric. He moves the curtains aside to see what it’s been hiding.

Potter lies under the covers, eyes closed, breathing even. His hair is fanned out on the pillow, creating a black halo around his head. He looks peaceful and beautiful. So close and yet so far.

Draco sits on the side of the bed and leans in, placing a hand on the pillow beside Potter’s face to hold his weight, his face and Potter’s align and Draco stays there, watching. Potter’s eyes move behind close eyelids, seeing something that only his mind is privy to, long eyelashes graze his cheeks, his eyebrows are repeatedly scrunching up and relaxing, his forehead creasing and making the pale thin line of the lightning bolt scar stand in stark contrast to the smooth darker skin. He feels Potter’s breathing on his face and he can smell the man’s scent, a mix of aftershave, leather and something earthy that has to be entirely Potter’s.

He knows it’s just a dream and that everything that’s happening is not real, but he can’t help but savour every moment, every detail. When he’ll wake up he won’t be permitted anything of the sort, he wants to enjoy it while he can.

He doesn’t shut his eyes as he closes the gap between their mouths, this is the closest he will ever get to kissing Potter and there’s no way he’ll miss even a second of it.

Potter’s lips are dry and cool and Draco is reminded, yet again, that this is a dream because he’s sure Potter’s lips would never be anything but warm. The feeling of the kiss is bittersweet, on the one hand, Draco would like it to last forever, he’d gladly stay in this dream for a very long time, enjoying the feeling of indulging in some of the fantasies he’s designed in his mind during the years, on the other hand, the longer it lasts, the more Draco will miss when he’ll wake up.

He keeps the kiss brief, just a brushing of lips and then he moves away.

He watches as Potter’s eyes flutter and slowly open, revealing the beautiful and expressive green eyes Draco has dreamt of so many times.

Potter stares at him confusedly, then his eyes widen in recognition and he smiles brilliantly at Draco, who finds himself returning the smile. Potter opens his mouth to say something and Draco doesn’t know what to expect, but it surely isn’t what he hears next.

“Meow?”

Draco blinks a couple of times? Did Potter just meowed? What the hell?

“Meow”

Again.

Draco doesn’t understand what’s happening, but one second he’s regarding Potter, completely baffled, and the next he’s staring into round yellow eyes.

At least now the meowing is explained, but why did Pongo decide to wake him up? As far as he can see, it’s still early, at least for him, it can’t be later than eight in the morning, too early for someone who went to sleep barely four hours ago. The reason for the abrupt awakening becomes clear when he feels something vibrate under his pillow, he reaches out and retrieves his wand, the alarm he’s set to tell him when Potter woke up is ringing and it must have woken Pongo up, who usually sleeps on the other pillow.

Draco sighs and reluctantly gets up, he stops in the bathroom to check his appearance, he runs a hand through his hair, smoothing it down, for now it’s the most he can do, the dark circles under his eyes are hopeless and he doesn’t want to leave Potter alone for the time it would take him to take a shower and go over his morning routine. Plus it's not like he cares what Potter thinks of his looks, well, not much. Before exiting his room he grabs his night gown and pockets his wand, if things go south, he might need it. He is pleased to see that Pongo follows him, like a mini guardian ready to protect him from the big bad guy.

On the way to the living room he thinks about his dream and the conflicting emotions he can still feel. It was so obviously fake, but Draco can’t suppress the small voice in his head that tells him that he would like it very much if it had been real. Deciding that it’s too early and that there isn’t enough caffeine running through his veins to be arguing with his own brain, he tries to put it out of his mind entirely. He thinks he heard someone say once that ‘It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live’, though he can’t exactly remember when or who said it. Whoever it was, was right, there is absolutely no good that can come from Draco overthinking his dreams, it’s better to leave them where they’re supposed to be, in a tiny drawer of his subconscious.

In the living room he finds Potter standing before the window and gazing out, he knows what he’s seeing, his apartment has the unobstructed view of Primrose Hill, which was the main reason he had chosen the flat in the first place, he was ok living in London, but he needed some nature to look at, not just grey buildings made of glass and steel. The added bonus of the park being so close to his home, it is helpful to keep Draco fit.

Draco leans a hip on the door frame, crossing his arms against his chest, the Auror doesn’t seem to have noticed his presence and for a moment he allows himself to take a good look.

The water he left on the coffee table is now gone, along with the pills, he supposes those are the reason why Potter is standing straight and not rolling around in agony, though Draco’s sure he must still have a headache, which could be helped with other water and coffee, but is Draco kind enough to offer? Well…Maybe.

He observes Potter a bit more, noticing new details the more he looks. Potter has removed his shoes, his feet must have been quite uncomfortable after having slept in them all night, his clothes are rumpled and his hair is sticking up all over the place, defying gravity and probably even some magical laws. Potter stands straight, shoulders squared in an effortless position that suggests he’s had to keep it for a long time to be this easy to fall into, even with what must be the hangover of the century. Unfortunately, Draco can’t see much more from his point of view and he’s beginning to feel self-conscious about his creepy staring.

He watches as Pongo slowly approaches Potter, having decided that the man is not a threat. He rubs his little body on Potter calves, gaining the man’s attention. Potter crouches down to gently pet behind Pongo’s ears, earning himself a loud purr.

“You like that, don’t you?” Potter asks, and Draco does his best not to crumble to the floor, his knees having weakened from the sound of Potter’s voice. He sounds completely different from last night, his voice is not rough and slurred anymore, instead, it’s like treacle, it flows melodiously in the air, gentle and soft, but it holds power and confidence, something that had been lacking in school, when Potter had seemed to always be doubting his actions, except when he was hurling insults at Draco.

“His name’s Pongo.” Draco says by way of greeting and he’s delighted to see Potter jump a little. He’s a bit less amused when the man turns around and he’s faced with the full effect of huge green eyes staring at him in shock.

“Malfoy!?” Potter almost yells, he must not remember much from last night and who would, after drinking themselves to sleep?

“Potter.” Draco says in the most polite way he can manage, he thinks about offering a smile, but it might just be what breaks Potter out of his shock-induced lack-of-action and lands him in a prison cell, so he keeps his face as neutral as possible, trying to show simultaneously that he means no threat, but he isn’t happy with the whole ordeal either.

Potter stares at Draco for so long that Draco can feel the beginning of a flush on his cheeks, he raises an annoyed eyebrow to try and move the attention away from them. It works and Potter clears his throat and has the decency to look embarrassed.

“So, uhm…where are we?” he asks looking around the room.

“My house.”

At this Potter frowns and takes another look as if checking he’s actually seeing a normal living room and probably wondering where all the dark artefacts are stored.

“Your house? But… but it’s a muggle house.”

Draco rolls his eyes and crosses the room towards the archway that leads to the kitchen, he feels muffled footsteps behind him that indicate Potter’s following.

He busies himself with the coffee machine, wanting nothing more than to have the awkward conversation he knows it’s about to take place over and done with quickly, but at the same time not knowing how to start it.

“Coffee?” he asks just to fill the silence. He hears a mumbled ‘yes please’ and starts taking out a couple of coffee cups. His coffee machine is efficient and it can make up to three espressos at the same time, but Draco is trying to delay the inevitable as much as possible, so he makes them one at a time, it still doesn’t take him more than a couple of minutes unfortunately.

The smell of coffee that rises from the cups helps him calm down a bit. He turns around and almost drops both cups. Potter has seated himself at Draco’s kitchen island and is playing with the lacy doily Draco has placed under the fruit basket that sits in the middle of the counter. That is not what startled Draco though, it’s the fact that Potter fits in Draco’s kitchen like he was made to be there.

Potter’s caramel skin tone is a perfect match for the kitchen soft cream walls, while his eyes look like they’ve been sculpted from the same green marble of the countertop.

Draco silently congratulates himself for getting the shade of green right, even though he’ll never admit to having been thinking about Potter’s eyes when choosing his kitchen furniture. Not at all, it’s definitely a tribute to Slytherin house. Obviously.

Draco places a cup in front of Potter and silently passes him the bowl of sugar, he remembers from Hogwarts that Potter used to dump a shit-ton of sugar in his tea, it’s safe to assume that he does it with coffee too. He’s right. Potter gives him a surprised look but nonetheless accepts the bowl and puts a couple of teaspoons of sugar in his cup, slowly stirring.

Draco drinks his coffee black, so he doesn’t have anything to keep his hands occupied, he’s saved by Pongo’s sudden appearance and he remembers that he still hasn’t fed him. He goes to the fridge and retrieves the tuna fillet. Pongo’s usual food is not this fancy, he usually gives him fresh fish as a treat on Sundays, but Draco thinks the little rascal deserves it for what he’s been through in the last few hours, plus, Draco loves spoiling his little companion. He puts a piece of the fillet in one of Pongo’s bowls and fills the other one with fresh water from the tap. Pongo doesn’t waste a second and he catapults himself on the food as soon as it’s available, chewing quickly and emitting satisfied purrs. Draco smiles at him and bends down to scratch behind his ears, before straightening and going back to Potter, who’s been watching him the whole time with a very confused expression on his face.

Draco raises an eyebrow in question.

“What?” he asks maybe a bit more harshly than he had intended.

Potter flushes and Draco watches fascinated as Potter’s cheeks colour. When Draco blushes, bright red spots appear on his cheeks, nose and sometimes even on the tips of his ears, it’s not a very good sight, the pale skin tone makes him look like the Jigsaw mask, which is completely unattractive and a bit creepy. When Potter blushes, his cheeks darken but they don’t get red and his nose stays exactly the same, his ears are covered by his hair, so Draco can’t tell, but he strongly suspects that they don’t get red either. Potter’s blushing is endearing and even, dare he say, cute, it’s honestly so unfair. Can’t he have one flaw?

As he waits for Potter to get his shit together, Draco takes a seat at the other side of the island and slowly sips his coffee, he can almost feel the caffeine run through his body, waking up one cell at a time, he hopes in a bit he will be a fully functional human being, for now he will settle on simply existing.

“You’re different.” Potter states after some consideration.

Draco hums noncommittally, is he? He’s certainly changed his lifestyle, but has he changed as a person? Potter surely can’t tell that by just looking at Draco. Draco keeps his eyes on the cup in his hands, he’s learnt at a young age that if you have nothing relevant to say, it’s better to keep silent.

“What happened last night?” Potter finally asks when he realizes that Draco is not going to answer.

Oh, you know, the usual, went out ready to kill a Death Eater and instead found myself babysitting a drunken Saviour. Really, nothing exceptional, Draco wants to say.

“What do you remember?” he says instead.

Potter’s eyebrows scrunch up as he thinks and Draco fights the urge to reach out a finger and smooth out the line that will definitely become permanent in a few years if Potter keeps frowning.

“I’m not sure. I remember deciding to go out since Ron and Hermione are on holiday in Australia, visiting Hermione’s parents with the kids and I didn’t want to spend my birthday cooped up in my house.”

Of course, how could Draco have forgotten? July 31^st, the most famous date in all Wizarding Britain. Merlin he’s been gone too long.

“I remember drinking, a lot. Then nothing.” Potter concludes with a frustrated sigh that Draco can understand. Before becoming a hit-wizard, he hadn’t had access to his own potion lab and hadn’t been able to brew sobering potions or hangover cures, which means that he’s been through his fair share of blackouts and awful hangovers.

“I don’t know much about what you did last night either. I only saw you when I was about to leave.” He says. He thinks he sees a flash of disappointment in Potter’s eyes, but he can’t be sure.

“Then what happened?”

“Well, you called my name and then did nothing except staring at me for a while, so I decided to leave anyway.” Potter snorts.

“Then, you had the brilliant idea to follow me outside and scream my name at the top of your lungs. I think they heard you in Kensington.”

Potter groans and covers his face with his hands. “Great. Do I want to know what happened after that?”

Draco holds in a snigger.

“Well, it depends. Is knowing that you confessed your undying love for me in front of a crowd of drunken muggles and then proceeded to give me a lap dance while singing the Macarena too much for you to handle?” Draco asks with the straightest expression he can muster.

If Potter had been embarrassed before, now Draco has the chance to see Potter’s face completely drain of colour.

“I did WHAT!?” he shouts, voice raising a full octave and sounding almost hysterical.

And Draco can’t hold it in anymore, he snorts and then falls right into an open laugh, clutching his stomach and wiping tears from his eyes.

He looks up to see Potter in open-mouthed shock.

“You asshole!” there is no real bite in Potter’s words as he too starts laughing.

It takes them a minute or two to regain their composures and Draco sits astonished as he realizes that he’s just been laughing with his ex-rival in his kitchen.

“Really what did I do?” Potter asks, eyes still shining with mirth.

“Nothing much really, when you didn’t stop screaming I led you to a corner down the street from the club, so you wouldn’t wake up the whole city and asked you what you wanted, since until then the only thing you’d said had been my name.” Draco reveals.

“And what did I want?” Potter asks, curiosity filling his words.

Draco shrugs. “No idea, you didn’t answer, instead you tried to take a step and tripped, collapsing on me and promptly passing out. I didn’t know what to do, since I have no idea where you live, so I brought you here.” He concludes.

Potter seems decidedly disappointed.

“What, you’d preferred it if you had done the lap dance?” he inquires.

“Maybe.” Potter smirks and isn’t that new? When did Potter learn to smirk? Cockiness had never been one of Potter’s traits as far as Draco remembers. Still the cocky grin currently on Potter’s face is positively illegal and Draco is glad he’s already sitting down or he would have needed to, since his knees wouldn’t have kept him upright.

Choosing to gloss over Potter’s answer, Draco stands up and makes himself busy washing the coffee cups the muggle way, he finds it strangely soothing. He’s not sure what to do know, does he talk about the weather? Politely asks Potter to leave and never come back?

Turns out, he needn’t have bothered as a sudden ringing breaks the silence, startling Draco who drops the cup in the sink and watches it shatter.

The ringing tune comes from somewhere on Potter and the man searches a couple of pockets before taking out a muggle iPhone exactly like Draco’s, the only difference is that Potter seems to actually use it, while Draco doesn’t find much use for it, having no friends to talk to.

Potter excuses himself and goes to the living room to answer the call, leaving Draco in the kitchen with soapy suds on his hands and a broken cup. He wipes his hands on the kitchen towel and takes his wand from his pocket, aiming a quick reparo to the cup. He finishes washing the cups just to fill the time and then leaves them on the dish drainer, he can’t be bothered to dry them.

Since Potter is still talking in the other room, though Draco can’t exactly understand what is being discussed, he cleans Pongo’s now empty bowls too and sits back at the island with Pongo curled on his lap.

It’s maybe five minutes later that Potter comes back, shoes back on an apologetic look on his face.

“I’m sorry, it was work, something came up that I have to take care of.” Potter says.

Draco isn’t surprised that the Head Auror works on Saturday morning, what he is surprised about, is the sudden disappointment he feels towards Potter’s imminent goodbye. He shouldn’t want him to stay longer, he should be happy that he doesn’t have him prying in his life, then why isn’t he?

“Well, don’t let me keep you, I’m sure at the Ministry they need back their Head Auror.” He says with false confidence and a nonchalant wave of his hand.

Potter seems equally relieved and glum, whatever he needs to do probably isn’t great to look forward to, it’s the only way Draco can explain Potter’s sadness? It certainly isn’t because he has to leave Draco.

“Thank you for letting me stay here last night, I really appreciate it.” Potter says with a small smile.

Draco smiles back before he can stop himself.

“No problem, just, let’s not make it a regular occurrence yeah?”

Potter snorts and shakes his head. “Sure.”

With that, Potter draws his wand from somewhere in his jeans - Draco suspects he has pockets similar to the ones he has in his dragonhide trousers – and quickly silences himself, looking at Draco for one last time before disapparating.

Draco stares at the spot where just a moment ago Potter has stood. It feels so unreal, there is no trace left of Potter in his apartment, as if he was never there. Of course Draco will never be able to delete the memories, but he’ll need to try his hardest to put this encounter at the back of his mind, starting from now.

He looks at the clock, it’s already 9:30, he gets up after gently prodding Pongo out of his lap and goes to retrieve the post. On the doormat outside his apartment he finds a few newspapers, both muggle and magical, waiting for him. He brings them inside and, sitting on the couch, he starts looking through them. The first one he checks is the Daily Prophet, on the top right corner the date reads August 2^nd. Kingsley works fast, he must either be very interested in what Draco has to say, or he has something equally relevant to say to Draco. A wave of his wand vanishes the paper as he reaches for the next one, a wizarding newspaper called The Seer that could be confused for a scam rag about fake predictions, instead it’s a surprisingly accurate source of information. As he glances at the front page his heart plummets in his stomach as he realizes why Shacklebolt needs to see him.

DEATH EATER ATTACK IN DIAGON ALLEY – 5 VICTIMS, 1 ABDUCTED

Dear readers, it is with great anguish that we inform you of an attack that took place this morning in Diagon Alley and that resulted in the death of a family of five and the kidnapping of a young girl.

Eye witnesses have reported that, at around eight o’clock this morning, just as the shopping crowd was beginning to gather in the Alley, known Death Eater Corban Yaxley was seen apparating in the middle of the street, causing an uproar of panicked shouts. Reports state that Yaxley attacked his targets without hesitation.

Roger Meadowes and his wife Camilla where out shopping with their four kids when they suddenly found themselves at the receiving end of the killing curse. Their oldest daughter, Alysha, who will be starting her third year at Hogwarts in September, was the only one left standing.

By the time the Aurors got to the scene, Yaxley had already disapparated with the girl and the apparition was already untraceable.

All evidence leads to believe that the attack has been planned in advance, which poses the question: What did Yaxley have against the Meadowes family? And why did he kidnap young Alysha?

No further information has been released by the authorities, but we have been informed that Head Auror Harry Potter will be called in to lead the investigation.

Our deepest condolences go to the family of the victims, may they find peace in these difficult times.

As long as the threat of Death Eater attacks looms on the Wizarding World, we recommend maximum caution to all our readers, if anyone is in possession of relevant information, please contact the Auror Department.

FUCK.

Chapter Text

FUCK.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK!”

Draco has been pacing the living room floor for what seems like hours, the newspaper in his hands is now a crumpled unreadable jumble of paper and ink.

“Fuck Potter and fuck is stupid fucking friends that leave him alone on his fucking birthday and fuck me for going to that fucking club and fuck Potter!” he shouts, throwing the newspaper on the floor the hardest he can. The paper just stays there, unmoving and mocking him.

He has read the article over and over so many times he has it memorized, still, he doesn’t want to believe any of it.

It can’t be true, it just can’t.

One month! Thirty days he’s spent studying every single detail he had about Yaxley, a whole week he’s followed him to that shit house, only to come back with a list of useless charms.

How could he have missed it?

The man was plotting a multiple homicide for fuck’s sake!

There had to be sings somewhere, something he has missed, something he overlooked or dismissed as insignificant.

But what?

And why kidnap a little girl? What has Yaxley to gain from her? It can’t be because he wants to ask for a ransom, there isn’t anyone left to ask, he killed her parents and siblings. Then why? If he wanted to kill her, he would have done it.

Then it hits him.

He runs to his bedroom as fast as he can, slamming his hand on the wall and making a painting fall to the floor. He leaves it there.

As soon as the wall disappears he goes straight to the file cabinet, taking out his file on Yaxley and sitting at his desk to read through it.

Not for the first time since he’s started this job, he mentally scowls at the Aurors, their job in rounding up evidence on the Death Eaters was abysmal, most of what’s on the files he’s received from the DMLE is useless public knowledge. They haven’t uncovered anything after the war and they don’t know much about what happened before either.

This is also the reason why Draco spends so much time studying his targets, he has to try and remember everything he can from his time at the Manor under Voldemort’s control, before actually doing any field work.

The only thing written on the file by the Aurors is that Yaxley is a confirmed Death Eater who worked at the Ministry during Voldemort’s reign. There’s a note that says he had a wife who was killed during the final battle and that Yaxley was last seen the morning Voldemort died, searching among the bodies to find hers.

Draco finds his scans of the magic around Yaxley’s house quite easily, they are the only organised material in the file.

The other times he’d gone over them, he’d been looking for specific kinds of spells, Dark magic, illegal spells, unusual charms that would suggest illicit activities. Instead, he had found nothing but ordinary housekeeping spells.

Only now, knowing what Yaxley was planning to do, Draco can piece together the clues.

Housekeeping charms.

Of course.

Cleaning charms, dusting charms, scourgifies, reparos, paint charms, carpentry charms, upholstery charms, sanitizing charms, air cleaning charms, laundry charms. He was clearly renovating, trying to make the house liveable, most likely because he was planning on having someone there with him.

Draco should have paid more attention. He’d thought that, since Yaxley wasn’t doing anything illegal nor dangerous, the man had decided to lie low.

How could he have been so blind?

It’s his fault five people are dead. And the little girl. That poor girl who is now in the house of a monster.

He has to save her. He won’t let her die.

He wants to apparate to that house immediately, break in and take her back, but he knows he can’t.

He can’t go in without a plan and he has to talk to Kingsley first. He still has a day and a half before that and he decides to use the time to find out why Yaxley targeted Alysha Meadowes.

There is no mention of her in Yaxley’s file, which is no surprise at all and doesn’t really indicate that there were no previous relations between them, just that the Aurors haven’t been able to find any. He thinks about trying to find out about the Meadowes family, but he reasons that, if Yaxley’d had something against the senior Meadowes, he would have kidnapped their daughter before killing them as a way to make them suffer, which means that she was either some kind of compensation for something her family has done, or she was the main objective from the start and killing the rest of the family might just have been a distraction or a punishment.

But what could Yaxley want from a thirteen years old girl? She isn’t a skilled witch, having frequented only a couple of years at Hogwarts. From what he remembers, her family wasn’t rich, just like the Weasleys, they had too many children and too little money. She’s too young to have done something in the war, she was only four when that happened, she isn’t likely to remember much form that period either. But it doesn’t make sense for Yaxley to have some kind of unfinished business with her or her family for something that happened after the war because, as far as he knows, Yaxley hasn’t been very active during the last nine years. His file only mentions two murders in those years, in 2001 he kidnapped and killed Oleandra Mason, a quiet middle-aged witch that worked as a hairdresser and sometimes volunteered at a wizarding orphanage for victims of the war. The second victim was in 2006, only a few months ago, when he tortured and killed Jason Trembley, a Ministry employee that worked in the prosecutor’s office as the archivist.

Both abductions had taken place in the middle of the day in a public venue and had been witnessed by numerous people. Yaxley had been meticulous and fast, not leaving behind anything that could be used to trace him.

The two deaths happened so far between in time and the targets are so different that no one has ever thought to consider them as part of the same mission. But Draco wonders, what if there is something that links Mason and Trembley and that somehow leads to Alysha? It would explain the sudden puzzling murders, if only Draco could find the mysterious link.

Draco feels like there’s something he’s supposed to remember, a memory niggling at the back of his mind, but as much as he tries, he can’t reach it. He knows what he needs to do, but he dreads the thought, he can’t do it right now, he needs a distraction.

He goes running.

Running has always helped him calm down his mind when something was troubling him, it works this time too.

The good weather has thankfully decided to grace London again today and Draco sweats profusely as he runs under the scorching sun of noon, his mind blissfully empty.

He runs for about an hour in Regent’s Park, before making the trek up the hill and sitting there to enjoy the scenery.

Birds chirp in the background as Draco lets his gaze wander free, falling on children having picnics with their parents and squirrels chasing themselves on the tree branches. The muggle world is completely oblivious to what has happened only hours ago. Of course Draco knows that violence isn’t new in the muggle world, but he just can’t understand how they can be so blasé about it.

Every time he watches the news on tv, some crime or another is being reported, but they’re always told in a detached way, as if not knowing the victims makes the whole ordeal less impactful, which it might be, on some level, because of course personally knowing someone who’s been killed hits harder, but it doesn’t mean that it can be brushed off by everyone else as yet another crime.

Muggles look at violence as something that’s just there, part of the everyday life, an entity that periodically strikes and you have to hope that it doesn’t hit you or someone you care about, as if violence wasn’t human but some mystical force that can’t be fought.

Dehumanizing the acts of violence only helps the perpetrators, forgetting that it’s people that are killing other people and not otherworldly monsters is the same as accepting the crimes themselves, it’s saying that murders, kidnappings, rapes and so on are justifiable because it’s human nature.

Obviously even in the Wizarding World there are people who don’t give a shit about others, but being a much smaller and tighter community than the muggle one and also probably because the war is still so fresh in everyone’s mind, each attack is taken personally by the whole society.

Oh, how Draco would like to be unfazed by this morning’s attack, if he was, he wouldn’t be hurting this much.

His heart is heavy as he makes his way back to his apartment.

There are a thousand ifs that could have prevented everything. If only he hadn’t gone to that club yesterday, he wouldn’t have met Potter and he would have carried out his plans, Yaxley would have died and the attack wouldn’t have taken place. If Draco had met Potter before exiting the club he could have left him with Dennis, if Potter hadn’t drunk so much he wouldn’t have passed out, if Draco had gone out earlier he would have missed Potter entirely, but the reality is that none of those ifs happened and a girl became an orphan in the span of a few minutes.

Draco may not technically be an orphan, but he’s been effectively parentless for nine years. From Azkaban his mother can’t really be a figure in his life and his father had never really been one even when he was alive. Draco knows how it feels to have no one left, he knows how it is realizing that, from that moment on, you are going to be alone. He struggles with it and he’s an adult, he doesn’t want to imagine what it’s like for little Alysha, she must be so lost and terrified, trapped in the clutches of a monster, but Draco will save her, if it’s the last thing he does, she won’t be another casualty of the war.

In his apartment he finds Pongo curled on his spot on the couch and, if it wasn’t impossible, he would swear he sees concern it the round yellow eyes. He goes straight to the bathroom, in need of a long shower. As he waits for the water to warm up, he takes a look at himself in the mirror.

Tired grey eyes circled with purple shadows look back at him, his sweaty hair is sticking to his forehead and his cheeks are flushed from the exertion. Luckily he’s remembered to apply the sun protection charm before going out, otherwise his skin would be burning by now. Another downside of having such pale skin is that he never tans, he only gets as red as a tomato and his skin itches for a while until the irritation goes away.

He groans when he gets in the shower and the warm water hits his back, flowing down his body and washing away dirt and worries.

When the whole room is filled with steam he decides it’s time to get out, he turns off the water and grabs a fluffy bathrobe.

When he exits the bathroom he feels better, his mind is clearer and his muscles are relaxed, he eats a late lunch with Pongo as he mentally prepares for what he has to do.

When he can’t find any more excuses to delay the inevitable, he gets dressed and disapparates with a pop.

Malfoy Manor shines under the afternoon sun, showing no signs of what has once been the headquarters of the Dark side.

To Draco though, it’s nothing but an archive of terrible decisions and horrendous memories.

He doesn’t want to be here, he wishes he were anywhere else, but he needs something he can’t find in the muggle world.

An house-elf greets him at the entrance, ready to attend to his needs, but he dismisses him, the only help he needs is moral support and he doesn’t think the little creature can provide that, as much as he wants to be helpful to his master.

Memories flood back to him as he walks the maze of winding corridors to the family wing. As he goes past the rooms where Voldemort and the Death Eaters used to torture their victims, his ears fill with agonizing screams of terror and pain. He hears the pleas and whimpers of Professor Burbage and the creepy hissing of Nagini when he passes the dining room. The walls are a pristine white now, but he remembers the time he cleaned splashes of blood off of them.

He lets out a relieved breath when he finally reaches the family quarters, the only area of the Manor that had felt relatively safe to Draco in those days, since only his parents and himself were allowed inside.

He spares a glance at the door that leads to his old personal quarters and continues down the corridor to the majestic doors that marked the entrance to the family library.

Most of the books are now gone, Draco having gotten rid of them during his cleansing due to their dark themes. He’s not here for a book though, he’s here for some answers, answers he won’t find written anywhere but in his own mind.

From the left side of the room, his father’s desk dominates the area, behind it a display cabinet is filled with family heirlooms and awards collected during the years, even Draco’s prefect and Quidditch captain badges are there on the bottom shelf.

This is what Draco needs.

The middle section of the cabinet doesn’t have glass doors, instead they are made of wood and the Malfoy crest is carved into them. Draco has to use his wand to open them because they only open to someone with Malfoy blood and magic.

Inside sits a stone basin with runes carved on the sides, most of which are too old for Draco to understand.

The silvery surface shimmers as Draco levitates the pensieve out of the cabinet and onto the desk. He sits behind it and closes his eyes, pushing his mind back to roughly ten years ago.

He’s not sure what he’s looking for, he knows that there is something he must find, something buried deep in his memories of the time Voldemort and the Death Eaters lived at the Manor.

He focuses on the general period and takes out as many memories as he can, watching them fill the basin with white mist.

He takes a couple of deep breaths, closes his eyes and counts to ten in his mind, trying to quiet down the panic he can feel starting to claw at his chest.

He doesn’t give himself time to think of a reason not to do it and leans in, falling through the misty liquid and landing in his past.

His feet touch ground and he finds himself in his childhood bedroom, his sixteen-year-old-self is lying on his bed, black robes blending with the black silk sheets. He’s staring up at the ceiling but his eyes aren’t really taking in anything.

Draco isn’t sure what day it is, during those years he’d been staring vacantly at the ceiling a lot.

There’s a knock at the door and young Draco has just the time to sit up before his mother enters the room.

Narcissa looks so young and beautiful that for a moment Draco forgets about his reason for being there and just stares at his mum. She looks ethereal in her white robes, blond hair artfully braided at the top of her head and falling in loose curls on her shoulders.

She never wore it loose outside the house and never wavy. Only in the privacy of their home she let it down and showed her natural curls. Curls that Draco has inherited but has always kept hidden under tons of straightening charms, at first it had been because his father had insisted that all Malfoys had straight hair and Draco couldn’t ruin the tradition with his wild curls, right after the war they were a painful reminder of his mother and Draco couldn’t stand to see them.

Now, after nine years, he still straightens his hair most of the time, but occasionally he lets it do whatever it wants and the short strands curl at the ends and behind his ears, giving his sharp features a softer look he’s come to appreciate.

Now that he’s seen Narcissa, he remembers the day this memory took place.

He had just come back from his fifth year at Hogwarts, his father was in prison for something that had happened at the Ministry of Magic and Draco didn’t know if he was angrier with him for getting caught or with Potter, who had apparently started the whole thing, or so he’d heard.

“Mother.”

He watches Narcissa come to sit on the bed beside his younger self.

“Draco, my love.” She takes his hands in hers, a thing she did only when she had bad news to deliver.

“What is it?” Young Draco asks wearily.

Narcissa sighs, something very unusual for the usually composed woman.

“Things are going to change darling. We need to be ready.”

“Ready for?”

“Him.”

Draco watches as his mother kisses Young Draco’s temple before leaving the room.

The teenager left alone stands up and starts rummaging through his things, collecting every muggle or muggle-related item and placing them in a suitcase he then shrinks and hides behind old boxes of clothes in his wardrobe. If what he suspects will happen is correct, he will very soon need to wear his Malfoy mask in his house too.

Draco remembers standing in the hall next to his mother the next day, watching a pathetic excuse for a human being march in as if he owned the place and start the nightmare that would be Draco’s life for the following two years. He would not see his mother’s wild curls for a very long time.

The next memory is of Draco’s first Death Eater meeting, he purposefully left out the day of his marking because he’s not sure he’s strong enough to relive that. He will watch it only if he doesn’t find anything in the other memories.

Every Death Eater in the room is clad in black robes and Draco remembers how itchy those were. The crappy material felt like sandpaper on his skin and Draco is sure that Voldemort had done it on purpose to remind them that they were lesser people than him and his silk robes.

They are all standing in neat lines depending on the ranks. Voldemort’s most trusted followers are at the front, among them Bellatrix and the Lestrange brothers, his younger self is at the back, scared out of his mind and trying to make himself look as small as possible.

In front of them, in the room that had once been a conservatory, a black throne entirely made of bones awaits its master. Draco shudders, remembering that the throne hadn’t existed before Voldemort’s return, only a couple of months prior.

When everyone has taken their place, the double doors behind the throne open and Voldemort glides in.

It’s the first time that Draco sees Voldemort since the final battle and he has to take a few moments to calm himself down and not hyperventilate. Snake-face might have been dead for almost ten years, but Draco is still terrified of the monster, he’s seen him do things that even in his job as a killer he would never consider doing. He’s seen so much evil to last him for a few lifetimes and he hates that, even from six feet under, the man still lives in his nightmares and memories, not thinking about all the times he has to look at his mark when he works.

Voldemort’s aura is imposing, it fills the room with darkness and both Draco and his memory-self fight the urge to shiver and run away.

During the meeting nothing out of the ordinary happens, the Death Eaters give their reports, some get tortured for their failures, some have it easier and get to keep their nerve endings intact. Draco keeps an eye on Yaxley, but the man stands still and completely silent for the whole meeting.

He skips to the next memory and he wants to go back immediately.

It’s a couple of weeks after the previous memory, his younger self is standing in the parlour, Voldemort behind him and Rookwood kneeling on the floor before him. A few of the other Death Eaters line the walls, watching the scene with interest and amusement.

“Do it.” Voldemort hisses in his ear.

Young Draco’s face doesn’t betray any emotion, but the tremble in his hand as he raises his wand and points it a Rookwood is quite telling. He knows that Voldemort and the others in the room are waiting to see him fail just to have a laugh and an excuse to punish him.

To this day, Draco doesn’t know what Rookwood had done to deserve a punishment, he had in some way disappointed Voldemort and that had been enough.

“Crucio.” Draco’s voice shakes only a little and he only whispers the word, but it’s enough. A jet of red light shoots from his wand and, as soon as it hits the Death Eater, the room fills with agonized screams.

His aunt Bella had been right when she’d taught him about the unforgivables, you need to mean it. Draco had meant it, not because he had wanted to hurt Rookwood, not because he had thought he deserved to be punished, he hadn’t cared about that, in Draco’s mind, a leader who tortures his followers is not one he wants to follow, but he had meant it. He had wanted so much not to fail, he had known that failure meant that him or his mother or both, would have taken Rookwood’s place. He hadn’t cared much about himself, but his mother was everything he had and she was innocent, she wasn’t even marked, he had wanted to protect her so much that the desperation had been enough to fuel the rage needed to cast the curse. Rage at his father for failing whatever task he’d had at the Ministry and putting them in that situation, rage at the Ministry for spending a whole year denying the Dark Lord’s return while Potter screamed left and right that he was back and Voldemort gained strength hidden in the shadows, rage at Potter, as selfish as it was, because if he had succeeded in offing the monster once and for all, they would not have that sword of Damocles on their heads and, of course, rage at Voldemort for being the most cruel and abhorrent piece of slimy shit the world had ever seen.

Young Draco looks away from the sobbing and writhing man on the floor and his eyes meet his mother’s. Narcissa isn’t enjoying the show like the others in the room, she stands there, back straight and posture regal as always, face a mask of polite disinterest, but her blue eyes are full of sorrow, not for the man on the floor, she couldn’t care less about a lowly Death Eater, no, the only person her heart cries for is the innocent boy she has loved for the past 16 years and that she has just failed to protect. She doesn’t shed a tear, but a look passes between mother and son, the former expressing all her desperation and sorrow, the latter trying to reassure his mother that she has done everything she could.

Draco remembers suppressing a shudder when Voldemort touched his shoulder to congratulate him on his first torturing session, while the other Death Eaters cheered in the background.

He follows his younger self out of the room and to his personal quarters.

As soon as the door to Draco’s room closes behind him, the teenager loses all traces of composure and runs for the bathroom, reaching the toilet just in time to empty his stomach’s contents. He stays huddled close to the toilet for about half an hour, when his stomach is completely empty and only acid remains, he gets up and goes to the sink to wash his mouth and teeth.

He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror, not wanting to see the face of a monster, scared that he’ll find something drastically changed that will broadcast to the world what he has become and even more scared to see everything exactly as before and having to admit that the monster has always been part of him.

When Young Draco comes back to his room, he finds Narcissa sitting on his bed, a worried look on her face.

He can’t stand it anymore, he breaks down, running to his mother and crying for hours, held in her embrace as she whispers sweet nothings in his ears and caresses his face and hair with delicate fingers, trying to calm him down. Neither of them believes in the reassurance that everything will be alright, but they both need to say it and hear it said.

The next memories are all of that summer, more torturing, meetings and nights spent crying himself to sleep.

Draco doesn’t see much of Yaxley, he knows that the man had a wife, Selene, but Draco hadn’t seen her often, she was not a Death Eater, though she was part of a dark family and occasionally she made an appearance with her husband at some of the most important meetings. Draco figured they lived somewhere in London, Yaxley’s salary as an high-ranking Ministry official certainly allowed them to.

It’s before the last meeting of the summer that Draco finally finds something useful. It’s just a week before the beginning of the new school year, most of the Death Eaters will go back to work with brand new missions from Voldemort to carry out and Draco will go to Hogwarts with an impossible task and the burden of his family’s survival on his shoulders.

In the memory, his teenage self is quickly walking down a dark corridor, he’s just barely managed to avoid the creepy snake that Voldemort has let loose in his house and he’s trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and those deadly fangs. At the same time, he’s trying to be silent and not catch anyone’s attention, because of the importance of the meeting, all the Death Eaters are at the Manor and Draco doesn’t want to spend more time than is necessary in their company.

As he walks past a door left ajar, he hears a few voices he recognizes and stops in his tracks. Draco has always been a coward and the reasonable thing to do in this situation would be turning around and minding his own business, unfortunately, Draco has also always been far too curious for his own good. With soft steps he inches towards the door and looks through the small opening.

He hadn’t noticed which room it was before looking, but he recognizes it now, it’s his mother’s private sitting room. Inside, a few women are having tea and talking among themselves, Narcissa in the middle, on her favourite settee. Draco recognizes a few of the wives of the other Death Eaters, Mrs. Crabbe, Mrs. Goyle, Mrs. Nott and Mrs. Parkinson he remembers from the times they used to bring their children to the Manor to play when he was younger. With them there are some of the women he’s gotten to know during the Death Eater meetings, Mrs. Rosier, Mrs. Gibbon, Mrs. Selwyn, Mrs. Travers and Selene Yaxley.

Young Draco flattens against the wall just outside the door and strains his ears to listen. The women are talking about mostly trivial things, like the upcoming of the new school year and which wizarding stylist is more in vogue at the moment. Saying that Draco is interested in that would be a lie, but information is information and everything might be useful sooner or later.

When the conversation steers towards children and their future, Young Draco doesn’t pay much attention, but twenty-eight-year-old Draco is alert.

“I’ve heard from my son that Draco and Pansy are getting quite close.” Says Mrs. Nott. “Any chances of a union in the future?” both Dracos shudder at the thought of marrying Pansy Parkinson, Draco might be bisexual and she might be a friend, but marrying the Slytherin girl is so far up the list of Draco’s not-to-do list that it rivals hugging Voldemort and kissing a basilisk. (Kissing Voldemort is directly above).

Mrs. Parkinson smiles widely and starts animatedly describing how beautiful it would be to have a marriage between the Parkinson and Malfoy family, while Narcissa hums noncommittally, she knows very well that her son would never accept such a union and she completely agrees. 

“Ah, how good it is not needing to bother with such matters for a few more years.” Says Mrs. Yaxley with a contented sigh.

“Time will pass faster than you think dear Selene.” Says Mrs. Rosier. “You’ll blink and your children will be living with their spouses and having children of their own.” there’s a look of melancholy on her face, but also pride.

“Yes, you’d better enjoy these moments while you can Selene. How old is little Ally now?” asks Mrs. Parkinson.

Mrs. Yaxley smiles, eyes lighting up. “She’s two and she’s already so smart. She’ll make an excellent Slytherin in a few years. Corban and I are so proud of our beautiful baby.”

The other women start cooing and sharing stories of their own children, but Draco has heard enough.

With a jolt he jumps out of the memories, landing back in the library where he slumps on the leather desk chair.

Ally Yaxley. Alysha Yaxley.

Oh no.

Chapter Text

It’s evening by the time Draco gets up from the chair in the library. He’s stared unseeingly at the rows of books for hours and he still isn’t over the shock.

He forces himself to go back to his apartment, eat dinner and go out clubbing as usual, but his mind is elsewhere and he doesn’t even notice when someone tries to approach him. He refuses all offers without a second thought, he’s not in the mood for meaningless sex in a dirty bathroom stall with someone whose face he will not remember tomorrow morning. The only thing he wants to do is save Alysha Meadowes, but he knows he can’t do it right now.

He decides to go home early, even the doorman raises an eyebrow when he comes back before midnight, but Draco doesn’t care.

His mind doesn’t stop working even when he is trying to fall asleep, too many questions, doubts and half-made plans keep coming back at him and keep him awake. He chooses to take a light sleeping draught, because tomorrow will be a long day and he needs to be as rested as possible.

The next morning starts just like any other, a hungry Pongo jumps on him and startles him awake. Great.

He takes a shower to wake up and goes to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for Pongo and himself.

He opens a tin of slimy tuna-something that smells horribly for Pongo, who apparently doesn’t share Draco’s opinion and enjoys it quite a lot.

He’s in no mood for cooking anything for himself, he takes out a box of cereals, a bowl and dumps the last of the cereals in it, drowning them in milk. He needs to remember to buy some more tomorrow, on his grocery shopping trip.

He eats slowly, munching on the crunchy cereals while lost in thought. Now that he’s awake, everything that’s happened yesterday comes back to him. Waking up to Harry Potter in his living room, exchanging polite and pleasant conversation with the man and then seeing him go. Finding out about Alysha Meadowes and her family. Going back to Malfoy Manor and taking an unpleasant trip down memory lane. Finding out who Alysha Meadowes actually is.

To believe that it’s all happened in the last 24 hours is hard, it seems like eons ago that Draco was laughing in this same kitchen with Potter. Still, it’s better that it has only been one day since Alysha was kidnapped, Draco doesn’t trust Yaxley with the care of a young girl, even if she is his daughter and he isn’t likely to hurt her. At least Draco hopes so, it would be really stupid for someone to spend years tracking down a child only to abuse them when they have them back.

When his cereals are a soggy, shapeless mass, he puts the bowl in the sink and goes to get dressed.

His casual attire consists of a black pair of skinny jeans, a white t-shirt, a pair of black Vans and his leather jacket. Draco finds the clothes comfortable and stylish enough to allow him to blend in with the crowds of young people and he quite enjoys not having anybody’s attention on himself.

Today though it’s different and Draco has to steel himself for something he hasn’t done in a very long time.

At the back of his closet he finds three set of old black robes that he hasn’t worn since he was sixteen or seventeen. He takes out the simplest set and regards it.

They obviously don’t fit him anymore, but that’s nothing a few tailoring charms can’t take care of. The style is a little outdated, but Draco hasn’t gone shopping for wizarding clothes for years, there’s not much he can do about that.

The soft and lightweight material feels foreign against Draco’s skin, it’s not as tight as the clothes Draco wears nowadays and it takes him a few moments to get used to it again. Draco has chosen a set of robes with trousers instead of the more open and airy kind that’s more a dress than anything and that, although convenient in the scalding hot weather, it’s not at all Draco’s style.

Trousers and sleeves are too tight and short, he has to magically enlarge the fabric there and around the shoulders and chest. In this moment he comes to realize just how much he’s changed from the skinny teenage boy whom the robes belonged to.

He pairs them with simple black dragonhide boots and goes over to the mirror to take a look. It’s strange to see himself in these clothes, it’s been far too long since he’s worn proper wizarding attire, but he has a little undercover job to do today.

He wants to follow his hunch and check if Yaxley’s two previous victims are indeed linked to each other and to Alysha, he doesn’t trust the Aurors to be able to work it out on their own, even if he is moderately sure that, if Potter really tried, he would be able to reach the same conclusions as Draco. However much Draco could try to kid himself saying that Potter is not as bright as everybody thinks he is, he has to give some credit to the man. You don’t become the youngest Head Auror in history if you don’t have a generous amount of power, skills and brains.

If he knows Potter as well as he thinks he does, the Auror will have spent the past day, first taking care of the mess in Diagon Alley, then he’ll have gone back to the Ministry to try and find something about Yaxley that could be used to track him. When that didn’t give any result, he’ll have changed direction and looked for anything regarding the Meadowes family that could explain their brutal murder, when even that wasn’t fruitful, Potter will have had only one other option, going back to Yaxley’s file, exactly like Draco has done.

Draco gives Potter no more than a couple of days before the man starts wondering why Yaxley has been so inconstant in his attacks and why he has chosen those particular targets. He doesn’t know who Potter could ask to find out who Alysha is, but if there is anyone stubborn enough to keep looking until he finds out the truth, that man is Harry Potter.

If Draco is fast enough, he should be done with his own investigation before the Auror realizes there’s something to investigate.

He spends a good half an hour weaving a multiple-layered net of glamouring charms on his face, assuring that no one in the whole Wizarding World will be able to recognize him. The long sleeves of his robes are enough to cover his dark mark, nonetheless, he straps a wand holster on it as extra protection. The man that looks back at him has the same build, but he has black curly hair – and he absolutely did not use as inspiration a certain Auror – and blue eyes that he hides behind a pair of fake glasses. He doesn’t recognize himself, he’s positive that no one else will.

Since the newspapers this morning didn’t offer any new information, apart from the photographs of Potter on the crime scene – and Draco will come back to those later, when Alysha is safe, because they are worth at least two wanks and a wet dream – Draco decides to start where the information on Yaxley’s victims end.

He disapparates to The Nest – Home for Children which is listed as the orphanage for victims of the war where the first victim, Oleandra Mason, used to volunteer. He appears in front of a run-down house that once could have been a rich family’s mansion but that now is little more than walls with peeling paint and a roof with several missing tiles. If it wasn’t for the name of the orphanage painted in bright yellow letters on the façade, Draco would think the place was abandoned. He hopes the inside is better.

The inside is slightly better.

At the door, Draco is received by a young woman, he can’t tell her age for certain, but he guesses she’s between 20 and 22, she smiles at him sweetly, not the saccharine smile he usually gets by women interested in getting in his pants, this is the genuine smile of someone inherently good and Draco is relieved to know that these children are at least in good hands if not in a good house. She looks at him with warm brown eyes and leads him into a scarcely decorated entrance hall, at least it looks clean. 

“Good morning Madame” he bows and watches as the young woman blushes a pretty pink. “My name is Dennis Shaw.” He hopes his friendly bartender won’t mind if he borrows his name for a while.

“Good morning Mr. Shaw, I’m Gabriella, how can I help you?” she asks with another smile.

“Miss Gabriella, I’m here this lovely morning because my family is interested in making a donation to your establishment and we would like to know more about it.” Draco lies through his teeth, something he’s gotten quite proficient at.

The look of shock and wonder on the woman’s face is both amusing and depressing, how long has it been since they’ve had a donation, that it elicits such strong incredulity?

“A donation?” the woman asks still dumbfounded. “To the orphanage?” she clarifies.

“Yes Miss. Can I ask who is in charge here? I’d like to speak with them.”  

“Oh… yes sure, that would be Mrs. Thompson, she is the matron here and the founder of the orphanage, she takes care of management when she’s not with the children, I can ask her if she’s free now.” She says quickly and just a quickly disappears up a flight of stairs.

Draco, left alone, uses the time to take a look around. Using the excuse of a donation will give him the chance to ask as many question as he needs and, who knows, maybe he’ll actually donate something, they surely need anything they can get. The only relevant item in the room is the reception desk, where Draco finds a few pamphlets about childcare and children behaviour, a few books and toys probably forgotten by the children of the house.

Being an orphanage, Draco had expected to find a place a bit more livelier, first of all, because children shouldn’t live in gloomy mansions that are falling to pieces, secondly, because any wannabe parent would be discouraged by the aspect of the place and probably look somewhere else.

It takes only a couple of minutes, in which Draco has time to take stock of everything in the room twice, before the woman comes back down and, with another joyful smile, she leads Draco up three flights of stairs to the attic, where he supposes the matron’s office is located.

He expects the office to look similar to the professors’ offices he’s been to in the past, a large desk with a desk chair on one side and some very uncomfortable looking chairs for guests on the other, a bookshelf or two, stacks of papers filling every nook, maybe a fireplace or a fish tank.

Mrs. Thompson’s office is exactly like the rest of the house, bare and shabby.

There is a medium sized desk in the middle and some very uncomfortable looking chairs, but no bookshelf or fireplace, nor any other personal touch. Against a wall, a file cabinet, just like the one Draco has in his own study, is the only other furniture. The only splash of colour is provided by the collage of children’s drawings that cover the walls from top to bottom.

Behind the desk, sits an old but friendly-looking woman, he doesn’t know how to describe her, it’s like someone took McGonagall and hit her with a thousand cheering charms, the woman has the same austere presence, but she’s not as intimidating as the Transfiguration Professor had been. Draco likes her.

“Mrs. Thompson, I presume.”

“Correct.” The woman lacks McGonagall’s trademark Scottish accent and Draco is relieved, he really was scared of the old Professor. “A pleasure to meet you Mr. Shaw.” They shake hands and Draco takes a seat on one of the very uncomfortable chairs.

“Gabriella tells me you are interested in making a donation to our facility.” The woman goes straight to business, perfect.

“Indeed I am Madame. My family and I have decided to make a few donations to worthy causes and we are all scouting for places that we can help. I found yours.”

It sounds so made up even to Draco’s ears, that he doesn’t know how the woman could believe any of it, but apparently she is desperate enough to overlook minor details such as Draco’s background story, the fact that his name isn’t known amongst the richest families and that, although he claims to have the means to make a donation, his clothes have been outmoded for ten years.

“We at The Nest would be very grateful to you and your family Mr. Shaw, if you chose to donate to us. I suppose there are some question you’d like to ask me?”

And just like that, Draco gets to know the whole story of the orphanage.

It was opened in 1998, just after the end of the war, by Mrs. Thompson herself and her late husband, they had lost both of their children in the war and had decided to help those who instead had lost their parents. Not having a lot of money they had chosen to use the old family mansion and dedicate all the funds to the children’s care, which is why the house looks so decrepit. At first things had gone swimmingly, the Ministry of Magic hadn’t had a solution for the many children left alone and the Thompsons had provided one, in exchange for Ministry funds to keep the facility running in good conditions for the children, even if the staff was made up mostly of volunteers, since the money was never enough for everything.

They had welcomed each and every child in their makeshift family, caring for them until they had been adopted by lovely families or had reached adulthood and had decided to leave The Nest.

Unfortunately, after the beginning and subsequent worsening of the Death Eaters attacks in the early 2000s, the orphanage had become secondary in the eye of the Ministry and the funds had stopped, leaving the facility to survive only on benefactors’ donations, of which there weren’t many.

The mention of the attacks gives Draco the opening he was looking for.

“That’s horrible, all these attacks and the Ministry didn’t think of protecting the most vulnerable of us, the children.” He says not having to fake the disgust and disappointment towards the government, he might be working for them, but he still hates most of what they do.

Mrs. Thompson seems eager to discuss the matter, probably because she thinks that engaging Draco in conversation will help with the donation.

“I know, they’ve given endless funds to the rebuilding of Hogwarts, not thinking of all the children that wouldn’t be able to go there if they didn’t help them first.” She says bitterly.

“Are there a lot of children here at the moment?” Draco asks curiously.

“Right now we have 15 children with us, they were almost 50 when we started, but they have been adopted during the years. Unfortunately, mostly the younger ones get adopted, parents don’t usually look for teenagers. We have acquired a few children in the years after the war and they are still in the age we call acceptable for adoption,” she spits the words out, underlying her distaste for that terminology “but those who were already born before the end of the war, are now at least ten years old and wannabe parents prefer the babies, because they get to see them grow up and, in some way, shape them as their own, it’s much more difficult with teenagers, they already have defined personalities, they are hardly influenced by grown-ups and most of them are so used to their life here that it would be damaging, at this point, to put them in a new environment. Those of Hogwarts age are away most of the year, which hinders further any possibility of adoption, we do the best we can for them until they are old enough to live on their own, of course we don’t force them to leave if they don’t want to.”

“You mean that children can choose to stay here even after they’ve graduated Hogwarts and have become legal adults?” Draco is surprised, he’s never heard of something like this happening.

Mrs. Thompson looks outraged, like she can’t think of anything worse than letting one of the children go because they’re too old, of course Draco agrees with her, no one should be forced to leave the place they call home.

“Of course we let them choose. We would never send anyone away, they’re part of our family. You’ve met Gabriella.”

“She was one of the kids here?”

Mrs. Thompson nods and smiles. “She was eleven when she got here, nine years ago, such a brilliant child, she graduated from Hogwarts with very good grades, but she decided to stay here and help, kind soul, bless her.”

Mrs. Thompson has a faraway look on her face, like she’s thinking of all the children that lived and bloomed under her care.

“Do you remember every child that’s ever been here?” Draco doesn’t feign his curiosity, though the reason behind it is not as innocent as just wanting to know more.

She scoffs. “Of course I do, from the first to the last, each of them has a place in my heart.” She looks like a lioness defending her cubs, fierce and protective – for a moment she really looks like McGonagall on the last day of the war, standing in the great hall and fighting for her students – then she suddenly saddens and her expression closes.

“Of course, some are easier to remember than others.” She sighs.

“What do you mean?” Draco asks, but he thinks he knows what she’s talking about.

“Have you read about the attack of yesterday morning?” She asks.

“Yes, truly horrifying matter, I didn’t know the Meadowes family, but I’ve heard they were good people.”

Finally, Draco thinks.

“They were. The very best.” Says Mrs. Thompson, as a tear rolls down her face, Draco offers her his handkerchief. He never really uses it, but his mother has thought him since he was a child that it is necessary to always have one on his person. In this moment, he silently thanks her.

“Did you know them?” he asks when she finishes dabbing her eyes.

She hums in response. “They adopted one of our first children, the girl that’s been kidnapped, Alysha. That poor girl has gone through so much in her short life, it breaks my heart. She was only four when we took her in, no one knew who she was or where she came from, not even Alysha herself, the Ministry officials that brought her here, told us she had been found in a raid of one of the old Death Eaters abodes, hiding in the cellars with a teddy bear clutched to her chest. They thought she had been imprisoned during the war, but she never confirmed nor denied anything, she didn’t seem to know what we were talking about, we brought her to St. Mungo’s of course, we thought that maybe she was in shock and she needed to see a mind healer, but the healers told us her memory had been wiped clean and only the caster could reverse the spell. Poor dear, the only thing she had left was her name, she stayed with us for a year before the Meadowes came and adopted her.”

Yes! Draco was right, Alysha Meadowes had been one of the children at The Nest and Yaxley must have tracked down Oleandra Mason, the hairdresser who used to volunteer here, to gain information about the whereabouts of his daughter. He is not surprised about her obliviation, it was standard practice for any Death Eater child old enough to remember any relevant information. Before an important mission, like, for example, the final battle, the parents would remove the memories of the children, it was a safety measure for both parties, if the parents returned home, they would undo the spells and everything would be alright, if the parents were captured, the children could not be used against them, at the same time, if the parents never returned home and the children were found, they would be hard to identify without memories and only their names and they would not be punished for the crimes of their parents, starting a new life in the Wizarding World without the burden of being Death Eater children. It was a little unorthodox, but it was the safest route for everyone.  

Now that Draco’s theory is confirmed, he has no reason to stay, but he finds himself reluctant to leave the orphanage. He comforts Mrs. Thompson for a while and then asks for a tour of the structure, after all, he has nothing to do for at least a few hours.

The children’s rooms and playroom are in perfect conditions, Mrs. Thompson and Gabriella might live with barely enough to survive, but they don’t let the children want for anything. All the kids have their own room, they are all identical, with a twin bed, a dresser and a small desk, but each child has decorated the space as they saw fit, making each room unique. The youngest kids’ rooms are full of toys and pencil drawings pinned to the walls, the oldest have books and school equipment like cauldrons for potions, school robes, parchment scrolls and quills strewn on every available surface, floor included.

The playroom is a big space on the ground floor and it overflows with toys and books, both muggle and magical, even the garden is tidy and organized, with a set of swings, a slide and other playground equipment that isn't new but is kept in good conditions. There are even a few toy brooms that float barely a foot in the air and, in a small shed, a couple of old Cleansweeps that are missing more twigs than they have left and Draco really doesn’t know how they can still fly. He could ask the Manor elves to check if some of his old broomsticks have survived the war, after all, he doesn’t need them anymore and he could always buy a new one in the future.  

Draco spends an hour playing with the children and getting to know them. Since it’s August, even the Hogwarts students are here and he helps them with their school homework earning a grateful look from Gabriella who in the meantime is leading a finger-paint class with the younger kids.

When Draco leaves the orphanage, well after lunchtime, it’s with a smile on his face and the promise of coming back next week to help the Hogwarts kids go shopping for school supplies. He’s also promised the younger ones he’ll help them build the highest tower of Legos ever and children never forget a promise.

He had been terrified of venturing in the Wizarding World alone after so many years of absence, but he doesn’t regret his decision for a second, even if the kids don’t know who he really is – and it’s better to keep it this way – and even if it wasn’t his original goal to spend time with kids and actually enjoy himself. It was with the intention of getting the information necessary to save Alysha that Draco has gone to the orphanage, but, as he apparates home and collapses on the couch next to Pongo, he thinks he’s found way more than just that.

Chapter Text

Draco spends the rest of his Sunday afternoon watching TV with Pongo, he is a big fan of House M.D., although he doesn’t really understand much of muggle medicine, especially the part where they open people up to cure them. This modern version of Sherlock Holmes with more sass and less respect for authorities, reminds Draco of a cool Dumbledore, most of the times he knows the answer from the beginning, but he still lets the other doctors work it out themselves by dropping cryptic hints here and there and then acting frustratingly smug when they reach the answer and he’s like ‘Ta-dah! Well done subspecies of human beings sent here to serve me, annoy me with your question and amuse me with your subpar knowledge of rare diseases. You’ve finally found the answer, congratulation! You almost killed the patient several times, you misdiagnosed him twice and run a bunch of useless tests, but in the end you did it! Of course, I could have given you the answer from the beginning, thus saving everyone time, money and the fear of almost dying, but where’s the fun in that?’ the bastard. Draco loves him. Pongo likes it too, or maybe he just likes the head and belly rubs he receives as he sits on Draco’s lap.

As dinner approaches, Draco gets restless, time seems to be slowing down and ten o’clock seems ages away. He needs to talk to Kingsley and get the authorization to go after Yaxley. The presence of a hostage complicates things, Draco’s main priority should be Yaxley, but he also can’t exactly murder a man in front of his daughter, especially the way Draco usually works, which often gets messy. At the same time, a solo rescue mission would be really hard to complete without putting her in too much danger.

It’s not like Draco isn’t used to dangerous situations, but Yaxley isn’t likely to leave the house long enough to allow Draco to save Alysha and if Draco and Yaxley duelled, the possibility of her getting caught in the crossfire is too high to risk it.

He skips dinner, too high-strung and worried to eat, and does something very stupid and rash.

He goes to his study and retrieves a small vial of muddy-looking potion. He hates Polyjuice with a passion, but he recognizes its benefits.

He has a small stash of different kinds of hair he’s gathered in various ways, he’s bought male hair from a barber down the street, while he’s gotten the female hair from some real hair wigs, some others he’s summoned from people with the characteristics he needed in terms of build, but the work was painstakingly dull, because he had to summon one hair at a time and couldn’t get many from the same person as to not leave them with patches of missing hair. Each tuft of hair belonging to the same person has its own pouch, with a description of its owner. The work of classifying every set of hair has been a long and unpleasant process, in which Draco has had to polyjuice into each person and write down the main features for further use of the hair. This way he has an assortment of different options for every occasion, which might sound creepy, but he does what he has to in order to survive and do his job efficiently.

He selects one hair from the pouch of a man, it’s still too early to fake being drunk, so homeless it is. The hair fizzles and disappears into the vial, making the potion turn a dark shade of green and Draco holds his breath to keep out the disgusting smell. He downs everything in one go and shudders as the change takes effect.

A minute later he’s a fifty-something-year-old man with a scruffy beard and beady eyes, a large stomach and stubby legs. He wears a pair of joggers he transfigured into a ragged pair of jeans and an old long-sleeved t-shirt stained with something he doesn’t want to think about. Unfortunately, even Polyjuice doesn’t hide his mark, but he’s learnt to keep it covered at all times.

He’s far too clean to be a convincing homeless, but it won’t be noticed with a simple glance and Draco hopes no one will be curious enough to approach him. 

He puts on the old pair of ratty trainers he keeps just for this reason and he’s ready to go.

Now, one could argue that, since he’s so good at glamours, he could just disguise himself and be done with it, but keeping up the charms as he apparates or duels is much more difficult and taxing on his magical core. In high-risk situations he prefers using Polyjuice, this way he doesn’t have to think about his appearance, though learning how to move in a different body is always difficult and it’s the reason why Draco spends a lot of time  polyjuiced when testing new hair, he needs to be sure he can move as easily in the foreign body as he does in his own.

The hair Draco has selected is one of the first he’s bought and has a large number of hours of trial in different situations. Draco has gone shopping for groceries, walking in the park, cycling under the rain and even to the gym once. He feels confident he can do just about anything. Since he’s going to do something potentially dangerous and with a high risk of degenerating very easily very fast, he prefers to be prepared, it could be all for nothing and Draco might not need to fight, but there’s nothing wrong in being ready for anything that might happen.

He covers himself in silencing charms and disapparates after having fed Pongo. This time he doesn’t use the mark to find the location, he’s decided to try with the dingy house he’s been observing and, if Yaxley isn’t there, he’ll take it as a sign to try another day. He has only an hour before he needs to get ready to meet Shacklebolt, so he wouldn’t have the time to track him and study the new place anyway.

Ha apparates to a side alley he’s found while scouting the area for magical traces, it’s still fairly light outside for being past eight, but the alley is almost as dark and dank as it is in the middle of the night, luckily he doesn’t startle anyone but a few rats with his sudden appearance. He walks back and forth in the alley for a few minutes, hoping to pick up a bit of the stench that pervades the area, it should be deterrent enough for anyone who tries to approach him.

He slowly walks out of the alley and onto the main road where a few people are in sight, but they all seem to have too many things to do to pay attention to a simple homeless man, some of them, Draco guesses, are coming home after a long day, clothes rumpled and faces tired, some are just now going out, outfit clean, perfect hair and makeup, smile on their faces, they’re ready to enjoy the night. Draco sits on the curb, across the road and around ten meters to the side of the house he wants to focus on, this way he can see everything, but he should be inconspicuous enough. A stray cat approaches him, but leaves as soon as it smells Pongo on Draco’s clothes.

Too bad, Draco would have liked a little companion for his scouting session, on the other hand, he doesn’t want to suffer Pongo’s ire when he finds out Draco’s been hanging around other cats, the little beast can be mean.

The small shabby house looks a bit better during the day than it does at night, Draco can see that the front garden, which at night seems abandoned and dead, is instead slowly coming back to life, with a few green patches here and there and the occasional flower, the house itself, though not in a good state by any stretch of the imagination, has clearly been repaired and is now in similar conditions to The Nest. From a window he can see a light on, someone is home.

Draco focuses on his mark, it’s harder without touching it, but he can still feel the tendrils of dark magic stir and start to spread, merging to form thick black lines that only he can see and that connect him to every other Death Eater still alive. A few lines point in the same direction, Azkaban, the remaining six are Draco’s targets. He focuses on Yaxley and all the lines disappear except for one, which points directly to the house.

Yaxley is so close that Draco wants nothing more than to charge in wand drawn and blow him to pieces. If only he could. Instead he watches as a dark figure passes in front of the window, although he can’t see who it is, it’s definitely the shape of a grown man and, since no other Death Eater line from his mark led to the house, Draco is fairly sure it’s Yaxley. There are 20 yards at most between Draco and Yaxley and, if Draco wasn’t sure that there are wards around the house, he would try his luck with long-distance casting, a bit like a muggle sniper. Unfortunately, there are too many things that could go wrong, Yaxley could move and Draco could accidentally hit Alysha, Draco could miss and alert Yaxley of his presence leading to a duel right now, for which he isn’t ready or worse, he could force Yaxley to run with Alysha to some other Death Eater, which would turn the already complicated situation to hopeless, making it impossible for Draco to save the girl while taking on multiple duels.

No, it’s better to sit and observe, he’ll have his chance, eventually.

He sits on the curb for half an hour, during which he sees the figure at the window another couple of times and one time he even sees a smaller figure, that could be either Alysha or a trick of the light.

He doesn’t have a watch on himself, but he can feel the Polyjuice starting to lose effect, signalling that almost an hour has passed, he gets up and starts hobbling down the road, passing in front of the house as slowly as possible, straining his ears to try and hear anything, but the house must be surrounded by silencing wards, because not a sound comes from it.

When he reaches another deserted alley he apparates back home. It’s twenty to ten and Draco runs to the shower to wash away the dirt and smells he’s picked up in the past hour, just in time for the Polyjuice to wear off completely.

Clad in his bathrobe and fluffy slippers he goes to retrieve this morning’s Daily Prophet, the first article of the fashion section talks about how muggle casual clothing is slowly making its way in the Wizarding World. It may be an interesting article to read, but Draco has already gained all the information he needs.

He puts on a pair of dark grey jeans, a black t-shirt, his Vans and a black hoodie. He slips his wand in his left sleeve after he applies a slight glamour to darken his hair to a sandy blond and changes his eyes from grey to blue, people who know him would recognise him instantly, but those who only know about him, will have no idea who he is. Hopefully he won’t meet anyone other than Kingsley tonight and the precaution will turn out to be unnecessary.

He grabs the Daily Prophet just as it starts to glow, signalling the activation of the portkey, he feels the tell-tale tug behind his navel as he’s shot through space, towards whatever location Shacklebolt has chosen for their meeting. He closes his eyes and waits for everything to be over.

Chapter Text

Draco regains his footing on the solid pavement. His head is spinning and it takes him a few seconds to clear his vision from the dizziness, but when he does, he finds himself in a dark tunnel, he doesn’t recognize it, but it’s not the first time he’s found himself in a similar place.

“Evening Draco.” a voice says from the shadows.

“Kingsley.” Draco says, not in the least fazed by the Minister’s penchant for dramatic and “scary” entrances. He takes out his wand, and casts a lumos to illuminate the area around him.

Shacklebolt steps out of the shadows and, although it’s not the first time that Draco sees Kingsley in what the man considers to be adequate clothes for a secret meeting, the combinations of styles, colours and fabrics amuses him every time. Draco has seen him in various outfits during the years, the most memorable ones being a lime green tuxedo with flowers, bees and butterflies embroidered on the jacket, yellow dungarees with nothing underneath them and pink flip-flops on his feet and an exact replica of John Travolta’s Tony Manero’s iconic white suit from Saturday Night Fever.

This time, Kingsley has outdone himself in terms of oddity and hilarity quota.

The man is wearing tight black leggings under a pair of knee-length neon pink running shorts and matching pink crocs. He is wearing what looks like a yellow football jersey with WEST HAM Utd written on his chest in bold letters but Draco frowns, wasn’t the West Ham jersey claret and blue? As Kingsley steps closer Draco is able to see better under the light of his wand and notices small lettering under the big one.

WEST – HAM United

Wizarding Exploding Snap Team – Hogwarts And Ministry United

Oh Merlin.

After years of etiquette lessons, his mother would be very disappointed in finding out about the very undignified snort Draco lets out along with a soft giggle he prays to Merlin and Morgana that Kingsley hasn’t heard.

He tries to put on a blank mask, but he fails miserably.

“Exploding snap team?” he asks grinning.

Shacklebolt shrugs. “It’s become a big thing in the last few years.”

Draco raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“Exploding snap team?” he asks again, incredulous.

“It’s a joined tournament between Hogwarts and the Ministry, anyone can participate, but it always leads to a final match between the Hogwarts seekers and the Aurors. It’s quite entertaining.”

Draco hums, it might be, he thinks, if you don’t have a television, or books, or just about anything else.

Exploding snap was dull when he was a student, he doesn’t think it’s improved in the years, not to mention that the safety hazard of the cards actually exploding is not something he’s particularly fond of, he remembers his second year, when Crabbe had spent a whole month without his eyebrows, because he had been a little too close to an explosion. Draco likes his eyebrows where they are, thank you very much.

He tries to forget about the game, though it is kinda hard with the hideous yellow jersey constantly in front of his eyes. He knows Kingsley wears appalling outfits just to play with Draco, who is usually very proper and would never be caught dead in bright colours, this way though, he’s implementing Draco’s collection of blackmail material. He ignores the futility of having blackmail material on the Minister when he just has to ask if he needs something and they’ll do almost anything for their best weapon, on the condition that it can be done discreetly and without involving any other magical being.

He eyes the tunnel he is in, it’s dark and cold, it smells of earth and the air is damp, clearly underground, a few pipes run along the sides disappearing into darkness where the light from Draco’s wand ends, he can feel heat coming from them, which is greatly appreciated because he has already started to feel the coldness seep through his hoodie. It’s time to get moving.

“Which line tonight?” Draco asks, by now used to the Minister’s idea of a private conversation. It usually involves long rides on the underground trains and lots of silencing and notice-me-not charms, which is the only reason Shacklebolt is free to dress as extravagantly as he likes and no one will notice him.

“I was thinking the Circle Line.”

Draco groans, he hates the Circle Line, it’s so slow and boring, he’d much rather walk than take the awful yellow line. One hideous yellow thing, Draco can manage, two in the same night, it’s too much. Shacklebolt laughs because he’s well aware of Draco’s aversion towards the slowest lines.

“You know, on second thought, if we take one of the Night Tube trains we’ll have more time to talk. I sense this is going to be a long conversation.” Shacklebolt reasons with a grin that shows Draco that he’d been joking previously.

Draco almost jumps for joy. “Piccadilly?” he asks eagerly. He likes the blue line, sometimes he rides it only to get off at Heathrow Terminal and look at the planes. He’s never been on a plane but he wants to, someday. Such an ingenious muggle invention. He could board one and fly to the other side of the planet, leaving behind all of his problems and starting a new life where nobody knows who he is and what he’s done. Obviously this is just a fantasy Draco likes to indulge in when he feels exceptionally depressed.

Most of the times, the news of another attack, of another death, only pushes Draco to do better, to try harder, but sometimes … sometimes it has the opposite effect. It makes him feel so useless, from the moment he’s started his mission, each victim weighs on his shoulders like a ton of bricks, he knows that rationally it’s not his fault, but he can’t help but think that each time a Death Eater successfully attacks, it’s Draco’s failure in protecting the Wizarding World. It’s irrational, as thoughts often are, but it’s hard for Draco to shake off the blame when he sees images of destruction and death, it sends him spiralling down the already well-travelled path of self-doubt, making him wonder if maybe, had there been anyone else in his place, things would have been better, that he might be the wrong person for the task, that the Minister shouldn’t have put his trust and the fate of the Wizarding World in Draco’s hands because he’s not good enough not to crush them.

There isn’t anyone else though. As the Minister has said, so many years ago, Draco is the only chance for the Wizarding World and he is not going anywhere, no plane will take him away from his responsibilities, no excuse, no doubt, no insecurity. He is enough and he will succeed. Or he will die trying, taking as many Death Eaters as he can with him.

When Shacklebolt agrees to take Draco’s favourite underground line, he does a little victory dance in his mind.

Together, they apparate to the nearest station and board a train. There aren’t many people on their carriage, but as soon as Draco and the Minister step inside, they all feel the sudden urge to change carriage, leaving the two men alone without even a second glance to the stylishly dressed man and his ridiculous companion.

They both wave a net of silencing and notice-me-not charms, this way they won’t be disturbed.

They sit on opposite sides, facing each other and, under the bright artificial light, Draco has the chance to really observe the other man for the first time tonight. Kingsley looks tired, dark shadows under his eyes show that he hasn’t been sleeping much and the deep lines on his forehead and around his eyes are a clear sign that he’s been worrying too much.

“How are you doing?” he asks, because they might not be exactly friends, but they’ve been secretly plotting deaths for years, they’ve reached a sort of camaraderie.

“Could be better.” The man answers.

“The election?” Draco guesses.

It’s been almost ten years since the war and the elections for the next Minister are fast approaching, only a few months before Kingsley will risk losing his position, if he doesn’t manage to gain enough votes. Not living in the Wizarding World anymore, Draco has no idea what the situation is.

“The public is getting restless, they seem to veer towards more conservative candidates who are playing on the fear and grief, promising feats they can’t accomplish, like capturing all the Death Eaters and putting a stop to the attacks. People believe them.”

Draco snorts. “You are already doing that.”

Kingsley smiles, but it’s humourless. “Unfortunately no one knows about it and I don’t think we’ll be able to tell the world before the voting.”

“How much time do we have?” Draco asks.

“Eight months.”

That’s not much time at all. Eight months to kill six Death Eaters, and not just regular Death Eaters, they are all from Voldemort’s inner circle. Draco doesn’t know if he can manage it. He has predicted it’ll take him at least another year, maybe more. Kingsley isn’t directly asking him to speed things up, but it’s implied and Draco would like to reassure him, to tell him that he will succeed, but he can’t. He’s never been good with deadlines, the disaster of his sixth year, being a clear example of it. Rushing the process in order to finish earlier than expected is risky, it would mean having less time to study the targets and prepare for the missions, it could mean the difference between success and failure. If Draco is focused on doing his job quickly and he misses something important, he could die. On the other hand, if he succeeds, he will be finally free and have the additional benefit of assuring that the Wizarding World will be in good hands for another decade. Do the pros outweigh the cons? Possibly, but at what cost?

“I will try.” It’s the best he can offer.

Kingsley looks mildly relieved, but still on edge, like he’ll keep hoping, but with no expectations, which is good, because Draco doesn’t want to disappoint him, but he can’t make any promise either.

“So, care to tell me why I found a purple button on my desk?” Shacklebolt asks as he takes out said button from his shorts pocket and passes it back to Draco, who slips in his jeans front pocket.

Draco doesn’t know where to start, does he just straight out say “You know the last person I should be talking to? Yeah, the one who would arrest me if he knew what I’m doing? Well, I kinda let him crush on my couch the other night after years of no contact. No big deal.”

“I met someone.” Is what he says.

Shacklebolt looks confused. “Okay…?”

“Harry Potter.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

So Draco tells him everything. He starts from his investigation of Yaxley, even though he can’t talk about the house, then he moves to the night he had chosen to kill Yaxley and the encounter with Potter that led him to take the Auror to his house.

He leaves out the part when Potter had called him pretty, because Shacklebolt doesn’t need to know that and frankly, it’s so absurd that Draco isn’t sure it actually happened.

Shacklebolt listens intently, suppressing a smile when Draco tells him how Potter just collapsed on him and fell asleep.

“Do you think he did it on purpose?” Draco asks at the end of his story.

Shacklebolt looks surprised. “You think that Harry Potter got drunk and fainted on you on purpose? Why would he do that?”

Draco shrugs. “I don’t know, but there are a couple of things that don’t add up. Potter approached me only when I was about to head out, but I had been at the club for hours and I spent at least an hour next to the counter talking to one of the bartenders, if Potter really was as drunk as he seemed to be, it’s hard to believe that he didn’t notice me on one of his trips for a refill.”

“Did you see him?” Shacklebolt asks.

“Well no, but I was engaged in a conversation with a … friend, Potter was there alone.”

The Minister doesn’t look convinced. “Anything else?”

“Yes, when he woke up the next morning, I found him staring out of the window, what person wakes up in a stranger’s apartment and, instead of panicking and trying to find out how he ended up there, takes the time to enjoy the view?”

“You may have a point there.” Shacklebolt agrees.

“Additionally, though Potter looked a bit surprised to see me, he didn’t look surprised enough to see me.”

“Now you’ve lost me.”

Draco chuckles.

“Potter was far too calm to be standing in front of me after almost ten years that we hadn’t seen each other. I mean, if I wake up in my old rival’s house, a person I’ve spent seven years hating, I don’t just stare at him, follow him to his kitchen and drink his coffee while exchanging polite conversation and I absolutely do not laugh with him when I don’t even know what I’m doing there, for all I know I could have been kidnapped. Potter didn’t even attempt to take out his wand and he was friendly with me. We had never even talked without insulting or cursing each other before then, let alone laugh at each other’s jokes. It just … it doesn’t make sense.” He concludes all in one breath.

At the time, he hadn’t been able to really analyze the situation, but now, with a clear mind and someone to talk to, something seems wrong to him.

“Am I imagining things?” he asks, because his job has made him a bit paranoid and sometimes he sees things where there is nothing.

Shacklebolt ponders for a couple of minutes.

“I can’t say that it doesn’t seem suspicious.” He concedes “But it could also be irrelevant. Maybe Potter was just too hangover to react as he normally would. Maybe he was tired and his brain too addled to think straight.”

Draco doesn’t know what to think. He looks outside the carriage window, but everything is dark, just like the pit in his gut that tells him something’s not right. Shacklebolt doesn’t look worried, which calms Draco down a bit, but in the end, it’s Draco’s life on the line, not Kingsley’s.

“What if he’s after me?” he voices the question that’s been bugging him for the last two days.

“You don’t know that Draco, it could be a coincidence.” The Minister tries to reason.

“Mm-hmm.” Draco isn’t very reassured, coincidences are rare things.

“Tell you what, I’ll keep my eyes and ears open, see if anyone knows anything, though I think it’s not likely that Potter suspects you, after all, you were with him when Yaxley attacked yesterday morning.”

Kingsley has a point there, on the other hand, Potter might think Draco’s up to something, but not necessarily that he’s working with the other Death Eaters, maybe he thinks Draco’s planning something on his own, biding his time living as a muggle until the moment is right. Okay, maybe Draco is exaggerating a bit, but it’s his job to come up with every possible scenario for every situation, by now, he’s used to analyzing every aspect of his life, whether he needs it or not. It’s both a curse and a blessing, because he’s quick in finding escape routes in case he needs them, but at the same time, he is always aware of dangers and weak spots, which keeps him on edge, constantly waiting for something to go wrong. He knows that sometimes he can go a bit overboard with his worrying, still he can’t shake the feeling that something is happening.

The train stops at Leicester Square and Draco watches as people start to board the carriages, bypassing theirs as if it didn’t exist. This is his life now, isn’t it? He lives and he doesn’t. He’s a fundamental member of the Wizarding World, working to save it all on his own, yet he’s left it years ago. He lives as a muggle, but he isn’t one, however much he tried, he could never really leave magic for good, it’s so intrinsically part of him that giving it up would be like cutting off one of his arms. Hence, he lives, but he doesn’t. He’s in a limbo, simultaneously existing in two words, but belonging to neither. He’s a hero, or at least that’s what Shacklebolt says, but are you really a hero if no one knows what you’ve done? More importantly, does it matter if he’s a hero or not? Does the good he’s doing erase the bad he’s done? Do they balance each other out? Will he be able to go back to the Wizarding World if he survives his mission? Or will the people still hate him for what he’s been? For what the mark on his arm represents, the mistake of a child scared for his life and those of his parents. As long as Kingsley is Minister, he will have a supporter on his journey, but if the Wizarding World elects another individual, it could mean Draco’s end. If the next Minister doesn’t trust a Death Eater with the fate of the Wizarding World, which is reasonable, Draco’s contract could be terminated and he could be exposed to the world, will it matter then, that the people he’s killed were the bad guys? Or will they still chuck him in prison for murder, finally happy to see him behind bars?

“Thank you.” He says, because it’s futile to worry now for something that may or may not happen in eight months, there are already so many problems he has to deal with.

“No problem, it’s my job to protect your identity so you can do yours. Which brings us to the most important issue.”

“Alysha Meadowes.” Draco guesses.

“Exactly. The Aurors are running in circles, they haven’t been able to pick up any trace from the crime scene. Potter is following some lead he’s found, but he said he’s not going to disclose any detail until he’s got concrete evidence. The press is hounding our agents for new information we don’t have, a girl is missing and we don’t know where she is or why she was taken. And to think that you were going to take care of him just hours before he did that is the cherry on the cake. You’ve studied him better than anyone, do you know anything that could be useful?” Shacklebolt seems desperate and Draco doesn’t know if what he’s about to say will help or make everything worse.

“I didn’t know what was going to happen before it did, but during my inspections I found a suspicious amount of housekeeping charms.” he decides to start from the beginning, one revelation at a time.

“Housekeeping charms? How are those relevant?” Shacklebolt asks, a puzzled look on his face.

“That’s exactly what I thought before, but after the attack I looked at them more closely and Yaxley wasn’t just cleaning his house, he was completely renovating as if–”

“As if he was getting ready to have a guest.” Concludes Shacklebolt, then he sighs. “So it was planned from the beginning, the murders were only a misdirection, Alysha Meadowes was the target from the start. But why?”

“Alysha Meadowes was adopted from The Nest – House for Children, an orphanage for victims of the war, when she was five years old.” Draco says. Shacklebolt looks confused, but Draco doesn’t miss the slight flinch at the mention of the orphanage. Something to file away for later.

“Ok, she was adopted, so were a lot of other children, what makes her special?”

Draco sighs. “It doesn’t surprise me that the Ministry isn’t aware of this, it took me a very unpleasant dig into my deepest memories to find out.”

“Find out what?”

“Alysha Meadowes’ biological parents are Selene and Corban Yaxley.”

There are few people that can say they have seen Kingsley Shacklebolt, former Head Auror, current Minister of Magic, completely speechless. Draco is one of them.

Even with his dark complexion, Draco can see the man has paled drastically, his eyes are wide and if he hadn’t been instructed on how to conceal his emotions, his jaw would be on the floor.

Draco tells him about his visit at the orphanage and his trip in his memories and Shacklebolt listens without any comment.

Draco gives him the time to assimilate everything he’s said because he knows that it’s quite shocking and a lot to take in.

Finally, he sees the man shake himself out of his stupor, scrubbing a hand on his face. “Ok … that’s … ok. His daughter. Great. Do you like peaches?”

For the situation to get any more absurd, Draco would have to turn into a fire-breathing parrot and start singing Beyoncé.

Draco would like to say that Kingsley has been put under too much pressure and has finally gone off his rocker, unfortunately, he is completely sane and serious.

Years ago, when Draco had just started his training and used to follow the trace of his dark mark just for practice, he had tried to test what the protection of the dark magic allowed him to say and what he couldn’t say. Sadly, what he could say wasn’t much, he couldn’t talk about the locations, he couldn’t even say if he had found the Death Eaters’ hiding spot. Never to be stopped by minor inconveniences, they had found a way around the blocks.

Peaches.

The code is simple, when Kingsley asks him if he likes peaches, he is really asking if he has confirmed the location of the Death Eater he was looking for. This way Draco is able to at least communicate something.

“Yes.” He answers, though he actually hates peaches. Kingsley looks relieved, but Draco still doesn’t know what to do.

“What now? I can’t just barge in there without a plan, this time there’s a little girl at risk.”

They both look troubled, Draco has already gone through every option in his mind, but he still hasn’t found one that would protect Alysha and take care of Yaxley at the same time.

“Do you think the Aurors can save her?” Shacklebolt asks suddenly.

Draco’s eyebrows rise. “You’re thinking of letting them handle the situation?” Draco asks shocked. “They have yet to solve a Death Eater attack, I don’t think it’s wise to let them handle this one.”

“You think Potter can’t do it.” Kingsley clarifies, pinning Draco with a questioning gaze.

“I-I … uh …” Draco isn’t sure.

On the one hand, he admires Potter and he believes the man to be a good Auror, if he could lead Potter to Yaxley’s house, he’s sure the man would handle the rescue mission brilliantly, tearing down the door with a battalion of Aurors, firing off a hundred spells a minute and everything would end in the blink of an eye, with the girl safe and sound and Yaxley behind bars. On the other hand, he can’t lead Potter to Yaxley and he doubts the man can find him on his own, at least not quickly.

“I’m honestly not sure.” He says.

Shacklebolt seems to have been expecting such an answer. “Can you do it?”

Draco shrugs “I don’t have any other option, do I? I don’t want that girl with him, I’ll do what I have to. Whatever it takes.”

It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no either. It’s a dilemma and Draco doesn’t have an answer. He is not afraid of dying to save her, he would gladly give his life to assure that Alysha got saved, but dying now would mean leaving 6 Death Eaters still at large with no other way to find them. He can’t afford it. He needs to find another way, he’ll need to ponder the matter for a while longer.

“I have one last question for tonight.” Draco says.

Kingsley motions for him to go on.

“Why did you flinch when I mentioned the orphanage?”

Shacklebolt tries to cover another flinch, but Draco has been trained to recognize when he’s been lied to and the blown pupils, the slight hitch in his breath, the nervous lips biting and the light sheen of sweat on his forehead are all pretty clear indicators.

“What are you talk-”

“Don’t lie to me Kingsley.” Draco stops him mid-sentence. “You know what I’m talking about. Why did the Ministry stopped funding the orphanage?”

Shacklebolt squirms under Draco’s questioning gaze, but he seems to reach the conclusion that it’s better to tell the truth.

“Listen, I know it sounds like we’ve abandoned those children.” He starts.

“Haven’t you?” Draco questions.

The Minster takes a deep breath, he’s probably used to having people listen to him when he speaks without interrupting or questioning him, but Draco isn’t just anyone.

“Not exactly. There are a few orphanages that opened after the war, The Nest is the biggest of them, but not the only one. For a few years we’ve managed to fairly distribute the Ministry funds we had among all the facilities, but after the attacks started, we’ve had to redirect the money to the DMLE to hire new Aurors and other forensic staff. We’ve had to implement Auror patrol in Wizarding areas and we’ve assigned a squad to the protection of Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, so that anything like the final battle doesn’t happen again. It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s taken a toll on the Ministry budget, already depleted from the war debts we’re still paying.”

“So you’ve abandoned them.” Concludes Draco, with no little resentment in his voice.

Shacklebolt sighs. “We haven’t completely abandoned them, we’ve instituted a fund for war victims, sustained by public donations, everything we collect his destined to the orphanages, though a couple of them have closed during the years when all children had been adopted. The problem is that there aren’t many donations, in fact there hardly are any. People have not yet recovered from the war and all the attacks and destruction left behind only increased the debts, people don’t think much about donating their money when they have more troubling matters that affect them directly.”

It’s sad, but Draco can’t blame anyone for it, it’s not like he can force people to donate when they don’t want to, though he believed the Wizarding World to be a more caring society than it’s turned out to be. “No one is helping?”

Kingsley smirks “There is one person that donates every year a conspicuous amount. Want to guess who he is?”

Draco groans. “Saint Potter.”

“Bingo.”

Of course it’s Potter, that man is too good for this world. “You’re saying that Potter single-handedly funds every orphanage in the country?”

“Well, there are a few other donations, but nothing as substantial as Potter’s. I personally check every year that each facility gets something and everything that goes to The Nest comes from Potter.”

Draco is shocked, to support an orphanage with 15 children for a whole year, Potter has to donate thousands of galleons. He knew the man was loaded, but this is beyond anything he’s imagined. Another point on the list of things Draco admires about Potter. This list is becoming far too long for Draco’s liking, he can’t hate the man if he’s basically an angel on Earth. Damn it.

“Does he know about the orphanages he helps?” Draco asks.

“No, only that the money he gives goes to helping children, the foundation doesn’t disclose the names of the facilities.”

That explains why the children still live in a ramshackle mansion, if Potter knew about their living conditions, Draco is sure he would offer his own house rather than leaving them there.

“I want to help.” He states.

Shacklebolt raises an eyebrow. “How? As far as everyone is concerned, you’ve left the Wizarding World nine years ago. A public donation to a war victims fund from you would cause no little scandal. You’d be in the middle of the public scrutiny, the press would hound you and, as long as you’re working for me, you can’t afford to have someone dig into your secrets.”

Unfortunately, he’s right.

“I’ll find a way.” he says with conviction and the discussion ends there.

Later that night, when Draco is back home, he thinks about everything he’s missing by living isolated in the muggle world. He’s only had a taste of it today, by visiting the orphanage and being surrounded by magic again. He misses it terribly, but even if there was a future for him in the Wizarding World, which he highly doubts, he can’t think about it until he’s done with his job.

Thinking of his job leads him back to Alysha Meadowes and the delicate matter of her rescue mission, which needs to be carried out in the span of a few days, but Draco still doesn’t have a plan for it.

The situation isn’t great, it’s in times like this that Draco would like to be able to do his job without limitations, contracts and all the secrecy that he is forced to operate under. If he was able to walk around in the Wizarding World freely, to be one hundred percent himself, without faking a muggle life and a bachelor attitude he finds tight and uncomfortable to wear, he could be so much more efficient. Additionally, he’d have the backup of the other three hit-wizards and, although he still wouldn’t be able to tell them much about the Death Eaters lairs, in the seven years he’s spent working alone, who knows, maybe he’d have found a way around the blocks, not to mention that publicly working for the Ministry would mean having the help of the whole DMLE, Aurors included.

There are so many things that could be different, in an ideal scenario, Draco and Potter would work together, tracking and fighting the Death Eaters, instead, one of them has the means to do it, but not the information necessary, the other has all the information he could need and more, but he is alone, working in the shadows.

Being a hit-wizard is not easy, in fact, it can be downright frustrating.

Chapter Text

On Monday Draco thinks of only one thing: how to save Alysha Meadowes.

He thinks about it as he showers, when he’s out grocery shopping – which leads him to forgetting to buy the cereals he’s finished yesterday damn it – he thinks about it as he eats, when he trains, he dreams about it during his late afternoon nap.

By the time the sun is down, he has a plan, but it’s risky, way more than he would like. If it was dangerous only for himself, he wouldn’t hesitate, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d come home with deep wounds, barely having survived the fight. But this time there is the life of a child at stake and he can’t put her in danger, not any more than she already is.

There isn't time to devise a better plan, though.

He goes to his office, everything he’s planned to use is already arranged on the desk, time to suit up.

If the situation was ordinary, Draco would apparate directly next to his target, using the element of surprise at his advantage. This time it’s more complicated, he can’t just apparate into the house, though he’s sure the wards will let him in, the Dark magic in his mark and the one in Yaxley’s are the same, which means that whenever Yaxley casts a spell, in this case a ward, a bit of that Dark magic gets woven into the fabric of the enchantment and it will recognize a sister in Draco’s, letting him through without resistance.

Draco’s plan is crazy and has a high chance of failure, but if it works, it will be over by tomorrow morning, Alysha will be safe and Yaxley nothing more than a memory.

He’s decided to try and approach Yaxley directly, no apparition, just the classic knock on the door. He’s thought about impersonating a homeless man asking for help, but Yaxley isn’t the type that would help others without gaining something himself. Another possible option was pretending to be one of Yaxley’s old friends from the war. Draco is confident he would be able to pull off the act whichever Death Eater he decided to take the form of, unfortunately, he can’t be sure which Death Eater would be welcomed and which immediately cursed, because he doesn’t know if Yaxley has kept in touch with any of them during the years.

He has only one other possibility. Selene Yaxley.

He steps in front of the mirror he keeps next to his cabinet to practice with disguises and starts chanting, enveloping himself in a web of glamours from head to toe.

It takes him at least ten minutes to get everything right, he’s thankful for the trip in his memories a couple of days ago, it would have been hard to remember Selene, but now he has a clear image in his mind. The person Draco sees in the mirror is a petite woman of about 5’ 3’’, her long blond hair almost reaches her waist, brown eyes are enclosed by pale lashes and when Draco smirks at his own perfect work, the woman’s red plump lips curve delicately. He has also glamoured his clothes, making it look like he’s wearing a long-sleeved black dress, while instead he’s donned his usual dragonhide trousers with the tiny pockets of wizarding space and a black t-shirt. In his pockets he fits all sorts of weapons, from knives to coils of rope, he even has a gun, which he rarely uses.

He slips his wand in his sleeve and goes to the section dedicated to the Potions lab. A large black cabinet holds a wide variety of potions he’s brewed for every occasion, he takes a couple of healing potions and calming draughts, he might need the former, Alysha will surely need the latter. From a small compartment he takes out two syringes, just like the ones he's seen on TV, a vial of sleeping draught and one of pepper up. He fills the first syringe with the sleeping draught while the pepper up goes in the other. He carefully pockets them and goes to the far corner of the cabinet, where a section is heavily warded, his touch quickly dismantles the protection and Draco opens the door, inside sits a single vial, a potion Draco has brewed, but never used, nor planned to use, until tonight. He considers it to be one, if not the most dangerous potion in existence, although its mother-of-pearl sheen doesn’t seem threatening, Amortentia is not to be underestimated, it’s ruined more lives than all other potions put together.

He grabs the vial with a shaky hand, he remembers very well the first time he has smelled it, it was in his sixth year and he had gone to class one day, only to enter a room that smelled like broom polish, apples and treacle tart. It had taken him less than a minute to recognize the source of the smell and its meaning, by then he had already acknowledged his crush on the golden boy, but having it so blatantly thrown in his face had been a shock, still, it had been undeniable, he didn’t even like the taste of treacle tart, contrary to a certain Gryffindor.

He places the vial on the desk and slowly uncaps it, holding his breath until he can’t anymore. The smell is overwhelming, it’s Draco’s favourite scent and he hates it, because underneath the juicy apples that remind him of the days spent in his family’s orchard with his mother and the broom polish, marker of many hours in the air, where fear and worries couldn’t reach him, the sweet scent of treacle is still there.

It’s been ten years and nothing has changed, which is disappointing for Draco, he had hoped to have a future after the war, but he’s been only half-living for all these years, instead of building a new life for himself, he’s delayed it, for a good reason, sure, but the fact that his deepest desires are the same at twenty-seven as they were at sixteen is disheartening. Especially because what he craves, his family, freedom and love, are precluded to him.

This is not the time to have an existential crises though. He takes out a small silver knife and pricks the tip of his finger, letting a drop of his blood fall into the potion. The liquid shimmers and the smell vanishes. He dabs a few drops on his neck, behind his ears and on the inside of his wrists. Now that his blood is mixed in the concoction, the potion has no effect on him anymore, but it does on everyone else who smells it, it will confound them, make them swoon and desire Draco. Of course Draco doesn’t want Yaxley to fall in love with him, but his appearance as Selene and the effect of the potion should be a good enough distraction to give Draco the time he will need to incapacitate the other man. Yaxley’s file told about his search for her body on the morning after the final battle, witnesses recalled seeing him run from one body to the next, calling her name, but when the Aurors came, he fled the scene. Selene’s body was found a week later, buried under the ruins, seen who she and her husband were, the news was kept hidden by the Aurors and her body was removed and buried with the others, under a blank tombstone. Yaxley might think his wife is dead, but he is not sure of it and he will hesitate when confronted with her figure outside his home. Or at least, Draco hopes so.

He checks one last time if he’s got everything and apparates away, reappearing in the same alley as yesterday, this time in complete darkness.

He makes his way to the house seemingly without hesitation, but his senses are on high alert, his heart is beating fast behind his ribcage and he feels the adrenaline starting to course through his veins from the anticipation.

He is twenty yards away from the door, the lights are on inside.

Ten yards, a shadow moves behind the curtained window.

Five yards, Draco feels the ripple of the wards on his skin as he passes through, they don’t stop him, they don’t harm him, but they have surely already informed Yaxley that someone is approaching.

Two yards, Draco hides a syringe in his sleeve and takes a deep breath.

The door. He knocks.

He hears the blood pounding in his ears, he should be scared, but he isn’t, he is excited. He’s been waiting for this moment for days, he’s dreamt about it, thought about every possible outcome, every option, every move.

He’s ready.

The door opens.

He would like to say that what happens next is a heroic duel full of actions, twists and turns, rapidly-fired spells, attacks and counterattacks, a display of power and skills.

Reality is rather anticlimactic.

When the door opens, Draco is faced with a wary-looking Yaxley, his robe-clad figure fills the doorway, his wand is pointed right at Draco. Draco keeps his calm composure, he even smiles trying to make it look as genuine as possible, as a woman would when coming home to her husband after a long time away.

Yaxley doesn’t disappoint, as soon as he recognizes the person in front of him, his wand drops to the floor, along with his jaw.

“Selene?” he asks dumbfounded as a tear rolls down his cheek.

Draco doesn’t speak, his voice, although glamoured to be more feminine, is not like Selene’s and it would ruin everything if Yaxley noticed it, instead, he steps forward, arms outstretched and smiles. As he smiles he thinks of his mother and his love for her, making sure that the sentiment shines in his eyes. Yaxley falls for it, probably too shocked to think rationally, but love does that to you. Love makes you do silly things, it makes you high on endorphins, it addles your thoughts, it confuses you and it makes you crazy.

Yaxley might be a criminal, an assassin and a terrible person in general, but even villains know how to love.

If Yaxley hadn’t loved Selene, he wouldn’t have risked almost getting caught by the Aurors to find her body, if he hadn’t loved Alysha, he wouldn’t have spent the past nine years looking for her. There are many things that can be said about him, he’s ruthless, prejudiced, hateful and a bad guy to boot, but he knows what love is, as Draco does, maybe even more.

Does Draco feel bad for exploiting this particular weakness, playing on Yaxley’s feelings for a long lost wife? Maybe a bit, but then he thinks of all the people Yaxley has hurt and the guilt disappears in a cloud of apathy towards the man’s well-being.

Draco welcomes Yaxley in his embrace, trying not to think too much of who he is holding, he puts his arms around the man’s shoulders, he feels Yaxley sob, face buried in his clothes and decides to take the both of them out of this awkward situation. He lets the syringe slip from his sleeve and he inserts the needle in the man’s neck, injecting the sleeping draught.

Yaxley freezes as he feels the needle prick his skin and he has just the time to look surprised before his features slacken and he falls unconscious.

It’s the second time in the span of a few days that Draco finds himself with a sleeping man in his arms and he almost laughs at the thought, of course it’s not the time to be cheerful, he’ll celebrate when the job is finished and he’s found and saved Alysha.

A flick of his wrist has his wand in his hand and another flick has Yaxley’s body levitating in the air, he looks around to see if anyone has noticed anything, but there is no one in sight.

He moves Yaxley’s body inside the house and dumps it on the first flat surface he finds, the floor. An incarcerous binds hands and feet together while Draco summons the other man’s wand and pockets it. He checks the man’s clothes for any weapon or tool that could be used to break the bindings, should the sleeping draught lose effect prematurely, but Yaxley wasn’t expecting company, he only finds a used tissue in a pocket. Gross.

He hides the body in a closet and leaves it there.

Now that Yaxley is taken care of, he has a little girl to find. Before going anywhere he casts a cleaning charm on himself, getting rid of the Amortentia, he doesn’t want to use it against a thirteen year old.

He turns around to inspect the area. The hallway is dimly lit, only his lumos allows him to see the scarcely decorated walls, the carpet is worn, but seems clean enough. He remembers having seen the light on behind the curtains on the upper floor and he heads towards the stairs. The wooden steps creak under Draco’s weight as he slowly climbs up, eyes and ears alert to every movement or other sign of life.

He reaches the landing and finds himself in front of a short corridor with two doors on each side, probably two bedrooms, a bathroom and a closet. The door closest to him on the right is ajar and light spills through the opening. Draco approaches the doorway silently and with light pressure opens the door fully, letting the light bathe the corridor’s walls. The room is small, no more than 7 or 8 square meters, just enough to fit a twin bed, a dresser, a small desk with a chair and a wardrobe. On the desk the lamp is on, illuminating a small stack of books and parchment neatly arranged on the tabletop and a few objects placed around the room, a blue and black scarf on the back of the chair, a lone quill on the floor, a pair of boots next to the door. Everything is placed to look like the room of a teenager, a poster on the wall, a diary on the bedside table, but it’s just for appearances, the scrolls of parchment are too tightly coiled and shiny to be used, the quill is in perfect condition, no ink staining the point, the books are new, no cracks in the spine, no stains on the pages. The boots still have the tag on them and the scarf is so neatly folded that it has clearly been taken out of the package, put on the chair and left there. The poster on the wall is from the latest Weird Sisters’ tour, two years ago, but the paper is still rigid and has maintained the original folding, so much so that the spellotape struggles to keep it attached to the wall, it’s placed opposite the window, but there is no discoloration from the sunlight. It’s a good deception, but it doesn’t fool Draco, this room has clearly been designed for a child, but it bears no sign of the child actually using any of the stuff. The only sign that someone really lives in here, is the rumpled coverlet.

As he enters the room, he hears shuffling coming from the bed, though no one is on it. Underneath, then. A bit cliché, hiding under the bed, but effective.

Draco doesn’t want to scare the child, he’s here to save her.

“Alysha, honey.” He says in a soothing tone, the female voice coming from himself is a bit disconcerting, but helps carrying the message. “Everything is alright, it’s over.”

A pair of dark eyes peer from behind one of the wooden legs of the bed and Draco tries to smile encouragingly.

He slips his wand in his sleeve and opens his arms, trying to communicate that he means no threat, then kneels on the floor, sitting on his haunches, giving Alysha a better view of his figure.

He talks to her in a low, gentle voice, telling her that she is going to be alright, that she is safe now and that Yaxley will not be hurting her anymore. It takes him a while, but he is in no hurry, he has all night and the sleeping draught will last for at least two more hours.

Eventually, he has the little girl safely in his arms, she trembles as she cries and he rubs circles on her back as he rocks the both of them on the floor, trying to calm her down. He offers her a calming draught and she takes it immediately. Tension seeps from her body in a few seconds, he keeps holding her and, while she relaxes, he studies her. He checks for injuries, but thankfully she’s ok, at least physically, her mind will take a while to heal, but she will, eventually.

The resemblance between Alysha and Yaxley is impressive, they have the same blond hair and blue eyes, same bone structure, there’s little of Selene in her appearance, but he sees her in the curve of Alysha’s lips and the shape of her eyes.

Her face is pale, she has dark circles under her eyes, her cheeks are sunken and she looks like she’s not been eating nor sleeping much. It’s been only three days since she’s been kidnapped, but on her already skinny form, even a couple of days without food are easily noticeable. Draco suspects she’s been starving herself, maybe she was too scared to eat, maybe she didn’t trust the food Yaxley provided. The same goes for the sleep, it’s hard to sleep in a house with someone you don’t trust, harder if you’ve seen that someone murder your entire family in front of your eyes, who knows what’ll happen when you’re not awake.

When Alysha is sufficiently calm, Draco transfigures the quill into a glass and fills it with water from his wand, offering it to the teen.

“Who are you?” she asks timidly.

Draco smiles. “I’m a friend, you can call me Selene.” He says.

She looks skeptical and Draco remembers he’s actually talking to a teenager, not a child, she may be traumatized, but she still has the curiosity and distrust typical of the teenage years.

“Are you an Auror?”

“Yes.” Draco lies. He would like to tell the truth, unfortunately, his contract prevents him from saying what his job is, it doesn’t stop him from lying though, and saying he’s an Auror is about as true as saying he’s straight.

Alysha looks reassured by the fact and hugs him tightly. He lets her.

After a few more minutes he leads her down the stairs, past the closet where Yaxley is hidden and out of the house, they both breathe sighs of relief as they cross the threshold.

There is no one outside, which is reasonable since it’s past eleven at night on a Monday. Draco takes his wand and outstretches his arm towards the street, not two seconds pass before a loud bang echoes in the street and a violently purple bus stops before them.

Draco grimaces at the sight, having taken the Knight Bus before and not having enjoyed the experience, but Alysha seems delighted, she’ll lose the look once on board.

Draco pays the eleven sickles fee for the both of them and they settle on a bed, he conjures a rope and creates a sort of hook for Alysha to hold on, this way she won’t fly off the bed at every turn.

There are only a couple of other passengers so the trip is short and they get off a few minutes past midnight in front of a run-down mansion with yellow writing on the front.

“Where are we?” Alysha asks when the bus has disappeared.

“A safe place, they’ll take care of you until the other Aurors come for you.” Draco explains.

“I think I remember this place.” She mumbles, a thoughtful look on her face.

“I’m sure you do.” He says.

“Why can’t you stay with me?” the girl asks with confusion and dejection and Draco feels bad, he doesn’t want her to think he doesn’t care about her and that he’ll leave her here because he doesn’t want to take care of her, but he can’t stay here now, he still has work to do.  

“I’m sorry sweetie, I have to take care of something now, but I promise we’ll see each other again.” He doesn’t know where the promise comes from, but he knows he will keep it.

This seems to appease the teenager a bit and he gets a smile in return.

They make the last steps towards the door and Draco knocks. As they wait for someone to come down and answer, he turns around to face the girl.

“You are going to be alright here.” He says with conviction. “I know it seems hard now, like you don’t have control of what’s happening, like everything is moving too fast, like you’re in a dark place with no way out, but these feeling will be temporary, these people will help you, they won’t replace your family,” he watches as a tear falls from her eye and she brushes it away “but they will be the next best thing, trust them and one day you’ll be happy again.”

He hugs her one last time and she hugs him back. When he hears footsteps coming from inside the house he moves away and walks down the front steps.

“Goodbye Alysha and good luck.” He says as he disillusions himself, blending with the shadows. The girl waves at him, then turns around and squares her shoulders, a determined expression on her face.

She’ll be alright Draco thinks. She’s a fighter.

He turns around and walks away along the pathway towards the end of the property. As he walks he hears the door open, someone shouts Alysha’s name and Draco recognizes Mrs. Thompson’s voice.

Yes, she’ll be just fine.

He disapparates as soon as he reaches the property limits, as expected, the anti-apparition wards around Yaxley's house let him through without resistance and he lands next to the closet door.

He checks Yaxley is still dead to the world and goes upstairs to clean up. Assuming that Mrs. Thompson will call the Aurors immediately after having brought Alysha inside and having made sure she doesn’t need immediate care, it will take them a bit to gather the squads and Potter will surely want to be present, they’ll interrogate Alysha and when they’ll find out she’s travelled on the Knight Bus with a dead woman, they’ll flag down the bus and let Ernie bring them to the place he’s picked them up.

Draco gives them an hour before the house is swarming with Aurors and forensic staff.

He needs to remove every trace of his presence before then.

He starts from the room where Alysha was, he’s only used magic twice here, a transfiguration and an aguamenti, easy to cleanse.

“Magicae Sorbere.” He recites as he moves his wand in lazy circles around the room, absorbing every trace of his own magic back into his wand. Once he’s satisfied he does the same downstairs, eliminating the residues from the levitating, summoning, cleaning and binding charms. The apparition is already untraceable, but he takes care of that too just to be sure.

Finally he can concentrate on Yaxley. He takes the man out of the closet and does one last spell, he transfigures him into a more portable shape, in the next moment a sleeping hamster sits in his palm. Cute. Almost.

He cleans the trace of the spell and goes outside. He closes the door, leaving behind a spotless crime scene and no clue as to what has happened in there, even Alysha’s memories won’t help the Aurors. Of course he could just leave Yaxley here bound and unconscious for the Aurors to find, but where would be the fun in that? Plus, his contract states that he has to take out all of his targets, no exceptions.

He walks to the alley he’s been using to come and go and apparates away to a dark tunnel. The good thing about having secret meetings with Kingsley is that it makes you discover a lot of strange places. A lot. Draco has visited almost every tunnel under London during the years and all the underground stations in disuse. Tonight he apparates to the old Swiss Cottage station, where the Metropolitan line used to transit, up until the second muggle World War. There’s a small cabin, probably used by security guards, right between the platforms. There isn’t much inside, a desk and a chair, bare walls and dusty floor. It’s perfect. Draco takes out the hamster from his pocket and turns it back to its original form, Yaxley's sleeping body tumbles to the floor with a thump. Ooops.

Draco positions the chair in the middle of the room and places the body on it, he could use magic to do this, but he prefers using his own ropes and tie the knots by hand. It’s meticulous and satisfying work.

Once Yaxley is tied up and immobilised, Draco injects him with the pepper up potion he has put in the other syringe. With a jolt Yaxley startles awake.

“Wha-Whatshappnin?” Yaxley slurs, still not completely coherent.

Draco chuckles, which earns Yaxley's undivided attention. Blue eyes land on him and widen.

“You!” he shouts. “Selene tell me what’s going on.” Yaxley demands.

For a moment Draco had forgotten he was still glamoured, with a wave of his wand he gets rid of everything and, if possible, Yaxley looks even more gobsmacked than he did at the sight of his lost wife.

“Sorry to disappoint you Yaxley, but your wife has been dead for nine years.” Draco says in greeting.

Yaxley glares at him. “What do you want Malfoy?” he spits out the name with venom.

Draco goes to sit on the edge of the table and Yaxley's eyes follow him. He tries to move the rest of his body, but the ropes are tied too tightly to allow any kind of movement, after a while he stops fighting and settles on scowling.

“It’s quite easy.” Draco grins “You. Dead.”

Yaxley huffs. “Like you could hurt anyone. Little Malfoy too scared of his own shadow to save his family. You’re too much of a coward to kill someone.” He mocks.

Draco’s grin widens. “Oh yeah? Heard anything from the other Death Eaters lately?” he asks with fake interest.

Yaxley blinks in confusion, then understanding dawns on him and his eyes widen.

“You?” he half-shouts half-asks, a glimmer of fear starting to shine in his eyes.

Draco smirks, his contract doesn’t allow him to give confirmation, but his expression tells more than words.

He stands up and takes a small but very sharp knife from one of his tiny pockets, he sees Yaxley pale and he inwardly laughs as he picks at his nails with it. “You know,” he says in a colloquial tone “Turns out I’m not such a coward if the person deserves it.” He swaps his little knife with a much bigger one and starts walking circles around the chair, revelling in the way Yaxley flinches when he gets close.

“Where is my daughter?” The concern in Yaxley's voice is real and Draco is not enough of a bastard to use Alysha against him.

“She’s safe. That’s all you need to know.”

Yaxley growls. “You have no right to take her from me. She’s mine!”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Would you have preferred if I had killed you in front of her?”

That shuts Yaxley up real quick. Draco hums. “Thought so.”

A glance at his watch informs him it’s one in the morning, he has two options, make it quick or have some fun, given what he’s been through the past few days, the tension, anxiety, anger, frustration and irritation, it would be only fair to make Yaxley pay for it, but Draco is tired, he just wants to go home and sleep for a week, have a good wank or two and watch some crappy tv-show to temporarily forget about his life and all the problems it comes with.

Had it been three or four years ago, Draco would have taken his time, tried a few weapons on Yaxley and even set him free in the maze of sealed tunnels, to chase him like a hunter to a prey, he would have probably ended up throwing Yaxley on the train tracks – still connected to the power lines after all these years of inactivity – and enjoyed the screams as Yaxley got roasted alive.

Tonight Draco doesn’t feel that theatrical, he wants to be done with it, still, he has multiple options.

He could cast a blood-thinning charm on Yaxley, cut his wrists and wait for the man to bleed to death, but it’s messy and boring, Draco would just watch as the man loses consciousness as his blood is prevented from clotting and slowly leaves his body. There’s no entertainment value, hence no reason to bother with it and the cleaning after.

He could still throw Yaxley on the tracks, but the smell of burning flesh isn’t great and having to scrap off the burnt flesh stuck to the tracks once the body is removed is disgusting.

He could stab Yaxley, he’s studied human anatomy well enough to be confident that he could kill with a single stab right through the heart, or to the femoral artery or the aorta. But a stab wound causes too much blood loss for Draco’s liking and cleaning charms are not very effective on that much blood.

He decides to make it quick, Yaxley doesn’t deserve Draco’s pity, he’s killed seven people to find Alysha and, although Draco can understand the desire to find family, he can’t condone the murder of others for it. Still, considering that the man has spent the past nine years desperately looking for his daughter and hasn’t gone out of his way to kill people like the other Death Eaters have done, Draco thinks he can bestow a painless death.

He could always use the killing curse, but he makes it a point to use only muggle weapons to kill his targets, a further fuck you to pureblood supremacy. Plus, muggle weapons don’t leave magical traces on the bodies.

Throughout his reasoning, Yaxley has been staring at Draco, a scrutinizing look on his face.

“Little Malfoy is all grown up uh?” there’s no mocking in Yaxley's tone, which surprises Draco.

“You could say that.” He agrees.

“Your parents must be proud of you.”

Draco freezes on the spot, heart beating erratically in his chest, breathing shallow. Consciously or not, Yaxley has just asked him the question that’s been haunting him his entire life. Are is parents proud of him? During his childhood and teenage years Draco did everything he could to make his parents proud of him, it was only when Voldemort came to the Manor that he really understood how stupid he had been, what his choices had led to. In the last year of the war he did what he had to survive, but he had already resigned himself to be considered a failure and he had accepted it, not wanting to make his parents proud if it meant being one of the bad guys. Now the situation is different, his father is dead and Draco imagines him rolling in his coffin, shouting at him from the other side, only this time, Draco doesn’t care, he knows he’s doing the right thing and impressing a dead man is not one of his priorities. His mother is a whole different matter. She had never really been on board with Lucius’ plans for Draco and had tried to protect him from the worst parts, but she had only been able to do so much. Draco doesn’t fault her for that, she did her best. Now Narcissa doesn’t know exactly what Draco is doing, but she surely has an idea, having been the one to suggest Shacklebolt talked to Draco in the first place so many years ago. Draco hopes she’s proud of him, happy for the man he has become, for what he’s doing, for how he’s changed his distorted views to be a better person. He doesn’t say any of this to Yaxley though, it’s something he keeps buried deep inside his mind, behind multiple layers of Occlumency, not so much for protection from external attacks, but to keep himself from thinking about it too much, he’s an adult now, he won’t let his parents control his life.

He shrugs, though he thinks Yaxley doesn’t really believe in his indifference.

“So what’s it gonna be? Killing curse? Sectumsempra? Cruciatus until I’m mad?” Yaxley seems resigned to his fate, good, it means less struggle and screams.

Instead of answering Draco puts away the knife, digs into one of his pockets and takes out his Beretta 92 Vertec, slowly turning it in his hands.

Draco doesn’t often use guns, he sometimes does some target practice to improve his aim and he owns quite a few of them, but he’s never killed with one, it’s too clean, too fast, a second and everything is over, he usually likes to take his time, to explore the ways a human body can be overloaded and crushed under too much pressure. No, guns are not his first choice, tonight though, they are his best option, quick, efficient, don’t leave too much of a mess behind.

Yaxley pales at the sight of the stainless steel barrel and black trigger, but he must understand that this is actually his best chance, because his shoulders sag and he heaves a sigh of relief, probably having expected endless torture.

“Will my daughter be alright?”

Draco is impressed. Yaxley has accepted that he’s going to die and his last request regards his daughter, Draco supposes it’s normal for parents to think about their children first even when their own lives are in danger. He decides to give the man at least a bit of peace.

“She’ll be fine, she’s back at the orphanage. I will make sure she lives a happy life.” He promises. He doesn’t have to, but he wants to make sure that Alysha gets to live the life every child deserves, as happy and carefree as possible. Even without this promise and the one he’s made to Alysha, Draco would have still gone back to the orphanage and tried to help in whatever way he could, now he just has one more reason to do it.

Yaxley slumps within his rope boundaries like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders, he looks up at Draco with determination in his eyes.

“Ok, I’m ready.”

Draco doesn’t waste time, he doesn’t recite a speech like villains do, he’s not exactly compassionate because he’s still killing a person, but almost. He raises his arm, gun loaded and ready.

He points. He pulls the trigger.

A loud bang echoes in the small room as the bullet is shot from the muzzle, then silence.

At 1:24 a.m. only one heartbeat is left thumping in the room.

A clean perfectly round hole marks Yaxley's forehead, on the opposite side of his skull, right at the base, another one matches the first, this one a bit messier, with a trickle of blood pouring out of it. If Draco has been precise, and he usually is, the bullet has gone through the brainstem, killing Yaxley on the spot.

Fast, painless, mostly clean.

Yaxley's body is now held solely by the ropes, the head is thrown back on the headrest, his limbs are limp and lifeless. Draco puts the gun back in his pocket, he will clean it once at home, he searches the room for the hole where the bullet has embedded itself in the concrete floor and extracts it with a spell, pocketing that too, no trace has to be left behind.

He turns to Yaxley's body and casts a spell. Soon on the seat of the chair sits a glass orb like the ones in Divination class, the ropes, now left holding up nothing but air, fall to the floor and Draco coils them and puts them away.

With a Magicae Sorbere he cleans up the traces of magic, it’s not likely that anyone will come down here ever again except for himself, but he likes to be cautious.

He picks up the glass orb and cradles it carefully in his arms, with a turn he disapparates.

Going through the wards at the Manor is always a bittersweet feeling for Draco, it feels like coming home, warm and welcoming, but it’s not home, not anymore.

He apparates to a little structure in the woods that surround the main building. Like the Manor, it’s done in white marble, but with a Greek style, like a miniature temple, it has columns with a ionic capital, a pediment, and a frieze. On the pediment the Malfoy crest is engraved, while on the frieze in bold letters is Sanctimonia Vincet Semper, the Malfoy Family motto. Draco scowls at the words, Purity Will Always Conquer what a sack of thestral shit.

He walks past the double doors behind the row of columns and enters the front room. There isn’t much here, just a bunch of statues of the most important Malfoys in the history of the family, people known for their laws against magical creatures, pureblood supremacy acts and those who invented revolutionary potions or spells. Not many people to be proud of, in Draco’s opinion. He walks to the centre of the room and places his hand on the floor where another crest is carved out of the stone, he releases a bit of his magic and the whole room pulses with recognition, he steps back just as the marble slab slides under the others, revealing a staircase descending into darkness.

The first time Draco has been here, for grandfather Abraxas’ funeral, he had been only five and terrified of the staircase to the abyss of death, but his father had been adamant he went down because Malfoys aren’t scared of something as trivial as the dark so Draco had gone and faced his fear. In the end, there hadn’t been anything to be scared of, after the first three or four steps in darkness, torches on the wall lit up the steps.

Now Draco has seen so many horrible things that the dark tunnel doesn’t even compare, he descends the steps with no hesitation until his feet touch horizontal ground and he enters the crypt.

The crypt is just a big room with rows after rows of niches on both sides of the corridor-like room. Draco walks past generations of Malfoys without a second look, heading straight for the far wall. His steps falter a bit as he passes the last occupied niche, the anniversary of his father’s death was on Saturday, but Draco was too preoccupied with the news of the Meadowes’ murder to do anything about it.

For now he ignores the tomb and goes to the wooden chest he’s placed against the far wall. The chest is made of beautiful, polished cherry wood, with golden latches to keep the lid closed.

It’s no larger than a metre, but it hides quite a lot of magic within its wooden sides. Draco opens the latches and lifts the lid, revealing a 5x6 grid of wooden cube boxes. Each box has a metal plate on it, some are inscribed, some blank. Draco takes one of the six boxes left blank out of the chest, immediately the box doubles in size to a cube with a 15 centimetres side, he opens it. On the inside, the box is lined in black velvet and Draco places the glass orb in it, where it fits perfectly, he casts a preservation charm on it, because even if transfigured, this is still Yaxley's body and Draco doesn’t want it to decompose in either form. He needs all bodies intact when he delivers them to the Ministry at the end of the mission.

He takes Yaxley's wand out of his pocket and with a flick of his own wand, he shrinks it to about half its original length and places it in the box with the orb. He closes the box with a thump and with another flick of his wand, writing appears on the blank metal plate.

Corban Yaxley  1970-2007

Draco puts the box back in the chest and looks at the now 25 filled boxes, his mission is almost completed.

As he exits the crypt, he spends a few seconds in front of his father’s tomb, thinking of how, in a world where Voldemort didn’t exist, Lucius could have been a good father. Pity that reality is not always what one would like it to be, but Draco is used to it.

Leaving the mausoleum is a relief for Draco, being around so much death is not a particularly pleasant experience. He takes the time to seal the crypt and then he disapparates.

He lands in his living room with a pop that his sound-proofed walls thankfully cover and goes directly to the shower to wash off the night. The feeling of hot water on his back is heavenly and he stays a good twenty minutes just standing there, mind blissfully blank for the first time in days.

When he finally gets out, he puts on his pyjamas, his dirty clothes glare at him from the corner of the bathroom floor, but he is too tired to bother with cleaning the weapons and do the washing, he’ll leave it for tomorrow.

A sleepy Pongo welcomes him in the bed and Draco snuggles the little creature.

Tomorrow he will start studying his next target, for now, sleep.

Chapter Text

It’s two days before something else happens. Almost 48 hours of relative calm.

Draco spends his Tuesday and Wednesday recovering from the stressful weekend and taking care of himself, as he should have done on Saturday and Sunday. It’s one thing to die on a mission, it’s another to neglect his health because he doesn’t want to stop for even a minute.

Two days seem like a more than fair amount of time to Draco, not that his contract explicitly states how much time he has to work each week. Draco and the Minister hadn’t even thought about that when they’d written and signed the contract, it was clear that Draco needed to work as fast as possible, but he had been given carte blanche on how to operate, since he was the only one who could use the dark mark, hence the only one who could know how much time he needed for a certain mission.

Usually, after a kill, Draco takes at least a week to recharge, killing a person is not as easy as he makes it look, he might be killing bad people, but he’s still obliterating a soul, he doesn’t even want to know about his own soul, if what is said is true, and killing damages the killer’s soul, then Draco’s must be in tatters.

Now that Kingsley needs the work done in eight months, Draco has decided to speed up the process. He’s still not sure if he’ll be able to kill the remaining five Death Eaters in that time, but he sure will try his best.

Two days is just enough time to rest and mentally prepare to start over again.

Tuesday passes by smoothly, in the morning Draco wakes up to a pile of newspapers outside his door, all bearing the same title.

ALYSHA MEADOWES FOUND!

In different words, all the articles say the same thing, in the early morning hours of Tuesday 4^th of August, Alysha Meadowes was found by Elaine Thompson at the door of her orphanage. Aurors were immediately called and they managed to follow the traces back to Yaxley's hiding place, unfortunately, when they got to the house, Yaxley wasn’t there. No other magical trace was found in the house, the Aurors’ current opinion is that Yaxley, having lost his prisoner, has decided to go back into hiding. The main focus moved on the mystery saviour, whose identity is still unknown because he or she has impersonated Selene Yaxley, who, the Aurors have confirmed, was found dead during the rebuilding of Hogwarts in 1998. Whoever the person was, they have left no traces and even watching Alysha’s memories hasn’t helped the Aurors one bit.

Draco smiles as the success of his mission is written in front of his eyes. Apparently the Aurors haven’t yet discovered who Alysha is, or maybe they just haven’t told the press, Draco finds it difficult to believe that Yaxley hasn’t informed Alysha of her real identity in the three days she’s been in his house, but Alysha may have chosen to keep the information for herself. Either way, it’s one less problem for Draco if the Aurors don’t dig into the reason why he’s brought Alysha to the orphanage and why Yaxley was interested in her in the first place.

Before he does anything else, he goes to his study to update his files. Yaxley’s file is still on the desk and Draco opens it, sits behind the desk and starts writing what he has done in the past few days, from his search in his memories and his discovery about Alysha, to his visit to the orphanage and finally, Alysha’s rescue and Yaxley's death. He closes the file with a satisfying shuffle of papers and goes to his cabinet to put it away. On the wall, his collage of mugshots glare at him and Draco takes extreme pleasure in taking out a bright red permanent marker and drawing a big X across Yaxley’s scowling face. He leaves his office with a grin on his own face.

For the rest of the day, Draco does some cleaning, he puts his weapons back in their place, he washes his clothes and goes to buy the cereals he’s forgotten yesterday. To relax even more, he decides to stay home for the night, so he rents a movie to watch while he eats popcorn with Pongo curled next to him.

It’s after a good night of pleasant dreams that Draco opens his eyes on Wednesday morning, he does his usual routine of breakfast, run in the park and scalding hot shower to loosen his muscles. He eats a light lunch and decides it’s time to do something fun, he goes to Regent Street and roams the shops in search of something that catches his eye.

Shopping is relaxing for Draco, as long as he does it alone, he remembers the hours spent with Pansy in Hogsmeade and that certainly hadn’t been relaxing, he’d had to follow her from one shop to the other while she threw clothes left and right and he had to catch them and put them back under the glare of the shop owners. Not particularly enjoyable, especially because he never had time to do some shopping of his own and always had to go back another day, alone.

Today he’s alone and he takes his time in each shop to look at and try on whatever he thinks will suit him well. In no time his arms are laden with shopping bags full of a multitude of items, from a new set of running gear to a black Armani suit, black silk boxers and a pair of Ray-Ban mirror glasses. He even indulged in a lambwool grey and black Burberry scarf, though he rarely wears them, especially in summer.

Since he’s taken the Tube to come here and has to go back the muggle way to avoid making his doorman suspicious, he makes a detour to a deserted alley and shrinks all the packages except for one, placing the others in his jeans pocket, this way he’ll show he’s been outside for hours for a reason, but won’t have to carry everything.

He decides to walk to Leicester Square and take the Northern Line back to Camden, on the way, he passes one of those candy shops that tourists love so much and that always smells like sugar and chocolate, never one to be able to deny his sweet tooth, he finds himself with a Bounty bar in his hand as he walks along Coventry Street, he’s such a sucker for coconut.

Of course, since he’s here, he can’t not stop at The Swiss Centre and stock up on Swiss chocolate, it’s such a shame that in a few months the building will be closed and demolished and Draco is determined to make the best of the time that’s left, starting from now.

Once his hands are full again, this time with bags of sweets, Draco decides he’s done enough shopping for one day and, after having shrunk the packages, he takes the Underground back home.

The summer afternoon is warm, but not excessively so and Draco is happy, because this way he can wear his leather jacket without melting, he finds it gives him a bad-boy look he quite appreciates and, judging from the glances he’s received from both men and women just today, he’s not the only one.

As he nears his apartment building, Draco is startled by a sudden vibration in his trousers. He takes out the ringing device from his pocket and checks the screen.

Jacob

Draco rolls his eyes. Jacob is one of the many guys he’s shagged during the years, there is absolutely nothing special about Jacob, except for being a bloody good shag and having an uncanny resemblance with a certain someone. Years ago, Drunk Draco made the terrible decision of giving Jacob his phone number to facilitate further encounters, but Jacob took it as a sign of them being friends, which they absolutely are not, they just fuck every once in a while, always at Jacob’s place and Draco always leaves without spending the night. It’s an unspoken agreement, when one of them feels in the right mood, he rings the other and they make plans, or at least, Draco calls only for that reason, Jacob has the annoying habit – part of his unfounded belief in their friendship – of calling just to say hi and talk about the most trivial things, like the pigeons that made a nest on his balcony or his neighbour’s baking skills.

Still, losing such a great fuck-buddy just because of a few minutes of conversation every now and then is not worth it in Draco’s opinion.

Mediocre shags are everywhere, good shags are few, great shags are rare and must be treasured, even if it means having to listen to boring stories.

Draco braces himself and accepts the call.

“Good afternoon Jacob.” He tries to sound excited to hear him, but he might not be completely effective. Jacob doesn’t seem to notice or he just doesn’t care.

“Hey Dray!” he shouts making Draco wince as he moves the phone a bit farther from his ear.

“How many times have I told you not to call me that, Jacob?” Draco asks with faux exasperation.

“About as many times as I’ve told you to call me Jake. Looks like we’re both hard of hearing.”

Draco has to smile, it’s a game they play, Draco is always prim and proper, with impeccable manners and sophisticated language and Jacob does his best to loosen him up. Of course, given how much he swears, Draco isn’t even remotely the refined man he pretends to be and it shows when his face is pressed against a pillow and he demands to be fucked so hard his brain stutters and he can’t even be coherent anymore, let alone erudite. In that moment Draco calls Jacob whatever he wants, he does anything except for one thing. Draco never begs. Never. He demands, he orders, he instructs, sometimes he asks, but he never begs. When he bottoms, he may be a greedy bottom, but he is in no way submissive, most of the time he is in control of the situation, when he’s not, he shares the power equally with his partner.

“Well Jacob, looks like we aren’t going to learn anytime soon.”

“Right you are Dray. Anyway, guess what?”

Not another neighbour’s story. Not another neighbour’s story. Not another neighbour’s story. He silently asks whatever deity he doesn’t believe in to grant him a wish.

“What?” he asks warily.

“I’ve found the most spectacular outfit for tomorrow, you’re gonna love it!”

Draco is confused.

“Outfit for what?” he asks and hears a gasp on the other side.

“Man! Tomorrow is Dennis’ birthday!”

Oh shit. Draco has forgotten about that.

Every year, Dennis-the-friendly-bartender throws a party for his birthday, a big party. Being the flair bartender of a famous club, Dennis knows a lot of people, regulars, like Draco and Jacob – who incidentally met at one of Dennis’ parties – always get an invitation months in advance. For a night a year, the club closes its doors for a private event and hosts Dennis’ exuberant celebration of the passage of time. Each year Dennis chooses a theme every guest has to conform to and, at the end of the night, the best dressed wins a coupon for an all-you-can-drink night at the club.

The theme changes every year and it never fails to be one of the main entertainment factors of the party. There are no rules as long as you don’t go out of theme, at the all-pink clothes, a man showed up in a miniscule pink thong that hid absolutely nothing and pinks stilettoes, nothing else, suffice to say, he won the prize. At the animal print party, a woman came in a t-shirt with a cow printed on it and the phrase I love moosic, technically, since it was an animal print, it was allowed, another man wore a full-body tiger costume and, after a few drinks, started roaring at the crowd of people. Fun night that one. At the gender-swap party, Draco discovered how good he looks in a miniskirt, crop top and high heels. He has done some more venturing into women clothing after that, always with great success.

Draco’s invitation for this year’s party has been sitting in his desk drawer since February, somehow, with the hell that went on in the past weeks, Draco has managed to forget about it.

Great.

“Dray? ...You forgot didn’t you?” Jacob’s voice cuts through Draco’s thoughts.

“Maybe.”

Jacob groans. “Draaay…”

“I know, I know. I’ll be there.” Draco promises.

“YES! Trust me, it’s gonna be epic…”

And just like that, Jacob starts telling Draco all about his outfit for tomorrow. This year’s theme is Disney movies and Jacob has decided to be Hercules.

“…and I found this great place that makes custom clothing and I had Hercules’ armour done and even the wristbands and the belt …”

“.. it even has a cape …”

“…I’ve found a wig that’s just the right colour…”

“…the sandals are so cool man…”

“… and I even have a sword!...”

Draco listens, hums every once in a while, asks questions and makes a few comments. He’s so distracted with trying to follow every little detail of Jacob’s description that he passes by the doorman of his building with just a brief wave in his direction, entirely missing the man’s gestures as he tries to tell him something.

“Hey man, if you haven’t yet decided what to do, you can be Meg! So we can be a couple.”

“NO!” Draco hastily says, then he realizes he might have been a bit rude and he backtracks. “I mean, you know me, if I have to impersonate a woman, it has to at least be a proper villain.” He explains.

There’s silence for a few seconds on the line and Draco takes the elevator up to his floor.

“Yeah man, sure.” Jacob says just as Draco sets foot on the tenth and last floor. With the phone between shoulder and ear and his shopping bags in one hand, he searches his pockets for his keys. He somehow always fails to find them on the first try.

“I’ll see you at the club yes?” Jacob asks just as Draco successfully locates his keys and takes them out as he rounds the corner of the corridor that leads to his apartment.

“Yeah I’ll–” Draco stops mid-sentence and mid-step.

What the FUCK.

Draco clears his throat. “I’ll meet you there. Now excuse me, but I have to go.” He ends the call without waiting for the other man to answer.

There are times when he comes home to find his neighbour, Beth Norris, an elderly woman with no family and just a few friends, waiting for him outside his door with a plate of freshly baked biscuits or a cake. The old lady lives alone and, for whatever reason, she has taken a liking to Draco, sometimes she stops by because she thinks Draco isn’t eating enough and it’s up to her to save him from his destructive eating habits, despite Draco having explained her that he follows a healthy and balanced diet and that she needs not worry. Other times she stops by just to have a chat, Draco thinks she’s lonely, but, being lonely himself, he really doesn’t mind the company. Although, every time he calls her Mrs. Norris, he has to forcibly stop himself from laughing as his brain jumps directly to Hogwarts and that godawful cat.

The individual at his door is holding something, but it’s not food, it’s a potted plant and this person is not an eighty-something woman with too little to do and a lot of stories to tell, it’s a man. A twenty-seven year old man who’s smiling at Draco like they’re friends, but Draco doesn’t have friends and especially not him. If Draco hadn’t been distracted as he entered his building, the doorman would have told him that there was someone waiting for him and spared him the shocked look.

It takes Draco a few moments to regain his bearings and actually make the connection between brain and mouth work.

“Potter.”

It’s not a greeting. It’s an acknowledgment of the person currently blocking Draco’s way to his apartment.

“Hey Malfoy.”

“Wha-what are you doing here?” Draco asks, pretty confused as to why Potter could be waiting for him with a plant.

It would be more likely for Potter to be waiting for Draco with an arrest warrant, but he clearly isn’t here for that, he’s still smiling.

Draco waits for Potter to answer, the man looks like he’s forgotten his reason for being here, then he looks at the plant in his hands and brightens like he’s just found the answer to the million-dollar question.

Suspicious.

“I…er…the other day, when you took me home…” at that he blushes and Draco can’t help but mirror the blush at the sentence when you took me home, it’s still better than when you kidnapped my unconscious body.

“I just…I left in kid of a hurry, you see, there had been an emergency, but now that it’s over, I wanted to properly thank you for helping me.”

Draco is suitably surprised, but no less skeptical.

Nevertheless, if he wants to know if Potter is lying or not, he has to keep the conversation going.

He walks past Potter and opens the door, holding it open in invitation for Potter, who gets the hint and steps inside.

“There’s no need to thank me Potter, it was nothing.”

Potter shrugs, like to him it’s the normal thing to do. Draco wonders if for him it’s a regular occurrence to pass out at clubs and wake up in random houses.

He leads him to the living room, where Potter takes a seat on the couch while Draco takes out his wand and unshrinks his shopping, placing the bags on the floor, he notices Potter’s gaze lingering on Draco’s wand and he remembers that, for a while, the hawthorn wand had belonged to the Saviour.

Thinking of that, makes Draco realize that the first murder this wand has been responsible for, wasn’t Draco’s doing. Draco doesn’t know if it makes him feel better or worse, just like Potter, who used an expelliarmus to rebound Voldemort’s curse, Draco doesn’t directly use his wand to kill, which renders it virtually innocent, but that’s just a futile attempt at reasoning, magically or not, he is still killing people. He decides that the debate on whether an inanimate object could be considered either guilty or innocent of murder can be postponed.

Instead, Draco focuses on the plant in Potter’s hands for the first time, initially he thinks it could be mint, though Draco can’t find a reason for Potter to be carrying it around, but then he takes a better look.

“Is that … catnip?”

Potter looks decidedly embarrassed, but manages to smile sheepishly.

“Yes…er…it’s for Pongo.”

As if on cue, the little beast saunters into the room, nose in the air as if sniffing the present. Pongo walks up to Potter, circles his legs a couple of times, rubs his furry body against Potter and then, the traitor stands on his little hind paws and rubs his nose on Potter’s hand, meowing loudly.

The bastard.

“Are you trying to win over my cat Potter?” Draco asks feigning annoyance, while instead he’s quite amused.

“What if I am?” Potter asks with a cheeky grin.

Draco loses his annoyed expression. “Then I think your plan is working.”

For a moment they sit there in comfortable silence, slightly smiling at each other, then Pongo makes a grab for the plant and manages to topple himself over his own paws and ends up sprawled out on the floor, looking very confused.

At this, Draco laughs so much he has tears shining in the corners of his eyes and Potter seems to be in the same condition.

Carefully, Draco picks up the cat and places him on the couch between himself and Potter, Pongo curls up in a ball, probably trying to hide from the embarrassment.

Potter hands Draco the plant, who places it on the low table in front of the couch and, with his wand, he creates a sort of protective bubble around it, this way Pongo won’t be able to completely destroy it or get high on it all the time.

“How strong is this catnip?” Draco asks warily, because if it’s magical catnip and it’s meant for kneazles, then it’s going to have double the effect on a regular cat and Draco really doesn’t want Pongo trying to climb the walls.

“Er…” Potter scratches the back of his neck in a nervous gesture “I’m not sure, I kind of just … well, I asked McGonagall which type she liked and she recommended that one.”

Draco blinks “You-” he blinks again “You asked McGonagall which drug she prefers when she gets high in cat form?” he asks because he’s not sure if he’s heard correctly.

Potter’s blush is starting to be a permanent feature on the brunet’s face and Draco does not find it cute, not even slightly.

“I…uh…I did. We’re…well…we’re not friends, that would be a bit too strange, but we’re close.”

Draco doesn’t have trouble believing that. During their school years, Potter had managed to charm almost every teacher, with the exception of those who’d tried to kill him and Snape. Of course the old lioness, fiercely protective of her Gryffindors, has kept in contact with her favourite students. Draco imagines Potter, Weasley and Granger regularly meet with the now Headmistress for tea and biscuits.

“Thank you, from both Pongo and myself.” He says, because Potter really didn’t have to come back to thank Draco for his help the other night and he especially didn’t have to think of Pongo. Draco is touched.

Potter gently pets Pongo and the cat uncurls himself, moving from his spot in favour of dumping his furry butt on Potter’s lap who chuckles and keeps petting him with renewed vigour.

Draco feels so betrayed.

At the same time he would gladly switch places with Pongo.

“Would you like something to drink?” Draco asks to break the silence and because he has manners.

“Sure. What do you have to offer?”

Oh you don’t want to know that my dear.

“Coca-Cola?”

Potter looks surprised by Draco’s very muggle choice of drink, but accepts happily.

Draco uses his trip to the kitchen to take stock of the situation.

Harry Potter is in his house, again. Draco is both happy and bothered by it.

He says he wants to thank Draco. Draco doesn’t know what to think about it, it might be an excuse to spy on him or genuine kindness.

He has brought a present for Pongo. Adorable.

He is sitting in Draco’s living room, dressed in simple black t-shirt and jeans that show all the muscles he has gained during the years. Yummy.

Still, the whole thing seems suspicious to Draco, he’s not sure he can trust Potter. Kingsley hasn’t found anything on Draco at the Ministry yet, or Draco would have been made aware of an investigation on him. It doesn’t mean there is nothing.

The only way he can find out, is by waiting for Potter to play his game and see where it leads to. After all, the man is here to thank Draco and then he’ll be gone, there is no reason for Draco not to enjoy the time he has left with the subject of most of his fantasies.

He comes back from the kitchen with two bottles of chilled cola and two coasters, because the table is mahogany and he won’t have it ruined by the condensation.

They drink quietly for a while, both men savouring the cold beverage in the warm evening.

“Are you going to Dennis’ party tomorrow?” Potter asks when half the contents of his bottle are gone.

“You know Dennis?” is Draco’s shocked answer.

Potter shrugs. “The club is just a block from my house, I’ve been there a lot.”

“Oh.” So Potter lives in Islington, good to know. It’s really not that far from Draco, it’s strange that they’ve never met each other before last week.

“So are you going?”

“I think so, yes.”

“And your costume?”

I have no idea, I’ve just been reminded of the party.

“Surprise.” Is what he says.

Potter pouts, Draco doesn’t budge, but only because he actually has no idea of what he’s going to wear, otherwise the puppy eyes would have made him cave in seconds.

“What are you going to wear?” Draco asks curiously.

Potter smirks, something Draco has to get used to. “Surprise.”

Draco snorts, but concedes the point. “Fair enough.”

They lapse into another comfortable silence and Draco marvels at how easy it is to be with Potter when they’re not trying to insult or kill each other.

“I was thinking…”

Uh oh.

“I know you’ve said that it’s not necessary, but I’d really like to thank you properly for helping me out. Can I treat you to dinner one of these nights?”

Draco knows he needs to decline the offer. He needs to get rid of Potter as soon as possible and get on with his life and job. He needs to spend as little time as possible in the company of the other man in order to keep all his secrets, well…secret. He needs to be able to do his job without the knowledge that Potter could be observing him, studying him, trying to see if Draco is a bad guy or a good one. Draco has to leave behind this stupid infatuation with the shorter man and focus on doing his job quickly and efficiently. He needs to open his mouth and say that he’s thankful for the invitation, but that he thinks it's better for them to end all contacts here, that he doesn’t want their acquaintance to go on any further and that Potter should forget he’s ever seen Draco and go on with his own life in the Wizarding World, where Draco doesn’t have a place anymore.

He opens his mouth.

“Yes.”

Chapter Text

Bad decisions are not news to Draco.

At eleven, he used a kid’s economic status to insult him, just to look better in the eyes of a child he wanted as a friend, in return he lost every chance at ever having that friendship.

At twelve, when a girl smarter than him made a comment on how his father had used his influence to get Draco a spot on the Quidditch team, Draco had used such a foul word against her that, had he the ability to time-travel, he would go back to that moment and whack himself repeatedly with his Nimbus 2001.

At thirteen, his jealousy of Potter had made him behave like a dumbass at the wrong moment, resulting in a more than deserved hippogriff slap. The thin, long scar on his right forearm serves as a reminder of that bad decision.

Many other lousy decisions followed, all with the appropriate punishment. He was punched in the face, turned into a ferret and hit with one of Ginevra Weasley’s trademark Bat-Bogey Hexes, among the most memorable ones.

Draco is not a stranger to astronomically bad choices either, the mark on his arm being the first on the list.

Up until yesterday, the second on the list of Draco’s worst decisions ever, had been trusting his father blindly down the path to murdertown, now, Draco has another epically stupid choice to add.

Why the fuck did he say yes to Potter?

Why the FUCK did he say yes to Potter?

Draco is not stupid, on the contrary, he’s very bright, he has a rational mind, he’s perceptive, ingenious, resourceful, in the muggle world, they would say he has a high IQ, he can read very fast and memorize large amounts of data, elaborate it, extrapolate the relevant information and use it appropriately. He can tell whether something is a good idea or not, he can predict most of the consequences his actions may have, he can see connections, paths, options, he can calculate probabilities, choose the right strategy to solve his problems.

In short, he’s smart, exceptionally smart.

Then why the fuck did he say yes to Potter?

There is absolutely no rational reason for Draco to spend any more time in Potter’s company, on the contrary, there are multiple reasons why complying with Potter’s request is not only foolish, but borderline insane.

Draco ponders over the matter under the hot jet of the shower on Thursday morning, he’s always found both showers and baths to be perfect places for thinking.

Reason number one: Potter is an Auror.

It shouldn’t even need to be said, but Draco apparently hasn’t yet gotten the message in that thick skull of his.

Aurors are the enemy.

They shouldn’t be, but they are. The secrecy under which Draco has to work, allows him no friends, no allies. Death Eaters and Aurors are on the same level on this, they both cannot know about Draco. Having a meeting with Potter, who’s not only an Auror, not only the Head Auror, but a remarkable wizard with years of experience in catching killers, killers like Draco, is extremely dangerous.

Of course, not leaving a body, working in the shadows and killing people that are virtually untraceable and whose absence should go unnoticed, are all factors in Draco’s favour. It would be more likely for Potter to suspect Draco of something if there was an open investigation on a murder, which there isn’t.

Still, Aurors are good observer, they are trained to catch even the barest hint and deduce from that. A minimal misstep on Draco’s side and it’s all over.

Reason number two: Potter is a wizard.

This isn’t bad per se, Draco doesn’t have anything against wizardkind, or at least, not against good wizards. But his life is in the muggle world, he has no place among wizards anymore and spending time with a magical being…it would be like having a taste of home and then be forced to leave again. Spending time in Potter’s presence would be like sparking a miniscule flame of hope in Draco’s cold existence and let it grow until it warms Draco again, only to be extinguished when Potter inevitably leaves.

Draco has gone through it once, after the end of the war. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to suffer it all twice.

Reason number three: Potter is…well, Potter.

There is no other way to say it.

Even leaving out the part where Potter represents a threat for Draco’s job and life, we are still talking about Harry Potter.

During their school days Draco has abundantly demonstrated that he doesn’t know how to behave around Potter.

On their first encounter, Draco had met this young boy swimming in oversized clothes, a child he had never seen, hence not a pureblood from a prominent family and he had thought Oh, someone I can impress on my own, which seems pretty shallow, but up until that moment, Draco had only met people his parents had approved of, children of the sacred 28 or of former Death Eaters from the first wizarding war, though Draco hadn’t been aware of that at the time. Basically, his friends had been chosen for him since birth and, since the Malfoys were the most powerful family, every child had been instructed on giving Draco the respect he was owed. Pansy, Greg, Vince, Theo and the Greengrass girls, all children selected by Draco’s parents, all children whom Draco had spent time with since he’d been old enough to play with others, all children that had been taught how to behave in Draco’s company, all of them had needed to be Draco’s friends, but whether or not they had wanted to be, at eleven, Draco hadn’t been able to tell.

So, when he had met a boy in a clothes shop, he had seen him as an opportunity to make a friend on his own for the first time. Of course, having been taught from a young age that he was better than others and having never had reason to doubt it, he had tried to befriend the boy in the only way he had known, by showing off. Looking back, Draco can see how wrong he had been, but at the time, he hadn’t had the knowledge necessary to imagine a scenario in which his particular set of traits could be unappreciated. The encounter had left him confused and disappointed.

Once he had understood that the boy he had met and failed to impress was none other than the Harry Potter, he had decided to try again to befriend the other child, unfortunately, not having learnt anything from the previous time, he had made the same mistake twice, flouting his status in front of Potter and trying to make himself look better by demeaning others, in that case, Potter’s newly found friend, Ronald Weasley.

Draco’s obnoxious behaviour that day had marked the beginning of a years-long rivalry. As demonstrated by Draco’s choices in those years, Draco has no idea how to relate to Potter. He knows how to taunt him, insult him, goad him, irritate the shit out of him until Potter snaps and curses start flying left and right, but he doesn’t know how to spend time with Potter as not-friends-but-not-enemies-either.

Potter, whose rejection had been Draco’s first failure. Potter, whose arrogance and sarcasm had aggravated Draco to no end. Potter and his ability to always be better than Draco. Potter and his talent for making friends as easily as breathing. Potter and his luck in always coming out of every situation victorious. Potter, who’d been venerated like a god by most of the school. Potter, whose fame had overshadowed Draco’s, making him realize that he was no one special after all. Potter, whose achievements had made the news every year, solidifying his reputation and ego. Potter, whose cocky smile when something had gone his way had first enraged Draco, then slightly irritated him, then intrigued him and finally, allured him. Potter, whose Quidditch skills had infuriated Draco, because Potter had received special treatment in their first year when Draco had not. Potter, who, Draco had had to admit, had deserved the special treatment because his skills had turned out to be sublime. Potter, whom Draco had hated having to watch as he’d flown circles around all the other players, Draco included. Potter, who, when Draco had gotten over his own jealousy, had been quite the sight to behold riding a broom, all lithe muscles, windblown messy hair and precise, hypnotizing harmony in his movements. Potter, who, every year, had come to Hogwarts skinny and unkempt, as if he had spent the summer out in the streets, eating out of garbage cans. Draco had hidden it well, but he had been relieved when Potter had slowly started to regain his weight and healthy appearance as the months went on. Potter, whom Draco had antagonized at every chance he had gotten, at first because he hated the guy – or so he’d thought – but after, he had realized that he purposefully looked for confrontations because he liked the way Potter came alive as they clashed and fought with words and wands. He had craved the attention of those mesmerizing green eyes, the spark of mischief behind the hero-façade, the cheeky grin he wore when he found new ways to insult Draco, to get back at him. It had been exhilarating, so much so that Draco had spent hours, days, planning pranks and tricks to see the spark again, to feel something that wasn’t the monotony of the Slytherin squad that had been assigned to him since birth.

Potter, whom Draco has had a crush on since he was fourteen.

It’s a cosmically bad idea, spending time with Potter, Draco knows it very well. But he also knows that he can’t decline such an offer, he just can’t, it’s too tempting. It’s the chance of having what he’s wanted for sixteen years. It may be just a dinner, but it’s still something.

It’s the occasion to observe Potter, to have those eyes on him, to hold his attention, to be heard for once, to try and show that Draco isn’t the asshole that went to Hogwarts, that he’s changed. He doesn’t know why it’s so important that Potter sees that Draco is a good person, it just is.

He could have gone all his life without ever seeing Potter again and he wouldn’t have had a problem with the Auror thinking that Draco is scum, but now he’s met him and he can’t ignore that. He needs to show Potter that he’s better, like he needs to breathe, it’s imperative.

Of course, he can’t deny that there is the more carnal side of him that has other reasons for wanting to see Potter again. The man is stunning. He’s a masterpiece of human creation.

The shaggy black hair that had once been unruly and catastrophically hopeless, is now stylishly wild, still curly, but artfully arranged to surround Potter’s face. Potter’s skin is flawless, obviously, smooth and tan as caramel as if Potter worked in some tropical location, not London. The famous lightning bolt scar has faded during the years, at school it had been mostly pink, but Draco had noticed it sometimes changed to an angry red and something bad always happened concurrently. Now the scar is a faint white line, as if it has somehow achieved its purpose and it’s now nothing but a reminder of Potter’s story. Potter’s nose is slightly crooked, Draco guesses he’s to blame for that. Potter’s face has never been chubby, but as an adult, it’s defined by sharp cheekbones – though not as sharp as Draco’s – and a strong jaw which instead, Draco doesn’t have, not that he has ever received any complaints about his more gentle appearance. Potter’s lips are pink and full and look incredibly soft, but the more noticeable feature on Potter’s face, are his eyes. Draco has seen them behind those thick-framed glasses, he’s seen the behind Potter’s new glasses just yesterday, the gold of the new frames making the golden speckles in Potter’s irises stand out, but he’s seen them better the other night outside the club, without the glasses in the way, the green had been amazingly bright even under the dull light of the lamppost and Draco has the image still clear in his mind.

Obviously, Potter’s face isn’t the only good feature. Even without seeing them, Draco knows Potter is completely covered in muscles, steely muscle cords running from his neck to his feet, he’s felt them, when Potter collapsed on him on Friday night. Potter isn’t a body-builder, he’s not that kind of muscled, he’s toned, very, very well-toned, which is why his Head Auror uniform looks so good on him. He has broad shoulders and a slim waist, his figure is still lean, like it was in school, it means Potter has kept up with Quidditch during the years. Draco remembers how good Potter had looked in his Gryffindor jersey during the matches, every detail of his body had been on display for Draco to take in with hungry eyes. Potter's legs had been a bit skinny in school with slightly knobby knees, but the way his thighs had hugged the broom, the strong grip, the confidence with which he had moved in the air, it made up for every imperfection. Plus, the way Potter’s backside had looked clad in skin-tight leather pants had been sinful. Almost all of Draco’s wank fantasies age thirteen to sixteen had portrayed Potter in his Quidditch uniform in various degrees of undress, he had been basically obsessed with Potter’s ass, he had imagined it under his palms, the soft skin pliable in his hands, he had imagined kissing the round globes, biting them, sliding his cock between them to find the tight entrance they guarded and pushing into the forbidden heath of the beautiful seeker.

Maybe saying that he had been obsessed with that ass isn’t technically correct, because he still is obsessed with it and, as he stands under the hot spray of the shower and his mind conjures up images from his fantasies, Draco’s body reacts, just like it had done in his teenage years.

Draco feels his cock twitch, pulse and start to fill with blood, he could stop, he’d just need to turn the water mixer to cold and his little problem would disappear, but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t want to.

It’s been a stressful week and Draco is in dire need of some release, he could go to the gym and punch a bag until his knuckles bled, but it’s not the kind of release he needs at the moment.

After fourteen years of wanking to fantasies of Potter, Draco has no problem thinking up images and no shame in doing it.

As he holds his thickening length in one hand, he closes his eyes and his mind starts playing one of his recurring dreams. He sees Potter, dressed in his Head Auror uniform, thick burgundy fabric enveloping the sculpted body beneath. Potter’s eyes are focused on Draco, shameless as he starts undressing, first the dragonhide boots, then the cloak and the red robe.

Draco’s fingers play with the foreskin, sliding it up and down the head of his now fully erect cock, sending shivers through his body.

Potter is left in black dragonhide trousers and a white shirt, the first few buttons undone to reveal golden skin and a lightly haired chest. Nimble fingers pass from button to button, slowly uncovering a tantalizing sliver of skin from his neck to the waistband of his trousers.

Draco’s breath hitches as he begins stroking his cock, the warm water helps smoothing the slide of his palm against the soft skin. He has seen enough naked bodies to know what a muscular man looks like and it’s easy for his mind to overlap those images to fantasy-Potter.

Potter slides his shirt from his shoulders and lets it fall to the floor and Draco moans, his cock getting even harder and he slips a hand down to fondle his heavy balls. It’s been too long since he’s had any kind of sexual release and he knows he’ll be finished before Potter has lost all his clothes, he doesn’t care, he just keeps stroking, faster and faster to an almost brutal pace, his hand tightening his grip.

Potter skims his hands on his torso, caressing first his chest, rubbing his nipples and pinching them lightly, letting out an hushed groan as the nubs harden under his touch, then his hands move further downwards, to his abs, his waistband and finally his covered erection, straining against the leather. Potter’s fingers trail along the length of his member and Draco feels the tell-tale tingle at the base of his spine that signals the impending release, he doesn’t try to keep in his moans as he gets closer to the edge, his walls are soundproof and he wouldn’t care either way, he’s too caught up in his pleasure to think of anything else. Potter slips his hard prick out of his trousers and Draco is done. With a loud cry all the tension of the previous days bursts out, splattering the black tiles of Draco’s shower wall with rope after rope of white creamy essence. Draco shudders and gasps as his body sags, finally relaxed. He watches as the water cleans everything up, leaving behind gleaming black tiles, erasing every trace. Draco’s breathing is laboured, his chest heaving, but his mind is calm, wrapped in a cocoon of blissful emptiness.

It's ten in the morning, he’s been awake for less than an hour, most of it spent in the shower, but Draco is sleepy again. He blames the orgasm for it, but he’s not really bothered by it, he dries himself with a fluffy towel and puts on his new black boxers, they hug his ass snugly, outlining the round globes Draco is quite proud of, if everything goes alright, tonight someone else will remove them, probably Jacob.

Since he’s just showered, he has no intention of going out running, but he still needs to check the park to see if Shacklebolt has anything to say to him, therefore, he puts on some casual clothes and heads out after making sure Pongo has had his breakfast.

The sky is cloudy, but the air is hot and humid, it’s getting ready to rain, which isn’t unusual for London, but Draco doesn’t have an umbrella with him and umbrella charms can’t be used in a muggle neighbourhood. He just hopes the weather keeps for a little while longer.

Regent’s Park is almost empty, only a few families have decided to brave the weather and Draco, as he walks,  watches the children run after each other and try to feed the ducks. Ducks. Draco shudders, he doesn’t like ducks, he always gives them a wide berth when he visits the pond.

Not seeing any ribbon from Shacklebolt, Draco decides to go back home. On the way, he stops at a Starbucks for an iced tea, it doesn’t have much in common with real tea, but it’s sweet and refreshing, exactly what Draco needs now. The barista looks at him weirdly when he tells her his name, but by now Draco is used to it and doesn’t even bat an eye when his drink comes to him with Ray written on it. Close enough.

The tea is a balm for Draco’s heated body, even if he’s just walked around not doing much physical activity, he drinks from the straw the golden citrusy liquid and lets out a satisfied sigh.

It’s the little things that make life worth it, even a cup of icy, subpar, chemically produced, far from natural tea. 

He reaches his building as the first drops of rain start falling, lucky him.

When he gets to his apartment door, he finds, once again, someone waiting for him.

“Hello Mrs. Norris.” He greets the old woman with an easy smile, eying the plate of gingerbread biscuits in her hands appreciatively.

“Hello Draco dear. Enjoying your summer?” she asks, as if she hasn’t spoken to him less than a month ago.

“It’s rather dull, I’m afraid.” He says as he goes to open his door and motions to her. “Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?” he offers.

“Oh dear, I wouldn’t want to impose on a young man’s busy life.”

“You don’t Mrs. Norris, it’s a pleasure for me and I’m sure Pongo would love to see you again.” He butters her up, though they both know that the old woman longs for someone to talk to, but she’s too shy to ask directly for what she wants. Draco doesn’t mind playing the part of the eager one, mostly because he’s just as eager as she is for some company, even if coming from an unlikely source.

“In that case…I have biscuits.” She says wiggling the plate and smiling sheepishly.

How this woman doesn’t have more friends, it’s a mystery to Draco. She’s adorable and her baking skills are truly extraordinary. Draco doesn’t see her often, sometimes once a month, sometimes not for a few months, he never hears anything from her side of the walls their apartments share and it’s not because of the soundproofing, since his own is magical and works from inside his house outwards and he’s frequently reminded of its lack on the other side by his downstairs neighbour and his multiple conquests, apparently the guy has a thing for screaming women and Draco a collection of ear plugs.

But from Mrs. Norris, not a peep. No sound of the television, no music, no one talking, no clatter of pots, pans and dishes at mealtimes, nothing. If Draco was a muggle, he would say she’s like a ghost, but he’s met quite a few ghosts and they rarely are silent. He’s never seen anyone coming to visit her, no family, no friends, she’s so lonely that Draco pities her, even he has someone to pass the time with, he if wants to, though he’s not sure the old woman would appreciate Jacob’s talents as much as he does.

Draco lets her inside and she immediately heads for the living room, in the past years, she’s been here a lot of times and she knows her way around. Draco has never been inside her house, he always finds the woman waiting for him at his door, or she directly knocks when he’s home, so he’s never had reason to go to hers, it doesn’t bother him though, he feels better in his own space.

As they get to the living room, he mentally sighs as he remembers he’s put Pongo’s catnip in his study, it would have been hard to explain the magical protective bubble around it to the muggle woman.

While Mrs. Norris cuddles a pliant Pongo, Draco goes to the kitchen to prepare the tea, he takes out his tea set, which he uses only with Mrs. Norris, and places the kettle on the stove. Waiting for the water to boil he searches his cabinets for the Rooibos blend he keeps for these occasions, Mrs. Norris doesn’t drink black tea, he found out on their first meeting almost five years ago, when she moved next door, something about too much caffeine if he’s not wrong. Draco loves caffeine, in every form, coffee, tea, energy drinks, sodas, chocolate, everything really, he needs it to keep his system running, therefore, the Rooibos lays abandoned in his cabinet until Mrs. Norris comes knocking.

Once the tea is ready, he carries it to the living room.

“Here you go Mrs. Norris.” He says handing her a cup, saucer and spoon, he places the tray on the coffee table, making sure the sugar bowl is nearest to the woman, she may not like caffeine, but she sure loves sugar.

“You, my dear Draco, are spoiling me.” she says as she dumps three spoonfuls of sugar in her cup, Draco hides his grimace, the Rooibos is already sweet, like that it must taste like melted candies, but to each their own.

They drink in silence for a few minutes, sometimes, company doesn’t require talking, Draco grabs a gingerbread biscuit and takes a bite. Mmmmm...delicious.

“So, who was the young gentleman I saw here yesterday?” she asks and Draco chokes on his mouthful of tea, almost spitting it out, of course he doesn’t, that would be uncouth, but he hastily swallows and clears his throat.

“Hum…what gentleman?” he tries to feign ignorance, but the old woman doesn’t fall for it.

“You know which one.” She says meaningfully “The handsome one.”

Draco doesn’t blush, of course he doesn’t, the warmth on his face is due to the tea, no other reason.

“Oh…er…he’s…well, he’s…”

What the fuck is Potter? A friend? Nope. An enemy? Hopefully not anymore. A lover? Only in his dreams.

“He’s an old acquaintance.” He settles on. Potter is so much more than that, but the woman doesn’t need to know.

She raises and eyebrow.

“And what did such a good-looking acquaintance want, waiting for you? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Draco minds, very much, but the old woman doesn’t have a particularly exciting life, he can indulge her curiosity.

“We saw each other last week after a long time and I helped him with something. He wanted to thank me, he brought a plant for Pongo.”

He’s not technically lying, he’s just omitting about 99 percent of the story, still, not lying.

“How nice of him. And tell me, are you going to see each other again?”

She has a glint in her eyes that Draco doesn’t like, he’s seen it before.

“Possibly,” He concedes, “but nothing’s going to happen.” he adds before the woman can say anything else.

She often complains about Draco’s lack of a permanent partner and she always tries to get him to admit his love interests and encourages him to try before denying himself the possibility of a future with someone. Said by a woman who has never been married, has no kids or any kind of family of her own, Draco doesn’t know if he should follow her advice or risk ending up like her. Both options are unfavourable.

She pouts. “Come on dear, you are two very attractive young men, it would be a waste not to even try.”

Doesn’t he know that. Unfortunately, Potter is completely off limits. Draco has agreed to have dinner with him, yes, one dinner and then goodbye, he just wants to know what it feels like to be in Potter’s company, but he knows that nothing will come of it, he knows he can’t have Potter and that’s okay. Plus, he doesn’t even know if Potter is gay, or bi, or whatever, the man is extremely reserved and even the most meddlesome reporters haven’t managed to discover anything about his private life after Ginny Weasley was killed, Draco would know if it was otherwise.

“We’ll see.” Draco says, but only to make the woman drop the matter.

After that, they spend an hour talking about frivolous things like the weather, always unpredictable, the government, always unreliable, the summer tourists, too boisterous. In short, they complain for an hour straight about things that bother them.

When Mrs. Norris leaves, Draco eats a late lunch and then throws himself in his closet, not the metaphorical one, his actual closet, to find something to wear for Dennis’ party tonight. He has only six hours before it starts and he still hasn’t chosen the Disney character he wants to be. Thank Someone for magic, or he would never be able to create a costume fast enough.

His closet looks small from the outside, but the inside is like Narnia’s passage to a world of fabrics, prints and styles. It looks like a normal closet, one metre wide, two metres tall, half a metre deep, enough if you have just a few items of clothing, but definitely nothing for Draco. Not even his shoes fit in this space.

When he opens the wooden doors, there is a single line of clothes hung there for show, he doesn’t actually wear them, unless he’s forgotten to do the washing. He walks right through them, where the wall should be, and feels the shimmer of magic on his skin, like passing through a curtain of water, but without the resulting wetness.

His actual closet is almost as big as his bedroom, all made out of wizarding space, obviously. The walls are completely covered by clothes and accessories and organized by style. The elegant outfits, suits, dress pants, tuxedos, dress shirts are on one side, casual clothing on the other, in the middle is the sportswear and home clothes, one wall is dedicated to his shoes and various accessories like ties, belts, watches, rings, sunglasses, hats, scarves and gloves.

Draco walks past everything, going straight to the farthest corner where, after his underwear section, his collection of women’s clothing is stashed.

He doesn’t have much, a few skirts, blouses, tank tops, underwear, some dresses and a variety of heels, some jewellery and bags. He usually doesn’t go outside dressed like this unless he needs it for a mission or for something he’s planned with one of his partners, but tonight is a special occasion.

He looks through his clothes, but there isn’t anything right for what he has in mind, luckily for him, he has a wand and a former best friend with an obsession with clothing design who made him learn every tailoring spell she managed to find.

Thanks Pansy.

He knows he can do just about anything with magic, the problem now, is that he needs to choose which movie he will take his appearance from. He goes back to his living room, next to his television he has placed a cabinet where all his DVDs are neatly arranged by genre and then reversed alphabetically, all Disney movies are together and Draco skims the titles to see if anything catches his attention.

There are a lot of possibilities, the characters in each movie are a lot, Draco likes villains, he’s not really the princess type and he certainly isn’t the hero. Luckily for Draco, every movie worth its plot needs a villain to counter the lovey-dovey perfect couple whose story is being told, which means that Draco has quite a few options.

He looks at the titles for a while and…there! Perfect.

Now he just needs to do a little magic trick.

It takes him two whole hours to transfigure and tailor everything he needs, but the final product is excellent.

With four hours to spare he goes to his office and decides to work out. He begins with a bit of stretching, then goes to the treadmill, which he uses when outside it’s raining, he runs for half an hour then stretches some more. He goes to an empty area and starts jumping. Merlin he hates jumping, but he does it anyway. Next, is the rope, yet more jumping, yay. He moves to the weights, he doesn’t need big muscles, he’s built but not excessively so, he just works on maintaining his muscle mass. The abs are the last on his training schedule and he does a few hanging leg raising then he moves to the floor, he does twists and crunches and then he ends with the plank. As he watches the floor, waiting for the minute to pass, he feels his whole body burning, but he breathes through it.

He completes his workout with a fifteen-minute run and yet some more stretching.

He jumps in the shower, drenched in sweat and carefully washes his blond hair, it now reaches his shoulders, it’s time for a cut, he’ll set an appointment for sometime next week. Next he scrubs his body, thoroughly removing every trace of dirt, sweat and dead skin. When he exits the shower his skin is a bit red from the scrubbing and he takes out one of the soothing balms and moisturizing lotions he brews in his free time, he massages them into the irritated skin and it immediately turns back to its usual cream colour, soft and vanilla scented. He dries his hair and puts on a bathrobe to cover himself as he goes to the kitchen and starts making himself dinner, the open bar at the party will be lethal if he doesn’t put something in his stomach first. As the water for his pasta boils, he takes out a can of tuna for Pongo and starts setting the table for himself.

Twenty minutes later he has a steaming plate of ragù fettuccine and he digs in with gusto, making everything disappear in a heartbeat.

Satisfied with his meal, he sends the plate and cutlery flying to the sink and, as they start to wash themselves, he goes to get ready.

First is his appearance, he moves in front of his bathroom mirror and transfigures his hair, changing its colour, if asked, he can say he’s dyed it. Then he takes out a bag from under his sink, it contains an assortment of makeup he’s gathered along the years, it’s nothing exceptional, just the basics. Thankfully, the skin of his face is in good state, no pimples or scars marring it and Draco can avoid foundation and concealer, he doesn’t like the feeling of them on his skin, instead, he applies a light glamour to cover his eye bags, discreet enough to not be noticeable by muggles.

His eyes need to be green, not grey and another spell takes care of that, of course, he could have used coloured contact lenses, but he’s tried them in the past and they are awfully uncomfortable.

He uses some green eyeshadow on his eyelids and adds some black mascara to accentuate his long lashes.

The final touch is a red lipstick and he’s done.

He goes to his room, puts on his outfit and shoes, takes his bag, which is basically empty – and how women can fill theirs with so much stuff is unexplainable – and takes off for the night.

After passing a shocked Mrs. Norris on the way to the elevator, he decides to cast a glamour around himself to hide his clothes, he might be okay with a bit of extravaganza in a club with everybody else doing the same, but walking around London in a tight black dress and red high heels isn’t really his usual style and he doesn’t want to give a heart attack to the elderly people living in his building.

He takes a taxi to the nightclub and in just ten minutes he’s outside the doors, he slips his wand out of his bag and removes his glamour in the car, making sure to cast a confounding charm on the driver as to not shock him as his clothes change. Once ready to go out, he casts a light compulsion charm on the driver, advising him to wait ten minutes before driving again, this way the effects of the confounding charm will be vanished and he will be able to drive without risking his life or others’.

A stylishly dressed but otherwise unremarkable man boarded the taxi in front of Draco’s building, now, Cruella De Vil steps foot on the pavement.

From the half-black-half-white hair, to the red stilettoes, Draco has his costume down to the smallest detail, black stockings, black dress – particularly tight around his ass and with a deep neckline that shows his collarbones – long red gloves, green earrings and ring on his right hand and obviously, the cream fur coat with the red interior and matching purse with the foxtails. He compliments himself on his skills, considering that the dress and coat had been a nightgown and bathrobe when he had started transfiguring them.

Draco approaches the doors of the club, takes his invitation out of his bag and hands it to one of the two bouncers guarding the entrance. They both know him, so it’s more of a formality, but it’s the rules and Draco follows them. He catches the one not reading the invitation checking him out, he knows he looks very good and he winks seductively at the man who smirks at him, a silent question in his eyes. Draco shrugs, he’s fucked him before and wouldn’t mind doing it again, he’ll have to see how the night goes and what Jacob wants to do. He wouldn’t be opposed to a threesome either, so maybe they’ll manage to please everyone, hopefully multiple times in a row.

As he’s let into the club, he’s immediately engulfed in a joyous and loud atmosphere, the party has started an hour ago, but Draco likes to be fashionably late. He notices heads turn in his direction as he walks up to the bar, he’s definitely chosen the right costume. He’s left his coat at the entrance, but the rest of his clothes, although not particularly flashy, are enough to catch the eye.

He sips on a dirty martini as he surveys the room. Most of the people are already drunk or halfway there and are grinding on each other on the dancefloor and kissing in dark corners.

“Well hello there.” He hears from behind his back and he turns to find a grinning Dennis dressed as Prince Charming from Cinderella. How cliché, but he’s the birthday boy and he can do whatever he wants at his party.

“Are you here to charm me?” Draco asks cornily because he can’t help himself.

Dennis snorts. “Don’t you have puppies to steal, Cruella?”

“That’s for the weekend.”

“Oooh, right.”

“Happy birthday mate.” Draco says, patting Dennis on his back, it’s not a very affectionate gesture, but for Draco, who knows a lot of people and is close to none, is like a two-minute hug and Dennis knows this, which is why he grins widely.

“Thanks man. Enjoy the party.” Dennis says, then leaves to greet someone else like the good host he is and Draco is left with his drink and a bunch of ogling drunks dressed as cartoons characters.

It’s not the most absurd party he’s been to, but it sure is a peculiar experience, Draco doesn’t think he’ll have another chance to see Goofy making out with Maleficent and Jafar grinding his ass against Peter Pan.

It’s a great party. The music is thumping, people are dancing, screaming, singing, drinking and generally having a good time.

“Dray!”

There’s only one person who calls him that. Draco turns his gaze and finds Jacob smiling like a lunatic up at him.

He considers the man’s outfit, he can’t say that the Hercules look doesn’t suit him. Jacob is not very tall, about six inches less than Draco, but what he doesn’t have in height he makes up in other ways.

He’s very muscular, way more than Draco, he’s a personal trainer and uses his own body to show how good he is at his job, plus, he often trains outside, which means that his skin is deliciously tan.  

He’s attractive, he has wavy dark brown hair that he always artfully arranges in a windswept/just shagged look that Draco finds a bit forced, but that compliments his face well, his baby blue eyes are always shining with happiness and his pink pouty lips are a delight to bite and suck on.

And what the man can do with his dick. God, if sex was an Olympic sport Jacob would have a ton of gold medals. Draco doesn’t often bottom, on the contrary, he takes great pleasure in dominating his partner, man or woman, but with Jacob, well, there really isn’t any other option, first of all, because while Draco switches regularly, Jacob is only a top, secondly, because that man uses his dick like a pro and Draco would never deprive himself of such a good fuck for something as trivial as bottoming.

He is well aware that the tan skin, dark hair, light eyes and muscular body are the main features of another person Draco has been attracted to for years. The resemblance between Jacob and Potter is superficial, but strong, Draco knows that looking for surrogates since he can’t have the real one is not really healthy, nor fair in Jacob’s regards, but the arrangement they have is purely sexual, which means that they are both using each other and that eases Draco’s mind.

Jacob’s costume is well-made, it’s not one of those party costumes you find in shops, it’s clearly been made for him by a professional, and it’s tailored to fit on his body, accentuating his physique, leaving all his muscles on display. The leather tunic reaches just below his ass, his thick thighs bare for everyone to see. He holds a fake sword in one hand and a drink in the other, he’s the image of confidence and strength. Draco appreciates the view very much.

“Jacob.” He says in a low tone, tracing the neckline of his tunic with a gloved finger. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too man. So Cruella eh? Suits you.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Because I look good in a dress? Or because I’m a baddie?” he asks with a smirk.

“Both.” Jacob replies, his voice a bit husky.

Draco keeps running his fingers on Jacob, his neck, shoulders, biceps, jaw. “If I’ve been bad, I guess I’ll need to be punished, don’t you think?”

Jacob swallows and Draco watches his Adam’s apple bob. “Absolutely.”

“And you’ll help, won’t you? After all, you’re the hero.” He says with an exaggerated eagerness, but his eyes hold a spark of mischief and he sees the excitement reflected on Jacob’s face.

“I suppose it’s my duty, as a hero, to take care of the bad guys.” He reasons with a teasing grin.

“Will you take good care of me Mr. Hero?” Draco asks with the most innocent expression he can muster, his lips pouted and eyes wide.

“Oh I will, Cruella. But first, why don’t we take this fabulous ass on the dancefloor?” he asks pinching Draco’s backside through his dress, Draco holds back a moan and smiles complacently.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

They leave their empty glasses at the bar and Draco takes Jacob’s hand and lets himself be led to the middle of the moving mass of bodies. People make room for them, some stopping to look at the objectively impressive couple. Draco doesn’t mind being ogled and starts dancing against Jacob’s body, following the rhythm of the music and letting his body free, arms outstretched and hips swaying to the beat. His tight dress doesn’t impede his movements, but he’s sure all his assets are on display as the material stretches across his body, which is exactly what he wants.

Jacob is a good dancer and they have a good time, but it’s not enough and Draco steps even closer to the shorter man, their faces are inches apart, their ragged breathing hitting each other’s face and Draco wants more. He closes his eyes, leans in and kisses the other man hard, biting his lips and slipping his tongue inside the other’s mouth immediately. Jacob responds in kind, sliding his tongue against Draco’s and pushing back until he is the one exploring Draco’s mouth and commanding the kiss. Draco doesn’t mind, on the contrary, not having to control the kiss leaves him free to focus on other things, like bringing his hands to grip Jacob’s hair, even though it’s only a wig, and moving a leg in between Jacob’s, rubbing his thigh against the man’s crotch, feeling his dick harden at the contact, Jacob lets out a low moan and Draco swallows it.

Wanting to elicit even more arousing sounds from the other man, Draco turns around and starts grinding his ass against Jacob’s half-hard erection, while the man places his arms around Draco’s waist and bites his neck as Draco lays his head back against his shoulder.

It’s not very comfortable, since Draco is so much taller, to rub his butt on Jacob’s crotch he has to bend his knees, but it’s not a hard feat and the hardness he can feel poking at his bum is worth it.

They push against each other in a sensual dance, moving to their own rhythm, Draco knows they’re gathering the attention of the crowd and he wants to watch them as they watch his shameless show.

He opens his eyes…and he freezes.

Shit.

Round green eyes stare back at him.

How could he have forgotten that he would be here?

He feels Jacob ask him something, probably why he’s stopped, but he doesn’t mind him, he’s too busy staring into those eyes, then Potter blinks and the trance breaks, the problem is that now Draco looks at all of him, not only his eyes, and takes in his costume.

What in the actual fuck?! How…? This has to be the universe playing a sick joke.

Harry Potter is standing in the middle of the dancefloor, completely still and he’s dressed as a fucking Dalmatian.

There are hundreds if not thousands of different characters in the Disney movies and Potter has chosen a fucking dog? And not only a dog, but a Dalmatian! As if Draco’s life wasn’t already a joke, now he dresses up as a movie character and Potter chooses to be what that character wants most, typical. Can’t he have a damn minute without having to think about Potter and how much he wants him?

“Hey Dray, you ok?”

He hears Jacob's concerned voice and turns to look at him, plastering a smile on his face.

“Everything’s alright Jacob, just someone I know.” he tries to find Potter again, but the man has moved from his spot in the meantime and Draco searches the area.

“Looking for someone?” the words are whispered next to him and Draco jumps a little, turning to find himself face to face with Potter.

He gulps down the rush of emotions that hits him as his fake green eyes meet real ones and swallows to clear his throat.

“H-hello Potter.” He manages to say.

“Malfoy, long time no see.” Potter grins.

Draco rolls his eyes. 24 hours.

“Nice outfit.”

Potter trails his eyes up and down Draco’s body unabashedly and Draco blushes under the scrutiny.

“Thank you. You look good too.”

And he does, he’s wearing a white suit littered all over with black dots of various sizes, he has a pair of black lacquered shoes that shine under the strobe lights of the club and black gloves. On his face he’s drawn black circles on his nose and around his eyes that make the green stand out even more, he’s wearing a headband with dog ears attached, that flop around as he moves.

He’s a very cute dog.

Someone clears his throat and Draco realizes he must have been staring for an unknown amount of time. Potter has a slight smile on his face, he doesn’t seem to mind the attention.

“Who’s this?” it’s Jacob who asks the question and Draco suddenly remembers that he’s been standing there the whole time.

“Ugh…er…” he looks from Jacob to Potter and back again, he doesn’t know what to say. Thankfully, Potter saves him from any more stuttering. He holds out his hand to Jacob.

“I’m Harry, Draco’s friend.”

What? Since when?

“Jacob.”

The two men shake hands and observe each other. Draco has now the chance to see them one next to the other and, although the similarities are there, he notices the differences more.

Potter is at least three or four inches taller than Jacob, his hair is a lot messier and a lot darker, his eyes are bigger and brighter besides being a different colour. They are both very muscular, but, while Jacob leans on the burly side, Potter is all strength and compact muscles.

They’re not big differences taken one at a time, but all together, it’s like comparing, Coca-Cola and Pepsi, wands and sticks, dildos and cocks. Similar, but also completely different.

“So, did you two arrange the costumes?” Jacob asks and Draco hears a hint of bitterness and disappoint in his tone.

He remembers how he had rudely interrupted Jacob when he had suggested doing matching outfits, now it looks like his excuse for not wanting to do it, which was not wanting to be the girl but the villain, is just a lie used to cover his previous arrangement with Potter. His excuse was a lie, but it wasn’t covering Potter, it was covering Draco’s reluctance towards leading on Jacob's fantasy of their friendship even more. Still, although he doesn’t want to make Jacob think that there is something between them, he wants to clarify that there is nothing between himself and Potter more.

“No, it was a total surprise.” Draco says and Potter nods along. Jacob doesn’t look completely convinced.

“I like dogs.” Potter adds completely unnecessarily with a little shrug. Draco rolls his eyes, but can’t help finding him cute.

“I guess I like being cruel then.” Draco answers in kind.

Potter grins. “Or wearing women’s clothes.” He says, looking at Draco’s body again.

Draco blushes and he hopes the multi-coloured lights are able to cover it.

“Point.” He concedes.

Potter and Jacob stare at each other, Draco stares at them, no one talks.

Jacob looks mildly annoyed and confused by Potter’s presence, probably because he wants to stay with Draco and this interruption, especially by someone Draco knows and with whom he seems to be comfortable, is hindering his chances of having Draco for himself.

Potter, on the other hand, looks perfectly fine with the situation, he’s looking down at Jacob with a placid smile, but Draco can see the hint of a smirk in the way his lips curl, he knows he’s inconveniencing Jacob and he’s enjoying it.

The smug bastard.

Draco doesn’t know why he’s doing it, but Potter has to have seen Draco and Jacob dance and kiss, he knows they were in the middle of something, from the perspective of an outsider, Draco and Jacob look like a couple, they’re the only ones who know they actually aren’t, which means that Potter is interrupting them on purpose.

But why?

What does Potter have to gain from stopping whatever is going on between them?

Draco really doesn’t know.

“So…” Draco starts because they’ve been standing in the middle of the dancefloor without uttering a word for a while now.

It seems to break Potter and Jacob out of their gaze lock and they both turn to Draco who raises an eyebrow.

“Are you finished with the staring contest?” he drawls in a posh tone he knows it makes him sound bored and above the matter at hand.

“Yeah…er, I mean, we weren’t-” Jacob starts.

“You were.”

Jacob averts his gaze and blushes.

Potter looks amused, he takes one step back and looks at Draco.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Right, the dinner.

Draco nods and Potter gives him a real smile, flashing him his perfect teeth.

“Great, I’ll pick you up at seven.” He turns to Jacob. “Jacob, a pleasure to meet you.” With that, he turns and leaves, but not before winking at Draco, who blinks a few times to make sure he’s not hallucinating.

“Well, that was strange.” He comments as he watches Potter’s back disappear through the crowd.

“Do you know him well?” Jacob asks as they start heading towards the bar for another drink.

“Not really, he’s an old acquaintance from school, we hadn’t kept in touch until last week.”

Jacob's eyebrows furrow in confusion. “But he said he’s your friend.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “He was exaggerating.”

They both order their drinks and take a seat at one of the booths.

“If he’s not your friend, why are you going out with him?” Jacob asks after a minute or two.

Draco shrugs. “I helped him with something, he wants to thank me for it.”

“Are you going to sleep with him?”

The question surprises Draco, especially the jealousy he can hear behind it. He raises a questioning eyebrow.

“No.” he replies curtly and Jacob relaxes a bit “But it wouldn’t be any of your business if I did.” He adds, because the assumption that Jacob of anyone else has the right to pry into Draco’s private life, the right to demand any kind of information not pertinent to the relationship Draco has with that person, is a breach in Draco’s privacy he doesn’t allow.

“Yeah sure Dray.” Jacob looks and sounds a bit unhappy with Draco’s answer, but in the end, their relationship is almost non-existent, he’s known Draco for years and he knows that Draco is not the person who shares his life with others.

They keep drinking for another hour before, at one in the morning, the cake is brought out and everyone starts singing happy birthday to an embarrassed and wasted Dennis. The prize for best costume of the evening is assigned to a man dressed as Kuzco from The Emperor’s New Groove, the man portrays the character in mid transformation, his upper body is the human Kuzco, with the red robe, black wig, teal earrings and the gold collar and headpiece, from the waist down, he’s llama Kuzco, furry butt and all. He’s funny to look at and Draco laughs as the man walks to the front of the crowd with two working legs and two fake hind legs sliding on the floor. The crowd cheers, most of the people are too wasted to even comprehend what’s happening and are only shouting because everyone else is.

Draco and Jacob dance a little more, then say goodbye to Dennis and head out.

They take a cab to Jacob’s place in Kensington and in no time they are both naked and sobering up through physical activity.

Draco likes sex, obviously, and he likes sex with Jacob in particular. Tonight is no different, they take turns blowing each other before Jacob fucks every single drop of alcohol out of Draco’s system. It’s good and Draco enjoys it while it happens.

As he’s getting back to his apartment though, he feels marginally unsatisfied, despite the sex having been as good as always. There’s something nagging at his mind, a feeling of unfulfillment, frustration, even wrongness. He’s never felt like this and he doesn’t know why now things have changed.

He has time in his cab ride to think about the night. The party, the dancing, Jacob…and Potter.

After their exchange on the dancefloor, Draco hasn’t seen Potter throughout the night, not that he has looked for him. Still, he has the feeling that something has changed, the way Potter had looked at him, with unabashed scrutiny, the way he had stared at Jacob with satisfaction in his eyes as he made the other man uncomfortable and stopped him from spending time with Draco, the way he had winked at Draco before going away, as if alluding to something only they were privy to, but Draco didn’t know what. The only rational explanation is that Potter is somehow interested in Draco, which is impossible and not something Draco will even think about, because if there is one thing he doesn’t what to get his hopes up about, is the chance of having Potter for himself. He’s been disappointed too many times already and he is in no condition to bear any more.

Unfortunately, his tired brain isn’t able to find any other explanation for Potter’s odd behaviour, it’s unusual for Draco, who’s always too brainiac and often has too many explanations, as he lays in bed with Pongo curled on his chest, he reasons it must be the long day, after all, it’s past four in the morning and he’s been awake since nine yesterday.

Seeing no benefit in stressing out even more about something that is not under his control, he decides that, to get the answers he wants, he’ll have to directly ask the person in question. Luckily for Draco, he will meet him in just a few hours and he’ll be able to understand more then.

For now, he lets himself be lulled to sleep by the regular purrs of his little ball of fur.

Chapter Text

Pongo-the-asshole-alarm-clock wakes Draco up early on Friday morning, after three whole hours of sleep.

With a look at the actual alarm clock, Draco finds out it’s still only 7:30 in the morning and, with a groan, he rolls on his side and buries his face in the pillow, trying to block out the sunlight coming through the window and the irritating meowing. He manages okay with the former, but fails miserably with the latter. With a tired sigh, he rubs the sleep out of his eyes and gets up.

Sometimes he thinks that he should buy one of those machines that are programmed to give out a certain amount of cat food at certain times, this way he wouldn’t have to wake up so early, but then he remembers that he has already done that and that, not two hours after having bought the feeder, he had found Pongo with his head into the storage bowl. How the cat had managed to open the lid, is still a mystery to Draco, but after that, he had decided to simply go on feeding Pongo himself, this way he would be able to control the amount of food the little beast could get his paws on. Unfortunately, it means that getting woken up too early when he could sleep in, is part of the deal.

He almost blindingly walks to the kitchen, barely avoiding stubbing his toe on the corner of the kitchen island. That would have been a shitty start of the day.

As his coffee machine works its magic, filling Draco’s cup with liquid energy, he takes out some food for Pongo, who goes directly to his bowl without a thank you, nor a second glance towards Draco. Rude.

As soon as the coffee machine beeps, Draco’s cup is in his hands and he takes a sip of the brown goodness. Of course, in his eagerness to be a functioning human being, he forgot that coffee comes out of the machine scalding hot and he’s painfully reminded of it, when his tongue protests at the burning contact with the beverage. Ouch.

After a simple breakfast of toast and fruit, he heads to the bathroom for a shower and then he gets ready to go out. He’s promised the kids at The Nest that he would have chaperoned them on their trip to Diagon Alley and he never forgets a promise.

He’s not really in the mood for wearing robes, so instead, he puts on a pair of dark skinny jeans, a black long-sleeved shirt and his leather jacket. He makes sure to have his wand holster covering his mark for further precaution and applies the net of charms that makes him look like the man he’s impersonated the last time, black curly hair, blue eyes and silver rectangular frames to make his appearance even more unrecognisable.

He apparates to the orphanage with a twirl and lands in front of the entrance. Years and years of constant apparitions have perfected his aim incredibly.

He knocks on the door and waits. The woman that greets him this time is older than Draco, around 35 years old, she has curly red hair and round blue eyes, for a moment, Draco thinks he’s in front of one of the Weasley spawns, but then he remembers that they only had one daughter and that she’s been dead for years.

He banishes the depressing thought and smiles at the woman. “Hello, I’m Den-”

“Dennis, I know, the kids have been talking about you non-stop. I’m Lucy.”

The appropriate thing to do now, would be to politely shake the hand Lucy is holding out to him, but his brain is a bit confused.

“The kids have been talking about me?” he asks incredulous.

Lucy laughs, at least she doesn’t seem affected by Draco’s lack of manners.

“You’ve promised to accompany them to Diagon Alley, they have been waiting for you since the moment you left.” She says as if it’s obvious. These kids probably don’t have many occasions to leave the orphanage, he reasons.

“Well, then I’d say they’ve waited long enough.” he says with a wink.

Lucy leads him to the playroom, where all children go after breakfast.

As he steps inside the bright room, he’s welcomed with a chorus of Denny! and a few children run up to him.

He greets them all, thankful he’s managed to learn all the names and they start telling him what they’ve done during the week.

In the corner he notices a lone figure, Alysha. He slowly walks towards her, making sure she sees him approaching, to avoid startling her. She looks at him with curious but wary eyes.

“Hey.” Draco says when he’s standing next to her “I’m Dennis, nice to meet you.”

“Alysha.” She mumbles, eyes downcast, lower lip held between her teeth, she’s nervous and it’s understandable after what she’s been through.

He gives her a genuine smile, trying to convey that he means no threat and that, even if she can’t exactly trust him yet, she can at least not fear him.

“I’m a new volunteer here at the orphanage and I’ll be coming along during your trip today.” He explains her and she nods in understanding. He leaves her be, deeming their introduction enough interaction for the time being, he doesn’t want to come off too pressing on the young girl, he just wants to keep an eye on her and make sure she’s okay.

He sits on the floor, the younger children surround him immediately and he plays with them for a few minutes.

There are currently sixteen kids at the orphanage, nine of them are of Hogwarts age, Jason and Mila are eleven and will start the first year in a few weeks, Tara and Leila will start the second year, respectively in Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, Jonah will be a fourth year Gryffindor, Simon and Tobias both Slytherin in fifth year and Christina, a Gryffindor, will go for her last year. Of course, now there’s also Alysha, who will be starting her third year in Ravenclaw.

Among the seven children too young to go to school, Timothy is the youngest, he’s only four years old, then there are Marcus and Coleen, both five, Alexia is seven, Jasper is nine and Thomas and Michael are ten and will go to Hogwarts next September.

As he plays with some action figures to entertain the younger kids, the older ones are standing in a straight line, listening to Mrs. Thompson giving them a list of rules to follow during their outing, Don’t wander off on your own, make sure to have always either Dennis or Gabriella in sight, don’t talk with strangers and don’t buy unnecessary things. If Draco has his way, the last one will be completely ignored.

Of course, he isn’t going to be on his own, only morons would let the children they take care of go out alone with a man they’ve met once, so Gabriella is going to come too as a supervisor.

Draco is extremely grateful for this, he has no idea how he could even deal with nine teenagers on his own. His only experience with teenagers was when he himself was one and that hadn’t been particularly successful.

With a goodbye to the younglings and a promise to bring them back a surprise, Draco gets up and grabs the bleach bottle that serves as a portkey, he sees Alysha looking quite scared, reasonably so, the last time she’s been to the Alley her whole family was killed, Draco would be scared too in her situation. He makes sure to stand right next to her, offering a calming smile.

The tug of the portkey is now old news to Draco and he lands on the cobblestones of the Alley without losing his balance, some of his charges have some problems and a few end up sprawled on the pavement, looking embarrassed while the other kids laugh. Draco offers his help, but they, as the teenagers they are, stand up on their own brushing their clothes.

“You know, the first time I’ve used a portkey, I ended up with my face in the mud.” He says to move the attention on himself, at the same time, he waves his wand behind his back, aiming a cleaning charm at the unlucky teens.

“Really?” asks a shocked Jason while he helps Mila fix her ponytail after her unlucky fall.

“Oh yes. I tripped and fell, I was covered in mud from head to toe.” He says as the children laugh, earlier inconvenience already forgotten.

He looks at Alysha, who’s been silent the whole time and he sees her frantically looking around with frightened eyes. He makes a sign to Gabriella who notices and nods.

“Guys, why don’t you go with Gabriella to Madam Malkin’s for your new robes? I’ll run a quick errand and then I’ll meet you there.”

The kids grumble a bit about having to have their measurements taken, but nonetheless follow Gabriella towards the shop. Draco walks up to Alysha and motions for her to stop walking. The girl looks so scared that she doesn’t even question him.

Since she’s so much shorter than him, he kneels on the pavement, taking her hands in his and hoping to look less intimidating if she has the height advantage.

“Look at me Alysha.” He says in a soothing tone and her eyes snap to his, blue orbs full of panic, chest heaving.  “Breathe with me, in…and out, in…and out, good you’re doing great Alysha.” He applies a slight pressure to her wrists to ground her and keeps murmuring soft encouragement as she slowly calms down and manages to take in enough air to stop hyperventilating. “Perfect, come on, in…out, yes, just like that honey. Everything’s alright, you’re safe.”

Right now it doesn’t matter that Draco is a stranger to her, it doesn’t matter where they are, the only important thing is that Draco needs to make her feel safe, he’s had his fair share of panic and anxiety attacks and he knows very well how it feels when your mind loses control. He kneels on the ground, comforting her, until her breathing is back to normal and her hands stop trembling. When he gets up, she immediately wraps her arms around his torso and starts crying on his shirt, he holds her until the tears run out and conjures a napkin for her when she sniffles. They are standing in the middle of Diagon Alley and they’re probably gathering attention, but neither of them cares.

When Alysha has calmed down, Draco offers to take her to the other kids, but she grips his hand with surprising strength and refuses to let it go. Together they head to Gringotts.

The bank is exactly like Draco remembers it, with its marble structure and expensive decorations, they bypass the regular queue and Draco leads Alysha to an ornate desk at the end of the room, where a bored goblin is surveying the whole area from his elevated position.

About two metres before the desk, he gently drops her hand and asks her to wait for him here as he talks to the goblin, she looks a bit reluctant, but lets him go.

When he reaches the goblin, who looks at him annoyed for having interrupted his surveillance, Draco speaks in a quiet tone, making sure his voice doesn’t reach Alysha’s ears, he tells the goblin his name and the goblin’s eyes widen fractionally as he slips Draco a pin and a piece of parchment. Draco pricks his finger and lets a drop of blood fall on the parchment, where is name appears in neat cursive, confirming his identity. Thankfully, while the Wizarding World is still strictly against people like Draco, goblins only care about money and Draco has a lot of money, which makes him one of their favourite clients. After that, he tells the goblin what he needs, then goes back to Alysha and leads her to a waiting area where they sit as the goblins fulfill his request.

“What are you hiding?”

Alysha’s question is blunt and certain, Draco is momentarily taken aback by her boldness.

“Nothing bad.” He half-answers.

Alysha doesn’t look convinced, but just as she goes to ask something else, a goblin approaches them with a pouch.

“Here, as you requested, Mr. Shaw.” The goblin sneers a bit at the fake name, but Alysha doesn’t seem to notice as her eyes are fixed on the pouch. It’s no bigger than a wallet, but inside it’s magically enlarged to contain as much money as one needs, in this case, one thousand galleons. The current pound-galleon ratio is one to five, which means that he has just withdrawn five thousand pounds and he plans to spend everything in the next few hours.

Draco pockets the pouch and thanks the goblin, taking Alysha’s hand in his and walking out of the bank.

Alysha doesn’t stay silent for long.

“What’s in the bag?” she asks with the curiosity typical of her age, when no boundaries exist.

“Money.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well duh, we were in a bank. How much money?”

She’s cocky, Draco likes her even more. “One thousand.”

“One thousand galleons?” she shrieks in the middle of the street, earning a few pointed stares.

Draco shushes her “Lower your voice, do you want the whole street to know about it?”

She looks a bit chagrined, but recovers quickly. “One thousand galleons?” she whispers.

Draco nods.

“Why do you need all that money for?” she asks and Draco can’t help feeling sorry for her professors at school, this Ravenclaw sure is nosy or maybe she’s just a regular teen and Draco has forgotten what it means to be one.

“You’ll see.”

She huffs and Draco smirks at her impatience.

“We’re here.” He says when the reach Madam Malkin’s.

They step inside and immediately locate their group, Alysha drops Draco’s hand, a light blush on her cheeks, he gives her a reassuring smile, sometimes teenagers need to be able to feel vulnerable, others, they need at least the semblance of control.

Jason and Mila are standing on the footstools having their measurements taken, looking excited, while the others are sitting on the small couches placed there for those who are waiting. Some of them are discussing Quidditch as far as Draco can hear, while Simon is singing Hoggy Warty Hogwarts completely out of tune. Draco grimaces, the song is already bad as it is.

“Well, looks like you guys are almost finished here.” He says as he approaches the group. Just as he says this, Jason and Mila are given permission to step down and Alysha takes their place, standing in front of the mirror and smiling shyly at the assistant.

Draco looks around, trying to find Gabriella and he sees her talking to Madam Malkin in hushed tones, Gabriella looks distressed and Draco decides to make sure everything is alright.

“Are you ok?” he asks her when he’s close enough.

She looks at him with big worried eyes. “Y-yes…I was just making arrangements for the payment.”

“I repeat it again, Mrs. Colonna” interrupts Madam Malkin “The products must be paid in total now, we don’t offer any kind of delayed payment.”

Gabriella looks on the verge of crying and Draco decides to take the matter into his hands, after all, he’s here for this exact reason,

“That won’t be a problem Madam, we’ll pay right now.”

Madam Malkin looks skeptical, while Gabriella stares at Draco in shock. “We will?” she asks astonished.

Draco nods and winks.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Alysha join the other kids and together they walk up to Draco and Gabriella, which means they’re good to go. He turns to the shop owner.

“You’ve taken the measurements of all nine children, I want, for each of them, two sets of winter robes, two sets of light robes, two pairs of boots, a couple of scarves, hats and gloves in the warmest material you have. Then I’ll need two sets of casual clothes, let’s say, shirt, dress pants or skirt depending of what the child prefers, a couple of warm sweaters and a pair of sneakers of their choosing. Add a winter cloak with warming charms woven into the fabric and I think that’s all.” he rattles off to a bewildered Madam Malkin, a very pale Gabriella and a set of open-mouthed teenagers.

He looks at the children “Well, what are you waiting for? Go tell the assistant if you prefer pants or skirt and choose a pair of sneakers you like. Chop chop, we have shopping to do.”

The teens scramble off to the assistant and then run to the shoes section, making comments on each pair.

Draco turns to the woman waiting to be paid and the woman waiting to understand what is going on.

“How much?” he asks dryly.

Madam Malkin gulps, goes to her assistant and they start discussing measurements, length of fabrics, materials and prices.

“What are you doing?” Gabriella hisses next to Draco. “We don’t have enough money to buy all that.”

“That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?” he asks playfully with a wink.

Gabriella looks confused, then, when Draco takes out the pouch from his pocket, realization dawns on her. “Oh.”

Just then, Madam Malkin comes back with a list of the items Draco has ordered and relative prices. The total amounts to little more than four hundred galleons, Draco takes his wand out of his sleeve and, without batting an eye, magics the money out of the pouch and onto the counter.

Madam Malkin stares at the money with glee, Gabriella looks completely gobsmacked and the children are looking at the small mountain of gold in wonder.

Draco chuckles at their expressions and they all turn to him, he directs is gaze towards Madam Malkin. “Are two weeks enough to have everything ready?” he asks, but his tone clearly conveys the message ‘you better have everything ready in two weeks’.

Madam Making is quick to nod and Draco thanks her briskly and herds the group outside.

“Denny…” Tobias, the quietest of the teens speaks up “Thank you.” He says solemnly and all the kids nod along with him.

Draco blushes from his neck to the tip of his ears. He doesn’t know what to say, brushing it off as nothing would seem like what he’s done doesn’t mean anything to him, which is absolutely not true, at the same time, he doesn’t want to bring too much attention to his action, he doesn’t want them to feel bad for needing help, nor feel indebted to him. He settles on giving them a small sincere smile and a nod, they all get the message and smile back at him. Sometimes words are superfluous.

He claps his hands to end the serious moment and flashes them a grin. “So…I heard that someone needs a wand.”

Jason and Mila cheer loudly and they all walk to Ollivander's.

The shop looks…well, different and the same. It’s still narrow and a bit dark, boxes of wands cover the walls from floor to ceiling, but it doesn’t have the shabby, dirty look it had when Draco first came here. The shelves have been replaced with a light wood instead of a dark one and the walls have been painted a soft cream colour to give more light to the small space. There’s no dust anywhere, as far as Draco can see and the spindly chair in the corner has been replaced by a small plush couch.

As they enter, they are immediately greeted by a middle-aged woman with a warm smile, Draco remembers having read on the papers that, a couple of years after the war, Ollivander had decided to retire and had left his business to his niece, the woman in front of Draco right now, is certainly the niece, she has the same pale skin, silvery-blue eyes and that look on her face that makes her seem way older and wiser than she actually is.

“Welcome!”

She greets them cheerfully with a bright smile and gets in return a very happy and loud hello from all the kids, even the older ones, like the two fifteen years old Slytherins Simon and Tobias and Christina, who’s seventeen and technically an adult who can go wherever she wants, but has decided to tag along to help make the new experience for Jason and Mila even more special. The kids at the orphanage are like a big family, they may not be siblings by blood, but family doesn’t need blood to exist, it needs love and these children have an unlimited supply of it.

Mrs. Ollivander bends down to the youngest children’s height. “A bowtruckle told me that someone needs a new wand.” She whispers and Jason and Mila squeal in excitement, hopping on their tiny feet. “We do! We do!”

“Then come forward young witch and young wizard, it’s time to be chosen.” She declares with a flourish as she stands in front of the tower of wand boxes and beckons them forward.

Draco hides a smile at the nervous expression that crosses the children’s faces. His mind goes back to the day he bought his own wand, a little over sixteen years ago, the same day he met a certain dark-haired boy with baggy clothes. Mr. Ollivander had intimidated Draco, he’d stared at him with those silvery eyes and Draco had had the impression that he was looking right into his soul. He had measured Draco with that weird tape measure and had stared at Draco for a long time, then he had gone to his impossibly chaotic assemble of boxes, which apparently had its own unintelligible order because Ollivander hadn’t hesitated in taking a box out of the pile, and he had presented Draco with a black wand made of hawthorn wood and unicorn hair. The perfect match on the first try. Whatever the man had done, it had been successful.

Now Draco watches as Mrs. Ollivander measures both children and then takes out a few boxes.

She turns first to Jason and hands him a wand with a smug grin on her face. As soon as his fingers touch the smooth wood, a bright light flashes into the room and a big smile appears on Jacob's face. The children all cheer standing up from where they’ve piled themselves on the small couch and run to hug Jason while Gabriella and Draco clap in the background.

Mrs. Ollivander takes the wand and places it in the box, giving it to a radiant Jacob. She then hands Mila a thin pale wand and Draco has just the time to whip out his own wand and cast a protego around himself, the children and Gabriella, before a loud bang echoes into the room, shattering a vase. Mila looks shocked at the wand in her hand and Mrs. Ollivander hurries to take it and put it back in the box. Two wands later, a broken lamp and a burnt curtain, Mila starts to look discouraged and Draco can understand her frustration, the other kids look at her in worry, while Mrs. Ollivander looks intrigued.

“Interesting…” she murmurs to herself as she studies her collection of wands.

“What’s interesting?” asks a timid Mila.

Mrs. Ollivander looks at her surprised as if she has forgotten Mila is actually a living person and not a mystery to solve, to Draco she starts to seem more and more like the old Mr. Ollivander, weird and a bit unhinged.

“Uh, oh nothing my dear, your magical core reacts badly with neutral woods, it means that you need a stronger, firmer type of wood, like this one.” She says as she hands Mila yet another wand, this one a beautiful dark wood with intricate carvings throughout its length.

Mila takes it hesitantly, but her grip tightens the moment her core connects with the wand and a huge smile stretches her lips.

The whole room erupts in shouts of joy as golden sparks fly out from the tip of the wand in Mila’s hand and even Mrs. Ollivander joins in the celebration, explaining how the wood of this wand, the alder, is a stubborn wood and it’s insidious since it prefers to match with opposite personalities to its nature, people considerate and likeable, pliant and kind.

Interesting indeed, but to Draco and the kids, the most important thing is that Mila has found her perfect match.

After Draco pays for the wands, they leave the shop with big smiles on all their faces and head to Flourish and Blotts where, for the first time, all the children are able to buy new books for all their classes. Draco buys a few books for young children too, as a gift for the younglings at the orphanage.

Next, they stock up on Potions ingredients at Slug & Jiggers and on ink, quills and parchment at Scribbulus. By the time they are finished, it’s almost past lunchtime and they go to the Laky Cauldron to grab a bite.

The pub is not very crowded and they all gather around a long table after Draco orders Shepherd’s pie and pumpkin juice for everyone. While they are waiting for their food, Draco takes a look at the area. He hasn’t been here many times in the past, his parents had deemed the little pub as below their standards and had usually only come here to enter the Alley from the courtyard, giving the shabby place no more than a disdainful look.

The pub doesn’t look that bad, it’s a bit dark, but it’s clean and smells good, Draco thinks he recognizes the girl working behind the counter from school, she’s of moderate height, with long blonde hair and a gentle expression, if Draco’s not mistaken, she was in Hufflepuff, but he’s never talked to her in seven years of school. Slytherins and Hufflepuffs don’t mingle, or at least, they didn’t when Draco was at Hogwarts, now things may have changed.

He turns his attention back to the table, the children are talking about which shops they want to visit in the afternoon asking Gabriella if they’ll have the time to see everything, to which Gabriella replies that they have time for only one more shop and then they’ll need to go back home. Draco notices that Alysha has chosen to sit right next to him, he’s kept an eye on her throughout the morning and he’s seen her gradually relax, though she still jumped a little at sudden loud noises. All in all, she’s doing remarkably well, the fear has left her eyes and, even though she has kept close to Draco the whole time, she has talked with the other kids and even smiled a little. Draco sees it as progress.

Suddenly a thought hits him. He’s been so focused on making the day perfect for the kids that he’s forgotten that this is his first time out in the Wizarding World in seven years. Yes, he’s been to some magical places during that time, whenever one of his targets brought him there for work and to a couple of other locations like Azkaban to visit his mother, but never like this. Never in a highly frequented place like Diagon Alley, never among so many people. His targets tend to live in isolated areas, for obvious reasons, especially if it’s a Wizarding area where the possibility of being recognised is high. Everything Draco needs from the magical world, like the ingredients for his potions, he acquires through his house-elves, he leaves them a list of what he wants when he visits his family’s crypt and everything gets delivered directly to his study the next day by an elf.

Draco hasn’t ventured into a magical shop in years, he’s surprised that he’s been so at ease today, though he knows that it’s mostly due to his disguise and he would never attempt to walk the alley with his own face. Nevertheless, he’s enjoying his day out and he’s smiled more today than he remembers smiling in the past year.

When the steaming hot food comes, they eat in companionable silence, then Draco leaves the table to pay the bill and the kids go to the courtyard to wait for him while trying to decide which shop they should visit before going home.

He immediately regrets not joining in the choosing of the next location when the children literally drag him along the Alley to the most showy and nauseatingly bright shop in all Wizarding Britain.

Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

Shit.

Draco is not ready for this. Draco is so not ready for this. Draco doesn’t want to go inside the shop. Draco wants to go home and hide under the duvet.

He feels the first tendrils of panic start to wrap around his consciousness, he’s been okay during the trip, nothing he’s seen has triggered any bad memories, he was a bit wary when they went to Ollivander's, but the renovation of the shop and the fact that the old wizard wasn’t there, were enough to calm him down. Now though, he’s faced with a piece of his past that will surely bring up something awful from the recesses of his mind.

He can’t face the Weasleys, disguise or not.

He’s not sure which of the redheads works here at the moment, the last time he was here, the twins were running the shop, but Fred Weasley died in the Battle of Hogwarts, he knows this because, after the war, he forced himself to learn the name of everyone who died that day, as a punishment for having done nothing to prevent any of the deaths. Those names still plague his dreams, faceless people screaming at him, asking for help, blaming him for their deaths, it’s rare for Draco to get a full night of sleep without getting woken up by a nightmare, though the situation is much better now than it was at the end of the war, the nightmares are progressively getting less vivid and it’s been a while since he’s woken up screaming and crying, pleading to be forgiven for his actions.

What he’s done to the Weasleys though, is still constantly burdening his conscience. During just seven years, Draco has managed to hurt nearly every Weasley, directly or indirectly.

In his second year, the slug-vomiting charm Ronald Weasley had tried to curse him with, had malfunctioned due to Weasley’s crappy wand and had hit the redhead instead. One could argue that, if Weasley hadn’t cast the spell in the first place, nothing would have happened, but Draco had absolutely deserved to be hit with that and more for what he had called Granger, who, Draco supposes, by now should be a Weasley too, if the chemistry between her and Ronald during school is anything to go by. Great, another Weasley to add to the list of the ones he’s hurt.

He can’t say how many times he’s insulted the Golden trio during the years, they’re too many to count. Even the slightly older Weasley, Percy, wasn’t spared, Draco remembers calling him an hungry power-slut and a kiss-ass because he’d found irritating the other’s snooty behaviour and marginal success in the Ministry.

He knows there’s also Charles Weasley, but he’s only seen him twice, during the Triwizard Tournament and at the final battle. Other than knowing he works with dragons, Draco hasn’t a clue about him, though he remembers thinking that, if those were the kind of men that handled dragons, he would have gladly turned into one and let himself be pampered by those muscly, tattooed, walking pieces of meat. His teenage hormones had been a bit out of control during fourth year and his willingness to be manhandled by a Weasley had been enough proof of it.

During sixth year, he almost killed Ronald with poisoned mead, though he hadn’t been the intended target of the poison, if Potter hadn’t been there to, yet again, save the day, Draco would have had another death on his conscience.

At the end of that same year, he’d let a group of ruthless Death Eaters into the castle, using the Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder he’d bought from the twins at WWW, and William Weasley had been mauled and almost killed by Greyback just months before his wedding. As far as Draco knows, the scars are still marring his face to this day.

Granger’s agonized screams when she was being tortured by Draco’s crazy aunt still ring in his ears after nine years and he doesn’t think they’ll ever stop.

He remembers Bellatrix trying to kill the Weasley matriarch during the final battle and the joy he’d felt when he had watched his aunt fall at the hand of the fierce woman whom he’d insulted for years just because his parents had told him that blood-traitors deserved to be treated like scum.

That same night, Fred Weasley had died and, although Draco hadn’t been the cause of it, he hadn’t done anything to prevent it either, on the contrary, he had still run around the school trying to antagonize Potter in whatever mission he was trying to accomplish while Voldemort’s forces destroyed everything in their path.

Draco had liked the twins. Despite the blood feud between their families, despite his contempt towards every other redhead, Draco had found them amusing, he’d admired their inventiveness, their uncanny ability to unleash chaos at the most inappropriate moment, the ease with which they had managed to make everyone laugh. Draco had seen a Slytherin side behind their boisterous Gryffindor façade and had respected their cunning and the intelligence they displayed with each new product they invented.

Now he stands in front of what they’ve created and the thought of stepping foot inside the shop is unbearable for him, he doesn’t want to disrespect Fred’s memory by walking the aisles of his shop without even being brave enough to show his own face.

“Denny?” he’s brought out of his musings by Jonah’s uncertain voice and he realises he must have been staring silently at the shop for a while.

“Oh, sorry guys, I’ve just remember I have one last stop to make. Why don’t you go inside and I’ll meet you here when you’re finished?” he proposes trying to keep his voice steady as to not elicit any suspicion. He looks at Gabriella for confirmation, he doesn’t want to leave her alone with the kids if she needs help, but the sweet girl just smiles at him and assures him they’ll be alright.

He hands each kid ten galleons with the order of spending them all on something their professors would frown upon, which is received with great enthusiasm from the teens and a groan from Gabriella. He winks at her, knowing he’s just unleashed a bomb on the shop and on Hogwarts when the kids will have the occasion to activate whatever artefact they’re gonna buy today. Never been particularly fond of rules himself, Draco doesn’t feel the least bit guilty about allowing them to do whatever they want.

As the teens run into the shop, Draco turns around and ducks into a side alley. He takes out his wand and focuses on a memory while whispering the enchantment. A bright silver mist flows from the tip of his wand and gathers on the floor taking the form of a very well-known ball of fur. Patronus-Pongo walks on the cobblestones between Draco’s legs, then turns around and sits down, looking up at him expectantly. Draco gives him a message for Mrs. Thompson and then watches it disappear into the daylight. Two minutes later a silvery swan comes back with an affirmative answer and Draco walks back into the main street towards his next destination.

Magical Menagerie is crowded and empty at the same time. Every available space is taken up by cages filled with a multitude of different animals, both magical and non-magical, but there aren’t any customers inside. Draco tries to breathe as little as possible, because the combination of different kind of furs, the bedding of the cages and the by-products of the animals’ digestive systems is not exactly a pleasurable smelling experience and he would like to keep his lunch exactly where it is.

Walking past cages filled with rodents and birds, Draco looks at the different options. After his request of allowing him to buy an animal for the orphanage, Mrs. Thompson has said that he can, as long as the animal is small and compatible with small children. Dang, Draco had so wanted to buy a tiger. Or a panther. Guess he’ll have to go with something more manageable, like a crup, or a cat. There are a few specimen that seem docile enough to be safe around little kids, there’s a crup puppy wagging its two tails excitedly in a cage, but what catches Draco’s attention more, is the Russian Blue that’s looking at Draco with curious eyes. The grey cat’s fur shines even under the dim light of the shop and its green eyes are fixed unwaveringly to Draco’s every movement. He approaches the cage slowly, giving the animal ample time to back off if he or she feels threatened by his presence, but the cat presses its small nose between the cage’s bars to sniff at Draco’s fingers when he extends his hand. It’s the tiny lick to the pad of his index finger that does it for him. From what he knows about Russian Blue cats, and he knows quite a bit because he has a book at home about cat breeds with grey fur that he’s used to find out which breed Pongo is, they’re usually shy with strangers, but affectionate with the people they deem as theirs, Draco feels touched that this particular cat has apparently chosen him. Furthermore, the Russian Blue is a breed tolerant of children and very gentle, which is exactly what Draco was looking for, an animal that could be loved and cherished by the kids at the orphanage and, at the same time, that gave back some of that love to the children. It looks like he’s hit the jackpot.

“Oh, you’ve met Artemis.”

Draco jumps at the sudden voice, he’s been so focused on the animals that he hasn’t even noticed that there is a man in the shop, though he should have expected it, since the menagerie can’t run itself. The man standing a few cages away is fat and bald, at least a foot shorter than Draco and with a long unruly beard that reaches his chest. He could be forty or seventy, Draco can’t say.

“Uhm, hello. Who’s Artemis?” he asks, because there isn’t anyone around except himself. By the way, what kind of name is Artemis? Do people still call their children after Greek Gods? Which is kind of bold of him to say, coming from someone whose family’s tradition is naming children after stars and constellations.

The other man motions to the cage in front of Draco and that’s when he reads the small tag on the top right corner.

Artemis

Russian Blue

Age: 2

“Oh.” Obviously. “Why Artemis?” he asks.

“It’s ‘cause of her fur, it has silver tips and shines even under a low light, silver like the moonlight, so we thought that Goddess of the Moon could be a perfect name for her.” Says the man with a light gruff to his voice.

“Artemis…I think it’s perfect.” Draco says as the cat gives another small lick to his hand. “I’d like to take her home, please.”

“Sure lad, let me just open the cage for you and then I’ll fetch you a basket to carry her to her new home.” The man says while taking out his wand and waving it in a complex circular motion that makes the bolt of the lock snap open. “Here you go, I’ll be right back.” he says and then heads towards the back of the shop, leaving Draco alone with Artemis.

Draco slowly opens the door of the cage and he immediately finds himself with an armful of fluffy grey fur. She’s so soft that Draco could spend all day just petting her. With her tiny claws, Artemis makes her way up Draco’s sleeve and settles on his shoulder, butting her head softly against Draco’s. He lifts up the other arm and gently scratches behind her ears, earning himself a loud purr. He chuckles at the cuddly cat and starts walking towards the counter to pay, mindful of his new friend.

On the way, he hears rustling from a nearby cage and decides to take a look. Inside a small cage, sits a lone baby Niffler, its inky black fur glistening as it plays with a shiny button. The little beast turns its eyes on Draco and cocks his head in a very human way, as if to say ‘Who are you? Do I know you?’. Draco smiles at the tiny Niffler, the tag on the cage says he’s a male, though there’s no name on it, poor thing, he’s the only one left from his litter, he must feel so lonely. He takes out a sickle from his pocket and hands it to the animal, who stands on his little paws and sniffs at Draco’s hand, before grabbing the silver coin with greedy fingers and holding it to its chest like a prized possession, which, Draco supposes, it is. The Niffler starts playing with the coin and Draco turns his attention to the counter where, in the meantime, the shop owner has brought out a medium-sized wicker basket with a fluffy bedding inside and a lid on top and where Draco gently places Artemis, who doesn’t look particularly happy to be there, but doesn’t make a fuss either.

He pays for the cat, a new round cat bed and some cat food, which he shrinks and pockets, then exits the shop, going back to his group of teenagers with the basket in his hands.

They’re already waiting for him when he reaches their meeting point, arms laden with bags of WWW products. Draco hopes they won’t set off any of the jokes inside the orphanage, or Mrs. Thompson will have his head.

“What’s in the box?” Leila, a soon-to-be second year Ravenclaw, asks.

“Surprise.” Draco answers mysteriously.

The kids groan. “Come on Denny, tell us…” the whine in unison.

“Nu-uh. Nope.” He says, and mimes the act of locking his lips and throwing away the key, making them groan louder.

“Come on children, it’s time to go.” He says, changing the subject.

“We’re not children anymore.” Objects a scandalized Simon.

“You sure act like some.” Draco mumbles under his breath.

“Wait.” Christina says and everyone stops to look at her “Where’s the portkey?”

Just now the other children seem to notice that Draco has taken off along the road, leading the group back towards the Leaky Cauldron, instead of taking out the object that would serve as a portkey.

Draco smirks.

“Oh we are not going to portkey back.” he says in a carefree tone.

“We aren’t?” a confused Mila asks.

“No. We’ll take the Knight Bus.” He informs them, to which he receives a slight groan from Gabriella, who probably has already taken it in her life and knows the experience isn’t exactly enjoyable, a worried frown from Alysha and loud cheers from everyone else.

They walk through the Leaky Cauldron, stepping out on Charing Cross Road, then duck into a side alley, where Draco extends his wand to call the bus, which materializes in front of them with a bang.

Draco pays the fee for all of them and they board the purple vehicle. Thankfully, they’re the only passengers, which means the trip will be short, nevertheless, Draco takes out his wand once more and conjures a rope hook for each kid to hold onto, just like the one he’d conjured for Alysha the last time.

The ride is bumpy but fast and they all get off in one piece in front of the orphanage a few minutes later. Some on wobbly legs, some with a green tinge to their face, some of them cursing the damn bus and to whom Gabriella gives a stern scolding for the language, though she seems to share the sentiment of the children’s complaints. Draco is the only one grinning and, holding Artemis’ basket safely in his arms, he makes his way inside the orphanage and to the playroom, where the other kids are lying on the floor while Lucy reads them a story.

Draco signals to the teens to keep quiet as they all sit down against the wall, unnoticed by the kids lying on the floor with their eyes closed.

They all listen as Lucy reads the tale of the three brothers. Draco finds it a bit dark for a group of young children, but it’s traditional to read The Tales of Beedle the Bard and the story of the three brothers is one of the most liked. Draco can understand why, a wand more powerful than any other, a stone that gives the ability to see again those who have left us and an invisibility cloak that can help you hide from death itself, who wouldn’t want that? Still, Draco has grown out of his fantasy of possessing such items a long time ago and now to him, the tale is nothing more than a good story about cunning, greediness, love and cleverness.

“…Greeting Death as an old friend, they departed this life as equals.”

As the last words echo throughout the room, Draco stands up with the teens and they make their presence known to the younglings, who greet them with happy shouts.

“Denny…” Alexia’s timid voice breaks through the noise. “What do you have there?” she points to the basket in his hands.

“That’s what we’ve been trying to find out.” says an annoyed Simon “He wouldn’t tell us.”

Draco chuckles. “That’s because I didn’t want to spoil the surprise, but since we’re all here…”

He turns around and places the basket on the floor, shielding it from sight. He opens the lid and carefully picks up Artemis from the bed, holding her to his chest. When he turns back around to reveal the animal, the small crowd erupts in shouts of delighted surprise.

“Everyone, meet Artemis.” He says as he places the cat on the floor and she starts sniffing the children to see if they’re any good. Apparently, they meet her standards, because she lets them pet her and licks a few fingers as her own greeting.

Draco can already see she’s going to be the most loved animal ever among these adorable kids. He meets the approving stare of Mrs. Thompson from across the room and the woman gives him a small nod, which he reciprocates.

As he watches the children play with their new friend, Draco feels a spark of something deep in his gut, the unyielding gratification of doing something good, the satisfaction of putting those big smiles on the kids’ faces.

It’s been so long since he’s been truly happy himself, but right now, surrounded by love and care, the chance of, one day, be able to love and be loved, to cherish and be cherished, to have someone who makes him happy, it seems possible. A tiny flame of hope starts to burn in the darkness and Draco can feel the heat start to warm his lonely existence. He will make sure to keep the flame alive and nurture it until he can’t feel the cold anymore.

After another hour of playing and helping the teens put away all their new school equipment, Draco has to leave the orphanage, though not before promising to come back next week.

Once back home, he throws himself on the couch and closes his eyes, a contented smile on his face. The smile vanishes the moment he remembers the reason why he’s had to come home.

He needs to get ready for his dinner with Potter and he only has three hours.

Shit.

Chapter Text

Despite the shortage of time Draco has left to get ready, he lies on the couch for at least twenty minutes with his eyes closed and he would have stayed there for a little while longer, had it not been for the sudden rustling sound coming from his jacket.

He sits up with a jolt, hands flying to his pockets. The jacket he’s wearing is a muggle leather jacket of some brand or another to which Draco has added a few magical pockets to carry magical items, like his gold pouch or his wand when it’s not strapped to his arm. As far as he remembers though, he hasn’t put anything that can move inside them, which is why an unexpected noise coming from them takes Draco completely by surprise.

Since the pockets can’t be seen nor felt from the outside, Draco has to put his hand in each of them to see if there’s anything there that shouldn’t be. The first three pockets come out empty, which leaves only the last one. When Draco’s fingers come in contact with something soft and wiggling he’s ashamed of the startled shriek that comes out of his mouth, digging into the pocket, without any precautions because that’s how wise he is, he takes out whatever the thing is.

“What the…”

Sitting in his palm, with a satisfied expression, is the baby Niffler from Magical Menagerie.

“How…?” Draco is at a loss for words. How the hell has this tiny beast ended up in his jacket?

The Niffler is so small that he fits comfortably in Draco’s palm and Draco watches as the creature digs into the pouch on his belly and takes out the silver sickle he has given him earlier, showing it to Draco and then hugging it to his chest, a happy gurgle coming from his long snout.

“Oh dear…”

This can’t be happening, he already has a dinner to get ready for, he doesn’t have time to deal with escaped Nifflers.

Putting the animal back in the pocket, he thanks his lazy ass for procrastinating in removing his glamours and apparates back to Diagon Alley, walking quickly to the animal shop, which is in the exact conditions he’s left it, that is to say, empty.

He gets to the counter as the owner exits a door in the back to greet the new customer.

“Back so soon lad? Got any problems with the cat?” he asks in that gruffly tone of his.

“Oh no, she’s perfect.” Draco hastily says “Unfortunately, while I was here, this little guy,” he says as he takes out the baby Niffler “has somehow found his way into my pocket. I’m so sorry, I have no idea how it happened.”

The bald man takes a look at the Niffler, who’s now walking back and forth the length of Draco’s hand, and sighs. “Yeah, he does that, always manages to get out of his cage and hides in random places. Not to worry lad, just put him back.” The man motions to the little cage and Draco moves to it to deposit the Niffler.

He opens the little door and sticks his hand inside, opening his fingers to let the animal gently slide into the cage, but the Niffler has other ideas. The small ball of fur grips Draco’s fingers with surprising strength, wrapping himself around Draco’s hand like a koala, then starts shrieking and crying loudly enough to gather the attention of all the animals in the shop.

Draco doesn’t know what to do, he shakes his hand a bit, but the Niffler doesn’t budge, only increases his efforts in trying to sound like a dying chicken.

Admitting defeat after a few more moments of listening to the tiny creature cry, Draco takes his hand out of the cage and the Niffler quietens, but his grip doesn’t loosen.

He looks uncertain at the shop owner, hoping he’ll have a clue on what to do now. The man just smiles slightly at the stubborn creature.

“Looks like he’s chosen.” He says and Draco frowns.

“Chosen what?”

“His person.” The man says like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Draco looks down at his hand when he feels the Niffler move. The small animal is now calmly sitting in his palm and is staring at Draco with shining dark eyes.

“Nifflers, they usually live in the wild, they don’t mix with human civilization, except for when they bond with a wizard.” The shop owner explains. “They are intelligent creatures and very loyal to the person they choose, though I suggest hiding any shiny object from their sight.”

Wait, wait, wait. What?

“You mean…he’s mine?” he asks dumbfounded.

“Technically, you’re his, but yes.”

“But I live in a muggle neighbourhood, I can’t have a magical creature in my house.” Draco objects.

“He won’t let you leave here without him.” the bald man says with a shrug.

Great.

Draco looks back at the fluffy beast, he hesitantly brings his other hand up and gently pets the animal, the Niffler leans into his touch and snuggles deeper into his hand with a pleased hum. His fur is so soft and he’s so cute.

Draco knows his heart has already decided.

He sighs. “I guess you’re coming home with me then.” He doesn’t think the Niffler can understand him, but the animal claps his hands? paws?, so maybe he can.

“How much do I owe you?” Draco asks the shop owner.

“Nothing lad, he’s chosen you, I would never be able to sell him to anyone else. Take good care of him.”

“Thank you, I will.” He promises and, with his new friend safe in his pocket, he exits the shop to apparate home.

Hopefully, Pongo will be happy about the new addition to the household.

Pongo is not happy.

Pongo is not happy at all.

Just as Draco’s feet land on the carpeted floor of his living room, Pongo makes his way towards him from the kitchen. Draco bends down to scratch behind the cat’s ears earning himself a soft purr, but the noise stops abruptly and Pongo starts sniffing Draco’s hand and the bit of arm he can reach from the floor, then looks at Draco confused, he might have smelled Artemis’ scent on Draco, or it might be the Niffler.

Now or never is what Draco thinks as he slowly puts his hand in his pocket and takes out the Niffler.

The look of utter betrayal on Pongo’s face the moment he sees another animal in Draco’s hand is exactly what Draco had hoped wouldn’t happen. During the past two years, it has always been just the two of them and the occasional visit from Mrs. Norris, Pongo hasn’t had to share Draco with anyone or anything else and the cat has developed a sort of possessiveness towards Draco, which is more than understandable, if a bit inconvenient in moments like this one.

“Come on buddy, don’t be like this, he’s a new friend…” Draco tries to reason, which is already not very effective on a normal day, now it’s just words to the wind as Pongo indignantly turns around and runs away to his secret hiding place, which is not a secret at all since the house is small, but Draco lets him have his time alone under the bed whenever Pongo needs it.

“Well, I guess it will be just you and me for a while.” Draco tells the oblivious Niffler. “On that note, maybe I should find you a name, uh?”

Draco is not good at giving names, Pongo is a clear example of it, when he’d had to find a name for the cat before bringing him home from the vet, he’d thought about it for a long time, going through a list of serious names like Archibald, Achilles and the like, ultimately coming to the conclusion that naming his cat after dead heroes or with names that hadn’t been used for centuries was a bit ridiculous. Inspiration had struck when he’d seen the grey cat fit himself into a glass vase like modelling clay when it takes the shape of the mould and he’d thought about how cats can basically change shape in order to fit in the most uncomfortable places, so he’d thought Why not and he’d called him Pongo which is the Italian translation for playdough. He remembers having made Mrs. Norris laugh when he told her the story behind Pongo’s name and he can’t blame her, it is funny.

Now he looks at the tiny creature still in his hand, playing with his sickle and thinks of how this story started because of something as simple as a coin.

Wait.

Could it be that easy?

“Coin?” he tries the name and the Niffler perks up and makes a squeaky sound, which Draco supposes it’s enough confirmation that the animal likes the name.

Well then, on to the next task, getting ready for dinner.

Not trusting Coin to be alone in a room without destroying it in the search for sparkly things, he decides to bring him to the bathroom, where he gives him a handful of pounds and watches him throw himself in the pile, playing with his new treasure. Hopefully he’ll be distracted for long enough to let Draco take a shower and get dressed.

He still has almost two hours, but it feels like he’s already late. He jumps under the hot spray of the shower and lets the water soothe his tense muscles. Anticipation for the upcoming dinner making itself known, now that he has nothing else to think of.

Where will they go? Potter has only asked him out for dinner, but he hasn’t said where. Draco is reasonably sure it will be someplace muggle, after all, Potter wouldn’t want to be seen out in public with a Death Eater.

What will they talk about? As far as Potter is aware, Draco has no connections with the magical world anymore and he’ll have to pretend he wasn’t there just this morning. It shouldn’t be that difficult, he’s been a sort of secret agent for seven years now, but Potter has always managed to turn him into a bumbling fool and he dearly hopes he won’t let anything escape his mouth that shouldn’t. He’s not worried about actually revealing something about his job, the contract he’s signed will assure that he’ll be in too much pain to be able to utter a single word before he even tries, but he could let something slip that doesn’t necessary relates to his secrets, but that could lead there with a bit of mental gymnastics.

Okay, now he’s seriously going out of his way to find things to worry about.

He steps out of the shower in a cloud of vanilla-scented steam and wraps a fluffy towel around himself, letting the soft fabric gently dry his skin, then he spreads on some body cream because first, moisturizing is important and second, it relaxes him. When he smells like a vanilla bean everywhere, he carefully dries his hair, leaving it just a bit wavy, a look that softens his sharp features and makes him seem more approachable.

He glances at Coin and luckily he’s still happily playing with his shiny treasure.

Walking out of the bathroom and into his wardrobe, he drops the towel he’s tied around his waist and slips on a pair of boxers then goes to his clothes to find something to wear.

Potter hasn’t specified a style, so Draco decides to opt for a pair of black jeans and a black button-down to be just on the brink between casual and elegant. He completes the look with his signature black Vans and his ring, a simple silver band that’s actually an emergency portkey he wears whenever he goes out and that will bring him back to his study if activated.

Since it’s August, it shouldn’t be cold outside, but he takes his leather jacket anyway, because the weather in London is unpredictable.

Now that he’s ready, he looks at the clock and sees he still has half an hour to wait. He groans, because he knows that with time to spare he won’t be able to keep his nerves at bay. He needs a distraction.

He decides to try and talk to Pongo.

The cat is still sulking under the bed when Draco finds him, all curled up in a tight ball.

He tries calling him, but he’s still faced with a furry butt. Not deterred in the least, he quickly goes to his study and takes a few leaves from the catnip Potter has brought and confidently walks back to the stubborn cat. With his wand, he sends a gentle breeze towards Pongo, making sure that the smell of the plant reaches his sensitive nose, not two seconds later, he finds himself with a lapful of grey fur.

He should have thought of the catnip months ago, he would have saved himself hours of cat-sulking.

As Pongo sniffs the leaves, Draco runs a hand through his soft fur.

“You know, someday you should learn to talk about your problems instead of hiding from them.” He says to the cat, who turns his head to look at Draco quizzically.

“Right, you can’t understand me. Too bad, you’re missing out on all my inspirational quotes.”

Pongo doesn’t seem fazed by Draco’s words, but at least he doesn’t run back under the bed when the tip tap of small feet reaches their ears, just before Coin appears in their line of view.

The Niffler gets to them way quicker than Draco had imagined Nifflers could walk and starts studying Pongo with shining eyes.

The two animals stare at each other for a while, none of them moving and Draco holds his breath during the confrontation, waiting to know the results.

In the end, not much happens, Pongo goes back to his catnip leaves and Coin takes out of his belly pouch a series of buttons Draco has no idea where he’s found and starts playing by himself, but they stay there, sharing the same space and Draco is happy for the progress.

The sound of the doorbell distracts him from his pets and Draco walks up to the door, trepidation coursing through his veins, heart beating fast. He doesn’t even check the peephole to see who it is, he takes a deep breath, grabs the doorknob and twists, opening the door widely.

Draco’s mouth dries as his eyes take in the figure at his door.

Potter stands there, at his almost 6 feet of height, dressed the same as Draco, black jeans and button-down, only his shirt is a dark green that makes his eyes look brighter, his hair is messy, yes, but artfully so and he’s left the first couple of buttons of his shirt open, displaying his collarbones and lightly haired caramel skin. His shirt fits him perfectly, hugging his sculpted frame, broad shoulders and slim waist like a second skin and Draco thinks he can see his abs through the thin material.

Draco wants to jump him.

He doesn’t do it, obviously, but he stares at the mouth-watering goodness in front of him for an embarrassingly long amount of time.

“Hello.”

Potter’s voice startles him, but at least it brings him out of his mindless gazing.

“Hi.” He replies, somewhat shakily, his brain still a bit fogged.

“Are you ready to go?” Potter asks.

“Yeah, just a moment.”

Draco lets Potter inside and goes to the kitchen, taking out a piece of salmon for Pongo and leaving it in his bowl for when he’ll be hungry. He leaves a few cat treats for Coin because he has no idea what Nifflers eat.

Through it all, Potter stands in the kitchen watching Draco’s every movement and Draco feels the burn of his gaze on his back.

“How did you get to my door without the doorman noticing?” Draco asks to fill the silence, but he’s also curious, if Potter had gone through the lobby, the doorman would have ringed Draco to let him know someone was coming up.

“Oh, I apparated outside your door.” Potter answers casually.

“What?! I have a muggle neighbour!” Draco sincerely hopes Mrs. Norris hasn’t seen a man mysteriously appear in front of his door, or he’ll be screwed.

“Don’t worry, no one’s seen me.” Potter assures him.

“Did you use some kind of Auror-level disguise to hide your sudden appearance?” Draco asks frowning.

“Something like that.” Potter answers evasively, but it’s clear he’s not going to go further into detail. Draco lets the matter drop, but he can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to the situation than he can see.

He grabs his phone and house keys and goes to head outside, but then he remembers that, since Potter has apparated here, he can’t just take the elevator down with a man who’s never entered the building and casually stroll past his doorman, which means that they’ll have to apparate out, which means that, since Draco doesn’t know where they’re going, he’ll have to let Potter side-apparate him, which means that he’ll either have to grab onto Potter or let Potter grab onto him, which means that he’ll be very close to the man and he’ll probably be able to feel his muscles and the warmth of his body and he’ll feel Potter’s magic on his skin as they apparate and…and now Draco’s mind is babbling to itself. Great.

Trying to get some sort of control on his train of thoughts, he locks the door from the inside and goes to stand next to Potter.

“We can go now.” He says and Potter smiles, a small sweet smile that has butterflies star to stir in the dark pit of Draco’s stomach. Not good, he can’t let his emotions go haywire, not with Potter.

Of course, since the universe is out to get Draco, Potter doesn’t grab his arm to side-apparate him, he snakes a hand around Draco’s waist, holding him close to his chest, so Draco can feel the hardness of his toned muscles and the incredible heath the man is radiating, not to mention the smell of Potter’s cologne, a mix of something citrusy and some kind of wood that Draco thinks pairs very well with his own vanilla fragrance.

When the world spins on its axis, Draco closes his eyes and just feels.

Potter’s magic is…wow.

It’s indescribable, Potter’s power is extraordinary, an all-consuming fire that wraps around Draco in a heated grip, but it doesn’t hurt, it runs through each cell of Draco’s body, electrifying everything in its path. At the same time, it’s calming, like floating in the middle of a lake in the forest, listening to the chirping of the birds and the wind rustling the leaves on the tree branches. It’s peaceful and welcoming, like a mother’s embrace after a hard day.

As he’s sucked through space, Draco has a moment to appreciate just how truly astounding Potter’s magic is, before his feet hit the ground and he’s back in Potter’s embrace, and if he lingers a bit more than necessary in the strong grip, well, it can be excused as dizziness post-apparition.

Draco reluctantly moves away from Potter and looks around to find out where they are, he recognises the place, it’s a small alley in Soho he sometimes uses when he doesn’t want to take the bus and decides to apparate.

“Where to?” he asks, curiosity lacing his words.

“Why, isn’t the atmosphere here good enough?” Potter says, sarcasm strong in his voice, as he kicks a discarded soda can against the wall and the noise startles a rat that has been munching on the garbage and who now scurries away.

Draco gives Potter an unimpressed glare and Potter chuckles. “This way.” he says and leads Draco through the winding streets of Soho, stopping in front of a quaint little restaurant in one of the less frequented areas.

Potter holds the door open for Draco and he has to admit that, even though this is just a dinner between acquaintances and could never be anything more, Potter’s thoughtfulness is very welcomed and makes Draco’s heart beat a tiny bit faster.

The inside of the restaurant is small but beautiful, the walls are painted a soft cream colour, perfectly matching the terracotta floor and the marron tablecloths. Lamps softly illuminate the room and on each table sits a lighted candle. It’s cosy and charming.

Potter strides confidently to the reception desk and the girl there greets him with a warm smile. “Harry! Welcome back!” she says jovially and Potter responds in kind, addressing the girl by her name, Mandy, he must come here a lot.

The girl notices Draco standing awkwardly behind Potter and she beams at him.

“And who is this dashing man?”

“I’m Draco, nice to meet you.” He says with a small smile.

The girl squeals loudly. “So good to meet you Draco, I’m Mandy.” She introduces herself. “Come with me, I’ll show you to your table.”

She then grabs a couple of menus and leads them to a private booth at the back of the room. Potter and Draco take a seat opposite each other and the girl hands them a menu, leaving them to read it, but not before giving Potter a meaningful look that Draco has no idea what it means and to which Potter answers with a smirk of an equally unidentifiable meaning. Since he doesn’t feel like getting a headache over an exchange of glances, he decides to not bother with it and instead looks at the menu to see what the restaurant offers, which turns out to be a decent variety of dishes.

“This place is nice.” Draco comments after a few minutes of silently reading the menu and trying not to stare too much at the handsome figure at the other side of the table.

Potter hasn’t even opened his own menu, apparently already knowing what he’s going to get, instead he’s been staring at Draco the whole time, a thoughtful look on his face. At Draco’s comment, his expression brightens up and a crooked smile takes over his face.

“It is.” He says while looking around the room. There aren’t many tables occupied, about half the room is still empty, but the people sitting and eating seem to be really enjoying their time and the food quickly disappearing from their plates.

“Have you been coming here for long?” Draco asks intrigued.

“Years. Since I’ve been living in London.” Potter explains. “I found this place by chance on a very rainy evening and I’ve fallen in love with the atmosphere and the food.”

“Well, then thank you for bringing me here, we’ll see if the food is good enough to make me fall in love with it too.”

Potter smirks “Oh it will.”

Draco raises an eyebrow “Cocky are you?”

Potter shrugs “With good reason.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I’d take the steak if I were you. It’s simply sublime.”

The waiter, a slim, tall man in his twenties, approaches them just as Potter finishes his sentence and politely asks them if they’re ready to order. Potter, following his own advice, orders the steak with roasted potatoes.

“I’ll have the salmon en croûte with asparagus salad.” Draco says with a smile to waiter that turns into a smirk when he looks back at Potter. They both order a glass of wine, red for Potter, white for Draco and give the menus back to the waiter.

“Looks like you don’t trust me.” Potter says when the waiter is gone, but there’s no resentment in his tone.

Draco quirks and eyebrow. “Did you really think I was going to listen?”

Potter chuckles “Of course not, who would listen to the advice of someone who’s been here before?” he asks sarcastically.

Draco can’t help but snigger a bit at the slight frustration in Potter’s tone. “Well, you said that the food is good, I’m not saying that I don’t trust your judgement, but if I had taken the steak you’ve recommended, it would have been great for sure and I wouldn’t have been able to judge on my own, maybe everything else is not as good as the steak.”

Potter seems to ponder over Draco’s words “Or, I could have followed the same reasoning and recommended you something with the sole purpose of making you take the bait and choose something else.”

“Mmh, yes, that would have worked if you had known the steak wasn’t going to be a good enough dish and wanted me to avoid it, but since you’ve ordered it for yourself, it has to be excellent, which means that your first advice was genuine, because you wouldn’t have left out the best dish on the menu and suggested another potentially worse option on the off-chance that I wouldn’t take your bait.” Draco reasons and sees Potter’s eyebrows scrunch up in confusion as he tries to unravel the line of Draco’s convoluted train of thoughts.

“That is…okay, you’ve got me, I wanted you to try the steak because I genuinely think that it’s the best here, but just about any other dish is delicious. Though I should have realized that you would have gone for something completely different or you wouldn’t be the Draco Malfoy I know.” Potter says with a grin.

The Draco Malfoy you know is a horrible person.

“I don’t know if I’m still the same person I was back then.” Draco says as he fiddles with his napkin, not daring to look up at Potter.

“You most certainly are not.”

There’s such conviction in Potter’s voice that it shocks Draco enough to make him raise his eyes.

He frowns. “How can you be so sure?” he asks, because he finds it difficult to believe that Potter sees anything more than an old school bully when he looks at Draco, when Draco himself doesn’t always manage to think of himself as a good person, despite having been present for all the changes he’s made in his life.

Potter looks at him like he’s grown another head. “Are you serious?”

Draco nods, not trusting whatever could come out of his mouth at this point.

“Draco,” Potter starts with a sigh and the sound of his name coming from those lips has a strange effect on Draco, he’s quite sure he’s not supposed to shudder at the simple mention of his birth name. “I’ve seen you three times in the past week and in those times you have saved me from drunkenly stumble across the city in the middle of the night, not only that, but you’ve let me stay at your house, in a muggle neighbourhood, filled with muggle appliances, when you didn’t have to, you’ve made me coffee in the morning and even joked with me, without drawing your wand a single time. Then I’ve seen you dancing, in a club full of muggles, at the birthday party of one of your muggle friends, where you went dressed up as a female Disney character. You dress in muggle clothes, you even own a smartphone for Merlin’s sake, what more could anyone need to see that you’re not the same guy you were in school?”

At this point Draco is full-on blushing, he can feel the tips of his ears burn, but he can’t deny that he feels proud of how much Potter has noticed about him, of how much he’s changed, he thinks the corners of his eyes might be a bit watery, but he blinks the moisture away before Potter can see it.

The lump in his throat and the slight burning behind his eyes prevent Draco from talking, but he gives Potter a thankful look. The silence that stretches after that is not uncomfortable, it’s charged with a sort of freedom that soothes Draco’s nerves, Potter thinks he’s changed, he doesn’t believe Draco is the same asshole he was in school. It’s a relief for Draco, at least he will be able to say goodbye to Potter after tonight and part with him without the weight of their shared past looming on his shoulders.

The waiter comes back and a wonderful smell hits Draco as their meals are placed before them. The food looks mouth-wateringly good. Potter’s steak is thick and perfectly grilled to a dark, gleaming brown and the roasted potatoes are a solid golden colour. Draco’s own food isn’t any worse, the crust on the salmon is golden and crispy, the asparagus are shiny, slightly roasted and covered in a light, citrusy dressing.

He inhales deeply and lets the combination of flavours and spices tickle his senses. Without waiting any more, he carefully cuts a piece of salmon and places it in his mouth, as soon as the fish touches his tongue, his taste buds explode in an orgasm of flavourful goodness and he can’t help the moan that escapes his lips.

He blushes instantly and shyly raises his eyes to look at Potter, who’s staring right back at him with a smug grin, his meals still untouched.

“Well?” he asks.

Draco sighs “You were right.” He says, though it physically pains him to do so.

“Oh my, Draco Malfoy has said I was right about something, I’ll have to save this memory.” Potter says with a grin and Draco huffs.

“Shut up.” He mumbles and Potter chuckles, but complies and moves his attention to his own plateful of exquisite food.

They eat in comfortable silence for a while, when they’re plates are half empty, Potter speaks again.

“Is Jacob your boyfriend?”

Draco chokes on the salmon he was chewing and coughs repeatedly to dislodge the piece stuck in his throat, when his airways are free of food, he takes a sip of wine and clears his throat.

“What?” It comes out way shriller than he wanted it to, but the question catches him completely off-guard.

“Jacob, your friend from the party, you two seemed…close.”

Considering that Potter has seen them kiss, close is an euphemism.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Draco states.

“Do you want him to be?” Potter asks curiously, with an edge to his voice that Draco can’t decipher.

“God no.” he says suppressing a shudder “It would never work out.”

Potter arches an eyebrow “Why not?”

Draco places his fork on the table, this conversation might take a while.

“Well, for starters, Jacob is a personal trainer, he’s all focused on building his muscles and likes others to do the same, I might enjoy running and light exercise, but I’m not made for the body-building regime, secondly, we don’t have much in common, it would be an extremely dull relationship.”

“Because he’s a muggle?” Potter asks with an eyebrow raised, but there’s no judgement behind his words, he’s not accusing Draco of not wanting Jacob because he’s a lowly muggle, he’s really trying to understand.

“That’s not exactly a problem per se,” Draco explains “I have nothing against muggles anymore, I live among them, I like them, but a relationship with one would mean hiding myself, I don’t want to do that.”

As Draco talks, Potter nods along, as if he knows what he’s talking about.

“It might be a bit selfish, but magic is part of who I am, I don’t live in the magical world anymore, but in the confines of my home I don’t want to deny who I am, what makes me different. I’m not better than muggles, I don’t believe that anymore, but I cannot deny that I’m different, that we are different from them and being in a relationship with a muggle would mean having to hide myself, having to pretend that the magic coursing through my veins is not there. I cannot do that.”

Potter hums and takes a sip of his wine.

“I get it and I agree, I wouldn’t sacrifice such a big part of myself either.”

Draco is surprised by Potter’s statement, but then he remembers that Potter grew up with muggles and maybe he’s had enough of trying to be like them.

“Additionally,” he says to revert the conversation to the original topic “I could never be Jacob's partner, he’s handsome, yes and an awesome shag,”

He says casually and watches as Potter’s face does something strange, it twists in a sort of grimace before changing in a mask of reluctant acknowledgment of Jacob's prowess. Interesting.

“But there is one thing that above all would make a relationship between us impossible.” He says almost mysteriously.

Potter’s interest is piqued as he leans forward to listen, his own meal temporarily forgotten. “What?”

“He’s a vegan.” Draco deadpans.

Potter looks stumped for a moment, then he throws his head back as his laughter fills the silence.

Draco is stunned, once again, by how good Potter looks when he’s laughing, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners but shine brighter even if slightly closed and the big smile that stretches his lips, revealing two rows of blindingly white teeth. Potter’s laughter has quickly become one of Draco’s favourite sounds, it reverberates through his body and he can feel himself respond to Potter’s carefree happiness, a wide smile blooming on his own face.

“He’s a vegan? That’s the worst part?” Potter asks between bouts of laughter.

“He is and don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against vegans, I just want to be able to eat a cheeseburger in peace.” Draco explains when they’re both quiet again.

“So Jacob is a no. Anyone else?” Potter asks before taking a bite of his steak and Draco has to forcibly shake himself to avoid staring at Potter’s mouth as he chews and swallows.

“Nope. What about you, someone special in your life?”

Potter’s face shutters for a moment and Draco worries that he might have overstepped a line, but as soon as it’s come, the shadow in his eyes fades.

“No one in particular.” Potter says with forced casualty and Draco doesn’t want to spoil the good moment by pressing the matter, so he lets it drop.

“How is life as the Head Auror?” he asks instead and Potter gives him a thankful look.

“It’s a lot of work, as a simple Auror I had to take care of just my own work and investigations, now I lead the whole squad and I can’t say that it’s not exhausting, but it’s a gratifying job.” He says with a light in his eyes that shows just how much he loves what he does “Though the paperwork is a bitch.” He adds and Draco laughs.

“You’ve never been one for academic work, even in school, you were always better at the practical side of learning.” Draco has no idea where that came from, but he also knows it’s the truth, he’s spent so much time obsessively staring at Potter in those years that he’s noticed a lot about the other boy.

Potter looks surprised “You’re right, I was and still am better with a hands-on approach rather than an intellectual one. You never had that problem, you excelled at both the practical and theoretical sides.”

Is Draco blushing? Of course he is.

The thought that Potter has noticed that about him, leads to questioning just how much has Potter noticed about Draco. Was Potter obsessed with Draco as much as Draco was with Potter? Doubtful, but he was at least marginally interested in him to know how he did in school.

“Yeah well, I had more time to study, not having to save the school from evil every year and all that.” Draco casually takes a bite of his food, praying that Potter doesn’t take is statement the wrong way, after all, one of those evils had been him at one point.

Potter, bless him, just gives him a small smile and changes the topic before the conversation wanders into unwanted territory.

“What do you do these days?”

Draco almost wants to go back to talking about school.

What does he do?

He has a job. He can’t talk about that.

He goes to the orphanage. He can’t talk about that either.

He spends his nights shagging half of London. Not something to discuss at dinner. Or ever.

“Nothing much. I manage the Malfoy fortune and spend my days learning about the muggle world.” he settles on, which is not exactly wrong, but not right either.

He does manage the Malfoy fortune, but his role is limited to surveying once a month the report the goblins send him, they are the ones actually making the investments and keeping the fortune growing.

And he does learn about the muggle world, he travels when he can and watches TV to learn about what he can’t see with his own eyes, he walks around London, discovering something new every time, but it’s not how he fills his days.

He talks for a while, describing his first interactions with muggles and what he’s seen during the years, the places he’s visited, he tells Potter how much the muggle world amazes him, how much muggles impress him. He talks about technology and transportation, the inventions that astound him and the ones wizards could use to improve their outdated traditions.

All throughout, Potter asks questions and offers his opinion, keeping the conversation alive and Draco doesn’t even notice that both their plates are empty and have been for who knows how long until the waiter comes back and asks them if they’d like anything else.

Dessert sounds good and the waiter gives them both a short list to choose from.

“Let me guess,” Draco starts “Treacle tart?”

Potter smirks “And apple pie?”

“Touché.” Draco says and they order their favourite desserts.

The apple pie is simply exquisite, warm with a sprinkle of powdered sugar on the crust and a ball of vanilla ice-cream on the side, it melts on Draco’s tongue, the combination of apple and cinnamon sending his senses in ecstasy.

Potter seems to enjoy his tart just as much and within a few minutes, both plates are empty again.

Potter insists on paying the bill and Draco eventually acquiesces. They leave the restaurant with their bellies full and their spirits high.

Since it’s still early, they decide to take a walk and roam the streets of Soho, enjoying the lights and the cool evening air. At some point they end up in Golden Square and sit on a bench for a while, enjoying each other’s company while Potter tells Draco a bit more about his life as an Auror.

It gets dark and they don’t even notice, too trapped in each other to pay attention, they talk and laugh, when their limbs get stiff from sitting on the bench they walk a bit more through Carnaby Street and the surrounding alleys until they reach the place they’ve apparated to earlier.

Time to say goodbye.

“Thank you for the evening Potter, I really enjoyed it.” Draco says sincerely.

He hadn’t expected to pass such a good time in Potter’s company, they have skirted around and avoided most of the baggage they both carry from the past, but they’ve managed to fill the evening with light conversation and playful banter, never ending in uncomfortable silences or awkward situations. Draco can say that he had more fun tonight than he’s had in a long time, he’s been able to talk about magic for the first time in years and he’s shared his awe of the muggle world with someone who can understand his point of view. A very good evening indeed. For a moment he can even imagine that he and Potter are friends having a good time, though that is stretching the truth just a bit too much.

When Potter doesn’t answer, Draco turns to look at him and his breath gets caught in his throat.

Even in the dimly lit alley, Draco can make out the man’s features and, above all, Potter’s smouldering gaze that pins Draco in place. He can’t do anything but watch as Potter stalks forward like a predator to his prey, crowding him against the dirty wall behind his back. Potter stands in front of him, he’s shorter than Draco, but right now he could be eight feet tall because Draco feels so small, unable to move, unable to talk, unable to do anything except stare at the man standing so close to him, so close he can feel the heat radiating from the strong body. Potter doesn’t utter a word, but his eyes speak for him, they burn and Draco is scorched by the fire he sees in the green irises, utterly helpless as he drowns in the other man’s gaze.

Strong arms lean on the wall at each side of Draco’s head, enclosing him in a cage of heat and lust he can feel coursing through his veins, because there is no mistaking what Potter wants, no doubts in the way those green pools search Draco’s face, in the way they fix on his lips then up to his eyes and down again.

Draco holds his breath, he doesn’t know what to do, he wants to flee and stay in equal measures and his brain can’t choose either.

Potter takes the matter in his own hands when he leans in and suddenly their lips are touching. Draco’s brain short-circuit at the feeling of Potter’s lips moving against his, but he doesn’t hesitate in responding to the kiss with equal fervour.

It’s heaven and hell, it’s fire and ice, it’s a juxtaposition of feelings that leaves Draco wanting, needing more.

Potter’s lips are soft and skilled and electricity sparks where they touch Draco’s. Draco’s hands come up of their own accord and tangle in Potter’s hair, gripping the silky strands while Potter’s hands cup Draco’s face, rough calloused fingers that feel so soft and gentle, yet the grip is unyielding.

When Draco feels Potter’s tongue lightly lick his lower lip, he opens his mouth to the intrusion, welcoming Potter’s tongue inside and meeting it with his own in a passionate battle.

Sparks fly behind Draco’s closed eyelids as they devour each other’s mouths, tasting, fighting, exploring. There’s hunger in their movements and desire, lust and eagerness to feel more, to be closer. Potter’s chest presses against Draco’s, pinning him more firmly against the wall and Draco widens his stance to allow Potter to fit even closer to his body.

Draco tugs Potter’s hair sharply and Potter moans in Draco’s mouth.

At the sound, everything stops.

Draco’s body freezes and his eyes open wide.

What is he doing?!

He pushes Potter away and Potter stumbles back, a shocked expression on his face.

No no no no no.

“Draco?” Potter is breathless and confused and Draco can’t look at him.

Draco.

“No.”

He takes a step away, then another and another. He can’t do this, this is dangerous and wrong.

But it feels so right.

No. He can’t allow it, this is Potter, Head Auror Potter, hero Potter, the one who could end Draco’s life with a single word. He can’t do this, he has to go.

He turns around and takes another step deeper into the darkness of the alley.

“Draco?” Potter’s voice is cautious and scared? and it slices through the silence like a knife straight to Draco’s heart.

Draco turns back around, because he can’t resist one last look. Potter’s lips are red and swollen, his breathing still laboured, but it’s the eyes that shatter Draco, those expressive orbs that a moment ago were filled with lust are now empty shells of confusion and misery.

Draco’s heart breaks a little, because he wants it, so much, he wants to go back there and resume where they’ve left, he wants it more than anything, he’s wanted Potter for half his life and not a single moment he’s ever thought he could have him, not once he’s let himself believe that his fantasies could be more than a creation of his mind, he’s clung to that reality to keep going, to not fall in a pit of desperate longing. But now the truth is that he could have everything, everything he’s ever wanted is a few steps away and he can’t accept it.

And it hurts, so damn much. Draco’s eyes fill with tears and he doesn’t bother hiding them as they silently slide down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers.

As Potter tries to take a step towards him, he spins and disapparates into the night.

Chapter Text

Draco doesn’t think of a destination as he disapparates, too focused on getting away from the alley, away from Potter, that he doesn’t care where he ends up.

When the world stops spinning and he opens his eyes, he’s not surprised to find himself here.

The Scottish night air is crisp and chilly even in August and Draco is thankful he decided to bring his jacket with him as a particularly mean gust of wind ruffles his hair and chills it down to the roots. At least his body is warm.

Warmth.

He can still feel Potter’s warm body against his, the slide of his fingers on Draco’s face, his soft hair under Draco’s fingertips, those amazingly gentle lips against his, the stroke of his tongue in Draco’s mouth…

He shrugs off his jacket.

The cold wind erases every trace of Potter in a matter of seconds and Draco feels like he can finally breathe again.

A soft bell rings in his ears, the ward he has placed around his apartment telling him that someone is knocking on his door. Typical of Potter, of course the git wouldn’t have let Draco go like that, too bad that Draco isn’t home.

If Potter hadn’t assumed Draco had gone back home and had, instead, traced his apparition, he would have found him in an instant. There’s about a minute after an apparition in which it can be traced, after that nothing can be done and now Draco has effectively disappeared, no one will be able to find him, especially here, where no one expects him to be.

He starts walking in the darkness, his feet travelling the well-known path up the hill, his mind wandering.

He was stupid, so stupid. And naïve.

How could he have thought that going out for dinner with Potter would be a good idea? He should have declined the offer, he should have told Potter that he didn’t need to thank him and that they ought to go back to their own lives, but he didn’t. And now he’s in deep shit.

Because of course Potter is not just incredibly handsome, he’s also funny and charming, smart and witty, has a sharp sense of humour and he’s easy going. Conversation never feels forced and the silences aren’t oppressive, he’s good at listening, but he also always has something to add to the topic of the discussion. He’s strong willed and stubborn, but Draco likes even that about him. There’s a light in his eyes when he talks about something he’s passionate about, there’s fire when he’s angry and welcoming warmth when he’s happy. The left corner of his mouth quirks just a little when Draco makes one of his sarcastic retorts and he gesticulates a lot with his hands when he speaks, as if his voice isn’t enough to fully convey his thoughts. He’s conscious of who he is and what he represents for the Wizarding World, but he doesn’t care about any of the fame that comes with his title, he’s humble and caring, he’s not the façade of a hero, he’s not fake, he’s a hundred percent genuinely good and Draco wants so much to hate him, he wants to despise Potter for his natural goodness, for the ease with which he helps making the world a better place, as if it wasn’t at all hard, while Draco struggles with his task every day.

But of course he can’t hate him, because as much as he tries to deny it, there is nothing Potter could do that would change Draco’s opinion of him, nor what he feels for the brave idiot. Hence why he’s in deep shit. It was moderately easy to bear the thought of liking Potter when he was an abstract concept of someone Draco would never have the chance to have, but now the possibility is concrete and it’s so hard to refuse it. So fucking hard.

Why can’t he have the one thing he wants more than anything else?

A rhetoric question, obviously, he knows very well why he can’t have Potter, nor anyone else for that matter. Try as he might to act differently, to change his views and mentality, he’s still Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater turned hit-wizard. He believes he’s doing some good with this job, that he’s helping the Wizarding World towards a better future, even if he won’t be part of it, but deep down, he knows nothing he does will ever absolve him of his crimes, of the harm he’s done, directly and not, the people who have died because he didn’t do anything to prevent it, the innocents he’s tortured.

He tells himself that he couldn’t have done anything different, that everything he’s done was out of the desperate need to protect his family, but it’s a smokescreen, a carefully constructed justification, but the truth is, he did have other choices. He could have refused, refused to help, refused to torture innocents, refused to take the mark. He would have been tortured for that, maybe even killed, but it would have been the right thing to do. He could have gone to Dumbledore during sixth year, pled for help, maybe he would have become a spy like Severus, or maybe he would have been captured by the Order of the Phoenix and tortured for information he would have willingly given, before being killed. It would have been another way, one not very favourable for him, but one nonetheless. He could have run away from home the moment Voldemort had taken up residence at the Manor, he could have hid and lived in the wild like many muggleborns and half-bloods did during the last months of the war.

But he had been a coward.

He had stayed at home, trying to justify himself, telling himself that his mother needed him there, while, in all honesty, the absence of a disappointing Death Eater child would have probably done his mother some good, she wouldn’t have had to worry about his well-being, she could have focused on protecting herself and wouldn’t have taken the burn of Draco’s failures.

But he had been too scared to run, too scared to take action against the monster, too selfish to risk his own life to save others.

Potter had done everything Draco had not.

He had refused to see his world crumble under the foot of a megalomaniac bastard and had taken action, he’d been on the run for months, looking for Merlin-knows-what, fighting Death Eaters, robbing banks, stealing dragons, if the voices are to be trusted. He had taken a stand against Voldemort, fighting on the front line and he’d won. He had faced evil and come out victorious while Draco…Draco had done what he’d been told to do, he had tortured innocents, watched as one after the other, muggle families had been slaughtered in front of his eyes, he had tried to kill people, though not very successfully, and even then, the day of the final battle, he’d tried to capture Potter, to bring him to the Dark Lord in a desperate attempt to redeem himself and his family when it had looked like the light side was going to lose.

Killing might fracture the soul, but Draco’s soul was already beyond saving by the time he started killing off Death Eaters as a job. With every scream, every whimper, every broken bone, every drop of blood, every cry he’d witnessed and caused, a piece of his soul had left him, leaving behind a hollow void that nothing could ever refill.

Tears are streaming freely down Draco’s face and he doesn’t bother wiping them as new ones would immediately replace them.

By the time he reaches the top of the hill, he’s chilled to the bone, but he still doesn’t put on his jacket, instead he stops and stares.

In the distance, the castle of Hogwarts shines in the darkness, even without students, the house-elves keep the torches lit and the fires burning, making it seem full of life while only a few people are likely to be inhabiting the castle at the moment.

Looking at Hogwarts is always a bitter-sweet experience for Draco. The school has been the place where Draco has lived both the best and worst moments of his life, his first time acing an exam, the first time he won a Quidditch match, the first time he walked the halls with the Prefect badge pinned to his uniform, his first kiss, the time he was turned into a ferret, the time a girl punched him in the face, the first time he tried to kill someone…

Every day of the seven years he’s spent in the castle is permanently etched in his memory, for good or bad.

The outline of the castle is imposing in the sparse Scottish landscape, only the Great Lake separating Draco from it, the water, still and black as ink reflects the shining lights as hundreds of dots decorate the flat surface.

But these lights aren’t coming from Hogwarts.

Looking down the slope of the hill for the first time since he’s arrived, Draco takes a deep breath. The sight is as eerie as the first time he’s seen it, eight years ago.

The entire side of the hill facing the lake is dotted with row after row of equally spaced lanterns, each of them a glass globe with a blue flame burning within it, the hundreds of which cast the hill in a ghostly glow.

Draco doesn’t need to see them to know that beneath each flame there’s a stone plate embedded in the earth with a name carved into its surface.

Hundreds of flames, hundreds of plates, one for each victim of the war.

Built in the months immediately following the end of the war, the Monument to the Fallen was meant to be the first beacon of light after the destruction, having a place to mourn the dead, to honour them, helped to heal from the invisible wounds the loss of a loved one leaves behind. People gathered around the flames, brought flowers to friends, sons, daughters, parents and heroes, cried next to the plates, found comfort in each other, learnt to move on.

Numquam Obliviscar Fortis et Iustus

Never forget the brave and the just.

The inscription, visible even at night thanks to the lanterns, is written in gold on the top of a short pillar placed on the very top of the hill, right next to where Draco is standing. A message to everyone, to move on, but to remember those who can’t.

His feet move without need for command, walking the winding paths between the flames. He doesn’t read the plates, he doesn’t need to. In the year after the war he forced himself to come here every week, always at night, when no one would be bothered by his presence, he read the names over and over again until he memorized them all. The hundreds of victims of the man he had helped. It had been fairly easy to justify his own actions when he’d been cooped up in the Manor, hiding from the Death Eaters that roamed the halls, it had been far more difficult to do it while standing in front of them, not the abstract concept of victims, but the tangible proof of them.

People he’d gone to school with, classmates, children he’d bullied, professors, resting next to people he’d seen being tortured and killed in his own home, people he had tortured, people he’d never heard of before, but that he would remember forever.

At first, coming to the Monument had been a self-inflicted punishment, to remind himself of what he’d done and just how rotten he was. But since he’s started his job, he comes here to remember not his past, but his goal. To remember that he’s helping the Wizarding World so that places like this will not have to be built again, to face the people he hasn’t saved and find the strength to save the nameless still out there, helpless against a force only he can fight.

Every time he’s found his resolve wavering during the years, he’s come here, read the names again and again. From his former schoolmates, Lavender Brown, Cedric Diggory, Colin Creevey, Fred Weasley, to Minister Scrimgeour, Alastor Moody, Professor Lupin and his wife – Draco’s cousin – Nymphadora Tonks, from Sirius Black, another cousin he’ll never meet, to Severus Snape, his Godfather, the man he should have relied on when the times had gotten darker and darker, but whose help he’d foolishly refused.

It’s to them that Draco made a vow the day he started his new life, a vow to protect, to not be a coward, to stand against evil, to fight back.

It’s to them that he asks the strength to keep going when his burden feels too heavy and hope too fragile. It’s to them that he confides his deepest, darkest thoughts when they threaten to drown him.

Now, walking through them, a ghost among the dead, he silently pleads for help, help to do the right thing over the selfish one, help to keep focused on what is more important.

Of course, he could use Occlumency to hide away his emotions, but that would be the cowardly way, not to mention that hiding from himself has never worked for him. Instead, he faces everything, every glimmer of happiness, hilarity, lust, longing, envy and fear. The whirlwind of emotions that Potter is able to conjure in Draco’s lonely life is impressive and scary, but Draco takes a deep breath and embraces them all, he lets them feel him to the brim, every atom resonating with the strength of them, he accepts them and, with a long exhale, he lets them go.

By the time his feet skim the lakeshore, his resolve is an iron wall around his heart.

He stares at the lone light right in the middle of the lake, burning over a gleaming white marble tomb, the only one he hasn’t been able to visit in the past years, the one he won’t visit until he’ll be worthy of the man that rests there.

He spares a last glance to the castle before apparating back home, thinking of the children that will soon roam the hallways and that will, hopefully, never get to know the darkness that had once stained the stone walls.

His sudden appearance in the middle of his living room goes unnoticed by muggle neighbours and stubborn wizards still knocking on his door.

Draco forces himself to turn away from the door and throw up a silencing barrier to keep out the noise, not trusting himself not to yield at the sound of Potter’s voice calling him. He walks straight to the bathroom, set on washing away the night, but has to do a double take when his eyes fall on his bed.

Pongo and Coin are already sleeping on the pillow next to Draco’s, the tiny Niffler resting comfortably against Pongo’s belly, a grey paw holding him safe.

Looks like at least someone made peace.

With a soft smile on his lips, Draco heads for the shower, steadfastly ignoring his reflection and the still messed up hair a strong hand has left behind.

Lying in his bed a short while later, Pongo and Coin’s combined breathing lulling him to sleep, he makes a promise to himself, after everything will be over, he won’t let himself go back to how it was before, that half-living state he’d been in before Shacklebolt, no, after everything, he’ll find a way to truly live, to be happy.

A small smile still graces his lips as his eyes drift shut.

Chapter Text

It’s raining.

Draco doesn’t need to open his eyes and look outside to know it. If the patter of water against the window wasn’t clear enough, the fact that Pongo is still snuggled against Draco’s body with seemingly no intention of getting up and whine for breakfast is all the indication Draco needs.

Pongo hates the rain, Draco thinks it might be a lingering fear from the day he found him in the alley near his building, badly injured and soaked to the bone after days of uninterrupted rain. Unbidden, the memory rushes back to the forefront of his mind.

15^th January, 2005

It’s cold, really freaking cold.

The thick wool coat and the cashmere scarf wrapped around Draco’s neck offer little solace against the elements as he walks briskly through the morning crowd. It’s so cold that breathing hurts and Draco feels like his nose and ears are about to fall off, but Londoners don’t let the weather stop them from enjoying their Saturday of shopping. It’s been raining non-stop since Monday and, now that the sky has mercifully decided to give London a reprieve from the unrequired shower, it’s like a stopper has been removed, reversing the city on the streets. Everyone is happy and apparently unfazed by the arctic temperatures.

Draco, on the other hand, is done.

He went out to take a break from his job, he’s been tracking down Nott Sr for the past week and the ordeal has turned out to be harder than expected, as the man has been in a different location every night Draco has tried to follow him. He thought he could benefit from a bit of shopping and strolling around London, but after an hour of walking around in fashionable but not very warm clothes and the inaccessibility of warming charms in the middle of muggle London, he’s ready to retreat to the welcoming warmth of his home, where his nose won’t sting with every breath and his ears won’t feel like twin blocks of ice stuck to his head.

Ducking in a side alley, he apparates directly behind his apartment building, in a narrow dead end street with only a couple of dumpsters to fill the space. He doesn’t even look around to see if anyone’s around, this place is always deserted, apart from the occasional rat. That’s why the sudden noise startles him almost out of his skin. The sound is not human and it’s filled with pain, it comes from behind the nearest dumpster and Draco doesn’t waste any time in crossing the space and looking around for the source of the anguished lament.

His stomach drops at the sight that welcomes him.

In the corner between the dirty dumpster and the wall of Draco’s building lies a ball of reddish-brown fur. At first Draco thinks it might be a fox, after all, it’s not unusual to find one in the city with all the rats to banquet on, but then he takes a step towards the creature and the sound of his boots scraping the pavement reaches the injured animal. Yellow orbs focus on him and Draco recognizes the animal for what it is, a cat, in terrible conditions, but a cat nonetheless. Draco inspects the injuries from afar, assessing the damage before doing anything that could make it worse. There’s a deep gash running along the left hind paw all the way to the belly, it doesn’t seem deep, but it has certainly bled a lot, the fur is covered in blood, but Draco can still discern a few grey spots in the reddish-brown mess. One front paw lies bent at an odd angle and the tip of one furry ear is almost completely torn off. What is worse though, is that the poor animal is completely soaked, he must have been out here for who-knows-how-long under the unforgiving rain and the cold isn’t helping one bit. Draco watches as the cat trembles from pain, cold or a combination of both, a pitiful whimper following soon after a major shudder.

Draco’s best guess is that the small cat had an unfortunate encounter with a stray dog, but at the moment he doesn’t stop to think about the how, he does what needs to be done.

With a flick of his wand, he gently levitates the animal towards himself and slowly and carefully wraps the creature in the first thing he finds, his cashmere scarf. He cradles the creature against his chest, careful not to apply too much pressure and barely managing not to gag at the smell of blood, dirt, piss and wet animal that assaults his nostrils. The cat doesn’t protest, too weak to do anything other than shivering and whining.

Draco knows a lot about healing, due to his training and the times he’s had to patch himself up after a mission, but he’s not sure how the techniques could be applied to animals and especially to non-magical beings. Choosing not to risk it, he decides to bring the animal to a professional, there’s a small veterinary clinic a couple of blocks from here and Draco wastes no time in disillusioning himself and the cat and running to the clinic, reappearing in the alley at the back and quickly walking around the block to the front door.

The young woman behind the front desk pales as Draco shows her the injured animal and tells her where he found it, but she carefully takes the bundle from his arms and scurries away to the back, calling for the vet.

Draco knows that he doesn’t have to, but he still takes a seat on a small plastic chair in the waiting area, waiting for what, he doesn’t know, but he feels like he needs to stay for a little while more, so he does.

When the assistant comes back to the front desk, about half an hour later, she looks surprised to see Draco still here, but she hands him a bundle of fabric that was once a beautiful scarf and reassures him that the cat will be alright and up for visitors in a couple of days.

Along with a wave of unexpected relief, confusion crashes into him, why would a cat need visitors? Draco isn’t the owner and has no intention to visit again and he tells her just that. The assistant makes a non-committal hum and flashes him a knowing smile that leaves him all the more confused as he exits the clinic, cashmere scarf way beyond salvation.

Two days later, the knowing smile turns into a smirk as Draco enters the clinic.

Guess she was right.

Two years and a half have gone by since the day Draco brought Pongo home, he remembers it as if it were just hours ago, not years, the excitement of having a companion to share the otherwise empty days, the relief at having been able to save the cat before it was too late, the worry for the creature who wasn’t yet completely healed and the fear of inadequacy because he hadn’t had the foggiest idea of how to take care of an animal that wasn’t an owl and was terrified of doing something wrong.

Thankfully, in the first month Pongo lived with Draco, all his injuries healed nicely, leaving behind only a thin scar on his hind paw, now covered by fluffy grey fur and the missing tip of his left ear that the vet hadn’t been able to completely reattach. To Draco he was, and still is, absolutely perfect. 

Coming back to the present, Draco lightly scratches the spot behind Pongo’s ears that always makes him purr the loudest and enjoys the quiet warmth of the cat curled on his chest. When it rains, Pongo gets moody and much more cuddlier than usual, Draco, who is well acquainted with traumatic experiences and the mark the leave on you even years later, has no problem with indulging in a little cuddling session whenever Pongo needs it.

This morning is different though, because a wiggling motion slices the stillness as Coin makes his way around Pongo’s body, plopping himself down on Draco’s chest next to the cat’s head. Draco chuckles as Pongo huffs loudly at the intrusion, but still, the cat doesn’t make any move towards the Niffler, who squeaks a bit and turns to look at Pongo with curious eyes before placing a tiny paw against his cheek and then snuggles against a very disconcerted cat with a contented sigh.

Draco’s heart warms at the sight and show of comfort. The two animals may have started hating each other, or at least Pongo has, but Draco is sure they will be very good friends in the future, which is actually terrifying considering the chaos they could unleash together.

He decides not to think about that, but, the moment his mind is left free to wander, everything from last night comes crashing back.

The dinner, Potter, the surprisingly good time, the kiss, the Monument of the Fallen, the kiss, his final resolution. (the kiss)

As last night’s decision settles like a stone in his stomach, Draco doesn’t know if he feels better or worse, on the one hand, he is back on course with his job, on the other, there are Potter and those sinfully skilled lips.

Steeling his resolve once more, he gets up, leaving the animals curled up under the covers, and sets on getting ready for work.

Since it’s raining going out running is a hard pass, so Draco hits the gym in his study until every muscle in his body is sore and his skin is bathed in sweat. After a long shower and a filling lunch, he goes back to the study, this time heading for his desk.

There are five Death Eaters still at large, it’s time to choose the next target.

He places a finger on the mark on his arm and closes his eyes, focusing on waking the magic within his veins. It’s disturbing how easily the dark magic responds to his call, as if it was just there itching to be freed, but if being tainted by the darkness is the price he has to pay to save even one person from his former “colleagues”, then he’ll gladly welcome the stain on his soul, or whatever’s left of it anyway.

He thinks about the links that connect him to the other Death Eaters and visualizes the thick ropes of magic coming to life. When he opens his eyes, the five lines are there.

“Shit.”

This is not good. Fuck.

Is everything in this world out to make Draco’s life harder? If there was a doubt about it before, now there’s not.

Why the fuck are four out of five lines pointing in the same direction?

Of course it has happened in the past that two or more Death Eaters decided to work together, in some cases, it had made Draco’s job easier, allowing him to take out a couple of targets at a time, in others, the situation had been quite the hardship because three minor Death Eaters, if a laughable match for Draco on their own, are still three average wizards against one when working together and the jagged scar on Draco’s left upper arm - where a severing curse nearly cut to the bone - shows just that. Of course, the ones who gave him the scar are now safely tucked in Draco’s chest of gruesome death in the crypt, so it could be argued that even three mediocre wizards aren’t a match for him.

This time though, it’s not three half-witted buffoons he’s going to face off, but four of the most powerful Death Eaters in the ranks, the Lestranges and the Carrows. The former used to be just a step below aunt Bellatrix in rank and power and the latter were deranged and strong enough to be entrusted by Voldemort himself to keep the horror alive at Hogwarts during seventh year. If they’re working together now, Draco doesn’t even want to know what they are trying to accomplish.

Obviously that’s not completely true, he might not like the thought, but he needs to know what the quartet is planning and find a way to stop them. He just can’t do it right now. Oh, he would like to, but he needs to be realistic, going after those four is going to be the hardest thing he’s ever done magically-wise, which means that there’s a very high possibility he won’t come out of it alive. It’s his responsibility to make sure to maximise the value of his life before undertaking such a suicidal mission and that leaves him only one option, go after Dolohov first and then finish his job, or die trying.

And with this merry thought, Draco gets up and retrieves Dolohov’s file from his cabinet.

The manila folder the Aurors put together is not as disappointing as Draco expected it to be, though he had very low expectations.

Reading through it, Draco can’t help but admire Dolohov’s ability to escape imprisonment. He was captured in the First Wizarding War for the murders of the Prewett brothers and many others and sent to Azkaban, where he dwelled under the care of the Dementors until, in 1996, Voldemort blew a hole through the building and the detained Death Eaters came running out like Londoners on a sunny day. He went back to work in the inner circle and, soon after that, took part in the attack to the Department of Mysteries where he was captured, again, along with Draco’s father and a few others.

He got out, again.

How, Draco can only guess, not even the Aurors are sure about that. It might have been another one of Voldemort’s intercessions or maybe the Dementors had already started leaning towards the dark side and hadn’t been fazed by letting go one of the Dark Lord’s minions. The point is that, about a year after the Department of Mysteries’ fiasco, Draco clearly remembers coming home to Dolohov strolling through to halls of Malfoy Manor with that twisted grin he always had printed on that ugly face and that had made Draco want to punch him in the face, with a broomstick, repeatedly.

After that, there’s a detailed account of an encounter between Dolohov and the Golden Trio in a café on Tottenham Court Road on the night of the 1^st of August 1997, Draco can easily tell that this part was written by Potter. He can easily discern Potter’s notes from the others’ in every file because, he has to grudgingly admit, Potter’s work is meticulous and well organized, the attention to detail is really astounding for someone who, in school, was as messy as Potter was. Or maybe, after so many years of obsessing about him, Draco is just so attuned to Potter that even his notes are immediately recognizable, it’s a bit disturbing, but Draco is self-aware enough to know that it’s more than likely to be true.

Apparently, after Potter and friends had escaped William Weasley’s wedding, following the attack of a group of Death Eaters, they’d found themselves in central London. Weird place to hide, in Draco’s opinion. Not aware of the taboo curse on Voldemort’s name, they’d been traced to the café by Dolohov and Rowle and a duel had ensued in which Weasley had ended up bound by ropes and Potter had been slammed into a wall. As often happened when those three were concerned, Granger had saved the day body-binding Dolohov. That girl was terrifying. The next passage has Draco’s stomach dropping to his knees.

“After both Death Eaters were subdued and unconscious, Miss. Granger modified their memories to remove any trace of Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley and herself. It was not confirmed, but it is likely that the spell didn’t completely take root…”

Draco stares at the page, blinking slowly as the thundering roar of his heartbeat fills his ears and a shiver runs down his spine.

That spell didn’t take at all, Draco can confirm it. Oh, how he wishes it had worked, but the usually brilliant Hermione Granger made one huge mistake, not that she could have known about it, she slammed into another one of Voldemort’s failsafes. The man was a monster, but he was smart. He trusted his followers as much as he trusted Dumbledore, which means that, whenever he could, he strengthened his control over them.

Being one of the best Legilimens in the world, little could be hidden from him, only very thick walls of Occlumency could keep him out and the people that could build that sort of mental walls were Snape and Dumbledore, which left Voldemort with little to worry about, since his followers couldn’t hide anything from him. Except, of course, if the memories he was looking for had been completely removed, not hidden behind walls, then, even the most powerful wizard in the world wouldn’t be able to retrieve them. That posed a problem for Voldemort, he didn’t trust his Death Eaters not to erase or temporarily remove their own memories just to keep them from him, so he got creative.

He built a mental box, more like a mental fortress to be precise, and placed a room in it for each Death Eater, combining his own Occlumency and Dark Magic to link this room to the Dark Mark. This way, he extended his own Occlumency to his followers, effectively making them immune to any sort of mental attack and justifying it by saying that he wanted them to be as safe as possible, at the same time, he guaranteed himself that he couldn’t be betrayed without him knowing about it. Load of good it did him with Snape.

Unfortunately though, Dolohov and Rowle were no Snape, so, memories intact, the moment they woke up from their Granger-induced nap, they summoned the Dark Lord to tell him about Potter.

Shit decision.

At the time, Voldemort had been travelling, looking for something. Draco had come to know it involved Gregorovitch the wandmaker only because he’d been relegated to babysit the prisoners in the dungeons and Ollivander talked in his sleep, but as far as anyone else was concerned, the Dark Lord was away on business and wasn’t to be disturbed, save for some major happening, like Potter been captured.

Potter being found, fought, and let escape was clearly not on Voldemort’s emergency list, but Dolohov and Rowle must had been still a bit concussed, because they thought it a good idea to summon the Dark Lord back to the Manor to tell him the story of how a seventeen-year-old witch had kicked their asses.

After listening to their retelling, Voldemort had calmly summoned Draco to the parlour.

Having been able to avoid the Dark Lord until then, Draco had had no clue about why he was being summoned, but he had known it wasn’t going to be anything good.

He’d been right.

As soon as Draco had arrived, Voldemort had placed Dolohov and Rowle on their knees before him and told him to show them what they deserved for being bested by a mudblood teenager.

Draco shudders at the memory, his fingers clenching and unclenching around the manila folder.

He remembers how his wand had wobbled as he’d trained it on Dolohov and Rowle’s scared faces, he remembers the sweat rolling down his back as he’d tried to hide how much he was shaking and shivering from horror and repulsion, he remembers the way they had screamed and trashed on the floor, how they’d pleaded for Draco to stop, how they’d sobbed and whimpered and how Voldemort had stood there and laughed. He remembers walking to his room afterward, a mask of stoic indifference on his face, only to drop the contents of his stomach the moment he’d reached the toilet.

At the time he hadn’t known precisely what he was punishing them for and torturing them had scared the shit out of him and disgusted him in equal measure, but now, with the full picture and years of killing Death Eaters on his back, he can’t say he has any sympathy for the two monsters. Though he deeply regrets his actions against the innocents, he is not the same naïve teen who thought violence was always wrong, despite still despising violence only for the sake of violence.

He is sorry though. Not for Dolohov and Rowle, but for the seventeen-year-old boy who was forced to torture another human being, that and many other times. He might never forgive himself for some of the things he’s done, but he’s mature enough to understand that not everything was his fault and that, to some extent, he was a victim too.

It has taken him years to recognize that. For the longest time, he’d never even dared to think of himself as anything more than a monster, it hadn’t seemed fair to the actual victims to place himself on their side. He knows now that a person can be both a victim and a monster and that neither excuses the other. It’s not his fault that Voldemort was out of his mind and forced him to torture and watch people being tortured, it’s his fault that he simply accepted the orders and didn’t try to make things better, like Potter and company did.

There isn’t much recorded about Dolohov after the café incident except for being suspected of the kidnapping and torture of a few families, both muggle and magical. Not the Aurors nor the Order of the Phoenix had kept tabs on him until the final battle.

About the final battle, only two things stand out: Dolohov killed Remus Lupin and was then defeated in a duel by professor Flitwick. After Potter killed Voldemort, Dolohov disappeared.

There are a few notes made by the Aurors in the nine years since then, that suggest Dolohov’s possible hand in some of the kidnappings and murders, but no proof has been found, though Draco is sure that a man as rotten as Dolohov wouldn’t have stopped his trip on the deranged train just because the conductor had been killed, he would have walked to the next stop and the next, all the way to hell, and now Draco is ready to open the gates and let him in.

There’s a final note on the file, cautioning against an unknown curse, probably of Dolohov’s own creation, that shines purple and can badly injure at best and kill otherwise. Potter’s report mentions it a couple of times, as having been used on Granger during the battle at the Ministry, with harsh but not fatal consequences - due to it having been cast non-verbally - and on Potter himself that same day, who deflected it with a shield charm, which means that, differently from the killing curse, though the spells have the same effect, Dolohov’s curse can be countered.

Dolohov’s file is a lot to unpack in a single session, but Draco needs to have an overview of the situation before delving deeper into the details. He reads everything once again and, by the time he’s finished, the sun is starting to disappear below the horizon of the magical window he’s placed in the study to bring a bit of the bright outside world in a place otherwise sad and gloomy.

He might have stayed there a little while more, maybe starting on a few healing potions to refill his stock, but the sound of the doorbell brings him to his front door. A look through the peephole shows the face of his doorman, Kyle, waiting for him.

With a confused frown, Draco opens the door and halts when the full man comes into view. Dressed impeccably in his black uniform, Draco supposes he makes for a rather dashing figure with his toned body, boyish features and dimpled smile, but he’s not Draco’s cup of tea and, though Draco knows Kyle likes him – and he can’t really blame him, who wouldn’t – they have come to the silent understanding that they’ll never go there. Or at least Draco thinks they have, but the bouquet of flowers in Kyle’s hands is starting to make him doubt the silent part of their understanding, maybe he needs to be a bit more clearer, or maybe he’s misunderstood and that’s not what this is about at all. Unfortunately, the man is staring at Draco with a glazed-over expression and only now Draco realizes he’s answered the door in nothing but his joggers, the day having been too hot for a t-shirt, he forgot to put one on before exiting his room and now he has a twenty-something-year-old man hungrily staring at his abs. Great.

“Kyle?” he asks when the doorman still hasn’t said anything and it’s been at least thirty seconds.

That seems to shock him out of his daze and the man slightly blushes, looking down at his feet before slowly raising his eyes to meet Draco’s.

“Hello Mr. Malfoy. How are you?”

“Good…thanks. Everything good downstairs?” he asks to be polite, though he hopes Kyle will get to the point quickly so he can avoid a painfully awkward conversation. He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms and regretting it as soon as his biceps bulge under the strain and Kyle’s face gets a shade redder. Draco forces himself not to roll his eyes, frustrated with his own lack of attention when he answered the door, though he won’t go back and put a shirt on now, that would be acknowledging the problem and Draco just wants to quickly get rid of the ogling man.

When Kyle doesn’t say anything, he raises an eyebrow, trying to hide his irritation. “Did you need something?”

“Uhm…”

If Draco didn’t know better, he’d say Kyle was just obliviated, but he wasn’t and the whole ordeal is starting to annoy him. Luckily for his own sake, Kyle decides to regain his ability to be a human and clears his throat.

“Oh yes!” he hands Draco the flowers “These are for you.”

The look Draco gives first to the flowers then to Kyle is enough to make the man blush crimson red.

“Oh no, they’re not from me. I wouldn’t…I mean, I would, but I thought…anyway, they’re not from me, a guy stopped by and left them for you.”

Draco’s heart does a little flip in his chest, a wildly uncomfortable reaction he’s not gonna look into. “A guy?”

“Yeah, about six feet, dark hair, glasses, really, really cute if you ask me, seemed quite muscular too,…”

Draco stops him with a raised hand. “I got it. Thank you for bringing them up Kyle.”

With that he closes the door, Kyle’s “No problem, Mr. Malfoy.” barely leaving his mouth in time to be heard.

He leans with his back against the door, suddenly bone-tired.

“Fucking hell.”

He sighs. He’s trying to do the right thing for Merlin’s sake! Why can’t the universe give him one second of respite before trying to flush his good intentions down the drain?

Of course, thinking that someone like Potter would give up that easily was a miscalculation on Draco’s side. The man’s stubbornness is more notorious than his scar.

He would really like to hate the brat for this, but he can’t even do that because in his hands is a beautiful bouquet of Narcissus flowers, wrapped in emerald and silver. The fucker.

He brings the flowers to the kitchen, taking out a crystal vase from the cabinet and filling it with water. He doesn’t want to admit it, but they look beautiful in the middle of the kitchen counter, the emerald ribbon matches the counter and the white and yellow of the flowers is perfect for his cream walls.

Just as he goes to step away, he notices a small roll of parchment tied to the ribbon. He takes it with bathed breath and unrolls it.

The message is not very long and written in the now familiar chicken scratch that fills most of the Auror files.

Draco,

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you without asking if you were comfortable with it.

I was an idiot and I completely misread the situation. I promise it won’t happen again. I hope you’re not too mad.

I’d understand if you didn’t want to, but I’d really like to keep seeing you, I think you’ve become a great person and I don’t want to let a mistake keep me from knowing this amazing new you. I guess I’ll know your answer if I don’t get a reply.

Your friend, hopefully,

Harry

At the end of the message there’s a carefully-written phone number.

The piece of parchment falls to the counter as Draco stares at it, his breathing shallow, a strange feeling in his chest.

It’s such a Potter move to blame himself for something he hasn’t done.

Comfortable with it? Draco was more than comfortable with the kiss. In fact, he was too comfortable with it, he should be embarrassed by how shamelessly he fell under Potter’s spell, but one touch of the man’s hands and he was toast. They are both at fault for what happened, though Potter doesn’t seem to regret the kiss per se, just the consequences. Draco certainly doesn’t. He’s fantasized about it for fourteen years, thinking of how it would feel to have Potter’s hands on him, his lips on Draco’s, their tongues entwined… Yes, Draco certainly doesn’t regret the kiss, though he knows it cannot happen again.

And that’s the end of it.

He leaves flowers and message in the kitchen and goes to his bedroom. Under the watchful gazes of his pets he gets dressed in a black button-down shirt and a pair of skinny jeans, goes to the bathroom to fix his hair and dab some cologne behind his ears, then comes back to put on his shoes.

Not planning on coming home before the early morning, he goes to the kitchen to set out some food for Pongo and Coin, replenishing their water bowl too, all the while ignoring the kitchen counter.

He walks back to his room to say goodbye to the pets and grabs his leather jacket on the way, pocketing his phone, wallet, wand and house keys before leaning down above the bed to plant a kiss on Pongo’s nose and scratch Coin’s soft belly.

Then he leaves his house and all thoughts of gorgeous, humble, frustratingly good men behind.

Chapter Text

Camden Market is abuzz with people as Draco walks along the line of food stands. The air is still humid from the morning rain, but a slightly chilly breeze makes a huge difference from the torrid afternoon. The smell of delicious food coming from all around him helps with improving Draco’s mood exponentially. There are few things that bring him peace as much as food does, sex and killing Death Eaters mainly. He can’t obviously go for the latter, but food and sex are easily within reach.

He lets his nose guide him to his dinner, walking towards the most enticing smells, not caring what they belong to. He’s not a picky eater, on the contrary, he never passes up a chance to try something new, now that he can actually choose his own meals.

Back when he was a kid, food had been a sore topic for Draco. Being slightly on the chubby side when he was just a toddler had apparently been a gross insult to the Malfoy line and Lucius had wasted no time in rectifying the “problem”. Draco had been on a strict diet from the age of four to fifteen, undergoing several physicals each year with the family healer. The only sweets he’d been allowed to eat as a child had been a slice of cake on his birthday and the chocolates his mother used to secretly hand him when Lucius wasn’t around, their little rebellion. The Hogwarts elves had been instructed and given his dietary plan at the start of each year and Draco had hated meal times, of course, he’d acted as if him having a different menu than the rest of the table had been a special treatment because he was better than everybody else, his pride wouldn’t have allowed him anything less, but he’d secretly envied the other children, free to eat as much pumpkin pie as their little stomachs could hold. The diet plans had gone to hell during sixth year, when Draco had basically stopped eating altogether due to the anxiety and fear for his task. The almost-fasting had followed into seventh year and Draco is ashamed to admit that the first actual meal he’d eaten since Voldemort had claimed the Manor had been delivered to him in a prison cell by a stony-faced Auror.

After being freed, Draco had thrown himself into culinary exploration, trying everything he’d managed to get his hands on and enlisting the Manor elves’ help to learn how to cook. After years of practice and many, many mistakes, he’s become a pretty decent cook if he says so himself and, since he’s never cooked for anybody else, he’s really the only one who can say so.

His nose leads him to a taco stand and he buys generous helpings of both meat and fish tacos to eat while he walks. The tender meat and delicious sauce are heaven on his tongue and he almost moans aloud as he chews on the Mexican goodness. He’s tried making tacos at home, but they never taste quite like these, though he supposes that’s the whole point of eating out, tasting something you can’t make on your own and appreciating the skills needed to make it.

He swipes a soda from another stand and sits on a bench to enjoy the rest of his dinner while people-watching.

It’s not long before all the food and drinks are gone and he decides that a night out is exactly what he needs to distract his mind from thoughts of gorgeous wizards.

There are a few clubs near his house that he could go to, but the knowledge of how close Potter lives to him and the slight chance that he could be frequenting one of the clubs is enough to make Draco choose to travel a little further.

He ends up in a small club in Shepherd’s Bush, nothing too fancy, but still a rather good club. The lights are low, the music high and the place hasn’t yet started to smell of sweat and spilled alcohol since it’s still relatively early in the evening. Perfect.

He takes a seat at a booth near the back and turns his eyes to the small crowd filling the space. On the far left of the club, near the bar, is a group of five girls that look barely old enough to drink, wearing skimpy sequined dresses and vertiginous heels. In a booth not far from Draco’s are a couple of college-aged guys looking at the girls with lust-filled eyes, Draco rolls his eyes. Despite being quite early, the dancefloor is already populated with enthusiastic dancers and Draco is treated to the sight of sinuous bodies in motion. He can’t say that he doesn’t enjoy the view. A couple of smartly dressed men are seated at a table discussing what looks to be serious business, how they can do it with the thumping of the music is anyone’s guess, Draco is inclined to believe whatever they’re discussing isn’t exactly legal, hence the need to speak in a place where they’d never be overheard. Or maybe Draco is just paranoid and these guys are just weird. A few more people mingle around the bar, talking and laughing, playfully flirting with the baristas and each other.

Draco sits there for a while, sipping an Old Fashioned delivered by a very flirty waiter. Normally, he wouldn’t have thought twice about flirting back with the rather good looking man, but dark curly hair and a very muscled body are a deal-breaker tonight for Draco.

Just as he’s contemplating braving the dancefloor, a woman on the other side of the club catches his eye. Petite, dark blond hair in a slightly ruffled bob with bangs that cover her eyebrows, pale skin, eyes hidden behind black frames, she’s sitting at a table, an almost finished red drink that might be a cosmopolitan in a hand and a phone in the other. She looks as out of place here as a muggle at Hogwarts, she’s wearing a light grey suit that looks expensive but is not exactly club attire, she’s staring at her phone instead of appreciating the view of men and women dancing like everybody else is doing and, even from a distance, Draco can see her mouth is twisted in a frown, if her hair didn’t cover her forehead, he’s sure he’d be able to see deep lines there too.

Draco is intrigued.

What is this woman doing here? Is she here for business? Is she waiting for someone? Is her frown born of displeasure, sadness or worry?

When she sighs, her shoulders slumping and she puts her phone down, Draco decides he wants to find out.

He stands from his booth, picking up his almost empty glass and slowly makes his way through the club.

The woman doesn’t notice him until he’s standing right behind the empty chair on the other side of her table, then she looks up at him with questioning eyes, which, Draco can see now, are a very dark shade of brown.

Draco gives her a small smile, just a slight upturn of his lips really, as he gestures to the chair in front of him with the hand that isn’t holding the glass.

“Is this seat taken?”

She takes her time answering. She casts a glance to the phone on the table as if willing it to give her a sign, when the screen stays black, she turns to Draco, looking him up and down. He doesn’t mind the perusal, he’s kind of used to it by know. She must see something she likes because she smiles up at him.

“Not at all, take a seat if you’d like.”

Draco does, placing his drink next to hers.

“Draco.” He says.

The woman arches a dark eyebrow. “Unusual…but distinguished. I like it.”

He smiles slightly. “That’s what you get with a family obsessed with Astronomy. You grow up to be distinguished.”

“At least you didn’t get stuck with something boring, my parents had no creativity whatsoever when they named me Sarah.”

He extends a hand. “Nice to meet you Sarah.”

She takes his hand, her fingers soft and delicate. “The pleasure is all mine Draco. So tell me, what brings you here tonight?”

He doesn’t let her hand go, instead he places their connected hands on the table between them, starting to draw circles on the back of hers with his thumb.

“I needed something to take my mind off of work tonight, so I decided to look for something to distract me.” he says with a little smirk.

“And are you? Distracted?” she asks with a smirk of her own.

“Definitely.”

“Good.”

With the hand Draco’s not holding, she takes her glass and finishes off her drink in one gulp, standing up as she puts the glass down.

“Let’s dance.”

It’s an order and Draco doesn’t protest as she leads him to the dancefloor and starts swinging her hips to the beat.

She barely reaches his shoulder, but her body is perfectly proportioned, her curves not exaggerated but still quite appealing, her movements sinuous and well-practiced. She knows what she’s doing as she grinds against Draco’s body and he gives his all, soon making them the centre of attention on the dancefloor. He can feel the eyes on them, but he doesn’t mind people looking, he’s having such a good time losing himself in the music.

When they’re tired and sweaty they head for the bar next to the entrance to refresh.

“So, who were you waiting for?” he asks as they sip on glasses of water.

She gives him a questioning look.

“Before, when you were checking your phone.” He clarifies.

Her face drops, the easy-going smile being replaced by irritation.

“That dumbass of my ex-boyfriend.” She huffs. “He left me a week ago because – and I quote - “Your job will always come before me and I don’t want that kind of selfishness in my life” as if it wasn’t my job that paid our bills and vacation trips.” She says with an eye-roll “Anyway, he wrote me this morning telling me how he’d made a mistake and that not having me was way worse than sharing me with my job and that he wanted to try again. I actually left work in a hurry this evening and didn’t even stop to change to show him that I could be present, but apparently now he’s the one not in attendance. It might be petty payback, but I’m honestly relieved that I don’t have to patch things up with a man that behaves like a pouty teenager.” She shrugs as if she’s not affected, but Draco can see the disappointment in her eyes even if she tries to hide it.

“What an idiot.”

That at least makes her smile a little.

“So what now? Are you planning on drinking yourself under the table to forget or are you gonna have fun?”

No one could miss the double entendre in his words and she studies him for a moment, eyes pausing on his broad shoulders and slim waist outlined by his tight shirt, she swallows once and looks up into his eyes.

“Fun, definitely fun.”

It’s not long before Draco finds himself wrapped around and inside the woman. It’s good, really good. Still, as he travels back home in the middle of the night, the satisfaction and levity that usually come after a good shag are remarkably absent.

Once home he stays clear of the kitchen, where the note still waits on the island, knowing that if he picks it up now, he’ll make the wrong decision.

Instead, he goes to his room where he finds Pongo and Coin cuddled on the pillow and lets the lovely sight distract his thoughts. He showers and dresses for bed, hoping that once the dreams come they’ll not be filled with green eyes and messy hair and knowing that hoping is useless because they certainly will.