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Chapter Text

With a broad smile, Draco gently tapped his perfectly manicured fingernails against the smooth surface of the small, igneous rock in his hand. He relished in the feel of sophisticated perfection―only Mother Nature had the power and resources to create something so marvellous. Draco took an extra moment or two to let his fingertips slide over the shiny uppermost layer, allowing himself to be filled with the innocent amazement of a child.

As if the stone had been able to read Draco’s thoughts and feel his quiet reverence, the obsidian’s jet-black glassy outside shimmered underneath the bright light of the magical light floating just above Draco’s head. The abundance of the stone’s closely-spaced crystallites ensured that it was perfectly opaque and the spherical clusters of radially arranged, needle-like crystals only served to add to the stone’s shine. It was quite a piece of perfection.

A result of rapidly cooling viscous lava from volcanoes had, over the centuries, turned the obsidian’s imposing and mysterious black colour into a stone that was now frequently shaped into an amulet of protection. This made it the perfect canvas for the sigil, Draco had just finished designing. It had started innocent enough with a straight line, through the centre of an imagined circle. The centre part of the line was thicker and broader than its spiky ends.

From there, Draco had, after some thought, drawn his inspiration from the Ars Goetia, one of five antique and anonymous grimoires compiled in the mid-17^th century that belonged to the Lesser Key of Solomon. Draco had no intention of summoning any of those demons but years of research and a bit of artistic skill had taught him something important. The magic power of the creatures, which conjured curses, could also be harnessed to protect someone or something from the very evil the demons and their legions had been created to bestow.

Rather proud of his achievement, Draco glanced at the elaborate safety sigil with its crown and angel’s wings-like properties. As always, he’d used an ordinary Muggle felt marker to draw the completed design onto a thick, cream-coloured parchment. It had taken him nearly a month to finalise the sketch, and now that it was ready, Draco couldn’t wait to carve it into the stone in his hand.

Careful not to let his excitement get the better of him, he placed the obsidian inside a specially-designed gripping device and ensured that the u-shaped top and bottom tangs of the tweezers had a perfect hold on the stone. Once he was satisfied, Draco reached for a nearby thin, about five-inch long box, opened it and took out a custom-made stone-carving knife.

Its blade was perfectly-shaped and made from pure diamond, which made it sharp enough to cut through almost anything. Draco handled the utensil with the utmost care, and with his eyes focused on the parchment that held his design, he drowned out the world around him and began to carve the sigil into the stone.

His movements showed expertise and a great deal of practice but even though Draco trusted his skills, had years of experience with the art of carving designs into stones, he refused to allow anything to distract him. His mind was quiet, and his thoughts left him to finish his work without disturbance. There was nothing there to draw his attention away from the importance of craving the sigil precisely as he’d designed it. The smallest mistake meant starting all over again. Since he’d already scheduled an appointment for a session with Ian for the day after tomorrow, he wanted to avoid that at all costs.

Chapter Text

A faint knock on the door to his workroom broke Draco’s concentration and carefully placing the carving knife back inside its box, he reached for a brush and waved his other hand to wandlessly cast a non-verbal unlocking spell. The door opened and the brush still in hand, Draco turned his head just enough to be able to look back over his shoulder.

There, in the doorway, stood his pride and joy. Scorpius was already dressed in his pyjamas, his platinum-blond hair was thoroughly dishevelled, and he looked more than a little sleepy.

Draco smiled.

He turned around fully and beckoned for his son to enter the room. Scorpius accepted the silent invitation without any hesitation. Making his way over to him, Scorpius, without having been asked to, climbed onto his lap and snuggled against his chest. Draco ran his fingers through his son’s soft hair, ruffled it affectionately and giving him a one-armed hug, he pressed a kiss to Scorpius’ forehead.

“Aren’t you supposed to be asleep? I seem to remember putting you to bed.”

Scorpius tilted his head up and blinked.

“I missed you so came down to find you.”

Draco chuckled.

“Did you now? Well, I’m almost done. Would you like to help me or shall I put you back to bed? It would be the sensible thing to do, but your penchant for rule-breaking reminds me of a certain colleague of mine, and I do rather worry about your future at Hogwarts.”

Scorpius frowned.

Draco knew that his son hadn’t understood anything of what he’d just said. While Scorpius knew who Harry Potter was, had even met Potter on several occasions, he wasn’t privy to the ins and outs of Potter’s fondness of ignoring what was sensible and diving headfirst into trouble instead. In Draco’s humble opinion, Scorpius adored Potter a little too much. But―and Draco thanked his lucky stars for that―he’d yet to discover the finer points of Potter’s past, especially the parts of it that concerned Potter’s blatant disregard for authority and his love of doing precisely the opposite of what he’d been told.

“Never mind you, darling, do you want to stay?”

Scorpius nodded excitedly.

“Can I help please?”

Draco nodded.

“Sure, here, take this brush and clean the stone for me. Can you do that? It needs to be perfectly clean.”

Scorpius nodded with enthusiasm and feeling a rush of love surge through him, Draco’s heart skipped a beat. He pulled his chair a little closer to his workbench and adjusted the tongs of the device, which still had an iron grip on his obsidian. Then, he watched as his son carefully brushed the dust away from the stone, leaving behind a perfect replica of the design, Draco had drawn onto the parchment in front of him. It sparkled a bit in the magical light that still floated above Draco’s head, and he silently watched Scorpius reach out and trace the rune-like symbol with his tiny index finger.

“What is this one for, Papa?”

“It’s for safety.”

“Is it going to protect you from all the bad things?”

Draco chuckled softly.

“I hope so. It should, at the very least, tell me that there are bad things around.”

Scorpius twisted his head around and looked at him with silvery-grey eyes.

“Can I have one too, Papa? Just in case there’s another Boggart under the bed…”

Draco shook his head.

Scorpius immediate reaction was to stick out his bottom lip in a persistent but utterly adorable pout.

Draco pressed his thumb against Scorpius lip and kissed his forehead.

“We’ve had that conversation, Scorp, when you’re older I’ll teach you how to create those, and then you can design your very own protective sigils. In the meantime, if you ever find another Boggart under your bed, you’ll just scream at the top of your lungs, and I’ll be there to banish it in an instant.”

Scorpius reluctantly stopped pouting.

Draco couldn’t help but smile.

A rush of love filled and expanded his chest, doubling the size of his heart. Really, there was nothing more precious in the world than the feelings he had for his son.

He wrapped his arms around Scorpius and enveloped him in a tight hug, holding him close until Scorpius struggled against him and wriggled out of his embrace, looking anything but pleased. Draco bit the inside of his mouth to stop himself from smirking. He figured he had another two years at the most, quite possibly less than that, before Scorpius would read him the riot act each time, he tried to be affectionate.

That’s a Malfoyesque death glare in the making if I’ve ever seen one, well done, my boy, he thought to himself and ruffled Scorpius hair. His son’s eyes darkened somewhat, and this time Draco didn’t manage to hide his amusement.

He laughed softly.

“You can keep the stone when I’m done with the ink potion.”

The expression on Scorpius face changed in an instant. It went from pouty and sulky to bright and excited. Draco couldn’t help but wonder whether it would always be this easy to please his son, but he highly doubted it. This childish innocence was bound to pale the older Scorpius got, and Draco dreaded the very idea of it. Perhaps it was his own stubbornness, but he wanted nothing more than for Scorpius to remain a child for as long as possible. He wanted him to be carefree, without worry, and playful. An ordinary child with a unique set of skills; that was the future Draco desired for his son. He wanted Scorpius to have the childhood he never had, and he wanted to voraciously live through him.

“Are you going to make the potion tonight?”

Scorpius’ question snapped Draco out of his thoughts before they had the chance to sweep him away entirely, and he shook his head.

“No, I’ll do it tomorrow. I thought we could go into the kitchen and forage for some hot chocolate. What do you think?”

Scorpius eyes widened and sparkled.

He nodded with such vigour that Draco couldn’t help but laugh.

“And marshmallows and cream and chocolate sprinkle on top!”

Draco rolled his eyes.

“And then you’ll spend half the night chasing your toy broom around the corridors of the house because you can’t sleep.”

Scorpius shook his head.

“No, we’ll crawl into my blanket fortress, and you’ll read me something.”

Draco arched an eyebrow at Scorpius.

“Will I now?”

Scorpius nodded.

“Of course, that’s what Papas do.”

Draco laughed.

“I see. Well, if that’s what Papas do then I don’t think I’ll have a choice,” he said and keeping his arms wrapped around Scorpius’ waist, he stood up.

“Can I ride piggyback to the kitchen?”

For a moment, Draco was tempted to ask Scorpius whether he wasn’t a bit too old for that sort of nonsense, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to utter those words.

“I suppose providing a ride for their children is also something Papas do?” he asked instead.

Scorpius nodded vigorously.

Draco chuckled softly.

“Very well, climb on up, Sir Scorpius.”

Scorpius didn’t hesitate and making sure that he didn’t fall, Draco allowed his son to climb onto his back. He wrapped his little legs around Draco’s waist and his arms loosely Draco’s neck and checking to make sure that he was holding on, Draco set off, heading for the kitchen to make that late-night hot chocolate, he’d just promised his son.

Chapter Text

In an attempt not to fall asleep, Harry focused on the fountain pen in his hand and aimlessly toyed with the overpriced Muggle creation while at the same time reaching for his coffee mug to take a sip of the piping hot liquid. The pen had been a gift from Shacklebolt, on behalf of the Ministry, for his 32^nd birthday, which had coincided with the announcement of him taking over the Deputy Department Head position for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, an extension of his duties as Head Auror. What it essentially meant was that instead of being able to focus on training his Aurors and dealing with a daily avalanche of paperwork, that was already overwhelming, he now spent an insane amount of his time in boring meetings. Ninety-nine per cent of the time they did not require his presence or input.

Harry stifled a yawn and continued to toy with the Montblanc pen in his hand. Its skeleton body was made from pure white gold and it featured emerald gemstones in the shape of tender blossoms as well as the delicate leaves. Although the design was overly elaborate, Harry couldn’t deny its beauty entirely. There was something about the way the stones were set, a unique way that entirely concealed the setting that held them in place, creating the illusion that the gemstones were floating atop a transparent resin. Harry also liked the combination of premium diamonds which, together with the emerald gemstones, served as a perfect accent.

From what he remembered, the pen’s name was Mystery Masterpiece, and it had been created to celebrate the one-hundredth anniversary of the company, which had teamed up with the world-famous jeweller team Van Cleef & Arpels to make this quite magnificent gift. The pen was a symbol of success, craftsmanship, and creativity.

According to Shacklebolt, the ministry thought Harry to be all these things. While he’d certainly proved his worth as an Auror, the mere thought of those pompous words had made Harry want to roll his eyes, but he knew better than to do so in the middle of a crucial interdepartmental meeting. Despite their long-standing friendship, Shacklebolt, as the Minister for Magic, had to act a certain way in public and at official functions.

Thankfully, he was a lot less formal whenever Harry found himself invited to Shacklebolt’s house to dine with him and his wife of twenty-odd years and Harry thanked his lucky stars for that. Away from all the officialness that came with the importance of his job, was a man Harry looked up to, someone he understood and who understood him, and someone who had a no-nonsense kind of approach to life.

Shacklebolt was practical, down to earth, and possessed the kind of humour that made Harry laugh for hours on end. He was also understanding, tolerant and the type of person who couldn’t care less about Harry’s background, his involvement in the war or his fame. Granted, in public, Shacklebolt behaved differently, but Harry could tell the difference between the necessity for a glamour and the man that hid behind it.

Feeling as if all eyes in the room were suddenly focused on him, Harry snapped out of his thoughts, cleared his throat, and looked up to find several of the department heads looking at him with an expectant expression on their faces.

Harry turned his head and looked at Shacklebolt, who pressed his lips tightly together and shot him a glare. Straightening his back, Harry briefly averted his eyes and racked his brain for the topic at hand. He’d been listening to the ongoing discussion, just not as diligently as he probably should have. Carefully placing his pen on top of his personal notebook, Harry reached for his coffee mug to buy himself a few more seconds. He took a small sip, swallowed, cleared his throat and setting his cup down, he nodded.

“Yes, the annual international MLE convention,” he said. “I will, of course, be attending. It is of paramount importance that we continue to exercise transparency. Following our recent and very successful department restructure, I’m also looking forward to introducing our new teamwork system and perhaps get a few other Auror departments interested in adopting it.”

Several heads nodded approvingly, and Harry smiled at his fellow department directors. After six years as head of the Auror department and two years as deputy department head for the entire Magical Law Enforcement, he’d learnt how to play the game. Granted, Hermione’s pointers had been invaluable; her advice had made it possible for him not to storm out of his first department meeting and therefore torpedo his own career before it had even begun. Politics were still―and would always be―alien to him, but he possessed enough patience to handle anything the Ministry threw at him. Over the years, he’d become almost as good at the pretentious role play as he was at defence against the dark arts.

“Brilliant, Director Potter. With you at the helm, the British DMLE will be well-represented.”

Harry turned his head sideways and glanced at Shacklebolt.

He couldn’t help but wonder whether Kingsley ever struggled to allow those stiff words of praise pass his lips, but then he remembered that Kingsley had played the game for well over twenty years, first as an Auror in unpredictable times and then as Minister for Magic.

A smile curled around the edges of Harry’s mouth.

He reached for his coffee and took a moment to savour its taste, then leant back in his chair.

“One more thing, because it’s one thing to preach transparency and another altogether to actually do it. I’ve decided to bring Draco Malfoy along this year. I feel, quite strongly, that showcasing how well we work together as a team will have a far bigger impact than simply presenting it in a boring speech.”

The silence that followed his announcement told Harry everything he needed to know. Even though sixteen years had passed since the end of the war, some of the Ministry’s department heads still struggled to fully comprehend that there was a fundamental difference between Malfoy’s father’s actions and the man Draco Malfoy had fought so hard to become. His track record spoke for itself, but for some people, past transgressions still outweighed present achievements. Harry couldn’t quite comprehend the reasoning behind such beliefs, but he knew better than to give in to the strong desire to stand up for Malfoy.

He’d spoken up for Malfoy at his trial, and together with Malfoy’s testimony, that had been enough for an official pardon from the Ministry for him and his mother. Since then, Malfoy had done nothing but prove himself and Harry didn’t see the need to list any of Malfoy’s achievements. They were, after all, public knowledge.

A few of the meeting attendees prepared to veto, but before even just one of them had the chance to spend some ten minutes on trying to talk him out of his decision, Shacklebolt cleared his throat, and everyone turned to look at the Minister instead.

“I am confident that Director Potter knows what he’s doing―the Auror department has positively flourished under his expert leadership―and I’m looking forward to his report once he returns from the conference. He has a unique approach which will most definitely be appreciated and quite certainly lead to solid results.”

Harry lowered his gaze and reaching for his coffee mug, he used it to shield his victorious smile from everyone else in the room and silently thanked Merlin for the ease with which he’d been able to make his announcement. Some of his other ideas had required considerably more effort before he’d been able to put them into fruition.

All that was left to do was to convince Malfoy; however, Harry was confident that he’d be able to persuade Malfoy, or at least he fervently hoped that this would be the case. Trying to convince Malfoy to attend the convention with him was most definitely not going to be the easiest thing in the world. Still, Harry hoped that he might be able to deploy some Slytherinish techniques ― a craft he’d honed quite meticulously over the last few years.

For some utterly incomprehensible reason, Malfoy seemed to appreciate the cunning slyness of the game. Over the years, Harry had become somewhat of an expert at how to get under Malfoy’s skin. He didn’t always win, sometimes Malfoy surprised him with an utterly underhanded move, but these days, Harry most definitely knew how to wrap Malfoy around his little finger and get what he wanted. Or was it that Malfoy was simply disinclined to disagree with him? They’d worked together for years, and if Malfoy believed him to be in the wrong, he certainly wasn’t shy about letting him know just how far off the beaten track he was. Still, Harry felt confident about his ability to find a way to persuade Malfoy to tag along to Paris the following month.

Chapter Text

Stretched out on the comfortable leather bed, Draco rested on his front and mentally prepared himself for what was about to come. At this stage, he ought to be used to it, he knew that, but there was always that tiny ounce of nervousness and a little bit of fear that something might go wrong. He turned his head to the side, rested it on his right forearm, and looked at Ian, who raised a questioning eyebrow.

They’d known each other long enough to be able to communicate without words. Ian was Britain’s leading magical tattoo artist, and his creations were world-renowned. For the past two decades, he’d been at the top of his game, and he showed no signs of slowing down. His motto was that for as long as his hand was steady and his mind full of imagination, he had no interest in giving up his beloved craft.

Twelve years ago, when Draco had gotten his first tattoo―a magical dragon that curled around his right ankle―he’d stalked Ian until the man had finally agreed to a consulting appointment. Draco had wanted the best, and he’d been determined to get the best. The offer to pay an exorbitant number of galleons hadn’t convinced Ian to take him on as a client. However, baiting him with the promise that, if he worked with him, he’d get a one-of-a-lifetime kind of opportunity to create his best work yet had sufficiently intrigued Ian. As for the magical dragon, that had just been pretence. Draco loved the tattoo, the intricate artwork, and he most definitely had no regrets about getting it, but compared to his other tattoos, it was rather dull. In terms of colour, it looked like most Muggle tattoos. Its only difference was that it was a magical tattoo and therefore able to move around his ankle or even glide up and down his lower leg as it pleased.

Another two years had passed, and they’d worked on about a thousand drafts before Ian’s needle had pierced Draco’s back for the very first time. It had taken an entire year to complete the elaborately designed tree of life that covered Draco’s whole back. Its many roots, thick and sturdy, extended all the way down to his lower back and the tree’s opulent foliage sprawled out over Draco’s shoulder blades and reached up to the back of his neck. The thick trunk covered his spine, and some days, its magic steadied Draco, or at least that’s how it felt like.

Instead of common fruits or birds flying out of the foliage, the tree, which changed colour along with the seasons, and reacted to Draco’s moods, carried a plethora of Draco’s own designs. Sigils that offered protection, alerted him to the presence of dark curses, quietened his mind when he needed to focus, reversed and redirected curses, encouraged him to trust his intuition, offered protection against all manner of creatures with vengeful tendencies, dispelled curses, and hexes, and gifted him with resilience when it came to illnesses.

Naturally, none of these sigils were as powerful as defensive or protective magic; however, the silver ink, Ian used, possessed a very potent ingredient, one that made all of Draco’s tattoos unique, one that gave them their magical attributes.

“Papa, does this hurt?”

Scorpius question resulted in Draco turning his head to look at his son, who was curled up on a comfortable leather sofa across the room. His favourite book lay open in his lap.

“Of course―”

“Of course not, my darling.”

Draco cut in before Ian had the chance to tell his son that the process of getting a magical tattoo hurt ten times more than getting a Muggle tattoo. He forced himself to relax his facial muscles and smiled at Scorpius.

“I’m OK, my love, don’t worry about me. It pricks a little every now and then, a bit like when you got your vaccination against dragon pox.”

Scorpius looked somewhat unconvinced.

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

Ian’s roaring laughter echoed through the room, and Draco snapped his head around to glare at his friend.

“Would you mind? Just focus on the design and leave the parenting to me, if it’s all the same to you.”

Ian continued to howl with laughter, and for a moment, Draco seriously considered hexing him, but, for Scorpius benefit, he decided against such measures. That wasn’t the sort of reaction he wanted to teach to Scorpius, lest his son, once he started Hogwarts, thought it was the best way to go about resolving conflicts.

“As you wish, but if you’re going to make demands, Malfoy, so will I. Stop bloody moving, or I’ll accidentally tattoo you the Chinese character for ‘silly’ into your tree. Trust me, it’s almost as elaborate as that sigil of yours.”

Draco narrowed his eyes and glared.

“Behave,” he snarled through gritted teeth.

Ian smirked.

Draco turned his head to look at Scorpius, who frowned at him.

“You two are weird,” he stated matter-of-factly, “if that’s how adults act, I don’t want to become one ever. Your jokes are not funny.”

Ian chortled under his breath.

This time, Draco resisted the urge to glare at the man. There was no point to it. Ian wasn’t scared of him. He was a big hulk of a man who stood six foot three tall. For his size, though, he had exceptionally gentle and steady hands. Still, in the twelve years, he’d known him, Draco had yet to find a way to do more than tolerate Ian’s odd humour and his brashness. They were fundamentally different, and while Draco genuinely appreciated his talents, his character frequently reminded him of none other than Harry bloody Potter.

“You can just ignore my friend here, Scorp, read your book. When Ian’s finished, I’ll take you out for some ice-cream, OK?”

Scorpius eyes sparkled with excitement, and he nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes, please.”

Draco smiled at his son.

Ian coughed and muttered something barely comprehensible. It sounded a lot like bribery.

Draco pressed his lips together, momentarily closed his eyes, and focusing, he wandlessly cast a stinging hex, directing it so that it hit Ian square in his outer thigh. Ian yelped, and with an angry growl, he glared at him.

“Be lucky I didn’t have the needle in your back.”

Draco chuckled.

“Wouldn’t have done it, if you had.”

Chapter Text

Harry tried his hardest to control the growing vexation he felt in the centre of his chest but wasn’t sure how much longer he would be able to keep the feeling at bay. At this point in time, it was only a small knot of anger. However, what with the fact that Draco Malfoy was presently acting like a complete and utter prat, Harry fully expected that knot of anger to turn into a ball of furry within the next ten minutes or so, unless, of course, he managed to get Draco to change his mind. In a bit not to focus on it, he reached for a ball of ordinary Muggle rubber bands, aimlessly toyed with it, and swivelled his chair around so that he could look at Draco.

Most people who came to his office, Minister Shacklebolt included, chose to sit either in one of the two very comfortable chairs in front of his desk or Harry invited them to take a seat on the corner sofa right across the room.

But Draco Malfoy, well, Draco Malfoy wasn’t most people, and as such, he didn’t play by most people’s rules. He didn’t follow invitations to sit down, in fact, he frowned upon them. Although, some days, Harry couldn’t help but wonder whether Draco only frowned upon his invitation to sit but had no qualms to make himself comfortable when others invited him to do so.

Still, Draco Malfoy was the kind of person, and it had taken Harry years to come to terms with that fact, who did things on his own terms and in his own time. Nothing and nobody could rush him.

There was the one or other odd moment where Harry couldn’t help but wonder whether he’d really managed to accept Draco Malfoy’s flair or dramatics or whether he’d simply resigned himself to them. Compared to how much of an arrogant prat Draco had been during their years at Hogwarts, he’d most definitely mellowed out. The birth of his son had contributed to that in a significant way. Even years of working together in the field and across a desk had changed precious little about the fact that Draco Malfoy seemed to be the only person in the entire world who could infuriate him with a look.

Harry gave a small chuckle; the irony of it all was worth writing a novel about.

Draco, who stood by the window sill, back ramrod straight yet seemingly entirely at ease and not in the least bit tense, turned his attention away from looking through the window glass at the enchanted landscape outside and staring straight at him, he arched an eyebrow. It said far more than words ever could and deep down, Harry appreciated that Draco’s ability to speak without ever saying a word. Out in the field, it served them well, but even in the privacy of his office, it was one of the qualities of his and Draco’s long-standing partnership which he genuinely appreciated.

Feeling cocky, Harry leant back in his overly comfortable leather chair, threw one leg over the other and smirked.

Then, and without the slightest warning, he tossed the ball of rubber bands into Draco’s direction.

It hurled through the air, and Draco, looking thoroughly bored while doing so, lifted his arm and moving his index finger, he redirected the ball with a precisely-cast wandless and nonverbal spell, exercising only the tiniest amount of energy. Without breaking eye contact, Harry let his arm shot up and caught the rubber band ball mid-flight, closing his fist around it tightly to halt its momentum.

“Once a seeker, always a seeker.”

Draco rolled his eyes.

“I’ve a child at home, Potter, I don’t need one at work too.”

Harry chuckled softly but said nothing.

Instead, he took a few seconds to give Draco an appreciative once-over.

He was, as always, impeccably dressed.

His tailored suit fitted him like a glove, complimenting every inch of his naturally toned body. He wore it like a second skin. It always mesmerised Harry how the fabric of all of Draco’s suits seemed to seamlessly move exactly as Draco moved. No matter what he was doing, no part of his clothes ever got in the way, not even in the middle of a duel or when he was crouching above a dark object, trying his hardest to remove whatever sinister curse someone had cast upon it. It was as if magic kept Draco’s suit in place, except that idea was utterly ridiculous because, and Harry knew as much, there was no such spell in existence.

Sure, there were spells that kept sleeves rolled up and collars upright, but the perfection with which Draco’s suits complimented his every move, well, there was no magic for that. This, Harry concluded, was solely down to the utterly incredible skills of Draco’s tailor, no doubt the best one in Britain, France, or perhaps even the entire world.

Draco’s wardrobe didn’t outright scream that he was wealthy, but it complimented him perfectly and together with the way he carried himself, it commanded a certain level of genuine respect. The kind of respect that occasionally made Harry jealous of the way Draco could silence a rowdy crowd with minimal effort. Somehow, merely stepping over the threshold and letting his eyes sweep around the room did the trick. His gaze always lingered but never long enough to make anyone feel uncomfortable. His professionalism and attention to detail were second to none. He never missed a single thing and over the years, Draco’s natural talent to notice absolutely everything had led to the successful closure of several high-profile cases.

Of course, given his own history, his involvement in the war, as well as his position at the Ministry, people also respected him. They looked up to him when he entered a room, but it was nothing compared to the calm and collected power Draco exuded.

Sometimes, Harry couldn’t help but wonder whether people reacted that way because they remembered his family’s connection to Voldemort and therefore feared Draco’s past. But as soon as Draco walked into a room full of Muggles, Harry repeatedly found himself dismissing that idea entirely. It didn’t matter whether Draco stepped into a room full of wizards and witches or a room full of Muggles, he had the same effect on people.

Over the years, and through his longstanding partnership with Draco, Harry could tell that Draco’s natural ability to bewitch a room had nothing whatsoever to do with magic, at least not the kind of magic one could cast with a wand or brew in a cauldron. Draco possessed poise and charm, and an intrinsic ability to read the people around him for cues on how to react and what to say to make the most out of the situation.

In private, Harry sometimes liked to compare Draco to the famous Sherlock Holmes, though he knew better than to say that in front of Draco. Still, he often wondered whether Draco could read him just as well and although he fancied the idea that Draco couldn’t, in fact, interpret his gestures and facial reactions, Draco frequently proved him wrong. It was a bit of a cat and mouse game between them, one Harry was sure they were both aware they played with each other but were careful to never address in an actual conversation.

Nevertheless, Harry generally preferred to be in denial about the effect of Draco’s interpersonal skills, though usually only when they were directed at him personally.

There was something about Draco Malfoy, a strange kind of instinctual desire that kept pulling him into his direction, kept him coming back for more, and Harry wasn’t inclined to think too much about that. It ignited certain thoughts and feelings in him, and those had the distinct ability to spiral right out of control and drag him deep into a rabbit hole, he had no idea how to climb out of. He didn’t ignore the sentiment per se, but he also didn’t chase after it. Mostly for his own sanity, but also out of his aspiration to try his best to keep the relationship between him and Draco professional. Yes, they were friends, but within the walls of the Ministry, they seldom made that obvious. Inside Harry’s office, with the door firmly closed, that was a different story. However, despite their familiarity, there was still a noticeable distance between them, one that, on Harry’s part, took conscious effort to maintain.

“My attendance, Potter, comes with certain stipulations.”

Harry couldn’t quite resist rolling his eyes.

“The convention is in Paris, what more could you want, Malfoy? I’m not dragging you to the middle of nowhere but the fashion capital of Europe, I thought you might appreciate that sentiment.”

Draco arched his eyebrow, pursed his lips tightly together and for a minute, he remained completely silent.

“Potter, I can nip over to Paris at any time, all it takes is one trip to the Portkey Administration Office and thanks to my badge, I’ll have a complete approval form within thirty seconds. The annual international MLE convention is hardly what’s going to convince me to drop my son off at the Manor and accompany you to spend my time sitting in boring meetings and listening to the pompous presentations of every single DMLE department across the globe trying to paint itself as the best one out there.”

“You could always bring Scorp along, I hear Disneyland Paris is quite the attraction. I only need you for two days, you’re free to spend the rest of the time with him.”

“Again, what’s stopping me from taking Scorpius there this very weekend?”

“Me tripling your caseload?”

Draco laughed.

It was a loud and unrestrained laugh.

He even threw his head back, and Harry had to press his lips tightly together, not to let it affect him. He stiffened his shoulders, squeezed that blasted rubber band ball, and resisted the niggling thought to throw a stinging hex in Draco’s general direction.

For some unfathomable reason, they seemed to naturally repel off Draco’s suit. While Harry had previously suspected that Draco’s clothing had certain magical properties woven into the fabric, much like an Auror’s uniform, he now suspected that Draco used other methods to repel curses and hexes. He wasn’t quite sure exactly what sort of magic, though he was convinced that it wasn’t Draco’s ability to react at the speed of light and wandlessly harness his magic. There was something else at play, and although Harry was curious beyond measure, he wasn’t quite prepared for the blunt ‘it’s none of your business, Potter’ response, he was sure, Draco would give him.

“I’m an independent advisor, Potter. I work voluntarily, and as such, I pick my cases. You know that just as well as I do, even if you need daily reminders of the fact. But, if I may refresh your memory, it was part of our deal of me joining the DMLE and becoming your partner in the first place.”

The palm of Harry’s hand itched, and he curled his fingers, digging his nails deep into his skin. He wanted nothing more than to cast that hex, but his sense of professionalism, even when in the presence of one infuriating Draco Malfoy, kept him from it. That and, of course, the knowledge that it was pointless to try and go against a highly-skilled cursebreaker, even if said cursebreaker was a complete pain in his backside.

“What do you want?”

Harry forced the question out between gritted teeth.

Draco smirked, tilted his head ever so slightly to the side and looked thoroughly smug.

Harry mentally prepared himself for the worst and crossed his arms over his chest, hoping the gesture told Draco that he wasn’t a complete pushover.

“Surely you have heard of the Hotel George V?”

Harry inhaled sharply, then shook his head.

“I’m not booking us into the most expensive hotel in all of Paris,” he said.

Draco shrugged.

“Suit yourself.”

He elegantly turned on his heel and headed for the door.

Harry rose to his feet, and without warning, he flung the rubber band ball at Draco’s back.

Just as before, Draco lifted his arm, flicked his finger and the ball changed direction before it had the change to hit him.

It sailed through the air, and Harry caught it before it smacked him square in the face.

He growled.

Draco turned around to face him and looked at him with a dirty smirk sparkling in his silvery-grey eyes.

“That trick’s getting old, Potter,” he said. “You might want to think of something new.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“One of these days I’ll get you.”

Draco laughed.

“Keep on dreaming, Potter.”

Harry ground his teeth together.

“If you expect me to spend four days at an utterly boring convention, I will require a comfortable bed, easy access to the Avenue des Champs-Élysées for some overpriced espresso, freshly-baked croissants, people-watching, excellent food and wine, and a spacious bathroom.”

Harry shook his head.

“There are other hotels in Paris that offer the same sort of services.”

Draco smiled.

“That is very true, Potter, but no other hotel does it as luxuriously as the George V. Service sells, especially if you’re the best in the business.”

“You’re doing this on purpose, Malfoy.”

Draco chuckled.

He looked smugger than smug.

“Perhaps, but whether or not that is the truth shall be for me to know and you to guess. However, if I might offer a bit of advice, I suggest that you don’t go promising the entire Ministry that you’ve secured my cooperation before having done so. He who brags about his ability to achieve the impossible must pay a fair price, even if he’s the Saviour of the Wizarding World. I make no distinction in that regard.”

Keeping his lips firmly pressed together, Harry silently cursed Draco, then forced himself to smile. With Draco, especially when he was in one of those moods, grinning and bearing it was the most sensible route. It had taken Harry years to learn that lesson, but once he’d resigned himself to the fact that sometimes trying to best Draco was the most self-destructive thing one could do.

“I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

Draco inclined his head.

“Excellent decision, Potter, you’re saving yourself the trouble of a major headache.”

“Don’t make me choke you, Malfoy.”

“How crude. I think I’ll head over to Taylor’s for a much-needed espresso to recover from your threat to end my life before I’ve even reached my prime.”

Harry wanted to retort something, but Draco was faster. He pulled the door to Harry’s office open and vanished without as much as a backward glance. Harry flung the rubber band ball in the general direction of his office door. A loud and surprised yelp alerted him to the fact that he’d hit someone and for about half a second, he regretted his childish reaction, then he blamed it on Draco and reached for his jacket. He slipped into it and buttoning it up, he exited his office. A casual wave of his hand locked the door behind him.

“Everything alright, Mr Potter?”

Harry stopped beside his head secretary’s desk and smiled at his faithful and most trusted administrative assistant.

He gave a short nod to answer in the affirmative.

“Yes, absolutely, Emmett. Erm, if anyone’s looking for me, I’ll be out for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Fieldwork?”

Harry frowned.

“What? N―”

Emmett gave him a pointed look and biting his tongue, Harry stopped himself from finishing that two-letter word.

“Sure, yes. Something urgent.”

Emmett gave him a wink and tapped the side of his nose.

“Leave it with me, Mr Potter, I’ll cancel your meetings for the afternoon.”

Harry smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Not a problem, Mr Potter.”

“Harry.”

Emmett chuckled.

“Certainly, Mr Potter.”

Harry rolled his eyes. Emmett―despite being on his side and always doing absolutely everything in his power to adjust his schedule at short notice―was a Slytherin through and through. For that very reason―though possibly also because he currently had beef with Draco―Harry considered Emmett to be cut out of the very same sly cloth as Draco Malfoy. He highly suspected that was part of the reason why he and Emmett had such a good working relationship. There was just something about Slytherins that drew Harry in, intrigued him, and kept him hooked. A wicked voice―much to Harry’s complete annoyance it sounded exactly like Draco Malfoy―reminded him that he’d only narrowly escaped the Sorting Hat’s decision to put him in the dungeons.

Chapter Text

“How long will you be gone for?”

Draco stopped rearranging the clothes he’d already placed inside his suitcase and straightening up, he watched as Scorpius clambered up onto his bed and started jumping up and down. He was already in his pyjamas, but not even that could convince him to settle down for the night. He was a ball of energy and Draco had long since resigned himself to the fact. Scorpius was the perfect distraction that kept his mind from overthinking just about anything, but mostly work-related and Potter-related things.

With Scorpius, one always had to be present, right here in the moment, prepared for anything and everything and that kept Draco’s mind balanced. Yes, Scorpius was a handful, but Draco cherished every moment he got to spend with him, every conversation, no matter how trivial it was. A discussion about what to have for lunch brought him joy for days. The happiness, Scorpius filled him with, was a strange sort of energy, one that fuelled him, drove him to continuously better himself, and on those days where work was that bit too dark, their bond kept him sane, focused and determined to get away unscathed.

“Papa!”

“Hm?”

Draco snapped out of his thoughts and looked somewhat apologetic.

Scorpius frowned at him.

“Sorry, what did you ask me?”

Scorpius stomped his foot.

“I asked how long you’ll be gone for.”

Draco nodded.

“Ah, four days, darling,” he said, answering Scorpius question.

An odd sensation surged through him, reminding him that caution was necessary and although the bed was big enough and he knew that Scorpius wasn’t in any danger, Draco still waved his hand and wandlessly cast a cushioning charm around the bed, making it extra-safe. When it came to his son, Draco couldn’t help but take extra precautions, even if he knew them to be entirely superfluous. A parent’s desire to keep their child safe was apparently more potent than common sense. Draco had discovered that the moment he’d first laid eyes on Scorpius, some half an hour after he’d been born. Scorpius had spent those thirty minutes―and Draco remembered the moment as though it had only happened yesterday―screaming at the top of his lungs, making his unhappiness with the mediwitches at St. Mungo’s Hospital clearly known.

Draco snapped out of the memory, pulled himself back into the present and with the knowledge that even if Scorpius was to topple off the bed, nothing would happen to him, he settled for a smile.

“You’ll have plenty of fun with Nan,” he said.

Scorpius pouted.

“But I want to come with you to Paris.”

Draco felt his heart twist and opening his arms wide, he offered his son a hug. Scorpius stopped jumping up and down on the bed and making his way over to the foot of the bed, he flung his arms around Draco’s neck and buried his face in Draco’s chest.

“I wanna come with you,” he mumbled.

Draco bit his bottom lip and forced himself to swallow a sigh.

He ruffled Scorpius’ hair affectionately and hugged him close.

“I’ll be busy working, darling, it’ll be no fun for you. But I promise you, I’ll take you for a weekend. We can have some proper fun together. In the meantime, I really need you to be good for Nan, she’s been missing you, you know. It’s been a while since we visited.”

Scorpius lifted his head and looked at him with big silvery-grey eyes. They were a bit watery, but he wasn’t crying.

His son then took the liberty to remind him that they’d visited Nan only two days ago and Draco found himself grappling with the painful stabbing feeling in his chest―the one he felt each time he had to leave for business―and his strong desire to laugh at Scorpius putting him in his place. Eventually, though, parental love won out, and even though Draco knew that Scorpius would be perfectly fine at the Manor and in the company of his grandmother, he hated the thought of leaving Scorpius overnight. They were a team, and Draco had grown accustomed to the fact that it was he who put Scorpius to bed each night. They had developed their own little ritual, and Draco cherished those moments with Scorpius more than anything.

“I’ll miss you, Papa.”

Draco smiled.

“I’ll miss you too. I promise to firecall before you go to bed each night that I’m gone though. We can chat for a couple of minutes, how does that sound?”

Scorpius grinned and nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes, please. Will you also bring me back a gift?”

Draco chuckled.

Scorpius had a room filled with toys and children’s books―both Muggle and magical―but this was another one of their traditions. Whenever he went to another city, even if it was just for a couple of hours, he usually tried to find a little something for Scorpius. It was never anything expensive or extravagant, but Scorpius loved those little gifts. He had devoted an entire small cupboard to it, and although he already knew how to write, it was always Draco who added a little note to whatever he brought back. He usually wrote the place and the date on a small card that Scorpius then attached to whatever little gift, Draco had chosen for him.

“What do you want? A book or a toy?”

Scorpius furrowed his brows for a moment, clearly considering his options, then shrugged.

“You pick, Papa.”

Draco laughed.

“OK, I’ll find you something.”

Scorpius grinned.

“I’m already excited.”

Draco shook his head, and without warning, he launched an attack on Scorpius, tickling him mercilessly and until he was laughing so hard that tears streamed down his cheeks. He wriggled and twisted, trying his hardest to get away, but Draco was faster. He’d done this often enough to predict which way Scorpius tried to move to try and escape him. It was only when Scorpius was breathless and begging for mercy that Draco stopped, albeit only briefly.

After granting his son a short respite, he picked Scorpius off the bed, threw him over his shoulder and even though Scorpius protested and tried to smack his backside, Draco ignored his son’s serious objections. He made his way across his bedroom and into his walk-in wardrobe. Once there, he put Scorpius down and laughed when his son placed his hands on his hips and gave him an icy glare.

“You’re incorrigible, Papa.”

Draco laughed a little harder.

“You truly are a Malfoy,” he said between chuckles.

Scorpius frowned.

“Who else would I be if not a Malfoy?” he asked.

Draco waved the question away and redirected Scorpius’ attention.

“I need a bit of help with picking out my wardrobe. I need to look my best. Any suggestions?”

Scorpius didn’t have to be asked twice, and the two of them spent the next half hour picking out several tailor-made suits, matching shirts, ties, shoes, and socks.

Inevitably, Scorpius picked out much more than Draco needed to bring with him, but he didn’t have the heart to tell his son that he didn’t need quite that many suits.

Shrinking charms truly are a blessing, Draco thought, and with Scorpius’ help, he folded everything neatly, placed it inside his suitcase and closed it. Although it wasn’t necessary, Scorpius insisted on sitting on the lid to help him close the suitcase, and once they were done, Draco chased his son out of his bedroom, and they headed downstairs into the kitchen for a late and light supper.

Chapter Text

“Are you at least going to grab the dragon by the talons this time?”

Refraining from frowning into his pint, Harry lifted his head and looked straight at Ron.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

They were both sat in a corner of their favourite Muggle pub, leisurely enjoying a round of post-dinner pints. With Hermione detained at work, busy taking care of an urgent matter, they’d changed their plans at the last minute and opted to eat out rather than stay at home. Since the kids were with Molly and Arthur at the Burrow, Ron hadn’t been in the mood to cook, and Harry generally preferred to stay out of the kitchen. It wasn’t that he hated cooking, it was just that it didn’t bring him much joy, though Ron liked to point out that he simply hadn’t found the right person to cook for yet. Harry humoured him by not rolling his eyes at that statement and usually always changed the topic straight after. It was a little game they played. Ron liked to poke fun at the fact that Harry had yet to find someone to settle down with and Harry liked to remind Ron that he wasn’t interested in committing to a relationship.

That wasn’t strictly true, though. Harry was very much devoted to his job, a relationship he had absolutely no problem devoting most of his energy to. Ensuring everyone in the Auror Department was at the top of their game demanded a great deal of time and whatever the long hours at the office and in the field didn’t leave much room for dating. That required a flexible schedule, effort, and the willingness to get to know someone, but most importantly being open to letting a perfect stranger in. This was the part where Harry drew the line.

Nearly everyone in the Wizarding World knew his entire life story, and that made meeting someone rather tricky. Since people already knew almost everything about him and saw him in a particular light, there wasn’t much room to reveal his real self. It didn’t fit with how the press had portrayed him all these years. Experience had taught Harry that trying to get a person to perceive him for who he truly was required meeting a truly outstanding and very open-minded individual and up until now, Harry hadn’t been lucky enough to make the acquaintance of such a person.

He’d been smitten with Ginny at Hogwarts, but after the war, that relationship had fizzled out relatively quickly.

Ginny, desperate to find a way to cope with the scars the war had left behind, had joined the Harpies and spent most of her time on the training field while Harry’s only interest had been making it as an Auror. They’d made the mutual decision to call it a day after the most awkward family Christmas in history. Molly’s constant hints about marriage and Arthur’s attempts to stop her from being too obvious about her agenda had resulted in Harry consuming an extraordinary amount of Firewhiskey which had then resulted in a drunken proposal out in the garden. Ginny had laughed it off, thrown a ball of snow at his face and too inebriated to care about what had been a rather embarrassing situation, Harry had given in to the silliness, and they’d rolled about the snow, fighting like the carefree children they longed to be rather than the young adults they’d become.

Post-Ginny, there had, of course, been others. Muggles mostly, but no relationship had ever made it past the six-month mark. The realisation that, when it came to his partners, gender didn’t matter much, had certainly somewhat contributed to Harry’s desire to remain unattached, but it hadn’t been the driving factor. That had been something else, or rather someone else, entirely.

“Ignoring my question won’t make me stop asking, you know.”

Harry snapped back into the present, rolled his eyes at his best friend, and took a rather large swig of beer.

“Not everyone is the settling-down-type,” he said with a shrug.

Ron scoffed.

“You know damn well that’s not what I mean.”

Harry chuckled.

“Honestly, you see stuff where there’s nothing to see. It’s a professional relationship, that’s all there’s to it. Seriously, Ron, come back to the force. All that idle time at home with the kids is turning your brain to mush.”

“I’m perfectly happy working with George.”

“Yes, keep telling yourself that.”

“Just like you keep telling yourself that you’re not obsessed with him? I never did understand what attracted you to him, but you never could resist his pull. Not back then and most definitely not now.”

Harry pulled a face.

“Don’t be daft. We were idiots at Hogwarts, those times are long gone. Since then we’ve cultivated a solid working relationship, that’s all. It’s teamwork, trust and a common goal, nothing more nothing less.”

Ron laughed.

It was a loud and unrestrained laugh, and for a split-second, Harry tensed.

He looked around the pub to make sure they weren’t the centre of attention, but over the chatter of the other patrons, the music, and the various sounds coming from behind the bar, there wasn’t anybody looking their way.

Harry relaxed back into his seat and took another sip of his beer.

“What’s so funny?” he asked with an air of feigned nonchalance, something he’d learnt from his partner-in-crime and the one person who consumed his thoughts when he wasn’t able to distract himself with work, keeping the house in order, or spending time with friends.

The question seemed to sobber Ron up.

“You know, Harry, I may come across as oblivious, but I notice things.”

“What things?”

The second the question had made it past his lips, Harry regretted asking, mainly because the look on Ron’s face told him that his best friend was prepared to give him a whole list of reasons that proved Harry’s interest in his partner wasn’t platonic in nature.

As if on cue, Draco’s face pushed himself into the forefront of Harry’s mind.

That smug smile, his sense of style, the level of his professionalism, that pert arse…

Harry swallowed hard and shaking his head, he abruptly rose to his feet.

“I need something stronger than this,” he said, waving at his half-finished pint.

Ron gave him a pointed look but didn’t say anything, and Harry headed for the bar to order a whiskey, neat. It wasn’t his favourite drink, but it usually helped to clear his mind, especially when thoughts of Draco invaded it and refused to leave. He wasn’t in the headspace to try and make sense of his feelings, mostly because they terrified him, but also because he couldn’t quite fathom where they were coming from. Sure, Draco was attractive, but he was also a maddeningly annoying prat.

Harry shook his head, forced himself to control his thoughts, and pushing everything that was even just remotely related to Draco to the back of his mind, he signalled the bartender and ordered that drink. He didn’t have to wait for very long and fishing a crumbled 10-pound note out of his jeans, Harry handed it to the bartender, telling him to keep the change. Drink in hand, he found himself torn between returning to his and Ron’s corner and lingering at the bar and after a moment of indecisiveness, he chose to stay at the bar, at least for another minute or two.

Ron had that uncanny ability to dig his nails in and demand that they talk about things―undoubtedly a trait he’d learnt from Hermione―and Harry wasn’t in the mood to talk.

Not about that.

Not about him.

He wanted to ignore anything and everything that forced him to confront how he really felt about Draco and why he’d never even attempted to make a move. It wasn’t that he lacked the confidence, no, of that he most definitely had enough―his Gryffindor bravery made sure of that―but rather that the mere idea that any attempt to take his and Draco’s relationship out of friendly waters and into the unknown terrified him.

Despite all their bickering, despite the thousands of times Draco had driven him up the wall for a million different reasons, and even though he often struggled to read Draco, Harry couldn’t think of anyone else, besides perhaps Ron, he wanted to work with.

Somehow, the years they’d spent on opposite sides of the war, the constant fights, the silly antics, and the inability to play off one another changed nothing about the fact that Harry trusted Draco ― it wasn’t a feeling he could explain or one he fully understood. Still, Harry knew, with all his heart, that putting his faith in Draco was the right thing to do.

He trusted Draco’s knowledge, his ability to navigate a crime scene, and his expert opinion on all things Dark Arts, Curses, Hexes and Jinxes. Draco was, without the shadow of a doubt, the best cursebreaker out there, and that made working with him joyful rather than a chore.

Out in the field, they had each other’s backs and communicated with ease.

Inside Harry’s office, when they went over a case, reviewing evidence, chasing trails, and discovering leads, they bickered a lot more, and Draco seemed to thoroughly enjoy trying to get a rise out of him, but it didn’t change the fact that their working relationship was perfect.

Harry stared into the amber liquid in his tumbler glass and briefly closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, then downed the potent drink. It burnt down his oesophagus and feeling his eyes water, Harry squeezed them shut and cleared his throat.

“Sooner or later you’ll stop being in denial.”

Ron’s voice startled him and jumping, Harry opened his eyes again and glared at his best friend.

“Drop it,” he hissed between gritted teeth.

Ron chuckled and shrugged his shoulders.

“If it makes you feel better.”

It doesn’t, Harry thought but didn’t bother replying.

There was no point.

Ron knew, and even though his acceptance meant the world to Harry, he couldn’t bring himself to grab the dragon by its talons.

Chapter Text

While I genuinely appreciate your interest in the manicure I had yesterday, Potter, I’d much rather you paid attention to what I’m trying to tell you if only to avoid making a fool of ourselves at tomorrow’s presentation…

The words were on the very tip of Draco’s tongue, but he knew better than to throw them at Harry, who seemed all sorts of distracted and lost in a world of his own, even though he was trying his hardest to be discreet about it.

Draco suppressed a laugh.

Potter and discreet were two words that did not belong in the same sentence. Subtle was a character trait Potter simply did not possess. For all his finesse when it came to combating dark magic, (that was about the only time he was genuinely inconspicuous―to the degree that it sometimes left Draco speechless―not that he’d ever divulged that piece of information to Harry) when it came to anything else, Potter was the proverbial elephant in the China shop. He wasn’t clumsy, but he wore his feelings and thoughts on his sleeve.

Occlumency most definitely wasn’t Potter’s strong suit.

Draco had, in the early days of their partnership, offered to teach Harry but after the horrified look with which Potter had welcomed the suggestion, Draco had dropped the topic altogether. He knew when to pursue a matter and when to declare it a lost cause.

Instead, he’d concluded that he rather enjoyed the challenge of trying to guess Potter’s current mood or the puzzle of what whatever was going on in his mind, what captured his attention, what distracted him time and time again, and what left him entirely unfazed.

It was a little game Draco had taken great pleasure in, well, at least up until the point where he’d realised that Potter’s interest in him wasn’t purely professional in nature. Upon his discovery of the true nature of Harry’s feelings for him, he’d changed his tactic ever so slightly. He hadn’t taken offence nor had the realisation that Potter found him attractive made him want to quit working with Potter, but, at the same time, he found most of Harry’s actions genuinely confounding.

When Harry had first approached him about a possible partnership, Draco had been quite wary.

It had happened a few years after the war, shortly after Weasley had resigned from active Auror duty in favour of becoming a stay-at-home dad who freelanced in the creation of magical joke artefacts.

Potter’s offer―or rather his request―had been an odd one, but at the same time, it had ignited something in Draco, an intense curiosity he hadn’t been able to quench. The last time he’d felt that way had been back at Hogwarts when he’d taken great pleasure in coming up with a plethora of ways to rile Potter up.

It had been that very feeling that had pushed him to jump over his own shadows and lend his knowledge as cursebreaker to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. At first, he’d, of course, been wary, but instead of using him purely for his skills, like the French Ministry had tried to do, Potter had opted for full disclosure.

Despite their history, despite the way, the public sometimes still perceived him and his name, and despite his father’s heinous crimes, Potter had offered him something Draco hadn’t been able to refuse.

He’d offered trust.

Complete and unadulterated trust.

And all he’d wanted in return was Draco did the same.

That he put his trust in their relationship, that he took his mask off, spoke his mind, and saw Harry as an equal, not a person from a different Hogwarts house, a Ministry employee, or a war veteran.

In the beginning, Draco had found that difficult. Years of having only himself to rely on had made him wary of putting his trust in other people. Still, Potter’s openness and his lack of desire to hold the past against him had eventually won him over. He’d agreed to work with Harry, who’d then confided in him that his dream was to give the Auror department a second overhaul. He wanted to change fieldwork protocols, improve cross-departmental collaboration, upskill everyone who reported to him and completely reshuffle team structure to improve every Auror’s ability to prevent, and or foresee, an attack rather than to mindlessly defend themselves in response to an unexpected ambush.

The project was nowhere near complete, and while they’d most certainly achieved a lot in the last few years, there was still a lot to be done. This was one of the reasons why Potter and Draco had understood that without Harry needing to spell it out for him, was so hellbent on attending this year’s MLE convention as a team. Usually, it was a gathering of Ministry officials, Harry couldn’t care less about, but this year things were different.

This year, Potter was after international exposure, additional funding, and accolades for all the right reasons ― he wanted to be remembered as the Department Director who’d improved Auror fieldwork to the degree that it was relatively safe for any highly-skilled wizard or witch to take on the important duty of defending the world from darkness and vile, twisted magic. He was finally ready to present his pièce de resistance to the world and collaborate on an international level rather than be celebrated for defeating one of the darkest wizards of all time, a task that had been thrust upon him without his consent.

Draco smiled softly to himself and forcing his thoughts to the back of his mind, he returned to the present. He lifted his head ever so slightly and found Potter still staring at his hands. Shaking his head, Draco ignored the mild feeling of exasperation bubbling somewhere in the pit of his stomach and instead snapped his fingers directly in front of Potter’s face, pulling him out of whatever fantasy he’d been chasing after. Draco was mildly curious but knew better than to pursue that bait lest his brain decided to jump down a rather deep and twisted rabbit hole.

Potter jumped a little, straightened up and looked at him.

A deep frown creased his brows.

Much to Draco’s amusement, Potter looked both a little dazed and annoyed, an expression that was rather odd but at the same time also strangely endearing. Draco stopped that train of thought before it could leave the station and despite finding it rather hard to do so, he glared at Potter.

“A little more focus, please, P―Harry.”

While using Potter’s last name felt a lot more natural, it also had a lot more bite to it, Draco was determined to show a bit of his gentle side, albeit not too much, and therefore opted for Harry’s given name.

It seemed to do the trick.

Potter’s mild annoyance vanished entirely only to be replaced for determination, professionalism, and the desire to excel.

You’re a Slytherin at heart, Potter, even if you’ll never admit it to me, Draco thought and turning his face away, he concealed a grin but replaced it with his own desire to make tomorrow’s presentation a complete success only a few seconds later.

After much back and forth, and several rather heated arguments, they’d finally agreed to recreate a scene from an old case, one they’d closed quite a few years ago. It hadn’t been a high-profile case, and as such, the international press hadn’t written much, or anything, about it, but it had been a case that had baffled them both for weeks. They’d chased down lead after lead only for them all to lead to nothing. About three months into the investigation, when the trails had started to run ice-cold, they’d suddenly received an anonymous tip; the answer to all their prayers.

Initially, Potter had wanted to jump in and chase after it without giving much thought or concern to the repercussions, but Draco had stopped him, although it hadn’t exactly been easy. Something about receiving the answer to all their headache-causing questions on a silver platter had made Draco instantly wary of the lead’s authenticity. It had taken an entire afternoon and a very loud debate―‘argument’ was a far more accurate term for it―before Potter had finally relented, sat down, and listened to him.

In the end, Draco’s intense desire for self-preservation had saved both their hides. Instead of walking right into an ambush of epic proportions, they’d successfully taken a psychopathic murderer into custody, brought him before the Wizengamot, and ensured a conviction for lifelong residency in Azkaban.

Their decision not to arrive at the criminal’s abode unprepared had stopped them from walking straight into a minefield of dark magic. To say that the house had been boobytrapped was putting it mildly and it had been down to their ability to work together as a team that had ensured neither one of them had ended up poisoned, shot, severely maimed, or cursed for life.

While it had taken them several hours to successfully navigate their way through the house, they’d decided against recreating the entire scene.

For maximum effect, Draco had insisted that they review the case file and pick out the most exciting traps to recreate, something to perfectly showcase how an experienced cursebreaker and skilled Auror worked as a team. They were very nearly finished, and Draco was entirely confident that he would be able to cast the necessary spells tomorrow morning, entirely in time for their presentation in the early afternoon.

Chapter Text

Harry clasped his fingers together and twisted them apart again. A deep frown etched itself into his forehead and unable to remain seated at the table, he removed the napkin from his lap, tossed it onto the table, and pushing his chair back, he determinedly rose to his feet and moved towards the window.

Halfway across the room, he lost most of his resolve, and shifting from one foot to the other, Harry let his eyes travel around his hotel suite. He shook his head at the extravagance of it all. The suite was tastefully decorated, and the bright colours of the furniture and walls drew the warm morning sun into the room. Upon serving him his breakfast, the butler in charge of his and Draco’s adjoining rooms had called for the maid who’d pulled back all the curtains. She’d also opened the large floor-to-ceiling French windows which led out onto the private balcony and offered yet another connection to Draco’s room.

The fresh air streaming in through the open windows lured Harry outside and turning his face towards the sun, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

For a moment, his nerves settled and emptying his mind, he simply breathed.

But the feeling of peace did not last for long, and a rather strange feeling of anxiousness once again settled over him. Harry tried his best to shake it off, but the sensation stuck to him like sticky bread dough. He scrunched up his face, sighed, and pacing the balcony, Harry tried his hardest to reason with himself. He tried to appease himself with facts, focused on his and Draco’s combined experience and went over their plan not once, not twice but thrice. Despite all that, his brain refused to fall for his distractions or listen to reason.

Vexed, Harry returned inside and flopped down onto the sofa. He threw one leg over the other, reclined into the cushions, allowed his head to fall back and stared up at the ceiling. The vast space allowed him to imagine, in minute detail, what he and Draco had cooked up together over the last two weeks. He went over every trap, every curse, ever hex, and every spell, and the familiarity of it, the knowledge that he knew exactly what he was doing, had done it a thousand times before, settled his frayed mind.

Up until the moment that nagging voice in his head insisted on reminding him that several hundred people would be watching him and Draco and that there was no way to fool their trained eyes. They would be able to spot even the smallest of mistakes and utterly frustrated, Harry let out a growl and flung one of the sofa cushions across the room. He glanced at his wristwatch, registered the time and moving off the sofa, he extended his hand and wandlessly accio’ed the cushion. It flew over to him and wordlessly adjusting the spell, Harry returned it to its designated spot.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that he’d left the door to Draco’s room ajar. Sure that his partner-in-crime was already up and dressed, Harry walked over to the door and pushed it open without as much as a second thought. After all, he and Draco had a habit of walking into each other’s personal spaces while away on duty, and it had never once been an issue. That was part of the reason why they always insisted on interconnecting rooms. When the hotel didn’t offer such amenities, either he or Draco insisted on adjacent rooms so they could magically spell a door into the wall.

Finding himself stood in the centre of Draco’s living room, Harry took a casual glance around. After yesterday’s meeting, which had run late, and their subsequent dinner, the place was still a bit of a mess. Somehow, the fact that the room wasn’t as pristine as it had been upon their arrival two days ago filled Harry with a sense of familiarity. When he realised that they’d both ordered the exact same breakfast, Harry couldn’t help but chuckle quietly to himself.

It was right about then that he started to wonder about Draco’s whereabouts. He instinctively moved towards the bedroom door, but even from his spot in the centre of the living room, Harry could tell that Draco was no longer fast asleep, not that Harry had expected him to be. Draco was an early riser; he knew that much. A mild frown was about to settle on Harry’s face and his worries about their presentation later today filled him with a sense of complete unease, but the faint sound of running water distracted him.

Without stopping to think about his actions, Harry walked through the open door and straight into Draco’s bedroom. Unlike the living room, Draco’s sleeping quarters were spick and span. The bed looked slept in but was made and the clothes, he intended to wear later, were already waiting for him. He’d placed them neatly over the back of the comfortable armchair that stood by the window.

Harry glanced at his own reflection in the floor-length mirror attached to the wardrobe and chewed on his bottom lip. He’d chosen a pair of comfortable black jeans, a neat dark bottle green button-up shirt but no tie. His favourite leather jacket was still in his room.

For a moment, Harry couldn’t help but wonder whether he ought to dress differently. He hated wearing suits with a passion, and even though he possessed a few tailormade ones, had even brought along two of them, just in case, he preferred smart but casual Muggle clothing. His Auror uniform was restrictive enough, and Harry made a point to never wear the entire uniform. He always wore his own trousers or a plain shirt.

There was nothing he could do about the robes, those were a requirement, mainly for the protective charms woven into the fabric, but also because his badge number and rang were attached to it, but apart from that Harry made every effort to stand apart from the crowd. In the early days of his career, he’d exclusively worn eighties band t-shirts and snug-fitting jeans, but once he’d started working with Draco, his choice of clothing had changed. As part of their partnership, Draco had demanded that he dress up. Although Harry had initially baulked at the idea and had resisted for as long as possible, he’d eventually given in and gradually changed his wardrobe.

Harry shook his head.

You’re looking fine, he thought to himself, and once again, his attention shifted to the sound of running water. Even though he’d heard that sound a million times before, something about it was different. It sounded almost like a song, melodic in a way, and moving past Draco’s bed, Harry walked up to the en-suite bathroom door. It was only ajar, and reaching out, Harry wanted to push the door open but hesitated.

He dropped his hand and taking a step back, he was about to turn around and walk away, when an intense burst of curiosity compelled him to do the opposite. Before he knew it, he’d pushed the bathroom door open and stood on the threshold. His eyes travelled across the room, and as they settled on Draco, who stood under the shower and had his back turned to him, Harry’s jaw all but dropped, and he stared in complete disbelief.

Unable to comprehend exactly what he was looking at, Harry stood motionless and took shallow breaths lest he somehow managed to give himself away. The sight of Draco’s naked body sent an intense burst of energy down the entire length of his spine. It pooled low in Harry’s groin, and although it fervently tried to get his attention, Harry was too distracted by the sight of Draco’s back. A thousand tiny droplets of water covered Draco’s pale skin but what truly stunned Harry was the elaborate tattoo on his partner’s back. He’d never seen it before, and it drew him in, captivated him, and made it nearly impossible to look away.

A massive magical tree of life with its roots reaching the top of Draco’s buttocks sprawled out across Draco’s whole back. Its trunk grew alongside Draco’s spine, and its deep-green summer foliage spread out over the upper part of Draco’s back, covering his shoulder blades and even part of his shoulders and a small part of his neck. The leaves danced underneath the cascading water, playfully basking in the warmth of what to them felt like summer rain, and the extreme detail of the tattoo gave it all a three-dimensional feeling.

Harry shuddered and swallowed hard.

His mouth suddenly felt dry, and his tongue heavy.

He blinked, and for a second, he wondered whether his mind was playing tricks on him, but the image before his eyes didn’t change. There was absolutely no way he had imagined the artwork that covered Draco’s entire back.

Mesmerised, Harry took a step into the room and with his eyes still glued onto the tattoo, he watched the leaves move, giving away to the weight of the water droplets continuously falling from above. Harry’s attention shifted to the tree’s fruits, though he was sure that the complicated designs were anything but that. All of them were silver in colour, sparkled as bright as a unicorn’s hide, and against the backdrop of the tree, they stood out like beacons. Every one of the intricate shapes consisted of lines of varying degrees of thickness. There were no sharp corners or edges but twisted knots and curls that seemed to follow a strict set of rules. Harry’s curiosity overwhelmed him at once, and he desperately wanted to know what those marks meant. Somehow, his sixth sense told him that they were more than just decoration. They had a meaning, a purpose, and Harry wanted to know exactly what that was.

He felt gobsmacked, and for some reason, Harry found it extremely difficult to connect the intricate design on Draco’s back with everything else he knew about him. The Draco he knew was professional, conventional, complicated, and somewhat traditional. Draco cared about his appearance, his manners, the way he behaved and how people perceived him. He thought things through, never jumped to conclusions, and preferred to look at a problem from all angles before deciding about how to proceed. The tattoo on his back, however, Harry equated that to a person who was more like himself. Someone who jumped in headfirst, who took risks, lived in the moment with no concerns for the past or future, perhaps occasionally struggled to conform to the rules society imposed on him, and lived for the taste of unrestrained freedom and the bittersweetness of love.

Harry’s brain threatened to short-circuit and shaking his head ever so slightly, he tried to pull himself into the present. He thoughts reluctantly allowed him to take control of his mind and he was about to quietly disappear, when he, to his horror, realised that he was no longer staring at Draco’s back but his face.

As if out of their own accord, Harry’s eyes dropped to Draco’s groin, but a strategically-placed rather large white and foamy blob of shampoo or body wash stuck to the glass. It concealed Draco’s nether regions perfectly and feeling his cheeks heat, Harry dragged his gaze up again only to find Draco looking at him with a raised eyebrow and an amused smirk.

“Do I want to know what you’re doing in my bathroom, Potter?”

Harry’s cheeks burnt.

He swallowed hard and unable to find his voice, he shook his head.

Draco’s chuckle echoed through the room, bouncing off the tiled walls and taunting him, and his silvery-grey eyes danced with mirth.

“I could always try and guess but judging by the colour of your cheeks, you’ll accidentally use your magic to force the ground to open up and swallow you alive, and while that spell is entirely reversible, it requires a high level of concentration and given this afternoon’s engagement, I just don’t think I’m in the right headspace to disentangle Britain’s Golden Boy from the stubborn vines of ancient French soil.”

Harry blinked, tried to make sense of what Draco had just said to him and after drawing a complete blank, he gave up and settled for a confused frown.

Draco grinned.

“Well, that did the trick. Right then, whatever voyeuristic tendencies of yours lured you into my bathroom, I’d appreciate it if you could turn by approximately one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and backtrack your steps. While I’d prefer it if you returned to your own quarters, I’ll reluctantly settle for offering you the comfort of my living room, but please close the bedroom door behind you. As enjoyable and genuinely flattering as you perving over me is, I’d like to get dressed in peace and finish my coffee before I consider taking this any further.”

Harry failed to make sense of any of that either.

Somehow, Draco’s words were just a garbled mess to him, but he did, though he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d convinced himself to follow Draco’s advice and turning away, he wordlessly left the room. He crossed Draco’s bedroom, pulled the door closed behind him, and instead of waiting in Draco’s living room, he returned to his own suite, headed straight into his en-suite bathroom and over to the sink.

There, he turned the tap on and bending low over the sink, Harry repeatedly splashed his face with ice-cold water. It was a rather desperate attempt at cooling himself down but only offered very little relief. Frustration took over and turning the water off, Harry straightened up and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He shook his head, reached for a face towel, and dried his face, then shook his head again.

His attention drifted towards the large walk-in shower behind him although he was in his own bathroom, he couldn’t help but replay the memory of what he’d just witnessed. His mind remained stuck on the stunning artwork that sprawled across Draco’s back, and instead of at least trying to rein his thoughts in, Harry, now once again in the privacy of his own hotel suite, allowed them to run wild.

Chapter Text

Glancing up and down the corridor to check that they were alone, Draco, caught in the heat of the moment, allowed his emotions―mainly his annoyance at Harry’s persistent lack of attention―to rule over his actions. Without wasting any time, he first squeezed Potter’s shoulder to get him to turn around, then grabbed a fistful of Harry’s shirt and roughly shoving him up against the wall, Draco leant in and glared at his partner.

“Potter, by Salazar Slytherin, I swear if you’re not going to snap out of it right now, I will do something I’m not sure I’ll regret. It’s about time you get that brain of yours under control and focus. Whatever is occupying your mind, park it until later.”

Harry blinked―clearly surprised by the unexpected assault on his person―and frowned.

“Malfoy, stop this nonsense and let go of me.”

He snarled the words between gritted teeth and instead of following his head and letting go of Potter, Draco shoved him further into the wall.

“As per your request, Potter, all the curses and traps I’ve prepared are real. You know, as well as I do, that they are deadly and if we make a mistake, we’ll be returning to Britain in a coffin! Just because we worked our way through that twisted trap maze once, doesn’t mean we’ll be that lucky the second time around, getting cocky about one’s skills is what gets people in our profession killed. Now, since I’m not at all fond of dying any time soon, I need you to get it together. If you expect me to go out there with you and show the rest of the world how we work together as a team, you better start focusing right now, because believe me, I’ve no qualms in watching you go out there on your own and make a complete fool out of yourself.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed considerably, and he glared at him through tiny slits. His emerald-green eyes flashed angrily, and he demanded, for the second time in as many minutes, that Draco let go of him.

Draco didn’t immediately oblige.

He hesitated for several long moments, but since he couldn’t see how keeping Harry pinned to the wall was in any way beneficial to their partnership, he eventually pulled away. Taking a step back, he straightened up, inhaled deeply, and brushed a non-existent piece of fluff off the sleeve of his navy-coloured suit jacket.

“Seriously, Potter, if we go out there and you fuck this up, the hex I’ll cast upon you will haunt you for all eternity.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“If I had a knut for every time you threatened to hex me, I’d be a millionaire.”

As if on cue, Draco felt the tell-tale itch in his fingertips.

It was his magical core calling out for his wand, yearning to be united with it, to feel its magic, to channel its own through it in preparation of casting a spell. Draco rubbed the fingertips of his thumb, forefinger, and middle finger together, but didn’t snap them, and brushed the feeling aside. It wasn’t with some difficulty, but he managed to get himself under control. There was just something about Potter that occasionally messed with his ability to stay calm, cool, and composed.

“You already are a millionaire, Potter.”

Potter’s smirk was somewhat unsettling.

“Why? Because I have the pleasure of working with you?”

Draco pressed his lips tightly together and kept his expression neutral.

He wanted to scowl, wanted to glare, but since that was precisely what Potter wanted, and he was not at all inclined to give in to Harry’s taunts, Draco pretended to remain unfazed.

In his experience, that annoyed Potter more than when he got a reaction out of him. There was something about his Slytherin cool that Harry simply couldn’t resist. He repeatedly had to poke a stick at it in the hopes of getting somewhere, but he hardly ever succeeded.

Draco suppressed the smirk that threatened to curl around the edges of his lips and refused to think about the reasons why he enjoyed it when Potter came back for more. There were many, and this morning’s incident had all but amplified them, but he refused to give in to their teasing pull and preferred to remain focused on the present.

Unlike one Harry Potter, who seemed unable to comprehend that now was neither the time nor the place for this.

In just a few minutes, they were due to showcase their teamworking skills, and because Harry had been distracted and perpetually lost in his own world ever since this morning, Draco found it hard to get into the zone.

Usually, focusing on the task at hand came easy to him, but today all he managed to concern himself with was the fact that Potter wasn’t as chill about things as he ought to be. It rubbed him up the wrong way.

“Ha, bloody, ha, Potter. You’re too funny.”

“Why thank you, Malfoy. I might consider that side gig as a stand-up comedian after all.”

Draco frowned.

He wasn’t entirely sure what Harry was talking about, but he also wasn’t going to reveal that fact to Harry. No, that would mean surrender and that was something, Draco never did. It was a bit of a cat and mouse game―they both enjoyed playing it―but neither one of them ever admitted defeat, not even when it was blatantly obvious. The goal was to remain calm about it, even if it was the most ridiculous course of action.

Draco suspected it hailed from the years they’d spent trying to get a rise out of each other. Despite being friends with a successful working relationship under their belt, there were just some things neither one of them entirely managed to let go of. Taunting each other repeatedly was one of those things. In a way, it was childish and given the importance of both their jobs somewhat immature, but Draco had long since stopped questioning that part of their relationship. Instead, he took it for what it was.

“Just, please, Potter, don’t fuck this up, OK? Those traps, I know we beat them once, but that doesn’t mean we’ll be just as lucky a second time around. We’ll need to remain focused on the task at hand, so whatever is distracting you, just please leave it until after we’ve finished presenting, OK?”

Harry didn’t immediately answer him, but after about half a minute of excruciating silence, he eventually nodded.

“You can count on me.”

Draco inclined his head.

“That’s good enough for me, now, let’s get out there and show everyone that the British Auror Department has the best leader they could possibly have.”

Harry’s cheeks pinked ever so slightly and smiling, Draco nudged his partner.

“It’s true, you know your stuff,” he said.

Harry’s lips curled into a strange sort of half-smile.

“I’ve got an excellent partner who keeps me out of St. Mungo’s and Azkaban.”

Draco chuckled.

“Yeah, you do, Potter, you absolutely do.”

Potter rolled his eyes but said nothing else.

Draco could tell that he had a burning question, one that was quite possibly scorching the tip of his tongue, but miraculously, Potter, for once, kept his curiosity under lock and key.

Relatively sure that Harry was bound to lose the fight eventually, Draco smiled softly but said nothing else.

He was nearly one-hundred per cent sure that what Harry wanted to ask him was related to what he’d seen in the bathroom this morning, but until Harry brought it up himself, Draco was entirely disinclined to broach the subject.

He wanted to know precisely how long Harry could last before he finally cracked. Because if there was something Draco genuinely admired about Harry―and if he was entirely honest, there were a few things―he was thoroughly intrigued by iron willpower that fuelled Potter. It didn’t matter whether it was related to Harry’s work, his natural inquisitiveness or his drive to excel at what he did, he always gave it his all. He was driven, and that was a trait Draco valued. It was a quality that resonated with him and aligned with his own views on how to tackle all manner of life’s problems and oddities.

Chapter Text

Harry watched in horror as the heavy metal chains sailed through the air, heading directly into his and Draco’s direction.

Since much of the ground around them was covered in a vile, sticky substance that worked just like quicksand, there wasn’t much of a chance for them to move. With a fast escape entirely out of the question, Harry ducked and blindly grabbing Draco’s arm, he pulled him along. They both ended up in a strange crouched position that was precarious, to say the least. If one of them was to lose their balance they’d both end up stuck in the magical quagmire which was bound to slowly but surely pull them under, whether they wanted to or not.

While humans couldn't be completely submerged in quicksand, an enchanted swampy bog cared decidedly less about the density of a human body. When pure magic was cursed to kill, it did not follow the laws of physics.

Raising his wand hand, Harry cast a non-verbal redirection spell. At the same time and as if on cue, Draco also raised his hand to throw a protective shield around them, but neither spell had any effect on the steel metal chain sailing towards them. In fact, it only seemed to gather speed and before either one of them could lower pull their hands to safety again, the heavy shackles collided with their wrists, binding them tightly together. Harry took the brunt of it, and because the force of the impact was so strong, he couldn’t help but yelp.

For a moment, all he could see and feel was red-hot searing pain. The sting caused him to hiss in Parseltongue and in direct response to his howl, the decorative brooch―a silver serpent with green eyes―Draco had pinned to his waistcoat, recoiled. The bones in Harry’s wrist felt like they’d been crushed and although he tried to focus on Draco’s snake breastpin to remain in the here and now, he couldn’t entirely control the intense wave of pain that surged up his arm. He felt his hold on his wand loosen and terrified of dropping it into the swamp that surrounded them, Harry fought against the pain, forced it under and repeatedly telling himself that his life depended on it, he clasped tightly around his wand.

He blinked, turned his head and with his face inches away from Draco’s, he stared, disbelieving.

“What the fuck? This wasn’t what we discussed. Did you change anything without telling me, Malfoy?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, and he gave him an icy death glare.

Harry had half-expected that reaction.

“Potter, are you fucking mental? When was the last time I actually tried to kill you?”

Not since our sixth year, Harry thought, and although his memories of his last two years at Hogwarts were less than memorable, he couldn’t help but chuckle. The stark contrast between what their relationship had been like then and what it was like now never failed to impress him.

They’d more than jumped over their own shadows. They’d made the impossible happen and shown the whole of Britain that it was entirely possible for two people who’d fought on opposites sides of a war to work through their differences and become not only the best of friends but two people who trusted each other with their lives.

“Point taken. I don’t remember this from the original crime scene.”

Draco scoffed.

“The reason why you don’t remember is that there were no cursed chains that tried to crush our bones.”

“Does that mean all bets are off?”

Draco shrugged.

“I’d say so. I set everything up just as we discussed and put a couple of protective wards around the place. Someone must have messed with them, though this means they saw me prepare everything, waited until I was done and knew exactly how to bypass the wards.”

“An accomplice we never caught?”

Draco shook his head.

“I don’t think so.”

“A stupid joke?”

Draco was about to answer the question when a hollow laugh echoed around the spacious meeting hall. Harry instinctively turned his head and instantly felt his blood run cold.

There, right in the middle of the room stood a tall and skeletally thin wizard with a chalk-white face that resembled a skull, and vivid red eyes with vertical, cat-like pupils.

Even from a distance, Harry could tell that the person’s nose was flat with slits for nostrils. Whoever he was, he had his wand raised and had it aimed directly at both him and Draco. His hands were exceptionally long and thin, almost spider-like, his scalp had no hair whatsoever, and his lips were indiscernible.

Harry’s mouth felt dry, and he couldn’t decide whether his heart was beating too fast or not at all.

Suddenly, he felt seventeen years old, and although he fought against it, his mind transported him right back to the moment when he’d been about to walk into the Forbidden Forest, prepared to die to protect those he loved the most.

“He’s not real, Potter, he’s not real, Voldemort is dead, you killed him. This is NOT the Dark Lord, Potter! Fuck, listen to me, this is not Voldemort. Don’t you go nuts on me now, I’m not ready to fucking die today, Scorpius needs me for a couple more years!”

An excruciating pain―a wandlessly cast stinging hex―in his hip stopped Harry from descending further down the rabbit hole of madness and wary, he dragged his eyes away from the Voldemort lookalike and focused on Draco.

“That’s it, Potter, stay here with me, I need you sane for just a little while longer. You can go apeshit after we’ve figured out what’s what the fuck is going on here.”

“Harry Potter, I’ve come to tell you that the annual international MLE convention isn’t a playground for your foolish exit room games.”

Harry snapped his head around and stared at Voldemort.

He rose to his feet, pulling Draco along with him, and fully aware that he sounded mad but unable to stop himself, he started laughing.

“Nice Halloween costume, unfortunately, you’ve got the month all wrong. It’s May, not October.”

His taunt was met with a curse, and because using his wand meant pushing Draco into the magical mire, Harry threw his hand up and cast a wandless protective shield. Cast wandlessly with no wand core to throttle some of his magic, the protection was so powerful that whatever curse Voldemort had thrown in his direction simply shattered into ten million tiny pieces.

“Is that all you got, Tom? I’ve learnt a few things since 1998.”

“Not enough, Harry Potter, not enough.”

Harry felt Draco’s hand on his hip, felt the reassuring squeeze and leant back against Draco to silently convey his gratefulness.

“Don’t let him get to you.”

Draco whispered the words into his ear, and Harry nodded.

“I won’t,” he murmured. “I can distract this idiot, but I need you to figure out what curses he changed so that I can go after him. You’re the best I’ve got in the department, work your magic, Malfoy. Unfortunately, you’re not only on your own, but you’re also going in blind, and I need you to pretty much already be done dismantling those curses.”

“I think we both are, going in blind that is.”

Harry chuckled.

“I’m going to do this wandlessly, let’s hope this building has a strong roof; otherwise the French ministry will have a bit of a problem explaining a sudden explosion in the heart of Paris.”

Draco laughed right into his ear, and Harry tried his hardest not to let Draco’s warm breath distract him. It tickled and teased the shell of his ear, and he had to fight to fend off the avalanche of emotions that threatened to rain down on him. Harry took a deep breath, forced his feelings to the back of his mind, and rooted himself firmly in the here and now.

“What’s your endgame, Tom?”

“The world deserves to know what a fraud you are, Harry Potter. You don’t deserve to be at the helm of the British Auror Department.”

“Oh? Why not, Tom? I have it on good authority that I’ve been doing an excellent job.”

“Delusional, that’s what you are, Harry Potter.”

Harry laughed.

It hadn’t taken him long to work out that whoever his attacker was, he clearly believed that he was Lord Voldemort. As such, he resigned himself to making the unsub think that he was who he claimed to be. The meeting hall was filled with Senior Aurors, and MLE Department Heads from all around the world. Most had risen to their feet, and although they’d moved aside, they’d all drawn their wands and were pointing them at the person pretending to be the Dark Lord. The last Harry wanted was for the convention to end with mass casualties or any casualty for that matter.

“I rather thought you were the one who lost his marbles, Tom. In fact, I could give you an entire list of reasons why you’re nothing but a barmy old man, but I’m no longer a hormonal teenager, and as such, I’ll refrain from such low-blowing insults. Man, to man, Tom, shall we?”

“As you wish, Harry Potter.”

The string of curses that fell from the unsub’s wand was almost inevitable, only this time, Harry didn’t use a protective shield to hide behind.

Instead, he met each curse with its matching counter-curse, right up until ‘Tom’ threw the killing curse at him.

“Down,” he hissed.

He and Draco crouched down without a second to spare.

The curse sailed over both their heads and burned a black hole into the cement wall behind him.

Despite having only narrowly evaded death, Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

He rose back to his feet, and it was with satisfaction that he noticed that while he’d been engaged in a wandless duel with ‘Tom’, Draco had managed to reverse the curse that kept their wrists locked together. Bondage spells of any kind were a piece of cake for Draco; he had a knack for breaking them in a matter of minutes. The chain dropped into the treacherous mire around them, and Harry rubbed his wrist. He glanced at the angry red welts that had formed around it and noticed the broken glass on his wristwatch. A soft sigh escaped him, and he shook his head, then turned his attention back to the Voldemort impersonator.

“Tom, Tom, Tom, that watch was a gift from a dear, dear friend. I don’t take kindly to you destroying it.”

“Let that frivolous Muggle item be the last of your worries.”

Harry smiled.

“For now, yes. Come on, Tom, surely, you’re not deluded enough to think you can beat me? You’ve about one hundred wands trained on you and these Aurors will kill you if they perceive you to be a threat.”

“Then I’d better let them know that the entire room is rigged with explosives, don’t I? One stray curse and we shall all go up in flames.”

Harry swallowed and turning his head, he looked at Draco.

“Work faster,” he hissed.

Draco glared at him.

“I’m doing my best. Cursebreaking is a delicate art.”

“Spare me the lecture, Malfoy, just make it happen.”

“Potter, unless you want me to curse you from behind, zip it.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“One lunatic at a time, Malfoy, I can’t handle two at once.”

“You’ll pay for that remark, Potter.”

Harry shrugged.

“No problem, dinner is on me.”

“Very funny.”

Harry smiled and turning his attention back to ‘Tom’, he opted for a bit of a daredevil move. He moved as close to the edge of the mire-free safe space, he and Draco occupied, weighed up his options and deciding that jumping across the swamp was out of the question, he raised his wand up and cast a spell that conjured a sturdy vine.

It grew out of thin air, and Harry reached out, grabbed it, pulled himself up, and gathering a bit of momentum, he swung back and forth until he was sure that he could make the jump. While sailing through the air, he cast a spell that ensured a smooth landing, and as he straightened up, he found the Voldemort imposter mocking him with a clap.

“Knowing you, Tom, you’ll probably break all of your bones trying to do that, not that it would be much of a loss.”

Harry taunted his opponent, who threw a spell at him which Harry blocked with ease.

“I’m disappointed, Tom, we only just started and you went for the killing curse. Don’t tell me you’re bored already? I’ve barely started to warm up.”

Harry kept his eyes focused on his duelling partner but still noticed that one of the French Aurors had taken charge and was working together with a couple of her colleagues to clear the room. So far, she’d yet to manage to get anyone out, but she was trying her best to shift small groups of people closer to the wall and from there over to the doors. She was incredibly sly about her plan, and to the untrained eye, it looked like she was up to nothing at all. However, she was aware of everything going on around her and Harry could tell that she knew that he’d noticed what she was up to, but to not give her away, he didn’t acknowledge her whatsoever.

“I don’t have all day, Harry.”

Harry smiled.

“Why Tom, what pressing engagement could be more important than spending a bit of quality time with me, the boy who was literally born to kill you? I did it before, and if you insist, I’ll happily do it again.”

The Voldemort imposter answered with several spells and Harry engaged in an evenly-matched duel with him. They threw spells back and forth. Neither one of them was able to gain the upper hand though it wasn’t for lack of trying. Harry could tell that his opponent had a couple aces up his sleeves and until Draco had managed to level the playing field for them, he was loath to make a move and grudgingly limited himself to defensive spells.

However, Draco was efficient and worked fast.

It was only about five minutes later, Harry felt a tingle around his wrist and surreptitiously glancing at his broken wristwatch, he registered that the minute hand had moved and was now alerting him to the presence of dementors.

Harry took a deep breath, mentally prepared himself for the onslaught and knowing that ‘Tom’ was unlikely to cast a spell at his back, he turned to look at Draco, who looked at him with an expression that said: I tried my best, don’t hate me.

Harry smiled and shook his head.

I’d never, he thought, and that was all he had time for.

A swarm of dementors floated into the room, and although it took Harry only a second to realise that they weren’t real dementors but boggarts in dementor-form, he instinctively cast his Patronus.

To his utter astonishment and complete shock, it wasn’t his faithful stag that burst forth from the tip of his wand but an impressive, larger-than-life silver dragon. It reared its head, and as it flapped its wings, its tail slashed through the air. The dragon flew into the swarm of dementors and successfully kept them at bay. Harry then proceeded to vanquish every single boggart, and once he’d banished the last one, he turned back to face ‘Tom’ and shook his head.

“Seriously, Tom? What is this? Third-year DADA at Hogwarts? I’m a respectable Auror, and I don’t have time for children’s games.”

Harry paused and accio’ing a chair, he pointedly sat down, threw one leg over the other and got comfortable.

“Come on, Tom, you’re boring me now. Nothing you’ve shown me so far is at all impressive. There’s no way you’re the real deal. The Dark Lord had more style than you’ll ever have, all you are is a pathetic imposter.”

The bait had worked.

The fury was evident on his opponent’s face and trying his hardest not to let it amuse him, Harry remained nonchalant, keeping his face devoid of all emotion. He used his wand and several wandless spells to defend himself against the flurry of attacks that came raining down on him. None of them managed to do any damage and Harry made a point out of remaining seated, if only to further infuriate his duelling partner.

He bought Draco all the time in the world to reverse whatever mad curses and traps the Voldemort imposter had placed around the room. It was only when he felt his wristwatch vibrate―an alert from Draco that all was clear―that Harry really moved into the offensive.

A changed man, he stood up, kicked the chair away and instead of focusing on defensive spells, he attacked.

With each spell he advanced, forcing ‘Tom’ to retreat. They played that game until he’d almost managed to corner ‘Tom’, then the unsub surprised him with a vile dark curse that left him with no choice but to duck.

As if on cue, Draco, having also managed to remove the mire, jumped off the slightly raised platform and advanced.

“Riddle, I don’t take kindly to people who repeatedly try and murder my partner. You may have managed to distract me for the last half-hour, but your joke of entrapments is second-year Curse Breaker Academy stuff at best, and that’s me being gracious. Now, Potter here needs a bit of a rest, so I’m going to finish you off if it’s all the same to you.”

Harry laughed.

It wasn’t as if Draco gave ‘Tom’ a choice in the matter.

Almost as soon as he’d finished his announcement, he attacked, and his spells were ruthless. Where Harry had held back, had done his best to buy Draco the time he needed to diffuse the hidden curses, Draco didn’t mess around. He went straight into the offensive and attacked with an arsenal of dark magic, the sort of magic he usually worked to undo, spells that were just this side of legal. As expected, the assailant was well able to fend Draco off, but he couldn’t gain the upper hand either. It wasn’t for lack of trying―Harry could tell that he was making every effort―but Draco, when sufficiently riled up, was a force to be reckoned with.

Harry remained on the sidelines, but instead of ducking out of the duel altogether, he remained focused but took the opportunity to cast a few diagnostic spells on the meeting hall itself. One of them was to identify the presence of explosive in the room. The spell revealed a negative and just to be sure, Harry recast the spell twice. The result remained the same, and that was all the assurance he needed to join back in the duel. He effortlessly moved to stand beside Draco, raised his wand hand and they cast in unison.

Two against one gave him and Draco a clear advantage and less than five minutes later, Draco disarmed their opponent. He caught the imposter’s wand with ease and Harry conjured a set of Auror ropes which he used to restrain ‘Tom’ ― they fought for a moment. Harry, by now bored of the entire affair, flicked his wand and the ropes tightened considerably, making it entirely impossible for ‘Tom’ to fight his way out of them. Harry moved in, forced ‘Tom’ onto his knees and grabbing his shoulders, he dug his fingers in, squeezing hard enough to hurt.

“It’s Azkaban for you, my friend, and although you don’t deserve it, I shall be kind enough to bring you before the Wizengamot. These days, even scum like you gets a fair hearing in front of our criminal courts.”

Chapter Text

“Here, put that on your wrist, the welts will be gone tomorrow. Your wrist will feel brand new.”

Harry glanced at the small, star-shaped container, Draco had pushed across the table and over to him and grimaced ― he didn’t have to ask to know what was inside. Star Grass salve was a dark-green medicinal healing balm for soothing sores and wounds, and while the salve Draco made himself was incredibly potent, Harry simply couldn’t stand the smell of it. The stench made him feel sick up to the point where he felt like regurgitating the contents of his stomach, though the last time he’d told Draco, he’d ended up with a sore backside. Draco hadn’t taken kindly to the criticism and had, without any warning or notice, hexed him.

“Don’t be such a child, my son’s less squeamish about the salve than you are.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

He truly hated it when Draco compared him to his son. It happened with some regularity, and for some reason, Harry was convinced Draco said it just to annoy him. There was absolutely no way that Draco didn’t know it bothered him.

“I’ll be fine without it.”

Harry stubbornly pushed the silver metal box back towards Draco and earnt himself an icy death glare in response to his refusal.

“Potter!”

Harry tried his hardest to stare Draco down but eventually conceded defeat and looking away, he aimlessly and rather half-heartedly toyed with the salve’s container. He felt tired―as though he’d aged about twenty years in one single afternoon―and every single muscle in his body ached, throbbed, and thrummed.

Today’s presentation had been anything but straight-forward―if anything it had been a complete disaster―and despite trying his best to remain distracted, Harry simply couldn’t get Tom Riddle’s face out of his head. It didn’t matter what he tried to occupy his mind with or what he thought of. At some point, the inevitable happened, and Tom’s face pushed itself to the forefront of his mind.

It had been years since he’d last had such vivid memories of the man. Getting a handle on them, and controlling the wild emotions connected to those horrid memories, had required months of therapy, religious self-care, and a strict exercise regimen to build up his resilience. Somehow, punching a sandbag until his knuckles hurt and running laps in the park until his sides burnt had helped to rehabilitate his mind.

There’d been weeks where he’d barely slept a wink and days where hexing everyone, and everything around him had been the only thing, he’d been able to focus on. Eventually, after a long, arduous journey, he’d worked through all the heartache, the loss, the pain, the nightmares, the vivid flashbacks, and the fear that it had all been for nothing.

Right now, the mere idea of going back up to his room to try and get some sleep―which was by far the most sensible course of action―positively terrified him. The last he wanted was to be alone in a room with nothing but his thoughts. He’d considered telling Draco, asking him to keep him company, but had eventually decided against it. Why? Harry wasn’t so sure. Tonight, nothing made sense.

Following the successful apprehension of the madman who had ruined his and Draco’s entire presentation―and most likely also destroyed any chance that the international Auror community would ever take him and his ideas seriously―Harry had turned to the Head of the French Auror Department for help.

Grateful that the incident hadn’t resulted in international news coverage, but that they’d been able to keep the information from the press until they were ready to make a formal announcement, Director Sauveterre had loaned him a team of six Senior Aurors. Together, they’d transported Tom Riddle’s lookalike to the French Ministry. There, the Aurors on duty had immediately locked him into a maximum-security holding cell. It had taken a couple of hours, but Draco had eventually found a way to force the Voldemort-imposter to drop his glamour.

The spell had been elaborate, but Draco’s knowledge of theoretical magic was next to none. There wasn’t a book passage he couldn’t quote, and he possessed the outstanding ability to take just about any spell apart. He knew exactly how to lay out a spell’s entire history, how it had developed over time, as well as how it reacted with other spells, and what worked best to counter or amplify it. His knowledge of potions was equally as impressive, although for those he occasionally still needed to consult the books.

Much to Harry’s disappointment, Draco’s success hadn’t precisely moved matters along though. The miscreant’s profile was not in the French, British or international databases and despite several hours of gruelling interrogation, they’d made zero progress. All Harry was sure of was that this was personal, that somehow this man hated him enough to try and torpedo his career.

Unable to get anywhere at all, Harry had repeatedly asked for a phial of Veritaserum. Since interrogation under the influence of the truth drug wasn’t standard practice in the French Auror department, Director Sauveterre was forced to consult the French Minister for Magic to get special authorisation. It was either that or extradition back to Britain, but the approval process for an expedited deportation was even more arduous. Able to sense his growing frustration, Director Sauveterre had promised him to try his best to persuade the French Minister to authorise the use for Veritaserum.

Harry had tried to get some answers for a little bit longer, but eventually, his tiredness and his annoyance over foreign procedures had led to him very nearly blowing a fuse.

Thankfully, Draco had dragged him away before he’d managed to make a complete fool out of himself and although he hadn’t wanted to return to the hotel, Draco hadn’t taken no for an answer. They’d had engaged in a short squabble, but Harry had given in soon enough. Something about Draco’s pointed look, the authoritative tone of his voice, and the way he’d squared his shoulders had pushed Harry towards giving in.

Upon their arrival at in the hotel foyer, Draco had suggested that he head up to his room, shower, order some dinner and get an early night, but the suggestion alone had been enough for Harry to turn on his heel and backtrack his steps. He’d initially intended to head out into the night and walk around Paris but had changed his mind at the door, and instead of leaving the hotel, he’d walked straight into the hotel bar and ordered himself a double-whiskey, neat.

That had been about an hour ago, and Harry had yet to finish his drink. While part of him avidly supported the idea of getting drunk enough to pass out, his practical side stopped him from being quite this foolish. The last he needed, on top of today’s madness, was the plague of a hangover from hell come morning.

“I’ll trade you, use the salve, and I’ll give you this.”

Harry’s eyes widened, and he automatically reached out to try and snatch the potion phial from Draco’s hand, but Draco was faster and moved the phial out of his reach.

“Malfoy, give it here.”

Draco―undoubtedly to infuriate him further―merely chuckled and shook his head.

“No, Potter. Salve first, then you can have the Dreamless Sleep.”

“Malfoy, I’m tired and cranky, don’t be an arse.”

Draco smirked.

“I’m not, this is me being concerned.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

A subtle way of showing your concern, partner, he thought bitterly but bit his tongue to keep the words inside.

He made a second attempt to snatch the potion away from Draco but remained unsuccessful in his endeavour.

“Wanker,” he mumbled.

Stubbornly crossing his arms over his chest, he leant back and glared at Draco, determined to stare him down.

Much to his dismay, Draco remained unfazed.

If anything, he seemed amused, and he made no secret of it either.

“Salve, then potion.”

“You’re not my boss.”

Draco shook his head, laughing.

“No, Potter, I’m not. However, I am your partner.”

“Yes, so you keep reminding me. Now stop those childish games and give me the damn potion so that I can go upstairs to bed and forget that today ever happened.”

“I made it potent, but I can assure you all this phial of Dreamless Sleep will do is knock you out for 12-hours straight. There’s nothing in there that will in any way impair your memory. You’ll wake up fresh as a daisy tomorrow.”

Harry sighed.

“Pity. Would’ve been a nice prospect.”

Draco wordlessly pushed the container with the foul-smelling Star Grass salve closer to him.

“Let me take a crack at him tomorrow. I won’t need Veritaserum to get him to talk.”

Harry frowned.

“What makes you so sure of that?”

Draco shrugged.

“I have a feeling I might get something out of him. I’ve an idea. It might be a complete shot in the dark, but it’s not like we’ve got anything to lose.”

“Apart from our reputation and my job.”

Draco rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be such a bloody drama queen, Potter. If you ask me what happened today was an even better example of how we work together. I would have, of course, preferred to present our teamwork and skillset in a controlled manner, but this worked in our―your favour. Not only does everyone now know that you trust your cursebreaker partner to have your back, but they’ve also truly seen the merits of not following the outdated rule of pairing a junior Auror with a senior Auror. There’s no point of having a special cursebreaker squad on standby at the Ministry and call them when it’s already too late. This, our system works so much better. You know it, I know it, and now the rest of the world knows it too.”

Harry opened his mouth with the very intention of contesting that accusation but decided against it at the last second. He didn’t have the energy to argue with Draco. That, and truth be told, Draco made sense. While Harry didn’t feel he had the mental strength to dissect this afternoon’s events in minute detail―which was usually what he and Draco did―he could see that they’d done an excellent job of working together as a team. There’s been no questioning, no second-guessing, nothing. There’s just been trust and a fluid progression of actions and reactions, both defensive and offensive in nature. Harry’s Auror brain wanted to do what he’d trained it to do, and that was to go over the day’s afternoon’s events, but a throbbing headache stopped him from going there.

Instead, he uncrossed his arms, glowered at the container with the salve, then grudgingly rolled up his sleeve. He lifted the lid of the small box, pulled a disgusted face, and very reluctantly smeared some of the thick pasty ointment on his red and swollen wrist. Almost immediately, a cool and tingling sensation enveloped his entire wrist and numbed the throbbing pain of his injury.

Harry let out a soft sigh and liberally spread a bit more of the salve onto his wrist.

Eventually, though, Draco stopped him and putting the lid back onto the box, he tapped it with his index finger to lock it tightly, then pocketed the item. Harry watched it disappear inside Draco’s waistcoat pocket, then held his other hand out, and silently demanded the potion phial.

Draco hesitated for a moment.

Their gazes met and locked, and suddenly, Harry found himself transported right back to this morning when his curiosity had driven him to walk in on Draco in the shower. He remembered Draco’s stunning tattoo, the intricate designs which beautified that truly marvellous tree of life, and how his discovery had made him feel. In comparison to that, all of today’s events paled, and struck for words, Harry simply sat there, unsure of what to do or say.

On the one hand, he desperately wanted to ask Draco about his tattoo, but on the other hand, Harry couldn’t bring himself to start that conversation. Somehow, the right words eluded him. He had so many questions, and since they all insisted on simultaneously running rampant inside his head, he found it nearly impossible to focus on only one and determine whether it was a reasonable question to ask or whether it bordered on crossing a line he wasn’t entirely sure, he was ready to cross.

“Do you want to talk about the elephant in the room?”

Harry snapped out of his daze and still mildly confused, he turned his head and glanced around the bar.

Draco’s warm laughter reverberated around the small space between them, and feeling just a tad stupid, Harry gave Draco a dark look.

“Idiot,” he hissed between gritted teeth.

Somehow, that only made Draco laugh harder, and annoyed, Harry rose to his feet, downed the rest of his drink, and snatched that phial of Dreamless Sleep from Draco’s hand. As he did that, he felt the warmth of Draco’s pale skin against his own, and although he’d been determined to stalk off, it stopped him in his tracks. He and Draco had touched plenty of times on plenty of occasions but something about today’s touch had just caught him off-guard.

Harry shook his head in the hope that it might clear his muddled brain, but he had no such luck. It remained fuzzy and random memories of all the times, he and Draco had touched or stood too close to one another, insisted on returning to the very surface of his consciousness. In addition to that Draco’s tattoo taunted him, the elaborate designs distracted him, and to top it all off, that changed Patronus also insisted on teasing him about feelings and the desires he’d suppressed for far too long.

Feeling his hand trembling, Harry tightened his hold on that precious phial of Dreamless Sleep and resolutely took a step backwards.

“I need sleep,” he mumbled, then fled the hotel bar.

He ignored the arrival of one of the four luxurious hotel lifts and instead bolted down one of the corridors to the staircase. Harry climbed the stairs two steps at the time and made it to his and Draco’s floor in no time. Making his way into his room, he locked the door behind him, then barricaded the door that connected his and Draco’s rooms by using magic to move the sofa in front of it. To ensure that it remained in place, he cast a sticking charm on the sofa’s legs, then headed into his bedroom, closed the door behind him, dropped the Dreamless Sleep onto his bed, and made his way straight into the bathroom. Once inside, he immediately stripped down to his birth suit and entirely unbothered by the pile of clothes on the floor, he turned the tap inside the large walk-in shower with a wave of his hand and a wandless spell. Thirty seconds later, he stepped under the powerful jets of steaming hot water, and as it cascaded down on Harry, he closed his eyes, sighed, and remained completely motionless for the next ten minutes or so.

Chapter Text

An unruly mop of platinum-blond hair appeared beside Draco and pushing his head through the small gap between his thigh and arm, Scorpius looked up at him with an expectant expression.

Draco abandoned the news on the front page of the Prophet in favour of ruffling his son’s hair and chuckled when Scorpius glared at him, showing his displeasure over having his hair messed with.

“Can I have some coffee, Papa?”

Draco shook his head.

“Absolutely not.”

Scorpius stuck out his bottom lip and moving his chair back a bit, Draco made just enough room so that his son could climb onto his lap.

“Why not?”

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Seven-year-old boys don’t need coffee,” he said.

“Says who?”

Draco bit the tip of his tongue and swallowed a sigh.

“I say so, Scorp.”

“Just because you’re older than me doesn’t mean you’re right about everything.”

Draco groaned.

“I’ve raised a monster.”

Scorpius poked him in the chest, then placed his hands on either side of his face and pressed his lips together. Draco was less than impressed but didn’t stop Scorpius either. Scorpius usually got away with almost anything. Draco suspected that the fact that his son was his pride and joy had something to do with him generally letting Scorpius get away with all manner of mischief. While he was a very different person at work, with Scorpius he was laid back, easy-going and entirely unfazed about Scorpius’ daily attempts to find out exactly how far he could push him.

“I’m not a monster. I’m adorable.”

Draco laughed.

It was a hearty and deep belly laugh, the kind that took you by surprise when you were genuinely amused about something, and it took Draco several seconds to gather himself back together.

“Yeah, when you want to be, monkey. Which, admittedly, isn’t very often.”

“Hmpf, you just wait until I get my wand, Papa, I will hex you.”

“You shall do no such thing, you rascal of a child.”

Scorpius crossed his arms over his chest and looked displeased.

“Stop being mean, Papa.”

Draco smiled.

He ruffled Scorpius hair, then reached for his coffee and took a few sips.

“Never, monkey, you’re stuck with my nefarious ways until the end of time.”

Scorpius scrunched up his face.

“What is nefa-fa-what?”

Draco smiled.

“Nefarious.”

“Yes, that.”

“It means wicked,” he said, explaining the meaning of the word with a simpler term.

“Ah.”

Draco could tell that Scorpius didn’t really care and leaning back in his chair, he took another sip of coffee, savouring the rich and creamy taste of it.

Meanwhile, Scorpius seated himself properly on his lap. His attention turned to the front cover of the Prophet which featured a big picture of Harry, dressed in his full Auror uniform, a rare occurrence. In the snapshot, Harry was exiting one of the larger Ministry criminal courtrooms―they’d all been entirely revamped after the war and no longer looked as intimidating as they once had―after the final day of an arduous trial against Ira Zaytsev, the man who had ambushed them at their presentation at the international MLE convention some six months ago.

Zaytsev, a Lithuanian national though born in Russia in 1954, had been an avid fan and follower of Voldemort during his reign of terror in Britain and parts of Europe. He had, on several occasions, sought to become part of Tom Riddle’s inner circle, but Voldemort had rejected him time and time again.

Instead of growing resentful, like most might have done, and despising Riddle or trying to work against him, Zaytsev had lost himself in his delusions and managed to convince himself entirely of the fact that he needed to work harder to become worthy of Voldemort’s attention.

By the time, Ira had considered himself worthy of once again offering his services to Tom, Harry had gone and vanquished him. Naturally, that had filled Zaytsev with such intense rage that his delusions had once again driven him to convince himself that it was his duty to kill Harry to avenge Voldemort’s death. Surprisingly though, and despite his nonsensical way of thinking, Ira Zaytsev was a patient man.

The trial had brought to light that Zaytsev had been the mastermind behind several attempts on Harry’s life in the very early years of Harry’s career. Back then, nobody had ever managed to connect the dots. Zaytsev had been very careful, used exclusively local Lithuanian and Russian thugs to do his dirty work, and never once personally made a move up until the day of the conference. Like Voldemort, Zaytsev also preferred to only get his hands dirty when he thought that it was necessary to do so.

Several in-depth searches of his properties had yielded a plethora of incriminating pieces of evidence against him, as well as the shocking proof that he’d spent years spying on Harry. He’d been meticulous and learnt about Harry’s habits, his daily routine, the people he surrounded himself with and whom he worked with.

The discovery of all that, along with several successful taped interrogations where Zaytsev had confessed it all, had somewhat unsettled Harry. Draco had, just like he’d promised Harry in the immediate aftermath of the attack, managed to get vital information out of Zaytsev. Harry had initially wanted to be part of the questioning or at the very least be allowed to watch everything from the other side of a reciprocal mirror, but Draco had refused to allow him to watch.

Instead, he’d asked Shacklebolt himself to supervise the interrogations, and although Harry hadn’t been happy, with the Minister getting involved, he was decidedly outranked and had grudgingly taken a backseat. Draco hadn’t really enjoyed playing that card but allowing himself to act like a loyal Death Eater required going to a dark place and saying things that he never ever wanted Harry to hear. He’d channelled his father, had used his name and his family’s prominent connection to Tom Riddle in his favour and it had worked a charm. Zaytsev had spilt it all to him.

In the aftermath of it all, when Harry had read through Zaytsev’s numerous confessions, typed up to exclude Draco’s line of questioning and his commentary, he’d, of course, pretended that nothing was wrong and that he was perfectly alright. His actions, however, had spoken louder. He’d gradually withdrawn from active fieldwork and barricaded himself in his office to clear ‘a backlog of paperwork’, or so he’d claimed, except with Harry there never was an accumulation of uncompleted work or matters needing to be dealt with. Everyone knew, that while Harry hated paperwork with a passion, he had the most fabulous secretary with an iron-proof filing system that kept on top of everything that needed Harry’s attention, a personal review, or signature.

For weeks, Draco had let him get away with it, but eventually, and when Harry had repeatedly refused to cooperate and take a couple of weeks off, he’d gone straight over Harry’s head and spoken to Shacklebolt. Being the no-nonsense kind of person that Kingsley Shacklebolt was, he’d, with immediate effect, put Harry on mandatory leave.

This, naturally, had resulted in quite the argument, but left with the choice to either do as told or quit his job for good, Harry had grudgingly gone on sabbatical. Draco had given him ample space, but now that the trial was well and truly over and Zaytsev would be spending the rest of his life in a dark cell in Azkaban, he wanted his partner and best friend back. Somewhat unsure of how to approach the matter though, Draco had yet to stop by Grimmauld Place with the very intention to drag Harry out for a meal so that they could talk.

“Papa!!!”

Draco snapped out of his reverie and dragging his eyes away from the paper, he looked at Scorpius and smiled apologetically.

“You didn’t listen to anything I just said, Papa!”

Scorpius looked positively cross, and despite wanting to take his son seriously, Draco couldn’t help but chuckle.

Scorpius promptly nudged his upper arm with his tiny fist.

A rush of love surged through Draco, and he enveloped Scorpius, who fought him tooth and nail, in his arms and kissed the top of his head.

“Sorry, Scorp, I was a bit lost in thought there. Will you tell me again, please?”

Scorpius grumbled something incomprehensible, then pulled back and reached for the paper. He pointed at Harry and titled his head to the side.

“Harry does not look happy.”

Draco smiled.

He silently praised Scorpius astute attention to detail as well as his ability to read other people.

“He doesn’t, does he?”

Scorpius nodded.

“Harry looks a bit sad.”

Draco nodded.

“Hm, I think you might be right.”

Scorpius took another long look at the moving photograph of Harry, then turned his head and looked at Draco but didn’t immediately say anything.

“What is it, Scorp?”

Scorpius scrunched up his face, then tapped his index finger against his lips and furrowed his brow.

“Can you go cheer him up, please, Papa?”

Draco smiled.

“Do you think I should?”

Scorpius nodded.

“Harry likes you, Papa.”

Draco chuckled.

“Does he now?”

Scorpius nodded his head with some enthusiasm.

“He does.”

“Well, that’s good, I guess. Hey, listen, I’ve a question for you. Do you think Harry might more than just like me?”

Scorpius frowned.

“What do you mean, Papa?”

Draco bit his tongue and hesitated for a moment, suddenly unsure whether Scorpius was old or mature enough for that sort of conversation. After about thirty seconds of an internal back and forth, he decided to throw caution into the wind. This was his son, and despite his young age, Scorpius was the brightest, most tolerant, and most understanding person in the entire world. Some days, Draco struggled to fathom how he’d been blessed with such a miracle.

“You love me, don’t you, Scorp?”

Scorpius nodded.

His silvery-grey eyes sparkled brightly, and Draco felt his heart skip a beat.

“So, do you think that Harry, maybe, loves me too?”

Scorpius smiled.

He shifted and wordlessly snuggled against him.

Draco instinctively wrapped his arms around Scorpius.

“You’re the bestest, everyone loves you.”

“The best, not bestest,” Draco mumbled, quietly correcting his son’s grammar.

He ruffled Scorpius’ hair and pressing his lips to the top of Scorpius’ head, he gave him a kiss. Somehow, he couldn’t see anything wrong with Scorpius’ reasoning. From an adult’s point of view, it was somewhat flawed, but Draco was entirely disinclined to think about this from any other angle than his son’s.

Chapter Text

Draco admired the complete enthusiasm with which Harry prepared to steep their tea―as though as it required all the concentration in the world―and convinced that today was a good day, he approached the kitchen counter. He quietly placed a stack of envelopes, bound together with a piece of red string, next to one of the mugs, Harry had taken from one the cupboards above the salt and pepper marble kitchen counter.

Harry instinctively raised his head, turned it sideways, and looked at him.

“What’s that?” he asked.

His voice carried a mild tone of curiosity, and for a moment, Draco simply held his gaze, then smiled.

“Over the last month, I’ve received no less than twenty-nine offers, trying to poach me away from the department. They all arrived the week after you sat down with Barnabas Cuffe for that exclusive chat about what happened at the convention. It was a brilliant move, by the way.”

Harry didn’t immediately react, at least not in a discernible way, but raised his eyebrows and drew them together into a flat line. The wrinkles in his forehead concentrated in the centre, just between the brows and didn’t reach across. His upper eyelid raised, while the lower remained tense and drawn up, and the upper white of his eyes showed, not the lower. His mouth opened ever so slightly, but his lips were tensed, stretched, and drawn back. It was a microexpression, barely visible, and although it was gone in a flash, it had lingered just long enough for Draco to read Harry’s response.

He’d spent years training how to read and interpret microexpressions, and it usually came in handy. With Harry not so much since Harry was the type of person who didn’t hide his emotions. But on the rare occasion that Harry did manage to conceal his feelings, the ability to read his face meant that Draco always knew when to push and when it was better to pull away.

“Which offer have you accepted then?”

Draco rolled his eyes in response to the ridiculousness of the question.

“None. I read them all, but I’ve not responded to any of them. I’ve no desire to uproot Scorpius and move abroad. I’m quite happy here in good ole’ England, you know?”

“Oh?”

Harry’s reaction was one of genuine surprise, and Draco smiled in response to it.

“Yes.”

Harry finished steeping the tea and after he’d carried the steaming teapot and the two non-matching mugs over to the table, Draco, who’d walked over to the table as well, took an oddly-wrapped gift box out of his black leather satchel and placed it in front of Harry.

“Present from Scorpius. He saw your photograph on the front page of the Prophet the other day and told me in no uncertain terms that you don’t look all that happy and insisted that I give these to you.”

Harry chuckled.

“What is it?”

Draco shrugged.

“I don’t have the necessary security clearance required to tell you. I was just in charge of accompanying my son to Harrods, he did the rest himself, including paying for his purchase.”

“I presume he also wrapped the box himself?”

Draco chuckled.

“Oh, yes. I did try to make Master Scorpius aware of the fact that Harrods offers professional gift-wrapping services, but he wasn’t having any of it. You wouldn’t believe the mess he made. The entire living room was decorated with bits and pieces of wrapping paper, strings of decorative band and the sticky tape, so help me, Merlin, I swear I spent three hours getting that off the sofa, the coffee table, the rug, and I’m still finding bits and pieces now.”

Harry laughed, and the sound of it made Draco’s soul dance.

There was an element of carefreeness to it that he hadn’t seen or heard in a while and it filled him with the reassurance he needed to convince himself that deep down, Harry was alright. He watched as Harry unwrapped the gift to reveal a gigantic box of exquisite tea biscuits in a variety of flavours. There was almond, hazelnut, chocolate, oat, digestive, shortbread, custard cream, bourbon, ginger nut, and Garibaldi.

“Well, this is just perfect.”

Harry’s approval resonated with Draco and he made a mental note to tell Scorpius all about it. For now, though, he took a seat at the table and stretching his legs out underneath, he leant against the backrest and waited for Harry to do the same.

“Are the ceilings dropping down on you yet?”

Harry, who’d been about to reach for the teapot to pour them some tea, paused and glared at him instead, then picked a custard cream biscuit from the tin and took a hearty bite.

“They’ve been dropping down on my head ever since you and Kingsley ganged up on me and forced me to take an unwanted holiday. Whatever for, I’m still not sure.”

“If it makes you feel better, Potter, I’m happy to take all the blame.”

“I don’t give a hoot whether you’re happy or not, you’ll take all the blame anyway.”

Draco chuckled.

“Sure. Now, can I have some tea, please? You’re an abysmal host, Potter. You didn’t even offer me a biscuit.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“They are right here on the table, help yourself. Or do you need me to feed you?”

Draco tilted his head ever so slightly to the side and held Harry’s gaze.

He allowed a wicked grin to play around the edges of his mouth, the kind that was enough to make Harry mildly uncomfortable but not uncomfortable enough to get him to break eye contact. They played that game for several seconds, then Harry resolutely cleared his throat, poured the tea, and pointedly finished his custard cream, then reached for another. Draco, on the other hand, opted for an almond biscotti and dipping it into his tea, he took a bite of the softened biscuit and savoured it.

“These are brilliant. I think I shall leave the sweet shopping up to Scorpius from now on, my son appears to have a knack for that sort of thing.”

Harry smiled in response but said nothing.

He added a bit of sugar and milk to his tea, stirred it, then wrapped both hands around his mug, and carefully lifting it to his lips, he took several small sips.

“I’m sorry for leaving it so long before stopping by. Truth be told, I didn’t know whether you wanted me around or not.”

Harry, who’d been about to take another sip of piping hot tea, paused, and smiled over the rim of his tea.

“I thought about inviting you over a couple of times,” he said, his voice low and quiet, muffled by the fact that he was practically speaking into his tea.

Draco chuckled and preparing his own tea, he added some sugar and poured a bit of freshly-squeezed lemon juice into it, then briefly dithered over which biscuit to try. After several seconds of indecisiveness, he chose the bourbon, and taking a bite, he made a point of savouring the chocolate buttercream filling between the two thin rectangular slices of dark chocolate-flavoured biscuit.

“What did you want to invite me over for?”

Harry looked at him for a moment, then shrugged.

“There’s always stuff to talk about.”

Smooth, you sly closeted Slytherin, Draco thought to himself and bit the inside of his mouth to stop himself from laughing. He took another bite of his biscuit and washed it down with several small sips of tea. It was a good brand of loose tea leaves, flavoursome and full of the intense aroma, black tea was famous for.

“Anything you’d like to talk about now? Over tea?”

Harry remained silent, and Draco didn’t push the matter.

Instead, he finished his bourbon biscuit, cleaned his fingers on a napkin and then reached for his black leather satchel. He placed it on the table and with the utmost care, he produced an original copy of the Ars Goetia, the book that had been the initial inspiration for the protective sigils he’d created. Wary, he pushed the teapot to the other side of the table and placed the weighty tome in front of Harry, who looked first at it, then at him, with confusion written all over his face.

“What's this?”

“A grimoire. It’s been in the family for centuries.”

Harry frowned, but instead of asking any more questions, he simply cleaned his fingers with a wandless spell and moved his mug of tea so that there was no chance of him accidentally spilling it. Pulling the grimoire closer to him, he opened it and started leafing through the pages.

Every now and then, he paused to read something, right up until he found a loose parchment between the pages of the book. The paper, thick and creamy-white in nature, wasn’t part of a book but contained a sigil, Draco had created the other day. He’d taken the inspiration for it from another grimoire, the Ars Notoria, the oldest book in the Lesser of the Keys grimoire, a book filled with prayers said to strengthen and focus one’s mental powers.

While the primary purpose of the Ars Notoria was to bestow its reader with intellectual gifts, especially the concept of a ‘perfect memory’ ― when one looked closer, one could also find semi-hidden passages that referred to matters of the heart. These were mostly written in ancient Greek and while Draco was fluent in it, deciphering the passage that had driven him to draw a sigil for Harry, had taken quite a bit of time and effort.

Draco watched as Harry traced the sigil, starting with the inverted mountain and continuing with the two waves and the rising sun that emerged from behind the mountain. The four dots―one above the final wave at the tail end of the mountain, one in the centre of the sun, one at the open bottom half of a heart and one beneath the sun―especially captivated Harry and Draco smiled softly to himself.

“It looks just like―”

“The tattoos on my back, yes.”

“Did you design this?”

Draco answered the question with a simple nod, reached for his tea and drank some. He was tempted to treat himself to another biscuit, but with the grimoire open between them, he resisted giving in and satisfying his sweet tooth.

“Why do you have all those elaborate designs on your back?”

“For protection, safety, concentration, focus, good mental health, a plethora of reasons really.”

“So, each one has a different function?”

Draco inclined his head.

“Yes.”

“But this one is black, yours are silver, and they sparkle underwater.”

Draco chuckled.

“They do so because they react to the warmth of the water, it’s quite a pretty sight, or so I’ve been told, and they answer to me drawing upon the magic contained in them.”

“What magic?”

“The ink my tattooist used is a special creation of my own, it contains an extract of my magical core. Think of it a bit like the core of a wand that, once you find the one made especially for you, reacts to let you know you’ve found your match.”

For a moment, Harry remained silent.

He kept the parchment with the sigil in his hand. He continued to leaf through the book, skimming over several passages and inspecting a few of the elaborate drawings of the seventy-two conjurable demons, depicted in it. Some of those demons were kings, others presidents, some dukes, and yet others were counts, princes, and marquesses. Only one of them was a knight, and that was Furcas. He was a demon generally depicted as a strong old man with white hair and a long white beard who ruled over twenty legions of demons ― on occasion Draco, for his own amusement, thought of Professor Dumbledore as a version of Furcas. He was most renowned for teaching a plethora of complicated subjects such as Philosophy, Astronomy, Rhetoric, Logic, Chiromancy, and Pyromancy.

“These demons or creatures of hell or whatever they are, you can actually summon them?”

Draco gave a non-committal shrug.

“I suppose so. I never actually tried, didn’t have the desire to do so. This magic is centuries old. What interested me was that to summon these demons you need a special sigil, a sort of summoning rune. Naturally, there’s also a book with angels that supposedly have the power to cancel out the darkness of these creatures. I got sucked into it all one day when I had the thought that it ought to be possible to somehow extract the part of the demonic summoning rune that conjures the demon’s wicked powers. I then worked to combine it with part of the summoning rune of the corresponding angel and added a few runic rhymes of my own, something to represent my own desires, hopes and wishes.”

As he spoke, Harry nodded, though Draco wasn’t entirely sure whether Harry truly understood every detail.

“And that tree of life?”

Draco smiled.

“A representation of balance and harmony, a semi-physical doorway, a reflection of my magical core, ever-changing, always renewing, never the same, yet always a trusted and faithful companion to guide me through the ages.”

“It― it’s breath-taking.”

“Ian, my tattooist is a true master. He designed the tree, infused it with its magical properties and although he thought I was insane when I first told him about the sigil idea, he rolled with it.”

“I― It― Those tattoos―”

Harry fell silent.

Draco chuckled.

“Don’t match with the person everyone, including you, thinks I am? Well, Potter, even I, the occasionally uptight, always professional, overly cautious cursebreaker have a few surprises up my sleeve.”

Harry smiled but didn’t say anything.

For the longest time, they both sat in comfortable silence and unable to resist the temptation of these exquisite biscuits, Draco treated himself to one of them after all. As a precautionary measure, however, he moved his chair further back and kept his mug―still half-full of tea―as far away from the grimoire as he possibly could.

Some twenty minutes past before either one of them said anything at all. It was Harry he spoke up exactly when Draco was about to get up and excuse himself to go to the bathroom.

“What’s the purpose of this sigil then?”

He asked the question while retracing the special rune, Draco had drawn for him.

Draco smiled.

He set his now empty tea mug down, pushed his chair back and stood. Before moving away from the table, he allowed himself a small stretch and watched as Harry traced the sigil with the tip of his index finger.

“For those who believe in it, it’s supposedly able to help a person who might struggle with opening up their heart.”

Having divulged the meaning of the sigil, Draco moved towards the doorway and was about to exit the kitchen, when Harry noisily scraped his chair back. Holding the parchment in his hands, he stood at the table looking―for all intents and purposes―like he’d just lost the courage to do or say whatever he’d been about to do or say.

Draco dithered for a moment, but when he was sure that Harry wasn’t going to say anything, he moved further into the corridor. It was then that Harry opened his mouth and called after him.

“It’s still a dragon, you know.”

Draco lowered his head and concealing his face, he smiled to himself. Only Harry would say something so completely out of the blue and without any context whatsoever and expect him to know exactly what he was talking about.

I know, he thought but not stopping to react to Harry’s statement, Draco left for the bathroom where he relieved himself and washed his hands with warm water and soap afterwards.

When he returned to the kitchen some five minutes later, Harry was busy pottering about the place, and the kettle was on. He’d washed and cleaned the teapot and was preparing to steep more tea. The tin with the loose tea leaves stood on the counter and right next to it stood a bottle of rather expensive brandy, which Harry clearly intended to add to his tea or perhaps he was looking for a bit of Dutch courage.

Despite not having announced himself, Harry turned around and leaning back against the kitchen counter, he smiled softly. It was a warm sort of smile, the kind that instantly reassured Draco.

“How long have you known?”

Draco chuckled at the question.

“Long enough, Potter.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

Draco shrugged.

“I didn’t figure it was my place to put you on the spot. You tried really hard not to make it obvious, I guess I’m just that bit too perceptive when it comes to reading people.”

“Do you mind?”

Draco shook his head.

“No.”

“So, it won’t change a thing? We’re still partners? You won’t quit the department?”

Draco grinned.

It was a lopsided sort of grin, the kind that made his eyes twinkle with unspoken mischief.

“I’m a voluntary liaison, Potter.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Potato, potahto. Doesn’t stop you from discontinuing the partnership?”

Draco leant against the doorframe and loosely crossed his arms over his chest.

“Why would I do that?”

Harry opened his mouth, but instead of answering the question, he used the fact that the kettle had boiled as an excuse to steep more tea.

Once he’d carefully poured the water into the teapot and emptied the rest of water out of the kettle to not inadvertently boil it again, he stopped dithering and turned around again. His hands found their way into the pockets of his jeans, and he pushed them all the way inside, then resumed their conversation.

“Because I’m in―”

He broke off there and shrugging, he turned away and walking over to the kitchen table he collected the two mugs, they’d used earlier.

“Because you’re in love with me?”

As if on cue, the two mugs dropped onto the wooden floor beneath Harry’s feet and shattered into several pieces.

Harry stood, motionless, in the middle of all those shards and Draco instinctively straightened up and uncrossed his hands. He waved his wand hand and wandlessly repaired the two mugs, then carefully levitated them over to the counter and placed them right next to the teapot. Once he’d done so, he turned his head and met Harry’s gaze. Harry’s emerald green eyes were mesmerising, and for a few seconds, Draco lost himself in their seemingly impenetrable depth.

He instinctively took a step into the kitchen, and although he wanted to walk right up to Harry and somehow make him believe that having feelings for him was more than OK, he couldn’t bring himself to make that move. For some strange reason, he didn’t think being quite this forward about his own acceptance of Harry’s feelings for him would be appreciated. And so, instead of giving this weird energy-laden moment between them a magical ending, Draco remained perfectly calm and kept some distance. Whether or not it was the right move, he didn’t know.

“I wanted to tell you, before, but I figured it would ruin our partnership, perhaps even our friendship, so I kept it to myself.”

Draco smiled.

“In typical Potter-style,” he said.

Harry chuckled softly.

He walked over to the counter to check on the tea, and despite his initial resistance, Draco now found himself drawn to stepping closer. Like a magnet, he moved closer to Harry, and when Harry turned around to face him, there were barely two feet left between them.

“When― How did you figure it out?”

“Well, that Patronus was a dead giveaway, but I had my suspicions before. I suppose the earliest I suspected was when you started to get me coffee from Taylor’s. You made a point of handing me the cup, and every time you did; our hands would brush.”

The frown on Harry’s face was priceless, and Draco chuckled softly.

“Friends get each other coffee all the time. We’ve dined out countless times, never once made me believe that you might be in love with me.”

Draco’s chuckle turned into laughter.

“Dense as always, Potter. You also didn’t let me finish. It wasn’t the coffee or the fact that you always insisted on giving it to me. It was the look in your eyes just after your hands brushed. It never lasted for more than a second or two, but in those moments, it felt like you’d just bared your soul to me. Corny as fuck, I know, but I stand by it.”

Harry didn’t immediately respond, but the faint pink tint to his cheeks told Draco all he needed to know, namely that there was truth to what he’d just said.

Once again, a strange sort of comfortable silence settled between them and while they didn’t speak Draco weight up his options on whether to make a move or not, but Harry beat him to it.

“Is there any chance at all you might be open to taking this relationship beyond the rock-solid partnership we already have?”

Draco smiled.

“There are all the chances,” he said.

Feeling rather bold, he stepped closer and erased the small gap between him and Harry, who, much to Draco’s delight, remained right where he was. He didn’t duck away, didn’t turn around to busy himself with the teapot, or found another excuse to avoid the inevitable. Draco did, however, notice the slight tremor in Harry’s hand and when Harry saw it too, he hastily grabbed hold of the kitchen counter and wrapped his fingers around the edge of it.

Can I kiss you?

The question was on the tip of Draco’s tongue, but he swallowed it right down and drew out the sweetness of the moment for just a little longer. There was just something delicious about the tension between them, the fact that they were both about to simultaneously dip their toes into unknown waters. Draco’s heartbeat increased a little, and he felt a surge of nervous energy zap through him. It travelled down the length of his spine and leaning that little bit closer, he placed his hand on top of Harry’s and squeezed.

His face was now a couple of inches away from Harry’s, and although he could comfortably move his head forward to press his lips against Harry’s, he didn’t. Instead, he stubbornly remained right where he was, and for a couple of seconds, perfect silence enveloped them, intensifying the spell between them.

“If you really want this, Harry, you’re going to have to make the last move.”

Draco whispered the words and watched as Harry swallowed hard. The tip of his pink tongue darted out, and he wetted his lips, then nodded. He remained immobile for another second or two, then leant in for the kill. The moment Harry’s lips brushed against his own, Draco let his eyes fall closed. His free hand found Harry’s hip and squeezing it, he ever so gently took charge of the kiss, and deepened it just a bit.

From then on, they both went with the flow. It didn’t take long for the kiss to turn into a heated snog, and Draco had zero reservations about it. Not even when Harry’s arms circled around his hips and he walked them both across the kitchen and into the general direction of the door. They bumped into the doorframe, broke away from the kiss for long enough to chuckle about the silliness of the moment, then locked lips again, and somehow managed to stumble up the set of six stairs, along the corridor and through the open door into the front room. There, matters got considerably more difficult, but they somehow managed to make it over to the comfortable and plush sofa by the window and fell into the cushions.

They broke away from the kiss and Harry pulled back just far enough for them both to be able to see each other clearly.

“How far do you want this to go?”

Draco chuckled.

“I think we’re both adults, Potter, so wherever this will go, that’s where it will go.”