Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dear Reader,

We are pleased to present the Platt Foundation Award for 2021. Please find enclosed your copy of Writings in Exile, by D.L. Malfoy.

The Platt Foundation Series of publications is selected and curated by a collection of magiohistorians and scholars worldwide.

The Foundation endeavors to share perspective and knowledge with the broader goal of inspiring harmony in the magical world by sponsoring the publication of such works.

The following statement from the founding descendants of Yardley Platt describes the purpose and mission of the organization:

“May we hear from those hidden in fear. May we read the stories written while wailing. May we hear, and may we listen, and may we learn.”

In understanding,

Connie Urban
Board President, 2018-Present

Archibald A. Blotts VI
Publication Committee Chair

Platt Foundation
18b Diagon Alley
Charing Cross Road
LONDON
WC2H 0AW
UK

“Hair… whoa…” said the very drunken man in Hermione’s lap. The thud of the music in the packed house drowned him out.

“What?!” she belted. This party wasn’t so different from what she’d expected based on her new neighbor’s description, but the crowd was so young. Granted, only the young tended to drink heavily on weeknights.

“Your hair is just like, whoa,” he slurred. Sweaty hands groped her curls and she frowned as she took a swig from her bottle of water. He was rather fit, but entirely too young. And likely too drunk to be worth the effort.

“Could you maybe not touch it?” she bit. “And find somewhere else to sit?”

“But you’re so fucking hot,” he yell-groaned. “In like, a sexy professor kind of way.”

His weight shifted, and he was suddenly kneeling over her lap in the armchair. His jeans made a lovely presentation of a package at chin-level, but his words had been clear enough.

“I’m twenty-seven,” she retorted.

Not convincing, she told herself. She probably could have been a professor at Hogwarts by now if she hadn’t bolted for Australia right after NEWTS.

“I’m eighteen,” the man replied. He’d started making a little show of moving his hips in time with the blaring music.

“I’m… done,” she grumbled to herself. “Go find the other teenagers, or I’ll knock your mark down this term.”

The boy’s eyes widened and he stumbled off her lap. With a quick glance around the room, she had to admit to herself she was probably the oldest one in attendance by five years. That girl in the flat across from hers who’d invited her had not only misled her, but had also buggered off somewhere. Lovely.

Hermione sighed and wandered out. The inebriated man-boy didn’t follow her, thankfully. A chill ran up her arms in the outside air. Not cool enough yet to raise goosebumps, but enough that she was aware of the light sheen of sweat from the heat of the party.

Cardiff in August was strikingly similar to Perth, albeit headed in entirely different directions as far as weather. Nine years without a real winter, she thought.

Nine years without snow.
Nine years without proper British sweets.
Nine years without friends.
Nine years without the entire magical community.

But nine years in Perth with her parents. Nine years helping them remember her, even if just a bit. Nine years and two Masters’ degrees.

That was nothing to sniff at. Especially not when the Ministry itself had seen fit to track her down for an internship. A rather well-paid internship, she reminded herself. And they were paying her way through Cardiff University’s law program. Not a bad deal, at all.

It had only cost her… nine years. A rather solitary nine years, she had to admit. Socializing at a Muggle university had been more difficult than she’d been prepared for. Yes, I moved to Perth to keep my parents from being prosecuted for my disappearance because I erased myself from their minds to protect them from a genocidal wizard. Oh, and the weather. The weather here is lovely.
Not exactly the kind of introduction her classmates and roommates could hear, so she’d stayed quiet. Quiet and alone, for the most part. Quiet, alone, and quite lonely.

A few times a month, she ventured out on a weekend night to a party or club to scare up what could be had for quick male companionship, but that was all. Hermione Granger, Queen of the One Night Stand. Golden Girl of Window Exits. Brightest Witch of Fake Phone Numbers.

She glanced at her mobile while she walked, torn between investigating Cardiff’s small magic district or going back to her new flat. It was still early, she noted with a shrug to herself. Maybe Cardiff’s district had a good wizard pub or something.

————————————

Harry had never wished for someone to firebomb his locale before. It had happened, sure. Auror life being what it is. But he’d never actively wished for it. But he’d also never watched a woman monologue about spinning Kneazle hair into yarn and knitting a jumper out of it, either.

His mind wandered from the thrill of explosions to Hermione. He wondered if she still had Crookshanks, and what she’d think of knitting his hair into a sweater. His hand drew his mobile out of his pocket to check the time. Merlin’s tits, it was still too early to call it a night and excuse himself.

He was going to have to find more funny pictures of ginger cats to send to Hermione. She’d never once responded. Not in nine years. There was an excellent chance he was sending cat memes to a total stranger, but who didn’t love cat memes?

He scrolled through the settings on his mobile, turned the volume up, and tested several ringtones in rapid succession. A dozen heads turned to glare at him, but immediately turned to fawning admiration when they saw it was the Chosen One.

“Sorry, Gi…” he trailed off. Fuck, what was her name? “…eez, I gotta go. Auror stuff, you know.”

“Oh!” she chirped. “Okay. I’ll owl you tomorrow. This was so fun. I can’t believe I got to go on a date with Harry Potter!”

Harry threw back the last of his pint and left, proud of himself he made it out the pub door before he grimaced.

—————————————

Night hunting was a terrible fucking idea, Draco reminded himself. Terrible, exciting, and often productive.

Existing outside his wards at all was a terrible idea, but especially at night. The cowardly shit-stains who liked to send rigged owl messages tended to have them delivered after sundown.

The body under his grip stopped thrashing while he eyed the moonless sky warily.

—————————————

“No, just a Quibbler,” she said, trying to hide her excitement.

Cardiff’s district turned out to be an owlery, a public Floo, and a newsstand. In an alley.

And that was all. Not promising. The Floo was little more than a large woodstove with the front grate ripped off.

She’d really thought the capital of Wales, home to hundreds of thousands of people, would have a decent magic district. At least a Gringotts branch and a robe shop, but no.

She lingered under a streetlamp to peruse the Quibbler issue, but more to revel in being under a Lumos-enchanted light. Her wand and magic use had been almost non-existent aside from contraception charms and the rare cleaning spell. Some things were too important to trust to Muggle technology. Or too tedious.

An ad for Muggle integration services caught her eye.

Tours, advice, and social networking for the busy Muggleborn and Muggle-raised.
Muggle life skills courses available for the witch or wizard adventuring away. Squib-taught!

The phone number listed below the ad even said to call or text. Very progressive.

“Oh, why not?” she muttered to herself. Social networking was just code for speed dating, wasn’t it? And was that so different from prowling around house parties and clubs?

Hi, I’m interested in your social networking services for Muggleborns.

She pocketed her mobile and wandered to the Floo. Coin-operated? Very odd, she thought. A glance in the owlery window was equally uninspiring. What kind of owlery in a major city was closed at all, let alone before midnight?

Her mobile buzzed, and she checked it.

Wonderful! Name and immediate location?

Immediate location? That seemed odd, but perhaps they were going to send her a packet of forms to fill out.

Hermione Granger, and I’m in the magic district in Cardiff at the moment.

The elderly woman at the newsstand snorted loudly and muttered to herself, asleep on a stack of tomorrow morning’s Daily Prophets. Hermione pitied whoever bought the top one. Free drool.

The battered woodstove clanked to life, spewing out green flames followed by a tumbled mess of fabric and blond hair. The disheveled pile righted itself, and a figure emerged.

Luna, or someone approximating Luna, stood before her. And she was wearing… everything. Just simply everything.

A brown chemise with scattered gold sequins under an embroidered vest in black and white, and a voluminous ruffled skirt in swirled jewel tones that would embarrass a peacock.

Her hair was a tornado of small braids with trinkets and baubles woven in, wadded into a mess of a bun that appeared to be held in place by a small army of disposable chopsticks.. It was quite something. And it was definitely Luna Lovegood.

“Hermione!” she squeaked, not bothering to brush the dust off.

“Luna?” Hermione asked, rather redundantly, now that she thought of it. The ad was in the Quibbler, after all.

“It’s really you, Hermione?” Luna asked suspiciously. “I haven’t known dugbogs to text, but it would be like them.”

“I… No, it’s me,” she stammered.

“Good!” she pipped. “I don’t mind if they eat all Neve’s mandrake, anyway. They’re rather pitiful when they’re hungry.”

“Uh… huh.” Hermione grunted.

Maybe this hadn’t been the best way to reintegrate into wizarding society, she thought. Finally texting Harry back may have been smarter. Supremely awkward, but maybe smarter.

The man had been sending her cat pictures for years. How he’d gotten her mobile number, she had no idea, but she suspected Ministry involvement. All he’d ever sent her was an introductory text followed by dozens, possibly hundreds by now, of pictures of ginger cats doing silly things.

“So!” Luna interjected into dead air. “You’re home! For good? For work? For holiday? For matchmaking? For a roll in the hay?”

“I-“ Hermione started, but was cut off by the rumble of the Floo. It belched to life again and spewed out a tangle of pale limbs, dark hair, and a posh pantsuit.

“Salazar’s scrot, Lu,” spat a husky voice. “Glad you left that wonderfully vague note, but you could have waited till I got back from the loo. I thought Neve dumped your pasty ass again.”

Luna pulled a mocking face at the immaculately-dressed figure of Pansy Parkinson, who was busily dusting herself off. Pansy’s dark eyes below thick bangs skimmed Hermione head to toe, and she fidgeted under the scrutiny.

“Luna.” Pansy stated flatly. “This does not look like an emergency Muggleborn intervention. This looks like a sad Granger who struck out at a Muggle party.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but found she really didn’t have a comeback for that. Parkinson wasn’t her favorite person. Not by a long shot. But she never could fault her for her wit.

“But it could have turned into an emergency,” Luna stated definitively. “It could have become urgent.”

Pansy huffed and slid her hands into the pockets of pinstriped trousers. “Well, Granger. What’s the emergency? Knickers on fire?”

—————————————

“You know, Har. Someday you’re gonna come barreling out of that fireplace to find me mid-wank. Maybe you’ll check first, then,” Ron said with a paternal finger wag.

“The day you wank in the Burrow kitchen is the day I stop coming to Sunday brunch,” Harry said, stepping out of the Floo.

“Stalemate, then,” Ron said with a nod. “How was the date with… Ol' what's her name?”

Ron rummaged around kitchen cabinets and cobbled together a loose pile of biscuits and crisps. Molly had started stocking Muggle treats years ago, specifically for these occasions.

“I want to say ‘Gina’, but I may have made that up,” Harry said around most of a biscuit.

“As long as she’s not a redhead with a penchant for Quidditch,” Ron muttered.

“Ew, Ron.” Harry snorted. “That’s just sick.”

——————————————

If Pansy Parkinson smirked any harder, her jaw was going to fall off and roll back into the Floo without her, Hermione thought.

“So, just the men, then?” Luna asked, looking skyward. Hermione momentarily worried Luna was going to divinate something from the stars.

Pansy quirked an eyebrow at the question. “Do tell, Granger.”

“Pans, you’ve only dated Muggle women for years,” Luna chastised. “Be nice.”

“Uh, yeah, just men,” Hermione said slowly. “You date Muggles? Seriously?”

Pansy shrugged, the shoulder of her suit jacket giving the gesture a sharp edge. “Not that many tolerable witches.”

“Pansy’s helping me research the Muggle practice of running for sport, as well as Muggle dating.” Luna gasped in sudden realization. “Hermione! May I interview you about dating Muggle men? Relationships and customs and the like?”

She winced a touch at the question. “I didn’t really… date. Just… sex.”

“Nice,” Pansy huffed. Hermione wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic. Most likely.

“Oh, well, anyway,” Luna said, eyes leaving the sky. “The men. Not many of us stayed after the war, and the few who did paired off fairly quickly.”

Luna continued, “It was a strange time. You weren’t the only one to travel. But not many others have come back.”

Pansy thumbed a chip in her nail polish. “Harry’s still here, and he’s single. But you knew that.”

“I didn’t, actually,” Hermione replied. “All I know about him is that he thinks I want pictures of cats. I didn’t even know if he had stayed after the war.”

“Auror Potter emigrate?!” Pansy feigned, fingertips splayed over her chest. “England would fall!”

Her joke fell flat and she looked to Luna. “Who’s even left, Lu?”

“Slim pickings, unfortunately. Harry. Ron. I mean, if you left things on good terms with Ron.”

“I... We didn’t have much to leave, so I guess we’re probably on okay terms,” she said, embarrassment niggling in her mind.

She and Ron had managed to sneak a few kisses their last year of school, but then everything had exploded. Leaving for Australia without so much as a goodbye had been in poor form.

Luna looked at Pansy. “Blaise?”

“Inadvisable.” Pansy mumbled with a frown. “Wrongbottom?”

“Rather taken!” Luna exclaimed. “And I told her you call her that.”

“You didn’t.” Pansy gasped. “Shit. Lu, I didn’t mean-” Pansy sputtered, a scarlet blush rising.

Luna waved her off. “She thought it was hilarious. Threatened to officially change her name to Neve Wrongbottom for all eternity. She does have a sense of humor about it, you know.”

Feeling invisible, Hermione checked the time on her phone. As much as she did want to catch up with her old classmates, it was getting late, and she had a lot of important nothing to do.

“Oh, thank Salazar.” Pansy sighed. “You two okay?”

“We’re well, thank you for asking,” Luna replied primly.

“Just checking. Never know with you two.” Pansy grinned at her own jab. “Anyway. Stephen?”

“Gay. Ernie?”

“Still gay and now married. Justin?” Luna counter-offered.

“Also married. Hufflepuffs marry entirely too young,” Pansy said matter-of-factly. "Most of them, anyway."

Hermione’s heart sank. She could just make do with Muggle men again. It had been… serviceable. She’d gotten rather good at casting wandless contraception charms without men noticing. It would have been wonderful to not have to worry about hiding the charms, and her wand, and all the other little things.

Maybe Ron or Harry would be interested, but she doubted it. Even if they were interested, she wasn’t sure she was. So much could go wrong in shagging friends. Especially ones she’d abandoned.

She wondered what they’d thought of her leaving and never contacting them.

Had they worried about her? Had they even missed her? Maybe they’d been glad to be rid of her. She knew she hadn’t been terribly pleasant much of their seventh year. But nothing about that year was pleasant.

No, she didn’t want to resort to old friends if she didn’t have to.

“Maybe widen the pool? Surely you know some single wizards besides men from our year in school,” Hermione suggested. “Coworkers on the rebound? Hot neighbors? Ugly but endowed cousins?”

Pansy and Luna each furrowed their brows in concentration. “Our Quibbler intern is single,” Luna said with a soft wince, “but he’s also 19.”

“Pass,” Hermione stated definitively.

“I’ve got a single coworker with an emerging drinking problem,” Pansy said, only half-sarcastically.

“Pass.” Hermione rolled her eyes. This was not looking promising. Maybe her only options really were her childhood best friends or Muggles. Not promising at all.

The woman at the newsstand had started snoring in honest, and it nearly drowned out the whisper fight Luna and Pansy had started.

”He wouldn’t,” Luna hissed.

”He definitely would have,” Pansy hissed back.

They went back and forth, and Hermione started to regret texting a number out of the Quibbler, of all publications. Free quibbling, delivered to the reader’s immediate location free of charge.

Luna sighed loudly at Pansy. “I guess it does depend on that.”

“On what?” Hermione grumbled, wondering if this whole evening was a waste.

Pansy grinned. “On what kind of relationship you’re looking for. Basically.”

“Oh, nothing serious. In fact, the less serious, the better.”

Luna shot Pansy a wary look. Pansy returned it with a grin. “Perfect.”

“Pansy, he wouldn’t.”

“If he bothers to respond at all,” Pansy said with a shrug.

Luna tapped her chin, thinking. “Hm. Perhaps.”

Hermione was damned tired of this dead end of a conversation. All she’d learned today was that she was going to end up asking her two best friends for pity sex. Doing so would likely ruin any chance of renewing a friendship with either of them.

Or, she would continue sport-fucking Muggle men and hiding a huge part of her life while keeping them at arm’s length. Or, even more likely, she would have to survive an incredibly long dry spell.

“I’m not loving these options, ladies. So, try what?”

Luna opened her mouth to speak, but closed it. Pansy looked at her hesitantly. They both spoke.

“Draco?”

———————————————

The thing about livers, Draco reminded himself, is that they make an awful bloody mess when ripped out. Tasty, but messy. And only when fresh.

———————————————

“Ron, I’m taking all the crisps back to my flat,” Harry called from the kitchen. “It’s late, and I’ve got work tomorrow.”

“Alright. See you for lunch at the one place,” Ron hollered back.

“Right. G’night, then.”

“Night, Har!”

———————————————

Hermione sat at her rather generic laptop in her rather generic apartment agonizing over how to send the least generic message of her life. How does one proposition Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, for casual sex?

Surely he was used to women hitting on him, but those women hadn’t known him most of their lives. They hadn’t watched him cry because he was homesick one day, and the next day cry at the prospect of having to return to said home.

Other women could walk right up to Harry Potter and invite him to bed. They didn’t have to explain why they’d disappeared for nine years, never visited, and not even responded to the damn ginger cat pictures.

How does one maintain one’s dignity while making a fairly undignified request?

Hi, Harry! I’m in Cardiff for law school and I’d love to get together with you if you’re interested.
Too vague. Delete.

Harry! Sorry I ignored you for nine years, but now I’d like to have sex with you maybe.
Stupid. Delete.

Harry! I’m home, I’m single, and I’m ready to mingle.
Terrible. Delete.

Hi, Harry! My pussy’s in Wales, but my fuck buddies are in Australia.
Maybe too accurate. Delete.

Harry. I’m assembling a personal army of the best wizard cocks in the UK, and I want you on the team. Please submit application.
Definitely undignified. Funny, though.

Ugh, nothing made her request feel less desperate. Muggle men were so much easier. They were everywhere, and it didn’t take much to get them in bed.

Crookshanks hissed at the window and bolted under the bed.

“Scaredy cat,” Hermione chided, as she went to the window. It had been so long since she’d received an owl, the arrival of the large brown bird had startled her, too.

She untied the note from its leg, bent down, grabbed a piece of Crookshanks’ kibble, and offered it to the owl. A carnivore is a carnivore, she figured. Crookshanks huffed his disproval of an owl eating his food, and hopped onto the laptop.

Hermione unrolled the paper to find a message from Luna:

Hermione, send me a text message to my Muggle mobile if you would like me to contact Draco. He’s rather reclusive.

Luna

P.S. It was lovely to get together.

Hermione crumpled the paper and tossed it at Crookshanks, who watched it roll to a stop next to his paw, unmoving and entirely unimpressed.

She had no desire to have Luna introduce her to men like some kind of slutty debutante. She was a grown woman who could solicit men for casual sex all by herself. She’d had no trouble in Perth, after all.

She’d stop by that owlery tomorrow and send a note to Malfoy. Luna’s judgement of him was probably sound, but her meddling wasn’t necessary.

She and Pansy had made it seem like she should expect rejection from him, anyhow. Pity. He’d always been rather good-looking when he wasn’t talking. And she wasn’t looking for conversation.

She could work on what to write to him after she figured out what to say to Harry. And Ron. Ron seemed like the easiest of the three. Unless he was bitter about her having left without saying goodbye.

Crookshanks rolled on his back, stretching, daring any naive passersby to rub his belly. “I’m not falling for that, Shanks. Get down.”

The cat grudgingly walked off the laptop, and a fullscreen photo showcasing a very erect, rather large penis next to a hand giving a “thumbs up” filled the screen.

“Crookshanks! What did you do?!” she yelled.

He wasn’t a typical cat, but looking up porn on a laptop was beyond even him. She sat down to figure out what he’d done.

She didn’t recognize the picture. Or the cock. Or the thumb. It was a weird pose. Like this man was congratulating himself on having a penis. Not that it wasn’t one worthy of some kudos.

She’d remember if she had saved it on her laptop. There were plenty of hidden files on this computer, but no dick pics with a thumbs up.

Hermione scrolled up to see what else was…

Harry. I’m assembling a personal army of the best wizard cocks in the UK, and I want you on the team. Please submit application.

Oh, Merlin’s great gaping arsehole, she thought.

“You terrible, perverted, filthy, effective cat. You propositioned Harry Potter. I hope you’re happy.” Crookshanks replied by lifting his leg and emphatically licking himself.

At least Harry had responded positively. Very positively, in fact. But how does one respond to a solicited dick pic? She’d gotten unwanted ones on dating sites, which had been the end of that foray.

She had to send him some kind of message after an exchange like that. This was no funny ginger cat meme.

Wow. Um. Thanks.

oh shit r u drunk? Was that a drunk text??? Ohshitohshitohshit

No. I’m not drunk.

Okk bit bold tho. U ok?

A furious lecture on his abuse of the English language was brewing in the back of her throat, but it could wait. She scrolled back up to look at that cock again. As far as dick pics went, it was worth a second look. Maybe a third. Later. Knickers off.

I’m fine. I didn’t mean to send a message quite that bold. But I’m back home and, well, yeah…

single?

Very. And not really looking to change that part.

loud and clear. im off evry other weekend

The lecture on punctuation and grammar was itching to pour out of her fingers like righteous magma. Shag him first, she told herself, and then you can rip into his language skills. Everyone loves a grammar check as pillow talk. She realized she’d been staring at the screen when a second message appeared.

Im gona see Ron tomorrow. want me to recrute him?

She scrolled back up for a third look. Maybe spelling wasn’t a realistic expectation when a good portion of your blood flow was siphoned off into an impressive erection. But this conversation would need to wrap up soon for it to balance out this many errors.

Why?

u said team n rons a team player

Yeah, that would actually be great, if you don’t mind. Seems like it could be really awkward for you.

nah. spit roasting tall women is akward

WHAT?

were not that tall so yeah furniture strategy

I mean WHAT as in WHAT have you been up to? And together? How? When? WHAT?

oh ya you bolted after NEWTs. Slytherin afterparty was insane. And then the first several reunions. and holiday parties its not called snogwarts for no reason.

The bracing irritation of his double-negative reined in her shock. He was right. She had left the UK immediately after taking her NEWTs early. But she hadn’t heard anything about reunions or parties. Not that she would have come back for them. Or maybe she would have, if this were an accurate depiction of a class reunion.

Make sure I’m on the guest list for the next one. Wow.

eh theyve gotten kinda dull now that everybodys getting married and having kids

Oh, and speaking of Slytherin…

noooooooo

Luna and Parkinson recommended recruiting... Malfoy?

Hermione seriously hoped that spelling the word “recruiting” correctly would sink in. He really ought to know better.

But she was more worried what Harry would think of her for trying to contact Malfoy. Maybe he’d become a fine upstanding citizen. Maybe he’d come out the other end of the war reformed. Maybe he was still an absolute twat and Death Eater, to boot.

She wished she could pull that message out of the screen, shove it in her mouth, and pretend she’d never sent it. Setting the stage by telling him she might like to shag him but also their childhood nemesis may not have been the best course.

Maybe she should have felt out Harry’s opinion of Malfoy before announcing that bit. What if Harry knew things Luna and Pansy didn’t? He was an Auror, Pansy had said.

As strongly as she wished she hadn’t just told him about Malfoy, she knew all hell would break loose if it came up after the fact. Better to face the fire now.

O I thot you were gonna ask about Millicent. n I thot Malfoy was dead

Luna offered to contact him for me, so he must alive

Absently, she wondered if Luna would consider a ghost fair game. Not impossible.

And I am going to ask you about Millicent, but not now.

he mihgt be back in Azkaban with his parents but it wud have made the papers

Luna and Pansy wouldn’t have suggested she contacted him if he were imprisoned. That would be pointless. So he had to be out in the world somewhere.

Ok. I’m going to try, but I don’t expect much.

good luck took the ministry five years and teams in russia to get the slippery wanker

But I’m me.

Troo troo

Her patience with him had officially reached its limit.

HARRY POTTER, YOU KNOW HOW TO SPELL.

Took you long enough, Hermione. I’ll let you know what Ron says tomorrow. We’re meeting for lunch. Enjoy the pic.

I plan to.

She turned off notifications and scrolled back up to his picture, setting the laptop on her bedside table. He’d actually sent her a picture. The Chosen Cock.

It begged the question of whether he’d already been hard. Very hard. Or whether he’d stripped down, as he appeared to be naked, and gotten himself hard just to send it to her. She wasn’t sure which was a bigger turn-on.

Had he been touching himself just now while he was chatting with her? Did he come while he was waiting for her to reply? Was he stroking his cock right now and thinking of her? So many questions.

Hermione threw her trousers over the back of the desk chair, shimmied out of her shirt and bra, and threw them on top of the trousers. She slid under the covers of her bed, taking a moment to rub her legs against the new, freshly washed sheets and revel in the smooth texture. She lay on her side and thought about Harry’s cock, examining the picture.

It was odd to think that she knew what the most intimate part of him looked like, but she hadn’t seen any pictures of the rest of him. Auror training was notoriously strenuous, so he had to stay reasonably fit. Pansy had mentioned that with a solid wink.

Maybe he’d gotten taller? Definitely filled out. Did he have chest hair? Maybe a lot of it, to match the mess that grew out of his head. Had he grown his hair out? Cut it short?

What if he had facial hair? She could see him with longer hair and the beginnings of a beard. He’d probably gotten really tan not having to stay in a classroom all day. Tan skin with soft, thick body hair that skimmed down to that lovely cock.

Her hand slowly skated down the curve of her breast, raised goosebumps as it trailed the slight hollow of her waist, and settled on her hip bone.

What would his touch feel like? His hands were probably rougher than hers, and hotter, and more urgent. Greedy, almost. Yes, Harry’s rough greedy hands teasing her body would feel perfect.

She slid her hand down to cup her sex and felt the dampness starting to soak through her knickers. Her other hand crept up to her breast to tease a nipple while she ran her fingers under the top edge of the fabric.

He wouldn’t be this slow, she didn’t think. He would be all heat and urgency and noise. Harry would be loud, she was sure.

Would he moan when he touched her and found her this wet? Would he yank her knickers off and plunge himself inside? Or would he inch them down and lick her till she begged him to fuck her?

Ripping clothing off seemed more like Harry. And he wouldn’t lick her. He’d eat her like a man starving.

Her fingers plunged between her slick folds while her other hand pinched her nipple to edge of pain, but not quite. Her hips bucked up to meet the fingers circling her clit. It wouldn’t be enough friction for an orgasm, and she knew. She rolled over and slid her other hand down over the fingers still idly stroking her clit.

She turned her head to get one more look at his picture she shut her eyes. She imagined the wide head of his cock bumping against her clit, where her fingers were stroking, and then it would slide up as he leaned in, and slowly push inside her. It might take some patience to get the head in, but it every stroke would feel enormous inside.

She thought of him putting his hands on the mattress on either side of her head, and starting to move, thrusting gently at first. And then he would drop down onto his elbows along her sides, and press her into the bed with his weight.

She ground her hips hard against her cupped hands, thinking of him sliding his hand down to do the same as he thrust in her in quick, deep strokes. Heat coiled low inside her, and she thought of his cock getting harder, his hips thrusting more erratically, his forehead resting on her back, his teeth nipping her skin, until he cried out, thrust deep inside her, and came.

“Fuck, Harry!” Her shout was muffled by the mattress, hips still moving in small circles, rubbing her clit against her fingers, each pass causing another wave, another tightening. Her hips gradually slowed, and she pulled her hands up out of her knickers.

It would have been a much better orgasm with a hard cock inside to grip as she came, but it was still good. She crossed her forearms and laid her cheek on them. Her laptop had gone to sleep. She sighed and closed her eyes.

Soon, Harry Potter’s photo-worthy cock. Soon.

Chapter Text

“Merdasse, Matilda!” Malfoy hissed, knees threatening to buckle under her weight and grip. “I swear to all that’s unholy, I will make you into coq au vin someday.”

Blood dripped down his shoulder as her talons dug in. She scrabbled for a stable grip, puncturing down to the muscle as he gritted his teeth and wrapped a towel around his arm.

“You are the cruelest fucking bird I’ve ever met,” he accused. “Sadistic bitch.”

She ruffled her chest feathers, taking the compliment as she hopped onto his forearm. A soft whine sounded as he Healed the damage. He would have to pay for that with at least a solid nap. He hoped he dreamed of eagle noodle soup. Fuck.

She’d brought him his weekly Portkey to Azkaban. Five of them, this time. Why Robards thought he wanted to visit that often, was beyond him.

These were all Muggle baseball cards, which seemed like an inherently bad choice for not being attractive to Muggles. Especially children. If a Muggleborn child with any ability picked these up, there’d be no end to the chaos.

She chortled at him for a treat; a bad habit she’d picked up from the Ministry owls. He held out a piece of fish, but she wouldn’t take it, bobbing her demand.

“Fine,” he groused and held the fish in his lips. He lifted her on his arm to take it. “Slutty bird.”

Food gifts were the realm of mating courtship, and she was a pushy girl. Gulping down the fish, she side-stepped to his wrist and unceremoniously bit the back of his hand, drawing blood.

“Ahh, you cunt of a bird! Go!” Malfoy yelled, flinging his arm out the window. She cawed ruefully, and took flight. ”Salope.”

——————————————

“The full replacement cost of the owl?!” she shouted. “It hasn’t even done anything yet!”

The owlery attendant flinched. “Yes, ma’am, Ms. Granger. It’s just that... We all decided, the owleries... that is, that because our owls never return from a delivery to him, that we’d need to take that into account.”

The small man’s eyes were made wider by thick glasses, causing him to blend in with his menagerie. The whole building reeked of stale piss, and she couldn’t wait to leave.

Hermione’s anger dissipated. “What do you mean the owls never return?”

“Just that. Every time an owl is sent to him, from anywhere, it disappears.” The man blinked up at her. She had half a mind to ask him if he could carry a note tied to his leg.

“Do the messages reach him?” Depending on the cost of the owl, maybe it was worth a try.

“We don’t think so. I’ve no reports of a reply,” he said leaning forward over the counter. “I’ve heard tell of one wizard in Liverpool who paid for ten owls, one after the other, all with the same message. Nothing.”

“Oh, well, that’s certainly out of my price range. I guess I’ll try something else,” she slouched.

“Best of luck to you, girlie. And a thanks to you for not sending one of my owls to its grave today,” he pipped, entirely too cheerfully.

“Oh, uhm, you’re welcome. And… I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she said grudgingly.

————————————————

“Holds under ‘Malfoy’, please.” He scuffed the toe of his shoe against the worn carpet at the library counter. The young woman lingered expectantly. For what, he couldn’t tell, but didn’t particularly care.

Waiting, he watched a group of preschoolers in a circle. A dozen wiggly bodies enraptured by the telling of a story by one of the children’s librarians. Pairs of clear, focused eyes followed her hand through the air as it wove a tale to life of an elephant sitting on a bird’s egg. At her signal, the children chorused, “One-hundred percent!” and burst into giggles. If any Muggles deserved to mysteriously wake up with magic, he figured it ought to be librarians.

A firm swat on his arse made him jump. The rolled up newspaper was familiar, but by Salazar, she was sneaky for her age.

“Just going to walk right by, hm?” a voice croaked.

Turning, he assessed his attacker. Today’s shawl was a hideous muddy orange and probably wasn’t intended to trail behind the wearer like a garish wedding dress train.

“Not my fault you hide behind your paper in a corner like a wanking pervert,” he said with a smirk, which earned him another swat.

For being all of four feet tall and eighty pounds, she packed quite a wallop. He didn’t know much about Brownies, but he was grateful she was only a quarter. A full-blooded Brownie with a rolled up newspaper might be lethal.

“Three spankings, and this becomes a date, Eira,” he warned, a slow smile blooming.

She pretended to wind up for a third swing as the woman returned to the counter with his books and returned his card. “Here you are, Mr. Malfoy. Have a good afternoon.”

Eira turned to shuffle back to her table, and he followed. He really had walked right past her. But she was between him and new books, so it was understandable.

She groaned and he heard her joints crack as she sat heavily back down in her chair. “You really should use a different name, child. Truro’s not as isolated as you think.”

Her admonishments had softened years ago after he reminded her that a wizard with an unutterable name had gotten him here.

The chair across from her scooted out for him of its own accord. “Show-off.” Gripping the armrests tight, he lowered himself into the seat. Twice, she’d whipped the chair out from under him and cackled so loudly that they’d drawn a small crowd.

She wasn’t wrong about the risk of using his name. It was how she’d ended up his unofficial Ministry liaison.

He slipped his shoes off and tucked his feet up under him, eager to dig into the small stack of books. A ripple of guilty pleasure flowed through him for doing one of many Things Malfoys Do Not Do. Shoeless in public. The horror. He slid small silver-rimmed reading glasses from his pocket and set the pile in his lap.

Eira peered at him around her paper. “You’re too young for readers.”

“You’re too old for smut,” he retorted, flicking the glasses at her pile of bodice-ripper novels.

She mumbled something about reporting him again. Fat lot of good that had done her three years ago.

He doubted she was even being paid for keeping tabs on him, but he’d ended up grateful for it. Her intervention and dubious connection to Robards had shifted his parole to a witness protection scheme directly under the Head Auror himself.

For as lascivious a crone as she was, she didn’t divulge how or why Robards listened to her. Something having to do with her having been a “mature secretary” and him having been “so terribly eager”. He hadn’t asked a second time. But without her, he would probably be dead, not living quietly on the coast.

He drew a small notepad and pencil stub out of his pocket and scribbled a few lines.

Her paper snapped as she settled into a new page. “Any news from on high?”

“Nary a word. You?” Leaning down, he slid all but one book into the leather sling bag. She shook her head.

Relaxing into the companionable silence, he scanned the library patrons for anyone noticing him, or pretending to not notice him, and opened the book.

Time spent in the library was as much a refuge as it was a fire walk. There were no wards here, but the cathedral across the street provided enormous tree cover and a very convenient updraft.

Eira’s presence today lulled him into a good, long read, and an hour had passed when he heard the warning caws across the street. He folded the corner down to mark his page, and gathered his things.

“Next week, then,” she said, not looking up. “Keep your beak clean.”

——————

A paper bag of dried flowers sat on the table next to Ron’s fish and chips. Scratching his beard, he scowled at it, hoping this wouldn’t become a regular occurrence.

This place was known for quiche, which was neither breakfast nor lunch, omelette nor pie, and stunk up the whole joint. It was also the best place in the city to buy dried hibiscus flowers for tea, which he desperately needed.

His construction project at the Burrow had hit snag after snag, and the most recent one had incurred the infamous wrath of Molly Weasley. Personally, he thought she should be a little more grateful that he was spending his free time putting up houses for himself and Percy on the property.

Eventually, they’d be houses. Right now, they were pits. Experimental pits.

But it would be just enough distance to not get in each other’s hair, and close enough to never miss visits when the rest of the family stopped by. Pretty perfect, if anybody asked him. Nobody ever did.

Hands clapped down on Ron’s shoulders. He jumped and reached for his wand, but the hands quickly moved to ruffle his hair.

“Harry, you git, you scared the bullocks off me.”

Harry grinned like a loon. “Well, there’s a complication.”

“You’re in an awful chipper mood. Meet another girl who pretends she doesn’t know who you are?” Ron quipped.

Ron was wary of any women Harry got enthusiastic about. He’d managed to fall head over heels in love with no less than five women who somehow convinced Harry they didn’t know he was famous.

The last one had stuck around for six sodding months before Ron made a point of casually saying “Voldemort” so Harry could see her flinch. Then, she’d had the gall to say she knew who Voldemort was, but didn’t know Harry Potter was in the war. Dumb bint.

His favorite was the one who said, “Oh, you’re that Harry Potter?”, to which Ron had said, “No, he’s the other Harry Potter with the scar and the glasses and the short fuse.”

He didn’t remember the rest of that conversation, but Harry had stopped bringing his girlfriends around Ron as much. Bit of a downer, given their mutual preference for a good threesome.

“No, no new girls. Old one, in fact,” he chirped, practically bouncing in his seat.

“You’re into hot grannies now? Cheers.” Ron raised his water in mock salute.

Harry paused, thinking and shrugged. He reached over and stole half of Ron’s chips. “You’re in fine form today. What’s in the bag?”

“Hibiscus flowers for tea. I kind of accidentally excavated all Mum’s plants. I mean, the excavation went great, but how am I supposed to know what’s for the kitchen and what’s a rangy scrub bush?”

“Maybe you’ll all have to start drinking proper tea”, Harry suggested, chewing. “I’ve always dreaded seeing that pitcher of red death on the table.”

“Anyway, who’s the lucky pensioner?” Ron asked, not terribly eager to discuss his family’s tea preferences.

“Hermione! She came back!” Harry all but squealed.

Ron sat up straight, eyes wide. “Honest?”

“Yeah, she messaged me!” Harry declared, mouth full of half-chewed potato.

Ron tried and failed to hide his excitement. Two Christmases ago, he’d realized it was the first year he hadn’t expected an owl from her. He’d always wondered if he’d done something wrong. Harry said she never messaged him back, so maybe it hadn’t been anything to do with Ron, but it had still bothered him for years.

“So, what brought her back?” Ron inquired.

“No idea.”

“Was she in Australia this whole time?”

“No idea.”

“What’s she been up to?”

“No idea.”

“Did she bring her parents back with her?”

“No idea.”

“Where’s she staying?”

“No idea. I should ask her that, though. Hang on a sec.” He tapped out a short message on his mobile.

“Har, did you actually talk to her?” Ron eyed Harry’s phone suspiciously.

The whole Muggle communication system seemed incredibly complicated. For as often as he saw Muggles frustrated with them, he wondered if even they knew how to use them.

“We messaged each other for a while last night.”

“So what do you know, mate?” Ron asked, suspicious that Harry hadn’t fallen for some kind of scheme. “You sure it’s not another stalker? Or that that thing hasn’t been chopped?”

“Hacked. And no. She yelled at me for my spelling.”

“Huh. Well, that’s our Hermione, then.” Ron mumbled around the edge of his glass.

“She said she was recruiting cock. Kind of went from there.”

Ron froze mid-swallow, inhaling the ice water. “She said what?” he coughed.

“And I quote, ‘Harry. I’m assembling a personal army of the best wizard cocks in the UK, and I want you on the team. Please submit application.’”

“Blimey, but that’s direct.” Ron sputtered. “It would be like her to have an actual application process. Series of interviews. Maybe a proficiency test.” He snorted at the mental image of her issuing marks and “needs improvement” stamps on naked men.

Harry’s mobile chirped, and he picked it up to read it. A slow grin spread on his face as he fumbled in his pocket for something to write with. Hermione had sent him her address and an invitation to dinner tomorrow evening.

Ron frowned, wondering why she hadn’t sent him an owl or anything. Granted, Harry was easier to contact, what with Muggle technology and all. But still. He hoped she knew he was a much better kisser now. Quite good all around, if anyone cared to ask. Nobody ever did.

“You sure that’s what she meant by it, though?” Ron worried. Maybe she’d developed a sense of humor in Australia, and Harry was his usual oblivious self.

“Yep. She wants to see us. Tomorrow night. At her flat in Cardiff.” Harry fished a pen out of his pocket, jotted down the time and address, and tucked it in the front pocket of Ron’s shirt.

“Us?” Ron squeaked. “How did I get involved?”

Harry nervously twisted a paper napkin. “Uhm, I may have mentioned some of the festivities she missed, a little of which involved you.”

“Oi! Not alright! I do not need Hermione Granger thinking I’m some kind of sex fiend!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ron saw heads turning toward him, and a sudden hush in the restaurant.

“I mean, if she had asked me, fine, not like I didn’t blow off some steam. But come on, mate. Don’t give her the wrong impression,” Ron grumbled, brushing crumbs out of his beard.

Harry chuckled, “She sounded interested. Asked to make sure she gets an invite to the next reunion, even though I told her they weren’t really like that anymore.”

Ron was still in disbelief that the exchange Harry described was real. The Hermione he knew wouldn’t just ask for sex.

Then again, he couldn’t see her spending months getting to know a bloke, wining, dining, and all that, if what she fancied was a simple shag. She’d always been one to order off the menu straight away, not listen to the specials.

“What else did she tell you?”

“Ah, something about not wanting a relationship, and schedules.”

“Oh, hell. That really is her. She probably has a timetable for it already,” Ron groaned.

“Color-coded, no doubt,” Harry joked, but also kind of hoped was true. It would help avoid crossing paths with Malfoy if she did indeed hunt him down. He still didn’t understand why she was bothering. He and Ron played well together.

“Weird, though, right?” Ron asked, wondering if he wasn’t feeling the appropriate amount of enthusiasm. He’d only wanked to thoughts of her for, say, most of his life.

“Random, yeah,” Harry finished off the last of the chips he’d left on Ron’s plate, and rubbed his hands on his trousers. “See you tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah, yeah, I guess so. Tomorrow.”

————————

Draco wheeled, circling the mile-wide ward, feeling for damage. The bag in his talons threw off the slow turn, and he changed directions. Fatigue tugged at the edges of his vision. Skipping a midday nap in favor of a post box stop had been a poor decision. No one ever sent him mail, anyway.

Wards satisfactory, he dipped into a slow spiral, assessing the house and grounds, if his home could be called that. The short granite protrusion surrounded by an expanse of scrubby, shallow-rooted grass didn’t look remotely habitable from the outside, but that was kind of the point.

The base of rock face boasted nothing more than a widened mine shaft opening and a faint footpath. In the near distance, the hard-scrabble ground fell off into the sea.

He dropped down on the sandy path in front of the door. The books shifted inside the bag, jerking him down into a clumsy landing. Talons dug for purchase, found balance, and shifted to human feet clad in modest oxfords. The Ministry hadn’t left him much, but at least they’d given him his shoes. A few pair, anyway.

Rolling the bag in his hands, he noticed he’d punched another hole in the leather. He frowned and slid a finger through the new gash.

The shaft of sunlight inside the door met with soft illumination from windows on the opposite wall. Light gray stone composed the walls and floor, streaked with whorls of tan and black. The walls featured what would have looked like natural protrusions and jags, had they not been at regular intervals. Softly inclining stair-stepping ridges up the walls and pits, dips, and furrows marked the stone. Almost deep enough to use as shelves, if he’d owned anything worth displaying.

After the estate assets had been frozen, he’d had enough in his own vault to buy the piece of land. Its only amenities were the coastal bluffs and a short mine shaft that had hit a hot spring and been abandoned.

He’d done the best he could with the crate of Bombarda-loaded blasting caps the Ministry had provided under the heading of “providing secure and adequate quarter for witnesses of crimes of war”.

He was fairly sure they’d intended for him to blow himself to kingdom come. Running water would have been a more logical improvement.

It often struck him that his entire living space here was smaller than his bedroom suite had been in Malfoy Manor. Or Ministry Manor, or Smoldering Rubble Manor, or whatever the Ministry had decided to do with it. Good riddance.

He’d taken from the Manor only what he was both allowed and wanted, which amounted to books, clothes, a few baubles, and more books. The rich mahogany bookshelves of the Manor melded into the floor to provide the dwelling’s only interior walls, separating the bedroom from the kitchen and den. Their perfect lines and opulence were a hard juxtaposition to their surroundings.

A smattering of eagles and hawks called as they passed overhead, bound for the cliffs and fishing grounds beyond. He considered joining them, then remembered the remnants of last night’s catch waiting in the kitchen.

He threw the bag, and it bounced off the red velvet sofa and landed on the floor. He glared at its defiance.

Maybe it had deserved that puncture wound.

—————————

“What do you think, Crook?” She asked the lazy ginger beast at her feet. “What would you do? What is the value of a shag? Definitely less than the cost of ten owls.”

It was just past midnight, and she laid on her bed, hand dragging her wand back and forth over the carpet. Crookshanks padded over to her hand, waiting expectantly for their game to start.

“You’re never going to catch it, you know. You shall never sink your mighty little claws in it, my fluffy friend.” He sat stoically, tip of his tail flipping. She traced a circle in the carpet and muttered a Patronus charm, putting just a nudge of magic into it.

Blue-white streaks began to flow in the wake of her wand, and Crookshanks gathered to pounce. With a flick, a streak of light zipped under her desk, and he scrambled after it. She sent two more in opposite directions, watching the hapless cat pounce and crash into furniture.

She chuckled when he expertly slapped a paw directly on a wisp, only to have it float upward, causing him to try with the other paw in a futile climbing motion.

“I told you, cat. You can’t stop them.” He startled when she sat bolt upright. “You can’t stop a Patronus, Crooks!” He only had eyes for her wand, and any more enticing lures it might emit.

McGonagall and Dumbledore had sent messages via Patronus. Maybe she could do the same to reach Malfoy. The possibility of solving an impossible problem excited her to no end. Especially if it meant preserving her dignity by not going through Luna for an introduction.

It felt like eons ago that she’d summoned a full Patronus, but surely she hadn’t lost her knack. Perhaps she would have to try more than once, and there was a good chance it would fail to cross the distance and find him. But there was little to be lost in trying, and a challenge to overcome.

She propped her back up on her pillows against the headboard, settling in for this new venture. Her old memory of Christmas morning with her parents wouldn’t work. Losing their life together was still too raw. They didn’t truly remember anything. Their memories were the memories of the stories and pictures she’d shared with them.

Most of her memories of Hogwarts were tainted by the war. All of her memories before the last few years seemed tinged with sorrow and loneliness.

Think, Hermione, think. What’s the best thing that’s happened recently?

The day she found her parents in Australia was bittersweet, given they’d been imprisoned and she was a stranger to them. University had been good, but not great. Graduating had been a relief more than a celebration. But that night’s farewell romp with her neighbor in the flat across the hall was worthy of recollection.

“Hermione Jean Granger, you’re honestly going to use the memory of shagging one man to solicit another?” she said out loud. “Yes, you are. Because it’s… practical?”

She sighed and closed her eyes as she tried to remember his bedroom.

White walls with remnants of tape, boxes packed and sealed, a suitcase, a bare mattress, and a standard-issue desk.

She was still wearing the deep red shift dress from the ceremony, but was barefoot, not having bothered to put shoes on to walk across the hall.

He’d caught her eye as soon as he’d moved in at the start of the term. Affable smile, short brown hair, brown eyes, lanky build, and an undeniably graceful gait. Half of his wardrobe consisted of black lycra shorts and t-shirts from a ballet school in Melbourne. Sweat-soaked t-shirts, more often than not.

Jake. He’d told her his last name several times, but she hadn’t bothered to remember it. They rarely crossed paths on campus, so she assumed his coursework didn’t overlap with her philosophy or archeology programs.

He cleared his throat, “What did you have in mind?”

That’s right, she recalled. She’d propositioned him.

“A quickie?” She looked around the sparse room and the none-too-clean floor. “I guess from behind.”

“Sure,” he said huskily, deftly unbuttoning his white dress shirt, then moving on to his belt buckle and trousers. There was something about his button-down shirt and soft gray trousers that had finally drawn her across the hall today.

He pulled the dress’s zipper down her back slowly, like it was going to break. She shrugged it off her shoulders, letting it pool on the floor around her feet.

Stepping out of the dress, she noticed that the floor was somehow simultaneously dusted with crumbs as well as slightly sticky.

Crookshanks hopped on the bed and startled her. Shooing him off, she licked her lips, closed her eyes, and let her hand wander between her thighs.

Having stripped down to his socks, he pressed himself along her back. A twinge of jealousy at his socks hit her as her toes encountered crumbs of who-knows-what on the floor next to the desk.

He grazed his lips up her neck to her ear while his arm curled around her waist, “I’ve wanted you since I saw you.”

She whispered a contraception charm and cast it wandlessley.

“Hmm?” he hummed.

“Me, too,” she whispered, and she had, but now she regretted not having been more forward with him months ago. It would have been rather convenient.

His hand skimmed the fine hairs down her front to slip between her thighs. His finger slid between her folds to stroke her clit. A soft moan escaped her lips, and she leaned forward to rest her palms on the desk.

There was a breeze at her back, and his hand suddenly pulled away. She turned to find him rummaging through the front pocket of a suitcase, retrieving a condom. She lowered her elbows to the desk, chin settled in her hand, as she watched him stroke his cock a bit, then roll the rubber on.

Her hand snaked down to tease her clit while he walked back to her, his hands sliding around to grip her hips. She was ready enough, but not exactly melting in anticipation.

His cock slid inside her in one long stroke, pulling a sigh from her and a deep groan from him. Her fingers stroked her clit as he started moving. Within a few seconds, she knew he had taken her offer of a quickie very literally, and he was swiftly approaching climax.

She arched her back for a better angle, concentrated on the feeling of him becoming impossibly hard inside her, and pressed hard on her clit while he moaned loudly and made one final thrust. Her body hesitated, and a second-rate orgasm trickled through her, squeezing his cock briefly while he pulled out. She peeled her feet off the sticky floor, slipped her dress back on, gave him a quick kiss, and left.

She opened her eyes to Crookshanks watching her face. Even he looked disappointed in her.

“Hm. So, I guess that was rather half-arsed,” she muttered, casting a sickly Patronus too weak to even interest the cat.

It had felt a bit off, anyway, appealing to one man using the memory of another. Maybe the purpose of the casting and the memory worked better if linked. Harry had needed a Patronus for protection, and used the memory of his parents, who had protected him.

Did she have any memories of Malfoy that weren’t awful? Unbidden, the memory of being tortured in Malfoy Manor rose, but she’d hashed and rehashed that memory to the point of non-reaction. It simply existed as a part of her now, like a grain of sand in a bowl of sugar.

For having spent so many years in the same school, she didn’t have many memories apart from him being a merciless, casually gorgeous prat.

She shut her eyes and tried to remember him. Malfoy intent on potion ingredients, gray eyes serious. Malfoy sneering at her across a hall. Malfoy taking notes in scrawling script, elegant fingers dancing. Malfoy calling her a Mudblood.

Malfoy’s head snapping back as her fist made contact with his smug fucking face.

She grinned. It had been such a satisfying blow. The one and only time she’d punched someone, and it had been perfect. Better than sex.

Merlin’s manhood, but that was a terrible comparison.

If a witch’s best memory was decking a man, should she really use that to send him an invitation to her bed? Bit of a moral quandary. Perhaps a foreboding, as well.

“Fuck it,” she mumbled. It was worth trying.

Nestled into her pillows, she concentrated on his face smirking at her, his chin snapping up, the indignation in his expression. The tears in his eyes as he struggled to decide whether to hit a girl or run away from her.

“Expecto Patronum,” she said firmly, circling her wand.

The blue-white orb swirling in the middle of the room surprised her. It was much larger than she remembered.

Her mind conjured the memory of her otter while she tried to press the light to the size of the small creature. It refused to condense, but took the correct form.

Okay, she thought, a rather large otter. Forming it hadn’t been difficult, but preparing it to carry a message and potentially travel a large distance would require more effort.

In her mind, her magic pooled in her chest, and she pictured drawing it out with every breath, feeding it into the shape that was sedately watching her, floating on its back.

Knit it tighter, concentrate the energy. Make it dense and heavy with magic. Impenetrable and inexhaustible.

She lost track of time as she focused on pouring into the otter’s form, scanning it from head to tail and back again, weaving tendrils and tying knots.

Exhaustion set in as she decided she’d made it as absolutely solid as she could. With a start, she realized she hadn’t prepared the message. Fatigue was pulling her down at an alarming rate.

“Come to Cardiff. Please,” she exhaled, and sleep claimed her.

—————————————

His Mark was burning again. It happened so often, that it was a reliable indicator that this was a dream. Was it a dream with or without the added tattoos on his right arm? He looked at the intricate black vines and delicate gray flowers that wound up his shoulder and extended in a fine tendril down the back of his hand.

His arm was normal in this dream, the Mark’s loops and curves integrated into the larger tattoo. But that’s not where the burning was coming from. In fact, it wasn’t exactly a burning sensation. And it wasn’t coming from his arm, but his eyes.

The dream tumbled away like dry sand, but the heat in his eyes remained. Light, he realized, bloody bright light, at that. He threw his arm over his face, and cautiously opened his eyes to find the source of the blinding blue-white light.

Blinking away tears, a form took shape. It was a fucking Patronus. And a damned solid one, at that. It floated on its back, seeming to enjoy his bewilderment.

Sitting up, he examined the brilliant form. An otter. A sea otter, if he was to be more specific. It rolled over and bounded closer to him, its face stopping an arm’s length away.

“Come to Cardiff,” a weak female voice faltered. “Please.” It laid down, closed its eyes, stilled, and dissolved.

Plunged in sudden darkness, he blinked, trying to make sense of any of it. He shuffled through memories from Hogwarts of learning to cast a Patronus charm. Or trying and failing repeatedly, in his case.

Someone had produced an otter, which was an unusual form. He remembered saying that person deserved a weird Patronus, because they didn’t deserve to be able to cast one at all.

“Fuck,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Granger.”

What did it mean? Why Cardiff? Why him? And why hadn’t it extinguished like a normal Patronus? Disappearing like it did gave the impression of someone dying, and it unnerved him as much as the entirety of the situation.

How utterly fucked would Hermione Granger have to be to send him a Patronus? One that strong, and able to carry a message, too.

Had she died sending it? His stomach dropped, and he leaned back against the cool stone at the head of his bed.

“Fuck!” There was no way Granger wanted or needed his help, but a Patronus couldn’t be faked. Only she could have sent it, but under what circumstances?

It was probably a trap. An elaborate one, he’d give them that. Death Eater fans who wanted a leader, or vigilantes who felt the war wasn’t over while he still walked the earth? Always a toss-up, but Cardiff was more likely to have vigilantes.

They had named themselves The Elder Band, and their terrible name had been nearly as annoying as their death threats and assassination attempts. If they were responsible for this, then either Granger was working with them, or they’d kidnapped and likely tortured her.

It was a stretch for them to torture their own war heroine to set him a trap. They’d really have gone off the deep end. But if Granger could stomach being a rogue anything, he’d eat his wand. If and when the Ministry let him have one.

He laid back down, lacing his fingers behind his head. What if it wasn’t vigilantes? What if it was one of the Death Eater revival groups? Those reprobates would love to torture and kill a Muggle-born war hero. And they’d likely invite him to the party, the disgusting fucks.

He doubted they could pull it off, though. She was a formidable witch. He smiled, imagining a small mob of goons fleeing in terror and on fire from an annoyed Granger. Then again, there were dozens of the loons in any given city.

So either Granger was being held captive, tortured, and possibly killed by unhinged wizards, or she was in mortal danger from some other cause, and had exhausted literally every option available to her.

Neither was a good scenario, but they were both dreadfully plausible situations. Neither was really his problem, though. Or at least not his responsibility. If Granger were dead or tortured somewhere, it really had nothing to do with him.

He wasn’t responsible for her safety. Regret churned his stomach as the memory of her bleeding on the floor of his family’s home surfaced. He certainly hadn’t taken any responsibility then. Another Thing Malfoys Do Not Do; intervene.

“Well, fuck,” he resolved. With a sigh, he rolled out of bed and paused briefly to look out the window, as if the moon could absolve him of this duty. A loud screech sounded, and a sickly streak of mustard-colored magic smeared down the wards. The eagles had almost let that owl through.

He dressed hastily and shoved the essentials from the ledge in his pockets. He shifted, gray trousers and white dress shirt melting into deep chocolate brown and white feathers.

If he pushed, he could land in Cardiff at dawn.

Chapter Text

The Cardiff owlery was a cramped, foul shack. It would serve them right if he threw open the cage doors and torched the building. That the owls would likely flee to starve in the wild kept him from doing so. Dozens of frightened eyes watched him squeeze his massive winged frame through the high window. Pitiful poor cousins, they were.

This adventure’s convocation consisted of four fellow Steller’s sea eagles, a golden eagle, and a Peregrine falcon who liked to punch above his weight. They’d sniffed the owlery out in less than the hour it had taken him to catch their breakfast in the bay. Teamwork among raptors was rare, except, apparently, when one of them was a human.

Shifting form, he stretched his shoulders, arms, and hands down to his fingers. He groaned, already dreading the hours-long return flight.

He opened a cage and addressed an elderly barn owl. “Do this for me,” he said, stroking its ragged crest, “and you’ll hunt and die free.” The owl roused its feathers and cooed its agreement.

“Find me Hermione Granger,” he instructed, and the owl dipped in acknowledgement.

“We’ll follow you. Never return here. Stay with us if you choose,” he added.

Someday, he was going to have to ask Robards how to train owls. Draco had sent Matilda with him, and he’d been able to train her to deliver messages. Whether that was a fitting life for the magnificent bird remained his own internal struggle, but she seemed happy enough.

His convocation eyed the barn owl suspiciously. Killing owls who approached Draco was their favorite sport. And one he rewarded them well for doing.

Hopping to his forearm, the small owl turned its round face up to him and ventured a demanding little shriek. It was a bold move, surrounded by much larger birds. The falcon danced its agitation on a perch, ready to attack.

“Show me.” It fluttered to cling to the wire door of another cage, where an equally tattered barn owl screeched inconsolably. Draco swung the door open and offered her his other arm. Her mate hopped off the cage and joined her as the door swung shut and latched.

Keeping them in shit-crusted squalor was inhumane enough, but caging mates separately made him nearly wretch. The mated eagle pair in the rafters touched beaks and bobbed their sympathy.

On his arm, they groomed each other, making him feel a bit like a third wheel. As if with one mind, the caged owls broke out in a jealous cacophony.

He would have to come back, but desperation clawed at him. They’d gotten to Cardiff later than he’d hoped. And possibly too late for Granger.

——————————

Hermione flailed wildly, hoping to make contact and stop the auditory assault. The noise stopped, so it must have worked. Rolling over, she groaned and felt the exhaustion in every muscle.

Why did her whole body hurt? Last night’s experiment trickled in. Physical pain from having pulled a powerful charm was something she hadn’t heard of. But she’d never done anything like that before.

Unholy beeping filled the room again, and she slammed her hand down on the alarm clock. She must have hit the snooze button. Evil contraption.

Crookshanks sprawled in the open bedroom doorway, announcing his presence with a long, lonely howl. “I know, I know,” she grumbled, rising to feed the greedy feline.

“Finish the food you have before you resort to a cat death rattle. Spoiled boy.” He set upon the fresh kibble like a wild animal.

She opened the fridge, eyed the contents, and decided going out for breakfast was a better idea. Crookshanks looked up at her, judging. Hypocrisy be damned, she was getting a decent breakfast.

—————————

Maybe younger owls would have been a better idea, but he’d chosen experience over speed. And speed, this couple did not have. They had been circling the south end of Cardiff for over an hour.

Maybe she was on the move? Were they taking her somewhere else? Had they found out about the Patronus and decided to relocate? Or maybe he was too late, and the owls couldn’t find a dead body.

His head swam with visions of finding her dying on a rocky beach, mashed together with memories of her screaming, writhing, bloody on the Manor floor. He shook his head and looked for the owls. Their circling had become a descent spiral, and a shred of hope loosened the tightness in his throat.

Perching on the railing of a long pier, they hooted their conclusion. He scanned the pier, the walk leading up to it from some shops, and saw no one. It was still rather early in the morning.

Sick dread pulled at his gut. What if she was dead in the water under the pier? What if this was a trap to frame him for her murder?

He barked a request to the owls. They flicked their heads toward the shops.

Bugger. Out on the pier, he was just a large bird at a distance. Up close to humans, he was very obviously an enormous winged apex predator and foreign species. He also couldn’t shift and walk over as a human. Anyone holding her hostage would recognize him immediately.

The falcon could go unnoticed. Vaguely describing a human female with large brown feathers to the smaller bird, it took off in search of her. Idly, he wondered if the falcon would run himself into any windows. He could be a real wanker. A chuffed laugh awkwardly rattled his beak.

Talons locked on the railing, he settled into a comfortable roosting position. Fatigue pulled his chest down, and his eyelids drooped.

————————————

It was the eaglet nightmare again. The signature dream that only pestered him in the interstitial space between sleep and waking, which meant something was likely waking him up, but slowly.

The first time he’d dreamt of eaglets had been after breeding season on the Sea of Okhotsk. The urge to join in the mating flights had been there, but he hadn’t been in his Animagus form long enough for it to persuade him. Another year, and he might have given in.

Watching the other eagles spiral, hurtling toward the unforgiving sea, had been thrilling to watch and tempting to try. Sitting by, watching them build their nests on the cliff faces had been interesting, but not terribly compelling. Flying free while they sat on eggs had felt victorious. He’d fished extra for a few females whose mates had disappeared or died. Overall, it was entertaining.

When the eaglets all started hatching, however, he’d found himself in a constant state of anxiety and horror. His favorite ledge overlooked dozens of nests, and he could scarcely sleep as fuzzy little chicks tottered near the edges of nests.

After he saw the third chick fall into the sea, he stopped roosting on the cliff.

That’s when the nightmare had started. He was in a nest with anywhere from two to eight eaglets under his wings, and was frantically trying to herd them back to the center while they blundered about. Their fuzzy little bodies moved faster and more erratically until he finally woke in a cold sweat.

Over the last five years, the dream had evolved. The panic and the eagle elements had slowly been replaced with little human bodies and settings. The premise was still the same. Fuzzy little heads, unpredictable little bodies, and him trying to keep them safe.

He never got to see a face, or many defined features. Just silken white hair or down-covered heads racing about.

Today, the setting was the Truro library.

He was sitting in the moulded plastic chair the librarian had been reading from, and four non-distinct fuzzy white heads pranced around him. There was no reason to not let the little beings explore here, so he leaned back and waited to wake up.

There was always a mutual fondness between him and them, but he hadn’t realized it till recently. Round heads atop undersized bodies raced back and forth between him and books, between him and puzzles, orbiting his chair. In some dreams, he was able to touch them, but only faintly.

One was sitting by his feet, and he reached down to stroke the downy covering on top of its head. It was hard to tell if it was hair or feathers, but it reminded him of his own hair. Only once or twice had he succeeded in being able to feel one of them.

His fingers slid through silky white hair, and a sigh escaped him. Gods, they were soft. He expected this one to skitter away, but it laid it’s head on his thigh. That was new.

His fingers slowed, examining the downy fine hair. The little head nuzzled its unseen face against his leg, and the dream snapped.

——————————

Hours or minutes later, the falcon landed clumsily next to him, startling him awake.
Eating, the falcon pipped.
Alone? Draco quirked his head, slowly waking up.
No chicks. No mate. He bobbed encouragingly.

Annoyed at the other bird’s presumption, he nodded, and the falcon left to survey the area. Probably destined for a brawl with gulls.

Why would she be eating alone in a cafe the morning after sending him a call to arms? If she wasn’t in danger from outside forces, what else was there?

Was the woman having a mental break-down? He froze, contemplating.

Now having occurred to him, that sounded like a strong possibility. He had watched her push herself to an exhausted mess every single term while pretending to relish it.

Maybe she’d kept up the practice and finally cracked. He wasn’t unsympathetic. He’d certainly been put through that wringer.

His vague rescue plan was discarded in favor of waiting and watching. Leaving instructions to the birds, he took flight in search of food and a roost. They would come for him when she settled somewhere safer.

——————

Bute Park was quickly becoming her favorite place to relax in the afternoons. This August afternoon was especially lounge-worthy. An unusually warm breeze and sunny sky reminded her of Perth in May, and there was no way she could waste such rare weather.

There was also no way she could physically do more than lay on a blanket to enjoy said weather. Luckily, she’d found a perfect book, a perfect spot in the tent of a small willow, and she had every intention of enjoying herself.

Her phone vibrated, and she grudgingly rolled over to check it.

Ron’s in. Dinner?

Yeah. Tonight?

Fine by us. 8:00, yours?

Perfect.

She smiled and sent him her address. Even if neither of them ended up wanting more than friendship, it was still friendship she’d be eager to have. She missed Ron’s easy laughter, and Harry’s smile.

Hopefully, those few kisses she and Ron had snuck in broom closets and empty hallways wouldn’t complicate things. They had been rather good ones, though. It was a pity they hadn’t had time to do more before the war started in earnest. He would have been a good first lover.

She regretted not staying in touch with him, but would either of them have been comfortable knowing about the other’s sexual exploits? She didn’t think so, and wondered exactly what kind of love life a grown Ronald Weasley had experienced.

Would he have wanted to hear how horribly lonely and stressed she was her first several years away, knowing he couldn’t do a damn thing to help? Would she have wanted to learn about all of the Weasley birthdays and Christmases she was missing?

Not likely.

She was still surprised he wasn’t married with several redheaded kids orbiting around him. That was how she usually pictured him. A younger version of his father.

The willow leaves cast gentle swaying shadows against her eyelids, lulling her. She imagined Ron turning into Arthur and back into Ron until she dozed off.

——————————

The owls led him to a willow tree, under which a woman lay on a dense blue and white striped picnic blanket. He couldn’t discern more detail through the wall of the willow leaves.

Touching down in a cluster of pines, he shifted, and was startled by an irritating jingle from an ice cream truck not far behind him. She appeared to be asleep, book in hand.

He examined the contents of his pockets and made for the truck.

——————————

He approached the tree slowly, an ice cream cone in each hand, and parted the curtain of leaves, quietly stepping inside. The cover provided by the willow tree allowed him to take his time appraising her.

Her shirt was a thin green tank top with hints of a lacy blue bra peeking out around the shoulder straps. It hugged her breasts just enough for him to notice how much she’d filled out in the years since he’d seen her.

The shirt rode up to reveal a line of skin above her shorts, and what might have been the scalloped edge of matching blue lace panties. Her shorts were a simple white terrycloth drawstring affair, but they didn’t hide the taper of her waist and the curve of her hips. Her thighs were tan against the white fabric, and invitingly thick.

The book rested low on her abdomen, pulsing slightly with her heartbeat, her thumb marking her page. One knee bent away from her body, showing a long expanse of inner thigh and giving the impression she was about to or just had rolled over. Her other hand rested on her ribs below her breast. He watched that hand intently, taking in the slowness of her breath.

She was still Granger, but Granger in full flourish. Her hair lay in glossy brown curls over shoulders more tan than they’d ever been in school. She wore no jewelry, no makeup, no adornment.

Draco mused to himself that she was rather attractive, at least when she wasn’t talking. Unabashedly sleeping in a park in what amounted to pajamas over lingerie was unexpectedly provocative. He leaned forward to examine the book. A treatise on the rights of children. Exceptionally dull, even for her.

He licked a quick swirl around his ice cream adjusting the napkin around it, just as it made a run to drip down his hand. It wasn’t great chocolate ice cream, but it was ice cream. Hers was melting in a hurry, as well.

He cleared his throat.

Nothing.

“Granger,” he said quietly, rather concerned about what would happen if she woke suddenly to him standing over her. He didn’t see her wand, but she surely had it nearby.

“Granger,” he said more firmly, watching her eyelids flutter and her chest expand with a sigh. “You rang?”

Her eyes snapped open, the familiar brown with gold flecks that he had grown accustomed glaring at him, now wide with surprise.

“I… sorry, I didn’t hear you,” she stammered, propping herself on her elbows and blinking sleep from her eyes.

“I guess it worked,” she mumbled more to herself, setting her book down.

“Ice cream?” he offered, holding the second cone out. “Black cherry.”

“Oh, no thank you. Uhm, you got here quickly,” she squinted up at him.

“Redeye flight,” he turned and walked to a large trash can, and dropped the ice cream in. Disappointment sank, as she realized she should have at least tried a bite.

She watched him, now that his back was turned. He had always been attractive, objectively speaking. He walked gracefully over the uneven ground. Grey trousers brushed against his thighs and hips just enough for her to see firm muscle under them.

His white dress shirt was buttoned down tight, but strained a little over what looked to be a nicely-muscled chest. His narrow waist and long limbs added to the impression of height, though it did seem he had grown several inches since school.

He turned to walk back, his attention on his ice cream, not her. He still had the same white-blond hair, but it was a little longer and less formal, falling mid-ear on the longer side. She watched him lick around the ice cream, gathering up the melting rivulets, then slide the top gently between his lips, dragging the softest layer into his mouth before swallowing. Consumption with quiet veneration, she mused.

The hand holding the ice cream had a thread of black tattoo ink that wound out of his shirt sleeve to serpentine down the outside edge of his hand, down his pinkie, and disappear between the fingers. He looked up and watched her watching him. Grey irises limned in near black under dark ash blonde eyebrows examined her.

“So… how did you find me in the park?” she asked suspiciously. As if she hadn’t intended to be found, he mused.

His voice was a deep rumble. “Stole some owls.”

“Oh, that was clever.”

He was bored with the pleasantries, seeing as how she wasn’t facing her impending doom. Finishing his ice cream would be out of obligation and a hint of spite, he decided. It wasn’t spectacular, and barely worth the cold against his teeth. He could tell she regretted turning hers down, but that was on her.

“So, would you like to explain why you summoned me in the most urgent way possible for me to find you lounging unscathed in a park?” he drawled.

“Well, Luna and Pansy suggested contacting you…”

“I’ll be sure they get their referral bonuses,” he bit sarcastically.

He waited for her to elaborate, but she just chewed her lip and fiddled with the edge of her book.

“What do you want, Granger?” He hadn’t flown here, hunted her down, and kept his own anxiety in check all day for idle chit-chat and ice cream in a fucking park.

Licking the last of the ice cream from the top, he began delicately working the edges of the cone with his lips and teeth. Small nips carefully removed precise sections, slowly spiraling down the cone.

She hadn’t actually expected him to receive her message, let alone show up and tongue-fuck a damned ice cream cone. Luna’s introduction would have been the better route.

Merlin, she patently didn’t want to ask him anymore. But she couldn’t just tell him to disregard her reaching out, either. Nor could she think of another excuse.

“Uhm, well, I… companionship, I guess?” she offered haltingly, frowning at her own word choice.

He waited and popped the bottom of the cone in his mouth. He chewed slowly, working the last of the melted ice cream out of the point before crushing it.

“Uhm, male companionship, more specifically?” she gulped.

He wiped his already-clean hands with the napkin, pressed it to his mouth, and crumpled it in his fist. He processed her words as he walked back to the garbage can, and threw the napkin in.

Fury burned in his chest like acid. He’d left the safety of his wards, flown through the morning while worried out of his mind, for this?

They’d intercepted over a dozen owls with hexes on the way across the bay, but at least he’d thought he was coming to her rescue. She didn’t need a white knight. She wanted a fucking gigolo.

Breathing slowly, trying to squelch his anger, he walked the few steps back to the edge of her blanket. He was going to cut Pansy’s hair in her sleep for this.

Nothing pithy or relevant came to mind, so he waited for her to speak her piece, hoping what she said would justify her actions.

She looked up at him uncertainly. He didn’t look pleased. His face was a careful mask, his breathing steady and deep. He could have been ruminating on tie colors, for all the reaction he showed. Maybe he didn’t understand what she meant.

“So, yeah, uhm, nothing… serious,” she said, sitting up, her hands on the ground behind her, her elbows locked. Making her case laying on her back didn’t seem terribly convincing.

Godric, she was going to have words with Luna about this. Maybe more than words with Parkinson.

He didn’t look at her. “That’s… utterly mad,” he huffed.

“It is not!” she retorted, disgusted by his prudishness, “Women have needs and they-“

“Not that!” he hissed, looking around, worried people had heard him.

He dropped to his knees next to her hip. “The bloody Patronus,” he hissed. “Are you fucking insane?”

Their eyes were level, and she could see him practically vibrating with outrage, his grey eyes molten. He was too close and too angry and gods below, he smelled like hot teakwood in the sun.

“I couldn’t send you an owl, and nobody knew where you li-“

“Bloody hell, Granger. Do you use air raid sirens for invitations to tea? Foghorns to hold the lift?” he spat.

She dropped back down onto her elbows, eager to get a few more inches of space between them. Maybe he was exactly the same person he’d been a decade ago.

He didn’t let her keep the space she’d made between them, leaning down on one hand to hover over her. She swallowed hard, trying to ignore his leg along her hip.

“All that book knowledge and no idea how to fucking use it,” he sneered. “Isn’t that your general condition?”

Anger was getting the better of him. He was spitting venom he regretted before it even fully left his lips.

“I didn’t think-’ she started, her eyes welling up.

“Of course you didn’t,” he scolded. “How royally, hopelessly, desperately fucked would Hermione Granger have to be to use a bloody Patronus to contact me?”

For the first time, it dawned on her that it was her tactic, not her request, that was the issue.

“Death’s doorstep or worse, is roughly how fucked,” he ranted. “Have you ever in your life, thought ‘Oh, I know who’d be a great help? Draco Malfoy!’”

She looked away from him. His piercing gaze was too close now that he’d drifted toward personal attack. She was willing to consider that her methodology was flawed, but mockery wasn’t helpful.

“Real sport, that Malfoy. I’ll just ring him up,” he railed. “Great reputation for public service.”

His jaw clenched, trying to stop the flood of vitriol burning in his throat. It didn’t help that she was just so close, laying under him. Gods below, how he wanted to collapse down on top of her and snuff his own tirade with her lips.

“You’re certainly making a case for yourself,” she said firmly. He lowered his gaze back down to find her glaring up at him. Her defiance was infuriating. This trip hadn’t been worth his time, effort, or safety, and she didn’t care.

He swallowed loudly, regretting his ranting, but feeling justified in it nonetheless.

“Why would I be interested in your proposition, anyway?” he said with a scoff.

There it was. Her throat felt tight, and her eyes watered. She turned her head to the side to wipe her eyes on her shoulder, torso still leaned back on her elbows.

This was the response she’d most dreaded. Not being ignored, or even being rejected, but being ridiculed while being rejected. Not being good enough. Not even worth his consideration. He was still Malfoy.

He leaned down closer to her ear while she wiped her eyes. “Strike out with the locals, or already fuck your way through them?” he whispered.

He wanted to cram the words back in his mouth as soon as he said them, but his thought was interrupted by quick searing pain against his cheek.

Outrage erupted through her, and she heard a crack, felt her hand sting, and saw his face snap to the side before she realized what she’d done. Dread trickled cold down her spine as she watched him lick his lips and turn back around to face her.

Scrambling to gather his thoughts, he pushed up to his knees. He had to leave, and now. This was escalating horribly.

He leaned back on his heels preparing to stand.

Instead of rising to follow him, she laid back down, magnanimously stretching her arms with a yawn and arching her back. She crossed her wrists on the ground above her head and settled her hip more firmly against his knee.

He blinked slowly, watching her settle. Circe’s slit, it was an inviting position.

His focus was being rapidly drained by his efforts to ignore the exposed skin of her abdomen, the tightness of her shirt, her nipples peeking through, and the continued warmth of her hip against his calf.

He worked his jaw, feeling the sting in his cheek dissipate. It had shut him up, he’d give her that.

“Go fuck yourself, Granger,” he bit off.

“That’s the real last resort, isn’t it?” she asked lazily, with a smirk.

He paused, an amused huff escaping his throat. He chewed his lower lip, thinking. Her intransigence and humor had put a dent in his anger. Guilt at his own lack of control churned his stomach.

“I expected to find you dead or having the wits cursed out of you. Again,” he admitted quietly, finally saying it out loud.

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Oh… I didn’t have much control over the message itself.”

He shuddered, remembering that otter appearing to die and wither after delivering its cryptic message. It had caused him as much anxiety as the message itself. More, maybe. She seemed to have no idea what a difference it made.

If she’d have sent it with a jaunty invitation to dinner instead, would he have been in this state all day? No, probably not. In fact, he probably would have been flattered and more than a little impressed.

He realized he’d been staring at her mouth in contemplation, and looked back up to her eyes. A tight smile graced her lips and softened her gaze.

She slowly sat back up to her elbows, shaking her curls back behind her shoulders. “You haven’t actually said ‘no’ yet.”

Miraculously, he thought, she still wanted a response from him. Tension in his shoulders began to melt, gathering instead in his groin as she idly traced one hand up her ribcage. He watched her nipple tighten in response.

He sat back on his heels, more to hide his growing erection than to make space between them. Unfortunately, now he had a better view of her thighs, sex, and hips. Her shorts had worked up slightly into her cleft, and he was having immense trouble looking away.

He smiled weakly. "It was an impressive Patronus.” His voice came out a whisper as he watched her hand rub lazy lines below her breast. She was so close, and seemed so willing, despite his reaction.

It would be easy to skim his hand up her thigh and under those shorts. The idea flitted through his mind of pressing his palm to her mound while she ground against it, and his other hand stifling her moans while she came right here in the park. He shook his head and gripped his thighs.

“It was exhausting,” she sighed contentedly, blinking slowly. He wondered if she sighed like that after she came.

“Fine. I’m listening.” He scrubbed his hands on his thighs to keep them to himself.

She noticed the hardening length of him as he rubbed his hands on his trousers.

Feeling confident, she slid her hand over his and lightly traced the line of his tattoo.

“Good, we’ll all plan over dinner tonight.”

“Right, then.”

Hesitation flitted through him at her phrasing, but he ignored it.

————————

Dishwashers weren’t supposed to sound like lawnmowers, Hermione thought.

Crookshanks agreed. Yet another thing to add to the move-in checklist.

Abandoning the kitchen in favor of setting up the living room, she crossed over to the small carpeted area and surveyed the boxes. Harry and Ron would be here in two hours. Just enough time to assemble the coffee table and at least clear the floor.

Malfoy wouldn’t show up after their tête-à-tête in the park. He’d accepted the paper with her address as if she’d handed him parchment made of pureed slugs.

Finally locating the scissors in a bin of bric-a-brac, she froze as someone knocked on the door. Were people in Cardiff the type to introduce themselves to the new neighbor?

Abandoning the scissors, she went to open the door.

“Hermione Granger, in the flesh!” announced an elated Ron Weasley.

“Ron!” she hugged him as though she could meld them together and never separate again. He held her like she was the last solid thing on Earth. Tears welled in her eyes, and she hid them against his chest. He did the same, burying his face in her hair.

“Gods, ‘Mione,” he rumbled. “I thought you’d never come back.”

“I was always coming home,” she said, throat tight. “It just took a while.”

“Too long,” he said firmly.

“Too long,” she agreed, nodding. She stepped back to let him in, closing the door behind him. He set down a backpack and unbuttoned gray flannel jacket, throwing it on the backpack. He looked around the apartment, uncertain of where to set his things.

His familiar blue eyes scanned the room, but this was not the skinny ginger kid she’d snuck kisses with. For starters, he had a thick auburn beard covering his jaw. It was neatly trimmed, and looked soft. Her arms ran with goosebumps as she wondered what it would feel like against her inner thighs. His brassy hair had settled into a natural sunset of color, and he wore it shaggy on top with sections falling every which way. The light from the kitchen window hit him and illuminated bits of strawberry blonde and deep auburn.

He was still only a few inches taller than her, but had grown significantly. Wide shoulders tapered down to a rather nice, round rump clad in revealing jeans, if denim could be thin and tight enough to be revealing. Which, apparently, it could be. The jeans showcased strong thighs and stretched over the front of his hips without giving much of a preview.

His t-shirt strained over his shoulders, skimmed his chest, and grazed a bit of a tummy.

Fine muscles played in his forearms as he fiddled with something in his pocket. He looked solid, and warm, and downright edible. And gods below, she was suddenly hungry.

His eyes settled back on her, having examined the kitchen and living room to his satisfaction. It was almost unnerving how accurate his mental image of her was. He’d always fantasized about her as more voluptuous than she had been in school, both because it was logical, and because it was sexy as hell. And here she was, the full-breasted, round-hipped version of her, clad in a tank top and little shorts.

But her voice. He’d somehow forgotten what her voice sounded like. Or maybe it had changed. His certainly had.

She’d lost the strident timbre and biting clip she’d had when they were kids. Her voice was low, and smooth, quietly confident, and he very much wanted to hear it moaning his name.

Watching her watch him, he wondered if she’d thought about him the last nine years the way he had of her. Had she been groaning his name into a pillow at night? Was it as familiar on her lips as her name was on his?

“I’m still unpacking, so just throw things anywhere,” she said, breaking his reverie.

“Sure. Want some help?” he offered.

“Yes, actually, since you’re here early, I’d love help putting a coffee table together.” Arm at the small of his back, she led him to the sofa, in front of which a flat-pack box lay like a modern Gordian knot.

He looked at her, confused. “I’m early? Harry said six.” He rummaged in his pocket for the note Harry had written.

“Oh,” he said, examining it.

“I guess that’s supposed to be an eight?” he asked sheepishly.

“I see his penmanship hasn’t improved,” she quipped, deftly cutting the box open.

“Merlin, no. I think it’s gotten worse. Is it alright that I’m here early? I can come back at eight.” He really didn’t want to scare her off by crowding her right out of the gate. She probably had important things to do. Hermione Granger was practically made of important things to do.

She brushed the offer off with a wave. “No, no, don’t be silly. I could use the help.”

Pulling the cardboard open, she dug inside and frowned. This was entirely too many small pieces for a simple table. But no, the instructions listed all 48 pieces, and it did indeed seem there were that many.

Ron was already sorting parts and had moved on to slipping anchors into cutouts, matching screws and test-fitting them. He was surprisingly adept with the tiny tool, spinning it deftly between his thick fingers then switching to press it firmly with his thumb.

Awkwardly, he noticed her staring at him. “Uhm, lots of assembly involved in running the store. Old hat.”

The assortment of parts in the box on her lap diminished quickly, the table taking shape as they traded tidbits. He’d dropped out of Auror training and didn’t seem keen on the Ministry. She was entering a Ministry internship and Muggle law school. He lived at the Burrow and owned Wheezes now. She’d finished two Masters degrees, but allowed herself mediocre marks. He didn’t date and didn’t want to talk about it. She was more than happy to drop that topic.

He slid from the sofa to the floor to fit the legs to the tabletop. He’d made very quick work of it, and she felt useless, her only contribution having been dispensing bolts and anchors when he asked.

“Okay, last bolt, and it’s done,” he held his hand out for the final piece, but her hands were empty.

She looked around the sofa. “That was the last one.”

He proceeded to crawl around on the floor and check under the sofa, and it would have been amusing if she weren’t trying to tamp down the urge to run her fingers through his hair. Maybe grab it and pull him up to kiss him, and slide her other hand down to his zip-

“It must be on the sofa,” he startled her, popping up in front of her knees.

She gulped loudly. “Oh! I… I don’t see it anywhere.”

“You’re probably sitting on it,” he said, turning to catch the heat in her gaze. He hesitated, taking in the uncertainty in her eyes. Once upon a time, he’d been confident she’d wanted him, but that was nine years of silence ago.

Slowly, he rested his chin on her bare knee, and she melted. Her hands found his hair and ran through it, relishing the thick silky texture. His head dipped to lay a chaste kiss on top of her thigh, his soft beard tickling her skin. Eyes drifting up to hers, quietly asking, calmly waiting, he grazed another kiss a few inches higher.

A shuddering sigh left her as tension melted from her hips and thighs, and she relaxed, open to his touch.

His smile was beatific, but changed to ornery. “We can find a broom closet, if you like.”

She snorted a sharp laugh, and clapped hands over her mouth in immediate embarrassment. “No, maybe for special occasions,” she joked.

“Mm, I’ll look forward to it,” he hummed, moving to softly kiss up her opposite leg. He reached the apex of her thighs, and could nearly taste her arousal on his tongue. Her hands in his hair had stilled, but now they tilted to angle his face up to hers.

She looked conflicted, he mused. For him, this was a done decision. He expected her to speak, but she just looked at him, lips parted, breathing shallowly.

“You tell me when to start, ‘Mione,” he whispered against her thigh.

Confusion flickered in eyes. “When to start?”

Kissing his way back down to the back of her knee, he shook his head. “Your lead.”

He’d put the onus on her to continue, and it disoriented her a bit. Telling men when to stop was familiar, but telling one when to proceed felt foreign.

Her silence and confusion worried him a bit. “I’ll just keep doing this until you soak through your couch, ‘Mione.” He nipped at the back of her knee for emphasis.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, both at the gentle bite and her sudden comprehension. “More. Definitely more.”

He grinned, sliding his hands up the backs of her calves to the crooks of her knees.

They felt enormous and strong, but his touch was gentle.

He pulled her knees forward, dragging her hips to the edge of the couch. His mouth began its slow ascent back up her thigh while she suppressed a needy whine. He was so close to touching her, but taking impossibly long to get there.

His lips finally grazed her sex through her shorts, and she whimpered. He kissed more firmly, earning a slow thrust and soft moan from her. He gently set his open mouth over her, pressed his teeth above and below her clit, and firmly exhaled a hot breath into the fabric.

She startled, gripping his hair, torn between crushing his face between her legs, or dragging his lips up to meet hers. She stared at him, feeling the soaked fabric of her knickers clinging to her skin.

He held her gaze, rolling his bottom lip under to taste it, and she decided.

Her lips crashed against his as they met kneeling. Her grip on his hair giving him no other option as she slid down from the couch. His arms wrapped around her, and she felt the press of his hard length against her belly.

Her hand drifted down his back to cup his ass, and his followed suit. Idly, she realized this is what he’d meant by telling her she was leading.

He tried to adjust his hips, and she realized how uncomfortable his tight jeans had probably become. She ran her fingers under his waistband from his back around both sides to the button of his jeans, and he shuddered.

His lips sought out new territory along her jaw, and down her neck, his beard tickling as he went. Her hands had found a mission in freeing his cock from its denim cage. The button and zipper gave way easily enough, but Circe’s snatch, these jeans were tight.

She tried to shove them down, and looked up to him for guidance.

He grinned. “Had to defend my virtue somehow.” She glared up at him.

“Greedy witch,” he mumbled, catching her mouth. His knees drew closer together, giving her the slack to slide his jeans down to his knees. He scuffled and kicked them off inelegantly.

He wasn’t wearing underwear. She snorted softly in amusement, his hard cock suddenly ready and willing.

A cropped covering of bushy brownish-red curls surrounded a thick base that tapered to a leaking tip that was begging for her attention. Her hand wrapped around him, and he hissed in a breath.

His hands slid down the back of her shorts, cupping and spreading her ass. Cool air touched her wetness, and she moaned against his chest. He slid his hands back up, hooking her waistband with his thumbs, and he dragged the shorts down her hips to settle around her thighs.

Strong hands gripped her hips, thumbs rubbing small circles over her pelvic bones as he leaned in to softly kiss her forehead.

“Please,” she panted.

His hand slid up to cup her breasts through her shirt. “Please what?” he asked.

You lead, he’d said. She took a moment to stroke him, and think about what she wanted. His hips jerked in time with her hand. She wanted him inside her. She wanted his hands all over her body. And she wanted to hear him come.

“I want,” she tried.

“Hmm?” he hummed with a grin.

“I want you to fuck me,” she said hoarsely. “From behind.”

Trepidation furrowed his brow as he looked down at her.

He leaned down to her ear, one of his hands finally leaving her hip to burn a slow path to her sex. “How?”

She couldn’t think past the anticipation of his fingers finally reaching her. “How what?”

He gently, barely, softly cupped his hand over her mound as she moaned and tried to press harder into his palm. “How do you want me to fuck you from behind, ‘Mione?”

Dread trickled in his gut. If she told him to simply bend her over and fuck her senseless, he was prepared to refuse. He’d told her to lead, but that didn’t mean he’d follow blindly.

An impersonal, ass in the air, see-you-around kind of fuck was simply not happening. Not with her. Not tonight.

Her stroking had slowed as she thought, and he was grateful. She wouldn’t get much from him if she brought him too soon.

“I want…” she pulled away from him, sliding her shorts and panties past her knees to her calves and turning around to lean against him.

“I want this hand,” she took his right hand, and slid his fingers down between her folds, drawing a soft moan from herself. “Here.”

“And I want this hand,” she took his left hand, skimming it up and around to cup her left breast through her shirt. “Here.”

He hummed his approval against her hair, and slid two fingers alongside her clit. She gripped the edge of the couch, and arched her back, grinding her ass against his cock.

Throwing her hair over one shoulder, she offered him her neck. One of her hands left the couch to reach behind to guide him into her.

“Oh!” she hesitated, and cast a wandless contraception charm. He was momentarily embarrassed that he’d nearly forgotten, too. But then her fingertips were holding the tip of his cock steady while her hips sank back onto him, and the thought evaporated.

He parted the slick heat of her and their breaths hitched in time, both freezing, sinking into each other.

She moaned deeply, “Gods, you feel so good.” Her head dropped as her hips angled up, taking him deeper. His hand left her breast to wrap around her ribcage, pulling her away from the couch.

With her back against his chest, he spread his knees for leverage, and began short, deep strokes inside her, his free hand pressing more firmly against her clit.

She felt his breath on her neck before she heard him whisper. “So perfect... So close, ‘Mione.”

His orgasm was building with each thrust, but he knew she was close, as well. Her muscles gripped him every time he slid his hand over her mound.

“Come with me,” he said, grazing his teeth along her neck. His strokes picked up speed as his hand rubbed her, supporting some of her weight.

The loose tendrils of pleasure weaving through her snapped into a humming rope, and with his next thrust broke, sending her moaning, her body clenching around his cock as he groaned against her shoulder.

A shaky breath shuddered from him as he planted a line of small kisses up her neck.

Sighing, she leaned back against him, sated.

“That was…” she trailed off, not sure how to finish the thought.

“Mm hm,” he hummed, nuzzling behind her ear.

“Unrepeatable,” she declared, closing her eyes, wishing she could doze off like this.

He kissed the top of her head, straightening up. “Give me 30 seconds, and I’m game to try.”

She huffed a laugh, and felt a trickle down her thigh. Reality slowly came back into focus, and she looked around for something to wipe her leg with.

“I’m dead serious,” he said, his fingers finding her rather sensitive clit again. She paused, feeling him inside her. He really was getting hard again.

“Ronald Weasley, you are insatiable,” she grinned. Her hips were cooperating with him of their own accord, but her eyes drifted to the clock.

“Shit! Ron, it’s already seven forty-five.” She bent down to reach for her shorts and knickers. He took the opportunity to skate his hands up the full length of her back, and grind one deep thrust in against her.

She groaned, “Mm… incorrigible.” He chuckled and pulled out. Sliding her shorts up, she leaned back to plant a kiss on his chin. Or the beard covering it. “I guess I’m going to change.”

He wrapped his arms around her torso and squeezed, memorizing the feel and smell of her. Perfect.

Chapter Text

Ron’s pants hitched up over his hips just as he heard the buzzer inside the flat. Unsure of what to do with it, he held the button, and it buzzed back.

When he’d arrived, a woman had held the door open for him. Maybe he was supposed to push a button?

Nothing happened, so he pushed the button in a musical pattern, amused with himself. A knock on the door next to him startled him.

“Harry! It’s been hours!” Ron exclaimed.

“Ron!” Harry leaned in for a hug “You look rather shagged out, mate. Hope you haven’t been waiting here too long.”

“Brilliant bastard, you are. She’ll be out in a minute.”

Harry arched an eyebrow. He was immensely pleased with himself. Subterfuge was not his strong suit, but intentionally poor penmanship was. Ron would never have forgiven him if he’d jumped the gun just for the sake of being the first one in her bed. Really, he wondered why she hadn’t owled Ron first. Put him in a bit of an awkward position vis-a-vis maintaining their friendship.

Harry bit his lip, and leaned out to look into the hall. “So… how’s our best girl?”

Ron grinned, “I don’t know what they’re feeding them in Perth, but fit and ferocious, mate.” He shook his head, trying to clear the sound of her moans from his ears.

“Lovely, Ron.” Harry chuckled. Hesitation slowed his question. “You okay with this?”

Ron’s eyebrows knitted in thought. “Yeah,” he nodded, “I am. Seems kind of natural, really. And, confidentially, I might want the help,” he said smirking.

“Alright, then.” They heard the bedroom door open and close, and each wondered if she’d heard them. Both hoped she had.

———————————

Smiling contentedly, she leaned against the closed bedroom door. She hadn’t heard much of their conversation, but she had caught their agreement on her walk back from the bathroom.

If they weren’t willing to cooperate, she wasn’t entirely sure what her backup plan would have been. An exclusive relationship with Ron seemed like a one-way ticket to being barefoot and pregnant in the Burrow for the next decade. That had zero appeal.

She wasn’t opposed to having children. Intended to, actually. But she didn’t want her entire life to be nappies, snacks, and messes. The Ministry probably wouldn’t appreciate footing her expenses in Cardiff for her to run off and whelp a passel of adorable ginger miscreants. And they would be adorable miscreants.

She slipped on a pair of silvery gray lace knickers, the same design as the blue ones they’d ruined, and grabbed a black knit skirt off the floor.

“‘Mione, we’re ordering curries! Hurry up!” Ron shouted down the hall.

“Chicken vindaloo! Out in a minute!” She looked disdainfully at her hair. It had laid so nicely this afternoon. Oh, well.

———————————

Harry was on the phone, leaning on the sink and gazing out the window when she rounded the corner into the kitchen. His voice was deeper than she remembered, but that quick cadence was the same.

Ron was busying himself with something in his backpack, and she had the opportunity to watch Harry.

Harry’s hair was short, and she hated it. Very short, in fact. He wasn’t wearing glasses, and she hated that, too. Good thing he’d already sent her a picture of a body part she did approve of.

He was wearing track pants and a sweaty t-shirt that clung enticingly to muscled arms and a powerful back. He must have come straight from training.

Standing, he slipped his phone in his pocket. “Should be here in 20.” He turned to see her in the doorway.

“Hermione!” He snatched her up in a bear hug. Her arms wrapped around his middle as she got a face full of sweaty cotton. His armpit and shoulder shouldn’t have excited her as much as it did, but Merlin, he smelled like sex already.

She waited for him to let go, but he just… didn’t. She relaxed her arms a bit, and he followed suit, but didn’t drop them.

Over his shoulder, she saw Ron watching them, smiling softly. Harry’s thumbs rubbed delicate circles on her back, and he bent his head to her shoulder. His stubbled chin rubbed against her neck and shoulder like a cat. She inched one hand further up his back, and let one drift lower to his waistline.

He lifted his face and slid one of his hands up the hair on the back of her neck, cradling her head. She was sure he was going to kiss her, and was immediately anxious about moving this quickly. But he just looked at her.

Without the glasses, his eyes were such a gorgeous hazel. Flecks of greens and browns mixed, like a forest canopy in the sun. Absently, she noticed the flesh under her hands was rather firm. In fact, there was little give to him anywhere their bodies touched. That would be fun to explore.

He smiled, gently holding her head. “I missed you.” He gave her a peck on the forehead, and let her go.

She was very proud of herself for not crumpling to the floor.

—————————————————

A long breath through his nose did nothing to slow Draco’s pulse as he examined the row of buttons on the front of the building. The urge to turn on his heel and walk away was hard to ignore. His curiosity was winning out, though. She had certainly looked eager earlier. After he humiliated her. And after she’d slapped him.

Regret squeezed his throat. He’d yelled at her. Insulted her. Berated her like a child. In public. Merde.

Something about arguing with her had thrown him into an old, dangerous, uncontrolled space. At what point had their bickering turned hostile?

He rehashed the conversation for the umpteenth time that evening. Probably when he insinuated she wasn’t worth his consideration. And then when he’d doubled down on that and suggested she was both somehow unattractive and undiscerning in her taste for Muggle men.

He might as well have called her an ugly Mudblood slut. Merde.

Pursuing this wasn’t fair to her, and it wasn’t any good for him, either. Despite how much he’d wanted to utterly meld himself to her body right there in public.

He at least needed to apologize, then he could leave.

#7- H. Granger. He pressed the button, not entirely sure what to expect. The button stayed lit, and he waited, kicking small rocks off the steps.

A congenial voice startled him. “Oi, this you? Number 7?”

He nodded, and the man shoved a plastic bag full of styrofoam containers into his hands.

“Thanks, mate.” The man said, reaching into another bag and holding out a fistful of plastic-wrapped forks and knives. Confused, Draco accepted them and stuffed them in his back pocket.

It smelled amazing, and felt like enough food for a party. Granger’s phrasing came back to mind, and he wondered what he was heading into. A set of blue lace panties, with any luck, he mused.

A grating buzz emitted from the building, and the lock clicked open. He took another deep breath and walked in.

—————

The flat was starting to feel like a home. Not her home. Just a home. A place where someone could theoretically feel at home. She hadn’t felt that in nearly a decade. Her parents’ new house was lovely, but it was their home, not hers.

A knock sounded at the door, and she was grateful for the distraction.

“That’s the curry,” said Harry, not looking up from sorting silverware into a drawer.

“On it!” Ron barked, hopping up to open the door.

Hermione hoisted a shopping bag onto the counter, and began taking out cups, picking stickers off as best she could.

The door swung open as Ron shouted, “Get down!”

Whipping around, she found Ron with his wand at Malfoy’s throat, and Malfoy with something white held at the ready against Ron’s neck.

Harry rounded the corner, wand drawn. “Bloody hell! Ron, no!”

Panic shot through Hermione. Ron was ready to curse Malfoy through a wall, and Malfoy was… grinning? Not just grinning, but positively tittering. What on earth?

She examined the weapon he was holding against Ron. It was a packet of plastic utensils. He held their takeaway in his other hand.

“Ron! Lower your wand!” she shouted.

Malfoy had a moment to assess the situation while Weasley decided whether or not to kill him on the spot. His instinct to draw from his back pocket for a duel impressed even him. Though this did end up rather silly.

Drawing a deep breath, Malfoy could smell the curries, stale air from the flat… and sex.

His nostrils flared, and he pinned Granger with his gaze. His eyes traveled down her, noting she was wearing the same tank top as before, but a skirt. Likely different knickers, he mused. He quirked an eyebrow at her, and a prickling flush spread across her chest before she looked away.

“Might need a new strategy for this, Potter.” Malfoy said, forcing his face blank. “May I suggest ‘Expelliforkus’?”

Harry frowned. “Ron, it’s alright.” He stepped closer and took the bag from Malfoy’s outstretched hand.

“It is most certainly not alright. Hermione comes home and this bastard just happens to show up? No. Not buying that at all. What? Malfoy, the Delivery Boy? Hell of a coincidence.”

“Ron, she invited him.” Harry intervened, gently urging Ron’s arm away from Malfoy’s neck. He plucked the fork and knife packet from Malfoy’s hand for good measure.

Malfoy cleared his throat. “Thank you, Potter. Merlin knows the havoc I’d have wreaked upon the city.” He was trying, and hopefully succeeding, at hiding his own surprise at Potter and Weasley’s presence. He immensely regretted not asking Granger to clarify who would be at this dinner. Major bit of oversight on her part, he thought.

Ron wheeled on Hermione. “You invited him?” Had she been cursed? Was she bait for some kind of Death Eater trap?

Hermione nodded. This was tanking quickly. As much as she’d wanted an open, organized plan, perhaps this was the absolutely wrong way to go about it.

“What in Merlin’s name would possess you to invite him up for dinner, ‘Mione?”

Ron ranted. “And how is he even here?! He’s supposed to be dead.”

“I live to disappoint,” Malfoy said with a smirk. He’d really just wanted to apologize and go home, not trade barbs with Weasley. Potter was oddly placid about his presence.

“Even I kind of presumed you dead,” said Harry, glad he’d wagered on Hermione succeeding when he called their order in.

“Ministry’s dirtiest secret,” Malfoy mocked. Harry filed that away for later contemplation.

The Ministry knowing Malfoy’s whereabouts was certainly news to him, even as a more senior Auror. Harry nodded Malfoy into the room and closed the door behind him. This wouldn’t be a great way for Hermione to meet her neighbors. “I was betting against Hermione being able to find you,” he half-lied.

Ron’s head snapped to glare at Harry. “Harry! You knew about this?”

“I… Yeah, she mentioned it.” He avoided looking directly at Ron, not wanting to be the target of his outrage. Ron’s face was turning an alarming shade of red as the reality of the situation sank in.

Hermione eased herself into a kitchen chair. She had entirely forgotten to warn Malfoy of the guest list. Their spat in the park had taken over the conversation, and she’d only focused on getting an answer from him. The tension hadn’t helped her plan rationally, either. Bit hard to plan a cordial dinner invite when one’s resisting the urge to undress under a willow, she mused.

It hadn’t occurred to her that Harry wouldn’t mention Malfoy to Ron. Ron looked like he’d rather rip his cock off than share it with her again. This was spiraling downward so quickly.

Hermione held a hand up, quieting Ron. “Ron, please, just-“

Malfoy turned and wrapped one hand around the doorknob, the other hand raking his hair out of his eyes. She glimpsed his regret before his face went neutral.

“I’m not staying, Weasley. Granger, I came to apologize and bow out of this whole… well, I would say ‘clusterfuck’, but that would imply success,” he said, matter-of-factly.

Ron huffed, “Apologizing before you turn tail and run is new.”

Malfoy brushed the insult off.

Harry had been weighing what little he knew about Malfoy while Ron had been having his tantrum. Not a word had been printed about Malfoy in the four years since his release from Azkaban. A one-year sentence like his was unheard of.

He remembered reading internal Ministry reports that Malfoy had testified extensively against his own parents, as well as providing information extending other Death Eaters’ sentences to life imprisonment. Malfoy’s smooth drawl brought him back to the current situation.

Malfoy took a deep breath and turned to Hermione, “I’m sorry I was short with you earlier, Granger. I’m flattered. Honestly. But not in need of a slow, painful death.”

“Thank you,” she said, surprised by the apology. “And you were right. I… it was overkill. And unintentionally misleading. And I’m sorry.”

Harry looked down at the plastic cutlery in his hand, Malfoy’s jibe sinking in. Expelliforkus.

He smiled. “Malfoy, I guessed and got you chicken tikka. But you can have my korma if you like.”

——————————

Ron shredded naan into confetti while Harry and Malfoy traded Quidditch adventures. Hermione watched in quiet disapproval. Perfectly good naan.

“No, the Koldovstoretz team brooms are just Siberian pine saplings with the branches stripped off,” Malfoy said, scraping up the last of the korma. It had been the best meal he’d had in quite a while, but he’d decided against complimenting it. They didn’t seem impressed, and he didn’t want their pity.

Harry stacked his empty container in the pile. “Did you get to ride one?” Hermione was thoroughly bored with the words coming out of their mouths, but damned if they weren’t a sight to behold. They seemed to be getting along well enough. Harry leaned toward Malfoy eager to talk, and Malfoy was hesitant, but receptive.

“Yeah. Horribly back-heavy, what with the rootball. Hell of a broom for keepers, though.” He nodded, looking to Ron. Ron really did want to know more about the brooms, but not from Malfoy.

Harry stretched and yawned, tonight’s training, his work day, and the earlier blowup catching up to him. “Did you bring one back with you?”

Malfoy paused, concealing a glance at Potter’s exposed midsection by turning to place his container in the stack. “No, Potter. Auror teams don’t generally let you pack souvenirs when they take you down and drag you ass-first across a continent.”

Harry had briefly forgotten Malfoy must have learned about the Russian Quidditch practices while hiding or on the run, not on some kind of international sporting tour.

“Oh.” Harry muttered sheepishly. “I suppose not.” An embarrassed flush spread across his cheeks. Being chided for asking a stupid question jarred him. His coworkers tended to treat everything he said as a divine proclamation.

Ron looked at each of them in turn, and stood to leave the table. Harry watched him, worried Ron was jealous of his conversation with Malfoy. Ron returned with the bin and began clearing the table.

“I suppose it wouldn’t be hard to just make one,” Harry said, lost in thought.

Malfoy shrugged. “Haven’t had much use for a broom in years.”

Crookshanks wove himself between the legs of Malfoy’s chair. It hadn’t escaped her notice that one of them had snuck him a bit of their curry. She suspected Harry or Malfoy.

Content to listen, she’d relaxed into the ebb and flow of their catching up. Or blatantly not catching up, in the case of Ron. He was obviously listening intently and several times opened his mouth to chime in, but quickly closed it and refocused on his food.

Having sex with him already tonight had probably been a mistake. A really great mistake, but perhaps it was contributing to his attitude.

Their meal concluded and she settled herself in the lone armchair in the living room across from the kitchen. Ron followed her, claiming the end of the sofa nearest her.

Harry continued peppering Malfoy with questions about Koldovstoretz and Durmstrang Quidditch. Nipping at the heels of a Death Eater for information was an odd way for an Auror to slake his curiosity, she thought. Especially considering he’d probably acquired said knowledge in unsavory ways.

Malfoy looked like he was ready to change topics. Hermione cleared her throat none too subtly, “Shall we?”

————————

Harry wasn’t sure what he’d expected from a dinner date and sex-planning meeting. Sex, he supposed, was what he’d expected. And a whole lot fewer calendars.

Hermione was laying on the floor with a massive desk calendar and four neon highlighters. Ron had pulled a fucking tome out of his backpack that had the store’s employee schedules, shipping schedules, sales rotations, events and maintenance.

Harry felt woefully unprepared for this summit. He had this weekend off, so he worked next weekend, and that’s about as far ahead as he planned. The weeks that he worked the weekend, he had two weekdays off, but he generally forgot when they were till the day before, or he just went ahead and showed up at work. He was not feeling terribly adult at the moment.

Malfoy had been quiet through the schedule comparisons. The only conflicts he offered were a parole check once a week, and Ministry summons as assigned. Ron had scoffed at those.

“So, if we can find some patterns in where your days overlap mine, I can plan out through January, when my term ends,” Hermione said to no one in particular, or possibly to herself. Harry thought she was having way too much fun with her calendar.

“My whole life is pretty much fucked last week of August through mid-September,” Ron muttered, scratching his beard. “And then quite a bit of September is restocking after the start of term.” The annual Hogwarts rush was the most lucrative few weeks of the year, but it owned him. Sleeping on his office floor was the glamorous life of a proprietor.

Malfoy had grown bored and a little envious of everyone’s terribly important and busy schedules, found a box labelled “Books, A-F, 2005”, and was busily snooping. Her damn cat kept throwing himself underfoot like he wanted to be stepped on.

If he were to be honest, the only routines in his life were seeing Eira at the library and fishing. Granger had apparently kept, had shipped, and alphabetized her textbooks from 2005 by the last name of the lead author. Which meant she had the lead authors’ names memorized. Terrifying.

“I could always come to the store and defile your office desk,” she offered with a wink. Ron grumbled something about not trusting her to try and organize it.

“I work that weekend around the start of term. And have remote investigations… sometime?” Harry added.

Malfoy was idly thumbing through a copy of something about patriarchy and family structures, which looked an awful lot like an alternate title could be “How to Be a Shitty Pureblood Wanker”. It wasn’t a bad way to pass the time while waiting for Granger to realize she was coming up with a schedule against her own interests.

To him, the reason a woman would request “male company” for a weekend a month was glaringly obvious. She’d realize her error soon, if she pulled her head out of her calendar.

“Granger, can I borrow this?” he asked, hoisting the massive hardback book up so she could see it.

She had a dab of neon pink highlighter on her lower lip, where she’d tapped the tip while deep in thought. It was more than a little adorable. “Yeah, sure.”

He heard her mutter something about it being an odd choice for a Malfoy. He hefted the book in his hands, a scowl appearing as he realized the book was too big for him to carry home in his talons.

Ron had taken over most of the couch with an impressive array of spreadsheets. Without looking up, he pointed a quill at Malfoy. “Malfoy, I guess that’s your weekend, then.“

Malfoy’s patience had run out. “Granger, you said a weekend a month,” he clarified.

Hermione looked up from her ridiculous calendar. “Right.”

“Total. Not with each of us,” he stated.

“Oh… right.” She looked down at her technicolor opus in dismay.

“Did you mean just any old weekend every calendar month, or say, a very specific 48 to 72 hours every 28 days or so?” He avoided her gaze, trying to drive his point home with some delicacy.

Hermione thunked her forehead down on her calendar and swore under her breath. “Hel’s bells. I can’t erase all of this.” Ron and Harry looked at each other and shrugged, not sure why it felt like their planning had been entirely scrapped.

Malfoy took Hermione’s chair and sat down with the book. “So, 28 days, regular?” he asked, again trying to tread lightly into the topic.

“Like clockwork,” she grumbled, forehead still on the marred calendar. He could grant her a mourning period. It had been a masterpiece of color-coding.

He was a little disappointed Ron and Harry hadn’t caught on to the slight diversion in topic. The book on patriarchal oppression practically winked at him from his lap, and he shrugged.

“Alright, Granger, what day is today?” he asked gently.

Ron and Harry perked up at the prospect of a question they could answer, and simultaneously blurted, “The 18th!”

Sitting up cross-legged and glaring at her calendar, she pulled her phone from her pocket and checked it. What a waste of paper and highlighter and effort and organization, she thought. Playing schedule chess had been fun. So fun, in fact, that she’d forgotten the original purpose.

“Day 11,” she replied. She sighed, and ripped the heavy page off the calendar, crumpling it angrily.

Malfoy smiled at her little outburst. “Calm before the storm, then.” His smile zapped away as he flinched at Crookshanks clawing up onto the back of the chair and settling on his shoulder.

She shrugged noncommittally, throwing the wadded paper nowhere in the vicinity of the bin.

“Would anyone like to explain to poor simple Harry and I what the fuck you’re on about?” Ron asked, getting up to retrieve the paper ball and depositing it in the bin.

“I’m not simple,” Harry muttered to the ceiling, his head laid back on the couch. “I’m... uncomplicated. It’s different. But yeah, what on earth are you two talking about?”

Hermione had really wanted to just be able to ask these damned men for sex when she wanted sex, and that be it. Why was it so much more difficult here than in Perth?

Her strategy had worked up until this point in her life, and she was finding it a strange flavor of humiliation to have to admit to men she fancied that she mainly fancied them during a specific part of her cycle.

What she was trying desperately to avoid was letting any of them know how devastating her sex drive was for those few days. It was all she could think about. Food and sleep went by the wayside as often as not. She’d actually begged off sick from exams multiple times to stay home and get herself off for entire afternoons. Her schoolwork had suffered, for Merlin’s sake.

“Oh, honestly, Ron, you’re one of seven! You ought to know these things!” she snapped, her embarrassment overriding her patience.

“Babies?!” Ron shouted, his face stricken. “Oh, hell, no!”

“Stupid git,” Malfoy muttered, inspecting the index page of the book. “Nobody’s making babies, Weasley. Just helping with the… drive.”

“Oh, thank Godric!” Harry said, collapsing back down against the couch. “You all scared me there.”

Malfoy shook his head, disappointed in his fellow menfolk. For as much as they likely built their lives around fucking, they didn’t seem to understand some basic biology.

If he didn’t know better, he’d swear the damn cat was reading over his shoulder.

“Granger, may I look at your records?” he inquired as clinically and gently as he could. He was well-aware how invasive a request it was.

Hermione gulped, “Records?”

He knew she was playing dumb. Nobody with that kind of highlighter assortment didn’t keep a painfully-detailed history. He wasn’t about to push it, though.

“A log or calendar or what have you,” he proffered, flipping pages in the book. “For a project, the Slytherins girls made a huge shared calendar in the common room. It was incredibly helpful.”

He grinned, remembering the hijinks that damn thing had led to. Granger seemed to relax a little, grasping his familiarity with the topic. The furball on his shoulder was purring. Loudly. In his ear. Disconcerting.

“We used to count Pansy’s periods down like a New Year’s Eve ball drop.” He couldn’t keep from laughing to himself. “She got so mad. It was great.”

“Slytherins,” Ron uttered, shaking his head, bewildered.

“It… it’s on my mobile,” she said warily. “Hang on.” She opened the app and handed him the device, knowing damn well he had know idea how to use one, but would be adept at picking it up.

Malfoy slid his hand into a trouser pocket and came back with his reading glasses. Slipping them on, he accepted the mobile from her. “So, this is the calendar, and then swipe like this to flip cycles and tap for information.”

She was leery of giving him her mobile, but given that he was looking through her most personal information, the rest of the contents of her phone seemed irrelevant. Something about him putting glasses on to review her information felt more intense. Like he was putting her under a microscope. Whether for her record-keeping or biology, she had no idea, but it was uncomfortable and far too intimate.

Ron was busy mocking Malfoy to Harry, who was concertedly not thinking that Malfoy looked good in those glasses. It wasn’t fair that Malfoy had made fun of Harry’s ugly glasses, and was now sporting some rather fetching ones. Harry ignored Ron’s barbs about Malfoy being a deviant.

Suddenly self-conscious about his glasses, Malfoy tried to ignore them all watching him. A touch of far-sightedness lingered from having spent too much time in feathered form. He mumbled something appreciative about symptom tracking and Muggle technology to Hermione, who had sat up next to lean on the chair next to his leg.

Resentful, Ron asked, “So, ‘Mione. You only want to see us, total, a couple days a month?”

“Right,” she said, turning her attention away from Malfoy. “That’s honestly about as much as I’ll be able to spare when my classes and Ministry internship start in September.”

“Very romantic,” Ron quipped. Hermione rolled her eyes.

Without looking up, Malfoy ventured another rather intimate question. “Granger, which contraception charm do you use?”

Everyone gaped at Malfoy, Hermione finally breaking the silence. “Which?! There’s more than one?!”

Harry was growing uneasy with how long Malfoy had been scrutinizing Hermione’s mobile, but didn’t want to hassle him in front of her. He grabbed his own mobile and texted hers, knowing the alert would interrupt his perusing.

Malfoy, you’d better not be snooping in her phone.

Surprised by their shock, he looked up at Granger. “Yes, there are at least three that I’m aware of. We designed the third one as a house project when I was a fifth year.”

The mobile vibrated in his hand, and he looked down to see a small box with his name in it. He tapped it, figuring it must have something to do with him. A different window opened, and he read the message from Harry.

Harry had been staring at him since sending the message, and received an eye roll in return.

“That is the most disgustingly Slytherin thing I’ve heard yet,” Ron said unconvincingly.

Malfoy’s attention returned to the screen, and he realized Hermione’s tracking information had disappeared, and he was looking at a conversation between Hermione and Harry. Curiosity got the better of him, and he tapped “See Previous” in the window while keeping his attention on the conversation in the room.

“Careful, Weasley. I’ve heard you reaped the benefits of it at some reunions,” Malfoy warned.

He continued idly scrolling up in the conversation on the phone, disappointed that it was rather banal, other than mention of Millicent and himself.

Harry was thinking hard. “Does casting it involve using both hands?”

“Yes, that’s the one,” Malfoy murmured.

His eyes flicked back down to the screen, expecting another bland block of text, but instead found a picture. It took him a second to make sense of the image.

It was a very erect cock with a “thumbs up” next to it. Sent by Potter.

Malfoy bit his tongue to keep a shocked guffaw from escaping his mouth. He pretended to think very, very hard about the mechanism of action of contraception charms. He hadn’t needed to think about those in years.

Nostrils flaring and breath shuddering in, he tried to ignore the hilarity that he was holding a picture of Harry Potter’s cock in his hand. Let alone that Potter had sent it to Granger with that damn thumb thrown in as a dignity-defying measure.

“Oh, Millie used that one,” Potter added, pleased with himself for being able to add to the conversation. He hoped nobody other than Ron knew about Millicent’s penchant for strap-ons.

“Did she, Potter?” he said, angling the phone so only Harry could see the screen. “Did Millicent use it often?”

Harry’s face blanched and his curry threatened to come up. Malfoy was looking at a picture of his cock on Hermione’s phone. Good Godric’s gonads, death could not come at a better time.

Harry stuttered, trying to keep calm, “Yeah, she’s, she uh-“

“She’s very proficient,” Malfoy interjected. “We worked on several related projects together. Some… devices and whatnot.”

He pressed a button on the phone, making the screen go dark, and handed it back to Hermione with his compliments.

For the first time since the war, Harry Potter wished he’d stayed dead. Not only had Malfoy now seen his cock and the stupid pose he’d chosen for that picture, but Harry had just inadvertently admitted to a sexual relationship with a woman who was into pegging men. And to top it off, Malfoy had insinuated he may or may not have helped her build the equipment she fucked Harry with. Death sounded like a fucking picnic.

“What’s the difference?” asked Hermione, eager to learn more about alternatives to one of her most-used charms.

“Oh,” Malfoy sat up in the chair, returning to the technical conversation. Hermione would chase this like a terrier, and it was commendable. “Action site. The one we developed works higher up. In the tubes. Versus in the cervix. The textbook one can interfere with sex.”

“I’ve used it probably thousands of times and never had an issue,” Hermione countered.

Thousands, thought Malfoy, by Salazar, that was a little impressive. He ventured a lewd question. “Are you wetter without it?”

Hermione sputtered, caught off guard by his frankness. Everyone was caught off guard by the question, by the looks of it.

“Take your time,” Malfoy drawled, attention returning to the book in his lap. Hermione’s brow was furrowed in concentration. This was something she hadn’t tracked or logged in any way. A total failure in data collection.

Malfoy turned a page and grimaced. Wherever Salem, Massachusetts was, he wasn’t going there. Coarse wetness scraped up the rim of his ear, and he flinched. The fucking cat had moved from pointedly purring in his ear to licking him. “Shoo.”

Ron and Harry were engaged in a terse whisper debate. They’d swapped detailed stories of rather eager Slytherin women at reunions and parties.

“Ohhh…” Harry exhaled, the connection dawning on him.

Ron looked at Harry, seeing the connection, too. “Slickerins.”

Malfoy’s jaw tensed at the slur. “That didn’t sound terribly respectful, Weasley.”

Hermione had finished a rough analysis of her own sexual response and her attention turned back to the room, having missed the exchange between the men. “You might be right, Malfoy,” she said.

“Of course I am,” he scoffed. “We tested it for over a year.” It had been a massive undertaking. The amount of information he’d compiled and sent to St. Mungo’s had been atrocious. And there was no small amount of risk involved. A rash of pregnancies at Hogwarts would not have earned him points with the Healer’s Guild, not that it had mattered in the end.

Having seen her record-keeping, Malfoy regretted that the older Slytherins had decreed it a House project, not open to other students. Granger would have been an immense asset. Pretending to read the book, he considered how much better a workmate she’d have made than most of the Slytherins he’d been automatically paired with. Yet another problem with the House system, he thought.

Hermione’s eyes lit up, and she leaned forward to ask another question, but Ron interrupted. “Someone’s proud of his little project,” Ron interjected sarcastically.

“Fuck off, Weasley. I don’t remember you contributing anything to society as a fifth year,” Malfoy bit back.

“At least I didn’t help try to destroy it as a seventh year,” Ron shouted. He’d had enough of Malfoy. He was a fucking criminal, a coward, and he had no place with Ron’s friends, let alone in Hermione’s bed.

“Ron!” Hermione scolded.

“No, Hermione, he’s a thrice-damned Death Eater, and I’m done pretending he’s not! I don’t give a fuck about his projects or his Quidditch or that he survived the damn war,” Ron said tersely, gesturing to Malfoy with a quill.

Harry curled up in the corner of the sofa, not wanting any part of this fight. Malfoy had just acquired enough blackmail material to drag him through the press for months. It was a shame, though. He’d rather enjoyed Malfoy’s stories and candor.

Hermione stood, shocked at Ron’s outburst, unsure whether to rise to the defense of either of them, or let them argue it out. She’d honestly never seen Ron this angry.

Malfoy plucked the ginger cat off his shoulder and deposited him on the carpet, much to the creature’s dismay.

Ron wheeled on her. “‘Mione, I will find you another fucking blonde, if that’s what this is about.”

She choked back a startled sob. Her vision blurred as tears collected against her lashes. “Damn you, Ronald Weasley.”

“Shit, Ron. That was low,” Harry said softly, rising from the couch to hug Hermione.

Regret burned like hot ashes in Ron’s mouth. He was going to lose her right on the heels of finding her again, and it would be his own temper that pulled the trigger.

Malfoy slowly rose from the chair, setting the book in his place. He leveled his gaze on Ron. “Granger?” He addressed her without looking away from Ron. “Don’t send me a fucking Patronus again.”

He strode toward the door.

Chapter Text

A loud tapping on the window startled them all, but Malfoy practically jumped out of his skin. Harry let go of Hermione to let a small tawny owl in.

Malfoy spun, eyes wide. “Don’t touch it!” A flush crept up his neck, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“It’s a bloody owl,” Ron said derisively. It amused him that a Death Eater would be terrified of a bird with a note on it.

Hermione’s curiosity was piqued. “Why are we afraid of the owl?” she asked gently.

Malfoy looked to Harry, who stood at the window, confused, with his hand on the sill. “Uhm, looks to be addressed to you, Malfoy.”

He ran both hands through his blond hair, trying to steady his breathing. “Would you mind scanning it for us, Auror Potter?” he asked politely. Ron rolled his eyes.

Harry ran his wand down the owl, and finding nothing, moved on to the small note. His detection spell lit up a fireworks display of sickly yellow and angry red slashes and swirls.

Hermione gasped at the layers upon layers of spellwork on the small piece of paper. “Can you defuse it, Harry?”

“Yeah, of course,” he replied, shrugging. It was nice to be useful outside of work, he thought to himself. “It’s boobytrapped all to hell. Nothing lethal alone, but enough combined to take somebody out.”

Harry went to work unweaving and disarming the hexes and jinxes while the owl impatiently tapped at the window, expecting a treat.

Embarrassment bubbled up in Ron for mocking Malfoy’s apparently well-founded fear. Something about this wanker made him constantly put his foot in his mouth, and he resented him for it.

“I don’t want to know what you did to earn that owl, Malfoy,” he muttered.

“You know everything I’ve done to earn that, Weasley.” He shot back. He hadn’t done anything that hadn’t been splashed all over the front of The Prophet for years.

“Seems appropriate, then.” Ron smirked.

A connection was percolating in Hermione’s mind. This had to have something to do with why it was impossible to contact him via owl. He must be protecting himself from them somehow.

“Does that happen often?” she asked.

“Bomber owls being sent? Yes. Them actually getting through? Never. I have eagles who take them down.” He frowned, analyzing the situation. “And they should be doing so right now. Which means they’re in danger or have fucked off somewhere.”

Ron was incredulous. “You just kill people’s owls?!”

Harry shook his head and watched the owl fly away. “I’d shoot my own owl down if it were carrying those on a regular basis.”

In other circumstances, Malfoy would have been alarmed at Potter’s willingness to kill his own pets, but the solidarity was much appreciated. Few people outside well-trained Aurors could recognize the seriousness of those spells. It was rather validating.

“Granger, do you have a balcony? Or roof access?”

“Uhm, no, but the big window above the kitchen table opens wide.”

Malfoy studied it long enough that the rest of them started to look at each other in concern.

“That should work. I’ll be back for my things, but I’m not staying.” He walked over to the window, cranking the two sides open like doors.

“Have fun at the window, I guess,” Ron mumbled sarcastically.

“Uhm, I’m going to need clean clothes later, so… Sorry,” he said, as he began to unbutton his shirt.

Ron rolled his eyes and looked to Harry to share in his annoyance, but Harry was perplexed, watching his child nemesis hastily undress in a kitchen for unfathomable reasons.

Harry was thoroughly confused, and he loved it. Literally anything could happen next. He had a sudden craving for popcorn. And to maybe touch the tattooed arm that was coming out of Malfoy’s sleeve. Medea’s mammaries, that was some gorgeous artwork.

Hermione watched his shirt peel off, eager to get a look at the tattoo she’d seen a hint of earlier. As well as the rest of him. It wasn’t turning out to be a sensual strip-tease, but if it slaked her curiosity, she was more than willing to spend time watching. She bit her lip and ignored Ron watching her reaction as Malfoy dropped his shirt and quickly started on his belt. His tattoo was stunning. A delicate smattering of vines and flowers in grayscale hid his Mark but emphasized his strong shoulders and arms.

He was long and lean, like he’d been intentionally built for speed. Not overly muscled, but plenty strong. She could only see his back, but it was worthy of admiration. Fit, proud, and graced with gorgeously-defined shoulders.

Malfoy’s trousers hit the floor, and he stepped out, pulling off his socks more gracefully than any man should be able. Hermione pursed her lips and hoped he was going to remove the dark green boxer briefs that were standing between her and a full show. No such luck.

Without looking back, he stepped up onto the windowsill, gripped it with his toes, let go of the frame, and dropped out. Hermione let out a startled squeak.

An enormous eagle glided down from the window before clearing the building, pumping its wings, gaining altitude.

Hermione and Ron gaped, slowly turning to each other. Harry leaned against the window frame, watching the winged silhouette disappear between buildings.

“Did he just turn into a massive fuckall bird and fly away, or did one of you jinx my contacts? Cuz I didn’t bring my glasses.” Harry asked, bewildered.

“I… guess he’s an Animagus,” Hermione speculated. She was quietly relieved Harry still owned glasses. He still looked strange to her without them.

“Probably unregistered,” groused Ron. Malfoys earlier jab sank in, and he turned to her. “Did you seriously send him a Patronus about this?”

She brushed off his shock with a shrug, having had more than enough chastening on account of her communication methods. Letting Ron rip into her all over again was the last thing she needed.

They joined Hary at the window and all quietly considered the events of the evening. She was disappointed by Ron and Malfoy’s animosity, but not surprised. Her mind churned, trying to come up with a solution that would let her have both of them, but maintain decent communication. A ships passing in the night approach didn’t seem like a feasible plan. Nor did ever meeting together like this again.

Ron watched Hermione’s eyebrows furrow in concentration. What she was ruminating on, he had no idea. It could be anything from contraception charms to upcoming course work. He slipped his arm around her waist. She hesitated but leaned into him, and he relaxed.

She wouldn’t have been unreasonable to pull away after his tirades about Malfoy. It seemed like such a bad idea, but Ron had always trusted Hermione’s plans. She was smarter than him. Hell, she was the smartest person he knew.

Malfoy’s comment about not needing a broom for several years came back to Harry. Of course he didn’t need a broom anymore. Why would anyone bother with a broom when they could fly like that?

Harry mumbled to himself, more than anyone. “He’s a bloody disaster magnet.”

“See, ‘Mione? Involving him is just asking for trouble,” Ron added indignantly.

Mind still reeling over the implications of his Animagus form, she nodded, “I know. Maybe.”

Merlin’s beard, Harry thought, what would it feel like to fly like that? To be able to free-fall, loop, spiral, and dive without ever worrying about losing his broom? It sounded… erotic. Flying and fucking were, far and away, the two best things in life. He was suddenly grateful he’d worn loose pants.

“Ron, you don’t ever have to look at him again, but I’d like to at least try to work something out,” Hermione added, turning in his arms to rest her head on his shoulder. He was warm and solid and smelled like home.

“Dammit, ‘Mione, but why?” he begged.

Struggling for words, she tried to piece together an argument that didn’t rely on blaming hormones, or schedules, or make him feel inadequate.

“Ron, I just… do,” she admitted, waiting for him to react.

Harry was still looking out the window, hoping to catch another glimpse of those wings. “The clit wants what it wants, Ron.”

Hermione scowled. “Poetic, Harry.” She was grateful to him for breaking the tension, though.

Ron sighed heavily. “So, keeping our friends close and our enemies in your bed, then?”

“He’s not a friend, but I don’t consider him an enemy,” countered Hermione.

“Me, either,” Harry said.

“I just don’t trust him.“ Ron muttered, crossing his arms.

“Me, either,” Harry said again, still looking out the window.

“But I’m not the one trying to get in his pants,” Ron added, looking to Harry for agreement.

Harry frowned and reached to adjust glasses that weren’t there.

Ron had been entirely willing to entertain other men in her life. Hell, he’d come here tonight expecting it. But Malfoy had been a shock. Why hadn’t she consulted him, or even warned him? Did his judgement not matter at all to her?

Ron hugged her head to his chest, hands moving in her hair. “I just… I guess I just wish we were enough for you. Harry and I. And I know you said you didn’t want a relationship and all that, but you already have one with us. You sort of can’t not.”

Harry plopped heavily back in his corner of the couch. He leaned forward, knees on his elbows. “He’s right. We can’t just be fuck buddies. The three of us have too much history for that.”

“Four.” Hermione interjected. Glossing over their history with Malfoy would be a mistake. Though, she had to admit, she sort of had been. A tug in her hair brought her attention back to Ron. “What are you doing to my hair?”

“Braiding it,” he announced.

“I didn’t know you could braid hair.” Harry said, relaxing to watch them.

“I don’t think I can. This looks terrible.” Ron chuckled.

Ron sucked his lower lip and looked at Harry, who raised his eyebrows and leaned back against the couch, arms across the back, an expectant smile spreading.

“Dammit, Ron. Why did you braid my hair?!”

Ron lowered his lips to her ear, turning her head to look at Harry.

“So it doesn’t get in our way,” he whispered.

—————————

His hands gripped her hips, and urged her forward while Harry watched her approach like she was his next meal. She stopped in front of him, and Ron’s hands found their way under her shirt, gently stroking her waist. He trailed small kisses up and down her exposed neck, and her nipples were painfully hard.

“We both want you.” Harry stated hoarsely, a visible bulge in his track pants growing.

“Can we have you, ‘Mione?” Ron whispered against her hair, gently grinding his hardening cock against her backside. She leaned back into him, the solid warmth of his chest grounding her.

Her mind was reeling. This wasn’t at all what she’d had in mind, but Merlin Almighty, she’d never wanted anything so badly in all her life.

“Yes,” she whispered, not sure if it was even audible. She pressed a hand to her lower abdomen and muttered another contraception charm.

Ron and Harry exchanged satisfied glances as Ron’s hands crept higher under her shirt, grazing the lace of her bra. Harry sat up to softly run his hands up the backs of her thighs, stopping just shy of her knickers. His fingers delicately dipped below the edge of the fabric under each cheek, tracing the edge of her covered skin.

Grateful she’d worn a skirt, she leaned her hips forward, urging Harry’s slowly exploring hands. His fingers slid around under the front of the band of each leg opening, lightly grazing her mound. She whimpered and tried to thrust her hips into his non-existent pressure.

Ron’s hands had been holding her by the waist, but now grabbed a hold of the band of her skirt, testing the stretch.

“Arms up,” he gently urged. She complied, and one quick jerk, her skirt and shirt were gone up and over her head.

She barked an embarrassed laugh and crossed her arms over her bra. Both men grinned at her surprise before leaning back in to explore her newly exposed skin.

Harry’s fingers traced the leg bands of her knickers again, this time meeting in the middle to pull the gusset down. His fingertips barely brushed her cleft, and goosebumps ran down her thighs. He withdrew one hand and licked a finger.

“Hermione, if I didn’t know better…” Harry teased, pretending to roll the flavor on his tongue and pinning her with an accusative glare. ”Hm.”

A mortified blush started at her chest and spread like fire to her face. Oh, Circe, he could taste Ron’s come on her. And he was just staring at her, waiting. Harry tasted a second finger and hummed low in disapproval.

“I… uhm… we… table…” she stammered.

Ron broke first, and she felt him giggling against her back while he gripped her breasts. Harry leaned forward, loud guffaws erupting from him, till one finally ended in a snort. He wiped tears from his eyes.

“Oh, Godric, your face.” Harry chuckled. Behind her, Ron was sniffing back tears of laughter.

“You bastards!” she fumed, still in Ron’s embrace. “What is wrong with you two?!”

“Oh, fuck. I’m sorry. Ron, she’s gonna kill me,” Harry laughed.

“Nah,” Ron said, and he plunged his fingers into her knickers straight between her slick folds. Waves of pleasure coursed through her, and a helpless moan escaped her throat. She sagged in his arms, hips moving in time with the stroke of his fingers.

When she opened her eyes, Harry was entirely naked, but she was too occupied with Ron rubbing her clit to be surprised. Harry’s cock laid against the neat line of dark hair that ran down his abdomen.

“Mmm, as seen on TV,” she hummed, watching him stroke slowly. He chuckled.

Ron didn’t get the TV reference, but he was preoccupied with just how incredibly wet she was, and how badly he wanted to taste her. He turned her around to face him, backing her calves against the couch between Harry’s knees.

“Very, very slowly, bend over and take off your knickers, Hermione,” Harry said from behind her.

“And look at me while you do it,” added Ron, who was shimmying out of those damnably tight jeans again.

She bit her lip and hooked her thumbs under the sides of her knickers, slipping them down the first few inches. Ron never looked away from her face. She felt Harry fidget on the couch behind her.

Bending at the waist, she leaned her ass back closer to Harry as she inched the fabric down her hips, letting it peel inside out, clinging to her damp pussy. With a small tug, it fell loose, skating the rest of the way down her thighs to the floor. She held eye contact with Ron while she listened to Harry’s breath quicken.

“Sit,” Harry instructed, placing his hands on her hips to guide her onto his lap. She expected him to pull her straight on top of his cock, and braced herself for its considerable width. Instead, he sat her on his thighs and leaned her back against his chest.

His hands grazed down from her hips and circled to grip her inner thighs. He positioned his thighs under hers, and spread her open as he moved his own legs, supporting her weight, but suspending her pussy at the edge of the couch. The cool air on her wetness made her involuntary try to close her legs, but his hands held firm. His cock rubbed against her lower back in minuscule circles.

Ron knelt, taking her in. Merlin, he thought, she was gorgeous. Her close-cropped hair glistened with moisture, and he reveled in not knowing how much of it was his and how much was her own. Her head rested against Harry’s chest, face peaceful, but eager.

He wasn’t going to tease her this time, they were going to make her fucking scream.

He bit a hot line up her thigh, lingering to take one of her lips in his teeth. The sudden movement made her squirm, but Harry’s hands kept her from moving. He moaned, and the vibration traveled through to her core, making her moan with him. He licked a quick line up her slit, teasing out her swollen clit, before catching it with his lips.

Her hips bucked, and Harry nearly lost his grip on her. Ron slowed, alternating between sucking and licking, letting her join him in a rhythm. Sweet tension was building quickly, and she knew she was close to coming. With just enough presence of mind, she realized she didn’t want to come without someone inside her.

“Close…” she gasped. “Fingers?”

Harry moaned softly behind her, grinding his cock against her back.

“Do you want to come on Ron’s fingers?” he said huskily.

“Please.”

“So polite.” Harry nodded to Ron, and he slid two fingers in, knuckle-deep.

A guttural moan tore itself from her throat and she arched her back. Ron picked up the pace of his licking and sucking, and she felt herself tightening around his fingers.

Her hips rocked with him until the tension crescendoed, stuttered, and broke into waves as she spasmed around his fingers and she came moaning.

Ron waited until her body stopped gripping him, and slid his fingers out. She sighed, her eyelids getting heavy. Ron stood in front of her as Harry closed her legs.

She felt Harry nod in beckoning, and Ron held his fingers out. Harry sucked her juices off Ron’s fingers, and she moaned softly watching them. They were so comfortable with each other. The security of being between them relaxed her down onto Harry’s warm chest. Her eyes were closed before she realized it.

Harry’s voice rumbled from below her. “You’ve got a cock to ride before you can sleep, greedy witch.”

“Greedy witch, indeed.” Ron scolded. “And you know, I don’t think I’d object to coming in your mouth while you do so, ‘Mione.”

She smiled and hummed in agreement and leaned forward to lift her hips off of Harry. He slid down further on the couch to give her room. Reaching underneath for his length, she rubbed the head of him along her slit, circling over her clit. His breath hissed in and his hips gave an involuntary jerk.

“Gods, woman. Don’t bring me early.”

She grinned, and slid his head to her opening. The tip fit easily, but getting the girth of his head took her hand easing one side, then the other, until the crown slid inside, passing the tight ring of muscle at her entrance. Her whole core spasmed deliciously in response to the stretch, setting off a small orgasm.

She moaned and lowered herself down to his hips, his shaft sliding easily inside. He groaned and gripped her hips.

Ron waited, watching them, stroking his erection. Hermione looked up to him and reached out to wrap her fingers around his length. Leaning out with her hands on Harry’s thighs, she slid Ron’s cock in her mouth in one long thrust. He arched his back and groaned.

Neither of them moved. Harry’s thumbs stroked her hips, and she caught on that she was responsible for all of the movement.

Easing back from Ron, she lifted forward up Harry’s cock and sliding Ron back into her throat. She shut her eyes, sinking into the feeling of them both moving inside her as she rocked in short motions back and forth. Ron slipping along her tongue, and Harry’s cock brushing nerves deep inside brought a moan from her, and Ron gasped.

Speeding up, she arched her back to take Harry in longer, harder strokes, and grind her clit against his pelvis. Heat pooled deep in her core, threatening to spill over too soon. Harry’s grip tightened, Ron’s hips tensed, and she sank herself down on Harry’s cock one last time before pleasure overwhelmed her.

She screamed her muffled climax around Ron’s cock as her muscles spasmed around Harry, wringing him into her.

Ron flooded her mouth and moaned her name, while Harry pulled her down by the waist and held her tight, spilling himself in her with a shout. Her core milked him in small squeezes as Ron withdrew himself, and she steadied her breathing.

“Fuck, ‘Mione.” Ron swore, as he bent down to kiss her. She smiled, and leaned back against Harry’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her hair. She relaxed into him and her eyelids felt heavy again.

“Oh, shit.” Harry said, tensing up behind her. “Malfoy.”

“What?!” she jumped up off of Harry, pulling him out too quickly. She winced at the sudden stretch. More slowly next time, she told herself.

“He’s going to be back any second.” Harry said, shuffling into his clothes.

“Ah, bollocks,” grumbled Ron, handing Hermione her shirt and skirt. The knickers were soaked, and she shoved them under the couch. A handful of napkins from the takeaway order sufficed for cleaning herself off. Her skirt was long enough that she wasn’t terribly worried about going naked under it.

“Kinda wish he wasn’t coming back,” Ron grumbled. “Like, ever.”

Hermione looked up from straightening her clothes, “You’re free to back out, Ron. I trust you, and I want you, but it’s your decision.”

Ron scratched his beard and chose his words carefully. “I don’t like it. For the record. I don’t like him being involved. But far be it from me to tell you what to do. Plus, I do trust you, ‘Mione. And I’m sure he knows we’ll beat his scrawny ponce ass if he hurts you. Harry, you in?”

Harry plopped back on the sofa, clothed and grinning. “Hell, yes. I make the worst decisions, and this sounds fun.”

Hermione shook her head. “Very reassuring.”

Ron began transferring his piles of documents from the sofa into his backpack, when a feathered cannonball hit the couch, followed by a gust of wind. A rumpled mahogany and white eagle rolled to sitting next to Harry, who was curled defensively in the corner of the sofa. Papers fluttered to the floor as Ron swore under his breath.

The massive bird hopped off the couch and melted into an underwear-clad Malfoy standing on the carpet. Platinum hair askew, cheeks pink, and eyes shining, Hermione thought he was quite a lovely sight to behold. The lean, defined torso was rather nice, as well. Faint scars criss-crossing his chest surprised her, though.

“Everything okay?” she asked, struggling to keep her eyes north of his chest.

Harry could smell the wind on Malfoy, and it made him wistful. Distractedly, he wondered if Malfoy had ever chased a Snitch as an eagle. That would make for a very short match.

Ignoring his clothes, Malfoy crossed to the kitchen and took a long drink straight from the faucet, scrubbing his hands with his face, and wiping off on a towel. He was in a visibly better mood.

Malfoy turned, striding to his pile of discarded clothing. This room absolutely fucking reeked of sex now. One of them, he assumed Weasley, had braided her hair. And all three of them looked very happily rumpled. Malfoy smirked. Maybe this venture could be worth the trouble.

“Yeah, they’re fine. They found an open dumpster behind a sushi place.”

Ron snorted. “Loyal friends you’ve got.”

Malfoy shrugged, elegantly balancing to put his socks on. “Opportunistic.”

Harry snapped back from fantasies of catching Snitches in talons and blurted, “I have so many questions.”

Pulling up his pants, Malfoy grinned. “Ten-thousand foot altitudes and one-hundred and fifty mile an hour dives. Roughly.”

“Merlin…” Harry gasped. Malfoy nodded and hummed his agreement, zipping up and slipping his shoes on. Harry thought Malfoy looked like he’d just had the shag of his life and was preparing for a second round. He made a promise to himself to research the Animagus potion soon.

Malfoy slipped his shirt on, and Harry caught a glimpse of fine white scars across his abdomen. He hadn’t given a second thought to whether the damage from his curse had left a mark, assuming a Healer had taken care of it. Apparently not. Malfoy caught him looking and smiled softly. Harry felt a flush of guilt, but it didn’t seem like Malfoy held any resentment.

Buttoning his cuffs, Malfoy rummaged through his trouser pockets. “Granger, I’ll give you my post address in Truro, and you can let me know what you decide.”

“Truro?!” Ron barked. “That’s way too close to the Burrow.” Godric, they were practically neighbors, and he hadn’t known. Malfoy dismissed the outburst with a shrug.

“Oh, decide about what?” she asked, disoriented by the sight of him dressing, and fighting a post-coital nap.

Malfoy bit his lip and smirked. “Whether you’d like to fuck me behind Weasley’s back or where he can watch.”

“Oh, fuck off and stay fucked off, Malfoy.” Ron muttered half-heartedly.

“Lady’s choice.” Malfoy chuckled, hands raised in surrender. “Nice braid.”

“Fine, fine. Lady’s choice.” Ron nodded, cringing a little. It was a shitty braid. He made a mental note to ask one of his sisters-in-law to teach him how to do it properly.

Malfoy straightened, addressing the room, “Alright, well. I had an awful time, and I hope to not see any of you too terribly soon. Potter,” he said, turning to Harry, “lovely to finally get a good look at you.” He shot Harry an awkward thumbs up at hip level.

Harry’s face flushed, and he again questioned his decision to not stay dead.

Handing the note off to Hermione, Malfoy headed for the door.

“Why a Muggle post box?” Hermione asked, looking at the address.

“And why the bloody bomber owls?” Ron chimed in.

“The last free Death Eater is quite a catch,” he said, winking to Hermione. Holding Harry’s gaze a moment, he turned and left.

Chapter Text

“Oi, you’re not supposed to be here!” shouted a man's voice, cutting through the silence of the dim vault.

Harry jumped, nearly dropping his coffee. “Adams, you fuckwit! ‘Bout pissed myself.”

“Sorry, Potter. But really, why are you down here on your day off?”

“Oh…” Harry groaned. He’d forgotten he wasn’t on the schedule today, and had shown up out of habit. It explained why he didn’t have any fresh cases on his desk all morning. “Uhm, just doing some side research. Off the clock.”

Adams leaned against the opposite wall of file drawers, not in a hurry to go anywhere. His stocky build always reminded him of Ron, but his carefully-coiffed brunette side-part made him look like a lecherous lounge singer.

“Why are you down here? Just generally avoiding your cases again?” Harry asked disapprovingly.

“Nah. Yeah. Kinda. Got a Howler and figured opening it at my desk was poor form.” He waved a scarlet envelope.

Luckily, Adams wasn’t the type to give much of a shit about his coworkers beyond active case investigation. Harry was grateful for his disinterest today, despite how much a pain in the ass Adams was as a colleague.

“Right, well, I’ll be in the disarm chamber. Have fun snooping.” Adams said, straightening to leave. Harry was momentarily concerned what the hell kind of Howlers warranted opening a space designed for defusing lethal charms.

He watched Adams leave before turning back to the file cabinet drawer.

Harry was not snooping. No, snooping implied that he didn’t have the authority or justification to be down in the records vault. He was an Auror, and he was investigating the criminal history of a parolee because…. The felon in question had recently… Something… Hm.

What was he going to say if someone noticed he’d accessed the records? He couldn’t touch them without it being magically recorded in a log somewhere upstairs.

“Oh!” he exclaimed softly to himself. He’d intercepted that owl addressed to Malfoy!

He had just cause to look into the case files, given that he’d intervened. Granted, that also meant he should fill out a report about the owl, but that would result in a lot of questions. A missing report was a slap on the wrist compared to having his sex life critiqued at work.

The number of Malfoys with case files was alarming. Though, he surmised, it wasn’t so different with Muggles. The wealthy could afford fines and dodge incarceration, so perhaps they were more prone to petty crime.

A slim white file stood out amongst the other colors. “Malfoy, D. L., Jun. 5, 1980, #58720”.

Harry pulled it halfway up, and peeked inside. A single paper, printed on Ministry letterhead was visible.

“Records for #58720 stored in office of G. Robards. Available upon request.”

Harry sighed and tucked the file back down. That wasn’t helpful. Disarming an owl wasn’t a good enough reason to put in a request for restricted records.

Not willing to call his forfeited day a loss, his fingers walked further back in the drawer to a thick folder labelled “Malfoy, L.A., Sep. 8, 1955, #51487, 1 of 5”.

Four equally-packed folders sat behind this one. Taking in the drawer as a whole, he noted that Lucius’s records took up half the damn drawer. Merlin’s mustache, that was a lot of paperwork. He pitied the Aurors who’d had to fill all of this out.

Pulling the first folder, he opened it to an index on the first page. A case folder that required an index was new to him. And there were tabs in the folder. That wasn’t standard.

The index listed Lucius’s charges in the order they’d been filed. This whole folder looked to be from his youth, which, while interesting, wasn’t what Harry was really hunting for.

Sliding it back in place, he pulled the fifth folder out. This one was still crisp, which was surprising, given Lucius had been in Azkaban for over five years now. Opening it, he noted this one didn’t have tabs or an index. In fact, it didn’t have anything but row after row of the same table. Pages upon pages of the same table.

The first column was labelled “Date Charges Filed”, all from 2003, in chronological order. Someone had had to deal with a mountain of paperwork four years ago. Poor bastards.

The second column was labelled “Status”, under which every entry was labelled as “Pending”. Good Godric, Harry thought. Lucius Malfoy had hundreds of criminal charges still pending.

The third column should have been the charge, but every line repeated “Statute Pending”. That was odd. Either something was or wasn’t a crime.

The fourth column was labelled “Incident Date”, and the dates varied wildly between the mid 1980’s and 2003. Filing charges several years after an incident date wasn’t uncommon, but he’d never seen decades-long delays.

The last column was labelled “Source”, which was generally used to link evidence to the case for ease of prosecution. This column just had “#58720” in every blank. Shrugging, Harry figured it was a mistake.

He tucked the file back in, and stepped back to slide the drawer shut, when “Malfoy, D. L., Jun. 5, 1980, #58720” on the white folder caught his eye.

“No…” he whispered to himself. The Source number matched Malfoy’s identification number. Malfoy was the source witness for absolutely hundreds of crimes against his own father. Had he testified willingly? Was that how he’d gotten such a short sentence in Azkaban? Why were the incident dates so spread out?

Harry had more questions now than when he’d started snooping. Investigating. Not snooping. Aurors do not snoop.

A heavy door slammed shut around the corner, and Harry jumped. Adams came strolling along the side aisle, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “Good Howler?” Harry called, hating Adams’ shit-eating grin.

“Hm. I do like ‘em feisty,” he said with a smirk, swinging the main door open.

Harry scratched his chin, thinking. Maybe there were details about the charges in the fourth folder. He pulled it, searching for the start of the seemingly endless table of dates.

“Summary of Pending Actions” grabbed his attention. “Charges awaiting trial, pending statute clarification by Wizengamot Committee on Wizard Rights. Scheduled September 30th, 2007.”

Harry struggled to make sense of the bureaucratic wording. Whatever all these charges were that Malfoy had filed against his father, they were for a crime that maybe wasn’t a crime? What was the Committee on Wizard Rights, anyway? Whatever it was, they were meeting next month.

So, if he was interpreting this correctly, after this Committee decision, Lucius either would or wouldn’t be prosecuted for hundreds of additional crimes? No wonder Malfoy’s file was in Robards’ office. It probably took up an entire wall.

Checking the time, Harry put the folder back and shut the drawer. A quick peruse through the next drawer showed a similar situation for Narcissa’s records. An entire folder with the same table of pending charges, all with Malfoy listed as the source again.

Whatever Lucius and Narcissa had been doing for decades, Malfoy had spilled the family secrets, smeared them like jam all over the Ministry records, and walked away. If he’d done this with all the Death Eaters, it was no wonder he was accustomed to receiving lethal owls.

It was either incredibly brave, or incredibly cowardly, depending on whether Malfoy’s goal had been justice or avoiding Azkaban. Maybe it was both.

Harry slid the drawer shut and considered checking the files of the other known Death Eaters in Azkaban, but figured it wouldn’t yield anything more detailed. He’d check Lucius and Narcissa’s files again in October.

Stretching, he grabbed his coffee from the top of the file cabinet and headed for the door. Maybe he’d go bug Ron at the store to kill the afternoon. It wasn’t pestering if he brought lunch.

—————————

Draco twirled one of the extra baseball cards pinched between two fingers. Visiting Azkaban really wasn’t a major hardship, and they knew it. Minimum-security family visits meant it was just him and his parents at this conference table with two bored guards standing in the corners.

The cell block guards would escort them in and hand them off to these two men. All of them bristled with an assortment of magical weaponry. They had a few new toys on their belts, he noticed. Ones he hadn’t tasted during his stay. Superb.

The amount of firepower granted to the guards was absurd, and he’d always wondered what would have happened if he’d have disarmed one and used their Ministry-issued weapons. Instant death, most likely.

The place was warded to execute, but not keyed to Blood Magic at all. A major oversight on the Ministry’s part, but not surprising, given their chosen ignorance. The familiar whine of Blood Magic echoed down the hall of Death Eaters on a regular basis.

A wandless Lumos would have dropped him immediately, but he could melt through stone with Blood Magic, and no one noticed. A lack of proficiency and wings was likely all that kept the other Death Eaters in their cells.

He’d realized after the first few months of his sentence that he could probably melt the walls and fly away. But then he’d be on the run for the rest of his life. Another ten months in a cell had been the better choice. Probably.

He slid the card back in the stack with the other four, examining the pictures of the men in their uniforms. With a sigh, he inspected his attire. This visit had to happen soon, anyway. And Azkaban wasn’t that horrific. Or maybe his upbringing had just been excellent preparation.

Actually, the time spent in a solitary cell with unlimited reading materials hadn’t been terrible at all. Even the Oubliette had its charms. And he eventually got to volunteer some in the infirmary. Emptying his brain into Pensieve vials with Robards had been the lowlight of the day for months, but not intolerable.

The three meals a day with Narcissa and Lucius had been the real torture. Literally. They’d resumed their lifelong practice of flanking him at the table, each with a hand in contact with him. Subtly, slowly, drawing Blood Magic curses through him.

Sometimes it was random jolts. Sometimes it was a highly codified signal system of behavior modification. It was a fun game of “See how we still own you.” An entire language spoken in syllables of pain.

Eating soup too loudly generally resulted in a scalding sensation down one arm. Not paying attention to conversation yielded electric shocks in one ear. His teeth accidentally clinking against fork tines still made him feel his mother’s razor-sharp lines of magic down his cheek. But the triggers were fading.

He hadn’t realized formal dinners could be enjoyable until he started getting heirs-only invitations from his peers. Grinning, he wondered, for the umpteenth time, how Pansy had folded napkins into genitalia for his fifteenth birthday dinner.

The door clicked, ruining his reverie. Narcissa entered, Lucius on her heels. The guards exchanged bored glances and a set of keys while his parents… no… The Malfoys settled themselves into horrible plebeian office chairs.

Her hair was in a braid, which was unusual, and Lucious was glaring at her. It surprised him how quickly he’d adjusted to seeing them in their gray prison jumpsuits. Remembering them in formalwear almost felt disingenuous.

“Lovely plait,” Draco said offhandedly, thumbnail worrying the edge of the file folder he’d brought along.

“Lovely mop,” she retorted. “Getting a bit neglected, aren’t we?”

“Why change course now?” he shot back.

Lucius cleared his throat, and Draco welcomed the intrusion. He hadn’t come here for a fight.

“Right.” Draco sighed, straightening. “Odbert requires signatures, both in ink and in magic.” He slid the folder and a Muggle ink pen across the table with a nod to the nearer guard. The guard would need to supervise the magical signature.

“Did you fritter it all away already?” Narcissa sniped. “Spend it all on pretty boys and Elf wine?” She didn’t look at him as she spoke, not bothering to lower herself to something as base as eye contact with her own son.

He bit the inside of his lip, rethinking what was going to be a casual lie about redecorating the Manor. If she was in the mood to fight, she’d interrogate his plans and follow up on them until she found a crack in his story.

“Cissy…” Lucius warned, taking out the forms.

It was almost heartening the way Lucius had gradually come to not care who he bedded. Pity the sentiment hadn’t spread to her.

“Well,” Narcissa huffed indignantly, “I just think we ought to know why he suddenly wants access to…” She trailed off, leaning over to inspect the papers. “… to our personal vaults when he has his own. Seems suspicious to me, Lucius.”

Lucius tapped the end of the pen against the paper. “It is a bit odd, Draco. The estate vaults are yours by right, and we’d be happy to sign a release for those.”

Shit shit shit, he thought, mind racing. The Ministry had liquidated that vault years ago. He needed access to their personal treasure troves. If they were released next year with any assets to their names, they’d be a danger.

Surviving in financial destitution was his happy mud pit, and he couldn’t hope to stand against them unless he pulled them into it. It was time for a whizz-bang of a diversion.

“I… was hoping to look around for some jewelry,” he articulated slowly. Narcissa rolled her eyes. “Rings, in particular.”

“Oh?” Lucius inquired, interest thoroughly piqued. “And who is the lucky witch?”

“Or wizard,” Narcissa spat.

He was grateful he hadn’t eaten breakfast, because it would have threatened to come up. He was going to owe her such a debt for corroborating this lie.

“Well,” he started, “Pansy and I aren’t getting any younger.”

Narcissa squealed, macabre grin splitting her face as she bounced and clapped her hands. Sometimes, she looked and acted entirely too much like Aunt Bella, and it made his blood run cold.

Lucius simply nodded and signed the paper. “Logical choice. I believe there’s a set of emerald rings in a desk drawer in mine.” He glanced over to the guard for permission to press a magical signature into a square on the form.

Narcissa tented her hands over her mouth, stifling her squeal. “Oh, no, Lucy, I think Pansy would like the fire opal set my grandparents wore.” She snatched the pen from him and slammed a magical signature onto the paper without consulting the guards.

Draco grimaced, already planning to tell them Pansy dumped him in a month or so. And fire opals? Who wore fire opals? Certainly not the de mode Pansy Parkinson.

“Darling,” Narcissa cooed, “please don’t elope. I know your generation feels it’s… liberating, but it’s terribly gauche.”

“Right,” he ceded, taking the folder and pen back.

Narcissa gasped, and he flinched. “A winter wedding in the gardens, Lucy! Not this winter, of course, but next winter.”

Draco pushed his chair away, relieved to get their signatures, but already worrying about the issues he’d just created down the line. Gardens? They didn’t own any fucking gardens.

“Anyway, I’m off,” he said, rising. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Be careful, son,” Lucius murmured, frowning under Narcissa’s sudden fawning.

The door to the visitation room swung open, and he stepped through.

One-hundred and sixty-fourth visit, not that he was counting.

—————————

Ron was not having a good cry in his office. An executive decompression workshop, sure. But definitely not crying in his desk chair.

His floor manager had up and quit to chase a woman across Scotland, he’d caught two of his best employees helping themselves to petty cash, the store expansion was delayed into next month, his excavation at the Burrow had unexpectedly hit bedrock, and he’d forgotten his sodding lunch.

There would be no way to get new staff trained and find a way to shelve the expanded merchandise before the Hogwarts student body descended on the store like pubescent locusts next week.

For the eighth time that day, he considered running away to chase dragons with his feckless brothers. It would serve them right for shoving the store off on him after they got bored with it.

“Fucking hell.” Ron sniffed, wiping his eyes. The expansion had been on track for the start of the term. Moving the store beyond candy and pranks had been his goal for five years, now he’d be missing the critical window. Weasley’s Emporium would have to wait, he surmised.

Expanding the footprint of the store was going to be critical to justifying its finances. The sudden and dramatic increase in revenue was sure to raise eyebrows sometime soon. He was surprised, as an early investor, that Harry hadn’t noticed. He really didn’t want to pit their friendship against his Auror loyalty.

Maybe he could put together a grand re-opening in November for Christmas shopping. Actually, that was a solid plan. And his lead cashier knew most of the floor manager duties. She was more reliable than the wanker on his way to Scotland, too.

“Okay,” he sighed, picking up a quill to jot down the fires he needed to put out this afternoon.

Something thudded softly, but firmly, against his door. Not a knock. He waited, figuring it was an accident.

Two thuds in a row sounded, followed by someone rattling the doorknob. Annoyed, Ron kicked off and wheeled the chair over to the door. He would never admit how much time he spent kicking around the room in the chair.

“Harry? What gives?” Ron said, finding Harry readying himself for a third round of headbutting the door.

“Mmph hmph mm mm,” Harry hummed around a bag in his teeth. Ron took the paper bag. “My hands were full. Thanks.”

“So set one down,” Ron said, shaking his head. “Plonker.”

He opened the bag and rolled his eyes. Dried hibiscus flowers taunted him.

“And here I thought you’d brought me something. Mum’ll be thrilled. You are her favorite son, after all.”

“I was near that cafe, so I stopped.” Harry held out one of the other bags. “This one’s for you.”

Ron opened the bag tentatively, hoping it wasn’t quiche. A sandwich and crisps greeted him.

Harry sat on a dusty office chair, taking in the tissues on the desk, and his friend’s red-rimmed eyes.

“So, how’s the expansion going?” he asked, already guessing the answer.

“Well,” Ron mumbled around a mouthful of sandwich. “Not great. But I think it’ll work out.”

He filled Harry in on the day’s woes, feeling immeasurably better by the time he got to the bottom of his crisps. Brushing off his hands, he examined Harry’s attire. “Did you go to work on your day off again, mate?”

Harry sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.” He considered telling Ron about looking through the Malfoys’ files, but decided against it. They’d left Hermione’s flat on decent terms a few nights ago, and he wasn’t eager to ruin that.

“You need some hobbies, Har.”

Ron turned back to his desk and list of smoldering fires. With a now-clearer head, none of the issues seemed huge. Most of them looked rather dull, actually.

“I have hobbies,” Harry replied unconvincingly.

“You have vices, at best,” Ron said conclusively. “I’ve got like, one thing to take care of on the way out, then you wanna blow bedrock up at the Burrow?”

“Godric, yes.”

“Hang on,” Ron said, hearing a welcome voice out in the hall. He wheeled himself over to the door and stuck his head out. “Jacinda! Wanna be floor manager?”

Harry heard a woman utter a questioning “Yes?”

“Great! Congrats! Hire a couple new faces out of the pool, and we’ll sort it tomorrow.”

A sliver of envy prickled in Harry that he could never autonomously alter the course of three people’s lives in a single interaction like that. Everything he did was swaddled in red tape and paperwork. Not without cause, granted. An Auror’s arsenal was more destructive than the granting of middle management positions.

But, still.

—————————

Draco was absolutely having an existential crisis instead of a nap, and it was decidedly not restful. The noon sun was usually enough to make him nod off, but today, sprawling in bed and contemplating his overall reason for living won out. Heir to the Malfoy Misfortune, he thought to himself. None of that mattered anymore.

At least the bed was nice, he thought. Pondering crises of being in Azkaban had been less comfortable. Physically, at least.

The bed had come out of the estate vault years ago. The Ministry appraiser had deemed it worthless, and thus available to him. He’d actually been prepared to negotiate with Robards after seeing them pull it out, and maybe Robards had picked up on that.

It was enormous. Nearly a room unto itself. The frame was low, but nothing special. The mattress, however, was a smooth, almost-too-hard, feather-packed expanse that curved up gently around the edges and wafted a delicate, sweet, earthy scent. He didn’t like to admit it, but it was very reminiscent of a nest, and he suspected the feathers weren’t from ordinary birds.

In lieu of a headboard, the bed was pushed up against an outcrop of the stone wall. The top of the outcrop made a handy shoulder-height shelf when sitting leaned against it. Not a bad height for bending someone over, either. If it weren’t covered in treasures.

Sitting up against it, he inspected the clutter on either side of his shoulders: Books in various stages of progress, his small blade for highly-dubious magic, his glasses, journals, pens, a jar of India ink, three sketch books, two half-consumed cups of tea, shiny rocks, shells, sea glass, candles, matches, and a few pearls.

It struck him as something a magpie would accumulate, and he huffed a small laugh. The pearls were his favorite, and he rolled them around in his palm. Two of them, he’d almost cracked his beak on, not expecting them in the mussels he’d been eating. After that, he’d gotten more cautious. Mussels were a rare and dangerous treat.

There were four, and they were raggedy, lovely things; awkward blobs of shimmery peach and ivory nacre.

Such a far cry from the ludicrously uniform necklaces Narcissa had owned. Narcissa in pearls was a contrived, polished, entirely fake thing. He’d stopped thinking of her as “mother” years ago.

His little baubles were his, owing their life in the sun to him, and him alone. He ran the largest one, a blushing pink disc like a glazed rose petal, across his lip, feeling the subtle dips and ripples in the enamel. The urge to pop it in his mouth and roll it around was squelched by the irrational fear he’d accidentally swallow it. There was a rough spot on one end, and he rubbed it against his lower lip, thinking.

They were interesting, and distracting enough to tug his mind away from his existential dread long enough to refocus.

Perhaps it was enough to spend his life finding beautiful things in the bay and bringing them to the surface. It was a far cry from being raised to inherit and run an empire, but maybe it was enough. Draco Magpie, he mused. It had a certain ring to it.

Calmer, he set the pearls back in their shells, and slid back down onto a pillow. It was a sunny day, but the sun seemed to have come out from behind a cloud, regardless. An exceedingly bright day, he thought, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he exclaimed, as blue-white light drifted in through his window, coalescing into a stag. “Potter, you utter fucking tosser!”

Turning, the stag beckoned him to follow. “No! I’m not doing this again!”

The stag reared, preparing to charge the bed. Draco yelped and rolled off the opposite side of the bed. He and the stag glared a challenge at each other. The stag lowered its head in silent supplication.

“Fine,” he huffed, throwing on clothes and stuffing his pockets with necessities from the ledge. “Let’s go.”

———————

The Patronus put on impressive speed at cruising height, and he struggled to keep up. His eagle convoy was miles behind.

His suspicions were confirmed when it led him to the Burrow, and promptly wisped out of existence. Wary of hitting the Weasleys’ wards, he circled, testing for resistance. Feeling none, he coasted down in the direction the Patronus had been traveling.

The field was an absolute battlefield of man versus earth. Heaps of soil and piles of rubble littered the plain. Several immense pits gouged the landscape. Dread crept through him as he scanned. What the fuck had happened here?

Vaguely, he heard someone yelling. A man was yelling his name. Potter.

He caught movement and saw Potter waving one arm like a madman. He was sitting atop a prone form with flame-colored hair. Around Potter, the person, presumably Ron, was drenched in maroon.

Blood, he realized. An entire human body’s worth of blood.

Landing and trotting up to them, he took in the situation before he could make out Potter’s words. Potter had his knee dug into Weasley’s groin on one side, and his fingers on one of Weasley’s wrists. Salazar, there was so much blood.

Potter’s entire torso was smeared in it. The rest of him was coated in gray rock dust. It turned his black hair ashen, and smeared his glasses.

This was how he remembered Potter. Glasses askew, covered in chaos.

“Malfoy! Fuck! We were busting up rock and then he was screaming and bleeding and then he stopped moving and I can’t fucking Apparate like this and I can’t get him to the Floo and everybody’s gone and-” Potter continued, but Malfoy had garnered what he needed already.

“You have your wand, Potter?” he asked calmly, old training taking over.

“Yeah, and I did what I could, but I only know triage spells and it wasn’t enough and every time I move more blood-“ He stopped short as Malfoy held a hand up to quiet him.

“How’s his pulse?”

“Too fast, and almost gone.” Harry replied shakily. “I wasn’t sure if you knew better spells, or could just Apparate him, or-“

“I can’t do any of that, Potter. Conditions of parole.”

“Oh, shit. Shit shit shit shit…” Harry chanted. Tears trickled from under the frames of his glasses, soaking into the layer of dust on his cheeks.

Godric, Harry thought, why hadn’t he sent the Patronus to someone who could fucking Apparate? Or at least someone who had a fucking wand at their disposal. He’d known Malfoy was on parole. And he knew what typical restrictions were. He was an Auror. A fucking stupid Auror.

Harry watched Malfoy take a small knife from his pocket and balance on the balls of his feet between Ron’s thighs. Slipping the tip of the knife gash in the fabric near Harry’s knee, he cut the trousers carefully around Harry’s knee, then split them up to the waistband, effectively baring Ron’s whole hip. Pooled blood flowed out from under the trousers, and Harry's vision quavered.

Malfoy frowned as his fingertips slicked the edge of Ron’s briefs as he honed in on the weak pulse above Harry’s knee. He sighed heavily. Harry’s assessment had been accurate. Ron’s pulse was nothing but a faint whisper under his fingers.

“If we can get him to the Floo, I can get him-“ Harry started, panicking at the sight of all the blood that came away with the fabric.

“We can’t get him to the house.” Malfoy said, kneeling. Blood soaked into his trousers without his notice.

Malfoy looked at the thin blade and worn, ornate handle in his hand and the fine white lines that melded together between his fingers. Harry squinted through dusty glasses, not sure what the other man was doing.

“Potter, how litigious an Auror are you?” he asked, studying Harry’s face carefully.

“What?” Harry asked, startled. It was an odd time to be discussing his work-related ethics.

“I can fix this, but I’m not going back to Azkaban because you couldn’t keep your Muggleborn mouth shut,” he spat, knowing full well Potter was clueless.

Harry was torn between suspecting Malfoy’s cure was worse than the disease and his desperation at losing Ron. It wasn’t Ron’s fault Harry had made the idiotic choice to summon the only wizard he knew who was incapable of Apparition.

“If it saves him, I don’t care what it is,” he decided.

Malfoy grinned. “Alright, Potter, but I swear to Salazar, you take this to your grave, or I put you in it early.”

“Fine, fine,” Harry choked out. “Just do it!”

Malfoy slid the blade between his ring and middle finger, not flinching. A slow trickle of blood ran down his palm. His lips moved, but Harry couldn’t make out any words.

Magic prickled up Harry’s neck, spreading over his face in hot pinpoints. The magic was suffocating and hot and tasted like sweat. He’d expected Malfoy to slip a secret want out of his pocket, not whatever this was.

“Okay,” whispered Malfoy. “When I say move, roll as far away as you can.”

Harry nodded, eager to get away from whatever magic this was.

Malfoy cupped his hand, gathering a small pool of blood in his palm. The weight of the power around Harry flowed toward Malfoy’s hand, and Harry took a deep breath, glad to be rid of it. Malfoy was whispering again, and the air around his hand vibrated.

“Now!” he yelled, and thrust his palm onto Ron’s thigh. Harry barely had time to move his knee before Malfoy’s hand crashed down. Rolling away and coming to his knees, he watched as Malfoy grit his teeth, shut his eyes, and pushed the vibrating mass down with the weight of his body. He was breathing hard, lips still moving, hand clawing into Ron’s shredded flesh.

The vibration turned into an audible whine as Malfoy’s other hand went to Ron’s chest. It was a vaguely familiar sound, but Harry couldn’t place it.

Sweat dripped down Malfoy’s nose as he panted, crushing some unseen force into Ron’s wound.

Malfoy’s face relaxed as his breathing slowed. Still whispering, his hand slowly moved down Ron’s torso to lay over the hand on his wound.

Harry watched as Malfoy’s hands slid to a cupped position over the wound, his lips stilling and eyes opening.

“Mal-“ Harry started.

Malfoy scowled and shook his head. Tilting his hands and opening them, a large, bloody shard of granite tumbled out.

Harry paled. It was the size of his hand. That should have taken Ron’s leg off.

Ron was breathing steadily, and some color had come to his cheeks. Malfoy still wouldn’t look at him for confirmation, but a sob of relief was building in Harry’s throat.

Malfoy’s eyes were shut, and he was mouthing something again. His hands had started an elegant, repetitive pattern of weaving and plucking.

Enraptured, Harry mused that it looked like sewing and playing a harp. Malfoy’s fingers seemed to touch something physical and bounce away with each pluck.

Eyes turning up to Malfoy’s face, he noted the man looked positively wrung out. His color had been high when he started, and now he didn’t look much better than Ron had.

Malfoy turned, catching Harry’s gaze, too tired to interpret it.

“Done,” he breathed, and sat down hard on the ground by Ron’s feet.

Harry rushed to Ron, checking his pulse. Ron moaned and opened one eye cautiously.

“Ron! Fuck! Oh, thank Merlin!” Harry gushed, relief finally breaking from his throat.

Ron rolled to one shoulder and took in the mess of his trousers and the blood that was just… everywhere.

His fingers found the bloody sliver of rock and held it up, eyes wide. Sitting up, he noticed Malfoy, who was pressing the small cut between his fingers with the hem of his shirt.

Ron took in the cut on Malfoy’s hand, the slender blade resting on his thigh, and the unholy amount of blood. Malfoy looked up to find Ron glaring at him.

Harry watched Ron’s reaction, confused. He didn’t expect Ron to leap into Malfoy’s arms, but the man had just saved his life.

Malfoy’s tired smirk didn’t reach his eyes. “Good morning, kin.”

“What the fuck did you let him do, Harry?!”

——————————————

He wanted to talk to them, but couldn’t find a voice in the dream. The eaglets bounced around him as he walked through the rubble field outside the Burrow. Four of them again.

Their movements had become more intentional in the last few months. They no longer careened in unpredictable directions, but tended to stay in his proximity.

His hand skimmed the hair on their heads as they drifted next to him. Reaching the spot Ron had been laid out, he stopped to examine the area. Old blood soaked the ground like tar oozing up from the dirt.

His throat worked, trying to address them, but no words formed. It was difficult enough steering his vision and motion.

What would he call them, anyway? They weren’t eagles anymore.

One of them drifted into the middle of the patch of blood and froze. He could only watch its head turned, and he saw a face for the first time.

Brown eyes bored into him, and the child blinked. Its body pivoted, and it turned to walk to him, feet solidly on the ground. Draco blinked, and the child had deep auburn hair.

The child touched his hand, and he woke to a woman screaming.

——————————————

Ron sat on the toilet lid, still furious enough to be snapping at Harry while he showered. The bathroom on the top floor of the house was practically made for private feuds, which this had become.

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t let you die. Okay, Ron?” Harry said sarcastically. He was scrubbing Ron’s blood off his own arms, and the irony wasn’t lost.

“I know, it’s just complicated.” Ron sighed. “You couldn’t have known.”

Harry moved on to washing his hair. He could have just rinsed the rock dust out, but Ginny had left some very expensive shampoo back home.

“So, maybe explain what the fuck I just watched? Cuz I’m a sodding Auror, and I don’t know what that was. Or why he could do it without a wand. Or why he was worried about me ratting him out, but not worried about setting off the Ministry’s Trace on him.”

Ron turned to face the shower, resting his elbow on the toilet tank.

He sighed, trying to decide how much was wise to tell Harry. The man wasn’t famous for discretion.

“Okay. So. Blood magic.” Ron said with unwarranted authority. “Uh… yeah.”

“Great explanation, Ron. Very helpful.” Harry decided to wash his hair twice. Finders keepers, Ginny, he thought.

“Right, so you know it’s forbidden.” Ron said, scratching his beard thoroughly.

“No shit, Ron. Auror.” Harry snapped, eyes closed under the water. “Maybe start with how it works?”

“I have no fucking idea, mate.” Ron shrugged. “The Weasleys stopped passing it down generations ago.”

“Why on earth would they do that? Seems like a bloody useful skill.” Harry stood under the hot water, thinking. He wondered if his father had known how to use it.

“Yeah, I suppose.” Ron agreed before continuing. “Blood Magic is what all the wars were over. Basically. I do know that much.”

“What?!” Harry yelled, whipping the shower curtain open. He was pretty sure he’d gotten all the shampoo off, and he very much needed to glare at Ron. Or in Ron’s general direction, he thought as his fingers fumbled around the sink for his glasses.

“So, I guess, only Purebloods can use it, and they’re super secretive about it, and only teach it to their own kids, and I didn’t honestly think there were wizards still using it.” Ron tried to tone down his defensive ramble. “Makes sense the Malfoys never gave it up, of everyone. Racist pricks.”

Ron threw Harry a towel, quietly envying Harry’s abs, but knowing damn well he wasn’t willing to go through the training Harry did.

Toweling off, Harry asked, “So why would your family give it up?”

Ron bit the inside of his lip in thought, embarrassed by his own lack of knowledge on something fairly pivotal in wizard society. “Solidarity? Basically. It was a serious case of the haves and have-nots, so most families who could use it quit teaching their kids.”

“Why not just share the wealth, then?” Harry suggested.

“I think you can’t have, like, any Muggle ancestors. And it’s complicated as shit. I remember Dad saying it was equivalent to learning a language, an instrument, and a dance, and performing all three in perfect synchrony.”

Harry recalled Malfoy looking exactly like he was doing all of that while piecing Ron back together. It seemed exhausting. But that didn’t explain why Ron was so angry about it.

“But why is it a bad thing, Ron? Why is it illegal?”

Ron opened the door to let the steam out and tried to summarize. “It’s the original Dark Art. And it’s unTraceable. So like, if you can figure it out, you can get away with a lot of shady shit.”

“Ohh…” Harry said, finally understanding. That would be an Auror’s nightmare. And explained why Malfoy hadn’t wanted to use it in front of him. And why it was illegal. “Why did he call you ‘kin’, and why did you look like you wanted to kill him for it?”

Ron smoothed his beard down, the humidity having roughed it up.

“Because he’s a dramatic ponce,” Ron spat, but continued with a sigh. “It creates some kind of temporary bond. I’m not really sure what it’ll amount to or how long it’ll last, but it’s Malfoy, so I don’t fucking want it.”

Harry strutted naked out and down to Ron’s room, Ron trailing behind.

“A bond? Like… a sexual thing?” Harry asked sheepisly, not looking back at Ron.

“No, I don’t think so. Like, I can tell he’s asleep downstairs, and dreaming about something he likes, but only if I think about him.” Ron’s face screwed up in disgust. “It’s gross. I’m not looking forward to knowing when he’s taking a shit or jerking off.”

Harry’s gut lurched at the idea of Ron being privy to Malfoy wanking, but he ignored it. He rummaged through Ron’s shirts, pulling out one he’d loaned Ron years ago. Ron tossed him a pair of jogging shorts.

“Might be fun if Hermione ends up fucking him.” Harry mumbled into the shirt as he slipped it on. He looked to Ron for a reaction, but he was staring intently at the wall.

“He’s awake. And shit terrified.” Ron chuckled. A high-pitched keening echoed up the stairs.

“Ronald Bilious Weasley!” roared Molly voice.

They grinned and slowly made their way downstairs.

———————————————

“Sit still, or I’ll whop you again.” Molly said, seething as she glared at Malfoy in the mirror.

He grudgingly listened. He had to admit, she was better with scissors and a comb than Narcissa. And she’d insisted on the haircut. Narcissa had only ever done it for appearances, and only until he was ten.

Asking her to leave it a little longer had been enough to make her leave in a huff, and a house elf came in to finish. That may have been the last time she touched him for more than presentation or punishment, he thought.

Out of the corner of his eye, Malfoy noticed Potter raise something in his hand and heard a click. Edging his chin slightly, he saw Potter holding his mobile up. The sharp slap of a comb on the back of his neck brought him face center. Harry and Ron sat on stools at the table, pints in hand, swallowing their laughter.

“Potter. If you just did what I think you did, and you send it where I think you’re going to send it, I will end you.”

Ron focused on Malfoy and felt the lie in his threat. The man was practically euphoric having a comb running up his scalp. Euphoria and… grief? Ron tried to not dissect that.

“Don’t send it, Har,” he mumbled into his bottle.

“But she’d love it!” Harry argued.

Ron took a long swig. “Just don’t, mate. It’s just… not done. I don’t think ‘Mione knows about haircuts and mums and shit.”

“Language!” Molly leveled the comb at Ron.

“Oh, shit,” Harry whispered. “She probably doesn’t. I only learned about it from Ministry orientation.”

Molly muttered something tersely about host families and exchange students.

“Mum, did you ever talk to ‘Mione about not leaving Polyjuice potion ingredients in Muggle salons?” Ron asked.

“Polyjuice if you’re lucky.” Malfoy hummed drowsily. “Crinis Laqueus if you’re not.”

“No, dear, I never thought to mention it to Hermione,” Molly replied. “Draco, I’d say you’re done. Much better. Whoever’s been cutting your hair doesn’t know cowlicks.”

“Oh. Luna,” he slurred. Merlin, he’d never been so tired. Just staying upright in the chair was a challenge.

Molly flicked a Tergeo across his head and shoulders. “Go back to sleep. Soup and cake when you wake.”

Malfoy didn’t move, other than the nearly imperceptible forward tilt of his head. Ron focused on him, and felt his exhaustion steadily giving way to blackness.

“Going down!” Ron yelled, hopping off the stool. Molly snagged Malfoy’s collar and pulled him back, supporting his head.

“Boys, lay him down somewhere,” she instructed, turning to set out things for the soup.

Having deposited an unconscious Malfoy on the couch, they returned to their stools and mugs. A couple pints and a solid buzz hadn’t made the situation any less surreal.

Molly had done a better job explaining Blood Magic to Harry than Ron had, her grandfather being the last practitioner in the family. Malfoy had been noticeably silent during her meager explanation. Harry still had questions, but Molly had been reluctant to talk about it.

According to her, Ron could expect the bond to fade in a week or two, and he was grounded from anything she could ground an adult man from. Which, it turned out, was mainly pudding.

“Mum,” Ron asked softly. “Why the haircut? Why the soup and cake?”

“First off, he pulled an infirmary’s worth of Blood Magic into my son who effectively killed himself doing... what was it again?”

Harry and Ron looked at each other, and back at Molly. “Uhm… layering Confrindos on Bombardas,” Ron confessed. It hadn’t been the best idea, combining an exploding spell with an exploding charm, but it had worked great.

“Ah, yes, my brilliant son. And his equally fireproof accomplice.” She fixed Harry with a stern glare for good measure.

“Second, he needed a haircut. From a mother.” She paused, wand busy with vegetable chopping.

“He’s got a mum. She’s just a bitch.” Ron said, sneaking a handful of carrot slices from the cutting board. He waited for her to yell at him for his word choice.

Molly set a mixing bowl and cake ingredients floating toward the counter, thinking about Narcissa. They’d really been quite close until Narcissa’s second pregnancy. But she could hardly talk to the boys about that. She doubted even Draco knew.

“In most ways, you’re right. But she wasn’t always such an utter bitch-” Molly started.

“Language!” Ron hollered, mouth full of carrot. Molly rolled her eyes.

“There were several years where we were nearly friends. They’ve been here many times, you know. Bill and Percy remember. Used to sit right there.” She flicked a hand toward a chair by the fireplace. “She stopped coming after Draco was two or three.”

Harry had already learned more than he had the capacity for today, and this was just the icing on the mental overload cake. “Why would she do that? And why would you want her to?”

Molly sighed, focusing on pouring the cake batter into two round pans. She would rather have have this talk with Ginny, though she didn’t necessarily think Ginny would understand. Fleur or Audrey may. They were mothers.

“I think, in a way, she wanted this,” she gestured vaguely around the cozy kitchen, “more than what she had. She wanted a large family, but Lucius and maybe nature were against it. And then he all but discarded her for years after Draco was born. Served her purpose, I suppose.”

“Bastard,” Ron mumbled. “That’s low.” Harry nodded, getting up for another bottle.

“I stopped inviting her over when you were toddlers. We were just… very different mothers.” She slid the pans in the oven perfunctorily. “But maybe I should have stayed in touch.”

The truth was, she thought to herself, that she’d stopped inviting Narcissa over after she’d seen her hex Draco for crying. The more he grew, and the more he resembled Lucius, the more Narcissa had resented him.

Molly pressed her apron to her cheeks and looked through the room to the young man curled up on her couch. Regret welled up in her throat, and she tamped it down.

She could have done for him what she’d done for Harry. Given him a safe place. Shown him family. But instead, she’d watched for over twenty years as his life fell into shambles because of his parents.

And why hadn’t she? If she had to admit it? Really and truly admit it?

She was as afraid of Lucius as Narcissa had been. She chose to cut Narcissa and Draco off for the sake of sparing herself and her family from his wrath. It felt cheap in retrospect. And in the end, Narcissa had eclipsed Lucius’s cruelty.

She dabbed the corners of her eyes with her apron hem, suppressing a sniffle.

“Boys, I’m going out to the garden a while. Turn the soup off after it boils, and take the cake out when it smells done,” she said, turning to leave.

“Yeah, sure, mum,” Ron said, concerned. They watched her leave.

Harry leaned over to Ron, polishing off his third pint. “When does a cake smell done?”

Ron shrugged. It had been a weird day.

Chapter Text

An enormous slug had adhered itself to Hermione’s face. A slug that smelled like paper. And ink.

Half the page came away with her cheek, and she swore under her breath. Falling asleep in a textbook was a new low. But, she thought, if her syllabi and Ministry internship schedule were any indicator, she’d be taking naps anywhere she could.

There were only a few times a month where she needed to be in two places at once. Creative scheduling would be imperative.

A trickle of apprehension tightened her throat. This whole plan could backfire so easily. The Ministry internship was intended to be a full-time position… as was her law school coursework.

But the Ministry schedule was primarily evenings and weekends, the opposite of Cardiff Law. So, in theory, and in white-knuckled forced reality, it would work. Or else.

It had been an impossible opportunity to pass up, so it would just have to work. The Ministry had finally realized they needed better integration of Muggleborns from a legal perspective.

And so, the need for a witch or wizard trained in Muggle law as a liaison between the two worlds had been on the docket for the last five years. It didn’t officially have her name on it, but there weren’t any other Muggleborn law students lining up to challenge her.

She did wonder if it would be a position with any kind of authority or just a public relations stunt. It didn’t matter. She’d push it into useful operation. They certainly needed it.

The Ministry’s ineffective scramble to assist her with her parents had resulted in an official censure from the International Confederation of Wizards. Hogwarts had also received a censure from the ICW, which was unheard of. To her knowledge, both were based on the information she’d presented regarding her need to Obliviate her parents, and then the Ministry and Hogwarts’ absolute neglect afterward.

In the ICW’s opinion, the Ministry should have had tracking and protection in place for her parents for over a decade. There were just so many reasons, large and small, that a liaison was needed. Even if this schedule might kill her.

First the internship, then the Ministry, then the Wizengamot, then the ICW. “Supreme Mugwump Granger” had a certain ring to it. Okay, it didn’t, but she still fantasized about it.

Sliding a red and yellow knit bookmark emblazoned with her name in her page, she closed the book and stretched. Her mother had taken up knitting a few years ago, and awkwardly-curled, never-quite-flat bookmarks had been one of her first projects. They weren’t pretty. And they weren’t especially functional, but they were a bit of family she could take with her.

Her parents had never hinted that they had any intention of moving back, but she thought about it every day. Evenings like this one, dinner at her parents’ table sounded like a perfect refuge.

Ron and Harry were lovely, but they weren’t family. Maybe they could have worked on becoming friends again first if she hadn’t sent Harry that stupid message. If Crookshanks hadn’t sent it.

Then again, the promise of a repeat of the night before last was enough to make her consider forgoing all platonic friendships. That had been… something. And the two of them were undeniably attractive. Three of them, she mused. Malfoy stripping off in her kitchen had been an unexpected treat.

She wandered to the kitchen to check the time. Six o’clock. Six o’clock on a Friday evening, and she was preparing to… what? Heat up some soup and dig into a family law text?

Sad, Granger, she thought. Hmm… maybe Ron and Harry would be up for another go. This time without having to rush. Heat pricked her cheeks as she thought of what could have happened if Malfoy had returned to find her riding Harry with Ron’s cock down her throat.

What would he have done, standing there nearly naked? What would she have done? Invited him into the pile, almost certainly.

Her mug refilled, she sat at the table to think. Everything she’d done today had been interrupted by visceral memories. She’d barely disguised a soft moan as a cough during a lecture. But Godric, they’d been amazing, with Harry below her and Ron in front, and their hands run-

Shaking her head to clear the image, she scolded herself. First decent threesome, and you’re already a fiend.

It had been more than decent, though. Decadent. She shifted in her seat, the beginnings of arousal drawing her attention.

Harry had said he had every other weekend off, but now she couldn’t remember which ones he’d said they were. He might be off tonight. What did Harry Potter do on a typical Friday night? Hang out at the Burrow and play Exploding Snap to avoid the press?

Worth a try. And texting Harry was a hell of a lot faster than waiting in line for the Truro public Floo to contact Ron. And then what, have that conversation within earshot of everyone in the Weasley kitchen?

Oh, hello, Molly. Sorry I haven’t been to visit, but I did fuck your son twice the other night. Quite lovely. Good catching up.

No. Harry won out on the basis of communication. Maybe Ron would consider a mobile. Malfoy certainly wouldn’t.

Busy tonight?

Crookshanks rounded the corner, like his assistance had been personally requested.

“Oh, you can just keep your furry nose out of it. You caused enough trouble last time. But thank you.” Her phone vibrated. Prompt. Promising.

I’ve got a couple hours free.

Ugh, he was going to make her ask again. Like laying it all out last night hadn’t been embarrassing enough.

Would you care to… get together?

Right.
Yeah, for a couple hours.
Gotta be somewhere at 8:30.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” she sighed.

Floo into mine.
I won’t have time to walk to the public from yours after.

Idly, she wondered why his schedule was so tight. Was he working night shifts?

Perfect. Be there in 20. Thank you.

Thank me in 20.
;)

She huffed, amused. Cheeky.

————————————

Hermione Granger was five minutes late, and thus foul play could be assumed. Harry wished he’d have dried his hair better. Or at all.

He left his vigil at the fireplace to find his mobile, but it rumbled to life. A disheveled heap of brown curls and denim tumbled out onto his floor.

Coughing, she righted herself. “That is the worst Floo I’ve ever used,” she grumbled, dusting her clothes off.

Harry suppressed a chuckle. She looked like she’d just slipped off a broom and barrel-rolled halfway across a field.

“I suppose you can just Apparate now that you’ve been here,” he said, taking her in. The anger added a glint to her eyes that he couldn’t help but find appealing.

In school, Ron had waxed on about how cute he found her when she was reading a book. Harry mainly noticed her when she was furious. Usually at Ron. Which Ron found terrifying. Harry found it awkwardly arousing.

It had led to a lot of embarrassing erections under tables on Harry’s part. He’d often watched their fights escalate while hoping they’d end in sex. He’d chosen not to analyze his own desire to watch his teenage friends throw down and rage-fuck in front of him.

“Good point,” she agreed, bringing him back to the present.

She eyed him as he refocused on her. Droplets of water eased down his muscled torso, drawing her gaze to the bulge in the thin, clingy fabric. He was clad in a pair of incredibly short, criminally orange jogging shorts.

She wondered if the back of the shorts was printed with “Caution”. Maybe just a tasteful exclamation point down the middle of his ass. The package deserved a warning.

“I mean, text me before you pop in, but yeah. Way better than whatever Floo Cardiff apparently offers.”

“Sure. I’d hate to Apparate in and find you half-naked,” she said mockingly.

He grinned. ”You would have found me entirely naked if you’d have been on time.”

Shifting awkwardly, he stepped aside to get out of her way. Nervousness tightened his chest. He hadn’t realized how much he generally relied on his name to get women into bed. It was often enough to just exist in a pub, and he’d end up with his pants around his ankles in the loo in short order.

Hell, it’s what had gotten him a date tonight with a hot new Auror recruit. He’d liked that she was bold enough to ask him out for drinks. More accurately, she’d threatened to drink him under the table, which he found immensely more appealing than chatting and sipping lagers.

Hermione wasn’t gobsmacked by the famous Harry Potter, and it was a little unsettling. Maybe this hadn’t been a great idea. Was he supposed to kiss her? Hold her hand and tell her she was pretty?

She stepped closer, tentatively settling her hands on the waist of his shorts. Her thumbs traced the exposed skin low on his abdomen.

Relief and excitement coursed through him in a sigh and tightening of muscle. He should have known better than to think Hermione Granger wouldn’t take the lead.

She hummed quiet approval of the tension leaving him, and she turned her head to examine the room for the first time. It was the most boring living room she may have ever seen. It could have been a hotel suite, for all the personality it showed. White walls, beige carpet, Navy blue matching sofa and chairs, a tele that was neither too small nor too large. Everything precisely ordered and spotless.

But utterly nothing having to do with Harry.

“How long have you lived here?” she asked, still stroking small circles with her thumbs, noting a growing erection behind the thin fabric of the shorts.

“Uhm, four years. Why?”

“It’s boring as hell, Harry. I hope your bedroom is more interesting.” Her eyebrows rose in challenge.

“Well, prepare to be disappointed,” he announced. Her hands stopped moving and rested on his hips.

“I mean by the decorations! Not the bedroom…activities,” he gushed. “Shit.”

She hid a snort behind one hand, “I have more faith in your sexual prowess than your decorating abilities, Harry. But I might get you some throw pillows for your birthday.”

He smiled warily. “Not red and gold. Got kind of sick of those colors.”

“Fair enough.” She leaned in to run her lips over his collarbone, and his hands found her waist. “Show me your disappointing bedroom.”

—————————————————

He hadn’t lied, she thought. In a dramatic turn from the mostly white living room, the bedroom was a riot of… beige.

The only splash of color was the utterly delectable sight of him reclined on the white bedspread, wearing nothing but those tiny orange shorts. The curve of his cock was visible through the tight material, and she was dying to touch him.

The black of his hair and soft green of his patient gaze were lovely focal points, too, but the recent memory of riding him kept her from noticing. It was a bit unrealistic to focus on a man’s irises when she’d been thinking about sliding him inside her all day.

Standing at the foot of the bed, she yanked her jacket off and threw it in a corner. Her fingers grasped the hem of her shirt, but a low hum of warning from him stopped her.

She looked up to find him frowning slightly.

“Slowly?” His voice rumbled thickly. “Please?”

She bit her lip, teasing. “Maybe if you do something more than lay there and look pretty,” she said, nodding to his groin.

Smirking, he ran a palm over the shorts to the base of the outline of his cock, breath hissing in.

With an approving nod, she resumed lifting her t-shirt, first baring her stomach, then clasping the fabric over her breasts. Turning at the waist, she showed him her back while she popped her head through, and hugged the shirt to her chest.

Lingerie under a t-shirt and jeans, he thought with a soft smile. He had to wonder how often she’d worn something like this under robes around him in school.

He chewed his lip, examining the multitude of criss-crossing black satin straps of her bra, waiting to see what her breasts looked like encased in something so delicate.

Slowly turning her shoulders back to face him, she cupped the t-shirt fabric over her breasts, kneading them.

A sigh shuddered from him as his thumb and forefinger found the outline of the head of his cock, squeezing it gently.

A moment of confusion caught him as a wicked smile played across her lips. He let out a startled yip as his face was suddenly covered in a cotton t-shirt. He heard her soft laugh as he pulled it off, only to find her with her back to him again, hiding her breasts and that bra yet again.

Harry grinned and threw the shirt in the corner with her jacket. He should have known that asking Hermione Granger to undress more slowly would result in a game like this. And he was more than a little thrilled she’d dressed for it.

Plenty of women had worn lingerie when they wooed him, but none had so effectively wielded it. But they’d worn it as a passive enticement. To play dress-up. To fit the role. Just a decoration.

Hermione owned it like a piece of herself. An instrument that only she could play, but if she were feeling generous, that maybe she would let him dance along to.

His shorts were getting uncomfortably tight, and he readjusted his cock upward, the head barely contained under the waistband.

A soft pop followed by unzipping made him wrap his hand around the outline of his erection, squeezing gently. No doubt the knickers that accompanied this bra would be worth the wait. Even if he was starting to worry how long he could physically wait.

Recalling his instructions from the other night to very, very slowly bend over and take her panties off, she did precisely that with her jeans, earning a frustrated huff from Harry.

She arched to look back over her shoulder as he watched the denim creep down her backside, revealing the cross-hatched black straps that composed the waistband of her thong, dwindling down to a single strap concealed between her cheeks. Quickly, she turned her head back to face forward, hiding her satisfaction at his frustration.

Perhaps it would be rude, she thought, to make him stroke himself to completion before she was even undressed. But perhaps it would be worth the fun of it. He had been rather bossy last night.

Inching the jeans down her legs till her back was flat, letting him watch. She kicked the trousers away, and widened her stance, leaning her ass back a touch.

Harry struggled to keep a whine from escaping his throat as she spread her thighs and bent lower. He had a very clear view of her sex pressed against the sheer fabric. His fingers ached to rub the knickers against her skin till they soaked through. Then he’d slip them under that single strap and-

She cleared her throat, and he jumped, her eyes pinning him. “Idle hands… tsk tsk.”

He dutifully palmed his erection, but tentatively. “Merlin, woman. You’re going to make me end things before we get started.”

She hummed with a shrug and murmured, “You’ll rebound.”

Gods, thought Harry, that wasn’t helpful. She arched her back and slowly stood, finally turning to face him. The bra he’d been waiting to glimpse was an elegant twist of black satin straps below and between her breasts, with fine black mesh composing the cups.

A softly glowing ivory gemstone the size of his thumbnail composed the clasp. It reflected light in ribbons of white and gold, and he idly wondered if a bra could be enchanted. Probably. But this was all Hermione.

Her hands reached up to gather her mane of curls behind her, giving him a gratuitously long look at her hard nipples ensconced behind the thin fabric, the long curve of her waist, and the straps angling down to her cleft.

He hoped his gulp wasn’t audible as his hand snuck inside his shorts to finally fully grip his length. Heat built alarmingly fast inside him, and he loosened his hold.

She froze, back arched, and quirked an eyebrow at him.

He looked at her, confused. “What?”

She nodded toward his groin again. “You stop, I stop.”

“”Mione, if I even-“

“Maybe I want you to come while you watch me.” She edged closer, leaning over to rest her hands on either side of his legs.

“Maybe I want to watch you spill yourself into your hand.” She inched forward, knees now on the bed.

Dropping to her elbows, her hair grazed his thighs, and an embarrassing whimper escaped him.

Dear gods above, the most powerful witch he’d ever met was stalking her way up his body, and all sense had fled him. Transfixed in intimidation and arousal, he froze, panting. He was so wonderfully and terribly close to losing control of the roiling tension in his hips.

She looked up, pinning him with her gaze again. “Maybe I want you to come so I can lick you clean before I beg you to fuck me hoarse.”

He shuddered, his fingers moved, and his body came undone in one sudden burst. Hot slickness erupted across his hand, and his hips thrust up in response. Groaning, he finally gave in, gripped his cock tightly, and milked the last few drops out.

“You might be a little evil, Granger,” he purred, relaxing against the pillows.

She grinned, rather pleased with herself, and started working small kisses up his thigh.

“A little,” she muttered, nuzzling into the fabric over the crease of his groin. “Maybe I’ll just leave you like this.”

Pressing her teeth around the base of his cock, she pulled back enough to whisper, “The magnificent Harry Potter and his sticky shorts.”

He wiggled, overstimulation setting in. And more than a little embarrassment at his rather sticky shorts, indeed.

Her mouth worked its way to the tip of his cock, he grimaced in pleasure and discomfort both. She gently sucked the fabric and palmed a wide swath over him, eliciting a soft gasp.

Resting just below his navel, his hand sat, having collected most of his semen. Her knees slid up to the outsides of his thighs, her elbows gently resting on his hips.

Taking his hand in hers, she cradled it gently, looking up to him, and lapped the inside of his palm.

“Fuck, ‘Mione,” he whispered. “You have no idea how you look.”

She hummed knowingly, and went to work licking between his fingers, turning his hand to catch every little rivulet and streak, until she was satisfied. Her mouth kissed its way back down to the patch between his navel and hip where a few droplets had landed. Deliberately catching his eye, she ran the flat of her tongue over them, and curled it back into her mouth. His breath came fast and he couldn’t look away.

One of her hands wandered down to cup him, the other supported her weight, she set her mouth on the head of his cock again.

With a sigh, he realized he was getting hard again, and the discomfort had faded. His hips gave a subtle thrust, and she smiled, rubbing her cheek against his full length.

“I think,” she mused, rubbing her chin against his shorts, “that you may have to take these divine little pants off.”

“I may have to frame them,” he chuckled, hooking his thumbs in the waistband and lifting his hips to slide them down to his thighs. She took them the rest of the way, ending by stepping off the foot of the bed.

“Tit for tat, Granger,” Harry challenged.

She frowned. “What?” he asked, confused by her reaction.

“Puns in bed? Really?” She shook her head.

“Oh! Accidental. Honest.”

“Accidents seem to be on the menu tonight,” she said, twirling his shorts. It was a little mean, but he was entirely too accustomed to calling the shots.

He shrugged, stretched, and demonstrably slid a hand down his abs to his cock, drawing her gaze down his body to his hardness. She bit her lip, distracted.

“Tell me how you want me to fuck you while you undress, Hermione.”

Her eyes widened as her fingers went to the jewel between her breasts. “Gods, Harry. I want you to fuck me till I can’t scream anymore.”

He gripped his cock harder, her directness making his breath catch. Women never actually told him what they wanted. They only ever told him to choose. Whatever the Chosen One wanted. And it was beyond boring. Not only did she know what she wanted, she told him how she wanted it.

“What position do you want me to fuck you in?” he asked, watching her finally unclasp her bra and slide it down her shoulders to drop on the floor. Gorgeous dark pink nipples greeted him, and his fingers and mouth itched to touch them.

He expected her to slide her panties down, but she slid one hand inside them instead. She paused, thinking, sliding a finger between her folds. He swallowed an impatient growl. Her eyes closed and her mouth parted as she stroked her clit, losing her train of thought.

He cleared his throat. Refocusing on him, her hand slid up, and a wet finger slipped into her mouth, tasting her own arousal. Jealousy and possession ran through him.

“I think…” she drawled, “missionary first, then-“

“Take those off before I rip them off,” he growled, surprising himself. Merlin, she’d been right about coaxing an orgasm out of him before sex. He’d have been crawling the walls by now.

Indignantly, she turned back around, giving him another view of those straps weaving across the top of her ass and disappearing into her cleft.

“I was saying… missionary first.” She slid her hands into the web of straps over her hips and started skimming them down her skin. “And then I’d like you to bend me over,” she continued, slender straps falling to reveal her already glistening sex, “and I’d like to you to somewhat mercilessly fuck me into the mattress.”

Her hands skimmed up the insides of her thighs as she stood, coming to rest near her navel. Turning back to him, she whispered a wandless contraception charm.

Godric, he looked stunned, she mused. Stunned and rather stunning. His erection looked nearly painful, and his whole body hummed with tension.

“I…” he tried several times. “I can’t…”

Merlin, how was he supposed to explain to her he couldn’t do that? That he’d hurt his first few girlfriends with his lack of restraint?

“Shh,” she whispered, crawling back up his legs to sit straddling his thighs. The wet heat of her sex pressed just below his sac, and his hands gripped her ankles, preventing her from backing up.

Snaking her fingers between her folds, she wetted them, and slowly slid them down the tip of his cock. A guttural groan slipped through Harry’s gritted teeth.

“You think you’ll hurt me?” she guessed.

He nodded, eyes closed, head lax but neck tense as she stroked him.

“With this?” She squeezed his shaft hard. He groaned and nodded again. She needed to reassure him without starting an argument.

Leaning in to kiss his chin, she let go of his cock to grab the headboard behind his shoulders. His eyes opened as she rose up on her knees over his cock.

“”Mione, you’re not ready-” he started to object.

“Shh…” She kissed his chin again. “Let me decide what I can handle, maybe?”

His brow smoothed, and he nodded, skimming his hands up her thighs. She’d taken him like this easily enough last time, but her request for rougher sex still worried him.

Her cleft parted smoothly over the head of his cock, and those worries evaporated into the bliss of sliding into her heat in one luxuriously long stroke.

She froze, his entire shaft fully seated inside her, and he waited for her reaction. He expected her to move, but she just sat. Faintly, he could feel the muscles near her opening erratically squeezing him.

Fuck, she was too close to coming already. Not that a finite amount of orgasms was a remote concern, she thought.

She was adjusting to the feeling of fullness, and it was almost too good. The head of his cock hit precisely where she wanted deep pressure, and his shaft gave her just the right girth to stretch without pain. He felt immense and perfect, and the weight building in her hips was threatening to give way in an orgasm already.

“Are you-“ he started. She didn’t look like she was in pain. Far from it, in fact.

“Shh,” she repeated. “If either of us moves, I’m going to come. Hard.”

He gulped, her references to screaming and going hoarse making sudden sense. He cast a wandless Muffliato.

She smiled. “Good idea.” She let go of the headboard and rested her arms on his shoulders. “I want to come with you on top of me.”

He nodded and slid them down flat, taking a second to chuck the pillows on the floor. She moaned at the friction in changing positions, and resisted the urge to just sit up and ride him.

Carefully, he rolled them over, watching her face. Being on top made him nervous. He didn’t remember the last time he’d had a woman like this, but he knew it hadn’t ended well.

She wiggled her hips down into the mattress, and spread her knees up and wide. Her hands drifted out to his upper arms.

He groaned and pressed his weight between her legs, reveling in feeling his pelvis flush with hers. His entire length was buried inside her slick heat.

Tentatively, he curled his hips up, edging just a touch deeper. So impossibly deep.

Heat bubbled over in her core and spilled out her mouth in a sharp cry. Her breath caught and her back arched as her fingers dug into his arms, a deep moan ripping from her throat. He ground against her in small circles, studying the rhythm in her contractions around his cock.

Their eyes met, and they both smiled. Him, nervously. Her, expectantly. She lifted her head to nip his ear and whisper, “Fuck me, Harry.”

Leaning down to kiss her, his hips found a slow, steady rhythm. Pleasure built in her, but this wouldn’t be enough. Breaking the kiss, she found his eyes again, and stroked his hair.

“Honest. I won’t break,” she said, reassuring him as she curled her hips up to meet him mid-thrust. He gasped at the sudden collision, wariness fading.

His cadence picked up, every stroke hitting nerves deep inside her, lighting fireworks behind her eyelids. Sweet pressure was building in her again, and her moans increased in pitch. He felt her tightening and knew she was close again already.

Hips keeping their persistent rhythm, he dropped to his elbows and slid his forearms under her back. His hands scooped under to grip the tops of her shoulders.

A moment of apprehension skittered through her at being so utterly confined by such strength. It felt crushing and claustrophobic and intimate. She’d wanted to feel him revel in his own power tonight, and maybe he’d take her up on it.

He used his grip on her to thrust harder, drawing out a surprised squeak that ended in a long moan. Her moan didn’t end, but turned into a punctuated series of whines, ending in a scream, as the tension in her snapped again.

Fingers grasping for purchase on his sweat-slicked back, she came again in a rush. Her legs wrapped around his hips, holding him inside while her core clenched him in waves of pleasure. Her breath shuddered, and her hands slid back down his arms.

Soft awe was written across his face as he gazed at her from mere inches away. “You’re not done. Are you, greedy witch?” he teased, and nuzzled into her neck.

Squirming at his tickling, she shook her head. “I did said I wanted you to bend me over and fuck me into the mattress, didn’t I?’

“Mm hm,” he hummed, working his way to her ear. “But you can’t-“

She nipped his ear. “I can’t what?” She ground her hips up against his, starting him moving again. He sighed, and caught the slow holding pattern, grinding gently against her. “I can’t possibly take any more of Harry Potter’s magnificent cock?” she asked sarcastically.

He snorted a laugh into her shoulder, rising to look at her. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I can’t fathom the punishing brutality of Harry Potter from behind, delicate witch that I am?”

“No, ‘Mione. I just… It’s not… I don’t know… Decent.”

“Decent?!” she guffawed, her sharp laugh startling him up onto his hands. She followed him, rising to her elbows. “You want to know what’s not decent? Sending me that picture.”

The glint in her eye made him shudder excitedly.

“Know what else isn’t decent?” she continued. “Screaming your name into a pillow several times a day since then, thinking about getting fucked by that cock.”

“Alright. Get your ass in the air, you indecent witch.”

—————————————————-

The tail of one orgasm blended into the beginning of the next, and she lost track of everything but the overwhelming waves of pleasure coursing through her core.

She’d given up on being able to hold her head and shoulders up, and settled for bracing her outstretched hands against the headboard for support. Every thrust built heat and tension, until she felt another climax building.

Gods, he was glory in his abandon.

His fingers dug into her pelvis, almost painfully. His sudden removal of them startled her, until she felt him grasp the backs of her knees. Pulling her knees wider, he collapsed her hips to the bed, falling with her and catching himself on his hands above her.

Hot breath flowed over her shoulder as he leaned down, lips grazing her skin.

Arching her lower back in offering, he growled low and pinned her chest to the mattress with his forearms. Her hands reached behind her head to touch him, and he caught her wrists, trapping them.

Breaths growing ragged, his thrusts became quick, snapping inside her, hitting deep. Pressure built around his cock as it grew impossibly hard. Trying to hold her climax back, a staccato whine escaped, muffled by the mattress.

His hips stuttered, vice-like grip on her wrists holding tight. He cried out and gave one final deep thrust.

“Fuck, Harry!” she screamed, as her orgasm flooded over in an electric wave, her back arching, core tightening around him. Pleasure ricocheted between them as they collapsed, hips still subtly moving in time.

He released her wrists and propped himself up on his elbows, stooping to kiss along her shoulder blade. His lips slid over the light sheen of sweat on her skin

Licking his lips, he rested his forehead against the cushion of her curls across the back of her neck. He sighed and focused on slowing his breathing.

A subtle shaking in her back alarmed him. Fuck, was she crying? Had he misread her groans and shouts? Was she hurt?

Gods below, had he fucked this up already?

“Are you-“ he started, terrified.

“Fifty points to Gryffindor!” she shouted into the mattress. Lifting her head to draw a deep breath, she dissolved into giggles, ending with an indelicate snort. “Am I what?”

“Fucking indecent, is what you are,” he chuckled.

——————————————————————————————

Waking with a start, but not sure she’d actually been asleep, she looked at the clock in his room. “Harry, didn’t you have to be somewhere an hour ago?”

“Oh, yeah,” he replied. He wandered from the adjacent bathroom toweling his hair dry. “Just drinks with a coworker.”

Three hours ago, he’d been downright excited about his date tonight. Now, nothing sounded less appealing. But he couldn’t cancel on her this late without creating workplace gossip.

The strangeness of having a woman laying in his bed hit him with full force. He’d never brought a date here. Never even considered letting women know where he lived, really. And now there was a rather shagged-out witch looking deliciously drowsy on his pillows.

There was a distinct possibility he was going to fall asleep in a pub when he’d rather climb into bed now with Hermione. But it was too late to bow out. His date was probably still waiting for him. Shit.

“I’m going to Apparate out. You’re sure you’re okay?” He was still somewhat incredulous.

Rolling her eyes, she slid out of bed to get dressed. “I said I’m fine. My entire day tomorrow will consist of hot, steamy textbook passages. I’ll even stay in bed, if it makes you feel better.”

“It might.” He scratched his chin, wondering if he should shave, but decided his date could tolerate some stubble. Amanda? Andrea? Something like that.

Hermione yawned, buttoning her jeans. “I’m going to Floo back to Cardiff. I don’t entirely trust myself to Apparate that far tonight.” Maybe the public Floo wouldn’t be so bad on the return trip, she hoped. Unlikely, though.

Harry threw a t-shirt on and grabbed his glasses off the dresser. Absently, she thought he looked much more like himself in them. Another fit of giggles threatened as she imagined him going undercover by simply removing them. It worked for Superman.

“Right. Heading out. Text me if you need anything tomorrow. Ron and Malfoy will probably be out of commission still.” He patted his pockets, checking he had everything he needed.

“Wait, what?” She huffed, startled.

He froze, not knowing how to reply. The memory of Malfoy’s threat of putting him in an early grave surfaced.

“Uhm… long story short. Ron and I kind of blew up… Ron? And I sent Malfoy a Patronus? And then he healed Ron?”

“WHAT?!”

“Yeah, right. Uhm, so neither of them are really in any shape to… you know,” he gestured vaguely to the rumpled bed. Biting his lip in thought, Harry figured he should probably stop by the Burrow in the morning to help Ron get Malfoy home. Wherever home was for Malfoy.

“HARRY!” she fumed.

“Sorry, ‘Mione. Sworn to secrecy and stuff. You can ask them. I gotta go. Godric, I’m so late,” he muttered, followed by a loud pop of Apparition.

“Well, shit,” she scoffed, and headed for the loo.

Chapter Text

“Aberto. Damn you,” Hermione hissed, having given up on the key to her postbox. It worked yesterday. If this made her late for orientation, so help her, Merlin, but there would be revenge.

“Alohomora. Come on!” She slammed it with her palm for good measure. Nothing.

“Fine. You asked for it. Portaberto!” she snapped, flicking her wand at the postbox.

The keyhole shot sparks, and a thin stream of smoke rolled out, but the door remained shut.

As she watched, the ribbon of smoke turned into a steady stream, and the “#6” was starting to peel off the metal door.

“Shit shit shit shit…” she muttered, and slipped her key neatly into the box marked “#7”. Rescuing her own post from the tiny pyre next-door, she locked her box and turned to leave.

Furtively glancing around, she whispered a soft Aguamenti to the smoldering box, and escaped out of the building as it hissed and steamed, scraps of charred paper flowing out onto the lobby floor.

The bus stop was empty, and she settled in on a bench to look through the post she’d stuffed into her rucksack.

Junk. Junk. Bills, which she was somehow supposed to forward to the Ministry. Enchanted fax machine?

And a small envelope with her name and address, but no return address. An early birthday card, maybe?

Her bus pulled up, and she clambered on. It smelled like week-old fish and chips.

Plopping down in a seat, she winced. A surge of arousal shot through her, pooling low and tightening her core. Last night with Harry may have been a bit of an overindulgence, but the soreness today was worth it. Merlin, the man had turned out to be a glorious fuck.

And these jeans had a seam in just the right spot. Her bottom wiggled against the seat.

Shaking her head and swallowing thickly, she reexamined the envelope. No traces of magic. The elegant, flowing penmanship tugged at her memory. She’d idly watched this particular script take form so many times.

It was like a half-remembered tune to a childhood song. She could practically see the hand holding the pen. No, not a pen. A quill. Malfoy.

Why would he mail her something? And so soon? He would have had to send it the morning after what she was calling “The Curry, Couch, and Cunnilingus Cavalcade”. Such a weird night. Good weird. But weird.

Maybe he was sending her a formal notice to bugger off. An insult about her bloodline, her appearance, her general existence, and well wishes for her ambiguous future, probably. That seemed very Malfoy. A beautiful, biting rejection in the post.

With a sigh, she slid a key under the fold of the paper, making a ragged incision across the top. There looked to be a single piece of ivory paper inside. The edges were thin, the pulp having been spread by hand. Unfortunately, there was no sliding it out of the envelope without destroying it.

Taking up her key again, she sawed two more edges of the envelope, opening it like a door. Trust Malfoy to send Muggle post so complicated it couldn’t be opened normally.

Her annoyance dissolved as she took in the riotous whorls of flowers and vines adorning the border of the page. Holding it up to her nose, she could just make out individual dots of black India ink that built the pointillist design.

Medea’s mons, it must have taken hours to tap out.

The leaves and petals were delicately shaded to give the illusion of moonlight projecting from the upper right corner. The foliage mounded through the center of the border like a raised berm.

The bus pulled up to her stop, tearing her away from her examination. Leaving the paper in its sheath of envelope, she slid it in her planner and set out toward her intended campus building.

“Orientation” was one of her least favorite words, but especially in an academic setting. Four hours of slowly being told information she could read in twenty minutes was little more than torture. And especially when these jeans felt so good in just the right spot.

The conference room was easily found, and she settled into an empty chair, noting the distinct sensation of her knickers adhering to her damp pussy. Was it all her own wetness, or still some of Harry’s? A flutter danced through her core at the thought. Distracting.

It was a boring room full of boring round tables at which sat boring-looking people. Most seemed to already know each other. Others looked hell-bent on not getting to know anyone, which was fine by her.

This group was small enough that she wouldn’t be able to get away with reading a book. Setting out her planner, the morning’s itinerary, and several highlighters, she waited. And fidgeted.

The corner of the envelope stuck out of her planner, and she realized she hadn’t read any of the writing on the paper. He hadn’t just sent her doodles. Okay, not doodles. Absolute fucking art.

The script inside the border looked like it had been written by an entirely different person. Gone were the flourishes and curves. This was heavy, boxy, all capitals, with a strict back-slant.

She compared the envelope and the paper. It was like comparing calligraphy and block print. That’s what it was. Calligraphy. She traced the paper’s writing with her own pen, and the slant felt horribly awkward.

“He’s fucking left-handed,” she whispered to no one. Merlin’s manboobs, he’d written all his coursework in right-handed fucking calligraphy, when he was actually left-handed. And had he learned to use a wand in his non-dominant hand, too?

She chalked that one up to his parents. They certainly wouldn’t have allowed this writing out to come out of Malfoy Manor.

The longer she compared them, the more she preferred his natural penmanship. It was more legible, by far. And it felt weightier, with the thick letters and heavy strokes. The elegance on the envelope felt like a lie compared to the starkness of the invitation.

GRANGER,
YOU ARE INFORMALLY INVITED
TO DINNER AT MY HOME.

SATURDAY EVENING, ANY TIME.
DIRECTIONS ON REVERSE.
TAP THE WARDS FOR ENTRY.

BRING AN OVERNIGHT BAG.
OR DON’T.
DO BRING THAT BOOK.
NOT THAT CAT.

DLM

The reverse side had GPS coordinates, which was unexpected and impressively useful. She had to wonder how he knew those existed, and how he’d gotten them.

Bringing up the location on her phone, she grimaced. That section of coastline was very remote. There weren’t even real roads near it.

She was going to have to Apparition jump hill to hill for a good 15 miles, assuming she could Floo or Portkey into Truro.

Ugh. It would take hours for her stomach to settle after that. Dinner had better be light.

——————————————

Every thud in the road forced him to surface to consciousness, and it was getting annoying. He hadn’t trusted Weasley and his contraption of a Muggle car to get him home, and he’d been even more reluctant after Weasley said it ran on fucking cooking oil. Death by fricassee.

But the back seat was comfortable enough to fall asleep on, even if the ride was rough.

—————————————

The same four eaglets…children? Had returned. The auburn-haired one walked next to him up the path to his house. The other three bounced around, still ephemeral.

A tiny hand wrapped itself around his pinkie, and his throat tightened. He still couldn’t speak to them, but desperately wanted to. Percolating was a gut instinct that if he could name them, he could speak to them.

—————————————

Thud.

“… so Ginny said come visit any time, but then she’s always got something going on and I don’t…”

The auburn-haired child pulled him forward, eager to go home. Their home?

—————————————
Thud.

“…but this Adams wanker is honestly going to botch a…”

The boy, it was a boy, looked up and pointed to the eagles circling the wards and beamed.

—————————————
Thud.

“…bet she has. No girl would do what…”

The boy gestured to himself, patting his hand on his little chest.

—————————————
Thud.

“…directions say to take the next left, not this left. Turn signal! Dammit, Ron, I’m not going to wake him because you…”

The boy tugged his hand for attention, scowling.

—————————————
Thud.

“…have no idea if it’ll even hold up to snow, let alone Fiendfyre, and I can’t…”

Eyes wide in desperation to be understood, the boy pointed to the eagles and patted his chest again.

—————————————
Thud.

“…bet against the Bats. They just signed Falk on as head coach, and he doesn’t-“

The name snapped Malfoy fully awake. The dream didn’t return.

Sitting up suddenly, he gripped the seat in front of him, letting a wave of nausea and vertigo pass.

“Falk?” he croaked.

“Oi! What’s the story, morning glory?” Harry sing-songed, turning to greet Malfoy.

“You said Falk. Magnus Falk?” Malfoy tried to smooth his hair and tone, and pointedly gave up on both.

Harry grumbled something about nightingales and Muggles to himself.

Ron perked up. “Yeah, signed on this year as the new head coach for the Bats. Heard of him?”

Malfoy huffed to himself. Stealthy humor. Peasant tastes. Utterly devastating in bed.

Yeah, he knew Falk.

Lucius had remarked that together, they looked like a Rottweiler and a Greyhound up to no good. He had to admit it was an apt comparison. Falk’s brown hair, black eyes, bulk and immense height had made Malfoy look downright dainty sometimes. But an agile, sharp-toothed kind of dainty, he liked to think.

“Yeah, I know him. I didn’t think he’d want to coach a major team, is all.”

VIP tickets danced in Harry’s imagination, until he remembered he was Harry Fucking Potter, and could probably go in and sit in a VIP booth stark naked and no one would kick him out.

“Is he any good?” Ron asked, eying Malfoy in the rearview mirror.

“As a coach? Yeah. Intuitive.”

“How do you know him?” Ron asked.

Malfoy sighed. He’d been dreading this topic since their dinner at Hermione’s.

“Durmstrang hid us for a couple years after the war,” he said carefully. “He was a new assistant coach there.”

Harry and Ron each turned their attention to the landscape, not sure which part of the statement they wanted to ask more about. Or more importantly, which part Malfoy was likely to divulge anything about.

Harry wished he’d spent more time not snooping Narcissa and Lucius’s files. Had Malfoy seriously been fucking around playing Quidditch at Durmstrang while the Ministry was ripping Western Europe apart trying to find them?

Ron beat him to the punch, tact absent, per usual.

“You were just lounging about playing Quidditch while we were cleaning up the UK, huh?”

Even Harry winced. Malfoy sighed and relaxed into the seat, already defeated and too exhausted to argue.

Ron noticed Malfoy flop back against the seat, and guilt nagged him. The bloke had just saved his life, and still looked like shit because of it. Focusing on their fading bond, he reached out and felt Malfoy’s annoyance, but not hurt. Relieved, Ron turned his eyes back to the road.

“No, I didn’t play any Quidditch at Durmstrang. Actually, I guess I haven’t played at all since Hogwarts.”

Ron’s knuckles loosened on the steering wheel. “Then how do you know Falk?”

“I… we lived together at Durmstrang.” His palms were sweating, and he rubbed them on his trousers. This was not a conversation he wanted to have in a moving vehicle.

Harry watched Malfoy. His previous pallor was giving way to a nervous flush. The man looked like he was in front of a jury, not in the backseat of a jalopy.

Ron made a disgusted face. “Durmstrang couldn’t spring for separate housing for a Quidditch coach?”

Malfoy felt nauseous again. He really wished Ron weren’t driving. Really wished a lot of things.

Harry tried to interject gently, but was waved off. He’d seen pictures of Falk in the Daily Prophet. The man was a dark Adonis. There was a mention in the article that he was doing a nude spread for Witch Weekly, despite the numerous accounts of him dating male Quidditch players from rival teams. Harry wasn’t sure how, or entirely why he was going to accidentally run across a copy of that edition, but it was going to happen.

“The campus and town are kind of integrated. And he had a cottage at the edge of campus.” He watched as the light went on above Harry’s head, and continued watching as that luminescence melted Potter’s composure.

“Right shit of them to stick fugitives with a coach,” Ron declared.

“Weasley.” Malfoy enunciated, much more calmly than he felt, “Magnus and I were lovers. For nearly two years. Living in a cottage. At Durmstrang.”

Harry suppressed an inarticulate squawk, fully aware that his cheeks were absolutely scarlet, and there was nothing he could do about it. Malfoy’s admission made him nervous and jealous and excited and just utterly confused.

“Uhm, right turn coming up, Weasley,” Malfoy reminded.

Ron concentrated very hard on the road in front of him. “Oh. So then you’re biased as bollocks, or maybe by bollocks, on his coaching ability.”

Malfoy huffed a laugh.

Ron skidded around the curve, mind anywhere but on the road. Straightening the car out, he nodded to Malfoy in the mirror.

Harry’s voice came out in a panicked rush. “You fucked Magnus Falk!”

“Harry!” Ron snapped, whipping his head to glare at his best friend. “Don’t be an arse! Two years isn’t just fucking, you wanker.”

Malfoy hummed his agreement. He hadn’t really expected acceptance from Weasley, let alone humor and solidarity.

Potter currently looked like he’d swallowed a pufferfish backwards. Best to ignore him till he got his shit together. Potter was likely to lash out, and Merlin knew Weasley wouldn’t rein him in a second time. Never did.

Considering his options on the topic, Malfoy decided potentially outing Magnus as a bit of a cheater when it came to Quidditch might be fair play. His misjudgment had caused a Ministry raid at Durmstrang, after all. Even if he’d done it with romantic intentions.

Malfoy leaned his elbows on his knees, queasiness fading. “Do either of you or your families or friends or loved ones or fucking chimney sweeps have a stake in professional Quidditch in any way?”

Both men’s ears perked up at the promise of juicy gossip. “Ginny retired last year, so none for me.”

“None for me, either, that I can think of,” Harry squeaked out, very, very proud of himself for using words.

“Alright,” Malfoy said, scratching his chin. “So, Falk is the most powerful Legilimens on the fucking continent. Born with it. But the daft bastard is only motivated by sport, sex, and food, so nobody knows about it but his players.”

Harry bit his lip. “And you.”

“And me,” Malfoy acknowledged, also proud of Harry for using words. “Heals his players up mid-game with Blood Magic, too.” Malfoy had to look away. Harry’s gaze had gotten too intense.

“He can read the other team’s players through the game, and signals his team to intercept moves before they happen, or share Snitch sightings. He can project images if he’s close enough, too.”

“Rubbish,” Ron exclaimed. “That’s cheating. Bloody brilliant cheating.”

“Apparently brilliant enough that he made a career of it. I wasn’t sure what happened to him. I figured he’d have been banned from the sport by now. He can be careless, but he taught me more than Severus ever did.” Malfoy smiled warmly, remembering lessons with Magnus that always ended naked, sweaty, and very satisfied.

It must have shown on his face, because Ron saw the need to clarify. “Hold on. Two Legilimens.”

Malfoy nodded.

“And you both grew up in Blood Magic families.”

He nodded again, chewing his lip.

Ron’s eyes were enormous, “By Godric. Ginny found a dirty book about that in Grandmum’s things, but I never…”

Malfoy chuckled, amused. The high and mighty Weasleys. “Crones and their smut. By Penny Royal?”

Nodding, Ron wondered why Malfoy knew the author straight away.

“Those were banned by the Ministry fifty years ago. Dangerous propaganda,” he chided. “I have the whole series.” He waggled his eyebrows at Ron in the mirror.

“Propaganda?” Harry asked. Was he supposed to be censoring reading materials as an Auror? He’d missed that memo, if so. “How can dirty stories be propaganda?”

“Very graphic Blood Magic smut. It does a lot more than heal wounds from fuck-knuckled demolitions attempts, you know. Easy to convince teenagers to take up the practice for the sake of fantastic sex. And to marry a fellow Pureblood who’s also practiced.”

“Ohh…” Harry drawled, pieces clicking into place. “That’s sneaky.”

“Yeah. Oh. Weasley, if anybody asks you if you read Penny Royal, just say ‘no’. You’ll end up in over your head in short order if you admit to having read it.”

“Uh… Okay.” Ron wasn’t sure what that implied, but the humor coming through the bond from Malfoy was unexpected.

Malfoy saw Ron watching him in the mirror, and felt he should probably justify his grin. “The day I met Magnus, he took one look at my hand and accused me of being a Penny Royal slut.”

Joy beamed through their bond, and Ron was taken aback by it. He’d certainly never dated anyone he remembered that fondly. Or dated anyone he remembered. Or dated anyone. Or dated, come to think of it.

Harry had watched Malfoy’s face light up talking about his former lover, and it didn’t sound to him like they’d parted ways intentionally.

“So, why did you guys…” Harry trailed off. The pufferfish was back in his throat. Sideways, this time.

“Break up?” Malfoy guessed.

Both men nodded, trying to be nonchalant about their interest in his love life, but damned if it wasn’t fascinating.

“Long story or short?”

“Long,” Harry said, as Ron chose, “Short.”

Malfoy rubbed his hands up the sides of his nose, sorting through the details of the whole ordeal. This was the longest he’d been awake since yesterday, and it was already draining.

“Short story, his parents ratted us out to the Ministry.”

“And the long story?” asked Harry, gaze intense again.

“Long story, he sent a Thestral Swain Offering to Nar-“

“Aww, romantic,” Ron interrupted dreamily. Malfoy paused, smiling. Weasley was a bit of a softie, apparently. Harry looked at Ron like he’d just admitted to eating a Thestral.

Ron gushed, “We still have a painting of my great grand-dad and mum with theirs, Lucy. Lost a good bit of her hand, but she got her man.”

“Anyway, he sent them in February. All proper,” Malfoy continued, vowing to give Granger an antique courting book, “and Narcissa slit the Thestrals' throats and-“

“She did what!?” Ron yelled, outraged. “He sent a wild Swain Thestral pairand she killed them?!” He took a deep breath, twisting his hands on the steering wheel. “She should be in Azkaban.”

Harry swallowed a laugh. “She is, Ron.”

Harry had no idea what the Thestral thing was about, but vaguely recalled kids at Hogwarts jeering ”Oh, just give him a Thestral already!” with the same affectation as ”Get a room!” He’d assumed “Thestral”, in this instance meant “good hard buggering”.

“Oh, right. But I mean for that. Godric, that’s… that’s legendary courtship!” Ron ranted.

Too embarrassed to admit his own ignorance, Harry aimed for a serious face, figuring it was better than scowling or interrupting. Administrative update meeting face.

Malfoy hummed agreement. “When she saw it was a pair of male Swain Thestrals, yes. Decapitated them in front of me and had the heads sent to his parents. Included a note suggesting their son go plow uphill elsewhere.”

Ron’s breakfast touched his tonsils. He’d known Narcissa was no less evil than Lucius, but Merlin Almighty, that was heinous.

Swain Thestral gifts were extravagant betrothal announcements a century ago, and nearly unheard of now. If anyone were to appreciate such a formal, decadent, traditional gift, he’d have thought it would be Narcissa Malfoy.

They were the ultimate “Till death do us part” of betrothals. Gods, he could only ever dream of a proposal like that. He’d squeal like only a grown ginger man can squeal.

“Bit heavy a gauntlet to throw, “ Ron said cautiously. Swain Thestrals were meant to be a legacy gift. Sending two males when he could have sent a breeding pair was a thinly veiled Fuck You.

“Yeah. He thought she’d retaliate against him, not against me. His mistake.” Malfoy huffed and settled back against the seat, “She summoned her entire Potential Daughters-in-Law List like the nightmare bitch queen she is.”

Ron grimaced, catching his eye in the rearview mirror again. “Your parents were making you court women while you were nearly married?”

“That’s… a very genteel way of putting it, Weasley,” Malfoy said softly, chewing his lower lip.

Narcissa’s response had been devastatingly perfect in its precision. Falk thought he could take the Heir to the Malfoy Misfortune, make an honest man of him, and fly off into the sunset? Oh, no, no, sweet Swedish child. Watch your man dance.

Bitterly, he added, “She hosted a one-man Bacchanalia that March.”

Awkward silence filled the car. Knowing Harry was barely following, he groped for something to help clarify without belittling Potter.

Draco hadn’t bothered tapping the bond with Weasley, but he could feel absolute furor seeping through it, and it made his palms sweat. Redheads and their tempers.

“Lovely invitations. Something about scattering her family’s seeds to the wind herself, seeing how her son refused to plant them properly. Pansy put hers in a scrapbook.” His attempt at levity fell flat.

A long, low scream from Ron made them both flinch. “What the fuck is wrong with your family, Malfoy?!” he raged. “What the ever-loving fuck?!”

Harry was more alarmed by the veins in Ron’s forehead than the yelling itself.

Startled, Draco realized his casual depiction of events was maybe inappropriate. But he’d rehashed it in Azkaban so many times, that it just didn’t faze him anymore. Most of what was left was the loss and the sheer fucking absurdity of it all. If nothing else, it had driven home to him how utterly unhinged his parents truly were.

Gulping, and not sure the pufferfish was gone, Harry cautiously asked, “Do I want to know what a Bacchanalia is, Ron?”

Jaw clenched, Ron shook his head. “I’ll tell you when you’re older, Harry.”

Harry nodded emphatically.

“After the war,” Malfoy said, interceding, “several of the more powerful Pureblood families decided they’d rather have their daughters knocked up with a Pureblood heir than compete to marry one. Durmstrang was happy to host. Future enrollment secured.”

Exhaling deeply, Ron added, “Bacchanalias were historically last-ditch efforts at reviving the wizarding population in a given area. Bit of old tradition. Most family trees root back to ancestors conceived in one. They were festivals. Not punishments.”

He looked up to find Harry’s mouth agape.

“Uh… Does the Ministry know?” Harry asked. Offhandedly, Harry wondered if it was no coincidence that Slytherin had hosted several sex parties and also boasted the highest concentration of Purebloods.

“Every sordid detail. But whether or not it’s actually a crime is up for debate.” Malfoy dropped his head into his hands, running his fingers through his hair. “Strong-arming a family member with blackmail and threats of exposure to law enforcement is perfectly acceptable by Ministry standards.”

Harry had to stop himself from reaching back to stroke the ruffled white-blond strands. That must have been one of the “Statute Pending” entries in his parents’ files. Gods, how humiliating would it be to have that kind of information sitting in Robards’ office?

Malfoy caught the pity in Harry’s look. “It’s not like they hexed me down to a table, Potter. More of a To-Do List of tedious, but acceptable shags for a few weeks. Till the Ministry showed up to torch Durmstrang to the fucking ground.”

Mind reeling, Harry carefully considered the dozens of questions he wanted to ask. Malfoy’s eyelids were drooping, and his earlier flush was gone.

“So, you have kids. Like, a bunch of them,” Harry asked warily.

Somehow, telling Weasley and Potter was worse than reliving it all in the Pensieve with Robards. At least Robards had plied him with chocolate.

“No, no kids.” He raised his face, but rested his chin in his palm, fatigue evident. “Mag knew enough Blood Magic that we, ah… got drunk, and uhm, made sure there would be no mini-Malfoys.”

Sweet Salazar, this was the most embarrassed he’d been in years. Exhaustion sucked at the edges of his vision, and he slid down to lay across the back seat.

Harry’s brain was catching up slowly. “So you can’t… have a family?”

Malfoy yawned, settled his head on his folded arms, and mumbled, “I really don’t think the world needs more Malfoys.”

Closing his eyes, they mercifully let the conversation die.

————————————

“How can an owlery be out of owls?!” she found herself ranting. She was going to get a reputation in Cardiff if she kept showing up only to yell at this man.

“I… I’m sorry, Ms. Granger,” he stammered, unnecessarily sliding his glasses up his nose. “Someone released them all a few days ago.”

Stole some owls, he’d said. She bit back a wry grin.

“Alright, fine. I’ll find another way to send these to the Ministry,” she flicked the letters in her hand for emphasis. “And I’m sorry for snapping at you. Again.”

—————————————

“Pull over next to that boulder,” Malfoy instructed.

The car eased to a stop, a sandy dust plume behind it. Harry hopped out of the car, walked to the edge of the road, and froze. Malfoy watched, grinning, wondering how hard Potter would smack right up against the wards. Not as hard as he’d expected. Pity.

“What the fuck kind of wards are these, Malfoy?!” Harry hollered.

Harry was just grateful to be back in his element. Pureblood courtship was literally a foreign concept, but wards? Wards, he could do.

Ron had to help open the back door of the car for Malfoy to slide out. Both because the car was half rust, and because none of them entirely trusted Malfoy on his feet yet.

“You can’t guess, Auror Potter?” he said with a tired half-smirk.

Harry reached both palms out, brow knit in concentration. It was unlike anything he’d encountered at work. A brittle glass-like dome, but with a sticky, clingy layer. It reminded him of a caramel-dipped shortbread.

“There’s a standard disillusionment, but another similar one that I can’t get a hold of.”

“It’s a wizard disillusionment charm. Hides the wards from wizards and Muggles both. You have to expect to find the wards to find the wards.”

“Camouflage on camouflage,” Ron added, grabbing baskets and bags out of the boot. His mum would kill him if he forgot to drop Malfoy off with all the food she’d sent.

“Bullshit,” Harry retorted. “There’s no such thing.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes.

“I think you’re starting to realize how bereft an education Hogwarts and the Ministry left you,” Malfoy drawled, easing out of the seat to lean against the car.

“Stand in the middle of the road, shut your eyes, spin around, and try to feel for the wards with your magic,” Malfoy said in challenge.

“Pin the tail on the wards?” Harry asked. Ron and Malfoy shrugged, not getting the reference.

Malfoy winced as Harry’s magic prickled across his skin. His signature had always felt like static shocks and ground glass when they’d dueled, but now it was like a live wire dragging ragged shards across him. He swallowed thickly, wondering why Potter’s magic felt less refined now than as a teenager.

Harry stopped spinning, coming to rest standing stock still, both hands out. “I can’t fucking feel them. Why can’t I feel them?!”

Harry flailed around and walked a circle in the road. Malfoy pushed off and walked across the road. There was a chance he’d smash into them yet.

Malfoy chuckled. Stumping Aurors was good fun. “Blood wards. Six layers. And a seventh Ministry ward inside.”

Harry gave up and joined a shaky Malfoy at the side of the road, expecting him to pull out a wand to let them in. Instead, Malfoy walked through, and turned. “Put a palm against the outside ward.”

Sea water and blood filled Ron’s nose, and he tried to snort it out, but found only air. Glancing over, he saw Harry doing the same thing. A biscuit out of the baskets got rid of the taste and smell.

“Hell of a welcome mat, that,” Ron mumbled around a second biscuit.

Malfoy shrugged. “Undiluted blood wards are even worse. The sea water dilution was a lucky discovery.”

Ron surveyed the now-visible trail leading up to a rock outcropping. “How far do the wards extend?”

“Half-mile radius.” Malfoy had taken off his shoes to walk the sandy path. If he left his guests and flew, he could be asleep in bed by the time they got to the entrance. But, manners. “Oh, and you won’t be able to use magic till you’re back outside.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “That’s not standard for parolees. No wand, sure. But no household magic? What the fuck?”

“Standard parolees aren’t Death Eaters. Confidentially, I believe the Wizengamot did not, and does not, intend for me to survive parole,” he surmised. “I found myself out of Azkaban and wandless, Traced, homeless, and very, very unpopular.” He gestured to the eagles circling the perimeter, who were in the midst of taking down an owl. It thunked off the wards with a red and yellow smear.

For the second time that morning, Harry was aghast at Malfoy’s propensity for getting royally fucked over by wizards who were supposed to be guarding him.

“The Ministry just dumped you here and said have at it?” Ron asked.

Malfoy barked a laugh. “I wish! I had to buy the land to have something to ward. It turned out I didn’t personally own anything. And the family fortune is still being liquidated for reparations. So almost everything I did own, I used to buy this.” He held his hands out to showcase the dead field of rocks.

“Robards chipped in some demolitions charms as a housewarming, but I don’t think I was meant to survive using those, either. Might want to see if you can wean Weasley onto those.”

Harry nodded, and Ron was about to ask why the Ministry would send blasting caps, but they reached the rough entrance, and it suddenly made sense.

Ron hesitated. “Please tell me we’re not going into an abandoned mine shaft.”

Harry shrugged.

Malfoy went ahead, hollering back, “It’s not abandoned if you live in it, Weasley!”

Chapter Text

Vomit splattered in the dusty soil at the edge of the dirt road, and she spat, trying to clear the taste.

“Ugh, fuck,” she groaned. “Never again.”

Two Portkeys and eight Apparitions was way too much, and the prospect of having to eat dinner afterward just made the nausea worse. Probably some kind of elaborate French shit, knowing Malfoy.

Checking the coordinates on the invitation against the map in her phone. The little paper was littered with pinholes now, thanks to an amorous Crookshanks.

One more hop. Just one more. Then, she could walk down the rest of the way. Walking sounded divine. The sun was setting, so one more visible hill would be all she could do, anyway.

Shifting her bag on her shoulder, she focused, swallowed hard, and Apparated with a pop.

——————————————

The eaglet dream started, and he was eager to see them. He wondered if he should stop thinking of them as “eaglets” anymore. They were very much human now, but it felt like a term of endearment.

Tonight’s setting was his bed, which felt… right. The auburn-haired boy was examining one of the walls of the room. He was intent on one particular section. Draco frowned, confused. There was nothing but thirty feet or more of solid granite behind that wall.

The other three downy-haired forms chased each other around and over the bed. One of them drifted away from the game to stand by the boy.

His little face screwed up in concentration and he put a hand against the wall. His scowl was contagious as he turned to look at Draco, whose brow knitted in sympathetic frustration.

The second form touched the wall and turned, newly green eyes scrutinizing him under black brows. Her hair dropped into perfect black ringlets to her chin, and she huffed, turning back to the wall. The two appeared to be speaking to each other.

Eager to hear their voices, he leapt off the bed.

His feet hit the floor and the dream snapped, the pull in his chest replaced by a knock on the wards.

—————————————

“Tap on the wards,” the invitation said. She’d guessed where the wards were based on the little map he’d drawn. They seemed to take up the entire area on the north side of the dirt road.

But how did one “tap” on a ward?

She’d tried hitting it, throwing magic at it, knocking on it, yelling at it, poking it with her wand, but nothing worked.

Suddenly, a tendril of the ward's magic snaked out, spooled, and formed a sort of indentation. She touched it with her hand and nudged a tiny bit of her own magic into it. It accepted the little push, absorbing it. A moment later, the pressure of the wards eased and she stepped forward.

Sea water and blood flooded her nostrils and she gagged, retching onto the ground yet again. Raising her hand to wipe her nose, she found nothing. No water, no blood. An illusion? A disgusting one, if so.

The sun was setting to her left, casting a soft glow over the path in front of her. She snorted and blew her nose again, walking forward.

What a strange welcome mat.

——————————————

The wards brought him a signature that was new. It was soft. Incredibly soft. And smooth. And familiar. And important. Something he’d lovingly run across his lips hundreds of times. Something… cherished.

Vellum. His eyes darted to some of the older books on his bookshelves. The signature felt like a vellum cover from one of the centuries-old pieces he’d taken out of the Manor archives.

“Shit,” he whispered. It was Granger. He’d forgotten about sending the invitation. He flung ward permissions through to her.

Scrambling out of bed, he paused to run a hand over the spot in the wall the children in his dream had touched. Nothing special jumped to his attention, so he shrugged and hustled into the kitchen.

Dinner was what his invitation had said, but he’d slept for a day and a half instead of preparing anything. Rounding the corner, he sighed, seeing the baskets Weasley had brought in. At least there was food.

Molly’s treats and a pot of tea would have to suffice. And Granger was just going to get an eyeful of him in a t-shirt, pajama pants, and bedhead. He was kind of looking forward to throwing her off-kilter with this departure from host expectations. She probably thought she’d be eating off porcelain in a grande dining room. This would be fun.

His parents would roll over in their graves… if they’d had the decency drop dead. Hosting someone unprepared. A truly epic Thing Malfoys Do Not Do.

The burst of adrenaline from having woken was fading already, and the sofa called him back. While the kettle heated, he propped the door open. Granger could just show herself in. That ought to set the bar low.

Throwing some hibiscus flowers into the hot water, he grabbed a few of the older books from a culture section of one of the bookshelves, and lay down. She was certainly taking her sweet time walking in from the wards.

————————————

A dirt footpath and a hole in a granite wall weren’t what she’d expected. Though, the eagles circling overhead and the foreboding entrance were reminiscent of the Manor’s peacocks and the dungeon-like Slytherin common room. Subdued recreations of both, she thought.

The door was propped open, but she gave it a passing rap to announce herself as she stepped inside. No one met her.

She hadn’t expected fanfare, but a house elf wouldn’t have surprised her. The fading light hid most of the outlines of the walls, but it didn’t seem like a very big space.

Rounding the kitchen, bare feet dangling over the arm of an antique red velvet sofa greeted her. She set her bag down on a kitchen chair and peeked over the edge. He was really pulling out all the stops having her over.

Harry had very vaguely warned her to expect Malfoy and Ron to be out of commission today, and it looked like he was correct.

“Malfoy?” she whispered. His eyes were closed behind reading glasses. Several small books rested on his chest, one had his thumb in it.

He looked… cozy. If one of the most dangerous people she knew could look cozy. His hair was mussed. Soft gray and black plaid pajama pants left everything to the imagination, but his thin black t-shirt cut a nice portrait. The tufted red velvet against his platinum hair was rather lovely.

If she were bold, there was just enough room for her knees on either side of his hips. No, too bold, she decided. It would feel amazing, though, she mused, to press her still-tender sex against him, feeling his body respond as he woke.

Smiling, she realized this was exactly how he’d found her in the park just a few days ago. Unexpectedly asleep with a book in hand. Had he watched her sleep and weighed touching her? What would she have done if he had? Probably come right there under the willow tree, she thought.

She wished he’d have been that bold. Merlin, she regretted slapping him. If she’d have been forthright with her invitation, and they’d skipped straight to sex, they never would have had a blow-up in the park.

Waking her up with a hand down her knickers would have been beyond brazen, though.

He’d woken her up with ice cream, instead. Maybe there was something in the pile of goodies on the table worth waking him up with. Or maybe she should just try to Apparate home and leave him a note.

A steaming kettle of tea caught her attention. He’d only been asleep a few minutes, then. She poured two cups, startled when bright red tea splashed against the mugs. Weasley tea.

The spread on the table must be from Molly, then. Harry had said Malfoy had healed some kind of injury for Ron. Molly definitely wouldn’t let that go unpaid. And the woman’s currency was food.

A basket of muffins caught her eye. She hadn’t had one of Molly’s carrot cake muffins in nearly a decade, and her mouth watered. Leaning over the basket, she took a deep sniff and sighed.

“Goldilocks would have fared differently if she’d have stolen muffins,” a low voice drawled from the sofa.

She jumped, but took two muffins. “Molly’s muffins are worth risking death.”

Carefully balancing a muffin on each mug, she approached the sofa. He was awake, but not by much. His normally pale skin was ashen, and didn’t look like his eyes really wanted to stay open.

“You could have rescheduled, Malfoy,” she suggested. “You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit, so thanks,” he muttered. “And I would have rescheduled if I’d have remembered.” He slid up to half-sitting against the arm of the sofa and accepted the muffin and mug, eyeing the tea suspiciously.

“So, Harry said they blew Ron up and you healed him?” she asked, wincing at the tartness of the tea, but chasing it with a bite of muffin. She had to admit it was a good combination.

Warily, he sipped the tea, rolling it around in his mouth. With an appreciative hum, he swallowed and took a larger gulp. It was tart and floral and strangely reminiscent of a dry red wine his father favored.

“I did,” he stated. He took bite of the muffin, not inviting question.

The muffin was a thing of culinary exception, he thought as he fought a pleased groan. This exhaustion was worth ingratiating himself to the Weasley clan if it meant a supply of these masterpieces of spice and carrot.

Her muffin was already gone, and she licked her fingers clean. “Care to elaborate on how you did that without a wand?”

“No,” he said, draining the mug. “Whatever Potter told you is on him.”

Gathering his strength, he swung his feet to the floor and sat up. The room spun, but steadied more quickly than it had that morning. Maybe tomorrow would find him fully amongst the living.

“Why you, though? Why didn’t he just take Ron to St. Mungo’s?” she asked, not at all planning to accept his silence.

He shrugged and hoisted himself to his feet, only swaying slightly. “He said he panicked, but honestly, it was probably gut instinct. Mungo’s couldn’t have gotten him in a bed fast enough to save him.”

He hadn’t wanted to alarm them more than necessary, but Weasley had been a goner.

The shard of rock didn’t just clip an artery. It had shattered the top of Weasley’s femur, cut through muscle, and severed every major blood vessel in the upper thigh and hip. But for the skin holding it on, the leg had already been amputated. And messily.

After his initial anger at Potter for sending the Patronus, he had to admit that he himself couldn’t think of a better option, either. Apparating Ron from the scene, if Potter had been capable, would have killed him.

“So you can do things St. Mungo’s can’t. Without a wand. In a field,” she accused, more than asked.

Shrugging again, he turned and walked to the kettle on the kitchen table. He was going to have to find out where the Weasleys got this tea.

“Granger, I’m just… Not doing this. Not tonight,” he mumbled, refilling his mug.

There were two more baskets of food on the table. One held neatly-wrapped sandwiches, and the other appeared to be full of biscuits. How the Weasleys weren’t all perfectly spherical was beyond him. He plucked a chocolate biscuit and sandwich out and sat at the table.

Hermione huffed, her interrogation having been firmly shot down. It looked like maybe they were going to end up having dinner together after all. She settled in at the table at the corner next to him and helped herself to a sandwich.

The sun had nearly disappeared below the horizon, casting long shadows across the kitchen. Malfoy dragged a silver platter from the far edge of the table closer to them. The large plate held several pillar candles in various stages of use. He deftly struck a match and lit a tapered candle, then used it to light a dozen other wicks.

“I could have cast a Lumos,” she offered, unwrapping a sandwich.

He took a bite, gagged quietly, and discretely spat it into the paper. Fucking egg salad. Fucking warm egg salad.

“Cast away,” he muttered, scraping crumbs off the roof of his mouth with his tongue and spitting them into the paper.

She set her sandwich down and flicked her wand. And flicked. And flicked. Like a terrier after a rat, she was.

Rinsing his mouth out with the tea, he wondered how long she would do this. She just kept going, and his grin was going to break through.

“It’s the Ministry ward, Granger.” She flicked her wand one more time and he shook his head. Stubborn witch.

Huffing, she turned to him for more of an explanation, but noticed his sandwich. “Not an egg salad fan?”

“No,” he admitted with a shake of his head. “You spend enough time in feathers, you lose your taste for eggs.”

He shuddered and pushed the sandwich away. “I’m not a total monster.”

Now that he’d eaten something, though, he realized how hungry he was. Three more muffins ought to fix that, he thought, riffling through the basket.

“You know the muffins have egg in them, right?” she poked.

Mouth full, he replied, “Not a saint, either.”

“So, you don’t have a wand. The Ministry ward voids all magic, how do you… live?” she asked, bordering on what looked to him like actual concern.

“Carefully?” he offered, inhaling half a muffin. “I have a little savings to draw off of for essentials. The Ministry sends an allotment of snap-open cooking charms a month, which I mainly use for tea.”

That reminded him, if this coming Monday was the third of the month, Eira would hand him a bag of them. Which meant he could splurge on making coffee tonight. Which meant maybe he could pull his head out of the fog and interact like an actual human being.

She certainly didn’t come all the way here for tepid egg salad and muffins.

“What is today, Granger?”

“Uhm… day 13. Or 14? My phone’s in my bag,” she said sheepishly.

That didn’t sound right. It was definitely closer to the end of the month. Oh.

He chuckled, tight-lipped, mouth full of his last muffin. “No, I mean the actual date. But good to know.”

“Oh! The 20th.” She wondered what the date had to do with anything, but decided against asking, lest she blurt out more personal information than was requested.

“Excellent,” he said, wandering to the counter to start the coffee. “And you’re on day 13. And I’m not sharing the coffee, so don’t ask. I think we’d both agree it’s better for you if I just drink the entire press.”

Gulping loudly, she nodded.

——————————————

“Bavarian rules next round, or I am done!”

“Uncle Ron, you promised!” a shrill little voice whined.

Harry grinned, relishing Ron’s burnt shirt sleeves. “You did promise, ‘Uncle Ron’. Not much of an Exploding Snap teacher if you up and change the rules now.”

“Fine! But Vic, if you and Dominique gang up on me again, I’m telling," Ron grumbled, shuffling the deck.

“He won’t tell Grandmere, cuz he’s not supposed to let us play,” Victoire whispered to her sister.

Sorting his hand as Ron dealt, Harry muttered, “She’s right, Ron. You’re just going to have to burn that shirt entirely.”

Heavy feet clomped down the stairs in a one-two step. “Lou’s down! Pints!” shouted Bill.

Pitiful wailing oozed down the staircase, and his head fell. “Merlin, not again,” he sighed as he turned to trudge back up the stairs.

A loud pop sounded in the kitchen, and Percy and Audrey’s girls scampered into the den to greet their cousins.

Harry scrambled to kick the cards under the couch and cast a quick Reparo at the scorched spots on Ron’s shirt before Audrey came round the corner.

“Thanks,” Ron said with a nod. “That was close.”

Harry winked and leaned back against the couch and watched the sibling reunion unfold.

Godric, how he loved the Burrow. Someone was always home, always doing something, family always coming and going. There was always someone to talk to, something to eat, somewhere comfortable to relax. It was the exact opposite of the Dursley’s. And his flat.

Ugh, his flat. Hermione had been right in her assessment. It did look like he’d just moved in, because really, he’d never moved in. He slept there, ate there, showered there, and that was about it. It was never home.

Other than Hermione, he hadn't even had sex there. Women were generally very accommodating when he suggested going to their houses. Having potential stalkers know where he lived seemed like a security risk. And what if they didn’t leave?

He’d been a little anxious when he’d Flooed home from… Amy? …Ann? …What’s-her-name’s flat last night that Hermione would still be in his bed. Part of him found it exciting that she might have stayed, but the rest of him was terrified she’d ask where he’d just come from.

Having just had disappointing sex with a coworker probably wouldn’t go over well. Or maybe Hermione wouldn’t care. But maybe that would actually sting more.

“Mum, what’s burning?” Percy asked, tone pinched. Pans clanged around the kitchen as he checked the stove.

Audrey eyed Ron and Harry suspiciously. Harry avoided direct eye contact and pretended to find his left hand immensely interesting. Had he always owned cuticles?

“Mum’s not here,” Ron hollered to Percy. “She and Fleur went food shopping! But there’s stew in there somewhere!”

“Found it! Girls, are you hungry?!” Percy yelled, to no effect. The four girls had disappeared in a fit of giggles, whispering something about a magical drawing of dragon poop.

Footfalls clomped down the stairs again, and a frustrated Bill swung into the room holding a pouting wiggling mess of a two year-old Louis. “I swear to Godric, you lot are getting hexed if I have to-“ Bill started.

“Bill!” Percy shouted, holding a bowl of cold stew and several bottles of Guinness.

“Baby!” Audrey shouted, holding out her hands. Bill passed the baby off with a relieved sigh and best wishes, and accepted a Guinness from Percy.

Ron had been considering offering to try to put Lou to sleep. Somehow, he felt like he would just be inherently good at that. He had a very calming presence, he thought as he picked at the soot on his shirt. But Audrey had not only beat him to it, but was infinitely more experienced.

Bill and Percy flopped onto the couch. Percy handed bottles to Ron and Harry.

Clinking and drinking, they caught up on the summer’s events. Bill’s oldest would be going to Hogwarts next week, so Molly had offered to host all five of their kids until the big day. Neither brother was one to turn down a week of free babysitting, and Ron was looking forward to the ridiculous amount of baking his mum was sure to do with the girls.

Harry gingerly sipped from his bottle. Last night’s hangover was a doozy. “Percy, how’s Level Six treating you?”

Percy perked up at the mention of work. “Bloody brilliant. You are looking at the Assistant Director of the Floo Network Authority. Next stop, well, anywhere. Anywhere with a fireplace. How’s Auror life?”

“No complaints,” Harry lied. He actually had many varied and colorful complaints. “I can’t officially say, but there might be some changes in senior administration next year.”

“You don’t say,” Percy said, brows raised. “Robards taking early retirement?”

“Something like that,” Harry muttered into his beer.

“Cheers, mate,” Percy saluted, raising his bottle.

Audrey’s voice thundered down the stairs. “Who’s bloody eagle is attacking the house?”

The men looked at each other, confused. Ron’s gaze snapped to Harry. Malfoy? Ron mouthed. Harry frowned, shaking his head. Why would Malfoy show up and peck at windows in his Animagus form?

Odd coincidence, though.

At Ron’s nod, they both stood and hustled up to the bedroom Molly had turned into a nursery. Audrey was clutching a wide-awake toddler Lou, who was trying to get his chubby fingers on the eagle’s face.

Harry inspected the eagle and noted it was the same type as Malfoy, but smaller. And it carried a message. It chortled and bobbed when it saw him, holding out its foot.

Harry reached down to untie the note. The eagle nipped between his fingers and cackled. Scowling, he shooed the bird away.

The note had a Ministry seal with his name on it.

Potter,

Apologies for disturbing your evening. Stop by my office as soon as possible in the morning. I’m transferring a case to you, and Witch Weekly has requested a short-notice interview. We need to get ahead with some good public relations. I swear, it’ll be the last one.

Awaiting your arrival,

Robards

“Oh, fuck me sideways,” Harry hissed.

“Language!” Audrey shouted, pretending to cover Lou’s ears.

Lou’s big eyes darted between Audrey and Harry before gleefully announcing, “Oh! Buck ee!”

Harry stood, gobsmacked, while Ron aspirated half the Guinness in his mouth, requiring a solid clap on the back.

Ron wheezed, “We all agree to not tell Fleur.”

“Agreed.” Harry and Audrey said solidly.

———————————————

“Granger! Meet me in the Restricted Section! Bring your knickers!” He was posing seductively, or what he thought was seductively, against his bookshelves.

“Gods be damned, Malfoy! What the fuck is wrong wi-“ she sputtered as her panties landed on her face. “Stop digging through my bag!”

He’d been bouncing off the walls for twenty minutes, and as hilarious as it was, she was starting to wonder if caffeine had some kind of intoxicating effect on Purebloods. Maybe that was the logic behind the acrid red tea the Weasleys drank.

“Granger!”

“What?” She’d given up on trying to read the textbook she’d brought. It sat in her lap and judged her for taking time off to watch the flushed pajama-clad man bounce around the room.

“Nothing. Hi. I like your bum.” He landed lightly on the sofa on all fours over her legs. “I think I had too much coffee. And I might die.”

Worry prickled up her neck. Maybe her concern about the caffeine was warranted.

“Die of boredom!” he whisper-shouted.

“If you don’t…” he clipped, leaning forward, “take off your trousers,”

He leaned in to press his forehead against hers. He was sweating lightly, and she was more worried than aroused.

Slowly, she reached fingers up to the pulse in his neck, and he flinched, surprised.

“Twitchy little ferret, aren’t you, Malfoy?” she joked.

His face fell, remembering what he’d called her before she’d said those words to him the first time. Regretting her jibe, she lifted her hand up to his cheek. He was so close, but now less eager.

“I’m sorry, I forgot-“ she started, but he cut her off.

“Did you know you were my bogeyman? Bogeywoman?” he asked softly, turning his head to run his lips down the scar on her forearm.

“Your what?”

“You were the first Muggleborn I’d ever met. I grew up with stories about how you could steal our magic and turn us into Squibs. I heard more scary stories about Muggleborns than I did vampires,” he rambled, his cheek pressed to her forearm. “And then. One day. There was one on the train, and she was kind of cute, and that was a problem.

“And, do you know what the cute Muggleborn from the train did, Granger?” he asked, grinning.

She shook her head and slid her textbook to the floor. His lips had started working their way from her scar to the inside of her elbow, and she was having trouble focusing on his hyper rambling.

“It was worse than the stories,” he said morbidly, running his cheek over her upper arm. His lips settled in the juncture of her neck and shoulder. “She. Kicked. My. Asssss.”

Hermione snorted a laugh, and he chuckled, his shoulders against hers. He leaned back to look at her and plopped his butt in her lap. Her hands rubbed up the soft flannel of his pants to rest on his hips.

He laughed softly next to her ear. “She kicked my ass in the classroom. She kicked my ass in the halls. She kicked my ass everywhere I went. If she’d played Quidditch, she’d have kicked my ass at that, too.”

Merlin, she was going to give him whole pots of coffee on a regular basis if it resulted in downright adorable confessions.

“And then do you know what the terrifying, ass-kicking Muggleborn did?”

She bit her lip to stifle a laugh and to ignore how good his weight felt on her. Her hands were dangerously close to exploring his body.

He gripped the arm of the sofa on either side of her head and leaned in for emphasis.

“She got rather fit, you see,” he whispered, and paused. He licked his lips and studied her reaction. “In fact, every time she came back from break, she looked more and more delectable. And she just kept doing it. It was torture, I tell you.”

His hips had tilted forward, almost rubbing him against her mound. Her breath caught. The humor in his eyes had turned to heat.

“One summer, she came back with these lovely breasts, and then she hid them from me. And another summer, she grew luscious hips, and she put robes over them,” he murmured.

“She sounds awful,” Hermione joked weakly. “I knew a pretentious Pureblood boy who did something rather similar.” Her hands ran up and down the outsides of his thighs slowly.

“Ugh,” he scoffed. “He sounds like a real wanker. A gorgeous, statuesque wanker.”

“Do you want to know what he did that was worse than hiding in robes?” she asked lightly.

His hands caught her wrists and guided her hands to his hips, pressing them in place.

“I think I’m afraid to ask what a pretentious Pureblood wanker is capable of,” he said reluctantly.

“It’s quite devastating, nearly a decade later,” she chided, biting her lip. “He got interesting.”

His breath shuddered in, and escaped in a relieved sigh. A weak smile ghosted across his lips, and he brought them down to meet hers, hesitantly.

She met him halfway, her hands leaving his hips to comb through his hair. Surprised, he moaned against her mouth as she held him tight. Their lips moved, cautiously. A slow prelude.

Pulling back, he gave her a peck on the nose. “Bed?”

She tried to tamp down a ferocious grin, failed, and nodded.

———————————————

His fingers grazed down, past her hips, and gods below how he still loved those hips, coming to rest over her cleft.

She sucked in a breath as he slid a finger between her folds. He froze, noticing her sudden tension.

“What’s wrong, Granger?” he mumbled into her neck.

A brief wave of panic swept him as he mentally rehashed the evening. She had plenty of reasons to not trust him, but no new ones he could think of. But one date did not trust incur. If this had even been a date.

“Uhm, just kind of sore,” she admitted.

“Oh?” he inquired, rather interested. “Why would that be?”

She hesitated. “I… was with Harry last night.”

He shook his head in mock disapproval. “Tsk tsk. Show me where the big bad Auror hurt you.”

She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding and relaxed her thighs. His mouth hovered over her collarbone while his fingers gently stroked her inner thighs.

Gods, how he wanted her to want him. But moving too quickly would ruin it all. Of course Potter would cause complications, even for this. The man was a sentient wrench that hurtled itself unwittingly about.

Slowly, he shifted to trail kisses down between her breasts. His lips ghosted across her navel and his shoulders settled between her thighs.

His fingers drifted away as his lips replaced them, and they inched up toward her groin. Eager whimpers fell from her lips as her hips twitched in an urge to move faster.

Cautiously, he spread her open and licked a wide swath up her cleft. She moaned and ground her hips again. Her core felt hot and swollen against his tongue, and he was somewhat concerned. Luckily, Potter seemed to have neglected her clit, he thought wryly.

“I think I can kiss it all better, but you’ll have to lay very, very still,” he said sternly. “And not come at all. No matter what.” He punctuated his prescription with a quick flick of his tongue up her clit.

She squeaked and muttered her agreement. Torn between urging him to continue and cautioning him to stop, she decided to simply trust him. Likely the riskiest possible decision.

A sharp nip on one side of her slit made her gasp. She needed less pressure, and up, and center, and her hips moved to try to shift him, but he was undeterred. He let go suddenly and left her wanting. His teeth found purchase on the other side and made her squirm.

A low growl vibrated through his teeth, and she clutched the sheets, daring not to move. Gently, he released her flesh, the flat of his tongue running over where his teeth had been.

A long exhale left her, and her hips relaxed back to the bed. Soft lips trailed kisses where sharp teeth had bitten, and her thighs spread wide, urging him to explore more deeply.

Tentatively, his fingers spread her open again, gathering her slickness on one digit. He peeked up over her mound to watch her as his tongue teased circles around her clit.

Merlin, she was glorious to behold. Her hips swiveled in time with his mouth. Her hands each cupped a supple breast, one gently pinching a nipple. Breathy, needy gasps murmured from her parted lips. She was so close, and being so terribly patient.

His fingers drifted downward, and his mouth replaced them, latching lips around her clit. Her whole body jerked, and he suppressed a grin. Scrabbling hands left her breasts to clutch sheets next to her hips.

Idly, he wondered what would happen if he just kept her here. Just enough suction for her sensitive little bud to send her body screaming, but not enough friction let her come.

What would Hermione Granger do when denied an orgasm she obviously and desperately needed?

It could end up a competition between them, given how painfully hard he was, and how much his hips wanted to grind against the mattress while he kept her on the edge of coming.

His fingertips trailed back down to her core, testing the swollen flesh. In response, her hips stuttered and stilled, her body tensing. He slicked his tongue up her clit, and she moaned, but she still didn’t thrust her hips down against his waiting fingers.

Breaking suction, he raised up to look at her. “Granger?”

She hummed a non-response.

He slid back up the bed to lay alongside her, the width of his palm cupping and kneading her, thinking. Nudging her onto her side, facing away from him, he traded his palm for slick fingers circling her clit.

His hard length pressed against her backside, his arm around her waist and hand between her legs pinning her to him.

His lips and teeth crept across her shoulder to her neck, letting his mouth come to rest against her ear.

“Granger,” he said firmly against her neck, demanding her attention. Slowly, her eyes opened, and she focused on him.

“I think,” he whispered darkly, “a certain greedy witch wants more than her poor little cunt can handle.”

She froze, momentarily taken aback by his words, before swallowing loudly. Slowly, she licked her lips, dissecting his tone. He had offered it as a suggestion, not a judgement.

He was treading carefully, she thought, and he was right. She did need more than her pussy could handle tonight.

“Am I wrong?” he whispered, sliding his fingers from her clit back down to the hot, swollen lips of her core.

She squirmed uncomfortably, but nodded.

“What should I do with such a selfish slut?” he mused with admiration.

Her mind reeled at being called a slut, but her body reveled in it. Maybe, for tonight, being a slut was exactly what she wanted.

“I… I…” she stammered, dreading asking him for what she needed. Her focus had narrowed to simply coming, ideally with him inside her. Anything but this slow torture.

“You… what?” he teased, gathering her wetness on his fingers and sliding them lower.

The tips of his fingers slid past her core to the delicate skin near her ass. Her hips bucked up to meet him, and he hid a grin against her shoulder.

“I want…. I…” she stammered again, no less coherently. His fingers were driving her mad.

He grazed the outside of her arse and waited, keeping gentle contact. She sighed, and he felt the puckered muscle relax against his fingertips. His eyebrows rose in soft surprise.

Just a little bit of penetration was all she would need to finally come, but he refused to give it to her.

“What do you want, Granger?” he whispered against her neck. “I want to hear you beg me for it.”

Her nostrils flared with indignation, but his thumb pressed her clit while his fingers swirled around her anus. An almost-suppressed whine escaped through her clenched teeth.

She took a steadying breath and tried again. “Fuck me…” she murmured, trailing off.

“Not good enough,” he huffed. “Fuck you where?”

She growled in frustration, throwing her arm over her face.

“Fuck my ass,” she spat out, mortified. Her cheeks felt like they could combust out of sheer embarrassment. His fingers kept circling, and his thumb kept pressing, and all she could focus on was getting him inside her and letting her climax around him.

“Manners. Fuck your ass... What?” he murmured, hiding his grin against her shoulder, watching her.

She huffed angrily, and fired back, “Fuck my ass, please,?”

He pressed the tips of his slick fingers against her hole, and she moaned and thrust herself down on them. His fingers slid past the tight ring of muscle and she sighed.

“Was that so difficult, greedy witch?” he asked as he nudged her onto her side.

His hand withdrew and disappeared above the stone ledge at the head of the bed, returning with a scoop of something slick and clear on his fingertips.

His thumb spread the cool gel around her clit, while his fingertips returned to her ass. He spread it carefully around, wiping it up his fingers in the process.

He briefly debated whether or not to ask her if she’d done this before, but decided it ultimately didn’t matter. He was going to fuck Hermione Granger's arse precisely as much as she wanted him to.

“I’m going to fuck you with my fingers till you come,” he whispered into her hair as he positioned himself on his side behind her. “And if you come like a good little whore, I will let you have my cock, too.”

She wanted to tell him to fuck off, and go to hell, and call him a vile Death Eater son of a bitch… but gods, she wanted him to make her come with his cock inside her.

And… being a good little whore sounded rather rewarding.

She groaned and thrust her hips back against his waiting fingers, driving them in deeper. It wasn’t enough. Hot threads of pleasure gathered, but she needed him to move inside her.

His bottom arm slid up to rest under his head as his hand grabbed a hold of her hair. A deep moan tore from her and her back arched. Her body used the leverage to drive her hips harder against him.

He bit his lip and tried to edge his hard cock away from the friction of her movements. If she kept making sounds like that, he’d be the first one coming.

Her hand snaked down between her thighs, and he smiled expectantly. He’d been wondering when she’d realize her clit was unattended. This wouldn’t take long.

The tendrils of sweet tension in her hips gathered as her fingers found their way between her slick folds. Her muscles squeezed his fingers, and he tightened his grip on her hair in response. She groaned and ground her hips back against his fingers one last time. A guttural moan echoed. through the room, and she came in crashing waves.

“Gods, Draco,” she panted as the pressure in her hips broke. His breath caught at his name.

Her body clenched his fingers in a desperate rhythm as her pelvis ground in circles against him. Small, pleased whimpers punctuated each rotation and squeeze, growing softer and slower as she unwound.

“Fuck,” she sighed, relaxing as he relinquished his grip on her hair. “Fucking fuck.”

Hiding his grin in her hair, he hummed his agreement. That had been quite an orgasm.

“More?” he asked, curling his fingers inside her.

“Please,” she begged, inching her hips back toward him again. “Fuck me?”

Relief flooded her when he reached up to gather more of the gel on his fingers, and she felt him spreading it on his cock.

“Hm. I don’t know, Granger,” he teased, stroking himself for emphasis. “I’m not convinced you really want to get fucked in the arse.”

She huffed and refused to give him the attention he was obviously angling for.

“I think… if you want my cock…” He leaned in to her ear.

“And you want me to come… in your ass…” he trailed off, letting her listen to him stroking himself.

She froze and waited for him to finish telling her, but he was silent. Merlin, he was exasperating..

"What?” she hissed, patience exhausted.

“I think you’re going to have to come and get it yourself,” he stated, flopping onto his back.

Rolling over to face him, she glared down at him, incredulous. “You’re a little frustrating, you know that?”

“Mm…” he hummed, still slowly gliding his hand down his erection. “More than a little.”

She hoped her doubt didn’t show in her face as she weighed her options. Other men had jumped at the opportunity for anal sex and never negotiated beyond enthusiastic agreement. Leave it to Draco Malfoy to be the exception.

Everything about his body was long and elegant, and his erection was no exception. She watched his hand slide up and down, his thumb stopping to make a slow circular movement behind the head of his cock every pass.

Chewing her lip, her mind drifted, wondering what he looked like when he came. Would he choke out her name like she had his?

“Granger,” he said, interrupting her deliberation. “I’m not going to fuck your ass in the fetal position and just hope that goes well. I’d rather you not leave here limping.” Mentally, he berated Potter and vowed to send him a tersely worded letter.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, catching on. “I’ve never… been on top for anal.”

He shrugged, a slow smirk spreading, “Giddy up, greedy witch.”

—————————————

Salazar’s sphincter, he’d fucking underestimated her, he thought. As soon as she’d sunk down and taken his entire length, he was ready to admit he’d lost the upper hand.

His fingers were laced behind his head in a somewhat futile attempt to hide how close to spilling over he was. She simply felt too perfect; tight wet heat sliding and squeezing his cock. And gods, the sounds she made as she came nearly undid him.

She was currently sitting, facing him, with her knees in front of her, eyes glazed, hips working small circles on his cock while her fingers stroked her clit. Every little movement was torture as he held back his own climax to let her pursue hers.

She picked up her pace and gathered speed, approaching her fifth orgasm. He felt her muscles tense around him, and thought of the least sexy things he could. Eira in a bikini. Portkey nausea. Azkaban. That tamped down the threatening roil. For now.

Her hips sank down, hard, and she froze, squeezing him and groaning again.

“Gods be damned, Granger,” he whispered. “I’m coming along with the next one.”

Her eyes lazily drifted down to focus on him. A soft smirk quirked the corners of her mouth. “About time.” Her knees slid down to the bed on either side of his waist, and he propped his torso up, leaning back on his hands. Her shoulders descended toward him, her hips rising.

She gasped as her clit ground against his pelvis and quickly gathered heat for another crescendo. His breath hissed in as her shallower strokes nudged the head of his cock against the tight ring of muscle in her arse.

“Fuck, Granger,” he whispered as he leaned up to catch her lips.

She opened her mouth to him and let her tongue sweep his bottom lip. He moaned in response. His hands found her ass cheeks as he sat upright and scooped her into his lap, still inside her.

She squeaked in surprise and grinned as she threw her arms up over his shoulders. His mouth peppered kisses along her collarbones as she picked her rhythm back up.

His body tensed as he approached climax, and hers tightened in response. She heard him swearing in French against her chest, and she slid her hands into his hair, holding him against her.

His hands dug into her hips, his cock throbbed, and the pressure inside her exploded, seeking purchase by gripping him as he came. He shuddered as he pulsed inside her, and she moaned into his hair as her body drew every drop from him.

His body relaxed with a deep sigh, and his hands skimmed up her back to her shoulder blades, hugging his face against her upper chest. She laid her cheek on top of his head, fingers stroking through the sweaty strands at his temples.

She nuzzled her lips against his soft hair as she drowsily thought that this was an unexpectedly tender moment she was having with Malfoy, of all people. But it was rather nice.

He shifted his hips and slid himself out of her, but kept a tight hold of her.

With another deep sigh, he flopped onto his back and hugged her down on top of him. His grip on her stayed firm, and she started wondering what she’d gotten herself into.

He showed no indication of moving any time soon, and his hands had started a slow, lulling stroking pattern up and down her back.

“Malfoy,” she said cautiously. “You really ought to warn women first… if you’re…”

He waited, not sure what she was getting at. “If I’m what?” he mumbled against her chest.

“A snuggler,” she hissed conspiratorially.

His laughter shook her torso, and he relaxed his hold. She slid down to eye level with him. “My deepest, darkest secret, I’m afraid.”

He rose up to catch her lips, and she balked. Rejection coiled, molten, in his gut. The humor in his eyes evaporated, and she cringed.

“I’m sorry. I’m not used to.. this…” She trailed off, thumbs stroking along his upper arms. “I usually get dressed and leave.”

His hands slid down her back to cup her ass. “There’s morning sex and muffins in it if you stay the night.”

“I can’t, I have meet-“ she started, a mental list of all the half-important things she needed to do.

“Apparate in.”

“But I have to-“

“Shh. Just tonight?” he asked. His lips grazed a plea across her jaw. “Try it just tonight?”

Unexpected, unwelcome intimacy warred against the desire to soothe the vulnerability in those kisses.

“Okay,” she sighed and returned the soft graze of his lips. “I’ll try. For muffins.”

Chapter Text

The darkness of his bedroom was absolute. Her eyes scrunched tight to ward it off, and she wondered if he could see in it. Maybe night vision was the tradeoff for his Animagus-related far-sightedness.

Her mind drifted to an octopus she’d seen release an ink cloud in the London aquarium. She sighed and figured this was what it felt like to be the startled predator in sudden darkness. She had sort of invaded his nest.

Steady, slow breathing at her back and the distant sussing of the waves were the only sounds. But the sound of the waves could have been her own heartbeat in her ears, and that was incredibly unnerving. Like being in an enormous seashell.

Earbuds and her mobile sounded like the most convenient solution, and she inched her way out from under the ridiculously thick down comforter. She grasped the ledge to sit up and froze. Something had tangled in her hair and tethered her to the bed.

Her hands found the end of the stuck tendril and felt for the caught object. His breathing changed as she felt through her hair to find his finger wound in a curl.

Suddenly free, she sat up and heard an answering rustle next to her.

“Leaving?” he murmured.

“Oh,” she whispered, startled. She hadn’t planned that far. “I was going to get my mobile out of the kitchen.”

He hummed low, barely awake. “Important middle of the night messages?”

“No,” she chuckled. “It’s just too dark. And too quiet.”

“Poor city mouse.”

The bed sank next to her and she heard him fiddle with things on the ledge at the head of the bed. Soft yellow light made her squint as he lit a candle and shook out the match.

“Better?” he asked. He didn’t wait for a response before he slid back down to one of many pillows. She nodded.

He flipped the fluffy comforter back in invitation. Suddenly aware of how chilly the room was, she scooted back in.

Candlelight cast planes and shadows across his face as he quickly dropped back into a deep sleep. Blond hair fell across his eyes, and she swept it back as she settled into a pillow. The strands between her fingers were pale as spiderweb, and soft as silk. Fragile, she thought.

—————————

The dream intercepted reality and took him by surprise. Candlelight glanced off auburn highlights in Granger’s curls. Her back was to him, breath coming slow and measured.

But there was other motion in the bed. Willing his point of view to move, he steered his body to sit up in the bed. Two fluffy white-blonde heads laid between them, not moving but for the subtle rise and fall of their chests. As usual, he couldn’t focus on any details about them.

In front of Granger, with her arm laid over them, were the girl with the black curls and the auburn-haired boy. The girl was closest to her, curled on her side. The boy was splayed out, little limbs akimbo. Granger’s hand rested on his chest.

Studying the girl for the first time, he noted that her little mouth looked like a doll version of Granger’s. And really, the boy had a similar bow-shaped upper lip and full lower lip.

The other two children, he could call them that now, didn’t move in their sleep so much as shimmer, their beings taking up more than one potential physical existence. To look at them was to try to force them into taking a specific form against their wills.

He laid back down and put an arm over the two children between them. The closest one snuggled into his chest, and the other wiggled closer under his hand.

The bed that had always felt too large felt right for the first time. There was still plenty of space, but it wasn’t the immense expanse of unbroken tufts and pillows he was used to.

His hand stroked the impossibly white hair of the two between them. They felt solid, even if he couldn’t see them properly. Gods, how could they always be so soft? And warm?

He snuggled in, holding them closer, and sighed, content.

His eyes felt strained trying to look at them, and he gave up, instead watching Granger. The girl whimpered, and Granger pulled her closer. The girl quieted, safe in her mo-

—————————

Waking with a start, he sat up and looked under the covers. It was just him and Granger. His eyes ached, still strained from the dream. The bed felt empty, and disorienting.

The candle had burned down a good inch and it was still dark. With a glance out the window, he wondered if her visits would always coincide with a new moon. And maybe he would need to stock up on candles.

A soft sob came from Granger. She lay on her side, facing away from him with an arm hugging a pillow to her chest. The position was eerily similar to his dream, he thought, chewing his lip.

A longer sob tumbled from her, nearly a moan. Scooting closer, he watched her face. She didn’t look upset, but nightmares could be odd. Her cheeks were flushed, lips parted, brows relaxed. She looked… eager?

She moaned quietly, and her hips moved. Grinning, he realized she wasn’t having a bad dream. A rather good dream, in fact.

Curiosity weighed out over caution, and he sent a tendril of Legilimency to her. Surprisingly, she had no barriers whatsoever, and the feel of butter-soft vellum skimmed through him as images took shape.

It was nonsense at first, just a mirage of naked skin in her living room. He waited and watched, letting the images coalesce until Granger took form. She was straddling one man, another in her mouth. The men kept changing forms, a rotation of red, black, and blonde hair. Limbs and torsos shuddered, reforming. Their bodies kept drifting positions, her silhouette the only stable one.

The man in front of her disappeared, and she pinned Draco with her gaze. Oh, shit, he thought. The dream snapped, and images of fire engulfed his vision.

“Malfoy, you nosy mother fucker,” she hissed, seething as she sat up. “Didn’t know you were a Legilimens. Hell of a way to find out.”

“Granger, I-“ he stammered, eyes wide.

“You what? Poke around people’s dreams?” she said pointedly.

“You were moaning. I thought it was a nightmare, but I wasn’t sure, so I looked,” he said, panic making his voice quiver. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Anger abating, she had to admit to herself that wasn’t the worst reason to use Legilimency. But she wasn’t thrilled that he’d gotten good eyeful of what she’d done with Harry and Ron in her apartment, with him randomly spliced in for good measure.

“I think you owe me,” she said, a bit self-righteous. “Dirty dream featuring you for a long, detailed description of a dirty dream featuring me.”

Relief sagged him back against the pillows, but confusion set in. His last coherent dream about sex had been… at Durmstrang? Weird.

“Hm. Tempting. I don’t have any recent dirty dreams of you. And telling you what I dreamed of doing to you in the library when we were fifteen seems… wrong. Very wrong. Hex-worthy.” He grinned, hoping to distract her.

She harrumphed, arms crossed over her chest. “Fine. Most recent dream of me, in general.”

Oh, Merlin’s mandibles, that was worse. Emptying his balls into her in the Restricted Section was far less likely to get his dick hexed off than a dream that involved snuggling what may or may not be little Grangers.

“And teach me whatever backwards form of Legilimency you use. That was… interesting. I can only do a little.”

“I’ll teach you some in the morning. It allows projection as well as reading. And plays with Occlumency in interesting ways.”

He must have thought too long, because she hopped up and sat on him, a wicked gleam in her eye.

“Oh, you are absolutely showing me whatever’s got you this scared, Malfoy,” she said, a wicked glint in her eyes.

“I… just… don’t fucking hex me, Granger,” he pleaded. “And don’t leave because of it?”

Worry traced her brow as she sank her weight onto his hips, enjoying the solid feel of him. Her face fell. “Is it violent?”

He laughed, and she bounced as his belly contracted. “No, no. Probably the least violent dream you’ve ever seen. And extremely recent. You woke me up from it just now.”

She chewed her lip in thought. Mostly unaware that her hips were pressing at a rather pleasant angle. What could be non-violent, non-sexual, and scare her off? “Show me." She leaned down to clonk her forehead indelicately against his.

He grinned and put his fingertips to her head. “It’ll feel cold in the corners of your eyes, but it won’t hurt,” he said in warning.

With that tidbit, she decided she was officially more interested in the Legilimency than the dream itself. Why hadn’t they learned multiple methodologies in school? Probably because it worked in places where the Ministry had warded against magic, she figured. Curtailing their education again.

He chewed his lip as he prepared the memory, starting with him lighting the candle so she could see the beginning. And he cut it off at her moaning, hoping it would placate her some about why he’d used it on her in her sleep.

In one nudge, he sent it to her. If she had a decent amount of control, she would be able to watch it unfold at any speed she chose, and possibly rewind and rewatch it a few times. She might make a good student if she could. It would be nice to have a student again, he thought.

Having sent it, he lay back, forehead to forehead, and waited. Her hips had stopped grinding against him, unfortunately. He was fairly sure she didn’t know she’d been doing it. Probably still rather aroused from her dream. And wet. And hot. And currently watching him snuggle children in bed with her.

Fuck.

—————————

At first, she thought the dream he’d shared was just a recent memory. It was interesting, though. His memories included a fair amount of emotion, and the depth of it shocked her.

He’d been absolutely sure she was sneaking out in the middle of the night. Unexpected grief ached in her chest. And when he’d lit the candle, she did look like a caged animal escaping.

His relief when she got back in bed was palpable. Falling into his dream was seamless, except that the point of view was hard to control. They were still in bed, but there were other people with them. Kids?

She watched herself holding two small children, maybe three or four years old. And he was holding two other children between them, but she couldn’t get a good look at them.

She felt his awe at being allowed to touch them, and his trust in her holding the other two. Mixed in was a certain amount of relief that they were still and contained. It made her wonder if this dream wasn’t always so peaceful.

The girl in her arms whimpered, and she hugged her. And suddenly she was looking down at herself in a memory, not a dream. She was hugging a pillow, and she really was making some odd noises. He hadn’t lied about that. The conflict warring inside him over what to do was suffocating, then the memory froze.

It hadn’t been unreasonable of him to worry she was having a nightmare, but non-consensual Legilimency was still a dodgy move.

She rewound the memory to look at the children again. The girl’s dark curls and sweeping brows reminded her of Harry. And the boy’s hair looked like Ginny’s thick auburn locks. The children between them didn’t have defined faces, or features. Odd. Very odd.

She let the dream pull her back into its flow. His contentment was thick like bathwater. It was so unlike the short turmoil of his wakefulness before and after the dream. He felt… at peace.

—————————

Her eyes fluttered open, after far longer than he’d expected. He shut his eyes, expecting her to sit up and either mock or berate him. Would she call him a pervert or something just generally emasculating?

Instead, her forehead lifted from his and her lips replaced it. She took a deep breath through his hair, letting the scent of teakwood linger. He must have snuck off for a bath at some point, she thought.

Her lips pressed to his forehead, and he swallowed thickly. He wondered if this was a chaste farewell.

She sighed and leaned her chest into him. “That felt like Sunday mornings when I was little. I used to crawl into my parents’ bed and they’d tell stories and read books till we got hungry. Then we’d make pancakes. They don’t remember it, but I do.”

He opened his mouth, but couldn’t think of anything to say. She absolved him of his response by claiming his mouth in a slow, deep kiss that made him moan in surprised reassurance.

She drew back and shot him a grin, “That was the least Slytherin thing I’ve ever seen.”

Studying her, he murmured, “The Sorting Hat was kind of racist. And definitely crooked.”

“Well, it was an old hat,” she reasoned. “It had gotten floppy.”

He bit his lip and thought about how much he wanted her to know. Not just about him, but about the school, possibly the wizarding community, even. Hogwarts graduates had a tendency to put entirely too much stock in their house affiliations, even as adults, and he didn’t want to give Granger some kind of identity crisis. Though, in his opinion, she’d have been better off in Ravenclaw.

In his third year, he’d been left unattended in Dumbledore’s office shortly after the Sorting Ceremony. It had been a rather informative conversation. “No, I mean… Lucius bribed it,” he said warily “to sort me into Slytherin.”

“He what?!” she reeled. “How do you bribe a hat?!” She leaned back to look at him, hands on his shoulders. His hands traced up her sides, and goosebumps followed. Early morning was rather chilly in a stone room.

“Uhm… With delousing charms, apparently. It was convinced a Muggleborn was going to give it lice,” he admitted. “Its vision wasn’t good, and it thought I was my father, come to disinfect it after the Ceremony.”

“You’re having me on,” she said skeptically. “That’s absolute nonsense.”

He shrugged and dreaded the question she was inevitably going to ask him, and the disbelief she was likely to shower him with. Pansy had been making fun of him for over a decade.

He dragged the fluffy duvet up around her waist. It looked like a Victorian skirt, and a smile quirked his lip. Lady Granger.

“So…” she trailed off, and he braced himself. “What house were you supposed to be in? Did it tell you?”

“It did. And I’ll give you precisely one hint, Granger,” he stated as his hands ran up her thighs alongside his waist. “And only one guess. Judge based on what you’ve seen in my head, not in school.”

If she had to pick, she would have assumed Ravenclaw, based on how often she’d seen him in the library. He’d closely competed with her for marks, as well. But he also pulled enough dumb irrational shit as a student to keep up with the Gryffindor boys.

But judge him by what she’d seen in his head? She’d never seen his memories in a Pensieve or anything. Just this dream he’d sent her. Oh. “Hufflepuff?” she guessed.

He nodded, relieved she’d guessed on the first try, and didn’t look prepared to mock him for it.

“Huh,” she pondered, eyeing him closely. “You’d look abominable in yellow, though.”

He barked a laugh, flipped her over onto her back and smothered her giggles in kisses.

—————————

Harry couldn’t sleep. 4:00 AM. The Indecision Hour. Not night, not quite day. Just enough time for an unsatisfying nap before he had to get up. He tried to get comfortable in bed. And failed. Fuck it.

Robards said as early as possible. He’d just get there at 5:00 and sit outside the Head Auror office till Robards came in.

At 5:15, coffee and Daily Prophet in hand, he rounded the corner in the DMLE section to find Robards’ office wide open. A rectangle of light graced the hallway floor like a welcome mat. Or a trap door, he thought.

A knock on the door frame and embedded ward announced his arrival. Robards looked up from his desk and motioned Harry in. The man looked like he’d been through a war. Well, another war.

The office may have survived an attack, as well. File cabinets hung open, reams of paper drifted through the air, settling themselves into distinct piles. An aerial ballet of bureaucracy that made Harry shudder and wonder if it was too late to change careers.

“Potter, you’re suspiciously early for being summoned at your leisure on a Sunday morning. And you’re off today and tomorrow, even.” He looked Harry up and down, unable to discern any real difference from his usual disheveled state. “Been out on the town all night?”

The casual familiarity knocked Harry off kilter. Robards was a consummate professional, if nothing else. It made him wonder what kind of shenanigans his supervisor had gotten up to when he was a young Auror.

“I… No, sir. That was Friday night,” Harry ventured, pulling a chair up.

Robards chuckled knowingly. His face sobered when he saw the newspaper Harry was tucking under his leg.

“So, you’ve read the news, I take it?” Robards grimaced.

“Oh, no, I just picked it up on the way in. Why?” Harry’s unease was growing rapidly, and he sipped his coffee to hide it.

“Well, be wary of the slant they put on it when you do read it.” He hesitated. “I’m stepping down, Potter. Not by choice. And I’m not sure who’ll replace me, but I assume you’re in the forerunning.”

“I… What?” Harry froze, coffee halfway to his lips. “I heard you were retiring. Next year.”

“Well, that was going to be the story, but the Prophet got someone to talk.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m assigning a case to you. It’s not currently under investigation, and might be quietly closed in a year. Or it might be implicated and reopened and dragged through the press for a decade.”

“So give it to the poster boy,” Harry muttered bitterly into his cup.

Robards shrugged. “A little, yes. But I’d have chosen you even if you weren’t photogenic,” he tried to joke.

“This is why you’re whoring me out to Witch Weekly again? To take the heat off of you.” Resentment had crept in and taken up residence. Robards leaving with his tail between his legs wasn’t sounding so bad anymore.

“Oh, no.” Robards leaned back in his chair, exhausted. “That was just to get out ahead of the news of Adams hexing a bystander. But it won’t hurt with this, either.”

His coffee was slowly burning his mouth, but he was almost grateful for the distraction. Something needed to keep his tongue in check at the moment.

His respect for Robards had eroded steadily over the last few years after watching him let Aurors like Adams off the hook repeatedly. Being forced out of his position by scandal was the last nail in the coffin. This man was no longer Head Auror. He was just another disgraced bureaucrat.

“Just spill it, Robards. All of it. On the table.” He pinned Robards' gaze, green eyes hard. “I may or may not end up at this desk, and if I walk into a trap, I’ll drag you through the mud till after I’m dead.”

The slam of the door made him jump, scalding coffee splattering across the back of his hand. He licked it off, pausing to listen to the increasing hum of the office wards. It was a shrill, faint sound. And familiar.

With a start, he recognized the irritating hum. It nearly matched the sound Malfoy had made while healing Ron. Did Robards use illegal Blood Magic to ward his Ministry office?

“Interesting wards you have, Gawain,” he said speculatively. Robards cleared his throat, covering one hand with the other.

“If you do end up at this desk, you’ll understand why, Potter.”

The wards reached their crescendo and quieted, but Harry had the distinct sensation of being enclosed underwater. Godric, how bad was this going to be?

He glared at Robards expectantly.

“Right, well. How much do you know about the Auror deaths in the Durmstrang raid?” Robards laced his fingers together and began.

Harry’s coffee rose in his throat, and he swallowed it down. Bad. This was going to be very bad.

—————————

“Granger!” Draco's voice echoed slightly through the rooms. “Damn you, Granger, you’d better keep your sticky mitts out of those muffins!”

A muffled shout that sounded vaguely like Make me bounced back to him. That was it. His muffins were in peril. Springing from the bed, he raced between the bookshelves to the living room.

She looked up from the sink and froze, slowly chewing. She’d had to stop in the kitchen to wash her hands. His “rustic loo” didn’t have a sink. Or running water. So she’d had to check and make sure the muffins hadn’t gotten stale overnight. It would have been impolite not to.

She swallowed demonstrably and dried her hands on her t-shirt. Her jeans were somewhere in the living room, and she was glad she’d packed a handful of knickers.

No man should look so dangerously sexy while stalking through a living room in pajama bottoms.

She caught his gaze and took another slow bite of her stolen muffin. He lifted an eyebrow in challenge as he passed the table to stand in front of her. The rest of the muffin was deftly plucked out of her hand and shoved whole into his mouth.

He shook his head disapprovingly and stepped in, pinning her hips against the sink. Still chewing, he leveled an accusatory finger at her, then swung it to point at the bedroom. She didn’t move, pretending to not understand the gesture.

He snapped his fingers, and flicked his index finger, swallowing with a wince. “Go. Thief.”

With a harrumph and toss of her hair, she slid from between him and the sink to walk casually back to the bed. He watched her sashay intentionally and shook his head, smiling.

—————————

Harry wondered if he would be more or less likely to be shoved into the Head Auror position if he vomited on the floor of said office. Maybe it would disqualify him somehow? Or would it be considered staking his claim?

His empty coffee cup between his feet mocked him. Mere minutes ago, when it had been full and scorching his mouth, he hadn’t been a knowing accomplice in an international murder coverup.

And now? Now the cup was empty, and he was about to retch.

Robards was wrapping up the gory details of an unexplained death of a wizard in a bar in Ballycastle after a Bats match. The man’s brain had been mush, and he’d dropped dead, bleeding from every hole in his head, right there in the bar after an argument. But that wasn’t the nauseating part. Not really.

Being on the edge of the Ministry’s territory, and a bit of an anti-Ministry hotspot, the owner had alerted the International Confederation of Wizards as well as the Ministry.

The ICW had shipped the body to the Asklepieion of Kos for a thorough autopsy, while the Ministry had a hissy fit. Harry had no idea what the Asklepieion of Kos was, but it was evidently some kind of hot shot international Healer’s guild.

An examination by Aurors at the scene had detected no magical cause for the man’s death, and the case was shelved in the UK months ago.

Kos, however, had found an identical cause of death in two Aurors involved in the Ministry’s somewhat-illegal raid of Durmstrang five years ago. The ICW published the findings, making special note of the Ministry’s attempt to pass the deaths off as blunt force trauma. They’d included a tasteful footnote reminding the world of the Ministry and Hogwarts’ public censures for their failures and actions in the war, as well.

The report had been out for less than twenty-four hours, and the press was fucking rioting.

New Dark Wizard Rising???
Ministry Buries Aurors, Quidditch Fan, and TRUTH!
Ballycastle Brain Bludger Bungles Ministry
Ministry Mishandling of Misconduct Materializes!

And his favorite, He-Who-HAS-No-Name Annihilates Aurors, Disgraces DMLE, Invades Ireland.

Godric, what an epic fuckup. Covering up the deaths of the Aurors was sloppy and lazy, Harry thought. But trying to rug-sweep a civilian murder was unconscionable.

That wasn’t the part that was making Harry consider the ramifications of vomiting on the floor, though.

It was the link. The very obvious link between the Durmstrang raid and the Bats.

It was Falk.

—————————

“I’m starting to think you weren’t kidding last night about the horrible Muggleborn girl hiding her hips from you,” she whispered as she watched him kiss his way back up to the indent of her waist.

He hummed in agreement. “I really do like a good pelvis.” He punctuated the statement by burying his face in her waist and blowing a raspberry.

She shrieked and tried to wiggle away, but he held her tight.

“Some men fixate on tits, or legs, or asses. I like hips.” He worked his way back down and slid her knickers lower. “Well, and shoulders. But not on women.”

He licked a hot line down the crease of her thigh, and she tensed up to meet him.

“Not on women? So… on men?” Nuanced conversation was nearly impossible with him randomly licking and kissing the junction of her thigh.

“Mm hmm.” His preferred topic of conversation would have been how torturously slowly he was going to make her come underneath him, but changing course now would seem suspicious.

Her faculties returned slightly, and she lifted her head to look at him. She met his eyes over the horizon of her poorly-chosen Christmas tree-printed panties. He’d only made seven or eight jokes about boxes and unwrapping them.

“So, you’re… interested in men?” she asked tentatively.

The idea had… possibilities. Ron and Harry’s camaraderie in bed had surprised and fascinated her. Men actually interacting with each other? And her? At the same time? Goosebumps flooded her arms.

Her reaction didn’t escape his notice. Another pair of knickers defeated, he thought, looking at the damp cloth.

“Sometimes,” he said. He rested his chin on the dry edge of the fabric. “It was never much of a secret in Pureblood circles.”

He was uncomfortably close to her clit, and his talking sent a delicious hum between her legs.

“Your parents know?” She couldn’t see Lucius and Narcissa accepting that their son would ever grow up to be anything but his father.

“They walked in on it several times during winter break in… third year?” he frowned, thinking. “Yeah, third year. Same year as the Sorting Hat debacle.”

“Third year?!” she sputtered, eyes wide. Godric, she’d still been figuring out how to masturbate at that age.

He laid his cheek on her groin. “Ernie and I were rather precocious. And my parents approved of his bloodline enough to look the other way.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “You dated Ernie? When we were, like, fourteen? How did I not know that?!”

Images of him mid-coitus with the shaggy blonde Hufflepuff prefect flooded her. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy. Actually, he’d gotten rather handsome by graduation.

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t call it dating, but Weasley might have known. That kind of information flowed more by birth house than school house. Dalliances, betrothals, and whatnot.”

“Betrothals? In school? Why was I so out of the loop?” She sat up, worked into a solid huff. “And why the hell would you and Ernie not be the talk of the Great Hall?”

“Kind of surprised you didn’t know. We didn’t knock it off till seventh year.”

“But he turned you into a slug!” she blustered.

He shrugged again. “I got better.”

————————

Harry was not having an epic, blubbering meltdown in his office. On his day off. It was all so fucked. He was fucked. His career was fucked. The DMLE was fucked. The Ministry was fucked. All of it, just fucked.

Even his office was fucked. Senior Aurors got rather large offices, and now his was crammed full of file cabinets and Pensieve storage. The crumpled tissues surrounding the garbage can didn’t help the aesthetics.

“Malfoy, D. L., Jun. 5, 1980, #58720” repeated itself everywhere. On every paper, in every file, in every cabinet. On every vial, on every shelf, on every fucking surface.

#58720 was burned in his mind, etched itself at the edges of his vision, sat at the tip of his tongue, and teased him from his own wrist. He was literally wearing Malfoy’s identification number on a fucking bracelet.

It was oddly claustrophobic and likely to be his downfall. He’d told Robards he was the last Auror who should be responsible for overseeing Malfoy’s parole, but every reason he gave Robards twisted around.

Harry was kind of friends with Malfoy now, so that was a conflict of interest, right?
Not according to Robards. That was an asset.

Robards had been thrilled to get notification that Auror Potter had pulled the Malfoy files out of curiosity. And he was elated when the Ministry ward alerted him to Potter passing into Malfoy’s property, not killing Malfoy, and exiting.

Apparently, finding an Auror that didn’t want to execute Malfoy on sight had been a serious issue.

Harry had argued that he and Malfoy had too much history. Robards thought that was great. It gave him perspective.

Harry protested that he wasn’t experienced. Robards countered that Harry was unlikely to retire and pass the buck.

Harry had, however, stopped short of mentioning their pseudo-romantic entanglement with Hermione. If cursing, hexing, and dueling each other wasn’t enough to deter Robards, fucking the same woman was unlikely to make a difference.

Also absent from his attempted rationalizations was the disorienting effect Malfoy had always had on him. Finding out about his relationship with Falk had picked loose the edges of an epiphany, but he didn’t have the time or energy to unravel that at the moment.

Nothing would have dissuaded Robards from assigning him to be Malfoy’s nanny. The bracelet felt heavy. It was just a strip of black leather, but it felt like an iron shackle. Controlling wards with a device wasn’t anything new to him, but being required to wear one for the foreseeable future sure was.

The depth of his autonomy with this case was absurd, as well. Robards had all but said Harry could walk in and kill Malfoy and not face charges. Alternately, he could bust his ass and help Malfoy re-integrate into society, and nobody would give half a shit about that, either.

His gut churned as he remembered Robards final words on the case.

“Potter, there’s no winning or losing with this. It’s not Quidditch,” he’d cautioned. ”All you can do here is find the moral high ground and defend it. The rest is out of your control.”

”Find the moral high ground and defend it.” Fuck.

—————————

“So prone to violence, you Gryffindors,” Malfoy chided. “You’ll never get what you want with threats.” He licked another slow swath up the center of her sopping cunt, swirling at the top around her clit.

Hermione growled, low and angry. “I swear to every pantheon of mankind’s invention, I will fucking end you.”

“Still capable of creative swearing. Not ready.” He traced slick fingers down her folds and stopped just outside her entrance to tease.

A soft sob broke from her throat as her hips tried to slide down onto his waiting fingers. He slid them back up to her clit and watched her try to angle herself to receive them as they slid back down. He lifted them slowly as they skimmed down her crease, lifting them just outside the opening to her pussy.

“Poor greedy witch. You’re too used to getting what you want in the bedroom, Granger,” he observed. “I think those Muggle men spoiled you. Like the fast food of sex.”

He hoisted himself up to lay next to her and his breath hissed as she immediately grabbed a hold of him and started stroking. He responded by pressing on her clit hard with his palm and teasing her slit with his fingertips again. She moaned with his palm, and growled with his fingertips.

“See, and there’s the difference, Granger.” He looked down at her. “Still in there?”

She opened her eyes and glared fury at him. Her hips twitching involuntarily, begging his fingers to do anything more substantial than this dance.

“I’m not one for fast food. Planning the next dinner’s menu while washing the dishes is more my speed. Do you follow?”

She shook her head. Merlin, she was absolutely gone. Her pupils were enormous in the early morning light. Her chest rose and fell in a ragged pattern punctuated by whimpers and groans, and he loved it. Golden girl undone.

He took her hand away from stroking him and set it on her breast. “Here, hold this.” She complied, kneading and plucking a nipple.

“Fast food. Pub fare. You realize you’re very hungry. It’s there. It tastes good. You eat it. End of story. Or fuck, as it were,” he explained, letting just a little condescension leak through. “Now, the opposite would be a formal dinner.”

He propped up on an elbow, reaching his fingers just a touch lower, pressing at her core. A low groan leaked out between her clenched teeth. “Please,” she whispered.

Ignoring her, he continued, coming to kneel between her thighs, hands firmly holding her hips down. “You know about it in advance. You may even know the menu. And you starve all day in that anticipation.”

He leaned forward, letting the tip of his cock brush her opening. Her breath hissed in, and her thighs fell open in grateful expectation. “And then when you’re seated, and it’s in front of you, you eat it as slowly as humanly possible, because it’s the best fucking thing you’ve ever put in your mouth.”

He dipped the head of his erection into her slickness, spreading it around. Her head rose up to watch him, eyes wild, color high. “Because not only have you been looking forward to it, but someone else has been preparing it…”

He leaned forward, sliding his head fully inside. Her breath caught in anticipation.

“…all…”

Her walls stretched to finally accept him, and she whimpered, urging him to hurry.

“…fucking…”

The tense weight of climax was already building in her as he slowly, slowly slid himself fully inside, hips coming to rest against hers.

“…day.”

Her hips thrust up, trying to get the last little bit of friction needed, but he held her still.

A frustrated groan spilled from her. “Please… just… fuck me?” she begged.

Mocking disappointment, he lowered himself down to his elbows over her and kissed her chin.

“You weren’t listening at all, Granger.”

Pleasure ricocheted through her body as he angled his hips upward and gave one small thrust. Muffling her scream against his shoulder did nothing to quiet her as her core squeezed around him and her hips ground in time with it. Gradually, her body relaxed its hold on him and let him begin to move.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” he whispered, leaning down to her ear. “I’m going to make love to you… till you can’t fucking see straight.”

Chapter Text

“Let me out, or I’ll…” she trailed off, not sure how to threaten him without magic. He’d thrown the damned duvet over his back while he was on top of her, and she was, quite literally, hot and bothered.

His arms scooped up behind her shoulders. “You’ll what?” He said goading her while keeping a holding pattern of short, slow thrusts. Just enough to keep her interested without moving toward another climax.

“I’ll… bite you?” she threatened weakly. Gods, if he didn’t either stop moving or go faster, she really would. Sweat trickled between her breasts uncomfortably. How was he not hot?

He hummed his interest and dropped his shoulder in front of her chin. “Go on, then, Granger.” Briefly confused, she searched his face and found patient interest. He wasn’t joking.

She grazed her lips against the skin between his shoulder and neck, and he leaned his head away, sucking in a breath. He was slick with sweat under her lips, and she scowled. He was just as overheated as she was. Bastard.

Her tongue ran a line up to his ear, drawing a shudder from his chest. Interesting, she thought. Thrilled at finding a way to disrupt his teasing, she tentatively locked her teeth over the muscle of his shoulder. It earned her a deep rolling thrust from him, and she moaned.

A hot, pink flush was creeping up his chest and neck as she nipped her way along his jaw, and back down his neck.

She kissed the faint imprints she’d left, and brushed her way to his collarbone, already eliciting deeper, erratic thrusts from him. Licking along the length of the ridge to his shoulder, her teeth gently grasped it.

Soft expletives fell from his lips as his hips gathered speed and depth. “Say when?” she asked, quietly unsure. He hummed his agreement.

Sweaty white-blond hair stuck up at odd angles, and his cheeks were fluorescent pink. His shallow breathing and parted lips gave away how much her attentions had affected him.

Coiled pleasure was growing rapidly as he finally left the teasing thrusts behind. She set her teeth in the center of his collarbone, steadily applying pressure. His head dropped to her shoulder as his hips drew back and thrust deep, pausing to grind against her at the bottom of each stroke. His breath shook as he tried to maintain a rhythm.

Hot tendrils of pressure spilled over, and she bit down with finality as her body gripped him, coursing waves of pleasure through her. He groaned low and shameless, throbbing inside her as she held him tight. Quieting, she licked across the imprint of her teeth, embarrassed to have left such a violent mark on him. He shivered and caught her lips in a deep, melding kiss.

Sweat dripped down his nose onto her cheek, and she grinned, breaking the kiss. He lifted himself up on his hands, pulling out, and the sweat between them ran down the sides of her waist.

“Ugh, now would you like to throw the damned blanket off?” she inquired, wiping the rivlets away with her hands

He got up on his knees, dramatically wrapping it around himself like a cape.

“Never!” he shouted, flopping down cocooned next to her, grinning like a loon.

————————

Godric, how Harry usually loved the Burrow. But not today. Usually, he appreciated everyone asking about his well-being, but at this Sunday morning feast, he was visibly unwell and rather tired of lying about it.

And there was no coffee or even proper tea. Just the pitcher of red death.

“Oi, Har, when did you start wearing bracelets?” Ron asked around a mouthful of sausage.

Harry forced himself to swallow a bite of muffin. He was truly and utterly fucked if he was in a bad mood eating one of Molly’s muffins.

“It’s for work,” he muttered. “For a case.” Bill passed him a plate of eggs, and he passed it on to Ron.

“Oh, that’s bollocks. Why’s it got Hermione’s name on it?” Ron asked. She didn’t give him a bracelet. Now he wanted a bracelet, dammit.

Harry froze mid-muffin, flipping his wrist over. Sure enough, scrawled in white letters on the black leather, was Hermione Jean Granger .

Merlin be damned. Hermione must have gone to Malfoy’s this morning. The thing did work. Ron was waiting for an answer, and he wasn’t sure how much he was allowed to divulge. But then again, he pretty much had no oversight or objective for this case.

Find the moral high ground and defend it, Robards had instructed. Ron knowing his assignment didn’t endanger Malfoy. It could potentially benefit him, even, in case of emergencies.

The letters faded, and he pursed his lips. “I’m Malfoy’s new… Auror nanny? Robards foisted his parole oversight and case on me. The bracelet reports ward crossings.”

Ron’s face gradually turned purple, and he burst out laughing. “Ron, shut the fuck up,” Harry hissed. “You don’t have to alert all of Devon.”

“Oh, Godric.” Ron heaved, dabbing the corners of his eyes with a napkin. “But you’re the one that called him a bloody disaster magnet. I guess that makes you the disaster.”

“Thanks, mate.” Harry scowled. “Like I was real thrilled with work before this crap.”

“Sorry, I just, it’s hilarious.” Ron suppressed another round of giggles. “What exactly do you do as his babysitter?”

“On a day to day basis, I don’t know. Long-term, go down with him, it sounds like.” Harry frowned, biting into the muffin, not eager to talk about the potential decade’s worth of drama and press coverage this case could present.

Ron stared at him, mouth agape. “Har, they got no right to tell you to do that,” Ron said sternly. “I know they ask Aurors to put themselves in a lot of dangerous situations, but that is not okay.”

“I don’t like it, but it might only be for the next year, and I can handle that.” Harry reasoned out, picking up crumbs with his thumb.

Ron didn’t like the sound of the whole setup. “No, Har, if you decide to pursue that on your own time, that’s fine. Great, even. But for them to tell you you have to do it to stay an Auror, that’s got to be illegal.”

Harry was now thoroughly confused. “Why would I choose to tank my career on my own time, Ron?”

“Oh.” Ron paused, rehashing Harry’s words. “Down with. Like, in flames. Not... Nevermind.”’

Ron concentrated very hard on his teacup. Harry watched him, the light slowly dawning behind his eyes.

“For fuck’s sake, Ron!” Harry yelled.

Molly, Fleur, Audrey, and Percy all shot daggers at him. Bill looked thrilled at the possibility of bloodshed at brunch. Arthur had been stricken with sudden and total deafness, the cure for which was obviously at the bottom of the butter dish.

Ron stood and nodded to Harry to follow him outside. Harry huffed and obliged. He led them out to the rubble field, which was somewhat more organized.

Layering Bombarda Maximas with Arresto Momentums and Carpe Retractas had thus far resulted in being able to blow out the granite bedrock and blast it into neat blocks, which stacked themselves nicely in a small wall. A vast improvement, if anyone asked. Which they did not.

“Well, what, Ron?” Harry demanded, kicking small rocks down into the nearest pit. It was meters deeper than it had been even a few days ago. What the fuck was Ron doing out here?

“The Malfoy thing, Harry,” Ron gently suggested.

He’d always hoped he wouldn’t have to nudge his best friend into this personal revelation. It didn’t feel like his place, but maybe nobody else was going to show up out of the blue and do this.

“What about it? I didn’t get a choice about this case.” Harry retorted.

“No, I don’t mean the case,” Ron said, sitting down at the edge of the ledge, surveying his work and choosing his words very, very carefully. “I mean that it’s okay if you find him attractive.”

“I don-“ Harry fired back, fists clenched, but was cut off.

“Don’t, Harry. Hear me out?” Ron asked. Harry huffed, but nodded. “If I’d have misunderstood, say, Bill, for saying he was planning on sucking some guy off, would he have screamed expletives in front of all the kids at brunch?”

It was Harry’s turn to sit down and speak softly. “No.” His cheeks were turning scarlet, and he was helpless to stop it.

“And if I’d have misunderstood and thought the Ministry was requiring you to lick some convicted bint, would you have exploded like that?” Ron asked carefully.

“I… no, probably not.” Harry admitted, wrapping his arms around his middle. The edges of his vision felt blurry, and he wiped his glasses to no avail.

“Malfoy is an objectively attractive man.” Ron turned to face him, one foot dangling over the pit. “Hell, ask Hermione. She has excellent taste, we can agree. We’re both fit as shit.”

Harry let out a deep breath and nodded. Ron would drop this soon. He didn’t need to respond.

“And so,” Ron continued, “if you also find him attractive, you’re in good company. Do you follow me?”

Harry nodded. That fucking pufferfish was back in his throat, but today it was digging its spines in. But it was fine. He didn’t have to talk about it.

“Harry,” Ron encouraged. “It really is fine. And I’m not going to drop it. Not this time.”

Gods, his chest was on fire, and everything was fucking blurry and his throat felt like it was strangling itself. But Ron was still waiting for a response, not caring that his best friend was dying in front of him.

“I don’t…” Harry croaked. Fucking pufferfish. He sniffed. “I don’t want to, Ron.”

“Don’t want what, Har?” Ron murmured.

“I don’t want it. I don’t want to talk about it,” he choked out.

“I know you don’t, mate.” Ron scooted in and threw an arm around his shoulders. “But I promise, the only people who’ll give a shit are some very excited menfolk. Some of them might even be rather good-looking.”

Harry flicked his glasses on top of his head to wipe his eyes with his sleeve. Pain lanced through Ron’s heart watching that familiar old gesture. He hadn’t seen that since shortly after the war.

“It’s… it’s not that easy, though, Ron,” he insisted, a shuddering sigh helping open his throat.

“No, but it won’t be as hard as you think.” Ron shrugged. “Like, people, especially wizards, just really don’t give a shit.”

“Nah,” Harry shook his head. ”Guys at school made so many jokes about it. And a lot of the Aurors do, too.”

If he’d had a wall, Ron would have head-butted it. “They were flirting, Harry. Often with you. Think about who made all the jokes.”

Harry looked gobsmacked. Slowly blinking, he closed his mouth and thought.

“Well, Malfoy,” he offered. He remembered Malfoy and Ernie trading barbs in the Great Hall on numerous occasions.

Ron nodded.

Harry continued, “Ernie, especially closer to graduation.”

“He and Malfoy were a… thing from like, fourth year to-“

“What?! “ Harry barked. “When did you find out?!”

“Fourth year, obviously. It wasn’t a secret.” Ron squinted, trying to remember the dumb minutia of pubertal hijinks. ”Though I think they’d actually started in third year,”

“How did I not…” Harry trailed off, both angry at Ron for not telling him, and angry with himself for not figuring it out.

“Har, come on,” Ron chided. “You didn’t see what you didn’t want to see. Remember when they showed up to breakfast in the wrong ties and wrestled them off each other on the Great Hall floor?”

“Yeah.” Harry nodded. “I was worried Ernie was going to get his nose broken before class.”

Ron laughed and clapped his hand on Harry’s thigh. “Lovers play-fighting, Harry. How the hell did you think they ended up in the wrong ties that morning?”

Stunned, Harry gazed, unseeing, into the pit, bouncing the heels of his shoes against the wall.

Ron continued, “You really didn’t know about Malfoy till he brought up Falk the other day, did you?”

Harry shook his head.

“And you didn’t know Ernie was flirting with you for years, huh?” Ron asked.

Harry was reeling. Ernie had been flirting with him, and he’d told him to fuck off so many times. And he’d otherwise liked Ernie. Maybe really, really liked him. Fuck.

Ron laid down on his back, watching the clouds roll by, giving Harry some space to excruciatingly dissect every conversation he’d ever had with men who’d scared him off with misinterpreted compliments and innuendo.

Harry flopped down next to him, brow furrowed in concentration. “Was Stephen Cornfoot flirting with me, too?” Harry asked in careful monotone.

“Yup…” Ron drawled, trying to not smile.

“Son of a bitch!” Harry shouted at no one. “He was, uhm, kind of gorgeous.”

“Kinda still is,” said Ron, grinning. “I think he works at Gringotts. I see him around the Alley. He asks about you.”

“Huh. Who else?” Harry asked, almost excitedly.

“From school? I think those were the only two who hit on you,” Ron surmised, “and Malfoy.”

“Ugh, no. You’re lying.” Harry groaned. “He hated me.”

“No, mate. He very much liked you. And you hated that. His compliments didn’t start out sarcastic.”

Ron felt like he was giving a Wizard Studies lecture, if such a class had existed. And now he wondered if maybe it should. It would have made more sense than making Harry and Hermione take Muggle Studies.

“Give me an example.” Harry requested, rolling on his side to face Ron.

“C’mere.” Ron said, patting his shoulder. Harry had already had a horrible day, and Ron felt guilty for ripping this wound open.

It was going better than he’d expected, though. He was sure if he’d have brought it up years ago, Harry would have just told him to fuck off, too.

Harry was surprised Ron was offering to practically snuggle him while discussing his attraction to men, but Ron didn’t seem to care a bit. Brotherly love and then some, he supposed.

“Don’t give me that look, Harry. You’re not my type. Your arse is pitiful and you’ve got rubbish for tits.” Ron jabbed, scratching his beard.

Harry laughed and laid his head on Ron’s chest, throwing an arm across his torso for good measure. “That beard is rubbish,” Harry retorted.

They both took a deep breath and relaxed. The epiphany that had threatened the other day had found an odd time and place to manifest. Maybe ripping it open wasn’t meant to be done alone.

“Okay, so,” Ron started, feeling like this was a bedtime story, “I think it was second year, you got new robes. And Malfoy passed us in the hall, and just said ’Nice robes, Potter’. And you said…”

“I think I told him to fuck off,” he said sheepishly, “but what was I supposed to say?”

“What would you have said if Cho had complimented your robes?” Ron asked, feeling like he was talking to one of his nieces.

“I probably would have said ‘Thanks’, and then said something nice to her,” Harry admitted. “Fuck. I did that so much, Ron.”

“Yeah, you did, mate,” Ron said plaintively, wrapping his trapped arm around Harry. Poor bloke was gonna have a second breakdown when he fully realized how big an asshat he’d been to a lot of decent men.

Ron gave him a squeeze after he heard a sniffle. “What am I even supposed to do, though?”

“Well, I suppose you could tell people. Or show people. I dunno, send Stephen an owl. And then sit back and be surprised when nothing interesting happens.”

“Yeah, but people expect…” Harry trailed off, not really knowing how to finish that thought.

“People expect what? Harry Potter, Future Head Auror, lady killer?” Ron mocked.

“Well, yeah, kind of. I mean, like you’re running the store and living here at the Burrow,” Harry replied weakly.

“Har. If I were gonna grow up to meet people’s expectations, I’d be married and four kids deep by now.”

Harry chuckled at the idea of Ron dressed as Arthur, Flooing into an office every day to do paperwork. It was less funny when he realized he needed to Floo into his office to do paperwork later.

“Instead, I’m experimenting with expansion charms to stage a takeover of Diagon Alley, building borderline illegal spelled charms, and tag-teaming my school crush with my best mate.”

Harry grinned. “Yeah, when you put it like that…”

Ron squeezed him tight and kissed the top of his head with a loud smack. “Come on. Want to tell the Weasley clan and watch them not give a rat’s ass?”

Harry buried his face in Ron’s shirt and inhaled deeply, soaking in the smell of the Burrow and brunch and family and home.

“Yeah, okay.”

—————————

The vellum cover felt so much like her magic, he almost wondered if it was divine providence. Except that he was all but beating her over the head with it.

“Granger,” he said sternly, “take the damn book. You’re going to need it.”

She shook her head resolutely. “No way. That thing is ancient, and I’m not trained to handle texts like that.”

It had to be hundreds of years old, she thought. The script inside was barely comprehensible English. Merlin, though, it was gorgeous script. The margins were intricately filled in with delicate animation. Hell, the artwork alone was probably as informative as the text.

He watched her cram clothing and books together in her rucksack, and did briefly wonder if she’d beat the shit out of the book. It probably dated to the mid 1700’s, if he had to guess. But he wasn’t letting her leave without it.

Her head turned to scan the room, and he snatched the Christmas tree knickers out of the bag and slid the courtship guide into the front pocket. Fair trade.

“I don’t know why you think I need to know outdated courtship practices, anyway,” she muttered, zipping up the bag.

He suppressed a victorious smile. She’d read it when she found it at home. Hermione Granger couldn’t turn down a book. It was quite possibly his favorite thing about her.

“Don’t… don’t ‘court’ me, Malfoy. I’m neither a traditionalist nor interested.” She added an eye roll for extra apathy.

It stung a little. Maybe more than a little, he thought. It felt like she was trying to pick a fight to keep him at a distance.

Annoyance flitted across his features. “I know, Granger. You’ve made it abundantly clear,” he said tersely. “And I’ve made it just as clear that you should learn about it for the sake of your ginger furball. It’s important to him.”

She paused, hoisting the bag to her shoulder. “Why would I court my cat?”

It was his turn to roll his eyes. “I mean Weasley. Your Kneazle is already in love with me, anyway,” he huffed. “We’re eloping to Paris. There’s a bad pun in there about fucking the wrong pussy…”

“Glad you’re mature enough to not go there, then,” she confirmed sarcastically.

“I mean, I-“ he started.

“Right, so,” she cut him off, cinching the straps on her bag. “How do you want me to get a hold of you next month?”

“I…” His lips halted, the reality of their arrangement slapping him in the face. “I guess, just Apparate in when you want to. I’ll be here.”

“Great. Thanks,” she said, clipped, and walked to the door. She turned when she reached the threshold, and he walked toward her, assuming she was waiting for a proper sending off. Instead, she said cheerily, “See you then,” and left.

The door clicked behind her, and he stared at it. Thanks. See you then. Like he’d just made an appointment for robe fittings.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. There was no one to hear it, anyway.

Doubt brewed, heavy in his chest. Not even a kiss goodbye? Had he done something to make her leave so abruptly? Was it the book? Had he done something in bed she didn’t like? Was he just entirely off-base in thinking she’d enjoyed his company at all?

His nostrils flared, and he realized he was breathing too quickly. He was tempted to run after her and ask, but long-practiced standoffishness got the better of him. Malfoys don’t give chase.

He sat down at the table and took a deep breath, pulling her knickers out of his pocket. No, she’d enjoyed being with him. He had literal evidence of it.

Butter-soft vellum skated through his wards, and he flinched. She’d wasted no time getting to the edge of the property.

Salazar’s stone heart, that was a cold exit. Even Pansy kissed him goodbye and told him she loved him, platonically, after the odd drunken roll in the hay. And he’d only ever been an experiment, duty, or last resort for her.

Regret gnawed at him as he picked at the last muffin. He’d shared entirely too much with her. The Sorting Hat, Ernie, his juvenile obsession with her hips, the dream. That fucking dream.

Ugh, she’d flat-out told him she didn’t want to spend the night, or snuggle, or make love. She’d absolutely told him she wanted to fuck and leave, and he’d responded by begging her to stay and pouring his fucking guts out. No wonder she left in such a hurry. Stupid.

Maybe she wouldn’t show up next month. And maybe he’d burn these silly damn knickers.

—————————

Find the moral high ground and defend it.

Harry was facing an ethical dilemma. And an underwhelming sandwich at his desk. On his day off. On a Sunday.

After telling the Weasley clan he sometimes fancied men, which had gone over with all the aplomb of announcing he’d gotten new shoelaces, he and Ron had gone back outside to discuss The Malfoy Situation.

The only follow-up to his announcement had been Molly telling him to bring whoever he wanted to the Burrow for dinner any time. Come to think of it, new shoelaces would have actually been a bigger topic of conversation.

But, The Malfoy Situation. Ron had agreed that really, since he didn’t know what he was getting into, focusing on the issues he could identify were more worthy of his time than speculation. They’d spent the entire drive back to the Burrow the other day criticizing Malfoy’s living conditions.

He’d really made the best of the situation the Ministry had put him in after confiscating his family home. An unheated, blasted-out mineshaft with weathered antiques was a far cry from civilized. And far from ethical on the Ministry’s end.

The seed of intervention had been planted when he’d used the loo, only to find Malfoy’s description of “rustic” to be inadequate. He’d opted to piss outside. Which he assumed Malfoy did, too.

There was no paper trail Harry could find that led him to the name of the administrator who’d decided Malfoy’s property should be warded against all magic. Convicted wizards on parole were usually allowed wandless magic in their own homes. Few wizards besides himself could do damage without a wand, anyway.

He’d brought it up to Robards, who hadn’t given a sliver of a fuck about it.

So, in absence of a higher authority, and with Ron presiding, Harry had decreed himself the arbitrator of Malfoy’s living conditions. As it currently stood, Azkaban was probably more comfortable in winter.

Simple household magic seemed ethical. Cleaning spells, cooking charms, light, heat, food, water. Those felt implicitly moralistic.

Sure, Malfoy probably could Scourgify his way to a hostile takeover of Truro, but giving him the benefit of the doubt also seemed honorable.

Wandering through the DMLE charms stockroom was unexpectedly fun. Each wooden coin was loaded with a single-use charm. It was like Christmas shopping, but with the knowledge that each and every bauble he threw in the bag would be immensely appreciated. Like giving sweets to children. Hm. Maybe actual sweets would be worth a stop.

No, don’t bring the man chocolates, he thought to himself. Might as well buy him flowers if you buy him chocolates.

The little discs clunked satisfyingly together in the drawstring bag. After he figured out how to change the Ministry ward, Malfoy would be able to use them wandlessley.

Atmospheric, hot air, and drought charms for the damp cold. Cleaning, light, ice, and fire-making charms for the kitchen. Aguamentis for that whole bathroom situation.

A handful of Bombardas and accompanying Feather-lights found their way in the bag. Blasting larger rooms and floating the rubble out sounded harmless to the wider world. Fun, too.

And an oculus reparo in case Malfoy sat on his glasses, Harry thought, smiling. That’s one he’d used uncountable times.

There, he thought. Enough to make a hovel a home.

He checked the ward bracelet, wondering if Hermione was still there. The possibility of being alone with Malfoy made him more nervous than interrupting Hermione’s visit.

He was a little disappointed in himself that he’d literally rather walk in on Malfoy fucking Hermione than simply be alone with the man, but… baby steps.

—————————————

“You’re a sick cunt, you know that, Matilda?” Malfoy said, watching the eagle gulping down bites of old egg salad. “That is just…beyond the pale.”

She’d arrived with a red envelope in a tube secured to her back. Official correspondence, then.

The eagle held a crust of sandwich in her beak and alit on the top of the chair in front of him, nearly eye-to-eye. She quirked her head expectantly.

“No. Seriously. Least sexy offering ever,” he said, dismissing her offer. She responded by extending and curling her wings forward, bobbing.

“Fine,” he grumped, taking the crust in his lips. She preened, satisfied.

“But I’m not swallowing,” he mumbled around it and waited. “This is where you say ‘That’s what she said’.”

She blinked at him and cocked her head. “Get out. Fucking cannibal.”’

He waited till she was clear of the windowsill before he took the crust out of his mouth and threw it back in the basket. Damned pushy bird.

He snatched the envelope off the table. Ignoring the sweat on his palms, he popped the seal and pulled out a single paper.

He was hereby summoned to attend the Wizengamot Committee on Wizard Rights on September 30th. It didn’t say if he needed to present anything, or testify, or what his presence would accomplish.

Luckily, his Healing of criminals wasn’t actually illegal. Using Blood Magic to do it would be Azkaban-worthy if they had evidence. So far as they knew, he’d used a wand to heal Death Eaters. It still didn’t look good to the Wizengamot, and he wasn’t eager for their scrutiny.

But this was supposed to be the big meeting. The one where they decided whether Lucius and Narcissa were sub-par parents or abusive criminals. This committee got to decide whether or not they rotted in Azkaban or ended up roaming free next year. Maybe sooner.

Unfortunately, they hadn’t gotten their hands dirty enough in the war to be given long sentences. Too posh for drudgery, those Malfoys.

There was one thing he could have them put away for, if he could pull it off. Lucius as the culprit, and Narcissa for the cover-up.

Liore. His sister.

————————————————

With a lurch and a gastric roil, she popped into her living room, almost exactly where she’d intended to. Another two feet to the left, and she’d have landed on the couch, but it was still an impressive jump.

Crookshanks came running round the corner to flop pitifully in front of his food bowl. To his dismay, she filled it with kibble and went to the front entrance to check her post box.

Her neighbor’s box was still a charred mess. Timidly, she examined the ceiling for security cameras. Finding none, she sighed and opened hers. She really should have checked for cameras before using her wand the other day. Yesterday? Had that really just been yesterday morning that she’d opened the envelope with the gorgeous flowering vines and jarring penmanship?

Gods, what a busy, wonderful, exhausting, sexually gratifying weekend. Much more satisfying than her best bar hopping and house party prowling had been in Perth.

Why was that, though? Was there something more inherently satiating about wizards compared to Muggles? Coincidence? Luck, maybe, that the three of them just happened to be rather complementary in bed?

Whatever it was, thinking about it for too long was bound to have consequences. She’d nearly ended up naked with Malfoy for the fourth time that morning over a damned book. A hasty retreat had been called for.

It definitely wasn’t because she’d felt herself getting comfortable, she thought, climbing the stairs to her flat. No, his stone floors and towering bookcases and enormous bed weren’t welcoming, not when she had… She swung the door open to her flat. This.

Godric’s gullet, it was even more boring than Harry’s flat. Sighing, she set the letters down and looked around. It had felt so much homier when they’d all been over for curry. Was that what was lacking? Just… people? Perhaps.

A faint vibration steadily shook the floor, and she paused, trying to find the source. Had that damned dishwasher started of its own accord? No, this was quieter. And closer.

And it was very happy and rubbing its purring orange head all over her rucksack. She might as well have packed the bag with catnip, she thought. Crookshanks was throwing himself on the bag with the kind of reckless abandon only feline substance abuse could warrant.

“You traitor,” she accused. “You’d better not be planning a Parisian elopement, too.”

Against his protests, she hoisted the bag onto the kitchen table and began unpacking. Not ready to admit defeat, he hopped onto the table to scrutinize this unpacking.

“You really aren’t a cat, are you?” she asked, more to herself.

Crookshanks replied by scraping his face across the front pocket of the rucksack as hard as his little body could push, nearly losing his footing in the attempt. The cat hadn’t been interested in the bag when she packed it yesterday.

Taking out the embarrassing handful of knickers and throwing them in the wash, she removed the textbook and notes she’d mistakenly thought she’d have time to study. Something small and heavy weighed down the front of the otherwise empty bag.

Unzipping the front pocket, she had to pull Crookshanks back by the scruff to keep him from diving in face first.

“That bastard,” she whispered, drawing a slim, vellum-bound primer from the pocket.

Why was he so insistent she take a courting guide and use it to woo Ron? She already had Ron. Ron was very much hers in a way Harry and Malfoy weren’t.

Oh. Shit.

Her gut sank at the realization. Ron probably had expectations the other two didn’t. Gods below, the fact that Malfoy realized it before she did was mortifying.

Images of herself barefoot and pregnant in the Burrow came unbidden, and she cringed. Maybe the courting customs weren’t necessarily commitment-related. Plying Crookshanks away from the book with a few treats, she sat down to peruse it.

A thorough index was unexpected in a text this old, but very much welcome. Flower arrangements and their meanings, decoding formal dances, home furnishings and their significances. So many of these had to do with the hidden meanings behind everyday objects. It was tedious.

Hairstyles and Hints caught her eye. If there was one inherently bold thing about her, it was her hair. According to this, the untamed curls of a lusty maiden cry out for the hands of a lover. Well, that wasn’t inaccurate, she mused.

Braiding of the mane portends merger of all for the nonce.

”Can we have you, ‘Mione?” slicked through her memory. Along with the feel of Ron’s hands in her hair and him hard against her, Harry leaning invitingly back on her couch. Anxiety and desire made her breath hitch. Maybe it was a coincidence.

She skimmed, selecting a section titled Breads and Beds. Bread seemed like an oddly specific choice.

…and stolen cakes a wedded witch makes.

”Goldilocks would have fared differently if she’d have stolen muffins.”

…and if fault he take, her bread he flake…

She thought back to the shredded pile of naan Ron had wasted the other night. Maybe it hadn’t just been a way to occupy his hands.

If Ron and Malfoy had both been raised with these customs, then they’d been subtly communicating without her or Harry knowing. Holy hell.

Ron had shredded that naan and braided her hair as a direct insult to Malfoy. A coded I hate you, we both fucked her when your back was turned.

She’d never considered Ron capable of scheming at that level before. Shit, what else wasn’t she picking up on?

A huff of frustration startled Crookshanks, who had been content as a book holder on the table. He jumped up, and she lost her page. Thoroughly unnerved by the implications in this book so far, she chose random pages and random passages, hoping to find ridiculous rubbish to invalidate the entire text.

Matting by a mother piled, an offer, then, to raise the child

Okay, that was definitely an obscure one. Some kind of wedding thing? Or adoption?

She shut the book and reopened it to a new page, placing a finger at random.

His and his and his but hers, light the hearth, open shutters. Nonsense.

Close. Open. Another random line.

The wildest witch, which from which, she may bewitch, and he she chooses, be not the matter lest she itch.

Nonsense again. Possibly a hygiene reference?

One last page, and then she was giving up on this rubbbish.

Be wary please, O daughter mine,
of silken skirts and ribbons fine.
Of gems and furs,
of men and curs.
Run, then child,
from ghouls and beasts and angry wraiths.
Be then wild,
shun gold and feasts and those Bad Faiths.

Also nonsense. Though rather odd, having come from the Malfoy archives.

A tap at the window was a welcome distraction. Crookshanks agreed, skittering over the table to hurtle across the living room, investigation already underway.

A small owl hissed a very mighty hiss at the cat, who startled back and hid under the couch.

“So fearsome, Crooks,” she chided him. The owl had a small envelope with a Ministry seal, and her gut clenched.

“Thank you,” she cooed, patting the owl in full view of a furious cat.

The owl departed with a defiant hoot, and she closed the window. Crookshanks ventured out from under the couch with something in his mouth. Something silver and made of lace.

“Oh, Merlin’s tits, Crooks!” she shouted. “Give me those!”

Excited by this new game of chase, he took off down the hall, knickers and all.

Chapter Text

Malfoy’s wards weren’t responding to his tapping, and Harry was starting to get worried. Maybe Malfoy was gone? But the bracelet hadn’t alerted him to anyone crossing the wards since Hermione had crossed that morning.

The sun was setting, and he was getting ready to leave. The open field was starkly beautiful in the askance red-yellow light. The sandy soil and scattered stones reflected a rosy glow and threw long shadows.

Maybe they were just really going at it in there, and he was ignoring his wards? Malfoy, pale but flushed, beneath Hermione. A rush of blood flow through his hips accompanied that thought.

The bracelet hummed gently and text scrolled at the same time Malfoy stepped out onto the path in front of Harry.

“Sorry,” he drawled. “I was working on something.”

He was clad in black and gray pajama pants. It took Harry several moments to realize Malfoy was shirtless in the cool night air. His tattooed arm, criss-crossed scars, and a truly spectacular bite mark on his shoulder broke up the expanse of his chest.

The pufferfish threatened to return, but Harry focused on Ron’s reassurances at brunch.

“Oh, right,” Harry blurted. “I just wanted to give you this.” He thrust the bag out awkwardly. Eyeing it suspiciously, Malfoy accepted it, weighing it in his hands. Realization bloomed slowly across his face.

“Potter, why did you just hand me several years worth of charms? Does Eira have Robards over a desk somewhere?” He chuckled to himself.

“Who?” Harry asked, rather confused. “No, those are from me, not Robards.”

Malfoy examined him, eyes coming to rest on the bracelet. Harry’s gaze had settled on the wad of gauze between the other man’s fingers, and the small knife held casually between two fingers. He half-expected him to bring it to his lips and take a long drag from it.

“Why…” Malfoy gulped. “Why are you wearing that?” The bag of charms almost hid the fine trembling in his hand. Harry watched as the faint blush drained from Malfoy’s cheeks. He held the bag delicately, touching it as little as possible.

“Uhm, long story, kind of,” Harry stammered.

He honestly hadn’t thought about how Malfoy would feel about the reassignment. Merlin, what would that be like to answer to your own classmate and school nemesis? And one who’d vociferously rejected your advances for years? Shit. Maybe he should have told Robards about that. But he’d thought it was one-sided till just this morning.

“Oh,” Malfoy croaked. “Well, you can tell me while I finish up. It’s rather time-sensitive.”

“I can just come back tom-“ Harry started. He really didn’t want to stay and talk to Malfoy. Especially not if the “time-sensitive” task was fucking Hermione, whom he assumed was inside.

“Wait there. I wanted to talk to you about something, anyway. And I can’t let you in till I fix the outside ward,” he instructed, disappearing back through. Harry’s bracelet hummed and scrolled Malfoy’s name.

—————————

The picture of The Chosen Cock, as she was calling it, on her laptop was very distracting. It had a habit of taking up the whole screen while she was trying very hard to type up an essay. And then it just sat there, daring her.

Was it too greedy to ask him and Ron to come over again tonight? If it was greedy, did she care? She shifted in her chair, arousal making itself known.

Busy tonight?

Nope.
Your flat’s closest to me.

Ok. 8:30?

Sounds good.
Want me to get a hold of Ron?

I’ll send an owl. It’ll make it in time.

See you tonight, greedy witch.

Thank you. Really.

My pleasure.
Really.

Godric, it was almost too easy. And good. She felt spoiled in the absolute best way, and set about putting clean sheets on the bed.

—————————

An hour later, Harry’s ears were buzzing with the obnoxious hum of Blood Magic, his cheeks were on fire with embarrassment, and his body couldn’t decide if an erection or choking to death on his own tongue was a better idea.

He didn’t much appreciate being lectured by Malfoy on the importance of lube, but awkwardness kept him silent. Watching Malfoy mixing batches of sea water and blood and flicking it off a small knife to reinforce his wards was also too interesting to interrupt.

“I’m sure she enjoyed it at the time, Potter, but I don’t think she’s the type to take a night off to recoup,” he’d admonished.

Sure enough, his mobile buzzed with a message from her not minutes later. He hadn’t bothered telling Malfoy. Very few witches or wizards used them. Even fewer made his mobile break out in the signature measures of Flight of the Valkyries. Malfoy chuckled, and they shared an awkward, knowing smile.

“You’ve been summoned by the witch with the itch,” Malfoy jabbed. “Good luck.”

“Uhm, thanks?” Harry replied, not really sure how to respond to that.

It turned out that Hermione had actually been gone for hours, which begged the question of when she’d arrived. It also became obvious that Malfoy had spent a significant amount of time with her, and didn’t seem pleased with the experience.

Walking, dipping the knife in the pitcher, flicking it, whispering incantations, and starting the process over every few feet was mind-numbing but relaxing, and they fell into a groove.

Harry told him a short synopsis of his meeting with Robards that morning, and stressed how many excuses he’d given Robards about his unfitness for this case. Malfoy nodded, mid-phrase, seeming to appreciate that Harry hadn’t jumped at his chance to be his new jailer.

“I haven’t really looked through the mountains of files or Pensieve vials,” Harry said, finally broaching the subject. “But most of it relates to charges you brought against your parents, right?”

Malfoy finished a verse and nodded again, stepped forward and dipped the knife. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it, flicked the knife, and started the spell.

“I guess,” Harry said, hesitating. “I want to know what you want me to know.”

Malfoy’s lips kept moving, but his eyebrows raised in interest. Harry took that as encouragement. Moral high ground, he told himself.

“Like, people, even people I’m close to, may know the facts about my life before Hogwarts,” Harry explained. “But having me dump it all in vials and leaving them in someone’s office would drive me absolutely mad.”

He shuddered, rubbing the goosebumps on his arms. The wizard community liked to use his early childhood as part of a rags to riches narrative, but few people, maybe not even Ron or Hermione, could really understand it.

Longbottom was one of the few people he’d discussed it with. Neve’s grandmother and the Dursleys had a bit in common.

Malfoy’s lips stilled, and he stepped forward. He mouth was a tight line as he dipped the knife, thinking. “I believe we understand each other quite well, then, Potter,” he confirmed, beginning another incantation.

Harry waited, knowing the tightness around Malfoy’s eyes meant he was still formulating a response. That was fine.

In some ways, he was grateful that the cupboard and his mother’s family practically existed in another world. In other ways, it felt like he’d made it all up, because there was no one else to tell him it was real. It was probably the same way for Malfoy, he thought.

“Did you ever wish you had a sibling so somebody could tell you that shit really did happen? That you’re not crazy?” Harry blurted out, immediately regretting it. “Sorry. Don’t answer that. I just… Sorry.”

Malfoy dipped the knife and stepped away from Harry, brow furrowed. “Every day,” he admitted. “And I guess, I did have an older sister, but she was… stillborn. But yeah, I do think about what that would have been like.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing. Malfoy started and completed yet another incantation. Given the arc they’d walked and taking into account that he’d said there were six layers of wards, he estimated Malfoy had spent months of his life doing this. It was appalling, but impressive.

“Can… can I ask you about your evening with Granger?” Malfoy asked, no preamble, ample trepedation.

“Uhm… I guess,” Harry replied. He didn’t want another lecture on lubrication and vaginal abrasion.

“Did she just… up and leave when she was done?” Malfoy inquired, stepping forward.

“I think so.” Harry shrugged and stepped up alongside him.

“You think so?” He started mumbling the spell again.

“I left first. I was late,” he said, distracted by the quickly-setting sun. “I had a date. So I Flooed out as soon as I was dressed. She left maybe fifteen minutes later. Ministry-registered Floo. Keeps a log.”

“Wow,” Malfoy exhaled, “I mean, good on you, I guess, but wow.”

“Eh. In retrospect, it wasn’t worth it.” Harry shrugged again. “Ever have sex so boring you wish you’d have stayed home and gone to bed early?”

“Literally never.” Malfoy stepped forward.

Grateful he didn’t look back for a reaction, Harry lingered behind for a few moments.

“Oh… The whole… Bacchanalia thing, even?” Harry was mildly shocked that anyone could be forced to have sex with a cadre of women and none of them turn out to be disappointing.

“No, we generally had all night to figure each other out. And on the rare occasion it wasn’t particularly to my tastes, I got to go home to Magnus,” he said, chewing his lip. “And the brief description you got in Ron’s car was probably misleading. I knew all of the women save a few. Hell, you know most of them. And I’d already been with the majority of them at some point.”

Harry hesitated in catching up. It was nearly dark, but maybe Malfoy hadn’t noticed. His night vision seemed to be unusually good. He thought about Malfoy’s admission. Maybe his date wouldn’t have been a dud if he’d spent a whole night experimenting with her instead of getting roaring drunk and fumbling their way home.

Hm, he might be onto something. Maybe what had made Hermione so much better was that they’d said what they wanted. He wanted her to strip slowly. She wanted him to come before sex. He wanted to be careful. She wanted him to trust her on that. And then she’d wanted him to fuck her screaming into the bed. And it turned out he wanted that, too.

And there was the awkward erection that had been threatening to break through. Great, he thought, trying to shift his trousers with his hand in his pockets.

“But anyway, Potter,” Malfoy said, a hint of apprehension, yards ahead of him. “The leaving, is that a Muggle thing? Is that just how it goes?”

“No, not at all,” Harry said reassuringly, catching up with him. “Coincidence, probably, me and her. It’s not… ideal.”

“Well,” Malfoy exhaled, “I guess I won’t take it personally.”

“Not your style, I take it?” Harry waited patiently while Malfoy finished yet another verse. This really was the most monotonous thing he’d ever tagged along to. More repetitive than a vague memory he had of a Catholic church and a rosary.

“No,” Malfoy chuckled, “not at all.”

—————————

Hermione pencilled the Committee meeting in her planner for September 30th. The summons hadn’t said what the Wizengamot Committee on Wizard Rights actually did. Or who was on it. Or even if she was on it. She assumed not. Interns didn’t warrant Committee seats. Then again, she was Hermione Granger.

Not sure who to ask, she resolved to see if Harry knew. Maybe there was someone at the Ministry she could get details from. Maybe an agenda. Maybe a mission statement. It was exciting in the most tedious of ways.

—————————

He set the pitcher and knife down and dropped to one knee, palm against the ground.

“Once again, I must ask you, O Auror mine, how law-abiding are you?” Malfoy smirked weakly.

“As far as I can tell, I am your end all, be all of law enforcement,” Harry said with a grin. “So have at it.”

“Careful, Potter,” he cautioned, smiling, sinking into a trance of dextrous movements and profoundly illegal sorcery.

Again, hot, suffocating, pinpricks surrounded Harry’s face, traveling down his throat as he breathed. He held his breath against the onslaught. Glancing at Malfoy in alarm, he watched as he made a new cut between his fingers, cupping a few drops in his palm. Like it had at the Burrow, the swarming feeling condensed into Malfoy’s hand, leaving Harry free to breathe.

This magic was different from what he’d done with Ron, though. Rather than build it up and shove it into something, Malfoy rubbed his palms together, spreading the blood between them. Pressing one palm to the end of the line he’d been casting, he held the other upraised in offering to the darkened sky.

A whispery, feather-light chill emanated from the ground straight upward. A jolt ran through Harry, and the air felt clear. But Malfoy had disappeared.

Spinning in a circle, all Harry could see was the road out in the distance. An unexpectedly clean palm shot through from nowhere, body invisible. Palm up, beckoning.

Harry grasped it, and was pulled through. Malfoy was still on one knee, cheeks pink, and looking downright exhilarated.

“Bit dramatic,” Harry scolded, uncomfortable with Malfoy’s grip on his hand.

Rather than let go, Malfoy raised Harry’s knuckles to his mouth, grazing up his fingers, culminating in a soft press of lips against the back of his hand.

An involuntary hum that turned into a quiet moan escaped Harry’s throat, but he quelled the urge to rip his hand away from Malfoy. Gods, the man’s lips were so soft. And warm. Malfoy’s breath on the back of his hand came fast and shallow. He stood, keeping Harry’s hand clasped.

“Thank you, Potter,” he said, straightening and releasing Harry’s hand. “Robards would probably have locked me up for that.”

“Oh,” Harry said, taking a deep breath. “I think he knows more about blood wards than you’d expect.”

Malfoy dusted his knee off. “Huh,” he sighed absently. “Want to guess what dented my wards?”

Harry briefly wondered if that was a euphemism for something, but let it go. It didn’t matter if it was, after all.

“Uhm…. An augury in a bad mood?” Harry ventured.

Malfoy frowned in disappointment, “No, Senior Auror Potter, my wards aren’t vulnerable to random birds. It was an owl carrying five Crucios and an Avada. In that order. On some kind of silver-threaded parchment.”

Harry felt sick. The Ministry ward wouldn’t have cancelled all of that out.

Malfoy turned to walk to his front door, and Harry followed. That lineup of Unforgivables, if it had landed, would be enough to keep someone in agony for weeks, then kill them. Merlin Almighty, no wonder he put so much effort into his wards and taking down owls.

They passed through the inner Ministry ward, and Harry’s bracelet warmed as the link secured.

“Hang on,” he said, touching Malfoy’s elbow and surprising himself. “I think I can change the Ministry’s ward restrictions. If it works, you should be able to do some wandless magic.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened. His palms scrubbed against his trousers as he watched Potter, wary of the offer. He’d accepted that Potter was in charge of his case from an administrative perspective, but the reality of him having actual control over his daily life hadn’t yet hit home. It was unsettling, but also oddly exciting. He'd already proved more amenable than Robards.

Harry’s face screwed up in concentration as his magic flowed into the barrier. Gods, he thought, this was a mother fucker of a ward. It had far more signatures in it than just Robards. More than the Auror Division in its entirety, in fact.

“Did the whole fucking Wizengamot weave this?” He asked, trying to keep the strain from his voice.

“Uhm… yes,” Malfoy admitted sheepishly. “Death Eater, remember?”

“Oh,” Harry panted. If ever there had been a reason to endure being Harry Fucking Potter, Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, claiming this ward was one of them.

Harry drew his wand and focused on each of the dozens of magical signatures in turn, snuffing them out one by one and replacing them with his own. His eyes closed as he focuses, time passing with little meaning as he worked. Absently, he was aware of the sweat running down his temples, but a cool hand wiped it away.

After the first few marks were extinguished, the others turned toward him en masse, snarling and burning. Merlin’s tits, if this were what Malfoy would have to face as retribution for using magic, they might as well just kill him on sight.

Each magical imprint required dissection and disposal, not dissimilar to unraveling curses. Silently, he was thankful to the required but tedious Curse Breaker introduction classes.

The last Wizengamot imprint burned out, and he extended a hand to Malfoy, who was watching, open-mouthed. With a start, he complied, placing his hand in Harry’s.

Cautiously, Harry pulled Malfoy’s signature into the ward; skimming feathers and the gut-drop sensation of falling. Odd signature, he mused. Visceral. Somewhat exhilarating.

He sealed it in with his own, noting the unusually smooth impression of his usual broken glass and electricity. Their marks combined, feathers and sharp edges melding, lightning and vertigo balancing, and the ward stabilized with a hardening crackle.

“Fuck, Potter,” Malfoy hissed, hand still clasped with Harry’s. It was so like Blood Magic, he didn’t bother trying to hide his arousal. The instinct to thank him bodily was overwhelming.

Salazar’s sacrosanct snatch. He’d never been so desperate to make Harry Potter scream his name. But, no, he reminded himself. Potter wasn’t interested. Potter had never been interested.

He drew his hand from Harry’s, diverting it from its path to his throbbing length to run through his hair instead. Throat catching, he swallowed deeply and exhaled a long breath. Anything to keep his lips off Potter’s.

Harry sat down abruptly, suddenly dizzy. That had been the best fight he’d had in years. Voldemort had had nothing on the combined force of the Wizengamot. Shit. He wanted to chase it with…something. Something a lot more physical.

Looking up, Harry saw Malfoy standing over him, observing. The bulge in his trousers was obvious, and Harry realized with a lurch what he wanted.

The memory of Malfoy’s lips lingering on his fingers moments ago threw itself through his mind, culminating in the imagined sensation of those lips running their way down his body. Gods, that would feel good. And Malfoy had wanted him, Ron had said. Once upon a time. Maybe he still did?

Malfoy knelt down in front of him, color high, lips swollen, and braced a hand on the sandy ground between Harry and the ward. His breathing was shallow, grey eyes wide.

Harry’s ward bracelet hummed, alerting him to Malfoy’s contact with the barrier. The notification shook him loose. Find the moral high ground and defend it.

Godric, he couldn’t have this. They couldn’t have this. For so many reasons.

Malfoy glanced down at Harry’s wrist, and his face fell, reality sinking in. He sighed, looking off into the darkness beyond the ward, and stood. He extended a hand down to Harry, who took it.

Pulling him up to standing, Malfoy laid another, more chaste kiss on Harry’s knuckles. A disappointing dilution of the earlier affection.

“Tea, Potter?” he offered softly.

“I…” Harry whispered. “I have to…”

Malfoy’s face hardened into elegant disdain, and he chastised himself as he gently released Potter’s hand. Of course he wasn’t staying.

“Right,” Malfoy sighed. “Best not keep her waiting, then.”

He nodded tersely, stepped through the ward, and disappeared with a pop.

—————————————

It was awkward being in her apartment alone, Harry thought. He’d just heard her turn the shower on after he Apparated in, and didn’t think she knew he was there. The temptation to snoop was overwhelming, but Aurors don’t snoop. They investigate.

A Ministry envelope lay open on the kitchen table, and he just happened to read it. It seemed Hermione had also been summoned to attend the Wizengamot Committee on Wizard Rights on September 30th. His envelope had floated into his office that morning while he’d been glaring at his sandwich. Godric, it had been a long day.

Her letter didn’t say anything at all about why she was being required to attend, or inform her what the meeting was about. He hadn’t expected details in his, because he was the lone Auror overseeing the would-be plaintiff. Hermione didn’t know about all the charges Malfoy had accused his parents of. He’d have to fill her in himself, he assumed.

A loud pop behind him made him squeak and slam the papers back to their original positions.

“Hey, Har,” Ron chirped, coming in for a hug. “I didn’t have time to owl her back. Hope she’s up for teamwork.”

Harry hugged Ron back, chuckling. “She just left Malfoy’s this morning. Then texted me and owled you. I don’t think we should underestimate her.”

Ron whistled low. “And you the night before, right?” He pulled an apple out of his pocket and took a bite. The orchard at the Burrow was going bonkers right now, if anyone cared to look. They did not.

“Yeah,” Harry said with a nod. “And… none too gently. Per request. I got a lecture from Malfoy about it today.”

“You did not.” Ron said in disbelief, chewing slowly.

Harry nodded again, resigned. “I most certainly did. Something about her not being the type to take a night off to recoup.”

“Well.” Ron shrugged, swallowing a bite of apple. “He’s not wrong. Witch with the itch.”

Harry frowned. Malfoy had said almost the exact same thing. Was that a saying or something? Ron took another bite and squirreled it away in his cheek. “How’d things go with Malfoy?”

“Good.” Harry kicked his shoes off and started toward the bedroom. Ron followed. “I brought scads of household charms and modified his wards so he can do wandless magic.”

Ron chewed thoughtfully, shutting the bedroom door behind them. “You know he’s particularly good at that, right?”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry admitted. “He’s still got the Trace on him, so I’ll know if he does anything big.”

Ron nibbled around the apple core. “How’d it go with him and… everything?”

“Good,” Harry chirped, flopping back on the bed, suddenly tired. “I think he picked up on it, though. He kissed my hand. Like, kind of formally, but still.”

“Eh, Manor manners.” Ron muttered, chucking the apple core in the bin and pulling a deck of cards out of his jacket.

“Twice.” Harry offered suspiciously.

“Hmm,” Ron hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe you’re right. Good luck sussing out what to do about that, Ministry-wise.”

“Yeah,” he replied glumly. “No idea what to do there.”

“Well,” Ron said, dealing hands. “Stephen would be a better idea. Personal opinion.”

Harry sighed deeply and picked up his cards. “Yeah, I guess so. Maybe I’ll send him an owl.”

——————————

As she was wrapping her hair in a towel, she heard a pop of Apparition. Not knowing which of them it was, or possibly both, was more exciting than she’d expected.

It could be serious fun if she gave all three of them permission to just show up unannounced for sex. But, more likely, they’d end up wandering in for dinner on days she didn’t really want them. She’d seen them eat. Pass.

“Out in a minute!” she hollered from the bathroom. She smoothed a new lavender lotion up her legs, stopping shy of the crease near her sex. The low rumble of male voices trickled in around the bathroom door. She thought about wrapping a second towel around herself for modesty, but decided against it. One less towel to wash.

The cool air hit her skin, and goosebumps rose. The hall outside the bathroom was empty. As was the kitchen, where she’d expected to find them raiding her refrigerator. The living room was also bereft of male company. Odd.

Dim golden light filtered from around her bedroom door, as did the timbre of serious conversation. The temptation to linger in the hall and listen pulled her to the edge of the door.

“No, it’s your turn,” said Ron.

“I went first last time,” countered Harry.

“I don’t mind going second.” Ron replied.

“Of course you don’t. It’s always easier to be second.”

“Fine, I’ll go first. But you owe me one, mate.”

“Do not.”

The idea that they would bicker over her had never occurred. Did they have some sort of point system and a calendar? The mental image made her grin.

Silently, she swung the door in to find them on her bed… playing cards.

“Hey, ‘Mione!” Ron greeted.

“How’s our favorite barrister?” Harry asked.

“She’s years away from being a barrister, and she’s a little disappointed to be the only naked one in the room.” They looked incredibly guilty in the yellow glow of the small bedside lamp.

Ron hopped up, shucked off a Harpies t-shirt, and went to work on his trousers.

She’d always loved the freckles across his back and shoulders. The build underneath them was rather nice, as well. He kicked off his trousers to reveal a pair of tight, slick, navy blue briefs. Bikini briefs? Those looked new, and they very much needed her lips on them.

Not to be outdone, Harry whipped a sweatshirt and whatever else he had on under it off over his head so quickly, she didn’t even notice what he’d been wearing. He was suddenly shirtless and nearly trouserless in the time it took her to turn her head.

Circe’s soaking slit, if they could bottle and sell Auror training regimens…

The dim light cast shadows in the hollows and grooves of his arms and chest as he turned to throw his shirts in the corner. His abdomen rippled with muscle as he bent his head down to unclasp his trousers, a neat line of dark hair obscuring the lowest movement.

Recollection of her lips kissing down that path made her body ache, low and tight. Tatty light blue cotton boxers brought her back to the present.

“Really wore your finest there, Har,” snarked Ron.

“Least I’m not wearing a Speedo,” retorted Harry.

“I don’t know what a Speedo is, but it sounds sporty, so thank you,” Ron said indignantly.

Harry kicked into boxer a corner with the rest of his clothes. “Better?” He looked at them in turn.

“Much,” said Hermione. “Ron, keep yours on.” She quietly cast a contraception charm, reminding herself to ask Malfoy how to cast the other one.

Propped up on pillows, she reclined in the middle of her bed. Both men nestled in alongside her, heads on her shoulders, their free hands each tracing distinct patterns on her skin.

Harry kneaded a breast and rubbed a firm line down to her hip before pausing, then slipping between her thighs. He shifted his lower body and pulled her leg open and hitched it over his. Cool air skimmed her rapidly dampening sex as he rubbed idle lines up and down the back of her thigh.

Ron lightly traced his finger under the edge of her breast, causing goosebumps to cascade down her side, and both nipples to tighten into peaks. His barely-there touch skimmed down the fine raised hair on her abdomen to her thigh.

So different, the two of them. A whimper escaped her lips as her thighs parted and hips lifted, begging them to touch her.

Their hands each slid up an inner thigh. They both froze and looked at each other. A silent traffic negotiation began with their eyes. Hermione growled softly, frustrated at their teasing.

Harry pulled his hand back and made a fist above her chest, challenging Ron. Ron brought his back up in the same.

“Rock, paper, scissors, go!” they both chanted.

“I hate you both so much,” Hermione grumbled.

“Bah, you win,” Harry said. “You pick.”

“Winner, winner, minge for dinner!” Ron crowed.

Hermione slapped him in the back of the head none too playfully.

Harry snorted, “Ron, did you know that in Muggle witch lore, whatever a witch sends out, she should expect to return threefold?” He rose onto his knees next to Hermione’s head. “I’ve seen it in movies.”

“Interesting. Did you know that, Hermione?” Ron inquired.

“I may have heard that,” she said tenuously.

“Well, I’d hate to upset the laws of fictional Muggle magic,” Harry said, idly thumbing the head of his cock.

Ron rose on his elbow, sliding his hand down to cup her sex. He pressed hard on her mound and she ground up against his hand, finally getting the contact she’d been waiting for.

He lifted his hand a bit and brought it down hard. A solid smack and a loud yelp from Hermione filled the room.

“Ron!” she gasped, reeling from the sensation of every nerve ending between her legs suddenly humming.

Above her, Harry had a firm grip on his cock, his eyes dark and hungry. “Again.”

Ron gently slid his hand back down to cup her, rubbing circles more firmly. Her hips ground into him of their own accord. His hand lifted, and she held her breath. The quick slap wasn’t any less intense on the heels of the first one.

Her exhale came in a gush, and she moaned. Harry’s eyebrows rose, and he leaned over to position his cock next to her mouth. Her hips moved in small circles against Ron’s palm, and delicious heat was coiling inside her. Her tongue snaked out to lick her lips before she rolled to her elbow to gently kiss the tip of Harry’s cock. His hand wound in her hair next to her scalp, urging her closer to him.

The flat of Ron’s hand slid down further between her legs, picking up her slickness, and spreading it to the front of her sex. She moaned at the evidence of her own arousal and slipped Harry’s cock into her mouth.

Harry gripped her hair, keeping her head still, as he watched Ron raise a hand glistening with her wetness. A sharp slap sounded, followed by a squeak, muffled by Harry’s cock gently thrusting in her mouth.

His grip on her hair loosened, and she slid him into her throat.

“Fuck, Hermione.” He shuddered, a sigh escaping his lips.

Ron lifted himself from her side and laid on his stomach between her legs.

“Auror Potter, I need to report a crime,” Ron said with mock seriousness.

“What, Ron?” Harry asked, rolling his eyes.

“Some dastardly wizard has jinxed the curlies right off Hermione Granger,” Ron stated, face stern.

“Mm… I’ll investigate soon.” Harry hummed, head falling forward as she took the tip of his cock into the back of her mouth.

“Well, you’d better be very thor-“

“Ron,” Harry interrupted. “Shut up.”

“Mm hmm.” Hermione hummed around his cock.

“Fine.” Ron harrumphed. “Do my own investigation.”

Hermione slid Harry’s length slowly back into her mouth, pressing the head against the roof of her mouth as she moved. A low groan escaped him, and she gasped through her nose as Ron set his teeth on the mound of her sex and gently bit, holding firm.

Her concentration on Harry slipped as Ron nipped shallow bites down to the edge of her folds, and quickly licked back to the top, never breaching her wetness.

Ron ground the slick fabric of his pants against the mattress as he worked his way back down the other side of her slit, licking, biting, never enough to let her come.

Harry slipped his hands into her hair and gently slid the head of his cock back and forth in her mouth. Her attention returned to the man in front of her. She locked her lips around him and sucked the air out of her mouth, eliciting a grunt and small thrust from Harry.

She felt Ron’s hands spread her open, and desperately hoped he’d finally give her enough friction to come. She curled her hips up to meet him as he pressed his mouth around her clit, avoiding touching it directly. His fingers swept her entrance, refusing to dip inside. She whined in frustration.

Above her, Harry’s breathing was getting shallow, and his thrusting more insistent. “Where do you want it?”

“Come in my pussy,” she whispered, lightly scraping her teeth on the underside of his cock.

“Ron. Trade me.”

Her hips tilted up and legs spread, eager for Ron’s teasing to be replaced by Harry’s thrusting. Harry ran a palm between her legs and spread her wetness on his leaking cock.

Ron knelt next to her shoulder, erection straining against the slick blue fabric of his pants. She leaned forward to press her teeth around the outline of his cock as he groaned. She tongued the damp spot his cock had made, and his breath hitched. He slid the pants down his thighs, cock bobbing free.

She leaned forward and caught the head of it in her mouth, swirling her tongue around the underside just as Harry parted her folds with his fingers, and started to press his tip against her opening. Her hips bucked up, encouraging him to enter.

Her eyes closed, anticipating the fullness of Harry filling her. He eased lower, pressing, and she gasped as entered. He shuddered as he eased past the tightness and sank fully inside her.

She ached for him to start moving, the girth of him was enough to bring her to orgasm with just a little more motion. Instead, he sat upright and gently rocked back and forth, stroking the skin above her pubic bone, watching her flesh bow with his hips’ movements.

The frustrated, needy whimpers she made around Ron’s cock were nearly enough to undo both men. Ron’s hands stayed firmly planted, one on the headboard, and one on his hip, not trusting himself to grab a hold of her hair and thrust too deeply in her throat. She slid her hand up his inner thigh and gently ran her fingernails along his scrotum. He groaned, leaned forward and buried himself deeper in her throat.

“Where, ‘Mione?” he panted.

She slid him back out to her lips. ”Anywhere.”

“Don’t stop.”

Her hand snaked around to his hip, distracting him, and slid her mouth forward, curly auburn hairs tickling her nose. She smiled, accidentally breaking the suction, but thinking of all the times they’d joked about his body hair. His hand on top of her head brought her concentration back, not pulling, but encouraging.

Harry bent forward and settled a hand on the mattress next to her waist. His other hand snuck between them, carefully circling but still avoiding her clit. Keeping control of his hips was testing his patience immensely, but it was better than fucking her hard while she had Ron in her mouth. But if he couldn’t come yet, he certainly wasn’t going to let her, either.

Hermione pushed Ron deeper, pulling her lips and cheeks tight, and started a steady rhythm. She could feel Harry’s cock jerk inside her in anticipation of the other man’s release.

“Oh, gods, ‘Mione,” Ron whispered, as he grabbed her hand off his hip, squeezed it, and came, flooding her mouth with his climax. He withdrew and leaned shakily against the headboard.

Harry wasted no time, his body coming down to hover over her. He sank his elbows down next to her shoulders. Her hands wrapped up to clutch his upper arms. She swallowed, and his mouth crashed down on hers as his hips took up a deep, driving rhythm.

His tongue probed her mouth catching the remnants of his best friend’s orgasm, licking it from her, knowing his would be in her soon.

Hot tension pooled in her hips, each of his strokes tightening it. Her fingernails dug into his arms as she fought to keep her climax at bay, waiting for him. The rhythm of his thrusting stuttered, his mouth on hers froze, and she let the spooled pleasure release.

Her orgasm ripped through her as he cried out above her, thrusting deeply, grinding against her as she clenched around his cock, her body pulling every drop from him.

Harry dropped his weight on her and nuzzled into her neck. Her arms wrapped around his back while their breathing slowed. Ron slid down to lay alongside them, his arm going under her head.

She nipped at Harry’s ear, prompting him to lift his head. He grazed a kiss across her lips and lifted himself up.

“Slowly,” she reminded him. He nodded, and pulled himself out of her until only the head of his cock was inside. Looking at her and receiving a nod to continue, he gradually pulled his cock through the tight ring of muscle at her entrance. Her breath hissed in at the stretch then emptiness as he withdrew.

Harry flopped down on his back opposite Ron. “Fuck, am I glad you didn’t stay in Australia.”

“Me, too,” she chuckled.

“I’d have come to Perth,” mused Ron.

Harry rolled to his side and propped up on an elbow. “But we didn’t know to go to Perth.”

“Good point. ‘Mione, why didn’t you send us a letter and tell us?”

“Dear Ron and Harry. I’m an amazing shag, and you should travel to the opposite side of the world to prove me correct.”

Harry grinned. “That would have been all I needed to hear.”

Ron slid his arm under her head, his forearm under Harry’s, and laid his head on Hermione’s shoulder. Harry rolled to his side, draping an arm over Hermione’s waist, his cheek on Ron’s forearm. Ron hovered a fist above Hermione in challenge again.

Harry batted Ron’s fist away with a chuckle. “Randy bugger.”

“Maybe next time,” Ron quipped. “‘Mione, let’s do something fun for your birthday next month.” Briefly, she thought he meant anal sex, but the tone was too innocent.

She was impressed he’d remembered her birthday, and that he’d already predicted it would coincide with when she’d likely want to see them.

“This wasn’t fun enough for you?” Harry asked.

“I mean, what if we got together for more than sex. What do you think?” Ron asked tentatively.

Hermione chewed her lip and thought. The agreement had been no strings attached, and this felt like a date. Or maybe it was just a birthday with friends. It would certainly be more fun than a birthday alone.

“Hm. Alright. London?”

“Sounds good, I have that weekend off,” said Harry, counting on his fingers.

“I don’t have anything but endless reading. Ron?”

“Yeah, the shop won’t burn down without me that far into September. Probably,” he said with reservation. It was actually a strong possibility, about which he worried often.

“I want to see the shop!” Hermione exclaimed. It had probably changed so much with Ron in charge. He put his heart into everything he did, and she knew the store was undoubtedly amazing because of it.

“Do you want to Floo in and spend Friday night at mine?” Harry offered.

“Yes,” they both replied emphatically.

“I might bring those throw pillows early,” she yawned, pulling the covers up over them.

Harry nuzzled his agreement into her shoulder, stilling. Ron reached out and turned off the lamp next to the bed and settled into a pillow, snuggling his back along her side.

For the second night in a row, she decided to share a bed, and maybe it wasn’t so bad.

Chapter Text

Boredom expanded in her chest like slowly rising smoke, threatening to halt her breathing and drop her dead. Could a person be so bored they simply died, she wondered? It seemed possible.

Godric’s gullet, this man just kept talking, but he hadn’t really said anything in an hour. And what he had said was verbatim from her text. Glancing over her shoulder, she noted most of the class was fucking off on a mobile, doodling, or fighting going back to sleep. Morning classes should never be this dull. It was inhumane.

One of her fellow students had his chin cradled in his palms and was staring, glassy-eyed at their instructor, who was interpreting this as rapt interest. The guy either had a vivid imagination or half a leftover spliff in his pocket.

He didn’t look the type to smoke on a weekday morning, which begged the question of what he was intensely daydreaming about. Blue eyes blinked rapidly below dark brows, and he inhaled deeply, coming back from wherever he’d been. Adjusting in his seat, he caught her watching him and smiled sheepishly.

He was cute, she thought.

————————————————————

The Azkaban guards this morning were both witches, and curiosity was going to get the better of him. If he could think of a tasteful way to ask “Why are you both women?”

Which, it turned out, he couldn’t. So he sat, pondering whether the Ministry had a new recruiting policy, or if perhaps his parents had done something that required the removal of male guards.

He wouldn’t put it past Narcissa to seduce the guards. And her hair was braided again. Maybe still in the same braid, judging by the fraying edges. She was especially unkempt today.

The last twenty minutes had been spent letting her monologue about wedding plans. The last five minutes of which had been spent in a verbal circle about enchanted icicles and diamonds and a dragon ice sculpture that would belch spritefire, whatever the fuck that was. She wasn’t even looking at him anymore, lost in her own daydream.

Lucius’s fingers drummed on the tabletop. “How did the vineyard do this year?” he asked softly, not wanting to disturb his wife’s fantasy wedding planning.

Shit, Draco thought. Lucius’s preferred topics of conversation were the ones that were difficult to lie about. Draco could make up stories about his social and dating life for years, but Lucius could easily send an inquiry to area spirits purveyors and find out that the Ministry had razed the Malfoy Manor vineyards two years ago. Maybe someone in the postal room could be bribed… nah. Too Slytherin.

“Not great, honestly,” Draco said heavily, trying to sound remorseful. “Issues with powdery mildew, but better than the neighboring estates.”

Lucius nodded, satisfied. Guilt with a dash of superiority was always the correct answer. Admit to a minor failure to keep the scent of utter breakdown off the wind.

Draco fought to keep a placid mask on his face as Lucius scrutinized him. Narcissa’s rambling had moved on to peacock ring bearers. Cold grey eyes flicked up and down his face, not dissimilar to when he was getting ready to hurtle a curse.

“Pansy is better with hair than...” Lucius trailed off. He flicked his hand dismissively. “… whoever was cutting it before.”

“Luna,” Draco sighed, knowing damn well he’d told them this before.

“Draco!” Narcissa barked, abruptly returning from her nuptial-planning utopia. “Is Pansy pregnant?”

Lucius flinched and ran a hand down his face, and the men exchanged concerned looks as they each worried if conversation was going that direction.

“No, she’s not,” Draco confirmed, leaning back and lacing his fingers together over his belt buckle.

“Are you sure, darling? She may just say she’s getting fat.” She assessed her ragged, filthy fingernails with regal approval.

Lucius looked at her pointedly, daring her to acknowledge her own premarital hypocrisy.

“Uhm, no. Bit lean, actually. She took up running,” Draco drawled, knowing any personal detail would derail Narcissa’s interrogation and avoid her own breakdown. Maybe.

“Running?!” she screamed. “Like a Muggle?!” She shot up out of her chair to lean over the table to yell at him, prompting the guards to step up behind her.

Lucius rolled his eyes and thanked Draco for coming. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that Lucius was just as unhinged as his wife. Just… more quietly. More subtly.

Where Narcissa was a live wire sparking about on the ground, daring anyone to come close, Lucius was a fucking lightning bolt of merciless, sudden rage. And really, Lucius was the cause of his wife’s threadbare sanity. Whether he would ever take ownership of that was doubtful.

“She runs, Lucy! Probably just runs around in circles! We can’t have that!” Narcissa was still ranting as he turned.

The door to the visitation room swung open, and he stepped through.

One-hundred and sixty-fifth visit, not that he was counting.

————————————————————-

Her classmate had, indeed, been not entirely sober, it turned out. He barely made it out of the building before lighting one right there on the sidewalk. She’d declined his offer to “hang out sometime”. It smacked of wasted time. And his eyes were a similar blue to Ron’s. Why bother wasting time with a stoned law student when she had a randy, bearded wizard at her beck and call?

Back in her apartment, she eyed the courting guide suspiciously. It had surprised her how much time she spent thinking about Ron. The couple nights after having him and Harry in her bed had felt so lonely. The first night, she’d contemplated walking to the public Floo and just sneaking into the Burrow. Worry over what he might infer had kept her in her bed. Crookshanks was a poor substitute.

She’d decided she would go visit the Burrow this afternoon. Her coursework had been surprisingly easy thus far, and she was very disappointed. Other than some meetings, assigned reading, and the Wizengamot summons, her internship hadn’t required much, either. So, getting reacquainted with the Weasleys would be a good next step.

Showing up unannounced and empty-handed seemed in poor taste. The courting guide recommended flowers, and gave a horrifically detailed guide to arranging them to convey your meaning. Enough of the ones she wanted were fall-blooming, so she headed out to Bute Park.

————————

Surveying her shopping bags, filthy shoes, and backpack of leaves, she had to admit that Bute Park had been only marginally successful. And that maybe she’d gotten a little carried away, having visited two flower shops, a gardening center, and the silk flower section of a craft store. She had spent the entire afternoon snipping, arranging, rearranging, tying, retying, and overthinking.

The book said that the message of an arrangement flowed in a circular pattern from the top, round to the bottom, and back up, with the flowers in the middle being the central theme.

So, this arrangement of silk purple hyacinth, willow branches, plastic zinnias, pink carnations, arborvitae, candytuft, belladonna, Columbine, and chamomile; while hideous, poisonous, and malodorous, was chock full of lovely sentiment.

Read in order, it made an apology: I’m sorry for my silence. I longed for you. I’m sorry I made you sad. I was foolish and indifferent.

The center of little plastic zinnias and arborvitae snippets meant that the surrounding flowers surrounded a theme of “I thought often of my absent friends and unchanging friendship.”

Perfect. She wrapped it in a blue ribbon, and with a pop, Apparated to the front door of the Burrow, rangy tangle of plants in hand.

———————————

“You should have stayed in Bumfuck, Russia,” Draco said, eyeing the eagle suspiciously. She had flown in through an open window and proceeded to shred a sketch he’d been working on for three days. A couple more hours of ink and needle, and it would have been done.

“Well, go on and shit on it, then,” he challenged. He really did expect her to do so. She had an uncanny ability to understand him out of his Animagus form.

Instead, she swept the shreds into a pile, gingerly stepped in the middle of it, and nestled herself in with a wiggle.

“Oh,” he exclaimed softly. “I… congrats?” She whistled softly as he took the small note off of her leg. She made no move to bite him. Highly unusual

Malfoy,
I have no idea how this works. Send a message back if you get this.

Harry

P.S. She bites. Hard.

He grabbed one of the larger shreds of paper, briefly mourning the fate of the bouquet he’d tediously tapped out. Flipping the scrap over, he scrawled:

Potter,
Message received. But I think she has a nest somewhere. She may not be reliable going forward.

Malfoy

P.S. Just take the compliment. Tosser.

——————————

None of the Weasleys came to the door. Odd. She considered leaving the bouquet on the front steps, but didn’t have anything to write a note with. Best to just leave it inside, then. She froze, brow furrowed, as the doorknob vibrated under her fingertips.

In fact, the whole door was shaking. As was the stone stoop under her feet. An earthquake? Stepping back, a dust plume rose in the near distance behind the peak of the roof. What in Godric’s name…

She took off at a run around the side of the house and stopped short. Catching her breath, she surveyed the area.

The property behind the house was absolutely blown to shit. Several pits the size of house foundations sat like scooped out eye sockets, and cubes of stone formed a jagged grin of a stone wall.

Gray hair poked up at the edge of a pit, rising to reveal a dust-covered man in goggles with a kerchief tied around his face. He climbed out and plopped heavily on the edge of the pit, pulling off the goggles.

“Ron?” His silhouette in the settling dust looked like Ron. The man didn’t turn.

“Ron!” she yelled, fairly sure it was him. He didn’t respond to her, but took the face covering off to reveal a neat auburn beard.

Confident, she walked up behind him and tapped his shoulder. He squeaked in surprise and nearly fell into the pit. She hid a laugh behind her free hand.

“Holy hell, ‘Mione! You scared the shit out of me!” he yelled, reaching both hands up to pull something out of each ear.

“Sorry,” she said timidly, very glad he didn’t fall in the pit. “So…what is all this?”

It was Ron’s turn to respond sheepishly. “Uhm… research? I guess?”

Hermione glared at him suspiciously, hiding the flowers behind her back. They’d be less impressive covered in rock dust.

He sighed, knowing that look. It was the Hermione Granger smells something interesting, and will chase it into a hole and proceed to dig it out and shake it to death look.

“Okay, so, after the war, I dropped out of Auror training and did reconstruction work for a couple years. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, so I helped rebuild shit. And I learned how little progress has been made in the last thousand years.

We haven’t come up with any new construction spells or charms, and most of them have been forgotten. Did you know we had to rebuild Hogwarts with the same spells they used 800 years ago? Guess where we had to find the spells,” he said expectantly.

She shook her head, having never once in her life considered how magical structures were created or maintained.

“Yeah. Had to dig them out of the fucking rubble. It took years longer than it should have, and I don’t think we did an amazing job of it. That staircase is going to kill someone,” Ron admitted before continuing.

“So, after George dumped the shop on me, I started making structural improvements, including a huge basement excavation. The place was a wreck, but you’d never have known it. Nobody thinks twice about a puddle here, or a loose brick there when you’re in a shop with a Dark Farts section.”

He stopped to scramble up from the ground, a cloud of rock dust sifting down off of him. He was entirely grayscale save for his beard and eyes. It was rather striking. His eyes shone as he talked about his work, and she couldn’t help smiling.

It was probably the longest she’d ever heard him speak without Harry interrupting or distracting him, and she slowly realized how much she’d underestimated his intelligence.

She’d suspected for a long time that he played dumb because he was thinking something through and didn’t want to be bothered. It seemed she may have been correct.

Aware of her flowers wilting, she listened as he told her about combining blasting and space extension charms to add entire subterranean floors to the shop. Her mind had trouble wrapping around what he was describing.

“Ron,” she said, stopping him. “You blasted out thousands of cubic yards under the shop. In Diagon Alley?”

“Yup,” he quipped.

“In broad daylight?”

“Yup,” he said. “But I did evacuate the store. Said we had a Niffler on the loose. People will leave for the sake of their galleons, but not their safety.”

“I’ve underestimated you, Ronald Weasley,” she said with finality.

“Yup,” he agreed, scratching his beard.

“So, what’s in the lower levels?” she asked, trying to hide a near-fatal curiosity.

“Promise you won’t tell anybody?” Ron replied. “Not even Harry? Hell, especially not Harry?”

“Maybe...” She said hesitantly. What on earth could he have down there he couldn’t tell his best friend about?

“It’s just cuz he’s an Auror, and it’s not… legal,” he admitted. “Like, it’s not bad, not at all, but the Ministry would not appreciate it.”

“Ron! You have to tell me now,” she insisted. The suspense would kill her. Or sneaking in to find out for herself and running afoul of the perils of his secret lair would.

Her first guess would be some kind of elaborate man cave. Beer, posters of naked women, games, and the like. And below that, she figured he would probably keep sentimental things from school and Quidditch. Below that, she wasn’t sure. Illegal Exploding Snap betting tables?

“Okay, so the first basement is storage for Ministry-ordered supplies. I got us into defense charms in a big way about five years ago. The level below that is… a dragon egg hatchery. It looks like a boiler room. Just… with a lot of boilers. And sometimes hatchlings. Charlie brings the eggs in and takes the hatchlings back to the reserves. I get to keep the shells to sell to apothecaries and whatnot.”

She nodded in approval. Other people would be less reputable and try to sell the hatchlings. Ron and Charlie were kind of a perfect team to be helping restore dragon populations.

“And then the third level,” he started. “That’s where it gets dicey. You sure you want to know?”

Hesitating, she shook her head slowly. “I can’t not know, at this point, Ron.”

He nodded. “Alright, so there’s a wall-size unregistered, international Floo…”

She shrugged. “For bringing dragon eggs in, I assume?”

“Well, yeah, originally. Fuck, ‘Mione, are you sure?”

“I am,” she declared, standing straight, “but is there a fourth basement?”

“No. Not yet, anyway,” he said, grinning and peeking around her back. “Those for me?”

“Oh! Yes,” she blurted, having forgotten she was still holding the bouquet behind her. “But not till you tell me about the third basement.”

“Well, fine. I… dispose of dead illegal magical creatures,” he muttered, running his hands up the short hair on the back of his head. “Which sounds like a bit of a cover-up operation, and I guess sometimes it is, but that’s not on me.”

“You… butcher rare creatures,” she said hesitantly. That didn’t sound like Ron.

“Kind of?” he said weakly. “People bring me dead creatures they weren’t supposed to have. Or that they find and are potentially dangerous. I put the carcasses under a Stasis charm and remove important parts. The rest gets fed to hatchlings or burned up in the incubator furnaces.”

She was a little aghast, she had to admit. It was brilliant in its simplicity, but it sounded so dubious. “So… what kind of creatures? Dead dragons?” Merlin, she hoped it was just dragons.

“Oh, no, anybody can do dragons.” He shook his head. “Like, right now, I’ve got a Horned Serpent that MACUSA shipped after they accidentally killed it in a raid. They don’t even want anything for it. Ollivander’s has pre-paid for the horn. Generously. They’ll be the only global supplier of Horned Serpent-core wands for the next decade.”

She nodded, feeling stupid. How could she have thought that he was putting so much effort into joke candy and fucking Dark Farts charms? Godric, she’d underestimated him beyond belief.

“I get to keep the scales, which is a pretty great deal. The hatchlings get to eat horned serpent meat, which has actually increased their post-hatch survival rate quite a bit. All I gotta do is the processing and keep my mouth shut that MACUSA didn’t scan a property for sentient non-humans before blowing it to kingdom come,” he said with a wink.

“I…” she stammered. “I… don’t…”

He stepped up closer to her, and she could smell the rock dust on him like a whiff of approaching rain.

“Yeah, I know.” Ron chuckled. “Come on, ‘Mione, though. Did you really think I’d be happy selling chocolate frogs?”

She shook her head, but it was a lie. She absolutely thought he’d been living out the twins’ teenage fantasy.

“Sell jokes all day, come home to dinner on the table?” He reached up, biting his lip, and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Some perfectly nice wife and a herd of little Weasleys to impress with the new booger charms from the store?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Because, yes, that was exactly what she’d expected to find when she came back. He took the opportunity to lay a chaste kiss on her lower lip.

“Lucky for me my brothers all have perfectly nice wives and herds,” he whispered, trailing his lips along her jaw. “I’m more partial to curly-haired Harpies.”

She grinned at the playful jibe, glad that he couldn’t see she’d actually enjoyed it. His teeth nipped her earlobe, and leaned her head away, urging him to continue. Instead, he looked down over her shoulder.

“Have I earned those now?” he asked with an excited wiggle. Grateful for the break in tension, she hummed her response and thrust them out to him.

She bit her lip and waited for his reaction. It had been so much work, and she hoped she’d gotten it right. Godric, if she hadn’t, she’d be furious. It had taken all damned day. He examined them, mouthing words to himself. Slowly, his mouth drooped from a pleased smile to a disappointed line to an angry scowl.

“Wow,” he stated simply, stepping back from her and dropping the bouquet to his side.

“Wow?” She inquired, not sure why he looked so angry if he was impressed.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting a sniffle.

“Yeah, wow,” he spat. “Nobody’s ever told me off with flowers. And with such deadly accuracy. So, wow. Incredibly cold. Even for a Harpy.”

He thrust them back at her, and she accepted them, not knowing what else to do. Shocked, she opened her mouth to speak, but he held a hand up to silence her.

“I need to get cleaned up. You can see yourself out, Granger,” he said, and Apparated out with a pop.

Suddenly alone, tears pooled in her eyes as she stared down at the raggedy bouquet, grateful for the solitude as she cried into her sleeve.

——————————

Softly, Hermione opened the door to the tiny bathroom on the third floor, slipped inside, and immediately regretted it. Quiet sobs came from behind the shower curtain. Seizing the opportunity, she took his wand off the sink and set it on the floor behind the toilet, just in case this went exceptionally poorly.

“Ron?” she called firmly in the small room.

He cleared his throat loudly and blew his nose. “What do you want, Hermione?”

Her voice broke a little as she replied. “I think I made the bouquet wrong. I’d never done it before, and I had to go to a half-dozen places to get all the pieces, and I spent all afternoon on it, and I don’t know what I did, and I…I…” Her words dissolved as she hid her face in her hands and broke into jagged sobs.

She sat down on the toilet lid, elbows on her knees, trying to rein in her blubbering. Merlin, she’d fucked this up beyond belief. The shower turned off, but Ron didn’t step out for a few long moments. He scraped water from his hair as he thought. She had no idea what she’d conveyed, he realized. Shit.

It hadn’t occurred to him that she was trying to speak a language for the first time. His parents had exchanged bouquets at least once a week his whole life. Hell, they all knew to sleep over at a friend’s house any given weekend based on how racy a flower arrangement was.

Gods, and she’d tried to learn it for him? She could have done anything else with her day, and she’d chosen to spend it on him? Ugh, and he’d literally shoved it back at her and stormed off. Nobody would ever bring him Thestrals at this rate.

He stepped out and stood on the rug in front of her. He reached for her chin, tilting it up. “Godric, ‘Mione. I’m so sorry,” he croaked, throat tight. “I didn’t know you’d never made one. I’ve read thousands of them, and it never occurred to me that you’ve probably never even seen one.”

She took a long, shuddering breath, calming, and rolled her eyes up to him. It was an interesting angle, she thought. He was swollen and wet from the heat of the shower, and already so close to her mouth. All of that clean skin begged to be tasted.

She licked her lips, and his gaze followed hers down, his breath hitching.

“I may have been overconfident in my book learning,” she admitted, leaning forward to plant a soft kiss on the center of his rapidly hardening shaft. “So maybe I should apologize, too.”

His hands brushed her hair from her eyes, and he looked down at her, hurt. “No, ‘Mione, that was my fault, I should have known that you didn’t grow up-“

She sucked him into her mouth in one quick movement, and he froze. He was so slick against her tongue, and still soft enough to work the flesh of him around. Slowly, she pulled him back out of her lips, sucking hard.

“I think I kind of want to apologize for scaring you,” she whispered, and licked the tip of his growing erection. “Like this.”

He hummed softly, head tilting back, his hands coming to rest in her hair as she slid him fully into the back of her mouth, pressing gently into her throat. “Fuck, ‘Mione.”

She pulled him back out, sucking him dry. “Don’t ever call me ‘Granger’ again,” she whispered against his length, sliding him back along her tongue.

His breath hissed in as she took him entirely, teasing a low groan from his throat. “You’re in danger of being called ‘Weasley’ if you keep that up,” he said, low and hoarse.

“Hmm,” she hummed against his tip, thinking. “I don’t think Harpies change their names.”

He chuckled and stroked her hair. “Let’s find a bed,” he suggested. “I can’t exactly reciprocate like this.”

“No,” she stated, sliding him back down to her throat again, relaxing him down deep, bobbing slightly while her hands slid up his thighs to his hips.

His breathing had grown ragged, and a hot flush crept up his chest and neck. She dragged her lips tight against him, replacing her mouth with her hand. Stroking slowly, grip tight, she avoided his sensitive head, keeping him near coming.

“I thought about this all day.” She grazed the head of him with her lips, and a soft whine escaped him.

“I thought about making you come while I was in class.” The tip of her tongue lapped the slit at the tip of his length, and he swore softly under his breath.

“I thought about tasting you when another man asked me out.” That drew a pleased growl from him without even putting her lips on him, she noted with a smile.

“And do you know what I thought about for hours while I made that damned bouquet?” she asked, tightening her grip and letting her fingers slide over the head of his erection.

He shook his head and grunted. “I thought about how I was going to make you come in my mouth tonight and drink you down while you moan my name.”

He gasped softly. Medea’s mons, when had she turned from a witch into a succubus? He was too close to coming to even answer her. Her thumb drew circles over the tip of his cock, and he hummed expectantly.

Her hand slid down against his pelvis as her mouth sank down behind it. A pleading moan reverberated above her. His fingers gripped her hair, gently holding her still.

Tentatively, his hips thrust forward, slowly burying himself in her. She hummed her approval and slid her hands around to grip his arse, edges of her fingernails digging in a touch.

Tasting salt on her tongue, she knew he was closing in quickly. She relaxed her throat and pulled him closer with her hands, encouraging him to move.

“Fuck,” he whispered under his breath as he started thrusting, quickly finding then losing a rhythm. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mouthed with each stroke.

The muscles under her hands snapped tight and she took a deep breath, holding him in the back of her throat.

“Fuck, ‘Mione!” he shouted, holding her head tight against him as he throbbed and his release pooled on the back of her tongue. She sucked him tight, pulling back a little, and swallowed. He jerked as she ran her tongue forward and back, chasing any stray drops.

His hands loosened their grip, and she slid hers around to his hips, steadying herself. With a long, last final suck, she pulled back, licking a single drop off the tip of him.

He huffed a surprised laugh and sighed. “Let’s go fix your flowers.”

Grinning, she stood and he kissed her softly. “You correcting my work? First time for everything.”

————————————

“Okay, let’s start with the ribbon. Blue means it’s from an orphan. Which, from you, looks like a pity play, what with the Obliviation and whatnot,” Ron instructed, sipping a cup of scarlet tea.

“Oh… I picked it because it’s the same shade as your eyes…” she whispered, embarrassed. She hadn’t even known ribbons had meanings, but of course they did.

He set his teacup down to untie the bouquet. “That’s adorable. But incorrect.” He tossed the ribbon on top of her head, and she glared at him.

“Next, the overall theme, the theme of the flowers around the outside mea-“

“But the book said the ones in the middle were the theme!”

“That’s for three-layered bouquets. This is two. And fake flowers turn the meaning sarcastic.”

“What?! That wasn’t in the book at all!” She was going to whip that book at Malfoy’s face next time she saw him. If she saw him again. Coming to grips with a clingy, snuggly Hufflepuff Malfoy was taking a while.

“So, with the center as the overarching theme and the ring outside as the narrative,” he continued, “this reads I’m absolutely not sorry for my indifference, silence, and your worrying. You’re sad and foolish. I don’t think of you often and this will never change.’”

She stared at him in horror. “I’m never arranging flowers again.”

“It could have been worse. Tansies and rhododendrons are a declaration of war,” he joked as he disassembled the mess.

“Oh, Merlin.” She slouched down in her chair. “So, what should I have sent?”

“Uhm…” He scratched his beard, thinking. “Floriography doesn’t lend itself well to casual sex. It’s more subtle than that. Probably just fern.”

“A fern? Just… buy a houseplant?” she said incredulously. That sounded entirely too easy.

“Well, no. You’d cut different types and lengths and still arrange them. Ferns mean sincerity and humility, which is what you were going for. But also bonds of magic and love." He stopped abruptly. “Unspecified love, not necessarily romantic.”

He picked apart her bouquet, making a small pile of select flowers.

“That’s a lot simpler than what I did,” she groused.

“Yeah, you tried to write a book, not a poem,” he joked. “Here. For you.”

He handed her a small bundle. Chamomile, and then the arborvitae and candytuft were upside down.

“What does it mean if they’re upside down?” she asked, exasperated.

He smiled. Her book must be ancient. Probably French customs, too. “It’s an anti-meaning. It reverses the meaning. Or means that the feeling has ended. Handy for if what you want is out of season.”

“Okay, so chamomile; longing. And the opposites of unchanging friendship and indifference?” she guessed.

He nodded, refilling his tea, waiting for her reaction. It was a bit of a gamble.

“Longing, changing friendship, and…interest?”

He nodded again. “But does that mean you’re longing for those things, or is the longing separate?”

“Leave it to you to complicate the shit out of romantic gestures. It’s not that specific." He swept the loose leaves and petals into a pile. “And most couples develop their own little dialect. If you ever see a stargazer lily in this house, don’t be around after dark or you’ll hear why my parents had so many kids.”

“Gross.” Hermione grimaced. "But also kind of cute.”

“Not cute, ‘Mione. Not cute at all.”

——————————

Ron sat alone at the kitchen table. His mum and the kids would be back soon. He’d decided to make himself conspicuously absent from the store while they did the traditional First Year Diagon Alley shopping spree. Avoiding Weasley’s Wheezes when family and friends were shopping had become a habit. Anything to avoid being asked to give tours.

Harry had asked about the new door in the back storage, and he’d felt obliged to show him the first basement level. Which was fine. It was Ministry stock, and he was a bloody Auror. But then Harry had asked about the massive iron door that was hot to the touch.

Luckily, Harry was fairly gullible. So Auror Potter really did think Ministry charms and uniforms needed to be kept in a well-heated room. The lie had tasted bitter, but if he was ever going to get arrested for the contents of the basements, he’d rather it not be Harry who cuffed him.

Hermione’s dismantled bouquet was still scattered over the table, and he arranged and rearranged pieces mindlessly like a word puzzle. He still couldn’t believe she’d tried to teach herself. He’d been a teenager by the time he could read them accurately. It wasn’t an especially useful skill. Not the kind of thing Hermione Granger would bother with.

So, it begged the question of how she’d found out about it. And why she’d used rather antiquated formulas. She’d mentioned a book. He only knew one person who’d suggest she learn finishing school skills from an outdated book. And he had some impressive bookshelves in his cave.

Smiling, Ron wondered how that conversation had gone. He couldn’t imagine Hermione being at all receptive to the suggestion she should learn about traditional wizard courting when she didn’t even seem keen on modern dating.

But if anyone were going to make the case to her that it was relevant, he supposed it would be Malfoy. And if he’d convinced her to learn for his benefit, well, that was downright thoughtful.

And it was relevant, because, if he had to admit it, he’d fucking loved it. Everything about it just felt right and made sense. The idea that she might send him another bouquet would have him on edge for weeks. The anticipation was better than snogging in closets.

He supposed he owed Malfoy a debt of gratitude, and it only seemed fitting to respond in kind. His mum’s gardens had enough atmospheric charms in them that he should be able to find everything he needed.

————————

An hour later, he still sat alone at the kitchen table, but he had a respectable bundle of ferns and Queen Anne’s Lace, which meant bonds and sanctuary with upside down tansies, orange lilies, and begonias. Anti-hatred, anti-war, and anti-threat.

It wasn’t pretty, but it was a serviceable “I’ve buried the hatchet and have your back.”

Setting it aside, he got up to dispose of Hermione’s horticultural horror show, but a thud and scuffle at the door caught his interest. His mum and the kids would use the Floo.

A soft knock sounded. Few people bothered knocking at the Burrow. And those who did wouldn’t actually stand outside and wait.

“Come in!” Ron hollered, assuming it was one of his brothers’ wives' friends or something.

A note on the counter caught his eye, and he remembered he’d told his mum he’d follow her instructions to start dinner. He hopped up to start, letting his visitor find their way in.

The front door closed with a soft click, and someone cleared their throat. Ron peeked around through the living room to find a windblown Malfoy in the entryway, like he’d been summoned by the power of carefully-arranged flowers.

He smoothed a rumpled t-shirt into place and attempted to sort his hair as he crossed the living room. He looked like he expected to be thrown out at any minute.

“Hey,” Ron chirped, struggling to figure out what his mum meant by “julienne the carrots”. That had to be a mistake. Maybe he was supposed to Romeo the celery, too?

“Uhm, hi,” Malfoy mumbled, not quite nervous enough to slip into posh elocution. “I come bearing dubious Ministry explosives.”

Ron tested the Blood Magic bond, and found it faint, but there. Malfoy was beyond uneasy.

“Thanks. Grab us a couple bottles?” Ron asked, waving an overly large knife toward the icebox.

Malfoy lifted the strap of his bag over his head, set it on the table, and eyed the carnations and carnage. He poked around in the plants and eyed Ron warily.

“Are you brewing poison in your family’s kitchen, Weasley?” Malfoy asked cautiously, testing the belladonna’s freshness with his thumbnail. “Because I don’t know if I’ve got it in me to bring you back from the brink twice in a month.”

“Oh, no,” Ron replied, taking a bottle from him. “Hermione tried her and at Floriography today. That’s the renovated wreckage. She made a right mess of it.” He chuckled, thinking how horribly wrong she’d gotten it.

Malfoy opened his beer and took an impressively long swig, in Ron’s opinion. He hadn’t actually thought he’d stoop to the drink of the common man. But behold, a muggle-clothed, beer-swilling Malfoy. Setting his bottle down, he picked up the bouquet Ron had just finished.

“That one’s for you,” Ron explained. “I suspect you had something to do with her attempt?” Ron had skipped the instructions about how to chop the carrots and moved on to the celery, which did not require anything fancier than hacking it to bits.

“I slipped a book in…” Malfoy trailed off, examining the bundle. “Uhm, Weasley? Are you certain you’re not brewing poison over there?” He eyed his beer suspiciously.

“Pretty sure,” he said, wondering if there was a lethal way to chop celery. “Why?”

“Because this bouquet is either declaring all-out war or ending it, depending on orientation.” Malfoy flipped the flowers back and forth demonstrably.

“Oh! No,” Ron exclaimed, “ferns up.”

Draco sighed and swallowed down a quarter of his beer. If he thought Ron had cared, he would have told him that a feather in the front of the bouquet was the proper way to denote orientation. At least per De Pompadour rules. He frowned, quietly hating that his brain was crammed full of such useless shit.

Ron was mutilating celery, it seemed. And perfectly good carrots and onions looked to be next on death row. “May I?” Draco asked, extending a hand for the chef’s knife that was being used with all the elegance of a Bludger’s bat.

“Knock yourself out,” Ron said, excusing himself. “Maybe you know how to translate the carrot instructions.”

Draco looked down and read Molly’s recipe. “That’s English, you knob. It’s matchsticks.” It was an awfully fussy recipe for pot pie, and he thoroughly approved.

Ron shrugged, more than happy to be in charge of beer procurement. Malfoy swiftly dealt with the celery, producing a pile of uniform little arches. Watching the man handle a knife was oddly entrancing, Ron thought to himself.

He focused on their lingering bond, and was surprised to feel a surge of contentment. A loud pop and a ruckus started in the living room, and Malfoy’s serenity was obliterated in a wave of terror. Ron took a deep breath and looked at him. He’d frozen, mid-chop, and was watching the kitchen doorway. Bloke was jumpy as all hell.

“Ron,” Molly hollered, “I don’t smell dinner!” She came around the corner and squeaked, startled to see Draco Malfoy chopping vegetables in her kitchen. And rather proficiently, judging by the neatly-piled slivers of carrot.

Frowning at the botanical butchery on the table, she turned to greet Draco with a pat on the shoulder. He flinched, and she silently cursed his cunt of a mother. He set the knife down and backed away from the cutting board, heading toward his bag.

“Draco, dear,” Molly said gently. “Don’t stop on my account. I’d be grateful for the help. I’d rather do the kids’ baths.”

Draco hesitated, eyeing the cutting board and front door in turn. He really did miss cooking. More than he’d realized. And the prospect of serving up a large meal had him chewing his lip in indecision. Once upon a time, it had been his favorite way to spend an afternoon.

“Please,” Molly beseeched, “and save half the carrots for muffins after they’re cut.”

She reached up to tuck his hair behind his ear, fingers skimming to ruffle the back of his head. Her nails began a gentle scratching above the nape of his neck, and his shoulders dropped as he sighed.

“Oh,” he hushed nervously. “Alright.” She’d disarmed him with alarming efficiency, he thought. The Dark Art of Maternal Persuasion.

He couldn’t come up with any great reasons not to stay, other than potential Weasley rejection. He’d brought eagles and owls both, so he didn’t have to worry about the sun going down and bomber owls finding him. Merlin knew he didn’t have anywhere he needed to be. Hardly ever.

By staying, he got to cook in a well-appointed kitchen. For other people. And possibly muffins.

His deliberation was interrupted by a trickle of acerbic French as Fleur appeared in the doorway with a red-headed toddler on her hip, feigning olfactory offense.

He gasped, grateful he hadn’t picked the knife up. The boy looked entirely too much like the auburn-haired boy from his dreams.

”Oula! Tu sense le Veela, toubib,” Fleur said, waving a hand in front of her nose sarcastically.

“Dubious feather mattress,” he said, switching to English for Ron’s benefit, and waving her off. “And I happen to like the smell.”

She tapped the outside edge of a thumb against the center of her chin, fingers curled, and dipped her head slightly in formal greeting. He froze, the gesture taking a second to register. It had been… four years… give or take, since someone had formally recognized him. He dipped his head in return.

”Chut… Je ne suis toubib,” he chided her, smiling in spite of himself. “Just a Death Eater.”

Salazar’s septum, it felt good to be acknowledged as a Healer. Did the magical community outside the UK actually remember his work? Fucking hell, would that be amazing if the rest of the world didn’t want his head on a pike.

”Toujours Koàn,” Fleur admonished. Draco huffed an embarrassed laugh at the Black family motto turned compliment.

”Toujours sympa,” he said, giving her a wink and head to toe appraisal. She blushed and set the toddler down to run amok.

High-pitched bickering wafted down the stairs, and she rolled her eyes and headed into the fray. Louis’s wide eyes examined his uncle, seeming to question the wisdom of having been left under the supervision of two men, their beer, a bag of Bombardas, and kitchen knives.

Ron gave Draco a side-long glance. “Did you just hit on my sister-in-law?” he asked in mild disbelief.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “A compliment more than an offer.”

His work on the carrots finished, he moved on to the onions, trying to ignore the insistent, grabby hands on his leg. The boy had wandered over to examine him.

“Miam!” Louis pipped, little hands opening and closing expectantly. The boy had a fine cut between two fingers on his left hand, and Draco eyed it suspiciously.

”Hop là,” he exhaled, hoisting the tot onto the counter. ”As-tu faim?”

Draco kept a hip in front of the hungry toddler, a watchful eye on both the boy’s balance and his knife. A test bite of an apple from a basket drew an appreciative surprised grunt from him, and he sliced it while Lou watched, one tiny hand fisted in Draco's shirt.

He couldn’t help but inspect the hair-fine cut between the boy’s fingers. The precision and placement didn’t look like a normal toddler injury.

Armed with fistfuls of apple slices, Lou was released to sticky up the kitchen. Ron smiled, pleased someone enjoyed the literal fruits of his labor.

Ron felt Malfoy through the bond, shocked at the sensation of absolutely drowning in contentment.

“Malfoy, mate,” Ron admitted. “I am not surprised a man caught you a pair of Thestrals.”

Draco hummed in acknowledgement, back turned to Ron as he heated a skillet. Weasley didn’t need to see his eyes water. Damn onions.

Chapter Text

The guards were both witches again, and curiosity got the better of him.

“Did my parents do something in particular to warrant an all-female guard?” he asked, voice firm, but with an appropriate hint of groveling.

The older one, gray hair buzzed short, turned to him and nodded disdainfully. Great, he thought. Narcissa on the prowl meant Lucius with a scowl, like it always had. Such a lovely marriage. Maybe he could work it into his story of breaking off his fake engagement with Pansy.

The engagement he still needed to warn her about, but he didn’t have a great way of contacting her. She just showed up every year on his birthday and they proceeded to get breathtakingly drunk. It counted as a tradition.

The door slammed open against the wall, and Narcissa rolled into the room like a storm front. Lucius trailed behind her, lips tight, expression grim. Dread clenched Draco’s gut.

He’d been hoping to break the news to weeping and wailing, not rage and retribution. His lips parted to greet them, but he didn’t get a chance.

“Why haven’t we heard from her parents?” she raged, pacing. Lucius took a seat, but stiffly. The guards watched her carefully, the older one with a hand on a weapon.

“It’s been weeks, Draco. Why haven’t we at least received a letter? Why hasn’t she come to see us?” Narcissa flung questions faster than he could have answered them, though she didn’t seem to expect responses. “Have you moved her into the south wing yet?”

She stopped pacing and her hands gripped the chair across from him. “Did you fuck this up again?” she seethed.

He looked to Lucius for some reassurance that she was irrational, but was met with further suspicion. Draco sighed and pushed his chair back, eager for a little more distance than the small room provided.

“She called it off,” he said, and braced himself for the hurricane. This would be his third or fourth botched betrothal, depending on how he counted.

She screamed, wordless, teeth bared, and he exhaled slowly through pursed lips as his ears rang. The guards stepped up behind her as she drew a breath and screamed again, hands still anchored to the chair.

“We gave you everything!” she spat, eyes wild, spittle flying. “Everything! And all we asked is that you settle down! You didn’t even have to properly fuck her, for Gaunt’s sake!”

Her hands slammed down on the table in front of him, and he closed his eyes. Sometimes, surprise blows hurt less than expected ones.

She must have made a move to hit him, because the guards suddenly had her pinned against the wall. Her feet flailed as she tried to kick them, still finding the effort to scream at him.

“I wasted my life raising you, you selfish brat! I hate you! I hate you both! I should have smothered you both in your sleep when I had the chance!”

The guards marched her out the door, and the silence that followed was deafening. Dread crept up his spine like a hoarfrost as he realized he was alone in a soundproof room with Lucius Malfoy.

Lucius cleared his throat. “We do get the papers, you know.”

Draco nodded. He was well-aware. Personally, he hadn’t read a Daily Prophet since his release. “This betrothal of yours never made the Society page,” he said offhandedly.

Biting his lips, he tried to quantify for himself where they thought the Malfoy family’s place in wizarding society was, exactly. This was either bait, or Lucius really did think they were held in high enough esteem for anyone to give a flying fuck about them. As if he could have a public betrothal and not expect the ceremony to turn into a vigilante-fueled bloodbath.

“I’m on decent speaking terms with the Greengrasses,” Draco lied. “And she with the Notts. We thought discretion was wise.”

Lucius hummed in approval. “Well, return the rings to my vault. Unless you think the Lovegood girl is an option?”

Odd that Lucius knew which rings they’d have chosen, he thought to himself. And that today he knew Luna’s last name when last time he’d conveniently forgotten her existence.

Little escaped the man’s notice, and Draco doubted that he’d believed the whole story with Pansy at all. But lying to Narcissa to get her off their backs was a sport they both partook in as a matter of survival.

Draco shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t go that far. And yes, I’m taking the Azkaban Floo to Gringotts.”

Leaning smugly back in his chair, Lucius smirked. “I won’t keep you, then.”

The door to the visitation room swung open, and he stepped through.

One-hundred and sixty-sixth visit, not that he was counting.

—————————

“Have at it, Basilia.” Harry tried to suppress a shiver as she slid a hand down the line of hair between his navel and groin. “This is the last time.”

“You said that last time, Harry,” she said with a self-satisfied smirk as she used both hands to lay the hair of his lower abdomen smooth.

He frowned at her overly familiar use of his name. Disinterested, he watched her work on him with some tiny spelled comb. She was fairly attractive, really. Bobbed blonde hair, clear blue eyes. Pity she held all the appeal of Baba Yaga.

He knew what she was trying to accomplish, and it had nothing to do with artfully-laid body hair. Thankfully, his body wasn’t responding this time. Might have something to do with him allowing her to give him an awkward, toothy blowjob last time.

She grinned up at him, and he flinched. “I think you’ve accomplished all you can down there.” He took a step back from her, and her pout fell flat. She stood, packing away a grooming kit.

“Alright. You know the drill,” she said over her shoulder. “Go into the light, Potter.”

Death references, he thought. Hilarious.

Merlin, this might be his least favorite building in the world. It was a perfectly nice room. Light wood floors, white walls, high windows. His only associations with it were intense hunger, exhausted early mornings, intrusion, embarrassment, and begrudging duty. Not unlike the Dursley house, really.

A shadow passed through the open archway to the hall, and a husky contralto voice murmured a greeting. Oh, thank Godric, he thought. Connie was his favorite reporter. She’d earned his undying loyalty five years ago when a photographer copped a feel, and she’d fired the woman on the spot. Brutally.

She was the first woman he’d thought of a couple weeks ago when Ron had suggested he was dating pensioners. He’d always wondered if she were married. Or had kids. Or maybe a cat and a house full of amazing artwork. That seemed most likely.

He turned and watched the two women discussing their plans as Connie wound her hair up into an effortless chignon and secured it with two long silver pins from her bag. She slipped glasses on and critiqued Basilia’s set, lighting, and general existence. Basilia withered, and Harry tamped down a smirk.

If Connie, Hermione, and McGonagall ever found themselves in a room alone together, he wasn’t sure what would happen, but it would be something wonderful that changed the course of wizard history. And that idea made him want to take his pants off.

“Harry, love, put your glasses back on,” she instructed, handing them to him. “Baz, you should have told him to take them off an hour ago if you didn’t want lines. You’ll just have to deal with the glare.”

“I… Yeah, sorry.” Basilia practically cowered. “I didn’t know you were coming in early.”

Harry stood awkwardly on the short white platform. It had been the site of recurring nightmares through his early twenties. Now, it just made him nervous and eager to leave. Something in his eye made him blink rapidly while he situated his glasses back in place.

“I wasn’t, but I’m doing the feature interview, and he requested a tour before being handed over to your tender mercies,” she jabbed, rubbing an eye behind her glasses. “And so I figured I would make myself inconvenient here until he arrives.”

Thank you, Harry mouthed when Basilia’s back was turned. Connie’s eyebrows rose in questioning. She looked more than willing to throw another handsy witch out on the curb.

Harry pursed his lips, shook his head, and rolled his eyes, taking some blame for Basilia’s forwardness with him. Catching on, she smirked and wagged a finger at him.

A chime sounded, and Connie excused herself with a firm, “I’ll be around” directed at Basilia.

“Alright. Harry, we’re just going to throw some variety together, mostly for stock.” She fiddled with equipment. “You know, because this is your last time here.”

———————————

With a stumble, Draco stepped out of the Gringotts lobby Floo. Not eager to draw notice from the witches and wizards going about their business, he drew up his cloak hood. He forced his feet to move faster than his gut commanded, and shuffled into a side hall to rap on an office door.

Gringotts was one of the few places he felt secure. Surprising, given that several Goblins had died in his family’s home during the war. But, according to Burgock, who was by far the most hostile toward wizards, Goblins have very long memories. And the House of Black has otherwise been a friend to Goblinkind.

He waited, listening to the shuffling of papers inside the room, but no one answered. With a smirk, he took a newspaper-wrapped sea bass out of his bag and chucked it through the post slot. It landed inside the office with a thick thud, followed by the scuffle of shoes.

A soft hum of appreciation filtered through the door, and he smiled. Good gifts were always worth the effort. The door unlatched with a click, and he slipped in, ignoring the sound of smacking lips and rending flesh.

“Little Blackblood, finally come to earn your keep?” Odbert’s voice croaked from the low desk.

Draco shoved his hood back and took in the office. Odbert hadn’t changed it much since being elected bank President. A very democratic process, which made him vow to learn more about Goblin politics.

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t come to die on the filthy linoleum in the Curse Breaker department. Though bleeding to death on it would do that floor good,” Draco said sarcastically.

The art of insult-inquiry and his family’s admiration of shiny objects had earned him the trust of the Goblins as a teen, and he quite enjoyed it. Turning over a nation-state’s worth of Goblin-made silverwork had only endeared him to them further.

“Pity,” Odbert replied, swallowing a chunk of bass. “You’d smell better getting the hair singed off you. They’ve been dealing with some rather impossible Dark exploding curses.”

“Do your incompetent boobs complain of a high-pitched whine before exploding all over the decrepit rooms you call labs?” Draco inquired, thinking.

“Ah, surprisingly perceptive behind that matted mess you call a head of hair,” Odbert retorted.

Draco fought the urge to touch his hair, but knew the conversation would stop if he did. One of many rules.

“You can feign competence and tell them your brilliant mind deduced a strategy by which they submerge the items in hydrogen peroxide while Breaking,” Draco responded carefully. “From a Muggle shop. The higher the concentration the better.”

Odbert looked up at him in shock, but he refused to look down. Another rule. Never look down at a Goblin. Never, ever kneel to speak to one on eye-level. Always assume the Goblin’s eyes are roughly at your eye-level above the Goblin’s actual head.

“Damn you wizards and your slimy tricks, Blackblood,” the Goblin spat, jotting down a note and sending it flying out the post slot to the Curse Breakers. “My Head Curse-Breaker is planning on retiring in two years, if your lazy Pureblood ass sees fit to work a day in its life.”

Ah, this was a tricky one, Draco thought. How to politely decline a very desirable job offer while being insulting?

“I think my lazy Pureblood ass would be rather distracting to that jizz-dripping manwhore you call a husband and Treasurer,” Draco ventured, trying to hide his trepidation.

Startling him, Odbert slammed the half-eaten fish down on his desk, collapsing forward in loud guffaws. His laughter was contagious, and Draco found himself smiling in response.

“Oh, Trasgu’s tits, boy,” Odbert sighed, dabbing his eyes. “What brings you in, you little bastard?”

————————————

“Harry, stop rubbing your eyes,” Basilia snipped, squinting. “It’s just dusty in here or something.”

He rolled his eyes instead, which she caught on camera. Lovely. This was supposed to be a short shoot, but it felt like she wasn’t going to let him go until someone made her. She could have at least warmed the room up before she told him to strip.

“Alright,” she said, putting her camera down. “Want to lose the skivvies and wrap up?”

“Not even a little,” he said, frowning. She pushed this every fucking time.

“I saw the headlines, Harry.” She busied herself switching lenses. “It would sure suck if Robards sent you back here for a full shoot.”

Dust tickled his eye again, and he took his glasses off to demonstrably rub it. Fuck her admonishments and her implied threat. He was hungry, and cold, and insulted, and more than ready to leave. Gods, both eyes itched like hell.

Connie’s throaty voice drifted round the corner, and Harry blinked tears from his eyes to look for her. “Rowena’s rut, Harry, you’re still here?” she clucked, staring daggers at Basilia, who had the good sense to stay silent.

Behind her trailed an enormous monolith of a man. He had to be over six-and-a-half feet tall, Harry estimated. He was quietly taking in the high ceilings and blank walls of the room while Harry watched. The man had dark brown, almost black hair, swept back on top and shaved short on the sides. His perfectly chiseled jaw worked slowly, chewing a piece of gum.

He was dressed for sport. Grey track pants clung indecently to a muscular backside, and a tattered hoodie hung from broad shoulders. He balanced lightly on the balls of his feet. Whether out of grace or habit, it was hard to tell. His eyes turned to watch Basilia intently.

“Fucking hell, Connie,” she fumed, scrubbing her eyes. “Can we open the windows or something?”

The man’s gaze settled on the floor in front of Harry. Basilia straightened and went back to her equipment. Connie left him standing in the threshold to flick spells at the windows, levering them down. A cool draft skittered through the room, and Harry shivered.

“Better, Baz?” Connie asked. She turned to address the men in turn. “Harry Potter, Magnus Falk. Magnus, Harry.”

Falk made no move to greet him, and Harry was quietly grateful. Maybe he could just slip out. He stepped down, and a deep rumbling voice vibrated through the room. “I’d like Potter to stay, if he’s willing. Basilia,” he said, turning to stare at her chest. “You get ten minutes.”

Harry had expected a gruff Scandinavian accent, but his voice was actually rather pleasant. The gentle up-lilt to his syllables combined with a soft rounding of consonants and a distinctive sing-song cadence was surprising. It was hard to imagine him yelling at his players across a field. Maybe he didn’t need to, if Malfoy’s descriptions of his Legilimency were accurate.

“But for feature articles we usually do a-“ she countered.

“I don’t care.” The muscles in his jaw worked quietly. “I’ll do what you want for ten minutes, within reason. That’s enough for you to get what you need, and for me to sell season tickets. Including Potter would be good publicity. If he wants.”

Connie nodded, smiling. “We can do that. Harry, what do you think?”

“Uhm, I guess. Seems kind of random, though,” he admitted, rubbing his hands up and down his arms.

An intense warming spell emanated from Falk's direction, and Harry kicked himself for not having thought of that. Turning, he saw the man was unceremoniously stripping out of his hoodie, t-shirt, and sweatpants. Blinking dust out of his eye again, he watched the shirt pop over his head.

Harry’s throat caught when he saw Malfoy’s tattoo snaking up Falk’s arm. Good Godric, it was exactly the same design, but the whorls and flourishes were unique.

He gasped, eyes suddenly on fire. Then, in an instant, they were fine.

“I’ll gather some blurbs and try to tie it in,” Connie muttered, looking at her notes from interviewing Magnus during their tour of the building. “If I ask something you don’t want to answer, feel free to tell me to fuck off, gentlemen.”

Falk huffed in amusement on his way to the platform, and Harry smiled. He could never tell Connie to fuck off.

What the fuck had just happened to his eyes, though? It had felt intrusive, and intentional. Legilimancy. He slammed all the Occclumency barriers in place that he could muster. One did not complete Auror training without it.

Falk approached him like an oncoming tsunami. Roaring power, momentum, and sheer indifference. The man was undeniably gorgeous, maybe even more so due to his apathy.

He still hadn’t even looked at Harry, which was unexpected. Most people, regardless of attraction, would fall all over themselves for a look at him in nothing but a pair of Auror-red boxer briefs.

Falk was clad in scandalously tiny black pants with a small scarlet Bats logo on one hip. They left utterly nothing to the imagination. Dark hair flowed upward from them, narrowing to a fine line before flaring out neatly across his chest. He was rather well-proportioned for a man his height, Harry thought, neither lanky nor barrel-chested. Well-muscled and lean, but not quite the cutting physique Harry kept.

He felt Falk teasing around the edges of his mind as he stepped up. He was smart enough to not try to barge his way through an Auror’s barriers. That would be a one-way ticket to Azkaban.

Satisfied with her lighting and settings, Basilia beckoned Falk to stand behind Harry. “Alright, boys. Scoot in close and play nice!”

Harry scoffed, and Falk shifted closer to him. The warming charm was a doozie, and Harry wondered if they were common in Northern Europe. It was tempting to lean into that heat, and he felt himself being lulled by it.

Connie set a chair down off to the side, readying her questions. “Okay, kittens. Leading questions for canned responses. And remember, ‘Fuck off, Connie’ is an acceptable response.”

Harry smiled, and heard Basilia’s shutter click several times.

“Harry, any truth to rumors you’re in line to become the next Head Auror?” Connie said nonchalantly.

“Con, what gives? That’s no softball,” Harry said, worrying his lip, earning him more shutter snaps. He sighed. “I’ve been told there are multiple qualified candidates for the position.”

“Safe answer,” she noted. “Coach Falk, what plans are in the works for rehabilitating the Ballycastle Quidditch facilities?”

Falk chewed his gum and thought carefully, turning and adjusting as Basilia commanded. “We hope to be done with fundraising by the end of this year, and break ground on a new complex well outside the city in spring. Next summer will be the last season on the historic field.”

“Lovely. I’ll add a line encouraging ticket sales,” she said, scribbling. “And Coach, any truth to the rumors you’re dating the Harpies Seeker, Jonathan Augustus?”

“No, his broom handling is sloppy and his technique lacking,” Falk stated dryly.

Connie barked a laugh and dropped her quill. Harry suppressed a snigger till it escaped as a snort, and turned to look up at Falk.

“Seriously? Quidditch sex puns?”

Falk smiled sheepishly. “I have my moments.”

Tentatively, Falk’s fingertips settled discreetly on Harry’s lower back, and he fought to keep his face neutral. Gods, it was the same hand with the black vines twining down it. The memory of Malfoy’s hand holding his hand, lips on his skin, made him draw a shuddering deep breath.

“And Harry, similar for you. On the hunt for a lucky witch?” Connie asked, not looking up.

Harry took a deep breath, daring the pufferfish, hopefully for the last time.

“Or lucky wizard.” And he left it at that. Connie’s eyebrows rose, but she didn’t look up from her notes.

Falk’s voice rumbled low behind him. “I’ve been told I’m rather good luck.” Warm fingers splayed out over Harry's hip, most of his hand caressing Harry’s skin. Goosebumps flooded up his back and arms. His palm was incredibly warm and felt divine.

The absence of the shutter clicking was claustrophobic. Basilia had frozen, half-kneeling, camera in hand. She licked her lips, eyes raking up both men anew.

He could practically watch her melt into her knickers, Harry thought disdainfully. She took a deep breath and resumed instructing them and shifting her own position.

Connie broke the silence. “How big a headline do you want that to be, love?" she asked. “Because it could end up its own issue.”

Harry thought hard, distracted by the subtle stroking of Falk’s thumb. “Just put it in as a caption and see what happens. I don’t want it to be a reason anybody buys it. Just a bonus.”

Connie nodded appreciatively. “Bold move. I like it.”

Falk’s hand slid up to the middle of Harry’s back, and he instinctively arched into the touch. He couldn’t help but imagine the tattooed hand between his shoulders was Malfoy’s. Long, elegant fingers, delicate wrists, barely-there arm hair. Harry shook his head, focusing on Basilia’s instructions.

The prickling buzz outside his mental walls intensified dramatically, and he leaned away from Falk, but the touch on his back followed. Basilia was pantomiming a pose for him, but he realized he couldn’t see her.

The center of his vision had gone black. Before panic could set in, words surfaced in his sight.

WHERE DID YOU HIDE HIM, AUROR?

The words blazed through his mind as Falk’s fingers skimmed lightly up and down Harry’s spine, out of view of the women. Blinking, he turned toward Falk, following Basilia’s cues.

“What?” he hissed at Falk, whose touch had slid back down to Harry’s hip.

YOU WANT TO PLAY GAMES? I LIKE GAMES.

His vision had barely returned before it faded again.

“I didn’t hide-“ Harry cut off with a gasp, as the room was replaced with Malfoy’s face in rapt ecstasy.

Blonde hair slicked back with sweat as he panted. His brow softly furrowed, eyes closed. He licked his lips, the flush in his cheeks rising. Merlin, he was exquisite.

The projection dissolved into the room again.

WHERE IS HE? Falk's words scorched through him, and he gritted his teeth.

“What the fu-“ Harry attempted, dreading evidence of his arousal being photographed, but the platform disappeared again.

MAYBE YOU LIKE THIS BETTER?

Malfoy was…cooking. He looked much like he had in Potions class, except that he was happy. He swayed to music Harry couldn’t hear while he stirred something, then turned off the heat. Contentment was written in his soft smile. Still swaying, he walked closer, shoulders moving counter to his hips, and he was singing. It was heart-wrenchingly adorable.

The room came back into focus, and Basilia was barking at him for wasting her time.

WHERE IS HE?

“Sorry, Basilia,” he said unconvincingly. “I’m just hungry.”

FINE, POTTER. BUT YOU WON’T LIKE THE NEXT ONE. The words charred through his vision.

The platform melted into a tile floor, and he was looking at himself, but much younger.

And gods below, the terror in his veins was overwhelming. His heart pounded in his chest. Malfoy’s chest. He wasn’t sure if he was breathing. A wall of mirrors and sinks to his right cast Malfoy’s reflection back at him. His mind was reeling.

He wanted to beg, and scream, and cry, and above all, he wanted someone to just let him stop. Make him stop.

But he leveled Malfoy’s wand.

“Sectumse-‘

“Stop,” Harry croaked, and the memory evaporated. “Not here, okay?”

Godric, not that. Anything but that memory. Seeing himself so unhinged was awful, and he hated knowing Malfoy remembered him like that.

He’d been suspicious of Falk in the deaths of the Aurors and the man in the bar, and this all but confirmed it. And Falk had done all of this without missing a cue from Basilia. Like it was little more than breathing for him.

Falk’s subdued smile and gentle lilt belied the monstrous powerhouse he truly was. He continued posing, like he hadn’t just popped an Auror’s mind in his mouth and rolled it around like a fucking lemon drop.

What the fuck was this man? How could he shove Malfoy’s memory into someone else’s head without breaking their barriers?

It was a heady combination, and Harry wasn’t sure if he was terrified, aroused, or both. Both, it seemed, looking down.

“Who’s willing to go full monty today?” Basilia oozed, licking her lips. Gods below, Harry hated this woman. He glared at her and stepped away from Falk and off the platform.

Pausing, Falk replied, “How much does a nude centerfold increase sales, Connie?”

Surprise and delight shone from her. “On average, twenty percent.”

Connie, Hermione, and McGonagall, Harry mused, eager to get his clothes on before Basilia found an excuse to approach him.

“Throw in an ad for Bats box seats,” Falk countered.

“Quarter-page for four issues,” Connie offered, rather thrilled by his competence.

“Deal.” Falk slid his underwear off as Harry buttoned his jeans, openly watching.

Proportional again, he thought, stooping to pick up his t-shirt. He did have to give Falk credit, though. For as awkward as he had seemed standing around fully clothed, when he posed, he fucking owned it.

Basilia had him kneeling, knees spread, with a Snitch levitating at crotch height. He leaned back on one hand invitingly, biting his lip. She did have a knack for borderline pornography, it seemed. Harry had never envied a Snitch before.

Wiggling into his shoes, he hastened a goodbye wave to Connie, and turned to leave.

Falk’s subdued baritone chased him. “Slow down, Potter. We have a breakfast date, do we not?”

—————————

Magnus Falk was… different, Harry concluded, blowing on a cup of coffee, watching him. Not bad different. But… odd. And wholly not who he’d expected if he had to pick someone for Malfoy to nearly marry.

Harry was sitting on a park bench, which was not warm yet mid-morning, in Muggle London, watching Falk negotiate with a food truck worker. The vendor had warned that it would take a half-hour to warm up his fryer, and another fifteen to actually make the chips. Falk told him that was fine. He’d wait.

He really wanted chips, Harry surmised. Not anything from the several cafes and stands that were open around them. Leave it to Malfoy to endear himself to a man even pickier than himself.

Payment complete, Falk turned to walk to the bench. He walked and talked with a halting, liquid precision Harry found both fascinating and alarming. Like at any point Falk’s words or body would tumble forward unhindered, but for the careful tethers he had on them. Entirely different from Malfoy’s languid, effortless cadence.

Their affectations were practically opposite, as well. Malfoy’s indifferent mask tended to dissolve when he was comfortable in private. Falk seemed to take mannerisms out of a bag and wear them around when he’d interacted with the vendor and the Witch Weekly staff. But alone with Harry, his face stayed vaguely annoyed.

Insecurity tugged at Harry, and he wondered if Falk had read enough of his thoughts to actively dislike him already. Quite possibly. Or he’d despised the photo shoot and Basilia as much as he had.

Falk stared at the dewy bench for a moment, took a handful of napkins out of his hooded sweatshirt, and wiped the seat dry before sitting. He made no move to speak, and Harry was irked as to why they were sitting here together. So, he took it upon himself to start the conversation.

“So… Did Connie warn you about Basilia while she gave you the tour?” Harry asked, still impressed by how he’d absolutely shut her down.

Falk thought for a moment and turned to look at Harry’s chest. “No, you and she were both very loud,” he lilted, focusing on Harry’s chin. “Loud from a Legilimency standpoint.”

“Oh…” Harry intoned, pieces clicking into place. He took a sip of coffee and tried to recall everything he’d thought about.

“Her husband doesn’t like her blowjobs, either.” Falk said softly, a smirk disappearing behind a styrofoam cup of tea.

A bark of laughter sent a dribble of coffee down Harry’s chin, and Falk snickered.

There it is, Harry thought. There’s the common ground between him and Malfoy. Snarky bastards, the both of them. Reassured, Harry decided to dive right in to the reason they were sitting on a bench waiting for chips from a truck that probably wasn’t even supposed to be serving food yet.

“So, Malfoy,” he started. “The Ministry didn’t hide him. He hid himself. And I’m responsible for his safety, so I’m not going to tell you where to find him. But I can take a message back to him for you.”

Falk’s tea hesitated on its way to his mouth, and Harry’s eye itched. He set his coffee down to deal with it, and it had reached a steady burn spreading from one eye to the other by the time he got his glasses off.

“Godric be damned,” he muttered. “Falk. Falk!”

The other man’s eyebrows rose, snapping to. The burning disappeared.

“Sorry.” Falk stated coldly. “Habit.”

Harry slid his glasses back on and picked up his coffee. Falk looked either deep in thought or rather peeved at something in the distance. Harry wasn’t sure which, until he spoke.

“Who is Draco hiding from?” Falk requested. The man in the food truck was yelling at someone else in the food truck, and Harry fought looking at them.

“Wizards. Vigilantes, basically,” Harry summarized. The political factions that saw Malfoy’s death as the end or beginning of an era were a complicated lot.

“Why do vigilantes want to kill a Koan acolyte?” he rumbled.

Harry frowned, the phrase not making sense at all. “A what?”

The fingers of Falk’s unoccupied hand danced a dysrhythmic jig on his thigh, and Harry thought it looked suspiciously like Malfoy’s movements while healing Ron. And Magnus had scars between his fingers, now that Harry was looking. As many or more than Malfoy.

“You’re in charge of his safety, and you don’t know what he is,” Falk stated, not asking, nearly accusing.

Harry didn’t love the tone, and he looked up from his coffee to challenge Falk. His eyes widened as Falk pinned him with the full weight of completely black irises.

Falk’s free hand came up to cradle Harry’s jaw, warm and smooth, and he fell headlong into those black drowning pools, absently noting a faint click.

———————————

BREATHE, POTTER

Distantly, he felt Falk’s fingers on his chin, steadying his head. If his eyes were open, he couldn’t tell. The world was inky blackness, and he was slowly sinking in cool water. It should have been terrifying, but the gentle pressure around him was pleasant.

Images cascaded in neat lines around him in a globe, joining into groups, sorting and resorting. It was the center of a hive. Chaotic at first, rigid organization and patterns surfacing gradually.

What are you? Harry thought, more to himself.

Images with white-blonde hair disappeared into each other to his side. Fragments of sky and brooms merged near his feet. Water, deep and dark, in moving visions, piled above him ominously.

HALF-RUSALKA came Falk’s voice, as it had before. In his mind, the lilting cadence and stop-start pattern were gone. His rolling, pitching accent was rougher without it.

The term made no sense to Harry. Falk must have sensed his confusion before he could condense into a thought.

WATCH. KEEP BREATHING.

Women, all drifting underwater, long dark hair flowing in the current, pale skin lit by limpid filtered moonlight. Enormous black eyes beckoning. Treasured secrecy and quiet power.

Singing gently on the riverbank. Men approaching, wading into the water.

Men floating, face down in weak morning light.

BREATHE, POTTER.

A living room, cluttered and comfortable. Worn and well-loved furniture. A simple fireplace. Walls covered by books. A tall man, gait and face identical to Falk, but blonde. A thick rug in front of the fireplace. A single black rose woven into the plush weave. A dark contrast to the yellows and reds. Pride and trust.

A woman in a chair, red hair and blue eyes. Two older children with strawberry-blonde hair on her lap. The woman smiles and holds a hand out. Snuggling into her dress, home.

Concentrating on his lungs, wherever they’d gone, he forced them to move.

A desk covered in papers, the blond man leaning over it in the dead of night. A small knife with fresh blood next to quills. Curiosity and certainty.

The man settles him on his lap, where he fits comfortably. A tiny, sparkling blade the size of his own little thumb appears. Minuscule onyx eyes adorn a beautiful face on the handle. A drop of blood between his chubby fingers. The larger knife touching the drop. A gut-deep pull, and the blond man smiles like the sun.

Distantly, he felt the warmth of the cup still in his hand, and could taste Falk’s approval of his breathing. The submersion had become soothing, blocking out the distractions of the park.

Falk on a riverbank, younger, lanky. Falk wading into the water. An ethereally beautiful woman rising up to meet him. A gentle embrace, his head on her shoulder, her hands stroking his back. Longing and resolve.

Other women surfacing from the murky water, sharp teeth bared. Falk backpedaling while the woman reaches out to him. The angry women surrounding the kind one, pulling her gently away.

BREATHE

Jet-black iron Bludgers like onyx eyes, skimming. Bruises. So many bruises, deep and angry.

Cracked wooden bats and eager challenge. A Bludger ricocheting from his bat and spiking up toward his Seeker. A body free-falling, melting into deep, dark water. Blood dripping between fingers. Healed skin slick under hot hands. Blue eyes snapping open, startled and searching. Uniforms discarded on a locker room floor. Steam and tile, relief and release.

SLOWLY, LIKE FLOATING, POTTER.

The images faded, and he was back in the hive. Visions of himself had surfaced in the controlled chaos. Him in Quidditch kit. Him in robes. Him leveling a wand. Malfoy’s memories, he realized.

They burned brighter than others, colors vivid, and muffled sound followed them. Looking around, he noticed a large number of the projections drifting purposefully by were unusually bright, and the soft murmurs of them melded into the nondescript hum.

YES. HE IS NOTHING IF NOT INTENSE.. Falk must have noticed his focus.

Anxiety hummed through Harry, but he didn’t have time for it to register, as one of those blazing images enveloped him.

He was sprinting, lungs burning. Eyes burning. Everything was burning. Flaming trees crashed down behind him as he leaped over downed branches. Gods, everything hurt.

Harry’s breath hitched. IT WON’T HARM YOU, POTTER

The flames were catching up, a beating wind chasing him. Fucking dragon fire. Always fucking dragon fire. Where was Potter on a broom this time?

Salazar help him, he’d been running forever. His feet ached, and his vision was blurry.

Dodging rocks, he saw a clearing approaching and hesitated, but the crackling embers behind him urged him forward. The clearing came into focus, and a line of red robes rose to the forefront. Flames belched from serpentine silhouettes behind them.

Sickly green light drifted toward him, and he balked, swearing under his breath. His right hand drew a small silver knife from his pocket and slashed between every finger on the opposite hand. Blood soaked into the dingy cuff of a formerly white shirt.

His lips moved frantically, no time for rhyme or meter. A high-pitched whine shook his bones, and he turned around and ran back into the fire.

Skin blistered, peeled, regrew, and molted all over again as he ran blind. His mouth filled with the bitter soot coughed up by his burning and healing lungs as the tissue turned over. Wryly, he thought he’d love to be on the wrong end of his father’s Crucios right now.

Harry gasped, suddenly back in the hive. The searing pain in his lungs was gone. Godric’s glistening glans, that was fucking terrifying. His heart hammered in his chest as he tried to slow his breathing.

Projections lined themselves up in front of him, and dread crept in. The next one showed flickers of red robes and fire again.

Falk? he thought to what felt like empty air. I don’t want to do that again.

Disappointment and condescension radiated from everywhere. SEE WHAT YOUR MINISTRY DID, THEN I’LL SHOW YOU WHAT HE HAD BECOME.

That sounded very ominous, Harry mused, fully aware Falk could hear his thoughts. This couldn’t be worse than burning a terrified teenager out of a forest with dragons. Faintly, he felt Falk’s cynical amusement.

Bodies littered a Quidditch field. Small bodies in uniforms. Flames lit rising smoke in the dark like Vesuvius reborn. Durmstrang was burning. Not just the castle, but the whole town surrounding it, too.

His field of vision snapped to the side, tumbling to the grass. Boots and hems of red robes drifted in front of him. One reared back and kicked him square in the chest, cracking several ribs. He spat blood on the grass and glared up at the men.

Harry took a deep breath, thinking he was grateful Falk’s memory was mostly visual. Malfoy’s had been brutally immersive.

The men were screaming at him, and he was shouting back. He tried to rise, but the taller one kicked him back down.

Sound crackled through, and he heard someone else say, “If he’s not gonna talk, he can choke on a fucking broomstick. I think he might like that, though.”

The men laughed, and two of them approached him with brooms from a pile. The third man laid a body bind on him and left, refusing to be a witness. Falk struggled futilely.

Merlin, Harry thought, this was nothing like anything he’d seen as an Auror.

NOT YET, PERHAPS.

The two men were discussing something while he fumed on the ground. Blood Magic now would get him executed. Tentatively, he whispered a lick of power at their mental shields. Weak. He slipped in and observed their thoughts.

Falk’s mutilated body was in both. Dying. Slowly. One had a litany of illegal torture curses he’d picked up and was eager to try.

The other wanted him naked and flayed. There was a broomstick flickering in his mind. That was enough.

Falk crashed through the man’s mind like an attack dog, all teeth and claws, shredding and burning. The tall one screamed and clutched at his eyes, blood streaming from his nose and ears. With one last slash, he severed the knowledge of breathing from the man and watched him drop.

The shorter Auror stared at him, wide-eyed, and turned to run, but he inundated the man’s mind with his own, turning his body back around and walking it to his own side. He riffled through his memories for the binding curse. Finding it, he raised the Auror’s wand and undid it. He rose to stand in front of him, drinking his terror in.

Falk saw himself through the other man’s eyes. His brown hair floated in an unfelt wind. The whites of his eyes had bled to unflinching alien black.

Power roiled through him, finally unchecked. Blood ran down his cheek from a cut, and he scraped it into his hand, reveling in the electric hum. Slowly, letting the Auror watch him with immobile eyes, he spread a line of blood across the man’s forehead.

He could feel the man struggling against him. The poor bastard thought Ministry Occlumancy could protect him, and it was pitiful.

Harry took a deep breath, remembering he still had a physical body. Falk shouldn’t be able to do any of this.

I BELIEVE YOUR CONFIDENTIALITY IS IMPLIED. Harry thought his agreement, though not eager to continue. ESPECIALLY GOING FORWARD

Falk extended his bloody hand to the field where dozens of children lay wounded and crying, and dozens more lay unmoving. He sank, gently, so gently, into the minds of his scared, sobbing, bleeding students. He pulled their pain into threads, wove them into a burning, seething rope, and coiled it in the Auror’s head.

Relaxing his hold, he let the man scream, high, wordless, and panicked. The Auror made a weak effort at wandless magic, but Falk snuffed it.

Odd, though. He could feel the Auror’s signature; acid and dry grass. He wrapped himself around that. Sliding himself between the man’s magic and the very cells of his brain. Carefully loosening the hold, he teased it from the screaming man and offered it to his students.

The children quieted, and he let the threads evaporate between them and the Auror. Several of the children got up and ran away, healed. Interesting.

The magical signature was gone from the Auror, and Falk released his hold on him. He pointed his wand at Falk, but nothing happened. Falk laughed mirthlessly, and horror filled the Auror’s face.

The powerless man was no longer a threat, but he’d seen entirely too much. Falk filtered back into the man’s mind, melting through thoughts and memories, leaving nothing solid. Blood streamed from the Auror’s eyes and nose. Watery eyes rolled back, and he dropped dead.

Falk turned and walked to the field.

Harry drifted back to the dark space full of flickering memories. His hands were shaking on the park bench, or he was imagining them doing so.

RISE SLOWLY, POTTER.

Chapter Text

Weak beams of daylight filtered through the darkness above Harry, and his gaze followed them. Gentle warmth played across his skin as he stepped into the rays. Turning his face up to the light, it grew steadily brighter, until he realized he was feeling sunshine against his eyelids.

He opened his eyes to find Falk casually sipping his tea.

“All here?” Falk asked, dropping his hand from Harry’s chin.

Too quickly, Harry nodded, thoroughly disoriented. He’d just been in the middle of a massacre, and before that a forest fire, and now he was sitting on a park bench on a quiet weekday morning.

His earlier ham and egg sandwich threatened to rise, and he took a long swig of coffee. It was unexpectedly still hot.

“How long did that take?” he asked Falk.

“Two minutes?” Falk estimated. “Maybe three.” Falk’s lilting, stilted cadence was back, and it was oddly endearing after having felt him roar through minds like a force of nature.

“That was… fuck.” Harry rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. “That was worse than the attack on Hogwarts,” he admitted slowly.

And it had been. People had died at Hogwarts, but not in numbers like that. And the castle had been heavily damaged, but it hadn’t gone up in its own pyre and taken a town with it.

And… it hadn’t happened at the hands of his fellow Aurors.

“The UK is a dangerous place,” Falk said, like it was common sentiment. “Your Ministry doesn’t exactly make it safer.” Harry stared at him, not understanding. His eye itched, and he glared at Falk. “You have no idea, do you?” Falk asserted. “You don’t know how corrupt your Ministry is. Or how poorly it protects its people. Or what the rest of the world thinks of you.”

“I… what?” Harry stammered. Falk’s words rang a bell. Something Ron had ranted about before he quit Auror training.

“You’re an Auror. Have you ever protected a child?” Falk asked, attention going back to the food truck.

“I… I guess I’ve never been assigned a case like that,” Harry admitted, surprised.

“Why?” Falk led, condescension thick.

Falk’s tone was downright insolent, and Harry was starting to get angry. Ron’s screed came rushing back to him.

”But it’s not ILLEGAL, Harry! Can you believe that bullshit! It’s perfectly legal to treat children like that!”.

Ron had been following a pair of Senior Aurors who’d been called to investigate an orphanage for magical children. He’d said the conditions were horrendous.

Gods, he’d fumed about that for months. He still occasionally did if he got enough Firewhiskey in him. Harry’s eye itched, and he kicked Falk’s shoe.

Falk withdrew his foot and scooted back from Harry, not at all appreciative of the sudden contact.

“Sorry.” Harry said, embarrassed. It hadn’t been a real kick. “I see what you’re getting at.”

“I doubt you do,” Falk retorted. “Most of the magical world banned orphanages and outlawed child abuse centuries ago. Your Ministry has repeatedly chosen not to. Ponder that.”

Falk didn’t stand so much as lurch upward bodily and harness the movement into a choppy, quick walk. He was headed to the food truck, where the man was lifting a basket out of a fryer. He arrived at the window precisely when the man turned toward it with his chips. Legilimancy like that was eerie.

Uncomfortable heat burned in his throat as he mulled Falk’s words. Not the pufferfish. The other one. The bigger one. The dragon-sized one.

The one that asked why the Ministry and Dumbledore had left him with the Dursleys.

And why they’d sent him back there every break. Why couldn’t they have just given him to Molly and Arthur as a baby? Why did they make him find them on his own?

It was that thick, choking rage that asked why The Boy Who Lived had been forced to become The Chosen One, and not The Protected One, The Hidden One, The Sheltered One.

It was the storming fury that rose every time he remembered how many times he’d wanted to crawl back into a spider-infested cupboard and never come out. And how much he despised the world for ever making him feel that way.

That familiar, clandestine sympathy that gagged him when he thought about how much he understood the rage that came with being an abandoned half-blood in a society that felt little to no obligation toward them. He’d never told anyone, not even Ron, that he understood Voldemort’s animosity.

Merlin, he thought, swallowing thickly, that wasn’t something he’d planned on dredging up today.

Falk returned, paper tray of glistening hot chips cradled almost lovingly in his hands. Carefully setting them in the middle of the bench, he sat back down.

“Loud,” he remarked. “But you should talk to Draco about that sometime.”

“About what?” Harry asked, eying the chips.

“Being pigs led to the slaughter instead of children.” Falk ignored his gaze.

“I… You don’t beat around the bush, do you?” Harry grumped, thoroughly not appreciating Falk’s naming the issue.

“Potter,” he started, pinning Harry with his gaze. “I see all the things people hide. Even when I try not to. There’s a small amount of saliva on these chips because that man’s angry his son has a husband and he saw me touch you. That’s the world I move through.”

Harry dropped the chip he’d been in the process of sneaking. Even though he knew he couldn’t actually sneak anything past Falk.

Falk looked away, relaxing a touch as he did. Sensing an opportunity, Harry pursued the change in topic. Thus far, he only had Weasley opinions, which were heavily biased in his favor.

“Is it true the magical community is… more accepting… than Muggles… of men… and men?” he asked hesitantly.

Falk sipped his tea, and Harry worried the question had offended him.

“Yes. That’s accurate.” Falk stated blandly. “The only hostility I’ve experienced was from Muggleborn and half-blood Brits. I blame integration.”

“Oh,” Harry blurted. He didn’t have a good response for that.

“And Narcissa,” Falk continued, “but I blame her overall cuntishness.”

Harry snorted a laugh, and Falk smiled softly as he drew a plastic fork out of his sweatshirt and proceeded to skewer a few chips. Odd way to eat finger food, Harry thought. Watching him, Harry wondered if it was a Rusalka thing, a Scandinavian thing, or just a Falk thing.

Mid-bite, he paused and muttered, “Falk thing.”

“That’s unnerving, you know,” Harry scolded.

“I know exceedingly well,” he said, inflectionless. “I would like to eat without scrutiny, Potter. I’ll trade you my memories of Draco at his best for your memories of him at present.”

“I… can’t do that,” Harry admitted reluctantly. “He’d be furious if I told anyone where he lives.”

“Any memories of him away from his home?” Falk proffered, chewing methodically.

“Oh! Yeah. That would be fine, just...” Harry hesitated. “Just don’t rip out more information than I put forward?”

“I won’t tell anyone how badly you want to fuck him, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Falk stated, setting his fork down. “I’m sure he already knows.”

Before Harry could object, Falk entwined their fingers, and two glowing blue boxes floated into his vision. They grew rapidly, approaching him, and dug in behind his eyes.

————————————

The twin vaults creaked open, doors sliding away from each other. The wall between the vaults was as thick as his shoulders. Appropriate for Narcissa and Lucius to want such a barrier between themselves, he mused.

It was a daunting amount of… crap. Expensive, luxuriant, valuable crap.

None of it belonged in his home. None of it meant anything to him. None of it would be passed on. None of it was worth even looking at, if an inspection hadn’t been required before transfer and forfeiture.

Odbert passed him the forms and a quill. With a scrawl and flourish on each, he signed it all away. Good riddance.

He realized his lip was curled in disgust, and carefully schooled his expression. No reason to offend the Goblins, who did find such riches useful and meaningful.

“Take what you’re owed before the Ministry claims it,” Draco instructed, glossing over the implications. “I assume your addled brain hasn’t forgotten where to send all the clothing.”

“SPEW will be happy with your filthy rags.” Odbert shifted his weight nervously. “You understand what we Goblins feel is ours.”

Draco hummed his agreement. Anything of Goblin workmanship would be returned to them. It would be quite an addition to their archives, he thought, surveying the remaining piles.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think Odbert was weeping. Propriety kept him from looking down to check, much to the Goblin’s approval.

“A boon, then, Blackblood.” Odbert croaked, straightening. Draco nodded, accepting the deal. Having the Goblin community owe him a favor was no small thing.

“And we would be honored to have your decrepit personage at our Mabon celebration. This weekend, if you’re interested.” Odbert offered. “Burgock said he has something for you.”

Draco had always wanted to see the secret Gringott Goblin Galas. On several occasions, he’d accompanied Lucius to the bank the day after a solstice or equinox. The entire Goblin staff had looked like death warmed over, and the lobby floor was pockmarked with small divots and scorch marks.

In theory, it could work. “I am interested in seeing the spectacle of you and Burgock on a dance floor,” he mused. “Perhaps.”

Security inside the bank was guaranteed. It was probably the only place he’d feel safe from assassination attempts, really. Transportation was the real issue, but maybe he could work something out with Potter.

“You and any of your filthy bedmates, of course,” Odbert added, noting Draco’s hesitation.

“Very well. If the Ministry allows it, I shall come witness this tragedy of Goblin proportions,” he said, nodding.

“Good, good, we look forward to watching you vomit koboldozers.”

Odbert closed and sealed the vaults, and Draco sighed with resigned finality. The Heir to the Malfoy Misfortune had officially signed the last of it away.

——————————

OPEN THE ONE ON YOUR YOUR LEFT NOW, POTTER. WATCH THE OTHER AT YOUR LEISURE. NOT IN FRONT OF DRACO.

Harry nodded, grateful to not be whisked away into the humming activity of Falk’s mind again.

Giving him the memories of Malfoy at Hermione’s and healing Ron at the Burrow had been disturbingly easy. Falk had found Malfoy barreling into Hermione’s couch in eagle form absolutely hilarious.

The boxes were there only when he thought about them, and he seemed to be able to interact with them. Interesting. They were like layers of Occlumency with Legilimantic content.

I'M TEXTING YOU MY NUMBER AND EMAIL ADDRESS. YOU'LL NEED IT. 

He wanted to ask how Falk knew his mobile number, or that he was one of the few wizards who owned one, but answered his own question when he felt Falk’s amusement. It seemed like an unusually fitting way to communicate with him.

He felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket, and ignored it. The blue boxes teased him, and he focused on the left one. A nudge of magic, and the top popped open, projections floating out.

Malfoy was in front of a class of younger students, maybe eleven or twelve year-olds, demonstrating something carefully with his knife. Behind him, two chalkboards transcribed his lecture, one in English, and one in French. He said something interesting, and the students in the back of the class stood to get a better view. Malfoy grinned, exuberant, looking out across the room.

BEAUXBATONS TRIED TO OUTBID DURMSTRANG HIS SECOND YEAR TEACHING. THEIR FRENCH-SPEAKING STUDENTS WERE REQUESTING TRANSFERS.

Huh, Harry thought. They would have only been, what, twenty years old at the time? He’d still been an Auror trainee, and two of the biggest wizarding schools were having a bidding war over Draco Malfoy? He was surprised he hadn’t heard a thing about it.

The image faded, and Harry chose another.

Malfoy sat in the Healer box at a Quidditch match, looking exceptionally bored. His hair was long enough to be held back in a short ponytail at the nape of his neck.

Long hair suited him, Harry thought. He didn’t look as much like Lucius as he would have expected. And Malfoy seemed to enjoy fiddling with it.

He kept trying to get Falk’s attention and pouted at every failure. Falk was keenly aware, and quietly amused. Falk’s gaze turned to look at him, but he was engrossed in something in his lap, biting his lip in concentration.

Falk turned to talk to a slightly older woman with short blond hair about the match. She was athletic and had an aggressive air about her. The head coach, Harry assumed.

A large paper crane drifted in front of Falk, and he snatched it out of the air. The woman glanced over as he opened it. An enormous spurting cock in swooping strokes of black ink graced the page. Falk crumpled the paper and glared at Malfoy, who looked very pleased with himself.

The head coach picked the paper up and put it in her pocket, winking at Malfoy. His face dropped slack in shock, and Falk guffawed on the bench, startling his players.

MARIE HOOCH. YOUR MADAME HOOCH’S DAUGHTER. SHE REFEREES FOR THE RUSSIAN LEAGUE NOW.

Harry nodded, grinning. He’d seen Malfoy’s doodles in class, but didn’t know he’d graduated to elaborate erotic art. It was unexpectedly funny for someone who’d always come off so uptight.

YOU ONLY EVER KNEW LUCIUS AND NARCISSA’S SON. THIS IS DRACO.

Harry frowned and opened his eyes to look at Falk, who had almost finished his chips. Falk shrugged, not having anything else to add to his statement.

Harry was glad to have control over more than just his breathing in this form of Legilimency, and he relaxed into unpacking the images. The next memory looked dark, and it gave him pause, but he opened it anyway.

He was sprawled on a couch, watching Malfoy pace nervously between the kitchen and living room of a small cottage. Their cottage, Harry realized, surprised by the intimacy of seeing their home together. Malfoy tapped a sealed envelope on the disproportionally large kitchen table every time he passed it.

Falk said something and held his hand out for the envelope. Malfoy handed it over, nodding, and straddled Falk’s thighs. Malfoy’s eyes were glassy with unshed tears, his cheeks pink, and his hair mussed. He leaned forward, gripping Falk’s shirt, staring into his eyes.

Harry was both uncomfortable watching their familiarity and wanted to wrap it around himself and wear it like a robe.

The front of the envelope was addressed to “Professor Malfoy”, and the back had an intricate blue and silver wax seal with a snake entwined around a staff. Falk’s hands popped the seal and withdrew a delicate piece of parchment. Falk’s hands held it up for Malfoy to read. The side facing Falk was blank.

Malfoy’s hands gripped Falk’s wrists, steadying the paper, then he was shouting, wild-eyed. The only word Harry could lipread was “fuck”, and it was being said rather often.

Falk let the paper drop, and Malfoy’s elated expression greeted him. His hips climbed Falk’s body as his mouth descended.

Harry was confused. He had no idea what that seal was, or what Malfoy could have gotten in an envelope that was so terrifying and thrilling at the same time.

THE ASKLEPEION OF KOS SELECTED HIM. IT’S A MONUMENTAL HONOR FOR A HEALER. LEARN ABOUT THE REST OF THE WORLD, POTTER.

Harry harrumphed. He’d heard of Kos. They did the autopsies on the people Falk had killed. He gasped, eyes wide, as he looked cautiously at Falk, who shrugged again, not a trace of remorse.

THE MAN IN THE BAR WAS BEATING HIS SON TO DEATH. PITY SOME NICE AURORS WEREN’T THERE TO TELL HIM TO TRY TO MAKE IT LOOK LIKE AN ACCIDENT.

Harry’s ire fell flat. He was going to spend some serious time researching legal statutes this week. The next memory looked whitewashed and cold.

Falk was carrying a student across a tile floor, following Malfoy. Malfoy was interrogating him over his shoulder as they walked.

Setting the girl on a stretcher, he stepped back to watch. Her lips and fingers were blue, hair and clothes drenched. Falk’s hands were shaking. Malfoy calmly examined her, talking to Falk, but not looking up.

Malfoy nicked between his fingers, setting one hand on the girl’s forehead, and the other on her chest. Slowly, both hands came to rest over her heart. He bit his lip, drawing blood, and leaned his mouth down to hers.

Her little chest rose once. Twice. Malfoy pulled back and watched. Three times. A deep gasp tore into the girl and her eyes sprang open, wide and terrified. She tried to sit up, and Malfoy pressed her back down, smiling gently.

She snatched his hand and hugged his forearm. He patted her damp hair and looked to Falk, eyes shimmering.

SHE WAS TRAPPED UNDER THE ICE FOR A HALF-HOUR. HE PROBABLY DOESN’T KNOW SHE DIED IN THE RAID.

Harry’s throat was tight, and he sniffed. He really didn’t want to see any more, but there were only two left.

Malfoy sat alone at a round table in a library; books, paper, and quills set out in front of him.

Harry noted he wasn’t wearing glasses, and felt Falk’s curiosity at that tidbit.

A pink paper crane drifted in and set itself on his table. Followed by a yellow one. Then a blue one. A green one. White. Orange. He still hadn’t noticed. An apple floated in, settling on the table.

A group of small children watched from behind the stacks, giggling.

Malfoy was asleep on a blanket under a tree. Dozens of paper cranes and a handful of apples surrounded him like a turkey on a platter. Falk walked up and said something, and Malfoy woke, taking in his new decor, grinning and looking for the culprits. He looked up at Falk and said something that looked like it might have been “Little birds”.

Falk put his shoes on, and opened the cottage door. Their walkway was covered in paper cranes and apples. Little eyes peeked from behind trees and buildings.

I WILL LEAVE YOU FOR THE LAST ONE. TELL HIM I NEED TO TALK TO HIM VERY SOON. AND… AND THAT I’M MARRIED. GOOD LUCK, POTTER.

With a pop, Falk Apparated right the fuck off the bench in a Muggle park in the middle of the day. Harry supposed Falk could tell with fair certainty that no one had been looking. But still. Ballsy.

Frowning, he didn’t appreciate that Falk had decided to make him his messenger boy. Telling Malfoy that his ex-fiance was married and needed to talk to him sounded like a real shit time.

The last memory looked like there might be nudity, and he was grateful to be alone. He hesitated before viewing it. Maybe he should go somewhere else. Somewhere private.

Curiosity won out over patience, and he opened the last image.

Falk was leaning against the headboard of their bed, an ugly quilt covering him from the waist down. He was reading a newspaper printed in Cyrillic. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see a long expanse of pale skin sprawled on the bed, arm moving in a rhythmic motion.

Oh, Merlin, Harry thought. Why the fuck would Falk leave him with this?

Falk’s head turned to ask Malfoy something, and Malfoy scowled at him, black-dipped needles held between his lips.

He was, indeed, stark naked. But he was busy doing something to Falk’s shoulder. An ink pot sat on the nightstand behind him. He was working high up on Falk’s arm, which didn’t have the whorls of vines and flowers. Malfoy’s shoulder had a smattering of what would become a much larger tattoo. His hair was long, brushing his shoulders, and he tucked it behind his ear as he worked.

Malfoy changed positions, and Falk took the opportunity to watch him. He was lean, bordering on wiry, especially next to Falk’s bulk. But flexible. His limbs moved and resettled with a certain elegance.

Harry’s cheeks flushed. In this memory, he was much skinnier than he’d looked in Hermione’s apartment. He doubted Malfoy would appreciate knowing he’d seen this. The intimacy as much as the nudity. Then again, he also wouldn’t put it past the man to strip off and walk around naked on half a dare.

Falk’s head turned to watch Malfoy work. His silver blade touched the webbing of his fingers, loosing a single drop, which Malfoy wiped into an ink pot and stirred with the gathered needles. He said something to Falk, smiling coyly, and leaned in to wipe Falk’s shoulder.

Malfoy moved, and a different ink pot and needles were set on Falk’s newspaper. He looked up at Falk expectantly and asked something. Slowly, he pressed his lips to Falk’s shoulder, and leaned back to watch.

A golden shimmering glow spread through the black ink on Falk’s shoulder, the vines shining, and the flowers turning red. The colors quickly faded, and Malfoy preened, offering his shoulder to Falk.

Falk pricked a finger and wiped a small dab of blood on the rim of the pot, mixing it in. He scooted toward Malfoy and took his hand.

Harry gasped as the point of view shifted. The sudden riot of emotion and sound let Harry know that he was in Malfoy’s head for this memory, and he was uncomfortable.

He was looking through Falk’s eyes, but Malfoy was steering Falk’s hands as he worked on Malfoy’s shoulder. He moved in rhythmic precision, pausing to dip the needle and wipe ink away. Malfoy was practically purring in contentment, and his lips were parted in arousal.

It dawned on Harry that their tattoos were identical because Malfoy had effectively done both of them, just using Falk’s hands as his own. That he could do that was moderately disconcerting. It was a little too close to an Imperius curse.

Harry shifted and wished he weren’t watching this in public, but he had no intention of stopping now. He needed to know if Malfoy’s tattoo could light up like Falk’s.

His hands continued working, and the ribald desire in the memory flooded Harry, choking out rationality.

Merlin, he thought. The man had no fucking compunctions about what he wanted.

Malfoy’s thoughts of straddling Falk and grinding against him were as strong as the image of Falk’s hands. He was making small needy whimpers as he waited to finish working.

Malfoy’s other hand was stroking, but below Harry’s field of vision. The man's sheer want was overpowering, and Falk’s hands stopped moving, putting the needles in the pot.

Malfoy’s shameless greed disappeared as the memory shifted back to Falk’s mind alone.

Harry was both glad for the reprieve from Malfoy’s fervor, but Merlin, was it captivating.

He wiped Malfoy’s shoulder, and was pinned momentarily by his lover’s heavy gaze.

Falk pressed his finger to Malfoy’s shoulder, and the black ink exploded into an absolute anarchy of jade green vines and blazing neon flowers. The vines writhed as the flowers opened and closed, softly changing colors.

It was breathtaking, Harry thought. And not what he would have expected.

The vines faded back to black, despite Harry’s disappointment. Absently, he wondered what they looked like now that they covered his whole arm.

Malfoy took the ink pot from Falk’s hands, and unceremoniously replaced it with his erect cock, gripping Falk’s shoulders. Harry gasped at the suddenness of it.

Falk wrapped both hands around him, and Malfoy threw a knee over Falk’s hips, finally straddling him.

If Falk was hard under the quilt, Harry couldn’t tell, and Malfoy didn’t seem to care.

Malfoy’s eyes were half-closed, head tilted back, lips pressed between his teeth, as Falk slowly fisted his erection. His grey gaze drifted down to Falk, eyes unfocused with lust. He leaned down and said something in Falk’s ear that Harry couldn’t hear.

Malfoy brought two of Falk’s fingers to his mouth, and sucked them deep, working his tongue around them, his hips moving in time with Falk’s other hand. He slowly pulled the hand away from his mouth and moved Falk’s hand between his legs, past his scrotum, and pressed Falk’s slick fingers against his entrance.

“Oh, gods,” Harry whispered to himself alone on the park bench.

Malfoy’s back arched into Falk’s probing fingers. Malfoy’s mouth was moving, and he was looking straight at Harry and Falk, gaze challenging. Falk’s fingers sank in to the knuckle, and Malfoy’s hips started moving.

Harry opened his eyes, acutely aware of the leaking erection tenting his trousers. With a furtive glance, he sprinted to a park restroom and locked himself in a stall.

Fumbling to get his cock out, he'd accidentally Vanished his trousers and pants both, and stood in flustered bare-assed shock, in the stall.

”Mother FUCKER!” he hissed to himself. Fuck it, he could worry about public nudity after he wanked. Unspooling a handful of paper, he let the memory unfold again, finding he could rewind it a bit.

Again, Malfoy slid Falk’s fingers out of his mouth and pressed them against the tightness of his hole, arching back into them, unabashed.

Harry wrapped a hand around his length and started pumping. He was already leaking clear fluid onto the paper held in his other hand. A groan escaped him as he watched Falk’s fingers disappear into Malfoy.

Malfoy’s hands gripped Falk’s shoulders tight, anchoring himself to move. And move, he did. He drove himself back onto Falk’s fingers, and thrust himself forward into his hand, pace increasing.

Falk looked up to Malfoy’s face, saying something to get his attention, but sense had utterly fled him. His grey eyes rolled down to Falk, but quickly fluttered shut against the weight of pleasure building.

Harry slowed his own stroking, edging entirely too close to coming.

Malfoy’s head hung forward, tension in his brow and tightness around his eyes.

Falk curled his fingers forward inside Malfoy, grinding in and pressing against the deepest root of him. Malfoy’s eyes blazed into Falk’s, lips moving as his hips stuttered in their rhythm.

Heavy tension built in Harry, watching Malfoy thrust down onto Falk one last time before he ground down and hitched, thick white ropes erupting over Falk’s hand onto his chest.

Harry bit his lip as his own body responded in kind. The building tension broke, and he came, straining to stay quiet as his length throbbed in his hand. Evidence of his release gathered on the paper.

Malfoy leaned down to kiss Falk deeply while Falk withdrew his fingers slowly.

“Shit,” Harry whispered as he wiped himself off. He plopped down on the toilet, exhaling softly through pursed lips.

Malfoy smiled down, lips pursed, surveying his handiwork. A long, elegant finger slid down his chest, wiping up a streak of semen and holding it to Falk’s lips. His finger disappeared, and he bit his lip. His hips ground against Falk, who was noticeably hard under the quilt.

Malfoy slid himself down Falk’s legs, his face level with the larger man’s chest. Delicately, he licked a streak of white from near Falk’s nipple.

Harry was spent, but he couldn’t stop watching. Gods above, he wanted this so badly.

Malfoy’s tongue edged steadily downward, until his face found the quilt. He nuzzled Falk’s cock through the fabric. His fingers gripped the edge, and started pulling down.

The memory abruptly cut off, and Harry frowned. He was relieved, though. It had been simultaneously too much and nowhere near enough.

He could watch Malfoy move in rapt ecstasy every day for the rest of his life and never tire of it, he thought. The man desired with such absolute abandon, it was hard to not want to give him everything.

“Fuck,” Harry muttered into his hands. It was fake. It was all fake. Malfoy had never looked at him like that. Malfoy had never begged for his touch.

He was just some bloke with no sodding pants wanking in a park loo.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered with a soft sob. He’d never had this. He couldn’t have this. Not with him.

Chapter Text

Harry was not sitting at his desk fretting. Aurors do not fret. They… analyze.

And Harry was analyzing the code of conduct pertaining to Aurors and parolees. Specifically the part about relationships. More specifically, the part about sexual relationships. And the not having of them.

He hadn’t thought the Ministry’s code of conduct would explicitly allow sexual entanglements, but he had been very seriously hoping the issue would be glossed over.

Instead, he’d found “Sexual relations, as defined by any direct genital and/or anal contact between Aurors and their charges, is expressly prohibited. Violation will result in forfeiture of position for the Auror, and potential re-incarceration for the parolee.”

It was oddly specific for the Ministry, which made Harry assume several such entanglements had occurred. Strange bedfellows and all that.

Even though finding another line of work seemed downright appealing, he couldn’t do that to Malfoy. If Malfoy was at all interested. Which he suspected he was. Forcing Malfoy back to Azkaban and sticking him with a new Auror would be unforgivable.

Maybe Ron’s suggestion to ask Stephen out was a worthwhile idea. Better than, what? A year of obsessing over Malfoy? A year of waiting for his parole to end? A year of frustration and self-denial and angst? Yeah, fuck that. A decade of self-denial was plenty.

Sighing, he resigned himself to his responsibilities. The Witch Weekly issue would be out next week. If Ron was right, which, oddly, he usually was, Harry could expect some gentlemen callers.

He smiled, leaning back in his chair, thinking about the possibilities. Dates? Was that something he could do now? Go out to dinner with a man? He hadn’t yet let himself think that far into the future, but that future was rapidly approaching.

Soft smile breaking into a toothy grin, he shook his head. Merlin, that could actually happen. Once the story died down a little, he could even go home with men. Visions of strong hands and hard bulges and rough stubble flitted through his imagination, making his breath shudder.

That was a much better plan than letting anything happen with Malfoy. His presence had always weighed heavy, but at least he knew where they had to stand.

With that in mind, Harry closed his eyes and reached for the luminous blue box Falk had left in his mind. Briefly, he wondered if he should view this one in private, too. Vanishing his pants and trousers had been a bit of a humbling experience. But his office was private enough.
Letting the box open and unfurl, he was greeted by Falk’s pitching baritone voice.

CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR ACQUISITION OF A DRACO MALFOY.

WHILE CHALLENGING TO TAME AND KEEP, THEY ARE KNOWN TO BE VERY LOYAL AND INTERESTING PETS.

HERE ARE SOME TIPS TO KEEP YOU AND YOUR NEW FRIEND HAPPY.

Harry chuffed a laugh. No wonder Falk had said to not view this in front of Malfoy. He’d be absolutely incensed at being called a pet. Probably.

FEEDING AND GROOMING YOUR DRACO

-Don’t let him consume more than two cups of coffee or three cups of tea in a sitting unless vigorous exercise is to immediately follow.
Malfoy sitting at a large table with other professors, most of them older than his parents. Fidgeting horribly, but not noticing the dirty looks. Gradually rocking his chair onto its back legs further and further.
A sudden lurch of the table, and Falk’s gaze drifts up from a report to see the bottoms of Malfoy’s shoes sticking up above the table. The entire faculty in attendance turns to glare at Falk.

Harry snorted, the abruptness of Malfoy flipping a chair over in a meeting taking him by surprise.

-Don’t let him drink more than a single bottle of wine over the course of a long evening.
Malfoy curls around a toilet. Falk says something, and Malfoy slowly extends a middle finger.

Merlin, Harry thought, if they were all like this, he was going to buy Bats season tickets in gratitude.

-On the rare occasions he eats breakfast, it is generally a single apple.
Malfoy sits between his parents in a dining hall, full English in front of him, looking ready to vomit.

Harry frowned. Malfoy looked like death sitting between his parents, and he wondered if this memory was from early in his time at Durmstrang. His hair was still short, and he looked rather underweight.

-Bedtime snacks high in protein lead to significantly better mornings.
A shuddering vision of blonde hair bobbing up and down, partially covered by a quilt.

Preventatively, Harry cast a noise dampening spell and checked his office door was locked. Just in case.

-Don’t bother trying to surprise him with chocolate. He’ll smell it before you can give it to him.
The door to their cottage swings inward, and Malfoy looks up from his book, body stiffening on the couch, nostrils flared. The image shifts, and Malfoy is on his knees in front of Falk, making a dramatic show of sniffing out something concealed in Falk’s pockets.

Harry swallowed thickly. Malfoy on his knees looking up in greedy expectation was a bit too arousing.

-If he’s cooking, don’t fucking speak to him. Don’t look at him. Don’t get within five feet of him. It’ll be worth it.
Malfoy holding the flat of a knife against Magnus’s lips, shushing him. Annoyed fury in his grey eyes, melting to quiet pride.
A table set for eight. Three roast ducks on platters. Fingerling potatoes with crisp, salted skins. A dozen smaller bowls of colorful vegetables. Tiny bowls with spoon-sized ladles full of a variety of sauces.
Malfoy greeting their friends at the door, taking coats, kissing cheeks, pulling out chairs.

It was… sweet, he thought. Fussy, complicated and posh, but domestic, homey and humble. He was quietly glad he’d dropped off the bag with cooking charms days ago.

-He says he only buys beer to cook with, but he drinks half of it.
Magnus’s hand sneaking the leftover beer. Malfoy scowling, but not saying anything.

-He hates vinaigrette, beets, feta, sweet potatoes, fresh dill, cilantro, bananas, amaretto, elk, eggplant, cheap chocolate, and carbonation.

-He likes hollandaise, carrots, white fish, caraway, weird pickled vegetables, most desserts, and dry Alsatian wines.

Harry opened his eyes and grabbed a quill, starting a shopping list. He’d dropped the charms off, and realized Malfoy probably didn’t have a great way to transport groceries to his home. An eagle could only carry so much in a trip.

-He will make himself sick on chocolate ganache if left unattended.
Malfoy laying on a couch licking a spatula seductively, swirling his tongue over the end of it, gathering molten chocolate. The scene melted to Malfoy curled up in bed, pouting.

The playfulness changing to regret made Harry smile. Malfoy’s open remorse was a far cry from the self-justifying twat he’d known growing up.

-He runs solo. Always. Don’t try to keep up.
Malfoy blowing into the cottage sweaty in nothing but shorts and trainers, hopping on Falk’s lap to straddle him.

Blinking abruptly, he tried to quell the disappointment of the memory cutting off sooner than he’d have liked. No, he thought, responsible Aurors don’t search out wanking material about their charges.

-He worries pigs are self-aware and won’t cook pork. Still eats sausages and bacon.
Malfoy picking at a piece of roast, grimacing.

Bit hypocritical, Harry mused. Bit cute, too. He focused on flicking through Falk’s notes more quickly, not appreciating the sentimental response they were evoking.

-He adores playing stupid games and winning stupid prizes.
Malfoy standing victorious and exhausted, holding a very red leaf out of the reach of a group of older students.

-He hates peacocks unless they’re plucked and roasted.

Harry barked a laugh, flinching. He hadn’t honestly even known peacocks could be eaten.

-He often spends the night on the couch due to insomnia or books. Have a good couch.
Malfoy asleep, fully clothed, on a couch, dawn light making a pink halo of his hair.

-If you leave dirty laundry on the floor, your clothes will disappear permanently.
Magnus opening a dresser drawer to find a single pair of underwear.

-He’s indifferent to Quidditch.

Blinking the images away, Harry both cursed and lauded Falk’s attention to detail as he heard the title of the next section of notes:

“PROPER HUSBANDRY TECHNIQUES”

—————————————-

Draco woke to bright sunlight and a disappointingly empty expanse of white sheets. It had to be past noon, by the sun. He stretched and lazily slid a hand down to cup himself. The dream he’d been enjoying had already melted away, but it must have been exciting. He rubbed his face with both hands, and hoisted himself up to standing. Everything felt wrung out and sore from a long flight yesterday. Caffeine was in order.

His bare feet were silent on the coarse, uneven stone on the way to the kitchen. Watched pots never boil, so he set the kettle above the flame of the charmed burner and walked to the rock outcrop that served as a patio. This particular view was one of his favorites. A panoramic view of scrub grass and weather-beaten trees greeted him. And beyond that was the sea. Close enough to smell, but far enough to mute the crash of the waves against the cliffs when the sea was rough.

At some point, he mused, there would be some kind of garden here. Maybe an orchard. Something practical and productive. Something lush and far more interesting than the potted herbs that ringed the patio. Vines. Grapevines. A vineyard?

A tap on the wards near the road broke his agricultural daydream. He pushed a request for magical signature in the direction of the disturbance.

The intruder touched their magic to the dip the ward had provided. He waited anxiously, knowing it was a witch or wizard.

The ward delivered the signature. The magic was a rubbery, amorphous, warm shape. She felt like the center of a loaf of sourdough bread, and his mouth watered.

Luna.

There would be just enough time for that tea before she reached the door.

————————————

PROPER HUSBANDRY TECHNIQUES

-Don’t give him flowers unless you spend time on a traditional arrangement and know how to make one properly.
Falk’s hand giving Malfoy a handful of wildflowers. Malfoy frowning in suspicion at the flowers.

Harry sighed, relieved. Falk must have written a section on how to court Malfoy, which he wouldn’t be doing. But maybe Hermione would be interested.

-He doesn’t really bottom. He tops with his ass.
Malfoy’s face above Falk, close, looking down, tersely whispering, flushing, eyes losing focus.

“Oh, Merlin…” Harry cursed, sucking his bottom lip in.

-He can be very creative with a bowl of ganache.
Malfoy on the couch with the bowl and spatula again. Malfoy walking into the bedroom with a spoonful of gooey chocolate, grinning wickedly.

Smirking, Harry wondered how long after this memory the one of him curled up in bed had been.

-Don’t let him bottom a third night in a row. He’ll be over-sensitive, get carried away and hurt himself.
Malfoy’s face, scarlet and sweating, wild-eyed, begging.

His breath hitched in as he tried to refocus on his duties as an Auror. And not on the idea of Malfoy getting carried away riding a cock like he owned it.

-Offer him your monogamy, if desired, but don’t ask for his.

“Huh,” he huffed. He’d assumed the way Malfoy and Ron had talked about Thestrals that he and Falk were very much exclusive.

-He loves being complimented on his appearance while being degraded.
Malfoy’s chin cradled in Falk’s hand, come on his lips, looking up, listening intently, his tongue flicks out across his lips.

“Oh, Godric,” Harry hissed. If this turned into a How to Fuck Malfoy Manual, he was done. After a few more.

-Wash the dishes after he cooks. All of them. Every time.
Piles of plates. Pots and pans stacked high. Malfoy laying on the couch, looking up from a sketchbook expectantly.

Harry froze the memory instinctively, initially startled that he could. Malfoy was drawing… fire? A forest on fire. Interesting, he thought, wondering if he still had the sketch. No, that was dumb. How could he?

-If he’s left alone, hungry, naked, and spent after sex, he’ll slowly panic.
Malfoy curled up in the quilt, eyes wide. Falk’s hands carrying a tray of food. Malfoy later, sitting up in bed eating and chatting.

Good to know, Harry judged. For Hermione, of course.

-He generally starts to get agitated after three days without significant physical contact. Plan work and travel accordingly.
Malfoy launching himself out of the cottage at Falk.

This one must be an overgeneralization, he concluded. Maybe Malfoy had missed Falk after several days, but the man had been out of contact with the world for at least months at a time for several years now, and he was… fine? Probably?

-He likes interesting fabrics, woodsy fragrances, having his hair gripped but not pulled, biting over bony prominences, deep tissue massage, edging (but he’ll say he hates it), stubble, restraints, and tattoos.
Magnus’s thighs straddling Malfoy’s butt, digging thumbs into his back, switching to biting his shoulder blades, Malfoy gripping the sheets.

“Oh, thank Godric,” he sighed, relieved that Falk hadn’t chosen a more explicit memory.

-He dislikes tickling. A lot.

-He needs his partners to be on good terms with each other.
Malfoy sprawls on the couch across Magnus and Marie Hooch’s laps. Falk and Hooch are discussing something on the papers spread over Malfoy’s chest and abdomen. Hooch idly runs her hand through Malfoy’s hair. Falk strokes his calves. Malfoy’s eyes slowly drift shut with a flutter.

Sweet, Harry mused. And accurate, given Malfoy’s readiness to step away from the arrangement with Hermione after Ron’s disapproval.

-If he requests a “quickie”, expect an hour minimum.

-When satisfied, he generally still masturbates twice a day. Often while reading classical literature. Don’t try to lend a hand.
Malfoy under the ugly quilt, idly wanking with The Iliad in one hand.

With a deep exhale, Harry thanked that quilt and let the section come to a close. The next section sounded much less explicit:
HABITS, BEHAVIOURS, AND CONTRADICTIONS.

————————————

“Coucou! ” Luna beckoned, trotting up the dusty trail. He smiled at the greeting. Of anyone, she’d seen his Animagus form more than anyone. “Ça va, mon pignon?” He often wondered if she knew the English implications of the pet name she’d bestowed upon him.

“Ça va bien, ma biche. Quoi de neuf?” Draco leaned against the doorframe, still nude, sipping tea from a rough clay mug.

He watched her over the rim, taking her in. Her ash blonde hair tumbled down in neat waves, framing deep blue eyes. He often found himself admiring her more as a work of art than with desire. She was always lovely. A bit perfect. A bit bland, even. But the departure between her appearance and her tastes was part of the appeal.

“The usual. I’ve been abandoned in favor of some flowering vine in the Andes.” She pouted, raking her eyes down his body. He hummed in answer, leaning forward to peck a kiss on each cheek in turn.

“Six months,” she added.

“That’s a long one,” he said, more to himself. Neve was rarely gone for more than a month at a time.

“May I come in?” she asked, balanced excitedly on her toes. “I have a surprise. No, two!” Intrigued, he stepped aside and waved her in. She left her sandals next to the door, despite the coarseness of the stone floor, like she always did.

Today, she was wearing a long wrap skirt of heavy satin, with a wide cobalt border and a riotous print of blue and purple hydrangeas. She had paired it with a simple periwinkle chemise. His teeth gently scraped his bottom lip as he thought about what the skirt would feel like on his skin. She knew him too well.

She always carried the same satchel. A gargantuan, floral embroidered drawstring monstrosity. He often wondered if she used it on a daily basis, or only for her visits here. He was prepared to feel flattered if she had a special Going to Draco’s Bag, but that was unlikely.

Had she taken the same bag with her to meet with Granger a few weeks ago? Her sending Granger his way made him aware of how little he knew about Luna. She was the most genuine person he knew, and he trusted her implicitly, but it was still uncomfortable.

She drew two small sections of silky, golden rope out of her bag, a much longer silver rope, and a small white box with a red ribbon bow on top. A whiff of chocolate enticed him nearly as much as the promise of sex.

“You didn’t,” he said, beaming.

“I very much did.” She smiled back. “You know you’ll have to earn it, though.”

“Of course,” he stated as seriously as he could. “Shall we?”

——————————

HABITS, BEHAVIORS, AND CONTRADICTIONS.

-If he says something is an acquired taste, you’ve already hurt his feelings.

Harry frowned, trying to recall ever hearing Malfoy say that.

-His internal monologue is mostly in French. He has a slight accent if he’s been thinking alone for too long.

-He is acutely aware of everything around him. All the time. Retreats often.
Malfoy petting a cat in a quiet room away from a party. He looks up to see Falk and smiles.

Scowling, Harry opened his eyes, letting the memory wait. How many times had he seen Malfoy sneak out of the Great Hall, or away from assemblies and Quidditch games? Dozens, at least. He’d always assumed Malfoy was up to something, but maybe the poor bastard just didn’t like crowds? Gods, that was enlightening as all hell.

-He’s good with kids, but horribly embarrassed about it.
Malfoy at a library table, showing young students how to make paper cranes.

Surfacing again, Harry frowned. Malfoy had often had younger Slytherins trailing him and jockeying to sit near him at meals. He’d always assumed it was a Slytherin status thing, but maybe Malfoy was just… nice to them?

-There’s no emotion he can’t cry about.
Malfoy smiling in tears, Malfoy sobbing, Malfoy enraged and tear-streaked.

Scoffing, he rubbed his eyes. Falk’s memories played out like a cinematic production, in which Draco Malfoy portrayed an entirely different human being, and Harry was starting to doubt Falk’s trustworthiness.

-He will open all the windows and forget to shut them.

-He’ll dance to anything with a beat, but prefers heavy drums.

-He’s an accomplished harpist, but unlikely to admit it.
Malfoy hiding in a back room at Durmstrang, tuning an ornate floor harp. Silver moonlight hits his hair.

Eyebrows raised in recognition, Harry watched Malfoy’s fingers experimentally pluck at the strings, launching into a few measures, then testing again. It was nearly identical to the movements his fingers had made as he used Blood Magic on Ron.

-Children tend to gravitate toward him. He sometimes pretends to dislike it, but he adores them.
Malfoy kneeling, tying a boy’s shoe.
Malfoy sitting in the bleachers with a stack of papers and a quill during practice, a loose gaggle of students congregating around him.
Malfoy reading a book in a pub, looking up to find a toddler watching him over the back of her mother.
Malfoy ushering child after child into their cottage with illnesses and injuries.
A pregnant woman yelling to Malfoy across a street, doubled over. Malfoy dodging carts to cross the road.
Falk’s point of view approaching the steep-roofed cottage, front steps adorned with offerings of interesting rocks, small cakes, pinecones, pretty leaves, and crudely drawn pictures.

Looming realization made Harry pull back from Falk’s memory. There were so many memories of Malfoy with children. In several of them, he’d looked like Arthur at a Weasley family dinner. At ease. And content.

And these were Falk’s memories. But he’d said Falk was the one to operate on him.

Merlin, what had that cost Malfoy? These memories weren’t even just of students. There were toddlers and babies in many of them. Malfoy and Falk had clearly been a fixture in the town around Durmstrang Institute.

It was more than a little humbling to see the life Malfoy had built in the matter of a few years. The same years during which Harry had really only drudged through Auror training and tried to keep out of the press.

Malfoy had been delivering babies and reviving drowned children while he’d been investigating shop break-ins and missing Kneazles? He didn’t even invite dates to his flat, let alone host fucking dinner parties.

It made Harry feel vaguely inauthentic by comparison. And angry, but at whom or what, he wasn’t sure.

-Signs of distress: Picking at fingernails, picking at food, picking imaginary lint, picking fights, formalwear, increased requests for hard bottoming, stoicism, French expletives.
The back of Malfoy’s head, sweat-drenched blond hair, bare flushed shoulders, hands on a wall, cuticles torn.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, anger melting and pooling as arousal.

-Signs of contentment: Casual nudity, writing or sketching for hours, hosting dinner parties, casual sexual aggression, random song and dance, also French expletives.
Malfoy’s ink stained fingertips pushing Magnus’s shoulders down into a dining chair, table set for a party, Malfoy straddling him. Malfoy’s hands went to the button of his trousers, deftly undoing them.

His breath caught as his own hand pressed hard against the base of his growing hardness. Nope, he thought. Auror, not lover.

Lover? The word had come unbidden, not one he’d ever deigned appropriate before. Shaking his head, he opened the last memory of the set, eager to move on.

-The more he shrugs, the more he wants you to change the topic.

Fair enough, Harry thought. The next, and second-to-last section of Falk’s overly extensive notes sounded tame… but then he’d thought that about this one, too.

SPECIAL TOPICS

———————————

Luna stopped to ruffle his hair appreciatively, and he wondered if she’d ask who else had cut his hair.

“Comfortable?” She stopped to check with him.

“Well, no, but not uncomfortable enough to admit it,” he whispered between panted breaths, trying to find the most optimal way to stay seated in an unforgiving wooden high-back dining chair with a butt plug pressing into him unsubtly.

“I warned you it was an ambitious selection.” She smiled, winding a segment of the soft golden ropes around each of his wrists and knotted each side.

“I just…fuck…” He groaned, fighting the urge to grind his ass against the chair. It was too big to ignore, and too little movement to satisfy.

He looked at his wrists in his lap. It would be easy to simply slip the loosest loop over each hand, unwind the coils, and take them off. He considered doing so and stroking his growing erection, but already knew where that would lead.

“You can always change your mind, mon pignon,” she said, almost scolding. “I’m a little impressed you chose it at all.”

He rocked forward, feeling the plug press deep behind the root of him, and wiggled slightly. Gods, it would be good for coming, but was beyond annoying to sit with.

“Shiny new toy,” he exhaled in a rush.

Luna smirked and laced the rope through his armpits, binding his upper arms and shoulders to the frame of the high back chair. The shimmery rope looked decorative, but it was deceptive. The slack would be just enough to maintain circulation in his hands after she’d secured them behind him.

“I was hoping you’d skip the top of the shoulder.” He smiled ruefully, hiding a passing wave of claustrophobia.

“And have you fly away?” She measured out loops of the silver rope in her hands.

“It was a long time ago. I figured you’d forgotten,” he said, a blush creeping up his neck.

“How could anyone forget a man briefly turning into a bird, then having a wank in his kitchen sink?” she said, laughing.

“That was an inhumane amount of teasing, and I was grateful to make it to the sink.” He rotated his hands to test her knots.

“You had but to say the word,” she reminded him as she draped the silver rope over his shoulders. Nimble fingers started coiling it loosely around one upper arm, then the other.

“I panicked.” The rope skimmed his chest, teasing a hardening nipple, before being drawn back.

“And masturbated in the sink.”

“And masturbated in the sink.” He tried to shrug, but the coils of rope on his arms hid the gesture.

He was usually fully hard by this point, but his body was lagging behind today. Something felt off. Maybe he should have eaten breakfast.

“Long flight this morning?” Her gaze left her work to take in his hesitation.

“Yesterday. The fishing was terrible,” he replied, still angry at a seal who’d stolen his catch. Fucking bastard. Seal fur would come back into fashion if he waited long enough.

“Sore?”

“Just stiff.” He was grateful that she knew to ask, but a little surprised at himself that he hadn’t told her when she’d first arrived. They usually spent more time talking before hopping to it, but… shiny new toy.

She kissed his forehead and walked around to the back of his chair. “Okay. Say when, mon pignon.”

His train of thought derailed as she gently pulled his arms behind the chair and started lifting his hands, back to back. He groaned as she took each arm in turn and pulled gently up and back, stretching the overworked muscles in his chest and the front of his shoulder. Her ministrations inched his hands higher.

When he grunted and she was satisfied with the position of his wrists crossed between his shoulder blades, she wove the end of the silver rope through, suspending them in place. The slack was plucked from the coils around his arms as she tightened them into position.

He often wondered what the knot looked like from the back. It had to be complicated, for as long as it took, but he was grateful for her caution. Sometimes, caution and safety were incredibly arousing.

“Done,” she announced, throwing the loop over his shoulder. “Can you reach it?”

He leaned his head over and touched the silver rope loop with his lips. “Mm hm.”

If he pulled the loop with his teeth, his hands would drop free and the ropes around his shoulders would loosen. After the sink incident, she’d started using a tie that left him an emergency exit. He wasn't proud of it, but still grateful.

Luna stood in front of him and ever so slowly slid her chemise over her head, giving him a long look at her breasts emerging. She slid her hands up to cover them while she swayed and turned her back to him. He usually looked forward to Luna’s excruciating strip teases, but this gods-forsaken monstrosity up his ass had stolen his attention entirely.

Futilely, he tried to shift his weight to one side, but couldn’t move his torso enough for it to make a difference.

Her left hand wandered down to the small bow at her side that tied her wrap skirt in place. Her right hand slid up her neck, into her hair, exposing the long line of her neck, then drifted to meet at the bow on her left hip. The sides of the skirt opened wide across her backside as she held the ends out at arm’s length. The fabric tapered up at the ends, and immediately caught his interest.

Did she know the shape of the satin looked like wings to him? Did she know that the color blocking would catch his eye?

Luna looked over her shoulder and winked. She absolutely understood what she was doing. The minx. His year spent in his Animagus form didn’t have too many lingering effects, but she’d apparently found one. A new game.

“Wicked witch,” he panted. Attempting to shift his weight onto his tailbone just resulted in pain, and he growled softly, resuming the teasing position on top of the damned plug. Salazar’s salivaries, if he could just move on top of this thing, it would feel so fucking good.

The unfurled skirt rose until her legs were exposed, her back covered. She slowly wrapped the skirt around her torso, turned to face him, and held eye contact. It was an offer, and not a human one. His head cocked in interest.

She stared at him, unflinching, and slowly walked toward him.

Luna slipped a hand out of the fabric to flick the box of truffles open. She popped one in her mouth, but held it in her teeth. He grinned, recognizing her game.

He closed his eyes in an attempt to rein in his body’s desperate urge for anything. Friction, pressure, up his ass, on his cock, anything. Fuck, he’d settle for a good slap at the moment.

He smelled chocolate and slowly opened one eye. Her face was inches from his. He opened his mouth and accepted the damn truffle with a pout. The urge to toss his head back and swallow it whole was quickly stifled as he bit down on the glossy confection.

He hummed his satisfaction and let his head tilt back on the chair. The filling of the truffle melted and ran to the back of his mouth, leaving the chocolate shell on his tongue. He crushed it against the roof of his mouth, and rubbed it back and forth until it melted away. Truly good chocolate should never be chewed.

A sigh escaped him, and he cautiously opened both eyes, body momentarily distracted enough for coherence.

“How is my bird?” she asked, settling herself on his lap and wrapping the satin and her arms around his shoulders.

He groaned and chuckled a warning as her weight pressed the plug in harder. He tried twice to speak, and settled for shaking his head.

Her hips rocked in small motions, barely moving. She bit her lip, watching his face go slack at the minuscule changes in pressure.

His eyes slid open as the satin skimmed down his chest, barely touching, but impossible to ignore. With a whimper, he realized exactly where the damnable skirt was heading.

Wrapping the slick fabric around her hands, she slid them down his abdomen, letting them brush the edges of his erection. His hips bucked, but it was no use. The touch was too delicate to gain anything by thrusting into it.

His breath huffed out in frustration, jaw tense. “I hope I come all over that fucking skirt,” he hissed.

She shrugged, the movement making the satin brush across the tip of him. He groaned low in his throat, head falling back against the back of the chair.

“You might,” she said dismissively. “But I’ll eat the other truffle if you do.”

His head snapped up, eyes flinty. “You wouldn’t.”

Her hands snaked between his thighs, slicking the skirt between his groin and sac while she smiled wickedly. “Oh, I would. I think I’d make you watch me eat it very, very slowly. And then make you listen to me have no less than… I think… three orgasms in your bed while you sit in this chair. Unsatisfied.”

She slid her thighs closer to his hips, leaning more of her weight on him, and he shuddered as the plug pressed in deeper. A jolt of pleasure ran from the core of him, making his erection jump in her fragile silken hold.

Her weight shifted back, then leaned forward again, eliciting another jolt and whimper from him. She leaned in further to lick a smear of chocolate from his bottom lip, and settled her hands on his hips, pressing down.

His body tensed, both in pleasure and in surprise, panting through his nose. She was going to milk his climax from him with just that, he thought. Not a dignified finish.

“Brûle la…” he hissed, straining. “jute…”

Her hands slid back down to his cock, so lightly touching him, that he wondered if he was imagining it.

“…en l’enfer.” He growled, cursing the damnable skirt, head falling back against the chair. The skin of his chest ran hot, flush chasing up to his cheeks.

Visions of Blood Magic and shifting and shredding ropes and throwing her down and fucking her skittered behind his eyes, and he shook his head.

“Jaune,” he croaked, half-begging, half-threatening, halting the game.

“What do you need?” Luna whispered, concerned. She removed her hands and dropped the skirt to the floor.

”Défonce-moi,” he pleaded through gritted teeth. A whine escaped his throat.

Her hands slid up his chest, forearms resting on his shoulders, as her hips lifted from him. Grateful for the sudden reprieve from her weight pinning him to the seat, he clenched his glutes, only to be reminded of the damned plug.

Her mouth found his as her hips sank slowly down onto his cock. The wet heat of her pulled along groan from him. His body was approaching climax, and they’d only just begun.

“Come for me,” she whispered into his neck. He clung on the precipice of coming, knowing she wasn’t yet close. Gods, he was too close, the pressure building, and the plug practically forcing him to release every time she thrust herself down onto him.

“Let go,” she said, punctuated by small kisses along his jaw as she settled her weight onto his hips, riding him in short strokes.

The weight of his orgasm broke through his control, and his hips thrust up against her. His hands scrabbled for purchase only to find the back of the chair.

He spasmed inside her, tension breaking deep and pulling itself forward. He cried out his release as she pressed him down against the seat. He kept throbbing while she ground her hips down, greedily taking him in.

Gradually, her movements slowed, and she laid small kisses over his shoulder as he stilled. He leaned down to bury his face in her hair, sighing.

He winced when she moved, oversensitivity setting in. His release was already seeping out around his softening cock, and she wiped a drop up and tasted it, grinning wickedly.

His head lay back on the top of the backrest. Black sparkles still dancing around the edges of his vision. His body sagged, only the ropes holding him in the chair.

“Viens ici, ma biche,” he whispered. She smiled, and dabbed another drop on his bottom lip, slowly tracing it along the full lower edge. Her lips grazed his chin, and his head rose, their mouths meeting. The corners of his eyes glinted, and he quickly blinked the droplets away. Her head lay on his chest while his breathing slowed.

He cleared his throat and rasped, “I think I died.”

“Hm, a little.” She stroked his hair back from his forehead, and wiped a finger under each eye. He sighed and sagged into the ropes.

“Off,” he whispered. “You atrocious she-devil.” She kissed his forehead and very slowly stood up. He groaned at the sensation of his cock pulling out.

“Ready?” she asked from behind the chair.

He nodded, and she supported the weight of his hands while she pulled the loop of rope to release them. His breath hissed in pain as she slowly lowered his hands and freed them from the ropes. He tentatively flexed his wrists and elbows as she undid the long silver rope around his shoulders. The rope had been supporting his upper body, and he felt unstable now without it.

She handed him a damp cloth, and he half-heartedly wiped himself off. Gingerly, he reached behind and pulled the thrice-damned plug out. Settling into the seat, he winced. She had warned him, he had to admit.

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. His breathing felt normal, but a fine tremor was starting in his hands. Distant panic inched around his throat.

Luna threw the skirt over his bare shoulders and wrapped it around him. Its warmth surprised him, and he nuzzled it against his shoulder. His face left a small damp spot on the fabric. He realized he was crying before a lone sob broke from his throat.

Luna ran her fingernails up the back of his neck, taking in his reaction.

“Can you walk to bed?” she asked, judging the distance. He nodded, and she helped him stand. He was steadier on his feet than he’d expected.

“Lay down,” she said as she turned back to the kitchen. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

———————————

SPECIAL TOPICSs

-Never return fire. In magic, fists, or words. For every blow he lands, he feels it twice. Walk away.
Malfoy pacing, sunset behind him, snarling vitriol, pointing a finger at Falk. Malfoy later, dusk light fading, tearful, head hung. Falk’s arms wrapping around Malfoy.

Godric, he’d seen Malfoy like that more times than he could count. Usually at the other end of a quivering wand. Hot guilt laced through him remembering the scars across Malfoy’s abdomen.

What would have happened if he hadn’t cursed him in the bathroom first? Would Malfoy have actually backed down? Would whatever Malfoy had been weaving been less damaging than the Sectumsempra that still marked him now?

Harry Potter and Voldemort, he thought. The two neglected half-bloods who’d inscribed themselves onto Draco Malfoy’s skin.

Eager for distraction, he moved on.

-He’s a fucking Seer.

-He refuses to acknowledge he has Seer dreams.
Malfoy waking up sweating and panting, talking to Falk. Durmstrang in flames. Red robes. Sickly green light.

Blowing out a breath, Harry blinked his office back into focus. Merlin, perhaps this should have been the first thing on his list.

That would be a fun thing to work into casual conversation. So, platonic parolee, any interesting dreams lately? Totally normal conversation for two blokes over tea.

-Don’t try to put his things away for him. When he can’t find them, he’ll think he’s losing his grip on reality like his aunt.
Malfoy curled up on a couch looking scared, Magnus sets his knife in front of him, and Malfoy snatches it up and glares at him.

Memories of Malfoy’s extremely organized workspaces flitted through his mind. Meticulous spelling areas. Tidy lineups of potion ingredients. Neatly-stacked books and notes. Damn, but Falk was observant.

-Imposed isolation shatters him faster than anything else.
Malfoy in dress robes with long hair, boxed in by his parents in the corner of Durmstrang’s main hall. Malfoy’s eyes locked onto Falk’s and he smiled weakly.

-Never read the notebooks he carries around. He’ll burn them out of your hands rather than let you read his writing.
Magnus’s hands, flaming embers filtering through his fingers. Malfoy scowling.

Curiosity piqued, Harry remembered seeing Malfoy scribbling in a tiny book at Hermione’s, and again after he and Ron had dropped him off at home. Always when it didn’t seem like anyone was watching.

He stretched, noting how little time had actually passed since he’d opened Falk’s rather comprehensive guide. ”Rewarding and interesting pet”, indeed, he thought.

Only one more section, and then he could get Falk’s voice out of his head for good.

FUTURE CONSIDERATIONS

———————————

Rummaging around, Luna managed to cobble together an assortment of apple slices, cold meat, and his leftover tea. She arranged it on a plate in the shape of a rabbit, with the second truffle as the eye. Perfect.

He was splayed disjointedly on the bed like a marionette without strings, but he lifted his head when she entered. “Are you dead?” she asked jokingly.

He sniffed, wiped an eye, and replied. “Yes. Luna Lovegood has slain the last free Death Eater. Here he lies, in forever repose. Wrapped in a very nice skirt. With his dick out.”

“Eat. Before you get dramatic,” she retorted. “You didn’t have breakfast before I got here, did you?”

“Tea is breakfast, ma biche.”

“Not for a bird who flew all day. I should have thought to ask.”

“I should have thought to mention it. This is why we’ll never be any good in bed.” He shook his head in mock disapproval.

She set the plate down on the bed next to him. He sat up, cross-legged, and went straight for the truffle.

He always ate them the same way. Bite off the hard chocolate of the bottom and let it melt. Bite the chocolate off half the outside to expose the center. Bite and lick the filling out, enjoying it slowly. Then finish it off by eating the last remaining shell. Make a horrible chocolatey mess of the left thumb and first two fingers and lick them clean to the joy of all spectators.

He became aware of her watching him as he finished licking the center out of the truffle. He finished it and quietly licked the pads of his fingers and thumb. “Jealous?” he asked in mock innocence.

“Of the truffle? Yes, a bit.”

“You didn’t come.” It was a statement, not a question.

“No. But it was worth it. I was more interested in testing our theory today.” She moved to sneak one of his apple slices, and he scooted the plate away from her with a glare.

Magnanimously, he held a slice out of her to bite, but swooped in to catch her lips as she leaned forward. She pulled back and leaned down to kiss his forehead, but he caught her lips again and kissed her deeply. A soft sigh escaped her, and she melted into him, pressing her body along his.

Why she always tried to hold back from him, he may never know. But she was rarely successful.

Laying a peck on her chin, he grazed his lips along her jaw to her neck. She truly did have the most lovely neck, he thought as he nipped and kissed down it to her chest.

And particularly wonderful breasts, he mused. Her pale skin against his was familiar, and he eased her onto her back, tracing her sides with his hands.

His lips skimmed the delicate skin below her breasts as his hands slid along her ribcage, raising goosebumps. He set his teeth against the faint scar under one breast, and she hummed happily. With a soft, eager moan, her thighs fell open, hips raised in quiet offering.

His thumbs ran down the sharp angles of her pelvis, and he trailed teasing kisses down past her navel, not yet taking her hips up on their offer. Hungry little sighs fell from her lips every time his touch inched closer to her sex.

“Draco,” she sighed, her fingers having found his hair.

He kissed his way to the crease of her groin, and her hands subtly pushed his head down. Her hips raised in an attempt to close the distance.

“Hm?” He feigned ignorance as his tongue traced a hot line back up the edge of her.

“Please?” Luna whispered, fingers taking a firmer hold on his hair.

“Hmmm,” he hummed, lips pressed firmly against her. She bucked and groaned at the sensation, and he grinned. “I think it would serve you right, you know…”

She opened her mouth to protest, and he crushed his mouth against her, tongue seeking, and lips catching hold of her clit. Her hands clutched the sheets as she shuddered, knees drawing up, keeping him in place.

With a low, vibrating chuckle, his tongue and jaw found a steady rhythm with her hips. His fingers slid in easily, their combined wetness more than enough.

Her hips picked up speed quickly, keeping time with her hushed, panting moans. He crooked his fingers inward a touch, and her hips stuttered. A frantic sob of pleasure broke from her, and her core gripped his fingers, clenching time to the movements of her hips.

With a shuddering sigh, her thighs fell open, and she released her grip on his hair. He gave her a final gratuitous lick to hear her squeak, and she didn’t disappoint.

“See? We will never be any good together,” Draco reiterated. “Absolute rubbish every fucking time, Lovegood.”

He flopped down next to her, sucking his fingers clean for emphasis and settled his plate back on his hips.

“This skirt is mine now. It’s a public menace.” He drew it over his chest, finally having the chance to enjoy the heavy slickness of the fabric. “Wait. You said our theory?” he asked, catching up to the earlier conversation.

“Hers more than mine. About residual Animagi mating habits,” she replied clinically, post-climax haze fading quickly.

A niggling sense of dread was growing in his gut. “Neve knows about this? Us?” He chewed an apple slice, not really tasting it.

“Of course. I thought you knew,” she stated, like it had been splashed across The Prophet on a regular basis.

“No,” he said softly, chewing slowly, not sure what to say.

“Is it… alright?”

“It’s… different.” He shrugged. “I considered myself a guilty pleasure, not a side dish.”

“Mm… You are quite indulgent,” she cooed, stroking his chest through the satin.

As much as he wanted to ask her to lay their entire arrangement out on the table, he worried it would scare her off. Her relationships apart from him were all but a mystery. Really, everything about her was. Rather mysterious, in general.

But gods, she and Neve were practically married, as much as they pretended to part ways when on different continents. Why hadn’t they all talked about this before?

Because she’d been his only regular visitor for years? Because he’d rather be a dirty secret than nothing? He chewed another piece of apple, thinking.

They sat quietly, the breeze audible. She’d definitely never mentioned Neve’s knowledge of their meetings, let alone that she had discussed and planned them with her first.

Was he in the wrong for thinking Luna kept him a secret? Or was she in the wrong for telling Neve without consulting him?

“I should have told you,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he shrugged again. “But I should have asked, too.”

“Are… are we okay?” She chewed her lip, brow creasing.

“Uhm… yeah,” he replied. “But sending Granger my way might have complicated things, ma biche.” It was true, he reasoned. And now Potter had full knowledge of who crossed his wards and when. Yet another hurdle.

“Ah, okay,” she said, walking her fingers dangerously close to his plate. He set the plate on the other side of him, out of her reach, an exhausted attempt at a menacing glare falling flat.

“I want to talk to Neve when she gets back.” Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and thought. "About plants, too. Not just about your bouncy little bum."

She nodded, relieved.

He flicked the skirt out flat on the bed and rolled over onto it. She laid on her side next to him and stroked his back until his eyes drifted shut. He didn’t generally fall asleep after a single round, but gods, that had been… something.

“Do you need anything before I go?”

“I need… to know how to get semen out of satin. For later,” he mumbled drowsily, briefly considering asking her to stay, but immediately squashed it down. Once bitten, he thought.

“No idea, mon pignon.” Her lips grazed along his shoulder, giving it a final peck.

She sat up and ruffled his hair, skimming her fingernails up the nape of his neck as she rose. He watched her walk to the kitchen, eyes drifting shut. He exhaled and relaxed into the bed, listening to the familiar sounds of her getting dressed and packing her bag. The door clicked shut behind her.

He stretched, experimentally thrust his hips against the skirt briefly, and tucked a pillow under his head, anticipating the dreamless sleep her visits always brought.

A curly, brown hair on the pillow caught his attention. The threads of unease from earlier gathered, twisting in his chest.

He should have told her. But she could have asked.

——————————

FUTURE CONSIDERATIONS

-He wants a family but is too conflicted about his own upbringing to likely ever pursue fatherhood. Don’t push it.
Malfoy curled up with a “Falk” photo album, looking wistful.

Well, that could do with a lot more explanation, Harry appraised. Not that an Auror had anything to do with a parolee’s family planning.

-He will probably always have concurrent male and female partners.
Malfoy entangled in dusky limbs on a rug in front of the cottage fireplace. They freeze, the woman waves to Falk, grinning.

Chewing his lip, Harry wondered if Malfoy was sleeping with anyone other than Hermione. Luna or Pansy, maybe? Hermione had mentioned them, and Luna had just crossed his wards. That was a sight he had trouble wrapping his mind around. But it was none of his business.

If he ever settles in a permanent residence, it will be because he has full control over the physical space.
Malfoy painting over ornate wallpaper, swaying to unheard music. White paint in his hair, eyes bright.

The Bombarda blasting caps seemed an even more appropriate gift now. Maybe he could make use of some of Ron’s new charms. Or… not… seeing how getting his parolee blown up would probably reflect poorly on him as an Auror.

-There’s very little he can’t accomplish with Blood Magic, and he may never bother with a wand again.

Good to know, Falk, Harry thought tersely. This guide of his had been entirely too thorough, and annoyance was setting in.

-Don’t say his sister’s name. Don’t ask about her death.

Shrugging, he thought that was an outdated suggestion. Malfoy had brought it up just the other night rather matter-of-factly.

-Don’t underestimate his parents.

Yeah, no shit, Falk, Harry thought, slamming the box shut, waiting for it to evaporate. Pale blue glow fading slightly, it sat, waiting to be reopened. He heaved himself out of his chair with a groan, and went in search of coffee.

Chapter Text

Insomnia wasn’t new to her, but this jittery, nauseous panic all night was an unwelcome guest. And it was Malfoy’s fault.

It was his fault she’d forgotten the contraception charm. It was his fault, because he’d thrown off her pre-sex routine by making her spend the night. It was his fault there was a mug of urine on the sink, and it was his fault she was crying on her bathroom floor waiting for a timer to beep. Draco Fucking Malfoy’s fault, all of it.

Ninety seconds left. And even then, the test wouldn’t really be accurate till tomorrow. She was only a day late. But maybe she’d sleep tonight. Probably not. She wouldn’t really sleep till her period came.

It had taken her five days. Five fucking days, to realize she’d forgotten it. Beyond the range of Muggle last ditch efforts.

So, she just hadn’t slept in a week. And Pepper Up potion didn’t seem like a good idea, in case it caused issues with… pregnancy?

Godric. Pregnancy? Or… not? She’d already memorized the schedule of the clinic close to campus. That was the logical solution for a law student, wasn’t it? The responsible solution?

That was definitely the better option. The other option being dropping out of school, losing her Ministry internship, and gracing the world with another fucking Malfoy. That plan had absolutely nothing going for it. Probably a cute little fucking Malfoy, though.

Why had he showed her that dream of them in bed with children? Merlin Almighty, it had felt so right. And he had felt so perfectly at home. Was it part of a plan? Was that what he wanted from her?

No, unacceptable. “Hermione Granger, Death Eater Broodmare” didn’t hold up to “Hermione Granger, Supreme Mugwump”. Okay, phonetically, it did, but not in actual life. Maybe she’d rename the position when she got it. If she got there.

The timer beeped, and she squeaked in surprise. Sitting up, she tentatively put her fingers on the edge of the sink and peeked up over the edge of the mug.

Not pregnant! Okay, probably not pregnant! Like, 99% not pregnant.

She was still furious, though. He’d absolutely noticed she’d forgotten the charm. The man had fucking invented one of them. He was a literal expert in the fucking things. He had to have noticed she hadn’t used one that morning.

Malfoy had some fucking explaining to do. Rinsing out the mug, she tried to keep her hands from shaking, but it was no use.

How could he have fucking done that? And why would he? What did he have to gain?

His fastidiousness in everything else was obvious, so it couldn’t have been an oversight. Even the sex itself had been meticulous.

Fuck it. She needed answers. "Fuck!" she hissed out loud, just for good measure.

—————————————————

The hot spring would be what kept him here after parole, he mused. Even the Manor hadn’t offered a bathtub the size of a bedroom. Especially not one that emptied itself every low tide and refilled on its own. Better than magic.

Carefully stepping down off the wooden ladder into the waist-deep water, he set the candle on a small ledge and surveyed his handiwork. This was the last space he’d used the charmed detonators to excavate. It was still impressive as hell that the ceiling hadn’t caved in, or the exterior wall blown out.

The ledge carved out several inches below the surface of the water was his demolitions oeuvre. Hoisting himself up from the waist-deep water, he settled into the subtle curve of the warm stone, letting the water lap against his sides. The radiant heat was luxurious, and his body melted.

The exterior ward shivered, and he frowned at the ceiling in annoyance. Probably a large animal or a Muggle. Sighing, he let his head fall back into the warm water, neck stretching. The silence as his ears dipped under the water was absolute and exquisite.

The ward shook again, this time shunting forward a magical signature. Somebody was pushy. Rolling it around in his mind, it took a while to place. Cracked leather? No, vellum. Cracked, flaking vellum. Granger in distress?

He sent the permissions for her to pass, and rolled dramatically off the ledge to flop into the deeper water of the pool. Sinking to the bottom, he sat cross-legged, watching candlelight filter through the blue-tinted spring water.

It would take her a while to actually reach the door, and he didn’t intend to be cold any longer than he needed to. And, truth be told, he wasn’t looking forward to finding out what had her knickers in such an epic twist that it could change her signature like that.

She’d made it abundantly clear she only wanted him for one thing, and that one thing wasn’t due for another two weeks. Which meant he had an angry, hormone-fueled Granger storming his castle. Great. Could he hide underwater long enough for her to give up and leave?

The slamming door concussed the house, echoed down the ladder hole, and through the water. So much for knocking. Standing, he slicked his hair back, squeezing most of the water out. A towel at the top of the ladder would have been a good idea. A cold, wet, naked face-off sounded like an automatic loss.

Nearing the top of the ladder he looked up, and fuck if she wasn’t staring down at him. He flinched, nearly sliding off the rungs.

“Uhm, welcome, Granger.” He wasn’t climbing out till she backed up. Preferably out of biting range.

“Hi,” she balked. Confidence waning, she was caught off guard by him not being in the middle of something nefarious. She’d expected to interrupt him plotting her demise, not… taking a bath? And looking up at her with those grey eyes. Fuck, he looked like he’d been carved as an homage to a Greek god. Why did he bother hiding any of his face behind hair?

“Shall I come up, or are you coming down?” he gently inquired. She looked like hell. Exhausted. Drained. Unraveled.

The opening was suddenly clear, and he climbed out. She was pacing between the kitchen and living room. Which was the better move? Walking past her to get a towel from the bedroom, or standing still, not attracting attention? Was her attack instinct triggered by motion?

He shivered, and opted to brave the perilous voyage to the next room. Shockingly, she let him, but he felt her staring daggers in his back the whole walk. When he rounded the bookcase, she was standing, braced for combat, hands on hips, in the center of the open space. A showdown, then.

He finished ruffling his hair, roughly toweled off his body, and wrapped the towel around his waist. Still entirely too vulnerable to attack, but better than cold and naked.

“Well? Let’s have it, Granger,” he invited. “Your ears are going to start smoking soon.”

“Did you know I forgot?” she seethed. Gods, he had no right looking so innocent.

He shook his head. “Forgot what?” Mind racing, he walked an arc around her to get to the kitchen. He wanted tea. It was going to be lukewarm tea, though. For his own safety.

What could she have forgotten that he had anything to do with? Had she left something here?

Did she forget something horrible he’d done, and she felt he’d taken advantage of that? What could he have done that was worthy of this wrath, but was forgettable to her?

“Don’t fuck with me, Malfoy. You knew.” Her voice came out a harsh rasp. “You fucking watched me forget and you knew.”

Tea wasn’t going to fix this, but he still went ahead and started it.

“What did you-“

“You watched me forget to use a contraception charm, and you fucked me anyway, and you knew the whole time, you bastard.” Her rapid breathing almost covered up how close to sobbing she was.

She took a long breath, and he tried to interject. “I didn-“

“The fuck you didn’t! You said yourself you invented one, and you don’t even notice when a woman forgets it?! Bloody likely.”

Edging closer, she gripped the back of the highback chair, knuckles white. He wondered if she was strong enough to beat him to death with it. It was looking like a possibility.

“I’ve nev-“

“Shut the fuck up, Malfoy!” Escalating to yelling, she ranted on, “I don’t know what your plan was, but so help me Merlin, I’m not going to be a part of it. I’m not that late, but I swear to Godric, I am not going down like that.”

She stepped in front of him, and he regretted starting the kettle. It was really going to hurt when she hit him with it.

“Wha-“

“You fucking Purebloods and your fucking dynasties and your scheming and-“ Articulation failed her and she screamed, wordless.

With little preamble, her fist shot forward. He’d expected the kettle, but was able to dodge, nonetheless, grabbing her wrist in the pivot.

He held her wrist tight while she glared at him. “I might occasionally take a hit if I feel I deserve it, Granger.” He released his grip, and she stepped back. “But I haven’t done anything.”

She screamed again, and lurched forward to shove his chest with both hands. Stumbling back, he caught himself on the edge of the sink.

He took a deep breath. “Granger, you need to leave. Or I will. But I don’t trust you alone in my home, so I’d rather you be the one to leave. Please.”

Quietly, he was proud of his own patience. Salazar knew Magnus had shown him infinite amounts of it when he’d had similar outbursts.

It was oddly soothing to be the one creating a gracious path away from imminent combustion, not the one charging headlong into it.

It was the “Please” that got her. And that he didn’t trust her now in the same place he’d begged her to stay just weeks ago. She’d run out of words, and sat heavily in a kitchen chair, hiding her face in her hands.

Her shoulders shook, and he assumed she was crying. Legilimency could illuminate the situation wonderfully, but she’d fucking flay him alive if he tried it now. The kettle whistled while he chose his words carefully, knowing she certainly had another tirade at the ready.

“I’m sterile.” He let the statement hang, watching her lift her face to stare at him in disbelief. “So if that’s what this is about, I’m willing to listen, but I’m not on trial here.”

“Bullshit,” she spat. “Your family legacy is a legacy to its own legacy.”

He nodded, setting the kettle, mugs, and tea on a tray. “That’s why I did it.”

“They’d disown you,” she countered, scrubbing the dried tears from her cheeks.

Cautiously, he set the tray on the table and took the chair at the same corner as her.

“At that point, they all but had.” He readied the tea, and she watched quietly.

“Shall I be mother?” he offered, winking and pouring her cup.

Her lip quirked in an almost-smile. “You’re a bit of a ponce when you want to be.”

Shrugging, he poured his own cup and waited. She rewarded him by clasping the mug in her hands and not making a move to throw it.

“I pissed in a mug tonight. That was a first,” she said, taking a tentative sip.

Humming in interest, he matched her sip. “Muggle custom?”

A genuine smile graced her face. “Almost. Pregnancy test.”

His mug paused halfway to his mouth. “Their dishes detect pregnancy?”

“No, no,” she laughed, finally easing. “It was just a convenient vessel. For urine.”

“Well?”, he probed.

“Not pregnant,” she replied. “Well, like 99% not pregnant.”

Looking up, she was surprised to see him wide-eyed in shock. “What?”

“You said you were a day late,” he said. She nodded. “And you’re 1% pregnant. That’s still plenty fucking pregnant, Granger.”

It was his turn to panic. One percent of a baby was plenty of fucking baby. Maybe his body had reversed it? Maybe it hadn’t worked that well after all and there were mini-Malfoys running around Europe? Or maybe she’d forgotten when she fucked Potter, too? Or maybe Potter had amazing swimmers? That would be very like Potter.

“One percent is sort of the margin of error of that test. Not a measure of fetal growth,” she explained carefully.

“Oh, thank Merlin.” He wiped a trace sheen of panic sweat from his upper lip. “So this,” he gestured vaguely to the room, “was for a 1% chance and a day late?”

“I… yeah,” she hesitated. “Not terribly logical when you put it like that.”

“And I’m going to venture a guess that if you’d have forgotten the charm with Weasley or Potter, you probably wouldn’t have torn into their kitchen to shove them around. And in a towel, to boot.”

He let a little of his anger seep in. Her fear was understandable, but her actions weren’t encouraging.

Staring at her tea like it could absolve her of her actions, she whispered, “No. I wouldn’t have done that to Ron or Harry.”

“Because?”

She frowned at him in confusion. “Because… they’re… not you.”

“Can’t say I’m not hurt. Not surprised. Not unsympathetic.” He shook his head softly. “But I have no intention of being your whipping boy who puts out on the side.” He swirled his tea, thinking. “Frankly, I’ve had it too good to be treated that poorly again.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that, but remorse and a certain tenderness filled her chest and tightened the corners of her mouth.

“I’m sorry. I did jump straight to the worst possible conclusions. And then scream you out of a bath,” she sighed, “and hit you.”

“Worst of all, though, Granger,” he said softly, “was that you assumed a lot of my parents’ motivations.”

She nodded. He was right. Falling back into accusations and assumptions had come so quickly.

“Unlike my parents, I do not foresee a never-ending Malfoy legacy.” He hesitated, debating the directions this conversation could go. “And that’s why I had a drunk Quidditch coach operate on me with illegal magic.”

Tea sputtered from her mouth so hard, he leaned back to escape the spray.

Coughing, she gasped out, “You did not.”

“The only proof I have is my lack of progeny and a Legilimens projection, if you want to see that.”

“I think I do. I think I really, really do.”

“Alright, scoot closer,” he said, reaching out a finger to her forehead.

“Also, this might be graphic. In several ways,” he warned, not really remembering what all happened that night.

“Okay,” she shrugged, more excited than concerned.

—————————————

Images flicked by so quickly that she couldn’t follow them. An open sky. Snow. Sea. A campus. A cottage. A bedroom.

She saw from his viewpoint. She was laying reclined on a patchwork quilt. His despair was suffocating. It was difficult to concentrate on anything beyond the sucking void of hopelessness crushing her throat.

The room was small, and tidy. A half-empty bottle of vodka sat on her naked hip, his hip, hand around the neck. “Do it,” she heard Malfoy’s voice say to an enormous man between his legs.

Godric, the other man was gorgeous. And stark naked. And just massive. Kneeling, he towered over Malfoy. Flowering vines to match Malfoy’s bloomed up the man’s arm. His black eyes examined her. She felt the rumble of the man’s voice as much as heard it.

“You’re sure, äislking?” he asked tenderly. He was stroking Malfoy’s thighs, concern evident in his tone.

Desperate, furious affection burned in her chest for this man. He was Malfoy’s last thought at night, first thought in the morning, and centerpiece of his dreams in-between. He was everything.

Hermione’s chest hurt, trying to digest the depth of trust between them.

“Just try, Mag. I’ll lop the whole kit off before I let her do this.” Malfoy’s voice cracked, breaking into a sob.

The man leaned down and kissed Malfoy. She couldn’t feel anything through the memory, but she knew he was eating each sob like he could rid Malfoy of his pain.

Leaning back, the man grabbed a tiny, ornate knife off the nightstand, cut between his fingers, and made a small nick on each side of Malfoy’s scrotum. Chanting something inaudible, he carefully laid his bleeding hand flat over Malfoy’s groin. Malfoy’s legs twitched, his eyes shut, and he grunted several times. In pain, she thought.

His hand brought the bottle up to his lips and he took another long swig. The bottle came down, and the man had finished.

“Did it work?” Malfoy asked shakily.

“I think so,” said the man, smiling tightly. “But you know we’ll have to clean out the pipes.”

Malfoy’s chest jerked as he chuckled. “So thorough.”

Relief flooded her, and she suddenly felt the vodka and their shared arousal. Relief and expectation chased the tension from her shoulders to pool between her legs as she watched the man rise.

The man grinned, coming to straddle Malfoy, and the memory cut off.

—————————————

Blinking, Hermione was back in Malfoy’s kitchen in Truro. She had more questions now than before.

But she could hold onto them, because Malfoy’s tear-streaked face didn’t look open to interview. He wrapped his arms around his waist, suddenly feeling overexposed.

“Uhm. Sorry.” He wiped his eyes. “I wasn’t… I didn’t expect it to…”

He cleared his throat and refilled his tea. He straightened, expression shut down and face blank, he asked, “So, are we on the same page about not needing the charms, Granger?”

Alarmed at his abrupt formality, she stammered, “I… uhm, yeah. Alright.”

Perfunctorily setting the teapot back down, he watched the contents of his cup swirl. “The Ministry ward would have cancelled your charm out, anyway. Potter heroically fixed it. It’ll work now if you want to start using it again. If you ever see the need.”

His ability to project an austere, buttoned-down facade while red-eyed, wild-haired, and all but naked was impressive. The Emperor sans clothes, she thought. Such a jarring departure from the Malfoy in that memory.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. It made more sense that he hadn’t noticed she didn’t use the charm if he knew beforehand it was useless. “Might have mentioned that at the time.”

One shoulder raised in a glib shrug. “I told you no magic would work in here. You tried to cast a Lumos for a rather long time and failed, if I recall.”

A dull, burning ache crept through her pelvis, and her lips tightened in pain.

Watching her carefully, he took her grimace for rising anger. Good. If she went on another tirade again, she wouldn’t ask him any details about the memory he regretted sharing. He’d been woefully unprepared to view it himself.

What the fuck was it about her that made him think he could share parts of himself and not regret it? She was Granger. Pushy, hot-headed, know-it-all Granger. And she had every reason to hate him.

His own mental voice chided him in Magnus’ accent. It wasn’t her fault he’d overshared. Again. A sharp inhale from her caught his attention. She’d slid back from the table to lean her elbows onto her knees, eyes level with her tea. Her head drooped.

“Granger?” he asked warily.

She exhaled slowly. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Great, actually,” she said, rising. “I’m going to the loo.”

“Oh,” he said, shrugging and draining his mug. “Oh! Congrats.” She mumbled sarcastic thanks and headed through the kitchen.

Hoping she’d take it as a cue to leave, he cleared the table. The window over the sink was open, the cool breeze raising goosebumps as he washed the mugs.

The night outside the window over the sink was quiet. A large owl wheeled in the moonlight, and he hoped it was one from the Cardiff owlery, not one bearing a message. None of the eagles harassed it, so it must be one of his.

When those owls had become his, he wasn’t sure. It still surprised him the eagles allowed them around at all. The owl ranks seemed to be depleting, and he hoped it was because they were wandering off to make homes for themselves.

He squawked and dropped a mug when a blood-slicked hand thrust itself under the faucet.

“Merlin, Granger!” he belted. “Warn a bloke.” He shook his head and looked her way. Instead of looking relieved, she still looked exhausted, and now in pain on top of it. Rather pitiful state, really.

She smiled wanly. “Sorry. No bathroom sink. Didn’t think you were so easily grossed out.” Her pants were undone still. She rinsed her first two fingers and thumb, drying them on her jeans.

“Startled, not disgusted. I’ve seen plenty of blood,” he replied, splaying his left hand to look at the faint fans of white lines between the fingers.

“About that,” she started, following his gaze. The “illegal magic” part of his memory description enticed her slightly more than the drunk naked Quidditch coach part. Slightly.

Drying his hands on his towel, he shook his head. “No, Granger. I’m not giving a Dark Arts theory lecture while you look like you’re ready to keel over. And trust me when I say I know what that looks like.” She slumped even more, if that was possible. Salazar, she’d gone from fury to painful defeat quickly.

“Take a pain potion and eat something, and I’ll consider it.”

“I didn’t bring anything with me. Well, other than,” she gestured with her now-clean fingers, “that stuff. And I’m not leaving without this lecture, now that I know about it. And I want to know why you’re so familiar with the nearly dead.”

He swore under his breath. “Your Animagus is probably a terrier. Little fucking rat terrier. All teeth and no sense.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Weighing his options, he sighed. “Fine. But not up here.”

——————————

The perfect rock was somewhere on the spring floor, but he couldn’t find it with his feet.

“Scoot up a touch, Granger. And give me a second.” He slid under the water to look for the damn stone he’d been stubbing his toes on for years. It finally had a destiny, so it had chosen to hide. His toes had found the few valuables he’d stashed under the water, but not the damned rock.

Hermione slid up on the granite ledge, resting the nape of her neck on the edge. The stone was warm, and rough, and a pleasant distraction from the pain in her abdomen.

Rubbing the skin of her shoulders against the coarse grain felt wonderful. Her feet drew up, sloshing water up over her hips, then scraped their way back down along the gritty rock. She felt a certain kinship with Crookshanks and thought about buying him a new brush.

Malfoy’s head broke the surface, concentration written on his face as he silently slid through the water to her side. He looked like an otter with something in its paws, she thought. Her mouth quirked in a smile as he stood and set a rock the size of both his fists between her knees.

His hands hovered over her hips. “May I?”

She nodded, no clue what he was going to do with those hands. Fatigue from the last week was swiftly catching up to her, and she found she either trusted him or just didn’t care. Anything that meant she got to lay in the warm water, in the soft candlelight, in the quiet, for a few minutes longer was fine by her.

His thumbs traced her hip bones, wrists rotating so his fingertips met just below her navel. Lightly, he pressed with the one hand, then the other, slowly walking his fingertips lower.

The pain in her pelvis unraveled, and she groaned. He smiled knowingly, and kept pressure with one hand, while the other reached for the smooth rock. Replacing the pressure of his hand with the stone, he watched her face relax.

“Better?” he asked.

“Godric, yes,” she crooned, cradling her hands around the rock. It was heavy enough she could feel her pulse against it, but not so heavy that it was uncomfortable.

He sank in the water and drifted toward her head. “Hot rock to the baby crock,” he quipped. “Old medicine.”

She snorted, the stone bouncing. Sleep tugged at her, and she took several moments to choose her words carefully. “Why does a former Death Eater know so much about gynecology? Kind of an unexpected hobby, isn’t it?”

He frowned at the Death Eater reference, but let it slide.

“Perspective, that. A witch on the continent would ask why one of their preeminent Healers is under house arrest in the UK.” He stood at the top of her head, and she craned her neck to look at him, dipping most of her head in the water.

“What?!” she barked.

He scooped water in his hands, trickling it over her crown to wet the rest of her hair.

“I wasn’t even a good Death Eater, but once Marked, always Marked, I guess. Rather small piece to judge the whole by.”

Frowning, she sorted through what she did know about him apart from his family’s affiliations and prejudices. He… was rather good in Potions. And dueling. And most forms of magic, really.

He produced a bottle of shampoo from behind the ladder. “Thinking hard, Granger.”

“I… don’t think I know much beyond your school performance, some relationships, and general hatred of Muggleborns.”

She pondered, as she heard a bottle cap, and the scent of teakwood and honeysuckle filled the room.

Doling out a generous palmful of shampoo, he replied, “Marks, rumors, and lies don’t paint much of a picture, do they?”

“I guess not,” she said sheepishly.

The sound of the shampoo between his hands bordered on lewd, and it made her nipples tighten.

“I’d have been scared out of my wits, too, if I thought there was a one percent chance of procreating with who you think I am,” he mused, pausing with his hands over her crown. “Kind of makes sense to maybe get to know a guy. At least a little. Hm?”

Not particularly comfortable having her preferences challenged, she gave a noncommittal shrug.

“Fill in the blanks, Granger. You’re good at tests,” he announced. “During the Second Wizarding War and his subsequent Ministry evasion, Draco Malfoy attained the status of blank within the Death Eater Dark Forces Bogeyman Brigade.”

Nostrils flared, she was more interested in the shampoo. The lingering scent of it was one she associated with him.

“This is a timed test, Granger,” he teased, sliding slick hands over her hair, spooling the wet curls around his palms.

“Uhm…” she began, eyelids getting heavy. “Lieutenant… something… something.”

“Tsk tsk, not even a real answer.” His fingers slid deeper into her hair, working a lather against her scalp.

“The correct answer was Chief Healer. Next question?”

Consternation knit her brow, but she hummed in agreement, eyes closing. His fingernails massaged the nape of her neck, and she really wished she were capable of purring.

“During academic years 1999 to 2002, Draco Malfoy simultaneously held the positions of blank and blank at Durmstrang Institute.”

He worked his fingertips up around her ears to massage the small muscles at her temples, and earned a soft groan. Someone was a stress-induced jaw clencher. Someone named Hermione Granger.

“Uhm… Quidditch… something. And etiquette…something.”

Gathering up suds, he slicked his fingertips to the base of her jaw. “Open.”

She opened her mouth slightly, not a concern whatsoever as to why. He dug his fingers into overworked muscles between her cheekbones and ears, and an inarticulate pleased grunt leaked out of her open mouth.

“You’re failing this test horribly, Granger. The correct answers were Healer and Dark Arts Professor. Only one question left. Maybe you can still salvage this.”

Her mouth snapped shut. “Dark Arts, not Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

His fingers urged her jaw to relax again, kneading gently. “An Art is an Art. Who gets to decide which ones are Dark?”

She hummed, whether in agreement or pleasure, he couldn’t tell.

He fought the urge to lick and nip at her lips with her mouth parted so complacently. Soapy hands slid down to her right shoulder, kneading the muscles along the back of her neck.

“In 2003, prior to his capture by the Ministry, for which they were publicly and embarrassingly censured by the International Confederation of Wizards, by the way, blank approached him with a fellowship, pending ICW approval.”

Having turned her right shoulder into gelatin, he slid his hands to press the muscles of her upper chest, resisting a detour to her hardening nipples, then up to her left shoulder. This side was tighter. Probably her rucksack shoulder. She melted as his fingers pressed against small muscles.

“I… have no bones left. And no idea.”

“Are you sure you’re Hermione Granger?” he prodded.

She growled softly at him, opening one eye. Easing her head down into the water, he began rinsing her hair. With her head tilted back, her ears were under water. He was speaking, but she couldn’t understand him, and she frowned. Satisfied with his rinsing, he lifted her head back up.

“The answer was The Asklepieion of Kos. Scoot back down and lay back.”

Again, she complied. He could have told her to cluck like a chicken, and she’d have likely complied with that, too.

With a plop, he disappeared underwater, resurfacing with wet hair. She turned to watch him, slightly worried her head would simply roll off the ledge due to the lack of tension in her neck and jaw. She hummed contentedly “You did a lot in, what, five years? And what’s the Asklepieion of Kos?”

Lathering his hair, he slicked off the extra suds and spread them around his chest. His hands made quick work of washing his armpits, then disappeared below the water and between his legs.

“I did. I earned my keep. And stop frowning, Granger.” He caught her gaze as it traveled up from his concealed groin. “You’ve already seen this show.”

He considered standing in a shallower part of the spring so she could watch him, but decided against riling her up. She looked like she was barely awake.

“Is the Asklepieion of Kos a Healers Guild? I think I’ve heard of it,” she drawled.

“It is the Guild the Guilds want to be when they grow up. The no-holds barred, all methodologies on the table institution St. Mungo’s wishes it could even affiliate itself with. Maledictus research, Dark Arts, Blood Magic innovation.”

“So, are you going to study there?” she asked, rolling her shoulders toward him as much as the stone allowed. Plotting academic futures was exciting enough to keep her awake.

“Granger,” he huffed, “I haven’t been allowed off this fucking island in four years. They admit one student a year. That ship sailed while I was still in Azkaban.”

“That’s not fair,” she yawned. “You should reapply.”

“The Ministry cares very little about the professional development of war criminals,” he lectured, brusquely soaping his backside. “And one does not apply to Kos. One is sought out and invited.”

Crouching down in the water to rinse off, he wondered what her Muggle university process had been like. Maybe he could simply ask them for another invitation in a year or two.

The water around him sloshed gently as he walked to her hips. Godric, she thought, he had no right looking so perfect. Water dripped down the lean planes of his torso, and candlelight glinted off the grey of his eyes.

She smiled, remembering him flushed and sweaty, much like this, but wrapped in blankets after sex. He’d been downright goofy. With an almost-sob, she realized she wanted that again. Not abrupt goodbyes and terse clinical discussions and screaming matches.

Gods, had she fucked up too badly to go back there? She’d all but taken his trust, chewed it up, and spat it back at him.

He watched her stretch, arching her back, and he froze as the urge to cover her slick, wet skin with his body rode him.

His hands found her hip bones, and his thumbs gently dug in where the muscles of her abdomen met the flared crests of her pelvis. Unexpectedly, her body responded by parting her thighs in invitation.

“Granger?” he said, barely a whisper. His hands came to rest on the stone, thumbs stroking it in thought.

The weight on her pelvis suddenly felt extremely intimate. And she supposed it was, given he’d found her womb with his fingers and set the rock there. But with him so close, it felt like an extension of his body. A vague sense of eager entrapment crept through her.

“Hm?” she hummed, pondering the weight on her hips as being distinctly his, and being rather comforting.

His brow creased, considering. “If I wanted you pregnant, you’d be very fucking pregnant,” he stated simply. It was a fact, not a threat.

“Oh,” she exhaled softly. She supposed a Healer probably would be able to do that.

His hands were careful as he lifted the heavy rock from her pelvis. She missed the weight immediately, but fought the urge to ask for it back.

He bit his lip. Hard. And blew out a deep breath. “Sleep with me tonight.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but he cut her off. “Just sleep.”

“Okay. You still owe me a lecture.”

“A vicious little terrier, I swear.”

Chapter Text

He’d told Granger entirely too much again, Draco thought, hoisting library books to his hip. But had any of it been information she couldn’t have looked up in a good wizard library on the continent? Probably not, he mused, approaching his front door.

Hell, if he got in trouble with the Ministry, he could just lie and say she’d raided his bookshelves. The sentence for owning banned books was far less than that for teaching Blood Magic. Not that she would be able to do it.

Draco nudged his door open and froze. She was waiting for him. The other harpy. Just sitting on a kitchen chair. Glaring.

“Matilda,” he nodded in greeting, edging a wide circle around the eagle.

She made no move to gouge his eyes out or carve him up like a fucking ham, which was unusual. She also hadn’t touched any of the food he’d left sitting out. Or shredded any papers.

Suspicious, he cut a small piece of meat from a leftover trout and tossed it to her. She watched it arc through the air, pass next to her head, and plop on the floor. He picked it up and held it out to her, waiting for her to bite his fingers, but she did nothing.

Very odd, indeed. Cringing, he held the morsel between his lips and offered it to her. Almost grudgingly, she took it and gulped it down.

She had this week’s Portkey on her leg, and he untied the bag to find four bottle caps. Potter’s doing, he assumed. Why he would send four of them, Draco had no idea. Following Robards’ habits, most likely.

Matilda made a half-hearted display of biting his hand, but it was little more than a gentle nip.

“You are not well, ma oiseau,” he cooed, frowning. She watched his fingers approach her, and leaned into them. A vast departure from her normal behavior.

She appeared healthy, he thought. She just looked… sad? Bored? Could birds feel ennui?

Experimentally, he traced a tendril of Legilimency over her little mind, and was rewarded with scattered images.

A greenish-white egg on a makeshift pile of straw in the Ministry owlery.
Eggshells and a slick of yolk and blood.
Another egg. Another nest.
Another.

He withdrew from her mind, stroking his fingers over her head. He’d had no idea she’d been nesting every year. She had no chance of successfully hatching an eaglet in the middle of London while having to leave her nest to carry messages. Poor bird.

Gathering his own memories, he bundled them and filtered back into her.

His cavernous childhood bedroom.
An enormous formal table with no one else seated.
His cell in Azkaban.
His empty bed.

He withdrew again, and she whistled high in understanding. They were both very alone.

He stripped off his shirt and wadded it around his forearm, offering her the perch. She hopped up, and he walked her into the bedroom.

She whistled, lower this time, and he chuckled.

“I know. It’s a lot of nest for just me,” he said. “Want to retire and build a proper aerie?”

Chortling and bobbing enthusiastically, she held out a leg. Unsure of what she wanted, he offered a finger. Surely she hadn’t learned to shake hands. Her talons wrapped around his finger, but she made no move to let go or shift her weight from his arm. She just watched him out of one eye, expectantly.

Wondering if using Legilimency on Ministry birds was even legal, he resorted to it again.

An iridescent band slowly rotated around her leg.

“Ohhh,” he whispered. “Smart girl.”

With a flick of magic, he broke the modified Avis charm and waited for the Ministry ward to screech in alarm. Nothing happened, and he shrugged, walking her back to the kitchen.

“The trout is yours. Happy retirement.”

She ripped into the fish enthusiastically, and he smiled. He would tell Potter tonight to just deliver messages in person. He seemed unable to stay away for long, anyhow.

“Don’t fall for the golden eagle out there,” he cautioned, leveling a finger at her. “He’s a-“

Her head snapped around, and he yipped and clutched his hand.

“There she is,” he muttered, inspecting the bite mark.

——————————

“Malfoy,” Harry demanded, poking his head around the corner of the hall to his bedroom. “Am I your date?”

He hummed, thinking. “Yes and no.”

Circe’s snatch, Potter took a surprisingly long time to get dressed for someone who usually looked like he threw himself into a Muggle clothes dryer and just wore whatever stuck to him.

Potter’s apartment was the most boring space he’d quite possibly ever chosen to grace with his presence. Clean. And surprisingly tidy. But pathologically boring. No art, no pictures, not even any real color. If a Dementor became an interior decorator, this would be how it would finish a space, Draco thought.

It appeared Potter had settled on a deep red shirt and gold tie. Once a Gryffindor, always a Gryffindor, Malfoy mused, before frowning at his own black on black ensemble. Habits, he shrugged.

Harry’s stack of men’s fitness magazines was…something. If this is what Muggle men looked like beneath their clothes, no wonder Granger had decided to play the field. Turning the page, there was an exquisite one literally sprawled on a playing field. Fancy that.

“Well, which is it? Yes or no?” Harry asked, rummaging through a drawer for Merlin knew what. Definitely not a comb.

He’d been letting his hair grow out, probably per Granger’s request, and it was getting back to its old rambunctious ways. Draco secretly suspected Granger had made the request out of a desire to see someone else’s hair more unruly than her own.

“It’s both. The term bedmate is used in non-wizard circles. It applies to anyone you’re romantically or sexually linked to. But mostly, you’re my transportation.”

Draco turned a page to find a full-page picture of two shirtless men hugging, along with an article on how to ask women on dates. Oh, Muggles. “But the term does not denote a direct link.”

Harry turned off the bedroom light, exiting with a tie draped around his neck. “So, will they assume you and I are dating, or will they somehow know we’re not?”

“They may indeed assume we are fucking, Potter,” Draco said resolutely. “And I warned you about the insults as friendly banter. So don’t turn red and tell them to fuck off if they suggest you like sucking my cock or something of that nature.”

Lo and behold, an article on how to suck cock. For the woman in your life, the magazine touted. And it wasn’t even good advice, he judged, frowning. He looked up to tell Harry his reading materials were sorely lacking, but Potter was staring at him, slowly turning crimson.

“Did you strangle yourself with that tie, Potter?” Draco joked, setting the magazine back in the pile. It would be a mercy to toss the lot of them in the bin.

“What… what am I supposed to say to that?” Harry squeaked. “Am I supposed to just tell them they’re ugly?”

Draco sighed, standing from the table. Bringing his pet Auror with him meant he didn’t have to fly hundreds of miles each way, but Potter wasn’t going to make this easy. It was a pity the Goblins wouldn’t have tolerated Potter standing in a corner in his robes looking like a bodyguard. They had little respect or tolerance for the Ministry.

Draco stepped up in front of Potter, who was slowly fading back to his normal light tan with faint olive undertones. It had been an heroic blush, Draco thought, reaching up to Potter’s tie. He’d only ever seen the other man in a half-Windsor through school, and assumed it was the only knot he knew.

“You can call them perverts and deviants and lecherous leeches and any manner of insults at their intrusive questions,” he said, tucking the tie under Potter’s collar. “You can insinuate that they’re ugly, but only if you’re any good at it, which I suspect you are not.”

Luckily, Potter had chosen an overly long, thin tie. Adjusting the wide side of the tie to the correct length, Draco went to work weaving the narrow end up and through repeatedly, brow knit in concentration.

Focusing on the complicated knot, he tried to ignore the line of Potter’s body so close to his. The soft puff of Potter’s breath and warmth radiating from his chest was a touch too tantalizing. He sighed, remembering why he was tying this knot. Harry Potter and his obstinate disinterest.

“There,” he said, stepping back to survey his work. “That will help immensely.”

Harry felt the tie and frowned in confusion. “How is a rather large tie knot going to help me?” He looked down at the overlapping triangular knot.

“It’s a trinity knot,” Draco huffed, fully aware he was going to be called a ponce yet again. “It’s actually used to denote a mènage à trois. They will likely assume there’s a woman between us.”

It wouldn’t be wise, he thought, to tell him the Goblins may actually think they had a third man between them. Potter turned, and Draco waited for the insult, punctuating it with a flick of his finger.

“Ever the ponce,” he joked, a little relieved. “Useful ponce, though. Thank you.”

“If you’re ready then, my jailor,” Draco said wryly. Foreboding tickled through him, and he hesitated.

“Yup, let’s. I need to find out what a koboldozer is,” Harry said eagerly.

He slid an arm around Draco, and they Apparated out with a soft pop.

——————————

Harry was going to burn to death in the middle of the Goblin Gala. He was sure.

Everything was smoldering, and Malfoy had left him alone at the squat table to sweat it out. He tried to bend his knees, but they hit the underside, and he settled into crossing his ankles in the small space below the chair.

Anything to distract from the distinct impression of being on the verge of combustion.

The Gringotts lobby reeked of acrid molten gold thanks to an enchanted fountain. As much as he wanted to dip something to keep as a souvenir, as others were doing; he very much wanted to keep his fingers. He also wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t get shoved into the bubbling smelting pot.

Which led to the next thing that was burning; his ears. Malfoy had been very explicit in his instructions to not look down to speak to Goblins, and it was killing his curiosity. He kept hearing the words “Auror” and “Ministry” and “Potter” and none of them were in a favorable light. Not that the Goblins were known for their praise, but he got the distinct impression his presence wasn’t appreciated.

Which, in turn, led to yet another blistering body part, his throat, as he’d managed to steadily consume both of their koboldozers. Malfoy had taken a sniff of his, hacked inelegantly through his nose, mumbled something derogatory about juniper, and handed his glass to Harry.

The wall of bank teller kiosks had been turned into a bar, but operated with normal business efficiency. They had been required to submit magical and written signatures for their drinks, and Malfoy had signed a waiver on both their behalves. Either the Goblins were fanatical about forms, or their concoctions were to be feared.

So, Harry had been sitting alone at the low table, the shortest in the room, by Malfoy’s choice, sipping at the strange drinks. They shone like oil slicks in the wavering lantern light. In steadier light, they were an inky dark blue with sifting golden sparkles.

The liquid of the drink wasn’t bad, Harry thought. An odd mix of flavors. Gin and citrus on the tongue, but something oily and gamy in the back of the mouth. As long as he kept sipping, it was pleasant enough. The sparkles gave him pause, and he made a game of letting them settle between each sip.

Each glass currently had an inch or so of concentrated golden-cobalt liquid left, and he was officially bored. And hot. And conspicuously overdressed.

He considered at least losing his tie. Malfoy hadn’t worn one. Nobody else had a damned tie on. Hell, several Goblins were shirtless. But the significance of the knot Malfoy had tied made him wary of removing it.

He looked up from swirling the bottom of a drink when a gruff voice addressed him.

“Best finish those, Auror,” a Goblin with red hair commanded. “Or you’ll end up like him.”

The Goblin pointed a gnarled finger across the room where a very naked, very male Goblin was giving a speech on top of a table. He was drawing quite a crowd, Harry noticed.

“Oh, here we go,” the Goblin said, as the naked orator produced an ornate golden chalice. “I’m Burgock, by the way.”

Harry shook the proffered hand, grateful someone was talking to him at all. Embarrassed, he noted how sweaty his hand was compared to the coolness of the Goblin’s palm.

They must be immune to heat, he thought, looking around. But no, half the Goblins were in various states of undress.

“Uhm, your mother is a…” Harry trailed off, forgetting what Malfoy told him was a proper introductory insult.

“Ah,” Burgock dismissed. “You don’t have to. I’m not one to count it against wizards for speaking like wizards.”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Harry sighed. Maybe the Goblins didn’t speak secret wizard tie language, either. He went to work loosening the knot and slipped the tie over his head.

The Goblin orator was still making a speech, most of the room hushing to listen. Harry could make out some syllables, but they didn’t make sense. Come to think of it, he hadn’t really heard any snippets of conversation that he’d understood well.

“I have something for Draco, if you’d care to call him over,” the Goblin directed. “I’d rather not brandish it in front of everyone.”

What was he giving Malfoy that he needed privacy for? Especially in a room of half-naked party-goers?

Harry looked at the Goblin warily, then quickly averted his eyes. He’d gotten a thorough lecture about Goblin etiquette earlier.

Burdock shook his head in dismissal. “It’s gold. It will attract attention.”

Looking around the room, he didn’t immediately find Malfoy, which was surprising. He was the tallest person by several feet.

The naked Goblin on the table was chanting something that was definitely in a different language. Several others joined him in the chant.

He spotted Malfoy, who appeared to be talking to a potted tree, but was actually speaking with the Goblin standing in front of the pot. The Goblin was entirely naked, and Malfoy didn’t seem to notice. His black shirt was still buttoned, in stark deference to Harry’s half-undone, sweat-stained shirt. Maybe this side of the room was hotter?

Harry waved timidly, trying to catch Malfoy’s attention, but not that of the remaining Goblins who weren’t chanting. The Goblin on the table silenced the crowd and held his golden chalice above his head.

“Libidentia!” He yelled, pausing for a response from the crowd.

“Libidentia!” Goblins hollered back from scattered corners of the room, mostly the scantily-clad ones.

The Goblin shook his head in disapproval and tried again.

“LIBIDENTIA!” he challenged, saluting with the chalice.

The entire crowd joined in this time, including Malfoy, who paused from his conversation to turn and yell, hands cupped around his mouth, “Libidentia!“

Turning back to the Goblin, and the tree, Malfoy noticed Harry’s waving hand and held up a finger in delay. Harry dropped his arm and pouted. And then questioned why Malfoy’s reaction made him sulk. Aurors don’t sulk.

The Goblin on the table levitated the chalice into the arched ceiling, letting it hover. Tendrils of gently looping white vapor cascaded from it, slowly forming a hazy cloud.

Burgock interrupted his little mope. “If you finish those drinks quickly, you might still leave with some dignity, Potter.”

Harry shrugged him off, swirling a glass to watch the sparkles, not sure how drinking more would be helpful. Whatever was in a koboldozer wasn’t particularly strong, anyway. He was nowhere near drunk.

Sighing impatiently, he caught a whiff of teakwood. Harry looked up, expecting to see a tall black silhouette next to the table, but no one was there. In fact, Malfoy was still across the room, now talking to a different Goblin. The naked one appeared to be wandering off to join a group of other nude Goblins around the smelting fountain.

Malfoy looked up mid-conversation and caught Harry’s impatient scowl. His gaze examined Harry’s sweat-soaked, unbuttoned shirt, flushed cheeks, and came to rest on the sparkling bit of liquid swirling in Harry’s glass.

Eyes suddenly widening in alarm, Malfoy excused himself with a gracious nod.

He turned and stalked toward Harry like a dark siren, gaze hot and lurid. His steps and hips moved in perfect time with the faint beat of music starting up in the corner of the room. Trim black trousers did little to hide a bulge growing in time with Harry’s. Long legs strode through the crowd, and Harry’s breath shuddered as Falk’s memory of Malfoy straddling him surfaced.

His vision of the room faded, replaced by the recollection of pale thighs over his, fingers disappearing into Malfoy, thrusting hips, hard cock sliding through Falk’s hand. He swallowed thickly, vaguely aware he was making a faint mewling noise, as he imagined Malfoy’s tongue sliding between Falk’s fingers, gaze intense.

Cool skin slid over his own hand, and he yelped, room coming back in to focus. Furious grey eyes scrutinized him, scowling.

“Potter, you unmitigated fucking disaster,” Malfoy hissed. “Finish the drinks, then we need to leave.”

Malfoy’s fingertips suddenly withdrew from the pulse in Harry’s wrist, and he blinked rapidly. He wanted that touch back. And more. A lot more. Need burned down his chest and coiled low and tight.

“I can… I…” He wanted to say he was fine, and they didn’t need to leave. But all the words on the tip of his tongue felt suspiciously like begging.

“Ministry’s finest,” Burgock snorted, setting a small, white cardboard box and a business envelope on the table.

Malfoy dumped the contents of the glasses together and shoved the cup at Harry none too politely. Harry took it grudgingly, eyeing the box and envelope. It looked like a small bakery box.

“How long till the stabilizer hits him, Burgock?” Malfoy inquired, watching intently as Harry downed the rest of the koboldozers.

Harry shuddered. The bottom of the glass came into view, oddly clean. None of the bitter, gritty remnants stuck to the inside.

“An hour, maybe? But he did drink two of them, so maybe longer,” Burgock estimated. “Or maybe it’ll just be worse. Hope you don’t need to sit comfortably tomorrow, Blackblood.” Burgock grinned lasciviously.

“Your penetrating wit fails to compensate,” Malfoy fired back. “What do you have for me?”

Their conversation faded out as Harry tried to ignore the throbbing need in his pants. And his throat. And his hands. And his lips.

Merlin, his own lips were so soft. Rubbing them together was nothing short of an orgasmic experience. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, scraping it against his top teeth and releasing it, feeling it swell slightly in response. It was just shy of too good.

Gods, did Malfoy know how soft Harry’s lips were? Malfoy should know, Harry thought. He would like that. Malfoy loved soft things. Malfoy should get to feel his lips.

“Potter,” Malfoy barked sharply, startling his eyes open. Malfoy was glaring at him over a piece of paper. “Keep your eyes open.”

Malfoy’s scowl shifted to resignation as he folded the paper and slid it back in the envelope. Harry watched his fingers with rapt fascination. They were such pretty fingers.

“It’s our standard weekly Curse Breaker consultation fee, retroactively applied to the six months they’d been working on the charms,” Burgock huffed, rolling his eyes at Malfoy. “Plus a hazard prevention bonus. We’d already sent three assistants to St. Mungo’s.”

It had definitely gotten hotter, Harry surmised. Malfoy had even undone the first two buttons on his shirt. He wished he’d have kept his eyes open to watch Malfoy’s fingers pop those slick black buttons through the tight buttonholes. He chewed his lower lip as his own fingers found the buttons on his cuffs.

“That’s very generous,” Malfoy replied cooly. “But please reiterate to your husband that I’m not actually on his payroll.”

“Yet,” Burgock stated with a wink, sliding the box in front of Malfoy.

Sweat trickled down Harry’s back, and he shuddered as it trailed down his ass. Glancing around, he saw that the Goblins were all in various states of undress, and most were dancing. Malfoy, sitting calmly and fully-clothed, stood out even more now than when he’d loomed above the crowd.

“Potter,” Malfoy snapped again. “Circe’s slit, man, keep your trousers on, at least.”

“I… I want…” Harry stammered, not really sure how he was going to finish the sentence, or if he could.

He hadn’t noticed his hands were on the button of his trousers till Malfoy chastised him. And where was his shirt? And why was he still so fucking hot?

“I know, just… five minutes, and we’ll go home,” Malfoy replied, a thread of pity in his tone. “What’s in the box, Burgock?”

Harry groaned softly in interest, glad the music had gotten loud enough to drown him out. Malfoy was going to take him home, and that sounded amazing. Whose home? Hopefully Malfoy’s.

His shoulders swayed slightly with the music, giving his body something to do while he waited. He could be patient. Especially if it meant going home with Malfoy.

A faint content hum rose from him as he remembered a glimpse of Malfoy’s bed and all the pillows, and the big fluffy comforter, and the innate knowledge they would all be just exquisitely soft, because they were Malfoy’s. And they would all smell like him. And Godric, he could smell him right now from across the table.

Burgock had been watching Harry's disrobing with an open snigger. His gaze was glued to the rather impressive tent in Harry's trousers, but Harry didn't feel the need to care about it.

“Just something I found in Narcissa’s vault. It’s not much compared to what your Auror has wrapped up for you here,” the Goblin leered. “Go on and guess.”

Malfoy huffed in annoyance and tossed the box back and forth between his hands a few times. Something solid thunked against the cardboard with each catch. Harry watched Malfoy’s hands intently, vaguely jealous of the bakery box.

“Cupcake!” Harry shouted, startling himself.

Malfoy and Burgock slowly turned to examine him, and Harry was suddenly aware of his hands on his bare nipples. When had they done that?

“Pardon?” Malfoy invited, shooting an incredulous look at Burgock, who shrugged.

“I…” Harry started, losing focus in Malfoy’s withering gaze. Malfoy turned back to Burdock, shaking his head at Harry’s verbal inability.

”I-think-it’s-a-cupcake.” Harry blurted in one long strand of syllables.

Absolute peals of laughter cascaded from the Goblin as Malfoy fought to keep an austere mask in place. Embarrassment failed to tamp down his arousal, and Harry squirmed under Malfoy’s attention. Grey eyes softened by humor poured over him, brow creasing slightly in thought. Harry didn't mind. In fact, having Malfoy look at him felt good.

Malfoy turned back to Burgock and Harry pouted a bit. The room was still hot as fuck, his pants were entirely too tight, and gods, his body needed to move. But he could wait five minutes.

“An Urgruff counterfeit egg,” Malfoy stated, expression challenging the Goblin. “But you wouldn’t insult me to that degree.”

Burgock sputtered, flabbergasted, and replied, “That was my first impression, as well. A rather good one, too. But no, it was made by a Black. And so, as is our custom, it is yours.”

Harry watched Malfoy’s nimble fingers flick the box open, and his own breath hissed in as Malfoy slid his hand in the box to cup something. Fuck, he wanted Malfoy’s hand to cup him like that. But harder.

Harry’s hand had drifted to his lips, but he didn’t notice till his teeth dug into the sides of his knuckle. He must have made a noise, because Malfoy looked up from inspecting a large gold egg to brandish a finger, shushing him.

It was a nice finger, Harry thought, shoulders catching the beat of the music again. It probably tasted nice, he imagined, leaning his head back, letting it sway. Maybe he’d get to taste it when they got home. Taste it, and lick it, and beg Malfoy to shove it up his-

”Potter, open your thrice-damned eyes and get your hand out of your pants.”

Harry’s eyes snapped open again, focusing on Malfoy’s scolding glare.

“No.” Harry said definitively. If Malfoy wasn’t going to touch him, then by Godric, he was going to do it himself. Nearly the whole room was naked and in various states of open shenanigans. Why should he have to hold himself to Malfoy’s standards?

Malfoy’s eyebrows rose in challenge, and Harry bit his lip in expectation. Heat pooled in his groin at Malfoy’s anger.

“Thank you, Burgock. I know exactly what it is,” Malfoy said, lips pursed, turning the egg in his fingertips. “And your timing is impeccable.”

Burgock turned and left with a grunt, looking reluctant. Harry scowled and flipped the Goblin off. He grinned and returned the gesture.

“If you’re done flirting with him, Apparate us to the Burrow, Auror Potter,” Malfoy instructed, standing and stuffing the egg in a trouser pocket.

Harry’s eyes slid down the other man’s body, lingering on his groin, admiring Malfoy’s ability to have a coherent conversation with what appeared to be a full erection. But then he hadn’t drank the koboldozers.

“Wait. What?” Harry stammered. “The Burrow?”

“Yes, the Burrow,” Malfoy responded, pulling Harry to standing and entwining his cool, clothed arm with Harry’s naked sweaty one. “I need to drop something off, and then we’ll go home.”

“Oh,” Harry said dumbly, entirely distracted by the muscles in Malfoy’s arm.

“Are you okay to Apparate?” Malfoy inquired, squinting at him. “Once splinched, twice shy.”

“I…” he stammered, torn between honesty about his current state and curiosity as to Malfoy’s splinching. “I’ll side-along. You Apparate.”

Malfoy’s mouth pinched in worry. “Can I do that? I don’t need the balding Weasel brother reporting to the Ministry that I’ve broken parole.”

Harry very much wanted to hug Malfoy. He looked scared and needed hugs. Long hugs. Malfoy would like long hugs even more with his shirt off.

Harry’s fingers were stuck, and Malfoy was glaring at him. His fingers were stuck in Malfoy’s hands?

“Potter, stop unbuttoning my shirt,” he admonished. “I’ll side-along you if you promise I won’t get thrown back in Azkaban for it.”

“Promise,” he whispered, slowly pulling Malfoy’s hand to his face. “As long as our signatures are recorded together, they won’t know the difference.”

Malfoy’s fingertips were very soft on his lips. And they did taste good against his tongue. Slightly salty and vaguely metallic, but very enjoyable.

The barely-there ridges of fingerprints tempted his tongue, and he slid them deeper, pinning them against the roof of his mouth. His tongue pressed harder against them, and sucked against the delicate ridges and whorls on the pads of his fingers.

Harry looked up to compliment Malfoy, but found him rather stunned. His other hand had slicked his blond hair back from his face, and his conflicted expression surprised Harry. His lips were parted in invitation, but his forehead creased in worry.

Harry didn’t feel conflicted in the slightest. Touching Malfoy felt wonderful. Touching Malfoy’s lips would feel even better.

Malfoy snatched Harry’s hand out of the air before he could trace those lips. His hand around Harry’s wrist felt just as good as his lips would have, and it had pulled them closer.

He could just feel Malfoy’s lips with his own lips, then. That was better, anyhow, he thought, leaning forward.

“Fucking hell, Potter,” Malfoy cursed, letting him go and sliding his arm through Harry’s.

With a lurch and a crack, they were standing outside the Burrow in the dark.

——————————

Hermione couldn’t sleep. Her bed wasn’t big, but it felt too big. Every time she rolled over, there was…nothing… no one. The vellum-bound primer sat on her nightstand.

Without thinking, she opened a random page, holding it up to the light filtering in from the street outside:

That Are Witches Made Of

What are our potions made of?
What are our potions made of?
Frogs and snails and heliopath tails,
And that are our potions made of.

What are young witches made of?
What are young witches made of?
Sugar and spice, true love that cuts twice,
And that are young witches made of.

What are matriarchs made of?
What are matriarchs made of?
Tender years, their collective dried tears,
And that are matriarchs made of.

What are cunning crones made of?
What are cunning crones made of?
Customs and grace, and wars with the Fates,
And that are cunning crones made of.

Less nonsensical than other passages, she thought. She closed the book and rolled over, contemplating buying more pillows to snuggle up against.

————————————

“He’s got WHAT in him?!” Molly hissed, snapping her head back around from watching Ron escort Harry upstairs.

“Uhm… Two glasses of Goblin-strength aphrodisiac, minus the stabilizers, and lungs full of a lust potion,” Draco admitted, staring at his feet.

“HOW??” Molly demanded, cocking her head to listen to Harry yell something at Ron upstairs.

“Uhm, I…” Draco stammered, thoroughly cowed. “I left him alone with both our koboldozers.”

“For Godric’s sake,” Molly swore. “Bill and Fleur split a single one, and I got a granddaughter out of it.”

Not a bad deal, in her opinion. But it was the reason she’d immediately shot down Ron’s idea of taking Harry to Hermione’s flat. Some solutions just lead to more complications.

And she had suddenly learned entirely too much about her son and Harry and Draco’s sex lives from a rambling Harry. Ron had herded him upstairs after that. A sit-down with Hermione was on her to-do list now.

“Right…” Draco continued. “So, he got bored and swirled the stabilizer to the bottom and only drank the aphrodisiac. But…double.”

Molly glared at him, not appreciating being awoken at midnight to take care of a grown man who’d done childish things.

“And then they lit the Libidentia…” Malfoy waited for her to scream at him. “And… long story short, I would really appreciate it if he stayed under an Anti-Apparition Charm tonight. Here. Away from me. Please.”

“Oh,” she exhaled, comprehension dawning. “Oh, no. I may just sedate him. I think he can break our wards.”

Draco nodded slowly, grateful Molly understood. He really didn’t need a naked and deliciously needy Potter showing up banging on his door tonight.

“Wait in the kitchen, Draco. And help yourself. I’m going to nip this in the bud.”

Awkwardly, he stepped inside and made his way to the kitchen to wait in the dark. For what, he had no idea. But the kitchen smelled like cake, and the chair by the fireplace was comfortable.

A series of thuds and scuffles resonated through the ceiling, and he heard Potter saying his name. Guilt kept him from relaxing into the tufted seat.

He’d read the waiver when he signed the drinks out, which specified one drink per attendee, and cautioned against letting the sparkling sediment settle.

It had never occurred to him that Potter would interpret holding his drink as a suggestion to consume it. Nor that Potter would practically overdose himself on straight carnal desire out of boredom.

Gods, the man really was a walking disaster, he thought with a soft smile.

And then they’d lit the Libidentia, which was commonplace to him. It had been a routine addition to the Hufflepuff and Slytherin common room parties. If any groups were to inundate themselves with the scent of who they lusted after, it was cuddle puddle-prone Hufflepuffs and sexually-adventurous Slytherins.

The potion had only ever smelled like sex to him. Sweat and bodily fluids. It did occasionally smell more masculine versus feminine on certain days. But he’d forgotten how strongly some people react to it. Potter was apparently one of them.

Rubbing his face in his hands, he suspected he knew who Potter had smelled, and was never, ever going to ask him. And he would never be bringing Potter to a Goblin party again. Unfortunately, Burgock had been thoroughly entertained, so he expected invitations.

Startled by sudden illumination, he sat up, watching Molly walk into the kitchen through rapidly-blinking eyes.

“Just lurking in the corner in the dark, hm?” Molly questioned.

He shrugged, not looking up, not eager to explain his magical restrictions yet again.

“Two charms and a potion, but he’s asleep. I’m rather impressed you got him here with his trousers still on,” she said off-handedly. “Noble of you.”

Watching her with a carefully blank face, he wasn’t sure if that was an insult or a compliment. Did she think he was likely to have his way with a decidedly uninterested but currently intoxicated Potter?

A tiny divot in the stone tile between his feet caught his eye. The center of it was black, and looked deep. He toed it with his shoe, eager to focus on anything else.

“Your mother did that,” she stated, flicking a kettle and tea into movement.

His gut dropped. He’d wanted to leave as soon as he’d gotten Potter in the house. Staying for tea and discussing his mother sounded like the absolute worst way to spend the wee hours of the morning.

He shrugged again, not knowing what kind of response she expected.

Molly pulled a kitchen chair over to the other side of the cold fireplace and sat, facing him.

“She was aiming for you when she did it,” she said rather matter-of-factly.

He looked up to read her expression, but was distracted by a sudden draft down the chimney. It smelled of rain. Cold rain. Great. He was stuck here till he could fly home.

The teapot and cups drifted over to settle on the knee-high hearth, clinking musically.

“Her aim improved,” he said candidly, but it landed with more bitterness than he’d intended.

Molly scowled and flicked her wand to light a fire, then back again to pour the tea.

“Did you know she sent an invitation to Ginny?” Molly asked softly, setting a teacup and saucer on the hearth next to his leg.

He racked his brain for what on earth she was talking about. She’d invited Ginny Weasley to Azkaban? The Manor? No…

His mouth dropped in horror. Why on earth would Narcissa have done that? Spite, he assumed. The woman had venom for blood.

“Gorgeous invitation,” Molly clipped, sipping tea through tight lips.

Either the fire was exceedingly hot, or he was on the verge of panicking. Exhaling slowly, he picked up the tea. What did she want from him? An apology for what Narcissa had done? An excuse?

This felt like a trap.

“Mrs. Weas-” he started, but caught her scowl. “Molly. I’m aware of what kind of person Narcissa Malfoy is. Keenly aware.”

Lightning flickered out the window behind him, and he slouched. He was going to be stuck here a while. Stuck in this chair. Stuck in this conversation.

She was a little taken aback by his frankness. If he’d tried to explain away his mother’s actions or rationalize them, she was prepared to argue with him in his own defense. But for him to summarize his assessment of her with such candor?

That was surprising. And heart-breaking. The boy didn’t even hold the illusion of having a mother anymore.

“I’d have killed her when I killed your aunt if I’d have known the Ministry would wave it off like they did,” she whispered.

Huh, he thought, hiding his shock behind his teacup. Molly Weasley, Matriarchal Mercenary. He mulled the possibilities as he rolled the tart scarlet tea in his mouth. It would have worked out rather well if she had, to be honest.

“At least she’s miserable now,” he said glibly, knowing better than to get lost in the mental death maze of lost potentialities.

“True,” Molly said firmly, with a flick of her wrist. “For life, correct?”

A plate of chocolate layer cake utterly smothered in ganache floated past his nose, and he didn’t bother suppressing an anticipatory shiver.

“Uhm,” he swallowed thickly, “maybe. Or released this year.”

He licked his lips, moderately concerned he was drooling, eyes not leaving the cake. It was the climax of everything cocoa, sugar, and butter strove to become. The zenith of baked goods.

"Buttercream can go fuck itself,” Draco whispered to himself as a slice laid itself on a plate and drifted toward him.

A fork drifted toward him from the counter, lagging behind and taking entirely too long. His finger swiped up a dab of chocolate and brought it to his mouth.

With a start, he realized he was sucking the same finger that had been in Potter’s mouth minutes ago. Auror spit did not detract from the…

“Hazelnuts?” he accused. “Hazelnut oil? Is nothing sacred in this house?”

Molly nodded, cracking a wide smile as he dug in. None of the family had noticed her heretical lipid substitutions. Let alone had appeared to appreciate them.

“How can she be facing a life sentence or being released next year?” Molly asked, confident he wasn’t going to bolt now. Again, she cursed Narcissa for making this child so skittish in the face of kindness.

“Depends,” he said, washing a bite down with the tart tea and a smack of lips, “on whether a Wizengamot committee decides my upbringing should be considered a criminal offense. Many criminal offenses. For both of them.”

“Hm,” she said, mentally shuffling through all the Wizengamot members she knew. “Who’s on this committee?”

“No idea,” Draco replied, dissecting the layers on his plate for optimal ganache to cake ratio. “They don’t exactly value my input.”

“Would you like a witness to testify?” Molly offered, giving him a moment to let the ramifications sink in.

Ministry obfuscation and backroom dealings were the main topic of conversation at so many Weasley family dinners anymore. But if she could put her knowledge and name to good use, it would be worth having endured the tedious gossip.

“Hm,” he puffed. “Never considered it. Relevant witnesses are all dead or in Azkaban, and Death Eaters. But yes. That would be… significant. Talk to Potter about it in the morning.”

Shaking her head softly in confusion, she faltered a bit. “Why would I tell Harry?”

Draco looked up from his plate, dubious. “Because he’s in charge of my case? And parole? And general existence?”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, flustered. “He doesn’t talk about work much.”

Draco shrugged, unsure of what Potter did talk about at Weasley dinners. Quidditch scores and bumble-fucking his coworkers, probably.

Scraping the last of the crumbs from his plate, he noticed the cake plate drifting back toward him. It rotated mid-air to offer him a second slice, but he shook his head in declination. There was such a thing as too much ganache.

The rain was letting up, but he eyed the window less eagerly than before. Molly’s undivided attention was intense, uncomfortable, but also benevolent and nebulously protective. Like he was being interrogated for his own benefit.

“I have a proposition for you, Draco,” she stated firmly.

Dread clenched around the cake in his stomach, but his expression was passive. Did it have to do with Ginny? Was that why she’d brought up the invitation? Merlin Almighty, he’d put his dick in a meat grinder before he’d put it in Ginevra Weasley.

He sighed and loaded a second piece of cake onto his plate. If he ate it slowly enough, it might sit well.

“I’m listening. With ample trepidation,” he warned, dissecting the second piece.

“I’ve maintained the Black family hearth rug down the Prewett line, and I’d like you to take it home,” she said carefully. “If you want. I understand the implications.”

Unbidden, the old rhyme came to his lips. ”Matting by a mother piled,
An offer, then, to raise the child.” His fork tapped idly against his plate to the cadence.

“Mm hm,“ she hummed softly, letting the offer hang in the air between them.

She knew it was a weighty proposal, and both an unorthodox but very traditional one. It had only taken her a decade to finally approach him about it.

Transferring the family’s hearth rug was generally reserved for orphan adoptions, but damned if this boy wasn’t alone in the world, and damned if it wasn’t slowly crushing her to watch him suffer because of it.

It took him three full bites of cake and a half-cup of tea to formulate a response.

“Tell me about the cut on the baby’s hand first,” he murmured, mulling the swarm of potential ramifications.

“I… I was Initiated by my grandfather. My parents never knew. And I Initiated my children and grandchildren,” she rambled, grateful to finally talk to someone about her family’s secret history with Blood Magic. “Audrey and Fleur know. But Arthur and my children don’t know. They’d be furious.”

Draco sat up, grinning. This was too rich, he thought. Esteemed Members of the Order of the Phoenix secretly Initiating their children in the Dark Arts while railing against it publicly. Creating the fucking laws that persecuted its practice. The hypocrisy was delicious.

“All successful?” Draco asked, especially curious about the part-Veela children. He’d always suspected the Pureblood requirement had never been true.

“Yes, so far as I can tell,” she responded proudly. “None of them have any training, but I didn’t want to have that door closed to them.”

“Huh,” he said, noncommittally. This meant Ron could pick up Blood Magic if he wanted to. And Ron would absolutely want to.

“Huh,” he repeated, an improbable giddiness rising. “I… I accept your offer. I’ll blast out a hearth. No, wait. Send Ron over with the rug and a knife, his knife, and I’ll have him blast out a hearth, and we'll bind it.”

Molly beamed at her offer being accepted. She’d wanted to shuffle this boy under her wings for over twenty years. Better late than never. And he seemed rather pleased about it.

“Merlin’s tits,” he swore, thinking more to himself. “If Ron knew some decent healing spells, he wouldn’t have needed me. And maybe wouldn’t have blown his leg off to begin with.”

“Fleur told me you were a rather sought-after Dark Arts professor,” Molly led, goading him a bit.

Nostalgia lanced through his chest, and he sighed. “Yeah. I guess I was. But that’s not exactly something to brag about here.”

“No,” she mused, swirling her cup. “But it’s a skill I’d value my son and perhaps grandchildren having.”

“Oh,” he sighed, giving in to the urge to lick his plate. “You are a devious one, Molly Weasley.”

Chapter Text

Ron smeared a fifth damn spider across his desk with today’s Prophet. Weird, but he was too tired to make sense of it.

He’d come in before dawn to finally extract the jewel out of that damned Horned Serpent. Five magizoology texts, a bottle of Firewhiskey, and a set of pure silver calipers, and it had come out intact.

The texts said the gem and the heart were important, so he’d boxed them up and handed them off to Seamus Finnigan over coffee. His cousin Fergus knew someone in Cork who had some Choctaw contacts. With any luck, the package would make it to the States for a proper send off. It wasn’t like he could sell them without raising suspicion.

“Mr. Weasley!” Jacinda’s shrewd voice echoed down the hall. “The WonderWitch section is overrun by spiders!”

“Arania Exumia,” he whispered, trailing his wand around the perimeter of the small room. A dozen brown and black spiders fled out into the hallway, followed by a shrill scream.

Hacking the damned beast to bits and feeding it to hatchlings had actually taken longer than removing the gem. But the pile of scales drying in the hatchery was worth it. And Ollivander’s had paid a fucking ransom for that horn. Enough to potentially buy up neighboring properties.

A rather tidy deal, if anyone asked. Nobody ever would. Hopefully.

“Jace, round up the older staff and have them circle the building with that charm. Tell the younger ones we’re working on a new spider illusion,” he instructed, shoving his way down the hall to the basement door.

“But all the customers-“ she started.

“Will expect a new spider illusion product. Which we can work on,” he assured. “I have to check on the stock downstairs.”

“Oh, right, then. That would sell well for Halloween,” she contemplated as he brushed past her and headed for the door at the end of the short hall.

Scowling, he surveyed the steady stream of spiders making their way up the walls of the stairwell.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered.

It couldn’t be, he thought, tucking his shirt in his trousers and his trousers into his socks. He’d only seen a spontaneous exodus of spiders once in his life.

The arachnid cavalcade seemed to be tapering off as he descended into the furnace-filled hatchery. The dozen oven-size metal drums all glowed steadily through their grates, and a quiet crunch alerted him to a soon-to-be hatchling.

Sighing, he leaned his forehead against the door at the bottom of the last staircase. There was only one thing known to cause a spider evacuation.

A fucking Basilisk. If someone had dumped him a dead Basilisk, would the spiders still evacuate? Doubtful.

He rolled his forehead against the cool metal of the rather ordinary-looking door. In theory, he could open the door a crack, slip his wand in, and just hit the whole room with the Killing Curse.

In reality, he couldn’t be absolutely sure there wasn’t a person in there without checking. And casting Unforgivable Curses within stone’s throw of Ministry headquarters seemed like a great way to get caught.

“Lumos Umbra,” he whispered, cracking the door and letting the light settle on the far side of the room. The counter-light spell would throw a helpful shadow in his direction.

Sharp lines cast by the long metal table reached toward him like skeletal fingers, but nothing moved. His eyes scanned the floor, starting at the doorway, carefully crossing and re-crossing the room.

Nothing moved on the floor, so if anything was alive in here, it was on the table.

“Stupefy. Petrificus Totalus,” he spat, flicking his wand toward the table, not sure if those even worked on Basilisks.

Something long cast an indistinct shadow on the table, thicker at one end than the other. Something green, and thankfully not moving.

Panic sweat soaked the armpits of his t-shirt, and he concentrated on steadying his wand as he walked to the table.

“Segmentum Esca,” he said with a wand flick, a hand’s length from what he thought was the head.

He flinched and closed his eyes as the shadow shifted with a wet plop. The head rolled free, he hoped, conflicted over using his mum’s kitchen spells for such nefarious purposes.

Slowly, so slowly, his eyes traveled from the narrow end of the length, not noting any movement, up to the bloody stump. Still not willing to look at even a decapitated Basilisk head, he shimmied out of his t-shirt and threw it over the end of the table with the head.

There was no note anywhere on the table. Nor was there anything tacked to the massive Floo. Odd. Even when his clientele didn’t identify themselves, they always left a note specifying the parts they wanted. He left those parts on the table, and they left money.

No contact. Except for fucking MACUSA, the tossers. They’d brought forms. In triplicate. Now he had a pseudonym. Which he’d already forgotten.

Gathering the shirt under the head, he hefted it in his hands. It was a decent-sized Basilisk. Nothing like the monster at Hogwarts, but no baby. The skull was at least as big as his own.

Could dead Basilisk eyes still kill and petrify? Were they valuable? Probably, he shrugged. He’d sure feel better harvesting the fangs without the eyes there.

Desperately wishing he hadn’t used the whole bottle of Firewhiskey on the Horned Serpent, he opened the drawer of the table to grope for a specific dull, cupped blade.

With a grimace and two sickening, squelching pops, he had a grotesque, sightless head, and a leather bag with two, he assumed, lethal yellow eyes. The bag sat on the table like some kind of absurd scrotal mockery.

“Stabit Putredi.” There, he thought. The head could wait till he was good and ready for an early morning of dental extraction. And another horn removal, he observed.

The Basilisk at Hogwarts hadn’t had horns. Shrugging, he wondered if Ollivander’s had any use for those. And if it was wise to inundate them with rare wand cores.

The headless body was at least twice as long as he was tall, the distant end curled back around on the table. Working quickly, he used his wand to begin dissecting it into chunks fit for hatchlings.

“Basilisk steaks,” he muttered to himself, mildly curious what they tasted like. Chicken, probably.

Not for the first time, he wondered what Hagrid would think of this room. Of him. He felt a certain kinship with the fellow bearded bachelor, but it wasn’t flattering. Was he becoming some macabre version of Hagrid? The Krampus to his St. Nicholas?

Nah, he thought, wrinkling his nose. Hagrid never got bouquets and toe-curling blowjobs from brilliant gorgeous witches. Probably. Oh, gods below, what if Hagrid did? Scowling in disgust, he purged that mental image quickly.

Out of the corner of his eye, a slight ripple in the scales of the underside caught the light.

“Lumos Duo,” he mumbled, holding his wand in his mouth and rolling the creature’s remaining length over.

Pale green scales rippled as forms writhed beneath them, and darkness swallowed the room when his wand clattered to the ground.

“Shit shit shit shit…”

Groping under the table with shaking hands, he recast the light spell and re-examined the specimen on the table. A small opening further down the belly was slowly dilating, and he froze, watching a leathery white orb press against the gap.

“Oh, fuck me,” he whispered, grabbing the remaining section by the tail and making a dead sprint for the stairs and the furnaces.

Fucking impossible, he thought, lungs heaving and legs pumping. Fucking biologically, magically, herpetologically impossible. Someone had sent him a female Basilisk with viable fucking eggs.

It was worth a thrice-damned fortune.

He paused, hand hesitating on the warm metal of the handle into the hatchery. This thing could make them one of the wealthiest families in Europe. There had to be a dozen eggs in there. Each worth a lifetime of work. King Weasley, indeed.

Shaking his head, he pulled the door open. No, he thought. Anyone who wanted to buy a Basilisk was exactly the kind of person who shouldn’t own one. These little bastards were too dangerous, no matter the profit.

Whether dragon hatchlings would eat this or if Basilisks were immune to fire, he had no idea. He might just end up with very hot Basilisks and a dead hatchling.

A pointed copper snout stuck out from a grate, and he quickly examined the new hatchling. A Peruvian Vipertooth? Charlie and George had some explaining to do with this one. But, if any dragon were capable of consuming Basilisks, it would be the most venomous one.

Judging by the little guy’s flared nostrils and flicking tongue, it was eager for a bite. He opened the side chute on the metal barrel and slid the tail in. A happy squawk responded, followed by enthusiastic rending of flesh.

The snout poked through the grate again, squeaking happily.

“Eat up, little ginger,” he sighed. “Plenty more where that came from.”

———————————

“I don’t really bake,” Hermione said timidly, unsure why Molly was writing out copies of recipes for her. “I mean, I can. I’ve only ever used Muggle appliances, though.”

“Oh, those should all work just fine in a Muggle kitchen,” Molly said, preening. “Heat is heat and food is food.”

Intensely uncomfortable, she shifted on the kitchen stool and watched Molly duplicate what looked to be a laborious recipe for chicken pot pie.

“Now, this one, I want you to give it to Draco first,” she instructed. “I don’t know what he did, but it turned out better than usual. Of the four of you, he’s certainly the kitchen witch.”

“Uhm,” she muttered, flush creeping up her chest. “The four of us?”

“Oh, yes, dear,” Molly replied, moving on to the next recipe. “Draco dropped off a rather… intoxicated and talkative Harry a few nights ago.”

Hermione’s tongue felt too large for her mouth as she tried to comprehend the situation. Molly knew. Not just that she was sleeping with Ron, but with all of them. And she was… alright with it?

“Oh, love, don’t give me that look.” Molly chided. “By the time I was your age, I’d had five babies.”

Distantly, Hermione wondered if she could actually choke on her own tongue out of embarrassment. All she’d wanted to do was bring Ron a bouquet. And sure, she’d been meaning to catch up with the rest of the Weasleys, but one-on-one girltalk with Molly hadn’t been on her agenda.

“Not that I think you should be,” Molly clarified, handing her a muffin recipe. The muffin recipe, Hermione noted. “Just that I understand the… urge.”

Oh, gods below, take me now, Hermione thought. Molly was the last person she wanted to talk about her urges with. Though, come to think of it, there hadn’t been any women she had ever talked to about it.

Her mum had never bothered to discuss it. It hadn’t been a topic of conversation in school. Or uni. And she hadn’t had many close female friends in… ever. Hmm.

Everything she knew about her own body she’d learned from reading. And the Internet, for good or for bad. But none of that had dealt with witches.

“Is it…” Hermione forced the words out, “different for witches versus Muggles?”

Molly paused in the middle of a chocolate cake recipe that looked to have an obscene number of steps. She thought, tapping the soft feather tip of the quill against her chin.

“You know, dear, I’m not sure,” she admitted. “When Muggle women don’t scratch the itch, do they run a fever?”

“No,” she said resolutely. “They don’t. But neither have I.”

Thinking back, she tried to remember the last time she’d had a dry spell, and it had been… a very long time.

“Well, maybe you’ve just done a good job keeping on top of it,” Molly offered, finally closing her recipe book and slipping it back onto a shelf.

“Now,” she said, standing in front of Hermione. “The awkward bit.”

Hermione gulped. This would be the part where Molly told her to stop sleeping with Harry and Malfoy and marry Ron and move into this house and spit out little Weasleys.

“Since your parents are Muggles. Muggles on the other side of the world,” she added for emphasis. “And you and all three of your beaus we consider family already, if the four of you, or two of you, or three of you, or any of you, were to… add to the family tree, we would consider that little one family, as well.”

Slack-jawed, she stared up at Molly’s earnest face, struggling to breathe.

“I’m not- I-” Hermione stammered. “Law school.”

“Oh, I know. Just know, no matter what,” Molly whispered, cupping Hermione’s cheeks. “You’ll never be alone, darling.”

Not sure if she wanted to laugh or cry, Hermione nodded dumbly. Molly kissed her forehead, lingering a moment, and Hermione’s breath shuddered in.

That was one thing she never gotten back with her parents. Affection. She knew them as fellow adults, and their relationship was a warm one. But they were more like beloved older neighbors. They didn’t remember Sunday mornings in bed. Or sick days snuggled up under a blanket.

With a sniff, she realized Molly remembered her as a child more than her own parents, and her throat tightened, suppressing a pitiful whine. Molly’s thumbs wiped under Hermione’s eyes gently and kissed the top of her head before standing.

“Let me know when you want to talk or have questions, alright?” Molly bid.

She nodded, tears pooling against her lower lids. It was a lot to take in, and she was grateful Molly had turned to start cooking something. Judging by the ingredients and pot floating through the air, it would be soup.

You’ll never be alone. Merlin, she realized with quiet despair, she’d been so alone for so long. Her parents and their relearned memories were superficial. Their dinners together felt like rehearsals of long-ago plays. All of her relationships in Perth had been equally one-dimensional.

Maybe that was why it felt like she’d fallen headlong into this arrangement. It was wonderful and terrifying and claustrophobic in the best way, and it was the opposite of what she’d had ever since she’d left.

Maybe, knowing she wouldn’t end up alone again, she could just… fall.

————————————

The auburn-haired boy was older than the Weasley child, so it was definitely the dream. The likeness was uncanny, Draco thought as the boy led him down the path.

The girl with the black curls skipped behind them, scuffs of dust puffing up behind her. Merlin, she was adorable. And happy. The boy was grinning like a little madman, as well. It was contagious, and he felt himself smiling as he let the boy pull him by the hand toward the beach.

He knew this beach well. It was in a cove next to his home, just outside the wards. It was one of his favorite places to lay and listen to the waves on a sunny day. Oddly, he realized, he could hear the waves, and the wind, and even the gulls overhead.

But he couldn’t hear the two children. They were talking excitedly to each other, and to him, but their lips moved soundlessly. There was something he needed to do for them to speak. Something he needed to say to them, but it fled from him.

They’d reached the water, and both kids splashed around barefoot. The boy found a shell, and was using it to dig a hole in the sand. The girl was picking up rocks and collecting them in the skirt of her dress.

Shockingly cold water lapped at his ankles, and he relaxed, closing his eyes in the sunshine. A tug on his hand brought him back. The boy was pointing at something out on the water. The girl had stopped to watch.

Two round black shapes were floating toward them on the water, growing as they approached. No, not growing, rising. It should have felt ominous, but both children were excited, and he felt himself walk forward.

The water was up to his knees when their foreheads broke the surface, and he gasped. Wide, blinking black eyes followed, and they looked at each other, snorting out sea water as they grinned.

He walked forward, nearly within reach of them. They should be shivering and blue, he thought. But they were pink-cheeked and eager to come to him, little bodies churning against the weight of the water as they walked.

Crouching down in the icy water, he hissed in a breath as it soaked him up to his chest. They were eye-level with him now, and he waited impatiently.

A rock thunked into the water to his right, and the child in front of him stuck out its tongue at the auburn-haired boy, who returned the gesture. The other child lifted an arm from the water to wave excitedly to the black-haired girl, who was waving, knees alternating a shimmied dance.

He reached out both hands, and they each took his fingers, grinning as he pulled them through the water. Each settled on a knee, beaming up at him. His hands splayed on their backs, steading against their slick skin.

Merlin, they were perfect. Closer up, their hair was actually dark brown, their irises black with fine gray webbing. Wiggling impatiently, they both tried to stand on his thighs, and he scooped them up onto his hips. The warmth of their little bodies against his drenched clothes felt right.

Dragging himself through the water, he deposited them on the beach. A boy and a girl, he observed. Something about them emerging from the water nude seemed appropriate. Mythical.

The two girls talked animatedly and examined the rocks in the black-haired girl’s skirt. The auburn-haired boy was showing off the hole he’d dug to the other boy.

They’d known, he realized with a start. They’d brought him down here to get them. To get their… siblings?

“Oh…fuck.”

——————————

“I’ve got it. Honest,” Ron insisted, hoping the damn Goblins would stop offering to escort him home.

Persistent little bastards. One of them, a red-haired wanker, told him he smelled of ill-begotten trophies, which Ron thought was an odd way of telling a bloke he reeked of dead Basilisk, but whatever.

They’d been their usual hostile, sharp-toothed selves until he’d told them he was there to get the Black hearth rug out of the Prewett vault. After that, they’d practically tripped over each other to ingratiate themselves. Name dropping, he huffed. Not just for Pureblood supremacists, apparently.

Wheedling the rolled up rug upright inside the Floo, he threw the powder and declared his destination.

With a lurch, the green flames died down, and the brick of the Burrow fireplace came into focus. Minding his head, Ron stepped out and turned around.

The rolled-up rug was standing upright inside the fireplace, several feet taller than the hearth’s opening.

“Hm,” he hummed to himself, not really sure how the hell he was going to get that out.

“Back up a step, Ron,” came Hermione’s voice, and he turned, startled, but did as he was told.

“Reducio,” she said with a flick, shrinking the rug down to half its size.

With an appreciative grunt, Ron retrieved the hip-height roll and laid it on the floor. “Engorgio.”

“Thanks, ‘Mione,” he mumbled, wrapping his arms around her shoulders from behind her stool.

His face nuzzled into her hair, and she looked up at him. He rewarded her with a chaste peck on the forehead and turned to greet Molly.

“Mission accomplished, Mum,” he declared. “I’ll deliver it in a bit, after a shower.”

Dropping his chin back down to her hair, he muttered, “Alone, this time, greedy witch.”

Grinning, she hugged his arms around her before letting him release her shoulders.

———————————

”Putain de bordel de merde,” he hissed into the pillow for the sixth time. It hadn’t helped the first five times.

All of his other dreams that Magnus insisted were prophetic and reasons he was a Seer and a bunch of other asinine shit, those had all been very forthright.

Dreams of Durmstrang on fire? Durmstrang burned down.

Dreams of putain de paper cranes and apples. Fucking paper cranes and apples.

Dreams of falling off a cliff and not dying? Fell off a cliff and turned into a damn bird.

Dreams of Azkaban? Fucking Azkaban.

But pulling naked kids out of the sea? That just made him scared to go down to the beach.

Those children were Rusalkas. But why? And how? And what the fuck did it mean?

“Fuuuuuck…” Draco groaned into the hapless pillow. It really didn’t deserve his verbal abuse.

Why would he dream of Rusalka children? Of all damn things.

Ugh, and they looked like Magnus’s baby pictures, he thought with a groan. Especially the boy. How many times had he sketched that cherubic little face when Magnus wasn’t looking?

Sitting up, he fluffed the pillows behind him and reached to grab the large, flat pearl from its shell. It had become his touchstone lately, he thought, running it across his bottom lip. As always, it was cold to the touch, but warmed quickly. Ridges and pits in the nacre distracted him from his racing thoughts for a moment.

It was the one thing they’d disagreed on. The one big thing. Magnus wasn’t interested in raising children. Not his, not Draco’s, not anyone’s. Something about it being counterintuitive to Rusalkas, which Draco didn’t agree with at all. He’d thought Magnus would have been a good father.

Holding the pearl in his lap, he ran the stub of his thumbnail over it, noting the spots where it caught and diverted along creases in the enamel.

A family, or even a potential family, with Magnus would have been the one thing that could have made him surrender to the ICW. In retrospect, he would have gotten a slap on the wrist and returned to his life. And Magnus.

Instead, he’d gone along with his parents’ plans to evade the Ministry. That had worked out just great. He still didn’t want to know how many people had died in that fucking raid.

“Loyal to a fault,” he muttered, holding the pearl to his lips, like it could keep a secret.

But it hadn’t been much of a secret. His divided loyalty between Magnus and Narcissa had caused the raid. And his loyalty to his parents had landed him where he was now.

Alone in a mineshaft, still dreaming of Rusalka children Magnus had never wanted.

Maybe that’s what the dream was about? Maybe Magnus had changed his mind?

Weasley had said he was in the UK. Ballycastle. Maybe he’d come here for a reason? Maybe Draco was that reason?

“Fuck.”

———————

Ron’s shriek of terror echoed down the stairs, and Hermione… giggled.

“You’re a pervert, you know,” Ron spat half-heartedly to the witch lingering in his bedroom doorway.

“And you make the best noises when you’re startled,” she said, shutting the door behind her.

She would forever treasure the memory of him screaming and clutching a shirt to his chest for cover while his bottom half was still on full display.

“I brought you something,” she said, holding out a tastefully simple bouquet. It felt a little like submitting a project for a grade, she thought.

His face lit up as he pulled trousers on. Ferns, borage, and tarragon made an unattractive, leafy wad of plants, but they did smell nice. And he huffed a laugh at the borage. Stubbornness, she had in spades.

“What did your book say tarragon meant, ‘Mione?” Ron asked cautiously, not wanting to over-read another bouquet.

“Something like ‘lasting interest’,” she summarized doubtfully. “Was it wrong again?”

“No, no,” he replied, trying to hide his surprise. “Just double-checking. Bit of a departure from sex calendars and whatnot, is all.”

It was her turn to hide her embarrassment. But why should she be ashamed of wanting him? Of wanting them?

“Ron, I have no idea what I’m doing.” She sighed heavily. “What we’re doing. All four of us. But I know I like it. And I want it to work.” She slumped against the closed door.

He nodded in agreement. He and Harry had come to the same conclusion. Whatever the fuck this was, it was a far sight better than what they’d had. Ron was a little wary of Harry and Malfoy falling out, but maybe that could be avoided.

“Yeah, we’re on the same page,” he concurred. “Or Harry and I, at least. No idea about Malfoy.”

She straightened a bit in surprise that he and Harry seemed to have actually discussed it. Convenient, even if she didn’t love the idea of being a topic of conversation for them.

“I’m heading to his place here in a bit. Want to tag along?” Ron offered, eager to get out of the bedroom. “I think we’re gonna blow some shit up. But not me. We will not blow me up. Again.”

He took a step toward her and stopped. There was a distinct possibility his hands were going to end up all over the very soft red sweater that clung to her breasts. Living at home with his mum puttering downstairs had significant disadvantages.

She shook her head. Playing with detonators in a cave sounded like a man date if ever she’d heard of one.

“No, I have an essay that needs my attention,” she countered. “And that won’t explode. Probably.”

———————————

There were a lot of fairy tales about golden eggs, Draco mused, inspecting the reflection of his platinum hair in the yellow metal. But they were children’s stories.

For anecdotes about golden eggs like these, Penny Royal or another racy text had to be consulted. He wondered if the Gremlins knew what they’d given him. Probably. Degenerates.

It should have a grip or a finger hold on it somewhere, though, he thought, nudging a bit of magic into it. It hummed slightly, pleasantly, in response, but the shape didn’t change. Frowning in concentration, he pushed a tendril of a heat spell toward it, and three dents receded into the wide bottom.

“Hm,” he huffed, fitting his thumb and two fingers into the indentations. Good fit. Smiling, he thanked whichever of his ancestors had devoted time, energy, and magic to this, of all things. Probably whichever one had the widest branch of the family tree.

Setting the egg back on the ledge, he watched the imprints fill back in. Interesting. And unassuming.

A knock, an actual knock on the wards made him jump a bit. Unprompted, a signature like crisp, sun-dried sheets hit him. Weasley. A pushy, abnormally magically-proficient Weasley.

———————————

“Fire in the hole!”

Draco ducked behind the sofa, fingers in his ears. Again.

A plume of hot air and dust shot over top the red velvet upholstery, and he shuddered. It felt a little too like dragon breath.

Ron was good at what he did, Draco had to admit. Really, really good.

Sunlight filtered through the dust from new enchanted glass windows the size of dinner tables on either side of the doorway. Outside, the rubble was drifting and sorting itself into a tidy cottage garden wall on either side of the path.

It was…inviting. A far cry from the foreboding granite face it had been. Ron had blasted out huge sections of the interior, seemingly just for fun, but the space was enormous compared to its former footprint.

It was shocking aptitude from the dumb twit he remembered vomiting slugs and splinching his eyebrow off. But then again, the bloke wasn’t afraid to experiment, so maybe it was bound to pay off.

Draco peeked up over the sofa to find an exquisite granite hearth he could roast a whole fucking pig in… if the thought of it didn’t make him uneasy. A seal, maybe. That fish-stealing bastard would fit in there nicely.

Ron was running some kind of polishing spell over the stone, and it was nothing short of breathtaking. Flecks of quartz glinted light back from black and tan-swirled granite. Like freshly-poured stout, frozen in time and studded with stars.

A sudden burst of electric shocks and broken glass shoved through from the outside ward. Potter. Angry Potter. Merdasse.

“Weasley!” Draco waved, trying to get the dust-covered ginger’s attention as he laid out another line of charms strung together by silver wire. The things Ron had pulled out of his bag, Draco had never seen before.

“Weasley! You fire-crotched little fuck-“

Ron turned, removing an earplug and raising an eyebrow, “Yes?”

“Oh. Potter’s outside,” he said, surveying the scattered rubble, charms, wires, and detonators. “Should I… let an Auror in?”

Ron shrugged. “Yeah, let the walking calamity in. This isn’t technically illegal. Yet.”

With a pop, Potter was suddenly inside the doorway, red robes kicking back in landing, eyes blazing and wand drawn.

Panic rose, hot and tight, in Draco’s chest. Potter stepped toward him, scarlet robes flaring. Draco flinched, fingers digging into the back of the couch.

This was Auror Potter. And he was fucking terrifying. Memories rushed through, unbidden. Red robes and fists. Red robes and cuffs. Red robes and sudden darkness.

Invisible static shocks and pinpricks ate across Draco’s skin, as he watched Potter closely for any sudden moves.

Turning, Potter took in the windows, the hearth on the opposite wall, and lowered his wand but raised his left wrist. The bracelet linked to the Ministry ward was a blazing, angry red.

“What the fuck are you two doing?” Potter yelled, mouth set in a hard line.

“Baking a fucking cake, Har,” Ron mocked. “What’s it look like?”

Harry’s face softened and Draco palmed the knife in his pocket, but didn’t draw it.

“Dammit, Ron,” Harry whined, huffing a sigh and pocketing his wand. “I had to leave in the middle of a smuggling investigation for this, and they gave it to Adams.”

Ron shrugged, a contrast to the suspicious squint to his eyes. “Sorry you lost your chance to rescue Kneazles, mate. Beer’s in the cooler there.”

Harry slouched with a pout. An actual pout, Draco mused, blowing out a breath. Maybe Potter wasn’t here to hex him to insanity and throw him down a hole in Azkaban.

“It wasn’t Kneazles,” Harry retorted, digging through Ron’s cooler. “It was Basilisks. And Adams is going to fuck it up. You know how often I get to actually use Parseltongue? Fucking never, Ron.“

Ron scowled, tone careful, meticulously smoothing the silver wire and winding it around a spool. “Why would anyone want to own a Basilisk?”

Harry shrugged, popping the cap off a bottle. “Death wish? I don’t know. Malfoy, why did Salazar Slytherin own one?”

Dragon breath and red robes. Draco’s hand slowly reached into his pocket, but Potter pinned him with a glare.

Draco froze mid-rise on one knee, hand on the sofa back, not meeting Harry’s gaze.

“I- I think-” he stammered, eyes on the floor in front of him, and decidedly not on the Auror in his kitchen.

Harry looked at Draco, who was taking slow, measured breaths and gripping the sofa like it was the last solid thing on earth. What had him so shaken, Harry wondered, taking a cursory sip from the bottle.

Red robes and fire surfaced from Falk’s memories. “Oh,” Harry whispered softly.

With a flick, he Vanished his robes back to his office. “Better?”

Draco looked up carefully and nodded, embarrassed by his own reaction. He hadn’t seen Auror robes in years, but they hadn’t lost their effect.

“I think he was just a bastard,” Malfoy drawled, composure falling into place. He stood, dusting his knees off.

The robes had thrown him off kilter, yes, but this was the same man who had practically stripped off and given him a tongue bath at Gringotts. Just in robes.

He’d tried to not read into Potter’s behavior at the Goblin Gala, but it was impossible to not think about. And may or may not have led to an increase in afternoon wanking.

Gods, the man was a hot mess. So resolutely uninterested for so long, but so painfully desperate with his inhibitions down. Bit of an intoxicating combination, he mused.

Ron changed the subject, eager to not accidentally incriminate his Basilisk-dissecting self. “So, why did my demolitions set off your ward?”

Giving the whole room a good look over, Harry whistled low. “Probably because you used enough firepower to level the Ministry. Good month and a half till Guy Fawkes.”

Ron and Malfoy just stared at him.

“Bonfire Night.”

Ron shrugged and looked to Malfoy, who turned a palm up in bewilderment. Harry frowned at them both.

“Look at it, Har. The whole place is Elvan. Gives me ideas for the Burrow.”

Harry picked at the label on his bottle and frowned. “Elven? Like, house elves?”

“Nah,” Ron said as he sorted wooden coins into two piles. “Elvan. Granite with quartz scattered through it. Wait till you see all the other rooms, especially the ones I polished up. Makes the Ministry headquarters look like it needs to be demolished.”

Malfoy took a breath, intending to ask Ron about Elvan versus Bath stone, but decided Potter probably didn’t want to hear about Malfoy Manor’s construction.

Instead, he walked over to the cooler and tried to ignore Potter’s lips on the slick glass of the bottle rim. The tip of his tongue licked a drop from the rim, and he sucked his bottom lip in as it withdrew.

Merlin, he did have a nice mouth. And no hesitation in using it. Potter turned and caught him staring, but he held his gaze, lowering the bottle.

“Thank you, by the way.”

“What for?” Draco inquired, already bracing himself.

“For not… For leaving me at the Burrow,” Harry said, low enough to escape Ron’s hearing across the room.

Draco shrugged. There it was. The expected rejection. At least Potter was being kind about it.

“I don’t linger where I’m not wanted, Potter,” he stated blandly, face neutral.

They both watched Ron sort and pack charmed wooden coins and muggle detonators like they were made of spun glass. Spun glass being a vastly safer material.

Harry opened his mouth and closed it again, and Malfoy’s eyebrow rose in interest. “It’s not… I’m…” Harry started with a sigh. “I’m your Auror.”

“Mm hm,” Malfoy hummed, assessing Weasley’s libations. A lone doppelbock caught his eye, and he twisted off the lid. Taking a swig, he muttered into the bottle. “Cupcake.”

Turning from a slowly blushing Potter, he asked, “Weasley, do you have something in your arsenal that could dissolve granite slowly? I think there’s something in my bedroom wall. The one you didn’t already blow up.”

———————————

“Malfoy. Mate. I don’t know what kind of bloody Seer you are, but that is eerie,” Ron murmured, running a hand over the rough quartz hemisphere protruding from the wall.

“I’m not…” Malfoy began, but trailed off, breath leaving in a pursed-lip sigh.

Medea’s mons, his dream had led him to a fucking crystal ball. Or would be, once it was shined up, which Ron was already doing. “I’m not sure. But leave it in the wall. I don’t think it’s supposed to come out.”

Ron shrugged, tamping down the polishing charms. It looked like a melon-sized swirled marble of clear, white, and light blue crystal. Fucking gorgeous, he thought.

Harry perched on the corner of the bed, at a lack for anywhere else to sit. Or lean nonchalantly. Or just look casually uninterested in Malfoy’s bedroom. Malfoy didn’t yell at him for sitting on it, but he did look at him steadily for a moment.

He wondered what the room had looked like before Ron worked on it today. A floor to ceiling enchanted window looked out to the north, where eagles were diving and soaring in the setting sunlight. Bookcases formed the wall between the bedroom and rest of the home, both sides absolutely packed.

But Ron had said there were other rooms now. Maybe the dark doorways on either side of the wall Ron was working on hadn’t been there earlier. Why did Malfoy need more rooms?

Harry shrugged. Maybe Malfoy needed storage. For posh Malfoy things. Unlike the neat line of baubles on the ledge above the bed. Twenty-eight things, Harry counted. The seventh item, a piece of cobalt blue sea glass, was nudged forward, out of the line. Four shells with misshapen pearls were in the middle of the line. Odd.

Ron and Malfoy were discussing the intricacies of the quartz, and Harry was bored. Bored, and very, dangerously curious.

Unfortunately, he remembered everything from the Goblin Gala. Every word, every thought, every feeling, scent, taste, everything. Including waiting patiently to be taken home to this bed.

He’d been so sure he was going to end the night naked on these sheets, and Merlin, he’d been correct about them. They were so fucking soft.

The impossibly fluffy duvet was heaped on the far side of the bed, which was probably good. It looked too tempting. And the whole room smelled like Malfoy plus the sweet, woodsy scent of this mattress, like some kind of small, delicate flowers in a mossy forest on a misty morning.

Tentatively, he leaned back onto his elbows, pretending to pay attention to their conversation. They’d moved on to theorizing how much quartz was behind the quartz and Harry couldn't care less. Quarts and quarts of quartz, he thought to himself.

Nobody noticed he’d reclined. Maybe they wouldn’t notice if he laid down. Casually. Like he laid on other men’s beds all the time. His shoulders eased onto the mattress, and he sighed.

Full sprawl accomplished, he was surprised how firm the mattress was. He’d expected to sink down into it, but instead, it only gave enough to cushion the prominences of his hips and shoulders.

It smelled even better laying down, and Harry wondered if he could get away with rolling over and burying his face in it. Maybe run his lips over it. Press his hips against it while his hands skimmed up-

“Want a pillow, Potter?” Malfoy’s acerbic drawl goaded. Harry sat up to see him glaring, arms crossed. Ron was finishing the crystal ball with some kind of complicated sanding and water spell combination.

“I’m awake,” he half-snorted. “Your mattress smells weird. What is it?”

“Veela feathers,” Malfoy said, with no small amount of contempt. Like everyone had entire, massive mattresses stuffed with incredibly rare materials from sentient beings.

Harry frowned, confused. “I thought Veelas had scaled wings.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Nothing in nature has scales on its actual wings. And I’m not going to argue with Fleur’s assessment.”

Harry looked away, taking in the dimming light outside the window behind him. Fleur had been here? That didn’t add up in any possible way, but Ron didn’t look surprised, busying himself with the crystal.

“Done!” Ron proclaimed, beaming. “Want to take it for a spin?”

“Not even a little,” Malfoy grumbled. “But we won’t know if it works if I don’t.”

Ron plopped heavily on the bed next to Harry, excited to see if his handiwork was functional. It sure was gorgeous. Like a softy glowing planet of clouds and sea, hanging at waist-height from a quartz-flecked glossy wall. Malfoy Manor had nothing on Weasley craftsmanship, he thought.

Malfoy gingerly set his fingertips on the crystal ball and waited, trying to remember Divination lessons that felt like they’d come from another lifetime. They sort of had, he supposed.

Images rushed in quickly, before he was ready. Owls, so many owls. All descending toward him, talons outstretched. A basket of muffins. Glossy ferns and scorched daffodils.

Gasping, he let go. He’d been prepared to have to wait, and focus, and work to get something out of the ball, not to defend himself against an onslaught.

“Well?” Ron asked, eager.

Harry thought pushing Malfoy to reveal what he’d seen was probably a bad idea. Nothing about his demeanor said he was in a sharing mood.

“Well,” Malfoy drawled. “It works. Let’s go bind the rug. And I’m sure Harry has a lot of important things to go finish up tonight.”

Ron busied himself with what sounded to Malfoy like some inventive new cleaning spells in the other room. Potter leaned back onto his elbows, making no move to get off the bed.

He looked entirely too comfortable, Malfoy thought. Like he had a right to be in this bed. And he could have been. He could have brought Potter home from the Gala, he was all but certain. Gods, he’d looked so fucking eager. And he didn’t look disinterested now, but he knew better. Potter was never actually interested.

“Potter,” he snapped. “In or out. I don’t appreciate men who dither.” He flicked a hand at Potter’s feet still on the floor.

“What?” he asked, flustered. “Oh. Sorry.”

Predictably, Potter stood and walked to the other room to help Ron. Malfoy watched him walk away, the decades-old game of enticement and rejection a familiar ache. Not unlike his parents’ disapproval, or the predictable scorn of witches and wizards.

Merlin, he missed Magnus right now.

——————————

Peeking around the edge of the bookshelf across the room, Ron watched Malfoy re-approach the crystal ball with visible trepidation. Personally, Ron was pleased as shit that the thing worked.

Maybe Wheezes would be selling pocket-sized crystal balls this year. On chains, as necklaces. A whole jewelry line? Crystal ball betrothal jewelry would sell itself. He ripped off a corner of blank sketchbook page and found a Muggle ink pen on the counter to jot the idea down.

Harry joined him at the cooler and proceeded to inspect the remaining bottles. Ron stuffed the piece of paper in his pocket and sighed deeply, turning to Harry.

“Har,” he started, keeping track of Malfoy’s location. “Remember what I told you about men hitting on you and you not noticing?”

“Uhm,” Harry sputtered, also turning to make sure Malfoy was still occupied. “Yeah, why?”

“Mate, come on.” Ron obliged. “He just literally invited you into his actual bed.”

Harry twisted the cap off an ale and sneered in disbelief. “He did not. He was worried I’d put my shoes on the mattress.”

“Gods below. I do love you, Harry, but sometimes I think you’re the dumbest person I know.” Ron whispered tersely. “Do you know what ‘dither’ means?”

“To get stuff dirty?” Harry shrugged, doubt setting in.

“It means being indecisive, you fucking bell-end,” he groaned softly, shaking his head. “He told you to make up your mind whether you wanted him or not, and you just…”

“Got up and walked away.” Harry raised his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose, huffing out a long breath. “But it doesn’t matter, Ron. I can’t do anything about it for a year, anyway. I told you what the Ministry policy is.”

“Yeah, you did. Loudly. Full of Goblin party drugs. With many expletives. Naked. In my room. But here’s the thing, Captain Oblivious,” Ron chided. “There’s a lot of gray area there, and don’t you suppose telling him is the better option?”

Harry glowered at Ron, and Ron proceeded to flip him off. He needed to stop being so damned insightful and just let Harry continue to fuck his life up.

“Har, it’s inhumane. To both of you. I’m not saying you need to have a heart to heart about it tonight. Especially not with me here. But sometime soon,” Ron suggested. “Alright?”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry muttered softly, flipping his glasses on top of his head to rub his eyes. That was going to be one hell of a sit-down.

———————————

“I guess your family’s tea preference makes more sense now, but why are Potter and Granger on here, too?” Draco asked Ron, adding another log to the fading fire.

They sat on the plush rug, reading through the blurry names and exquisitely-detailed hibiscus flowers. Most were red blooms, but Draco’s was white and gray, not unlike his tattoos.

“I guess Mum already added them. Not sure when. Or how. I wish I’d have asked Harry before he left. Probably a long time ago, though.”

“She’s a bit of a child collector,” Draco mused out loud, thumbing the blade of his knife.

“I think she prefers to be called a mother hen,” Ron corrected, nodding.

The thick rug was a mess of curling vines and flowers in various states of opening, hovering over a cream background. The number of buds was nearly overwhelming. Focusing on a single one would cause it to open and display a picture and name of the corresponding wizard.

Draco focused on Ginny’s flower and was rewarded with an image of her sticking her tongue out. A recent image, it seemed. And accurate.

Ron held out the thumb-length knife Molly had given him. He took it for inspection. The blade was decently sharp. The handle was… he suppressed a laugh.

“Why do you have Granger on your hilt?” he asked, eyes crinkling in amusement.

“What are you talking about?” Ron retorted, thoroughly confused.

“I have called her a terrier multiple times recently,” Draco replied, grinning. She’d been absolutely tenacious in learning Legilimency the last time she’d spent the night. They’d spent the entire morning in bed slowly swapping inane memories.

Having a good student almost made up for her preceding angry explosion. He grinned, remembering her Legilimency skittering into him, feeling like feathers tickling behind his eye. An odd sensation, but a very subtle one. She’d do very well with it if she wanted to spy on people. And she absolutely would. Human minds were the ultimate Restricted Section.

“It’s a Crup. And my Patronus is a terrier, so don’t make fun.” Ron snorted, taking the knife back from Malfoy. It was more than a little cute that Malfoy had a pet name for Hermione, Ron thought. A rather appropriate one.

“Granger is your Patronus. Got it. Not funny at all.” He grinned and didn't bother to hide it, because it was damned ironic. “Alright. So, a touch of blood on your name, then burn your knife clean, and that should be it.”

Draco went first, unhesitatingly nicking between fingers, wiping the blade on his name, then holding it into the flames. His flower slowly shifted to red, and an image of him as a toddler surfaced. Anachronistic, he thought, looking at the undeniably adorable blond tyke.

Ron grit his teeth like he was amputating a finger and made a shallow scrape between his fingers, grimacing as though Death was dragging him bodily through a field of shrapnel.

“You can’t make up for blood with drama, Weasley,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “Spread the skin a bit tighter and do it again.”

Ron did as told, wiping the knife on the rug, then burning it clean. Nothing happened to his part of the rug, but flowers shifted, green tendrils crept out to form a new layer of the vine.

Instead of lining up as siblings, Ron’s branch turned into a flower bunch of Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Malfoy. Four tendrils crept out from the center of their cluster, waiting, it seemed.

“Malfoy…” Ron intoned, pitch and anxiety rising. “What happens if a Seer bleeds on a hearth rug?”

“Weasley…” Malfoy mimicked, tone pitching upward. “Are you pregnant? With quadruplets? A litter would be very Weasley of you.”

Ron ran a hand down his lower belly. “No, that’s mostly beer,” Ron considered thoughtfully. “You don’t think Hermione’s pregnant, do you?”

Malfoy barked a laugh. “She is most assuredly not pregnant. Ugh.”

Ron eyed him suspiciously, cleaning the soot off his blade. It did look eerily like his Patronus. “And you’re so sure, because…”

“Because she started her period in that chair,” he said, flicking his blackened knife at the table and chairs. “After shoving me around and accusing me of trying to knock her up.”

“Wow. That’s… unacceptable,” Ron said, disappointed. “I’d hoped she’d grown out of some of that.”

Malfoy shrugged, “I’m not terribly concerned about it happening again. But if it does, I have fantastic wards.”

“Speaking of which, you gonna teach me how to use this fancy knife?” Ron asked, trying to flip the silver knife between his fingers, fumbling it horribly, and nicking his thumb.

“First lesson. Don’t fucking do that again, Weasley,” Malfoy chuckled.

Chapter Text

The trick, Draco mused, to flipping bottle caps, was to start with it on his thumbnail, convex side down. The other way, and it would just fling itself off to the side.

The other trick was to spend as long as possible flipping them, so he could forget why he was all dressed up and holding a Portkey. It had been a while, and he figured it was about time to put on a show. The Malfoy Heir Song and Dance.

With one last flip, he caught the bottle cap with a shove of magic, and lurched into the Azkaban lobby. As usual, there was no line for visitors. Nor should there be, he thought.

The Floo taunted him. When he was done, he didn’t have to take it back to Truro. It would let him go anywhere. He could Floo in to Ballycastle and see Magnus. It would mean a horrifically long flight home, but it might be worth it. Especially if Magnus had relocated for more than Quidditch.

The attendant, a disheveled lanky middle-aged man, scanned him and waved him through with a wink. He frowned and hoped that wink was for his ass, not his Mark.

A familiar corona of orange curls bobbed down the hallway toward him, pushing a mostly-empty canvas post cart. Her round freckled face lit up as she neared him.

“Hi, Rhoda,” he said with a curt wave. She was one of the most unflappably kind humans he’d ever encountered. How or why she worked in the most hostile environment imaginable would always irk him.

“Skinny malinky long legs!” she belted, thick Scottish brogue still exactly how he remembered it. “Hou ar ye?”

He shrugged. “Surprisingly well,” he admitted.

“Ah, well, yer mum’s up to high doh. Dinnae for good or poor.”

Fantastic, he thought to himself. An agitated Narcissa first thing in the morning. They met, side by side, next to one of the few windows in the corridor. The weak sunlight lit Rhoda’s hair like a furious halo.

“Thank you for warning me. Want me to take their post?” he offered, figuring he could maybe save her a trip and potential confrontation.

“Nah, done then. Best ye go,” she instructed, pushing her cart into action.

“Alright,” he mumbled. “Thanks again.”

“Don haste ye back,” she called over her shoulder, and he wondered if maybe he could get away with visiting less often.

———————

“Post’s here!” Jacina yelled down the hall. A low, appreciative whistle sounded, followed by the murmur of several women and a man.

“I know, right?” said one of the younger cashiers.

“Did you think he was?” Jacinda asked.

“I mean, I always hoped,” the man mumbled.

Ron finished picking the Nundu spines off his shirt with a grumble. He had to admit, spelling the enormous fireplace to suck the air through the room and out the roof had been a stroke of genius. Turned out Nundus could exhale one last time during dissection.

An emergency exhaust Floo and a Bubblehead charm had saved the day. Stacking the little pile of spurs, he wondered if he was in over his head. Or if maybe he’d eventually deal with every possible creature and be unflappable.

“Mr. Weasley?” Jacinda asked, voice abnormally mellow as she knocked softly against his open door.

“Yeah, Jace?” he asked, sweeping the pile into the bin. “What’s the commotion about?”

“Oh, nothing important. I just wondered if you wanted this.” She held up a magazine with a very scantily-clad Harry in an embrace with an even more scantily-clad Magnus Falk. “You know, since you’re friends.”

“Huh,” Ron huffed. “Yeah, hand it over. I didn’t know it was out already. Oh, and let me know if you notice anything weird with the temperature in the store. I’m airing out the downstairs storage.”

“Sure. Ok,” she stammered, “bye.”

Harry’s face gazed longingly up at Falk from the glossy pages. Multiple glossy pages. The captions inferred rather a lot, as well. “Oh, gods below, Harry.”

Harry wouldn’t go after a man Malfoy still carried an obvious torch for, would he? But had it been obvious to Harry? The way Malfoy talked about Falk in the car that morning made it obvious to him. But then Harry was fairly obtuse.

Surely the bloke who’d cried on his shoulder about fancying men would mention it if he’d gone and bagged one in short order. Especially this one.

Nah, Harry wasn’t dating Magnus Falk. Harry couldn’t keep a secret for shit. Like a bucket full of holes.

But Malfoy didn’t know any of that. “Ah, bollocks,” Ron hissed, checking his schedule for the day. Luckily, very little that couldn’t be dealt with tomorrow.

“Jace! I’m headed out!” he hollered, not really sure if she was even within earshot.

He was going to go slap an Auror with a magazine.

————————

“Famous Harry Potter! Or should I say Infamous?” Adams leered. The fucking wanker.

People had been popping in his office door to say weird things all morning. Congratulating him on nothing in particular. Telling him he had great taste, even though he was wearing his usual work clothes.

A soft knock on his door drew his attention away from his paperwork yet again, and he huffed in annoyance. “Yes?”

It was… Amy? Ashley? Ann? Didn’t matter.

“Oh. Hi, Harry,” she stammered, like she was surprised to see him at his own desk. “I just wanted to stop by and say congrats, and he seems nice.”

“Uhm… thanks?” he mumbled, no idea what the fuck she was talking about. Was this about Malfoy somehow? Were rumors going around about the Goblin Gala? Nah, Malfoy was many things, but he wasn’t nice.

She just stood there, looking at him, so he picked his quill back up and signed off on some equipment releases. He’d been getting far more and higher-security tasks since Robards had left.

“Could you sign my copy?” she blurted. “I mean, not if it’s weird. It is weird. I made it weird. I’m sorry.” She turned to leave, cheeks a hot flush.

“It’s fine. I’ve been sitting here signing things all morning. Bring it over, whatever it is.”

“Really?!” She beamed at him. “My sister is going to be so jealous!” That was exceptionally odd, he thought as she walked over. What on earth kind of sister would be jealous of a signed requisition-

“Oh, Circe’s sweet snatch,” he hissed as she handed him a glossy cover photo of himself in full animated glory, looking up at Falk like he was an oasis in a desert. “Can I get this back to you? This is- I need to Firecall someone. Now.”

“Oh,” she squeaked. “Uhm, sure. I’ll just… wait for you to leave it on my desk? Yeah. Okay. Uhm. Bye.”

Harry waited a moment for her to turn down the hall before racing to Robards’ vacant office, headed straight for the private Floo. “Connie Urban, Witch Weekly,” he yelled, hoping she even had an office, let alone one with a Floo. Green flames shot up, and he stuck his head in.

“Hi, Haaarrrrry,” Basilia drawled, spinning around in an office chair.

“Oh, fuck you, you sharp-toothed bitch. Where’s Connie?” Harry spat, surprised by his own vitriol.

Basilia smirked and wrinkled her nose in feigned disappointment. “Connie got snatched up by the Prophet last week to write for their politics section. Boooooring.”

“So you wrote that fucking trash? And followed me around with a camera?” He accused.

“Sure did, Har,” she said smugly. “Want to come on through and give me a private interview to clear all this up?”

“Not remotely, Baz,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “Clearing up rumors about Aurors really sounds like something a qualified political correspondent should handle. Not a smut peddler at a trumped-up softcore porn rag.”

“You’re no fun, Harry,” she pouted, uncrossing and recrossing her legs slowly.

“And you give terrible blowjobs,” he said with a shrug. “Literally the worst. Bye.”

Harry pulled his head out the Floo, a little surprised it had let him make a call. It was supposed to be keyed to the Head Auror. Dubious.

————————

They were waiting for him in the visitation room this time. That was unusual. And there was only one guard today.

They’d chosen to sit on opposite sides of the table, each in the chair closest the door. He lingered in the doorway, having to choose a seat next to one of them that also blocked him into the room. It felt like a trap, but so did everything about Azkaban. And them.

Narcissa was grinning wickedly, and Lucius looked like he’d already had the piss whipped out of him, so he opted to sit next to the bedraggled blond man. “Son,” Lucius grunted, oddly casual.

“Lucius,” Draco replied, earning him a slight frown. They knew better by now than to expect him to call them by affectionate or familial titles.

“You look well, darling,” Narcissa oozed. “New beau?”

His jaw clenched at the syrupy tone and casual affection. The nectar before the poison.

“Uhm. Sort of.” He shrugged. Granger was new. Luna wasn’t. But she’d specified a male lover, and that was unfortunately inaccurate. For now, at least. But if he did take the Floo to Ballycastle today, maybe-

“Pity about your Rasulka bastard,” she said with an overly-sympathetic tongue click. “But I guess I can’t blame him.”

She spoke too quickly, words coming out with mechanical precision, fired to wound. Lucius scrubbed his mouth with the back of his hand.

His breath caught. Something happened to Magnus? And no one told him? But how could they?

“Narcissa, don’t,” Lucius cautioned. Draco looked at him, worry brewing. Whatever she was hinting at, it was obvious they’d already been fighting about it for quite a while.

“Probably a nice change to have such a fine upstanding citizen bending over for him, hm?” she said placidly, like she was discussing his Quidditch team's statistics.

“What?” Draco whispered, gut sinking. How would they know anything about Magnus’s love life? They probably knew he was in Ballycastle. That would be all over the sports section of papers.

“Cissy, please,” Lucius whispered, leaning into his elbows on the table.

“No, love, he should know. My son can do much better than a humanoid mutt,” she spat with a snarl.

He frowned, but wasn’t surprised. She’d called Magnus worse. Often to his face. Magnus had kept a list of her insults. In alphabetical order. Draco smiled softly as he remembered having to translate the French insults for the list.

The thick slap of glossy paper on the table startled him, and it took a moment to comprehend that what he was seeing wasn’t a figment of his imagination. Or a leftover visage from a wet dream.

Potter’s face turned adoringly up to Magnus. Magnus’s tattooed arm, his tattoo, trailed languidly up Potter’s back. His breath came fast, and he knew his eyes were wide.

“Power Couple Rising to the Top: The Future Head Auror and His Sexy Quidditch Star Lay it ALL out!”

He read the headline four times, trying to make sense of it. This couldn’t be real, he thought, clammy hands sticking to the slick pages. This was just some kind of sick trick of Narcissa’s.

Magnus had always known about his attraction to Potter. And Potter had seemed surprised to learn about his history with Magnus.

Had Magnus kept him a secret from Potter? How long had they been together? And why hadn’t Potter said anything? How could they just… this? His mind reeled, struggling for words under crushing waves of possession and betrayal.

“So glad you didn’t reconnect with him, dear. I always expected to find you floating in a river face-down,” she chirped, examining the ends of her hair.

“Cissy…” Lucius warned, already having given up on this fight.

The inside of the magazine didn’t contradict the cover. Magnus and Potter casually touching on a park bench. Eating chips in Muggle London. Normal date things he’d never get to do.

“And besides, I’ve already lost one child to drowning,” Narcissa aimed at Lucius. “Didn’t I?”

“Yes.” Lucius whispered and hung his head.

Long-time Quidditch fan and soon-to-be Head Auror Potter seems to have finally met a wizard who can keep up with him.

The room was wavering, and he was only vaguely aware of the escalating fight around him.

“I should never have married you,” she spat, leaning forward.

“And I shouldn’t have married a pregnant blood traitor whore,” he said flippantly.

Tears pooled against his lower lids and his throat constricted. They looked happy together, he thought, stifling a sob. Smiling at each other for the photo shoot, sharing a greasy plate of chips. Maybe they were happy together. They deserved to be happy.

“And I shouldn’t have married a murderer!”

“Gods damn you, Narcissa. That child was an abomination.”

“Me?! I’m not the bloody murderer here.”

Yeah, he thought with a sniff, they deserved to be happy. Away from him. Away from this. Nobody could be happy with him. Only Magnus had ever tried, and that had ended in fire and blood.

Potter was smart to keep Draco at arm’s length, too. He could do better than a Death Eater. And he had, apparently. Magnus would be good for Harry. They were better for each other than he ever could have been.

“Dromeda buried her half-breed, too. It just took her longer.”

Magic crackled from Narcissa’s fingers as she howled and her hair lifted in a wild static wind. “My Liore…” she wailed, rising from her chair.

It burned, though, he thought, that they would end up building the kind of life together that he could only dream of. The kind that he’d only ever tasted. But at least they’d be happy.

A black silhouette drifted down through the ceiling, and Draco felt a short pull from it as the door to the visitation room swung open, and he stepped through.

He made his way to the Floo station. “Ballycastle Bats Stadium.”

One-hundred and sixty-seventh visit, not that he was counting.

—————————————

Harry sat at his desk waiting. For what, he wasn’t entirely sure. For someone to tell him what to do? For some kind of emergency? For Falk to breeze in and agree that this was total shit and he definitely didn’t look that desperate in person?

That would be nice, he mused. Because in every one of these pictures, he looked like he was ready to climb Falk’s body like a fucking tree. Maybe he’d have entertained the notion if Falk hadn’t almost married Malfoy, and then gone on to actually marry someone else. There was no mention of his husband in the entire issue, though.

A balding red head and sour face popped into his doorway with a quick knock.

“Hey, Percy,” he said, steadying his breathing. Being around Weasleys sounded like an excellent distraction.

“Hey, yourself.” Percy snorted. “Bet you’ve been entirely too popular today.”

“Yeah, it’s been nonstop.” Harry nodded, grateful at least someone didn’t see this as a positive outcome.

“Well, I’ve got something so boring, you may not even need to leave your chair,” Percy offered tantalizingly. “Malfoy’s Trace said he took the Azkaban Floo to the Ballycastle Stadium. Not against his probation terms or anything, but unusual. He usually only goes to Gringotts or the public Floo in Truro.”

“Fuuuuuck,” Harry groaned. “Thanks Pers. I’ll look into it.” This wasn’t good. He didn’t go to Ballycastle for fish and chips.

Percy set a paper transcript of Malfoy’s Floo records on his desk. Harry’s eyes scanned the column of dates and destinations with a frown. The man went to Azkaban far too often. At least once a week.

“No problem, Har,” Percy said, entirely too chipper as he left.

Harry examined the paper. Way too often. That couldn’t be good for him. His parents were some of the worst specimens of humanity that had ever been collected.

He scraped his forearm on the desk, trying to scratch an itch under the bracelet, but it actually made it worse. Much worse. And spread.

Yanking up the sleeve of his robe, the bracelet was glowing a blinding blue-white. His skin burned under the intensity.

”Shit shit shit,” he chanted again, racing back down the hall to Robards’ Floo.

“Ballycastle Bats Stadium!”

—————————————

Hermione scraped a thumbnail against the scorch marks on her neighbor’s postbox. She checked around, and pulled out her wand. “Scourgify!” she hissed, and the brassy metal grated under the spell. She smiled, pleased with her remediation.

A faint dust seeped out from under the door, and she wiped it up with a finger, rubbing it against her thumb. It felt like paper pulp.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she muttered. She’d Scourgified her neighbor’s mail into dust.

Slamming her flat door behind her, she silently hoped she never ran into her next-door neighbor, though that was unlikely. She hadn’t seen or heard a peep from them yet, though.

Crookshanks watched her expectantly as she sorted the post, like he thought treats came in paper envelopes .

Law student association newsletter, bills, and… Potter porn.

Holy History of Histrionic Hogwarts.

“Power Couple Rising to the Top: The Future Head Auror and His Sexy Quidditch Star Lay it ALL out!”

Harry gazed up at the taller man like he was waiting to be devoured, and her core quivered expectantly. Gods below, of all the things she didn’t know she wanted to witness in her lifetime, this was now first and foremost.

Logic briefly interrupted her perusing of the pictures inside, which didn’t disappoint.

Harry had been promoted to Head Auror? And he hadn’t thought to mention it? And Harry liked men? And had a serious boyfriend? And hadn’t mentioned that, either? And where had she seen this man before? The man with Malfoy’s tattoo.

She gasped, eyes wide in surprise. He was inside several of Malfoy’s memories he’d shared while teaching her Legilimancy. His affection had been blatant, even when the memories he’d shared were banal.

That must have been an awkward conversation between Harry, Falk, and Malfoy.

How had Harry kept this under wraps for so long? What the fuck else was he hiding? Not much, in those little pants, she mused, turning the magazine sideways.

“Oh,” she whispered in surprise, as she opened a centerfold of Magnus Falk wearing nothing but a… Snitch.

It was going to be a dildo and vibrator kind of afternoon. Scathing text messages could wait.

—————————————

Players on brooms whooped and looped around the stadium, shrugging off the damp mist and sunless sky. It was an old coliseum, and Draco wondered if the moss between the cracked stones held them together or split them apart. Beautiful, though. Like a castle built as a homage to sport.

The pitted stone steps were slick under his feet as he walked down through the bleachers to the field. He was out of place here. The stadium felt like a future that could have been, and maybe that was true. Or perhaps none of this was ever meant for him. Cheerful colors zipping around. Spectators waving flags, despite the fact that it was only a practice.

A peaceful existence didn’t make sense for someone like him. Azkaban made sense. Violence and power and control made sense. Affection? Love? Trust? Naïve bootstrap daydreams from nursery stories.

Only people born into that kind of legacy got a life like this. A life where you could love who you wanted to and have them love you back. Even print it on the front of a fucking magazine.

MAG?, he asked the empty air, hoping forceful Legilimency wasn’t a parole violation, but no longer dreading a cold lonely cell if it were. It would be a relief, maybe, to go back to Azkaban. Existing here in the wider world had proven exhausting.

An elderly couple huddled under a plaid blanket rubbed their eyes, and he resolved to not throw out such a strong broadcast call again.

Through the mist, he saw a tall figure step out onto the field and turn to face the bleachers near him. ÄISLKING?

Relief and anxiety twisted through him in alternative waves as Magnus started toward the stairs at a run. YOU SAW THE PICTURES? he sent as he jogged up the stairs toward where Draco had frozen, standing awkwardly.

Narcissa delighted in showing me.

NIGHTMARE BITCH QUEEN REIGNS SUPREME. A weak smile graced Draco’s face at his years-ago nickname for her. Draco sniffled and wiped his face, hoping the drizzle would hide some of the moisture gathering in his eyes, but knowing it would do nothing for the redness.

He stopped two steps below Draco. Just out of reach but at eye-level.

Gods, he was as heartbreakingly beautiful as he’d always been. The mist collected on the tips of his eyelashes, reflecting gray sunlight in stark contrast to his black irises. The muscles in his jaw worked quietly, gum always present. A fine coating of droplets dusted his dark hair, begging to be wiped off.

He’d owned this man once, mind and body. He’d handed his fucking soul over to Magnus, only to have Narcissa repossess it.

He pressed shirt cuffs to his eyes, trying to stop the welling tears. A soft sob slipped from his lips in their place.

But now Magnus was Potter’s. Potter got to know him that way. And Magnus got to have Potter in return. And that would be fine. It would be good for both of them, and they would be happy, and someday, he could be happy for them.

They deserved that, he thought, glad the mist softened the hot lines running down his cheeks. That kind of life was for people like them.

People like him didn’t have happy endings. Quiet endings, if they were lucky, but not happy ones. Happy endings were for people who were raised in that world. Like Ron. Weasleys got fairy tales. Malfoys were cautionary tales.

Magnus held out a hand, and he knew what would happen if he took it. A Legilimantic barrage of catching up. Years of memories crammed into a brain-searing few minutes.

He shook his head, letting Magnus’s hand hover. “I don’t want to see you together, Mag,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I can’t.”

“They lied, äislking.” His pitching, rolling accent rumbled down Draco's spine. Gods, he’d missed that voice. “Your Auror and I crossed paths, and the rest is fiction.”

“Oh…” Draco whispered, not really believing him. That article had been very detailed.

“I sent him with a message for you,” Magnus stated.

“You what?” Draco asked, molten anger flowing in where heartbreak was cooling. “He never mentioned you. Ever. In fact, I’ve been under the distinct impression that he’d never met you.”

Magnus’s jaw froze mid-chew. “I wondered if he was too conflicted to be trustworthy.”

Draco hummed in agreement, resentment ebbing in on the tide as grief washed out.

How terribly like Potter, he thought, the icebreaker ship of a man. Chugging along along; jagged, glistening shards always in his wake.

“You read him well. What was the message?”

“He was supposed to tell you to come see me. And that I’m married,” he replied, turning back to look down onto the field. “And not to Potter, obviously.”

The sudden news took Draco by surprise, his breath snorting out in a soft huff. But he was more curious than upset. Curious, furious at Potter, and, oddly, a little relieved.

If Magnus were available, he wasn’t sure where that would put them. What does one do with a violently interrupted betrothal like theirs? Even De Pompadour had no guidelines for the proper etiquette.

Draco extended a hand, and Falk took it with a soft smile. Images flew at him hard and fast, and he ate them down as quickly as he could.

Falk coaching. More coaching. Lots of coaching. So much Quidditch.

If I want to catch up on Quidditch, I’ll read the papers, Mag.

RIGHT. BRACE YOURSELF. His grip on Draco’s hand shifted, as he stepped up closer, until they were gripping each other’s elbows.

Durmstrang burning. Children screaming. Auror robes. Children dying. Their cottage on fire.

Draco opened his eyes and wiped tears off on each shoulder, not breaking Magnus’s grip. He looked down at their arms where Magnus’s tattoo was in full golden and ruby splendor.

It wasn’t really warm enough for bare arms, but he hadn’t seen his own arm light up in years. All that work for beauty he couldn’t behold. How terribly metaphorical, he thought, as he rolled his sleeve up.

He cupped Magnus’s elbows and settled in, wishing they had somewhere dry to sit down.

Keep going, Mag.

A nondescript balding man in wire-rimmed glasses. The man supervising the replanting of the forest around Durmstrang. The man shaking his head in front of the now-overgrown ruins of their cottage. The man patting Magnus on the back.

The man in formal robes, holding rings. The man’s hands working at a softly-lit workbench, and a sudden, uncharacteristic surge of sentimentality from Magnus. The man backs up to show Magnus an elaborately-carving of a river valley on a broom handle. Magnus stoops to kiss him.

The man in bed, already asleep.

Your husband?, Draco asked, putting up shields to hide his reaction. Their marriage was nothing like his relationship with Magnus. It was so placid, and, if he were to be honest, rather boring. They seemed like an old… married… couple. Hm.

MARKUS. HE’S A LIGNUMANCER.

You know I don’t speak Swedish, Draco said sarcastically.

HE SPECIALIZES IN TREES AND MAGICAL WOOD.

Does he, now? Draco said lecherously.

NO, NOT LIKE THAT. NOT REMOTELY. HE’S AT YOUR HOGWARTS TO DO SOMETHING WITH A WILLOW. HE’LL BE HERE TOMORROW, IF YOU’D LIKE TO MEET HIM. HE’S ONLY HOME A FEW NIGHTS A MONTH.

Shocked, Draco’s walls briefly fell. How could Magnus be satisfied with a dowdy husband he only saw a few times a month? It made no fucking sense. Magnus was an absolute deity in the bedroom, and he was married to… this?

RUDE, ÄISLKING. THE SEX WAS IMPORTANT TO YOU, SO IT WAS IMPORTANT TO ME. IT IS LESS SO WITH MARKUS.

Draco took a shuddering breath and fought the self-conscious panic in his chest. It had never been important to him? In retrospect, though, how many times had Magnus actually initiated sex? Rarely, now that he thought about it. But more often than once a month. That seemed untenable.