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Chapter Text

“Malfoy?” Harry spun the file folder on his desk to re-read the name. “I thought he’d been declared dead.”

“Not officially.” Robards shook his head, fluorescent lights painting angles on his scalp. “Only thing left is confirming there hasn’t been activity on his Gringotts accounts. Last nail in the proverbial coffin.”

“So, is there a form or something the Goblins need to fill out?”

“Nah, their word’s worthless. Just have them give you a list of the last ten years’ worth of transactions. Should be a blank piece of paper.”

“Right.” Harry wiggled his feet back into his shoes under his desk. “You know they hate me, right?”

Robards shrugged and knocked on the cubicle wall in farewell. “They’ll work fast, then.”

-

Beady black eyes glared at him through dark wrought iron bars. The Gringotts teller kiosks were like ornate graveyard gates, the inhabitants equally dour.

The Goblin sniffed, scratched his nose, then clicked his tongue. He licked his thin lips and drummed talon-like fingernails against the marble countertop.

“I could come back with a warrant,” Harry said. “If that would move things along.”

With a sigh, the Goblin reached below the counter. “I suppose,” he hoisted a dusty ledger up, “we do what we must to keep the law on our side.” His lips quirked as if he’d made a joke.

“Right,” Harry said.

The Goblin cracked the ledger open and ran a finger down a page of surnames.  The names all began with the letter B. “This could take quite a while, Mr Potter.”

“Auror Potter.”

“The law has no recourse against Creatures. We, however, have all of your gold.” The Goblin ran his tongue across pointed teeth and shot Harry a jack-o’-lantern grin. “Don’t we? Mister Potter.”

Harry tried to keep his face neutral and failed. He’d been in the Gringotts lobby for five hours. Every queue slowed to a halt when he got to the front. By his count, this particular Goblin had gone on break seventeen times.

Harry gripped the polished marble edge between them. “Just give me a copy of the transactions, and I’ll get out of your lobby.”

The Goblin smirked. “Testy, testy.” He turned a page and mouthed surnames beginning with C to himself. “I’ll find the vault number for this ‘Dalfoy’ of yours soon enough.” He turned another page. “Perhaps even by closing time.”

Harry’s fingerprints left wet whorls on the countertop. He glanced to his left, and the Goblin’s gaze followed. Harry reached through and snatched the ledger. He clutched the pages to his chest and barked a triumphant laugh.

Centuries-old iron groaned, and the lobby went silent. “Oh, shit.”

The bars between him and the Goblin rose like a dam spill gate. Claw-tipped fingers curled around the sidewalls, and the Goblin stepped onto the counter. The kiosks along the row creaked open, one by one, and their tellers followed suit, climbing onto the counter like archers on a castle wall.

Harry clutched the ledger to his chest, wand all but forgotten. “I- I’m just-”

“Robbing us again?”

“N- No. I’m not taking it.”

“Then you won’t mind giving it back.” The Goblin inspected his fingernails, polishing them against his shirt.

“Can I read it first?”  Harry slumped, then grudgingly added, “Please?”

Down the row, a Goblin clapped slowly.

“Such manners. Read it all you like.”

“Thank you.” Harry hugged the thick book and sighed before closing it. Golden embossed letters shone on the spine: Family Vaults, A-L. “You smug little bastard.”

The Goblin clapped once and grinned a mirthless challenge. “That’s more like it.”

“You sneaky, snot-nosed, little cunts.” Harry slammed the ledger on the countertop, narrowly missing the long, bare toes in front of him. “I ought to break your fingers off and shove them up your arses.”

Witches and wizards watched Harry with open shock at the Ministry’s spokes-Auror losing his temper.  The Goblin dipped his head in a trite bow. 

“Auror Potter, finally living up to the title.”

A Goblin down the row let out an amused whoop that felt like an insult. The lobby echoed with rhythmic clicking, and the kiosk gates lowered, their tellers stepping safely behind him.

“Now, then.” The Goblin hefted another ledger onto the counter. He cracked it open to a page with Malfoy scrawled in golden ink across the top. “Ten years, correct?”

Harry straightened his robes. “Yes. Any deposits or withdrawals.”

The Goblin hummed and turned several pages. “It may very well take until closing to give you a full list.”

“Very funny, you pint-sized cock-”

The Goblin spun the ledger around and shoved it across the counter. There were pages upon pages of entries. All withdrawals. The most recent one was mere days ago. There was rarely more than a fortnight between transactions.

Harry flipped forward, then back to the half-filled page. “He’s been here?”

The Goblin leaned back to whisper to the tellers on either side of him. He almost looked worried when he turned back to Harry. “No. An assistant, perhaps. We haven’t seen hide nor hair of Draco Malfoy since the war, either.”

-

Day seven of the Gringotts stakeout, and Harry was seeing things. He shifted uneasily on the lobby bench, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

His year four teacher from St Grogory’s, the crotchety old bitch whose hair he’d turned blue, was queuing up behind a wizard in Healer robes. Mrs Pendergrass. The tyrant.

Impossible. He blinked. When that didn’t change her identity, he took his glasses off and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

She was still there when he put his glasses back on. She approached the kiosk, an enormous floral purse dangling from her forearm, and drew a wand from her sleeve.

The Goblin teller glanced at Harry, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Harry leaned forward, weight on the balls of his feet. The tip of one of the Goblin’s ears flicked. Harry sprang from the bench and crossed the lobby.

Mrs Pendergrass looked over her shoulder. “Oh!” She snatched her wand up from where it lay on the ledger, open to the Malfoy accounts. “Oh, my!”

Harry loomed over her as best he could. She wasn’t a small woman, nor was he a large man.

She swept a pile of Galleons into her bag and turned, blocking his view of the kiosk. “Mr Potter! My, my, how you’ve grown!”

She patted his chest, and he recoiled. “Mrs Pendergrass.”

“Oh! Darling!” She backpedaled toward the lobby doors and waved. “So lovely to see you!”

Harry stood next to the kiosk, slack-jawed. On the countertop lay the ledger, a magic-secured transaction still glowing with today’s date. Two-hundred Galleons. Not a trifling amount.

The Goblin snapped the book shut and shoved it under the desk. Harry opened his mouth to protest, but the Goblin cut him off. “I look forward to seeing your warrant.”

Harry couldn’t form the words to parry a surly Goblin. He was behaving suspiciously, but that wasn’t Harry’s top concern. Nor was he worried about the amount of money. Or the magical signature issue. Or that she’d been nice to him.

No, what niggled at him, first and foremost, was that Mrs Pendergrass was dead.

-

Harry picked through the rumpled clothes on his bedroom floor. Socks. Just two matching socks, and he’d be presentable enough for work.

He’d intended to do laundry on Sunday, but found himself rather shagged out. Normally, he was lucky to pull a few times a month. And he had to put at some effort into it. Or at least go to a bar.

Not this weekend, though. On Friday, at Ginny’s match, he struck up a conversation with a bloke he thought he recognized from Auror training, but the man said he’d never been an Auror.  He certainly hadn’t fucked like a man of the law.

On Saturday, he was getting Chinese takeaway and ran into a guy he swore he recognized as one of Ginny’s old teammates from the minor leagues. But the man said he’d never played Quidditch.  He’d rode wood like a pro, though.

Harry’s luck had baffled him until the men kissed him. Right there. Out in the open. The first one in the Quidditch stands, and the second in the doorway of a busy restaurant.  As if it was normal for them both.

Harry shook his head, put on mismatched socks, and tried to not overthink it. If having the best sex of his life with a stranger on Friday, then topping it with another on Saturday was what the universe decided he deserved, who was he to disagree?

It was odd, though, he thought as he made his way to the living room, how similar the two men were. He’d rarely had a man ask to fuck with the lights off. Let alone two in a row.  And in the dark, they’d felt strangely similar. The texture of their skin, the hard lines and soft curves of their bodies.

Harry grabbed his mobile and keys from the kitchen island. Maybe he’d just gone too long between hookups. He shrugged and Apparated.

His mobile vibrated as he crossed the Atrium.  He shoved his bag’s strap up higher on his shoulder and slipped his mobile out of his robe pocket. A text from Dudley, replying to his message from Thursday. Mrs Pendergrass died five years ago. Dudley had sent a link to her obituary.

Harry stepped into a gleaming golden lift and closed the shiny gate behind him.  While the motor groaned to life, he skimmed the obituary.  Nothing suspicious. Survived by two sons, one brother, and her thousands of pupils, whom she loved like family. That last bit was a lie, but not suspicious.

The faint odor of rotting meat caught his attention first. Then, his eyes were drawn to the glowing lift button for the Department of Mysteries. A chill raced up his spine, and his breath fogged in front of him. On the floor, half lost on the lift’s threshold, lay a dainty footprint, just the forefoot and bare toes. Someone had come in after him.

He stood frozen. An Unspeakable was in the lift.  Not just any Unspeakable.  The fogged cloud of his breath dissipated, and he refused to inhale, lest he draw in more of the fetid stench. It wasn’t the first time he’d smelled it, but it was by far the closest he’d been to this Unspeakable.

Most Unspeakables adopted the names of gods or goddesses. Eros worked in the Love Chamber, and before him, a witch who went by Aphrodite had staffed the position. The Hall of Prophecies was often maintained by a Cassandra, but currently a Hermes. They worked on their projects for a few years, retired their hoods and masks, and left their Unspeakable identities behind.

But not the Ankou. The Ankou was older than the Ministry. Whether the title was passed down or held by an immortal wizard, even Shacklebolt didn’t know. The Ankou built the Death Chamber. Or so legend said. It was rumored that the Ankou could wear the veil to hide in plain sight, and that it could bring death with a mere thought. The Quibbler claimed the Ankou personally kept the souls of the dead behind the veil.  The River Styx in human form.

All Harry knew was that he didn’t want to draw its attention, wherever it was hiding in the seemingly empty lift, and that he didn’t want to inhale that stench again if he didn’t have to. Mercifully, the lift slowed, and he opened the gate and stepped out into the DMLE.

The gate closed behind him with a quiet click, and the golden cage descended through the floor.

Harry took long, slow breaths as he made his way to a small conference room for morning debriefing. Ron was the only one at the twelve-person table. The other two senior Aurors had quit last week.  Harry eased himself into an empty chair next to Ron and set his bag on the floor.

“You alright, Har?” Ron leaned back, balancing a stackable plastic office chair on two legs. He stretched, straightened, and shuffled the pile of file folders on the table. “Look like you saw a ghost.”

Harry nearly told him about Mrs Pendergrass, but thought better of it. “I rode the lift down with the Ankou. That’s all.”

Ron shuddered. “Unspeakables, especially that one, should have to take the stairs. I was next to it at a urinal once, and I was scared to piss at work for a week.”

-

Robards had been droning on about case reports for forty-five minutes, and Harry regretted not stopping for a coffee on his way in. Ron balanced his chair on a single leg to keep himself awake.

Harry replayed his weekend conquests in his head until he got an erection under the table. It wasn’t just that they were both so fit, though they were. It was how eager they’d been. And bold.

Harry slipped a hand in his trouser pocket to adjust his dick. Both men bordered on being pushy. Let’s go to your place. Fuck me in your bed. Lights off. Not like that. Like this. Yes. Just like that. Don’t stop. Right there. Harder. Oh, God, Harry.

Harry scooted down in his chair and considered going to the restroom for a wank.

“Potter.”

Harry gasped and cleared his throat. “Right.”

“The Malfoy missing persons case?”

“Oh, right. Yeah.” Harry reached down and pulled the file out of his bag. “About every two weeks, someone comes in and withdraws a couple hundred Galleons.”

“Someone?” Robards’ jaw was tight as he glared at Harry. “Just someone? Someone who isn’t Draco Malfoy?”

“Uhm… Right.”

“We just spent nearly an hour discussing funding sources for this organization, and you didn’t think to chime in about a mysterious someone draining the Malfoy vaults?”

A hot flush crept up Harry’s neck. Ron slid an open file under Harry’s hand.

It was labelled The Moirai and had short dossiers on suspected members. Pictures, names, dates of birth, residences, family members, both living and dead. Most had vague Death Eater connections, but hadn’t been worth prosecuting after the war.

Robards ran his hand over his scalp and sighed. “In the entire week that you sat in the Gringotts lobby, did you at least get a good look at this person, Potter?”

A picture of Draco Malfoy in his school robes, Slytherin tie knotted perfectly, took up most of the last page. Location unknown. Presumed dead.

Harry stared at the picture, then blinked and shook his head. “Uhm, yeah, it was my teacher from St Grogory’s.”

The photo of Malfoy drew Harry’s attention back, and the room fell silent.  Ron elbowed Harry in the arm.

“Potter, your Muggle teacher was taking Galleons out of Malfoy’s vault?”

Harry closed the file. Robards was turning an unhealthy shade of purple. Harry looked at Ron for an explanation. “Mate,” Ron said gently, tapping the file, “the Moirai are dealing illegal Polyjuice.  And you saw someone in a disguise?  Taking a dead man’s money?”

Polyjuice hadn’t even occurred to him. Harry frowned and waited for Robards to explode. When he didn’t, Harry pulled his mobile out of his pocket and opened the browser to Mrs Pendergrass’ obituary.

“It couldn’t have been someone Polyjuicing themselves as Mrs Pendergrass.” He held the screen up for Robards to see. “She died five years ago. Polyjuice needs fresh hair, right?”

Robards glared at him and nodded slowly. His eyes softened. His jaw relaxed. He stared into the middle distance, then his eyes went round.

Robards’ face went from a vivid mauve, to a pale rose, to sickly white in a matter of seconds. He licked his dry lips and gingerly took the mobile from Harry. He cleared his throat and handed it back, clammy palm brushing Harry’s.

When Robards finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “Are you certain it was your teacher? Not her daughter, or her sister, or her twin?”

“I’m sure,” Harry said.

“And did you speak to her?”

“Yeah. She was nice, but maybe she’s only mean to children.”

“What, exactly, did she say to you?”

“Uhm, just that it was good to see me. And that I’ve grown.” Harry tucked his mobile back in his pocket.

“She recognized you?”

“Well, yeah.”

Robards stared at the closed door for an eternity. Ron looked back and forth between him and Harry, then shrugged in bewilderment.

“You can go,” Robards finally said. “If shit hits the fan this morning, tell them to page me down in Mysteries.”

-

Ron reached the top of the stairs first and leaned his arse against the railing to wait for Harry.

“What do you suppose that was all about?” Ron asked.

“No idea. I hope he doesn’t put me on the Moirai investigation, though.”

“You’re unofficially already on it, I think.”

“Great.”

Ron wormed his way through the packed Atrium, and Harry followed in his wake. The masses parted for Auror robes more quickly than they did for their resident Saviour. A cluster of people crowded into a lift together.

Across the empty space, Harry caught a glimpse of shiny black hair and the black and white bars of an Azkaban jumpsuit.

Sirius.

Harry ran face-first into Ron’s shoulder. When he looked back. Sirius was gone.

He shook his head and nudged Ron forward. His eyes were playing tricks on him. Ron stood stock still, eyes glued to the spot where Sirius had been.

Harry kicked the heel of Ron’s shoe. Ron took a shaky breath and watched the crowd fill in.

“Sorry,” Ron said.

“Did you see somebody?” Harry asked, trying to sound calm.

“I… Yeah, I… I saw George.”

“Oh. On his way down to see your dad?”

“I… Yeah, maybe.” Ron wiped his hands on his robes. “But… No, it’s stupid.”

“What?”

“He was wearing Fred’s jumper.”

Harry shrugged. “That’s a bit morbid, even for George.”

“No, Harry,” Ron shook his head and glanced back toward the lift, “Fred’s buried in that jumper.”

Chapter Text

Harry had one routine indulgence. One place he’d never have dared to step foot in as a child. One specific establishment, and a few things he paid for, but more for the experience itself. A place no one knew about, not even Ron and Hermione.

Whole Foods.

In Soho.

Ron saw a mailer once and made a typical dad joke about buying Whole Foods being better than being sold half of the food. Nobody laughed. Hermione had replied that the classist idiots who go there are fine with paying double if it means they don’t have to mingle with peasants. Harry bit his tongue and kept his feelings about the Brown Borough sourdough boule to himself. And bought two loaves on the way home.

Today, though, he didn’t particularly need anything beyond a mindless shopping trip. He grabbed a pre-made chicken vindaloo with rice out of the cooler and walked toward the bakery. His mobile vibrated in his pocket, and he stopped to check it.

Junk email. A passerby bumped his elbow. He fumbled his mobile, but caught it and turned to scowl at the man. The man continued on, so Harry frowned at the man’s sandy hair and tan trench coat.

Quick as a flash, the man looked over his shoulder. Mustache. Scars.

Remus.

Harry blinked, and the man was gone, lost behind a gaggle of middle-aged women in matching pink t-shirts. Harry stood, chicken vindaloo in one hand and mobile in the other, until the aisle’s population flowed away, other nameless people meandering in.

It wasn’t Remus. It couldn’t be.  He was just going mad.  That was all. 

The cider-rich scent of apples pulled him through the produce section, between flawless, flat-topped pyramids of fruit. He stopped to hunt for his reflection in a glossy Honeycrisp.

First Sirius, now Remus. No, first Mrs Pendergrass, then Sirius, now Remus. Maybe he’d finally cracked. If he walked up to Hermione and told her he saw dead people, she’d laugh in his face and tell him to stop watching old Bruce Willis movies.

A little girl, maybe five years old, peeked out from behind a display of pears and smiled at him, a wide grin full of perfect baby teeth. She looked up and over her shoulder, one blond corkscrew pigtail hanging free, and the other falling behind her head. In what felt like slow-motion, she pulled a golden pear from the bottom of the pyramid. Her eyes opened wide in horror as the pyramid began to sheet planes of tumbling pears onto the floor. Dozens of them rolled to a stop around her feet. She watched them, as if waiting for them to spring up and attack her.  She smiled and kicked a pear, then looked back up, eyes gleaming, and clutched her far superior pear in her tiny hands.

Harry chuckled to himself and stepped around the detritus. The girl’s mother called to her from the deli, and she skipped away.

The bakery called to him with the scent of just-barely burnt flour. Just enough to smell real, and not industrial. It reminded him of something. Something new. Something good. But damned if he could remember what. A new toasted sandwich at Ministry Munchies, probably.

He half-expected to see Remus between the stacks of bread, but the section was nearly empty. The sourdough didn’t look fresh, so he took a giant soft pretzel from the stand. His stomach growled. He licked his lips and looked at the pretzel. If he ate part of it now, but paid for it on his way out, it wasn’t technically stealing.

An elbow nudged his side.

“You look like you’re not going to make it out the door with that pretzel,” said a devastatingly fit man in a Harpies t-shirt. “Let alone all the way home.”

Harry licked his lips and stared at him. Shiny black hair down past his chin, brown eyes, tall, lean. A Chaser. Harry knew it like he knew the pretzel crust would stick to his tongue. A Chaser from one of Ginny’s old scrimmage bracket games.

“Tongue-tied?” the man asked with a smirk. “Harry?”

“Sorry…”. Harry shook his head and tried to remember the man’s name.  A Chaser, a major team, probably on the Continent. Portugal? Spain? Spain! “Armando!  Galicia Graphorns, right?”

“Armando… Maldonado?” he said, as if he didn’t know his own name.

“You’re in London for the European Cup?”

The recent string of fit Quidditch players in Harry’s bed suddenly made sense.

Armando nodded and said nothing , but it didn’t matter, because the man was devouring Harry with his eyes.

“Are you gonna eat that here and now, or do you want to take it home?” Armando asked, voice dropping as a woman walked by. “Because I think pretzels like to be eaten at home.”

“Do they, now?”

Armando hummed and nodded.  “This one does.”

Harry’s gaze flicked between him and the hall to the restrooms. “What if I wanted to eat it right here?”

Armando gulped, and his confidence wavered. “I think this particular pretzel is a bit too loud for public consumption.”

Harry rubbed the salt off a patch of glossy crust. “But they’re just so... flexible.”

“Alas,” he replied with a sigh, “they are.”

Harry stepped closer. “And maybe I wouldn’t mind wrecking a pretzel in front of the security cameras.”

Armando’s face fell, and he stepped back. “The what?” His Adam’s apple bobbed.

Harry shrugged. “Well, more for the benefit of the sad bloke who sits in an office and watches the cameras.” Armando looked baffled, so Harry gestured at the ceiling. “The little things hanging down on poles.”

Armando scowled, scanning the ceiling until he narrowed in on a single camera. Horror bloomed across his face as he took in the field of suspended surveillance. “Oh,” he whispered. “Oh, no…”

Harry wanted to lick up his arched neck and wrap his hair around his fist.  “I suppose I could take my time with my pretzel if I take it home with me.”

Armando nodded. “Yeah.”

“That is, if I have a pretzel who wants me to take it home and eat it.”

“Yeah.” He nodded again and focused on Harry. “Yeah, definitely.”

Harry grinned and glanced toward the restroom. “Side-along from the gents?”

“Fuck, yes. Let's get out of here.”

-

Harry stood naked at the foot of his bed, spit cooling on his dick. Armando stepped on his own foot to pull one sock off, then the other. He smiled at Harry, lips still slick and swollen, his dick so hard it looked painful.

He’d known Armando would take his socks off like that. Just like he knew Armando was going to say-

“Could you turn the lights off?”

“Why?” Harry replied, before his brain caught up to his mouth.

Armando settled onto Harry’s bed and fluffed a pillow like he’d already claimed it. He lifted one shoulder in a blasé shrug.

Harry stalked toward the bed, and Armando grinned and cupped himself with one hand. He rubbed his chin against the pillow, and Harry could just make out the quickening pulse in his neck. Licking that neck was still on Harry’s to-do list for the evening.

“Maybe I want to see you come,” Harry said, thighs against the edge of the mattress. Without warning, he pounced, landing on all fours over Armando’s body.

Armando let out a startled yip and wound his legs around Harry’s hips. His hand stroked up Harry’s arm, across his shoulder, and cupped the back of his head.

“Maybe I don’t want you to see me come.” He tugged Harry’s hair. “Maybe I look atrocious.”

“Maybe I don’t care.”

Armando glanced at the ceiling and idly petted the short hair on the back of Harry’s neck. “Are there cameras in here?”

In general, Harry judged wizard questions about the Muggle world against the rubric of Would Arthur Know? rather than laugh at them.

“No. Some Muggles do put cameras in their flats. Some wizards probably do, too. But I don't.”

"Okay, good."

Harry leaned down and planted a kiss on his forehead. He mumbled, lips against Armando’s skin, “Do I get to eat my pretzel now?” He worked his lips down his temples and nipped at his earlobe.

“Yeah,” Armando whispered shakily. He pulled Harry’s hips down and writhed, thrusting against Harry’s belly.

"I think I'll start at the top. The top of the pretzel's the best part."

Harry sighed and nuzzled into his neck. Armando’s hair smelled like toast, and Harry kissed behind his ear. He licked, ever so slowly, down to his collarbone. His tongue ran over a bump. He sucked his tongue, then kissed along Armando’s collarbone, lips softly probing. A mole. Against his lips. He hadn’t noticed it before, and he started to pull back for a peek.

“Wait,” Armando said. He pointed a finger at the ceiling light and closed one eye. “Nox.”

The bulb shattered with a crackling pop, plunging the room into darkness.

Harry kissed the mole. “Good aim. I couldn’t make that shot if I tried.”

Armando clicked his tongue and reached between them, long fingers wrapping around Harry’s cock. “Sharpshooter or not, Potter, you’d better keep up.”

-

“Stay,” Harry said to the dark room. He was entirely too fucked out to make a more cogent argument. His dick would be glued to his thigh with dried come before he’d be able to string his thoughts together.

A rustle of fabric and slight breeze were the only reply. A pair of jeans being snapped open, and one leg sliding in, then the other. Armando’s fly zipping.

“I make a mean omelette.”

“I… no. Thanks.” Armando patted his pockets down.

“Can I Owl you sometime?” Harry hid a yawn in his pillow.

“I’m really not looking for anything serious.”

“Well, yeah. Me, either.” Harry filed that knee-jerk response away to examine later. “But if you want to get drinks after a match while you’re in Lon-”

“I said no.”

“Jesus. Sorry. Didn’t know I was that bad a lay.”

“It’s not- You’re- You’re great, I just- I can’t.”

Harry slumped into his pillows as audibly and as pitifully as he could. It would have been nice to at least watch Armando leave like his broom was on fire. 

Harry cleared his throat. “Can you get my mobile out of my jeans?”

“Yeah.”

Muted footsteps on the carpet, and the keys in Harry’s jeans pockets jangled. His mobile hit the bed with a soft thump.

“Thanks.”

Harry’s thumb hovered over the flashlight button on his mobile screen. He’d already stolen a pretzel and chicken vindaloo tonight, so what was a little unauthorized surveillance?

He tapped the button. The room flooded with white light. Armando spun around, and Harry got a single, quickfire look:

Armando’s shoulders were broader, his waist thicker. Harry closed his eyes, but forced them back open.

Brown hair… buzzed short on bottom, the top brushing his ears.

The man waved his arms and covered his face, but not before Harry saw him.

Heavy, square jaw covered in dark stubble. Hazel eyes.

He Apparated out with a molar-rattling pop.

Harry blinked and concentrated on committing the image to memory, but found he didn’t need to. He remembered Antonin Dolohov quite well.

-

Harry gave up on sleep and went to work at 5:30 AM. He sat in a wobbly metal chair at a round café table in the Atrium and nursed a tepid Starbucks latte. It should have felt safer than his flat, but the empty lobby seemed to hold its breath as if waiting for a punch to the gut.

His flat wasn’t compromised, necessarily. The wards were ironclad. Only Ron and Hermione could cross them.  But that wouldn’t stop someone from lingering outside the building. If that man really was Dolohov, he was probably sitting in the alleyway with a pipe wrench right now.

But it couldn’t be Dolohov. They’d all seen his corpse. But they’d seen Remus’ body, too. And Sirius’. And Mrs Pendergrass’ obituary. Did that mean Armando Maldonado was dead, as well?

Harry popped the lid off of his cup and took a loud gulp. He should’ve asked the men he fucked over the weekend for their names. He licked a droplet off the rim of the cup. They’d have told him if they wanted to. If they’d cared to.

Armando had been different in that way. Or Dolohov, or whoever he was. The other two men stripped down and all but shoved him onto the bed. They’d kissed him as an introduction and again as a parting gift.

Armando was slower. More deliberate. He kissed Harry like he gave a damn. Harry swirled his half-full cup. Maybe that’s why Harry had expected him to stay the night. It would have been nice.

Unless it was Dolohov. In which case, he was lucky to have survived and should probably boil his dick.

Harry slouched, elbows on the table, head in his hands. He was well and truly losing his marbles. Robards was going to make him turn in his badge and robes. They’d pack up his flat, turn in the key, and force him to live in Ron’s old room at the Burrow. Or worse, the Janus Thickey ward.

Harry finished his latte, laid his head down, and wondered if St Mungo’s would let him bring his mobile.

-

A whiff of roadkill woke Harry. He rubbed his face against his robe sleeves. The Atrium was bustling with morning foot traffic. At other tables, Ministry employees bolted down their hasty breakfasts.

“Hey.” An arse clad in red robes nudged his elbow.

Harry squinted up at Ron. “Morning.”

“Did you get called in for a split shift?”

Harry shook his head. Ron scanned the crowd like a sheepdog. Dark rings sat below his eyes.

Harry cleared his throat. “Did you get called in last night?”

“Nah. They paged, but I’ve got enough seniority to punt it to the younger guys.”

Regardless, Ron looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “What time did they page you?”

“Around two.”

“Rough.”

Ron shrugged. “I was awake.”

Harry yawned, stretched, and cracked his back against the chair. “Were you up working on the Moirai investigation?”

“Some. I mostly couldn’t sleep.” He glanced at his mobile. “You want anything from Caffè Nero? ‘Mione’s going to Apparate in from there in a bit.”

Harry shook his head. “No, thanks.”

Ron scanned the crowd again, then rolled his shoulders. He pulled an empty chair over to Harry’s table, turned it around, and straddled it. He folded his arms on the backrest and laid his chin on them. Harry wondered if he wasn’t going to doze off, too.

“I talked to George last night.”

“That’s good. How’s George?”

“At Shell Cottage. He’s been there all week. Hasn’t left.”

“Is he alri-” Harry stopped. “He wasn’t here?”

“Nope.” Ron’s eyes darted from face to face in the milling crowd. “I asked him why he was playing graveyard dress-up at Headquarters. He had no idea what I was talking about. Said he’s been out there working on the cottage roof since last Sunday.”

Harry drummed his fingers on the table. A flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. Hermione stood in front of the Apparition point across the Atrium. She had a newspaper under one arm, a carrier of paper cups in hand.  She waved to Ron, who acknowledged her with a feeble smile.

“What’s Hermione think about the George thing?”

Ron shook his head. “I didn’t tell her. If it’s the Moirai, I don’t want them to find out she knows, you know?”

“Not really.”

Hermione set the carrier of cups in the middle of the table. She wiggled one loose and placed it in front of Ron. “Americano.” She set a second one in front of Harry. “Latte, extra hot, extra foam, and three shots of Hermione You Shouldn’t Have.”

Harry smiled and accepted both the critique and the drink. Hermione stayed standing while she blew on a cup of black coffee. She spread the newspaper out in front of her. In the center of the front page, a clip of a Quidditch game played on a loop.

A black-haired man in a red and black Galicia Graphorns jersey hurtled toward a hoop, dangling upside down from his broom, Quaffle in one outstretched hand. He flung it through, corkscrewed down the pole, then darted back up astride his broom.

Brown eyes met Harry’s, and he hid his shock behind the rim of his too-hot latte. It was Armando Maldonado. Alive, well, and playing Quidditch.

Harry skimmed the caption while Ron and Hermione talked about Rose’s upcoming birthday.

MALDONADO, NEWLY-MINTED GRAPHORNS CHASER,
SCORES HIS TWELFTH GOAL OF THURSDAY NIGHT’S TIER THREE MATCH,
AN ABSOLUTE SHUT-OUT AGAINST THE HOME TEAM, BALLYCASTLE BATS.

Harry read it four times and burned his tongue on his drink. Armando Maldonado was alive. But he was in Northern Ireland playing Quidditch last night.

Hermione opened the paper.  Harry blinked himself away from muddled thoughts of fucking Armando, and of Dolohov standing in his bedroom.

She licked her thumb and flipped through sections until she found what she wanted, then folded the paper into quarters and pushed it toward Ron. “Look at the drivel Luna’s writing now. You might want to show it to Robards. She’s going to provoke hysteria.”

Harry leaned closer to Ron, and it took him a few moments to find the article.

Quibbler Quips and Quandaries,
published daily on Tuesdays, Fridays, and Full Moons

Coo coo ca choo!
Did your dead mum come through the Floo?

Pitter pat, tit for tat!
Why’s Dumbledore buying a hat?

True blue, gumshoe!
Supreme Mugwump at Fortescue’s?

REPORT SIGHTINGS OF OUT-OF-PLACE,
OUT-OF-VEIL HUMANS TO THE QUIBBLER.
OWL PREFERRED.

Harry read it twice, until the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and his latte curdled in his gut. Ron’s eyes flicked up and caught Harry’s, and they both astutely looked away.

“See?” Hermione said. “They buried the story about the DMLE Polyjuice ban on page four, because obviously Quidditch is more important.”

“Yeah,” Ron said, taking the paper. “I’ll let Robards know…”

Ron trailed off, watching Hermione as she looked into the crowd and froze, coffee halfway to her lips. Harry’s gaze followed hers.

Vernon Dursley dusted himself off in front of the Floos.

“No…” Hermione whispered.

Ron sat up straight and palmed his wand. “That bastard.”

“She’s dead.” Hermione’s coffee shook. “She’s dead! Ron, she’s dead!” Hermione shouted. Wide terrified eyes met Harry’s. “She has to be dead,” Hermione said, blinking back tears. “She has to be.”

Ron stood, kicking a leg over his chair. “Wait, ‘Mione, who did you see?”

She stepped around the table and buried her face in his shoulder. “Bellatrix,” she said with a whimper.

Ron stroked her hair, then kissed the top of her head. “I could have sworn I saw Pettigrew.”

He looked at Harry and waited. “Vernon. My uncle Vernon.”

"All impossible." Ron tucked the newspaper under his arms and held his wife’s head to his chest, swaying gently.

“Shh… ‘Mione, we’ll figure it out.” He pulled back and kissed her forehead. “Promise. Don’t worry. Besides, Mum would trade her knitting needles to kill that bitch again.”

Chapter Text

Harry stroked the end of his quill over the forms inside Malfoy’s file. Until they got information about the Gringotts transactions, they couldn’t declare him dead. Everything else was in order. No medical records, no international travel records, no registered Owl correspondence, not so much as a bloody library book check-out.

Ron knocked on Harry's cubicle wall as he entered. He was so flushed, his freckles looked pale.

“He doesn’t care,” he said, words sharp as clipped wire. “Robards doesn’t fucking care that we just saw two war criminals and the World’s Shittiest Muggle right here inside Headquarters.” Ron leaned over Harry’s desk, gripping the edge with blanching fingers while his body swayed on rod-straight arms. “Doesn’t fucking care.”

Harry tucked Malfoy’s file into a drawer. “What did he say?”

“Well, first off, smelled like his breakfast was more Irish than coffee.” Ron stood, thumbs hooked in his belt at the small of his back. He paced in front of Harry’s desk, voice low. “Second, his office looks like the Erinyes blew through it.” He held up three fingers. “Third, you know how he hangs his robes on the back of his office door so he doesn’t sweat through ‘em while he’s sitting in his climate-controlled office?”

Harry nodded, expression placid. He hadn’t seen Ron this angry in years.

“Well, they stink like the Ankou.” He fluttered his fingertips at his nose. “You know, that sweetish smell dead rabbits get when they almost aren’t rabbits anymore?”

Harry nodded again.

“I don’t-” Ron stopped, rocked up onto tip-toe and peeked into the surrounding cubicles and hall. He bit at a thumbnail and bent back down to grip the desk, pinning Harry with a livid propane-blue gaze. “I don’t trust Robards.”

-

“Come in!” Robards’ words were slurred, even through the oak door.

The golden plate above Harry’s eyes scooped light and held it in the dips of the engraved letters, Head Auror. Today, the light warped to make it read: Heed, Auror. A content warning more than a titular distinction.

“Right,” Harry said as he turned the knob.

Ron’s assessment was accurate. The robe on the back of the door did smell like carrion. A bottle of Macallan stood watch over a pile of red file folders. Robards sipped caramel liquid from his coffee mug.

“What is it, Potter?” he mush-mouthed out. “You close Malfoy's file out?” He tipped the mug back. “Cuz one less Death Eater’s one less Death Eater.”

“Uhm…” Harry lingered behind one of the tufted leather seats. “Maybe when the bank record warrant is ready.” He ran a thumbnail along a folded seam on the cusp of the backrest. “What do you mean one less Death Eater? I thought he was the only one outside of Azkaban.”

Robards laid back in his chair and swivelled, face upturned to the plaster ceiling. “You’d think, right? You’d think that. But these Moirai, they’re cut from the same cloth.”

“The Polyjuice ring?”

Robards smiled the smile of a man who knows a famine is coming, and he’s the only one with a larder. “Elixir of Erised,” he said with a wry huff. “Their potion’s so far beyond Polyjuice, they renamed it.”

“Oh.” Harry ran his thumbnail under the leather seam and folded it back on itself. “Can it make a person turn into a live man, then a dead man?”

Robards stared at him for a beat. “No. That’s… No.”

Harry hummed. “What’s their new formula do, then?”

Robards took a long breath and sat up straight, the arms of his chair doing half the work. “Their ‘Elixir of Erised’, catchy name, credit where credit's due, is everything the Department has ever wanted for undercover ops. It doesn’t waver under fire, it doesn’t corrode on the shelf, it matches voices and magical signatures.”

Harry shook his head. “That’s impossible.”

Robards’s grin reached his eyes, and his eyes glowed far too bright for a man who isn’t staring opportunity in the face. “It even fools Muggle photography.”

“Oh. That sounds…” Harry whispered. He gulped and felt the blood drain from his face, swell through his chest, and pool in his gut. “...useful.”

-

Harry stood on the black-tiled square of the Apparition point in the handicap stall of the men’s restroom of the Whole Foods in Soho. He waited for his stomach to settle, stared at the perfect off-white enamel paint on the steel walls, and wished they were covered in layers of chipped, painted-over graffiti. Love notes and death threats. Phone numbers and maledictions. Calls to arms and pleas for swords beaten into plowshares.

He shook his head, but didn’t move to open the pristine stall door. A walk through orderly pyramids of produce would clear his head. The precise lines of the bakery cases would calm him.

But, he realized, he didn’t want it. He didn't want a calm, empty head.

He wanted a bit of chaos. A little filth. A hearty shot of unpredictability. A shouting match, a shoving contest, and maybe a fistfight.

With a wrench, a lurch, and a pop, he landed on the wide fieldstone doorstep of the White Wyvern. Above him, a board carved with a pearlescent serpentine dragon creaked in the wind.

He glanced around the crowded room as he made his way to the bar. A brown-glazed clay mug slid to a stop in front of him, foam sloshing over the side, and a sallow-eyed Thestral of a man gave him a wink before doing the same to another bloke. Harry would've rather had a few fingers of bourbon, but it seemed one drank what one was provided at the White Wyvern.

Harry leaned against the bar and watched people mill about as he sipped his beer. A milk stout, if he wasn’t mistaken. Not bad. He took a long swallow. Not bad, at all.

In a corner booth, alone, a head of long blond hair bent over a scroll. A specific blonde he had a bone to pick with. He caught a whiff of spoilt meat and chased it away with a swig of beer.

He stood over the table and waited. He set his pint down none too gently and cleared his throat, but there was no reaction. “Luna.”

Her shoulders flinched, and she looked up. “Oh,” she crooned. “Harry.” She straightened, laid down her quill, and squinted at him. “If that is you.” She cocked her head, eyes roving over his scar. “And I’m fairly sure it is.” She bit her lips, hair still falling to one side. “Ginevra Weasley has a birthmark of what… where?”

Harry burped, held it while he considered the question, and blew it out his nose. “A blotchy pink triangle on the back of her neck. Upside down. In her hair.”

“Good.” Luna nodded. “Very good.” She glanced back and forth between his eyes, then licked her lips. “I slept with Lucius Malfoy, you know.”

Harry stared at her, slack-jawed, a dozen questions jamming in the back of his throat. When? Where? How? What? Why???

Luna sighed. “Oh, good. Nothing. Not a flicker.” She picked up her quill. “I didn’t really sleep with Lucious Malfoy.” She pointed the nib at him. “Obviously.”

“Right.”

Harry wiped a droplet from the rim of his mug and popped his thumb in his mouth. Did The Prophet know the Quibbler articles were coming from… her?

“So, you’ve met him, have you?” she asked, not looking up from her scroll.

Harry sucked his mouth dry and swallowed. “Who?”

“He, or she, who is anyone and no one. Everyone you expect, and nobody you don’t.” Luna clasped her hands and crouched forward as though she’d seen a kitten she wanted to pet. “It’s very exciting, though it’s a shame how it’s to end. It’s been centuries, you know.”

“Since…?”

“Since the last time.” She ran the whip-thin tip of her quill over her lips. “It’s been at least three-hundred years since we’ve had a mind-walking Legilimens,” she said with an excited squeak.

“A what?”

“A true Doppelgänger.”

-

Harry stood next to his bed at 5 AM, the fingers of one hand adjusting his glasses, and the other holding four strands of hair. Blonde hair. Left on the pillowcase like breadcrumbs on a forest floor.

Four pale filaments, only as long as his palm was wide, but they caused a traffic jam of questions.

If Armando/Dolohov was one of the Moirai, and he’d taken Elixir of Erised, would he shed his own natural hair? Robards' description of the potion would indicate not.

But if that was the case, was the man’s true identity Armando Maldonado, Spanish Quidditch star, or Antonin Dolohov, presumed dead Death Eater, or someone else? The Moirai had the same end goals as the Death Eaters, so perhaps they used potions to resemble fallen Death Eaters?

Or was this the Dopplegänger’s hair? He hadn't been able to get a straight answer out of Luna on anything.

A knock sounded at the door of his flat, and he dropped a hair. He set the other three on the nightstand, but the fourth was lost against the cream carpet.

Nobody knocked on his door. He never had food delivered, the neighbours were standoffish, and hardly anyone knew where he lived. Hell, even Robards thought he lived at Grimmauld, not in a Muggle flat just off Regent St.

He picked up a t-shirt from the floor and wrangled himself into it as he made his way to the door. The person knocked again, double-speed, in a way that made him wonder if they needed the loo.

Cigarette smoke wafted in under the door on a draft. His fingers wrapped around the knob, and he hesitated.  What if Dolohov had only pretended to Apparate away, but had Apparated to the front lawn of the building?  He could have stayed inside Harry’s wards all day.

He looked out the peephole, but the hall was empty. He reached up and swung the bar lock closed, then slowly turned the knob. A cloud of cigarette smoke made his eyes water. The door opened an inch, caught on the bar, and clacked to a stop.

“Not you, too,” came Hermione’s voice, quiet in the silent hall.

Harry cocked his head and squinted at her through the narrow opening. She glared at the bar lock. 

Not him, too?  Other people had locked her out? Who would do that? And why?

Unless this wasn’t Hermione Granger. It could be the Moirai, or the Dopplegänger, whose abilities were still a mystery.

Hermione shifted foot to foot, clutching her cigarette and her purse. “Harry, let me in.”

“I…”

“Fine.” She took a long drag, held it, and blew it out her nostrils in twin streams. “You want proof? You wanked into your Quidditch kit socks in school.”

Indignation cut a hot path up Harry’s chest and scattered into an embarrassed blush. “I…” He flipped the bar lock open. “I’m gonna kill Ron.”

She shot him a tired smile as she followed him in, but it faded when she closed the door and flipped both locks behind her. Harry took three mugs out of the cabinet and filled the kettle with water. She paced back and forth between the kitchen island and the sofa. He set the kettle on the hob, turned the knob, and it lit with click-click-whoosh.

Plastic crinkled as she dug a pack of Reds out of her purse and lit one off the other, then Vanished the butt.

“I need you to talk to him.” She rubbed her hands against her arms as if the room were cold.

“Who? Ron?”

“No, fucking jolly old St Nick,” she snapped, then rubbed her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She took another drag, watched the ash grow, and glanced up at him. He held out the extra mug, and she took it. The ash fell, and her posture with it. “He’s losing it. Already lost it, maybe.”

“What?”

“He told me about the Moirai. A few days ago. That they’re out for Muggleborns, just like the Death Eaters.” Her hands trembled, and ashes drifted down onto the carpet. “But then he said it wasn’t just the Moirai, but a Legilimens, too, and Harry, he lost his fucking mind.”

“I’m sure he’s just worried-”

“Blood Pacts,” she said, voice high and panicky. “I walked in on him talking Rose and Hugo into Blood Pacts.” She looked up at him, eyes red-rimmed and brimming over with tears. “At first, it was family code words, because he was convinced one of these imposters was going to come to our house, and we wouldn’t recognize them. And then he started interrogating his parents, because he thought they were the Moirai, and then-”

She sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve. A clump of ash tumbled down the back of her hand and scattered in the air.

The kettle whistled, and Harry turned the hob off.

Hermione cleared her throat and blew smoke out through pursed lips as tears tracked down her cheeks. “He got called in tonight, last night, after dinner, and then he came home a couple of hours ago and said he was going to sneak into the kids’ room, because he owed them their goodnight kisses-”

Harry nodded and dropped a pinch of earl grey into the mugs, then filled them.

“But it was taking a long time, so I peeked in, and they were all three sitting on the floor together with a knife.” She gripped her mug of ashes so hard that Harry worried she’d break it and cut herself. “A knife.”

Stunned, Harry set the mugs of tea on the island, then shook his head. “Ron wouldn’t-”

“He said it was the only way they’d know each other.”  Her words ended in a choked sob. “The only way they’d be safe.”

Harry stirred the tea with his finger, leaves swirling like slush. It didn’t make sense.

“But a Blood Pact between him and the kids wouldn’t keep the Moirai from-”

“I know.” She dropped her cigarette butt in the empty mug and picked up the one with steaming tea. “I know. He’s off his fucking rocker, Harry. I mean, I’m terrified, but he’s dangerous.”

Harry watched tendrils of darkness seep like squid ink from the tea leaves. “Where are the kids?”

“Susan and Neville's house.” She sniffed, then her breath shuddered out. “I panicked and told the kids it was Sue's dog’s birthday, and the fucking dog wanted to have a party at dawn.” Her bitter chuckle made the tea in her mug ripple. “She was having them frost a meatloaf with mashed potatoes when I left.”

He should have hugged her. Like a friend. But right now, she was a witness.

“Where’s Ron?”

Her mouth pulled down into a frown that looked like it wanted to wail, and she pressed the wall of the mug against her chin. Her shoulders shook. Then her hair. Then her tea.

Harry gently took the mug from her hands, then wrapped his fingers around hers. “Where is he, ‘Mione?” Harry asked, pulling her close.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, voice wavering. “I called the Thickey ward response team.”

“Shh…” He held her head to his shoulder and stroked her hair away from her face. “Shh… you did the right thing.”

“I had to, Harry.” She broke in a single gut-deep sob against his chest. “I had to. He had a knife. He had my babies, and he had a knife.”

-

Harry sat at the conference table and waited for Ron and Robards until 10 AM. He could have Firecalled the Thickey ward to confirm Ron’s status. He could have knocked on Robards’ office door. But he sat in an empty meeting room for an hour instead.

The newspapers were full of stories of impossible sightings. One man claimed to have seen a Sasquatch in Diagon Alley, but then he’d recanted and admitted it could have been Hagrid.  Hagrid was quoted denying having left Hogwarts.

Today’s Prophet sat open to the most recent Quibbler piece.

Quibbler Quips and Quandaries,
published daily on Tuesdays, Fridays, and Full Moons

Hoo-hoo-are-you?
Sings the cautious barred owl.

Why-why-I’m-you!
Replies the mimic, ever foul.

And do you? Know the Ankou?
You will before you kowtow.

REPORT SIGHTINGS OF OUT-OF-PLACE,
OUT-OF-VEIL HUMANS TO THE QUIBBLER.
OWL PREFERRED.

A chorus of shouts erupted in the hall, and Harry Vanished the newspaper. He strode to the door and leaned his spine against the frame.

Four junior Aurors filed through, fists pumping air, each with a small wooden crate on a shoulder. They looked like they’d just won a Quidditch game, and the MVP was a series of pine boxes.

Robards followed behind them and stopped in front of Harry. He clapped Harry on the shoulder, beaming with pride and no small amount of liquor.

“Never guess what Knockturn night patrol scared up in that alley behind the White Wyvern,” Robards said, syllables choppy as he caught his breath.

Harry shook his head. It could have been anything from counterfeit Ogden’s to human skulls.

“That right there is five hundred vials of Elixir of Erised.” Robards watched the crates like a man watches his pregnant wife waddle through a crowd. Victorious, indifferent to the cost. “Ron’s the one who tracked them down. Man’s like a foxhound.”

He spared a moment for Harry to object, but Harry merely waited.

“He’ll be fine,” Robards said, but he’d have said the same about a racehorse with a snapped femur. “Give him a few days, and he’ll be right as rain.”

The Aurors and their bounty disappeared around a corner, presumably on their way to the potions evidence locker, and not Robards’ office. Presumably.

Robards sighed, hands on his hips. “Did they tell you?”

Harry shook his head. “About what?”

“Ron. What they did to him.”  Some of the mirth left his face, but not enough. “They… tortured him. A bit. In a way.”

“What?”

“They got some of Granger’s hair.  And the kids’.” The twinkle in Robards’ eyes died. “Our boys found him hexed to a wall, and the Moirai had put on quite a show.”

“Oh, God…”

“He Apparated straight home, and we didn’t think much of it.”

Harry needed to cry, but punching saline out of Robards’ face sounded like the better option.

“Anyway,” Robards said, hitching up his trousers, “he’ll be fine.”

Hermione wouldn’t be.  Ron wouldn't. Their children wouldn’t. But Robards didn’t care.

“Stop by my office after lunch. You’re off the Malfoy missing persons case unless you find solid ties with your new cases.”

Harry cracked his knuckles against his thigh. “New cases?”

“You’re heading the Moirai investigation now,” he said over his shoulder as he departed.

Harry sighed. “Right.”

-

Harry wretched the last of his lunch into the toilet bowl, sucked spit through his molars, and spat it against the porcelain. His elbows ached where they sat on the rim. He held his head up with fingers knotted in his hair. Saliva dangled from his lip before dropping into the water.

He spat again and sighed. He’d always thought he had a stronger stomach than this.

The Moirai case files should have put Ron in the Thickey ward months ago. Harry’s train of thought derailed and crashed into a series of Polaroids of a Muggle-born witch; her throat slit ear-to-ear. They’d propped her up against the trunk of a cherry tree in full bloom, twin toddlers in her lap, too pale to be asleep. The photos had been from different angles, and flipping through the stack had created a stop-motion video that would haunt him forever.

He unspooled a wad of toilet paper and scrubbed his mouth dry, threw the paper in the bowl, stood, and flushed.

No wonder Robards had started drinking. And was likely going to finish himself off with it.

He opened the stall door, and Gawain Fucking Robards himself came sidling into the restroom. Harry avoided meeting his eyes and pressed the faucet down to meter out a prescribed dose of hot water. It gushed against the white enamel of the sink. Harry plunged his hands into the stream as the handle slowly rose.

Robards locked the restroom door, and the click of the metal bar hitting home resonated behind Harry’s sternum. He looked up from the sink and watched Robards in the mirror. Robards scuffed a toe against the dingy white hexagonal tiles and licked his lips. Harry sneaked glances at him as he washed his hands.

What possible reason was there to have a clandestine meeting in the restroom?

Hands patting down his robes, Robards straightened, then cleared his throat. Harry dried his hands on his trousers and turned. Robards was lacking his usual ruddy complexion. He wasn’t pale, per se. Just normal. He also wasn’t sweating. And somehow, he took up less space.

Robards’ office had an attached restroom.  There was no innocent reason for him to be here.

The rush of water behind Harry tapered off, then clicked to a stop. Harry's heartbeat pounded against his eardrums.

Robards ran a hand over his bald scalp and brushed away hair that wasn’t there. A gesture a bald man would never make. Harry’s entire body ran with goosebumps.

Robards glanced over his shoulder at the lock. Harry’s thumb stroked the wand holstered to his thigh.

Robards’ eyes darted around the restroom, flicking between stalls, then settled on Harry. He licked his lips again, and his voice came out too smooth, too soft. Too intimate. “Harry.”

Thankfully, Harry had nothing left to terror-vomit. He slid his wand out of its holster and held it against his thigh.

Robards took a step closer. And then another step, until he was close enough that Harry could have grabbed him by the open lapels of his robes and pulled his body flush.

“We should talk,” Robards said. His gaze was trained on Harry’s chest, but darted to the side, as if he were ashamed to look at him.

“Alright,” Harry rasped out. He ran a thumbnail along the end of his wand. His other hand slipped into his trouser pocket and cupped his mobile. “Talk, then.”

Robards, if it was Gawain Robards, stalled. Harry gripped his mobile and his wand. Robards flicked invisible hair out of his eyes. Someone was wearing the Head Auror’s skin. This was either one of the Moirai or the Doppelgänger. There was no reason to believe the Doppelgänger wasn’t one of the Moirai, though.

The person in front of him may have tortured Ron yesterday. Made him watch his wife and children eviscerated. Or worse. They still couldn’t get a coherent witness statement out of him.

Or, the man before him may have shared his bed. This could be the man who’d ridden his cock in the darkness and came on his chest while Harry wondered why he’d wasted so many years wishing he'd been born straight.

But maybe this person poisoned Muggleborn children. Arranged them on their mother’s lap like dolls. Then slit her throat like a pig.

Or maybe this man made bad puns about pretzels while he nipped his lover’s earlobe.

Maybe this man came so sweetly, so helplessly, that it was impossible for Harry to do anything but wrap his arms around him and hold him through it.

Maybe he left entire families dead.

Maybe he made love like he was starving, but refused to stay for breakfast.

Maybe both.

“I’m…” the man said, and Harry looked up, heart thundering in his chest.

Robards was gone. In his place, inches away from Harry, stood Charlie Weasley.

Blue eyes, flame-orange hair, crooked nose from one too many breaks. Golden stubble that, against Harry’s inner thighs, had been his first blessed roughness after years of too-soft affections.

“I’m…” Charlie said again, voice strangling to a halt.

The pulse that had thudded behind his ribs oozed down, an echoing throb in his groin. He took a deep breath and let himself lean forward. It was a lie. A trick. It wasn’t Charlie.

His hands left his wand and mobile, destined for the waistband of this stranger. With his next breath, he smelled toast, and his eyelids fluttered. His skin ran hot, and he couldn’t think beyond the press of flesh on flesh. “Fuck,” he whispered.

“I’m…” Charlie tried again.

“Doppelgänger,” Harry said, wrapping his hands around the man’s hips. Familiar hips. Narrow, sharp. Not the muscular thickness of a dragon tamer.

Charlie nodded and swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing above a starched collar and Auror robes. There was a mole just beyond that perfect collar. He knew it like he knew his own scar.

“Harry,” Charlie sighed against Harry’s hair. “I’m not-”

Harry glared at the buttons of Charlie’s shirt until they quivered, shook, and each pearly plastic circle shattered. A hail of broken button pieces plinked off the tile around them. Harry slid a hand into Charlie’s shirt, up his chest, and ran a thumb over his collarbone.

There. The invisible bump of a mole. Exactly where it was supposed to be.

“I’m not-”

“Charlie.” Harry stroked his hand down soft, warm skin until his thumb rested on the man’s belt buckle. “You’re not Charlie.”

The man, the Doppelgänger, swallowed, then shook his head.

Harry threaded Charlie’s belt through the buckle, unfastened it, and tugged his trousers open. His mouth watered at the sight of Charlie Weasley’s black boxer briefs. Harry ran his palm along the hard length trapped behind a single thin layer of fabric.

“God, I missed you,” Harry whispered. He laid his head against the sliver of bare skin on Charlie’s chest and took a deep breath that smelled of toast, not of dragonfire.

The Doppelgänger cupped Harry’s chin and tilted it up. Harry slid his hand down Charlie’s chest, down the fine line of hair, into his pants, and wrapped his fingers around him. The man’s breath shuddered out.

“I’m not him,” he said, Charlie’s perfect pink lips ghosting over Harry’s cheek.

Harry turned and met his lips. “I don’t care.”

Chapter Text

He wasn’t Charlie. He was better.

He let Harry lead. Pick up speed. But slowed him down.

“Here,” Harry groaned. “Now.”

Fast lips and quick hands. Dire mouths and parched skin.

“God, you’re so good,” the Doppelgänger said.

“Fuck me,” Harry said.

“Not yet.”

Harry gripped the rolled metal edge of the sink. His breath left in a reedy whine as Charlie pushed into him. It was never this tight with Charlie. Never this slow. Never so soft, so careful. So infuriating.

“Fuck,” Harry gasped out. “Harder.”

“No.” The Doppelgänger’s lips nipped at Harry’s earlobe.

He tugged first with his mouth, then with his arms around Harry’s chest, the button of his cuff catching on the part in Harry’s robes. Harry stood with him, bodies a hairsbreadth apart, one following the other, the sliver of air between them warm when the Doppelgänger embraced him.

Harry’s arse pressed flush against him, holding him deep. Lips kissed a line down Harry’s neck, and the Doppelgänger looked up. Their eyes met in the mirror. Charlie’s clear blue gaze held his.

“What do you see?” Harry asked, panting.

“Us,” the Doppelgänger said. “The real us.”

Harry let himself be draped over the man behind him. He clasped his hands behind them, fingers interlaced over the small of the Doppelgänger’s back. In the mirror, Charlie had grown somber. He tasted Harry’s skin as though it was new, or the taste was fleeting.

Harry tilted his head back, letting it loll as the Doppelgänger kissed and nipped. Warm fingers wrapped around Harry’s cock, and he thrust forward. The Doppelgänger moved inside him, gentle as fog and heavy as tide.

“Oh, fuck.” Heat bloomed up Harry’s chest. “Don’t stop.” Tension coiled inside him with every stroke. Over and over, with each simple motion. “Fuck, I’m gonna come.”

Hot breath shuddered behind Harry’s ear. “Gods, Potter,” he murmured.

Weight pooled in his hips, and with a final stroke, a last thrust, his body held in the grip of a perfect stranger, Harry came.

The Doppelgänger’s breath caught, his rhythm faltered, and Charlie’s hair flashed white. Blue eyes drifted open, and instead of Charlie’s lazy, self-accomplished grin, he was met with a rueful smile. As if he hadn’t meant for this to happen. As if somehow, this time, it had been a mistake.

The Doppelgänger pulled out, Harry winced at the sudden emptiness, then at the hot line running down his leg.

They zipped up in silence. Harry opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it. He watched the Doppelgänger wash the come off his hand, rinsing it down the sink.

He stood, and Arthur Weasley’s weathered face greeted him.

Startled, Harry blinked at him for too long, then finally spoke. “Why Arthur?”

“Weasley?” He pulled three paper towels out of the wall dispenser. “Interesting.”

“You don’t know whose face you’re wearing?”

“I can’t control who people see. Only…” He shook his head and dried between each finger, one by one. “What they perceive. En masse.”

“Why did you change it just now?”

“I don’t fancy being kicked out of this restroom, so I decided to be someone you won’t reject.” It should have been endearing, his concern, but his being able to manipulate the situation put Harry on edge. “Who was I when I entered the room?”

Harry clenched his jaw, then answered. “Robards.”

The only person who could have locked himself in the DMLE restroom with Harry without making him panic.

Arthur wadded the paper towels and threw them in the bin. “I was being someone you expected.”

“And in my flat? Who were you then? Or what were you to me?”

Arthur hummed a little tune and wagged a finger at Harry. “Now you’re catching on. What was I playing? What role? Over pretzels, I was someone you wished you hadn’t been too cowardly to fuck.”

Harry’s gut sank. He’d met Maldonado in Spain with Ginny. He’d met him as Ginny Weasley’s boyfriend.

“Really, the first two were quite similar. Men you’d met. Playing a missed sexual encounter does open doors quite well.”

Harry looked away, eyes trained on the door. It was the perfect trap for him. Custom-made by a master Legilimens.

But maybe not without his weaknesses. “You were Antonin Dolohov the other night. Who were you playing then?”

Arthur crossed the restroom and reached up to unlock the door, but paused. “I was thinking about Death Eaters you’d kill if you saw.”

Harry tugged his robes tight and crossed his arms. He wiped sweaty palms on opposite sleeves. “Who were you playing when you were Charlie?”

The Dopplegänger made Arthur lick his lips and pull the door partway open. “I was someone you’d let get close.”

Harry watched him leave, heart in his throat, not sure if he’d been robbed of something or if he, himself, had just been stolen, because it felt like both.

-

Harry was in the shower, staring into the middle distance of nothing, when someone knocked on the door of his flat. He shook himself awake without moving. Hot water poured down his backside, but he couldn’t lose the feeling of the Doppelgänger inside him.

He shut the water off and grabbed a towel out of a basket of clean laundry. Under the towels were the bedsheets, freshly washed. He’d intentionally forgotten to wash the pillowcases, which still smelled of sex and toast.

Towel around his waist, he crossed through the flat and refused to think about the pillow cases.

His visitor knocked again, double-speed.

He opened the door a crack. A cloud of cigarette smoke flowed through, and he recoiled. Hermione dropped the butt and stubbed it out on the hall carpet with a sandal. Odd behavior for her. And an out of season shoe choice. She wore linen capri pants, a sleeveless floral-patterned top, and had sunglasses nestled in her hair.

It wasn’t nearly warm enough for the clothing, and the sun had set hours ago.

“Harry,” she whispered, a wild glint in her eye. “Let me in.”

Her fingers fidgeted with the buttons on her top, and she checked the hallway in both directions. She looked back to find him watching her.

She wasn’t acting like Hermione. Harry squinted at her with one eye and wished he’d grabbed his glasses. “What was your worst subject before Hogwarts and why?”

With a huff, she glared at him. “Gym class. Because the other kids never followed the rules.”

“Well, that checks out.”

He opened the door for her, and she took a step in, then halted mid-stride. “What’s Harry’s favorite book series?”

“The Boxcar Children.”

She leapt at him. Her arms wrapped around his waist. She clutched him close, and her hair stuck to his wet chest. “Hey,” he whispered, stroking her back, “what happened?”

Her breath hitched as she inhaled. “I got an Owl. From the Moirai.”

“A letter?”

None of the victims in his case files had received letters. There were over thirty crime scenes. Forensics would have found letters immediately.

“It caught fire as soon as I finished reading it.” She pulled away and rubbed her arms dry. “But they’re coming for us. For me and my kids, Harry.”

Goosebumps ran down Harry’s arms and torso. He flicked a wandless drying spell over his body. It skimmed over him like the finest scalpel blade, and the water shed into his towel, then evaporated.

“What did it say?”

She frowned and shook her head. “Something about how the Fates have spun me, measured me, and found me lacking.” She chewed her lip for a moment. “No signature. And no envelope.”

Harry nodded. “Anything else?”

“No, but…” She crossed her arms over her breasts. “Something’s going to happen. I don’t know what, but something bad.”

“I can reinforce your wards, ‘Mione. Like mine and Andromeda’s, and I can come over and-”

“We always knew, Harry. We always knew when an attack was coming, and I can feel it in my bones, and I’m…” She dropped her arms, then covered her mouth with her hand. Her entire face pulled tight. “Harry, we’re leaving. The kids and I. We’re leaving Ron at St Mungo’s and going to my parents’ in Perth.”

Panic whipped through Harry like a barbed wire flail. They couldn’t leave. They couldn’t leave him to fight alone.

“He’ll get better, ‘Mione-”

Static buzzing filled Harry’s ears. His mouth went dry, and his eyelashes took on water. This wasn’t how it worked. They were a team, the three of them. They were always a team.

Black holes glittered in the center of his vision. She patted his shoulders, sniffled, and turned to leave.

“I’m so sorry, Harry.”

-

That night, he laid on the bare mattress for five hours. He should have spent the time puzzling out the Moirai cases. He should have come up with a response plan. Found a link. Anything.

But his arsehole was sore, the dull ache a souvenir, and his pillow still smelled like the man responsible for it. He had to be part of it, the Doppelgänger.  The Moirai. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

A Legilimency shape-shifter showed up at the same time as a Death Eater revivalist group who invented Elixir of Erised. Maybe they needed the Doppelgänger for the potion? Or maybe he wasn’t a Legilimens, but a test subject of an early Elixir formula?

The sun rose as Harry scowled at the ceiling and decided the probability of the Doppelgänger being involved with the Moirai was at least 95%. The remaining five percent was split between coincidence and the Doppelgänger being a victim of Moirai experimentation.

So, all in all, bringing him into the DMLE for questioning would be reasonable. But if he came in through the front door, a Veritas interview would be required. An interview that began with, “Are there present any Aurors with whom you have a relationship that could compromise the legitimacy of your testimony?” which would certainly result in, “I’ve been fucking Auror Potter.”

No, he needed information from the Doppelgänger, but it would have to be gathered outside the DMLE. The Doppelgänger tended to appear in busy public places rather often. Even that was suspicious. More than simple coincidence.

He blinked at the ceiling, at the rose-gold light leaching across it. Rubbing his eyes, he reached for his glasses on the nightstand. The side of his nose pressed into the pillow case, and he took a long drag of air permeated with sweat, sex, skin, and under it all, too innocently, the scent of toast. Of browned bread, heated to the specific point that the starch smolders, sugars caramelizing just before catching fire.

He rolled onto his belly and buried his face in the pillow. Maybe the next crowd the Doppelgänger would find him in would be at a Quidditch game. He’d be Cedric Diggory, hips pinning Harry to the balcony railing while people waved blocky banners around them. Maybe it would be a bar with a back room, a pump bottle of lube, a stranger’s face, and the slap of hot flesh all around them.

Harry wadded his fist in the pillowcase, thrust his hardening cock against the mattress, and moaned. The friction wasn’t enough, and he shoved the pillow under his dick and fucked into it for a few deliciously slow strokes.

Maybe the Doppelgänger would find him during a walk through Soho Square. He’d wear a scholar’s face, whatever that looked like, and be reading a book under a tree. He’d wink, and Harry would lay down next to him, then he’d roll Harry into the hedges and-

A beak rapped against the bedroom window. Just above the bed. Sunlight filtered around the dark bulk and peaked tufts of a Great Horned owl. Andromeda’s owl.

He knelt on the bed and took the message from the owl's leg, then unrolled it.

Harry,

Thank you for leaving the muffins. That was very thoughtful.
Do wish you’d have stayed longer, but we understand.
Owl back if you have time for a graveyard visit this weekend.
I know Teddy would appreciate it.

Love,
Andromeda and Teddy

Confused, Harry watched the owl fly off into the sun until he had to squint and look away.  What was Andromeda talking about?

A flutter-scuffle on the windowsill drew his attention back. A tiny burrowing owl chittered at him. He unwrapped a rubber band from its leg. As it flew away, he hooked the rubber band on his index finger, pulled it back, and shot it at the mattress. It bounced, and today’s issue of The Prophet tumbled out.

The Prophet. Issue 1,003,356
BREAKING NEWS: HEAD AUROR ARRESTED

Harry snapped the paper open to a random page. He shut his eyes for a long moment and willed the headline away. It would do him precisely no good to receive second-hand information first.

Slowly, he opened his eyes and let the blurry scribbles coalesce into words that had nothing to do with Gawain Robards.

Quibbler Quips and Quandaries,
published daily on Tuesdays, Fridays, and Full Moons

Now.
Throughout the ages,
we’ve talented mages.
Terrible sages, and wizards in rages,
but none quite so rare as the Mental Morphagus.

And so.
Throughout long ages,
our talented mages,
fought terrible sages, and wizards in rages,
with dire help from Mental Morphages.

For when.
In modern ages,
such talented mages,
are terrible sages, and wizards in rages,
none winnow chaff like the Mental Morphagus.

REPORT SIGHTINGS OF OUT-OF-PLACE,
OUT-OF-VEIL HUMANS TO THE QUIBBLER.
OWL PREFERRED.

Harry wadded the newspaper in his hands until it was a tight, hard, ink-smeared ball, then Vanished it with his bare hands. Robards was in DMLE custody. For some reason. The Doppelgänger was involved. Somehow.

He took a deep breath of morning-fresh air and held it while he closed the window. Andromeda’s note fluttered onto the bed, and his brow furrowed as his breath left in a long, carefully metered exhale.

I was someone you’d let get close to you.

Harry watched the scrap of paper settle and curl.

He hadn’t crossed Andromeda’s wards in weeks.  But someone wearing his face had.

Chapter Text

Nothing about the wards around Andromeda’s little cottage felt abnormal. It still rejected him without a magical signature from his wand, and was still keyed to let Andromeda and Teddy to pass through, even without theirs.

It was a clever bit of wardery Ron had come up with for the Burrow. “Blood in, blood out,” he’d said. “If a Weasley is coming in hot with someone on their tail, damned if I’m gonna have them bounce off the wards for their lack of a wand.”

The wooden door creaked open, lead glass paneling sparking in the early morning sun. “Oh! Harry!” Andromeda said, fingertips to her dress collar. “I’m afraid Teddy’s at his tutor's.”

Harry pressed the tip of his wand to the rough grey capstone of the garden wall. The pressure of the ward eased, and he stepped through the syrupy resistance. A toe, opposite hand, knee, nose, chin, other knee, other hand, foot, and it sucked closed behind his arse. Nothing unusual about it at all.

“Right,” Harry said. “That’s fine. I actually stopped to check the wards and make sure you haven’t seen anyone suspicious about.”

“Just whatever’s killing the hostas behind the shed.”  She picked up a market basket from the hall floor, slid her arm through the glossy wooden handle, and shut the door behind her. “Oh, the Moirai business, you mean?”

Harry shrugged a shoulder. “Just checking in.”

She beamed like the sun and met him on the brick walk. “Nothing unusual that can’t be blamed on a seven-year-old boy.”

Her arm looped through his, and they passed through the ward together. “Not even strange men leaving muffins at dawn?”

She squeezed his arm as they walked. “I wouldn’t call him strange.”

“What would you call him, then?”

“Why, I believe I call him Harry.” Andromeda smiled up at him and shook her head. “Who else would I expect to see in my kitchen at dawn?”

-

“Potter, I’ll be honest,” Shacklebolt tapped the corner of gold the doorplate against Harry’s desk, “you weren’t the Wizengamot’s first choice. Nor mine.”

Harry gave him a tight smile. Nor was Harry his own first choice for the position.

For once, The Prophet had gotten it right.  Robards was downstairs in a holding cell after being caught stealing Elixir of Erised out of the evidence locker.  He’d sold it back to the Moirai.  All of it.

Under his desk, he wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. He’d be able to forget this entire conversation if he didn’t see the front of that shiny gold plate. It could say anything. Custodian, Lift Operator, Beast Registrar, maybe Broom Licenser.

Shacklebolt leaned over the desk, and Harry caught a whiff of decay from his robe sleeve. “But you're the only senior Auror we have left.”

Harry grimaced, then cleared his throat. “I suppose if Ron’s condition improves-”

“No,” Shacklebolt said, and slapped the door plate down flat on Harry’s desk. “It’ll just have to be you, Potter.”

Harry’s eyes traced the engraved letters that cupped and held the light. Heed, Auror.

“Right,” Harry whispered. He wiped his hands on his trousers and picked the name plate up with his fingertips. “I’ll try my be-”

“You’ll catch them,” Shacklebolt said, and it tasted like a threat. He stood and smoothed his robes down. “You can pick up where Robards left off. He was down in Forensic Potioneering when he was arrested.”

Harry hummed. “They’ve been working on reverse-engineering that Moirai potion. They must have called him down about it.”

“Or someone in Forensics was involved in the theft.” Shacklebolt sighed, straightened, and pointed his face to the ceiling. He took and released another slow breath before he lowered his chin. “I suppose you’ll have to investigate that, in connection to the Moirai.” He blew a breath out through pursed lips. “Too many Purebloods and Slytherins in potions. The whole industry stinks of Death Eaters.”

Shacklebolt tugged his robe sleeves straight, and Harry caught the faint scent of dead animal. He barely stopped himself from making a dumb comment about who really smells like a Death Eater in here.

It was the signature scent of the Ankou, the Unspeakable who was truly never spoken of. Robards’ robes had reeked of it. And Shacklebolt’s did, too.

Harry picked at the corner of the name plate with a thumbnail. “Is Mysteries involved in the Moirai investigation?” Shacklebolt stared at him for a long moment, and Harry wondered if he’d overstepped. “Robards mentioned they were working on something similar.” He shrugged, hoping it came off as casual, not indifferent.

“The-” Shacklebolt stopped himself. “The Department of Mysteries project isn’t related to the Moirai cases. Not that we know of.”

Harry fought a frown at Shacklebolt’s lack of suspicion. Everything was related to everything. Always.

“Alright. I’ll start in Forensics.”

Shacklebolt nodded tightly. “Good. I’d let Gawain’s office air out a while.”

Harry picked up the plate and caught his own reflection, gold, the letters carved across his face like a seared brand: HEAD AUROR.

“Right.”

-

The Forensics front desk secretary had three wands stuck through her blond beehive of hair.

“You know where the potioneers are,” she said, tucking her chewing gum in her cheek.

Harry nodded.

“And you’ll want Reggie in Cryptoccounting down the other hall.” She slid a wand out of her hair and pointed to Harry’s left, down a carpeted hall of cubicles identical to his. “Do not-” she pointed the wand at Harry, “-call her Regina.”

“Right. Thanks.”

Reggie turned out to be a lanky woman with a short grey bob, stiletto heels, and a pinstripe suit. Family pictures adorned the walls around her desk, showcasing a stair-step line-up of little boys and a round, bearded man. She patted the chair next to her desk, then proceeded to anesthetize Harry into a math-induced coma.

When he surfaced through the sea of boredom, she was watching him. “Did that make sense?”

He lifted both shoulders, both eyebrows, and his expectations of his mathematical abilities. “I’ll probably figure it out…”

She licked her lips, rested her elbows on her knees, and her brow furrowed in mock concentration in a way that made Harry certain she had a toddler at home. “Alright,” she said succinctly, “what I need you to do is take this,” she held up a single scrap of paper with a number on it, “to the very nice Goblins and ask them whose account it is and why they refused to distribute funds from it.”

“Gringotts asked us to investigate?”

She shook her head. “The tip came through Mysteries, for some reason.” Harry took the scrap of paper, and she watched him read it. “Get me that info, and we’ll have another suspected Moirai funding source.”

Harry nodded. “I can do that.”

“Good.” She didn’t clap her hands, but her thumbs did twitch a little.

He paused for a moment and felt all the more like a small child. “Follow the money.”

“Very good,” she said, a little too perkily for addressing an adult. “You’ve got this.”

Harry smirked, then snatched the paper. “If you call me Big Guy or Little Man, I’ll have you sacked.”

“You’ve got this, Champ.”

-

The Forensics potioneering department was staffed by brilliant recluses in labcoats and the chatty Hufflepuffs who kept them functional.

A balding man in a labcoat accepted half a sandwich from a passing coworker with a nod.

“So,” he said around a mouthful of egg salad, “you can see there that we’ve teased out some of the places the Elixir of Erised and your typical Polyjuice potion diverge.”

Harry scanned the two columns of ingredients, listed in order of amount per dose. The Elixir had fluxweed gathered during a new moon, versus a full moon. More boomslang, less bicorn.

The potioneer took another bite and mumbled around it. “The big difference is the hair.”

Harry’s eyes zipped down to the bottoms of the columns, where the Elixir side had an extra entry.

One Metamorphagus hair

Harry tried to hide his surprise in a casual hum, but it came out as a stifled shout. “Where would they get Metamorphagus hair?”

The potioneer shrugged and finished his sandwich. “Can’t buy it.” He licked his fingers clean. “Just like any bio-spells, Polyjuice, Bloodfound, it’s illegal to sell a person’s hair. You can buy the potion, but not the DNA.”

It had to be Teddy. He hadn’t heard of any other Metamorphages having been identified. It couldn’t be a coincidence that someone had been in Andromeda’s house, and that the potion required Teddy’s hair. Nor was it a coincidence that Andromeda saw exactly who she expected to. It had to be the Doppelgänger.

Then again, the Moirai had gotten a sample of Hermione’s hair, so it was plausible they’d collected some of Harry’s, and used it to slip into Andromeda’s house.

But the wards should have kept anyone who wasn’t family or keyed for entry well outside the cottage.

“Would someone using the Elixir be able to get through wards keyed to the blood relatives of the potion’s hair donor?”

The man crossed his arms, harrumphed in interest, and stared at the empty space over Harry’s shoulder for a short eternity. Harry was moments away from nudging the statue of a potioneer with his wand to check if he was still breathing when the man blinked and returned to earth.

“No,” he said. “No, they wouldn’t. The ward would reject them. If the ward were magical signature-based, Elixir of Erised might allow them to pass. Or, Merlin forbid, a Muggle retina scanner. But not a blood ward.”

Harry let out a long sigh. Was it better or worse that the intruder was the Doppelgänger? Assuming the Doppelgänger could infiltrate a blood ward.

“Thank you,” Harry said.

The man clicked a pen in his labcoat pocket. “Do you want an Elixir sample to test your wards with?”

Harry’s jaw fell open. “I can do that?”

The man shrugged. “You’re the Head Auror, right?”

“I… Yeah. I guess I might as well take a sample.”

“I trust you, unlike Robards, won’t sell it back to the enemy.”

Harry gulped and shook his head. “No, of course not.”

The man nodded in slow approval and disappeared through a vault door. Harry kicked the toe of his shoe against the floor and waited. Off the top of his head, he couldn’t think of a good use for a dose of Elixir of Erised, but perhaps he’d have cause during the investigation.

The man returned with a small cut-glass flask. A dull green liquid shone through the chiselled crystal.

“Two hairs, not three. The Metamorphagus hair is already integrated,” he said, handing it to Harry. “Then rest is the same as Polyjuice.”

“Thanks.” Harry slipped it into his pocket.

“Oh, and take this,” the potioneer said. He held out a simple test tube vial with an orange rubber stopper. The glittering neon pink potion inside was all too familiar. “Figured you’d want fresh Bloodfound if you’re going to track down these fucking bastards.”

The sudden vitriol piqued Harry’s interest, and he wondered if the man had lost someone to the Moirai. “Thank you.” He tucked the vial in the chest pocket of his robes.

The man’s eyes didn’t leave the vial. “If…” He rubbed his nose. “If the hair sample you put in that tracking potion does lead you to one of the Moirai…” Tears pooled in his lower lids. “Just know that I’d put the rest of the hair sample to very, very good use.”

He met Harry’s eyes, and a shiver ran down Harry’s spine. There was no mercy in the man’s gaze, only revenge.

“I just might,” Harry said.

-

Robards looked up from today’s issue of The Prophet as though Harry had disrupted his holding cell sabbatical. The clean, white tile and tidy bed were  soothing compared to the heaps of red files accumulating on Harry’s desk.

“Thought I might be your next stop,” Robards said. He still had his Auror robes on, but he'd forfeited his badge. He snapped the paper back and forth, then closed it down the middle, crossed it, and folded it again. He stood and slipped it through the bars to Harry. “You’d best read that.”

Harry switched his cup of coffee to his other hand and accepted the paper.

The Prophet. Issue 1,003,356.5
BREAKING NEWS: THE RED-ROBED ROBBER… ROBARDS!

“Mid-day special edition,” Harry said to himself, then caught Robards' eyes. “Nice. It filled in the holes Shacklebolt chose not to.”

"Not that," Robards brushed him off with a wave of his hand, "the rest of the paper."

The only image The Prophet managed to muster up for the front-page article was the ubiquitous five-second loop of Robards and Harry, each with one hand raised, palm to palm, as Harry took the Auror’s Oath. The every new Auror takes. To protect the people and uphold the Statute, and several finer points, none of which included stealing DMLE evidence and selling it.

“It’s true, then,” Harry whispered to the man in the picture. In the photo, Harry smiled up at Robards, and Robards smiled back. His hand started to drop, and Harry filled in the hug from memory. He held the paper up, picture-first. “Repeat after me.”

Robards rolled his eyes.

Harry cleared his throat. “Repeat after me. I swear, by my wand-”

“Oh, shove it,” Robards said, his hand shooing Harry’s words away.

“-and the wands of my brothers, that-” The newspaper trembled in his hands.

Robards scoffed and turned away.

“-I will, to the best of my power-” Rage rose like molten iron up his throat.

“Potter,” Robards growled.

“-cause the peace to be kept-” Harry shouted.

“Goddammit, Potter.” Robards gripped the bars.

Harry continued, spittle flying “-and preserved and prevent all offenses-”

Robards’ knuckles went white. “You have no idea-”

“-against people and property-” Harry yelled.

“Fuck you, Potter! Fuck! You!”

“Fuck me?!” Harry folded the paper and backhanded Robards’ knuckles with it. “Fuck you, Gawain! Fuck you! You lying sack of shit!” he screamed as he struck Robards again.

Harry's arm shot forward, hooked up, and jabbed the rolled paper between the bars like a spear. The tight-packed end caught Robards under the nose and knocked his head back with a meaty crunch.

Robards shouted and back-pedaled, hands over his nose. He glared at Harry with watering eyes. His words were muffled by swelling nasal passages and his hands. “You don’t get it. You’re too young.”

“What is there to get? You stole illegal potions and sold them. To the bloody Moirai, if The Prophet is right!”

Robards blinked at him and lowered his hands. “Spare an old man an Episkey.”

“Fuck you. I ought to hex it off your face. You certainly earned the look.”

“God, you’re so young, Potter. We’ll have it out on the mats, wand to wand, you and I, if you like. If you’re still mad when I’m released in three years.”

"Three years?!" Harry hid his shock with a sip of coffee. “You'll go to Azkaban for this.”

Robards huffed a laugh that sounded like a courtesy. “And you’ll understand when you’re older.”

Harry’s palm stuck to the newspaper, and the ink blurred under his thumb. “I’ll understand why the Head Auror sold illegal potions back to a Pureblood crime syndicate? So they can continue sneaking around killing Muggleborns? I'll understand that?”

“No,” Robards said with an all-suffering sigh. “You’ll understand the bigger picture.”

Harry stared at his feet. Robards hadn’t lectured him since he was a cadet. Years ago, when Robards had seemed so steadfast, and Harry had been desperate for any kind of structure.

“Kingsley said he’d send you to Forensics first. Did you go?”

Harry nodded, then took a sip from his coffee.

“And you talked to the potioneers?”

Harry nodded again. The leading questions felt like a trap Harry had sprung hours ago.

“And the bigger picture is…” Robards rolled his hand at the wrist for Harry to fill in the blank.

Harry rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. He took a long, shuddery breath and savoured the scent of printing ink.

Everything was related to everything. Always.

The account number in his pocket? Maybe the Moirai were trying to steal from Gringotts to pay for potion ingredients? Though most of them weren’t expensive. Fluxweed, leeches, lacewing. Dirt cheap.

Though one ingredient was priceless.

“The hair…” It was instinct, not insight. "Metamorphagus hair."

Robards nodded, and the little corner of Harry’s heart that was reserved for parental approval swelled in response. “What happens after a bust, Head Auror?”

Harry shook his head, both in confusion and in disapproval at the title.

“Black Market Economics 101.” Robards clicked his tongue. “What happens when the dealer’s hands are empty? The manufacturers…”

“...go… shopping…” Stomach acid and coffee gurgled up his esophagus.

“And when rare ingredients are unavailable, black market manufacturers…”

“...harvest their own.” Harry swallowed vomit. “Oh, God.” Confiscating the Morai’s Elixir stockpile had painted a target on Teddy’s head.

“Mm hm,” Robards hummed. “You put the wards on Andromeda’s house yourself, correct?”

Harry nodded and concentrated on not dropping his coffee; head bent, eyes on his shoes. The potions bust had only knocked back the Moirai’s front lines, exposing the cannons and calvary.

“They should be fine, then. These cowards only hunt at night.” Robards eyed Harry’s coffee with a pitiful sigh. He folded his forearms and rested against the bars. “I’d take that cup. Hate to see you empty your guts into it.”

Harry blew a breath out and righted himself.

Robards bit the inside of his cheek. “I didn’t sell it. If that makes any difference to you.”

Harry swallowed, sighed, and his shoulders slumped, because it did make a difference.

He popped the plastic lid off of his cup and squeezed the rim until it folded, then slid it to stick between the bars. Robards plucked it like an apple and shot Harry a weak smile before he took a sip.

“Thanks.”

There weren’t many things someone could do with crates of illegal potions. “Did you destroy it?”

“Oh, no. The Prophet was correct about where the crates ended up.” He took another sip. “But they didn’t pay for it.”

“You gave it back?”

Robards nodded. “Because…”

“Supply and demand…” Harry said absently. “They went after Teddy. This morning. They got into the house.”

Robards’ face turned to ice. “Did they take him?”

How different his morning could have gone. What if he’d tapped his wand on the flagstone wall and been met by Andromeda, shrieking with grief? What if he’d spent his morning trying to hold his composure while tracking his own godson? Or his godson’s body?

Harry shook his head. “No. They left muffins.” Harry wiped a sweaty palm on his robes, tucked the rolled up Prophet in his pocket, then wiped the other one, smearing grey ink over the red wool. “Andromeda thinks I left the muffins. She said she saw me.”

Robards rolled coffee around in his mouth, then swallowed. “Did she expect to see you?”

Harry nodded.

“Hm.” He took another swig. “Inside the wards?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Hm.” Another gulp of coffee. And another. “And no one was hurt?”

“Right…” Harry said, half confirmation, half question.

“Hm,” he said again. “Interesting.” He tipped the cup upside down and caught the last drop on his bottom lip. “Head Auror, this particular corrupt bureaucrat requires interrogation by the Department of Mysteries.”

Harry scoffed. “But we don’t-”

“Off the record. Over lunch.” Robards folded the cup and tapped it back through the bars. “They know which Unspeakable to send.”

Goosebumps ran down Harry’s arms, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He took the empty cup, nodded, and left. If Robards wanted to dine with the Ankou, maybe he’d be dead before trial.

Chapter Text

After an hour in the Gringotts teller line, Harry tucked the scrap of paper from the the forensic accountant in his robe pocket.  His sweaty hands had made the ink begin to blur.  He spent his time in line alternating between vivid fantasies featuring the Doppelgänger and reading Luna’s increasingly alarming articles about him.

Quibbler Quips and Quandaries,
published daily on Tuesdays, Fridays, and Full Moons

Eros said, “Erised.”
Pun, pun, pun.

Jabberwock, jump off the dock.
Fun, fun, fun.

Ministry larceny?
Shun, shun, shun.

Dopplegänger, constant danger.
Run, run, run!

Ankou, is that you?
Done, done, done!

REPORT SIGHTINGS OF OUT-OF-PLACE,
OUT-OF-VEIL HUMANS TO THE QUIBBLER.
OWL PREFERRED.

Harry focused on the article, then let it blur. Nothing stood out. It wasn’t a Magic Eye picture, but it had been worth a try. Luna’s Prophet segments were getting a bit on the nose. Then again, maybe she was sitting on a treasure trove of Moirai and Doppelgänger sightings.

Someone cleared gravel from their throat, and Harry’s head snapped up. The Goblin teller glared at him. “Next,” he said sharply.

Annoyed, Harry dug around in his pocket for the scrap of paper with the account number on it. He shoved it through the open grate. The Goblin didn’t accept it, but watched it flutter down to the counter.

“Will you be depositing this prestigious scrap of-”

“Look,” Harry cut in. “I don’t need the bullshit today.”  The Goblin arched an eyebrow and unfolded the paper with many-knuckled fingers. “All I need to know is whose-”

“Malfoy.” The Goblin smoothed the paper against the counter. “This is the main Malfoy vault account number.”

Harry shook his head. “The same one-”

“Yes, Head Auror Potter. The same one you bothered us about last week.”

“But Forensics said they got a tip that you refused to let the Moirai withdraw money from it yesterday, and last week, you let my dead teacher pull an entire purseful of Galleons from it.”

The Goblin shrugged.

“No explanation? Really? You little shits make me sign with my wand every time I want a fucking Knut.”

The Goblin shrugged again and inspected his talons. “Distribution of funds are at the teller’s discretion.”

Harry leaned over, elbows on the counter, and watched the Goblin. He knew something. Everything was related. Always.

“What did the person yesterday look like? The one you refused to pull funds for?”

The Goblin grinned, but it was more of a show of teeth, and Harry knew he’d asked the right question. “Oh, he was a dead ringer for Draco Malfoy.”

Harry rested his forehead against the grate. “But?”

“He didn’t smell like a Malfoy.”

Harry sighed. “And I don’t, either, I suppose.” He head-butted the metal bars, but softly. For all the DMLE equipment, and charms, and potions, and all the bloody gadgets… the Goblins were screening by scent. Of course they were.

“Not enough like one, no,” the Goblin huffed, then clicked his nails against the counter. “You mostly smell like a pig.”

Harry bit his lips and hid a smile. The DMLE did have a certain odor to it. When he didn't fire back a retort, the Goblin's posture softened. The tips of his ears laid back, and he licked his lips.

"Is there anything else you need, Auror-" The Goblin coughed into his fist. "Head Auror Potter?"

"No.  Thank you."

-

Ron slapped Harry’s mobile out of his hand. The screen shattered against the sterile tile floor, throwing a spiderweb over a picture of Hermione hugging Rose, and Hugo. Hugo clutched a stuffed kangaroo to his chest. Rose held a card with crayon hearts on it.

“I know what I saw!” Ron shouted, pacing his room. “I know my own wife!”

The Healers hadn’t padded the room, which was a good sign. Ron hadn't tried to hurt himself, at least. A MediWitch had given Harry a folding chair instead of making him sit on a pillow on the floor, so Ron probably wasn't trying to hit people with furniture.

“Ron, I’m telling you-”

“And my kids! My kids!” Ron’s throat squeaked shut. He fell to his knees on the unforgiving floor. “My kids…”

“Are in Australia.” Harry leaned over to pick up his mobile, elbows on his knees, eye-level with Ron in front of him. “They’re at Jean and Paul’s in Perth.” Ron’s eyes darted back and forth across Harry’s chest like a typewriter. “They’re safe.” He held his mobile up again.

Ron looked at the picture of his family as if he were trying to read a foreign language. “But I saw-”

“Strangers.” Harry shook his head. “The team found them when they found you.” Ron watched Harry’s lips move. “The Elixir wore off by the time they got to the morgue. She was blonde. So were her kids. Not yours.”

Ron’s eyelids fluttered, as though he were at war with himself over trusting Harry. As though Harry would come in and lie to him. Or maybe he didn't believe Harry really was Harry.

Ron shook his head. “I can’t- I saw-”

“You saw a woman and her children tortured to death, Ron.” Harry slid forward on his seat and offered his hands, palms up, out to Ron. “That alone is enough to put most Aurors in the Thickey ward.”

Ron gulped. Then nodded.

“And especially when it means they got hair samples from your family. They got close to you.”

Harry ran a thumbnail along the thickest crack in his mobile screen, then swiped. Hermione sat at a glass patio table, Rose and Hugo each on a grandparent’s lap. Neon flowers drooped from the overhead trellis. He held his mobile out for Ron, who cradled it in his hands like a newborn baby.

Harry let Ron examine the photo before he continued. “Hermione came to my flat the night they left.” Ron’s gaze darted up to him, but drifted back down to the photo. “She said the Moirai sent a letter warning them off. So she packed up the kids and left.”

Ron’s voice was a cracked whisper. “That’s my girl.” He ran a thumb down Hermione’s face, then flinched when the photo zoomed in.

Harry sighed and waited as his best friend fell in love with his other best friend all over again. Tears welled in Ron’s eyes, and he sniffed them back. “My clever witch.”

The mobile screen went dark, and Ron handed it back to Harry. He checked the time and tucked it in his robe pocket. “She’s the one who put you in here. Do you remember that?”

Ron shook his head and shifted his weight from knee to knee.

Harry bit the inside of his lip. Would reminding Ron why Hermione had called the response team help or hinder him?

Harry sighed and reached out to tuck Ron’s hair behind his ear. “Tell me what happened after the Moirai tortured that family? Just what you remember.”

Ron frowned and looked down at Harry’s shoes. “Our team swarmed in-”

“What formation?” Harry asked, hoping the technical details would keep him focused.

Ron thought for a moment. “Herringbone through the cargo bay. Vanguard through the double-doors.”

“Good. Then what?”

“Apparitions. So many of them that I thought Robards had ordered the ICW artillery.”

Harry nodded. The case file on his desk said they’d failed to capture a single Moirai member. “Then what?”

Ron sat back on his heels. “That kid with the mustache, the new marshal, took me down off the wall.”

Ron looked away, and Harry waited for Ron to fill in that he’d punched Fitzsimmons in the jaw for not going to Hermione first.

“I think I decked him,” Ron added concretely. He looked back at Harry. “Is he alright?”

“He’s fine. What happened after that?”

“I went-” Ron squinted into the empty space over Harry’s shoulder. “I went home. Because I had to check on the kids. I had to-”

Ron drew a sharp breath. Panic filled his eyes like a siren had gone off inside his head. “I had to make sure they were really my kids. He said-” Ron shook his head. “He said-”

Harry wiped his palms on his trousers and sat up straight.

“He said everything was skin-deep unless it was blood. Unless it was a blood oath.”

“Who?” Harry asked, though he knew the man’s appearance wouldn’t matter.

“Dumbledore,” Ron said, and Harry's breath caught in the back of his throat. Ron scratched the stubble along his jaw. “That can’t be-”

“The Doppelgänger,” Harry said on a sigh. “The fucking Doppelgänger.”

-

Harry stared at the three white-blonde hairs on his nightstand. In his hand, the cut-glass flask of emerald Elixir of Erised clinked against the utilitarian vial of neon pink Bloodfound potion.

Each required two hairs. He could either track the Doppelgänger or become him. Not both.

Or, he could fail. He could fail to hunt him down. Or he could use the hairs to become him, only to find himself staring at an utterly unknown person in the mirror.

Becoming him could yield a miniscule payoff. Tracking him would be a bigger, but less probable reward; information, maybe a cathartic fistfight. Or at least some grappling. Harry’s nipples hardened, and he sighed, disappointed in his own lack of professionalism, but resigned to letting his dick do some of the thinking.

He tucked the flask of Elixir in his jeans. His teeth gripped the orange rubber stopper of the Bloodfound vial, stretched it until it thinned, then released as it popped from the glass. His thumb clapped down over the opening.

He separated two white hairs on the nightstand, tapping them away from the third before picking them up with a clammy thumb. He slid them into the potion.

It fizzed up, lime green foam bubbling out of the top of the vial. Slowly, the potion calmed back down into its normal pink state. Harry sighed, braced himself for two hours of olfactory acuity that would disgust a werewolf, and tossed the potion down his throat.

-

Harry stood in the dark at the bottom of the stairs in front of Gringotts. His pillowcase had been wadded in a Ziploc bag in his back pocket all evening. He popped the seal open and gave it a sniff, even though he didn’t need to. It had to match. The Bloodfound made sure that the only scent he could detect was the Doppelgänger.

“So fucking sick of this bank,” he whispered to himself.

He’d started at the Chinese restaurant, one foot on the sticky orange tile, right where a total stranger had kissed him in the doorway. A solid hit of Doppelgänger scent. Next, he’d snuffled around Whole Foods, lingering in front of the soft pretzels, but the aroma of toast was lost to the bakery.

Out of options and nearly out of time before the potion wore off, he’d simply Apparated to Diagon Alley and followed his nose. He resealed the plastic bag, squeezed the air out of it, and crammed it into the back pocket of his jeans.

The bank should have closed hours ago, but golden light shone from the open doors. It flowed down the wide marble stairs and cast Harry’s shadow behind him. The pillars were wrapped in black silk streamers, and couples in rigid formalwear lingered in the portico above him.

Harry pulled his wand from his pocket and Transfigured his jeans, t-shirt, and trainers into a tuxedo and shiny black Oxfords. The pillowcase decided to become a white cotton pocket square. He pressed it against his mouth and took a deep breath before he tucked it in his front pocket. The scent had faded, but not entirely.

The Goblins at the door grumbled, but let him pass. Inside, the lobby had been transformed, and he jerked to a halt. Had he just let himself into someone’s wedding?

A Goblin in a tweed suit looked him up and down, then grudgingly said, “Welcome to the Shareholder’s Gala. Mister Potter.”

“I-” Harry glanced around the lobby-turned-ballroom. “Uhm. Thank you.”

He was a shareholder, and he'd certainly never been invited to an event like this.

In the middle of the marble and wrought iron expanse, couples danced, a carousel of bodies in black chiffon, stiff lapels, and glittering diamonds. Eyes met his, then darted away. A red-lipsticked mouth smirked at him, then turned to whisper to the man pressed against her. The man turned away grinning.

Harry gulped and side-stepped, putting his back against the wall. Scattered around the edges of the room like orbiting planets were round tables, cloaked in perfect white linen. Gilt-edged plates and settings with obscene numbers of silver forks glinted in the light of floating candles.

Normally, people swarmed him at galas. There were always families he knew, and coworkers, and classmates. These people barely spared him a glance, except to quietly mock him.

They were the Moirai. They had to be. Too much money. Too much indifference.

Harry patted his pockets down. Mobile, wand, flask of Elixir of Erised. No badge. He should have brought his badge. He should have brought a bloody Auror squad.

Instead, all he had for an arsenal was a pocket square, a gaudy glass bottle of illegal potion, and a languishing dose of scent tracking potion. And a camera. He traced the outline of his mobile through his trousers. The Elixir could fool Muggle photography, but the Doppelgänger had seemed rather put off by the idea of cameras.

He took a deep breath, head slowly turning as he sampled the air.

There. To his left. The potion blocked out all other scents, and the smell of warm toast was strongest to his left. Other odors began to break through as he circled the room, one arm brushing the wall. The potion faded, and sharp cologne made him wrinkle his nose. Cloying floral perfume made him scrub his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

The Doppelgänger’s scent was gone.

He sighed and leaned against the wall. The Doppelgänger was probably still in the room. Who would he be in this setting? Someone powerful? Or someone less likely to draw attention? Was he here for entertainment, or to schmooze the Moirai elite?

Harry scanned the people around him. An older woman; grey hair in a chignon, wrapped in a diamond-studded net. A trio of gangly teen boys, probably on break from school, ogling three girls on the other side of the dance floor, one of whom winked and flipped her hair over her shoulder.

At the table just in front of Harry, a little girl sat alone, posture straight, blonde pigtails perfectly curled. Her dress was simple blue corduroy, quaint against the lace and sequins around them. She reached a finger out to nudge a fork into alignment with the others.

Curious, Harry pulled out the chair next to her. She glanced up at him, and her blue eyes went wide. It was the Muggle girl who’d knocked down the pear display in the grocery store.

Harry smirked. “And what are you supposed to be?”

She huffed and crossed her arms. The over-long white tablecloth hid her legs. “Innocuous.”

Harry sat down, trousers catching against the velvet upholstery. “You’re a five year-old Muggle girl.”

The girl scrunched her nose. Harry hid a smile by looking away. Maybe questioning the Doppelgänger would be easier than he’d thought. Not that the middle of a gala was an acceptable place for it. No, he needed to get him away from the crowd.

The string quartet in the corner took a bow. The violinist stopped to chat with a man in an antique black leather cloak.

Harry hooked his thumbs in his pockets, pausing as his mobile landed against his thumbnail. He slouched down and rested the back of his head against the tufted velvet. “We could go somewhere else,” he said, still watching the musicians. “If you want.”

“I… I want…” said the girl.

“I want to know why you’re here to begin with,” Harry said. “With these... people.”

The Doppelgänger nudged the longest fork forward and lined the set up along her pinkie finger. She shrugged. “Protection.”

“Protection. Bullshit,” Harry scoffed. “You walked right into a DMLE restroom.”

“And you probably limped out of it,” the girl spat.

Harry tried to not think about his arse stretching around a thick cock. Not while he was sitting next to a grown man pretending to be a small child.

She pursed her lips, then frowned. "Not protection for me."

"Who, then?" He looked away as she shook her head. He cleared his throat and watched a couple twirl past. “Protection from the Ministry or from them?”

“Both.”

“I can put you in witness protection.”

She scoffed. "Your protection isn't worth shit."

Harry grabbed her arm. "I can station-"

“Fuck off." She pulled her arm out of his grip and glared up at him. "You can't help!”

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but his breath caught in his throat. His own green eyes looked back at him, surrounded by a fall of red hair. She smoothed a hand down the burnt sienna and olive striped jumper he only remembered from photos.

“Cat got your tongue, Potter?” Lily Evans said.

Harry snarled, recoiling at the inherent wrongness of his own mother addressing him as Potter. His hands itched to touch her, but he wasn’t sure if it was to hug her, or to grab the Doppelgänger by the throat.

“Do you know what I call this look? This concept?” Lily asked, tracing the curve of her face with a fingertip. “Survivor’s guilt. What do you think?”

A guttural growl trickled between Harry’s teeth. “Take it off.”

The Doppelgänger clicked his tongue. “But you just look so stricken. And I could be so many people. It’s fun to guess.” His mother smirked daggers into his heart. “Dumbledore? No, no… he was too old.”

Harry swallowed and glanced around. The crowd astutely ignored them.

“Hmm… A classmate?” Lily asked. “Oh… the parents,” he said with a pinched face. Harry blinked back tears. “How terribly dear.”

It was fake. Just like Charlie had been fake, even though he’d felt so real.

Lily’s face blurred, and Hermione blinked at him. She cocked her head, curls brushing the collar of the bright floral shirt she’d worn in his flat. The shirt she’d crushed against his bare chest as she sobbed, then left him.

“Guess what this one is,” Hermione said, in a tone so cruel it shouldn’t have been able to pass through her lips. “I’ll give you a kiss if you get it.”

Harry swallowed down bile and shook his head. Around them, no one spared them a glance. Harry straightened and surveyed the crowd. “They know,” he whispered. “They all know what you are.”

Hermione shrugged. “Guess.”

They all knew what the Doppelgänger was. They had to know who he was. Harry returned the shrug.

“Guessss…” Hermione wiggled her shoulders.

Harry scowled. “You’re… a bore,” he said, hedging his bets on the Doppelgänger having chosen something unflattering.

“Interesting…” Hermione leaned forward, lips nearly touching Harry’s chin. “I’m an obstacle.”

His best friend’s wife looked him in the eye and told him she knew she was an obstacle to him. A hindrance. A barrier. She knew.

Harry shook his head in horror. He’d never said it. He’d never even allowed himself to think it. But he’d felt it. He’d felt it in the tent when they were seventeen. He’d felt it when he stood on the wrong side of Ron at the altar. He’d felt it when he’d been named godfather to their children. Maybe he’d always felt it.

“If I am who I think I am, you’re not going to like the next one.” Hermione sighed with a dramatic slump. “Especially given the thing you have for Weasley men.”

“No!” Harry’s hand snapped out and wrapped around her wrist. “Don’t,” he whispered. Because he already knew. He’d always known. “Please don’t.”

“But it has such a pretty name, this face.” Hermione’s curls drifted away, and cropped orange hair took its place. “I call it Unrequited Love.”

The Doppelgänger blinked blue eyes, and Ron gazed up at Harry with a new affection. The love he saved for her. The room swam. Harry’s heart thundered in his chest. “No,” he choked out. “Just stop.”

“But we could have so much fun,” Ron leered. He ran his finger tips down Harry’s lapel.

Harry’s tears disappeared under a hot adrenaline rush. His mother and Hermione, he’d protect. But Ron? Ron could hold his own.

The Doppelgänger leaned closer and rested his hands on Harry’s thigh. He slid one up, closer and closer to Harry’s groin. “You could take me home,” Ron purred, “and fuck me like-”

Harry smashed those words back into his mouth with his knuckles. He stared at his fist for a moment, then glanced at the Doppelgänger, whose face flickered back and forth between an amorphous blob and Ron.

“You twat,” the Doppelgänger hissed. “Goddammit.” He pulled Harry’s pocket square out and dabbed at his nose. A bright spot of blood stained the white cotton. Grey eyes squinted at him from Ron’s face.

The Doppelgänger shoved back from the table, but Harry grabbed him by the upper arm. They tugged back and forth, the Doppelgänger quietly trying to leave the table, and Harry pulling him back down into his chair.

“Piss off, Potter,” he hissed, reaching out to shove Harry’s face.

Harry grabbed him by the wrist and pulled. Ron’s eyes went wide. His shoe caught on the leg of his chair, and he toppled forward into Harry’s lap.

His chest hit Harry’s thighs, and he let out a soft “Oof!”

Harry’s hand snapped out to grab a fistful of red hair, holding him bent over his lap. The Doppelgänger waggled his arse. “Fancy spanking your best friend?”

“Fuck you,” Harry growled, tightening his grip.

“Mm, there’s the spirit.” The Doppelgänger’s hip pressed Harry’s mobile to his thigh. He slipped his free hand into his pocket and teased it out with two fingers.

“Never took you for an exhibitionist.” Ron spread his thighs and arched his back.

Harry kept a tight grip on the back of the Doppelgänger’s head, pointing his face at the floor. His other hand palmed his mobile and unlocked it. He opened the camera app.

“Never thought you had the balls for it, to be honest.”

On his mobile screen, the hair on the back of the Doppelgänger’s head was white, the same as the strands he’d left in Harry’s bed, cropped short at the base of his skull. His neck was long, sinewy, and Harry remembered exactly what that skin felt like against his lips.

“Maybe you just needed the right man.” Ron’s fingertips touched the floor under his face, and he rocked his dick against Harry’s thigh. The edge of the tablecloth pooled in a long line down the middle of his back. “Maybe you still do.”

He tapped to turn the front-facing camera on, then shifted his grip to cup the mobile. Slowly, he reached over the Doppelgänger’s head, then began to lower it.

The screen passed out of Harry’s vision, lost behind red hair. Sightless, he tapped his thumb against the screen and hoped he was taking pictures.

“I could be whoever you-” Ron halted, then screamed.

The Doppelgänger bucked and wrenched his head away from the camera. He thrashed, kicking his chair over behind him. Hands slapped at Harry’s mobile, and it clattered to the floor. The Dopplegänger heaved himself against Harry’s grip.

Harry let go of his hair. The Doppelgänger threw his weight, failed to compensate, and his head hit the edge of the table with a meaty thwack. He landed back in Harry’s lap, then slid down, under the table.

Harry grabbed for him, but quick as lightning, a hand darted out from under the table. It snatched Harry’s mobile off the floor.

“You little shit,” Harry hissed. He dropped to his knees next to the table. He grabbed the Doppelgänger’s ankles, but the man kicked until Harry lost his grip. “Give it back!”

“No!” Ron peered out at him from under the tablecloth.

He slammed the mobile against the marble floor. Harry winced at the sharp crack, then again when the Doppelgänger did it a second, then a third time, until shards fell from the screen.

Harry crawled under the table, letting the tablecloth fall behind him. Ron sneered at him in the dim, muted space. Harry snarled right back. He straddled the Doppelgänger’s knees and tried to pry his mobile out of the man’s hand.

“Give it!” He shoved the Doppelgänger flat on his back. He pinned his forearm to the floor.

“Fuck you!” The Doppelgänger tried to twist out from under Harry. He arched his back, pushed at Harry’s hip, paused a moment, then spat in Harry’s face.

Spittle landed on Harry’s glasses. “You fucking piece of shit.”

Ron’s fingers walked up Harry’s thigh. They lingered on the hard outline of the flask of Elixir of Erised in his pocket. Deft fingertips slid into his pocket.

The barely-there weight in Harry’s pocket withdrew, and he blinked down at Ron. Ron smirked up at him. “Piece of shit, hm?”

Harry froze, one hand around the Doppelgänger’s wrist, the other pinning his shoulder to the floor. Ron held the flask in his hand. “You want to see a real piece of shit, Potter?”

The Doppelgänger pulled the cork out with his teeth and dumped the emerald liquid in his mouth. He held it there, not swallowing. Harry watched, helpless, as the man underneath him dropped the flask and reached up. The Doppelgänger ran his fingers through Harry’s hair. A too-tender touch for his words.

Ron’s fingers pinched two black hairs between them. He popped them in his mouth, swished them with the potion, and swallowed.  Harry watched in horror as Ron’s eyes disappeared into a pixillated blur.

Red hair and freckles melted away, replaced by shadow and light. Gradients in human form. With a flicker, they settled. Black hair, black tuxedo, but no glasses.

Harry’s own eyes met his again, but not in his mother’s face. The scar was on the wrong side. A true image, not what he saw in the mirror.

“Behold!” the Doppelgänger said in Harry’s voice. “A piece of shit.”

Gobsmacked, Harry stared at the man he was sitting on.

“You can take all the pictures you like now.” The Doppelgänger dropped Harry’s mobile. He slid his hands up Harry’s thighs. “I’ll even pose for you.”

The Doppelgänger wiggled his hips, and Harry’s pants rubbed against his cock. Harry scratched the back of his head against the underside of the table. He’d come here to get information from the Doppelgänger, but he’d punched him in the nose instead.

Fingertips crept along the waistband of Harry’s trousers. The button popped open, and his gut lurched. Slowly, the fine teeth of his zipper parted. His chest flushed hot with the merest whisper of touch.

“Potter,” the Doppelgänger whispered.

Harry gulped and leaned down, a hand on either side of the Doppelgänger’s head. Were his eyes this green behind his glasses? Was this how his cheeks blushed when he touched someone? Did he ever look this eager?

“I’d stay the night.” The Doppelgänger licked his lips, and so did Harry. “I could. Like this.”

The Doppelgänger ran his hands up Harry’s chest. It should have felt wrong. But it was too familiar. He cradled Harry’s head in both hands, then pulled him down.

Harry drew in a breath that smelled like toast, then collapsed to his elbows. Soft lips met his, identical, perfect. The body under his melded to him, arms around his shoulders. Mouth to mouth, chest to chest. Breath for breath, thrust for thrust.

Harry came up for air, pink cheeks and sparkling eyes below him an eager echo.

“You’d stay?”

The Doppelgänger nodded. He licked his lips, looked away and smiled.

“What?”

Harry couldn’t help but grin at the Doppelgänger’s wide smile. “Hey, Potter.”

“What?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Harry snorted a laugh against the Doppelgänger’s collarbone. “Good idea.”

Chapter Text

Harry landed on his bedroom floor on top of the Doppelgänger, knocking the wind of them both. The whiplash of a hasty Apparition rang in his ears. Moonlight shone through the window above the bed. The Doppelgänger’s hair was midnight black against the carpet.

“Fuck,” wheezed the Doppelgänger. His voice sounded like a recording of Harry’s, but the inflection was wrong. “You land like a sack of wet sand.”

Harry propped himself up on his elbows, but the Doppelgänger grabbed him by the hair and pulled him back down. His lips found Harry’s, followed by teeth, tongue, and his hands on Harry’s arse.

The man kissed like he was starving. He'd kissed Harry the other times, but not like this. As though Harry could disappear at any moment.

The Doppelgänger clutched Harry’s head. His hips rolled, seeking friction. His hard length pressed against Harry’s belly, and a needy whine trickled from his nose.

Harry broke away with a sharp gasp. Under him, his mirror image lay, lips parted and pupils blown wide. The Doppelgänger’s blush crept down under the collar of his shirt. He gripped Harry’s arse and writhed. He whimpered, and his eyes fluttered shut.

Was this what Harry looked like? Lost to lust, was this how he looked? As though the slightest touch would make him come in his trousers?

He rocked his dick against the Doppelgänger and was rewarded with a whispered, “Please…”

Harry bit his lip and thrust again. The Doppelgänger arched his back, breath panting. “Harry…”

With a sigh, he buried his face against the Doppelgänger’s neck, then drew a deep breath. Toast. Always fucking toast. His shadow hid his wry smile as he rose on all fours.

The Doppelgänger’s hands flew to Harry’s trousers, tugging them down.

“Bit greedy,” Harry said. He sat up, stripped his jacket off, and tossed it in a corner. The Doppelgänger said nothing, eyes glued to Harry’s fingers working their way down the buttons of his shirt. He threw it in the corner, too.

Still, the Doppelgänger said nothing, sharp tongue only darting out to wet his lips. His green eyes met Harry’s, and the gut-deep urgency in his gaze made Harry’s breath catch.

Not simple desire, or lust, or the promise of a bedroom conquest. No, far more than that. The ache of lonely nights. The raw need to touch and be touched. The primal requirement of shared body heat.

The Doppelgänger looked up at him in a silent plea.

No, not greedy. Desperate.

He gave Harry’s trousers a sharp tug and waited for Harry to continue undressing. He tugged again, but stayed silent.

This wasn’t just a quick fuck. Not to the Doppelgänger. He hadn’t offered to spend the night because he thought Harry wanted it.

He wanted it. He wanted to curl up and sleep in Harry's bed. He wanted to wake up together.

This man had conned his way into Harry’s pants for at least the fourth time, but the Doppelgänger was the one who’d grown attached. Did the man wearing Harry’s face have feelings for him?

Worry creased the Doppelgänger’s brow as Harry knelt over him, unresponsive. He tugged at Harry’s trousers one last time, then dropped his hands to Harry’s thighs. He looked away, and the moonlight caught the edge of a tear in the corner of his eye.

The Doppelgänger sniffed. He was smaller without his bravado and tricks.

Vulnerable, even.

“Potter,” he whispered. His gaze flicked to Harry’s naked chest. “If you don’t want…” He swallowed, throat clicking. “If it’s too weird- Or I’m not-”

“Shh…”

Harry set a hand on either side of his head, palms digging into the carpet. Relieved by Harry's scant attention, the Doppelgänger let out a shuddering sigh.

Exploitable. Perfect.

Harry leaned down and kissed him. Just a brush of lips. A reassurance.

He lifted his head to chase Harry’s lips, but Harry pulled away. “What do you like for breakfast?”

A wide grin split the Doppelgänger’s face, and Harry was certain he’d never looked that happy in all his life.

“Toast.”

Harry huffed a laugh and dropped his weight onto the Doppelgänger, who wrapped his arms around Harry’s shoulders and sighed.

Interrogation and toast.

“Perfect.”

-

Weak morning light simmered parallelograms against the bedroom wall. Harry ran his lips over the man’s collarbone, laying whispers of kisses. He doubled back, but the skin was smooth, intricacies wiped clean by the Elixir and spackled over in Harry’s image.

“You need a name,” Harry murmured against his neck.

Mirror-green eyes met his, and the Doppelgänger treated him to a lazy smirk. “You mean, my name isn’t ‘Oh-God-Fuck-I’m-Gonna-Cum’?”

“No.” Harry chuckled a broken hum and propped himself up on his elbow alongside the Doppelgänger. His Doppelgänger. Another man wearing his body like a wetsuit.

“You can call me…” The Doppelgänger ruffled Harry’s hair and sighed. “Orion.”

“Hm.” Harry trailed his fingers down the line of black hair that bisected the man’s belly. “An entire constellation? Bit grandiose.”

“There are far grander constellations than Orion.” He brushed hair away from Harry’s glasses, and his eyes were a nebula green he’d never seen clearly, always obscured by warped lenses.

“Alright. Orion.” Harry’s fingers crept lower, where the soft dark hair fanned out below the man’s navel. “The Hunter.”

Orion wiggled his arse against the sheet and spread his thighs. “Ironic,” he said.

“Hm?”

“The Hunt-er.” He licked his lips and watched Harry’s fingertips ghost a path around the base of his hardening cock. “Mostly hunt-ed.”

“I don’t think I need to hunt you anymore.” Orion’s back arched as Harry’s mouth snuck closer to his nipple. “You feel pretty trapped to me.”

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Yeah.”

Salt hit Harry’s tongue as he licked a line lower and lower. He curled the taste in and rolled around his mouth. It was impossible to tell which of them it was from, but maybe their bodies tasted identical, too.

“Who would hunt you? Apart from me?”

Orion’s fingers tightened in Harry’s hair, tugging through the strands until his hand popped free. He shook loose hairs from between his fingers, then smoothed Harry’s curls down.

“Everyone,” he said with the slightest breath.

“Not the DLME.”

Harry buried his nose in the thick, musky scent of the dark body hair before him. He certainly didn’t smell like toast here. Harry took a deep inhale of hot skin, sweat, and come. His eyes fluttered shut, and his dick throbbed against his thigh.

“No,” Orion whispered. He moaned softly and lifted his hips against Harry’s face. “Not the DMLE.”

“Hm. Who, then?” Harry’s mouth worked its way lower, and Orion spread his legs as Harry crawled between them. “Shacklebolt?”

“Not-” he gasped as Harry’s tongue streaked down the line of his groin, “-him.”

Harry watched him over the horizon of his heaving chest and wondered if he’d ever worn his face with such open need. And who, really, was the man wearing it now?

“The Moirai?”

"No." Orion shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Harry slid lower, lips nipping over hair, across heavy tight skin. He nuzzled against the hot, hard root of Orion’s cock, just above his entrance, then hummed. “Who, then?” He let his breath ghost over his hole and watched the puckered skin ease.

“Harry…” Orion licked his lips and lifted his hips in offering.

The tip of Harry’s tongue followed the tender wrinkled skin, flicked, and withdrew. “Who’s hunting you?”

“Fuck,” he hissed. “It’s…”

Harry pressed his lips around the soft furl, and Orion groaned.

“Who?” His tongue traced the tight ring, and Orion wrapped a hand around his cock, waiting. “Who are you hiding from?”

Harry curled his tongue, and Orion’s breath left in a broken rasp. He threw his head back and moaned, “Death- Fuck… Just… Death.”

Harry sighed, gave in, wrapped his arms around Orion’s hips, and couldn’t be bothered to puzzle it out until well after dawn had broken.

-

“Does it start with an O?” Harry asked. He tucked his knees up behind Orion’s.

Orion huffed a laugh and drew Harry’s arm around him. “No.”

He ran his nose up the short hairs on the back of Orion’s neck. His hips pressed into the curve of his arse. The sticky-slick friction between them was enough to get him hard again.

“Does it rhyme with ‘Orion’?”

Orion shook his head. Harry wrapped his arm around his chest and held him tight. “I wouldn’t tell you if you got it right, anyway.”

“Orville?”

“Stop trying-” he broke off, yawning, “-to guess.” His breath hitched with another yawn, legs stretching, taut muscles shuddering.

“Oscar.”

“No.” He hugged Harry’s arm to his chest and sighed. “Stop humping my arse.”

“No.”

Harry reached down and slid his half-hard cock between the cheeks of Orion’s arse. He’d developed an appreciation of his own backside after a night of fucking himself. Thoroughly.

He slid his other arm under the pillow, under Orion’s head, then buried his face in the mess of sweat-drenched curls in front of him. For a few minutes at a time, he’d been able to convince himself that it was just sex. Or that it was critical to getting information from the Doppelgänger.

But then Orion would kiss his fingertips. Or nestle into the crook of his arm. Or hook his legs between Harry’s in a way that made Harry want to keep him in this bed forever.

Orion pressed Harry’s open palm to his lips. “If you’re going to make good on your promise of toast, you should hurry. This potion will wear off in an hour.”

Harry fought off a light doze and hummed. “I won’t peek.”

Fatigue, bone-deep and content, pulled him down. His shoulders melted, his spine softening, cupped around the warm body in his arms. His Doppelgänger.

Orion grunted and patted Harry’s arm. “Stay awake.”

Harry grumbled a protest and bit the shoulder in front of him.

“You promised me toast.”

Toast and interrogation.

“Right,” Harry said, eyes sliding open. He squinted against the morning sun. It would be sparking off of the beveled panes of Andromeda’s front door right now. She was probably stepping out of her cottage, basket on her arm. Teddy was at his tutor’s house.

Harry pressed his lips against the back of Orion’s head. Orion turned, leaning his ear toward Harry’s mouth. Harry rubbed his nose behind Orion’s ear and tried to keep his breathing calm.

Would he bolt if Harry asked about the Moirai? About the Metamorphagus hair? About Teddy?

Orion tensed in his arms. He ran a hand down Harry’s forearm, smoothing the fine hairs.

“You’re going to say something you don’t want to,” Orion whispered.

Harry held him tight, but he couldn’t have said whether it was for fear of losing a witness or losing so much more.

Harry nodded. "How did you know?"

"Legilimency," Orion said with a tight shrug.

"You're good."

“Just ask,” Orion said. He licked his lips and it was the softest sound Harry had ever heard.

“Do you know where Andromeda Black lives?”

“Yes.” Orion blinked tornado-green eyes at Harry’s ceiling.

Harry’s gut clenched, but his lips caressed the soft flesh of Orion’s earlobe. “Did you pass through their wards two days ago?”

“Yes,” he whispered, eyes fluttering shut.

Harry caught his earlobe between his teeth and sucked. Orion’s breath left in a staccato shudder.

“Why did you go there?”

“I-” he gasped as Harry’s teeth dug into his earlobe, “-had to get something.”

Harry hummed and sucked the hard curve of his ear. “What?”

“It was-” Orion cupped his growing erection and kneaded. “I had to get an ingredient.”

Harry traced in front of his ear, tongue leaving a wet streak that matted the fine, nearly invisible hairs. He kissed the little bit of cartilage there. “Hair,” he whispered.

Orion’s arm hair rose in a cascade that ended in goosebumps along his flanks. He swallowed, then scowled at the ceiling for a moment.

With a rustle and bounce on the mattress, Orion rolled over, nose to nose and thigh to thigh with Harry. Perfectly matched.

“I had to,” Orion said. “I didn’t have a choice.”

The words, said in Harry’s voice, formed by Harry’s lips, hit him in the gut.

“Why?”

“I had to protect him,” he whispered. Orion dipped his head and nuzzled up under Harry’s chin. “If I didn’t collect the hair, they said they would.”

Harry swallowed. “The Moirai.”

Orion nodded. He sucked his bottom lip under, then let it slide back out. “They would have taken a lot more than his hair.”

Harry’s mind spewed forth crime scene photos of a headless boy and a grandmother with a second mouth slit into her neck. Behind his eyes flickered curly strands of Hermione’s hair, fizzling into a bottle of Elixir of Erised while she slept, safe in her bed. Baby-fine strawberry blonde hairs, plucked by dextrous fingers from an alphabet-printed play rug while Rose and Hugo chased each other around a swingset.

“Who let you through her wards?”

Orion sucked on his bottom lip.  “Andromeda. In a way.”

Hermione, Rose, Hugo, Andromeda, Teddy. He’d collected their hair. Somehow. They'd all been passed by. So many others had died, but no one Harry loved. They’d suffered no harm, just a few hairs out of place.

He wrapped his arms around Orion, The Doppelgänger, the Moirai, a man trying to hide from Death in the bed of a man who’d survived it twice.

Orion's heart thudded against Harry’s chest in perfect time. Identical.

Harry hugged him close. “Thank you.”

“It was the least-” Orion stopped and ran a hand down Harry’s side. “It was the most- It was all I could do.”

“Still.” Harry nuzzled into the curls that smelled like toast, and closed his eyes, willing tears away. “Thank you.”

-

Harry turned his back on the kettle, because watched pots never boil, and unsupervised toasters are likely to scorch breakfast. The wires inside glowed like a bound sunrise as he waited for the toast to pop up.

On the other side of his flat, the shower started, and he let a sheepish smile spread across his face. He’d never made breakfast for two. He’d never thought he’d want to.

He set out two white plates. Two glazed navy mugs. Two butter knives. Three jars of jam. A Holstein-printed dish of softened butter. Milk. Sugar.

The potion would wear off while Orion was in the shower. Who would come out of the bathroom? What face would he be wearing? Would a complete stranger sit on a stool at the kitchen island for breakfast? Would he want to be called Orion?

It was a good name. One that could be sighed. Whispered. Moaned against a shoulder-

The toast popped up. But too loudly. He felt it all the way to his bones. He shook his head. That sound hadn’t just been the toaster. The entire floor had vibrated with a single snap.

Apparition.

Harry’s face fell, then his brow knit in concern. No one, not even Ron and Hermione, could Apparate into his wards. They could walk through, but even Shacklebolt himself couldn’t enter via pure magic.

But anyone could Apparate out.

Harry gulped and made his way to the bathroom. Steam billowed over the shower curtain and fogged the mirror.

He cleared his throat. The water sounded like it was hitting straight against the bottom of the tub with no one to block it.

“Orion?”

Nothing.

Harry pulled the shower curtain back. It was empty.

So Orion had left. He'd said he'd stay, but he'd left. He'd kissed Harry, and said he wanted toast and tea in bed, and then he'd left.

He took a deep breath to keep his chest from caving in. His glasses fogged, and he wiped them off on the collar of his t-shirt. With another shuddering inhale, he turned the water off.

In the bottom of the tub, the built-in drain stopper had been unscrewed and pulled out. The lever attachment was covered in the usual brown soap scum slime. Had the damn thing clogged again? Had Orion been trying to fix it?

Harry bent to pick the drain stopper up, then froze. There should have been hair. There should have been a matted wad of black hair and drain sludge around the bottom of the stopper. Instead, there were clean spots where it had been pulled away from the metal.

“No…”

I was someone you’d let get close.

Harry spun and pulled open a vanity drawer, desperate to be wrong. He dug through brushes and combs. All clean. No hair in any of them.

Not a single black strand of hair on the floor, or stuck to the inside of the sink. Not so much as a fucking pube next to the toilet.

He slammed the drawer shut and stalked to the bedroom, magic a crackling cloud around him.

Even his pillow had been picked clean. In the kitchen, the kettle shrieked. He hurtled a wad of bare-handed magic through the wall and Vanished the bloody kettle.

Standing in the radiant gold light of the morning sun, eyes closed, he blew out a long breath. His exhale sent the lone blonde hair on his nightstand drifting to the floor. Invisible against the cream carpet, just like the other one he’d dropped.

With another deep breath, he reined in the cloud of static energy swirling around him. He focused on his hand, outstretched, muscles taut.

“Accio hair,” he whispered, and braced himself.

Underfoot, the carpet fibres stood on end, then collapsed back down. The bedsheets trembled. A slow trickle of magic returned to his hands, and he watched. Barely-there filaments wound around his fingers. Mostly black. A few of Hermione’s long, curly locks. Short red hairs.

There. A glint of pale nothingness around his thumb. And another around his pinkie. He teased them loose and held them up in the light.

Two hairs. Just enough to either track the bastard down or become him.

-

“Sorry,” the potioneer said around a bite of a ham salad sandwich. “We only took a few samples of Elixir of Erised before Robards stole it all.”

Harry huffed. “I suppose standard Polyjuice might work.”

The potioneer shook his head and swallowed. “Banned,” he said thickly, then cleared his throat.

“But we’re the Ministry.”

He shrugged. “Robards banned it, Shacklebolt had it all rounded up and destroyed.”

Harry’s fingers hovered over his hip pocket, where the two blond hairs were doubled over and tied in a knot around a pen cap. He could use the hairs on another Bloodfound potion. It wouldn’t immediately show him the Doppelgänger’s face like the Elixir would, but he could track him down and…

…end up in bed with him again. If he were honest with himself.

The potioneer hummed an exclamation around his sandwich. He held up a finger while he swallowed an unchewed bite with a wince. “We do,” he swallowed again, “have a back-brewed Elixir prototype. Experimental. We haven’t gotten the ingredient ratios quite right, but it does work. Just not as long as the Moirai formula.”

“How long?”

“Only about an hour.”

“I’ll take it. And a vial of Bloodfound.”

“You got it, Boss.”

-

The two vials clinked together in Harry’s pocket as he stepped out of the lift and into the DMLE. He ambled down the hall, passing cubicles and listening for the department’s hustle and bustle as he went.

It was too quiet. Too many Aurors had turned in their badges after the Moirai murders began. At first, it was the older Aurors, closest to retirement, and then the youngest ones, with little to lose by throwing in the towel early. But gradually, all the Aurors with Muggle-born family had left, with the exception of Ron.

The result was a department left at half-staff. Robards had drafted new policies to shuttle Auror trainees through more quickly, and so amongst the middle-aged Aurors were a smattering of too-fresh faces.

One of them, Fitzsimmons, the bloke Ron punched, was sitting with his back against the outside wall of Harry’s cubicle. A lanky kid with sandy blond hair, an unfortunate mustache, and all the ruddiness of linen sheets.

“Fitz, you look like-”

He shook his head, eyes wide and glassy. He drew a line across his neck, then put a finger to his lips.

-like he’d seen a ghost.

Harry dropped to one knee on the other side of his cubicle entryway. The vials in his pocket squeaked, and he winced. Fitzsimmon’s nostrils flared, and he nodded toward Harry’s desk. Harry took a deep breath. Death and decay flooded his nose. Fetid stench roiled in the back of his mouth and clung in the cavities of his sinuses.

Fitzsimmon’s lips moved silently. “Ankou.”

Harry shook his head and mouthed back, “Why?”

Fitzsimmons shrugged. Then, he pointed up to the gold nameplate tacked onto the cubicle wall above his head.

Heed, Auror.

Papers rustled on his desk. An empty file folder flopped open, one half hanging off the edge of his desk. If he could just peek around the wall, he’d be able to read the name on the file.

Maybe he could sneak a picture of it. Harry stayed away from the doorway, but pulled his battered mobile out of his back pocket. The glass was all cracks, with shards missing on the edges. He unlocked it and tapped on the camera app. The screen went black. Broken.

Fucking photophobic Doppelgänger. Or Orion. Or whoever the hell he was.

A shuffle of fabric drew Harry’s attention back to Fitzsimmons. The esteemed junior Auror was crawling away down the hall. Harry watched the man’s arse disappear around the corner and sighed. There would probably be another resignation on his desk by the end of the day.

The stapler on Harry’s desk crunched down. And again. And again.

He cocked his head to listen. Muggle office supplies were a bit of a rarity, he supposed.

Another crunch. And another.

The Ankou, Unspeakable, Keeper of the Veil, Harbinger of Death, was playing with his fucking stapler.

The glint of his new nameplate mocked him. He was the head of the DMLE, for fuck’s sake. He was second only to the Minister and the Wizengamot.

He braced himself, then got to his feet. The stench was worse the higher he rose, and it only intensified as he walked into his office. By the time he reached his desk, his eyes were watering.  He pulled his chair out and sat down, pretending he didn’t notice the smell.

An invisible figure moved, sending a whisper of a breeze over his desk. He took a shallow breath through his mouth and kept his hands in his lap. Robards had reeked of the Ankou. It wasn’t so unreasonable that it expected to work with Harry. But what did it want?

It was human, he reminded himself. Or it had started its life as a human.

One that smelled like two-day-old ground beef in August.

The air shuddered, and Harry saw his breath freeze before his eyes. A soft white plume of microscopic crystals. A high-pitched plink flicked through the cubicle. The fog of his breath was sucked forward into a sudden vacuum. The papers on his desk ruffled with the displacement of air.

The quietest Apparition on Earth.

Ron, as always, had unwittingly been onto something when he said the Ankou should be required to Apparate as to not share the lift with others. Maybe it only used the lift when it had a reason.

Harry sighed and pulled the emptied file folder to the center of his desk. It was Malfoy’s abandoned missing persons case. And it was empty, save a crumpled scrap of newspaper. The Ankou had ignored the stacks of case files on the Moirai in favor of a stagnant missing persons case.

He tucked the empty file folder in a desk drawer, then smoothed the clipping out.

Quibbler Quips and Quandaries,
published daily on Tuesdays, Fridays, and Full Moons

Query, quarry. Thief by night.
Ally, do you, with wrong or right?

For deeds uncounted, gold unspent,
now from their clutches… love? Hell-bent?

Eros said… Erised,
but your case remains un-pled.

Facets many, quite a view.
But speak, must you,
to quell an coup;
a midnight mass au Fortescue?

REPORT SIGHTINGS OF OUT-OF-PLACE,
OUT-OF-VEIL HUMANS TO THE QUIBBLER.
OWL PREFERRED.

Fucking nonsense. And with at least one typo.

He tossed it in the bin and took the stack of files from his inbox. More abducted people. One suspected Moirai murder. Five sightings of dead people.

It had to stop. Any progress Ron and Robards had made was gone. The Moirai had their Elixir stockpile back and we’re undoubtedly churning out more with Teddy’s stolen hair.

He put his face in his hands, then rubbed his eyes. The Moirai had hundreds of the Head Auror’s hairs now, too. They could flood the Ministry with copies of Head Auror Potter. There was nothing to keep them from killing and replacing him.

And he had no tangible leads. Other than the Doppelgänger.

He reached in his pocket and rolled the vials back and forth around the pen cap. Upstairs, on the surface, it was a bright, sunny Friday evening. Diagon Alley would be plenty busy in a few hours.

The Doppelgänger couldn’t seem to resist a crowd. And Harry couldn’t resist him.

Chapter Text

Diagon Alley teemed with people, rosy-cheeked in the rare spring sunshine. Harry walked the length of the street, crossed, and walked back, hands in his pockets and gaze downcast. Surely, after twenty minutes of aimless walking, he’d caught the Doppelgänger’s attention.

He looked up and glanced around. Who would the Doppelgänger be today? Maybe the portly man leaning against a lamp post? The kid walking a mountain bike through a crosswalk?

Harry cupped the vials in his hand. How did the Doppelgänger want to be seen today? Did he want to be noticed at all? If he were smart, he’d be in hiding. But Harry had an inkling that self-preservation wasn’t the bastard’s strong suit.

If he could draw the Doppelgänger out, he might not need to use the hair sample. And he didn’t trust the Doppelgänger to truthfully identify himself once arrested, so the Elixir was a better use of it. The wanker would probably claim to be the fifth Beatle or something ridiculous.

There was no motivation to keep the Doppelgänger out of DMLE custody. Not anymore. He wasn’t a witness. He was a criminal.

I was someone you’d let get close.

A criminal, and a thief. A liar. An imposter. Not real. And Harry’s kitchen counter still held place settings for a breakfast for two. He’d left a tiny, glittering shard of his heart on that counter.

The foot traffic thinned as he reached the second-hand robe shop at the end of the street. He leaned against the plate glass window, the back of his head resting on the solid weight of it. Sun warmed his face, and he closed his eyes. He folded his bare arms over his chest, letting the rays penetrate his skin.

He wasn’t posing. But he wasn’t not posing.

He licked his lips, then peeked out through his lashes. The Doppelgänger could be anyone.

One of the children huddled around a game of Exploding Snap? No.

He wouldn’t be interacting with a group of people.

A woman with a baby in a pram? No.

An old man walking a pair of Crups? No.

The Doppelgänger would be alone.

A teenage girl taking Polaroid selfies on the corner? Definitely not.

A rotund woman sat on a park bench, a newspaper unfolded over her lap? Possibly.

Someone tapped sharply against the glass, right between Harry’s shoulder blades. He rolled and looked over his shoulder.

The shop was utilitarian. Orderly racks of robes, mostly black, hanging from mismatched hangers, mostly pink, over a tiled floor, mostly yellow. A dressing room mirror sat propped against the wall, just out of reach of the sunlight streaming in through the windows.

Harry’s body cast a shadow in the golden rectangle on the floor, and fit neatly into it, shoulder to Harry’s shoulder, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, stood the Doppelgänger. Lanky limbs, a shock of red hair, freckles, and blue eyes with a wicked glint.

Ron smirked at him through the thick glass, the end of his wand raised. He tapped it again, right where Harry’s shoulder met the window. The reflection of Harry’s hair surrounded Ron’s face.

Harry let himself believe it was really Ron. Just for a moment. Until those blue eyes met his with a heat they’d never shown before.

“You,” Harry mouthed. He turned and slammed his hands flat against the glass. It shuddered in the pane.

Ron grinned and let his wand trace down, up, over, and down the lengths of Harry’s fingers. Harry’s breath fogged the glass, and he tried to slow his breathing. This smug bastard had the gall to flirt with him after stripping his bathroom of hair and standing him up in his own kitchen.

The Doppelgänger tapped the end of his wand on the glass, right at Harry’s nose.

Harry startled, then caught his reflection in the glass. He didn’t need the tracking potion. He might not even need the Elixir. If he could lure the Doppelgänger close enough, he could grab him and Apparate straight into the DMLE holding cells.

Ron shifted his weight foot to foot and drummed the glass with the thin tip of his wand like an orchestra conductor.  Harry bit his lip. If he went inside the robe shop, the Doppelgänger would flee.

Harry rubbed the pen cap in his pocket and tamped down a smirk.  The prick would probably leave the safety of the shop to steal his hair sample away from Harry. Especially after he knew Harry had a vial of Elixir and a reflective surface.  The Doppelgänger would attack him before he could drink the potion and become the Doppelgänger’s Doppelgänger.

A smile spread across his face. Even if he bolted instead of attacking, Harry could drink the potion. It wouldn't be a total loss.

Ron stuck his tongue out and waggled his head back and forth. He froze. Then winked.

Harry returned the wink as he slid the Elixir of Erised out of his pocket. Ron shrugged.

Next, Harry drew the pen cap out. A plain black plastic pen cap. Around it were tied two thin hairs that glowed in the setting sun.

The Doppelgänger’s eyes went wide. He followed the movements of Harry’s hands as he uncorked the vial. Then, he scowled as Harry slid the ring of hair to the end of the pen cap and laid it on the tip of his finger.

The Doppelgänger shook his head, Ron’s orange eyebrows tenting together, pleading. He pounded his fists against the glass, slowly, then faster, mouthing a horrified “No!” that resonated through the window.

Harry held the hair over the lip of the vial. The green potion released a puff of steam. Harry blew the steam away. The flask he’d taken to Gringotts hadn’t steamed. But the potioneer had said this wasn't a perfect replica.

Ron’s fingers squeaked down the glass. The Doppelgänger snarled at him, but made no move to come out of the shop.

“Fine,” Harry said.

He dropped the hair into the vial. It hissed and bubbled, but the foam was red. That wasn't quite right. The vial warmed in his hand. He shot the Doppelgänger a victorious grin.

The window groaned. Magic sucked through the glass, a front-fall gravity that pulled him a step forward.

The window screamed. It broke in bone-thick cracks and lightning-rent torrents.

Shards of glass fell, point-down, into a rim of upraised spikes like a crystalline shark’s jaw snapping shut. The Doppelgänger stood in the open maw, wand raised.

“Potter,” he hissed. He stalked forward, glass crunching underfoot. “Don’t drink that.”

Harry rested the vial against his lips and backpedaled. He leveled a warning glare at the Doppelgänger as he approached. Ron’s long leg stepped over the window frame.  Sickly red magic crackled between the Ron’s fingertips.

Harry’s heart thudded up his neck, and a hot rush of sweat covered his upper lip. Terror broke out in an electric rush down his arms. The Doppelgänger was a fucking criminal, and it hadn’t occurred to Harry that he’d act like it.

This man was part of an organization that gutted humans like pigs. They sent death threats to families' homes. And Harry had kicked the hornet's nest.

The tip of the Doppelgänger’s wand quivered, aimed between Harry’s eyes.

His vision blurred. A sharp plink of shattering glass resonated against his cheekbone.

His eyes slammed shut. He waited for the curse.

Another plink. The other side.

Would it be a fatal curse? Would it hurt? Would he know it was happening? Was this it? Was he already dead?

Cold hands wrapped around his, pressing his fingers to the vial, and he recoiled, stepping back. He blinked, but the blurriness wouldn’t budge. He shook his head.  

His glasses were shattered, the same spell that had broken a plate glass window, but refined and delivered with surgical precision.

He wrenched his hands out of the Doppelgänger’s grip. Potion splashed across the back of his hand. It burned like acid. He grunted, trying to throw the Doppelgänger off. The Doppelgänger growled back, fingers wrapped around Harry’s wrists.

Harry threw his weight to the side, but was yanked up onto his toes. He shoved an elbow in the blurry direction of the Doppelgänger’s shoulder, hit something solid, and broke free.

He licked the spilled potion from his hand, then tipped the vial into his mouth.

“You idiot!” the Doppelgänger shouted.

His entire mouth went dead. Numb. He thought he swallowed the potion, but he couldn’t feel his tongue.

The blob of orange hair in front of him wavered. The hair grew longer, the frame shorter.

The potion tasted like nothing. Or he couldn’t taste anything. Had they tested this formula?

It didn't matter. Harry could grab him and Apparate them to the DMLE. Harry reached out to touch him, but his arm fell short. A wave of nausea rolled through him, followed by the gut-lurching sensation of his skin turning itself inside out.

“Fuck!” the Doppelgänger shouted, and his voice was too high. And familiar. “You stupid-” Pain lanced through Harry’s groin. He doubled over and gagged. “-bastard!”

The prick had kneed him in the balls. He breathed through the pain, the disorientation, and waited for the potion to settle, but the full-body writhing sensation only worsened.

A sharp back-handed slap knocked Harry to the side, and he caught himself on one knee. He fought for his breath through a windpipe that felt like it was disappearing. He wheezed, then fell forward onto his hands and knees.

It was an experimental potion. The potioneers couldn’t have had time to test it.

Heat sparked behind his eardrums, and spittle dripped from his open mouth. Vague shapes milled around, far beyond reach. None of them approached. No one yelled for help.

A shadow loomed over him, sunset in her hair. Molly.

The ground lurched, and cement rose up to greet Harry’s shoulder like a scorned lover.

“Do you know what I call this face?” she said. She kicked him onto his back.

She was Molly. She would help him breathe. Help him see. Help him home. Harry reached up and tried to touch her. His pale forearm was marred by an inky black swirl.

“I call it ‘The Saviour’.” Molly’s voice was rusted iron wool in Harry’s ears. “You can guess who everyone else sees.”

Harry examined his outstretched arm. A Dark Mark?

“Do look at me, Potter.” Molly snatched his glasses and tossed them away. “Do you know what they see?” Molly’s head rose, and she flung an arm out. “They see their Saviour standing over a criminal. Isn't that nice?”

Harry coughed, breath catching as his ribs shifted and bent.

“I’ll be a better you than you. Look. Auror Potter hard at work,” she said. “I do believe they deserve a show in these dark times, don’t you?”

Harry’s arm dropped, and he groped for his wand in his pocket. The Doppelgänger kicked his hand away and stood on his fingers. His knuckles grated against the cement.

“Let’s let the good guys win this one, shall we?” Molly’s voice was venom-sweet. “Petrificus Totalus!”

Harry’s arms and legs locked. His eyelids froze mid-blink. His chest fought against the bind, lungs fluttering in shallow breaths.

Someone clapped.  Slowly, then faster, others joining in.

A long shadow hovered over his face. He forced a needle-sharp inhale. And the Doppelgänger kicked him in the nose.

Pain exploded through his face, an iron-hot tide in his nose. His vision left in a wavering black wash, and his eardrums rang.

The shoe lifted, destined for another blow, but hesitated.

A camera clicked. The girl with the Polaroid camera?

And another click. From a different direction.

And another.

A murmur in the crowd. A young woman's horrified screech.

“Shit,” the Doppelgänger whispered.

Harry heard an over-loud toaster pop, and the Doppelgänger was gone.

He lay bound and bleeding, unidentifiable as himself. His last thought before he lost consciousness was that they’d done this before.

Chapter Text

Harry’s mouth tasted like arse. And not in a good way.

He sucked on his tongue, then swallowed. Russet sunlight glowed in the window above his bed.

In his bed, a naked man lay next to him. He lay on his belly, face turned away from Harry. His arms wrapped under the pillow as though he’d been burying his mouth against it. Freckles covered his shoulders, and the duvet covered the rest of his body. His hair was either very dark brown or bright orange; Harry couldn’t tell in the oblong red light and the lack of glasses. He reached behind him and found his repaired glasses exactly where he always left them.

Ron. Ron was in his bed. Nude.

Impossible. Panic zinged through him.

Harry rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth and swallowed the stale metal of old blood. He rolled his head against his pillow, back and forth, stretching tight muscles in his neck. How long had he been asleep?

Did the Doppelgänger bring him home? They could have passed through the wards with Harry’s unconscious body as a key. Ron was in St Mungo’s, so the man wearing his body had to be the Doppelgänger. Harry weighed the possibility of the stranger being one of the Moirai with a Ron-flavoured dose of Elixir of Erised.

No, it had to be the Doppelgänger. The Moirai wouldn’t fall asleep in his bed. Only the Doppelgänger would have the audacity to kick his face in and then sleep next to him.

Maybe the Doppelgänger had brought him home to keep the crowd from seeing the Doppelgänger's face on Harry's body. But no, that couldn't have happened.

The Doppelgänger had Apparated away. It would have been easy for him to side-along Harry straight into the Moirai's hands. But he’d left Harry on the curb like a bag of trash. 

Maybe Harry had pushed him too far. Revealing his identity in a public place. And in front of him. It had been too much, and the Doppelgänger lashed out. Maybe Harry deserved the beating.

The man stirred. Harry watched his shoulders rise and fall in a fluttery sigh. He groaned, arching his back, then pressed his hips against the mattress with a wiggle. He tugged the duvet over his freckled shoulders like a cape.

His head turned. “Hey.” Ron’s blue eyes were lilac in the sunset. “How do you feel?”

“Uhm,” Harry whispered, settling in on his side. “Not bad. How long was I asleep?”

Ron hummed and blinked slowly. “About three days.”

Harry scowled. “You brought me here three days ago?”

“No,” Ron said through a hitching yawn. “You were at St Mungo’s until this morning. They fixed your face. And the potion damage. I came to see you, and they discharged you home with me.”

Pinpricks of alarm crept up Harry’s spine. The Doppelgänger had hunted him down in the hospital. He'd stayed with Harry and waited for him to wake. Why? The memory of a blurry Dark Mark on Harry’s arm sent a chill down his forearm.

What did the Doppelgänger want? If he'd planned to turn Harry over to the Moirai or kill him, he'd have done it by now. Instead, he was in Harry’s bed. Naked.

It couldn't be as simple as sex. Could it?

Ron licked his lips and rolled on to his side. He cuddled the duvet under his chin. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Harry sucked old blood out from between his teeth and swallowed it. “You.” He caught Ron’s patient gaze. “Kicking my face in on the curb outside the robe shop.”

“I wasn’t there,” Ron bit the inside of his lip and frowned. “Maybe you saw-”

“Cut the shit,” Harry blurted. “What do you want? Why didn’t you just kill me? Or turn me over?”

“Harry, it’s-”

“One more night, and then you're gonna sell me to them?” Harry’s hand snapped out to shove the Doppelgänger’s shoulder. “Play middleman?”

There was a raised freckle on Ron’s collarbone. Maybe the real Ron had one there. Maybe the Doppelgänger had forgotten to hide it.

“Is it a political thing?” Harry rolled on all fours and crawled over to the man. He rolled him onto his back and straddled his hips, pulling the duvet off. Ron had on blue cotton briefs, but Harry was arse naked and half-hard. His dick rubbed against the fine trail of orange hair on Ron’s belly. "Make me a puppet Head Auror?"

Ron’s eyes went wide. He licked his lips again and laid his hands palms-up on either side of his head on the pillow. “Harry. I don’t-”

“Blackmail?” Harry asked. He rubbed his arse along the man’s cock. He’d feel so good like this. It would be so easy to ride him. Harry wrapped his hand around his dick, then bit his lips to stifle a moan. The man under his arse went dead still. “I botch the Moirai investigation, and you don’t tell reporters I’ve been fucking the Doppelgänger?”

A flush crept up Ron’s chest and pooled in his face. “What?!”

Harry caught a whiff of stale second-hand cigarette smoke. He froze, dick in hand. “I-”

“You did what?!” Ron glared at him.

The Doppelgänger wouldn’t be mad about the accusations. But Auror Weasley certainly would be.

“Uhm.” Harry let go of his dick. He pulled the duvet around his hips like a Victorian skirt. “I… Uhm…”

Ron sat up and punched him in the shoulder. “You’ve been fucking a suspect?! Harry?!”

“I…”

“I spent a week in the Thickey ward,” Ron punched him in the chest, and Harry’s breath left in a wheeze, “because they butchered my family in front of me, and you were sucking one of them off?!”

“Fuck,” Harry grunted. He rolled to the side, taking the duvet and his erection with him. “Are you Ron? Really Ron?”

Ron sat up and crossed his legs under him. Rage blew out on every measured breath, and the blood in Ron’s cheeks drained away. He closed his eyes, swallowed, then sighed. “Yes.”

Harry sat up and crossed his legs, too. He pulled his pillow into his lap and stuffed it down into his crotch. “Prove it.”

Ron shot him a weary glare. “Go, go Power Granger,” he sang, then rolled his eyes. “Good?”

Harry bit back a smile and nodded. “Good.”

Ron leaned against the headboard, shoulders sticking to the wood. “You’ve seriously been fucking the Doppelgänger? The one in the Quibbler articles?”

Harry nodded again, but looked away. Ron needed to know that the Moirai had enough of Harry’s hair to flood England with fake Potters. The DMLE should have been aware. The Ministry. The public. Harry should have told him.

Instead, Harry said, “I was trying to arrest him when-”

“You let him kick your arse,” Ron said with a soft smile.

Harry scoffed. "I didn't let him-"

"Come on, Har," Ron said with a knowing shake of his head. "We've dueled. You haven't let anyone wipe the floor with you since school." He rubbed his thumb against his bottom lip, which he only did when he thought about Hermione. “How long have you been fucking him?”

Harry picked at the seam on the pillowcase in his lap while he tallied up all the men the Doppelgänger had been. Orion, or Harry. Charlie. Maldonado. Two nameless men before that. Maybe more. Maybe every man he’d brought home from a bar had been the Doppelgänger.

Harry must have been quiet for too long, because Ron’s eyes grew soft. “A while, huh?”

Harry nodded. His throat squeezed shut.

What if he really had been sleeping with the same man for years and not known it? What if the Doppelgänger only slept with him? And vice versa? What if, last time, he really had meant to stay for toast? But couldn’t?

“He got in your head,” Ron whispered. He scooted closer and took Harry’s hands in his. He rubbed his thumbs in circles over Harry’s palms.

What if the Doppelgänger’s affection had been real? Was it worse if it was real? Or did it hurt more if it was all a ploy?

“Yeah.” Harry sniffed and wiped his nose on his bare shoulder. “I guess.”

Ron clasped Harry’s hands. “It’ll be alright.” He reached out and clapped Harry on the shoulder, then sat up straight. “Shit, shower, shave, and meet me at work in the morning.”

Harry nodded. “Right.”

“I went over some of the files while you were asleep. We’ve got an attack plan to discuss.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. He’d have to truly face the Doppelgänger as an enemy. But what did he owe the man who’d snuck into Teddy’s house, stomped Harry’s face, and stole his hair? A swift kick to the balls and an Azkaban cell.

“Right,” Harry said again.

Ron slid off the bed and picked clothes up off the floor. He stepped into a pair of jeans and flashed Harry a cold smile. “We’re gonna catch him quick and kill him slow.”

-

That night, Harry slept fitfully. Who needs sleep on the heels of three days of unconsciousness?

His sheets smelled of sweat, sex, and the Doppelgänger’s skin. He alternated between lucid sex dreams and dreams of being shattered like a blown glass figurine on a sidewalk. He gave up on sleep, curled up around a pillow, and buried his nose in it.

Who was the real Doppelgänger? Which man was he? The enemy who’d face-stomped him, or the lover who’d kissed his fingertips, one by one, as if he couldn’t stand to leave any part of Harry’s body unexplored?

He was a criminal with a Dark Mark, or a replica of one. But also someone with a single delicate mole over his collarbone, as though his body couldn’t tolerate its own perfection.

He stole Harry’s hair. He stole Teddy’s hair.

But he’d kept the Moirai away from Teddy. He’d made love like every time could be his last.

He was following Harry. And he’d said he was running from Death.

A sharp tap on the window interrupted Harry’s contemplation. The newspaper delivery owl.

He sat up, pried the window open, and unwound the rubberband from the owl’s outstretched leg. It bristled, hooted, and left in a silent glide. He shut the window, stretched the rubberband over a finger, and shot it against his pillow. It bounced, and today’s issue of The Prophet tumbled out.

The bundled paper rolled to the bottom of his pillow, and came to a stop with the headline facing up.

The Prophet. Issue 1,003,362

DEATH EATER DEBUTANTE BRAWL!

MALFOY VS MALFOY SHOWDOWN:
Suspicions Deepen,
Suspects Remain at Large

Harry huffed as he unrolled the paper. Draco Malfoy, if he was still alive, was the only surviving Malfoy. If The Prophet was making up stories about-

Harry’s thoughts derailed as a picture unfurled in his hands. Front page. A tidy square Polaroid photo of Draco Malfoy. A shattered window next to him. His foot raised. And under that shoe, its sole smeared with Harry’s blood, lay a second Draco Malfoy with a broken nose and shattered glasses.

Bright blonde hair. Lanky, trim build. Aquiline nose and sharp jaw. And that sneer. The same curled lip he’d worn the last time he stomped on Harry’s face.

The ink under Harry’s fingertips melted as a cold sweat broke out over his skin.

Draco Malfoy was the Doppelgänger.

Harry gulped. His eyes skimmed the article, but he didn’t read a single word.

Malfoy was the Doppelgänger.

It made sense. In a way. Malfoy had always been good at Legilimency. He was a shifty little cunt. He had a Dark Mark. He had white-blonde hair like the sample Harry had gleaned from his pillowcase.

Of course Draco Malfoy was the Doppelgänger. The Goblins had bloody well known it, too. Harry snapped the paper open to a random page. Paragraphs and pictures blurred, and he rubbed his eyes.

Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy had been in his home. In his bed. In his arms. Sweet Merlin’s taint, Draco Malfoy came in his arse.

It was Malfoy who made love as though it were as dire as breathing. He kissed his lover’s fingertips in the morning. He liked toast for breakfast and had a single perfect mole that fit just so against Harry’s lips.

And now Ron knew. No, this Prophet article wasn’t the first. It had been days since the picture was taken. Ron had already known Malfoy was the Doppelgänger. He hadn’t been angry because Harry was sleeping with the Doppelgänger. Ron had socked him in the shoulder because he’d inadvertently admitted he was fucking Malfoy.

Harry sat cross-legged on the bed and spread the paper out in front of him. He rubbed his face with both hands. He was lucky Ron hadn’t slapped the piss out of him and thrown him in a cell with Robards. Fraternizing with the enemy.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and focused on taking steady, measured breaths. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes, and he wiped them away.

He turned the paper back to the front page. His finger traced down the long line of Malfoy’s back, over his bum. Was the little crease in Malfoy’s forehead concern? Was the downturn to his lips regret? Was the slouch in his shoulders resignation?

Or was it an act? Was it all just an act?

No. Harry shook his head and opened the paper again. No, even Malfoy couldn’t fake raw human need like that; his back arched above Harry, hips rocking, head thrown back and lost to the world beyond their bodies.

Harry’s shoulders shivered. He gulped and refused to think about Draco Malfoy telling him he was good, and perfect, and that he wanted to spend the night. He banished the thought of waking up curled around Malfoy. Of that pointy nose buried in the crook of his neck. Of the shower running, and two place settings in the kitchen.

No. Instead, he focused on a small article in the bottom corner of the left page of the newspaper.

Quibbler Quips and Quandaries,
published daily on Tuesdays, Fridays, and Full Moons

How doth the cowardly noble Black,
Mend one slain, and then… backtrack?

Hide… hide… hide…
So apt to flee, to ride on luck,
Neither hair nor hide, hide hide.

Ticky tack, brick-a-brack,
Fidelity in held attack.

REPORT SIGHTINGS OF OUT-OF-PLACE,
OUT-OF-VEIL HUMANS TO THE QUIBBLER.
OWL PREFERRED.

Black. Malfoy crossed Andromeda’s wards because they were keyed to family. Blood relatives.

Harry took a steadying breath and plotted out his day. First, Ron. He had to get more information from Ron. He’d mentioned a plan. Was Malfoy part of it? And if so, on whose side?

But before that, he had to lock down Andromeda and Teddy’s cottage.

Chapter Text

Harry unbuttoned his robes as he walked into his cubicle, then promptly threw the wad of red fabric onto a folding chair that contained Ron.

“Oh, sorry,” Harry muttered.

Ron pulled Harry’s robes off of his head and folded them in his lap. “That’s what I get for sitting in your chair-shaped coat rack.” He shrugged, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve been going through the new case reports, and-”

“You knew it was Malfoy.” The accusation shot out. Harry watched Ron’s mouth open and close as he rounded his desk and sat down. “When I said I’d been fucking the Doppelgänger, you knew who it was.” Ron nodded. “And you knew I didn’t, didn’t you?”

"I suspected you might not know. Based on the way I found you." Ron nodded again and hugged Harry’s robes to his chest. “I had just reported in from leave when the call to Diagon Alley came. Suspect injured. One Auror requested for arrest and transport.” He shook the robe out over his lap and folded the sleeves in neatly. “Mysteries called it in, actually.”

Harry shuffled the envelopes in his inbox into a pile and watch Ron fold crisp seams in his robes and wondered if he missed folding his kids’ clothes at home.

“So I got there, got ready to Apparate who I thought was Malfoy to a holding cell, and a girl with one of those old cameras like Dad’s got in the shed comes up to me. And she’s shaking this square of paper, and she hands it to me.” Ron folded the robe collar down and held the crease between his thumb and fingers to shape the wool as it warmed in his grip. “And there’s Malfoy stomping on another Malfoy, but the one getting his face smashed is wearing my best friend’s glasses.”

Harry ran the edge of a crisp envelope under his thumbnail. “Yeah, I remember that much.”

“So, you were the Doppelgänger’s Doppelgänger there for a bit.”

Harry gave him a wry smile for the bad joke. “Why did the call come from Mysteries, not from our patrol? They don’t leave Headquarters for much.”

“I went down to the holding cells and asked Robards.” Ron hugged Harry’s robes to his chest again. “He said he turned it over to them weeks ago. They’re hunting the Doppelgänger."

Malfoy, Harry thought. Mysteries was hunting Malfoy.

But Mysteries never involved themselves in law enforcement. They never apprehended criminals and brought them to the cells. If they needed to get rid of someone, they’d probably just kick them straight through the Veil-

Who are you hiding from? Harry had asked.

He man he’d called Orion threw his head back and moaned, Death- Fuck… Just… death.

“The Ankou,” Harry whispered. Ron wouldn’t meet his gaze. Harry’s sweaty fingertips stuck to an ivory envelope. “The Ankou is hunting Draco Malfoy?”

“Yeah,” Ron said softly, not meeting Harry’s eyes. “We’ll be notified when,” Ron paused and drew a breath through Harry’s robes, “they’ve found him.”

Swallowing past the tightness throat, Harry stared, unseeing, at the post in his hands. “They’ll notify us when they’ve killed him,” Harry stated.

“Yeah.” Ron bit his lips and looked down, forehead drawing together. “Har… You know… If you and he are… If you two are, you know, in a-”

“No.” Harry shook his head. Because there was no relationship. No him and Malfoy. There was a Head Auror and a lying thief. “It wasn’t like that.” He blinked away the wateriness in his eyes and put on a tight smile before looking at Ron.

“Well, if you have any reason to believe he isn’t involved-”

“He’s involved. And DMLE resources wouldn’t be enough to track him,” Harry said, even though they only DMLE resource needed to trap Malfoy had been Harry’s bed.  “Robards was right to involve Mysteries.”

Ron stood and set the neat bundle of Harry’s robes on the folding chair. “That’s good, because Mysteries stole his files out of storage and left a note that the Ankou hunt can’t be called off.”

Harry’s heart dropped into his gut. Malfoy was as good as dead, then.

“Good,” Harry said, but failed to convince himself. He watched Ron slide several case files out of a stack on Harry’s desk. “Good,” he repeated. “That’ll make the Moirai investigation easier.”

Ron hummed his agreement. “Speaking of which,” he said as he tugged a file from the bottom of the stack, “we have reason to believe they’re planning something big for the European Quidditch Cup. They tend to act up in crowds, and that’s about the biggest crowd there is.”

A wave of prickling sweat broke out in a rush up Harry’s chest. The Ankou was out there hunting Malfoy right now. He was probably terrified, fleeing from the stench of Death as it pursued him. Maybe he’d earned his sentence, but maybe he hadn’t.

He’d broken Harry’s nose, but Harry had punched him in the face at Gringotts. Maybe he’d been funding the Moirai. He’d stolen hair. He’d lied. But what else had he actually done?

He’d fallen asleep on Harry’s chest, tucked under Harry’s chin. He’d whispered Don’t stop as though his soul were cracking. He’d said Please- Please- Please- shortly followed by his lips against Harry’s fingertips in a silent Thank you.

“Har-ry,” Ron sang.

Harry’s focus snapped to the file folder Ron was slowly waving in front of him. “Sorry.”

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, drawing a deep breath.

Ron tucked the file under his arm with the others. He reached across Harry’s desk and laid the back of his hand against Harry’s forehead. “No fever,” he said after a moment. He wiped his hand off on his trousers. “Sweaty, though.”

“I’m fine.”

“I'm not convinced. You were in the loo for an hour.”

Harry’s head jerked up. “What?”

Ron eyed him suspiciously, shifting back and forth to watch Harry’s eyes track his movement. “You rode the lift down with me,” Ron said suspiciously. “Around eight.”

Harry shook his head. “I was late. I just got here.”

“And then you went straight to the loo, and I said I’d wait at your desk and start in on the files…?”

Harry shook his head again. “I was at Andromeda’s changing her wards until after nine.”

The skin between Ron’s freckles went ashen. His voice was stern. “You asked me how my kids were.”

“I didn’t, Ron.”

Ron gulped. “You stood next to me for five minutes, while people came and went in the lift, and I told you about ‘Mione’s plans to take the kids to Perth Zoo tomorrow.”

“It wasn’t me,” Harry said, choking the words out through rising horror. “Oh, God.”

“Malfoy?”

“Or Moirai.” Harry frowned for a moment. “Did you have your mobile out in the lift?”

“Yeah. You-” Ron rubbed his hands over his face. “You asked if I had any pictures of where ‘Mione and the kids were staying.” His face flushed, mouth a snarl. “And I fucking got it out and showed them where to find my goddamned family, Harry!”

Harry leaned back in his chair, out of Ron’s reach. Just in case. “You pointed the screen right at him? At me?”

“I let him fucking hold it!”

Harry suppressed a relieved smile that had no place in the Head Auror’s office. “It wasn’t Malfoy, then. Cameras spook him.”

“That’s not better!” Ron’s empty fist clenched at his side. “The Moirai are in the bloody DMLE, walking around as you, Harry!”

“We’ll do roll call in the training gym.” Harry’s hands shuffled through envelopes. “Tell the desk to call departmental roll. I’ll stay here and watch the lift. If another Harry shows up in the gym, AK him before he can Apparate.”

Ron’s livid flush ebbed, but he wouldn’t be normal for hours. “How do I know it’s not you I’m executing on sight? Fool me twice, shame on me.”

Over Ron’s shoulder, the Head Auror doorplate glinted, tacked to the cubicle wall. “Hand me that,” Harry said, pointing to the golden plate.

Ron shot him a doubtful glance, but turned and took it off of the wall. He handed it to Harry.

“Thanks,” Harry said, holding it out in front of him like a wand. “I’ll keep this on me. So you know I’m me. I doubt the Moirai are duplicating office signs.”

“Alright. That’ll work.” Ron nodded tightly. “I’ll go have the roll called. If I hear the alarms go off, I’ll know you caught him at the lifts.”

“Right.”

Ron nodded again, head still bobbing as he made his way to the front desk. Harry picked up the stack of post and stood, tucking his nameplate in his back pocket. He leaned his shoulder against the doorway of his cubicle. Ron reached the end of the hallway, turned right at the lift, and disappeared.

Harry pulled his wand from his pocket and used it as a letter opener. The first envelope was a formal notice of resignation from Fitzsimmons, citing inter-departmental overreach. That was new. And a creative way of saying he’d let the Ankou spook him out of a job.

The announcement system dinged, and a woman’s voice filled the department. “All Department of Magical Law Enforcement employees, please report to Training Gym Three for roll call. Badges and wands required. I repeat. Gym Three for immediate mandatory roll call.”

Furniture scraped in distant cubicles. Heads rose, then shoulders, and finally, a smattering of people made their way to the hall at the rear of the department. None of them wore Auror robes, but all had badges clipped to a shirt pocket or belt.

He opened another envelope, and a newspaper clipping fell out.

Quibbler Quips and Quandaries,
published daily on Tuesdays, Fridays, and Full Moons

One, two…
Ankou’s comin’ for you.

Three, four…
Veil a pinafore.

Five, six…
Doppelgänger tricks.

Seven, eight…
Ha! Checkmate!

Nine, ten…
Take flight again.

REPORT SIGHTINGS OF OUT-OF-PLACE,
OUT-OF-VEIL HUMANS TO THE QUIBBLER.
OWL PREFERRED.

Luna’s drivel was a little too on point today. And someone had deliberately sent it to him. The envelope was blank. He threw the clipping in the bin.

Did Malfoy deserve it? His sentence had already been passed. There was no recalling the Ankou. Harry’s stomach twisted into a knot. It felt like guilt, but Harry hadn’t done anything wrong. But was he doing what was right?

First things first, the Moirai in the DMLE. He didn't expect to flush one out today. They were too careful to have lingered. Eventually, the imposter would have attracted attention. He couldn’t have stayed for more than a few minutes.

Voices drifted away, and a hush fell over the empty desks. Harry chose a new envelope, eyes on the lift. He slid the end of his wand under the lip of the envelope and split it open.

A puff of smoke obscured his view of the lift. Startled, he took a step back, open envelope held at arm’s length. Smoke and burning embers spouted from it like a volcano’s warning wheeze.

Sparks sputtered into a steady stream upward, catching a flicker-quick rhythm like a broken reel film. A sharp hiss smoothed into hitching syllables as he watched.

“Hahf- Hahf- Hahf-” a flickering voice said. “Halfblood Auror.”

Harry tossed the envelope to the floor and scrubbed his hand against his trousers while the envelope continued.

“Halfblood Auror,” said a non-distinct voice, as if a chorus were speaking, “you have been spun from wool- wool-wool-” sparks erupted “-wool impure.”

Harry pointed his wand at the envelope. The tip quivered.

“A weakened thread,” a greasy cloud of black smoke coughed out, “easily cut.”

Harry’s wand was steady, but his voice shook. “Aguamenti.”

His shoulder braced against the recoil of the jet of water from his wand. Water arced through the air, droplets first, and then the stream, and with a loud slap, it hit the smoldering envelope.

The smoke condensed. A single breath inward. A drop in air pressure. Atmosphere collapsing in before it exploded outward.

Harry hit the floor, belly against the sodden carpet. Phosphorous-white fire clapped like sheets of lightning above him. It blistered the cubicle walls, blackened plastic curling and falling. It incinerated the files on his desk. It scorched a charred line across the wooden front of his desk, six inches above his head.

Heat rolled above him like a riptide. He flattened himself against the floor, not daring to move.

He buried his nose in the wet carpet, grateful for the cold as the room burned above him like a camera flash.

And then it was gone. As fast as it had come, it was gone. The envelope was a wet mound of ashes.

His cubicle wasn't much better. It looked like the inside of a barbecue from knee-height on up. The ceiling above him was charred and crumbling. Ash that used to be the Moirai investigation tumbled over the edge of his desk.

His ears rang, and his eyes watered as he crawled to the cubicle doorway. There were no clues in the envelope's ashes, but their message was clear.

Ron rounded the corner. As he turned into the hall, he caught sight of Harry on all fours. He jogged to a stop in front of him and dropped to his knees.

“Harry, what the bloody hell happened?!”

“It was a letter. I’m-” Harry sat back on his knees. “I’m next.”

-

He wasn’t pacing the kitchen if he was dragging the broom behind him. It was just ineffective cleaning. Crumbs crunched under his trainers.

He’d spent the evening trying to find a way to spend the evening. And failed. He and Ron had both agreed it was safest for Harry to stay in his flat, well inside his wards. Which meant that he couldn’t help plan the European Cup operation, not that Ron needed his assistance.

He couldn’t go out for groceries, or for a walk around Soho Square. He couldn’t step out for a pint, though he didn’t know who he’d drink it with.

His world, for tonight, was a warded bubble that sat like a glass bowl over his building. Like a fish.

Muggles could pass right through, so he’d considered having dinner delivered. But the Moirai could Stupefy the curry delivery bloke and poison the food.

Dinner had been the weeks-old stale pretzel, broken up and softened in steaming broth until it was nearly a passable soup. Nearly.

He stopped pacing and swept the dust and crumbs under the stove, then spared a moment to pity this flat’s next tenants. The mess under the stove would be someone else’s problem in a few months. He had another week to renew the lease, but no intention to do so.

He’d chosen the flat because it was close to Ministry Headquarters, but the longer he worked there, the less he appreciated the proximity. If he was Head Auror, he’d be expected to live nearby.

He huffed as he propped the broom in a corner. There was no if to whether or not he was Head Auror. The brassy-gold doorplate was still in his back pocket with his wand, a rather bulky improvised badge. It was millimeter-thin metal, but it felt like iron slab.

Was being Head Auror what he wanted? Become Robards? Assigned to the position in the midst of a battle that they wouldn’t call a war until after they’d tallied the dead? End his career by throwing himself under the bus because the DMLE policy manual didn’t have room in the margins for foresight?

Maybe he’d die like Scrimgeour; his throat slit while telling the public they had nothing to fear from the Moirai.

He sighed and pulled his mobile from his pocket to check the time. Too early for bed. Not that he was tired. A notification flashed on the screen from a flat-hunting app. He swiped it away and slid his phone back in his pocket.

He should have started looking for a new flat a month ago, but opening the app and swiping through photos of bare white walls and windowpanes full of grey London sky filled him with dread. Committing to another year, in another flat, with a slightly different commute to Headquarters was as exciting as hugging a Dementor. He could leave. Half the existing Auror corps had quit. 

He blew out a slow breath. No use in dwelling on it. He could go on holiday and get his head on straight after the Moirai were dealt with. Ron had been confident that the Aurors wouldn’t be too heavily outnumbered in the stadium. But the fact that they were outnumbered to begin with made Harry uneasy.

It would work. The stadium was a chessboard, and Ron was a master strategist. And after the dust settled, Harry could travel. He’d go somewhere warm. Or at least sunny. Somewhere he could sit outside under a canopy of vines with bright flowers above him, like in Hermione’s pictures.

He was reaching for his mobile again to see if she’d sent any new photos, when he froze. His glasses shook. Just a fine tremble against the sides of his nose. Some witch or wizard had bumped up against his wards.

It faded, but he waited. He licked his lips and imagined the sooty smell of his incinerated cubicle.

It returned, stronger. Not an accident, then. The earpieces of his glasses hummed against his temples, and his vision swam. His mobile buzzed against his thigh. Or his thigh against his mobile.

It stopped. For a breath. He crossed the flat, heading toward the door. Someone was deliberately knocking on the wards.

The next wave rattled his molars. He clenched his jaw, body stiff. His feet shook in his shoes, hard and fast enough to generate heat.

Harry flung the door open, sprinted down the hall, and took the stairs two at a time.

Another wave made him grip the railing. One shoe slid out from under him, and he clung to the railing like a tree branch.

His very bones ached.

They weren’t knocking. They were attacking.

Chapter Text

Harry shoved the building’s front door open with his shoulder. Outside, the streetlights were lost in glowing clouds of illuminated drizzle. Microdroplets gathered on his glasses and coated his hair.

The pavement was empty, save for a few passing cars. He waited on the steps, one hand on the iron railing, the other lingering over his wand in his back pocket. His trainers gripped the cement as he stood, tense and ready.

The Moirai would emerge soon. They’d scuttle in from the hidden corners of the lawn like cockroaches. Or they’d march in formation around the corner, wands raised.

He waited for another skull-rattling magical barrage, but the wards were silent. They were planning a coordinated attack. Gathering their forces. No ward, not even his, was indestructible.

The drizzle condensed into an honest downpour. It pattered against the tops of his trainers, darkening the cement around them. The rain dampened the shoulders of his t-shirt and ran down his forearms. A chilly breeze made his arm hair stand on end.

He could Apparate out. But there was a chance they’d use his hair to track him. More than a chance. That had to be their plan. Kick his nest, flush him out, and send the hounds after him.

He could call Ron. He could have every available Auror on site within moments. But a battle of that scale in a Muggle neighbourhood would take decades to remediate. Assuming they won.

No, he wouldn’t bring war to his doorstep. Nor would he let them snatch him on the fly like a pheasant. But he could drop his wards, stand his ground against dozens of-

A lone figure scuffed a shoe against the wet pavement on the corner. It took Harry a long moment to realize the streetlights weren’t reflecting off water droplets in the man’s hair, but rather that it was as pale as the artificial light between them.

His wand hung at his side, arm limp and shoulders rolled forward. He looked exhausted. His wrist flicked, and Harry braced himself for another assault on the wards, but Malfoy’s hand dropped.

A drenched white shirt clung to his chest, as though he’d been out in the rain for hours. The cuffs of his trousers were caked with mud. He held a rolled-down brown paper bag in one hand.

Harry’s thumb traced the outline of his wand, nestled next to the nameplate in his pocket. It was a trap. It had to be. But was Malfoy the bait or the snare?

Malfoy cleared his throat. Harry looked up and thought he caught his eye, but it was lost in the rain. Malfoy made no move to come closer, and Harry found himself crossing the postage stamp of a lawn, his trainers leaving dull twin paths over the glossy grass.

He stopped at the edge of the wards, toe to toe with Malfoy. Eyes downcast, Malfoy kicked the ward with the muddy toe of a black Oxford.

Harry’s teeth buzzed. “Stop that,” he hissed.

Malfoy startled and looked up, but only for a moment. “Can I come in?” he whispered to Harry’s shoes.

“No,” Harry scoffed. “Of course not.”

Malfoy swallowed, then nodded. A drop of water gathered in his hairline, raced down his forehead, down his nose, and dangled from the tip. He wiped it away on a sodden sleeve, then sniffled. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

Harry shifted his weight to turn and leave, but hesitated. Why would Malfoy stand in the rain like a lovesick teenager just to be soundly rejected? He couldn’t have expected Harry to admit him. Not after what he’d done.

“You stole my hair.” Harry waited for Malfoy to object. “You gave it to the Moirai.”

“Yeah,” Malfoy whispered. “I did. Can I come in?”

He tucked the soggy paper grocery bag under his arm. His shirt pulled to the side, exposing the mole on his collarbone. Harry’s lips parted on instinct, or memory. He’d felt it against his skin before, but never seen it.

“Harry.” Malfoy swallowed again. “Please?”

Harry shook his head. “Why on earth would I let you in again?”

“Because…” He glanced up and down the street. “Because you changed Andromeda’s wards, and now I don’t have anywhere to hide at night.”

“You what?” Harry gaped at him until his skin burned hot. “You’ve been sneaking into their house?”

Malfoy’s smile was a broken thing. He shivered and clutched the paper bag to his chest. “Just into the back garden. Behind the shed. They never knew.”

The butter yellow shed with the red clay tiles, because Andromeda fell in love with them in Italy, but was too practical to use them on the house. The tiny outbuilding, nestled against the hedges, its back turned to block the view of the neighbor’s patio. A frequent nesting place for rabbits. And, apparently, Malfoy.

“You were sleeping under the rhododendrons?  Where the hostas grow?”

Malfoy tapped the toe of a shoe against the sidewalk, and a chunk of dirt fell off. He nodded. “For a few weeks.”

Harry’s heart broke. Just a little. For this man who’d slid out of a warm, welcome bed, left Harry, and slept alone on the ground like a stray dog.

His voice cracked when he asked, “Why?”

Malfoy shrugged, one shoulder and no good answer. “I needed somewhere safe.”

“I-” Harry started, but stopped, because the only words that came to mind were gibberish like I would have kept you safe, which would have been an ironic thing to say to someone he currently kept locked out in the rain. “Why didn't you just stay the night with me?”

“I’m an excellent Legilimens, but even I can’t do it in my sleep.” He huffed a wry laugh and trailed a hand down his side. “Imagine unexpectedly waking up to this.”

Harry watched a drop of water bead down Malfoy’s jaw, course down the tendon along his neck, and disappear under his collar. “I might’ve hexed you. A little.”

“But the Moirai would have done worse. Fucking across enemy lines, you know. Fraternization."

“I do know. I thought maybe getting you into my bed was their goal.”

“No, it was- I meant to-” Malfoy blinked rain out of his eyes, sniffled, and straightened. He slid his wand into his pocket and wrapped both arms around the grocery bag. “Please, can I come in?”

Harry scrubbed his wet face with his hands. What was Malfoy planning? Harry opened his mouth to speak and inhaled damp air that tasted of decay.

“Oh, God,” Malfoy said. He stood straight, eyes wide. His gaze flicked back and forth on either side of him. “Harry,” he said urgently. “Harry, please, please let me in. I’ll sleep in the alley and-”

Indignation pulled a wry snort from Harry’s throat. Water flew from his lips. “How many times did I ask you to stay?”

Malfoy shrank into himself, which only irritated Harry. The last time they’d met, he put Harry in the hospital for days, and now he expected sanctuary from the consequences of his own actions? A criminal safehouse inside the Head Auror's wards?

Harry scoffed and turned, but Malfoy’s words nailed his feet down. “Life debt.” Malfoy’s arms dropped to his sides, bag dangling from his fingertips. “You owed my mother a life debt.”

He wasn’t wrong. He was brazen to bring it up, but he wasn’t wrong.

“Your mother risked her life to save mine because it was for the greater good. Because more innocent people would have died otherwise. You’re just trying to save your own skin.”

“You’re wrong.” Malfoy cleared his throat and swallowed thickly. “You’re wrong. But if you won’t honor it, then have the decency to stay and watch me die.” His breath came fast, and a flush crept up his neck. “And in a week, or a month, or a year, know that you watched your only hope of preventing a war drop dead on your doorstep,” he jabbed a finger at Harry, “because you’re as big a coward as Robards, and you’d all rather send the Ankou after me than do your fucking job.”

“I-” Harry started, but a rebuttal failed to come forth.

Again, Malfoy wasn’t wrong. It was a gutsy accusation, but it hit its mark. Robards and Shackelbolt had sent the Ankou like an exterminator. There’d been no attempt to contact the Doppelgänger. There’d been no investigation. They’d discovered that a Doppelgänger existed, decided he was a threat, and ordered his death with all the aplomb of delivery pizza.

Malfoy shivered, shirt clinging to his body like a translucent skin, and Harry’s dick and chest both ached. He knew the feel of him, hot and eager at night, and warm and supple in the morning. He knew the breathy tone before he came, and the contented purr of his voice afterward.

It was too perfect a trap. Malfoy switched the bag to his other hand, and for the first time, Harry wondered what was in it. Malfoy’s sleeve clung to his forearm, Dark Mark stark through the wet fabric.

“You’re one of them, though.” Harry squinted through rain-dappled lenses. “You’re one of the Moirai.”

“A founding member, you could say. You can’t…” Malfoy’s mouth opened and closed. “You can’t steer a ship from the outside.”

The bag in his hand was a few minutes from disintegrating into a pulpy puddle.

“So let them protect you.”

“They can’t. Not from the bloody Ankou.”

Harry kicked water droplets from the grass in front of him.

“How do I know you’re actually Draco Malfoy?”

“The original watermark, obviously.” The man in front of him blinked rain from his lashes. He licked a drop from his lips, and his fingers opened the top button of his shirt. Then, the second. And down until he reached his trousers. He tugged his shirt open.

Harry’s gaze fixed on that damned mole, a perfect imperfection.

“Admiring your handiwork?” Malfoy ran a thumb along a barely-there scar below his nipple. “I am but a canvas for Half-blood orphans with anger issues and Saviour complexes.”

Harry frowned at the comparison, then focused on the silvery line etched in Malfoy’s skin. There was another below it. And a thicker one on the other side. Several whip-thin marks crossed his ribs. Harry’s heart dropped into his bowels. One needle-fine scar carved up, toward his collarbone, toward the mole, as though Harry’s unhinged teenage magic had known to spare it.

“You deserved those,” Harry said, but it lacked conviction.

“I still do. And you deserve to lose sleep over them.” Malfoy lifted his face, scenting the air. He wrinkled his nose and gulped. “Let me in. Or, this time, be enough of a gentleman to stick around to watch me die." His lip twitched in a weak snarl. "Do you suppose the Ankou will shred me and leave me to bleed out on a wet floor, too?"

“It would serve you right.”

Malfoy’s nose twitched. “But it would serve you better for me to survive the night.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you,” Malfoy sighed, eyes sliding shut. “All I can do is try.” He opened his eyes and took a step back before tossing the paper bag at Harry’s feet.

He expected it to bounce off the wards, magic rejected by magic, but it sailed through the air between them. Instead of the dull thud of a human body part, or the clunk of a bomb, the bag bounced lightly on the blades of grass, as if it were full of paper, or maybe hair.

Harry nudged it with a toe. “What’s in it?”

“A letter of intent?”

“I got one of those this morning,” Harry said bitterly. “My office looks like it got razed by a dragon.”

“I know.”

“You tried to kill me.”

“They tried to kill you.” Malfoy shook his head. “I just look pretty and collect the hair,” he whispered. He licked his lips. “It keeps them from taking whole heads.”

Harry flipped his glasses up and rubbed his eyes. Malfoy could have killed him so many times. He could have stabbed him in his sleep and presented his head to the Moirai on a silver platter. But he hadn’t.

He dropped his glasses into place, then reached into his back pocket for his wand. The doorplate tumbled out and landed next to the bag.

He bent over to retrieve it and caught a whiff of toast.

Heed, Auror.

The bag was light, nearly empty, in his hand. He gave it a shake, but nothing rattled against the wet paper.

Malfoy shifted foot to foot on the sidewalk, but stayed silent.

Harry put the doorplate in his pocket, held his wand in his teeth, and unrolled the bag. He braced himself, no expectations beyond the assumption of oncoming pain.

It was a pretzel. No, two pretzels. Brown, glossy, tucked together in a white paper sleeve. Two lengths of dough, kneaded, salted, and twisted into knots. Their soft insides protected by hardened crust that had grown sticky in the rain, making them cling to each other, though it did nothing to preserve them.

Draco watched him like a discarded angel. Glowing, ethereal, plucked wingless and left out for rubbish collection.

“Let me in, or let me go.”

Harry bit down on his wand to keep from telling Draco he was free to go. He swallowed down a retort that there was nothing holding him here. He ate his own denial until it scorched his throat.

Denial that he still wanted Malfoy. Denial that he wanted him more now than he had in any disguise. Denial that he wanted him, the real him, in bed next to him at dawn, and that he’d never be able to make toast again without thinking about a collarbone against his lips, hands in his hair, and his own name whispered in his ear like a secret.

Harry put his wand in his pocket and pulled out the melded pretzels. He rubbed salt from one with his thumb. The crust was slippery against his wet skin.

Draco gasped, and Harry caught a whiff of roadkill that made the hair on the back of his neck bristle.

“Shit. Fine. Come in.”

A sob wrenched itself from Draco’s throat, and his voice cracked. “I’m sorry I slapped you in the balls,” he said in a squeaky rush.

Harry snorted a laugh and extended a hand, reaching through the ward. “But not for stomping on my face? Again?”

Draco’s fingers, ice cold and trembling, gripped Harry’s hand like a lifeline. He stepped through the wards and wrinkled his nose.

“I’m allowed a preference.”

“And you prefer my balls to my face?”

“Trial by taste test,” Draco sighed, shoulders easing.

His hold on Harry’s hand stayed firm, even as Harry turned away, toward the building. He stepped forward, but Draco tugged him back and pulled him close, chest to chest. Water ran down the back of Harry’s neck, down his spine, sending a chill through him that made him shudder.

Wet heat gathered in the soaked fabric between them, and Harry fought the urge to throw the damned pretzels to the ground, grab Draco’s head and pull him down to-

Lips pressed against Harry’s forehead. Quiet. Chaste. As if Draco needed to anchor himself in time and space, and this was the simplest way to do it. Draco lingered there, his nose against Harry’s sodden curls, warming them as he breathed. He kissed water from Harry’s skin, chasing it between his eyebrows. His lips made their way down the bridge of his nose while Harry stood frozen in place.

Draco’s nose brushed Harry’s and he lifted his chin in reply. Draco’s breath hitched, and he pressed his lips against Harry’s, hesitated, then kissed him as if he’d been born drowning. As if he’d been saving Harry for a special occasion. He held him with no more than their intertwined hands and speechless lips until Harry was forced to come up for air.

He met grey eyes that looked so lost, even though Harry had just found him, and he wondered if he’d ever seen anything quite so beautiful.

“Better come in before you melt.”

-

Harry followed Draco and his muddy footprints into the building, up the stairs, and was about to tell him which flat was his, but Draco stopped in front of the correct door.

Harry jerked his head toward the door. “You knew which door.”

Draco’s hand hovered over the doorknob. He swallowed, then nodded.

“How many times have you been in my flat?”

Harry turned the knob and pushed the door open. He guided Draco in with a hand on his lower back.

“Uhm,” Draco said, shutting the door behind him. He flipped the bar lock. “A few.”

“More than…” Harry tallied up the number of times he thought he’d brought Draco home. “...four?”

“Mm hm.” Draco unlaced his mud-caked Oxfords, spread the wet leather open, and pulled his feet out. “More than four.”

Harry’s eyes went wide, but he hid his surprise while he wiped his trainers on the rug. “More than six?”

Draco cleared his throat and avoided eye contact. “Mm hm.”

Harry hid his hands behind his back and counted men on his fingers. There hadn’t been that many blokes. A few lanky men met at Quidditch matches. A couple from bars.

“More than eight?”

“Yeah,” Draco whispered. A delicate flush crept up his neck, and he busied himself by peeling his socks off and laying them over his shoes.

Water ran down the side of Harry’s neck, and his nipples hardened against his soaked t-shirt.

“How many times have we fucked?”

Draco looked at the ceiling and blew out a breath between pursed lips. “Quite a few. The other night counts for, what, four? Five?”

Harry rolled his eyes and leaned his arse against the kitchen island. “You know what I mean.” Draco bit his lip and let his eyes rove up Harry’s body. “How long?”

Draco crossed the entryway, bare feet padding across the rug, onto the kitchen tile. He came to stand toe to toe with Harry and reached out to hook his fingers in Harry’s front belt loops.

“Promise you won’t get mad.” Draco said around a sly smile. He rocked Harry’s hips back and forth, side to side.

“No. I may very well go mad.”

Draco huffed and tugged on the waistband of Harry’s jeans. “Then I’m not telling.”

“Fine.” Harry reached down and unbuttoned Draco’s cuffs, forcing the tiny buttons through the wet cotton. He glanced up, but his eyes lingered on the silver scars showing through the narrow vee of Draco’s open shirt. “I won’t get mad. At you.”

“Well…” Draco popped the button of Harry’s jeans open, and Harry’s breath hitched. “What if I said it started a few years ago?”

Harry gagged on his tongue.

“Years?”

Draco merely nodded.

Harry hummed and tilted his hips forward, pressing into Draco’s hands. Draco’s thumb pushed Harry’s zipper down, slow inch by slow inch. Harry licked his lips and gripped the open seam of Draco’s shirt. He slid it up, out of his trousers, and Draco watched him, lips parted.

“When was the first time?”

Draco’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “The Harpies-Falcons game where MacPhearson snapped a femur on-”

“-a goalpost,” Harry filled in. He peeled the wet fabric away from Draco’s chest. “That was four years ago.”

“Yeah,” Draco whispered, and Harry waited for him to explain, but he was silent.

Harry ran the hemmed edge of Draco’s collar under a thumbnail. He’d missed the newsworthy Quidditch injury because he’d been in the empty locker room bumble-fucking his dick against the arse of a man he’d thought was a distant Macmillan cousin. He came in his hand before he could even get his dick inside.

“I got better,” Harry said, and cleared his throat.

“Mm hm.” Draco’s fingers snuck into Harry’s open zipper and rubbed a firm line along his swelling cock. “I should say so.”

Harry pulled Draco’s shirt from his shoulders, keeping it tight around his body, his arms pinned to his sides. He leaned down and brushed his lips over Draco’s collarbone and wondered how much he’d lost to his own haste.

“When was the second time?”

Draco drew a deep breath through Harry’s hair, then sighed. “A bar in Leeds. You were in uniform.”

Harry hid his face against Draco’s shoulder. “And I thought you were our informant.”

Draco’s fingers slid lower, cupping Harry. “I believe I called that face ‘Person of Interest’.”

“It worked. And I missed my informant.” Harry hummed against his skin and thrust into Draco’s touch. “And I had to pay to replace the lamp in that inn.”

“Sorry.” Draco smothered a snort in Harry’s hair. Draco pressed his lips against the top of Harry’s head and sighed. “That’s when I tried to stop,” he said softly.

Harry rubbed his cheek along Draco’s shoulder, then nuzzled into his neck. “Tried to stop tripping over nightstands?”

“Tried to stop… this.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I tried.”

“Why would you want to stop?” Harry gripped Draco’s shirt and pulled it tighter.

“It’s…” Draco’s voice trailed off, chin tilting up as Harry’s lips nipped his earlobe. He tugged, arms trapped by his shirt. “...doomed. Isn’t it?”

Harry shrugged. It was certainly doomed now, the Head Auror and the Doppelgänger. But could it have worked? Years ago? When they’d merely been an Auror and an ex-Death Eater?

“Why did you hide from me?” Harry nipped his earlobe, then pulled back. A thin scar over Draco’s heart caught the light. "It doesn't sound like you wanted to."

Draco went still. The hand in Harry’s jeans went slack. He released Draco’s shirt, freeing his arms, but the only response was the barely there brush of his thumb along Harry’s cock.

Draco wiggled his shoulders, and his shirt fell to the floor. He cupped the back of Harry’s head with his free hand, then ran his fingers through the short strands, thumb stroking along Harry’s temple. Harry sighed, eyes drifting shut.

“I hid from everyone.”

“You were on the front page of The Prophet this week.” Harry laid a quick kiss on Draco’s chin. “In stereo.”

Draco’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I looked horrible in your glasses.”

Harry let him have the diversion and wiggled his crotch against Draco’s hand. “You’d look better in my bed.”

Draco huffed a laugh and tugged Harry’s hair. “That’s a terrible line.”

“It’s a miracle I ever got you in bed, then. I suppose you’ve got a better one?“

“Hmm,” Draco hummed, then guided Harry’s fingers to the waistband of his trousers. “Let me think.” He curled Harry’s fingers around the button and pushed it though. “You could have asked me where in your flat we’ve already had sex.”

Draco used Harry’s thumb to push his zipper down. The hand in Harry’s jeans walked fingers up his belly, stroked along the line of hair there, then disappeared behind the elastic of his pants. Harry let out a relieved grunt as Draco’s fist wrapped around his cock.

“Have we had sex in the living room?” Harry asked, voice going breathy.

“Mm hm. Last year. Rupert Street. You were impressively drunk.”

“My birthday,” Harry said. Draco stroked him, foreskin sliding up and back with a sticky wet smack that made Harry’s eyes flutter shut. “Fuck,” Harry whispered. “Shower?”

“Mm hm.” Draco slid Harry’s hand into his trousers and left it there. “Twice, actually, though one was half in the shower, half on the floor. I was sitting under a tree in Soho Square. You were out for a jog. You certainly earned both showers.”

Harry licked his lips, arousal pooling in his hips and memories of hot wet skin clouding his mind. “Kitchen?”

“Ah,” Draco said, “there’s the pickup line.”

“The what?” Harry gave in to the urge in his hips and thrust into Draco’s grip.

“The pickup line. Say, do you think anyone’s ever had sex on this counter?”

Draco waited expectantly. When Harry didn’t reply, he tightened his fist around the head of Harry’s cock, and Harry whimpered. “Shit.”

“And then I say No, and you say…”

Sweat broke out on Harry’s upper lip, and his chest ran hot. “Fuck.”

“Close.” Draco clicked his tongue, released Harry’s dick, and pulled his pants down to his thighs. “The answer is Don’t you reckon it’s about time someone did?”

Chapter Text

Harry peeled his wet t-shirt off, and it took his glasses with it.  He shook it out, glasses clattering to the tile.  Draco’s belt buckle clinked against the floor in front of him as he picked the glasses up and slid them back onto Harry’s face.  Dark trousers pooled around Draco’s ankles, and Harry took his time letting his gaze wander upward.  Behind Draco, on the counter, sat the Holstein-print butter dish and jars of jam from the breakfast they’d never shared.

Draco stepped to the side and kicked his trousers away.  Harry had known he was lanky, but nude, the man was almost spindly.  Long, lean legs, narrow hips. 

The bulge inside those briefs, though, was plenty thick.  Draco hooked his thumbs under the elastic and shucked them off.  Harry let out an involuntary groan at the sight of Draco’s cock.

He licked his lips, then dropped to one knee, his fist already around his own length.  Draco ran his fingers through Harry’s hair and shifted his hips.  The head of his cock tapped Harry on the cheek.  Harry leaned forward and buried his face in the crease of Draco’s groin.

He let out a long breath, muffled by the dark blonde hair at the base of Draco’s cock.  It was doomed.  It was all doomed.  The Moirai versus the Ministry.  But he could have this.  Tonight, and maybe only for tonight, they could have each other.  

Harry wrapped his arms around Draco’s hips and hugged him tight, bracing his thighs against Harry’s shoulders and pinning his arse against the edge of the countertop.  His glasses dug into Draco’s belly.

He stayed there for several deep breaths, memorizing the solid warmth of Draco’s body.  The glide of Draco’s fingers through his hair.  The soft body hair against his lips.

One night wouldn’t be enough.  But by tomorrow evening, the lines on the battlefield would be drawn, separating them again.

He must have lingered too long, because Draco asked, “Are you hiding down there?”

Harry didn’t move and grunted, “Mm hm” against Draco’s skin.

“From the big, bad Doppelgänger?”

“Mm hm.”  Harry blew a raspberry against Draco’s hip and made him squawk in surprise.  “He is kind of big.”

“You think so?”  Harry looked up and caught Draco’s eyes.  Draco stroked Harry’s hair away from his forehead.  “I’d think you’d be used to it by now.”

Harry wrapped his hand around Draco’s length and squeezed.  Pale skin skimmed over the deep pink head of Draco’s cock as he stroked it.  It was so familiar in his hand, but so new a sight.  Just like the rest of Draco’s body.  As if he’d memorized him in the dark.

“Why did you start telling me to turn the lights out?”

Draco hummed with each pass of Harry’s fist.  His hips lifted with each pass.  “Composure,” he said with a gasp.

Harry’s lips pressed kisses along his length and wondered if he could suck a better answer out of Draco.

He didn’t bother licking him, or mouthing the end of his dick.  He simply opened his mouth and sucked Draco’s cock into the back of his throat.

Draco’s body snapped rigid.  “Fuck!”  He grabbed Harry by the hair and held him still.  “Warn a man before you-”

“Hm mm,” Harry hummed in objection.  He rubbed his tongue against the underside of the thick shaft in his mouth.

“Fuck,” Draco said again.  

He relaxed his hold on Harry’s hair and leaned back against the edge of the countertop.  Harry gripped his own cock and let out a low groan.  He stroked himself as he slid Draco in and out of his mouth, over and over, until saliva gathered in the back of his throat. 

He popped off and caught his breath.

Draco’s grip in his hair tightened and angled his face upward.  Hooded grey eyes, pupils blown wide, met his, and Draco licked his parted lips.  “Fuck me.”

Harry rubbed his thumb over the tip of his cock, spreading the drop of wetness over the head.  “Yeah.  Turn around”

Draco grinned and turned.  He leaned his elbows on the counter and snuck a hand around his cock while he waited for Harry to stand, but Harry stayed on his knees.

Draco Malfoy’s arse was practically against his lips.  Until it was directly against his lips, flesh soft and warm.

“Harry, you don’t have to-”  

Harry smashed his face into the crack of Draco’s arse, tongue-first.  Hot skin met the tip of his tongue, and Draco moaned and collapsed his shoulders onto the counter.  He reached back and pulled Harry’s hair, keeping him anchored.  “Fuck,” he hissed.

Harry growled and worked his mouth against the slick skin and pliant muscle.  He held his breath and pinned Draco’s hips to the counter with his face.  Above him, Draco cried out, body stiffening, legs spreading.

A sharp tug to Harry’s hair pulled him away.  Draco looked over his shoulder at Harry, cheeks pink and eyes wide.  “Fuck me.”

The ‘me’ sounded different.  Truer.  More real than it had coming from the lips of the other men Draco had been.

Harry grinned, bit the meat of Draco’s arse, got his head swatted in return, then shuffled to his feet, jeans and pants still around his thighs.  The knees of his jeans were wet from the water his trainers had left on the tile, but he barely noticed.

Draco’s body, a long expanse of blotchy pink skin, still dewy with rain, waited for him on his countertop like a feast.  He grabbed Draco’s arse in both hands and kneaded, pulling him open.  Draco shifted his feet and braced himself.

The wrinkled whorl of his hole tightened, drawing in at Harry’s touch, then relaxed.  Draco took a shuddering breath, then blew it out.  Harry stroked his cock and pressed against Draco’s entrance.

Silence hung heavy, both of them holding their breath.  Harry pushed forward and groaned at the tight wet heat surrounding his dick.  His hips met Draco’s arse, and he exhaled shakily.

Draco’s breath left as a deep groan, and he arched his back.  His hips rocked against Harry, stroking him as he stood rooted in place.  “Oh, God, Harry.”  Draco’s words came out in a breathless rush.

Harry met each minuscule thrust of Draco’s hips with his own.  They caught a rhythm, slow, soft,  and deep.  Over and over, until tension began to build inside Harry’s hips.

Draco sped up.  His hands reached back to grip the edge of the countertop, and he lifted his head, a long moan broken by the punctuating slap of Harry’s body against his.

“Fuck,” Harry said through slack lips.  Weight built at the base of his cock, and it was too soon, too quick, but it felt like it had taken years, and he couldn’t bear stopping.  His body chased it, faster and faster.  His trainers squeaked against the floor.  Draco swore under his breath.

Harry’s chest ran hot as the tension pulled, cresting, gut-deep and molten, then broke.  He dug his fingers into Draco’s hips and shouted, his wordless cry filling the room as his body shuddered to halt.

His hips locked, and his cock throbbed, pulsing into Draco.  His body met Draco’s, over and over in waves that rocked them in time, bodies swaying as they slowed.

Harry blinked quickly and blew out a breath.  “Fuck,” he said, almost reverently.

Draco thrust against him, burying Harry deep, and Harry winced at the oversensitivity.  One of Draco’s hands left the edge of the countertop and snuck under him to wrap around his still-hard dick.  Pre-come was smeared on his thighs, but he hadn’t come yet.  Needy little sounds crept from Draco’s throat.

Draco’s hand picked up speed, and his legs went rigid.

“Hey, wait,” Harry said.  He held his breath and pulled out of Draco’s arse.  “Fuck me.”

Draco propped himself up on his elbows and arched an eyebrow.  “If you insist."

Harry huffed a laugh.  “I insist.  I don’t want to mop your come up off the floor.  I just cleaned it.”

“Could have fooled me.”  Draco smirked as he turned around.  “And I think you’d gladly mop up my come.”

Any retort Harry might have spat back got caught in his throat.

Draco patted the countertop, and Harry hopped up, his jeans and pants still around his knees.  Draco’s bare feet stood in the wet mess left by Harry’s rain-drenched trainers.

“Shirt,” Draco said, pulling at the hem of Harry’s t-shirt.  

He licked his lips as he watched Harry yank it over his head.  Harry felt a tug on one shoe, then the other, as Draco untied them.  He removed Harry’s trainers slowly, as though he were savoring this undressing.

Harry’s socks went next, and he had to lift his thighs from the counter so Draco could pull his jeans and pants down his legs.  His wand and golden nameplate clattered to the floor.  The wand rolled away under the oven, and Draco made to retrieve it, but Harry wrapped his legs around Draco’s waist.

“I’ll get it later,” Harry said, not wanting to break contact with Draco, even for his wand.

Being slowly undressed had been far more arousing than he’d expected, and his half-hard cock lay heavy against his thigh.

Draco stopped to fold Harry’s jeans, then set them on the counter while Harry waited impatiently.

Draco’s eyes wandered to the jars of jam and the Holstein-printed butter dish next to Harry’s arse.  Two plates sat stacked behind them.

“You really made breakfast.”

Harry leaned back onto his elbows and nudged his arse closer to Draco.  “Yeah.”

“For me or Orion?”  His brow creased, and he drew a long breath.  His hands slid under Harry’s bum and took some of his weight.

“Both?”  Harry wrapped his hand around his cock, sensitive and tacky with dried spit and come.  “The offer still stands.”

“Good.”  Draco rubbed the shaft of his dick along Harry’s entrance and frowned.  He spit into his hand and stroked himself with it.

Dull, hot pressure grew against Harry’s arsehole as Draco pushed into him.  Harry blew out a breath and waited, trying to relax.  Draco frowned at his own dick as if it were malfunctioning.

“Just shove it in,” Harry said, and wiggled his bum.

Draco rolled his eyes.  “If I’m going to spend the night, it behooves me to not destroy your delicate little arse on the first go.”

Harry worked himself closer to the edge of the counter and dug his heels into Draco’s lower back.  “I’m not gonna break,” Harry said, breathier than he’d intended, because the more cautious Draco was, the more reckless Harry felt.  “Just spit on it and fuck me.”

“Slut,” Draco said through a wry smile.  He glanced toward the oven and shifted his feet.  “Let me get your wand and-”

“No,” Harry blurted, tightening his legs around Draco’s hips.

If he let Draco go now, he might not get him back.  In the five steps to the oven, anything could happen.  Draco could change his mind.  Someone could break down Harry’s wards and take him away.

“No,” Harry repeated.  He leaned back on his elbows, knocking the jam jars into each other.  “I don’t care if it hurts, just…”

Harry’s elbow hit the butter dish, and he smirked.  He turned and dug his fingers into the dish, scooping up a wad of soft yellow butter.

“Ugh.”  Draco wrinkled his nose.  “Potter, you are the least civilized-”

Draco’s breath caught when Harry wrapped his greasy fist around his cock.  Harry bit his bottom lip and smeared butter along Draco’s shaft.  It slopped down onto Harry’s hole and melted in a long streak down the crack of his arse to his lower back.

Harry dug his heels into Draco’s lower back again and pulled him forward.  “Come on.”

Draco’s eyes slid shut as the head of his cock stretched Harry open.  “Fuck,” he whispered.  “You’re disgusting, Harry…  fuck.”

Harry smeared butter on his own dick and squeezed the head tight as Draco worked into him in slow, careful strokes.  It was maddening in the best way and made Harry swivel his hips with each thrust.  “Faster.”

“Fuck,” Draco hissed.  He leaned over Harry, hands on the counter next to Harry’s elbows.  His nose brushed against Harry’s as they moved, hot breaths mingling.  “Harry,” Draco whispered, and crushed his lips to Harry’s.

Draco hit Harry’s prostate, and he moaned through his nose, then took a deep breath, drawing in the mingled smell of melted butter, sex, and under it, still, toast.  Draco’s lips stole Harry’s smile away, nipping at his bottom lip.  Harry opened to him, mouths moving in time to bodies, all of it too fast to last and too good to stop.

Weight built in Harry’s pelvis, heavier and heavier with each thrust inside him, and each stroke of his slick fist between them.

“Oh, God, fuck, I’m gonna come,” Harry blurted against Draco’s lips.

“Fuck-  Yes-”  Draco buried his face in Harry’s neck, drew a deep breath, and let loose a hitching growl against his skin.

“Fuck!” Harry rasped out, and let the rolling tide of tension inside him break.  He moaned into Draco’s hair as they came.  “Shit,” he whispered.

Draco sighed into Harry’s neck, then nipped at his skin.  “Did you save some butter?”

“Huh?”

“For breakfast?”

“Oh.”  Harry pulled his hand from between them and waggled his greasy, come-covered fingers.  “Uhm.  There’s this.”

Draco huffed a laugh.  “Maybe I’ll do the cooking.”

-

Harry woke to the most exquisite wet heat enveloping his cock, and sleep fell away like shattered glass.

“Fuck,” he whispered, bleary gaze on the head of blonde hair over his groin.  “Good morning.”

Draco hummed and kept sucking.  Harry spotted the blurry outline of his glasses on the nightstand and tried to reach them, but his hands didn’t move.  He tried again, but they were stuck to the headboard.  He tugged a few times, but his palms were stuck flat to the wood.

“Uhm, Draco?”

“Mm hm?” he hummed, mouth still gliding along the sensitive skin of Harry’s cock.  By all rights, his dick should have been chafed raw after last night.

“Did you-” Harry’s breath hissed in when Draco swallowed him deeper.  “Fuck, that’s good.”  He tugged at his hands again.  “Did you hex me to the headboard?”

“Mm hm.”

Harry tried to hold still, but his hips refused, lifting to meet Draco’s mouth at every pass.

“Can I have my glasses?”

Draco let out a low warning growl and kept sucking.  His shoulders shifted, and he knocked Harry’s thighs open wide.  Cool air hit Harry’s arse crack, tacky with dried come and spit.  A fingertip pressed against the hot skin of his entrance and slipped straight in.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry hissed as Draco worked a second finger in.  “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Harry’s chest flushed as weight built against Draco’s fingers inside him.  That warm, heavy tension thrummed with every pass.

A reedy whine slipped from Harry’s throat, and he struggled against the bindings.  He needed to move, to grab fistfuls of that blonde hair and drive himself into Draco’s throat and hold him there.

Pressure throbbed against Draco’s fingers, and Harry’s control broke, but the bonds held.  He came with a hoarse shout that rang against the empty walls, and he thrashed against the bonds until Draco stilled.  He gave Harry one last, long, gratuitous suck and released his cock with a loud pop.

Draco cleared his throat and slowly withdrew his fingers from Harry’s arse.  “Good morning.”

Harry melted into the mattress with a shuddering sigh.  “Yeah,” he said, half-dazed.  “Very.”

Draco grabbed Harry’s glasses and slid them on him.  “I made toast.”

Harry tugged against the headboard demonstrably.  “You’re going to have to feed it to me.”

“The day I get crumbs in a bed is-”

Harry’s mobile buzzed on the dresser across the room, which was wrong.  He’d plugged it in on his nightstand at some point last night.  Despite the post-orgasmic daze, he was certain he’d plugged it in.

Draco tried to lay down alongside him without attracting attention, but it was like watching a Great Dane try to sneak into bed.  Draco hid his face in Harry’s armpit and sighed.  His breath tickled up the underside of Harry’s arm, down his flank, and made him wiggle.

Draco was quiet next to him.

Harry lifted his head to look at the man hiding in his armpit.  “Why is my mobile over there?”

“Ron’s been texting you.”

Harry hummed in indifference and scratched his nose against his shoulder.  It was just after dawn.  Ron had probably been in the conference-room-turned-war-room for hours, obsessing over the stadium schematics he’d spread out over the big table.

But Draco would only know who the texts were from if he’d unlocked the mobile.  “You snooped in my messages.”

Draco nodded.  “Your birthday was a terrible PIN number.”

Harry let his head flop back onto his pillow.  “So you know the DMLE plans for tonight.”

“Mm hm.”

“Fuck.  You’re going to tell the Moirai-”

“Do you trust me?”  Draco lifted his head and rested his hand on Harry’s sternum.  “Not in a specific, Yes, I trust every word out of your mouth kind of way, but in an I trust you’re not a genocidal mastermind kind of way?”

Harry opened and closed his mouth twice.  “Are you asking if I think you’re just a generally good person?”

Draco looked like he was going to cry, and Harry prayed he wasn’t about to hear a confession of something unforgivable.  Not while he was restrained in bed with his dick still wet.

“Is this why you hexed me to the headboard?”

“In part.”

“Where’s my wand?”

“Still under the oven.”  Draco wound his leg between Harry’s, his foot hooking around his calf.  “You don’t have to answer the question.  Nevermind.”

Harry bit his lip and stared at the rosy morning sunlight on the ceiling.  Did he trust Draco?  He trusted him enough to sleep next to him.  And to fuck the ever-loving hell out of his arse.  Repeatedly.

But did he trust him on a larger scale?  Maybe not.

“I trust you to not hurt me.  Mostly.”  Harry ran the instep of his foot up Draco’s shin.  “You did stomp on my face and hit me in the balls.”

“I apologized.”

“For the balls.”

“Priorities.”  Draco slid one arm under Harry’s waist and wrapped the other around his chest.  He clung to him as though afraid Harry would escape released.  “I need you to trust me,” he whispered.  “So you don’t get hurt.”

Draco buried his face in Harry’s ribs and took ragged breaths.  His back shook, and he sniffled.

“Draco?”

“I’m sorry,” Draco sobbed.  He squeezed Harry, and the warm hand on Harry’s chest withdrew.  “Harry, I have to.”

“You have to-”  Harry’s words died.

Draco drew his wand from under Harry’s pillow.  He untangled himself from Harry’s body, cool air taking his place.

“Oh, God.  Draco?” Harry said, voice tight. 

“I’m sorry,” Draco repeated. 

“Draco, what are you-” 

“You don’t trust me, and I can’t let you stop me.”

Draco pressed the point of his wand against his own chest, above his heart, where a scar Harry had given him tapered off, sparing the mole on his collarbone.  He whispered a spell, winced, and a thin line of blood ran down the scar.

Harry frowned, confused, until Draco pressed the bloody tip of his wand against Harry’s chest.  A Blood Pact.  He was going to force a Blood Pact.  Draco Malfoy was going to make himself invincible against Harry, against his wards, and by extension, against the law.

“No, no, no, no!”  Harry shouted.  “Draco!  Don’t!”

A magic scalpel sliced into his flesh, and he gasped at the pain. Blood welled, then ran down his side.  Horror turned Harry’s veins to ice, and the warm rivulet flowed down his chest at Draco’s command.

Intermingled blood coated the point of his wand, and he held it in front of him, hesitating.  Harry pulled against the headboard.  He kicked at the sheets, twisted his hips.  He kicked Draco in the leg, but Draco merely slid out of reach.

“Draco,” Harry said, voice nearly a whimper.  “Please don’t.”

Tears tracked down Draco’s cheeks.  “I have to.  You won’t listen.  I know you, Harry.  You won’t.”

“Listen to what?!”

Draco smiled to keep from crying.  “Me.  You won’t listen to me.  I know you won’t.”

Draco’s lips kept moving, and the blood on his wand turned to quicksilver fire, mirror-bright and glowing.  

He hadn’t finished the spell yet.  He could still be stopped.

“Blood Pacts aren’t skin deep,” Harry said.  “You said that to Ron when the Moirai had him.  What the fuck does that mean?”

The distraction failed, and Draco’s gaze didn’t waver from the spell in front of him.  

“Draco, just tell me!”

Harry flexed his hands against the bindings and growled in frustration.  The gleaming silver lifted from Draco’s wand.  It hovered between them, a humming, living thing.  The cut on Harry’s chest burned, and he glanced down to find the flesh knitting itself back together.

Draco flicked his wand, held his breath, and flinched.  Harry’s heart stopped.  He held his breath, in case it was his last.  Darkness crept into the edges of his vision.  His pulse stuttered back to life in a dizzying rush.  Draco gasped.

Harry watched in horror as the molten silver crackled, hardened in mid-air, then fell to the bed.  

It was done.  They would never wield magic against each other.  History would repeat itself.  Two men, lovers, separated by body-strewn battlefields that they themselves couldn’t cross.

The hex on Harry’s hands broke, and he lunged at Draco.  He knocked him flat on his back, head hanging over the side of the mattress.  Harry sat on his chest and pinned him to the bed.

“What did you do?”

He braced himself for Draco to fight back, but he merely sniffled.  “Prevented a war.”

“By making sure the Moirai win?” Harry asked.

Draco shook his head and slowly rested his hands on Harry’s thighs.  Harry considered slapping them away and backhanding Draco for good measure.

“By making sure you don’t get hurt.”  Draco blinked up at him.  “Who do I look like right now?”

Puzzled, Harry stared at him.  “You’re you.”

Draco sighed and let his head flop down off the edge of the mattress.  “Good.  It worked.”

The long line of Draco’s neck held Harry’s attention.  “You can’t use Legilimency on me.”

“No magic at all.”  Draco’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and his voice was strained with the angle.  “And vice versa.”

Harry rested his hands on Draco’s chest and slid his arse down onto Draco’s hips.  “This didn’t work well for Grindelwald, you know.”

“Nor Dumbledore,” Draco said.

Harry leaned back, putting all of his weight on Draco’s hips.  “You can’t hide from me anymore.”

“Nope,” Draco said.  His hairline was turning red with bloodrush from being upside down.

“Why would you do that?”

Draco sighed.  “Because I’m going to do something you won’t like.  You really, really won’t like it.  But-”  He picked his head up, and his face was red.  “Scoot down.”  Harry obliged, and Draco slid lower and laid his head on the mattress.  “But I can’t let you interfere, or we’ll have war.”

“You’re going to kill people.”

“No.”  Draco propped himself up on his elbows and rolled over to dig around in the rumpled sheets.  “No, I’m not going to personally kill anyone.”

Baffled, Harry sat on Draco’s thighs and wondered what that meant.

“Aha!”  Draco pulled a small silver hourglass from under the duvet.  It was only as big as the long bone of Harry’s thumb.  Draco tipped it and watched translucent sand flow.  “An ironic shape.”

He offered it up to Harry on an open palm.  Harry took it.  The metal was still warm, and the sand was already running low.  “Why is an hourglass ironic?”

“It’s ironic…”  Draco wouldn’t look at him.  His hands rubbed idle lines up and down Harry’s thighs.  “It’s ironic because if things go according to plan, this will be a very, very short-lived Blood Pact.”

Harry frowned and tipped the hourglass over, but the sand continued flowing, now upward.  “Blood Pacts don’t break until someone dies.”

“I’m aware.”  Draco sat up slowly and laid his lips against Harry’s chest.  “I’m far, far too aware.”  Draco’s thumbs rubbed idle circles on Harry’s thighs.  “You’ll be fine,” Draco whispered.

“And you?”  Harry cradled the hourglass in his palm and wondered what happened when it ran out.  

“I’m…  I think I’m going to eat toast in your bed.”

-

“Room service,” Harry said, giving the bedroom door frame a perfunctory knock.

“You’re going to regret this immensely.”  Draco slid up in bed and stuffed a pillow behind him.

Harry handed him a plate of buttered toast, then settled in beside him with a second small plate.  He’d run out of butter, so his toast only had strawberry jam.  And he had no intention of telling Draco about the butter shortage for fear of being reminded where the butter went.

“Crumbs won’t kill me.”  Harry folded a piece of toast in half and ate most of it in one bite.  “Probably.”

Draco licked his thumb and collected minuscule brown crumbs from his thighs, then from the sheet around him.  He was erasing a literal breadcrumb trail.  The Doppelgänger, cleaning up the evidence.

Harry finished his toast, set the plate behind him, and laid his head on Draco’s thigh.  Draco pulled the duvet up and tucked it around Harry’s shoulders.  Harry’s eyelids drooped, and he yawned.  Draco’s dick still smelled like butter.

He had to stay awake.  He had to stop the Moirai attack, and he had to memorize every square inch of Draco’s skin while he could.  Harry wrapped his arm around Draco’s lap and hugged him.  If this truly was the last time they would be together, it was almost a comfort to know that Draco’s death wouldn’t be by Harry’s hand.

Draco reached to the side and set his empty plate on top of Harry’s.  He wiggled down in bed until they were nose to nose.  He kissed Harry’s forehead.  “You’re not a terrible cook.”

“All I had to do was butter it.”  Harry shrugged.  He slid his knee between Draco’s legs and hooked his foot behind Draco’s calf.

Draco hummed, then yawned.  “…butter your biscuit,” he mumbled.  Slowly, his eyes drifted shut, and Harry wanted to kiss each individual eyelash that lay splayed against Draco’s cheek.

“Stay here,” Harry whispered.

“Mm?” Draco asked.

“Stay here today.”  Harry wrapped his arm around Draco’s waist.  “Stay until tomorrow morning.”

Draco cracked an eye.  “You sit this one out.  I have plans.”

“What if we left?” Harry blurted.  

The hourglass on the nightstand behind him continued flowing, a stream of grains that measured the lifespan of the magical armistice between them.  Harry’s entire life felt on the verge of expiration.  This relationship, because it was a relationship of some sort, was due to expire.  The lease on his flat was almost up.  At some point soon, he’d have to move into the Head Auror office.  Everything was evolving out from under him.  

Harry rubbed his nose against Draco’s.  “What if you stayed here until tomorrow morning, and then we just left?”

“Tomorrow, hm?”  Draco’s eyes slid open, and he leaned back to look at Harry.  “Got a hot date tonight?”

“No.”

Draco patted Harry’s shoulder and rolled away from him.  “You stay home tonight, then.”

“I can’t.”  Harry reached after him.  His hand came to rest on the warm sheets where Draco had been.

“I’ll stay home if you stay home.”  Draco swung his legs over the side of the bed, his back to Harry.  “All of you should stay home tonight.”

Draco stood, and Harry wanted to beg him for details, but settled on asking, “Who?”

“You.  Your Aurors.”  Draco tossed Harry’s mobile onto the bed, then opened the dresser drawer and stole a heather grey t-shirt.  He popped his head through, and Harry wished he’d have kissed that mole one last time before it disappeared.  “We already knew the DMLE knew, you know.”  He shot Harry a sly grin.

“We?” Harry croaked.

“Mm hm.”  Draco stepped into his pants and trousers and pulled them up.  “Your department isn’t very stealthy.”

“Then call it off.”

“No.”

“You can’t, can you?” Harry asked.  “The rest of the Moirai won’t listen to you.”

“No, I could.”  Draco paused for a moment and looked at the Dark Mark on his forearm.  “But I won’t.  It has to happen.”

Harry crawled forward and sat on the edge of the bed, just out of Draco’s reach.  “Are we enemies, then?”

“No.  Not enemies.  Opposing figureheads, perhaps.”  Draco sighed and snapped his shirt out in front of him, then slid his arms into it, covering Harry’s grey shirt like a secret.  “I suppose I can’t make you stay away from the stadium tonight, can I?”

“No.”

Draco grumbled something about Gryffindors under his breath as he buttoned his cuffs.  “An Auror presence tonight will only add to the death toll.  Can you at least trust me on that?”

Harry watched him straighten his collar and wanted to believe him.  He wanted to believe he’d been sleeping with a man who was trustworthy.  But no one with good intentions would tell a police force to stay away from a massive terrorist attack.

“God knows you can’t spare the Aurors.  I have it under control,” Draco added.  “Unless you and yours muck it up.”

“Bullshit.”

“Harry,” Draco said, too reasonably.  He pinched the bridge of his nose.  “I need you to trust me.  Or you’ll get hurt.”

Harry gulped.  The DMLE didn’t know exactly what the Moirai were planning, only that it was big.  “You’re going to kill people tonight, aren’t you?”

“Would you still want me if I said ‘yes’?”

Harry swallowed again and sat up in the middle of the bed.  There were crumbs on the sheets, and he tried to brush them away, but they bounced back.  Draco had warned him he’d regret it.  Maybe he didn’t mean the toast.  Maybe he meant the entire… whatever this was.

Affair?  Ordeal?  Torture, Harry realized.  Pure torture.  That’s what this was.  To be given what he didn’t know he wanted and watch it walk out the door.  His throat squeezed tight, and his chest ached.

He’d told the man he thought was Armando Maldonado that he didn’t want anything serious, and he’d known he was lying even then.  Even with a complete stranger, he’d hoped for this.  A night together and a lazy morning in bed.

And now he had it, but Draco was putting on his socks with more finality than a pair of socks should ever warrant.

“I never wanted this,” Harry said, and even he wasn’t sure if he was lying to himself.  He wiped his nose on his shoulder while Draco pulled his shirt closed over Harry’s t-shirt like a secret.  “I didn’t.”

“I’m going to take that as a ‘no’, then.”  Draco tugged his cuffs straight.  “I will not be the one doing the killing, if it makes you feel better.”

Oddly, it did make Harry feel better.  “You’ll still end up in Azkaban.”

Draco smiled, but it made tears well in his eyes.  “They don’t send dead men to Azkaban.”

Harry’s toast and strawberry jam rolled up his throat.  “Right,” he croaked.

Draco leaned over the bed and laid a kiss against Harry’s forehead.  He sighed into Harry’s hair, then stood and walked toward the door.  

“If you can,” Draco said, stepping out of the bedroom, “don’t let them bury me next to my parents.”

And with another trite smile, he Apparated away.

Chapter Text

Ron was made for war.  He circled the scale model of the stadium that had consumed the conference table.  His eyes flicked from entry point to entry point, and he scratched at a week’s worth of stubble that was nearly a beard.  He looked like a lion prowling the ridge of a valley.

Harry leaned his chair back on two legs and sipped shitty coffee out of a paper cup and wondered what Draco was doing right now.  Maybe he was doing the exact same thing.  Maybe he was watching someone diagram the stadium in an attempt to predict Ron’s moves.

Opposing kings on a chessboard.  Maybe that made Harry and Draco pawns.

“What do you think?”  Ron accepted a file folder from an Auror in the doorway with a nod.  “Think it’ll work?”

Harry scanned the little red figurines positioned throughout the stadium replica, but all he could think about was climbing into the oval structure in front of him and hiding.  Hiding from Ron.  Hiding from this battle.  Hiding from everyone.

“You’re hiding something,” Ron said.  He sounded like his mother.

Harry shook his head.

“I know you, Harry.”
 
The words were an echo of Draco’s, and he wanted to shout at Ron, No, you don’t know me.  You think you do, but you don’t, and maybe you never did.

“You saw him again.”  Ron tapped the file on the edge of the table next to Harry’s elbow.  “Malfoy.”

He couldn’t lie, nor could he bring himself to confess, so he sat motionless with an empty paper cup in his hands.

“You let him get in your head again.”  Ron sighed and flipped through the folder.  “You need to tell me what he knows, Harry.  He has all day to set a trap for us.”

Harry closed his eyes.  The only trap he wanted to set was in his bed, locked away from everyone.  He should have tried to keep Draco by force.  He could have punched his lights out, called a cab, and taken him somewhere.

Harry shook his head.  “Sorry.  What?”

Ron glowered down at him.  “What did you tell Malfoy?  And did you drill anything useful out of the man?”

“He saw the texts you sent this morning.  I didn’t tell him anything.”

Ron slid his mobile out of his trouser pocket and scrolled through his messages.  “That wasn’t much, then.”  He scratched his beard.  “Just that we found those crates of Peruvian Instant Darkness powder in the lower concourse.  They probably won’t have time to replace them.”

Harry grunted a non-reply.

Ron held his mobile up to show Harry a picture.  Hermione sat on a tufted red velvet train seat with Rose in her lap.  Hugo was on his grandfather’s lap next to them.

“I told her they should stay on the move to stay safe.”  He turned the mobile back and a smile crept across his face.  “She booked them a two-week train tour of Australia.”  Ron sighed and looked like he might kiss the screen.

Harry didn’t have anything to say, so he didn’t.

“Did you get any info from Malfoy?”  Ron put his mobile away and closed the file folder while he waited for a response.  “Harry.  Please tell me you didn’t fuck him all night and not find anything out.”

He’s going to die, Harry thought.  Or he thinks he is.  He doesn’t want to be buried next to his parents.  He can eat toast in bed without getting crumbs in the sheets.

“He considers it a suicide mission.”  Harry swallowed and blinked away tears before they could form.  

Ron scratched his damned beard again.  “That only makes him more dangerous.  Nothing left to lose.  Anything else?”

Draco was going to die, but not kill anyone.  He was planning on sacrificing himself somehow, but Harry still wasn’t certain for what cause.

Harry shook his head.  “No, nothing else.”

“Hm.”  Ron stared at the wall for a short eternity, as if weighing the truth of Harry’s words.  When he finally spoke, his tone was hushed.  “Repeat after me.”

Confused, Harry looked up at him.

Ron cleared his throat.  “I swear, by my wand and the wands of my brothers…”

“Ron, I’m not…”  Harry sighed.  “Fine.  By my wand and the wand of my brothers, I’ll cause the peace to be kept, preserved, prevent all offenses, et cetera et cetera.”

Ron tucked the file folder under his arm and looked Harry up and down.  “Can you discharge your duties, Head Auror?”

The title rankled Harry more than the lack of faith.  “Yes.”

Ron considered him for another long moment, then his posture softened.  “Alright.  Standard bag and tag raid operations.  The guys are all familiar with them.  The wards will go up once the civilians are cleared.”  He pulled up a chair next to Harry’s and sat down.  “The teams will wait like this,” he gestured to the stadium, “for your signal.”

Harry nodded.  “Combat or civilian signals?”

“Standard civilian flares, since there’ll be civilians present.  White to evacuate, red to attack, yellow for casualties.”

Harry mustered up some fake enthusiasm.  “As if we’ve ever used white.  Our robes are red for a reason.”

“Truth.  Red and gold for the dead and the bold.”  Ron leaned forward to rise.  “Alright, I’ll bring down the Auror roll, and we can work on assignments.  We’ve got three hours until the show.  Get some lunch.”

-

Harry sat at his charred desk with a paper-wrapped sandwich in his hand.  Under the prevailing smell of scorched office furniture lingered the stench of rotting flesh.

Someone had thrown today’s copy of The Prophet on his desk.  

But far more concerning was the tiny, round wooden pedestal like an egg cup, upon which sat an actual Prophecy.  A glass orb no bigger than his eye, filled with swirling grey smoke.  Streaks of green leapt out and hit the glass every time his fingers approached it, as though it were aware of his presence.

It shouldn’t have been on his desk.  If the Unspeakable who maintained the Hall of Prophecies wanted him to view a Prophecy, they should have asked him to come down for it.  Unspeakables were unquestionable, though.

Still, he was going to avoid touching it for as long as he could.

He opened the newspaper, unwrapped his sandwich, and set half of it on the newsprint.  Down in the corner, a bit of nonsense from the Quibbler drew his eye.

Quibbler Quips and Quandaries,
final publication.

A look-alike, 
another reich,
the best deathblow, preemptive strike.

Weavers and reavers,
what top-notch deceivers.
Both relish the cut, but only one meters.

A needle-mouthed tailor,
an exhausted jailor,
both covet rough seas which batter the sailor.

A Veil and a cloak,
uplift in downstroke,
both hand-sewn, bella époque
prior survival deigns one bespoke.

So cloaks can be gifted,
the Veil only grifted,
if…  like sand… battle lines shifted?

ALL OWLS WILL BE RETURNED TO SENDER, POSTAGE DUE.

Harry’s sandwich waited in front of his mouth, but he couldn’t bring himself to take a bite.  An exhausted jailor.  Preemptive strike.  The Veil could be grifted?  Did that mean the Veil itself could be stolen?  Or the Veil could be tricked?

He took a bite of cold turkey and Swiss and chewed it until it was mush.  The line about cutting and measuring.  That had to be related to the letters the Moirai sent to intended victims.

And the bit about the cloak he assumed was about his Invisibility Cloak.  He always brought it on important missions, so at least that made sense.  It was almost an unfair advantage that he’d be able to conceal his presence from Draco, but Draco couldn’t hide from him in a crowd anymore.

He swallowed, set the sandwich down, and dug the Blood Pact out of his robe pocket.  Were there fewer grains of the glass-like sand?  Was the flow through the center of the hourglass an illusion?

He set it on the open newspaper, near the Prophecy.  The orb flared a sparkling lime green and began to swirl.  Grey clouds sucked the glowing green streaks down into a miniature tornado.  It twisted, broke, and reflected itself, pinched in the middle and round and swirling at the top and bottom.  An hourglass in a Prophecy, meting out time in particles of smoke.

“Fuck it,” he whispered to himself.

He wiped crumbs from his fingers and wrapped his hand around the orb.

His desk was gone.  His cubicle disappeared.  The background noise of the DMLE was snuffed out.  There was grass under his bare feet.  Dew had collected on it.  The sun rose behind the fog ahead of him.  Something cast a round shadow on the ground.

A grave marker.  A simple granite slab.  A second one sat next to it like a pair of incisors.

Both were etched with today’s date.  The blood drained from his face.

DRACO L. MALFOY

Harry shut his eyes, willing the Prophecy away, but it continued.  His mind’s eye turned toward the other grave marker, and he knew before he read it.

HARRY J. POTTER

The glass ball shattered in his hand.  His eyes fluttered open as the thick chunks of glass fell onto the newspaper.  The door plate sitting on his desk was a mockery or a warning.

HEED, AUROR.

-

“Stop fidgeting.”

Harry could barely hear Ron over the roar of the crowd.

“I’m not fidgeting.”

He was, though.  He tapped the blunt end of his wand against the cement pillar between them and ran his free hand over his pockets.  He wanted to take the tiny silver hourglass out of his trouser pockets and check the sand level, but not in front of Ron.  The Head Auror name plate was in his robe pocket along with some standard defensive charms.  His Invisibility Cloak was an extra layer between his shirt and his robes.

He ran the corner of the name plate under his thumbnail and wondered if the stadium would soon be awash in lookalike Head Aurors.

Below him, fifty-thousand people waited, some in their seats, others pressed against the balcony railings.  They waved red and black pennants, harsh in the suffused blue-white light.  On the other side of the colossal field, the flags were red and white.

At every section entryway, on every concourse, at all thirty-six breaks in endless rows of seating, stood a pair of Aurors.  Red robes blended in amongst the red, white, and black banners, but Harry could pick out their still, somber forms at each pillar.  

Seventy-two Aurors.  Their entire force.  Every Auror, from every shift.  Every traffic cop.  Every liaison officer.  Two Aurors had cut their maternity leave short for this mission.  And still.  Only seventy-two Aurors.

Harry rubbed his shoulder against the pillar and looked up into the night sky.  The stadium lights so thoroughly drowned out the stars that they dampened the moon itself.  It was little more than a watery globe above them, and he wondered if a Seeker could fly high enough to find the stars.

Would the Moirai fly in on brooms?  Would they pour out of the gangway onto the pitch like cockroaches?  Were they already in the stands, waving banners and sneaking glances at the Aurors stationed nearby?

A hush fell over the crowd.  Brooms in hand, a team in red and black walked single file onto the field.  The crowd around Harry erupted like a volcano.  The tide of people leaping from their seats rolled through sections.  The dozens of rows in the lower bowl, then the middle.  Finally, the fans in the cheap seats below him hopped to their feet.

They chanted, some in Spanish, and some in another, similar language.  Harry realized he didn’t know which teams had made it to the European Cup.

“Who’s playing?” he shouted to Ron.

Ron shot him a quizzical look, as if Harry were playing dumb.  “Graphorns and Kites!”

Someone blasted an airhorn near him, and Harry almost tumbled down the concrete stairs in front of him.  He looked at the hundreds of steps between his feet and the grass of the pitch until his head swam.  He gulped and wrapped an arm around the pillar while the vertigo passed.

He couldn’t make out the names on the backs of the Galician team’s jerseys, but several banners in the stands below him spelled out “Maldonado.”  The real Armando Maldonado was down on the pitch talking to the ICW Quidditch officials.  The Armando who didn’t smell like toast, who hadn’t thrown a duvet over Harry and called him a pig in a blanket.

But somewhere in the stadium, that man waited.  Draco was here.  He could feel it as a dead spot in his magic.  A numb patch of skin.  A burn on his tongue that he couldn’t stop scraping against his teeth.

The crowd on the other end of the stands rose from their seats in near-unison, as though the stadium had taken a breath.  The captain of the Kites led his team onto the pitch.

And a floodlight went out.

Just one massive array out of dozens.  The dark spot interrupted the ring of illumination, and Harry stared at it.  Ron glanced at it, but then turned his attention back to the field.

Harry was about to decide it was a coincidence when the second floodlight winked out.

Then, a third.

A fourth.

Silence fell in stages.  Hands that had been waving banners dropped to their sides.  Cheering turned into whispers.  Faces that had been open and joyful became pinched with worry.

Ron straightened like a hound on point.  He watched the remaining floodlights.

A fifth array extinguished above them, utterly silent.  No pop of burned out bulbs.  No sizzle of overheated wires.

Ron stepped forward, turned and examined the extinct light above them.  “They got more Instant Darkness powder.”

The hush over the crowd melted away, replaced by a rising swell of anxious murmurs.

Far below, the pitch sat like a green felt pool table.  Officials and team captains met in the center and gestured to the dead lights.

“Call it,” Ron said sharply.  “We know it’s them.”

Harry’s hands and face went clammy.

“Harry, throw the fucking flare.”

Harry ran his thumbnail over the blunt end of his wand.  It would be pandemonium.

“Harry!”

The tension in the crowd was a living thing that slithered over Harry’s skin.

“Harry!”

Harry took a sharp breath.  “Right.”

He lifted his wand, straight up, put a foot back, and braced himself like a mortar launcher.  The spell was second nature.  Flee, he thought, and shoved magic behind the intention.  He forced it out of his wand and closed his eyes.

A lightning-white cannonball shot from his wand, and his shoes slid backward from the force of it.  Ron’s flare echoed his.  It set of a volley of seventy-two phosphorous-white flares, each of them arcing across the stadium.  They left streaks that criss-crossed over the pitch like jet vapor trails at an airshow.

Harry blinked as his eyes adjusted to the receding brightness.  The murmurs in the crowd became purposeful as people gathered their things.

Pops and cracks of Apparition echoed through the stadium like microwave popcorn, first scattered, then a roiling wave of noise as witches and wizards clutched their families and fled.

In the lingering cacophony, a woman screamed, shrill and piercing.  Harry’s eyes darted back and forth over the crowd. It had come from close to the empty pitch.

A head of white-blond hair appeared below the lowest railing, followed by shoulders in a white shirt that concealed a grey t-shirt stolen from Harry’s dresser.

“They’re not leaving,” Ron said next to him.

Harry scanned the stadium.  At least a third of the spectators were still in their seats.  All of them sat quietly.  Tens of thousands of people, sitting in fold-down stadium seats, watching Draco Malfoy walk across a Quidditch pitch.  They had to know who he was.  Did they think a mass evacuation was part of the opening ceremony?

Harry shook his head, confused.  “We can’t put the wards up until civilians are clear.”

Ron threw up a hand in bewilderment.  “I don’t get it.”

Draco made his way to the middle of the pitch in the silent stadium.  Harry’s palms itched, and his muscles burned to run or fight, but it wasn’t time.

“You really don’t know what he’s planning, Harry?”

Ron’s distrust hit Harry right in the gut.  “No.”

All he knew was that Draco didn’t want him here.  That Draco had warned him off.  For his sake and the sake of his Aurors.  And that Harry hadn’t listened.  And Draco had known he wouldn’t.

“I’m going lower,” Harry said, taking off down the steps.  “I can’t just stand here.”

Ron followed at his shoulder, wand at the ready.

Harry passed row after row of empty seats before reaching a couple seated near the aisle.  A diamond tennis bracelet glittered on the woman’s wrist.  Her red-lipsticked mouth smirked up at him, then turned to whisper to the man next to her.  The man looked away grinning.

Harry turned around and assessed the remaining spectators.  Too much money.  Too much indifference.

Déjà vu gripped Harry by the throat.  Dancing couples in black silk and chiffon.  Gilt-edged plates and an obscene number of silver forks.  A little girl in pigtails alone at a table.

“Oh, God,” he whispered.

Ron’s gaze followed his, then swept out over the thousands of witches and wizards remaining, all watching Draco Malfoy with eager attention.

“Put the wards up,” Harry said, voice cracking.

“What?” Ron whispered.

“Put the wards up.  Do it now.”

“Harry, we have to get these people-”

“We walked right into it.”

“What are you-“

“They’re Moirai.”  Harry’s heart thundered against his ribs.  “They’re all Moirai.”

—

Chapter Text

Draco stood in the middle of the grassy field as if it were center stage, the remaining few stadium lights his spotlights.  He said nothing.  He did nothing.

As Harry and Ron descended the stairs, eyes crawled up their backs like insects.  He felt like an injured mouse surrounded by an entire colony of hungry ants.

Draco lifted his head, chin tilted back, eyes closed, but Harry was too far away to read his expression.  Draco’s shoulders eased down on an exhale, and he flicked a cuff open.  Harry paused on a step to watch.  An older woman a few seats away from the aisle clutched a small glass ampere of emerald liquid.  She caught Harry looking and hid it in her hands.

Draco rolled his sleeve up to his elbow and raised his palm to the sky.  His Dark Mark was an inked imperfection.  With his other hand, he tapped his wand against his side.  His gaze stayed firmly on the grass in front of him.  He paid no mind to the thousands of Moirai, nor to the dozens of Aurors watching him.

Slowly, he lifted his wand and pressed the tip to his upraised forearm.  Magic washed around Harry, but pulled a pained grunt from Ron.  Ron winced, then righted himself.

Silty darkness curled in Draco’s palm like malevolent steam.  Thunder rumbled in the distance.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry whispered.

“Harry,” Ron said, a warning.  “We need to attack.  Now.”

Harry shook his head.  Draco wouldn’t-  He couldn’t-

“Harry, send the fucking flare.”

Harry shook his head again.  The woman clutching the ampere smiled at the sky.  Clouds rolled in.  The moon disappeared.  Black-on-blacker forms roiled above the stadium like intestines.

“Harry!”

Harry looked out over the stadium.  Thousands.  Tens of thousands of Moirai.

The woman shoved the sleeve of her robe up to her elbow, revealing a greyed skull and snake etched into her wrinkled skin.  On the other side of the aisle, a man did the same, revealing a fresh, black Dark Mark.

Lighting rent the sky.  A singular white bolt.  It shot through the curved cloud, and deep, empty eye sockets receded.  The sky churned in a long, undulating line, weaving itself through the eye sockets and through the mouth of a skull that blocked out the moon.

“Head!  Auror!” Ron shouted, shaking Harry’s shoulder.  “We have to attack now!  Send up the fucking flare!”

Thousands.  Thousands of Moirai.  No.  Death Eaters, old and new.  More of them than Harry could count.

And seventy-two Aurors.  At best, seventy-two Aurors against sixteen thousand Death Eaters.

Over two-hundred Death Eaters per Auror.

Impossible odds.  

Every Auror in England would die in this stadium tonight.  And after the Aurors had been eliminated, no one would be left to fight.  

“He was right,” Harry whispered to himself.

Ron hauled off and punched Harry in the shoulder.  “Red!  Flare!”

Harry shook his head.  His shoulder ached, but he was too numb to pay it any mind.

The snake in the sky grew eyes, and they glowed a sickly amber as it slithered through the gaping maw of the skull.  The heavens groaned in protest, a gut-deep heave too heavy for mere air.

“We can’t win,” Harry said softly.  

Ron’s face was as red as his robes, his lips slick with spit that landed on Harry’s cheek when he yelled, “We don’t run!”

Harry ran his thumbnail along the thick end of his wand.  In every stadium section, at every concourse entryway, two figures in red robes watched him.  Waiting for their signal.  They would leap from position, primed to kill.  They would face odds the Ministry couldn’t have imagined and certainly hadn’t planned for.

“Harry,” Ron said sternly.

Harry shook his head and couldn’t look his best friend in the eye.  He raised his wand to the sky.  Ron sighed and grinned, baring his teeth, then dropped into a fighting stance.  He winked at Harry and nodded.

Harry swallowed and memorized Ron’s face.  The angle of his jaw.  The concentration of freckles above his cheekbones.  The way his lips curled in a mirthless, predatory smile.  Because if he ever saw Ronald Weasley again, he didn’t expect forgiveness for this.

Harry braced himself, arm like a mortar tube.  He wadded his intention in magic. His signal to his men.  To his women.  To the two who’d left newborns at home to answer his call.

Flee.

A cannonball of crackling white electricity shot out of his wand with a percussive whump.  Seventy-one Aurors watched it arc across the stadium.  It shattered overhead like a cracked glass dome.

Flee.

Harry watched Ron’s faith in him disappear.

“Harry.”  Ron’s voice wavered, but his wand didn’t.  “What in Godric’s name are you doing?”

“Get out,” Harry said.  “Get them out.”

“No!” Ron shouted.  “No!  We don’t run!”

Harry started off down the steps.  Down, toward the pitch.  Down, to where the man who’d be his doom was calling the heavens to earth with a palmful of dark magic.  Behind him trailed the man who’d stood by his side his entire life.

A sharp yank on his robes spun Harry around.  Blue eyes bored into him.  “We.  Don’t.  Run.”

Harry glared right back.  “I will not send our Aurors into a slaughter.”

“We can-”

“Do you want to watch the Burrow burn again?”  Harry shoved Ron back a step.  “Do you?  Because what do you think happens if we fight them here?  Best odds, Chessmaster.  How many of them die, and how many of us survive?  And what are they going to do to your family when the DMLE is gone?”

Ron’s neck turned red.  He gulped, and tears gathered in his eyes.

Harry grabbed Ron by the front of his robes and held him at arm’s length for a moment, then pulled him into a tight hug.  “I love you.”  Ron’s arms wrapped around him, and Harry clutched Ron’s head to his shoulder.  “Get my Aurors home safe.”

Ron’s back lurched.  Over the rumble of thunder, a defeated sob broke though.  Ron pulled away, their arms still holding one another.  

“You’re not coming,” Ron said, voice cracking.

“No,” Harry said.

Draco’s magic washed over the crowd, and Ron shuddered.  Harry dropped Ron’s arms and slipped a hand into his robe pocket.  The silver hourglass was warm in his palm.

Around them, Aurors disappeared through darkened doorways.  Only Ron remained, in defiance of Harry’s order.

“He’ll kill you.”

Harry bit his lip and pulled his hand out of his pocket.  “He can’t.”

He opened his fingers, and the glaring light of the stadium made the translucent sand inside the hourglass look like glitter.

Ron frowned.  “A Blood Pact?”  He wiped his nose on his sleeve.  “Harry, he can’t kill you himself, but he doesn’t need to.  He’s going to feed you to his dogs.”

Next to Harry, a trio of young men held glass bottles of emerald potion.  Draco had flushed all of these people from their homes and gathered them here.  But for what?

“Probably,” Harry whispered, but he knew better.  He would die tonight.  But so would Draco.

Harry slipped his hand into his back pocket and pulled the golden doorplate out.  

He held it between them, and Ron shook his head slowly, then faster, chanting “No- No- No, no, no…” until his voice dried up in a tight whine.  “Harry, no…”

“I have to.  Or I have to try.”  

Harry grabbed Ron’s hand and closed Ron’s fingers around the door plate.  For once, in the brash light of the stadium, in Ron’s grip, the letters read as they should.  Head Auror.

Tears tracked down Ron’s cheeks.  “You’re sure?” he croaked.

Harry nodded, even though he’d never been less sure in his life.

Ron nodded back and shot Harry a rueful smile.  “I’ll put the wards up.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, turning back toward the pitch.

“I love you,” Ron said, then gave him a final nod, and left.

Harry watched Ron climb the stairs.  His friend, his brother in arms, his second in command.  Ron reached the landing, glanced back, and disappeared forever.

Harry gulped against the threat of tears, then took a deep breath.  The Moirai snuck furtive glances at him.  

He slid a hand up his chest, under his Auror robes, and unclasped his Invisibility Cloak.  The fabric slid down his back, and he pulled it out from under his robes, then threw it on overtop them.  He re-clasped it, closed it around himself, and pulled the hood over his head.

He straightened, sighed, and walked down the stairs.  He passed row after row of people who sat too calmly.  They watched the sky as if it were a fireworks display.  Quidditch banners littered the cement, discarded in favor of rolled up sleeves and Dark Marks.

He stopped at the bottom of the stadium stairs, where the cement met the grass.  Behind him, thousands of eyes watched Draco.  In front of him, Draco stood stock still.  A conduit between the earth and the hell he’d cast into the heavens.

The cement rumbled underfoot.  Magic snapped a membranous skin over the stadium.  An Auror ward.  Ron had made it outside.  Seventy-one Aurors would see their loved ones again.

As the ward clicked into place, the darkness sifting between Draco and the sky cut short, and it wafted down around him like a Dementor.  He spread his arms wide, wand held in his fingertips like an orchestral conductor.  The pale face, the swirling darkness of his body, the barely-there underhand grip on his wand were too familiar.

Dormant terror lanced down Harry’s spine at the sight.

A cork popped out of a vial behind Harry.  Someone unscrewed a metal cap, and it bounced off the cement.  Harry turned slowly to look over his shoulder.  Everyone, all of the thousands of Moirai each held a vial of Elixir of Erised aloft.

In the middle of the pitch, placid smile on his face, Draco turned, arms outstretched to greet his followers.  To Harry, it felt as though Draco was welcoming Death itself.  Draco reached one empty hand above his head, fingers curled as though he was brandishing his own vial.

Harry stood at the edge, the toes of his shoes on the grass, and waited.  A communal consumption of their Elixir?  To what possible end?

In the nearest row, four middle-aged men huddled together, whispering over their vials, looking like they’d snuck flasks of whisky into a Quidditch game.  Harry angled an ear toward them and caught bits of their conversation.

“-you gonna trash first?”

“Ollivander’s, so they can’t re-arm themselves.”

“-said not to go-”

“Fuck that, I’m not wasting this face.  I’m gonna go get some high class pussy-”

“-supposed to do something useful-”

The men all quieted and turned their attention back to Draco.  His cupped hand lowered slowly to his lips.  The men next to Harry all held their open vials in front of them. Somberly, they raised fingertips over the vials.  Harry squinted at their fingers.  They each held several strands of white hair.  In unison, they dropped the hair into their vials, lifted them to their lips, and swallowed the potion down.

Across the stadium, the subtle movement of thousands of hands lifting thousands of vials rippled like waves through a sea of humans.  Harry watched, clutching his Invisibility Cloak around him, as the men to his side stilled, winced, and and then melted.  

Their faces became grey, amorphous blobs, then shuddered.  It started at the top, in near perfect synchrony, as their hair turned a familiar white-blonde.  Their features solidified, the slope of brow, aquiline nose, pointed chins.  And four Draco Malfoys dropped their vials to the cement and grinned at each other.

“Not bad,” one of the men said, inspecting his arms.  He unbuttoned his shirt to look at his chest, and Harry caught a glimpse of a mole that he knew had no texture.

Throughout the stadium, blonde hair burst forth like dandelion seeds blown through the crowd, until thousands of Draco Malfoys populated the stadium.  But why?

A crime spree?  A swarm of identical criminals?  Was that what the men had been discussing?  Destroying Ollivander’s and other strategic locations?  Sixteen thousand, give or take, Draco Malfoy Doppelgängers, let loose on the world for a night of unfathomable destruction?

The Ministry wouldn’t be able to stop them.

A soft plink of Apparition sounded behind Harry.  The quietest, most subtle Apparition.  He’d only heard it once before, in his office, when Draco’s missing persons file had been spread open on his desk.

The thick, cloying scent of decay flooded Harry’s nose, and he swallowed down a gag.  His breath fogged the air in front of him, and his soul dropped into his bowels.

The Ankou was here.

Bare feet brushed the cement next to him, just a skimming of skin against the step.  To his side, blades of grass folded over in a wave as the Ankou’s foot skated over the turf, then back again.

The air around Harry shifted.  Warmth stole from his arm next to the Ankou.  Slippery, gossamer fabric flitted against the back of his hand, and with it, whispered, ethereal voices.  No words, merely soft, meaningless syllables.  

It was true, then.  The Ankou did wear the Veil.

A woman’s voice, a familiar lilt, but heavy with the power of life and death, murmured in his ear.  “We both heard them.”

Harry’s body ran with goosebumps, and his arm hair stood on end.  He wasn’t invisible to the Ankou.  “What?” he whispered.

“The voices.  You and I.  We both heard them.  But they prefer you.”

Ice cold fingers laced through his, and he fought the urge to rip his hand away.  Behind him, thousands of Draco Malfoys rose from their seats.

The Ankou clicked its tongue in disapproval.  “Eenie meenie…”

The four men nearest Harry froze dead in their tracks.  Eyes wide.  Mouths open.  Their hands dropped to their sides.  And then, as Harry watched, thin scarlet lines appeared across their necks.  Blood dribbled down.

Harry locked eyes with one of them from inside his cloak.

The man’s head slid clean off his neck.  It tumbled to the cement with a meaty thud, followed by the other three, then the cascading crumple of their bodies.

Harry stood frozen in horror, blinking at the decapitated bodies and the pool of blood around them.  The dark puddle oozed toward his shoes, and he stepped out onto the grass.  

In the rows above them, other Dracos, all in different clothes, met the same end.  Bodies hit the cement in a rhythmic thud.  A man shouted.

Harry backed away from the spreading carnage.  His feet led him toward the center of the pitch, where Draco stood on the small hill.  He slouched, wand at his side, eyes closed.  Waiting.

In the stands, blond heads tumbled like harvested wheat, the Ankou a scythe embodied.  Screams, cut short, echoed through the emptying stadium as section by section, the Moirai were cut down as though they stood ripened and waiting in a field.

Draco had marked them all.  He’d become the Ankou’s target, so he’d convinced every member of the Moirai to become him.  He was using the Ankou to do his dirty work.

It was vicious, violent, and utterly brilliant.  And fatal to Draco.

Harry’s footprints were the only evidence of his presence as he reached Draco.  Draco stood on the grassy mound like an offering.  

“Draco!” he yelled, approaching the center of the pitch.

Draco’s eyebrow twitched.  Slowly, his eyes opened and scanned the empty field where Harry stood.  He licked his lips.

“Harry?”  His voice was raspy, as though he’d been crying.

“Yeah,” Harry panted, coming to a stop in front of him.  Draco looked awful.  Sallow.  Drawn.  Done.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said dreamily, as though he wasn’t certain whether or not Harry really was there.

Draco watched heads roll from bodies as the tide made its way across the stadium.  His own death played out before him on an endless reel.

Harry pulled the hood of his cloak back, but Draco merely stared at him, glassy-eyed and vacant.  

“Let’s go,” Harry said.

Draco closed his eyes and smiled through a silent chuckle.  “I told you not to come.”

Draco blinked, and a tear rolled down the side of his nose.  He made no move to wipe it away, and it trailed down, then clung in the corner of his mouth.

Harry stepped closer, climbing the mound until he could reach out and wipe the single tear away.  Draco swallowed thickly and leaned into Harry’s hand.

“You knew I’d come,” Harry said, cupping his jaw.

Draco nodded.  “I didn’t want you to see this.”

A cacophony of panicked shrieks echoed through the stadium, quieter and quieter with each passing second.  Heads and bodies tumbled to the stadium floor, muffling the cries of the fleeing Moirai as the Ankou hunted them down like rats.

“Don’t let them bury me next to my parents,” Draco whispered.

Harry wrapped his hand around the Blood Pact in his pocket and pulled it out.  Three grains of glasslike sand were left.

“They bury us together,” Harry said.

“What?”  Draco blinked the daze from his eyes.

Harry nodded, then slipped his hand into Draco’s.  In his other hand, he watched a grain of sand slip through the hourglass.

“It can’t-” Draco started, a flush rising up his neck.  “No, that’s-”

Draco’s eyes followed the Ankou’s swath of destruction back to where Harry had entered the pitch.  A full circuit.

The stadium was silent.  The sky lay quiet, moon glowing softly behind wispy clouds.  A breeze brought with it the iron tang of fresh blood.  Floodlights made the slaughter shine like a ruby.  

A massacre in the round, with Harry and Draco trapped on stage.

Between the small hill and the stands, a bloody footprint appeared.  Small, dainty.  And another one.

“Oh, God,” Draco whispered.  His hand in Harry’s was clammy.  “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God,” Draco chanted, until all that was left of his voice was a helpless, hitching whine.

A grain slipped through the hourglass.
Harry’s breath came fast, his eyes darting between Draco and the approaching footprints.  Four meters away.  

Three meters.  Draco gripped Harry’s hand so tight, it hurt.

Two meters.  Draco gasped, but the sound came out strangled.

One meter.  Harry threw the hourglass to the ground and pulled out his wand.

The last grain of sand slipped through the hourglass, and Draco stiffened.

Harry pointed his wand at the footprints and shouted, “Avada Kedavra!”

The words wrenched themselves from his bones, sizzled through his nerves, scorched his muscles, and scraped down his arm to burst forth in a sickening green bolt.  The magic crackled open wide, engulfing an invisible figure.

Green fire roared through the stadium.  It boiled up the stands, surged up the walls of the ward, and ripped through it.  The ward shattered with a soundless snap.

Harry panted, arm still rigid, as a body hit the grass in front of them.  A small form in a wispy grey cloak, long blonde hair spilling from it.

Harry turned to Draco, and his lips parted to speak, but he halted.  A scarlet line bisected the front of Draco’s neck.

On the ground, the Blood Pact dissolved into ashes.  An unfelt barrier shattered between them.  A split-second later, Draco collapsed against Harry.  They fell together, hot blood washing down Draco’s chest.

Harry’s heart thundered in his ears.  His hands shook as he scrambled out from under Draco and rolled him onto his back.  Blood poured from his neck, and his sightless eyes reflected the moon.

“No,” Harry said in a sob.  “No, no, no, no…”

Draco’s chest sank with his last exhale.  His final breath fogged in the air between them.

Helpless, Harry watched the fine mist drift upward.  The small cloud pulled in on itself and began to glow.  It hovered for a moment, then sent tendrils out, toward the Ankou and the Veil sprawled on the grass next to Harry.

Harry’s eyes went wide.  It was Draco’s soul.

It moved slowly, as if even in death, Draco was reluctant to part.  Warily, Harry reached out to touch it.  The glowing mist curled in his hand, twined through his fingers, but continued on toward the Veil.

Perhaps…  Perhaps…  Perhaps, unlike the title of Head Auror, that of Master of Death had meant something.

His mind a buzzing, staticky blank, Harry pointed his wand at Draco’s throat and whispered, “Vulnera Sanentur.”

The pale, blood-coated flesh knit together just as well as if Draco were still alive.  Harry gasped.  Maybe there was hope.  He scrambled on all fours to the Veil, ripped it away, ignoring the body that rolled out, and wadded it in his hands.

The radiant mist of Draco’s soul followed the Veil.  It drifted closer and closer.  The fabric clung to Harry’s sweaty hands.

He couldn’t have said how he knew, but he knew that if Draco’s soul passed through the Veil, he would be gone forever.

“Shit, shit shit,” Harry hissed, eyes darting between the Veil in his hands and Draco’s body.

The soul inched closer.

“Fuck!” Harry shouted, and shoved the wadded up Veil under Draco’s back.

His soul wavered…  And Harry watched…

It sent tendrils to skim Draco’s face, as if it had changed its mind, or was reluctant to pass through his body to get to the Veil.

Harry lifted his wand, said a prayer to no one, pressed the tip against Draco’s chest, against that stretch of scarred skin over Draco’s heart where Harry’s magic had known to spare, and whispered, “Rennervate.”

The flesh under his wand jerked.

It thudded once.

Twice.

The glowing cloud of Draco’s soul slipped, first a fine cascade that met Draco’s lips.  Then, it poured itself into Draco’s mouth, and Draco gasped.

Harry froze, slack-jawed.

Draco’s eyes blinked once, then several more times.  He swallowed, and Harry echoed him.

“Draco?” Harry asked, the barest of whispers.

Draco licked his lips, then turned his head.  “Harry?”

Harry nodded.  His throat was too tight to do anything else.

“Am I dead?”

Harry shook his head and blinked back tears, but his eyes burned, and they ran down the sides of his nose anyway.

“But I died?”  Draco ended the question coughing, and it was enough to jar Harry from becoming a blubbering mess.

“Yeah,” he said with a pinched squeak.

He wanted to scream, or cry, or tackle Draco to the ground and kiss him until Draco begged for mercy, but he was too stunned to do more than stare.

Draco took a deep breath, sighed, then sat up.  He looked like he’d just walked off the set of a horror film, and Harry nearly burst into nervous laughter at the thought.

Draco leaned to look over Harry’s shoulder.  “What do we do with her?”

Harry followed Draco’s gaze and turned and sat next to him.  On the Quidditch field in front of them, Luna Lovegood lay in a heap.  Her hair fanned out over the grass, the strands caught on individual blades.  She wore a simple black dress.  Her feet and ankles were drenched in blood.  And around her waist was tied a stringer of dead rodents in various states of decay.

Harry bit his lips.  She said the Veil preferred him.  She’d known.  She’d known all of this would happen.  She’d brought the Prophecy to his desk.  She’d hunted Draco and left warnings and clues in her damned Quibbler articles.  She’d known this would happen.  “Ankou, is that you?  Done, done, done,” Harry said, quoting one of her poems.  “I think she knew.”

“Fidelity in held attack,” Draco whispered.  “I thought she meant between you and I.  But she could have killed me weeks ago.”

“I…”  Harry said, but was distracted by what appeared to be a rotting raccoon pelt tucked into the stringer.  “I killed her.”

“You did.”  Draco bit the inside of his lip.  “Or she let herself be killed.”

“I used an Unforgivable curse on her,” Harry said.  “Even if it was in self-defense.”

Draco hummed and scooted closer, leaning his shoulder against Harry’s.  “It’s not self-defense if you killed someone while defending a criminal.  It makes you a criminal, too.  Ipso facto.”

“Shit.”  Harry let out an exhausted sigh and rested his cheek on Draco’s shoulder.  “Now what?”

“I go back into hiding.”  Draco pressed his lips to Harry’s temple.  “You… let them blame me for this and go back to the Ministry a hero.  The Head Auror who vanquished two dark wizards.”

“I’m not going back.”  The words were out before Harry knew what he meant by them.  Back to his desk.  Back to his apartment.  Back to his half-lived life.  “What if we left?”

“You’re not serious.”

The Prophecy’s grave markers with today’s date flickered through Harry’s memory, and he grinned.  “It only takes ten years of hiding to be declared dead, you know.”

Draco huffed a laugh and buried his nose in Harry’s hair.  “Is that so?”

“Mm hm.”  Harry tilted his chin up to brush his lips against Draco’s.  Draco let out a content hum and kissed Harry until he had to pull away to catch his breath.  “I’ll even give them a head start.”

Draco lifted an eyebrow and waited.

Grinning, Harry climbed to his feet and unfastened his Invisibility Cloak.  Next, he undid the buttons on his Auror robe and threw them into the puddle of Draco’s blood.  He tossed his badge onto the pile.

He gathered the shimmering grey fabric of the Veil in his hands.  It sighed contented whispers against his neck as he threw it over his shoulders, as though it had been waiting eons for him.

Draco’s lips quirked in a smile, and he picked up the Invisibility Cloak, then stood.  It fell around him until he was merely a face.  “You’re stealing the Veil?”

“Borrowing it,” Harry said, though he already knew it belonged to him.  “You’re stealing my cloak?”

“Borrowing it,” Draco replied primly.  He studied Harry for a long moment.  “Are you sure you want to do this?  Go on the run?”

“No,” Harry blurted.  “I’ve never been sure of anything.”  He licked his lips and looked up at the dreary night sky, wishing he were anywhere else.  Somewhere different.  Somewhere sunny and warm, where neon flowers drooped over a patio table.  “Have you ever been to Australia?”

Draco huffed a laugh.  “No.  Have you?”

Harry cataloged all the reasons he shouldn’t leave, and all the things he’d be missing, and came up short.

He shrugged.  “No time like the present.”

Chapter Text

Harry sighed and let the sunlight melt his naked body against the fine sand of Mullaloo Beach.  The Veil around him provided no shade, only anonymity.  Despite Hermione's admonishments, he rarely went a day without basking like a lizard, and he had the full-body tan to prove it.  Draco had grown a few freckles.

His mobile vibrated.  Ron kept sending photos of Harry and Draco's headstones.  

Somewhere behind him, Draco was either stealing drinks or conning someone into buying them for him.  He’d follow his own footprints back to Harry, and the drinks in his hands would vary as much as the face he wore.

Sand crunched next to Harry’s head, and he opened an eye.  Through the haze of the Veil, Draco stood above him, a can of Bud Light in each hand.  He looked rather disappointed in his earnings.  He was downright scandalous in a tangerine Speedo.

“Slim pickings.”  Harry snuck a hand out through the opening in the Veil and poked Draco’s foot.  “You can drink both of those yourself.”

Draco wedged the cans upright in the sand and surveyed the beach.  A few bathers splashed in the water, but the wide expanse of white sand was mostly empty.  “Scoot over.”

With a furtive glance around the beach, Harry held the Veil open like a sleeping bag, and Draco snuck in next to him.  Harry wrapped it around them and put his arm around Draco’s back.

Harry’s lips pressed against Draco’s collarbone, seeking out the raised peak of his mole amongst the freckles.  “What face did you wear that earned you Bud Light?”

Draco nuzzled Harry’s hair for a moment, then pulled back.  “This one.”

Harry looked up and shrugged.  “Your real face should at least you vodka shots.”

Draco quirked an eyebrow.  “What?”

Harry let his hand wander down Draco’s side, and he ran a finger under the stretchy waistband of his Speedo.  “You didn’t Dopplegänger the drinks out of someone?”

Draco’s breath huffed out into Harry’s hair.  “I did.”

Harry hummed and slid his hand into Draco’s pants.  His own cock swelled in reply.  “You did not.”

“I’m wearing a face right,” Draco gasped when Harry squeezed his dick, “now.  You can’t see it?”

Harry pushed Draco’s pants down and wrapped his hand around both of them.  “Nope.  You’re just you.”

Draco was quiet, his breathing no louder than the waves lapping against the sand.  “Do you know what I call this face?” he asked.

“Do you call it…” Harry spit in his palm, scooted closer to Draco, lined his cock up with Draco’s, and resumed stroking them both.  “… recently declared dead?”

“No.”  

"Freckled fugitive?"

"No."

"Butterdick?"

"No."  A grin crept across Draco’s face, crinkling the smile lines Harry considered his own handiwork.  “I call it ‘husband material’, actually.”

“Is that so?”  Harry’s hand stopped moving, and his heart thudded against his ribs.  He loved the idea, though they’d never discussed it.  “And it only earned you Bud Light?”

“She had a very low opinion of men, I think.”  Draco’s lips tugged Harry’s hair.  “But it did get a dashing man to jerk me off on the beach.”

Harry smeared their combined precum around the head of Draco’s cock.  “Did it?”

“Mm hm.  He’s-“  Draco gasped as Harry tightened his grip.  “-quite good at it.”

“Is he?”

“Mm hm,” Draco hummed, thrusting in time with Harry’s hand.  “To die for.”

"You think so?"  Harry's voice was a chest-deep rumble.

"Just the once," Draco said, panting into Harry's hair.  "But I'll kill you if you stop."