Chapter Text
“Oh fuck! How much gin is in this?!” someone cries, their slurred voice carrying up from the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place.
It’s an admirable feat. A pounding bass beat originating from the sitting room rattles the old house’s every nook and cranny.
Draco snorts as he passes the entryway to the kitchen’s stairs. Clearly, too much. He tries to walk by an inebriated George Weasley, whose stocky, dancing-but-really-just-flailing frame is blocking the entrance to the sitting room. Draco ducks and darts around him, narrowly missing an elbow to the nose. He is stopped short from reaching the drinks table by a laughing Ginevra, dressed as Jareth the Goblin King and shouting to whomever to play her song. Her small hands greedily grasp the front of Draco’s cashmere jumper as she spins him in a tight circle, all while cackling in his annoyed face.
He endures Ginevra’s twists and twirls as they do a strange waltz across the room to the soothing vocals of David Bowie’s As the World Falls Down. Their little performance ultimately leads him to the drinks table. Draco finally, happily, escapes her goblin-sized hands, only to be disappointed at the drinks table's pitiful state. He stares forlornly, grimacing, as he notices the only items left are beers. Muggle beers, at that. He reluctantly grabs a Heineken. Shoulders straightening, Draco looks around the room as he sips from the lukewarm pony-necked bottle, wondering why he agreed to come to this thing in the first place.
The Weasleys have practically taken over the makeshift dance floor in the sitting room. George, Ginevra, Weasel, and the hot ones—the almost-sort-of werewolf and dragon tamer—are now doing an eerie, truly bizarre synchronised dance as the stereo belts out: “‘Cause this is Thriller! Thriller night!” There’s no space for him to sit, let alone have a second for a proper thought.
For one sobering moment, Draco wonders if he would have fared better at the Manor tonight, playing Belote with Mother and her ever-growing clique of cutthroat Society biddies. He shudders. Mother’s gaggle of friends are dreadfully boring and become terrifyingly handsy after half a glass of port. He always leaves game night at the Manor with smarting cheeks—both face and arse. Alas, he chose the lesser of two evils tonight.
There are ex-classmates from Hogwarts and a few colleagues from the Ministry in awful fancy dress spilling out into the hallways. Everywhere, people are snogging – in all the bedrooms, in the kitchen, in the sitting room, and even in the bloody loos. Draco’s already prevented two couples from having sloppy drunk sex in Weasel and Granger’s room, finally employing a strongly intended Colloportus that’ll probably take even Granger a minute or so to undo later in her inebriated state. Speaking of Granger. Draco’s eyes zero in on the person to blame for this atrocious night.
Hermione bloody Jean Granger.
Draco watches as she laughs at something Longbottom says, her massive curls bouncing from the force of it. She’s dressed as a mime artist, which is ironic considering he’s never seen Granger go a minute without opening her big, know-it-all mouth about anything and everything. What does he care if the swot won a grant to travel to America? Who cares if it’s to reopen a research outpost at some remote air force base (cleverly disguised as a military training centre to Muggles) in Nevada? Why would it bother him if she’s to develop and test some of the Department of Mysteries’ more experimental projects dealing with extra-terrestrial forces and rifts in space and time? Or, at least, that’s all the intel Draco has been able to gather from Granger without having to appear too interested.
Draco sighs, annoyed with himself and resigned to the fact that he might just be a tad jealous. He takes a long, unhappy swig from his beer.
Tonight is Granger’s going away party, which she thought for some inane reason would be logical to hold on Hallowe’en. Draco believes that on a night as powerful as this one, alcohol mixed with Wix in an ancient house equals buffoonery of unseen levels. He’s seen it in the vigorous snogging, smelled it on the gin-laced breaths of his friends, and while angrily using Evanesco on vomit puddles in the strangest places. It’s been a crazy, lust-fueled party thus far. He tries not to think too hard about why he’s not complaining to anyone who’ll listen or why he hasn't locked himself in his room, instead deciding to take care of the house and guests. Merlin forbid someone call his actions nice because Draco couldn’t care less that Granger’s leaving tomorrow; it’s not like he’s going to miss the barmy wench or anything.
There goes all that unnecessary lying to himself he promised not to do anymore. Granger can be quite insufferable when she gets her hooks into an issue like she did with Draco immediately after the war. He was an Issue That Needed Solving for her, and honestly, Draco probably wouldn’t have had the bollocks to apply to the Auror Corps without her, so he tries to show that he’s a good, supportive colleague… a friend. As an Auror, he’s worked on several cases with Granger these last five years, solidifying their friendship. She is as smart as they say, and he can also begrudgingly admit, after all this time, that she’s kind and noble.
But that mongrel boyfriend of hers took a while to come around.
Draco had the misfortune of Weasel bullying him during Auror training. There were fisticuffs, cut lips, and black eyes between them for much of the early part of their training, no matter Granger’s interventions. For a whole year, Draco suffered in a toxic learning environment before Robards censured the gangly idiot after one particularly brutal fight in the trainee breakroom. Despite the bullying he faced, he finished at the very top across all subjects. No one could deny his prowess as an Auror. He came to a sort of truce with Weasel after graduation, and soon after that, Weasel became Draco’s partner for two years.
The hell Weasel rained down on Draco early on may have been inexcusable, but it was understandable. Draco had his own PTSD to manage while trying to redeem himself in the eyes of his colleagues and the Magical community as a whole. Draco couldn’t expect Weasel to forgive him right away; it took time. And then Weasel decided to leave the Aurors for mental health reasons. Now, they were close enough that Draco knew how Weasel whittled his free time away with therapeutic baking, writing in that damned journal of his, and product-testing for George.
And Weasel seems happier now, not as angry. The same could be said for a lot of them as survivors.
Nonplussed, Draco watches Weasel drop to his stomach to do a weird wormlike movement across the floor as everyone around him claps and hoots. He doesn’t know what the hell is going on here anymore.
It’s then that Granger’s DoM research partner, Adrian Pucey, sidles up beside him.
“Aren’t you just a sight for sore eyes tonight.” Adrian shoots him a wolfish grin.
Draco raises one eyebrow in question, staring down at his outfit before fixing Adrian with a smug smile. He refused to dress up for the occasion, instead wearing a butter-soft cashmere black jumper and bespoke black trousers, his hair pushed back from his forehead, artfully tousled. Draco knows he’s gorgeous; it’s not a secret. He could don a potato sack, and no one would dare deny his allure.
“Adrian,” Draco starts softly, the corners of his lips twitching upward further as his eyes roam the length of Adrian’s lovely body. “The sentiment is a mutual one…” Shoulders loosening, he pulls the man into a brief hug before surveying him once more at arm's length. Adrian had opted for a simple costume: a silly cowboy hat on his brunette head, a red and black plaid shirt, tall brown dragon-hide boots, tight blue jeans, and the most preposterous pewter buckle in the shape of a bull’s head on his belt.
Adrian chuckles, a playful glint in his hazel eyes, and says, “You look different. Did you get a haircut?”
“Could it be that I’m wearing clothes?” Draco answers.
Adrian grips his ostentatious belt buckle and pushes his hips forward. “Must be it. Are you planning on wearing this all night?”
Draco smirks. “Why? Do you have something else in mind for me?”
“I might,” Adrian says, looking Draco up and down as if he’s picturing him without a shred of fabric on. Draco thinks spending the night with Adrian would be nice since he’ll be joining Granger on her research trip to America. It's been a very long time since they tumbled into bed together.
A real smile slowly crosses Draco’s face. “Alright, then.”
“Well, giddy up, cowboy,” responds Adrian in an awful Southern American accent, throwing one arm around Draco’s shoulders. Draco laughs and loosely wraps an arm around Adrian’s waist.
Despite Adrian’s severe emotional unavailability, regardless of Draco’s efforts, he was an agreeable casual shag. Draco has come to appreciate having him around as a sort of friend, what with his Slytherin-sharp wit and humour. His enthusiasm in the bedroom doesn’t hurt either. In the past, when Draco found most his nights tangled in Adrian’s sheets, their bodies cooling and breathing deep, Draco wondered why he couldn't convince Adrian to take their casual shagging to the next step: a supper, a movie, dating, boyfriends. Draco once said early on in their arrangement, “If only I could see behind that closed door of yours, this might all be worth the struggle.” It made Draco incredibly sad to realise how emotionally closed off Adrian is to him. Alas, Draco could have all the agreeable sex he wanted with Adrian, but it meant very little in terms of whether or not they could be romantically together. Draco’s long since given up thinking about it, charting it away to the recesses of his mind. But sometimes, he questions how measurable of a disservice it is to his happiness and well-being to continuously put off such thoughts about the men who continue to shuffle in and out of his life.
Draco takes another sip from his Muggle swill, an uncharacteristic pang of sorrow hitting him.
“Er. Hey, Draco?”
Draco starts. He turns to face the direction of the voice.
Harry stands behind them, dressed like a pirate in a crazy hat, ruffled shirt, and ridiculously long, fake scraggly beard, an outlandish sword tucked to his side. “Oh, sorry! Am I interrupting something?”
Harry’s face is so comically uncomfortable that Draco wants to laugh. Instead, he rolls his eyes, mostly at himself. Not for the first time tonight, he wonders what’s wrong with him. After two years as Auror partners with Harry’s best mate, longer than that as friends with Hermione, and hanging around Grimmauld Place like a bloody ghoul before finally moving in last year, how can he still find Harry so fucking fit after all this time, especially when he’s got that stupid, awkward expression plastered across his face?
“It’s fine, Potter. What do you want?” Draco doesn’t mean for his tone to sound so sharp.
Harry deflates and uses a finger to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. The act is wonderfully endearing. “Well, you seem busy. It’s just that everyone is much too gone for me to ask them for help, but I can keep trying—”
For fuck’s sake. Draco blinks and says, “I’m ageing here.”
Harry ducks his head briefly to hide what looks suspiciously to Draco like a smile. “Can you help me bring up some more refreshments from the kitchen?”
Draco bites his tongue and resists the urge to ask Harry if he thinks he’s a bloody house-elf. Instead of complaining, he takes a small step back from Adrian's warm, pliant side.
“Sure, Potter. I’ll see you later, Adri,” he says fondly.
Draco kisses Adrian's cheek before following Harry to the kitchen, once again dodging an ocean of drunk people. Some of them clap him on the shoulder as he walks by; others glare at him through narrowed, suspicious eyes. It’s nearly eight years out from the war, and he still endures some animosity from people who believe he should live in the past.
Harry heads towards the wide doorway that leads down a short, brightly lit staircase. Over the last few years, Draco has come to appreciate the new changes to 12 Grimmauld Place. He recalls what Granger said it used to look like before she and Weasel moved in to help Harry remodel, back when it was a dank, dark shell of a house with a morose, pitiful energy pulsing from walls reeking of mildew. It’s become a beautiful, four-level home, with wide, colourful hallways, large windows that filter in sunlight and moonlight, and gorgeous, lush furnishings draped in silk and velvet sprawled throughout every parlour and bedroom.
The kitchen smells like an odd mix of freshly baked sweets, hoppy beer, and cigarette smoke. A fire crackles in the fireplace, and the recycling bins are spilling over with an enormous stack of empty liquor bottles, mostly gin. The large wooden kitchen table is littered with shot glasses and surrounded by Hogwarts alums.
“—And then I told the dickhead to get that thing out of my house before I hex it up his bloody arse,” Lavender says.
Draco grins at his partner. The day before, after kicking his arse in a hand-to-hand combat session in the DMLE’s training room, she told him the same ridiculous story as they sat next to each other on mats to cool down. She’s always armed with the most bizarre dating encounters, which makes for hilariously titillating stories.
Two years ago, after a series of poor Auror partner matches, Robards stepped into Draco's office to tell him that an Auror from the Brussels DMLE Witness Care Unit was transferring in. They were to not only develop a Survivor Care Unit for the Ministry but also become Draco’s partner.
“Consider this a promotion, Malfoy,” Robards had started. “Based on your closed case rate, strategic skills, and level of defence, I’d like you to co-develop and co-lead with her on establishing this department. I have full confidence that you two will work well together. Some Aurors from Brussels swear that she’s a Clairvoyant.”
Draco had stumbled through his thanks, thoughts riddled with confusion. He had worked hard to prove himself as one of the best Aurors in the department. He was happy that he was finally being noticed, but heading a completely new department was an even greater achievement than he’d imagined this early on in his career. Before he could inquire about the new agent's name, a cheery voice had rung out from across the Bullpen.
“Knock, knock!” the voice sang.
Draco was prepared to respond to the Muggle phrase with a “Who’s there?” But the joke shrivelled up in his throat when he realised that Lavender Brown had survived the war.
The last time he saw her, a devastated Parvati Patil was dragging her bleeding, scarred body down a crumbling corridor. Having been running for his life, Draco simply recalled that, at that moment, she looked dead. But striding down the Auror Bullpen to stand beside Robards, she was fully alive and the opposite of that terrifying image. Dark honey-blonde corkscrew curls fell lushly down her back, illuminating the golden tones of her brown skin. Her plump curves and soft stomach were accentuated in a tight green dress, her matching stiletto heels boosting her short stature. The most striking aspect of her appearance left Draco a bit bereft. There were long gashes across the left side of her face, the most prominent dark scar across her left eye, starting just above her perfectly arched eyebrow down her high cheekbone to her round jaw. There were two other marks, thin and pale against her skin, starting from her jaw and going down her neck before disappearing beneath the collar of her dress.
They did get on amazingly. After two years as partners, now with a new, albeit functioning Survivor Care Unit, Draco has seen the sheer force of Lavender’s fiery strength. Initially, Draco had warred with his preconceived notions of her as a vain and silly girl meanly believing that her outward femininity was somewhat entwined with her intelligence. He’s placed those terrible notions aside, ashamed, and gone on to develop the utmost respect for her as both an Auror partner and best friend.
Draco winks as Lavender smiles up at him from the kitchen table.
He finds himself giggling along with the uproarious laughter, even more tickled by the sight of Justin Finch-Fletchley and Padma Patil near a small open window, smoking their cigarettes and shooting the rambunctious group aghast looks from across the kitchen.
“Merlin, are you lot fishing for a Disturbance Citation with all this racket?” Draco asks as he rests a bony hip against the kitchen island next to platters upon platters of canapés. Weasel truly outdid himself for this event.
“You’d be arresting half our department if you did!” Lavender laughs, her sharp amber gaze sliding towards Harry before grinning. “Harry, how do you put up with such a spoilsport of a housemate?”
Harry smiles politely and shrugs. “I’ve found a few handy ways to shut him up over the years.”
Everyone at the table laughs harder, the sheer magnitude of Harry’s cheek going over their heads. A fissure of annoyance shoots through Draco as Harry smirks at him, a teasing glint dancing in his eyes. Draco rolls his eyes before crossing his arms against his chest.
“It must be working like a bloody charm! A year as housemates and no one has been murdered?” Ernie Macmillan cackles as he leans against a grinning, pink-cheeked Longbottom, lifting his can of beer high above his head. “Well, that’s something to celebrate!” he continues, shaking the can as the people around them cheer and clap.
Draco can feel the heat spreading across his cheeks and scowls. “Oh, fuck right off, ye all of little faith!”
“Hey!” Finnegan exclaims. “What’s up with Robards pulling me from the potions ring case!?” His burst of irritation causes the people around him to moan and swear.
Thomas groans. “Babe. Can you please not talk about work right now?”
“Not to mention, wow. What a huge breach of security, Seamus,” Lavender says, primly sipping from her shot glass.
“What? It’s not like I’m naming names and dropping key Ministry intel here!” Finnegan says, a sheepish look on his face. “Honest. I’m gutted.”
“What do we need the bloody bomb squad for, Finnegan?” Draco asks, his voice a low drawl.
Finnegan shakes his shaggy-haired head, briefly resembling a wet dog. “Mate, really? Where there’s potions, there’s explosions!”
Draco rubs a hand over his mouth, hiding his smile, before using his wand to levitate three platters of food off the table. “I’ll be sure to mention that to Robards on Monday.”
“A true ledge! Cheers, Malfoy!” Seamus pumps his fist in the air, his flushed, boyish face breaking into a grin as Dean smothers kisses upon his cheek.
Harry nudges Draco’s side before leaning in close. “There has been an uptick in overdoses coming into St. Mungo’s recently. They’ve pulled me from the Dai Llewellyn Ward to the Poisoning Department since I uncovered Doxy Venom in that new street drug going around, Electric Candy.” Harry carefully removes the Stasis Charms from the final platters of canapés.
Draco nods and follows along, his cheerful air evaporating. “We have a suspect in custody, and we’re going to work to the bone until they spill their intel.”
Draco refrains from mentioning that the suspect is a sickly, nameless seventeen year old addict. She had been arrested during a raid at a discovered brewing warehouse in Canary Wharf last week. The attack against Draco’s team had been brutal and sent three of his colleagues to St. Mungo’s with severe injuries. All the major players of the potions ring had engaged in a duel with Aurors before they escaped, and from the haphazard condition of the warehouse, it appeared they had cleared out their supplies mere moments before the Aurors arrived. Draco suspected that there was a mole in the Ministry and had voiced this concern to Robards, who, in response, cut their investigation team to a quarter of its original size. Meanwhile, the DMLE planned an internal investigation.
The girl found at the warehouse refused to talk, and the Aurors on site had used a Charm to determine her age. Until further notice, she’d been placed in a cell in the Detention Area on Level Ten with a Ministry-appointed house-elf assigned to monitor her around the clock. Draco wasn’t looking forward to dealing with her again—something about the girl made him uncomfortable, and it had nothing to do with how terribly young and fragile she was. Quite the opposite, really.
Draco felt that there was something Dark about her.
He had been the first to interrogate her once she was brought back to the Ministry after the raid, the dormant whispers of Dark Magic stirring in Draco as he sat across from her, a cold metal table between them. He couldn’t pin down how or why this girl would have such a Dark, potent aura about her. When he began his questioning, she remained silent despite Draco’s probing. As he grew frustrated, he stood from his seat to pace the room, at one point crouching beside her as he tried to coax her into telling him what happened at the warehouse. No matter his gentle tone or physical proximity, she remained silent, but her eyes followed him everywhere, gaze rapt with what looked like awe. Knowing he was at a dead-end with the interrogation, he called the Ministry-appointed house-elf, Neemy, to return the young girl to the Detention Area until Draco could discuss further interrogation efforts with Robards. He had been relieved to get away from her and had rushed through the interrogation because the girl unsettled him. The entire encounter had left him on edge for the rest of the week.
Harry claps him on the shoulder, grounding Draco back to the present. “Good. I’ve been asked to sit in on this Monday’s debriefing at the DMLE to discuss some of my recent medical findings on Electric Candy.”
“I’m sure your input will be invaluable,” Draco says genuinely, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
If someone had told Draco seven years ago that Harry Potter wouldn’t go on to become an Auror but a bloody Healer with a focus on creature-induced maladies, Draco would have referred them to the Janus Thickey ward. But lo and behold, Harry had somehow managed to pass his NEWTs with flying colours, along with the required Potions grade. Draco guessed that without a murderous egomaniac after him every year, Harry had a bit more time to study properly. He entered Healer training at the same time that Draco entered Auror training.
“Sorry if I interrupted anything with Adrian,” Harry says suddenly, drawing Draco from his thoughts.
Draco shrugs, now levitating the platters. “It wasn’t a problem.”
“If you say so. Looked a bit like you two were about to snog,” Harry teases.
Draco nearly drops the platter he’s trying to stack in the air. “You would’ve loved to have seen that, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, yeah, I love the idea of watching you slobber all over some poor bloke’s face.”
Draco lifts his chin defiantly. “I do not slobber when I kiss.”
He watches as Harry levitates a box full of unopened liquor bottles alongside the remaining platters of food. Draco raises an eyebrow as Harry leans into his personal space; he can smell the other man's woodsy, gin-laced, sweat-salt smell and hates that it makes him shiver.
“How would I know, eh?” Harry whispers, a pointed look on his face. His eyes dart to Draco’s lips before he turns away and heads back towards the stairs. Draco scowls at his retreating form, wishing he could kick the four-eyed git in the shins.
When they make it back up to the sitting room, Adrian is no longer by the drinks table, now probably trying to get a leg over some other bloke. And not to Draco’s surprise, he’s proven correct when he catches sight of Adrian, a feral grin on his face, looming over a blushing Charlie Weasley in the far corner of the sitting room. There goes his shag for the night. Maybe it’s for the best. They begin to unload the platters and liquor on the nearly empty drinks table in the sitting room, Draco with a bit more force than necessary.
“Alright there? You look like someone just told you all the chocolate at the party is gone,” Harry says, his tone almost smug.
Draco rolls his eyes, his heartbeat fluttering as he takes a moment to pick up a chocolate-covered pretzel from one of the platters and pops it into his mouth. He chews and swallows before saying, “You’re actually not too far off from your observation, Potter.”
Harry’s grin is a slow, sly dance across his face. “There’re plenty of other sweets available.”
There’s a weird sort of fluttering occurring in Draco’s stomach that he’s long associated with Harry acting like a great big teasing oaf around him. Draco sneers, though his heart isn’t fully in it. “Thank you for the consolation.”
“Merlin, Draco, I’ve hardly seen you all night!” Hermione shouts over the music as she speedily makes her way towards them. Weasel’s hand is clasped in hers as she tugs him along for the ride.
Draco shrugs. “Didn’t want to interrupt the Know-It-All mid-speech. You might have spontaneously combusted going a second without running your mouth.”
“I bet you’ve been dying to say that to me all night,” Hermione drawls, staring up at him with a playful smirk. She pokes him repeatedly in the side, her engagement ring glinting under the colourful fairy lights they strung up around the room earlier. “Poor ickle Drakey, are you mad that I haven’t paid you enough attention tonight?” she coos.
Draco bats her offensive finger away before crossing his arms against his chest. “Ma’am, I don’t even like you,” he says, turning his nose up.
“Oh, get stuffed, Malfoy. You know you’re helpless without her,” Weasel chimes in, looking smug. He’s recently chopped his long red hair off, now sporting a buzzcut and trimmed beard. Loathe as he is to even think it, Weasel does look infinitesimally better than usual.
“I’d wipe that smug look off your face immediately, Weasel-bee. If not for your fiancée here, you wouldn’t know your left hand from your right, and Potter would have perished First Year. Really, the only reason why you two dolts are even alive is because of her,” Draco snorts.
“Hey, I didn’t say anything!” Harry complains, looking put out as he prepares several rows of shots.
“Your mere presence warrants a reminder of Hermione’s life-saving skills,” Draco retorts. He narrowly misses Harry’s hand, flying to wallop him in the back of the head, snickering as he dodges it.
Harry huffs as he steps up to Hermione. “I’m going to miss you terribly, ‘Mione,” he says, handing her a shot and pressing a kiss to her forehead.
Weasel’s eyes are suddenly bright as he clears his throat, and Draco can’t help but notice that his own throat is starting to alarmingly feel a bit tight. Fucking hell. He’s starting to regret ever allowing the Golden Trio to ensnare him in their little nest. Harry hands him a shot, and Weasel one, too.
“It’s only going to be a year,” Hermione says sadly, looking up at Weasel before glancing back at him and Harry. “I’m glad you’ll all have each other…and I’ll Floo call every night, I promise.”
Draco huffs, feeling a touch emotional. “You better, you barmy wench.” He lifts his shot glass. “To the Brightest Witch of Our Age!” he toasts, flinching as he tosses back his shot, the entire room repeating his words before a cacophony of applause and congratulations breaks out. He watches as Weasel scoops Hermione up into a kiss. Harry slaps him on his back, grinning madly as he presses another shot into Draco’s other hand.
Draco finds himself returning the grin because, really, Harry is too stupid, handsome, and joyful for his own good, and sometimes it’s just so bloody hard not to love that about the bastard.