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Chapter Text

In a world of loud, dazzling, noisy people all striving to find their place under the sun, Draco Malfoy preferred to remain in the shadows. It hadn’t always been this way. But now, he found it perfectly fitting.

The fewer people knew who he was, what he was, and how he was doing, the better he slept at night in his small apartment on the second floor of an old wooden house in Stredford. On the first floor sat a secondhand bookshop that almost never saw a customer.

Draco had bought the house and shop from an old man who’d owned them for more than sixty years. No magic was even needed to arrange it. Good old Alzheimer’s and a couple of bribes had done the job. The deal was struck. Money, as it turned out, simplified life far better than magic ever could. In any world.

Now the old man greeted the dawns in a place called Sunny Avenue. Professionally trained nurses looked after him around the clock. And Draco, in his new home, fell asleep almost peacefully, tasting something very close to safety.

Sometimes he visited the old man. Once a week, no more. He liked to imagine the man sitting in front of him was his father. He liked to talk about what news stirred the town, which books he’d read, how much gasoline cost these days. The old Muggle couldn’t remember even Draco’s name. And yet, he was the only one Malfoy could call a friend in this town. That suited him just fine.

Every morning began the same way. He woke, drank black coffee. A new country, new habits. Did his exercises, took a cold shower, put on Muggle clothes, and opened the shop downstairs. Then came the second cup of coffee. Draco never had breakfast, never touched his wand, never read the papers—Muggle or wizarding.

He tried to live this life as simply as possible. Sleep, wake, read books, walk through the endless forest that ringed the town on all sides. On weekends, he rowed on the nearby lake. It was the only English, but not magical, pastime he’d kept for himself. There wasn’t a single wizard in town besides him. Perhaps that was why he could breathe just a little deeper, a little easier.

The locals thought Malfoy was the old man’s son, returned after years abroad, taken to England by his mother after a divorce. The explanation was imperfect and, even by Draco’s own measure, flimsy. But people here believed it. Perhaps Americans were simply more friendly, more trusting of life, than his own countrymen. Perhaps they minded less about others, and a bit more about themselves. Or maybe Draco just liked this version best: that people simply wanted to believe in a miracle. That even their backwater could be of interest to someone. Especially if that someone was a young man, a true foreigner straight from England. Interesting, yes, but not interesting enough to keep the town gossips talking for longer than a week.

The business, which Draco had needed only as a cover, unexpectedly began to draw him in. He enjoyed ordering and shipping books. Enjoyed standing behind the counter, even if his customers were mostly lost tourists. But most of all, he enjoyed reading.

Page after page, he uncovered the world of Muggle literature and was astonished. How could all of this have been so near, and yet utterly out of reach? In some strange way, Malfoy was even grateful for it all. If not for the war and everything that followed, he might never have begun to read.

For the sake of his almost-restful sleep, his almost-safety, and his books, Draco was ready to stay in the shadows as long as it took. Perhaps even a lifetime.

The trouble was, the events of today threatened to turn his shadow into darkness. And that, Malfoy could not allow. Not again.

***

It wasn’t that he noticed nothing. Draco wasn’t a fool. The absence of wizards didn’t mean the absence of magic. The ancient forest teemed with magical creatures; sirens lived in the lake. Sometimes a couple of ghosts drifted through. Somewhere nearby lived an old Squib woman, about the age of his friend. But all of this stayed within reason. Magic remained a natural part of nature, of existence.

But three blood-drained bodies, found at a tourist campsite by the local sheriff—that was beyond the bounds of natural. That’s where it all began.

With no friends and no newspapers, Draco might easily have missed the news and gone on living in peace. But in a town where nothing ever happened, a triple, mysterious murder set off hysteria like a bomb going off.

Everyone was talking about it.

The sheriff questioned people. The town council organized a night watch. Journalists arrived. The word vampires passed in whispers from neighbor to neighbor. Despite his skepticism toward Muggle beliefs in the supernatural, for once Draco agreed with them. It really could only be vampires.

And if magical creatures were behind the deaths of Muggles, then an Auror visit to town was only a matter of time. American or English, Aurors were still Aurors. He could only hope that on this side of the ocean, the name Malfoy wasn’t so infamous. Ideally, not known at all.

It was the third day of siege on the Vermont backwater—journalists mixed with true-crime enthusiasts swarming the streets. Draco, long accustomed to Stredford’s quiet and calm, was beginning to unravel. His shop—though not in the very center of town, but close enough to the police station—was attracting more and more visitors. Not a single book had been sold. But every other person came in asking for coffee. Neither the “No Coffee” sign in the window nor the “We Don’t Sell Coffee” plaque on the door helped.

So when the bell above the door rang yet again, and Draco, standing on the ladder while inventorying the top shelves, barked without turning his head:

"No coffee. Only books."

He promptly fell off the ladder when he heard the familiar British accent:

"Thanks, Malfoy. But I can read."

Hissing in pain and rubbing his tailbone, Draco pushed himself up from the floor. He didn’t want to turn around. Because he already knew exactly who he’d see.

Bloody Harry Potter. Damn him.
Oh, right. He already was.
And now so was Malfoy. Along with him.

Chapter Text

"—So there is coffee after all?" Potter asked, absentmindedly turning a handleless ceramic cup in his hands.

"For visitors—no," Malfoy cut him off sharply.

"And I’m not a visitor?"

"You’re an Auror, Potter," Draco exhaled.

Before pouring Harry a cup of coffee, he locked the shop door, pulled down the blinds, and led Potter into the back office reserved for “important negotiations.” Malfoy rarely used this room—mainly for clients who insisted on closing a deal for a rare book in person. And now, sitting in the guest chair was Harry bloody Potter, sipping coffee and curiously looking around.

Draco hadn’t seen Potter in nearly eight years. In that time, the Boy Who Lived had barely changed—and yet he’d changed completely. The same untidy hair, against which many a comb had perished, the familiar green eyes—without glasses now—and the same air of careless negligence, bordering on indifference. But between his brows there was now a deep crease, and the reckless glint of youth in his eyes had been replaced with something else entirely: an endless, pulling depth.

The relaxed posture in which Potter sat didn’t fool Draco: every movement of the Auror radiated strength and power. On his forearms, revealed by the rolled-up sleeves of a sweatshirt, lay scattered scars that hadn’t been there at school. Auror work had changed Potter—and it was impossible not to notice.

Malfoy realized he was staring and looked away. After all, it wasn’t only Harry who had changed—so had he.

The last time they had seen each other was in court, where Potter had voluntarily spoken in Draco’s defense—shortening his Azkaban sentence to two years, though not sparing him from prison entirely. Malfoy had emerged from it a different man—into an entirely different world.

Before the Aurors had sealed off the Manor, the place had been thoroughly pillaged by looters hungry for retribution. Draco understood them—war had brought too much pain, and people wanted at least a moment’s solace. The only comfort was that Lucius had managed to spirit away the most valuable possessions into Gringotts vaults long before their home became a Death Eater refuge and the Dark Lord’s personal playground. His father had been many things, but never a fool. He had trusted his allies no more than he trusted the Ministry.

Narcissa had gone to France with no intention of returning. She constantly invited Draco to join her, but despite his love for her, living with his mother didn’t strike him as such a brilliant idea. His father was on the run—perhaps alive, perhaps not. Draco didn’t much care.

For a couple of years, he had tried to settle in magical London. The spit on his back and curses flung by strangers were less of a problem than the impossibility of finding decent housing or work. The worst part was that he understood perfectly well why he was treated that way—and he agreed with it.

After couch-surfing with Zabini, Nott, Parkinson, and Goyle, Draco had begun to consider escape. Not to start a new life, but simply to survive the rest of this one—in the shadow of unforgivable mistakes. At twenty-four, he packed everything he valued into a giant rucksack, made one last stop at the family vault for a little financial security, and, by Muggle means, leaving no magical trace, disappeared into America.

Now he had lived here for two years—among endless forests, people speaking a language both familiar and foreign, among books and his own thoughts. His hair had grown long, his cheeks had hollowed, his eyesight had worsened, and now he, like Potter, wore glasses. His once-perfect posture was gone. He wore only loose, comfortable Muggle clothes. Sometimes he even thought his accent had shifted slightly—blended with the local one. There was nothing left of the pompous English boy from a powerful family.

He had turned twenty-six that summer, almost without noticing. And he had nearly made peace with living in the shadows.

But now Potter was back in his life—and in those green eyes the damned sun reflected.

***

"How did you even end up here, Potter?" Draco poured himself a cup as well. Third cup, he noted mentally. No more today.

"Assigned to the case, obviously. You don’t joke about three bodies in the news."

"That’s not what I meant. I mean here"—Draco gestured with his hands—"in America…"

"Ah, here." Harry smiled slightly and gave a vague answer: "Ministry exchange program."

He won’t tell me. Not a chance, Malfoy realized. Potter had changed over his years as an Auror. The sincere, straightforward Gryffindor had helped him survive the war, but hadn’t been suited for the political labyrinth of the postwar years. For that, he’d had to lean on long-forgotten Slytherin instincts.

"And out of all the cases, of course they put you on this one. My backwater."

"That’s your fate, Malfoy. Tell me, does this town even have a proper coffee shop? Because honestly, what you poured in that mug is undrinkable."

Draco almost retorted, but instead just shrugged. He earned his money selling books and through collectors’ deals, but after taxes, the income was modest. The coffee really might not have been the best.

"Come on, let’s get a real coffee, Malfoy. And on the way, you can explain to me how, in a town with no other wizards but you, someone managed to disguise a human sacrifice as a vampire attack."

Chapter Text

Autumn in Stredford was incredibly beautiful. The town was full of maples, and they painted everything around in fiery blazes of leaves. This was Draco’s second autumn in Vermont, and he had been waiting for it.

And here it was, he noted to himself with irony and irritation.

Potter, walking beside him, behaved as if nothing unusual was happening: crunching through the leaves, pointing with surprise at wooden houses, expressing genuine delight at how un-English everything looked. He said nothing about the case, and Draco, for now, didn’t ask. Instead, he amused Harry with the town’s history and stories about the locals.

"We’re in the northeast of the US. The climate here is similar to England’s, only sharper, brighter in all its moods. Winters are colder, summers hotter. Autumn—more color, spring—more flowers. Probably because Americans don’t do half-tones. Everything has to be turned up to maximum. Even the weather. Vermont, by the way, is from the French verts monts—green mountains. Right now they look more red and yellow, but in spring and summer, yes, green," Draco spoke, and Harry listened attentively, nodding in rhythm with his words. "This is the smallest state capital in America—only sixty-five hundred people. They also make excellent maple syrup and—oh, right—Ben & Jerry’s ice cream comes from here."

"Never tried it," Harry interrupted him thoughtfully.

"Ice cream?" Draco asked in surprise.

Harry gave him a look that suggested Draco was an idiot before answering:

"Maple syrup."

"When we get there, you can order pancakes with syrup. No coffee shop here, but there’s a diner. They serve coffee. And food."

At that, Potter lit up. The idea of a sweet breakfast seemed to him utterly delightful.

***

When the food was gone, Potter pushed his plate to the edge of the table, lifted his eyes to Draco—and changed instantly. His gaze sharpened, became piercing. Draco felt a prickle of unease.

A recording charm, he realized. Auror Potter was officially at work.

"Look, Malfoy. I’m going to give you a quick rundown of the situation, and you’re going to listen carefully and not interrupt, all right? Here’s how this whole thing"—Harry drew a circle with his finger on the diner table—"looks from the outside.

In a small American town, a true nowhere, hidden by forests, hills, and lakes, three bodies are found, killed under mysterious circumstances—or at least mysterious for Muggles. And Muggles aren’t really a concern: they’ll gossip, they’ll forget. There’ll be a couple of news reports, maybe a dozen YouTube podcasts, at most some annual pilgrimage of crazy tourists. Muggles love mysterious murders—it’s their thing.

Wizards, on the other hand—oh, wizards react differently. They see bloodless bodies, two holes in the neck, and put two and two together. So the dark creatures are restless—happens. At best, a pair of Aurors get sent to clear the nest and Obliviate the mess. At worst, they just turn a blind eye. Too much work, too few resources. I’m not excusing my colleagues; I’m just telling you how it is, Malfoy.

But this time, there was one catch…"

One of the victims was the nephew of the local head of the Magical Congress. American wizards have big families, Malfoy—unlike the English, many of them have long Muggle branches. And this chairman promised his cousin he’d see the case investigated more thoroughly than usual. Honestly, the killer was just unlucky. He might have gotten away with it if he’d chosen his victims better.

So two Aurors were sent to this Vermont backwater—not the best, just the ones available—" Draco snorted at Harry’s phrasing.

"Ah-ah-ah, Malfoy, don’t drift," Potter wagged a finger in the air. "Two Aurors. And what did they find?

Traces of magic on the bodies. Not bite marks on the neck—punctures. The bodies weren’t drained completely, just bled. Amateur work. A weak attempt to pin it on vampires.

The bodies were laid out in a triangle, runes burned beneath their clothes with an invisible charm, the forest for two hundred meters reeked of dark magic, and not a living soul around. No insects, no birds, not even the ever-present pixies.

And in the nearest town lives a wizard. Unregistered, no record of crossing magical borders. Who, on closer inspection, turns out to be Draco Malfoy. A Death Eater who disappeared from London two years ago.

Now explain to me, Draco Malfoy, why I should believe these two facts are completely unrelated?"

"I understand how it looks from the outside," Draco drew in a breath and tried not to look away from Harry’s green eyes. He felt cornered, like by a wild animal. Resistance was pointless; the only way forward was not to provoke attack.

"Do you? Do you really understand, Malfoy?" Potter’s voice rose so much that the sweet, elderly waitress turned to look.

Draco, noticing the attention, raised his hand in a placating wave.

"It’s fine, Frances, it’s fine. Old friend visiting the town!"

"You don’t have to shout," Malfoy hissed at Potter. "By evening the entire town will know I had a row with some stranger in the diner. Let’s not make it worse."

Potter snorted and leaned back in his chair. Hands in his pockets, eyes narrowed. Silently, he gave Draco a nod: Go on.

"I know it’ll sound unconvincing, but I really had nothing to do with these murders. I wouldn’t even have known anyone was killed if not for the damned TV crews barging into my shop for interviews! Runes, sacrifices, dark magic? I chose Stredford because it’s the most non-magical town in America! Well, and the autumn’s beautiful, but mainly—because there’s no magic here! Potter, I don’t even have a wand!"

"What do you mean?" The Boy Who Lived straightened in his seat at the shock of the statement. "How can you not have a wand?"

"Literally. I left it with Pansy in London before I left."

"And your magic?"

"I left that in London too."

"You’re seriously telling me you haven’t used magic for two years?"

"As you can see"—Draco spread his hands—"I’m living my best Muggle life."

"And you expect me to just take your word for it?"

"I don’t know, Potter, maybe use some of your Auror tricks to check. Meanwhile, if you’ve no other questions, I suggest we part ways."

Draco stood, tossed a banknote on the table—enough to cover both his coffee and Potter’s breakfast with a tip—and headed for the door.

"Wait, Malfoy. Hold on!" Harry jumped up after him. "I’ve still got a hundred more questions!"

Chapter Text

Despite the bright sun, the air outside was already cool. Perhaps that was why—or perhaps it was just to quell the irritation rising inside after his conversation with Potter—that Draco quickened his pace on the way back to the shop, almost to a run. He couldn’t believe that simply talking about magic had unsettled him so badly. After all, giving up his wand had been his own decision. Pansy had pleaded, begged, even threatened, but Draco had remained firm.

First of all, it was a matter of personal safety. A wand could be traced. Difficult, yes—requiring artifacts, special skills, Ministry authorization—but not impossible. With enough time and determination, anyone could be found. Of course, he could have exchanged it for another wand, which would have complicated things, but Draco hadn’t wanted the bother.

The real reason he had abandoned magic was that Malfoy wanted to punish himself. At some point, the torture and suffering of Azkaban, the contempt of society, the loss of status, the absence of a normal life—all of it had begun to feel… insufficient. Punishment unworthy of the crime. Draco wanted sacrifice.

A sacrifice that would remind him, every day and every minute, of what he had lost—and what he had been willing to take from thousands of Muggle-borns. Magic.

That it had been a conscious decision did not mean it had been easy. The first time he walked out into London without his wand, Draco had nearly fainted—so weak and defenseless he felt in the face of the world. So useless.

Without a wand, he felt like a man with broken arms and legs, forced to learn to live and think anew. Before packing his rucksack and leaving London, Draco had made sure that living without magic was possible. Possible—but agonizing. Agonizing enough to continue.

And now this Potter, with his ridiculous questions. Why, how, what if you need to Apparate, what if something breaks, what if you need to reheat your tea, how do you talk to your friends, what about flying a broom? And this was Potter, who, incidentally, had been raised by Muggles until he was eleven!

The worst part wasn’t the questions, nor the way each one highlighted just how miserable Draco’s life had been these past two years. The worst part was Potter himself.

Without his own magic, Draco had become hypersensitive to others’. And Potter’s magic seemed to tear him apart from within. In every movement, every breath, even in stillness, Malfoy could feel it: magic coursing through Potter’s blood, his nerves, his very cells, sparking invisibly off his skin.

The Boy Who Lived was one of the strongest wizards of his generation, an inexhaustible source of magic feeding everything around him. At another time, Malfoy might have admired it—might even have envied it.

But now… now Potter was a drug, placed openly on the table before an addict in recovery. And if Draco didn’t want to relapse, he had to run. Run as far from this man as possible.

Naturally, Potter had no intention of leaving him alone.

"Malfoy, wait. Magic or no magic—you’re still a suspect. By protocol, you’re supposed to be interrogated by two Aurors, but my partner hasn’t arrived yet. Some problem with a Portkey in New York. So, for now, you’ll have to stay with me. Just in case you try to run."

Draco thought he might explode from the sheer audacity.

First of all, what the hell was this, if not an interrogation?
Second, how had Potter even gotten here if the Portkey wasn’t working?
And third, did he honestly think Draco had nothing better to do? He lived here, worked here, had things to take care of—

Apparently, some of those thoughts showed plainly enough on his face, because Harry tilted his head and answered them without being asked:

"I hopped on a broom the moment I saw you by chance on the news. A day before the New York office officially opened the case. Well—before they will open it. The investigation starts tomorrow, once they fix the Portkey. But I flew in today. I’ve always preferred a broom, really. Faster, sure, but Apparition leaves you feeling like your guts have been ripped inside out for a whole day afterward. They assigned me because I was already on the way, practically. Although, truth be told, I had to lean on our Minister a bit—he still owed me a favor from his election campaign."

Harry’s voice trailed into a half-mumble. Draco nearly lost the thread of it, but then Potter returned, deliberately, to that deceptively simple, yet command-laden tone:

"Malfoy, take me to the local morgue. I don’t know my way around, and I don’t want to waste time."

He could have said no. Probably should have.
Instead, he simply lifted a hand in the right direction and quickened his pace.

Chapter Text

A charmed badge, a couple of disarming smiles, and Potter’s small talk—and Malfoy and the Auror found themselves inside the morgue. The bodies lay on gurneys, pale as mannequins, sheets drawn up to their chests.

Draco had seen dead people before, but he’d hoped all that was behind him. Pushing back war-torn flashes, he pressed himself against the wall, as far from the gurneys as possible. Potter, on the other hand, showed no hesitation. He pulled back the first sheet, then the second, then the third. Not a muscle on his face twitched.

Professional or postwar? Malfoy wondered. When had the Gryffindor grown so indifferent? What had to happen to someone for him to look at death this way?

Potter wheeled the gurneys into a triangle, stepped into the center, and began to murmur incantations, his wand tracing over each body in turn. Draco didn’t know the magic, but assumed it was standard Auror protocol. The air thickened, heavy with power, like the oxygen was being drained from the already cramped room.

It went on for ten minutes. At one point Draco thought he might faint, but then Potter made a spiral motion with his hand. A small glowing sphere appeared in his left palm—and the pressure vanished. Draco was able to breathe again.

It hit him then just how weak he had become after years without magic. He’d grown so unaccustomed to its presence that Potter’s spells had made him physically ill.

"Malfoy, are you all right?"

"Fine. I don’t like rooms without windows," he lied—almost. He wasn’t about to tell Potter he’d nearly collapsed under the weight of his magic. "Are you finished? Can we go?"

"No. I need to take spellographs of the runes on the bodies, then we can."

Potter slipped the sphere into the pocket of his jacket—clearly expanded with a Fifth-Dimension charm—and drew out a camera. A few sharp flashes, one sweep of his wand to reset the gurneys, and it was done.

"What was that spell? The one with the sphere?" Draco asked after a pause, curiosity winning.

"I pulled the last images from their retinas and fused them to recreate a static, three-dimensional scene of their deaths. With luck, it’ll give me a wide enough angle. Maybe the killer was caught in someone’s field of vision. At the very least, it should show us more of what happened. Any lead is better than none."

"Impressive. You came up with that yourself?"

"No. I’m a good wizard, but not an inventor. That’s Granger’s domain. She heads the Department of Research and Development now. Comes up with terrifying but brilliant things. Sometimes Aurors get to field-test them. The spell’s complex—not everyone can manage it—but when it works, it’s invaluable. You can do it on the living, too, but it’s harder. They’re not…"

"Not as static," Malfoy finished for him. "So you need more subjects to get a clear image. With the dead, it’s easier—they don’t move their heads, they don’t break the focus."

"Exactly. Quick on the uptake, Malfoy." Harry clapped him on the shoulder.

Malfoy winced. He didn’t care for familiarity.

"Want to see what came out?"

Of course he did. But not enough to ask first.

"I can see it in your eyes. Come on. Back at your shop, we’ll have enough space to project it."

***

Amazingly, Potter had claimed Malfoy’s office in minutes. Papers from his endless-jacket pocket were scattered across the desk. He transfigured a board, pinned spellographs of the crime scene and the bodies, lit the fireplace. Chairs were shoved aside, the desk dragged into another corner.

Draco had the urge to protest, but he lacked both energy and motivation. This was so far removed from the quiet, stripped-down life he had lived for the past two years that it knocked him off balance. Even the sheer volume of conversation had already exceeded his daily allowance.

Potter, however, seemed completely unbothered. Of course he did. Auror, hero, the Boy Who Conquered. Everything around him bent as though it belonged to him—including Malfoy, who was pulled into a constant barrage of questions, denied even a moment of silence.

"Malfoy, is your fireplace connected to the Floo Network?"
"Malfoy, do you have any portraits linked to London?"
"Malfoy, do you keep basic potion ingredients here?"
"Malfoy, do you own a broom?"
"Malfoy, when’s lunch?"
"Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy…"

Harry was noisy, restless, unable to sit still. Even if his body stilled for a moment, his face, his fingers, his shoulders kept moving. He occupied every inch of space without ever settling in one place.

At some point Draco simply stopped answering him—and Potter didn’t even notice. He kept tossing out questions, half-answering them himself as he worked.

While Harry set up his own order, Draco calmly brewed himself tea, slipped the Auror a couple of sandwiches without comment, dragged a chair into the farthest corner, and turned to his laptop. Pay a couple of bills, confirm a couple of deliveries.

The internet was the closest thing to magic Draco allowed himself in this new life. Sometimes he genuinely marveled at how a small piece of plastic and metal could simplify his day. No, it didn’t have the elegant immediacy of a wand. No, it couldn’t do everything he once had at his fingertips. But it was better than nothing.

A notification popped up. New mail. With a faint unease, Malfoy opened it.

[email protected]

Malfoy, if Potter’s with you, tell him to check the enchanted mirror.

Thanks,
Hermione Granger.

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses.

Merlin save me… Had they abolished basic politeness in the wizarding world while he’d been away?

Chapter Text

Potter wiped the smudged little mirror with his hand and set it on the table so that both he and Malfoy were in view.

The older version of Granger looked exhausted. Her hair was pinned up, dark circles shadowed her eyes. Her face had sharpened, hardened—not only from age, but from trauma. Suffering always carved itself into the skin. Staring at the former Hogwarts know-it-all, Draco unconsciously ran a hand over his own face.

How much had he changed, in the eyes of others? In the eyes of those who had always watched him from a distance?

"Hello, Malfoy," Hermione said briskly, nodding to him before fixing her gaze on Harry. "We had one agreement, Potter—one agreement! Not to make me worry, because! I! Mustn’t!"

She pushed herself up from her chair, and Draco saw the swell of her belly beneath a white work robe.

"And that means answering! My! Calls! And warning me before you fling yourself across an ocean and a continent just because you spotted someone’s blond head on the television!"

"Strange. He told me he was assigned here…" Malfoy muttered, regretting the words instantly. Thankfully, Granger ignored him.

"Harry, stop hiding behind Malfoy and look me in the eyes!"

"Mione, I’m sorry…" In an instant, the formidable Auror, dangerous wizard, grown man—was reduced to a schoolboy being scolded for mischief. "I wanted to send an owl, but there were none here, and then I forgot. You know I forget things…"

"That’s why I gave you this bloody mirror! Aaaah…" Hermione let out a long breath, one hand braced on her stomach as she sank into a chair. "If my daughter comes early because of the stress you put me through, I swear I’ll invent a spell that teleports every single one of her dirty nappies straight to your flat, Potter. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Mione…"

Draco turned. Potter really was half-hiding behind him.

"Shall I leave you two?" This was beginning to feel like a domestic spat, and Malfoy had no desire to be part of it.

"Stay, Draco. Being friends with Potter is difficult. The older he gets, the harder it becomes. Sometimes he acts recklessly, like now, and doesn’t realize how his behavior hurts people, how it makes them worry. In those moments, I prefer to shame him publicly—so that next time, if not common sense, then at least guilt or the fear of another dressing-down might stop him. He’s godfather to my children—including the one not yet born—and I’d very much like Uncle Harry to live long enough to see them graduate Hogwarts. Enough of that. Let’s get to business. Draco, what has Harry told you about the murders?"

"Not much, really. Three corpses, runes on their bodies, traces of Dark Magic, someone drained their blood…"

"I see. He told you something. I’ll start from the beginning.

A year ago, we found the first bodies. Three men, under thirty. No blood, runes carved into their skin. Three months later—another three. Same picture. And now again, three. Each case in a different country: Bulgaria, Brazil, and now America. Linking the first two was difficult. The third made the pattern clear.

They weren’t killed by magic, but the traces remain. The runes are meaningless. Even by magical standards—nonsense. Random symbols, forming nothing. A diversion. Just like the ‘vampire’ bites—distractions from what truly matters.

The Muggles had nothing in common. Strangers, each one. Retinal echoes show different places, different moments, all over the world. They were killed separately, then grouped and scattered across countries.

This is an unprecedented act of cruelty. But for what purpose?"

"Someone needs Muggle blood?" Draco asked.

"Exactly. Someone desperately needs the blood of specific Muggles. Any ideas why, Draco?"

Suddenly, Malfoy felt Potter at his back. First, hot breath against his ear. Then a hand clamped hard on the back of his head. Under the Auror’s fingers, wandless magic crackled, making Draco’s hair lift with static. In the small of his back, sharp and merciless, pressed the tip of Harry’s wand.

"Don’t move, Malfoy. Answer her questions."

"I don’t know why their blood matters. Why are you asking?"

"Because the last thing these Muggles saw before they died was your father’s face—Lucius Malfoy. And your wand, Draco Malfoy, in his hand."

Chapter Text

After those words, Draco—for not the first time that day—felt as though he couldn’t breathe. Damn Gryffindors. Breathing in their presence was simply impossible.

Potter let go of his neck, but he didn’t lower his wand. He only shifted it carefully from Draco’s lower back to his stomach, circling around until he could look him straight in the eye.

“When was the last time you saw your father, Malfoy? And why did you lie about leaving your wand with Pansy Parkinson?”

Draco backed away without any sudden movements and practically collapsed into an armchair. His legs wouldn’t hold him.

“Is that an official accusation, Potter?”
“Both yes and no,” Granger replied from the mirror instead of her friend. “It depends on how you answer the questions.”
“The last time I saw my father was the same time you did. At the Ministry, on the day of the trial. He testified for the defense, claimed I’d been helping the Dark Lord under the Imperius Curse, though he knew perfectly well it wasn’t true. I helped willingly—out of fear, out of cowardice—hoping that if I submitted to the darkness, I’d be spared pain and torture. He disappeared right after the verdict and hasn’t contacted me since. That’s the truth. I’m ready to testify under Veritaserum.”
“That won’t be necessary. I slipped some into the last cup of tea you drank. Now answer about the wand, Malfoy.” Potter’s voice was cold, impersonal.
“What?” A sharp pain shot through his solar plexus. Merlin, he’d already managed to forget how vile that stuff felt. “I wasn’t lying. I left the wand with Pansy. I haven’t seen it since.”
“Good.” Potter nodded. “Where is it now?”
“I can’t…” Draco squeezed his eyes shut. His vision swam; nausea rose in his throat. The potion was… different. As though it not only pulled the truth out of him, but poisoned him from within.
“Did you give the wand up willingly, or was it taken from you?”
“Willingly.”
“Then it still belongs to you. Say: Accio Malfoy’s wand.”
“I can’t…” He was trembling. Sweat drenched his face, his fingers, his palms. He felt like he was dying.
“You can. A wizard always knows where his wand is. We were taught to build that connection in first year. Picture it, close your eyes, feel the thread between you—and pull.”
“I. Am. No. Longer. A. Wizard.”

That was the last thing Draco Malfoy said before he lost consciousness.

***

When Draco Malfoy next opened his eyes, night had already fallen outside. He lay on his own bed, a diagnostic charm hovering above his chest. Body temperature, heart rate, breathing rhythm, blood pressure, oxygen and carbon dioxide levels glowed softly in the dimness of his bedroom.

Potter was sitting on the floor beside the bed, his head leaning helplessly against it.

“Hi,” he said, turning his head toward Draco. “I didn’t want you to die. Really.”
“Is that how Aurors apologize, Potter?”
“Aurors don’t apologize, Malfoy. I needed you to answer my questions honestly. I got my answers. I…” Harry faltered, searching for words. “You… You said you don’t use magic. I never imagined it meant you don’t have it at all anymore. And I… I didn’t realize Veritaserum is poisonous to non… magical people… I just—”
“Muggles. There’s no such term as ‘non-magical people.’ I, Draco Malfoy, am a Muggle. And you, Harry Potter, deceived and poisoned me in my own home. That’s—let’s say—not a good look. But I understand. It’s your job.”

“Yes. But that doesn’t mean I like it.”

Potter sighed heavily and leaned his head back against the bed again. Draco felt the tips of Harry’s hair brush against his palm.

“Your fault. Bad start.”
“Bad indeed. We’re definitely not going to be friends now.”
“Oh? Were you really hoping for that?” Draco sneered.
“I don’t know.” Potter wrinkled his nose. “Friends—not so much, I guess.”

For some reason, Draco felt even worse after that. His pulse spiked, his blood pressure too. Harry, watching his vital signs from below, smirked.

“Calm down, Malfoy. I’m not flirting with you. Yet. You’re still a suspect in my case.”

Draco pulled his hand away from Harry’s hair. With effort, he pushed himself into a half-sitting position.

“Turn off those bloody numbers, Potter, and just ask me straight. I can see you want to.”

The Auror flicked his wand, and the room was left in near-total darkness. The window stood slightly open, and Draco caught the scent of deep autumn.

Tomorrow the first snow will fall, he realized. If I don’t tell someone now—even Harry bloody Potter—I’ll be buried under it forever. And never return to the sun.

“Draco…” For the first time, Potter called him by name. “How… how did you become a Muggle?”

Chapter Text

He hadn’t wanted it—Merlin, he really hadn’t. But it was the only way to stop himself from casting spells. The idea of living an ordinary Muggle life had come to Draco Malfoy back in Azkaban.

In that prison there was no day, no night. Time itself didn’t exist. Draco was surrounded by thick, viscous nothingness. Day after day—without a wand, without daylight, without visitors, books, newspapers, without life. Food and water appeared from nowhere, clothes were replaced from time to time. For two whole years Draco Malfoy had only himself for company—and it was worse, far worse, than any physical torture or punishment.

It took only a little time for him to grow mortally bored with himself, a little longer to realize he didn’t like himself at all. And from there, all that remained was to begin hating himself.

The stage of hatred lasted a long time. Hundreds, tens of thousands, millions of times Draco replayed every decision, every word, every spell in his head. And always he asked himself the same question: Why? Why had he acted the way he did?

His father’s influence? Fear for his mother? Cowardice? No choice? He cycled through reason after reason—none of them felt right. Until at last he realized the most important thing of all: he had behaved that way simply because he could. The sheer banality of the revelation shocked him.

At every moment of the war, he could have stopped. He simply hadn’t. In the end, the reasons didn’t matter—facts remained facts. Could he have stopped? Yes. Did he keep doing those terrible things anyway? Yes.

After hatred came indifference. What was the point of hating yourself for who you are? You can’t change yourself.

Draco could—and did. And would again. Simply because he had the power, and he was used to using it. He hadn’t chosen to be bad—he’d been rotten from the start. And that couldn’t be fixed.

But perhaps he could rid himself of the power that let the rot inside him harm the world. Limit it, lock it away, strip himself of access. He would still be rotten—but powerless.

That was the best plan Draco Malfoy could come up with. A punishment he would carry out himself for the rest of his life. From the very first days after his release, he began minimizing his use of magic. If there was a way to do something the non-magical way, he took it. If there wasn’t, he simply left the thing undone.

Day after day, week after week—until his very nature began to rebel. Like in childhood, uncontrolled bursts of magic began breaking loose, stray spells firing on their own. He grew afraid that the magic he was suppressing might turn him into an Obscurial, but it didn’t happen. The magic of the purest of the pure—Malfoy pure—couldn’t be exhausted merely by neglect. It was fed by dozens of eternal sources, all flowing into the same river.

Magic could not quiet down or die. It could not be suppressed. It was a river that could never run dry. And if blocked, it would flood until it carved a new course.

That was what happened with Draco’s magic. He stopped using a wand—yet a mere movement of his hand was enough. Clear incantations that had once been essential became unnecessary. Sometimes even a silent thought, a flicker of desire, was enough to make the world bend to his will.

Draco wanted to stop using magic. Instead, he became one of the strongest intuitive wizards alive.

It drove him into a frenzy. Even now, with no father and no Lord at his back, Draco still didn’t belong to himself. Everyone else had a claim on him—his family, his house, his ancestors. Everyone but him.

Just like his whole life, when he hadn’t been allowed to choose his friends, his House, or his side in the war, he couldn’t choose now whether to use his magic or not.

Because his magic—something inseparable from Draco, something that defined his very essence—did not belong to him.

Magic belonged to his blood. And Draco had no power to renounce it.

It took more than a year before he found even the tiniest thread to pull. A passing mention of a solution—something that might help him achieve his goal. Tugging on it, Malfoy began to unravel the skein.

In the end, he held the description of a ritual. Incomplete, imprecise, and most importantly—deadly dangerous.

Nott told him it would be easier to kill himself with his own hands. Pansy screamed so long and so loud she lost her voice. Zabini said he knew a wizard, who knew a wizard, who knew a Muggle, who could help. But if Draco died in the process, he swore he’d resurrect him just to kill him again. Or invite Nott to do it.

The ritual’s essence was laughably simple. If magic lay in the blood, then get rid of the blood. Dilute it with another’s until there wasn’t a drop of Malfoy blood left.

The chance it would work: sixty percent. The chance Draco would die: eighty.

Pouring Muggle blood straight in would be as good as a death sentence. They started instead with the blood of another wizard, close to the Malfoy line. Then a Muggle-born. Then a Squib. Then a human with distant magical ancestry. Finally—a Muggle. Donors were hard to find, but Blaise had his ways.

Draco’s magical blood was diluted, weakened, drained away through Muggle tubes into nothingness. Deceived, his magic gradually grew quiet. The whole process lasted just over four months.

When the last needle was pulled from his arm, he felt an emotion he couldn’t recognize. Only a year later, living in Vermont, did he find the word for it: peace. Without magic, without Malfoy blood inside him, he felt peace—something he had never known in his life.

A week later, he left London. And never planned to return.

***

“So that’s how I became a Muggle, Potter.” By the time Draco finished his story, dawn had broken. He turned to the window. Outside, the first snow really was falling.

Malfoy adored the moment when autumn turned to winter.

“Right,” the Auror stood, stretched his stiff back, and paced a few steps across the room. “You’ll have to tell all this again—to Hermione. And not through a mirror, but in a lab, where she’ll surround you with scanning spells, Muggle sensors—whatever she wants. You can skip the tearful first half and start with the second, where you explain the ritual you put yourself through, and how your half-wit friends helped you.”
“Oh, for—” Draco pushed himself upright in bed, ready to argue, but Potter was on him in a flash, pinning his face between both hands, stopping the words in his throat.

Harry was so close Draco saw the spark flash in his eyes. Potter without glasses—he wears magical lenses now, Draco noted absently. Then his gaze dropped to Harry’s lips, far too close—distractingly close.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Malfoy. But you didn’t become a Muggle. Look at yourself. Look at your hair.” Harry pulled the band from the back of Draco’s head, freeing the long strands that had been tied out of his face. He tugged one lock forward and held it before him. “Look at it. Look at your skin.” He shoved Draco’s sleeve up and lifted his arm. “You bloody glow in the dark. Do you think that’s normal for Muggles?”

Chapter Text

Getting to England by magical means would have been quicker, but no one wanted to risk Draco’s health. He was only just recovering after the Veritaserum poisoning. They had to do it the Muggle way: a bus to Burlington, then a train to New York, and finally a plane to London.

Potter was thrilled at every stage of the journey. Watching him, Draco revised his opinion. The Auror wasn’t a wildcat in a man’s body. He was a dog. Perhaps a noble hound, but still a dog. If Harry had a tail, he would have wagged it so hard he might break his own spine.

The bus was amazing. The train, a small reminder of Hogwarts, was delightful. The plane was almost miraculous. Potter bought a bag of chocolate bars for the trip—“Malfoy, look, you can’t buy these flavors back home”—and ate them all within the first two hours. Draco began to worry that the next one poisoned, or in a sugar coma, would be Harry himself.

Strange, considering it was Harry, not Draco, who had spent the first eleven years of his life in the Muggle world.

That childlike wonder contrasted sharply with the danger and power hidden in every one of Potter’s movements.

Draco never slept on the way to London. Stress kept him awake: making sure they were on time, not losing their bags, remembering tickets, keeping an eye on Potter, who was always vanishing into the crowd. His anxiety only grew with every mile closer to the world he had abandoned two years earlier.

Harry, on the other hand, seemed unconcerned. He acted almost deliberately relaxed, constantly pressing against Draco’s limits.

Potter was everywhere. For someone used to solitude, Draco was nearly driven mad by it. He spent enormous energy just holding himself together.

Harry snatched bites of chocolate from Draco’s hand, drank from his coffee cup, put his feet on Draco’s suitcase, leaned over his shoulder to read his book and pushed him to turn the page faster. He ate loudly, breathed loudly, walked loudly. He was always moving. Even in sleep his lashes never fully closed and his eyes twitched beneath the lids.

Merlin, how much Potter slept. He could fall asleep anywhere: in the bus with his head on Draco’s shoulder, in the train with his feet stretched across Draco’s seat, in the airport waiting hall with his back pressed against Draco’s. Bloody Gryffindors, always touching, leaning, reaching.

Draco told himself this was normal for Potter, something he had grown used to with his friends. But Draco was not his friend. They had not seen each other in eight years, and before that they had been enemies to the point of black spots before the eyes. And now, after two days together—days in which Potter had threatened him, and almost poisoned him to death—he was behaving like an overgrown puppy, eating from Draco’s hand, sleeping against him.

It left Draco shaken. He wanted to shout in public, to cry out, “Put your damned knees somewhere else and let me breathe.” Instead he froze at every brush of Harry’s hand and swallowed his irritation like instant coffee, burning hot and in big gulps, ignoring the taste.

Sometimes they talked. Potter, like a human radio, narrated everything he saw and pulled Draco into meaningless conversations. Nothing important, just chatter. Yet to Draco it felt personal. More important than his confession, more important than any official talk with the Auror. He had never spoken like that with anyone, not even at school. Pansy, Zabini, Nott—they always needed a topic or a reason. Potter needed none. He simply spoke.

Draco suspected there was a purpose behind it. Potter was distracting him, wearing him down, like a street swindler waving his hands to keep attention away from the trick. At times Draco was grateful for it. At others he wanted to break his nose.

The breaking point came when the plane landed. To fight his fear Draco bit his cheek so hard he tasted blood. Passengers rose, pulled down their luggage, lined up for the exit. Malfoy stayed in his seat, white-knuckled hands gripping the armrests.

Potter jumped up, undid his belt, glanced around, and moved to the aisle. Without realizing what he was doing, Draco caught the Auror by the sleeve of his mustard-colored jacket and tugged him back. Harry turned.

It was stupid. Completely insane. Draco had been a Death Eater, tortured by the Dark Lord, imprisoned in Azkaban. He had learned to live without magic. Draco Malfoy was afraid of nothing. Yet in that moment he was terrified.

“Draco.” There was a question frozen in Potter’s eyes. Draco barely noticed it was the first time Harry had called him by name.
“I… I don’t have anywhere to go out there.” Draco tilted his head toward the window, where Heathrow loomed.
“Oh…” Harry’s face lit with that ridiculous puppy smile. As if Draco had said something awful yet hilarious. He gently pulled Malfoy’s hand free of his sleeve and closed it inside his own. “Of course you do. You’re coming with me.”

Potter tugged Draco up, and Draco, without asking more questions, rose and followed him.

He would think later about the size and heat of Harry’s hand, once they were off the plane.

Chapter Text

The first thing Malfoy saw when he stepped out of the airport was a hurricane named Pansy Parkinson charging straight at him. The next moment he saw nothing at all, because she smacked him on the head so hard he lost his vision for a few seconds.

“Do I need to explain what that was for?” she asked once Draco came back to himself.
“No, I think it’s fairly obvious,” he muttered, rubbing the swelling while Potter doubled over with laughter beside him. “I’m glad to see you too.”
“Oh, of course you are, Malfoy. So glad that if Potter hadn’t told me when you were arriving, I wouldn’t even know you were here.”

Draco turned to the Auror. Harry instantly stopped laughing and bent down as though his shoelace suddenly required all his attention.

“What? She has a Muggle car. She offered us a lift. I thought it was a good idea. Better than hauling your bags through the Underground.” Potter threw a meaningful glance at Draco’s luggage.

Draco ignored the jab. There were indeed too many suitcases, and they were indeed heavy, but he planned to close a few book deals while he was being forced back to London. After all, he had paid for the whole journey out of his own pocket—because of course Potter had no Muggle money whatsoever.

Pansy snorted and jingled her car keys in the air.
“Let’s go, boys, before my car gets towed for illegal parking.”

***

Pansy Parkinson did, in fact, drive a Muggle car. A sleek new Audi that suited her perfectly. She drove well, though with a faintly suicidal edge. Potter was delighted all over again. Malfoy did not share his joy.

After cursing Draco out thoroughly for never bothering to contact her in two years, she briskly delivered all the important news he had missed.

First: she had gotten married. To a Muggle.
Second: she was now working at the Ministry, in the Department of International Cooperation. She was the one who helped Potter secure all the necessary documents for emergency work authorization in the States for the Muggle murder investigation.

At that, she gave Harry a loaded look. He ignored everything around him, staring dreamily out the half-open window, wind in his hair, a smile on his lips. Resisting the urge to compare him once more to an enormous, idiotically happy dog, Draco turned back to the conversation.

Pansy talked, and he listened. Knowing her, he was sure she was bursting with questions, and he was grateful she asked none of them. He was very glad to see her. Only now, sitting beside her and hearing her voice, did he realize how much he had missed her. But he was not ready to speak himself.

She told him she kept in touch with Narcissa—at which mention Draco’s heart clenched. She said Nott was now working with Granger in a research division, and Zabini had opened a potions shop and married Neville Longbottom, much to the horror of puritan wizarding society.

Draco might once have been shocked, but not anymore. Life among Muggles, and his liberal American exile, had thoroughly cured him of such prejudices.

“Pans, how did my wand end up with Lucius? Not that I expected you to treasure it, since I left it on your coffee table without tears or fanfare, but I did think you’d know enough to hide it properly.”

Pansy laughed outright.
“You’re right. Turning it into a necklace was never the plan. Honestly, nothing unusual. I didn’t take it to Gringotts. I thought one day you’d come back and ask for it, so I kept it at home. And then one day it was just gone. Reckless of me, I admit.”

She hesitated, then added, “I suppose Lucius had my parents’ trust and access to the house. I never changed the wartime wards, so the alarms didn’t trigger. Nothing else was missing. No signs of forced entry. I didn’t even notice right away. Terrifying to think he might have come while we slept, or at any time while we were home. But all’s well that ends well, right? I try not to dwell on it. Otherwise I’d never sleep again in my own bed.”

Draco nodded. It was just like Lucius, to appear when convenient, take what he wanted, and vanish. His father had never enjoyed needless cruelty. But if Pansy had stood in his way, even for a moment… yes, then he would have been merciless.

Why had he started killing Muggles? Lucius never acted without reason. There had to be a purpose, an idea, a mission. But what?

Draco leaned back, pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses, and exhaled. Why did everything always come back to his family? No matter how far he ran, no matter how well he hid, fate would remind him: he was a Malfoy. And there was no erasing that mark.

“Pans, can you not tell the others or my mother that I’m in town? Not yet. I want to do it myself, but I need a little more time.”
“All right. But promise me you won’t disappear from my life for another two years without a word.”
“That seems fair. Yes, I can promise that.”

***

Malfoy only saw the house on Grimmauld Place after Harry set a hand on his shoulder and pointed it out. The sight was unwelcoming: dark stone, huge dim windows, cornices heavy with ornament.

His American village, colonial though it was, felt lighter, simpler. Wood, light, air. He liked that far better than this. Even Malfoy Manor might now have seemed grotesque to him.

Being shapes consciousness, Draco thought. What did it matter how Potter’s house looked, if in a few days he would return to his squeaky little flat where the bedroom window looked out on nothing but trees? That thought warmed him. For the first time in a day he realized how deeply tired he was.

Pansy honked impatiently. Harry removed his hand from Draco’s shoulder and went to unload the luggage. Muttering curses, he kicked the suitcases up to the front door, waved to Pansy. She waved back and drove off.

No farewells. She was a busy witch, and besides, she knew now she would see Draco again. No need to waste words.

“Come on, Malfoy. You’re dead on your feet. Get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day. We’re going to the Ministry.”

Chapter Text

Inside, the house looked better: cleaned, renovated, and free of the neglect that large estates often fall into without care. It still felt impersonal though, as if it did not belong to Potter at all and he was only renting a couple of rooms.

“Right, Malfoy. Orientation. The third floor is closed, we do not need it, so we do not go there. On the second floor there is the library, which is also my study, two bedrooms, and a nursery for the kids. Mione and Ron sometimes leave the little ones here for the night. The master bedroom has a private bath. The guest room uses the hall bath. Pick either. I sleep downstairs.

“First floor: kitchen, dining room, sitting room, storeroom, servants’ room, which is mine. There is a cellar as well. I do not go there. If you notice a room I did not name, it probably appeared for you. The house has a personality. It enjoys rearranging itself.

“Paddy, my house-elf, comes to clean on odd-numbered days. He also cooks enough food for a couple of days. If you see him, do not be alarmed. His sense of style is… specific.

“You can touch anything, eat anything, drink anything. Please do not ask permission. That irritates me. You can.

“I will levitate the trunks with books to the study. Carry your personal things yourself. If you need something and cannot find it,” Potter gave the last part a slightly aggressive emphasis, “call me. I am going to sleep. At least twelve hours.”

“You slept the whole way here,” Draco said. He had tried to hold the sarcasm back and failed, and he regretted it at once.

Potter said nothing. He passed his wand over the blond, and for a heartbeat a magical shimmer swelled around Draco like a giant soap bubble, then popped with a loud clap.

“Those were Notice-Me-Not charms,” Draco breathed. “You kept them up the whole time?”

“Well, you did not want other people looking at you,” Potter replied with a simple shrug.

Shame washed over Draco. A Notice-Me-Not was a basic one-off charm, almost a prank. Maintaining it for long stretches was difficult, it demanded focus and energy. So that was why Harry had been dropping off all along. Protecting Draco had been draining him dry.

“By the way, if you want to spend the night in my room…” Potter had almost stepped through his doorway, then turned back and winked. “Let us make that tomorrow instead. I have no energy left for fun today. Deal, pretty boy?”

“Potter!”

The door slammed. Draco was alone with his exhaustion and the vast, unfamiliar house.

He went upstairs and tried the first door he found. The master bedroom lay behind it, dressed in family dark green and silver. There had likely been black once, but the finish had faded to a brownish tone from sun and neglect.

He dropped his travel bag by the dresser and fell onto the bed. For a second he expected a puff of dust to rise from the coverlet, the way it did in the Muggle comedies he sometimes watched. It did not.

The underside of the canopy held a charmed star map. The brightest stars bore the names of the Black family: Sirius, Regulus, Bellatrix, Andromeda. Draco was not surprised to find his own constellation. He was a Black child as well. Its brightness, however, gave him pause.

Had Potter ever slept in this room?

And if he had, did he look up and see Malfoy’s name before he fell asleep?

***

Draco woke tired. He had slept badly. Everything felt foreign. The bed was too wide, the room too large, the mattress too soft.

He went to the full-length mirror and grimaced. He had woken twice: first to change into pajamas because he had passed out in his clothes, then again when the portrait of some unknown old woman banged loudly on its frame.

Add frayed nerves and a long journey, and the result was obvious: shadows under his eyes the blue of Ravenclaw’s flag. His hair, now to his shoulders, had tangled into a mess that begged for hot water and mercy. The overall effect could be filed under “rather crumpled.” Unacceptable.

A quick shower helped a little, and he went down to the kitchen with one desire: coffee. He opened one cupboard after another without success and could already taste disappointment.

A sharp pop sounded behind him. Draco turned. For the first time in his life he silently thanked his parents for raising him not to swear out loud.

A house-elf stood there, the strangest Draco Malfoy had ever seen.

First, he was completely round. Second, he wore satin boxer shorts with flames. Third, a cowboy hat sat on his head, and his arms from wrist to elbow were stacked with watches.

“A new friend of Master Potter?” the elf asked politely.

Draco nodded.

“What is Master Potter’s new friend looking for in the kitchen?”

“C… coffee,” Draco said, trying not to laugh.

“The new friend may sit,” the elf said, pointing to the kitchen island. “Paddy will make coffee. And breakfast,” he added after giving Draco a long, appraising look.

Paddy began to bustle about and stopped paying Draco any attention. Draco watched, oddly charmed, as the elf floated between stove and cupboards. He remembered that the kitchen had been his favorite place at the Manor. It had been warm and smelled good, and he could hide there forever from parents who considered going downstairs beneath them. He felt something like that again now.

It faded quickly. Harry drifted up behind him without a sound and blew into his ear. Draco coughed. Potter laughed.

“Master Potter is awake,” Paddy beamed. “Master Potter did not warn Paddy that a new friend would be at home today. But Paddy is pleased. Very pleased, Master Potter. There have been no new friends for more than a year. Let Paddy think when he last made breakfast for two… No matter. That new friend did not return. Paddy thinks he is not a friend anymore. Do not be sad, Master Potter. Perhaps this one will stay.”

While Paddy chattered and poured coffee, Draco flushed red like a sudden fever. Potter sat beside him as if nothing had happened.

The Auror looked much better. Hair still wild, shirt still creased, but alert and free of shadows. Draco realized he had been staring and looked away. Harry said nothing, only took a slow sip.

“I know you do not want to go to the Ministry. You have to. Hermione’s lab is the safest place for testing, for you and for her. Ron and I will handle your security on the way. I do not expect trouble, but extra caution will not hurt. Unfortunately the Ministry wards will not let me use Notice-Me-Not. I will give you my father’s Invisibility Cloak. Listen, Malfoy. When you wear it, I will not be able to see you or feel you, so it is very important that you do not step away from me. Not even a little. Clear?

“I know you have many questions. I doubt I have answered even a few. I promise that once we reach the Ministry, I will tell you everything. Absolutely everything. Do you trust me?”

Potter put a hand on his shoulder. Draco did not trust himself, but he nodded anyway.

A chime sounded in the house to announce a visitor. From the foyer came a deeper, yet still familiar voice.

“Harry, I am here. Have you had breakfast?”

A ginger head appeared in the doorway, then Ron himself. The sixth Weasley was taller and broader than Draco remembered.

“Oh, it really is him. Draco Malfoy. You know, Harry, I thought you were mistaken again, like last time…” Draco lifted an eyebrow at that. Last time? Potter ignored him. “But no, here he is, the real thing. Congratulations. Hello, Paddy. Will you pour me some coffee too?”

Ron dropped onto the third stool at the island.

“Oh, Master Weasley. A true companion of Master Potter. Pleased to see you. Master Potter has a new friend. He is having breakfast with us,” Paddy said, giving Draco a very pointed look. The performance was starting to grate.

“Ron, good to see you after so many years. Give me ten minutes to change and I will be ready for the Ministry. Harry, I hope that is enough time for you as well.” Draco stood, slapped his knees, and headed for the bedroom.

“What has him giving orders?” Ron asked.

Harry said nothing. Paddy could not resist.

“Paddy thinks Master Potter’s new friend will stay for a few more breakfasts. Perhaps dinners too.”

The last thing Draco heard was Harry’s honest laugh answering them both.

Chapter Text

Contrary to Harry’s expectations, they reached the Ministry without incident. Being under the Cloak felt strange. Unlike a Notice-Me-Not, where people ignored Draco yet still sensed someone nearby, the Cloak made him truly invisible. It took time to understand what that meant, and to stop colliding with people, bumping into Potter and Ron, and stepping on strangers’ feet.

Harry said the Cloak had belonged to his father. Draco wondered if he had used it at school, and how often. Of course he had. If Draco had possessed such a thing in his school years… He cut off that line of thought.

What then? Would it have been easier to carry out his father’s and the Dark Lord’s errands?

The closer they came to the Ministry, the more familiar faces Draco noticed. Wizards who had been a year above him or below him, acquaintances of his mother and father. It was unsettling. He knew no one could see him, yet panic still rose like a tide.

It was too late to turn back. Harry signaled that they had reached a service entrance. One more step and Draco was inside the place he hated with all his soul.

Orderly chaos ruled the Ministry. It was like any Muggle station or airport, only everyone around was a witch or wizard. Harry and Ron greeted colleagues, waved, traded small talk, yet pushed forward without slowing, heading for the lifts. All Draco could do was keep up.

In the lift, blessedly empty except for the three of them, Potter allowed him to take off the Cloak. Harry folded it carefully and slid it into the inner pocket of his work jacket. A treasured thing, clearly, and one the Auror had trusted to Draco without a question.

Over the last few days Draco had grown used to Potter’s sudden bursts of warmth and flirtation, yet he had found no logic in them. Despite his Gryffindor roots, Harry did not seem like someone who trusted just anyone. Perhaps it was part of the image: the cool Auror who could fall asleep on a dangerous suspect’s shoulder, let him live in his house, share personal belongings. More likely, Harry saw no threat in him at all. Without magic and without a wand, the worst Draco could manage was to give the Auror a black eye, and even that was doubtful. Draco might be taller, but Potter was broader and stronger. Draco would not even get the swing off.

A bright chime announced their floor. The doors slid open, and they followed Hermione’s voice, muffled behind the nearest doorway. A second voice answered her calmly, deeper and male. Draco recognized it at once. Besides Granger, Blaise Zabini was in the lab.

***

“Draco, Harry, Ron,” Hermione said with a nod as they entered. “You hardly need an introduction, but I will make one anyway. Blaise Zabini.”

“Hello, beanpole,” Blaise said. The personal greeting was for Draco alone; the others got a flick of the fingers. “All grown-up Aurors, yet you still cannot manage without my help.”

“I hate him,” Ron muttered.

“And yet we need him,” Hermione replied. “Draco, please repeat what you told Harry about the ritual while I run a basic diagnostic.”

Draco sighed and delivered the dry version. He had no intention of sharing feelings in front of this many people. As he spoke, Hermione circled him, casting one charm after another. Her expression did not change. She listened closely, nodded at certain points, and did not interrupt. The others stayed silent.

To his surprise the whole account took no more than ten minutes. When he finished, he felt nothing at all. Facts hurt less than the story you tell yourself.

“If you are done, I have a few questions,” Hermione said. “To avoid mistakes and omissions, and because they are important questions, we will need another witness who can confirm or add detail. That is why Blaise is here. He handled the technical side of the ritual. First question. How many transfusions did you do?”

“Five,” Draco said.

Blaise nodded.

“List the order, and the principle behind it.”

“Of course. Pure-blood wizards not related to the Malfoys, then Muggle-born wizards, then Squibs, then Muggles with very distant magical ancestry, and finally Muggles without any, if one can call them ‘pure’ Muggles.”

“The first group was the hardest to source,” Blaise put in. “The Malfoy family tree is a monument to inbreeding.”

Draco held his tongue. Truth is truth.

“Thank you for that unnecessary remark,” Hermione said, giving Blaise a stern look. Ron, who knew that look well, felt a small, guilty pleasure that it was aimed at someone else for once.

“Who else knew about the ritual?” she asked.

“Pansy, Blaise, Nott, the Muggle doctor who handled the transfusions…”

“Not exactly,” Blaise cut in. “Sorry, friend, but I have more context here. I will take this one. Pansy knew we were going to do a blood ritual, but she had no details. Nott knew you wanted to rid yourself of magic and that we needed a Muggle doctor, but he was told nothing beyond that. The doctor was just a contractor. He thought we were eccentric rich people, called everything a detox, and suspected nothing. As for the suppliers I bought blood from, I can vouch the information went no further. Professional honor.”

Harry and Ron snorted in unison. The notion that Blaise’s shady dealings had “professional honor” amused them.

Blaise paused, as if bracing himself for what came next.

“Besides those I named, there was one person who knew everything. Narcissa.”

Draco exhaled, long and slow. “How could you—”

“You were gone, Draco. Gone. First a week, then two. A month, two, three, six. We filed a missing-person report with the Aurors. Potter took it. Your mother was drowning in grief. She imagined the worst, that you could not bear your guilt and your burden and had… left. Not just left home. Left life.” Blaise’s voice frayed. “She believed it so completely that she went into mourning. Mourning a dead son. How could I stay silent?”

Draco felt Harry’s hand close hard on his shoulder. A point of pressure, a tether to the present. He was grateful for it.

“You promised,” Draco said.

“I did,” Blaise answered. “And I broke that promise. I do not regret it. Your mother stopped crying, and she began to eat. I told her you did not intend to die. Yes, you wanted to stop being yourself, to change. But you did not want to die. That gave her peace.”

Draco opened and closed his mouth like a fish thrown on shore. He had a dozen things to say and could not form one. For the first time since seeing him he really looked at his friend. Blaise had aged in the right ways. There was depth in his eyes now, and a regret youth does not own. His fists were white.

His friend was in pain. In pain because of Draco Malfoy.

Draco drew breath again and said the simple thing.

“Thank you, Blaise. Thank you for telling her when I could not, and for being with my mother when I was gone. Thank you.”

Harry squeezed his shoulder once more and stepped back.

Blaise thumped his chest with a fist. “I understand why you wanted to run from yourself. That does not mean it did not hurt, for me, for us.” He did not list names. Draco knew exactly whom he meant.

Draco stood from the chair Hermione had steered him into, brushed aside the diagnostic runes hanging in the air, crossed to his old friend, and pulled him into a tight hug.

“I thought it was a strong move. Now it does not seem so. I cannot apologize in a way that lets you forgive me at once. But I can promise I will not disappear from your life again by choice. Deal?”

“We will negotiate the terms later, but even this draft is acceptable,” Blaise said, laughing, and hugged him back hard.

“Lovely reunion,” Ron said dryly, “but let us be practical. What are the odds that, knowing everything about the ritual, Narcissa did not tell Lucius?”

Chapter Text

“I won’t let you interrogate my mother!” Draco was shouting, his hands slicing the air. Potter spread his arms wide, palms open, trying to calm him.

“Malfoy, I understand—”

“What do you understand?! You— they— all of you—” Draco pointed wildly around the room. “Aaaaaaah!” he finally howled.

“Maybe we just hit him with a Stunning Spell?” Ron suggested. Effective, sure, but nobody in the lab seemed eager to support that plan.

“We’re not going to interrogate her, Draco,” Harry said evenly. “We just need to talk. For the investigation, it’s important to know whether she told Lucius about the ritual—and if she did, then when, how much detail she gave, and most importantly, how he contacted her.”

“And in what world is that not an interrogation, Potter? Tell me!”

“It’ll be an official visit. We’ll inform Narcissa ahead of time, she’ll choose the place herself and have time to prepare. You’ll be right there, beside me, beside her. No one will touch her. I promise you, Draco. We have a few questions to ask, that’s all. She’s not a suspect—we’re investigating Lucius. She’s a witness. All right?”

“Nothing about this is all right!”

“Draco,” Harry’s voice shifted, gaining that same iron edge Draco remembered from his own interrogation in Stratford. “I owe your mother my life. I respect that debt. I will not let anything happen to her.”

Draco stood in furious silence. He looked only at Potter—into those green eyes. Their color steadied him. How badly he wanted to believe him. Merlin, how he wanted to. Inhale. Exhale. Again. And again. Draco Malfoy began to calm down. Of course he didn’t trust Potter completely—only a little, just enough. But even that little was enough for the world to stop feeling quite so hostile.

“Hermione, are you done with all the charms you wanted to run?” Harry asked. She nodded.

“Good. Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll take Malfoy to my office, make him some strong coffee, and we’ll go over the visit to Narcissa again. Then we’ll fill you all in. Sound good?”

“I don’t want your office. I don’t want to spend another minute in this Ministry. And I want real coffee. Filtered. From good beans.” Draco knew he was whining but couldn’t stop himself.

He had been torn from his familiar, carefully arranged life and dragged back to the country he hated, the city that made his skin crawl, the building whose very walls terrified him. In the last few days he had spoken to more people and felt more things than in years. He hadn’t slept enough, eaten enough, or had nearly enough coffee.

He was entitled to a little attitude. And, judging by the look Potter gave him, the Auror seemed to agree.

“Fine. No Ministry. You’ll put on the Cloak, we’ll leave, and we’ll find the nearest—what’s the word—Muggle café you like. You’ll order your precious coffee, eat something with fiber and protein, and we’ll talk.”

“And you’ll answer my questions.”

“And I’ll answer your questions…” Potter ran both hands through his hair, pressing his palms to his temples. The silence in the lab turned razor sharp.

“Or,” Ron said, breaking it, “you could just book a room and forget the bloody coffee.”

“Ron!” everyone in the room hissed at once.

***

Draco sat at the café table, warming his hands around the cup of filter coffee Potter had bought him. The smell was rich and sharp, and it did wonders for his mood.

Harry pushed aside his own plate, still holding a half-eaten slice of coconut cake, and tapped his fingers on the tabletop to get Draco’s attention. That was the signal — he was ready to talk.

“Could you…” Draco gestured vaguely over Harry’s shoulder, and without even turning around, Potter understood.

Their entire entourage — a very pregnant Hermione, Ron, Nott (who had joined them on the way), and Pansy, kidnapped from her lunch break — sat at the next table, openly staring at the two of them.

“I can’t make them leave,” Harry said under his breath, “but I can do this. Muffliato.”

A flick of his wand, and the group immediately started tugging at their ears, trying to clear the sudden buzzing noise. When they realized what had happened, they gave Harry deeply wounded looks but didn’t move. He only shrugged.

“That work for you?” he asked Draco.
“Perfectly.”
“Right,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. He ran his hand across his brow, took a deep breath, and began.

“I’ll start with what you’ve probably guessed already, Malfoy. The moment you told me about the ritual, I sent word to London — to Hermione and Ron — to check for links between your story and the murders. They found them.”

He paused, watching Draco’s expression before continuing.

“The blood-cleansing ritual you performed had five stages. Each time, three donors. Blaise confirmed that. We now have every reason to believe that the murders are happening in the reverse order of your ritual.

“First came the Muggles. Then those distantly related to wizarding families. The last three victims were Squibs. I told you almost the whole truth in Stratford — the uproar really did start with the local chairman of the Wizarding Congress. But his son didn’t die at his cousin’s house, as I said. He died at his sister’s. And the boy was a Squib.

“I gave you false details on purpose, to confuse you. To see how you’d react. Until I realized the impossible — that you genuinely have no idea what’s happening around you.”

Draco didn’t move. The smell of coffee filled the silence.

“Hermione’s working to prove that the victims were the same people whose blood was used in your ritual. That’s why we needed you in London, in her lab. Only here can we run the tests we need.”

Harry’s tone softened, but the words struck like cold rain.

“Draco, if our theory is right — and it is — then the murders won’t stop. There will be at least two more sets. Six more deaths. Three Muggle-born wizards. Three pure-bloods.

“And the one killing them is your father. I think he believes that by doing this, he can reverse the ritual. Bring your magic back. And I think… it’s working.”

Draco’s expression darkened, but Harry pressed on before he could sink into it.

“I know what you’re thinking. That every death is your fault. But it isn’t, Draco. It’s his. It’s Lucius. I’m allowed to say that, and you have to believe me. Do you know why?”

Draco stared into the coffee, his fingers tight around the cup.

“Draco. Look at me.” Harry leaned forward, gently prying the cup from his hands. “Look at me.”

He took Draco’s fingertips between his own, grounding him.

“Because I used to think the same thing. That every person who died in the war died because of me. That every death was my sin, my failure. But it’s not true, Draco. It’s not.

“I know you. I know what kind of person you are. I know that if I don’t stop you right now, you’ll start destroying yourself all over again. You already stripped yourself of your magic, and I don’t even want to imagine what you’d do next. I won’t let that happen. Do you hear me?”

“Your father is a madman, a broken wizard. And we will stop him.”

Draco raised his eyes, meeting Harry’s. For a heartbeat, something flickered between them — sharp, alive, dangerous. Then Draco lunged forward, wrenching his hands free and gripping Harry’s wrists with bruising strength.

“Promise me, Potter.”
“I swear it, Draco.”
“Good. And I can trust you now? You’ve told me everything?” Draco’s grip tightened, hard enough to hurt.

“Almost everything.” Harry freed one wrist and laid that hand gently over Draco’s, still clutching the other. Slowly, deliberately, he brushed his thumb across Draco’s pale skin — knowing, somehow, that this might be the first and last time he would ever dare.

Then, looking him straight in the eye, Harry spoke the truth he had carried for years, the one everyone else had already seen.

“I’m hopelessly in love with you, Draco Malfoy. And I have been for a very, very long time.”