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bottom_draco_commAuthor: ???
Prompt: PROMPT # 60
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Word Count: 21,288
Rating: PG-13 (for themes)
Contains: Found Family, Original Characters, Violent Language, Auror Harry, Alternate Universe - Coffeeshop, Jealousy, Muggle-Living Draco, Smoking Draco, Harry & Ron BrOTP Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended. Notes: I apologize for wandering a good bit away from the prompt. These things do happen, especially when a boy in very happy colors wants to do wonderfully grey things. I’m sure this is not what you were expecting, cremebunny, but hopefully you’ll enjoy it regardless. I haven’t written anything HP in nearly two years, so, renewed apologies for being out of practice with these characters and with Britishisms - I hope I didn’t embarrass myself too awfully. J tried to make sure I didn’t. Thank you for that as always (and for your speediness), darling! kitty_fic was a source of constant support, enthusiasm and reassurance throughout this process and you put even the name of ‘cheerleader’ to shame, love. And, finally, thanks to E for reading every word I write and convincing me they’re not as terrible strung together as I’ve told myself they are. You’re all my own found family and I love you to bits.
Summary: Harry finds something he’s been looking for since the war’s end. Admittedly, the packaging’s a bit odder than he expected.
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“Off to Appalachia?” Ron asked as Harry sank down in his desk chair. He was reclined in his own, wood groaning, and unashamedly sucking his fingers clean of jam. He had a bit of a gut these days, one he was self-conscious over though disinclined to do anything about.
Luna had benignly remarked how smart he was to pack on extra padding for the upcoming winter, the last time they had seen her. Ron had pinked up, blotchy and unattractive and muttered something about ‘sympathy weight.’
Harry gave his displayed midsection a pointed look while he scrubbed a hand over his growing beard. He went through cycles when he wouldn’t shave it for months. Ron couldn’t seem to help himself noting when he did.
He sat up in his seat with a pronounced frown and draped his robes more neatly over his stomach. “Spoilsport.”
“If you’re afraid of heights, stay off the broom, tubs.”
Ron flicked a wadded piece of parchment at his head. “You break up with Ginny again, is this a grief-beard?”
“I think Gin’s on a less phallus-filled track these days. Took Cho to that last Quidditch gala,” Harry said, leaning across his desk to get closer to Ron’s.
Ron stared at him across the space and blinked. “Hope that doesn’t deflate your ego, mate,” he offered with a grimace of a smile. They had both been Harry’s girlfriends, even if Cho hardly counted.
Harry shook his head. “I think it’s kinda hot actually. Gin’ll toughen Cho up, maybe even with restraints, she always liked—”
“All this ‘cos I brought up the beard?” Ron whinged, pained. A covert Silencing Spell knocked Harry right in the mouth, so hard that he rocked back a little. Ron’s brows lowered as if declaring war, flicking his wand like he was ashing the tip. “That was excessive retaliation,” he declared of Harry’s actions.
Harry snorted silently and gestured between them. Pot, kettle. He leaned back with a grin, waved a hand and the charm fizzled away. Ron’s eyes narrowed jealously at the ease, as they always did. Which was why Harry had done it. “Yeah, all right. I promise not to talk about mine and your sister’s sex life for the rest of the day.”
“Can I negotiate for a longer period of time?”
Harry shrugged. “You can try.” He had given up the ghost of a future with Ginny ages ago and had actually been the one to introduce her and Cho, thinking they might get on. It was still nice to prod Ron with his and Gin’s relationship every so often though. “Lead for Däumler came in overnight,” Harry said, flipping up the edges of the file for an excuse not to meet Ron’s eyes.
Ron shoved his own folder across his desk and onto Harry’s. They kept the space between them uncluttered with baubles as they often threw or slid or Accioed things across it.
Harry glanced through Ron’s file.
“Unsporting of you to try to distract me from the fact that it’s my turn to choose the case,” he said, pointing a finger at Harry. “We’re going after Remizov.”
Harry rolled his eyes. The lead was weak, the witness almost certainly unreliable, the location Muggle and hardly a hub for illegal anything. The chances of them apprehending a criminal were about on par with the chances of Ron leaving the same weight he went in. Which was likely why Ron had chosen it. “It’s ‘Rogozin,’” Harry corrected disapprovingly, brow furrowed. “How well did you read this?”
Ron had food in his mouth. Harry had no idea what it was or where he had gotten it from. “Thoroughly. Cover to cover.”
Harry tried to fight down a smirky smile but his lips curled up on the left. “Went around the outside, didn’t you?”
“That is the more expeditious way,” Ron blustered unapologetically. “We’re not top-tier Aurors for nothin’, Potter.”
When it was decided, Ron’s option to be presented to Kingsley for consideration, Ron stood from his desk, took a step and fell flat on his face. Harry snorted and ran for Kingsley’s office just as Ron put together that Harry had Nonverbally knotted his trainer’s laces together.
Ron shrugged, recovered and recommitted to their current course. “Least it’s not London. I’ll take Mancs over that tosh any day.” He poked his head out from the alley they’d Apparated into, checking the street. “They’ll probably think we’ve one of those poppers, noise we’ve made.” He held out his thumb and forefinger, miming a gun.
Harry sighed. “It’s Fallowfield, we’ll blend right in then.”
“Ah, cakes!” Ron said, ignoring Harry and his bad temper, striding across the street to the bakery he’d spotted.
Harry reluctantly followed. He resented being dragged into something that was such an obvious waste of time, but it was Ron’s turn to choose. If Harry started whinging, Ron would never keep quiet when it was his go and he sent them after someone like Yaxley or Markusson, both of whom Harry intended to be the one to catch.
He could only do that once they’d got this done, or more likely, proved there was nothing to get done.
Harry found them a table in the corner, using his sleeve to wipe up rings of condensation. Ron came over with half the display case, setting a croissant in front of Harry. He obligingly picked at it, flipping through the report. “Not much to go on here. A few forgeries that look to be his work and an iffy description of him exiting something called ‘Anvil Masters.’ Might be smart to settle in before checking that out.”
Ron snorted around a mouthful of cake. Crumbs spewed onto Harry’s sleeve. He shook it out pointedly. “That eager to get to the bedsit?”
Bedsit, brilliant. “We’d have had a proper flat in Wales,” Harry grumbled.
“And about quadruple the likelihood of getting grisly-murdered there.” Ron leaned his elbow on the table, the top tilting towards him as it wasn’t particularly secure. He didn’t seem bothered. “Let’s talk about this death wish, mate. I think you might have a problem.”
“Because I want to do my job?” It was about more than the job, though. Even if he wasn’t willing to admit that. Sitting stationary like this, he wasn’t sure who he was supposed to be. Harry Potter caught monsters, the whole of the Wizarding World would agree with that; he didn’t sit in cafés eating croissants.
Adventures, things that kept him running, they held off that moment when he’d have to figure out who he was without them. Ron used to be right there with him but then he’d married Hermione, got her preggers and decided dying wasn’t worth putting off a bit of soul-searching.
The selfish berk.
“Because,” Ron corrected, jam on his lip, “you only want to do the job if there’s an opportunity for death or maiming. You’re an adrenaline junkie, Harry. I’m weaning you off it.”
“Good of you,” Harry said sarcastically.
Ron nodded, shoving half a doughnut in his mouth. “I thought so.”
“And what about you? Hermione gets up the duff and you start sending us after Snitch forgers.”
“Cannons should’ve won that match,” Ron said bitterly while Harry discreetly looked around to assure himself that no Mancs had overheard him extolling the virtues of any team that wasn’t Man U or City. They seemed to be in the clear. Ron glanced off to the side and said tightly, “You want a new partner then—”
“Belt up,” Harry cut him off. As if that were even an option. They both knew better. “You may’ve gone soft but I’m half-convinced it’s ‘cos you’re taking after your stomach.”
Ron smirked, tenseness forgotten with the return to a more familiar dynamic. He reached across and snagged Harry’s beard. “Yeah, yeah. Go keep some creatures, Rubeus.”
Ron turned out his pocket, raining crumbs and ‘biscuit’ bits down in front of a mutt leashed to a bus sign. It sniffed at them and turned away purposefully. They both frowned at the reaction. They’d eaten about six of those things between them not to seem rude. “That’s ageist, that is,” Ron decided.
Harry crossed his arms over his chest. “Can we go home yet?”
“Aw, but I do so love listening to you whinge,” Ron told him, leaning in and batting his eyelashes in Harry’s face. Harry shoved his shoulder into Ron’s and pushed him off. Ron brightened at the sign across the street, which was shaped like a teacup and had the words ‘Blends and Brews’ written on it in spiky handwriting. “Come on, coffee, for the taste.” He stuck out his tongue. It did look a bit sickly from what he’d been putting on it. “You can continue your tirade there. Hate to tell you, mate, but you need the change of scenery to spice things up. Routine’s gone a bit stale.”
Harry glowered at him but followed him into the shop. He glanced up at the menu over the till. It stretched to fill nearly the whole width of the café and he let his gaze drop to the girl behind the counter. Though he felt identifying her as a ‘girl’ was perhaps a bit generous. She was more hair than human, truthfully, and she’d clearly given up on trying to pretend anything else.
Harry was used to apocalyptic hair; he’d known Hermione before she’d known hair products but this was beyond even his familiarity. It seemed to consist of differently coloured streaks that were clearly faded relics of a time when it had been at all manageable. Now it was a thick, unruly bushel made up of flyaways, snarls and apathy.
A visor was wound through thick pieces and the main mousy-brown hair colour toppled over and tried to obscure the small words proclaiming, just as the sign had done, ‘Blends and Brews.’ It covered the girl’s eyes but Harry felt sure if the hat hadn’t been there, they wouldn’t have been able to see her face at all.
All of which might’ve been an improvement, as it happened, as the only sense he had of her as a person was the snarl on her lips and the chipped plum polish on her impatiently tapping nails. None of that came until after they’d been standing at the counter long enough for Harry to wish for a seat. He might’ve found it rude, how long it took her to address them (and she still, actually, hadn’t) but he wasn’t all that convinced she could see much of anything under the uniform and the weight of all that hair. “Well?” she demanded finally.
“Erm. Coffee, black, whatever you call that,” Harry said, much more politely than she deserved. He felt a bit bad. She was carrying so much hair on her head that it was probably giving her back pains.
She picked herself up from the counter with a heavy sigh and Harry saw she was about half a foot shorter than he’d expected. She really was more hair than person. She must’ve barely made it over five foot.
She pulled down a cup from a tower and Harry saw that the unwashed tangle was held up with a precarious system of biros, knots and slides. Which explained why it was half-falling down. “We call it ‘coffee, black,’” she muttered under her breath, reaching up for a dark coffee blend. She was short enough that she couldn’t look at the shelf straight-on, “This isn’t a bloody Starbucks, Emmet.”
“Er, Harry,” Harry corrected.
Harry was fairly certain that had garnered an eye roll even though he couldn’t see her face the way she was turned. And couldn’t have seen her eyes whether she was facing him dead on or not.
Ron leaned over his shoulder and murmured, “Will I be getting an invite to the wedding then?”
“Sod off,” Harry shot back, nearly missing the arrival of another worker.
This one, almost as though he was trying to prove the negative of the girl, had a shaved head. His hair was lighter than Ron’s, more orange than red but so close-cropped the colour was almost indistinguishable. His olive pit eyes kept slipping to the girl who was brewing their coffee, like he was readying himself for a potentially uncomfortable conversation.
Harry could understand that. She didn’t seem like a particularly easy person to talk to, for the dual reasons of being by default unpleasant, based on Harry’s interactions with her leastways, and also being mainly hair.
This bloke also didn’t acknowledge Harry or Ron in any fashion. He turned round to the girl and Harry saw he had a tattoo that licked out up above his collar, it was a dark maroon on his pale skin. His long sleeves were pushed up and there were flashes of ink peeking out there too.
He would’ve looked like a rather dangerous bloke, if it weren’t for the fact that he was clearly intimidated by a five-foot tall heap of hair. He sniffed grandly, a snorky sound tearing through all the other noise in the shop, stopping it dead in its tracks before swarming forward again. “All right?” he asked finally, voice rough as Harry would’ve expected though blunted by concern.
The girl half-twisted, scowl on the only part of her face Harry could clearly see. “No, Ro, pouring coffee has done my head in. Shoulda stuck to a well simple job, eh?” She slapped a paper cup in the space between her and Harry and stabbed at the till with a pointed finger.
Harry hadn’t asked for it to be take-away. He decided not to point that out.
The bloke didn’t seem bothered, leaned his backside against the counter behind her and crossed his arms and legs, nonchalant. His apron was tied round his waist but not looped around his neck, just folded over so it hung down. He picked under a nail with his thumb. “Biddy,” he said evenly. He gave up and raised the nail to his mouth, biting it down even further.
She huffed, closed her eyes, and actively let some of her defensiveness go with the released air. “Shattered is all, all right?” she answered finally. “Didn’t get a wink.”
The drawer sprang open and Harry handed over a few pounds, glancing at the Tip Jar like it was a particularly hilarious joke. It had a few coins in that Harry was convinced had been there for weeks. They were in a service industry and his fingers were covered in spit and she behaved as though this was a hostage exchange.
Harry pocketed his change.
The bloke stood up again and said carelessly, jerking his head towards Ron but still not looking at either of them, “I can handle this.”
Her expression darkened, not that he saw, brassed off all over again. “And so can I. No need for knights today,” she said with exaggerated sweetness that made even Harry cringe. She glanced back, accepted his lack of malice, and tacked on a more genuine, “but thanks.”
Ron stepped forward before this could continue and said brightly, “Er, the same and a jammy dodger, Biddy.” Let it not be said that anything could stand between Ron and food.
“It’s Bridget,” she snapped venomously, whipping around on him. “I’ve only got a bloody name badge on.”
So she did. And it did, in fact, say ‘Bridget.’ The bloke’s was unreadable, pinned to the top of his apron and therefore out of sight.
“Yes,” Ron agreed, unruffled, leaning over the counter with a flashy grin, “but we’ve been standing here nearly twenty minutes waiting for you to take our order. It only takes fifteen to fall into these eyes of mine.” He batted his eyelashes. Harry couldn’t help his snort. “Considering our fresh love affair, we’re bound to’ve arrived at nicknames, yeah? If not pet names already, crumpet.”
She turned away with narrowed eyes to get his order together.
Harry didn’t lower his voice any to tell Ron, “She’s spitting on that. Probably right in front of you, too.”
Ron shrugged, leaned back and said covertly to Harry, “She’s not likely to have mad cow, is she? Cleared that up, haven’t they?”
Harry was about to answer when the door to a back room he hadn’t noticed squealed open on angry hinges. He turned lazily towards the sound of it, wondering who else was going to join in this circus of disagreeableness, a stream of violent hissing rising up to replace the screech. Already off to a good start then. “Bleeding scally’s mad if he thinks he’s got away with this. Mug tosser, I should—” The bloke turned, pulling a wool coat off the rack in the corner, still spitting under his breath. He was drowning in a shirt with a low scoop neck, hemmed in by pastel orange jeans and fitted with lace-up boots that went a quarter of the way up his calves. And his hair was purple. Lilac. Some sort of odd hue and shaved nearly the whole way round except for at the top, where it was tousled and styled into some sort of ridiculous bedraggled look. And, again, lilac all over.
He turned around and Harry choked on nothing. “Malfoy?” he and Ron burst out at the same moment.
Well. And if there was a better addition, Harry was struggling to come up with it.
He froze with his coat halfway on. Looked them up and down. “Potter.” It was him. It was actually Malfoy in a Muggle coffee shop, dressed… how he was dressed and using that same jeering way of saying his name as always. He dipped his chin carefully as though they were feral animals he was hoping not to engage. Least till he got to Ron, smirked and said blithely, “Weasley, you’ve got fat.”
Ron went beet red. Harry couldn’t tell if it was fury or embarrassment. “I haven’t!”
“You have,” Malfoy said happily, turning to the woman behind the counter who was waiting with Ron’s order. He assessed it and pointed at her. “Biddy, don’t give him that.”
She snatched the biscuit off the counter while Ron puffed himself up and said, gesturing wildly to the total, “Oi, I’ve already been charged for it.”
Malfoy smiled sharply. “And Biddy appreciates the tip, I’m certain.” He finished pulling on his coat and looked for all the world as though he was just going to leave.
That was not on. “Malfoy,” Ron said furiously, recovering faster than Harry did, “you stroppy git, would you—”
The bloke with the shaved head stepped in between them. “Draco isn’t in,” he said, a few inches taller than Ron and examining his nails again. “Hasn’t been in all morning,” he said with a thoughtful frown, as though trying to recall the last time he’d seen the man standing right behind him. “Shame, that,” he offered.
Harry snapped out of it. “What is he doing here?” he demanded before realising Malfoy was actually still there. He shook his head, chastising himself for being a prat, and stepped around the other bloke. He demanded more logically, of Malfoy this time, “What are you doing here?”
Malfoy blinked. “I’m not in,” he said obviously, half-hidden by the other bloke. “Didn’t you hear? Ro put it so well.”
“Thanks, boss,” ‘Ro,’ apparently, said over his shoulder. Boss? Malfoy owned a shop? A Muggle shop? Ostensibly, Harry knew he must do. Malfoy’s sentence three years ago had been expulsion from the entirety of the Wizarding World. All he had left to him was the Muggle one.
It still didn’t seem all that likely that he was commingling with them, labouring and existing in harmony among people he wouldn’t have bothered to waste spit on back then.
Malfoy nodded agreeably at the bloke’s back, his odd flop of hair moving with him. Harry couldn’t fit any of what he was seeing in with the image he last had of Malfoy, standing with a petulant expression on his face while the Wizengamot declared him unwelcome in the only world he’d ever known, still haughty and superior even then. The only thing that’d been even the slightest bit recognisable as of yet was the acidic way Harry’s name had fallen from his mouth. He waved his hand uncaringly at him and Ron. “Toodle-pip and all, brilliant chat.” And then he was striding out again.
Stopped only by the girl behind the counter, who leaned over it and asked with a sharp, goading smirk, “You’ve left lolly by the till for police bail, yeah?”
“Biddy,” Malfoy said evenly, nodding to Ron and Harry, “those’re two coppers you’ve got in front of you, now’s not the time for taking the piss.”
“Who’s taking the piss?” she said under her breath.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” the bloke agreed in a mutter, also trying not to be overheard by Malfoy, who scowled at the both of them and kept right on out the door before Harry or Ron could get another word in.
Well.
They certainly weren’t leaving Manchester any time soon.
The bell above the door jingled as they entered and the bloke with the shaved head said, “It’s after hours,” without glancing up from behind the counter.
“We’re not here as patrons,” Harry said, raising his voice to call out, “Malfoy?” He was almost hoping to be proved wrong. Of course he couldn’t be here.
The bloke Malfoy’d called ‘Ro’ raised his head. There was something intimidating about the set of his jaw. “Not in.”
“Hasn’t been about all day,” the girl, Biddy, added. Harry hadn’t even seen her, sitting at a table off to the side and counting the sugar packets laid out on it, bracelets on her arm tinkling softly as they piled up at her wrist and hair completely obscuring the back of the chair she was sitting in.
Ro snorked a sniff again. “Think he moved, matter of fact.”
The girl’s head twitched towards Ro and she nodded in agreement. “Oh right, I did hear. Brighton or summat.”
The back door chose that exact moment to squeal open and Malfoy stepped out of it, doing up the last buttons on his coat. And it was definitely him. Purple hair and all.
“Malfoy,” Harry said smartly, “how’s Brighton?”
Malfoy froze, glancing between the lot of them as though hoping for something to take his cue from. Finding nothing, he said indecisively, “Chilly this time of year.”
He moved to walk past Harry again and Harry grabbed his arm, informing him, “We need to talk.”
Ro was moving the second Harry’s fingers closed on Malfoy, setting down the mug he’d been drying, and Ron had to scramble between them to head off Ro’s trajectory towards Harry. “Steady on, big fella,” he said uneasily.
Ro kept his eyes glued to where Harry’s hand was wrapped around Malfoy’s bicep. “Tell your mate to take his hands off mine and I’ll ease off.”
Mate? Harry felt weak laughter die in his throat. Malfoy didn’t have mates. He had bodyguards with lumps for brains. What in all of buggery was happening? There was an intensity to the bloke’s eyes and Harry knew loyalty like that couldn’t be bought. It had to be earned.
Harry stared at Malfoy. Malfoy’d never earned anything in his whole life.
Malfoy rolled his eyes. Harry and Ron had both tensed at the threat – Ro had a good deal of muscle mass on the both of them – but it had only seemed to relax Malfoy. “Ro, you are the consummate thug and we’re all suitably impressed,” he said generously and Ro puffed up a bit, “but I am certain you remember me telling you they are coppers.” That sounded a bit disapproving, as though he was used to Ro courting trouble and wasn’t impressed. Ro fell back a step without it seeming intentional. “Besides, if anyone is taking a bite out of these blokes it’s Biddy and it does all of us a disservice to pretend otherwise.”
Biddy obligingly bared her teeth and Harry did feel a shock of foreboding trip down his spine. He still couldn’t see her eyes around the hair and visor and his brain was happily conjuring all sorts of demonic reds and blacks for him. Or hollow sockets, à la Dementor chic.
“We only want a chat,” Harry reassured them, shifting his feet uneasily. “Not hauling him in or anything.”
“Coffee shop’s the right place for a chat,” Biddy pointed out flatly, stacking a few packets up together. Between the lot of them, she was easily the most relaxed, sprawled across two chairs and tapping her foot against the support of one to music only she could hear.
Harry deflated for half a second before coming up with a parry for her words. “It’s an ongoing case. Sensitive.”
Malfoy’s sharp smile was back. “I’ll tell them to forget it later,” he promised.
“You want him,” Biddy butted in, “you talk here, show us a warrant or get off his property.”
“Biddy, that’s hardly polite,” Malfoy said, twisting around to look at her with an exaggerated frown. Harry still had a hold of him, not that Malfoy seemed bothered by that in the slightest. It was driving Harry a bit mad how little effect he was having on him actually. Malfoy turned the frown on Harry. “Ro will escort you off the property. We’re not ruffians.”
It was Harry’s turn to roll his eyes. He gave in to the inevitable and gestured for Malfoy to sit at one of the small shop tables while he and Ron took chairs on the opposite side. Ro came around the counter, dragged a stool noisily away from it and sat behind them, a slight ways away, while Biddy ceased her sugar packet counting and stared at them from a table that was diagonally off from theirs.
The way they sat, it made Harry think of tectonic plates, currently in balance but, at the slightest shift, capable of catastrophic reaction.
Malfoy unbuttoned his coat as he sat and crossed his legs at the knees, setting clasped hands on the topmost one, looking for all the world as though he was about to engage in a pleasant chat.
One thing certainly hadn’t changed. Harry still found everything about him infuriating. His complete lack of reaction to them, his utter ease at being in their presence, and the smirk that seemed to be perennially waiting at the corners of his lips.
Everything else had, though. This wasn’t the boy who’d sat there sneering, looking the consummate pureblood as his sentence was handed down, hair all perfectly in place, chin jutted out defiantly and robes worth more money than he would have to his name by the end of it. This Malfoy would’ve been one the old Malfoy would’ve crossed the street to avoid.
Blimey, he even had those round, spike earrings in both ears. Different colours, one a sky blue and the other a pale pink and with some kind of swirly pattern to them. The old Malfoy would’ve looked at him and thought he was a yob.
“What do you know about Andrei Rogozin?” Harry heard himself ask.
And there he was. Malfoy, exactly as he’d ever been, a sneer smeared across his mouth. Harry felt his ire surge while Malfoy held the expression in place. He pursed his lips after a moment, letting the disdain drop and the amusement was back. His eyes flashed between Harry and Ron. “Russian probably, second name like that.” He picked up his hands from his knee and spread them out on either side of himself. “I’m afraid you’ve tapped me for information.”
Ron snorted. “So it’s coincidence that we come here looking for criminal activity and find you at the centre of it?”
Malfoy’s amusement grew, became a bawdy sort of thing. He half-turned to the Muggles. “Am I? At the centre, you say? I’ll have to put ‘criminal mastermind’ on the sign under the boast of ‘free Wi-Fi,’ be a bit more glamourous about it, don’t you think?”
Ro and Biddy both huffed with quiet laughter behind them.
“Malfoy—” Ron started.
Malfoy smartly cut him off. “I’ve nothing to do with any of this. Worse yet, I think you both know I’ve nothing to do with any of this and you’re here because you’ve missed our particular brand of adversarial relationship.” He leaned forward and smiled indulgently. “No need for embarrassment, I’ve missed it as well.”
Harry turned to Ron. They weren’t getting anything out of him, that much was clear. Whatever they found, they’d have to go digging for it as Malfoy certainly wasn’t going to cooperate. They communicated all that through raised eyebrows and tilted chins and then Harry stood, dragging his wand out from his charmed pocket.
Malfoy stood so quickly that he knocked over his chair. Gone was the previous light-heartedness. Now he looked as dangerous as Ro ever had. His voice was low and it shook. “Obliviate them and I will end you, Potter.”
Harry actually fell back a step in sheer surprise. It had been such an abrupt turn. At least it was more familiar terrain, though.
Ron knocked his chair back a space as well as he got to his feet. “Are you threatening an Auror, mate, have you gone barmy?” He sounded like he genuinely believed Malfoy might be. It wasn’t much of a stretch. This was practically suicide on Malfoy’s part.
Malfoy’s eyes sliced over to him. “Weasley, I am not your mate. Point a wand at them again and I will show you how very much I am not your mate.”
Biddy and Ro had slowly gotten to their feet as well, as though trying not to draw attention to it. Biddy’s height hadn’t changed much.
Ro cleared his throat and asked unevenly, “That’s the forgetty-one, right?”
“Yes,” Malfoy confirmed without turning to look at him.
If Harry were the type, his jaw would’ve dropped. “You’ve told them,” he blurted in disbelief. “There’s a Statute of bloody Secrecy, Malfoy. That counts as violating your parole. This is an arrestable offence!” Only as Harry said it did he realise he’d never had any intention of arresting Malfoy.
“We’ll play dumb,” Biddy piped in, voice higher than before.
Which didn’t matter of course because—“We have Veritaserum,” Ron told her, not unkindly.
“Truth potion,” Malfoy translated, eyes still on Harry’s wand.
Ro shared a glance with Biddy and he tried uncertainly, “Then we’ll kill you.” ‘Killing legal officials’ clearly hadn’t been on his list of things to do that day and it had obviously thrown him. But Harry knew he wasn’t bluffing. He would try.
Bloody hell, this was turning into a cock-up of epic proportions.
Harry let out a heavy breath through his nose and lowered his wand, saying, “I don’t want to take you in. Any of you.” Despite the weak death threats. He turned to Ron and prodded, “Ron?”
Malfoy turned to him as well. “I wasn’t saying we could never be mates, Weasley. Only that we weren’t quite there yet.”
“You’re not making it better,” Biddy hissed at him. Harry was momentarily overtaken with the urge to hug her.
Ron relaxed slightly and said grudgingly, answering Harry, “Not yet.”
Malfoy’s shoulders slumped and he said with faux brightness, “Excellent. Coffee?”
“We’re going to have to alter their memories, Malfoy, you know that,” Harry told his back as he mucked about behind the counter, trying to break the news gently.
Malfoy didn’t turn around as he answered back in a cheerful tone, “And I’m going to try to kill you if you make an attempt, you have to know that.”
Oddly enough, Harry believed him. This wasn’t the same boy whose hands had shook on the tower when faced with killing Dumbledore. Harry wasn’t sure how he knew, but he’d always been weirdly in tune with Malfoy and this was no different. He meant it.
“They’ve never broken the Statute before, not any more than I did to tell them leastways, and they’ve known for a good three years. Leave it or deal with the consequences of not leaving it.”
Harry shared a look with Ron. Malfoy set down two cups of coffee in front of them and Ron said, “We’ll let it go for the time being.”
Malfoy grinned brilliantly at the both of them. “There, murder threats out of the way, I’m sure we’ll all get on famously. Weasley, would you like a biscuit?”
Harry didn’t have to ask what he meant. “Hell of a coincidence if he isn’t,” he said. It seemed too grand to be chance. Sent after a criminal only to find Malfoy at the thick of it? But Malfoy didn’t seem to be inviting trouble at the very least. Though Harry had to admit that his staff hardly seemed like law-abiding citizens. He was too stuck on, “Malfoy’s got Muggle mates,” to consider much else, though.
“Sure they’re not lackeys?” Ron said with a snort.
“You saw everything I did.” There was a dangerous sort of loyalty between the three of them, one Harry would’ve never thought Malfoy capable of engendering. Or giving. Because he was just as loyal to them as they were to him. “They’re his mates, since when does Malfoy have mates?”
Ron shrugged and then banged into Harry as he nearly jumped out of his skin with a shrill, “Hermione, bloody hell!”
Harry turned, heart settling back in his chest, and squinted to find Hermione sitting on the step above them under her own Disillusionment Charm, only the lines of her visible now he knew to look. Her pregnant belly making her knees press into both Ron’s and Harry’s shoulders.
“All night stakeout on Malfoy? I got curious. Well?”
Harry directed her towards the shop where Malfoy could be seen in the dim light with Ro and Biddy. They sat around a table, presumably discussing their earlier meeting.
The three of them were quiet for a moment watching the three others and then Hermione said thoughtfully, “He seems to be doing alright for himself, doesn’t he?”
“Lost my business,” Ron told her stoutly. “Wouldn’t give me a biscuit.”
“That’ll show him,” Hermione said sarcastically. Harry heard her chewing on something. He didn’t want to know what. Hermione’s cravings could put him right off food for days.
“S’right.” Ron sniffed, not seeming to realise Hermione had been less than supportive. They passed whatever they were eating back and forth between one another and Harry really didn’t want to know.
It was at least a whole hour before Malfoy and his Muggles decided to pack in for the night.
Malfoy was locking up when Harry felt Hermione sit up properly, her leg pressing more into his side while she said with a cautious curiosity, “What’s this now?”
Harry saw instantly what she was talking about. A stocky bloke in a bowler was headed right for Malfoy and his little group. Ro turned around first and Harry watched, amazed, as he seemed to get cut off at the knees, losing nearly a foot as his face crumpled in on itself and he shrank back.
“Draco,” Biddy hissed, noticing their company, and Malfoy turned round as well.
Harry stood, not sure what he meant to do, but whatever was causing Ro – a man who looked like he got into fistfights as recreation – to look like that could not be good. Gone was the bloke who’d wanted to knock Harry out for daring to put a hand on Malfoy. This was… it reminded Harry of living in a cupboard and waiting for his cousin to belt him whenever he was slow enough to get caught.
Malfoy stepped purposefully in front of Ro, off the sidewalk, meeting the man in the street before he could get any closer to Ro or Biddy.
Harry felt Ron stand up as well, a hand coming down between them to land on ‘Mione’s shoulder so she wouldn’t try to get involved, too.
“Mr. Murphy,” Malfoy said with a veneer of pleasantness that hid something venomous beneath it, “how lovely it is to see you again though, I hate to say it, how illegal it is to see you again.” The man kept walking forward and Malfoy stuck out a hand, his fingertips pressing against the man’s chest and stopping him cold. Malfoy continued in that frightfully polite tone. “You’re violating the NMO that is still firmly in place, renewed only a month ago if I remember correctly.” His face said he did. “I hope you’re not going to force me to ‘help fight crime and dial 999.’”
The man took a step back as though Malfoy’s touch disgusted him. He’d hardly spared him a glance and his gaze became even more fixed on Ro, who was staring at his shoes as though fascinated by them. “Leroy,” his voice was twisted and hateful and carried Harry halfway across the street towards him, wanting to do anything to stop it coming out of his mouth, “I’ve left off with your bender and your dwarf long enough. It’s time for you to come home.”
He moved to take a step around Malfoy, who moved right with him. His voice was still that same steady, superficially benign one but it promised violence. It was softer now, a harsh whisper. His cliff of long lilac hair brushed the man’s ruddy cheek as he said, “If you take one step closer to him, I will break you.” It was a clean promise, not played up or dragged out, just a simple reminder. “I will break you in every way I know how to break a person, Mr. Murphy. I might even pick up a few new ways while working you over.” Malfoy could’ve been discussing the weather. “The only reason I haven’t is because of that man right there’s good will.” He pointed at Ro behind him. “And I do believe that is rapidly running out. Tick, tock, Mr. Murphy.”
The bloke in the bowler stood there an extra minute, seeming to wonder if he should test Malfoy’s word or not. His eyes darted up to the hair, to the delicate and aristocratic features. Only once he realised Malfoy was hoping he would test it, did he back away from them.
Ro couldn’t seem to move until he was out of sight and then he was taking off in the exact opposite direction the lot of them had originally been headed in.
Harry was still standing in the middle of the road and wasn’t inclined to move. He felt like he was holding his breath, waiting to see how this would play out.
“Where the bloody hell are you going?” Malfoy called after him, and now his voice was shaking.
“Leave it, Draco,” he called over his shoulder, voice small. Malfoy caught Biddy’s eye, flipped his keys into his hand and shoved them into his coat pocket, following. Ro turned, stopped, and scowled at him with a warning, “Draco.”
Malfoy shrugged. “You’re off, we’re all off.”
“Biddy,” Ro implored, as though pleading with her to make Malfoy see reason.
She popped her shoulders up as well, all casual-cool and not drawing attention to Ro’s state. He was trembling all over and trying to hide it. He no longer looked like a lion, now he was a wet kitten. “We’ll be alone together, it’ll be grand. I’ll outdrink you both and hand you back your bollocks at the end of the night if I’m feeling generous.”
Ro sneered at the both of them. “Sod bloody off if you know what’s—” he cut himself off in the middle of the threat and said more miserably, and likely more honestly, “I want to be alone.”
“I don’t give a toss,” Malfoy told him unapologetically. He added brightly, “Come home or enjoy your two ridiculously attractive shadows for the evening.”
Home? Harry was dumbfounded. Malfoy shared a flat with these two, worked with them, knew their families. He wasn’t just a staple in their lives. Looking at them, there was a very good chance they were each other’s lives.
“Draco,” Ro spat, all threat, hands clenching into fists at his sides. Harry took another two steps forward at the motion.
Malfoy noticed it as well, glancing purposefully down at Ro’s fists. “What are you going to do, Ro?” he asked quietly. The streetlights seemed to pulse in wait of an answer. “Are you going to be him?”
Ro’s hands immediately unclenched and he fell back a step in what was clearly unmitigated horror. “What? No. No,” he said forcefully. “I wouldn’t, I would never.”
Harry was pleased to find he believed him, unreservedly.
“I know that,” Malfoy answered cheerfully and he’d clearly never had a doubt in his head about it. “So do you, you’ve just said. Meaning you don’t have to go get yourself rat-arsed out of our skull worrying about it.” He grabbed Ro’s head in both of his hands and Harry almost wanted to shout some sort of warning at him as, much as it might’ve seemed otherwise in the last few minutes, this bloke was clearly not domesticated. But Malfoy had already dragged him down and smacked a kiss to his forehead, reiterating, “Come home.”
Instead of knocking Malfoy’s teeth in, Ro’s shoulders slumped under his touch and he fell into step with Biddy while Malfoy led the way. Biddy slung her arm through the crook of his elbow after a moment and Ro tolerated that as well. It was an odd picture the two of them made, one tall and one short, one angry and one apathetic and both of them following the long, humming silhouette of a boy with lilac hair. Ro grumbled under his breath, “You should’ve been a solicitor.”
Malfoy ‘hmed’ thoughtfully and decided, “I should’ve been many things. There isn’t a profession out there that couldn’t benefit from my unique perspective on things.”
Biddy snorted and muttered to Ro, “We should take the lift up. I’m not sure his head’ll fit through the stairwell door.”
Ron Apparated next to him before Harry could put it to his own. He dropped a piece of stiff paper into Harry’s lap. There was a crudely drawn map on it of the coffee shop, the building he was currently sitting on the roof of, an ‘x’ for Malfoy and, nearly on top of it, an ‘x’ for Harry. Ron tapped it in Harry’s hands. “Already seems familiar is all I’m getting at.”
Harry crumpled up the map and tossed it over the edge, cheeks warm. “I was right about that.”
Ron squinted at him, having dropped his Disillusionment Charm. Harry hadn’t yet. “Were you though? Might’ve called it luck rather, because you were bent on obsessing about him regardless of how plausible his being ‘up to something’ was. Brought Hermione and I closer though, worrying about your mental health the way we did, so cheers for that.”
“Happy to help,” Harry said flatly. He squeezed the end of the Extendable Ear between his fingers and said, “Due diligence is in our job description.”
Ron sighed gustily. “Least you can justify when you lose the plot, mate. Makes me sure you can forge the necessary paperwork when the time comes.” He clapped Harry on the shoulder and Disapparated with a pop.
Harry glared at where he’d been standing a moment longer. He’d been right and still Ron and Hermione acted as if sixth year was some grand lapse in judgment on his part. Wankers. He stuck the Extendable Ear into his own in time to hear Ro ask in a voice that was somehow already sleep rough, “What are you doing?”
“Hm?” That was Malfoy’s thoughtful hum. That benign voice from earlier was back. “Oh, plotting different scenarios, their immediate results and spreading ripples for dismembering your father financially, emotionally and physically.”
“I asked you not to do that,” Ro mumbled in a small voice.
“I haven’t done,” Malfoy agreed. “This is for my own… stress relief.”
“Show me,” Ro said after a long moment. Another silent few minutes passed before he decided, “You want me to let you.”
“Selfishly, yes, I do. He hurt someone I’ve come to care very deeply about and hurting him back would be quite satisfying. Unselfishly, no, because you are not a murderer. Not even by proxy. I very much respect that.” There was a moment of companionable silence and then Malfoy offered up the reassurance, “I do not pass any judgments on you, Ro.”
Harry wrapped up the Extendable Ear, having heard enough. At least for the night. He sat there, pondering it out. These people mattered to Malfoy. Muggles mattered to Malfoy and Harry wanted to know how, when, what had happened to him that something so fundamental to him had changed.
“They have a word for this, Muggles do,” came a voice from behind him and Harry nearly startled right over the edge. He hadn’t even heard the roof’s door open. Malfoy pointed at him with an unlit fag. “They call it ‘trespassing,’ and it’s reportable.” There was something about him, something hard, something that marked him as not just a survivor anymore, but someone who thrived. He lit his fag with a match, dragged on it, held, and blew out a curtain of smoke into the air. “Planning to arrest me?”
He didn’t have his mother here. Snape was dead. His money was reappropriated. He’d had to save himself this time around. And it looked as if he’d done not just that, but Harry suspected those Muggles downstairs were rescues of his too. Who the hell was this bloke who’d had to fend for himself for three years without magic or friends or skills?
How had Malfoy become him?
Harry spun so he was facing Malfoy, one leg bent up on the ledge next to him and the other dangling. “Not as yet,” he said cheekily.
“Ta.” Malfoy flicked his ash. “I’ve been looking forward to this fag all day, would’ve been crushed to cut it short.” He settled into what looked like a patio chair that was nothing more than rusted out hinges and warped plastic. The old Malfoy would’ve whinged about catching some disease from it from yards away.
Harry watched smoke coil above his head, lilac hair gone temporarily grey, and said out loud what was perplexing him, “You care about them. And they’re Muggles. Hard to make those two things fit.”
Malfoy perked a still-blond brow at him, unimpressed.
“You hated Muggles,” Harry reminded him, since he seemed to need it.
A slice of a grin spread crookedly over Malfoy’s thin lips, a bit dark and dangerous but not hateful. “I hated most things,” he half-agreed, half-corrected. “Muggles, you, Weasley, my father, Hufflepuffs, Severus, hippogriffs, other Slytherins whose families were more prosperous than mine.” He rubbed the hand holding his fag over his sharp chin. He was still all angles, cuts and points, and now he used them not only to be untouchable, but as weapons themselves. He expanded thoughtfully, “Though that was more of an envious hate, never venomous like the others. I was spoilt and my world was very, very small then.” Ash fell from the lit tip onto the toe of his boot. He didn’t seem bothered. “It was easy to rule, to set myself on the highest mount and kick others away who tried to take it from me. All I had to do was be more awful than anyone else, truly.” He sighed, almost wistfully. “And I was, and I was good at it. I miss it, sometimes. The world being small and conquerable.”
He actually did seem to. Harry thought maybe he could understand that. Malfoy had understood the Wizarding World, been born into a position of power and only had to keep it. Here he’d had to earn it, then keep it.
“You’ve grown up,” Harry said. That’s what it was. Somehow Harry had never expected it to happen to Malfoy. He felt left behind, as he wasn’t quite sure it had happened to him yet. He’d hidden behind his job almost to be sure it hadn’t.
Watching Malfoy though, it didn’t seem as scary as he’d once thought.
Malfoy frowned, looking past Harry to the street below. “Unfortunate, isn’t it? It’s a shame, not seeing magic in the air anymore.” Harry didn’t think he meant that literally. “Instead there’s pollution and rubbish bins and manky strays.”
Harry shook his head. “I was going to say the opposite. You’re better with your eyes all the way open.”
Malfoy made a considering sound in his throat but didn’t seem convinced, more like he was humouring Harry. It was strange, that they could sit on a rooftop and talk about what their worlds were.
Fact of it was, Harry didn’t think he knew this Malfoy well enough to be hostile to him anymore.
“Bugger,” Malfoy said softly, looking down at his orange trousers where a spot of still-lit ash had fallen and burned a slight hole into the fabric.
Harry pulled out his wind and Banished it, adding a Reparo with barely a thought.
Malfoy’s eyes went wide, thumb dragging back and forth over the newly unmarred cloth. He stared up at Harry and Harry realised his mistake. “Sorry,” he blurted out.
Malfoy dropped his fag from limp fingers and Harry almost thought he heard a whimper. Malfoy turned it into a throat clear. “S’like putting porn in front of a celibate man, Potter,” he said gruffly. Malfoy wasn’t just exiled from the Wizarding World, he wasn’t allowed magic of any sort. If he happened across it, it was down to him to remove himself from the temptation. He huffed out a shaky laugh. “That wasn’t nice.”
“I said I was sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” It was true and Harry felt like an utter twat for it. He didn’t want Malfoy to make him feel any worse about it though and he was convinced Malfoy would, that was the type of bloke he was after all. Or had been, perhaps. He changed the subject. “Funny thing is, seeing you succeed out here makes me realise I never expected you to fail. Granted, I would’ve thought designer suits and briefcases, not—”
Malfoy looked down at himself. At the sherbet orange, the boots and the shirt that drowned him. He scrubbed at his tousled purple hair, then the shaved sides. “If I was to lose my magic, my home and my family in one fell swoop, I wanted to lose it all,” he said stonily. “I wanted to become. Tired of just being. I was finished with Draco Malfoy and all that he’d come to mean, if only because I couldn’t have him anymore. At least not as I knew him.
“I made the differences radical back then because I thought change should be done on a grand scale because I was still Draco Malfoy as I knew him then.” He smirked in a way that invited Harry in on the joke. “I grew to like it though.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat, drew it across his middle. “I liked the way it distanced me from them, the way it made people underestimate what I was capable of, the way it made others like Biddy and Ro want to know me and their aggressors want to erase me.”
Harry stared at him. It was something Harry could’ve heard the old Malfoy saying, that he wanted to be separate from them but this Malfoy never said better, never said special, he only said different. Harry wanted to know why, wanted to know how he’d met Ro and Biddy, how he’d got the shop, he wanted to know every step between there and here. He looked away.
Maybe Ron hadn’t been that far off with that map he’d drawn, then.
Ron considered, drying his hair out with one of their shared towels. Having used the other on the floor it looked like. Brilliant. “Criminal then?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Think he’s anything to do with Rogozin?”
“No.”
“That was sure,” Ron pointed out.
“I am sure,” Harry said defensively. He didn’t want to talk about this. It was clear from Malfoy’s reaction to Harry’s magic that he missed it, missed it so much it pained him but Harry also didn’t think Malfoy would solicit anything from their world ever again. It had rejected him and he had rejected it.
“You look off.”
“I feel off,” Harry agreed, flopping down on his mattress.
“Well this is getting repetitive,” Ron said with a frown. He dropped the damp towel on Harry’s face. “Also, the correct response was: I might do, but you look fabulous. We were paying one another observations there.”
Harry used a hex to pin the towel around Ron’s arms and then knocked him over. “I observe that you look like a wanker.”
Ron pulled up a seat to the counter, watching Malfoy stack mugs under the guise of reading the menu. “We’ve only just been reunited, Malfoy, we’d hardly abandon you so soon,” he said robustly, brushing off Malfoy’s flat greeting with enthusiasm. Ron had brothers; he knew how to annoy.
Neither of them had mentioned it that morning. Had said anything along the lines of, ‘there’s no reason to go back.’ This was done and they both knew it. As Harry had guessed, Rogozin probably couldn’t have identified Manchester on a map and Malfoy wasn’t doing anything illegal either. At least not anything that broke Wizarding laws.
They should go back, hand in their report to Kingsley and have done with it.
But, again, neither of them mentioned that.
Ron wanted peace for as long as Harry could abide peace. (Which was usually counted in seconds.) Harry wanted to see how long he could abide peace now that he had the distraction of Malfoy in it.
Malfoy opened his mouth, brought down to sneering again, and Harry was a bit worried how relieved he was to see it. After their conversation last night, he’d almost been convinced Malfoy might be a decent bloke these days.
Malfoy was interrupted from his retort by a calamity of crashes. Biddy was standing in the centre of the shop, breathing hard, and a bloke was sitting at a table looking the textbook description of outraged. His mug was toppled, coffee in his lap, his arms were flapping in the air around shoulder-height like a bird about to take off and his hand was dripping blood.
Biddy was holding a pencil with a stained red end.
The bloke was still catching up and finally burst out, glaring around at the other patrons as though looking for the best person to be indignant to, “The fuck? She assaulted me!”
Biddy was shaking all over with what looked like restrained fury and Ron slid out of his seat to assess the situation. The bloke had put his hand down on the countertop and Ron frowned over it, glancing up at Biddy to tell her, “Damn impressively as well.”
Harry got up, too. Ron was right. She’d hit an excellent nerve group.
“Thanks,” she muttered from the corner of her mouth.
“Not at all,” Ron returned generously.
The bloke’s jaw dropped and he sputtered, demanding, “I want the owner, I’ll sue, I will, I want—”
Malfoy stepped up from behind Harry. He was in a boat neck, long-sleeved white tee and peach jeans, purple hair not even looking styled today. Just soft and mussed. He sunk down into the chair across from the bloke, after swiping a napkin over the few stray drops of coffee that had splattered the seat of it. “You are looking at the owner, sir,” he said calmly.
“Well?” The man was near apoplectic now, eyes bulging.
Malfoy crossed his legs at the knee and leaned back in what Harry now realised was his power position, disinterested while still assertive. He tapped a finger into the spill and frowned at the coffee that dripped from it once raised. “Well,” he began, wiping his fingertip on the man’s sleeve while his eyes bulged further. “Firstly,” he decided, gesturing to Biddy, “you are going to apologise to my waitress.” Ro was standing behind her now and he looked murderous. “Secondly, you are going to calmly gather yourself and walk out of my shop and not return to it. If you do not agree to my terms, you will lose the hand you used to molest one of my staff.”
Harry blinked. He hadn’t realised what this was about, but Malfoy clearly had either had an eye on Biddy the whole time or knew her well enough to know exactly what would cause her to react the way she had.
“My knives are serrated, sir,” Malfoy told him evenly. “It will not be quick or pleasant for you.” He half-turned to Biddy, eyes still on the man across from him. “Was it the right or the left, Biddy?”
Biddy’s nostrils flared. “Can’t remember,” she spat. “Best take both.” She took a step forward and said with relish, “I wouldn’t want to disrupt your day either, Draco. I’d be happy to take care of it.”
“If you wish,” Malfoy agreed easily enough. He raised his eyebrows. “Your choice, sir?”
The man looked gobsmacked and he gaped for a half-second, taking in the lack of movement in the rest of the café as he realised not a one of them was going to come to his defence. He snatched up his briefcase in his bloody hand, chewed out the word, “Sorry,” and hustled out.
Malfoy’s eyes narrowed on the upset scene before him. Ro muttered something about a mop, Biddy snapped at the still-staring customers about the show being over and Malfoy stood with purpose.
“The bloke was an asshat, Malfoy, sure, but could you not threaten people in front of us?” It was practically a whine but Harry couldn’t help himself. All Malfoy had to do was stop talking about dismemberment in the presence of Aurors. It really was not as difficult as he was making it out to be.
Ron sniffed and said, “I didn’t hear anything.”
Malfoy grinned smoothly and winked at him.
Bloody hell. Who would’ve thought Ron would cave to Malfoy’s odd brand of murder-charm first? Harry scrubbed at his beard, furrowing his brow. Malfoy was back behind the counter and clacking away at something Harry couldn’t see. Biddy was at his elbow, watching intently.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, near to giddy.
Malfoy shrugged and said simply, “Make him pay.”
Harry groaned, taking the seat next to Ron at the counter, and dropping his forehead down onto it. “Malfoy, do I need to remind you not to talk about doing illegal things in front of legal officials? Again? It’s not even been a full minute since the last run through.”
“The man bought a coffee, I’m charging him for it,” Malfoy retorted, scoffing theatrically. “Everything is so nefarious in a do-gooder’s mind, isn’t it?”
Ron reached over the counter and took a bagel out of the display case. Even more surprisingly, Malfoy let him. “Identity theft is not a joke,” Ron parroted convincingly.
Malfoy’s brow furrowed and he seemed genuinely confused as to where Ron might’ve heard that before he realised and rolled his eyes, “Stop watching late-night telly, Weasley, you’ve got a job to do.”
Harry only wished Ron would listen to that direction. He was all but obsessed with the bloody thing and found infomercials far more fascinating than he had any right to. He was much worse than Harry had ever been with Malfoy.
Er. He meant, much worse than Ron claimed he’d been with Malfoy. He’d been right about that. He didn’t have to justify himself.
Biddy kept him from pulling too hard at that thread by saying gleefully, “Oh yes, please do that.” It was possibly the happiest Harry had ever heard her.
“Malfoy,” Harry chastised, flattening his cheek against the cool countertop.
Malfoy set a muffin down in front of him. Harry was fairly certain it was meant as a bribe. Likely the bagel Ron was scarfing was as well. “It’s not even your jurisdiction, Potter. Untwist your knickers.” He pointed at the muffin. “Play a game of trying to keep it out of the rug on your face.”
Harry glared at him but it was ignored in favour of whatever horrible thing he and Biddy were doing.
Harry ate the muffin rather than get up to look.
Harry took the wall across from him, stared at him from the other side of the alley. His long lilac hair fell over his eyes, fag to his lips and head down. The way he stood wasn’t regal anymore. Now it was more relaxed, boot up on the wall and wool coat with the collar flipped up enclosing him from his chin down to his thighs.
If it’d been this far away when Harry had first seen him, he never would’ve recognised him. He would’ve passed right by, never realising this was the boy who’d been at his shoulder, whispering insults into his ear for six years.
He was still willowy and there was a certain loftiness to his chin when he raised it that spoke to his background and the way he turned his hand when he flicked his cigarette and Harry realised he was looking for glimpses of his Malfoy, the one that didn’t really exist anymore, and made himself stop.
He winced at his own thoughts. His Malfoy. Godric. Maybe Ron was onto something after all.
Maybe Harry never owned up to that thought. Ever.
Malfoy was watching him, lips quirked in taunting amusement, like he could trace the direction of Harry’s thoughts by the expression on his face. Harry ruffled up the back of his hair feeling his cheeks heat and said the first thing that popped into his head, “Stable workers you’ve attracted.”
The expression, that had been more welcoming than Harry had realised, dropped off Malfoy’s face in an instant and it shuttered closed.
“I’m not badmouthing them,” Harry backtracked uneasily, “I’ve only… I’ve noticed. They both flinch like they’ve got PTSD.” Malfoy looked away and Harry fought down a groan. He asked, leery, “Which they have, haven’t they?”
Malfoy didn’t answer. He licked his lip after lowering his fag from between them. “You know what Pansy told me, the year before I was last allowed to see her?” He paused, like he was waiting for some reaction from Harry on that.
He wasn’t going to get one.
He flicked the bottom of his cigarette thoughtfully, squinting at it. “She said I enjoyed collecting broken things.” His tongue flashed out over the swell of his lip again. He bit at the side of it. “The week before I was last allowed to see her, she visited my cell and told me that the broken things I collected would always be in my pocket even if it didn’t seem that way because, see, they didn’t know they had any value left, being broken, until I wanted them. Wanted them exactly as they were, understand, not as I thought they could be once I’d fixed them. I could appreciate them, splintered and wrecked and destroyed sometimes, without ever making that synonymous with worthless.”
“And you wanted Ro and Biddy,” Harry correctly translated.
Malfoy shrugged. “I had the means to help them at that time. I did.”
“The means to—” Harry scrunched his forehead, finding an opening for the question he’d had nearly since Malfoy had reappeared, “how did you get successful enough to buy a shop, Malfoy?”
Malfoy smirked, not even trying to hide the pride in it. “I had no skills when I was dropped down into this backwards world. So I learned one.” Smoke wound above his head and they both watched it coil. “Got proficient, got good, got to be the top in the subject. It’s what I do.”
“What skill is that?”
“Computer hacking,” Malfoy said, smoke billowing out with the words. What he’d been doing behind the counter with Biddy was clear as glass now. “It’s incredibly complex but the code is sound. As consistent as Ancient Runes was, at the very least. Gets simpler, actually,” he explained, seeming glad to finally have someone to make the comparison to who could actually understand it, “the farther into it you get the more foundation you have. It’s soothing in a way, truthfully.”
Harry didn’t get how it could be but he bet Hermione would.
“Ro was chance,” Malfoy told him, after internally debating about it for a second, as though trying to decide if Harry was too good to hear it. Harry wasn’t sure if Malfoy’d really decided that Harry wasn’t or if he’d just accepted that Harry wasn’t in a position to do anything about it, “the son of someone I planned to steal a great deal from. Nasty businessman, he is,” he said, expression darkening. “I’m thorough, if nothing else, and my thoroughness led me to the worst skeletons outside of his offices and I forged all the necessary documentation, threatened, and stole Ro out from under his guardianship.” He tapped his cigarette. “Biddy saved herself. I made sure no one came looking for retribution once I could convince her to trust me. That took some time, let me tell you.”
“You saved them.”
“I made friends with them. They intrigued me. They still do.” He shrugged. “Ro fights everyone but his father. Biddy fights everyone but those she trusts. That’s Ro and I, and that was hard-won.” His expression went hard and he said firmly, “I won’t fail them.”
It was a promise and an apology in the same sentence and Harry realised, baffled, words stumbling out of his mouth, “Do you—” but it wasn’t a question because he knew, that way he sometimes understood things about Malfoy that maybe he shouldn’t, “You think you failed Crabbe.”
Malfoy looked… guilty. His shoulders shuffled and his voice got less even. Harry felt like they were standing removed from everything else, a place where no one else could happen on them, rather than just outside a door where the rest of the world waited. “He was troubled. They’re all troubled, in their own ways, and he was—he hid it better than most and I didn’t look hard enough.”
Malfoy shaded his eyes and Harry wondered how much of this Malfoy was new. If he cared this much about Crabbe then, maybe the emotions weren’t new, maybe he’d just learned to express them in a way that wasn’t mean.
“I could’ve stopped him if I had.” His hand curled into a fist around his cigarette. It was nearly burned away and Harry saw the Fiendfyre in the embers. “He would’ve known I was on his side, wouldn’t have wavered in his faith in me, wouldn’t have been looking for something else to tie his allegiance to if I’d earned his.”
“Malfoy, that—that wasn’t your fault.” Harry wasn’t just saying the words to placate him. Everyone had been responsible for their own actions in that room. “You can’t—Vincent Crabbe’s death is not on you.”
An absent frown was on Malfoy’s face and he shook his head, every muscle heavy with blame that he had put there himself. “He was my friend. I loved him, in my way, and he died not knowing it. That was my failure, my own, no one else’s. My friendship put him in that room and yet wasn’t enough to take him back out.”
Harry took a step closer and said with an intensity that took even him by surprise, “You can’t take responsibility for someone else’s life. You can’t live it for them.”
Malfoy glanced up at him for the first time in a long time. Harry tried to remember if Malfoy had looked at him straight on even once since they’d seen each other again.
Staring into his eyes now, Harry didn’t think so.
“You look spooked,” Ron told him with a frown when he walked back in. Harry grabbed his coat off his seat blindly and Ron glanced around him, asked leadingly, “Out with Malfoy?”
Every bit of Harry’s skin was prickled, broken out in gooseflesh, and he shivered.
“Harry?” Ron called after him, setting down the cards he’d had in his hand, playing some game with Ro and Biddy that Harry could tell at a glance he was losing painfully.
Harry didn’t answer, just waited for Ron on the curb outside the shop and tried to catch his breath.
Harry spared a thought for when he’d learned that. Then realised it was likely when he was outside with Malfoy, watching slanted sunlight sparkle in grey irises, and jerked away hard.
Ro was distracting enough. He was tattooed everywhere. The backs of his thighs and calves and feet and he took the stairs three at a time up to the second floor. Which belonged wholly to him and Malfoy and Biddy. It was office space as Harry had thought, office space that had been utterly stripped.
A crude shower had been put in at the far end but Harry couldn’t see a makeshift kitchen anywhere. There were three mattresses spread out across the huge space, flourescent lights half hanging down from the ceiling, and a living area – two squashy couches and four even squashier armchairs around a slanting coffee table that was piled high with half-drunk cups of tea – in the corner. Ro saw their expressions as they entered. He shrugged, said unapologetically, “It’s a work in progress.”
There was one long conference table where apparently all of Malfoy’s hacking was done as there were about seven different monitors on it and a handful of laptops, multiple plugs and adapters tangled beneath it. Window after window ran the length of the far wall it was set against and Biddy popped up at Harry’s elbow, her hair not actually touching him. Harry scrubbed at his skin anyway. It was like seeing a spider and feeling it on you a moment later. “We’re thinking about painting it,” she said, deadpan.
“That’ll spruce it up,” said Ron, playing along.
Malfoy opened the door from what had probably once upon a time been a supply closet, offered them a disinterested glance and flopped down on the couch, kicking his boots up on the coffee table. (Harry understood its crookedness perfectly now.) Ro threw himself down next to him and Biddy sat cross-legged on his other side.
All three of them looked expectantly at Ron and Harry.
“Well,” Biddy drew out finally, demanding, “Let’s see it then.”
Harry looked at Ron who looked at Harry. “What?” they said together.
“Magic,” Ro and Biddy said, countering Ron and Harry’s unison with their own.
Biddy elbowed Malfoy in his side, which pulled a grunt from him. “It’s not as though Draco could show us, criminal he is.”
Ron asked curiously as he made his way over to their corner of mismatched furniture, “Why’d you believe him that it existed then?”
Ro looked askance at him and said slowly, as though he suspected Ron was a bit dim, “Because he told us it did.”
“So,” Biddy drew the focus back around forcefully, she spread her hands out over the space between them, “Show us.”
Harry and Ron both sank into the armchairs on the other side of the coffee table and again shared a questioning look. It was somewhere between ‘Are we actually going to confirm magic for Muggles who’ve only heard of it?’ and ‘What’s going to give them nosebleeds over how cool it is?’
The first answer was easy enough, they basically already had confirmed it that first day when they thought they’d be Obliviating said Muggles. The second stumped them both.
Harry yanked his wand out of his charmed pocket and gestured towards one of the teacups. Ron frowned exaggeratedly, squinted at the daffodil-coloured, floral-patterned cup and gave a nodding shrug.
Good enough.
“Er. All right, got something,” Harry said. He pointed his wand at it and—
Biddy jumped out of her seat with a sharp, blasted, “Gordon Bennett!”
The former teacup scampered over the tabletop and Harry frowned at it.
It was meant to be a hamster.
Only, well.
It was about the size of a large rabbit, or small cat.
And it was still daffodil-coloured… and floral-patterned.
Malfoy snorted at it and Harry rubbed at his neck awkwardly. “Always was rubbish at Transfiguration.” He squared up his shoulders defencively. It wasn’t like he reinforced this kind of spellwork often. Rarely in his line of work did he have to Transfigure something into a hamster.
He thought about hexing the smugness right out of Malfoy’s expression and put his wand up before he could give in to the temptation.
Ron patted his shoulder. “Got the idea across, mate.”
Harry sniffed. “True enough.”
The amusement bled out of Malfoy in an instant and he sat up, turning carefully on Ro, who had gotten up to trail after the hamster after it’d belly-flopped off the table with disproportionately small, pinwheeling arms, entirely sans grace. Malfoy set his feet down cautiously, as though he was hoping to distract Ro from his quarry without drawing attention to the fact that he was hoping to distract Ro from his quarry.
But Ro was already sitting on the ground and holding out a part of his cracker to the hamster, whose twitchy nose was sniffing it out, creeping closer.
“No,” Malfoy said quietly but firmly. The hamster scuttled ever closer and Malfoy swore under his breath. “No,” he said more forcefully at Ro’s back just as the hamster closed its buck teeth around the cracker. “Hell, look at me,” Malfoy demanded and Ro did, but not before snatching the whole ball of hamster into his lap. It was happy enough to go as Ro had given up the whole cracker and it was munching on it greedily, tiny hands clenched around the sides, “no. Dammit, Ro, no.” He let out a harsh breath through his nose and whirled on Harry to grind out, “Potter.” He quickly turned back to Ro and snapped, “Don’t name—”
But Ro didn’t hear him as he was smiling crookedly and saying warmly while petting the hamster’s fluff-soft head, “S’all right there, Teacup.”
“Fuck,” Malfoy burst out.
Biddy, over her initial shock, stepped over cautiously as well and said, glancing up at Malfoy through hair and with manipulative want in her tone, “Draco, you have to admit, it is kind of lovely.”
Ro held it up and out under the arms. The hamster blinked beady black eyes at him, one of them at the centre of a wide open purple flower. It was floral and yellow and munching a cracker in Malfoy’s face. Malfoy didn’t look impressed. “Look at how cute and vulnerable it is,” he said eagerly.
Malfoy bared his teeth at it. “I want to eat it.”
“Er, sorry,” Harry butted in.
Biddy joined Ro on the floor, petting its head while Ro grabbed the cracker box from his mattress and fed it large crumbs. Malfoy gave up entirely at that and flopped back down on the couch. He glared at Harry. “I assure you, you will be,” he promised. He waited a moment and then sliced his gaze back over to Ro. “Ro, I do not want—” the command in his tone fell away when he saw that Ro was now sitting with the hamster on his head. Malfoy rolled his eyes and said sourly, “Buggering hell.”
“Not just about the hamster. Thing,” Harry clarified. He couldn’t, in good conscience, call it a hamster. “But the… magic. I forget that—”
Malfoy shrugged. “It’s in your life.” It only sounded the slightest bit bitter.
Ron and Harry hung around a while longer. But the hamster – “It’s got to be Teacup, Bid, it is a teacup. Or it was one. You think if it died, we’d cut it open and find circulatory systems or porcelain?” “I want to name it Horowitz.” “Fine, Teacup Horowitz.” “It’s big ‘nuff for a leash. We should tie it to the bike rack outside the shop. It’d freak Ms. Fleming right out.” – had completely stolen Biddy and Ro’s attention and, without them, the three left only had unpleasant memories to fall back on.
Harry hadn’t realised what grand buffers they were until they were gone. Somehow it had seemed easier when it was just him and Malfoy. With Ron there, Harry wasn’t sure how agreeable was too agreeable.
This time, it was Malfoy who opened the door.
His lilac hair mimicked waves crashing together, mussed and slept on and chaos in all directions. His cheek was wrinkled and his toes poked out under long black sweatpants. Harry couldn’t stop staring at them.
“Back so soon?” he said with a smirky smugness, leaning against the door like it was too much effort to stay upright without it. “And without your ginger shadow?” There was some subtext to that that Harry didn’t understand.
His cheeks warmed. He didn’t want to talk about Ron, whose eyebrows had gone so high on his forehead Harry had been afraid they were going to break free of it altogether when he’d announced his intentions. He was almost certain he was going to find a pile of ‘Harry’s Obsessed with Malfoy’s Arse’ maps littering his mattress when he came back.
He bent down and scooped up the cage, which had a bag of hamster food, water bottle and one of those clear plastic balls – all Engorged accordingly – inside it. “I wanted to drop this off for Ro,” he said, shoving it into Malfoy’s hands before he could have a reaction to it.
Malfoy glowered at the pet paraphernalia before finally letting out a short, defeated sigh. “I suppose I might as well accept my favourite teacup will be a rodent for the foreseeable future.”
“It’s still your teacup. Ish.”
Malfoy perked an eyebrow challengingly. “It simply can’t perform any of its primary functions? For instance, holding liquid and being inanimate.”
“It’s evolved and gotten all new survival skills. Shouldn’t fault it for that. You’ve done it yourself.” Harry slapped a palm to his forehead, feigning shock, and said with faux-surprise, “Gryffindor’s ghost, it’s even gone pastel!”
Malfoy’s glower deepened and he said flatly, “You’re the worst kind of arsehole, you know?”
Harry grinned, watching him shuffle the cage in his arms. “Goodnight, Malfoy.” He was smiling stupidly, couldn’t seem to stop.
“Good,” Malfoy let out a derisive ‘ha,’ shifting the cage again and fiddling with getting his elbow behind the door, “for whom? The dryer lint that’s almost assuredly defecating somewhere in my flat as we speak?” He focussed back on Harry. “Thanks very much for that,” he said blandly before slamming the door in his face.
Harry grinned all the way back to his and Ron’s bedsit.
Malfoy straightened up instantly from where he was doing the bookkeeping, expression brightening. He glanced out over the patrons, apparently finding the one Ro was speaking about, and nodded. He glanced down at himself. Darker purple jeans, a sort of tie-dye of orange hues on his shirt, his regular black wool coat and white, studded boots. Harry didn’t get his fashion sense at all but it seemed to please Malfoy.
He brought up a hand to fluff up his lilac hair while Ro watched him with what was clear disapproval. Malfoy didn’t seem to notice. He said to no one in particular, “He taught me the completely wrong shortcut keys the other day; it was rather endearing.” He sounded thrilled by it.
Before anyone could respond, a tentative voice from behind the lot of them said, relieved, “Draco, you are here. I hoped, well, I. It’s nice to see you.”
Malfoy fiddled at the coffee machine from behind the counter and asked, “And where were you off conquering this time?”
“Thailand,” the man said, “and I—there was no conquering but, ah, consumerism. I brought you something.”
Harry frowned at the bloke. He was dressed in a navy pinstripe suit, had blond hair and brown eyes and was, generally, not much to look at.
Malfoy came round the counter and offered the man the coffee he’d just made without charging him for it. He leaned close and said as though sharing a secret, “Bribery, I approve.”
The bloke held up the cup. “Is that what all the free coffee is?” he asked, flirtatious.
“Of course,” Malfoy said with an unsubtly hungry grin. He sat down at the man’s table with him and he leaned over to the bag he’d left there, lifting it up and handing it over to Malfoy.
Malfoy dragged a jar out of the tissue paper inside and twisted it, appraisingly, in his hand.
It was nice enough, Harry supposed.
The bloke pointed at it. “It’s a rice caddie but I asked and coffee beans will work in it just as well.” There seemed to be a permanent stain of pink high in his cheeks. Harry hated him.
“This was very kind of you, Lukas,” Malfoy said genuinely, touching the man’s arm. “Thank you.”
Biddy walked right up to their table and dumped a full mug of coffee into the man’s lap with an unapologetic, “Oops.” Harry almost might’ve thought he’d done accidental magic for the first time in nearly a decade if not for the smug expression on her face.
“Ah. That’s quite all right, Bridget,” the bloke said kindly and Harry suspected this might not’ve been the first time something like this had happened. He was yanking out napkins from the dispenser by the handful while Malfoy mouthed something that looked murderous at her and she trotted over to Ro and Harry and Ron with a satisfied tilt to her mouth.
When Lukas finally looked up, Malfoy had his chin resting on his hand and was gazing fondly at him. Any exasperation melted right out of Lukas’ face and Harry hated him some more. “She’s madly in love with me,” Malfoy told him, “acts out. I’d make her redundant,” he said with a sigh, “but depthless adoration is difficult to let go of.”
“I’m sure you could find it again,” Lukas said quietly, the pink on his cheeks deepening. “Certain, actually.”
Harry’s hands were clenched into fists in his lap when Ron interrupted his murderous fantasies with a clipped, “Right, out with it, why don’t you lot like him?”
Ro and Biddy shared a look. They were both behind the counter now and neither one of them was trying to hide the way they were openly staring at Malfoy and the other bloke. They put their heads together. Ron and Harry mimicked them and they all leaned in. Biddy finally hissed, “We don’t know why he’s after Draco and we don’t take chances.”
Harry glanced at Malfoy and the bloke before leaning back into the huddle. “What makes you suspect the worst?”
Ro glared over at them and asked seriously, “Can you see him taking Draco to a business do or whatever blokes like that go about doing in their off time?”
Harry frowned, looking at them again. Honesty, no, he couldn’t. Lukas was dressed conservatively and to the nines and Malfoy was, well, not.
When the bloke had gone and Malfoy had bent his lilac head back over the books, Ron tutted and said smartly, “I don’t like the looks of him.”
Malfoy’s head snapped up and then his eyes found Biddy and Ro across the shop and narrowed. “They got to you as well, did they?” he bit out.
Ron turned to Harry and said thoughtfully, “We could do some surveillance?”
Malfoy rolled his eyes skyward “Salazar, the two of you have an actual case.” Neither of them corrected him. He flapped his hand at them. “Get out of my shop and stop listening to Paranoid and Suspicious over there.”
They did. But only because they had the option of following the Locator Spell they’d placed on Lukas.
Which they also did.
Sadly, there wasn’t much to report.
Either Ro and Biddy truly couldn’t keep a secret from Malfoy or it was written all over Ron’s and Harry’s faces when they walked into the shop the next day because Malfoy groaned and said, “Merlin, you’ve stalked him. You’ve actually gone and stalked him.” He sounded torn between disbelief and a grudging gratitude. He leaned over the counter. “Well, what is it? Severed heads in a cool box, has he got a wife, was he off his tits?”
Harry and Ron shared a look. There was nothing. Not a thing wrong with him. Harry was miserable about it and Ron was pretending he hadn’t noticed him be miserable about it. Because he was a brilliant mate.
Ron distracted Biddy and Ro from them by talking about Coronation Street. A truly awful programme on the telly that had Harry threatening to put Ron and it out in the hall.
Harry stabbed at a napkin with a straw and burst out, “He’s boring.”
Malfoy blinked at him. “What?” he asked finally, once he’d apparently decided he’d heard right.
“Exactly what I’ve said,” Harry said with a scowl. He ripped through the paper with the hard plastic. “He’s not right for you. He’s—he didn’t do anything. Boring.”
He’d been having the conversation too loudly and not only was Malfoy staring at him, but Ro and Biddy and Ron were as well. Brilliant.
Malfoy cleared his throat and backed away from the counter. “Can we all agree,” he said slowly, “to ignore whatever is happening here?”
“Yes,” was said so perfectly in unison that Harry wasn’t even sure how many voices had contributed to it.
Malfoy nodded smartly, rapping his knuckles on the display case. “Brilliant, I’ve a shop to run.”
Malfoy was upstairs, doing something on the computer that had taken five minutes to explain and that Harry hadn’t understood beyond: illegal and complicated.
Biddy was at the shop, finishing up inventorying. Then Ro and Malfoy and Biddy were going to teach Harry and Ron how to play dominoes when they all came together.
Least that was the plan till they heard muffled shouting from up the street. There was a lot of vaguely threatening noise and then a proper yell and, like that, they knew whose voice it was.
It was Biddy’s.
Ron had his wand out as quick as Harry did and he ran out of the alleyway faster than Harry had seen him move in years. Harry stalled to stop Ro from running after him as he’d identified Biddy just as quickly. Harry held out a hand as he made to run too. “No, take Teacup upstairs. Ron and I will get her.” Ro’s hand twisted around the leash, full of doubt and apprehension and Harry found his darting gaze, held it with his own and promised, “Ro, we will get her. Go upstairs, get Malfoy. Can you do that?”
Ro licked his lips, panic fading, and a look of resolve coming over his features. “Yeah, yes.” He set his jaw as Harry turned to leave. “Potter?” Harry stopped, looked back at him. “I know you’re a lawman and all but if someone hurts her? You better make sure you fucking hurt them back. You hurt them back until Draco and I can come and finish it.”
“I will.”
He sprinted after Ron once he was sure Ro wasn’t going to come after them and caught up to the lot of them at the end of the street. Ron was breathing hard and there was a cut on his lip, a street-wide empty space, and then on the other side was Biddy.
Some bloke had one arm wrapped around her neck, the other was around her waist. She was hauled up off her feet and kicking madly, clawing marks down his spotty cheek. He looked the very definition of evil. Next to him was another individual looking the very definition of stupid. But he had a gun trained on Biddy.
The evil one laughed, turned his mouth into Biddy’s ear and said loudly, “Lads with sticks, that’s your backup, Bridge?”
Biddy struggled against him furiously, her head tipped back enough that Harry could see the tears building at the corners of her eyes under all that hair. Harry was going to kill them. He was going to kill them and it wasn’t going to be an Avada Kedavra, he was going to make certain it hurt.
Ron was shaking next to him and Harry knew it was with echoes of exactly everything he was feeling himself.
“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,” Biddy hissed, kicking, “bloody chav, bleeding duffer, fuckin’ git, I hope they break them off in your fucking arses.”
“Oi,” Ron barked out, so sharp it made Harry wince. He waggled his wand back and forth, “lads with sticks talking, look at what we can do with them.” He pointed it at the skip behind the stupid one with the gun and it was as if a sonic boom of fiery air had slammed into it, the contents exploding at the same time that it struck the brick wall behind it hard enough that it took some wall with it.
The stupid one dropped the gun, staring at the still smoking and rocking skip. He turned to his friend, visibly terrified, and the words, “What the fuck, mate? What the fuck. I’m bricking it,” tumbled out of his mouth.
The evil one looked shaken too but not enough to be swayed and he tightened his arm around Biddy’s neck. “Pull yourself together, you wet numpty,” he snapped.
But the stupid one was done. He was shaking his head wildly and made no move to pick up the gun. “I’m not getting killed over this. Don’t leg it if you don’t want, Crike, but I’m not dying for this.” He spared one last horrified look for Ron and Harry and then he was sprinting as fast as his short legs could carry him. At the same moment Biddy found the fleshy inside of her captor’s forearm and bit down on it, as hard as she could.
He dropped her with a violent, “Fucking bitch. Motherfucking cow.” He scrabbled on the ground for the gun but Malfoy and Ro had arrived and he never managed to get a hand around it. As Ro didn’t slow down to assess the scene at all, just pushed between Harry and Ron, grabbed the bloke by the collar and slammed his head into the pavement.
It made a sickening sound as it hit and Harry knew it was one that would follow him into his dreams.
Ron was still shaking with adrenaline and Malfoy pushed between them as well, but not before turning to Harry and saying, “Biddy. Get Biddy inside. Now.”
Both Ron and Harry took up the call, lifting her from where she’d been dropped with careful hands on her elbows. She seemed unharmed, maybe in shock though as she stared at where Ro was pounding his fists into the bloke’s face. Malfoy finally got a hand on Ro’s shoulder and pulled him off, talking to him in a low, somewhat soothing murmur as he backed him further away from the bloody man on the ground.
The shop was the closest and still unlocked so they didn’t have to drag out their wands again. They got Biddy at a table and Harry rummaged in the back, finding an icebox and cling film. He made her up an icepack and Ron placed it on her swollen elbow for her after she made no move to take it.
Harry was standing impatiently at the head of the table, getting more and more anxious the more time passed without Malfoy or Ro returning. Ron and Biddy were sitting next to each other in matching chairs when they finally strode in through the door after a tense fifteen minutes.
“What happened?” Malfoy barked instantly. His face was drawn and pale. He turned behind him, to Ro, who had been the one to fetch him. “Ro?” Then to Biddy with Ron. “Biddy?”
Under Malfoy’s gaze, she unfurled, no longer sitting tight and blank and looked straight up into his eyes. “Craig and his pet plonker,” she said edgily. She looked between Harry and Ron, taking the ice from Ron’s hand without touching him. She pressed it to the bruised skin herself and added, “Your coppers.”
“Saw it from the corner,” Harry told him. His voice was rough, like he’d been gargling gravel. “Took care of it.” He and Malfoy held each other’s gazes for a long moment, Harry’s asking, ‘An eye for an eye then?’ and Malfoy’s saying, ‘And fucking then some.’
He roughed up his lilac hair with a heavy sigh. “Coffee, biscuits,” he said, brooking no arguments. He pointed at Ron. “Weasley, no limits on you and I remember how you used to eat so, yes, I know what I’m offering.”
They sat at a table together; Harry pulling up the odd extra chair, Ro brewing their coffees and teas and they ate and drank in silence. If everyone looked at Biddy a little more often than usual, well, no one addressed it.
Malfoy stood after a long while, dipped his chin once and said firmly, “We’re going home.”
There was a collective sigh.
“Right, we should,” Harry trailed off, thumbing over his shoulder. Ron finally looked somewhat settled again, no longer trembling all over at least, and nodded tiredly in agreement.
Malfoy looked between them, grey eyes wide and slightly wild. “You’ve what? A bedsit?” He shook his head without waiting for them to confirm. “No, you’re coming home with me. I’ve plenty of room and you can Conjure mattresses and the like.”
“Malfoy...” Harry started.
Malfoy closed his eyes and let out a long breath. “It’s been an exhausting night and I’d just as soon not argue.”
Harry saw the wisdom in that and he and Ron obligingly followed the three of them back to Malfoy’s makeshift flat.
Biddy went straight to her mattress, piled a few blankets on top of her and curled up. Ro sat on the floor, letting Teacup out of her cage, and she scampered over and under his legs, yellow and floral and beside herself with Ro’s attention.
Harry only felt better when he finally saw Ro’s lips twitch up.
Malfoy led them over to the couch, stopped and said seriously, looking between them both, “Thank you.”
Ron nodded wearily and lowered his voice. “Biddy, will she be all right?”
Malfoy sighed, dropped down on the couch and looked faintly exhausted. “I hope so,” he said.
Harry ended up Transfiguring a lumpy armchair into a lumpy bed while Ron simply sprawled out on one of the couches. Malfoy hadn’t moved from the other.
Harry was dozing in an uneven and uneasy sort of way when he heard Biddy whisper, “Go to sleep.”
At first he’d thought she was talking to him and then he heard Malfoy snort.
Harry opened his eyes to see that he was sitting up on the couch exactly as he had been when Harry had gone to bed. It was too dark for Malfoy to be able to see him looking but Harry had enough light by the stars and moon and streetlamps coming in through the windows to see Biddy wrapped in the blanket she was trailing behind her and Malfoy in the same clothes he’d been wearing earlier.
“Pot, kettle,” he said. Biddy tiptoed over to him, sitting down at his side. “Do you honestly believe I could after tonight?” he asked after a long moment. He rubbed at his forehead, breathed deeply. “I saw the marks on your neck and your arm; is that the worst of it?”
She leaned up against him. “Pulled out some hair so I’ve got a splitting headache,” she admitted, to Harry’s surprise. He would’ve thought she was the type to hide her pain but he realised not long after the thought had surfaced that these three didn’t do that, from everyone else maybe, but not with each other, “that’s the whole of it.”
Malfoy let out a harsh breath and when he spoke again, Harry almost didn’t recognise his voice, “I should’ve killed him with the rest. I should have—”
Biddy turned her face into Malfoy’s shoulder and said quietly, “I don’t want to talk anymore.”
And they didn’t. They were silent but for their breaths and Harry clumsily sloshed back into sleep until he heard from very far away, Malfoy’s welcoming, “Hello, Ro.”
Harry’s eyes slipped back open and it felt like he was deep within a dream. A boy with lilac hair, a girl with a forest of it on top of her head, and a boy with a floral hamster the size of a bowling ball in his arms. Ro settled in at Malfoy’s other side, staring straight ahead.
After a bit, he said steadily, “Remember what we were talking about the other night? The dismemberment?”
“I remember,” Malfoy said.
Harry did, too. He remembered what Malfoy wanted to do, he remembered how Ro had reacted to his father on the street that first night and he remembered what Malfoy had said and the revulsion on his face when he’d talked about stealing money – and then stealing Ro – from the man.
Harry wasn’t going to stop him. No matter where this conversation went; Harry wasn’t going to stop him.
He might even help him.
“You said—financially was one of the options, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” Malfoy agreed.
Ro was quiet for another long moment, then he said, “I want you to do that. And I don’t want to know anything about it.”
“Okay,” was Malfoy’s only answer.
Biddy reached across Malfoy to him with a quiet, compassionate, “Ro,” and he held her hand in his.
When Harry next opened his eyes, the Transfigured chair felt like it was rocking on calm waves. It was still dark out and no one was occupying the other couch anymore. A quick look around showed that Ron was still well asleep on his couch and Biddy and Ro had retreated to their beds.
Malfoy’s was empty.
Harry had a good guess for where he was and grabbed Malfoy’s wool coat from where he’d dropped it on his mattress, tugging it on and tromping up the stairs to the roof.
Malfoy was sitting in the familiar, broken down patio chair, dragging on his ciggie and staring down at the streetlights.
Harry told the back of his head, “Let me know if you need any help, making that happen with Ro’s father.”
Malfoy chuckled softly. He didn’t seem startled in the slightest. He held his fag up over his head as if to point at Harry with it. “Can’t be an Auror, getting involved in shady shite like this,” he said, a mocking lilt to the words.
Harry snatched the cigarette from his fingers, dragged up another of the chairs – this one wholly plastic and warped like it’d been burned – and sat down across from him. He took a drag, inhaling deeply, and handed the fag back to Malfoy. “I won’t tell if you don’t,” he said around the exhale.
Malfoy’s eyebrows raised slightly, impressed despite himself, before his mouth twisted to the side and he said, “I get this, for you. How you could want all this.”
“All what?” Harry asked.
Malfoy didn’t answer, pretended like he hadn’t heard. He shook his head. “But Weasley. He’s got a wife and an expanding waistline and a part-formed, soon-to-be-fully-formed sprog in the wings. What’s he doing this for?”
Ah. Auror-dom then. Harry felt less attached to it than he ever had. He wondered if it was because all this was making him grow up, or if it was because this was the superior adventure.
Harry shrugged. He honestly didn’t know what Ron was doing it for. Malfoy was right; it didn’t make much sense. He picked the easy jobs, the safe ones, the ones that proved just how pointless being an Auror was if you wanted—Harry’s eyes widened.
Malfoy laughed. “Don’t tell me you’ve only just realised?”
“No, I knew,” Harry said, and he did. Or he had. “A while ago, I knew at least. Pushed it out of my head, though. Hard to believe he would keep doing this, for me.” Impossible, really. But Harry had recognised it barely that far out of training, that Ron wasn’t there because he wanted to be. He was there because Harry wanted to be. He probably would’ve been loads happier at the shop with George, Harry knew that. “Boggles, doesn’t it?” he said with a shiver, even though Malfoy’s coat was warm.
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “He does it to watch your back, Potter.” He frowned, tried out, “Harry.” Harry couldn’t tell if he liked it or not, if he’d keep it. “That’s the best education Hogwarts gave him. You’re bound for life, the two of you. And Granger as well, I presume.” He dragged on his ciggie again.
“Like you and Ro and Biddy?” Harry suggested.
“A bit like that, I suppose, yes.”
Harry said wryly, “So if anything happens to Ron, it’s on my head then?”
“You say that like it was ever not going to be. You would’ve blamed yourself for being there, for not being there, for not acting quickly enough, for rushing in impulsively. You will do all those things when the time comes.”
Malfoy was right, of course, and Harry wanted to stop talking about this. Ron was fine, he was downstairs and no one was dying. Not Hermione, not Ron, not Biddy, not Ro. Not Malfoy.
“But you could save him the extra danger,” Malfoy said abruptly and Harry knew why he’d started this conversation now. “Is this still what you want? Because I imagine Weasley fat and happy and working in a shop somewhere surrounded by the stench of sprogs, if it isn’t.”
Harry stared at Malfoy’s pursed lips around his fag and thought about what he wanted.
Malfoy dropped the coins back into the drawer with a heavy clank. He didn’t look up. Took a second to gather himself and said steadily, “All right.”
Harry was abruptly furious. Who said ‘all right’ to that? “That’s all you have to say?” he demanded, embarrassment and indignation warring for the right to spread heat through his cheeks.
Malfoy breathed deeply enough that his nostrils flared and he looked up, fixing his eyes on Harry’s. “How would you prefer I react?” he asked softly. “Is this meant to be a revelation? I’ve known that for years, Potter.” Harry’s eyes widened and Malfoy laughed. “Well before you, I would guess. Confidently.” He shook his head, as though in disbelief over how obtuse Harry could be about his own emotions. He licked his lower lip and said, “I was—I am—attracted to you as well. Though, I do—and did—hate you.” Malfoy’s expression twisted before Harry could react to that, apart from a painful swallow, and he corrected, “Well, perhaps—no. Hate feels far too strong now I’ve said it aloud. I dislike a great deal about you,” he said slowly, as though deciding how to articulate it on the spot, “though I am no longer quite so vitriolic about it.”
Harry snorted. “Do you have a list for me, then?”
Malfoy did. “Your profession, for one. Your corrupted sense of morality and justice, for another. Your condescension, for the worst of it.”
“My sense of—” Harry started angrily, hands becoming fists at his sides as he pointed out, “Malfoy, everything around you is stolen.”
Malfoy either didn’t hear him or didn’t care about what he’d said. More likely the latter. “I need to ask you something, and I need you to answer me honestly. If your answer is what I suspect it is, then I want you to leave here and not come back. If it isn’t, well, then we can talk,” he offered and his eyes were back on Harry’s. “There will be time for that should that scenario present itself, all right?”
“Ask,” Harry said.
Malfoy’s palm went from being flat on the counter to having his nails scratch back under it to form a loose fist. “What happened to me, the punishment your government parcelled out for people like me, was it fair? Did it square with your sense of justice and morality?”
“You deserved to be punished, Malfoy,” Harry said by rote. He never thought about these kinds of things. He never looked at a House Elf and saw servitude, he never found a De-Gnoming barbaric and he never thought the Dementors in Azkaban were inhumane. Not because he disagreed with those things but because he never saw them for himself.
Hermione was the one who questioned things. Harry was the one who made certain her questions led to answers.
Malfoy’s voice was small when he asked, “Why?”
“You almost killed Ron!” Harry burst out. There wasn’t even a question that Malfoy had got what he deserved, was there? He’d got off lucky, not having to spend years in Azkaban and become some sort of Death Eater pariah in the Wizarding World afterwards. Why couldn’t he see that? They’d done the best they could for him. Better than he deserved even. “You let the Death Eaters into the school, you—”
“Assisted a madman so he wouldn’t murder my parents and then torture and kill me,” Malfoy finished quietly. “He lived in my home, Potter. I was terrified out of my very skull, I had his mark of allegiance forced onto my arm and I’m still not convinced it wasn’t watching me in the dark. I lived under the constant threat of death. I’m sorry my assassination attempts weren’t better-crafted,” he said sarcastically, “but my mind was an utter jumble of stress and exhaustion and—do you know how long a human being can survive without sleep? Do you know how terrifying micronaps are when you need your eyes open, when every second could mean life or death and your body is so broken it is literally forcing you to sleep, stealing those seconds away from you?
“I was trying to stall, to be ineffective with my attempts to ‘kill’ Dumbledore while still showing forward motion, hoping the Dark Lord would chalk my failures up to my own idiocy and not punish my parents for it. I apologise for not seeing the ripples those attempts might cause—like Weasley, like Bell—but it was all I could do to marshal my thoughts on the immediacy and inefficacy of Dumbledore’s assassination.” His voice was shaking by the end of it and he wasn’t looking at Harry, not now. When he spoke again it was cold and hard and left Harry feeling very outside. “There are plenty of things I regret and still find shame in, my time under the Dark Lord’s regime simply doesn’t happen to be one of them. I still believe I made the best choice available to me at the time. But say I cede to your supposition that I deserve to be punished,” he offered blankly, eyes hooded. “I didn’t ask you that. I asked: was my punishment fair?”
Harry’s voice was shaking too and he was just as angry, though he couldn’t pinpoint any one source for it. “The Wizarding World was what got you into trouble. Keeping you out of it, that was—that was the best we could do for people like you. That was right. That was fair. That was more than you deserved.”
Malfoy closed his eyes like he was in pain and let out a wounded sort of breath. “I would like you to go.”
Harry was getting angrier and more desperate by the minute. He wasn’t wrong here. He wasn’t. “You say you weren’t a murderer, Malfoy,” he spat, fists shaking, “but you almost were. I don’t know how you don’t feel bad about that.”
Malfoy’s gaze snapped up to him, eyes flashing, and he yanked down the loose collar of his shirt, revealing the weave of raised and pearled scars from the Sectumsempra Curse beneath it.
“Of the two of us,” he snarled viciously, “who came closer to killing?”
Ro was at Malfoy’s side in an instant. Harry hadn’t even realised he was there, listening to them. He pushed Malfoy back, glaring at Harry, not with hatred, no, but with something a lot like betrayal. “He asked you to leave,” Ro said darkly. “I won’t ask.”
“This has nothing to do with you,” Harry retorted, but it was weak.
“Ro, enough,” Malfoy said, breathing hard and dragging him out from between them. His gaze was flinty and cool. “Thank you, but I have this well in hand. I swear to you.”
“You act like you did nothing wrong,” Harry reiterated sharply.
Malfoy rounded on him. “No,” he spat unapologetically, “I told you that I believe I made the best choice. And I do. I have done things, Potter,” there was a dark sort of laughter in his throat, “Things you have no idea of, things you never will, things I wish I could change. What I did to save myself and the lives of everyone I loved when I was sixteen is nothing. You have no idea what I would do—what I have done—for those same things now.” Ro wasn’t meeting anyone’s eyes anymore and Malfoy very pointedly didn’t look at him. “I was a child under—under coercion,” he said, finding the word he wanted to use, saying it like it was given more heft in the Muggle world, “and these people you stand behind took everything I knew away from me: my family, my skills, my familiarity and forbade me from ever accessing any of them again. Fuck you, fuck you and everything you pretend to be. Fuck you for thinking you’re better than me when the fact that you can support that makes you a thousand times worse.” His eyes were shining but Harry didn’t think it was from sadness so much as frustration. “Get out of my shop, get out of my life, get out of my world. You have your own I’m legally not allowed to step foot in, consider that reciprocal.”
Malfoy lowered his head, half-turned back to Ro, eyes shaded with lilac locks, and snarled out, “Make sure he leaves. If he doesn’t,” he smirked cruelly, “break his kneecaps and drag him out.”
Malfoy strode out of the room without another glance at either of them.
Harry and Ro shared a look. Ro’s said, ‘Make it better,’ and Harry’s asked, ‘How?’
Ro didn’t have any answers for him and Harry left while he still had his kneecaps intact.
Malfoy,
Today I stared at your arse for four whole minutes. I know ‘cos Ron timed it. He’s better than both of us, eh?
Love (your arse, especially),
Harry
Some of them were also definitely in Hermione’s handwriting and Harry needed better mates.
“He deserved it though, didn’t he?” Harry asked finally.
Ron didn’t say anything. And it was such a novel moment that Harry sat up from where he was moping on his bed to fully appreciate it.
“I think the problem, mate—” he said, after Harry had stared at him for minutes on end. He stopped, added, “and it’s a problem both of us have—is that we sometimes let Hermione do our thinking for us. For this to have any meaning, I’m pretty sure you have to work it out on your own. I’m going to take my wife out for a nice dinner so she’ll keep thinking for me,” Ron flicked Harry in the forehead, “Here’s hoping you’re not as stupid as you look.”
Harry flipped him off, flopped back down on his bed and thought about everything Malfoy had said. Again. This time without presupposing that he didn’t have a point and that he was only being a whinging, spoilt coward.
Because he wasn’t those things.
Not anymore.
“I want to talk,” he said evenly, ambushing Malfoy in the alley by his shop, fag hanging between his lips.
Malfoy sighed. “I told you—”
“I know, and you were right,” Harry cut him off. That got Malfoy to shut his mouth, like Harry knew it would. “Not about all of it, you weren’t, because some things, Malfoy, Christ,” he rubbed at his forehead like he was trying to sand it down, “you just can’t see outside your own selfishness sometimes. What you understand the world to be is not what the world is and you don’t get that because you’ve never had to. Because you’re rich, because you’re smart, because you’re handsome, you have no idea what reality is. You only know what your reality is and that’s not the same thing.
“But about—I do think of myself as better than you,” Harry said it and hated that he meant it. “It’s not an active thought, I’m not sneering down at you every time you open your mouth, I swear. It’s a subconscious thought and I wish I could say it was built on who you were but it’s not—some of your actions and the stuff you’ve said, they make up the bricks, but it’s not the foundation. The foundation is nothing more than the House you were in. Which is so bloody petty and small and it was buried so deep in my mind that I didn’t know that was the bottom of it.” Harry paused, but Malfoy didn’t look surprised, not the way Harry had done when he’d worked it out. He pushed on. “It’d sunk down into the folds and I had to dig it up to see what the roots were but now I know and I’m… I’m ashamed of that.”
He waited for Malfoy to say something. To react to that, but he didn’t really. He flicked at the end of his cigarette, a clump of ash falling from the tip, and said flatly, “Don’t backtalk to Ro ever again. He and Biddy were planning on killing you.” He frowned, considering, and clarified, “Gently.”
Well. Harry was glad he’d softened their intent that much, at least .
He swallowed. The person whose approval he most wanted, though, hadn’t given much of a hint as to where his mind was at. “I hope you can talk them out of it,” he said.
“I already have. I’m asking you not to do it again because I’m not sure I can manage it a third time.”
“Does this mean you’re talking to me?” Harry asked hopefully.
Malfoy responded coolly, “You’re an Auror, use those famous observational skills.”
Harry didn’t say, ‘maybe I’m not.’ There would be time for that. He hoped there would be time for that yet.
What he did say was, “There should’ve been a transition, someone to help you, to reach out to when we—when you were exiled. It shouldn’t have happened like it did. And there should be an expiration date on it.” That was what he’d decided, when he was running it round and round his mind. He didn’t disagree with all of it because this, whatever Malfoy thought, had been good for him and Harry couldn’t rightly take that away. But he could—should—make it less cruel. Not that it was as bad as Malfoy had made out to begin with in his ‘woe is me’ speech. He’d made points Harry could see the merit of, but the whole world shouldn’t have bent over backwards for him like he’d argued. “I can try to change those laws.”
Malfoy shrugged, dragging deep on his fag. He blew out the smoke above his head. “If you like.”
Harry’s forehead furrowed. The only reason Malfoy wouldn’t have jumped on that is if—“You’ve already circumvented them.”
“Of course I have,” Malfoy said, as though Harry were particularly dim. He added slowly, “They were wrong. I fixed it.”
Harry could feel his mouth curving into a grin against his will. “How?”
Malfoy waggled his eyebrows. “Are you going to arrest me?” It was almost teasing.
Harry shook his head. “No. I’d have to break you out if I did. And I’m booked up the next few weeks.” He licked his lips and leaned in close to Malfoy, lowering his voice. “Though playing out a few of my prisoner fantasies with you might be worth cancelling all of that.”
To Harry’s delight, Malfoy’s pale cheeks went just the slightest bit pink. It coordinated nicely with his hair. He glanced away and asked, “Which provision do you want to know?”
“Whichever you want to tell me.”
Malfoy seemed to consider and he rubbed at his chin with his thumb and middle finger. “I bought my parents mobiles,” he said. “My mother takes selfies, and photos of her garden to envenomate her horticultural blogging rivals with envy. Of course she uses magic, breaks all the rules and takes home the blue ribbon, my mother.” He was clearly quite proud, chest even rising a little. “My father has a slew of Muggle holdings and has gotten very involved in the stock exchange. He’s constantly doing business on his Blackberry.
“I made a fair amount of underhanded deals to get Greg out of Azkaban. He lives in Stockton, can’t abide mobiles so we write letters every so often using the Muggle mail. Pansy and Blaise come down whenever they’re looking for something exotic to do with their time. They’ve quite taken to Biddy and Ro and I think they’re trying to push through some adult adoption papers either for a laugh or because they’re deadly serious. It’s difficult to tell with them.”
Harry stared at him in awe, but Malfoy wasn’t done.
He rolled up a long sleeve, uncovering the Dark Mark for the first time since Harry had seen him in this world.
Harry hadn’t been this close to one in years and truthfully it wasn’t as terrifying as he remembered. There were a few tattoos of Ro’s that could put it to shame actually. This was a faded black on Malfoy’s skin and… impotent.
Harry didn’t think that was what Malfoy saw when he looked at it, though.
“As for the magic,” he shrugged, “I’m stuck with this ugly relic of my adolescence, I might as well put it to good use.”
Harry frowned at it, wondering what he meant by that when he guessed, eyes practically bulging out of their sockets, “You put a reserve of magic in the Dark Mark?”
Malfoy tapped the Mark a few times with his finger. “I’ve only actually used it twice but it makes me feel safer to have it. And more like myself,” he admitted. “I am magic. It’d be stupid and wasteful not to have a way to access that. Its entire design is to house spells and curses, to tug you through Apparition to the Dark Lord’s side mainly, I simply reappropriated it.”
Harry felt absolutely certain that even Hermione couldn’t have thought of something like that. He stared at Malfoy with big eyes. “You’re brilliant,” he said dumbly.
Malfoy blinked, seeming slightly taken aback by the reaction but answered all the same, “Well. Yes. Of course.”
Harry swallowed past the lump in his throat and dragged a long, thin box out of his back pocket. “I suppose you don’t need this then?” he said, offering it to Malfoy.
“What is it?” Malfoy sounded like he had a frog in his throat and he didn’t reach for it. His fingers had a slight tremor to them as they raised his fag back to his lips.
He knew the answer. Harry told him anyway. He opened the lid for him. Sitting on soft red velvet was a ten-inch wand made from aspen. It was a knotted and gnarled thing but Harry had smoothed away all the sharp edges, turned them into gently sloping curves. They were still there, a part of the design, but hidden in innocuous clothing.
At the centre of it was dragon heartstring.
“A wand that’s never been registered with the Ministry. It can’t be identified or traced or restricted. It’s… free, the same way you are.” Malfoy was staring at it, unblinkingly, but he still hadn’t touched it, hadn’t made a move towards it and Harry forced out the words, “And I, uh, made it. For you.” Malfoy’s eyes snapped up to his and Harry looked away, mortified.
Ha, Malfoy, see, it’s not just a wand in a box, it’s actually my heart on a bloody platter. Be careful with it, eh?
Harry made himself chuckle. “I like doing it. The ingredients, they talk if you listen and you don’t have to—there’s no manipulation like with Potions, just enclosing them somewhere safe and letting them do what they would naturally.” He shoved the wand at Malfoy and he finally took it. After dropping his fag and grinding it out with his heel. “I thought it might take more to convince you to speak to me. I had plans A through Z,” Harry smiled wryly, “and a few numbered ones in case those didn’t work out.”
Malfoy opened his mouth. Closed it again. His expression was more open than Harry had ever seen it, and he allowed that for a moment. He allowed Harry a moment of looking at him without even a hint of a mask. Then he nodded. Then it was gone.
Harry felt unbalanced seeing it.
Malfoy weighed the box in his hand, smirking slightly. He placed the lid on top of it once again and said, “You came to me with something you knew I’d find sexy—you saying I’m right. Which I usually am.” Harry rolled his eyes. “As well as a challenge, that you’re not yet convinced on every point. I will get you there.” He really wouldn’t. “And something practical,” he held the wand aloft, “something you thought I’d need.” He looked at Harry, eyebrows up, and said, “You’re figuring me out, aren’t you?”
“I’m trying to,” Harry admitted, “You’re more complicated than I ever gave you credit for; I might need some time to get there.”
Malfoy decided after a moment, “I suppose I might have some to spare.”
Harry stepped up closer to him and said honestly, “I think there’s a really good chance we could make each other better.”
Malfoy made a thoughtful sound, smirked. “At the very least, we’ll keep each other interesting.”
Harry hated him a bit for summing up in a few words absolutely everything he’d been looking for since the war ended.
Except he didn’t really hate him. Not at all.
“Exactly,” he said with a laugh.
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