Chapter Text
One could hardly accuse Draco Malfoy of being an impatient man. On the contrary, Draco Malfoy had the kind of patience that would make a saint look fidgety. If patience were a sport, he’d have a trophy cabinet full of gold-plated hourglasses. From a young age, Draco demonstrated a remarkable talent for waiting — not the idle, twiddling-thumbs kind, but the aristocratically smug, arms-folded sort of waiting that came with the firm belief that the universe would eventually bend to his will.
At the tender age of six, he once parked himself by the grand hearth of Malfoy Manor for thirty-six straight hours, refusing sustenance (except for the occasional elf-delivered éclair) as he awaited his mother’s return from Paris. She was, he had been assured, acquiring the finest child-sized training broom that Galleons could buy — and if that took time, so be it. A superior broomstick was not to be rushed.
At thirteen, he endured six excruciating months of bureaucratic meandering, confidently waiting for a hearing that he was certain would result in a tragic but necessary end for a certain oversized poultry-beast with claws. He maintained this stoicism despite the frustrating legal protections apparently afforded to hippogriffs.
And then, of course, there was the matter of Azkaban. At eighteen, Draco spent 234 days in a magically damp, soul-sapping cell with nothing but a flickering wall torch and his thoughts for company — which, depending on who you asked, may or may not have been worse than the Dementors. And even after his release, he endured another four years of being officially labelled a UHAW— an Under House Arrest and Watched — a status that sounded almost clinical, but in practice meant a magical ankle tag, bi-weekly check-ins with a humourless official named Derek, and a stunning lack of travel abroad. Still, Draco bore it with the silent fortitude of a man who knew that dignity was best maintained by staring out windows dramatically and wearing velvet dressing gowns at breakfast.
Because if there was one thing Draco Malfoy believed in more than inherited wealth and good tailoring, it was that everything — redemption, retribution, broomsticks — arrived eventually. And when it did, it ought to find him waiting, impeccably dressed, and wholly unbothered.
But today, Draco's legendary patience — the very same that had seen him through Ministry hearings, public sneering, and three years of magical ankle monitoring — was being tested. Not merely nudged or jostled, but bent into strange and uncomfortable shapes like a Stretching Hex gone slightly wrong. He stood before Watch-Wizard Boris, a man so profoundly mediocre that Draco often suspected he’d been conjured by accident during a training session and no one had the heart to dismiss him.
Boris was, as usual, frowning at a stack of official documents with the wary suspicion of someone trying to read a menu in an unfamiliar language. The parchment was stamped, quite dramatically, with large purple letters: AAAT — Accompany At All Times — a classification Draco privately translated as “Absolutely Annoying Administrative Tyranny.” It was a special little badge of honour the Ministry had cooked up for former undesirables who were no longer technically dangerous, but still annoying enough to warrant supervision.
Draco had seen less paperwork involved in the arrest of actual criminals.
He stood still, arms folded, posture elegant, watching as Borris moved his lips while reading, one word at a time. Draco was quite sure that if he tapped into Borris’ mind at this exact moment, he’d find a vivid mental puppet show of Draco marching through the Ministry in a Death Eater mask, cursing everything from janitors to vending machines, before triumphantly declaring the rebirth of Voldemort and possibly renaming the Atrium Malfoy Square.
Honestly. How fucking childish.
“And you are here to see…” Boris said at last, voice slow and suspicious, like he suspected the answer might explode.
Draco gestured to the very official letter, again. “The Head of the Auror Office.”
Boris perked up. “To turn yourself in?”
Draco stared at him for a beat. “Ah. So you did find the body in the ladies’ powder room,” he said with exaggerated relief. “Terrible business. She lunged at me screaming ‘Death Eater scum’ and I had no choice but to defend myself. Tragic, really.”
Boris didn’t laugh. He rarely did — possibly because humour had been drained from him sometime during a routine security enchantment.
Draco sighed dramatically. “I’m here to see Potter,” he clarified. “He summoned me. In person. Because apparently magical communication is no longer fashionable and we’re doing things the old-fashioned way now. Owls are too impersonal, I suppose, and Merlin forbid the Boy Wonder dirty his conscience with anything so impolite as a memo.”
Boris blinked. “Potter wants to see you? Personally?”
“Yes,” Draco said, drawing the word out like a teacher explaining a simple concept to a very dense flobberworm. “He sent the request, signed it, underlined it, and — in case you missed it — it says ‘urgent’ right there in red ink. I assume he used a special quill for drama.”
“But why would Potter—”
“Because,” Draco said sweetly, “sometimes even national heroes require the insight of a reformed aristocratic war criminal. It adds gravitas.”
There was a long pause as Boris mulled this over. Draco simply adjusted his cuffs and looked bored. Which, to be fair, he was.
Eventually, Boris gave a huffy grunt and motioned for one of the other security wizards to accompany him.
“Escort protocol,” he muttered, clearly disappointed Draco hadn’t arrived in a hooded cloak with glowing eyes and a nefarious aura.
“Yes, yes,” Draco said, already walking. “Let’s all pretend I’m a flight risk. That’ll be fun.”
As they moved through the Ministry halls, Draco couldn’t help but wonder what, exactly, Potter wanted from him. It had to be something unpleasant. It always was. No one summoned Draco Malfoy ‘urgently’ just to chat about the weather or exchange biscuit recipes. It was either going to involve danger, embarrassment, or — worst of all — paperwork.
Still, he squared his shoulders. He had waited six months for a hippogriff hearing and 234 days in Azkaban. He could survive whatever Potter was about to throw at him.
Probably.
Draco had not, in the slightest, missed the British Ministry of Magic. The moment he stepped off the lift onto one of its grimy floors, the sense of resigned disdain settled over him like an old, ill-fitting cloak. Everything about the place reeked of bureaucratic stagnation and unfortunate fashion choices. The creaking wooden floorboards, still charmed to groan like haunted ships, echoed underfoot with what he assumed was meant to be historical charm. In practice, it just sounded like indigestion.
The lifts remained the same claustrophobic iron cages they’d always been — clunky, shuddering things that rattled like skeletal dragons with asthma — while those infernal paper airplanes still buzzed overhead like caffeinated mosquitoes. One clipped his ear and he nearly hexed it out of the air on instinct. Twelve years away from Britain, and not a single thing had improved. If anything, it had gotten worse.
The British, Draco had concluded long ago, simply lacked class.
They weren’t as effortlessly chic as the French, who could wear a velvet robe at breakfast and somehow make it look like statecraft. Nor were they as ruthlessly efficient as the Germans — Draco had attended a symposium in Berlin once where a three-hour conference had begun and ended on time, with refreshments served alphabetically. And the Swiss? Immaculate. Draco had once attended a diplomatic gala in Geneva where every single attendee looked like they’d stepped out of a fashion catalogue dedicated entirely to tasteful power-dressing. He still dreamt about the tailoring.
Meanwhile, back at the Ministry of Magic, a witch in a woollen cardigan shuffled past him, humming off-key. A cardigan. In terracotta. In June. Draco shuddered. It wasn’t just a crime against colour theory — it was a full-blown aesthetic tragedy. There ought to be a dress code, or at the very least a public apology.
It wasn’t simply the fashion, though that alone was nearly unforgivable. The sense of dignity the Ministry had once carried — stern, stifling, but undeniably formidable — had eroded. Kingsley Shacklebolt’s appointment as Minister had marked a new era, one filled with openness, tolerance, and regrettably… Weasleys. Everywhere. The place had become something of a ginger invasion. Redheads bustling about in sensible shoes, laughing loudly and treating the whole institution like a well-lit family reunion. It was exhausting.
Not that Draco had anything against Shacklebolt personally. He didn’t. The man had been fair, perhaps even generous in his post-war judgments. And as for blood supremacy — well, Draco considered that whole ideology embarrassingly archaic. Positively twentieth-century. But the political climate in Britain simply didn’t appeal to him anymore. It all felt too domestic, too warm. Too... cardigan.
After his house arrest — during which he had, somewhat impressively, completed four degrees via remote magical learning (thank you, owl post and long-range scrying) — he’d wasted no time. The moment his shackles were removed, he'd stepped into the Floo, soothed his slightly scorched robes, and marched directly into the French Auror Office in Paris. He had walked in, announced his intent, and, in a move that surprised everyone but himself, signed up.
Unlike the British, the French had appreciated him. Truly appreciated him. His insider knowledge of the Death Eater network, his keen understanding of how dark magic operated in practice — it was all considered invaluable. Within nine months, he and his unit had tracked down the last of Voldemort’s international sympathisers — mostly cowards hiding behind false names in the Balkans — and dealt with them swiftly and without public spectacle.
He’d risen through the ranks with unflappable precision, and by the age of twenty-nine, Draco Malfoy was Head Auror of the French Magical Enforcement Division. He wore the title well. Under his influence, not only had the French office regained its prestige, but several European departments began mirroring his methods — streamlined, stylish, and effective. He brought a level of class and strategic elegance to law enforcement that hadn’t been seen since the pre-Grindelwald era.
Naturally, his mother had been horrified.
Narcissa Malfoy, long a believer in the sacred union of inherited wealth and decorative ennui, could not comprehend why her son — heir to an ancient house, fluent in four languages, and in possession of cheekbones sharper than most duelling wands — had chosen a life of employment. “Manual work,” she had whispered once, clutching her pearls as though he’d confessed to becoming a chimney sweep.
His father, Lucius, had also been outraged — from Azkaban, of course. Even behind bars, he had managed to convey his displeasure in that uniquely Malfoy way: a clipped, frostbitten letter delivered via Ministry-approved owl, heavy with implications and devoid of warmth. Draco suspected it had been dictated through gritted teeth to a very nervous scribe. The phrasing had all the charm of a hex. The mere idea that his only son had abandoned the pure-blood ideal, turned his back on respectable indolence, and — horror of horrors — taken a job, was clearly too much for Lucius' withering sensibilities. It was probably the most stimulation the man had had in years.
But Draco had no regrets. His life was his own now — built, not inherited. The British Ministry might still view him with narrowed eyes and purple-stamped paperwork, but on the continent, he was respected. Feared, even. And best of all: he hadn’t seen a terracotta cardigan in over a decade.
Until now.
God help him.
Draco had expected many things from Harry Potter’s office.
Fluorescent lighting. A chipped mug that said #1 Dad in peeling letters. Perhaps a Gryffindor scarf hanging off a coat rack in a fit of unprofessional nostalgia. At the very least, something mismatched, slightly grubby, and woefully utilitarian.
What he had not expected was… this.
The office was — and he hated to think it — tasteful. Painfully tasteful.
Soft charmed lighting glowed from discreet sconces, casting a warm golden hue across deep navy walls. The desk was old wood — real wood — burnished and polished to a muted gleam, free of clutter except for a sleek quill set and a tidy stack of parchment. There were books, yes, but arranged in orderly rows on floating walnut shelves. A green velvet armchair sat in the corner beside a brass reading lamp that looked antique. There was a rug. A bloody Persian rug.
And Potter. Potter, of all people, was standing behind the desk, dressed like someone who paid for his tailoring rather than transfiguring it on the fly. His Auror robes were black with subtle charcoal trim, cut to fit his frame just right — just narrow enough at the waist to be infuriating, just structured enough at the shoulders to scream competence. His hair was still a mess, of course. One can only work so many miracles.
But the real offense? The thing that nearly made Draco turn and walk straight back into the chaos of the bullpen?
Potter looked settled. Prosperous. Happy.
There were family photos on the wall — tasteful, moving ones in understated brass frames. In one, Ginny Weasley (now Potter, presumably) smiled and waved, a toddler on her hip, while two other children zoomed past on toy brooms. In another, Harry sat at a picnic table with a birthday cake in front of him, his youngest casting glitter at his head while he laughed.
Then there was the drinks trolley.
Draco’s eyes narrowed. Crystal decanters. Polished glasses. And was that—? Yes, that was a bottle of Ogden’s Reserve, 1875.
Draco couldn’t stop himself. “Well,” he said dryly, shutting the door behind him with a bit more force than necessary, “someone’s been raiding the Black family vaults.”
Potter glanced up from whatever file he’d been pretending to read. “Hello, Malfoy,” he said mildly, with an infuriatingly calm smile. “Nice to see you too.”
Draco stalked forward, taking in the full scene with the cold appraisal of a man whose mortal enemy had turned up at a ball in his outfit — and somehow pulled it off better. His eyes landed briefly on a strange display case near the bookshelves. Three objects. A wand far too familiar for comfort — the Elder Wand, if he wasn’t mistaken — sitting beside what looked very much like an old, worn stone etched with the Deathly Hallows symbol. And beside that?
A basilisk fang. Preserved. Mounted.
“Oh, well done,” Draco muttered under his breath. “What’s next, Potter? Voldemort’s last pair of socks framed above the loo?”
Harry didn’t rise to the bait — a development that only irritated Draco more.
“Just a few… reminders,” Potter said. “The sort of things that keep you grounded. That, and my wife doesn’t want any of them in the house.”
Draco let out a humourless laugh. “Smart woman. I always said Weasley had more sense than anyone gave her credit for.”
“And I always said you’d come back eventually,” Potter replied, stepping out from behind the desk and gesturing — not unkindly — to the chair across from him. “Though I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting it to be voluntarily.”
Draco didn’t sit right away. He studied the chair, then the carpet, then the ridiculous calm that Potter seemed to exude like some smug, functional adult. He hated it. He hated all of it.
Because how dare Harry bloody Potter — Chosen One, Boy Who Lived, lifelong chaos magnet — end up with taste? How dare he look like someone who owned three sets of cufflinks and knew when to use them? When had that happened? When had Potter grown into a man who drank good whisky, wore fitted robes, and kept relics of unspeakable power next to pictures of his kids?
And worse: how was Draco finding it… vaguely impressive?
Unacceptable.
“I didn’t come back,” Draco said coolly, finally dropping into the chair. “I was summoned. You requested this meeting in person, remember? I assumed it was either a trap or a misguided attempt at closure.”
Harry poured two glasses of whisky without asking — and didn’t spill a drop.
“Neither,” he said, handing one over. “You’re here because I have a proposition for you.”
Draco took the glass. He didn’t drink. Not yet. He just stared at Potter over the rim, arching a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
“Merlin help me,” he muttered. “You’re actually serious.”
“Of course I’m serious,” Potter muttered, rounding the desk with the casual gravitas of a man who no longer tripped over his own shoelaces. He leaned against it, annoyingly composed. “You’ve done well for yourself. The French adore you, the Germans practically canonise you, and our ambassador to Moscow—well, let’s just say Nesta had a lot to say.”
He cleared his throat meaningfully.
“About your… many assets.”
Draco smirked. Ah, Nesta. Charming witch. Lethal with a wand. Equally so without one.
“I do try to make a lasting impression,” he said, lifting the whisky to his lips and finally giving in to Potter’s hospitality. The first sip of Ogden’s hit with that deep, smoky oak note that no bottle on the Continent ever quite managed. He sighed. “So. Your point?”
“You’re a good Auror,” Potter said, eyes steady. “And I need a deputy.”
Draco blinked. Then laughed. “And you think I’d work for you?”
Potter didn’t flinch. “Let’s say… it wouldn’t be for long. By this time next year, you’d be running this office. Your way. While I step back and focus on other things.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “What’s the plan, Potter? Off to breed hippogriffs in the Hebrides?”
Potter huffed a laugh and pushed himself upright, slipping back behind the desk. “No. Nothing quite so pastoral.”
Draco leaned back in his chair, swirling the whisky in his glass. He studied him — this strange, polished version of Potter who wore tailored robes and didn’t stutter through basic conversation. Potter had always been a strategist, chaotic though he’d once been. But he’d learned. Grown into it. There was something quietly calculated beneath the laid-back charm now.
“You’re not…” Draco tilted his head. “You’re not thinking of running for Minister for Magic, are you? Merlin’s beard, Potter. Saving the wizarding world wasn’t enough? Now you want to govern it?”
Potter made a face like he’d swallowed a lemon. “Fuck no. I like my life. I like my wife. I’m rather attached to both. That job would cost me at least one and definitely involve the other trying to kill me with a soup spoon.”
“Then what?” Draco asked, suspicion rising like steam.
“There’s someone who should be in the job,” Potter said, his tone dropping, “and they need my support. And the Wizengamot’s.”
Draco narrowed his eyes. “If this ends with me giving up France so you can shove MacLaggen into office, I will walk out of here and take the whisky with me.”
Potter actually looked pained. “Merlin, no. MacLaggen can barely string a policy together without trying to seduce the nearest sentient object. I want Hermione in the job.”
Draco choked.
Truly choked. The whisky sprayed with such speed and volume it misted across the room and splattered directly onto Potter’s glasses.
“Granger?” he gasped.
“It’s Weasley, actually,” Potter said, dabbing at his glasses with a handkerchief that appeared far too monogrammed for someone raised in a cupboard. His voice was quiet, careful — but not the sort of quiet that suggested reverence.
No, it was the kind of quiet reserved for saying something you didn’t believe but knew you were supposed to.
Draco watched him, head tilted just slightly. Ah, he thought. There it is.
The discomfort wasn’t overt — Potter was far too polished these days to wear his feelings on his sleeve, not without intent. But it was there. In the pause before the name. The tightness at the jaw. The fact that he didn’t say “Hermione” the way people say a friend’s name — he said it the way people say a wound that hasn’t healed cleanly.
Interesting.
“You say Weasley like it’s a diagnosis,” Draco said, voice mild.
Potter didn’t look up. He just continued cleaning his glasses, a little too precisely.
“She’s married to Ron,” he said flatly, as though the facts themselves were offensive.
Draco raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I’m aware. There were articles. Lavish wedding. House elf-shaped cake toppers. I assume someone made a speech.”
Potter finally looked at him. “You’re straying off topic.”
“I didn’t realise we’d picked one.”
That earned him a sharp exhale — not quite a laugh, but close. Potter set the glasses back on his face, the lenses slightly smudged now, which Draco found pleasing.
“She’s the best candidate,” he said again, with the tired insistence of a man who’s repeated the same argument in his own head too many times.
Draco sipped his whisky. “And yet you grimaced at her surname like it burned your tongue. Must be tricky, loving your best friend while he makes a hobby out of cocking things up.”
Potter’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t respond. A point for Draco.
Of course, Draco had always suspected something along those lines — not romantic, necessarily, but a deeper tether. Potter’s emotional loyalties had always skewed fiercely, sometimes blindly. And while the bond between him and Weasley had seemed unshakable during the war, time had a way of unpicking even the strongest seams. Particularly when paired with poor life choices and a fondness for being the least competent person in the room.
Draco let the silence hang for a moment longer, just to enjoy watching Potter sit in it.
Then he said, “So. Let me get this straight. You want me to take over your job, navigate the mess that is British magical law enforcement, reinstate something resembling standards—”
“—you love standards—”
“—so that your bushy-haired school friend can take on a nation,” Draco finished, unbothered. “While her charming husband spends his evenings in the company of… what was it last time? A Quidditch scout and a singing portrait?”
Potter didn’t rise to the bait this time. He merely picked up his own drink — not a sip, just the movement — and said, “She deserves better. From the country. And from the people around her.”
Draco studied him for a moment. There was steel beneath the calm now — not the old reckless fire, but something colder, weightier. Grown-up anger. It didn’t rage. It sat.
Fascinating.
“So you’re trying to fix the Ministry,” Draco said slowly, “by fixing the department. So you can fix the leadership. So she can fix the country. It’s like Russian dolls of saviour complexes.”
Potter rolled his eyes. “You’re exhausting.”
“And you’re transparent.” Draco smirked. “Fine. I’ll think about it. But only because it’s clearly going to drive you mad if I say no.”
“I’m counting on it,” Potter muttered.
Draco stood, adjusting his robes with a dramatic flick. “Oh — and Potter?”
Potter looked up.
“If I do take the job, I’m painting the walls in here. Navy is so last decade.”
He turned and swept toward the door, pleased with the last word — until he caught Potter’s quiet reply behind him:
“I thought you liked last decade. That’s where all your best scandals live.”
Draco paused at the door, lips twitching. Damn him. Damn him for getting clever.
This might even be fun.