Chapter Text
“There is light on you. I’ll catch it and see.”
June 21st, Solstice, Ministry’s Summer Solstice Ball
Harry stumbles forward when the world in front of him suddenly does a full turn and confuses his balance. He grabs the edge of a nearby table to stabilise himself, and sends a dopey grin to the people occupying his support.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, the syllables mixing.
The world does another somersault, and his fingers clench around the wood of the table.
He takes another swig from his whiskey glass in hopes that the water will help.
The alcohol burns good in his throat.
Harry blinks.
Right, that isn't water.
It's whiskey.
Wait.
“I'm drunk!” Harry exclaims, happy he's solved the mystery of his dwindling balance.
The people at the table give him a look.
“I mean, I'm not,” Harry says. He's not supposed to be drunk at Ministry balls like this.
He has to keep a reputation.
But he doesn't want to right now.
He whines before letting go of the table. It takes a while to coordinate his limbs - for a moment, he could have sworn he had four arms when he only has three - before carefully walking on.
Where is Hermione?
Harry scratches his head.
He perks up when he sees a bush of brown hair in the crowd.
Maybe Hermione can make him undrunk.
He sways, but holds his balance with the sheer force of his will (meaning he clings to the next best person). He pats himself on the shoulder for that achievement. It feels good to be proud of something he does, even if it’s just staying upright.
Harry elbows his way through the crowd - or at least he tries to, but every person makes way for him.
He sighs. He would have loved to bore his elbow into the ribs of a few people.
Maybe that would have squeezed the slime out of them.
Then the bush of brown hair is right in front of him. He tumbles forward to hug Hermione, but Hermione steps to the side, and a big crooked nose and green eyes come to stare at him.
Until now, Harry didn't know noses could stare.
If Voldemort had had a nose, his would have probably stared too.
But the more important realisation right now is that this person with the staring nose obviously isn't Hermione.
Harry slumps.
“I must say, Dorothy,” a nasal voice says a few feet from Harry. “Your hair looks quite frankly breathtaking today.”
Harry whips around.
Blonde hair, and a silk robe that looks like it's been tailor-made.
Draco Malfoy.
That bastard.
“Oh, thank you, Mr Malfoy,” Dorothy says. “You too look very handsome today.”
Malfoy chuckles.
Harry's nose scrunches up in disgust.
“Well, Dorothy,” Malfoy says, “ You are even able to charm the youth today.”
Dorothy cackles and fans herself with one hand.
“Mr Malfoy!”
She isn't even blushing.
Harry wants to vomit. And not because he's drunk.
Well, not only because he's drunk.
Suddenly, Harry’s left leg feels heavier than the right, so he starts walking in small circles. Maybe they are arguing. One wants to go home, the other wants to dance.
But he doesn’t even like to dance.
“The youth of today, Mr Malfoy,” she sighs. “It is depraved.”
Malfoy raises an eyebrow. “Don't I belong to the youth as well?”
Dorothy laughs. “You already have a son, Mr, I believe you qualify as a mature adult.”
“I am, but forty years old.”
“The youth are twenty years younger than you are.” Dorothy shakes her head.
“Harry,” Malfoy says all of a sudden, and Dorothy gasps.
Harry blinks and stops walking in circles.
That's his name.
Is he being called?
“Harry,” Malfoy says again.
Harry steps forward.
“Come here.” Malfoy is smiling at him.
Harry stands next to him.
“Harry did great things in his twenties, didn't he?”
Dorothy nods eagerly. “Indeed. He was an exceptional young man. And good-looking too.”
Harry flashes her a lopsided smile. She swoons.
“So wouldn't it be great if someone like young Harry would join us in the Wizengamot?” Malfoy asks.
Harry opens his mouth because he really doesn't want to do politics.
He already hates being Head Auror.
Malfoy steps on his foot.
Harry squeals in surprise and glares at him.
At least he almost always beat Malfoy in Quidditch.
“But Mr Potter is unique,” Dorothy says. “There is no other with his capabilities.”
Harry agrees.
“Exactly,” Malfoy says. “A youth could only achieve a fraction of what he's done.”
Dorothy pops a sweet into her mouth.
Harry licks his lips. He wants one too.
“But already a fraction of what Harry's done,” Malfoy continues. “Isn't that quite a bit?”
Dorothy ponders, “Yes, that is true. To achieve only a margin of what young Potter did…”
Harry can't follow that logic.
“So you believe a youth in the Wizengamot would be a good idea?” Malfoy asks. “Someone with potential similar to Harry.”
“Oh, yes,” Dorothy says. “That I believe. I can’t fathom how we have not thought about this.”
She is obscenely chewing on the sweet.
On second thought, Harry doesn't want one. He's good.
Malfoy laughs. “The thought has come to you now.”
Dorothy hums. “Very true. Mr Malfoy, I do not understand how you haven’t proposed such an idea yet.”
Wasn’t all of this Malfoy’s idea?
Harry is lost.
“Well, Dorothy,” Malfoy says. “It was lovely seeing you again.”
He kisses her hand, and she blushes.
Ew.
“Good-bye, Mr Potter,” Dorothy says.
Harry doesn’t want to kiss her hand.
“Good-bye,” he says. “I really-”
But she’s gone already.
“Oh, good,” he says. “I really didn’t want to kiss her hand. Did you see it, Malfoy? It’s-”
“Potter,” Malfoy interrupts him. “Are you drunk?”
“Oh, now you’re back to normal,” Harry huffs. “Were you possessed?”
“If I were, would I remember everything that just happened?” Malfoy says dryly.
“Yeah,” Harry mumbles. “But what if you just pretend to remember?”
Malfoy sighs. “You’re drunk.”
“Obviously.”
The world turns on its axis.
He holds onto Malfoy’s arm in an attempt to stay standing.
“‘m nauseous,” he says.
Malfoy pulls his arm from Harry’s grasp and looks around.
“Where are your friends?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” Harry hiccups. “Since when are you into older women?”
Malfoy stares at him.
“Are they any good in bed?” Harry doesn’t think so, but he wouldn't even mind having Malfoy in his bed right now.
“You need to go,” Malfoy says.
“Where to?” Harry asks. He sways.
“Away.”
Harry pouts. “You were just so nice to me.”
Malfoy scoffs. “Not for your sake.”
“For yours then?”
Malfoy sighs. “You're as dense as you were all those years ago.”
Someone pulls the rug out from under Harry's feet, and he falls forward. He catches himself, throwing his arms around Malfoy's shoulders.
Why would anyone steal the rug he's standing on?
“Potter,” Malfoy grumbles.
Harry doesn't think he can stand on his feet by himself.
Finding the rug thief can be postponed. He really needs to vomit right now.
And he does.
The moment Malfoy pushes him away to stand on his own, Harry vomits.
All over Malfoy's shoes.
And the rug.
The rug is back?
When was the thief brought to justice?
“Potter!” Malfoy growls.
Harry whines.
Malfoy rolls his eyes, or Harry at least assumes he does, because Harry is still staring at Malfoy's feet.
“Pathetic.”
Yeah, Harry isn't taking him seriously.
“Help me,” he begs. “Remember how I won our first Quidditch match? You owe me.”
Malfoy grunts but grabs Harry’s arm and drags him through the crowd. He isn't much of a help, though. He only makes Harry more dizzy.
“Do you know what this does to my image?” he hisses into Harry’s ear. “And I don’t owe you anything for that match.”
“What about my image?” Harry pouts.
“You don't have one to begin with.”
Kind of true.
When you save the world, the victory comes along with a free pass for everything.
So, Harry can get drunk whenever, wherever he wants.
Too bad, the victory also comes with that big fat bag of guilt that Harry has to carry everywhere.
Malfoy bundles him off to the toilets, where Harry leans against the counter, heaving, while he watches Malfoy clean his shoes in the sink.
“Since when are you the type to get drunk?” Malfoy asks, fiercely scrubbing his one shoe while balancing on the foot that the other shoe is on.
Harry whimpers.
Okay, maybe he is pathetic.
Malfoy pauses scrubbing to glance at him with something unreadable in his eyes.
“Ginny and I broke up,” he whispers.
Malfoy blinks, tapping the shoes dry with a paper towel. “Oh.”
Harry swallows.
The taste of vomit sits bitterly in his mouth.
“She broke up with me this morning,” he says. “She wants a divorce.”
Malfoy stares at him.
“Always thought you were the perfect pairing,” he mumbles.
“I thought so too,” Harry says shakily. “But she didn't.”
“Damn.”
“I just-” Harry buries his head in his hands. “What did I do wrong?”
“I don't think it's you,” Malfoy says, and begins cleaning his other shoe.
Harry can’t deal with Malfoy’s empathy right now.
“I can’t take this anymore,” he whines. “Someone needs to take me out.”
“In a dating type of way?” Malfoy frowns. “Or assassination type of way?”
“Surprise me,” Harry sighs. He glances at Malfoy, who is putting on his other shoe.
Something changes in Malfoy's expression when their eyes meet.
“Whatever,” he says, and turns around. “I do not care. I expect you to compensate for my ruined shoes, Potter.”
Harry tilts his head and opens his mouth to ask about Malfoy's sudden change of mood, but the other man is already out the door.
He stares at himself in the mirror, catching his breath even though he didn’t lose it in the first place, and wonders if maybe the rug never moved at all.
Somewhere in July or August
Harry hates this.
Everything sucks.
His wife just divorced him, and he has to attend a fucking party in midsummer.
And worse than that?
The party is taking place at a bar. And the beer is really bad.
Everyone wants to talk to him.
Harry could cry.
There are no kids at home that he could use as an excuse.
Why are they attending Hogwarts again?
Why can’t they just stay home?
He sighs.
Hermione is nowhere in sight, and Ron hasn’t even come because he has the luck of not being Harry Potter.
He carefully peels each of the fingers that an old woman has clenched around his forearm away, and excuses himself. She looks heartbroken, but Harry has actually had his heart broken, so he isn't swayed.
The loo is empty, thankfully. Harry splashes water into his face in hopes of getting a clearer head.
He stares at himself in the mirror.
Shit, he looks bad.
His green eyes are dimmed, with dark circles below. His cheeks are sunken in, his lips thin and dry. There’s no colour left in his face, pale skin all over. His famous scar still cuts through his right eyebrow, across his eye, over his cheekbone.
He has grown his hair out, black curls framing his face, but it’s greasy, hanging heavily. He looks like a second Snape.
Harry slumps and drags himself out of the loo, sneaking past the crowd of slimy ministry employees and politicians.
He needs air.
It’s calm outside, no wind, no rain, just hot, still air. A group of young men stumble past, bawling. Harry hides in the shadow of a nearby tree and watches.
They remind him of himself, but before he can reminisce, two people leave the bar.
Which is probably good. Losing himself in memories is something Harry despises. It just reminds him of the people he doesn't have in his life anymore.
Two men have stepped outside.
One has blond hair and is wearing an expensive trench coat despite the weather. He has a smirk on his lips while he’s talking, confidently raising his chin.
The image makes Harry's stomach prickle.
The other one has brown curls and a hooked nose. He is not smiling. He’s gnawing on his lower lip, fiddling with his tie.
Harry's lip curls, nose scrunching up.
“Mr Piger,” the blond one says.
“Piggott,” the other corrects.
That doesn't sound any better than Piger.
“I do not care,” the blond one says, making the other flinch. “Don't correct me.”
Damn, he sounds just like Malfoy.
The two men step closer to Harry, who hides behind the trunk of the tree, and Harry can finally make out their faces.
…
Damn, that is Malfoy.
“Mr Malfoy-” Piger stutters.
Malfoy throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, Mr Piger. Have you forgotten what beauty colours my arm?”
What?
Piger gulps audibly, shrinking.
“I have not,” he says shakily.
He looks pitiful, but Harry doesn't have any sympathy for him. He brings the image of Peter Pettigrew back into Harry's mind.
Malfoy smiles darkly. “You haven’t forgotten the kind of things I’ve done, have you?”
Harry swallows back a gasp.
“No,” Piger shakes his head.
“So you’re not really in a position to argue, are you? “
“I- I am not.”
Malfoy grins, “Then you will surely agree with me at the upcoming voting?”
Voting?
Harry isn't voting shit. So what are they voting for?
The heat is messing with his head.
Piger hesitates, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His fingers are twitching at his sides.
Malfoy twirls his wand.
“Hmm?”
Piger bobs his head. “Y- yes, I will.“
Malfoy giggles. “And it won’t be a problem for you to persuade your friends either, right?”
Piger opens his mouth in protest.
“Right?” Malfoy’s wand brushes down Piger’s jawline.
“Right,” Piger swallows, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “R- right.”
“Perfect.”
Piger looks like he might cry. He hurries away, shoulders hunched, while Malfoy snips a speck of dust from his coat.
Harry can't believe what just happened.
“What the fuck?” he says aloud, and steps from his hiding place.
The fuck is Malfoy doing?
Malfoy whips around, and his eyes widen when he spots Harry.
“What are you doing here?”
“Getting a breath of fresh air.” Harry shrugs, trying to keep his cool for a bit longer. “What are you doing here?”
“Haven't you just seen?” Malfoy sneers.
Harry scoffs and steps closer.
“What are you planning?” he asks.
Malfoy rolls his eyes.
Harry has never seen him do this.
“I'm not planning anything,” Malfoy says.
Harry raises a brow, crossing his arms. “Yeah?”
Malfoy smiles condescendingly. “Indeed.”
“Should I turn you into a ferret?” Harry offers. “Maybe then you’ll talk.”
Malfoy doesn’t react, so Harry grabs his left arm, clutching it tightly so the other can't draw back.
“But you showed that guy your mark, didn't you?”
Malfoy hums. “What if I did?”
“I plead for you,” Harry says. “For your innocence .”
Malfoy sighs. “I have no plans to become a dark lord, Potter.”
Harry huffs and lets go of Malfoy’s arm.
“You might try to bring the old one back,” he says. Frustration sparks in Harry.
Malfoy grimaces, the corners of his mouth turning down. “No, thank you.”
Harry steps even closer until their noses are nearly touching.
Malfoy shifts uncomfortably, but doesn't retreat.
“Then what the fuck was that about?”
Malfoy stays silent. His jaw is clenching and unclenching in an unsteady rhythm.
A surge of anger takes hold of Harry, and he pushes Malfoy back by the shoulders, sending him stumbling.
“Tell me,” he growls.
Malfoy firmly shakes his head.
Harry shoves him again, and Malfoy's back hits the wall.
“You should know very well that I'd never bring him back,” Malfoy says. His eyebrows are furrowed.
Harry barks out a laugh. “Sure.”
Malfoy blinks.
Then something akin to understanding blooms in his eyes, and his features relax.
“This isn't about me, is it?” he says as if he's just realised something.
Harry scoffs. “That's bullshit.”
Malfoy smirks, but his eyes remain surprisingly soft. “It's about your wife, isn't it?”
No, it isn't.
Harry stares at Malfoy.
“You're angry,” Malfoy states.
“Angry, you are trying to bring another war over the people?” Harry finds his voice and juts his chin out. “Yes, I am.”
Malfoy sighs heavily and says. “Look, Potter. Go, and see a mind healer. Or get some sleep. You look like you'd pass out at any moment.”
“I don't,” he responds indignantly.
Why is he even defending himself?
Malfoy pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Potter,” he grunts.
But he doesn't continue. He wrings himself from Harry's grasp, slipping through his hold, and swings the door to the bar open. Loud music and a burst of air even hotter than outside hit them.
Malfoy doesn't step inside, though. He holds the door open and looks expectantly at Harry.
“What?” Harry asks testily.
“Get inside,” Malfoy challenges him.
Harry frowns. “Why?”
Malfoy raises a brow. “Because everyone is there for you.”
Harry sighs.
Whatever.
He can find out tomorrow what Malfoy's up to.
He enters the bar, Malfoy right behind him. Gazes snap towards them, and a few mouths open in surprise.
Shit, it looks like they're friends.
Harry turns to the left, trying to escape from Malfoy and the judgmental eyes.
Malfoy's hand shoots out and grasps his elbow. He leans in, and Harry feels his breath on his neck.
“I might be marked, but I am not a Death Eater,” Malfoy whispers.
Harry shudders.
Malfoy draws back and vanishes in the crowd.
Harry exhales, unsure if it’s relief or just exhaustion pulling his chest down. The tension fades, but the unease doesn’t.
He feels stupid, standing there, half-convinced Malfoy just told him the truth.
September 1st
Why does Hogwarts exist again?
Why does this damned castle take Harry's children from him year after year?
A quiet home sucks.
And without Ginny, it's especially quiet.
Harry's fingers twitch when he spots the glasses of champagne a waiter is carrying to him.
No , he tells himself sternly, no alcohol.
More than two months have passed since Ginny divorced him.
He very well should be over it.
Then why does it still hurt so damn bad?
He tries to shake the feeling and lets his gaze wander through the crowd.
Most people he doesn't know. He picks out a few familiar faces here and there, but he can't place names on them.
“If I-” Harry flinches at the sudden sound.
“If I may have your attention, please.”
Harry's eyes flicker through the masses, following their turned heads.
The current Minister for Magic - something something Barclay - is standing on the platform near the end of the ballroom. He's holding his wand like a microphone, having cast a Sonorous Charm.
“Today we want to celebrate the rebuild of Hogwarts,” he says gravely. “Twenty-two years have passed since Hogwarts was brought back to its old glory.”
Harry bites back a scoff.
Lies.
The whole repairs had taken years of work, many hours each day spent restoring the magic.
“Twenty-three years since the Final Battle,” he continues. “Since we've defeated the one who shall not be named.”
Coward.
As if he did any of the work.
Harry really wants to punch him.
“Let us celebrate!” Barclay raises a glass of champagne.
Where did that come from?
Harry suddenly feels very lonely without a glass. But even if he had one, he wouldn't have joined the toast.
Fuck them all.
Glasses are clinking so loudly they might break, and people are repeating the minister's words with enthusiastic voices and big smiles.
Harry forces a lopsided grin on his face and nods at the ones who have raised their glasses in his direction.
“Young Mr Malfoy has asked me to have a few minutes for himself,” Barclay says. “Please hear the lovely speech he will give.”
Harry can practically hear the slime dripping from his voice, viscous and sticky.
Malfoy makes his way through the crowd, and everyone draws back instinctively, leaving a narrow gap for him.
Malfoy smiles at the minister and casts a Sonorous. He turns to the people, and the confidence he carries makes them freeze, lips parted in anticipation of what he will say.
“Good evening.”
His voice is smooth and a note deeper than usual.
“Thank you for coming, and for giving me a moment of your time,” he says, and he sounds even slimier than the minister.
“The time we live in is still characterised by the dark years of Voldemort's reign.”
Harry flinches when Malfoy says the name, and a pang of doubt comes over him. He spent the last month looking into every one of Malfoy's activities, but they only led him to the conclusion that Malfoy absolutely adored ministry parties.
Nothing else.
He has a clean record, one that wins you any job interview despite his past.
“Our best defence to that darkness is clarity. If the public knows what is going on inside , they will be less likely to believe in another one of those theories or the propaganda of the dark side.”
Harry blinks.
Is Malfoy really publicly stating this?
As if anyone would believe him.
Harry doesn’t.
“The youth nowadays has also been becoming more sceptical of what is going on in our politics.”
Isn't his son part of this youth?
“It is important that we uphold our dignity not only through our rulings, but through fairness,” Malfoy continues. “Fairness like this requires procedural openness. Controlled, but visible openness.”
Harry doesn’t understand a word of that sentence.
“Furthermore,” Malfoy says. “While there is no reason to believe corruption exists within our ministry, and the Wizengamot, even the perception of injustice can damage public confidence.”
The Wizengamot.
He says the word with such precision, yet so casually.
What is going on inside.
The Wizengamot is what he means.
“Allowing limited, structured access to proceedings,” Malfoy says, “will preempt such concerns, but it will not weaken our security.”
Harry doesn't get it.
What is his goal? What is his plan? All of this is just noise dressed up as reason.
“Therefore, I believe in more openness, in giving the public access to what is going on inside,” Malfoy concludes. “I wish to keep the people calm and safe.”
Giving the public access?
To what?
Nothing concrete, of course. Just enough to sound radical without doing anything .
“Thank you for your attention.” Malfoy smiles as if it’s his birthday today.
The people clap, nodding along, and smiling back at Malfoy.
He didn't even make a point. He’s not offering solutions.
He talked in circles and conjured a conclusion from thin air.
And the crowd’s eating it up. They don’t care what he said - only that he sounded like a leader.
And that he is handsome.
Harry’s head is pounding.
Malfoy steps from the platform, still smiling, and young men swarm him. They shake his hand, pat his shoulder, whisper things into his ear, and offer him written pieces of parchment.
Harry squeezes through the crowd until he can hear what they are saying.
“A wonderful speech, Mr Malfoy,” one says, laughing even though no one's made a joke. “Wonderful.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr Allen,” Malfoy says.
“We must uphold our dignity,” another one comments, pushing a woman away to get closer. “Under all circumstances.”
“Exactly.” Malfoy nods. “Which is why I proposed granting the public a little access to some of our proceedings.”
The men around him nod as well.
“Excellent idea.”
“Very clever.”
“Incredibly unique.”
Harry shudders.
“Malfoy.” He clears his throat.
A couple of men glance at him, a derogatory remark on their lips before their eyes widen.
“Draco,” Harry calls.
Malfoy whips around, and his eyebrows shoot up.
Harry smiles and sinks into the role of a slimy bastard for a moment.
He scratches his neck, ruffles his hair, and takes Malfoy by the elbow, pulling him away.
“I will steal Draco for just a minute,” he says, and winks.
“Of course,” one stutters.
“Mr Potter,” another says. “What an honour.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Harry says, and nods.
His insides recoil, but he can shudder later on.
He drags Malfoy through the crowd and into a quiet corner of the room. Malfoy follows him willingly.
“Potter,” he says. “Here to arrest me?”
Harry rolls his eyes. “There is not a speck of dirt to find when it comes to you.”
“Aside from my youthful adventures, of course.” Malfoy grins.
As if Harry can’t see the way his eyes darken, and his lips thin.
“That’s what you call them?”
Malfoy shrugs.
There’s a moment of silence between them before he says, “Thanks for saving me.”
Harry blinks.
More than twenty darn years have passed since that. Why thank Harry now?
“Those men,” Malfoy continues, “are like the planets when I’m the sun.”
Oh.
Harry hadn’t thought Malfoy needed saving from them.
He huffs out a laugh. “Arrogant, are we?”
“I find that to be an accurate metaphor.”
“You’re aiming high.”
Malfoy hums. “I need your help.”
Harry frowns. “What?”
He must have misheard.
Malfoy runs his hand through his hair. “I know, Potter. I know.“
Harry takes a second to gather himself. “What- what do you need help with?”
“There are a few people I need you to dig up dirt about,” Malfoy whispers. He has leaned down, his breath brushing Harry’s ear.
“And why would I do that?” Harry clicks his tongue.
“Because it will benefit you too.”
“Who?”
Harry stares into Malfoy’s grey eyes. They’re cold and hard, but a tiny spark in the iris makes them glint dangerously.
“Antonin Dolohov. Corban Yaxley. Rodolphus Lestrange.”
Each of the names makes Harry flinch, and he wills his heart to stay calm.
“Mason Tremblay. Arius Selwyn.”
“Yaxley and Lestrange are in Azkaban,” Harry says hoarsely. “We’ve been after Dolohov for years . And I don’t know any Tremblay or Selwyn.”
“Are you certain Yaxley and Lestrange are still in Azkaban?” Malfoy asks, raising an eyebrow.
Harry blanches, swallowing. “What do you mean?”
“They tried to contact me,” Malfoy growls, his control dwindling. “Tried to make me their puppet.”
“They escaped?”
“Presumably so,” Malfoy says lowly. He pulls his robes down, shoulders tensing.
“What about Dolohov?”
“I put a tracker on him.”
Harry’s jaw drops. “What?”
Malfoy doesn’t bat an eye. “He came by my house. I don’t like unannounced visitors.”
“You know that I am Head Auror, and this gives me the grounds to investigate you, right?”
“But aren’t you much more interested in Dolohov?” Malfoy asks. The right corner of his mouth is twitching upwards.
“What about the other two?”
“Living a normal life,” Malfoy says. “Too normal, one could say.”
“Why are you trusting me with this?”
Malfoy shoots him a look as if this is an absolutely ridiculous question to ask, and his shoulders drop.
“Because you’re the only one they won’t dare silence,” he says for an answer.
“I don’t trust you,” Harry grunts.
“Good.” Malfoy smiles. “But you will investigate them?”
Harry clenches his jaw.
Fuck him.
“Yes.” He grits his teeth.
“Thank you,” Malfoy says.
A flicker of satisfaction crosses his face, and he turns around.
October 31st, Halloween
Harry’s heart feels surprisingly light, even though it is Halloween.
For once in months, he isn’t moments away from breaking down.
Hermione is to his left, holding his hand tightly.
Ron isn’t there today.
Is he ever?
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Hermione asks for the hundredth time.
“I’m fine,” Harry says. “I feel good.”
Hermione nods tensely.
“Hermione,” Harry says. “I’m fine. I talked to Ginny two days ago.”
Hermione’s eyes widen.
“I’m really good today,” he stresses.
She breaks into a smile, her eyes lighting up. “That’s great, Harry.”
He snorts. “That’s what I said.”
She hits him over the head, but misses because Harry ducks in time. She huffs.
“If at any point you need a break, I’ll be happy to find an excuse for you,” Hermione says.
“Thank you,” Harry says honestly. “You’re the best.”
Hermione sighs, and Harry can’t help but wonder how she manages to put up with him.
“How’s everything going?” he asks. “Now that you’re the Head.”
Pride bubbles up in him. Only a week ago, Hermione was promoted to Head of Department of International Magical Cooperation.
She worked in Law Enforcement for years, but the moment she was offered the position of Deputy Head, she switched departments.
Harry doesn’t get why, but he’s glad she found a new passion.
Hermione beams and begins rambling, listing the new duties she loves and the few she hates.
Harry is only listening to her with one ear, paying half his attention to the people around them.
The ballroom is filled to the brim with important ministry employees, along with the Wizengamot members, and the high-class members of society attending the celebration. Harry has to figure out which spaces he should avoid.
“Oh, there is Barclay,” Hermione says, nodding at the minister who is chatting with the Head of Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.
“Oh, no.” Harry shakes his head. “You are not dragging me there.”
Hermione sighs. “Harry, you’re the Head Auror. You’re one step away from becoming a Head of a department yourself.”
“No, no.” Harry detaches himself from Hermione. “I’ll see you later.”
Hermione sighs again, but lets him go. He blows her a kiss and watches her approach the minister with a big smile on her face, tucking a curl behind her ear, before he turns around.
Harry shuffles through the people towards the buffet.
He’s going to treat himself to a single sip of whiskey - just this once.
Even if his heart is light, the dark thoughts in the very back of his head linger like dark clouds on the horizon of a bright blue sky.
“Harry.”
The cadence makes Harry freeze.
He swallows, closing his eyes.
Had he just walked a bit faster.
“Good evening,” Malfoy says.
Harry opens his eyes and comes face to face with him.
“Draco,” he says overly cheerfully. “Hi.”
Malfoy furrows a brow. His tongue flicks over his lower lips.
“What?” Harry asks.
“You look well.”
Harry regards Malfoy with his best glare. “Oh, thank you.”
The hint of a smile flits across Malfoy’s face. “Sarcasm becomes you.”
“And a smile becomes you.”
The words leave his mouth before Harry even has time to think about them.
Merlin, what did he just say?
Heat rises in his cheeks, and he immediately regrets the words. He needs whiskey.
Malfoy’s mouth has fallen open, and Harry tries to shake the hot embarrassment and grasps Malfoy’s wrist.
“Let’s talk outside.”
He pulls Malfoy with him, or at least he tries to, but Malfoy doesn’t move.
“I believe talking here would be more beneficial,” he says.
At least he doesn’t comment on Harry’s inappropriate comment.
“Everyone can overhear us here,” Harry argues.
“We are wizards. I will cast a privacy charm.”
“I could really use some fresh air.”
“You just arrived,” Malfoy says.
How does he know?
“The public should see us together,” Malfoy adds. “It will be beneficial for both of our images.”
Harry laughs. “You mean it’s good for your image.”
“Well?” Malfoy raises an eyebrow expectantly.
“Alright.” Harry gives in. “Whatever.”
Malfoy looks surprised for a split second as if he hadn’t expected Harry to cave so easily.
Harry normally wouldn’t have, but Halloween fucks with his head, no matter how he feels. And he might be able to shuffle them over to the buffet and get his whiskey. He casts a muffliato.
“Thank you,” Malfoy says.
“Drop the act.” Harry rolls his eyes.
“I am not acting, Potter,” Malfoy says.
Harry lifts his eyebrows. “Of course.”
“I retract my previous statement,” Malfoy sighs. “Sarcasm does not become you.”
“Well, I won’t retract mine,” Harry says, and damn his tongue.
Malfoy snorts very ungentlemanly.
“Are you flirting with me, Potter?”
Harry scoffs, attempting to overplay the humiliation. “Always, baby.”
Malfoy rubs his temples.
“Anyways,” Harry grins, and if he were Malfoy, he’d have a whiplash from the sudden changes in his mood. “I found something.”
“You did?”
“Both Yaxley and Lestrange have pulled a Barty Crouch,” Harry tells him. “My guess is that Dolohov helped them.”
Malfoy tilts his head.
“And we have located Dolohov’s current residence.”
“Why haven’t you arrested him?”
A smirk pulls on Harry’s lips. “There are many people who come and go there every day.”
Malfoy’s eyes glint, widening slightly. “Who?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“I told you about them in the first place.”
“That was your decision,” Harry says.
Malfoy's eyebrows shoot up.
“I'll tell you if you tell me why you want this information so badly,” Harry offers.
Malfoy chuckles. “If you do not know my reasoning by now, there is no point in telling you.”
Harry frowns. “Are you implying that I am stupid?”
“If anything, I am insinuating your tendency to be rather unobservant.”
“Yeah,” Harry says after spending a moment deciphering what Malfoy just said. “You're calling me stupid.”
Malfoy smiles, and the skin around his eyes crinkles.
Harry can't recall having ever seen him smile genuinely, and it makes a warm feeling bloom in his chest. He's glad Malfoy has some reason to be happy after everything, even if it is at Harry's own expense.
“Just tell me,” Malfoy says earnestly.
Harry taps his chin as if he's contemplating just to see the look of exasperation on Malfoy's face.
“Okay, okay,” he says. He owes Narcissa Malfoy his life, and therefore, he should give her son this tiny favour.
If Malfoy's glares could kill, he would have been brutally murdered five times by now.
Malfoy smiles again. “Thank you.”
“Both Tremblay and Selwyn appear to be in contact with them,” Harry confesses. “As well as a certain Paul Harrison, Flavius Vandermoon, and Tilda Hendery.”
Malfoy's eyes widen remarkably. “Harrison?”
“Yes? Do you know him?”
“He's part of the Wizengamot, Deputy Head of the Department of Magical Transportation,” Malfoy says, his voice incredulous as if he can't quite believe it. “All three of them have seats in the Wizengamot.”
“Shit,” it slips out of Harry. “That's fucked.”
He swallows hard, clenching his fists.
“It is fucked,” Malfoy agrees, and wow, Harry had never expected of Malfoy to curse.
“Thank you,” Malfoy says. “Pot- Harry.”
Harry nods, but Malfoy sadly doesn't smile at him again. So he lifts the spell, and Malfoy vanishes without another word.
The room suddenly feels colder. He shakes his head, shaking the thoughts away, and heads toward the buffet.
He’s earned himself that whiskey.