Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Fish fell out of water
Bird stuck on the ground
Chaos giving orders
Everything is upside down
The whole world on a flight path
Wonder where they'll go, ahhh
Trouble's on the outside, I know
So now
All I can think about is you
-“All I Can Think About is You,” Coldplay

There were times like this—when the swollen sun hung warm and pregnant over the Ieranto Bay, refracting the azure waters off the limestone cliffs like a thousand points of mirrored light—when Draco felt he could be happy. When contentment and fulfillment were not just concepts belonging to others, but possibilities available to him.

It had been eight years after all. Eight years after his trial; seven since he was allowed to be something more than the equivalent of a Squib; six since he’d had his family under one roof; five since he’d discovered that certain things were indeed irreparable; and four since he’d left the familiar and painful reality of post-war Wizarding Britain for places unknown. It had been three years since he’d travelled from France to Italy, two since he’d stumbled upon the picturesque village of Nerano, and one since he’d set up roots amongst the ancient olive trees and terraced gardens with his modest villa, its arched windows perfect for watching the moon rise over the old Saracen watchtower as the lapping waves soothed him to sleep.

It had been nine months since he had laid his father to rest—Azkaban, it seemed, not only sucked out your soul, but any remaining will to live—and three months since he’d met Gianpaolo.

Draco reached out, taking his lover’s thick, dark hand into his own, marvelling at the contrast. His own fingers were still long and slender, though less delicate now from the months of fishing in the Recommone bay and hand-picking olives. His body was still lithe and lean, but was now also well-muscled, tanned from the hours spent in the heat of the sun. His pale blond hair was even paler, bleached nearly as white as the exteriors of the homes that dotted the cliffs. He was neither naïve nor humble about his appearance, and knew that his striking looks had only grown more toothsome as the years had unfolded.

He gave a gentle squeeze before biting into his pasticciotto, the delicate pastry giving way as the buttery crust and chocolate custard burst against his tongue.

“God,” he moaned as their hands drifted apart. “Your father is bloody brilliant. How did you grow up with his cooking and remain so fit?”

Gianpaolo shrugged. “Look at where we are, Draco, surrounded by nature’s beauty. I eat well, stay active, and make it a point to find happiness in even the smallest things. La dolce vita, yes?”

Looking at his life objectively, Draco should have had all the ingredients for happiness at his feet—a fulfilling lifestyle and a warm and inviting home, surrounded by incredible food, plentiful magic, sociable townsfolk, and a doting companion to call his own. He still maintained contact with his mother and, to a lesser extent, Pansy, Greg, and Blaise. But as he sipped his cappuccino and watched the colourful boats trolling back to shore, he couldn’t shake a sense of prickling unease.

“Amore mio,” Gianpaolo said gently. “So close, yet so far away. What is troubling that beautiful head of yours?”

Something caught in the wind. It fluttered, hovering in the corner of Draco’s eye before floating out of sight. It reminded him of the dandelion puffs that fascinated him as a child, with the way the cypselae clung to the head, their hold growing less secure with each passing day. A temporary reprieve of sorts—easily disrupted by the vagaries of the wind, or the whimsical breaths of a curious child.

Draco turned towards Gianpaolo as grey eyes met blue. “I’m not sure,” he replied honestly. “I…it’s just that I feel unsettled.” He frowned. “For lack of a better word.”

Gianpaolo looked down at his drink. He traced a finger along the bottom of the rim where the water had collected, darkening the wooden tabletop underneath. “You’re not happy here? Is it…what do you English call it? Homesickness?”

“This place makes me happy. You make me happy,” Draco started, trying not to think about how the words stuck in his throat. It wasn’t that they were untrue. But there was also a difference between being happy, and happiness.

“But not the happiest.” Gianpaolo looked out over the waters, at the sun as it began dipping lower, the yellows mellowing into something less bright and more languid. “Did you know that every night, you look out in the same direction? Towards the place where you once came from?” He hesitated as his lips pulled down in thought. “Perhaps you have unfinished business to attend to. Perhaps there is something, or someone, whom you need to return to, who’s not allowing you to move on. Even with all the changes you’ve already made in your life. Non tutte le ciambelle riescono col buco, si?”

Draco swallowed. Something was calling him, a restless ache that churned within, a growing disquiet that invaded his dreams. “Would that not upset you? If I were to go?“

“Draco. You are my dear friend first, and my lover second. It is true that I would miss every inch of your gorgeous body if you were no longer my amante. But it would kill me to know that I did not have the best interests of il mio migliore amico at heart.” He squeezed Draco’s hand. “Does that make sense?”

“You are so good to me.” Draco sighed, the anxiety currently welling up in his chest causing his fingers to itch as he found himself craving the comfort of the cigarettes which he had given up two years ago. His long fingers drummed on the tabletop. “Perhaps after planting season—”

Gianpaolo reached out, the condensation from his drink slicking their skin as he stilled Draco’s movements. “And then it will be harvest time. One can always find an excuse to avoid the things which are difficult in their lives. But it was one of your English authors who said it best: The beginning is always today."

"Magari,” Draco whispered. He leaned in and kissed Gianpaolo, tasting the sun and sea and sweetness of his lips, even as a fitfulness flared through him. He pushed it down, nearly choking on its bitterness, just as he had done over the last several weeks. But this time, it pushed back, increasingly harder to ignore.

He turned, looking west, as if the answers laid somewhere in the distance.

.~oOo~.

Harry ran in, nearly knocking over Goldstein, who was levitating a stack of charts for their morning meeting.

“Nice,” Ron grinned as Harry skidded to a stop. “Kingsley just left his office, so we’ve got two minutes to get downstairs before Dawlish has kittens.” His smile faltered as he took a closer look at Harry. “Blimey, you look a bloody mess. When’s the last time you got a decent night’s sleep?”

Harry threw on his robes. “Three…maybe four weeks?” He scrubbed at the wrinkled front before throwing both hands up in frustration.

“Nightmares?” Ron asked, his tone neutral. He cast a quick cleaning charm so Harry’s uniform hung spotless and neat.

Harry’s face coloured. “Not the usual ones.”

“Maybe you should think about seeing your Healer again. I haven’t seen you this exhausted since you and Gin divorced.”

“It’s not the same—I’ve no more headaches, I’m not waking up hallucinating or in a cold sweat. And no, I haven’t touched a drop of Sleeping Draught in over eight months.”

“No more voices?”

Just the memory of that soft and seductive drawl—the one that invaded his dreams now, leaving his heart aching and his prick sticky with come—threatened to make him half-hard. “I’m just tired,” Harry protested, strategically rearranging the fabric of his robe. “Going to stay in this weekend. It’ll be nice to do something quiet.”

Ron sighed. “Fuck, Harry, normally I’d be all for that; you know Hermione and I think you’re running yourself ragged. But tonight’s the get-together at the Leaky, remember? It’s Gin’s last weekend before she goes on the road, and she’s bringing Dean. It would mean a lot if you came and showed your support.”

Harry grimaced. Ron wasn’t above employing a bit of guilt in Ginny’s favour and to be fair, he had a point. Harry’s golden image could have been easily tarnished by the news of his bisexuality and the shock of the Potter-Weasley divorce, but Ginny and their friends at least had been nothing but supportive.

“Yeah. Of course I’ll be there.” Harry gratefully accepted the coffee Ron held out and took a deep sip, grateful for the caffeine infusion. “Thanks.”

“No worries. Honestly, you looked like you needed it more.”

“What’s the meeting about, anyway?” Harry asked. He gathered the papers that were scattered about his desk, shoving them under his arm while juggling the cup.

“I think it has something to do with the murders in West Berkshire last night,” Ron speculated as they made their way down the hall.

“Isn’t that Neville’s case? Why would they need us at the debriefing?”

Ron shrugged. “Couldn’t bear to be without our sparkling company?” he suggested as he pushed open the door. His jaw dropped. “Oh, fuck…”

Neville and Kingsley watched their changing expressions with something resembling amusement, while Dawlish glowered. And they weren’t the only ones—the space was filled with a team of Obliviators, someone from the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee, a representative from the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and several other Aurors.

“And a good morning to you too, Weasley and Potter,” Dawlish said as someone sniggered. Harry slid quietly into one of the two remaining seats. “Auror Longbottom was just about to give us the details of the Westwood murders which took place on the night of May the first.”

Neville threw Harry and Ron an apologetic glance. “To recap, we received a call at half past ten regarding a large surge of magical activity in West Berkshire. It wasn’t just unusual in its power and intensity; it was dark enough to spook not only the livestock, but several magical creatures as well. We contacted the local Muggle police, who’d also received eyewitness reports of ‘flashes of lights’ and ‘strange explosions’ in Lambourn Downs.”

The head of the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee spoke up. “Luckily, we had a ready explanation. Given the region’s pagan ties, its Celtic origins, and the ongoing Beltane celebrations, the disturbance was ascribed to some local youths recreating midsummer rituals.”

One of the Obliviators snorted. “Lucky for you, perhaps. Do you know how many Muggles were in the area? This was one of the largest Beltane festivals in recent years. We still have three of our best people out there, swapping memories of the curses with those of drink and drug-fueled revelry.”

Ron looked up, his brows pinched together. “What am I missing? Sounds messy, but contained. I haven’t heard anything to warrant the presence of the leads of five of our best Auror teams.

“Not to mention the Minister for Magic himself.” Harry glanced at Dawlish. “Who were the Westwoods? Were they targeted, or was it a random attack?”

“Henry Westwood was the last of the Berkshire Thorpes, a descendant of one of oldest pureblood families in southern England,” the Head Auror replied. “The family’s castle and fortunes were destroyed in the 1600’s following the Muggle Civil Wars. Alistair Thorpe—along with his wife, his magic, and what little was left of his worldly possessions—reportedly moved north of the River Kennet soon after.

“His wife did not survive the subsequent winter, and Alistair eventually remarried. His second wife was Catherine Coates, whose family bred and handled Thestrals. In fact, the Thorpes lived a rather peaceable existence for the next several hundred years. Most recently, Henry Westwood had taken to breeding and racing Muggle thoroughbreds. He continued the family tradition of breeding Thestrals, although with the growing non-Magical population in the region, their numbers had dwindled, and he only allowed the domesticated beasts to be purchased by a select few.

“By all accounts, Westwood loved his animals nearly as much as he did his family and the surrounding land. Part of his vetting process for any prospective buyer was to evaluate his would-be-purchaser’s home. To make sure that they would not only have necessary resources and space required by the Thestrals, but also to ensure that the land was fairly secluded, so that the beasts would not be mistakenly seen by curious, non-wizarding eyes.”

Neville picked up to the story, drawing everyone’s attention to a large, colour-coded map. “This is where Henry Westwood was found,” he announced, marking the address with a red ball-headed pin. “Along with his wife and twenty-five-year-old son.” He shook his head sadly. “The business was very much a family one. It appears as if Mrs Westwood was caught unawares. She was discovered in one of the bedrooms, the victim of the Killing Curse. Considering the damage sustained on the grounds, the assailants must have attacked Henry and his son as soon as they reached the main house. The Westwoods appear to have put up a valiant fight, but based on our estimates, they were sorely outnumbered, facing at least six or seven attackers.”

The space behind Harry’s right eye began to throb. “The use of an Unforgivable,” Ron said, letting out a low whistle. “A bit excessive for a botched robbery or random attack, yeah?”

Kingsley stood and approached the map. “Although the execution of the murders was sloppily handled in many respects, the thought behind the attack seems well-planned. What the perpetrators didn’t count on was the fact that the victims they encountered that night were not the ones intended.” He waved his wand, illuminating the numbers and letters of the home’s address. “It appears that the potential buyer—and the person whose home Henry Westwood was scouting—was none other than Philip Nott.”

Hestia Silversmith, a Ravenclaw who had graduated two years ahead of Harry and Ron, piped up. “Where were the Notts? Do you think they were involved?”

Kingsley shook his head. “Anything’s possible, but it’s highly unlikely. Mr Nott and his son Theodore were in London, looking at flats. They were staying at Claridge’s, and their presence was attested to by no fewer than twelve of the hotel’s staff. They were… incredibly distraught, to say the least. Apparently, the Notts and Westwoods had become quite friendly. Mr Nott has agreed to be questioned under Veritaserum.”

“The Notts were the intended targets, weren’t they?” Harry asked quietly. “And you suspect that this is part of something larger. Something great enough to involve the Department of International Magical Cooperation.”

“Yes.” Kingsley’s face was grim as several more push pins appeared on the map, filling in the surrounding areas. “There’s been a spate of petty crime in Auror Longbottom’s jurisdiction over the past six months. Nothing which would rouse suspicion on its own, especially given the recent economic downturn. But the crimes have grown more flagrant, with increasingly serious—and now deadly—consequences.”

“On March 15, an antique shop in Bloxham was vandalized. Valuables were destroyed, but according to the owner, nothing of worth was actually stolen despite the presence of some very rare and expensive artifacts. A sum total of forty Galleons, ten Sickles, and seventy-three Knuts went missing from the till. There were things in the shoppe which were easily worth ten times that—even more if they were to be sold on the black market, had money been the perpetrators’ sole intent.”

“Brawn and brains don’t necessarily go together,” Hestia laughed.

“True,” Neville said. “But there is one other bit of information I haven’t told you yet. The owner of the shoppe was Thorfinn Rowle.”

“Thorfinn Rowle. The Death Eater,” Harry said flatly.

“Yes. He’d been trying to eke out a quiet living, and was none-too-happy about having the Aurors involved. He declined further investigation into the incident, even for insurance purposes, and said that he would handle all the repairs and clean-up himself.

“Two weeks later, there was an assault on a wizard in nearby-Bampton. The incident was recorded as an attempted mugging; the victim, an older male in his mid-fifties. He was brought to the local wizarding hospital under the name of Mulaver. It came to our attention because the injuries which the victim sustained were unusual for a typical robbery. I believe that Auror Goldstein was one of the leads on this case?”

“Yes, Minister, I was.” Harry nearly missed the guilt which flashed in Anthony’s eyes before they were quickly shuttered.

“Would you be so kind as to enlighten us as to the findings of your investigation?” Kingsley prompted.

Goldstein nodded. “Of course, Minister. Mulaver was admitted to St Lidwina’s Hospital in Newbury on April the 4th. He was attacked at dusk by a group of three men who made off with his signet ring, a watch fob, and the money which he had on his person—nearly fifteen Galleons in total. Given the state of his clothes as well as the admission records of the Healers who’d treated him, we had no reason to doubt his story.”

“What were his injuries?” Hestia asked. Her quill scratched against the parchment furiously as she began to take notes.

“His right radius and ulna were fractured in multiple areas, along with several small bones in his wrist. He also sustained multiple fractures in his face and jaw—in particular, his right orbit, his maxilla, and mandible.”

“So essentially, the parts which he would need to effectively cast a spell,” Harry said.

“Yes,” Anthony nodded. “His casting hand was so severely damaged that the Healers were unable to set it properly. Even if he were to survive, his ability to use his wand would be equivalent to that of a second-year student at best.”

“What do you mean ‘if?’ Is he still being treated at St Lidwina’s?” Harry asked.

“No.” Anthony’s expression darkened. “Mulaver’s bed was found empty five days into his stay. The Healers tried contacting him; however, the address which he provided on admission came up empty, as did a search of his registered surname. We ended up running diagnostic tests against bone and skin fragments from St Lidwina. His magical signature came back with a positive match for one in the International database.”

“Avery Junior,” the representative from the Department of International Magical Cooperation supplied, his thick mustache twitching importantly as several people gasped. “Unfortunately, we’ve not been able to find hide nor hair of him since. Thus, the question of whether he is even still alive.”

“Why is this the first that we’ve heard of his reappearance?” Ron asked, his hands clenched at his sides. “Avery is a known Death Eater who never faced trial!”

Goldstein hesitated. He glanced at Dawlish, who appeared defensive as he addressed Ron directly. “We took the news of Avery’s discovery very seriously. It was reported to various law enforcement agencies, including several in our neighbouring countries.”

“But why aren’t we doing more to bring him in?” Ron persisted. “Chances are that Avery’s still in England, especially if he didn’t have the time or means to heal his injuries.”

“Avery was no longer considered a threat,” Dawlish said, his face flushed as the muscle in his jaw twitched. “He couldn’t cast, couldn’t write, couldn’t speak. For a prideful pureblood to live the rest of his life as a Squib—to never again know the joy of performing magic—would be a fate equal to Azkaban itself.”

“So now we’re acting as Avery’s judge and jury? Not only for the crimes which he had committed, but also for the ones which were perpetrated against Avery himself?” Harry snorted. “Nice to know there’s no need for the Wizengamot.”

“This was a mutual decision, made by the heads of numerous departments!” Dawlish gritted out. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve been increasingly busy in the last several months with all the civil unrest. I had to make a choice of where to best allocate our resources. Whatever you may think about Avery, circumstances and fate have forced our hand.”

“Perhaps, Auror Potter, it would help if you knew that I was party to this decision as well,” Kingsley said gently. “I hope to show you why prioritising our already strained resources are of the greatest import at this time.” He turned back to the map and waved his wand once more. A large number of pins materialised, dotting the surface. Several of the Aurors leaned in, staring at the patterns they formed. “Last night, I asked Auror Clark and his team to run a search of our database for incidences of crimes committed against individuals with pureblood status.”

Harry barely suppressed an eyeroll as Ron let out an audible groan. Ellis Clark was a brilliant statistician, but his propensity for thoroughly analysing each case from every possible angle made him a thorn in Harry’s side. How Clark had sorted Gryffindor instead of Ravenclaw was beyond anyone’s guess.

“Over the last four months, attacks against purebloods have made up sixty-five percent of the total number of criminal cases in southwestern England. What was even more striking was the fact that there had been a steady uptick in both the rate and number of such attacks from January through April. Out of these, an incredible seventy percent occurred right outside our back door.” He pointed to to the bouquet of pushpins clustered in the center of the map.

“How many cases were there in total?” Goldstein asked. “The area that you’re talking about has a low crime rate historically. It’s sparsely populated and rural—mostly older wizarding estates that have been in the same families for generations. It’s the kind of place where just two or three additional cases a month can skew the stats.”

“True,” Clark conceded. He looked down at his papers. “How about this, then? There were three definitive cases in January, seven in February, eight in March, and fifteen in April. Out of these, none were classified as violent in January and February, whereas there was one in March, and three in April.” He turned towards Goldstein with a smug smile. “I ran the numbers last night. The findings are statistically significant; you could hardly attribute these results to one or two outliers.”

A murmur rippled through the room. “Thank you, Auror Clark,” Dawlish said, giving Clark a pat on the back as the other Auror sat down. “So far, the most serious crimes have been committed against those with Death Eater connections. But until the Westwood murders—which looks to be a case of horrifyingly ill-timed and mistaken identity—none had ever risen to this level of violence.”

Hestia’s quill stopped. “So you think these are linked? Or possibly copycat crimes?”

“Linked, at least in terms of motive. We think that a large number of the attacks are the work of an organised syndicate, with the possibility of some splintered groups and isolated copycats,” Dawlish said.

Kingsley stood, the gravity of the situation evident in his expression. “This is supposition, of course, but the state of affairs in wizarding Britain is ripe for dissent. Jobs are difficult to come by, the prices of products keep rising, and the youth feel disenfranchised. The Second Wizarding War…well, seven years is not a long time. People’s memories are much less forgiving than that. Voldemort’s defeat didn’t bring about with it an abrupt change, despite all the legislation that’s being brought forth. So it’s easy to place the blame on certain groups for the status quo.”

“The social and political climate, combined with the nature of the attacks, suggests the possibility of vigilantism,” Goldstein added. “The fact that the most horrific crimes were made against known Death Eaters points to that as a likely motive.”

“Which is why the majority of our resources will be spent on investigating the situation further and doing what we can to contain the spread of violence, given its potential to escalate and spread.” Kingsley acknowledged the group from the Department of International Magical Cooperation, then turned to the head of the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee. “Padma, I want you and your team to come up with a ready set of explanations should any of this hit the press. Wizarding and Muggle alike.”

“Don’t you think that people have a right to know?” one of the Obliviators asked.

Kingsley shook his head. “At this point, no…at least not for the populace at large. I don’t want us to be a conduit for the spread of fear and panic, or worse, for hate. Of course, those who are at the greatest risk to be targeted will have to be informed.”

“Death Eaters,” Hestia whispered bitterly as the protests in the room grew to a near roar. “You want to have us protect known Death Eaters.”

Harry felt a sense of dread welling up within him as he awaited Kingsley’s response. The pounding in his head grew more insistent as his heart caught in his throat.

“Yes,” Kingsley said finally. “We are increasing the watch on those who are still imprisoned in Azkaban, and will be providing protective detail for several high profile wizards and witches with well-known ties to Voldemort. We are working on public education—Hermione Granger-Weasley and her team are being apprised of the situation as we speak. But that’s a solution for the long-term, and what we need right now is a quick fix.”

Harry looked at Ron with surprise. His best mate shrugged, but Harry couldn’t help but notice how his chest had puffed out a bit at the mention of his brilliant wife.

“I’m going to ask all the Auror leads who are here today to assemble a team of four of their most trusted and competent colleagues. Additional personnel will be assigned to each unit on an as-needed basis. Each team will also be assigned their own Equipment and Spells specialist, to help fast-track your supply requests instead of going through Central.

“I want everyone’s wish list when we reconvene in twenty-four hours,” Kingsley added as the room groaned at the prospect of an early Saturday morning meeting, “with your alpha members, your backup team, and your preferred assignments. Aurors Potter and Weasley, I’d like to speak with you privately. The rest of you are dismissed.”

Harry watched as the rest of the personnel filed out. “Okay,” he said as Kingsley fired a locking spell at the door. “I’m officially intrigued.”

“Harry, you and Ron are not only two of the best Aurors to have graduated from the Academy in the past decade, but your skills in defense are leagues beyond most others with your level of training.”

Ron snorted. “You’ve certainly got my attention now, as well. Why do I get the feeling you’re softening us up for the hard blow?”

Kingsley gave them a small smile. When he next spoke, his voice was tinged with sadness. “The two of you have seen the best and worst in people, on both sides of the war. Despite that, I would hope that you haven’t been so afflicted by life’s difficulties and losses that you still have it in your hearts to do what is morally right.”

“We’re only human, Kingsley,” Harry said quietly. “But I would hope so as well.”

The freckles on Ron’s face stood out against his flush. “Right. What Harry said,” Ron added after the slightest delay.

“I’m counting on that.” Kingsley steepled his head between his fingers, then let out a weary sigh. “Forgive me, gentleman. It’s been a long night.” He clasped his hands on the table in front of him. “As Dawlish had mentioned, the signs point to the work of one group. Not necessarily the most well-organised, mind you. If they had put a bit more effort into it, for example, they would have known that Nott had lost his wife long ago.”

“They could have mistaken Mrs Westwood for one of Nott’s staff,” Ron supplied. “She was found in one of the smaller bedrooms.”

“Or they could have been so blinded by their hatred that it didn’t matter. Guilt by association,” Harry proposed.

“I agree with you, Harry. Ignorance, hatred, and bloodlust are powerful and dangerous motivators.” Kingsley paused, watching them carefully. “In your opinion, who is the most visible and well-known pureblood in Britain who is not currently imprisoned in Azkaban?”

“Narcissa Malfoy,” Harry said without hesitation as Ron nodded. “She has well-known, pureblood lineages on both sides, and Death Eaters in her immediate family. Not to mention that the Manor was a temporary home for Voldemort himself, or that Lucius was a vocal proponent of pureblood rhetoric and hate.”

“Agreed. Look at the map—many of the occurrences were in older towns and villages. Places with a long history of settlement, yet as Auror Goldstein pointed out, rural enough to contain the estates of the oldest pureblood Wizarding families. With attacks in Oxfordshire and Berkshire, it’s logical that the next county to be similarly affected would be—“

“Wiltshire. Blimey,” Ron breathed. “Why would Narcissa stay?”

“It’s her home, Ron,” Harry said. “Lucius is gone, she’s severed her ties with Andromeda, Draco couldn’t be arsed to stick around after the trials, and she’s had to sell a significant amount of her family’s assets for reparations. She’s probably hanging on tightly to what little she has left.” Harry looked down at his feet as Ron shot him a look of surprise at his impassioned response. Although Harry would never consider himself friendly towards Narcissa, her actions at the end of the War made them undeniably linked. And his own inability to let go of Grimmauld Place—for the memories which it held as well as its connection to Sirius—gave them another inch of common ground.

Kingsley coughed. “Actually, Draco Malfoy is back in town. Apparently, the prodigal son returned earlier this week. So now we have two high-profile targets who are in dire need of Auror protection. The best Auror protection the Ministry can offer.”

The roaring in Harry’s ears grew thunderous. “Kingsley…” The word came out slightly strangled.

“We’re owling the Malfoys and informing them of your arrival tomorrow. I want both of you to give me the names of four other Aurors whom you would trust to assist you in your duties as needed. At this time, we are not assigning twenty-four hour surveillance; part of your job tomorrow will be to evaluate the Manor’s defenses, including their wards. However, if the situation warrants, we will upgrade the Malfoy’s protective detail to around-the-clock.”

“And do you have a particular preference as to whom we are assigned?” asked Harry, his voice faint.

“Based on your strengths and the fact that Mr Malfoy’s Mark places him at a higher risk for a direct attack, I am assigning Auror Weasley to Narcissa’s detail and you to Draco’s.” His eyes narrowed in warning. “I trust this won’t be a problem?”

“No worries, Kingsley. We’re on it,” Ron replied as Harry fought the strange, conflicting sensations of unease and anticipation.

“Excellent. I suggest that you spend the next several hours assembling your team. I will give priority to your requests given the sensitive nature of your assignment, but I can’t promise anything else once all the initial teams have been approved. I would hate to have you lose a valuable asset such like Elliot Rogers because you didn’t spend the time to think things through.” He cast a Colloportus at the door. “Have a good rest of your morning, gentlemen. And by ‘good,’ I mean ‘busy,’” he added as he exited with a wink.

Harry sighed. “Subtle as a hippogriff.”

“Crafty as a badger.” Ron gave his hand a squeeze. “You okay, Harry? I mean…it’s Malfoy.”

Harry scrubbed his eyes. “Yeah. I mean, I should be, right? Spoke in his favour at his trial and all.” He hesitated; how could he tell Ron about the childish resentment that had filled him soon afterwards, when he learned that Malfoy had packed up and left without so much as a word of thanks?

“Yeah, but still. It’s the Ferret. If you don’t think you can do it, it’s better to tell Kingsley now. Wanting to do the right thing is different from being able to do it. Maybe we could switch details, or we could ask Dawlish to put Clark’s team on the case instead.” Ron’s face lit up with a mischievous grin. “Could you imagine, Malfoy and Clark? They’d probably—”

“No!” The word left Harry with surprising vehemence as Ron’s eyes widened in surprise. “This is the first case where we’ve been trusted with this level of responsibility, and I’m not about to bugger it up because of some stupid…”

“Some stupid what?” Ron asked, raising a brow.

“Nothing. Christ, I need some sleep,” Harry groaned. He looked despondently at his empty cup of coffee before rummaging through his stack of papers, finally coming up with a blank sheet. “C’mon, let’s go through the candidates. Kingsley pretty much told us we should ask for Rogers,” he said, writing the name down.

“Can’t place him. Is he the guy who came over from MACUSA last month?”

“No, that was Stephen. This is Elliot—he’s tech support. Provides a lot of the specialty equipment, and apparently modifies them with complex and high-level charmwork.” He smirked. “Clark’s been itching to get him on his team for months.”

“Right!” Ron snapped his fingers. “He’s got that fancy leg—a prosthesis that has some kind of Muggle sensor that helps his muscles move more naturally. Rumour is he’s got all these protective charms on it, and it’s glamoured so you can’t tell it apart from the real thing.”

“Someone who is smart, willing to think outside the box, and makes use of the best of both the wizarding and Muggle worlds? Brilliant,” Harry declared as he wrote Elliot’s name on the list. “One down.” He thought about the pretty blonde Auror with quick reflexes and an even quicker tongue who had been a year behind them in training. “What do you think about Samara Davis?”

“Sharp, good instincts. Excellent defensive skills. Muggle-born; got a bit of a chip on her shoulder because of it, but I think it makes her work that much harder to prove herself.”

“Yeah, I agree,” Harry said. “She’ll follow the rules in general, but isn’t afraid to push the boundaries if necessary. So you think she’d be a good fit?”

“Absolutely. Plus…” Ron bit his lip, his face turning slightly red. Despite his obvious discomfiture, he barrelled ahead. “I’ve never seen Davis act unfairly. I'm sure her presence on a case of this nature would be a good example for the other teams.” His flush deepened as he looked at Harry.

Harry shrugged. “Because she’s a Muggle-born witch who’s now tasked with defending purebloods? You're just stating the facts. It’s not so different from the reason why Kingsley put us on the Malfoy’s case, all compliments to our skills aside. All right, then,” he concluded, adding Samara’s name next to Elliot’s. “Who else?”

“Williamson? She graduated second in her class and is completely driven.”

Harry frowned. “Almost too much. Aubrey reminds me of Hermione with her intelligence and dedication, but without the compassion. She strikes me as the type of person whose ambitions would tempt her to place her own interests over those of the team.” He bit his lower lip. “Perhaps even ahead of those she’s supposed to protect.”

“Good point,” Ron agreed. He looked deep in thought, his face lighting up after several seconds “Ben Chapman. He’s only a year out, but he’s one of the best duelers around, both defensively and offensively. Remember how he blew open the black market potions case two months ago? And he’s pureblood, with connections to the Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

Harry thought about the young, friendly, and handsome Auror who had shaken his hand vigorously and for just a moment too long when they were first introduced. He raised his brow. “Huh. Didn’t know that about him. But so are you.”

Ron snorted. “My family’s ties were severed with that group long ago. Besides, our history is now linked with yours.” He scrunched up his face. “I think Chapman’s mom was a Travers. He’d be a good addition at any rate—someone who’s comfortable in the Malfoys' world, yet whose skills and character also fit with those of the team. That is, as long as you can deal with the bit of hero-worship he has going on.”

“If it doesn’t interfere with his work, it’s nothing I can’t handle.” Harry added Chapman’s name to the list. “Two more to go. Edwin Marsh? Not the most innovative, but he’s a dependable partner.”

Ron made a face, waving off the suggestion. “I’d rather not, mate. The guy’s a utter berk. No promises I won’t hex him if I have to be in the same room with him for more than a couple of hours.”

“Zach Harper? The guy’s practically a department staple, and I know you guys can at least talk about food if things get boring.” Harry grinned as Ron gave him a two-fingered salute, jotting down the name of the thirty-four year old veteran. “Okay, one more. What about Max Fletcher?” he asked, thinking about one of the younger Aurors. “He’s smart and has a good field record. He’s got a lot of buzz about him because of all his social activism, and I think he’s hungry to work on a big case.”

“Yeah. I think he’s sat on some of the same committees as Hermione.” A sly look crossed over Ron’s face. “Probably doesn’t hurt that he’s got a reputation for being mysterious and fit.”

Harry shook his head as a dry laugh escaped him. “I’ve never seen him interested in anyone, and he’s definitely not my type. Besides, I’m not ready to date. Especially anyone from work.”

“Especially anyone, period. When was the last time you had anything more than a one-off? Been with someone who could be more than a casual shag? I mean, there’s nothing wrong with it if that’s what makes you happy, but I can’t imagine that’s the case when you look so bloody miserable.”

Harry let out a long sigh. Ron meant well, and he wasn’t entirely incorrect.

“Not going to have much time for much else now that we’re on this case,” Harry muttered. “I’ll put more effort into my personal life once it wraps up.”

He must have been unconvincing, because Ron gave him a sympathetic glance. “So that’s it, then? You, me, Davis, Chapman, Harper, and Fletcher?”

“Yeah. And Rogers.” Harry mulled over the names written on the scrap of paper. “Given their defensive strengths, if we’re going to split coverage, it’d probably make sense to have Harper and Fletcher with me on Draco’s detail.”

Ron gave him a knowing look. “Probably doesn’t hurt that those two wouldn’t hesitate to use more forceful means if the situation called for it.” He sighed. “How the fuck did we end up here? Still, better you than me with the Ferret.”

Harry felt the blood leave his face in a rush. The last time he had seen Draco had been immediately after the trials. His trademark Malfoy beauty had been sullied, his delicate face gaunt and haggard. Part of Harry had felt a shocking sympathy for everything Draco had lost, but after seven years of antagonistic behaviour, all Draco had given him had been a mere nod of acknowledgement before he exited from Harry’s life.

Not just Harry’s life. From his own mother’s. A disappointment and anger welled up within Harry at the thought.

Ron leaned in to whisper. “You okay there, mate? We’re still on for tonight, right?”

Fuck. There was a dull thunk as Harry’s head hit the table. “Yeah,” he croaked. “We are. I could definitely use a drink.”

.~oOo~.

“Hey, Harry.” Hannah gave him a warm smile as he plunked down enough Galleons to cover the next round of Firewhisky and beer. “Haven’t seen you around in awhile.”

“Yeah. Been busy.”

“I know; Neville’s been burning the midnight oil as well. Some nights, I'm lucky if I get to see him at all.”

“Busy. Is that what they’re calling it, nowadays?” Seamus slung an arm around Harry’s shoulders, nudging him good-naturedly. “Must be tough, living life as Britain’s most eligible bachelor.” He pointed to the framed photograph that hung front and center amidst a collection of memorabilia from the Leaky’s more well-known patrons, winking as he gave Harry a roguish grin.

Harry groaned. “Neville promised he would take that down.”

“Oh, no you don’t, Harry; I was there. What my husband said was that he would take it down once it were no longer true. And since all this Auroring business has made you even more fit—” Hannah paused to fan herself vigorously. “Your best bet would be to find some someone nice and be done with it.”

“Been there, done that, remember?” Harry stared at his image, taken from the centerfold of Witch Weekly several months following his divorce. His counterpart’s bared chest glistened prominently from behind the protective glass, the curve of his arse and thighs accentuated by his skin-tight trousers.

Harry winced as his photographic self turned, abdominal muscles rippling as he flashed a cocky grin. He knew that the years following the War had been kind, at least in the looks department. A late growth spurt, the years of rigorous training, and Ginny’s efforts to instill some fashion sense meant the allure of Harry’s celebrity and bachelor status had prospective suitors champing at the bit.

It had been fun, admittedly—at least, in the beginning. But there was still a loneliness underneath it all. The public’s image of him—clean-shaven, square-jawed, well-muscled and self-assured—struck a dissonant chord with the person he felt within. With the boy who grew up feeling confused and unloved, before his world got turned upside-down at the age of eleven, and the confusion started all over again.

With the man who had been haunted by the memories of the Dark Lord he’d defeated; who had lasted in a marriage to one of his closest friends for less than two years; and who had been waking up every morning, hard and aching and lusting over some mysterious man he’d never met.

“Come now, Harry,” Seamus said, his shoulders shaking with laughter as he pulled Harry out of his reverie. “You look bloody amazing in it. Probably accounts for half of Hannah and Nev’s business.”

“More than,” Hannah added, unable to stifle her giggles.

“Alright, you’ve had your fun. Both of you.” Harry couldn’t be arsed to draw his wand, so he flicked his wrist and sent the line of tumblers and bottles over from the bar to the corner table.

His upset must have shown on his face. Hannah poured him an extra helping of the finely-aged whisky which she kept hidden on the lower shelf. “On the house,” she whispered into his ear. “And Harry? All joking aside, we’ll remove it if it bothers you that much.”

“It’s okay, Hannah.” Harry was startled to realise that it really was. “But I’ll take you up on that whisky.” He lifted the tumbler in salute and took a sip, relishing its smooth heat as he made his way back to the table.

“Hey, Harry.” Ginny stood and greeted him warmly, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce hug. She looked beautiful. Radiant. Happier than she had been for the last several years, for sure.

“‘Hey’ yourself,” he grinned. “Hi, Dean.” He leaned over to shake Dean’s hand as Ginny shot him a grateful look. Harry understood why the public show of support meant so much to them, but in truth, their steadfast loyalty was a thousand times more valuable. He pushed down his guilt; tonight was not about him. “How’s your new series coming along?”

“Great! My client wanted a collection focusing on the themes of destiny and fate. Yeah, that was my initial reaction as well,” Dean said, laughing as Harry made a moue of distaste. “I’m not a fan of the idea of predetermination. It made me think about what in life would be most affected if our freedom of choice were lost.”

“How about one’s role in life?” Seamus offered. “Take Harry, for instance. All those prophecies about him, when he was less than a year old.”

“I’d hate to think that my purpose in life was completed by the time I was seventeen. That’s pretty depressing.”

Hermione gave Harry a sympathetic glance. “The thing with a prophecy is that it’s always subject to interpretation. It’s not a fait accompli. And because it’s only a prediction, a person still has the ultimate responsibility for their course of action.”

“I can’t think of anything in this world that’s truly a foregone conclusion,” Ginny agreed.

“How about night and day? The idea that the sun always rises?” Ron proposed.

Ginny shook her head. “Even that can change depending on the season and the latitude, big brother-of-mine,” she said, sticking out her tongue. She feigned horror as Ron shot her an obscene gesture, then returned the sentiment times two.

“You know, there’s a Muggle saying: ‘In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes,’” Hermione said, her eyes lit up with amusement.

Dean grinned. “What if I posed the question another way? What’s the one thing that you would find the least likely to be predetermined?”

Luna glanced up from her glass of elderflower wine. “Oh, that’s an easy one,” she smiled. “It’s love. It’s the answer to most things, really.”

“My thoughts exactly!” Dean nodded vigorously as he gave Luna a high-five. “So love is both a very human and a very personal condition. Now can you think of a type of love where choice would come into question?”

“Arranged marriages.” Seamus toasted his own answer with a hefty swig of beer.

“Marriages between partners can occur for many different reasons. Not all of them are a byproduct of love,” Harry countered, his brow furrowed.

“I know!” Seamus shouted. “Soulmates! Not that I believe in such things,” he added after casting a furtive glance at Dean.

“But many people do. And there are some instances where the selection of a mate could easily be interpreted as predestined,” Hermione mused. “A Veela’s Chosen, for instance.”

Dean nodded. “That’s what I thought as well. Love in its purest form should allow us to retain our own identities, hold on to our own ideas and choices. Yet the idea of finding ‘The One’ throws free will into question. That’s what I want to explore in my next series, through Veela and vampires and werewolves.”

“Having a soulmate doesn’t mean you have to lose yourself, though,” Luna said, turning her attentions to Harry. “Nor does it mean that you’ll never be without disagreements or difficulties. In fact, sometimes the difficulties of our past are necessary to prepare us for the possibilities of the future.”

Ron appeared bemused. “I don’t know about the whole ‘difficulty of our pasts’ thing, but when it comes to freedom of choice, you don’t have to look further than Fleur and Bill. You’d never think that they were anything else but two people who were madly in love with one another. It’s something that goes beyond the way they look, or her Veela blood.”

“It’s true. They’re probably more into each other now than when they first met,” Ginny concurred. “They’re strong individually, but even more so when they’re together.”

“At this point, I’d be happy to find someone with whom I’d want to spend more than one night,” Harry said, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. “Someone who wants me for me.”

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione placed her hand over his. “What you’ve accomplished is part of who you are; you can’t separate yourself from your past. But by the same token, your public persona does not define you. There is someone out there who not only realises that, but will love you more for it.”

“Hermione’s right,” Luna agreed. “And when you find that person, the sex will be brilliant. Because you’ll not only have chemistry, but love and understanding,” she finished as the rest of the group whooped and hollered.

The alcohol and ribald atmosphere had loosened him up, and Harry’s lips twitched at the corners. “I hope you’re right. Although nothing’s gonna be happening for a while. Dawlish’s got us tied up on a big case.”

“Sometimes things happen when we least expect it. And being tied up doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”

“Believe me, Luna, if you knew who Harry was being tied to, you wouldn’t say that,” Ron said as Seamus chortled. “The guy’s a right prat.”

“Who is it? Tell us,” Ginny pleaded. “You can’t leave us hanging like that!”

Harry frowned. “I can’t, Gin. Although I’m sure it’ll be public knowledge soon enough.”

“Oh! Speaking of public knowledge, did you know that Draco Malfoy was back in town?” Harry and Ron’s brows shot up as Luna looked down at the remainder of her drink with a curious expression.

“That’s someone I never thought I’d see again,” Seamus said, shaking his head. “Thought he’d left England for good.”

“His mom’s still here, though. I wonder if his return has anything to do with that? How long has it been since he’d left? Five years?”

“Four.” Harry corrected Hermione without a second thought, as she and Ron gave each other knowing looks. “It was a year or so after his probation was completed. I remember because I had to give him back his wand.”

“I heard he was living it up on the Continent. A friend of mine apprentices at Études; one of the stylists spotted Malfoy in a club in Paris several years back and gave him a job as a fit model. Apparently they wanted him for some editorial work as well, but he turned them down.”

“What, too strenuous for him?” Ron asked as Dean laughed. Harry’s frown deepened; it seemed like the type of posh job and adulation Malfoy would crave.

“I can tell you from my experience with art models that despite appearances, modelling is not easy.” Dean shrugged. “Not sure why Malfoy turned it down, honestly. My friend heard that we’d gone to school together, but once he learned we weren’t close, he didn’t offer anything further and I certainly had no interest in pursuing it.”

“Maybe the time away’s changed him, especially after Lucius’ passing.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t know, Hermione. It’s hard to imagine Draco Malfoy as anything more than a pompous, spoiled git.”

“Well, well, well,” Ron muttered under his breath as the door opened. “Speak of the devil.”

Harry swivelled around so quickly he nearly strained his neck. For some inexplicable reason he knew who it would be, yet seeing of Draco after all these years caused his stomach to churn with irritation.

Malfoy looked good, Harry realised with a startle. He was still tall and lean, but even though he continued to carry himself with impeccable posture, there was a new ease about him which leant a grace to his movements. Gone were the frilly, stuffy wizarding robes of the past, replaced by slim-fitting trousers and a poplin shirt which he wore with the top two buttons undone, exposing the line of his throat and the hint of lightly golden skin underneath.

Harry’s jaw dropped. He nearly let out a groan, suddenly self-conscious about the dark circles under his eyes and his sallow complexion.

“Draco's very handsome, isn't he?” Luna asked dreamily.

Malfoy didn't seem to notice their group, hidden away in the privacy of the back corner. He lifted his hand in a tentative greeting to Hannah.

Hannah quickly replaced her look of surprise with a neutral expression. “Hello, Draco,” she said, her eyes downcast as she wiped down the counter. “What can I get you?”

Draco looked at the Quillboard, his eyes roving over the list of wizarding beers on the left and Muggle beers to the right. “Wychwood Hobgoblin,” he murmured as he read a name halfway down the right column. “How fascinating. Are you sure it’s Muggle?” he asked with a faint smile.

Hannah looked up, her lips tight. “Quite. Muggles are known to make worthwhile things every now and again.”

Draco’s expression faltered. “My apologies; it was an ill-conceived attempt at humour. It’s just that the name sounded magical.” Harry watched as Draco swallowed, his shoulders stiffening. “Well. I’ll have one, then.”

Contrition flashed in Hannah’s eyes. “You’ve got good taste,” she said, her voice growing softer as she bent down to retrieve the bottle of Hobgoblin and a mug. As she poured his drink, Draco scanned the room, visibly startling as he caught sight of Harry’s Witch Weekly centerfold. He remained unnaturally still, the tension in his body apparent as he turned, his incomparable grey eyes finally locking with Harry’s.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat, stunned by some ill-defined emotion. It was as if the last fifteen years had been whittled down into that stare, reasserting its grip. He fumbled his glass, nearly spilling his drink.

A hand on his arm caused him to jump. “Harry? You okay?” Ginny’s brows were drawn together in concern.

Harry took a look around the table—at the faces of those who had fought in, and survived, the War. They had done their best to move on, but nothing could erase the lines in the corners of their eyes, or the slump of their shoulders, or the weight of their immeasurable losses. Suddenly, the sight of Draco Malfoy waltzing into the Leaky looking not only tanned and well-rested but beautiful filled Harry with a sudden fury.

“Harry,” Ginny said again, this time with more urgency as one of the mugs on the table suddenly shattered.

“Mate.” Ron looked at Hermione helplessly as she discreetly spelled away the broken pieces. “Christ, it’s like it’s sixth year all over again.”

“What’s up with Malfoy?” Harry grit out.

Ron leaned in. “Harry, you knew he was back in town. He’s your fucking assignment tomorrow.”

“I know that. It’s just that he’s—” Harry waved a hand around in frustration. “I mean, he’s glowing.”

“You know,” Ron said slowly, “maybe you’d better lay off that next pint.”

“Don’t you see it?” Harry hissed. He cast a low-grade detection spell in Malfoy’s direction. “It’s like he’s charmed himself with a glamour or something.”

“I dunno; he looks like the same pointy-chinned git to me. Maybe just a bit taller, a little less pale.”

“He’s up to something. I know.”

“Look, Harry,” Ron said quietly. “I’m probably even less of a fan of Malfoy’s than you. But you’ve got to get over this obsession, or get Dawlish to assign you to someone else. If you can’t stand to be in the same room with him for even two minutes, how are you going to be at his side, 24/7?”

Harry took a deep breath. He wanted to be fair, to set an example for the other teams, but there was something about Malfoy that challenged his impartiality and judgment each and every time.

“You’re right,” he conceded. “I can do this.” As if to prove his point, Harry lifted his glass towards Malfoy in greeting.

Draco blinked slowly, his pupils widening as his pale lashes fluttered. A predatory look crossed his face as his pink lips parted. He took a step towards Harry, a low purr leaving his throat.

“Malfoy?” Harry whispered, his breath quickening.

Draco stopped in his tracks, shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of a Confundus. “Sorry, Hannah,” he apologised as he broke his gaze with Harry, “but there’s somewhere I need to be. I…it was good to see you again.” He threw down several Galleons, enough to cover the cost of his drink several times over, before hurrying out.

“Well, that went well,” Ron said, mirroring Hannah’s bewildered expression.

Harry stared as the door closed behind Draco. Tomorrow was not only going to be not well, it was going to be bloody impossible.