Chapter Text
I Don’t Like You
To say that he was having foul morning was an understatement. And it wasn’t as if he was exaggerating, his mother only attempted to set him up with three eligible witches before breakfast. One of which had only graduated recently from Hogwarts, for fuck’s sake. His tea was cold since his bloody house elf was mad at him for jilting her leading the “elves rights campaign” in Diagon Alley, or whatever. And he hasn’t slept properly since the-boy-who-lived-and-died-but-apparently-still-alive dragged him onto this new case.
To make it worse, it’s only 9 am on a Tuesday, he was bloody tired. And Potter was getting on his last nerve.
Draco Malfoy kicked open the door to Harry Potter’s office. Why the fuck was his office bigger than his? Talk about favoritism. The door slammed hard enough that the glass rattled, which would’ve been satisfying if it hadn’t done absolutely nothing to improve his morning.
“…I’m telling you, Harry, it doesn’t add up,” the Weasel was saying. “I’ve read her file twice now. The girl is seven years old. And looks nothing like her despite the hair.”
Potter hummed distractedly. “Genetics are strange, Ron. And kids change—”
“Potter,” he snapped, stalking in without invitation, his auror robes still half-buttoned, irritation clinging to him like cursed fog. “Where is the paperwork you promised me yesterday? The one you swore—hand on Merlin’s bleeding beard—you’d finished?”
Potter didn’t even flinch. Three years as partners had done that. He merely looked up from his desk, quill paused mid-scratch, green eyes annoyingly calm.
“Good morning to you too, Malfoy.”
They’d been partners for three years. They’d been through raids, sieges, one near-fatal hex incident in Knockturn Alley, and a cursed locket that had tried to eat Potter’s arm. And it’s still—Malfoy and Potter. Draco would have been offended if he wasn’t exactly the same. Plus, it seems rather odd to call him by his name. He shuddered just by thinking of it.
Draco scowled. “It’s not a good morning. That would require several things not going catastrophically wrong before nine a.m.”
Oh great, the Weasel is here too. Fucking fantastic. Ronald Weasley was sprawled in the chair opposite Potter’s desk, boots up on the leg like he owned the place. He looked about as pleased to see Draco as Draco was to see him.
“Oh joy,” the Weasel muttered. “The ferret’s grumpy..”
Draco’s lip curled. “Keep talking, Weasel. I’m sure something intelligent will happen eventually.”
Potter sighed, rubbing his temple. “Can we not do this today?”
“No,” Draco said crisply. “I need the paperwork for the Southwark sweep. The completed paperwork. The one you assured me was done. Yesterday.”
The Weasel arched a brow. “Someone hex your pillow last night, Malfoy?”
Draco ignored him. “Paperwork. Where the hell is it?”
“Alright, geez. You’re so bloody grumpy today.” Potter slid a folder across the desk. “What’s gotten your knickers in a twist?”
He took the folder when Potter handed it over, flipping it open with brisk efficiency. His irritation found fresh fuel almost immediately. “You’re missing two signatures,” Draco said flatly. “And this witness statement is improperly interpreted. Did you even read it?”
Potter winced. “I skimmed—”
“You skimmed,” Draco repeated, voice cool and cutting. “Marvellous. Truly. I love risking my career on you skimming the paperwork.”
Weasley rolled his eyes. “You’re a delight this morning.”
Draco snapped the folder shut. “And apparently you’re still here.”
He turned on his heel and stalked back towards the door. Behind him, the conversation resumed as though he hadn’t been there at all. Bloody idiots don’t even silence the room.
“But seriously, Harry” Weasel said. “I counted she was bloody pregnant before she left. How is that possible? Who the bloody hell fathered that—”
The rest was cut off by the door slamming shut behind Draco.
To say he was having an awful day was still an understatement. Potter was, in fact, still spectacularly incompetent with paperwork. Draco rediscovered this less than two minutes later, seated at his own smaller office with Potter’s folder spread open before him like a crime scene. Witness statements improperly interpreted, inconsistencies littered through paragraphs like confetti, and grammar so atrocious Draco briefly wondered if Potter had dictated the thing to a concussed Kneazle.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. How the man had survived Snape’s class standards and the Auror program was a mystery for the ages—though of course, the answer was obvious. The bloody Chosen One could trip over his own feet and be praised for innovative floor work.
With a scowl, Draco rewrote the statements. Again. Properly this time. By the third hour, his quill hand ached, and his patience had long since evaporated. He corrected tense shifts, clarified timelines, reinforced wards, and added annotations Potter should have caught himself. He told himself—firmly—that this was professional pride, not habit, and certainly not because he refused to let Potter embarrass them both with his spelling.
Near lunchtime, he finally shoved the completed paperwork aside. Done. Properly done. He leaned back in his chair, blinking at the ceiling, exhaustion settling deep in his bones. Five years in the program, three as a full Auror, and still—still—he felt the weight of it. The glances, the whispers, the unspoken former Death Eater trailing him through every corridor of the DMLE.
Respected, yes. Forgiven? Never fully. He couldn’t even contest that. But, it was almost laughable, really, ever since he got partnered up with Potter of all people, the witches in the department seemed to care less about the stain on his forearm. A few smiles here, lingering looks there, some bold enough to brush past him unnecessarily in the halls.
Apparently, proximity to Saint Potter absolved many sins. Draco would never admit—even to himself—that he considered Potter anything close to a friend. No. Absolutely not.
He stood and made his way to the break room, desperate for the caffeine he was deprived by since this morning. The moment he entered, the murmurs shifted in lowered voices, half-glances in his direction. He ignored them, as he always did, fixing himself a cup of coffee that was, mercifully, still hot.
As his thoughts spiralled—his mother, Potter’s incompetence, Weasel’s infuriating voice—an uncomfortable prickle crept up his spine. He was being watched. Draco turned slowly, scanning the room. Nothing, just a couple of auror trainees pretending not to stare and a notice board advertising some absurd team-building exercise within the department.
He scoffed and took his coffee, exiting the break room. That was when he saw it. A small figure at the end of the corridor. Just a glimpse of brown hair and a flash of movement, as someone peeked around the corner watching him.
Then it was gone. Draco stopped short, furrowed brow and muttering something that sounded like “was that a bloody child?”
But the corridor was empty, and he stood there for a moment, coffee cooling in his hand, irritation giving way to something unsettling. Great, another complication. Knowing his luck, it would somehow be Potter’s fault too. Fucking fantastic.
Of course the feeling didn’t leave him. It followed him down corridors, lingered at his shoulder during briefings, pressed against the back of his skull like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. He told himself—firmly—that it was just paranoia. Occupational hazard, they call it. Five years in the DMLE would do that to anyone, especially someone with his history.
By mid-afternoon, he was seated at his desk again, sleeves rolled up, eyes narrowed at a rune sequence sprawled across parchment. Potter’s and his pile of open cases—of course—an artefact smuggling ring using old continental wards. Sloppy work if you asked him, amateur runes layered over something older, nastier. A little nudge to it and the rest will collapse.
Draco traced a finger just above the ink, lips moving silently as he broke it down. “Idiots,” he muttered. “Absolute—”
Movement. He looked up, the glass door to his office was charmed for privacy, blurred just enough to obscure details without blocking silhouettes. And right there—pressed against it—was a small hand (?).
Yes hands, tiny fingers splayed against the glass. A cheek followed, squashed slightly as someone tried very hard to peer inside. Draco’s scowl was immediate.
A child?! What in Salazar’s name was a child doing on this floor unsupervised?
He pushed back his chair, irritation flaring hot and sharp. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, already on his feet. “Does no one supervise their—”
He reached the door. Before his hand could touch the handle, the silhouette vanished a d the hand disappeared. The small shape darted away, possibly taken away.
And then a female voice, harried, distinctly unimpressed filtered through the corridor. “Merlin, Soleil, how are you getting away again?” a woman hissed. “This is the third time—come back here, now. Your mother will kill me.”
There was the faint sound of quick footsteps, a child protesting under her breath, and then both voices faded down the hall. Draco paused.
Soleil.
He frowned, staring at the empty glass as though it might explain itself. Salazar’s saggy balls. At least that solved one problem—he would not, under any circumstances, be required to deal with a child today. Small mercies.
He made sure his door was firmly warded and returned to his desk, irritation resettling like an old coat. Ten minutes until his meeting with Potter. Ten minutes to put his files in order and brace himself for whatever half-baked plan Potter had cooked up next. He exhaled through his nose.
Get a grip, Draco. The day is about to end.
The meeting with Potter, mercifully, did not drag. Potter’s office that was obnoxiously larger than Draco’s was still cluttered with case files, half-drunk tea, and the aura that can only be describe as chaos that seemed to follow the man everywhere.
Robards had joined them midway through, all clipped nods and sharp questions, and Draco had done what he always did: answered efficiently, precisely, and without theatrics. Potter rambled of course, Draco stopped him when he started narrating unimportant details like Draco’s tie when they interrogated the witnesses, or his wife’s bloody cooking. Seriously, how did this man passed the program?! Fortunately, they wrapped up just past five with his sanity still half intact.
When Draco finally gathered his things, shrugging into his coat with a tired roll of his shoulders, the exhaustion hit him all at once. It was bone-deep. The sort that no amount of sleep quite touched anymore these days.
As he stepped out into the department corridor, his gaze swept instinctively over the space. Nothing. No more lingering eyes. Thank Salazar.
He handed the completed files to Robards on his way past, he received a curt nod in return then turned down the corridor towards his office, already mentally halfway home.
Then, of course because Merlin had his way to punish him some more, he nearly collided with a child. Draco stopped so abruptly his heel scraped against the stone floor.
Right in front of him stood a girl. A small, smiling girl. A bright, unabashed smile tempered by something shy, and something careful as though she were testing it out on him.
Draco stared. What. The. Bloody. Hell.
She looked about six or seven, with long chocolate-brown locks that fell neatly around her shoulders. She was pale, with dark freckles cascading on her small nose up to her cheeks. She stood straight, chin lifted just a touch too high for her age, she was composed in a way that made something prickle uncomfortably at the back of his mind.
She looked up at him. “Hello! Are you Draco Malfoy?” she asked.
His aristocratic eyebrow arched before he could stop it, eyes narrowing. “Why are you asking?”
Her smile faltered for half a second as she studied him, assessing. Her—
Grey eyes. Light grey eyes, sharp and bright, like polished steel kissed by frost. Draco’s breath stuttered. They were… familiar, kind of like his own. Yet, hers were lighter, ethereal somehow—alive in a way his own had long since forgotten how to be. The rarity was undeniable.
He stared at her far longer than was polite. The girl shifted her weight, clearly unimpressed.
“Just curious. Well? Are you Draco Malfoy?” she prompted.
Merlin help him.
“Yes.” Draco cleared his throat, straightening instinctively, grasping for control. “Where are your parents?” he demanded. “Why are you wandering around the DMLE unsupervised, and following me?”
Her mouth twisted. Was that… a pout? A frown? No, worse. It was almost a sneer. The expression hit him like a curse. Uncomfortably familiar.
She sniffed. “My mummy’s working,” the girl said, crossing her arms, clearly miffed now. “She’s very important. She helps solve cases. International ones too. She works for MACUSA—.”
Draco’s irritation flickered back to life. “That does not explain why you’re following me.”
Her brows knitted. “I wasn’t!”
“You were,” he said flatly. “You’ve been watching me all day.”
She frowned harder, clearly displeased. “I was just… looking around.”
“At me,” Draco said.
Silence stretched between them.
Then she huffed, stomping her small foot. “You’re not very nice.”
Draco blinked. “I beg your pardon?” Being chastised by a child was not in his daily agenda.
“You didn’t even say hello properly, or offered me flowers like a gentleman,” she said, chin lifting. “Mummy says that’s bad manners. Are you poor?”
Draco opened his mouth. Closed it. What in Merlin’s name?! Did this child just call him poor? Him?Seriously could this day get any worse?
Irritation flared him, he tried again. “Listen brat—”
“Do you live here?” she interrupted, peering past him at his office door.
“No.”
“Good,” she said decisively. “It smells weird in there. Like old damp parchment. I don’t like it, but mummy seems to like it very much, I don’t know why. My mummy is very beautiful, she gets all sorts of flowers in her office. Do you get all sorts of flowers too? How old are you? My mummy is young. Do you have a wife? A girlfriend?“
Draco gaped at the blabbing child. This day was officially cursed, he was sure of it. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaustion roaring back with a vengeance. “Okay, brat, what is your name?” he asked tightly.
The brat frowned at him again. It probably wasn’t the best idea to call the brat, well, a brat but he was so done. She studied him for a moment longer, eyes glinting with something unreadable, brows furrowed.
“Kaida Soleil. My friends from school call me Kai. Although my mummy calls me Leil, she’s the only one allowed to call me Leil. Mummy’s friends call me Sol. You can call me Soleil, because we are not friends.”
He dragged a hand down his face, eyes flicking down to the girl again. She was still watching him with that infuriatingly attentive stare, head tilted slightly as if she were cataloguing him for later use.
“Okay, Soleil,” he said slowly, carefully, “why are you alone? Why are you talking to strangers?”
Soleil blinked. “I’m not. And you’re not a stranger. You’re Draco Malfoy.”
“You are,” Draco replied flatly. “You should not be talking to strangers, it’s dangerous. You are standing alone in a restricted DMLE corridor asking me about my personal life. That qualifies as alone.”
She huffed and stomped her little foot again. If she wasn’t annoying it would have been bloody adorable. “I was allowed.”
Draco’s patience snapped another notch. Salazar, if you’re listening, just strike me dead and be done with it.
“Allowed by whom?”
“My mummy,” she said, as though this explained everything. “She works on another floor, they said I wasn’t allowed there, so she brought me to one of her friends. But then he got busy, and I went to look around. I lost him. This building is very big. And boring.”
Draco closed his eyes for half a second. Of course, she’d been allowed. Whatever the fuck she meant by it. “That is not how this works,” he said tightly. “You do not simply wander around the DMLE. There are protocols.”
“What are protocols?” Soleil asked immediately.
Draco opened his mouth to answer, but then she was talking again.
“Do you have a wife?” she asked. “Or a girlfriend? You don’t have a ring. Is it because you’re grumpy and mean?”
His eye twitched. “That is quite enough,” he snapped.
She frowned, and her grey eyes looked at him with annoyance. Again with that familiar expression—half pout, half sneer—and Merlin help him, it unsettled him every time.
“Well, Mr.?” she pressed. “Do you?”
Draco exhaled sharply through his nose. Fine. If lying would shut her up, then lying it would be.
“Yes,” he said curtly. “I have a girlfriend.”
It was absolute rubbish, but desperation had made fools of better men.
Soleil’s face fell, and her expression hardened. “Oh,” she said, distinctly unimpressed. Then she crossed her arms again. “That’s disappointing.”
Draco stared at her. “I beg your pardon? And why is that?”
“Mummy also gets lots of boyfriends,” Soleil continued matter-of-factly. “They bring her flowers everyday. All kinds. Sometimes chocolates and candies for me too. I think she’ll probably have a husband soon. Then I’ll have a daddy.”
The words hit him harder than he expected. Draco stiffened. Apparently the brat didn’t have a father? He swallowed, irritation flaring to cover the strange, sharp twist in his chest. “Is that so,” he said coolly. “And where is your current father, then?”
Before she could respond, a familiar voice cut through the corridor.
“Soleil!”
Draco looked up. Of course! It was Saint Potter’s assistant. His young, flustered, clutching a stack of parchment like a lifeline assistant came hurrying towards them, face pale with relief and panic in equal measure.
“Oh thank Merlin,” she breathed. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you again. You can’t just disappear like that! Your mum will have me dead!”
Soleil turned, suddenly all innocence. “I wasn’t disappearing. I was talking with him.”
“With who?” the assistant asked, then froze when she noticed Draco.
“Oh—oh. Auror Malfoy. I’m so sorry. She slipped away for just a moment—”
Draco straightened, arms folding over his chest, exhaustion settling back into something heavier. “Yes,” he said dryly. “I gathered.”
Soleil glanced up at him once more, grey eyes sharp and curious, as if she were filing him away in her mind. He could see the way she made a decision about him, “I don’t like you very much, Mr. Malfoy,” she announced.
Draco nearly choked. The assistant looked horrified.
Draco Malfoy, Auror, former Death Eater, and unwilling participant in the most exhausting day of his life, could only stare at her. He scoffed, slightly offended, “Well, I don’t like you very much too.”
Then he sauntered to his office, he could have sworn the child’s eyes were glassy with his last remark. Wow, very mature Draco. Whatever, it’s not as if he would see the child again. Who cares if said child didn’t like him? Lots of people didn’t.