Draco Malfoy was the same as he had always been. Still tall, pale, and pointy, for one thing. Still sneeringly superior, with that same arrogant set to his shoulders. Still the last person Harry wanted to see, even after three years.
Malfoy didn't even have to open his mouth for Harry to reach that conclusion. The fact that Harry was there in the first place told him all he needed to know.
"Malfoy." The bell on the door made a tinkling noise as it fell shut behind him, deadening the sounds of the street outside to an instantaneous, unnatural silence. "Why am I not surprised?"
The shop was not one Harry had ever noticed before on his trips to Diagon Alley, much less stepped foot inside of. The script on the sign outside was faded, requiring a bit of squinting to make out the words McRae's Magical Antiques & Repairs. The windows were almost opaque from the outside and not much clearer from within, though whether it was a deliberate attempt to keep the sunlight off the archaic merchandise or simply a matter of disrepair, it was impossible to tell. Inside, the small shop was crowded with untidy shelves of unrecognizable artifacts.
Or no—that wasn't quite right. Upon closer examination, Harry could tell that the shelves were in fact not untidy at all. But the assortment of goods was so many and varied, and most of them so unfamiliar to Harry, that he couldn't make heads or tails of how they were organised.
"Potter." The syllables of his surname had never sounded so grating to his own ears. "I'm assuming that's a rhetorical question, but judging by your expression, the answer is nothing pleasant."
Malfoy had gone very still upon hearing Harry's voice. Only now did he move, slowly and deliberately setting aside the metallic contraption he was holding. The components of some strange magical instrument were spread out across a length of dark fabric on the counter in front of him, his wand resting nearby. Harry took note of its location and its distance from Malfoy's fingers, though Malfoy made no move to pick it up.
"You work here?" Harry took his time crossing the store to where Malfoy stood, observing the shelves around them. Three years of Auror training had ingrained into him the habit of surveying his environment for any possible threats, physical, magical, or otherwise. Over Malfoy's right shoulder, a curtained doorway led to some back room. Harry knew Malfoy was not the shop's proprietor—that was the titular Malcolm McRae, the man Harry was looking for. But there was no noise from the back, and no other indication that he and Malfoy were anything but alone.
"Obviously," Malfoy said, that same posh drawl that Harry remembered so well. But from a closer distance, Harry found that there were some details he couldn't quite place. He looked healthier than Harry last remembered seeing him, his cheeks less sunken and his eyes less shadowed. And had Malfoy always held himself like that, careful and guarded? Had he always assessed Harry as he was doing now, with such open intensity? "Can I help you with something?"
"I was hoping to speak with the owner," Harry said, stopping a discreet distance from the counter. "Is he here?"
"Not at the moment." Malfoy's gaze flickered to the window, though how he could see anything through the murky glass was beyond Harry. "He stepped out a while ago."
"Will he be back soon?"
"Unclear." He enunciated the syllables, maddeningly unhelpful. "I don't make it a habit to track his every activity."
"Then what exactly do you do here?" Harry asked, not without some irritation.
"My job," Malfoy said, voice clipped.
Harry narrowed his eyes. "You don't say."
"I assist customers. I buy the things that people come in to sell. I sell the things that people want to buy." Malfoy gestured with an elegant motion of his long fingers at the unidentified components spread across the counter. "And I repair things, sometimes, when people pay me to."
He hated how easily Malfoy could goad him. "Like what?"
"Anything you want," Malfoy said, arching one pale eyebrow. "Do you have something that needs fixing?"
"No." This pointless exchange had gone on far too long. "But I have questions that need answering."
"I can't answer something you haven't asked."
Harry scowled. "I'd prefer to speak to your boss."
"Then you'll have to come back later, won't you?"
It was only with great restraint that Harry stopped himself from doing something rash, like jinxing Malfoy right then and there. He settled for running a frustrated hand through his hair, stopping just short of ripping it out in an effort to settle his more impatient impulses. He didn't have the time or desire to come back later, especially if it meant seeing Malfoy again.
"Fine." He rummaged in the pocket of his robes, pulling out a rolled piece of parchment stamped with the seal of the Auror Office and thrusting it towards Malfoy. After only a second's hesitation, Malfoy took it from his hand, moving aside some things on the counter before breaking the seal and smoothing the parchment out over the stretch of black velvet. At first glance, the parchment appeared to be blank. But with a sharp tap of Harry's wand, the words faded into view, line upon line of that stuffy, overly convoluted Ministry language that Harry had always hated.
Malfoy's eyes skimmed quickly over the text, his expression growing more incredulous with each line. "Is this... a search order?"
"Yes. The Auror Office is investigating a recent surge in the black-market trade of Dark artefacts, and several of the items we've seized have been traced back to this shop." Harry levelled him with a steady gaze. "Imagine my surprise to find you working here. Now, you wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you Malfoy?"
~
Harry Potter was not doing well, that much was obvious. It had been years since Draco had seen him—really seen him, beyond just a picture in the newspaper or a momentary glimpse in a crowded street—but it didn't matter. One look and Draco knew.
He had spent too many years watching Potter: in curiosity, in hatred, in jealousy, in regret. Draco may not know have known his favourite colour or his day-to-day routine, not his petty gripes or his dreams. They didn't know each other, not on any personal level, not anymore. But if there was one thing Draco knew, it was how to read Potter's face.
Potter had always worn his heart on his sleeve. It was there for anyone with even a shred of acumen to see, spelled out in the set of his jaw and the sallow tinge to his skin. It was too many nights without sleep and too much suppressed emotion.
Draco felt restless looking at him. He ached to take Potter apart and examine his components. He was sure he could find the gear that had lost its enchantment or the carved piece of of dragon claw that had worn to dust.
Standing in front of Draco in those bloodred Auror robes, Potter said his name like a curse. Draco didn't mean to bait him, really. It was just that it came so naturally, especially when Potter looked at him like that, a tempest in his eyes. It was jarring, hearing Potter speak to him in the exact same way he always had. Draco no longer felt like that same stuck-up Hogwarts student who had traded barbed insults with the Gryffindors. He'd have thought the years since the war would soften things between them. Potter had even spoken in Draco's defence at his trial—so why was he treating him like little more than a common criminal?
"Now, you wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you Malfoy?"
The answer, as it turned out, was that Potter did indeed think he was nothing more than a common criminal.
"Dark artefacts?" Draco repeated with no small amount of scorn. Potter's accusatory tone wasn't entirely unfounded, but he nonetheless found the implication offensive. "As you'll recall, Potter, I left that behind me. Many years ago, in fact."
Potter's mouth twitched in a humourless smile. "As I recall, people don't always change as easily as they might want the world to believe."
Draco's mouth snapped shut. He knew they were both thinking of Draco's father and the charade he had put on for the Ministry, not once but twice, pretending remorse when it suited his needs.
He took a breath, forcing calm. "I won't pretend that I've made no mistakes in my life," Draco said. "But I know exactly what I stand to lose, and I have no desire to step foot in Azkaban. You should believe that, if nothing else."
For a moment, Draco thought he saw the slightest shift in Potter's expression, a flickering of consideration deep in those green eyes, and he felt something like hope. But then— "I have no reason to trust anything you say, Malfoy." Potter frowned. "What I will believe is evidence. I need records of your customers for the last three months."
"We don't require identification from every single person who wants to buy something. I can hardly imagine we'd have any business if we did."
Potter was undeterred. "What about your sellers?" He glanced down at the counter where Draco had arranged the pieces of his current project, a vintage Secrecy Sensor from the 1920s that had not functioned properly in decades, according to the middle-aged woman who had inherited it from her father. "Or the people you do repairs for?"
Draco hesitated, though he couldn't say why. "I have the information for our repair clients on file. I can give you that. But you'd need to speak to Malcolm about the other stuff. He handles acquisitions."
"I can come back tomorrow afternoon."
"I'm not certain that—"
"Tell him that he should be here tomorrow afternoon, or he can expect to find me at his front door instead."
Draco was struck by the command in Potter's voice. He'd always had a tinge of self-importance about him, sure, but that kind of authority? That was new.
New, and strangely appealing.
"I'll let him know," Draco said.
"Good. Now, if you could get me that list, I'll be on my way. I'm sure you're as eager to be rid of me as I am of you."
Draco did as he was asked. But watching Potter's back disappear out the door, the client list tucked away in his pocket, it didn't feel like a relief at all.
~
Night had long since fallen by the time Harry returned to his flat. The place was silent and empty, as it always was, and just as messy as it had been when he'd left before dawn that morning. He knew if Hermione came over and saw it in this state, he'd never hear the end of it.
He didn't have the energy to care. The days bled into one another, his work ceaseless and exhausting. And the nights... well, his nights were usually spent otherwise occupied.
Harry changed out of his work robes, mechanical and mindless, leaving them draped carelessly over the end of his unmade bed as he went to grab a Butterbeer from the fridge. Bottle in hand, he slumped onto the sofa, his head sagging against the cushions. Overhead, the ceiling stared back at him. Beige. Bland. Familiar.
He knew he should go to bed. He should put out the lights and get under the covers and try to get some rest, so that he could wake up tomorrow ready to do this whole draining day all over again. A tedious week amongst tedious months, making up a tedious year.
The only thing to differentiate today from the ones before had been seeing Malfoy. It wasn't just the surprise of it, though Malfoy was not the person he had expected to find himself face to face with in that weird little store. Looking into those cold grey eyes had felt like swallowing shards of glass, the pain of it sharp and raw somewhere deep in his chest. Even now, that spark of fury lingered.
I won't pretend that I've made no mistakes in my life.
For as long as Harry had known him, Malfoy had never been the sort of person to acknowledge his own faults. It was hard to believe that he'd be any different now.
Three years ago, Harry had stood in front of a packed courtroom and advocated for Malfoy. He'd told the court all the things he had known to be true—that Malfoy had been young and afraid for his life. That when it had really mattered, he had seen Malfoy waver. That Malfoy didn't deserve to rot his life away in Azkaban for his mistakes.
He still believed all those things to be true. It wasn't that he regretted his decision to defend Malfoy. No, it wasn't that.
Harry rolled his head to the side, staring over at the bookshelf against the wall. It held only a select few books, along with a set of wizarding photographs in silver frames, gifted to him by his friends a year or two ago. Sirius with his motorbike. The Weasley family, one of the last times all of them had been together before the war. Remus and Tonks with a laughing baby Teddy, before he'd been made an orphan.
Abandoning his half-drunk Butterbeer on the table, Harry shoved himself up from the sofa. Sleep was the smarter choice, but it was not the one he made that evening. Instead, he shrugged on his coat and stepped out into the chill night air, treading a habitual, aimless path through the city's streets.
Eventually, the fatigue would win out. His feet would find their way back home, where he would collapse onto his bed for the remaining hours before work. Sleep would come then—too little of it, and much too late. But it was still better than spending the whole night in the quiet of his flat, suffocating under the weight of all those ghosts.
~
"Pansy?" Draco called out as he shucked off his coat, pausing a moment to hang it in the hall closet. The flat smelled strongly of cooked onions and there was a clattering noise coming from the kitchen, which did not bode well for Draco's dinner that evening. Back when they first moved in together, he and Pansy had agreed to share the household responsibilities, including taking turns preparing meals, an arrangement that Draco had long since come to regret. No amount of practice, it seemed, was enough to make Pansy's cooking palatable.
"Food's almost ready!" Pansy yelled back from the kitchen. "Get the plates, would you?"
Draco sighed to himself, resigned to what would be at best a tolerable meal, but he obligingly followed her voice to the kitchen. It was hard not to wince when he saw the state of it. Nearly every pot and pan they owned was strewn across the countertops, several of them with ominous signs of scorching. The scent of onions was stronger from in here, and Draco spied several sitting near the cutting board, more than could reasonably be needed for any recipe not intended to feed a at least a dozen people.
Pansy's dark hair was tied up in a messy knot on the top of her head. She had an almost manic look in her eye, and Draco knew better than to try and tell her that that much smoke coming from the stove probably wasn't a good sign.
He stepped over a spill of grease on the floor as he retrieved the requested plates along with a wide assortment of silverware, as he still wasn't totally sure what exactly they would be eating. While he set the table, Pansy told him some story about one of her editors at Witch Weekly. Draco was having a rather hard time following it; she kept cutting off her sentences with muttered profanities as she finished whatever it was that she was cooking.
The food that Pansy finally plopped onto his plate with a flourish of her serving spoon was several unappetizing shades of brown, mushy underneath with the top crusted over. Draco wrinkled his nose. "What is this?"
"Shepherd's pie!" she said, affronted, as if it were obvious.
Draco squinted down at his plate, poking the ambiguous ground meat with his fork. "Are you sure about that? Ow!"
He made a show of rubbing at the place on the back of his head where she had delivered a sharp smack, though it hadn't really hurt. To mollify her, he took a deliberate bite of the so-called shepherd's pie, meeting her eyes as he chewed. Though it tasted very strongly of onions, it wasn't the worst thing he had ever eaten.
His expression must have conveyed sufficient enthusiasm because Pansy gave a curt nod of approval before she dished herself a serving and settled into the chair across from him. For a few minutes, there was no sound but the quiet scraping of silverware against ceramic, forcing Draco to focus on the flavour of the food. He stomached it for a total of four mouthfuls before he decided a distraction was necessary.
"The Auror Office is investigating the shop," he said. He kept his tone conversational, though in truth, his encounter with Potter earlier that day had left him somewhat rattled.
Pansy looked up at him, one eyebrow arched. "Oh?"
Draco thought back, trying to remember exactly what Potter had said to him about the investigation. "They seem to think Malcolm is involved in some sort of Dark artefact smuggling ring." Draco shook his head, still in disbelief at the ludicrous accusation.
"Well, is he?"
Draco levelled Pansy with an unimpressed look. "Come on, it's Malcolm. You've met him. Do you really think he'd be involved in something like that?"
Pansy shrugged a shoulder. "It wouldn't be the craziest thing to happen."
"I've known him for almost three years now, Pans," Draco said, suddenly on the defensive. "I think I'd know if he was secretly doing deals with criminals out the back of the shop."
Pansy shrugged again, stabbing at a few stray peas with her fork. "People aren't always what they pretend to be."
"You sound like Potter," Draco muttered, mostly to himself. But of course, Pansy heard.
"What did you say?"
"I said, you sound like Potter," Draco repeated, louder this time. "He's the one who showed up at the shop today, demanding I give him a list of all our clients."
"Harry Potter?" she asked, even more incredulous than Draco had been when he first laid eyes on Potter that afternoon.
"The one and only," Draco replied drily.
A line appeared between Pansy's brows. "Are you sure this isn't some sort of personal vendetta? Seems awfully coincidental that it would be him to show up, of all people."
Draco mulled this idea over, then dismissed it with a shake of his head. "I don't think so. He seemed pretty shocked to see me. He couldn't leave fast enough."
Worry lingered on Pansy's face. "If you say so," she said, though Draco could tell she wasn't convinced. "Just be careful, alright? The last thing you need is more trouble with the Ministry, let alone with Harry Potter."
"Believe me," Draco said, thinking about the hard look in Potter's eyes as he told Draco I have no reason to trust anything you say. "I know."
Later that night, once the dishes were clean and the leftovers were packed away, Draco closed himself in his room, taking a moment to exhale the stress of the day.
As he did most nights, instead of going to bed right away, he settled at his desk. The only source of light in the room was his desk lamp, which gleamed warm and golden on the bits of glass and metal spread over the desk's surface, the delicate components of a very old, battered muggle pocket watch. To the ignorant eye, he was sure it looked like pure chaos, but in truth it was arranged with just as much fastidiousness as everything else in his life.
Deliberately, he set his wand aside before he began. It was inefficient, repairing things without magic, his back hunched and his eyes straining. But this wasn't one of his work projects. He had taken apart and examined every single component of that watch with his own two hands, and he intended to fix it the same way. No shortcuts, no timesaving spells or workarounds. Just his intellect and the skilled labour of his fingers, putting pieces back together to make something whole again. Something better.
I have no reason to trust anything you say, Malfoy.
As Draco worked, he could taste the lingering bitterness of that statement on his tongue. It was true, after all; Potter had no reason to believe a word out of Draco's mouth. And the sad fact of the matter was, it was no one's fault but his own.