When Draco found out that Harry Potter had become an Unspeakable, he hurled three bottles of Chateau Mouton at the wall and set his curtains on fire.
"Are you telling me," he breathed, trying to regain hold of his sanity, "that Harry fucking Potter, Boy Idiot, Imbecile Who Lived, had the audacity to actually grow a brain? Are you telling me that not only did he crawl his way out of that team of over-glorified scrappers, but he also managed to secure a position that is widely regarded as the most prestigious and intriguing title one can hold?"
"Draco," Pansy drawled, summoning a new bottle and uncorking it with a faint pop. "Don't you think you're too old for these childish tantrums?"
No, he was not too old. Not when the catalyst in question had the ability to regress him right back to the age of eleven without even being present. How dare Potter even suggest that he was more than just a brute with an overabundance of luck? How dare he prove he was capable of more than blindly pointing his wand at targets and exploding things at will?
This was not fair. This was unjust. This was... This was... bloody sexy, if Draco was honest with himself, and that just made him madder.
He doused the flames with a poorly aimed Aguamenti, soaking the walls and half the window, and held his glass out for Pansy to pour him a new drink.
When he had calmed down enough to speak without ranting, he asked her how she'd learned the news.
"I was searching for something for Millicent's boys for Christmas," she said. "You know how I like to get my shopping out of the way early. So, I went by that Weasley shop in Diagon." She smirked suddenly, hiding it with her glass. "I was a smidge before opening time, it turns out, but they'd forgotten to lock the door on their little pre-work celebration. They were quite abashed when they realised I was there, but the cat was already out of the bag, so to speak."
"The shop," Draco breathed, barely listening.
He tuned out of the rest of Pansy's anecdote about how busy Diagon Alley had been and how dreadful the general public were by way of sound and smell, and began his plans for the following morning. If he'd bothered to notice the way that Pansy was smirking at him, he might have realised he had quite probably walked right into a suspicious trap, but by that point, even he would have acknowledged that the damage was done.
There was just something about Potter that managed to rile Draco up like nothing else, and it didn't help that he'd only gotten hotter since leaving Hogwarts. There was something uniquely infuriating about a man who had the audacity to walk around looking like sex on legs, whilst possessing the most intolerable personality Draco had ever had the misfortune to come across. Still, he supposed it was better than if Potter had both good looks and an attractive personality. At least this way, Draco remained mostly unbothered.
"Sickle for your thoughts?" Pansy asked, smiling at him over the rim of her glass.
"Don't act like you don't know," Draco drawled, draining his glass and summoning the bottle to pour another. "You put them there deliberately, after all."
Pansy only laughed.
*
Draco pushed open the door to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes and winced as the gigantic pumpkin above the archway screeched like a cat.
"Welcome!" George Weasley appeared from behind a stack of spinning wheels, the smile falling off his face when he made eye contact with Draco. "Oh, it's you. What do you want, Malfoy?"
"And hello to you too," Draco sneered. "Don't worry—I'm just browsing. No need to stretch your conversation skills."
Weasley snorted. "Wouldn't dream of it. My tongue would probably drop off if I tried to speak fluent ponce. Don't touch the squid display." He pointed to something bright red in the corner that jiggled ominously. "It bites."
"Squids don't bite—" Draco began, alarmed, and then forced the thought aside. "Fine."
He really did need something for the children, and damned if he was going to be outdone by Pansy's electric eel, whatever the hell that was. But aside from the gift-hunting, Pansy had told him she had heard Potter mention, offhand, that he would be back tomorrow to help unpack the new stock.
He walked off to the other end of the store and began to pick up objects at random, searching for something that Millicent's two demons might enjoy for several minutes before they broke it. As he searched, he listened. The faint sounds of laughter from the back of the shop reached his ears, and he knew he could hear Potter amongst it.
Draco tried to focus on the words, but he was too far away. All he could hear was laughter, and it made him grit his teeth and nearly walk out the door. He managed to stop himself and instead walked closer to the counter, pretending to eye some enchanted pigmy puff toys.
"Does that mean you're going to be an aloof wanker now?"
Draco heard Ron Weasley's voice clearly, and he fought back a sneer.
"Or will you give us a few stories here and there? Go on, I'm your best mate. You can't go all 'Unspeakable Tosspot' on me."
"Unspeakable tosspot?" Potter snorted, and Draco edged closer. "Is that the best you've got? You ought to be more worried about the uninhibited access I have to surveillance spells now, mate."
Ron's laughter stopped abruptly. "Wait, what?"
"Didn't think of that, did you— oi, is that Malfoy?"
Draco froze and tried to look like he very obviously wasn't listening, which he very obviously was. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Potter emerge from the back room and come to stand in front of him on the other side of the counter. He pasted a politely curious expression on his face and looked up. It nearly fell off his face in dismay when he realised that Potter—the nerve of him—was even more attractive up close than Draco remembered.
"Potter. Fancy seeing you here," he drawled. "How is life? Still kicking around with the other Ministry brutes, are you? Sorry—Aurors."
Potter didn't move a muscle during Draco's speech. He merely raised one eyebrow and waited.
"Nice try, Malfoy," he said with a faint sneer. "Parkinson was in here yesterday, and I'm sure you two have had a nice little chat since then. What do you want?"
Draco lifted a shoulder, picking up one of the pigmy puff toys and examining it. "Just doing a spot of shopping. You're here on official Auror business? Or is it strictly civilian today?"
"Cut the crap. You know what I am now."
Draco feigned surprise. "Do I? How did I manage that?" He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "And shouldn't that information be a little more... unspeakable?"
Ron pushed his way through the beaded curtains that marked the staff area. His face was contorted into a mutinous expression. "Shove off, Malfoy," he snapped, dropping the half-open package he'd been sorting onto the counter. "You heard it from Parkinson and you're here to be a nosy git. Harry might not be an Auror anymore, but I am, and if you don't piss off, I'll book you for harassment."
"Do we need you to swear an Oath?" Potter asked, one eyebrow raised. "We didn't realise Parkinson had heard anything, or we'd have made her swear one too."
"Please." Draco rolled his eyes. "Spare me the melodrama."
Ron snorted. "Us? Melodrama? We all swore an oath."
Draco's eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise, but before he could say anything, Potter interrupted.
"Sorry, Malfoy." The grimace on his face almost did look apologetic. "I am going to need the two of you to swear it—it's policy. Do you think Parkinson could come by in—"
Several things happened very suddenly, and Draco found himself abruptly thrown across the room. He swore violently, throwing aside the toy which had reacted to his sudden alarmed grip by covering him in bright pink dust, and stumbled to his feet, trying to process what had happened. Potter was casting shield charms over everything; a tall, willowy woman had appeared from the back room and was speaking rapidly into a tiny rectangle; and—
At the sight of Ron lying unconscious on the floor, Draco forgot his irritation and switched immediately into work mode. He took one look at the exploded package—the one Ron had dropped onto the counter only moments before—then covered it in a number of protective and diagnostic charms.
He waited until Potter had finished securing the area, then told him, "It's a hellfire curse. Likely the only one, since they always set each other off when they're in close proximity."
"How can you tell?" Potter asked, staring down at Ron who was now being tended to by his brother and the willowy lady.
With a small pop, two mediwizards Apparated in, and Potter visibly relaxed.
"Faint orange hue to the catalyst." Draco pointed at the parcel. "Explosion sounded like it went off in an anechoic chamber. Faint taste of sulphur in the air. It's a standard curse, Potter. He'll be all right."
Draco looked at Potter properly then, for the first time, and he was thrown by the strength of the bitterness he saw there. Potter was staring at the package without moving, his eyes lost in thought. Had Potter always looked like that? In school, he'd always seemed to take an attack like a personal challenge, rising to meet it and all that Gryffindor rot. Potter didn't look like a Gryffindor right now; he looked jaded and full of harsh edges.
Then he looked up, and it was gone, leaving Draco to wonder if he'd imagined it.
"We'll take him in now, Auror Potter." One of the mediwizards looked up while the other transfigured a stretcher out of one of the pieces of foam in their pack. "Looks like a bad Stun at this point. There's no indication of head trauma or other damage from what we can tell."
Potter nodded, and they Disapparated. That must be how they were playing it—Potter's been promoted in the Auror team. Less fieldwork, higher duties. No one needs to know. Surely, he had to understand that word would get out. Word already had got out.
Draco felt a strange surge of emotion. He thought it might be guilt.
"Listen, Potter," he began, but Potter brushed him aside.
"Forget it, Malfoy. Just, maybe try to prove you're more than the brat you used to be. Get Parkinson to come and swear an Oath. I know the rumours will get around eventually, but I'd like to prevent that as much as I can."
"Maybe you should start by getting your bumbling fool of a friend to lower his voice in public, then," Draco snapped, stung. "I could hear him all the way out here."
Potter looked taken aback for a moment, but then his face closed off and he walked away without another word.
"You really think it's just a hellfire curse?"
Draco turned to see George standing to the side. The tall woman's arm was around his waist, so Draco assumed they must be dating.
"Yes." Draco nodded. "It looks like a variety I'm not familiar with, judging by the residual thickness of the air, but I'm sure it's just a slight modification."
"But you're not familiar with it," George said, a strange look in his eye.
"No," Draco admitted. "But—"
"But Harry says you're the best curse breaker there is."
Draco's stomach did a funny little flip. "He does?" He shook his head. "No, well..." He paused. He hadn't wanted to voice his fears, but it was true. There was something about this curse that felt off. And if Draco couldn't identify it...
"I'm sure whoever takes the case will be more than familiar with it," he said, instead.
"Will you take the case?"
Draco froze. Surely, this was a trick. If he'd been George Weasley, he would have suspected Draco of being behind the damn explosion. He wouldn't have asked him to solve the mystery. But then, he acknowledged his own appearance: bright pink dust covered him all over, his hair was spiked and matted from the blast, and now that the adrenaline had passed, his body felt aching and bruised.
No, it was painfully obvious to anyone who knew him that Draco wasn't behind this curse, no matter how strategically his presence at the crime might deflect suspicion.
"You don't trust anyone," he guessed.
The faint sound of voices from the back room told Draco that Potter was speaking to the Aurors, and he was surprised when George lowered his voice so as not to be heard.
"No, I don't. All I know is that someone owled me a timed curse, and it wasn't you. Everything else is uncertain, and I want to know who's behind it."
Draco eyed the package, taking in the way it pulsed softly in the light. Hellfire curses didn't pulse; only transfiguration or ignition curses had enough residual power to hum like that, and they didn't explode. It didn't make sense.
The Aurors emerged, followed by Potter.
"Right," said the first one. "Is that it, then? We'll get a curse breaker on scene to remove and secure immediately."
"No need," Draco said, standing up straight and ignoring the way the Aurors' eyes raked all over his dishevelled appearance in surprise. "I'll take the case."
The undeniable look of relief on Potter's face stayed with Draco for the rest of the day.
*
Pansy was horrified when Draco told her what had happened.
"They're making me swear an Oath?" She hissed. "Bollocks. As if I'd tell anyone apart from you. It's only going to make the prat more desirable and famous. I'd sooner spread a rumour that he's been fired and sent away to herd sheep in Ireland." Her eyes brightened. "Do you think—"
"No, I do not think," Draco interrupted, pouring them both a hefty dram of scotch. "And neither do you, if that piss-poor suggestion is anything to go by. As if anyone is going to buy that the Saviour became a shepherd." He paused. "Although, it does have a faintly messiah-istic feel to it that we could exploit." He cut that thought off before it could begin and handed Pansy her glass. "Listen, Pans. I'm on their case now. I can't afford to cause scandal."
He was still shaken up that George Weasley had personally requested his services. It felt... somehow momentous. Before today, if anyone had asked him whether he cared what any Weasley thought of him, he would have politely suggested they get a Healer to assess them for spell damage. But here he was; colour him surprised to discover just how much he didn't want to screw it up.
"Fine." Pansy rolled her eyes. "I'll swear the Oath."
"Good."
She sniffed in response.
Draco turned back to his notes. He didn't have the package in the room with them, of course. It was out the back in his work room under a number of security spells. At this point, he hadn't even opened it; he was too caught up on the bizarre results of his diagnostics.
"Please tell me that's not work." Pansy stood up to look over his shoulder. "I may as well leave now if it is."
"Don't let the door hit you on your way out," Draco murmured, crosschecking one of his notes against the open ledger on his desk.
"Holy hell," Pansy breathed.
Draco looked up, blinking her into focus. She stared at him with open horror on her face.
"You actually care." Her tone was accusatory.
Draco scoffed. "Care? About the Weasley brood? Absolutely not. About upholding the credibility and reputation of my name and profession? Of course."
"No." Pansy shook her head, already reaching for the door, like Draco was a lost cause and she wasn't going to waste another moment more on him. "That's not why you're doing this—you're doing it for Potter." With that, she opened the door and left, letting it slam pointedly behind her.
Draco stared at the door for several moments before shaking his head and turning back to his work. It didn't make sense. None of the diagnostics matched any known spell—it wasn't even a known derivative that he could reverse engineer. It was like a whole new branch of curse magic. Some elements matched a branch here or there—most closely the hellfire curse, as he'd originally thought it was, from the mercurial branch—but then it would throw something in that was solely psychical, or only tacit, and he'd be right back where he started.
Those were the basic divisions of all curses: mercurial curses dealt with explosions and catalysts, things of a volatile nature; psychical curses affected the mind or soul; and tacit curses were the insidious curses that crept into your very being and manipulated you, controlled you. Between the three branches, they covered everything Draco had seen and could expect to see in all known curses, but it wasn't helping him now. It was almost as if he had to dissect the entire curse from scratch so that he could categorise it somewhere new before he could even begin dismantling it.
His head snapped up. He caught sight of his reflection in the crystal cabinet: his eyes were wide and crazed, the candlelight sending erratic shadows dancing across his face. Surely not. Surely it wasn't entirely unknown. He staggered to his feet and almost ran to the fireplace. Pinching a handful of Floo powder, he threw it in and called out Potter's address, resolutely ignoring the fact that before today they hadn't even been on friendly speaking terms, and now he was making house calls.
When he stumbled through into the surprisingly sparse living room—a mystery for another day—he was faintly shocked that the wards had let him through at all. Then, he spotted Potter sitting at the kitchen bench, the light from the lamp barely reaching him, two thirds down into a bottle of Ogden's Old.
"How is he?" Draco asked, ignoring every other question that was screaming at him and diving for the urgent one.
"Alive," Potter said, his voice catching a little.
Draco breathed a sigh of relief, though he could tell from Potter's voice that there was a 'barely' hidden in there somewhere.
"The curse," Draco said slowly. "I don't recognise it. It's not known."
Potter's mouth twisted into a wry grin. "Figures. What does that mean, then? We're just stumbling in the dark until we land on a miracle and he wakes up?"
"He's still unconscious?"
Potter nodded. "Healers can't explain it. Everything's fine. He just won't wake up."
Draco realised he was nodding along uselessly, and he made himself stop. "We have to find out what the curse is. If we can identify it, we can understand what it's done to him."
Potter's brows drew together. "We?"
Draco waved a hand. "Not you and I, obviously. But I need an anchor. The spell hasn't been used in centuries—it hasn't been needed. It's highly complex and involves dissecting the spellwork while engaging in something like a meditative state." He grimaced a little, his mind wandering to several readings he'd done on the process. He knew he was rambling, but he couldn't make himself stop. The whole situation was just so unbelievable. "You enter a dream-state where you can see the curse manifest as something physical and tangible, like tree or a wall or something that can be analysed. But, of course, to do that you have to trick the curse into thinking you're not a threat, and the easiest way to do that is to make it think you're a part of it rather than some interloper. It can turn nasty if it realises you're there and you don't have an anchor with you to make sure the curse doesn't—" he paused, and then finished lamely, "eat you."
Potter nodded, staring vacantly into the distance. He looked like he was coming to some sort of decision.
"I'll get in touch with some colleagues first thing in the morning. I'm sure I won't have trouble finding someone who—"
"I'll do it."
"Pardon me?"
"I'll be your anchor."
Draco laughed. "Potter, I don't think you understand. It's a fragile, delicate piece of, quite frankly, hugely experimental magic. I need a trained professional who—"
"It was last conducted successfully by the wizards Stanwart and Thaise, who braided together their magical signatures into an unrecognisable aura that slipped beneath the curse's protective layer and dismantled it from within," Potter interrupted, meeting Draco's eyes while Draco gaped at him.
That same look from before filled them, and Draco was certain now that he'd never seen Potter look so bitter and alone.
Potter continued: "Something that they wouldn't have even known how to do, had Thaise not been an Unspeakable with access to centuries of archives Stanwart didn't even know existed. We're not going to be doing that, of course." He gave a mocking laugh. "But I'm sure there's something in my area that will be invaluable in experimental magic." He bared his teeth; no one in their right mind could call it a smile. "After all. It's what I do."
Draco felt a rush of something hot flood through him, and he pushed it back with a gulp.
"The anchor keeps us linked to ourselves and to the curse," Potter added quietly. "The only times the spell ever went wrong were when the person controlling the anchor let themselves get pulled too far one way. You don't want to end up with someone who doesn't know what they're doing, or who panics at the last second and tries to anchor you back to yourself when you're still tied to the curse."
Draco took a deep breath.
"You are aware that until I can break the curse, we won't remember anything that happens inside the dream-state?" he asked. "We have to work in complete isolation—nothing new goes in, nothing comes out, not until it's over. It's part of the process of confusing the curse and making sure it doesn't get suspicious and attack." He took another deep breath, feeling his sanity leaving him the longer he spoke. "It means we have to trust each other completely, Potter, because once we're inside, there's no one to help us but ourselves."
Potter didn't even hesitate. "I'll trust you if you trust me."
Draco knew it was the alcohol—he could see it in the way Potter's eyes were faintly glassy, and how they lingered on him far longer than normal—but when Potter's gaze drifted along Draco's body, pausing at the open button at the top of his shirt before dropping lower still, he couldn't help but shiver. He only hoped it was dark enough to hide the rising flush on his cheeks.
"All right," Draco said carefully after he'd weighed up all the thousands of ways this could go wrong. "You'll be my anchor?"
Potter's eyes lifted back to his, though Draco swore they lingered a moment too long on his mouth. "I'll be your anchor."
Bollocks.
*
Draco's flat felt emptier than before when he returned. Something about the way Potter filled up a room, like he was just more than everyone else. How could Draco compete with that?
And what had happened to him? When had he become so... different? So sour?
He took a glance at the open bottle of scotch he'd left behind and the bottles of wine in their rack on the kitchen bench. With a flick of his wand, he sent them all sailing into the liquor cabinet. He locked it and threw the key behind the armoire. He needed to focus; there was no time to get smashed, however tempting it might be.
Then, he sat down to read.
*
Curse Identification
Prior to the great work done in the sixteenth century during the implementation of standardized Curse Breaking procedures, wizards and witches were frequently required to engage in the intricate practice of Curse Identification.
In addition to our standard realm of existence (known rules of physics apply), there exists a realm wherein magical essence (mineral and animal) is allowed to exist in its natural state. Such a realm (known colloquially as the Ether), though dangerous and—pending further research—unpredictable, is accessible via the Transition Potion (for brewing instructions please refer to Appendix III).
The potion transitions the user into a trance-like state, whereupon they will be able to view the curse in its natural form, study it, and map out a dismantlement plan. Reports have varied as to the nature of such forms, but most often representations will mimic that of natural forms in the standard realm: flowers, skeletons, and sometimes puzzles. It is recommended to employ a trained anchor to assist the researcher in this transition. The anchor will maintain the delicate balance of connection to both the standard realm and the curse simultaneously.
Given the volatile nature of the Ether, and the uniform nature of curses to be both insidious and aggressive, it is vital that researchers undertake multiple safety precautions. These include wards to preserve and maintain the curse in a semi-stasis state, ensuring zero change to the working environment and therefore reduced opportunity for the curse to learn it is being watched.
To further ensure the curse does not ensnare the researcher and trap them within the Ether, the researcher also consumes a Chameleon Potion (see Appendix III) that acts as a camouflage, enabling the curse to see the researcher as an extension of itself, and, therefore, non-threatening.
Short success—in the form of rising numbers of completed identification spells and fewer deaths—was attributed to the Chameleon Potion. However, it was soon discovered that after returning to the standard realm, the potency of the Chameleon Potion on each subsequent use within the same environment began to rapidly fade. It was determined that, as the researcher is disguised as part of the preserved working environment within the Ether, allowing that working environment to 'leave' triggers a weakening of the semi-stasis.
Therefore, to ensure that all facets of the working environment are adequately maintained and preserved, the researchers' memories are stored in a warded Pensieve. In order to prevent researchers from prematurely concluding the identification process, retrieving their memories, and inadvertently triggering a disturbance in the stasis preservation that prevents them from re-entry, these wards will only de-activate upon successful mapping and dismantlement of the curse.
*
Three hours later, his mild frustration had given way to something new. It was an insidious feeling, something faint and barely within reach. The more he read, the more it grew, steadily creeping along his spine until he could feel it thudding in every pulse of his heartbeat and he had to shove the book away. After several seconds of chilling silence, he realised it was despair.
He and Potter didn't have a hope in hell of pulling off this spell. It was needling and temperamental. It required constant attention from the anchor to ensure it didn't take hold of the curse breaker's own magic and rip him—quite literally—limb from limb. More than that, it demanded absolute synergy between the anchor and the curse breaker. If there was any moment of dissention between the two of them, it would take a hold of the opportunity to swallow both of them into the Ether, and all would be lost.
The thought that his life might very soon lie in Potter's hands was both nauseating and disturbingly familiar.
He considered refusing to allow Potter to join him, childish temper tantrums be damned, but there was a strong, undeniable part of him that was looking at the situation objectively. Potter knew the spell. He had access to information no one else did. Once they were inside the mechanism, there were no second chances. They could re-engage as many times as they liked, but they couldn't introduce someone new or it would weaken the structure.
Objectively, Potter was his best chance. He could always ask another Unspeakable, but even when he'd thought that his only option, he'd been hesitant. He'd worked with several Unspeakables before on smaller matters, and he never got along with them. They knew too much about him—or he felt like they did. No matter how essential it was that they remove their personal lives from their work, he'd never met one who could, not where he was concerned. He didn't trust them to hold the spell. He didn't trust them to anchor him without having that small moment of indecision, that one tiny moment where they looked at him and thought Death Eater. The anchor would slip, the curse would adjust, and it would all be over.
Oddly, he did trust Potter. It wasn't just that he was emotionally invested in this case, which would certainly override any feelings he had about Draco. It wasn't just what George had said to him—that Potter thought he was the best—and the certainty that Potter wanted him on this case. It was the look in Potter's eyes, how everything seemed a little bit dull around the edges. It was the certainty that nothing was hidden, not around Draco—the knowledge that there were no simpering smiles that could fall away as soon as his back was turned.
It was the smell of Fiendfyre, hot and burning.
Draco shook his head and pulled the book back towards him. He could keep reading, but he wasn't sure there was any point. He had read everything he could get his hands on several times now, and if he wasn't the expert on the identification spell, no one was.
They'd have to start with an investigation at the scene of the crime, just to make sure there weren't any lingering effects he'd missed, and after a moment's indecision he decided to invite Potter. It was better he was there, just in case there was something in the Unspeakable archives that rang a bell.
And then, Merlin help him, they'd be back at Draco's flat, locked in his workroom, working together.
He penned a quick note to Potter to let him know they'd start at midday tomorrow, set it on the table so that he'd remember to owl it the second he woke up—Potter would be asleep by now—and went to bed.
*
The shelves of the apothecary were so dusty, Draco had to tie his scarf around his nose and under his eyes just to be able to breathe. As such, it took him a few moments to notice the woman beside him, and a second more to realise she was laughing at him.
He pulled the scarf down and glared at her. "Do you mind?" he snapped, before realising that it was the woman he had seen in the shop yesterday—George's partner.
"Sorry," she said, sounding anything but. "It was just a little unexpected." She held out her wand in a questioning gesture. "May I?"
Warily, Draco nodded.
She gave the wand a tiny little shimmy, and a cloud of breathable air descended around Draco's head. He drew in a deep breath and smiled.
"Thank you," he said grudgingly. "That's a neat one. What was the incantation?"
He hadn't been able to work out what she had done with the wand—it was an odd little movement he hadn't seen before.
"Family secret."
Her smile was warm enough that Draco swallowed down his insistence that she tell him the spell and turned back to the shelves.
"Are you purchasing supplies to break the hellfire curse?" she asked, taking down a bottle of powdered mushroom and setting it in the basket on her elbow.
"Not quite," Draco admitted.
Potter mustn't have told them. Draco felt suddenly uncomfortable at being the one to break the news.
"The curse has proven more difficult than expected," he said finally. "Potter is going to assist me in getting to the root of it."
She nodded, blue eyes conflicted. He hadn't told her exactly what had happened, but he could tell she understood.
The door opened and the bustling sounds of Diagon Alley filtered in, accompanied by a young child talking excitedly and a harassed-looking witch trying to juggle multiple parcels. With a jolt of shock, Draco realised it was Hermione Granger. Well, Weasley now, he supposed, but she would always be Granger to him.
"There you are, Aunty Morgan!"
The little girl raced up and hugged her. Granger acknowledged Draco with a little wave, and he nodded politely, trying desperately to ignore the comatose elephant in the room.
"Thank you for helping us out, Draco," Granger said, essentially walking up and kicking the elephant right in the leg.
He sighed and gave up. "You're most welcome, Granger," he said stiffly. "We're doing all we can."
"Look what Mummy bought me!" Rose held up the giant book she was holding, waving it as close as she could get to Morgan's face. "Will you read it to me?"
Morgan laughed. "Of course."
Draco caught sight of the cover of the book and gave a small start. "I used to have that book when I was younger," he said, smiling at the little girl. "It has wonderful fairy tales in it."
The girl immediately turned her attention on him, delighted to expand her audience. "It does! It even has ones that Aunty Morgan doesn't know! She tells the best fairy tales. My name's Rose! What's your name?"
"My name is Draco."
Granger stifled a laugh and tried to calm her daughter down with a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Draco's a very busy man, Rose. We'll leave him to it." She turned to Draco and confided: "I'm not very good at telling fairy tales. They're just so unbelievable."
"Well, there's your problem," Morgan said with a grin. "You have to suspend your disbelief for a moment."
Draco felt a little like he had to suspend disbelief just to understand how this conversation was managing to stay so civil.
Granger snorted. "That sounds dangerous." She turned back to Draco. "We really do have to run now. Thanks again."
Rose waved to him as Granger hustled her out of the shop. Morgan paused a moment more to say goodbye.
"Don't hesitate to call on me if you need anything," she said quietly, extending a graceful hand to clasp Draco's shoulder. "We all love Ron very much. I don't want to see this happen again."
"Of course," Draco said, thrown. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?"
"Morgan." She smiled and waved goodbye, leaving him alone while she purchased her supplies and joined Granger out the front.
Draco didn't have the brain space available to process this strange new witch, or the fact that Hermione Granger seemed perfectly happy to treat him like an ordinary person, so he turned back to the shelves and began loading up on everything he could possibly need, along with extra.
By the time he had arrived home and set up the protective spells in the workroom, Potter's owl had returned with a curt acquiescence to the time. Draco could practically smell his sleep breath through the parchment, and part of him wished he had sent it in the middle of the night after all, since his courtesy had been so rudely received.
He had just finished checking the last of the spells for the fifth time, when a knocking so loud it could only be Potter came from the door, jolting him abruptly from his concentration and giving him a strong sense of foreboding for their impending work relationship.
"Did you know that toddlers learn to mediate their strength at around the age of three?" he asked lightly as he opened the door to a Potter that smelled just as strongly of a liquor cabinet as he had last night. "I knew you were developmentally delayed, but I had no idea it was quite so bad."
"Shove a sock in it," Potter growled. "I'm out of hangover potion. Have you got any?"
Draco flicked his wand and a tiny vial came racing out of the cupboard. He handed it wordlessly to Potter and waited until the shudders had passed.
"Better?"
"Much."
For a long moment, they just stared at each other. The strange openness and borderline interest from last night was entirely absent, and they were back to their usual distaste and rancour. All the possible ways this could play out flickered through Draco's mind in the space of a minute: polite, stilted conversation; social niceties; formal workplace procedures. Or, the more likely scenario: screaming matches reverberating off Silencing charms until they drowned in their own vitriol.
He took a deep breath.
"There's no point wasting time," he said, his eyes flicking to the closed door of his work room where complicated symbols etched in red chalk flickered faintly on the wood.
"I'm not here for pleasantries."
Potter's voice, though back to his normal timbre, still grated like metal over concrete. Draco tried to think back to the moments before the explosion; had he still sounded like this? Draco thought he had, but at the time it had seemed plausible that he was just irritated at his secret being compromised. That answer no longer seemed so likely.
He realised that Potter was looking at him strangely and that he had been staring at the wall for several moments. He shook his head lightly and turned away. They weren't here to work out the mystery of Potter; they had one purpose, and one purpose alone. He felt a moment's regret that he hadn't insisted they meet at the shop; it would have at least spared him a few minutes awkward glaring.
"Do you want to look at the curse one more time before we go to the shop?" he asked, keeping his voice careful and polite like Potter was some wild animal that would attack at the sound of sarcasm.
Potter shook his head, and then in a gesture Draco found deeply unsettling, extended his hand to Sidealong them. At this point, Draco realised that while the hangover potion had indeed done its job and eliminated the hangover, it had done nothing to correct the fact that Potter was still drunk.
He opened his mouth to offer a Sober-up potion, but Potter had already grasped his hand—eyes oddly glazed and intent—dragged him into the corridor, and Apparated.
"Well, this is professional," Draco muttered, steadying himself against the desk in the back room of the shop.
Potter's Apparation skills were sketchy at best; today, it seemed a miracle they weren't splinched.
"The package came from this pile," Potter said, pointing to one side of the room.
Since the explosion, the Aurors had come through and swept the place for evidence, leaving only a shield charm around the remaining packages.
"I can do a test on these to make sure there is no lingering danger," Draco offered. "Then, perhaps George won't have any issues with his stock or personal mail."
Potter looked at him strangely but nodded, stepping back so that Draco could cast a number of charms over the shielded packages and then give him the all clear.
"Why do you call George and Ron by their first name?" he asked.
"Pure fear that calling for Weasley will get me six of them at once," Draco responded immediately. "I am a practical man." He shot Potter a smirk. "Why? Are you jealous?"
He nearly stumbled when Potter's eyes met his. The unsteady Apparation had left his hair even wilder than usual, sweeping across his face and shadowing his eyes. If he didn't know better, he would have said Potter was jealous—jealous and angry.
Then, he said, "As if," in an entirely normal sort of voice—nothing like the strange roughness he seemed to speak with these days, and the moment passed.
George stuck his head around the door, grinning when he saw the two of them. Draco felt strangely off balance when he realised the smile was equally intended for him as for Potter.
"Need a hand?" he asked. "I can leave Norman minding the register. Doesn't have quite the same flair for customer service, but he tries his best, bless him."
Norman, it appeared, was a large mop with a fiery orange head, leaning upside down against the back wall with a bow tie stuck halfway up the handle.
"We're all right, George," Potter said with a grin. "Won't be much longer now."
Draco noticed with a start that his voice was now entirely normal. More than that—he was smiling. So, it seemed this strange new Potter wasn't evident in all situations. Curious.
The second George disappeared, he moved casually over to Potter's side of the room to cast a couple of diagnostics on the wall. He managed to resist the urge to cast them on Potter.
"Is there a reason for the double act?" he asked.
He watched Potter closely out of the corner of his eye, pretending the question was casual, dismissive. He took in the way Potter froze, steadying himself against the desk since he was still swaying slightly from the drink, and turned to glare at him.
"What double act?" he growled, and Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes at how beautifully Potter was illustrating his point.
"The one where you're all 'Harry Potter, Boy Hero', to your friends, but 'Harry Potter, Traumatised War Victim', to me."
Draco waited for Potter to lunge at him, braced for the fight and—truthfully—begging for it. It had been a long time since he'd brawled with Potter, and while the circumstances of their assignment required them to remain civil with each other, if Potter was going to turn up drunk just so that he could stomach the sight of Draco, clearly more drastic measures were required.
To his surprise, Potter laughed. It was a cold sound, made worse for the slight note of drunken amusement that wouldn't seem to fade away. All of a sudden, he realised how close Potter was. He turned to face him and took an involuntary step backwards at the triumph on Potter's face.
"Is that right?" he asked, bracing himself on the wall by Draco's head.
As far as Draco could tell, it seemed to be as much for actual balance as it was for intimidation, and to his absolute horror, it was working. Though, perhaps not in the manner that Potter intended.
He fought the urge to adjust his robes and glared back. Potter was still talking.
"Did you know that Hermione would go spare if she had any idea that you knew something about me that she didn't?"
"What in Merlin's name are you talking about?" Draco spat, shoving Potter backwards and trying to remember how to breathe.
Potter barely even stumbled. Draco was going to have to seriously re-evaluate his opinion of working out if he couldn't even move a drunk person. Though, surely Potter was sobering up by now—and yet he was still looking at Draco with that oddly glazed, triumphant expression.
Potter's eyes ran over him, and Draco swallowed. There was something heated in them now, even more so than in the brief glance last night.
"Even if you are a total git about it," he continued, ignoring Draco entirely. "Still, I knew you'd see it. No one else does, but I knew you would."
"See what?"
Potter laughed. "You just said it. Did you need me to spell it out for you?"
His eyes slid lower down, pausing at Draco's hips, and his breath hitched. Draco began to panic; could he see the bulge? Was it obvious? Draco gave him another shove, but it was like trying to move a mountain.
A noise came from the shop—George's laughter, warm and bright and entirely incongruous to everything Draco felt right now—and Potter stepped back. The expression on his face faded, replaced by the shutters that Draco was becoming increasingly familiar with.
"Find anything?" he asked, leaning back against the desk and shoving his hands in his pockets.
"No," Draco said after a moment to catch his breath. "There's nothing more here."
He refused to look at Potter, sure that everything he was feeling would be written on his face.
"Right." Potter pushed off from the desk. "Let's get back to your flat and make a start."
"Tomorrow," Draco said sharply.
Potter looked at him.
"It's not ready," he lied.
After a moment, Potter shrugged. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."
With a sharp crack, he Disapparated, leaving Draco alone with a very uncomfortable problem.