Harry Potter bent his head against the strong gust of air and lifted the collar of his cloak to try and protect his neck from the cold. He wished he hadn’t forgotten his scarf, but these last few days he had a hard time concentrating on much else other than the itching and soreness. He had become absent-minded and forgetful. The previous day Gawain Robards, the head Auror, had even questioned him about it. That was when Harry finally accepted that he had to get help.

He had tried brewing his own healing potion from a couple of medicinal potion books he had bought, but they really weren’t the correct ones for his ailment. Besides, he was rather hopeless at Potions when left to his own devices. He got sloppy and impatient without any helpful shortcuts or someone breathing down his neck to make sure he paid proper attention. And anyway, he couldn’t concentrate properly on anything with this constant distracting itching!

He quickly looked ‘round the street to see if anyone would notice him give himself a good scratch. This constant scratching was so embarrassing! Harry knew he should have seen a mediwizard or visited an apothecary or a potion master as soon as he realised something was wrong, but he had been too embarrassed and had hoped it would just go away on its own. He wasn’t ready to face the knowing look on the other wizard’s or witch’s face as they sized Harry up and predictably lectured him on safety and caution. And he especially didn’t want to read about it in the pages of some gossip-mongering wizarding magazine the next day. It might have been six years since Harry had defeated Voldemort and his initial fame might have died down a bit, but the gossip columns still seemed interested in him and his private life.

Harry had had to be very discreet the past few years to keep his sexual preferences and occasional adventures out of the papers. He didn’t feel ready to have the whole world know he was gay. He actually preferred the wizarding world to know as little as possible about his private life. That was the reason why he was making his way down Knockturn Alley on a freezing February evening. Most of the shops on this road were known for their shady dealings and confidentiality. He was headed for a certain apothecary that also prepared obscure, difficult, shady or just plain complicated potions. The shop promised utmost confidentiality, and Harry was sure that a couple of extra Galleons would certainly ensure it.

Knockturn Alley was rather empty and a number of the shops were in disrepair or closed. After the war the Ministry had cracked down on anything it feared was too Dark. The street had been raided by Aurors more than once and most of the shops had come under close scrutiny. The historic Borgin and Burkes had only just managed not to be closed down.

After a few years things had eventually relaxed again, and the denizens of Knockturn Alley were now slowly returning from wherever they had been lurking. They were still leery of the Ministry, however, and Harry had wisely Apparated home to change out of his Auror’s robes before coming. His shaggy hair conveniently hid his scar and masked his features enough for him to pass relatively unnoticed when he tried.

As he carelessly rushed down the street, distracted by his thoughts and his little problem, he stepped into a puddle, sloshing muddy water over his boots and the hem of his cloak. Cursing irritably, he looked around once again. He was next to a remarkably dusty and dingy second-hand bookshop and a little way down he made out a painted wooden sign, “Adelgar’s Apothecary: Practical Potions & Indispensable Ingredients”. The place seemed in better repair than most and he guessed it was the shop he was looking for.

He quickly made his way to the entrance and let himself in. The inside was dark and much warmer than the outside, but the smell was overpowering. The shop was crammed full of shelves with all sorts of ingredients, and seemed to be overflowing and ready to burst at any moment. There were crates on the floor with jars heaped in them, and baskets with loose dried plants. Harry went straight to the counter. The dark-haired witch there seemed quite bored and gazed at him listlessly, thankfully not recognising him.

“I have come about a potion.” He was nervous. He wasn’t exactly sure what potion he needed and wanted to share the details of his ailment with as few people as possible.

The witch just stared at him for a couple of minutes before finally opening her mouth. “Which potion would you like, then?”

Harry coughed awkwardly, quickly deciding she wouldn’t be much help. “Well, you see, I’m not quite certain. There must be someone I can talk to who...” he trailed off.

“Hmmm. Yes, okay. Wait here and I’ll get you someone,” she answered shortly and abruptly turned around and left.

A little while later a tall thin figure followed her back in and made its way to Harry as she flitted to the window to stare with a glazed look out into the street.

As the blond man neared Harry, Harry realised with a jolt that he knew those high cheekbones, that pointy nose and those grey eyes, and he definitely knew that white-blond hair. He hadn’t seen him in over five years, since the trials at the end of the war, and yet he hadn’t changed one bit. Only why hadn’t Harry realised before now how breathtakingly beautiful he was?

As Draco Malfoy came to stop in front of him, Harry realised that he had never seen that face look so tired and resigned, not even in sixth year, and he had never seen his old rival ever dressed so shabbily. Harry looked over Malfoy’s ill-fitting heavy-duty work robes before returning to his face. He registered the widening of the grey eyes as he was recognised, but the other man didn’t acknowledge their acquaintance in any way. Instead he affected a bored professional tone and drawled in a voice only slightly deepened since the last time Harry had heard it.

“I was informed you require a particular potion. One that you are not certain about, but hopefully you can give adequate clues to infer.”

Even while for all purposes being polite, Malfoy managed to sound superior and insulting. Harry suddenly felt familiarly irritated with the blond and not in the least prepared to share with him what he considered rather private details. He thought about leaving, finding another shop on Knockturn Alley where he could find the potion he wanted. Only he didn’t know another and this one had been very highly recommended for its quality and confidentiality. And, damn it, he needed to scratch again! He couldn’t take much more of this incessant itching before he went insane.

“Well?” Malfoy impatiently lifted a brow and looked at Harry as if he were wasting his time.

“Ummm, yes. I need a potion, or maybe a salve, or a powder would do?” Harry felt himself rambling. He wasn’t sure how to state his request and Malfoy’s unblinking grey stare was unnerving him. “It’s for this condition I seem to have,” he added unhelpfully.

Those strangely large grey eyes seemed to narrow in thought and look him up and down, sizing him up. “And what sort of condition would this be, then?”

Harry couldn’t believe how much he wanted to scratch himself, but Malfoy was staring at him expectantly. His eyes were roaming over Harry’s body as if he was trying to figure out what was wrong. Harry blushed and shuffled his feet slightly. At that Malfoy smirked knowingly. He leaned forward on the counter and whispered conspiratorially, “It is a private condition of perhaps a ... delicate nature?”

Harry blushed redder at that and Malfoy’s smug smile just grew wider, his eyes glittering with amusement and curiosity.

“Well... Yes, actually. I, um, have a sort of an itch... there. And, um, they are kind of... reddish. You know?” Harry managed to stutter.

Malfoy seemed to be ready to snicker, but instead with a remarkably calm and seemingly bored voice he persisted in torturing Harry by asking for more details.

“Where exactly is this itch? How would you describe it? And what precisely is red? What sort of red?” And then he added cheekily, “Maybe you should show me... sir.”

Harry sputtered in shock and stared at Malfoy as if he were insane.

“Show you?" he screeched. He lowered his voice as he noticed the sales-witch looking at him with something bordering on curiosity. “I don’t think that is necessary. A description should be enough.”

Malfoy just looked at him, big grey eyes still glittering in what Harry could only call sadistic amusement. Harry cleared his voice before manfully ploughing on.

“It's...” He dropped his voice even lower. “...my cock that itches.”

“I see. Where exactly?” Malfoy deadpanned.

“At the base. Actually, I think it’s my balls really. They are red, too.” Harry was feeling more and more embarrassed.

“I see.” And with that Malfoy wordlessly summoned a book and started leafing through it. “Is that it? No boils? No pus? No blood when you pass water?” he asked matter-of-factly.

Harry thought the constant itching and tenderness where bad enough without any of those other disgusting things.

“No!" he hissed.

“The itching is constant? The area is tender to the touch?” Malfoy persisted.

“Yes!”

“How would you say you... acquired this condition?” Malfoy was staring at him again, obviously prolonging Harry’s suffering for his own malicious entertainment.

Harry mumbled his answer while gazing at Malfoy’s elegant hands as they rested on the book. They were pale and feminine but also rather stained from potions ingredients, he absently noted.

“Sorry. I didn’t hear you... sir.”

“I said...” Harry leaned forward to practically whisper in Malfoy’s ear, “...I would guess it was from sexual intercourse.”

He distanced himself again from Malfoy, who was lifting an eyebrow and seemed unable to keep his mouth from twitching upwards.

“Oh? ” was all Malfoy said, however.

“Yes! I wasn’t exactly... careful. But I will be next time,” he added defensively.

“Yes, next time,” Malfoy echoed, obviously enjoying himself far too much at Harry’s expense. He moved to a cupboard and started looking through it, pulling out drawers. He came back with a small bottle that he handed to Harry.

Harry eyed it critically (the label read Aphrodite’s Panacea), and looked at Malfoy, expecting an explanation.

“It’s a simple preventative potion for most venereal diseases. There are, of course, charms for the same purpose. But charms wear off faster and can be forgotten.” With that he looked at Harry meaningfully. “All you need is to swallow a teaspoon of the potion and it will protect you for twelve hours. It is most convenient when one is seeing Muggles or when one isn’t quite sure when the desire will overtake them.” Malfoy looked at Harry meaningfully again while Harry blushed.

“Yes, thank you. It seems rather a good idea. Maybe I should buy a bottle,” Harry mumbled.

“Yes, maybe you should. I should warn you that the potion only works one way. It does not protect your partner from anything you might have. Also, it does not prevent pregnancy. We stock a variety of contraceptive potions if you are interested. The majority, of course, have to be ingested by the lady in question.” The tone of Malfoy’s voice clearly conveyed that he doubted Harry had contracted what he had from a ‘lady’.

Harry blushed yet again and cleared his throat. “No, that won’t be necessary. I won’t be needing a contraceptive potion, thank you.”

“You seem awfully sure. Are you certain your luck won’t change?” Malfoy was hardly bothering to hide his curiosity as Harry got more and more flustered.

“My luck? What has my luck got to do with it? No, I’m sure I won’t be needing a contraceptive potion. Not now, not ever.” The itching was driving him crazy and so was Malfoy. Would he just give him the potion he needed and stop the irritating questioning?

Malfoy’s eyes seemed to widen in understanding. “Your partners are of the wrong sex?” he asked smoothly.

“Yes, they bloody well are!” Harry snapped distractedly, losing his patience. “Look, the itching is driving me bonkers. Do you or don’t you have something for it?”

Malfoy seemed quite pleased with the answer as he eyed Harry speculatively. “While I successfully ascertained the salve you need, unfortunately for you it is not a potion that can be stored. If you are interested I can brew it for you.”

Harry groaned on hearing that he would have to wait before getting relief. “How long?” he asked.

“I could have it ready in... four days,” Malfoy answered, and Harry groaned again. “In the mean time we do have a topical numbing potion that might help you. It numbs any area it is applied to. That means you will no longer feel any itchiness. Of course, it also means you will no longer feel that part of your anatomy at all. Are you interested?”

Harry didn’t even think about it. “Of course I am!”

With that, Malfoy made his way back to the cupboard, looking through the never-ending drawers until he found what he wanted.

“Here it is.” He put the second bottle next to the first. “Will you be needing anything else? You should come back in four days for your salve.”

“Yes, actually. One more thing.” And with that Harry opened his moneybag to take out a couple of Galleons. He grasped Malfoy’s surprisingly smooth hand in his own coarser ones and laid the Galleons in the palm. “Anything said here today was in the strictest confidentiality. I trust I have your complete discretion?”

Malfoy studied the Galleons and then Harry in the infuriating way he had been during the whole exchange. Finally, he closed his hand around them, nodding in acceptance. “Complete discretion. When you come again, ask for me and I will bring you your salve without involving Danae over there.”

“Yes, perfect. Thank you.”

And with that Malfoy carefully put the bottles Harry was buying in a brown paper bag and handed them to him as he called Danae over. “Please charge... the gentleman ten Galleons for his purchases.”

Harry paid the witch promptly and, clutching the paper bag, hurriedly left the shop, eager to get home and apply the numbing potion.

Draco Malfoy’s eyes followed him out and for some time the blond rested in contemplation of Harry Potter and all that he had learned during one simple exchange. Shaking his head at how hopeless Gryffindors were at hiding things, he made his way back to the workroom and his potions.

There was a spring in Harry’s step next morning as he made his way to the Ministry. It was a very strange feeling not being able to feel his cock. He kept on touching himself just to make sure it was still there, and that morning, for the first time in what seemed forever, he had woken without a morning erection. He was impressed by how much time he had gained by not tossing off. He was actually early for work for once!

The amazing thing, of course, was that he could no longer feel the damned itch, and without that constant irritant he felt better than he had in ages. He could concentrate. He could relax. He almost whistled as he walked through the Atrium, passed the awful fountain and reached the elevators. He cheerfully smiled at the other workers, most of which nursed coffees and didn’t seem properly awake yet.

His happy mood almost faded when he saw the pile of paperwork waiting at his desk. Harry was a very good field agent, but he positively hated writing reports, letting them pile up until the absolute last deadline. It was rather like what he had done at school. Heaving a sigh, he sat at his desk and attacked the first report in the pile.

By early midday he was fed up. He had pushed aside the papers and was absently doodling on a spare bit of parchment as his mind wandered. He found his thoughts straying to Draco Malfoy, just as they had the previous night.

He hadn’t seen him or thought about him since the trials. Malfoy had been one of their chief witnesses. Snape had died during the final battle – Harry felt a pang of regret every time he thought about Snape’s self-sacrifice and how much he had misjudged the man – and Malfoy seemed to be the only insider they had left. Obviously as a spy and helper to Severus Snape, posthumous recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class, Draco Malfoy had been acquitted of all charges. The slippery Slytherin had even managed to avoid getting himself marked! How he accomplished that feat Harry could only wonder.

If Harry had spared a thought these past years for the whereabouts of Draco Malfoy, he would have guessed he was lording it at his manor or possibly lazing around in France with his supposed relatives. He certainly wouldn’t have thought he would be employed in Knockturn Alley.

Harry’s curiosity was piqued, and even solving a simple little mystery like this one promised to be much more interesting than pushing paper. An exasperated Gawain Robards had informed Harry in no uncertain terms that he would not be given another assignment until he finally completed all his overdue reports, so Harry was pretty sure he wouldn’t be seeing any action in the near future.

Having made up his mind, he got up, deciding the archives were the best place to start his search. The department of Magical Law Enforcement held remarkably extensive archives on convicted felons, suspected criminals, anyone with possible Death Eater ties and anyone who had ever stood trial for any offence whatsoever, no matter how small. Harry had been chagrined to find that they even held a file on him, thanks to his trial just before fifth year.

Harry walked to the archives, trying his best to look like it was official business that brought him to this part of the Ministry. Thankfully the secretary outside the archives was a ditzy blonde who was always all too happy to see Harry, or as he privately suspected any moderately attractive and young male. Harry greeted her and flashed his most charming smile, which quickly got her smiling and batting her eyelashes.

“Mr Potter, how nice to see you! Are you looking for anything in particular? Would you like some help?” the secretary simpered.

“No, thank you. I’ll manage. It’s nothing much really,” Harry answered, in a hurry to get to the archives.

“All right then. But if you need anything, don’t forget to ask,” she insisted.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you,”

And with that he escaped into the archive room. The archive room was very long and held row after row of shelves with drawers all holding files. Harry had never seen the end of the room. He suspected it didn’t have one and you could just walk down the rows of shelves forever. In the centre of the room, opposite the door, were a couple of wooden desks with chairs under a high window.

Harry looked around, happy to see he was alone, and settled in one of the chairs as he took out his wand and recited the rather long and complex search spell that would retrieve the file he was looking for.

A couple of moments later he heard a drawer opening somewhere in the distance and a file whizzing through the air towards him. He ducked just in time and it landed on the table in front of him.

It wasn’t too big. He opened it to find a rather unattractive mug shot of Malfoy from the trials scowling at him and his personal details on the first page. He was gratified to note that Malfoy was shorter than him, albeit slightly. He also seemed remarkably light and had a birthmark on his right hip. As he slowly read the page, he was strangely pleased to see that Malfoy was unmarried and unattached. His father was still in Azkaban, a fact he was aware of, and his mother was with relatives in France, a fact he wasn’t aware of.

Harry turned the page to find Malfoy’s school records and complete transcripts from his testimonies at the trials. He flipped through them, not really interested in reliving those memories.

He was rather surprised to find that the Malfoy Gringotts account and all assets had been frozen as a result of Malfoy senior’s trial until the Ministry decided what to do with them. Malfoy manor had been seized for extensive investigation that apparently, almost six years later, still hadn’t been concluded. Harry snorted. The Ministry’s procrastination and red tape were infamous. It seemed like Malfoy had filed an appeal but lacked the funds for a lawyer to properly see it through.

Harry skipped through a couple of pages of legal jargon to find a list of Malfoy’s addresses in the past six years. They all seemed to be in run-down and undesirable areas. On the next page he found a detailed list of his employments since the war, most of which turned out to be odd jobs and menial labour.

He noted with interest that Malfoy had apparently been apprenticed for a number of years to a shady Knockturn Alley Potions master. The fact didn’t exactly surprise him. He turned back to the school records. No, he had never taken his N.E.W.T.s.

The last few pages in the file held nothing of any real interest so Harry flipped back to the first page and stared at Malfoy’s sullen mug shot for a couple of minutes. The boy in this picture wasn’t nearly as beautiful as the man he had seen yesterday. Harry wondered if he had perhaps exaggerated the day before in his estimation of Malfoy’s looks.

He closed the file, his curiosity satisfied, and sent it back to its place. On his way out he sent another smile to the secretary and made his way back to his office and his paperwork.

He didn’t get much work done the rest of the day. He took a rather large lunch break with Tonks who regaled him with a longwinded description of her early morning assignment gone slightly wrong. Harry laughed heartily at her tale but couldn’t help feeling jealous because he was stuck in his office. He knew that he only had himself and his procrastination to blame, but that didn’t stop him from wiling half the afternoon away doodling and avoiding working.

Fed up, he left work early.

* * * *

Once home, he wandered aimlessly around his flat for a bit, applied some of the numbing potion and stared at his cock for a while. It was so strange to be able to see it but not feel it. He understood why Malfoy had thought he might not be interested in the potion. He felt like a very important part of him was missing, and he wondered if he’d be able to last three more days or if he would eventually consider the itchiness preferable.

Before he knew it, it was time to go to Hermione and Ron’s house. Harry had had the honour of being Ron’s best man a couple of years earlier and had been glad to discover that his subsequent fears hadn’t come true. His happily married friends were just as close to him as they had ever been. He and Ron had season tickets to the Chudley Cannons that they put to good use, to Hermione’s annoyance, and at least twice a week he went over to their house for dinner.

He frequently considered returning the favour but his home remained a typical bachelor’s apartment with a chronically empty larder, not nearly enough plates and only half a tea set.

His apartment made him rather sad. He had always wanted to live in a house with a garden and have a family with lots of kids. He had briefly hoped he could make that dream come true with Ginny Weasley, but it was no good; as much as he tried to fight it he would always prefer men and as much as he loved Ginny it would never be the way she deserved.

Harry quickly got changed and Flooed to his friends’ house.

He found them in the kitchen. Hermione had apparently once again tried some new and exotic dish and was in a flustered state, trying to get everything ready on time without burning anything. Ron was hovering on the sidelines with a tea towel in his hands. He caught Harry’s eye and grinned. “Hello there. You’re a bit early and got us at a bad time.”

“Anything I can do to help?” asked Harry, looking ‘round the kitchen.

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione wailed without turning around. “Just wait in the dinning room please, it won’t be long.”

“Or you could Floo home. Wait five minutes, or maybe ten, and then Floo back again. Maybe by then the crisis will be over.” Ron grinned widely while Hermione just huffed at him.

“I’ll just amuse myself in the dining room then, shall I?” Harry said, laughing, and made his way there.

It wasn’t long before they were all seated around the dining table, enjoying Hermione’s latest culinary efforts. They exchanged the usual small talk: amusing details from their work, new Ministry gossip, and opinions about the last Prophet headlines.

Harry enjoyed these dinners with his friends even more than he let on. While they spent their evening pleasantly in each other’s company, he could almost believe nothing had changed, that they were still inseparable. But when it inevitably got late, he would get up and return home alone and they would stay back here together. Then he couldn’t help but remember that the bond they had with each other didn’t include him.

After they had thoroughly cleaned out all the dishes on the dining table, it was time to clear the table and move to the comfortable living room with the rest of the wine and dessert.

Harry was busy complaining about his enforced time out of the field.

“I hate office work!” he grumbled, “and I really hate writing reports.”

He flopped into an armchair with feeling.

“If you just did them when you were supposed to, they wouldn’t mount up like that,” Hermione admonished while snuggling into Ron’s embrace and taking a sip of her wine.

Harry just scowled.

“Guess who I saw today?” Hermione asked, effectively changing the subject.

The others looked at her expectantly.

“Justin Finch-Fletchley! I don’t think I’d seen him since school. He works now for a wizarding law firm, Adrastus, Siegbert and Stodge. I bumped into him at the Ministry. He was running an errand for his office,” she continued.

Harry and Ron just hummed in vague interest.

“It seems like he’s going out with Padma Patil. Do you remember her? Parvati’s sister?”

“Of course we remember her. We’re not going senile yet!” Ron remonstrated.

Talk of Justin and Padma reminded Harry of Hogwarts and of seeing Malfoy the day before. “Do you ever wonder what our old schoolmates have come to?” he suddenly asked.

“No, not really,” Ron lazily answered, not really giving it much thought.

Harry continued, ignoring Ron. “You know. What they do for a living. If they’re married. If they’re happy. That sort of stuff.”

The couple eyed him curiously.

“Are you thinking of anyone in particular?” Hermione asked shrewdly and Harry for a brief moment considered telling them about meeting Malfoy before changing his mind. He didn’t want to share any details of his ‘delicate condition’ with his friends.

“No, no. Just wondering, you know,” was all he said in the end.

“Well, I see Seamus pretty often and Neville visits whenever he comes down our way,” Ron began. ”Hermione seems to be practically working with Ernie and we all know about Colin. Ginny sees Susan Bones and Zabini every now and then and she’s still friends with Luna obviously. And don’t tell me you don’t read Lavender’s column in the Prophet, it’s the most amusing thing in the whole rag!” he finished.

“I was just wondering about the others.” Harry started to wish he had never brought up the subject. Hermione was looking at him like she was certain he was hiding something.

“Now that I come to think of it, I have seen Malfoy a couple of times too,” Hermione added thoughtfully.

Harry almost jumped at that. “Really?” he asked with forced casualness, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

“Mmm, yes. He seems to visit my department at the Ministry at least once a year. He’s fighting an appeal to get his assets and his Manor back,” she said.

Ron gave Hermione a perplexed look, making her take on a slight lecturing tone as she explained. “The Malfoy fortune was seized by the Ministry following Malfoy senior’s trial and the Manor has been confiscated to be thoroughly investigated for Dark objects. Of course, one would have thought that after six years the investigation would be over....”

“Isn’t Malfoy a war hero? Can they keep his house and inheritance from him?” The more he had thought about it, the more Harry had been perplexed by Malfoy’s circumstances.

Hermione snorted. “You would be surprised by what the Ministry can get away with.” Even though Hermione worked for the Ministry, she was also one of its sternest critics, tirelessly striving to improve it from within.

“They certainly aren’t treating Malfoy like a war hero,” she continued. “Not only are they keeping his inheritance from him, but he has to visit the Ministry for monthly ‘check ups’.”

At Harry and Ron’s curious look she explained. “He has to give monthly updates on his whereabouts and employment and have his wand checked for possible Dark spell use. Actually, if you think about it, it’s disgraceful the way they treat him.”

Even Ron seemed to agree with this sentiment, mumbling something about arrogant gits and ‘our side in the war’.

Once the night was over and he was back home, Harry stripped and went to bed. As he drifted to sleep his thoughts were oddly drawn to Malfoy and his glittering grey eyes and coarse robes so at odds with his elegant slight figure. That night he had a number of vague erotic dreams featuring light blond hair, high cheekbones and slim white hands.

* * * *

Harry sat at his desk, feeling thoroughly disgruntled. Unfortunately, his pile of odious paperwork hadn’t disappeared overnight. It was still on his desk, just where he had left it. Robards had given him a stern look earlier that morning that spoke eloquently of how distinctly unimpressed he was by Harry’s procrastination.

A few minutes ago there had been an urgent call to Auror Headquarters. Seemingly a riot had broken out up north. Harry gritted his teeth, wishing he were there. True to his word, Robards had ordered Harry to stay behind with a meaningful glance to his desk. Now the Headquarters were practically empty save for Harry, Thompson who was still recovering from a wound acquired on his last assignment, old Miranda Clearwater who was only a couple of months away from retirement, and the secretaries.

Harry should have known it would be one of those days from the way it had started out. He had woken from a strangely vague dream of Hogwarts which had prominently featured Malfoy and, oddly enough, Blaise Zabini, to find himself both painfully aroused and painfully itchy. He hadn’t thought to apply more numbing potion before going to bed and it had obviously worn off during the night. Harry had proceeded to have one of his most uncomfortable wanks ever, feeling a sharp pleasure and a discomfort bordering on pain simultaneously while trying to get off as fast as possible. Afterwards he had applied a generous amount of the potion. It was bliss when the itching disappeared, but the feeling of missing a limb, an important limb, was slowly becoming more and more distracting and irritating. Just two more days, he reminded himself, and then the cure will be ready.

Looking at the stacks of reports to be filled in triplicate, Harry couldn’t help sighing. He pulled the top one in front of him and attacked it with resignation, trying his best to push away thoughts of what was happening up north, of what he was missing.

After a couple of hours Harry broke. He had painstakingly finished one and a half reports and had reached his limit. How did he ever manage to write his assignments for school? How would he ever have survived without Hermione?

Getting up, he paced his cubicle in frustration. Why had no one returned yet? What was going on up north? Huffing, Harry went to find Thompson.

Thompson was in his cubicle, fashioning complex paper airplanes and aiming them at the waste-paper basket in Dawlish’s cubicle opposite his. Dawlish’s floor was littered with pink, blue, yellow and white paper airplanes.

“Hullo, Thompson. What’s up?” Harry morosely asked entering the other man’s cubicle and sprawling into a chair.

Thompson looked up from his new paper airplane. “Same old. The old wound’s still giving me trouble. You know,” he answered dismissively.

“Yeah, I know,” came Harry’s listless reply.

Thompson quirked his eyebrows, glancing at Harry’s dramatically defeated posture. “How’s the paperwork coming on then?”

Harry simply groaned in reply and Thompson chuckled.

They both fell silent as Thompson finished his paper airplane, aimed it at the basket and missed. Almost absently Harry took out his wand and silently levitated a couple of the colourful planes into the basket before getting bored and giving up.

Harry broke the silence, asking half-heartedly, “Heard any news yet?”

The other Auror looked up from a half folded piece of green paper. “From Lancashire you mean? No, nothing. It’s been a while. Must be something serious.”

“Yeah,” sighed Harry, feeling very sorry for himself.

After sitting silently for a couple of minutes longer, Harry finally asked the question that had been on his mind for most of the day. “Do you know why investigations on Malfoy Manor have not been concluded yet?”

Thompson started, his hand jerking and his aim flying wide as the green plane flew wildly crashing into the wall behind Harry. He glared briefly at Harry before taking on a quizzical expression. “Nasty piece of work that, Malfoy Manor. But it’s been, what? Six years? They should have cleaned out even that place by now. Are you sure they haven’t?” he asked wrinkling his brow.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Harry insisted.

“Hmm...” Thompson looked a bit perplexed before shrugging. “Who knows why anything happens in the Ministry? I guess the Office for the Investigation of Dark Artefacts and Locations is just dragging its feet so as not to be completely out of a job.” And with that he took out a new slip of paper, picked up his wand and turned it a bright blue before resuming his folding with determination.

“Maybe...” replied Harry unenthusiastically, not particularly persuaded. The Office for the Investigation of Dark Artefacts and Locations had been created just after the fall of Voldermort when the Ministry had found out about the Horcruxes and the various Dark experiments that Voldermort and his Death Eaters had been undertaking in various locations.

“Why don’t you ask Tonks?” Thompson suddenly said. “She was on the task force investigating Malfoy Manor, wasn’t she?”

Harry started. He had forgotten all about that!

Eventually Harry left Thompson to his planes and plodded back to his cubicle where he spend the better part of an hour laboriously working on a half finished report before settling down to doodling and daydreaming. He was in the middle of wondering what sort of Dark Arts experiments and objects could have been hidden in Malfoy Manor when he heard the unmistakable commotion of returning Aurors.

Leaning against his door, he observed as the Headquarters filled with disgruntled Aurors and struggling teenagers.

“Bloody kids!” Kingsley was grumbling. “Spoiled brats, the lot of them. Their parents should just lock them up till they’re 25 and save us all a lot of trouble.”

As the kids were taken away to be identified and put in temporary holding cells, Harry pulled Angelina aside, bursting with curiosity and impatience. “What happened?” he whispered urgently.

“A bunch of stupid kids causing havoc and Muggle-baiting. Gave us a real run-around, they did. Lost quite a few of them, too,” she whispered back.

Harry frowned. “Muggle-baiting? Didn’t the war teach them anything?”

“Apparently not.”

“Where’s Tonks?” Harry suddenly asked, just noticing she hadn’t returned. “Still rounding up brats?”

“No,” Angelina sighed, “she and Williamson were hexed rather badly and are in St. Mungo’s.”

Harry looked at his watch. “Do you think Robards will mind if I leave a bit early to see how Tonks is doing?” he asked her urgently.

Angelina pursed her lips and looked at Harry shrewdly. “How have those late reports been getting on?” she pointedly inquired.

Harry looked at the floor, wincing. “Fine... um... maybe a bit slowly, but fine.” He shuffled his feet awkwardly.

“I see,” was the sharp reply. “But I guess it’ll be all right if you go,” she added more softly, “with all the commotion Robards probably won’t even notice you’re gone.”

Harry looked up relieved. “Thanks!” he told her hurriedly and gave her a friendly peck on the cheek before rushing off to get his cloak and Floo to St. Mungo’s.

* * * *

Harry easily found Tonks in the usual ward. She perked up as soon as she saw him. “Wotcha!” she said playfully.

“I should be asking you how you are,” Harry answered as he took a seat next to her bed. “How are you then? Is it bad, or is it bad?”

“It’s definitely very bad,” Tonks said with a theatrical sigh, “I’ll be as right as rain by tomorrow. Not even one day sick leave!”

“Next time make sure you get hit by a stronger curse then,” Harry remarked as he stretched out in his chair and looked around the ward. “What do you want sick leave for anyway?”

Tonks humphed. “Just because you would rather work than stay at home, you seem to forget that some of us have boyfriends and would like to spend more time with them.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Boyfriends? Last time I looked, you were married. Should I tell Remus about this boyfriend of yours? By the way, where is he?”

Tonks slapped Harry on the shoulder. “Shut up, you know what I mean,” she exclaimed. “Remus is at work and doesn’t know I’m in St. Mungo’s.”

“He doesn’t?” Harry asked surprised.

“No, he doesn’t,” she answered with finality.

After a couple of minutes of playing with his sleeve, Harry finally got around to asking what he had been dying to ask since he arrived.

“Tonks...”

“Yes?”


“You were on the task force investigating Malfoy Manor, weren’t you?”

The other Auror wrinkled her brow, perplexed. “That was ages ago!”

“I was just curious about what you found in the Manor and what’s taking the investigation so long, since the place still hasn’t been cleared,” Harry continued, undeterred.

“Come on, Harry, the investigation must have finished by now! Anyway I don’t really know much.” Tonks shrugged. “I just searched the top floor where there wasn’t anything more exciting than expensive furniture, insulting portraits and run-of-the-mill Dark knick-knacks to be found. You should ask Timple and Merryweather, really. They investigated the underground dungeons, tunnels and what-nots, where all the interesting stuff must have been. I was taken off the task force very early on anyhow and they took over the investigation.”

“Why are you so interested in Malfoy Manor anyway?” she concluded curiously.

“No reason in particular,” was Harry’s casual reply.


Harry sat with Tonks a couple of hours more until eventually she was cleared to go home. He escorted her there to find Remus in the kitchen whistling as he cooked.

“There you are!” he said cheerfully by way of greeting. “What took you so long?”

He turned around to smile at them as they entered the kitchen. Tonks sat down heavily in the nearest chair, while Harry leaned against the door jamb.

“I see you brought Harry along,” Remus continued before noticing Tonks’ complexion. “What’s wrong?”

Harry practically sprinted down Knockturn Alley on his way to Adelgar’s Apothecary. It was Saturday morning, very early Saturday morning, and that meant that his potion would be finally ready. The last couple of days he had been driven to distraction by the strange... lack he seemed to have between his legs. He had never before realised how comforting and assuring he had found the warm weight he kept safely tucked into his underwear. Thanks to the numbing potion, he kept on panicking whenever he realised he no longer felt anything there and surreptitiously touching himself to reassure himself that everything was where it should be. But he still felt strange, as if he were not completely whole.

Harry eagerly yanked the shop door open, the bell jangling in the early morning chill. The shop was deserted except for Danae. The saleswitch was leaning against the counter, charming her long fingernails a brighter shade of pink with a bored air. She barely spared Harry a glance until he stood in front of her and cleared his throat meaningfully.

“I would like to speak to... Draco Malfoy, please,” he informed her, vaguely annoyed.

She shrugged disinterestedly and made her way to the back room.

Harry’s stomach was a twisted ball of excitement as he drummed his fingers on the counter, trying to contain his impatience. He barely knew what he was looking forward to more: finally getting the promised curative potion, or seeing Malfoy again. Harry had come to the conclusion that his condition must be addling his brain, as there was no other logical explanation for the amount of time he had spent these last few days thinking and wondering about his old school rival.

Speaking of the devil, Malfoy appeared shortly, without Danae, and briskly walked up to Harry, carrying a brown paper bag. He was wearing the same frayed old robes he had been last time. Limp strands of light blond hair escaped from the black tie holding it back and fell messily in front of his eyes, barely brushing his chin. The man looked tired and pinched, yet Harry’s breath caught. He seemed even more beautiful than he had the first time he’d seen him a few days ago.

Malfoy placed the tantalising bag on the counter in front of him and smirked at Harry rather predictably.

“How are you keeping up... sir?” he asked.

Harry wished Malfoy would stop it with the false politeness. It was getting on his nerves, which he supposed was the point.

“Fine,” he grumbled, sounding anything but.

“You’ll be pleased to find out that your salve is ready,” Malfoy began in a salesman-like tone. “The salve required by your... hum... delicate condition is complex and time consuming. I’m sure you’ll forgive us any inconvenience due to the delay.”

Malfoy’s lips quirked up and his eyes glittered mischievously. Harry just wanted to punch him in his pretty pointed nose, but the blond continued, undaunted. “I hope that the potion purchased on your last visit offered you some relief and didn’t prove too unpleasant?” Malfoy raised his eyebrows expectantly while Harry scowled darkly at him.

“It worked all right, I suppose...” he grumbled, “...but I would rather not use it again – it was bloody disquieting.”

“Hmm... yes. I can see what you mean.” Malfoy barely concealed his amusement under his professional veneer as he looked at Harry pointedly.

“Yes, yes,” said Harry impatiently, “but the salve is ready now.”

He was itching to finally get his hands on the precious concoction and then to get it on his cock. The bliss and relief finally promised him made his mouth water and his eyes briefly glaze over. Why couldn’t Malfoy just get on with it and give it him to already? Oh, yes, because Malfoy always had to be difficult.

And Malfoy, besides being difficult, was also speaking. “...No need to worry,” he was saying. “The instructions are very simple. Almost foolproof, one might say.” He pointedly looked at Harry. “But just in case, I have taken the liberty of writing them on the label of your salve.”

Harry gnashed his teeth. Malfoy was purposely dragging out the visit and extending Harry’s agony. For a brief moment he fantasised about grabbing the salve and running out the shop. But Malfoy’s grey eyes were bright and crinkled at the corners from amusement and his lips were pink and glistening and forming words...

“...No more than three times a day and should be rubbed in until it is completely absorbed. By tomorrow you should be as right as rain. Only in extreme cases will it take a day longer.” Malfoy took a deep breath and smiled at Harry before continuing. The smile was half forced professionalism, half amusement with Harry’s plight, but it made no difference to Harry - his breath hitched and his heart started beating double time. Hazy spots formed at the edge of his vision, though that could simply be the beginnings of a migraine. How could he ever have hated Malfoy? Most probably because he had never smiled at him before.

“...Like to thank you for your kind patronage and hope that our services were to your satisfaction. If you ever have need of our services again we would be most happy to provide them.” Malfoy finished his rote speech with a flourish and a raised eyebrow.

“Um, yeah... yeah. Of course,” Harry stammered. “Thanks. I’ll be sure to remember. How much do I owe you?”

“That would be twenty Galleons.”

The price was steep, but Harry didn’t care. He tossed the coins onto the counter, grabbed the salve, gave one last glance to Malfoy and quickly trotted out the shop, Apparating home as soon as he set foot in the road.

*****

An hour later found Harry spread-eagled on his bed, completely naked with a dazed happy look on his face. His clothes were strewn all over the place and the jar of salve lay on the bed next to him, the lid screwed on crookedly. There were sticky white stains on the dark duvet and the unmistakable smell of sweat and semen in the air.

As soon as he had got home, Harry had applied the salve on his inflamed cock, rubbing it in until it was completely absorbed – just as Malfoy had told him to. Only he hadn’t stopped rubbing then; he had continued, in fact, until he had had two blissful irritation-free orgasms. It was amazing how much Harry had missed his cock, and it had only been a week! He was certainly glad to have it back. He gazed at it fondly as it lay limp and tired – but hopefully not for long.

Harry spent the whole of Saturday at home, only leaving to pick up some quick take-away for dinner. He spent his time dozing, listening to the Wizard Wireless, applying the salve twice more and making up for all the wanking he had missed out on in the past week. He found it only slightly worrisome that his fantasies consisted of a pale pointy school-yard rival turned into a deceivingly delicate-looking adult. He imagined long-fingered hands sliding over him, touching and teasing; sly grey eyes glittering through a curtain of blond as a head dipped and wicked pink lips opened to swallow him down.

*****

That night Harry dreamt. He was sitting by the lake at Hogwarts with Ginny; they were gazing over the water together. Her hand rested on his knee, only the fingers were longer than he remembered and there were no freckles. He absently carded his hand through her hair, which was oddly fine and silky and, when he turned to look, blond. Ginny turned ‘round and it wasn’t Ginny at all but Draco Malfoy who was sitting next to him, smiling his strange half-smile half-smirk. Harry lifted his hand to touch Malfoy but the other man had moved away. Harry got up to go to him but Malfoy constantly stayed out of reach, silent and unmoving with an odd half-smile on his lips.

Harry chased after Malfoy but could never catch up, not until they reached the gates of Malfoy Manor. Harry put his hand on the other man’s shoulder and together they stared at the silent house and its abandoned gardens until Malfoy turned around and looked at Harry with sad grey eyes. Harry opened his mouth to say something, but Malfoy disappeared and the house was no longer empty. Black-robed Death Eaters swarmed out of the house and into the garden. As they neared the gates, they fired off curses and hexes Harry’s way. Colourful flashes of light zinged past Harry, just missing him. Before he could react he was tackled to the ground by a large hard body. He turned his head and came face to face with a dirty and bloody Ron.

“Keep down!” Ron hissed, exasperated.

“We got it!” whispered Hermione excitedly from his other side.

Harry abruptly woke up, opening his eyes to the cold morning light slanting into his bedroom from the half closed curtains. He shook his head, as if that could get rid of the memories crowding his mind. That happened more often than he would like: random dreams turning into actual memories, and always unpleasant ones or ones from the war.

He stretched lazily and got up to peer out the window. It was a surprisingly sunny winter morning, the sun a sickly yellow hazy globe in the pale blue sky. Harry felt as if he should take advantage of the good weather and maybe leave the house – he had practically spent the whole Saturday cloistered inside, after all.

As he scrubbed his face under cold water to completely wake up and studied his stubbly chin in the mirror, wondering if he should bother shaving or not, slivers of his dream kept on creeping into his consciousness. He was spending far too much time thinking of Malfoy and his manor. But how could he not? Malfoy intrigued him and he couldn’t help being curious about what was going on with the manor. And if there was one thing Harry hated, it was leaving his curiosity unsatisfied.

Harry left the bathroom to get some breakfast, having decided he wouldn’t bother shaving. He had a sudden desire to visit Wiltshire. Why shave to go for a walk in the countryside? He had heard that Wiltshire was a county well worth visiting.

*****

Wiltshire was beautiful in the cold crisp air of the February morning. Green plains and hills spread into the misty distance as far as the eye could see. It was a chequered patchwork of rural villages, fields and pastures, each different coloured patch inscribed by low stone walls, trees or the dark tarmac of roads. Harry breathed in the damp fresh air as he leaned against a low wall and took in the view. In the distance he could see Muggle farmers in wellies and anoraks and fluffy white sheep grazing under the shade of ancient standing stones.

Harry remembered the ancient stones from the last time he visited Malfoy Manor. He had come here in the quest for Horcruxes, looking for clues. It was war time and the three of them were wild-eyed and exhausted, barely hanging on in quiet desperation. Nevertheless, they couldn’t help noticing the majestic stones in the fields, exuding power and a sense of place. Hermione wasn’t able to help herself from giving them a brief history of the place, for a moment excited and eager as if she had forgot the war and everything it entailed.

Now in the calm clear sunlight of a quiet Sunday morning, Harry could really look at the prospect spread out before him. In the not-silence of the English countryside he could feel the slight vibrations all wizards felt in magical places. In his mind’s eye he could fill in the gaps left by time and man and see the ghost of the shape that would have been etched out in the land that lay before him.

To his left rose the conical mount of Silbury Hill. The hill looked completely unprepossessing, its surface smooth and covered with grass and brambles, but it exuded the same thrum of energy and latent magic that so many other such landmarks did. To his right, not far from the source of the gurgling that merrily winded through the countryside, lay the ruins of a collapsed 17th century manor-house with crows’ nests in its fallen roofs and ivy climbing the crumbling walls. It looked like something out of a gothic romance. Harry found the theatricality of it oddly fitting.

Fixing his gaze on the ruined house, he steadily walked closer until he saw the tell-tale shimmer cover it and suddenly he could see Malfoy Manor. It was still an elegant and imposing 17th century mansion, only now one could see that until recently it had been lived in, and the garden tended to. The signs of neglect and the weeds overgrowing the garden were only six years old. Still, there remained a certain sadness in the air and a pervading foreboding atmosphere.

Harry stood for quite a while just outside the gates of the manor, studying it. The windows were covered with six years’ worth of grime; two on the left side of the second floor were broken. Birds had made nests on the balconies and Harry could make out marks and cracks on the walls from hexes thrown during the storming of Malfoy Manor that had taken place at the end of the war. He hadn’t been present at that battle, he had been miles away hunting down the final Horcrux, but he had heard the stories. It had been a vicious battle with many casualties on both sides. It still remained a mystery how Voldermort and a few of his choice Death Eaters had managed to escape the mansion without triggering the Anti-Apparition nets or the Portkey-tracking charms.

Now the gardens lay in partial ruin, their one time beauty and grandeur still apparent to the perceptive observer: rose bushes and clusters of lavender and lilies, trellises covered with creeping vines, fountains now run dry, and meandering pathways. Tall trees were swaying in the breeze, and in the distance Harry could even make out a half-collapsed gazebo. Harry thought the gardens were actually more impressive than the house itself. The house stood tall with a square and very masculine sort of English elegance, whereas the gardens were so much more vibrant and alive, full of colour in the spring and a certain whimsicalness. Harry wondered if Narcissa Malfoy had tended the gardens herself or if he was admiring the work of one of the family’s house-elves.

Carefully observing the house in front of him, Harry easily concluded that while the house itself seemed to have been left completely undisturbed for a number of years, the front pathway and the main door it led to had obviously been used recently. The lock on the front gate looked well-oiled too. Harry took out his wand to run a couple of scans on the gate for wards and other spells when a voice interrupted.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”


Harry quickly spun round to face the direction the familiar voice had come from. He had to squint, but now that he knew what he was looking for, he saw him. Not far to his right, hidden in the shade of an oak tree and thick bushes, and not to mention a particularly good concealment spell, Draco Malfoy slowly shimmered into view.

“Don’t just stand gaping like a giant lummox!” Malfoy hissed. “Slowly walk away in the other direction until those bushes over there hide you. I thought you were trained!”

Harry found himself at a loss for words, but decided to follow Malfoy’s order, or rather suggestion, just in case, and demand explanations later.

Once safely hidden from view of the Manor, Harry slowly counted twenty beats before pulling out his wand to cast a Disillusionment Charm over himself. Once he was comfortably camouflaged, he turned to find Malfoy.

“Very good,” a voice whispered in his ear. “I always thought you were a little too proficient at sneaking around. Now follow me.”

The high-handed attitude rather chafed Harry, but he obeyed anyway, albeit clenching his jaw in annoyance. He was now recalling what a bossy and overbearing brat Malfoy could be.

Harry followed Malfoy’s shimmering half-invisible form as he led him across fields, through brambles and past sheep droppings. The more Harry stared at the translucent form in front of him, the clearer it came into view, until in the end Harry was shocked to see that Malfoy was wearing Muggle clothes. Jeans, too! Harry thought as he intently inspected Malfoy’s scrawny jean-clad arse. It was obvious that Malfoy was bony and underfed and his hip-bones jutted out in sharp angles, but that didn’t stop Harry from swallowing thickly at the view.

The blond suddenly dodged behind a couple of tall bushes and Harry scrambled to follow, afraid that he would Apparate away before explaining his paranoid behaviour. Behind the bushes Harry found a fully corporeal jean-clad and mouse-haired Malfoy. Harry dropped his Disillusionment Charm and sputtered without thinking, “What happened to your hair?”

Malfoy raised a brown eyebrow – he had done a thorough job – before responding. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s this little thing called disguise, but it looks like an Auror like you wouldn’t know about that sort of thing.”

“I bloody well know what a disguise is Malfoy!” Harry snapped. “What I would like to know is why you found it necessary to disguise yourself as brown-haired Muggle to visit the countryside. I want to know what you’re up to.”

“Not here, follow me,” was all Malfoy said as once again he turned his back and strode away, leaving Harry jogging to catch up.

Malfoy led him past large standing stones resonating with energy and gawking Muggle tourists in the distance, towards a congregation of cottages in the centre of the ruined circle. One of those cottages turned out to be the Red Lion Inn and Malfoy promptly disappeared inside. Dutifully following, Harry stepped into the dimly lit pub to find the other man at the bar ordering himself a pint of beer.


Soon enough they were both ensconced in a corner table with a pint of the house ale in front of each.

Harry looked at Malfoy expectantly. “I’m all ears,” he told him.

Malfoy sort of smiled in response and lifted his glass to take a long sip that left him with a moustache of froth. Harry couldn’t help but stare, mesmerised as the blond’s pink tongue came out to lick his upper lip clean, leaving it glistening provocatively, or so Harry thought. Harry swallowed to clear his throat and managed not to sound too hoarse as he repeated his demand for explanations from Malfoy.

“You know, I could just as well demand that you explain yourself too,” the other man answered. “I would very much like to know why you decided to spend your Sunday gawking at my house. Is that what you do with your free time? Gaze at other people’s homes like some sort of homeless Vanquisher of Dark Lords? Or do you only pay that honour to the confiscated ones?” he finished bitterly.

Harry squashed his sudden urge to growl at him and settled for clenching his jaw. “Need I remind you that I am the Auror here, and thus the one in the position of power and the one with the ability to demand explanations?”

Malfoy shot him a nasty glare over his pint of ale but decided to finally answer Harry’s questions. “Obviously I was here to observe the manor. You must have reason to believe yourself that there is something off, or else you wouldn’t be here too. Of course I hardly think that the fact you are off duty is an excuse for you to stomp around like the epitome of clumsy curiosity, triggering Protective Wards and Alarm Charms. Merlin, Potter, was the Great Harry Potter, Glorious Defender of the Light and Destroyer of Evil Dark Wizards, deemed above lowly Auror training lessons?”

Harry growled low in his throat and glared daggers at Malfoy. It was almost just like Hogwarts. Only at Hogwarts Malfoy never looked this tired and thin, except for sixth year, and he certainly never wore worn Muggle jumpers that were slightly too large and gaped at the neck, revealing smooth white skin and sharp delicate bones. Harry suddenly felt very hot, and the completely uncalled for and ridiculous urge to lick Malfoy’s clavicle drowned out his anger. Harry took a deep breath and resolutely ignored inappropriate and distracting thoughts.

Fortunately Malfoy chose that moment to give a resigned sigh and commence speaking. “Well,” he began, “you must agree that even given the Ministry’s inefficiency and penchant for procrastination, six years is a ridiculous amount of time for the investigations on the manor to still be pending. Every other location investigated has long since been cleared and returned to the proper owners. And I am the owner of Malfoy Manor and all its grounds, it’s my rightful inheritance and the Ministry can’t seize it for payment for my father’s crimes.” At that Malfoy sat taller and glared indignantly at Harry, daring him to contradict him, spots of colour blooming on his high cheekbones. Harry just shrugged and nodded for Malfoy to continue.

“About three years ago I’d had enough. All I’d got from the Ministry were vague non-committal answers to my letters, and at the Office for the Investigation of Dark Artefacts and Locations the officers in charge of the investigation at the manor were never there. I did manage to get a name though, Clarence Brown.” Malfoy stopped his narrative to take a sip of his beer and tuck a strand of his fine temporarily brown hair behind his ear. So far he hadn’t really told Harry anything he didn’t already know, except for confirming his hunch that something fishy was going on and giving him another name to add to the two already he had.

“Anyway, as I said, I’d had enough so I finally decided to put a lawyer on the case – much good that it seems to be doing me,” Malfoy continued. “I even visited your friend Granger’s – or should I say Weasley’s? – department at the Ministry a couple of times. But it seems like equal treatment for all doesn’t extend to the likes of me,” he added bitterly.

Harry suddenly felt the need to defend his friend, but he was feeling rather non-confrontational and settled for a simple, “I’m sure Hermione’s department does the best they can.”

Malfoy lifted a doubting eyebrow but said nothing for a couple of seconds, giving Harry plenty of time to study his elegant pale hands as he tapped his fingers absently on the table-top. The fingertips might be stained, but the rest of his hands looked just a shade off from pure white, with ridiculously thin wrists and a criss-cross of clearly visible blue veins. Malfoy seemed to sense Harry’s gaze and stopped tapping to pull nervously at the frayed edge of his sleeve, making Harry look away guiltily.

Soon enough Malfoy started speaking again. “To continue with our narrative, getting a lawyer made them take me a bit more seriously, but has yielded no results so far. No positive results, that is.” At that Harry looked at him curiously and urged him to continue. “To keep the public satisfied, after my hearing the Wizengamot decided to put me under temporary supervision,” Malfoy explained. “The usual business of keeping track of my whereabouts and spell usage. I agreed at the time that they didn’t have much choice since the majority of the public was not persuaded that I was completely innocent. This supervision was to last a maximum of four years. It’s been five and not only have they not lifted it, but the new official in charge of my monthly check-ups is now almost over-zealously thorough in his job. Actually, lately it’s been more than not bordering on... intrusive.”

That certainly piqued Harry’s attention and he made a mental note to find out the name of the official and maybe have a talk with him. “Malfoy,” he said, however, interrupting the blond, “this is all very interesting and pertinent, I admit, but it is also longwinded. What I really want to know is why you were staked out outside the manor and what you hoped to find out. Do you actually have any evidence that something’s going on?”

Malfoy hmmfed, looking annoyed with Harry’s interruption, and scowled at him before speaking. “It’s pretty damn well obvious that something’s going on. For a start there’s the fact that no one seems to know anything about the manor except for the people in charge of the investigation, who can never be found. There’s the fact that they are obviously trying to silence and discredit me. Who will take the word of someone under strict surveillance and Restraining Spells seriously?”

That last shocked Harry. What Restraining Spells was Malfoy under, and why? If it was true, it seemed that Malfoy’s persecution complex was more than simple paranoia.

“What’s more,” Malfoy continued, “I know for a fact that the Dark Lord was conducting some rather unsavoury Dark Experiments in the underground network in the Malfoy grounds, a fact that has been kept strangely silent. And finally I know for a fact that the manor shows signs of being regularly visited. You’re an Auror,” he sneered at Harry, “don’t tell me you didn’t see that the manor had been visited within the past week by more than one person?”

Harry couldn’t disagree with any of those statements. Malfoy was right and things did look awfully suspicious. Harry had suspected (quite often correctly) conspiracies with less evidence to go on than this.


They didn’t stay much longer at the pub. Harry only offered Malfoy short noncommital answers to his questions, making the blond annoyed and snappish. He did promise, though, to send an owl if he came across anything important or conclusive. He hoped that Malfoy didn’t notice he had his fingers crossed under the table.

Once back home Harry flopped onto his old lumpy sofa and stretched widely. He couldn’t help smiling to himself. He felt contented. It was not only Malfoy’s heady presence that left him feeling slightly drunk, it was also the promise of a mystery to solve – a real mystery out of the confines of his job and restricting Ministry regulations – that made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t felt in a while.

Harry wasn’t planning on owling Malfoy. Really, he wasn’t. Any thoughts he had to the contrary were just the idle daydreams of a bored mind. Harry sucked on the end of his quill and stared at the stain on the wall as he imagined owling Malfoy and asking him to meet in the evening after work. Harry would choose a small Muggle pub where they would sit at a corner table. Malfoy would be wearing the same stone-washed jeans and the same faded blue-green Muggle jumper that would slide off his shoulder. Malfoy’s eyes would be wide and grey and his lips wet and half-open as he listened intently to what Harry had to say.

Only... only, Harry didn’t have anything to say. So, actually, even if he were thinking of owling Malfoy – which he wasn’t – he didn’t have anything to tell the man.

Harry looked at his watch. Two o’clock. A very good time to take a lunch break and see if he could get any gossip or information. When Harry had actually thought about it he had realised that he hardly even saw Timple and Merryweather around Auror Headquarters, but had never really wondered about it. On Monday he had asked Kingsley, always up to date on all the office politics, about it. The other man had just shrugged.

“A while back the Office for the Investigation of Dark Artefacts and Locations asked for a number of Aurors to help them with their investigations. Timple and Merryweather are still working for them.”

“Doing what?” Harry asked. “Surely the investigations must all be over by now.”

“I assume they are. However, a case is not officially closed until all the reports have been filled in and filed, in triplicate, and the Office for the Investigation of Dark Artefacts and Locations is even more remiss than you at concluding its paperwork,” Kinsgley said with a smirk. “I don’t believe that the Office has closed even half of its cases yet. By the way, Harry, how is your paperwork going?”

“Fine, fine,” Harry answered, scowling. “Practically finished. Just need to put a couple of finishing touches.”

Now, a day later, Harry could finally say that he had completely and truly finished all his reports. Thus he felt no guilt whatsoever in taking a well earned lunch break.


There was a small Italian Muggle cafe not far from the Ministry that Hermione favoured. Sometimes she claimed it was the cappuccino, others their simple pasta dishes and yet others the comforting anonymity of being amongst Muggles that drew her here. This was where, predictably, she and Harry found themselves taking their lunch break.

“This lasagne is divine! I’m so glad you found me. It’s been too long since we last had a plain lunch together,” Hermione told Harry in between bites of pasta. “I know it’s mostly my fault. The department’s simply been swamped these last weeks! How about you? Any news?”

“No, not really. Haven’t been given any assignments lately… the paperwork, you see. But it’s all finished now and I predict things are finally going to get less boring at work,” Harry answered while playing with his food. “So what have you been working on lately?”

That proved to be a bad question to ask. After quickly looking around the cafe to make sure the coast was clear, Hermione excitedly launched into a half-hour long diatribe on the complexities of human-centaur relations and the new breakthroughs that her department managed to achieve. It seemed all very interesting and probably very important too, but Harry quickly became quite distracted. He silently chewed on his pasta whilst nodding in encouragement or humming in approval when it seemed necessary. In the meantime, in the back of his mind he couldn’t help thinking about the fact Malfoy had visited Hermione’s department and wondering if his friend knew anything helpful in regard to what Harry had dubbed ‘the Malfoy case’.

Eventually Hermione ran out of things to say and stopped to take a deep breath. She smiled sheepishly at Harry before speaking again. “Well, that’s enough about me. What about you?”

“Well...” Harry began, wondering how to phrase what was on his mind. “You mentioned a couple of days ago that Malfoy had visited your office. Um... I’m researching a case that... um... seems to be sort of relevant... and it would really help me if you could tell me all you know about Malfoy.”

Hermione frowned, looking puzzled. “What could Malfoy’s case be relevant to? It does sound rather odd.”

Harry squirmed a bit. He hated lying to Hermione, he really did. But it was necessary in this case, there was no way out of it. “Unfortunately I can’t tell you. It’s confidential Auror business. You know I’d tell you if I could, don’t you?”

“Yes, all right then. Just let me remember...” Hermione adopted a thoughtful expression as she obviously tried to recollect as much as she could. “There really isn’t much more to say that I haven’t already told you. Malfoy had started a court proceeding trying to reclaim his inheritance. His inheritance consisted of a couple of Gringotts accounts and a number of properties – chief of which is his family estate in Wiltshire. I told him that there was no chance of him getting the Malfoy money, as that had been seized in payment for his father’s crimes. On the other hand, I couldn’t understand why they had also frozen his mother’s account, seeing as she was never accused of any crimes. As for the properties, only the Manor was under serious – and warranted – scrutiny by the Office for the Investigation of Dark Artefacts and Locations. My department saw no reason for them not to be returned to him after the conclusion of the investigations. He had been acquitted of all crimes, after all.”

Hermione stopped to finish the last of her lasagne. Harry, who was avidly following her narrative, nodded impatiently for her to continue. Which she did, eventually.

“Anyway, we did a bit of research and sent a couple of letters about the case, but nothing came of it. It seems like no one knew anything, and no one was particularly interested. I tried several times to get in touch with the Office for the Investigation of Dark Artefacts and Locations, but the person in charge, a certain Clarence Brown, was never available. It was all very exasperating. Ministry incompetence at its worst. One day Malfoy came to the office in an awful huff. He accused us of not helping him in the least, of making things more difficult for him. From what I understood, his monthly check-ups, instead of being discontinued, as he had expected after the passage of his four year probation period, had been made more stringent, and he laid the blame for that on us. I asked around and found that that was truly the case. He had been assigned a new officer – a young wizard named Mark Merryweather – who proved not only over-zealous in his duty, but also most uncooperative when I tried to talk to him.”

Harry had started on hearing the name. Things seemed to be getting more and more curious, and he certainly doubted it was a coincidence.

“In any case,” Hermione continued, “nominally we are still working on Malfoy’s case, but I am sorry to say that due to the difficulties it has been relegated to the low priority pile...”

Harry had hoped that Hermione would have proved more helpful – he had grown too used to her knowing all the answers. One thing she did tell him was that Malfoy’s monthly check-ups took place first thing in the morning on the last working day of each month. Harry made a note not to miss this month’s one, which was to be this Friday.


Once back in the office, he handed in his huge pile of reports with a sigh of relief and decided to undertake some surreptitious snooping. The Ministry’s personnel files were always amazingly detailed, and it never proved too hard for a trained Auror to sneak in and leaf through them.

Harry was not in the least surprised to find that Mark Merryweather was in fact Auror Marjorie Merryweather’s younger brother, who after a number of lower Ministry positions was promoted to probation officer the yearw22; no, the month, actually, he had taken on Malfoy. What Harry did find interesting, however, was that Auror Merryweather’s partner, Auror Thadeus Timple and Clarence Brown from the infamous Office for the Investigation of Dark Artefacts and Locations had both been Ravenclaws and had graduated the very same year. In Harry’s books there was no such thing as a simple innocent coincidence.

That night was a pub night.

*******

Harry groaned as he stumbled out the Floo into the overly bright Ministry Atrium. His stomach gave a dangerous lurch, as if it wanted to empty itself of Harry’s non-existent breakfast. Holding his head carefully, in case it fell off, Harry made his way to the lifts, wincing at the far too chirpy and loud voice of the announcer. He was late, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. All he knew was that he desperately needed coffee. Harry made a note to himself to check his hang-over potion before pub night next time.

Once in Auror Headquarters he made a bee-line for the coffee room, thanking magic for never-emptying coffee pots. He was carefully pouring himself a cup when a cheery voice startled him.

“There you are, Harry! I thought I saw your grumpy face sleepwalking by my cubicle. Tough night?”

Harry scowled and merely grunted in response. Tonks had startled him into spilling a sizeable amount of the precious liquid onto the tabletop, and he wasn’t feeling up to a cleaning charm.

“I see you ran out of hang-over potion,” Tonks continued, showing no compassion. “Bad idea, that.” When Harry just grunted in response again, she gave up on conversation. “I’ll talk to you later then, when you’re a bit more lucid. See you!”

In the blessed silence of her departure, Harry took a seat at the table, cradling his mug. He was busy inhaling his coffee and enjoying the sensation of the fog in his brain slowly dissipating, when Merryweather walked in. Sometimes Harry just could not believe his bad luck!

“Hullo, Potter,” she said pleasantly enough as she poured herself some coffee. “How are you?”

“’M ‘kay,” Harry mumbled, his voice slightly hoarse.

“You don’t sound okay.”

Harry cleared his throat with purpose and concentrated on enunciating clearly. “It’s nothing that can’t be cured by a cup, or two, or three, of coffee.” After pausing for a deep breath to steady his wobbly head, he manfully ploughed on. “How are you? Don’t see you around here too often.”

Merryweather shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m fine, thanks. You know how it is: cases and what-not.”

“Auror cases?” Harry asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Mmm... you know... Ministry stuff. The Office for the Investigation of Dark Artefacts and Locations has us busy traipsing around the countryside,” she answered vaguely. “Will you look at the time? Got to run, no rest for the wicked and all that!”

And with that she was gone.

Harry groaned weakly and let his head hit the table. So much for his marvellous questioning technique! Damn his hang-over.


The day went downhill from there. Robards informed him that he had received Harry’s finished reports but would reserve judgement until he had actually read them. He added that since Harry could now undertake active duty again, he could take the case of the dispute between an old deaf witch, her pet kneazle and the dryad from next-door that strangely enough no one had taken yet. If Harry had known that this awaited him upon his return to active duty, he would not have been so eager to finish his reports. The case was predictably mind-numbingly boring and aggravating. By the time he had settled the dispute – why this was an Auror’s job truly was beyond him – he had a raging headache and could barely restrain himself from hexing all the participants and landing a good kick at the kneazle for extra measure. And to top it all off, he had missed lunch.

After grabbing a quick sandwich and headache potion at the office, Harry had no qualms about putting off the report till later and leaving the office early. He had a serious hunch and he had wasted enough of his day already on a case that should have been turned down by the Auror division. Upon reaching one of the Ministry Apparition rooms he Apparated away without a second thought.


When Harry blinked back into existence, he was met by the familiar sight of the turrets of Hogwarts in the distance. Harry sighed. He was particularly fond of the old building and it never failed to create a warm feeling in his chest whenever he visited. This was not a social visit, however. Harry had come to research and soon enough he found himself in the all too familiar library, greeting an older but still sour-faced Madam Pince.


It didn’t take long for Harry to find what he was looking for, and it certainly helped that he knew exactly where to look – the class of 1995-1996 yearbook. There, just as he had expected, in the Ravenclaw seventh year group photograph, he found a grinning younger Thadeus Timple almost as tall as he now was, with one arm slung over a rotund youth with blue eyes, who predictably proved to be Clarence Brown, and the other slung over a thin pale looking boy with shifty eyes, who after a bit of research Harry identified as Aloysius Hobson.

Feeling a lot better about himself, after having been proven right, Harry jovially bid good evening to the librarian on the way out and headed home to get ready for dinner at Ron and Hermione’s.

******

The Ministry hallways were completely deserted as Harry hurried to his destination. It was early Friday morning, very early, twenty to eight to be exact. He didn’t think he had ever been at the Ministry this early. But Harry was rushing down the narrow hallway with a specific purpose. Near the end he finally found a door clearly annotated “Mark Merryweather”. He stopped and carefully opened the door after casting an advanced unlocking spell.

The office was very small and cramped, with drawers and shelves over-flowing with folders and papers. Finding a convenient corner with a half-wilted potted plant, Harry carefully placed a small object obscured from view by the shade of the pot and then, as an extra precaution, placed a notice-me-not charm on it.

Afterwards he locked the door again and fairly sprinted to his own office, adrenaline thrumming through his veins. The small stone he had placed in Merryweather’s office had been charmed with a very specialised – and very illegal without a written permit from the Chief Auror or the Minister of Magic – Eavesdropping Charm. Harry could get fired for this, so it was a good thing he wasn’t planning on getting caught.

Once safely ensconced in his cubicle, he closed and locked his door before casting a privacy ward. Only then did he sit at his desk and let out a long breath, trying to get the beating of his heart back under control. On the desk in front of him, he placed another small stone – the twin of the first. Every Auror owned a pair of these magical stones – a pair he himself made during third year Auror training. Harry had found it amusing to transfigure both of his into stone beetles. When a fellow Auror had asked him about it, Harry had only chuckled and mentioned something about bugs and eavesdropping beetles.

It was now five to eight and it seemed a good time to tap the stone beetle on his desk with his wand and murmur, “Connectere Geminus!” A few seconds later a misty image of Merryweather’s office was projected above the slightly glowing stone. A mousy, completely unprepossessing man was in the room, humming and shuffling papers.

At eight o’clock exactly, there was a rap on the door of the projected office. Merryweather straightened up his papers once more and fiddled with the collar of his robes briefly before shouting out, “Enter!”

Malfoy entered the room and stood tall and stiff at the door for a couple of seconds with a look of distaste on his face. Then he closed the door behind him and walked over to the desk, gracefully lowering himself into the visitor’s chair.

“Good morning,” greeted Merryweather.

“Yours might be, but mine just took a turn for the worse,” Malfoy murmured snidely.

Harry snorted in amusement - in some ways Malfoy hadn’t really changed after all. Even though nominally Merryweather was in the position of power, sitting opposite the proud blond he looked even more mousy and insignificant than before. On the other hand, Malfoy sat regally with his back ram-rod straight and his head thrown back like a thoroughbred horse, a thoroughbred that suddenly Harry coveted more than he had ever coveted anything before.

“Let’s get down to business then,” the officer snapped, trying to take control of the situation.

“Yes, let’s,” Malfoy drawled, lazily arching an eyebrow. Neatly and with no fuss he drew out his wand and handed it, handle first, to the other man.

Merryweather looked it over, cast a couple of spells to make sure it hadn’t been tampered with in any way and then placed it in a peculiar contraption he had on his desk. It looked like some sort of bizarre candlestick-holder with cogs and wheels at its base. Merryweather turned a dial at the base all the way from ‘only serious Dark Spells’ to ‘ridiculously thorough’ and pulled down a small lever and the cogs started to turn, sending out small sparks. A thin reedy disembodied voice started intoning the names of spells and a Quick-Quotes Quill on the desk took it all down. The process was slow and boring and very very intrusive.

Malfoy sighed and affected a put-upon air. “Must we?” he asked. “Does the Ministry really need to know what flavour Toothbrush Spell I use and how often I cast Lubricating Charms?”

Obviously the Ministry did. It turned out that Malfoy preferred peppermint Toothbrush Spells and cast Lubricating Charms quite often. The last made Harry flush a dull red as a number of rather arousing images it conjured ran through his mind.

The odd contraption droned on and on, listing mostly mundane everyday spells. Harry felt himself grow cross-eyed with boredom whilst the misty reproduction of Malfoy drummed his fingers on the desk with an aggrieved expression on his face.

When the list of spells finally came to an end, Harry was surprised to note that the Glamour Charm and Concealment Spell Malfoy had used on Sunday weren’t mentioned. Now, that was interesting.

“Now we come to the highlight of the morning,” Harry heard Malfoy say as he returned his attention back to the pair.

“Yes,” answered Merryweather with a smile at the other man’s expense. “Go on then, drink up.”

Malfoy sighed and rolled his eyes in a melodramatic fashion and then picked up and drank the glass of water (and diluted Veritaserum, Harry was sure) in one big gulp.

Merryweather picked up a quill and cleared his throat. “Now will you please list all the places you went and all the people you met with since the last time you were here.”

The blond took a deep breath and commenced reciting in a flat monotonous voice. “Saturday 31st of January was sick, stayed home. Sunday 1st of February, got up late, went for a walk in the countryside, returned home. Monday 2nd of February, went to work, returned home. Tuesday 3rd of February, went to work, returned home. Wednesday 4th of February, went to work, had lunch with Theodore Nott at the Frog and Toadstool, returned to work, returned home...”

Harry couldn’t believe this! Malfoy was listing everywhere he went and everyone he met in the past month. This interview just kept on getting more pointless and needlessly prying in Harry’s opinion.

“...Saturday 7th of February, went for a walk in the countryside, went to Theodore Nott’s nightclub, met more people than I can remember, returned home. Sunday 8th of February, got up very very late, stayed home...”

Merlin, was this boring! Suddenly Harry remembered meeting Malfoy in Wiltshire. Was he going to get out of mentioning that the same way his wand hadn’t shown the spells he had cast?

“...Wednesday 11th of February, went to work, had lunch with Theodore Nott and Vincent Crabbe at the Frog and Toadstool, returned to work...”

It seemed like Malfoy liked a routine.

“Thursday 12th of February, went to work, returned home. Friday 13th of February, went to work, returned home, went for a drink at the Wandering Werewolf with Adam Humphrey, Vincent Crabbe, Millicent Bulstrode and a number of other people, returned home late. Saturday 14th of February, got up late, went for a walk in the countryside, returned home, went to the Brass Wand...”

The Brass Wand? What was Malfoy doing there? That was a well known Wizarding gay club! Not that Harry had ever been there, it was far too conspicuous and brash for his tastes. He preferred the far more discreet and classy Unicorn, which was also exclusive enough that Malfoy wouldn’t be able to get in. Harry’s head was spinning with what this could mean.

“...stayed till late, went home with Jerome something or other...” Malfoy continued almost cheerfully as he gave Merryweather, who was looking a little ill, a wicked grin.

“Just continue,” he barked out, “I certainly don’t want to hear about that!”

“...stayed up till very late doing all manners of things with Jerome...” Malfoy went on, evidently amusing himself, “...didn’t return home till Sunday midday. Sunday 15th of February, stayed at home. Monday 16th of February, went to work, returned home. Tuesday....”

Harry could hardly concentrate on what Malfoy was saying past the buzzing in his ears. Malfoy was gay! Malfoy went to clubs and then went home with men called Jerome with whom he did all manners of things. Harry’s overactive imagination helpfully supplied him with all sorts of detailed images of what that could mean. He felt himself grow hard and strangely a bit resentful of these Jeromes. With great difficulty he clenched his hands and kept them on the desk to stop them from wandering.

“...Sunday 22nd of February, went for a walk in the countryside, had a beer with an old acquaintance, went home...” The sneaky bastard! He got away with it by calling Wiltshire ‘the countryside’ and Harry ‘an old acquaintance’ - that last sounded rather too dismissive, Harry was not a simple old acquaintance! It certainly helped that Merryweather was a hopeless incompetent who didn’t know the first thing about Veritaserum interrogations and let Malfoy get away such vague descriptions.

“...Wednesday 25th of February, went to work, had lunch with Theodore Nott at the Frog and Toadstool, returned to work. Thursday 26th of February, went to work, returned home. And Friday 27th of February, visited Mr Merryweather at the Ministry, went to work and returned home.” Malfoy finally finished with a sarcastic flourish.

“Very good,” said Merryweather, on whom sarcasm was obviously wasted. “Now stand over there please.”

Malfoy obediently stood in the middle of the room with an obviously feigned expression of boredom as the other man prodded him with various strange implements, peered at him through a number of crystals and glasses and ran all sort of diagnostic spells over him.

When he finished at last, he nodded to Malfoy. “All ready then. Everything seems in order. Have a good day and see you next month.”

“Always a pleasure, I’m sure,” sneered Malfoy before exiting the office with a billow of robes.

Harry cancelled the Eavesdropping Spell and sat back in his chair, twirling his wand. That had certainly been... boring and very enlightening. But it was also intrusive and humiliating. He could definitely see why Malfoy resented it.


Try as he might, Harry couldn’t stop his thoughts from straying to what he had just learned about Malfoy. The knowledge that Malfoy was gay made the blood rush through his veins at a dizzying speed and a strange sensation – that he stubbornly refused to name as hope – bloom in his stomach. What’s more, the thought of the blond picking up strange men in bars aroused Harry more than it ought to. He let his legs fall apart as he lounged back in his chair and slid slightly down the seat. Harry had been hard ever since he had heard Malfoy tell Merryweather about the Jerome fellow. Now as he relaxed and let his thoughts roam as they would, he felt his erection growing harder and throbbing against the hard seam of his trousers.

It wasn’t difficult to imagine Malfoy in the tight faded jeans of the Sunday in Wiltshire and an even tighter light-coloured t-shirt, swaying to the music in a half lit club, alone amongst a sea of bodies. But not alone for long, because Harry could be there. It was true that he hated this sort of loud club, over-crowded and with the nauseating smell of sour sweat and lust in the air, but for Malfoy he could be there. He could quietly sit in the corner sipping his drink under a heavy glamour – it wouldn’t do to get recognised, even for Malfoy – as he watched the other man.

Eventually watching would no longer be enough and he’d finish his drink to confidently make his way through the throng till he reached Malfoy’s side. Once there, he would finally lay his hands on those slim hips and bring their bodies closer. Malfoy would open his eyes, so grey and big and so close to Harry all of a sudden, to look Harry over. Obviously he would like what he saw – Harry’s glamour would be good, he’d make himself look strong and handsome, like someone Malfoy would find attractive – and he would smirk flirtatiously and begin swaying against Harry’s body.

Harry’s breath became heavy and laboured as he rhythmically pressed the heel of his hand against the hot hardness in his trousers. His fantasy was alluring and he could easily make it happen. He could feel that slim body against his, taste the wetness of the tantalising mouth. He could lead Malfoy to a dark corner, press him against a hard wall. He could...

“I’m looking for Harry Potter. Is that his office over there?” Malfoy’s voice cut through the haze of Harry’s imaginings.

“Yes, that’s his office, but I haven’t seen Harry today,” Angelina’s smooth voice replied. “I don’t think he has come in yet. He does tend to run a little late sometimes... You could wait, or leave a message with one of the secretaries.

Malfoy was outside his office! Harry’s erection continued to throb and demand attention, but Harry ignored it. He snatched up his wand and cancelled the privacy ward before stumbling out of his chair to unlock the door and throw it open.

“I’m here,” he announced, slightly breathless.

Angelina creased her brow but said nothing. Malfoy on the other hand, raised his eyebrows and looked Harry over carefully.

“Yes, you are,” he finally said.

Harry felt his neck grow warm as he realised what a sight he presented: rumpled, slightly flushed, he only hoped that his robes adequately hid his erection, which despite his embarrassment still hadn’t subsided.

“I was in my office... working on something,” he tried to explain, “but you can come in. Come in.”

“Thank you,” Malfoy answered coolly and turned to thank Angelina before entering Harry’s cubicle and closing the door behind him. Harry hid behind the safety of his desk and sat back down in his chair.

“What would you like to talk about?” he asked.

“You know what I want to talk about,” Malfoy answered. He was direct and intense, looking Harry in the eye as he spoke. There was none of the condescension and sarcasm he had shown around Merryweather, and Harry was glad. “It’s been four days. Not that I actually believed you when you said that you would inform me of any discoveries. But it’s been four days and I was in the neighbourhood...”

Harry shrugged. “It’s not like I don’t have a lot of work to do. Proper Auror business, you know. I haven’t really found anything out,” he said while wondering if there was a way to keep Malfoy in his office without actually offering him any information.

Malfoy looked better than the last times he had seen him. He was still thin and tired looking, but his hair was blond and freshly washed and well-combed. It hung loose around his face, gleaming in the light and looking amazingly soft. He was also wearing a much better robe, old and worn but of obvious quality, meticulously clean and neat.

“I don’t believe you,” Malfoy retorted. “I know you also think something is going on. I know you, and I can tell when you’re curious, when you think you have a mystery to solve. And you will solve it, because you are like that, like a particularly stubborn dog with a bone.” His eyes were gleaming and his face shone with a strange sort of intensity as he leaned forward on the desk and spoke.

All Harry could think was, Malfoy likes men. He likes touching them and kissing them and shagging them. With great strength of will he stopped himself from reaching down and stroking his erection, which had not gone down for a single minute.

“I am also aware that you know more than you let on,” Malfoy continued. He licked his lips and Harry was immediately drawn by the pink tongue that briefly darted out. His breath caught. What would happen if he leaned forward and met Malfoy’s glistening lips with his own? Surely Malfoy wouldn’t deny him, would he?

Malfoy had paused and was looking at him as if it was his turn to speak, but he couldn’t for the life of him think of what he should say. Malfoy cocked his head and slightly narrowed his eyes. Harry forced his brain to stop thinking of kissing the other man and to come up with something to say.

“Malfoy, what do you want?” he finally managed to say steadily, albeit slightly hoarsely.

“What do I want? I want your assistance. That’s what brave hero-types like yourself do, isn’t it? Slay dragons and save damsels in distress. Even though I could find you a serpent, I’m certainly not a damsel, but I am in a fair bit of distress. So I want you to do your hero stuff and save the day, and hopefully get me my manor back!”

“Why would I care about your manor?” Harry asked, even though, truth be told, he wasn’t opposed to getting it returned to Malfoy if it made the blond happy.

“You might not care about me or my manor, but you care about fairness, don’t you? And I know you care about Dark goings on...”

That certainly dragged Harry’s attention out of the gutter and away from the smooth line of Malfoy’s throat, and on to the matter at hand.

“Dark goings on, Malfoy?”

“Yes, Potter,” Malfoy answered with a self-satisfied smirk. He knew that he had won Harry’s unequivocal attention now. “I know you want to save the day and solve the mystery and stop Dark Acts from taking place and catch the villains. And to accomplish that you will need information, information which I will give to you... for a price.”

“For a price?” Harry sputtered. “Isn’t getting your home back enough?”

“Potter, there is no such thing as enough. I will give you information in exchange for... information.”

“You are the one in need here, Malfoy,” Harry answered indignantly. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“But you will.” Malfoy gave Harry a sly smile and sidelong glance that bordered on flirtatious and Harry couldn’t stop himself from slightly flushing and clenching his hands to stop them from wandering under his desk.

“I propose we meet on Sunday at two at the Cherhill White Horse. Unless, of course, you’d rather not,” Malfoy added.

“Yes, I’ll meet you,” Harry rushed to answer.

“Good.”

Having won some sort of victory, Malfoy sat back, looking pleased with himself, and let his eyes roam over Harry’s miniscule office and untidy desk. Suddenly his eyes flashed with curiosity and with one swift movement he snatched something off Harry’s desk.

“What’s this now?” he seemed to ask himself as he peered at the object. It was the stone beetle. Harry gulped, suddenly nervous for a very different reason. “Heavily charmed too, by the feel of it,” Malfoy continued. “I bet it’s some sort of top secret Auror artefact. Rather careless of you to leave it lying around, wouldn’t you say?”

Harry kept quiet. Knowing Malfoy, it would be a singularly bad idea to let on how very much he wanted the stone back.

“It is rather a good likeness of an old mutual acquaintance of ours. Is that purely coincidental?” Malfoy went on light-heartedly as Harry held his breath.

The blond playfully tossed the stone in the air, but before he could catch it again, Harry had moved lightning fast and caught it from right under his nose. Malfoy gave Harry a look eloquent of how impressed he was and Harry couldn’t help smiling smugly.

“Well then,” Malfoy said as he rose from his chair, “I’ll be bidding you a good day. Don’t forget about Sunday.” And with that he was gone.

Harry leaned back in his chair and with a sigh of relief finally pulled up his robe and undid the buttons on his trousers. His erection was still as hard as ever and he no longer cared about propriety, all he wanted was relief.


On the way to the lifts, Draco Malfoy couldn’t stop a smug, and somewhat calculating, smirk from breaking out. It was a good thing that there was no one to see it.

Sunday came around swiftly. Before Harry knew it, he had spent far too long wondering what to wear for a simple meeting and it was practically two o’clock already. Not wanting to be late, he made a split second decision and pulled on a pair of blue jeans and a black jumper he hoped made him look sophisticated, before grabbing his coat. Holding his wand tightly, he closed his eyes and concentrated on his destination: Cherhill White Horse in Wiltshire.


Upon opening his eyes again, Harry was surprised to find himself on the slope of a rolling hill with a glorious vista of Wiltshire countryside spread out in front of him. True, the place was beautiful, even though the sky was overcast and it looked like rain, but Harry still wondered why Malfoy wanted to meet in Wiltshire, again.


Looking around he saw an old stone fort above him, great grey stones covered in moss and mildew, and in the distance he could make out the oddly geometrical shape of Silbury Hill. So far there were no white horses in sight.


Malfoy was already there; he was sitting on a stone to Harry’s left and gazing out over the land in front of him with a wistful expression on his face. After taking a couple of seconds to take in the still figure in front of him, Harry called out a greeting and Malfoy turned around to acknowledge him.


“Where’s the White Horse, then?” Harry asked as he jogged over to the reclining figure.


Malfoy smirked at him, his eyes crinkling in the corners with amusement. “You’re standing on it,” he said.


Harry looked down to find himself standing on white chalk rather than grass. He quickly moved off the white surface to stand next to Malfoy. Looking up the hillside, he realised he had been standing on the slim leg of a large white horse carved into the hillside. All in all it was rather impressive. Trust Malfoy to set a meeting place like this.


“I though the White Horse was a pub,” Harry said, slightly shamefaced.


Malfoy stood up and stretched himself, his form tracing a lean bow in the crisp air. “Come on then,” he said, "let’s get a beer. The pub’s called the Black Horse.” He bestowed his strange half-smirk half-smile on Harry and began confidently leading the way.


Harry was very pleased to note that he was wearing the same tight jeans as last week, even if they were hidden under a long black coat. Malfoy was also wearing a soft grey scarf. Reflectively Harry noted that it was rather chilly and he had forgotten his own at home. He lifted the lapels of his coat, hoping it would warm him somewhat.


Malfoy led them down the hill and across some muddy fields, miraculously managing to keep his own shoes pristine while Harry got mud all up the legs of his trousers, before finally leading them to a Muggle road and the promised pub. Harry couldn’t help but find it strange that for a second time the pure-blood wizard was choosing a Muggle establishment.



The pub was cosy and warm and in the corner a group of locals were playing billiards. Malfoy looked around speculatively and unwound his scarf before turning to Harry. “Are you hungry?” he asked.


Actually, now that Harry thought about it, he was. They both ended up ordering a plate of food to go with their pint before heading for a small table in a quiet corner.


They sat for a couple of minutes in companionable silence, sipping their beers. Malfoy seemed content to just sit without speaking, but after a while Harry started fidgeting. His attention kept on straying to the blond’s thin wrists and high cheekbones and he wondered if Malfoy had gone to the Brass Wand the night before. If he had been taken home by a strange man, or if rather they had gotten off, fast and dirty, in the dark bathrooms. Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair, undecided if he was more aroused or irritated at the thought. Saturday night he had actually considered going to the Brass Wand, but then he had ruthlessly tamped down on that unlikely thought and Floo-called Ron and Patrick, his occasional partner from the Auror corps, for a boys’ night out instead. Now he couldn’t help wondering what would have happened if he had gone after all, if Malfoy would have been there...


“You seem to like spending your Sundays in Wiltshire,” Harry said suddenly in an effort to break off his train of thought.


Malfoy shot him a sharp glance. “They do say there’s no place like home, don’t they?” he replied. “I can’t help but feel that the grass is greener, the beer frothier and the Muggles more palatable in my home county.”


Harry wrinkled his brow. “I wouldn’t say I particularly miss Surrey or feel any particular desire to return.”


“Were the Potters from Surrey then?” Malfoy asked, sounding vaguely curious.


“My mother’s sister lived in Surrey. I lived with her family.”


“My family’s lived here since they first came to Britain with the Normans,” Malfoy said proudly. “The manor itself is not all that old, it was only built in the seventeenth century. It was built, however, in the place of the original Malfoy manor-house, keeping the original cellars and dungeons underneath the house intact.”


Looking at Malfoy speak about his house, Harry got some small inkling of what the other man felt about his ancestral home and why he was fighting so hard to get it back.


“In the Malfoy Estate,” Malfoy continued, “I feel a kind of belonging and power I can sense nowhere else, and it is due to more than the generations of my ancestors that have passed through, investing the house and the land with their spirit. Much more than simply that.”


Harry couldn’t help feeling a pang of jealousy. He himself knew next to nothing of his family and ancestors. “How so?” he asked, eager to learn more.


Malfoy stared at his beer for a moment, considering his response. “When you visited the manor, didn’t you feel the energy in the area? By Silbury Hill, the stone circle and other places?”


Harry nodded. It was impossible for a witch or wizard not to feel the undercurrents of inanimate, but deep and ancient, magic and energy that suffused various areas, and was particularly strong in this part of Wiltshire.


“There is a strong line of earth magic that runs through here all the way to Cornwall. The ancient wizards and Druids felt it and built the sacred stone circle and the Hill and then the Barrows. With their festivals and rites they invested even more power into the land. When my ancestors visited the area, they were immediately drawn by the latent power of the land.” Malfoy paused to give a wry smirk before adding, ”My family has always been attracted to power. Malfoy Manor was built exactly on top of that strong line of earth magic. It was not uncommon practice for the old pureblood families to try and build their houses close to areas of natural magic, or above what Muggles call ley lines. The magic of the land augments the spells cast to enhance and enchant the structure of the house as well as those to ward and protect the estate.”


The waiter arrived with their food and Malfoy paused in his narrative. He sat for a while with a faraway look in his eyes as he absently circled the rim of his glass with a potion-stained index finger. Harry was entranced, he was being offered a privileged insight into the other man’s heritage. Looking at him now, a sad slim figure dressed in Muggle clothes that had seen better days, Harry suddenly hoped that he could be the hero to Malfoy’s ‘damsel in distress’.


“Growing up in such a place,” Malfoy wistfully continued, “is literally quite magical. As a small child, one is even more attuned and sensitive to the magic surrounding one and radiating out of the soil in pulsing waves. The feeling is... comfortable and pleasant. One feels safe and at home. One feels connected. At Hogwarts the place magic was very strong, you surely felt it?” Harry nodded affirmatively. “Only every place feels different, and no matter what positive feelings Hogwarts engendered, it could never be home,” Malfoy finished.



Having said that, Malfoy fell silent, his eyes gazing at some imaginary point far away as he picked at his food. After a couple of moments, he visibly pulled himself back together and turned sharp eyes to Harry.


“That’s enough of that,” he said. “Idle reminiscing will not get anything done. Are you going to help me or not?”


“Would I be here if I wasn’t interested in getting to the bottom of the matter?” Harry answered, slightly annoyed.


“Good. I assume you have already done some poking about. What have you found out?” Malfoy demanded without preamble.


Harry leaned back in his chair and eyed the other man. “What I’m actually more interested in is that information on Dark activity you mentioned the other day,” he said, sidestepping Malfoy’s question.


“Forever the virtuous Auror and defender of society,” Malfoy sneered but at Harry’s insistent gaze he spoke again. “As I said, the manor is situated very advantageously magically and energy-wise. Permanent Charms and Magical Artefacts that draw energy from the location are amplified to an impressive degree. What’s more, there is a very convenient well-hidden underground maze of dungeons and catacombs underneath the manor. The Dark Lord would have been a fool not to take advantage of it.”


The blond paused for breath and absentmindedly pulled on a stray thread at the sleeve of his jumper, immediately drawing Harry’s gaze to his nimble fingers. “For close on two years he made the manor his headquarters, spending an inordinate amount of time underground researching and experimenting. Near the end he was almost single-mindedly and obsessively engrossed in a particular experiment. Obviously it was a matter of the utmost secrecy and only a select few of the inner circle were privy to it. Severus was one of them, but like the rest he had been hexed silent on the matter and all he could tell me was that the experiment the Dark Lord was working on was particularly dangerous and abhorrent.”


“Why didn’t you mention all this to the Wizengamot during the trials?” Harry asked curiously.


“Of course I did!” Malfoy exclaimed. “I even described the catacombs underneath the manor in great detail for the benefit of the Office for the Investigation of Dark Artefacts and Locations to whom the investigation of the manor had been given as a matter of highest priority.”


“What’s the problem then?” Harry asked again.


“The problem is that absolutely no word, not even the slightest hint or rumour, has escaped after all these years of them finding anything at all, not even the smallest Dark Object, underneath the manor.”


“I see,” was all Harry said. And he did. He already suspected there was something going on, only now it looked like it was more sinister than he had originally believed.


After that they fell silent as they finished eating and to top off the meal, ordered themselves a second pint.


“So,” Malfoy begun, "you still haven’t told me what you’ve found out so far.”


Harry stalled, not certain why he was so reluctant to share the scant amount of information he had gained with the other man. Malfoy put an elbow on the table, after pushing his empty plate aside, and rested his pointy chin in the palm of his hand as – Harry had to blink twice to be certain – he seemed to actually pout.


“Do you not want to share your information with me, or have you found yourself incapable of discovering anything?” he said, a strange cadence to his voice. He looked pensive as he dipped the long pale index finger of his other hand into the thick froth of his beer and brought it to his mouth to idly lick it clean with a pointy pink tongue. Harry suddenly felt light-headed and found it even more difficult to understand his reluctance to share what he knew.


“In either case,” Malfoy continued, glancing at Harry from under half-lowered eyelashes, much darker than they should by any right be for someone of his complexion, “I don’t see any reason to continue our little impromptu co-operation. Maybe I should just go on my way.”


“No!” Harry exclaimed before he could consider. All he knew was that he didn’t want the other man to leave and even more than that he was sure he didn’t want to come across as an incompetent. “You are right, I have discovered some... stuff. And we should share our knowledge. Don’t leave.”


Malfoy cocked an eyebrow and gave Harry a sly smile both smug and encouraging, so Harry begun speaking.


He told the other man all about the strange coincidences that seemed to point to a bigger conspiracy: Auror Merryweather and her brother, Clarence Brown’s friendship with Auror Timple, what Hermione had told him, and the general ignorance and evasion he had come across.


As Malfoy gazed at him, engrossed, his luminous grey eyes wide and almost unblinking, while he absent-mindedly nibbled at his lower lip with sharp white teeth, making in redder and wetter, Harry found himself embellishing his narrative with a great many details and exaggerations. Malfoy’s undivided attention and intense gaze, directed at Harry alone, made him feel a strange sense of euphoric drunkenness completely unrelated to the two pints he had had.


After Harry finished speaking, finding he had no more to say, Malfoy stretched himself, sleek and unselfconscious, like an underfed cat, and smiled a satisfied little smile, not much more than a slight upturning of the corners of his mouth and a brief twinkle of his eyes.



It didn’t take much prompting by Malfoy to persuade Harry that they should meet regularly to exchange information and work out a plan to break into the manor to investigate without tripping the complex and practically fool-proof wards.


Finally Malfoy rose from the table. “It’s getting late,” he said, “and as incomparable as your company is, I have a prior engagement and must be going. Owl me.” He tipped he head slightly before turning and rapidly striding out the pub.


Harry only stayed long enough to finish his drink before he too left, to return home to his empty apartment and his many thoughts.


******


Monday morning found Harry Flooing into the Ministry particularly late. His morning wank had been quite a drawn out affair accompanied by a very detailed and elaborate fantasy starring, unsurprisingly, Draco Malfoy.


As he sauntered into the Auror Headquarters, feeling sated and vaguely content and only sparing a passing thought to his tardiness, he came up against the state of organised chaos officially known as An Emergency. He stopped at the entrance, speculating if he had time for a cup of coffee before being sent off wherever today’s emergency was.


“Potter!” bellowed Robards, making Harry jump and guiltily wonder if he could pretend he was not just arriving but was rather simply returning to Headquarters from the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office where he had gone for a cup of coffee. Only he wasn’t holding a cup and besides everyone knew that the Aurors had the best coffee in the whole Department.


“Potter!” Robards repeated. “Get your arse over here immediately. You are very lucky you have such a good track record and that today’s situation falls into your area of expertise.”


Harry rushed over curious. “My area of expertise, sir?”


“Yes, dealing with monsters.” Was Robards smirking?


“Sir?”


“It seems like old Nessie’s got herself into a bit of a fix. She’s gone and got herself captured by Muggles, again. I want you and Shacklebolt to take all the Aurors except for the auxiliary force and deal with the matter.”


“Who’s old Nessie?” Harry asked, wondering whether Robards might not perhaps be exaggerating.


The Chief Auror gave him a long-suffering look that Harry had become quite immune to during his first year of Auror training. “Nessie is the eighty-foot-long aquatic serpent that resides in Loch Ness in Scotland. I’m sure you must have heard of her, Potter.”


Harry made a little ‘Oh’ sound. Of course he had heard of the Loch Ness monster, only he hadn’t thought it (or rather she) actually existed. He couldn’t help but feel a little foolish and confused.


“Why does this fall into our jurisdiction?” he asked. “Shouldn’t the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures deal with the matter?”


“The Beast Division insisted it was out of their league and they couldn’t possibly cope with something so big. They also helpfully pointed out that their resident Parselmouth is over a hundred years old and is going deaf, whereas our Parselmouth is a well-known young able-bodied hero and vanquisher of evil wizards and dangerous monsters.” Robards took on such an expression of distaste when repeating Harry’s praise, that it was reminiscent of Snape and Harry was momentarily transported back in time.


“Now stop dawdling,” Robards commanded, “and go find Shacklebolt. I want this situation sorted out as fast as possible.”



It was windy and raining up by Loch Ness. A typically miserable Scottish March morning. A large crowd of Muggles had gathered by the lake to gawk. There was even a helicopter hovering above, trying to get a good view. In the middle a positively enormous water snake was struggling and screaming, kicking up large waves that splashed violently onto the shore. And all through that about four Muggle boats stubbornly held on to the ropes that were tying the beast down. The noise and the wet was amazing. Harry briefly wished he was back in bed with his comfortable, and pleasant, musings over Malfoy to keep him warm rather than this windswept place.


Shacklebolt took in the scene grimly. “Tonks,” he said, “take your team and round up all the Muggles on the shore. And...” He looked up with a slight frown. ”...those in the air. My team will get into to position to free her once Potter calms her down.”


“What?” Harry exclaimed, stunned. How was he supposed to calm down an angry serpent this size?


Shacklebolt turned to look at Harry. “No buts. You speak Parseltongue and Nessie’s really quite sweet – if a bit senile. There’s nothing difficult about it. Now go and get her to stop panicking so the rest of us can sort this out!”


“Yes, right. I’m off then,” Harry answered, mounting his standard issue Auror broom. As he flew off to single-handedly confront the manic serpent, he wondered if this were some sort of conspiracy to scare him off the job. How could a monster that size be actually quite sweet?



As it turned out, Nessie did speak Parseltongue, albeit with the snake equivalent of a heavy Scottish brogue. She proved to be scared and confused and it fell to Harry to painstakingly convince her that they were here to help and everything would be sorted out in no time, while hovering on his broom far too close to a huge rheumy eye for his comfort.


It took a while to calm the jumpy old serpent, especially with Shacklebolt constantly shouting at him to get on with it and the rain relentlessly beating down on him, but once that was done, Shacklebolt’s team made short work of the bonds tying her down and then swiftly rounded up the Muggle fishermen. Once she had been set free Harry led her off safely into the mist-hidden centre of the lake far away from the Muggles’ curious gazes.


After she had stopped panicking, Nessie turned out quite a chatty gossip and wanted to know all the latest news from the wizarding world whilst sharing bizarre details about obscure monsters Harry had never heard of. Harry didn’t manage to disentangle himself to make a getaway until the last of the army of Obliviators, which had descended on the scene once everything was under control, was departing, having successfully scrambled the memory of dozens of Muggles. The rest of the Aurors had long gone.



“Well?” demanded Robards the moment, soaking wet and windblown, Harry finally returned to Headquarters. “What kept you so long?”


“She wanted to chat!” Harry practically snapped, too miserable and tired to be in the mood for reprimands.


“Potter, you know that socialising should be done on your own time and not while on duty,” Robards responded with a barely perceptible smirk. “Now go and write your report. If I recall correctly you also haven’t handed in your report from your last case. I hope it will not be necessary to take disciplinary actions again.”


“No it won’t,” Harry answered sullenly as he trudged to his cubicle, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him.


******


The Archival and Storage of Dark Objects and Criminal Evidence’s office was annexed to the Auror Headquarters and thus Harry found it remarkably easy to sneak off in the calm the lack of cases provided on Tuesday evening. Michael Corner was employed as assistant archivist there and Harry was reasonably confident he would be able to get some discreet answers to his questions.


Upon entering the office Harry found only old Norbert Caruthers in his corner, peering at a pile of files.


“Hello, Mr Caruthers,” Harry greeted the chief archivist, “is Michael here?”


The wizened octogenarian lifted his head from his files to adjust his bottle-top thick glasses and squint at Harry. “Ah, Potter,” he said, “and a good day to you too. Young Michael is in the archives. You’d better go in and find him if you want him.”


The main archival area was remarkably large and hopelessly crammed full of all sorts of objects. Harry gingerly threaded his way through the narrow isles, crooked shelves reaching up to the high ceiling on each side. In the eerie magical light that illuminated the vast room, Harry caught glimpses of the precariously stacked and meticulously labelled objects that filled the rickety shelves: jars of disgusting potion ingredients and body parts of magical animals – or maybe even humans – floating in slimy goo, intricately carved ceremonial daggers, cursed jewellery, the embalmed head of a werewolf caught during his change, innocent looking boxes and books…


“Michael,” Harry softly called, somehow leery of disturbing the strange silence of the room.


“Over here,” a discordantly cheerful voice answered back.


Heading for the direction the voice had come from, Harry picked his way through the maze of isles to eventually find the other man in a well lit corner cataloguing jars of brightly coloured sparkling sands.


“Hello, Harry,” Michael Corner welcomed him brightly. “New delivery, this. Wizarding narcotics from a raid some of your boys made this morning.”


“That must have been Angelina and Peterson,” Harry offered. “Colourful stuff,” he added.


“Gives you colourful hallucinations too,” Michael answered. “What brings you to these parts?”


Harry lowered his voice. “I need your help on a case. You know, off the record and everything. It’s all very hush hush.”


“All right.” Michael gave a conspiratorial grin. “Tell me.”


“I’d like a list of the objects you’ve procured from the Office for the Investigation of Dark Artefacts and Locations, in particular any originating...” Harry took on an even more conspiratorial tone, “...from Malfoy manor.”


The archivist scratched his head, considering. “The Office for the Investigation of Dark Artefacts and Locations hasn’t given us anything in a very long time. Let’s go and look at the ledger, everything is in there.”


Michael led Harry out to the main office where he recovered a huge tome from a shelf and took it to the furthest corner from old Caruthers. He opened it and started leafing through.


“It’s just as I thought,” he whispered to Harry as they huddled over the big book, “we haven’t had anything from the Office for the Investigation of Dark Artefacts and Locations in at least four years. Anything of any import, that is. We’ve had a couple of broken objects that might have once been magical but are no longer anything more than junk. You wouldn’t be interested in any of that, would you?”


Harry looked at the entries; none were from the manor, so he shook his head negatively.


“Now, as for the specific location you mentioned...” Michael continued while expertly skimming through the densely written ledger, “no. We haven’t had anything from there since the Ministry’s raid back in 1992, before the War.”


Harry considered. “Is there any other location in the Ministry where Dark Objects might be stored apart from your archive?” he asked.


“All Dark Objects are supposed to at least pass through our office to be catalogued in the ledger. The Office for the Investigation of Dark Artefacts and Locations generally keeps all the objects it finds for a certain period of time to examine them and catalogue them in their own archives before passing them on to us. Also the Department of Mysteries often ‘borrows’ stuff from us for their own investigations and experiments. They’ve been doing a lot of that lately, and they hardly ever return the objects – at least not in working condition,” Michael finished, clearly annoyed. “Here, let me show you.”


He opened the ledger to the section for outgoing artefacts and showed Harry. True to his word there was a large number of entries for objects taken out by the Department of Mysteries, most of which hadn’t been returned yet. Harry soon realised that almost all the withdrawals were under the same name, a certain Unspeakable named Aloysius Hobson. It took Harry a moment or two to realise why the name seemed familiar. Aloysius Hobson was the third boy, the thin pale one, next to Thaddeus Timple in the seventh year Ravenclaw year-book photograph.


Harry thanked Michael Corner for his help and rushed back to his cubicle, his mind working overtime. For a brief moment he considered informing Robards of his findings, because surely this was a serious matter, one that the Auror division should investigate. But it crossed Harry’s mind that Robards might hand the case over to someone else. Besides, with suspicion falling on Aurors and Unspeakables, who knew how deep the conspiracy went? It would be better if Harry kept the whole matter under wraps until he had solved it and uncovered all the culprits. He could prove to Robards that he was capable of taking positive initiative and successfully undertaking an investigation, that there was more to him than being the Boy Who Lived. If he could also gain Malfoy’s gratitude, that was merely a fringe benefit.

The room was oppressive and dimly lit, yet the moon-blond hair shone in the darkness like a beacon which he followed with a remarkable single-mindedness. His eyes often strayed from the bright hair to roam, greedily seeking glimpses of glistening pale skin.

He had caught the other man’s eyes on the dance floor. It hadn’t been hard to convey his interest with a simple, but eloquent, look. Grey eyes had narrowed appraisingly and looked him over before the blond grinned saucily and nodded in the direction of the dark back room.

Harry had hurried after him, careful not to lose the tall blond. Now that they had reached the dark and musty room, he finally caught up with him. Grabbing his arm, he stopped him and turned him round to push him into an alcove. In the eerie dim light Harry just about saw the maddening grey eyes widen in surprise before crinkling in the corners with amusement and something else. Harry pushed his broader figure against the other man’s slim frame, effectively pinning him to the wall.

The blond gasped and ground back against Harry. “Eager, aren’t we?” he whispered huskily into Harry’s ear.

“Not the time for talk,” Harry growled in response and silenced the other man effectively by sealing his lips over the other’s and forcefully shoving his tongue down his throat. The blond leaned back against the wall and eagerly submitted to the kiss, opening his mouth wide and making small needy lustful noises that drove Harry to crush their bodies together until he could hardly breathe.

The other man writhed wildly, trapped between Harry’s hard body and the unyielding wall. His hands roamed frantically all over Harry, till they finally came to rest on his arse. Slim fingers grabbed him with more strength than he would have imagined and forcefully brought their groins even closer together with an electrifying jolt that Harry felt all the way up his spine.

The man dragged his mouth away from Harry’s to lean his head back against the wall and arch his whole body, hissing a long, drawn-out, “Yes! ” Harry’s nerve endings were on fire and there was a loud rushing sound in his ears that effectively drowned out the resonating beat of the music and the noises coming from the other couples hidden in the dark. The man’s iron grip on Harry’s arse was relentless and he never ceased for a minute his desperate rutting against him, letting out breathy gasps and little whining moans all the while.

Harry placed both palms flat against the wall on either side of the blond’s head and stared, mesmerised, at the pale proffered throat in front of him before attacking it with teeth and tongue. The gasps became more desperate and the moans more and more high-pitched, till the man sounded like a wounded animal more than anything else.

It didn’t take long for the trapped blond to stiffen and arch his back even more, almost to breaking point. He let out a long high-pitched sound, resembling a death cry, and Harry felt the jerking of the other man’s cock against his own and the spreading damp patch between them. Harry steadied the slim figure as he trembled and struggled desperately for breath, his own erection still painfully hard and demanding.

“Oh that was good,” the man gasped out. It took him less than a minute to regain himself and to sneak a hand between them and grope Harry’s hard cock. He flashed Harry a saucy smirk, bright in the half-light. “What would you like?” he asked.

Harry looked at that naughty pink mouth and considered his options. Silently he put his hands on the blond’s shoulders and slowly, but steadily, pushed him to his knees. Once on the floor he looked up at Harry, licked his lips provocatively and gave his most wicked grin before parting Harry’s robes and pulling down his underpants.

“Nice...” he breathed appreciatively once Harry was uncovered and then, quick as a viper, he grabbed the base and licked a long slow swipe up the whole underside of Harry’s delighted cock. Harry groaned low in his throat and leaned forward, palms flat against the wall, head hanging as he tried to keep his knees from buckling. White lights were flashing at the edges of his vision and he felt himself lose control.

The kneeling man continued to drive Harry slowly mad with dainty little licks and long slow swipes up the body and over the head of Harry’s leaking erection until he finally relented and swallowed him down and proceeded to blow his mind.

Harry gave a loud bark of a shout and came into his own hand before collapsing onto his cool sheets. He spent a couple of minutes gasping for breath as the image of Malfoy continued to flash behind his closed eyelids.

Harry buried his face in his pillow; even though he was certain that this new obsession of his with Malfoy would prove to be very bad for his health, he couldn’t stop himself. He turned over, determined to stop thinking about it and go to sleep.

* * * * *

Tuesday found Harry at the pub with the usual crowd: Ron, George, Seamus, Patrick and Septimus. The pub was cosy and warm after the chilly March air of the night outside. Fortunately, even though it was rather full, they had managed to procure themselves a comfortable table and a couple of pints of ale each.

Harry had been prepared to relax and enjoy himself, but unfortunately Ron seemed determined to spoil a perfectly good time with one of his favourite rags – Harry’s love life, or actually lack thereof, because Ron didn’t count one night stands. This time it was even worse than usual because Ron had managed to rope the others into his argument as well.

“You know, Harry, you’ve been alone for too long,” Ron was nagging. “What you get up to at those places you go certainly can’t be enough for a person. You need something steady, someone you can talk to, bring round with you when you visit us. Are you certain you haven’t met anyone like that yet?”

Harry thought of Malfoy’s eyes glittering in the crisp Wiltshire air. “No one, Ron. I would tell you if I did, wouldn’t I?” he answered, hoping Ron would drop the subject.

To Harry’s chagrin, Ron ran his hand through his longish hair and glanced at Septimus before answering, “Yes, well, I think we can help you with that.” He spoke fast and half-mumbling, as if afraid of Harry’s reaction if he actually heard him. He wasn’t wrong.

Harry heard and in response stared mutely at Ron, alarm bells ringing in his mind. However, it was Septimus that spoke in explanation. “I have a cousin,” he began ominously and Harry transferred his horror-struck gaze to the brown-haired man he had thought was his friend. “He used to be one of my favourite cousins, actually,” Septimus continued, unfazed. “He only returned to England a couple of months ago...”

Harry put up his hand to stall him, but when he opened his mouth to speak he found that there were no words to express his horror, disappointment, and absolute and total refusal.

Septimus waited patiently for a couple of moments before speaking once more in his characteristic mellow tones. “I think you should give it a chance,” he reasoned in that logical and persuasive manner of his. “Lionel is quite charming, not to mention educated and single. He also prefers men, obviously.”

Harry opened his mouth again to try and find those elusive words that would tell Ron and Septimus how much he was truly and unequivocally against what they were proposing. He looked at the other three for help, but they seemed to be strangely entranced by the contents of their glasses. Septimus gave Harry an understanding gaze and forestalled any possible arguments.

“Lionel is very discreet, if that’s what you are worried about. He has even less interest than you in having his preferences publicised. His branch of the family is the most uptight and conservative; his father in particular is the most monolithic person I have ever met. If he were to find out about Lionel, he would lose no time in completely cutting him off in every way possible.”

Harry closed his mouth, scrunched up his forehead for a second and opened his mouth again, determined to speak this time.

Septimus smiled disarmingly and continued. “Harry, all we’re asking is for you to give it a chance. That’s all. Just one date to meet and talk; no strings attached, no obligation whatsoever. You’ll find that he’s a real stand-up fellow and I’m doing this just as much for him as for you. He’s just returned to Britain and hardly knows anyone. He’s rather lonely.” Septimus glanced at Harry not quite reproachfully and Harry had to forcefully remind himself that he had absolutely no reason to feel guilty. “I’m sure that the two of you would get on just fine, should you ever meet. You might even become friends if there turns out to be no chemistry between you. Either way, we won’t push. You know that.”

Harry bit his lip, suddenly undecided. He was forcefully reminded that Septimus, fine lawyer that he was, never lost a case or an argument. Even though he was by principle opposed to this crazy matchmaking lark, he felt that he should accept.

Ron saw Harry wavering and grabbed the chance to get the final word in. “Come on, Harry, what have you got to lose? It’s just one date,” he wheedled as persuasively as he could.

“Okay...okay.” Harry finally caved in. He guessed they did sort of have a point, he was tired of being alone. But, he strictly promised himself this would be the only time he would let them set him up.

Septimus smiled encouragingly, and a bit victoriously, while Ron slapped Harry on the back. “Cheers, mate,” he said. “You won’t regret this. You’ll see.”

The others, traitorous friends that they were, finally lifted their heads from the contemplation of their beers and raised their pints in a congratulatory – and slightly relieved – toast. Harry ducked his head and hoped for the best.

After that awkward and mood-killing conversation, the rest of the evening managed to take a steep upward turn and passed with copious amounts of beer, laughter, bad Irish jokes and a drunken game of darts.

* * * * * *

Wednesday morning greeted Harry with a large hangover, after he’d crawled to bed tired and drunk in the very early hours of the morning. He dealt with it by miserably dragging himself to work and hiding in his cubicle with a large mug of coffee and the blinds closed till his lunch break. Fortunately there were no emergencies and everyone assumed he was working on his reports, or at least so he hoped.

Later on he learnt that Merryweather and Timple had made a rare appearance at Headquarters that morning. There were days that Harry suspected that he might actually be better off if he didn’t drink so much.


“I remember when I was a wild young thing,” Tonks said wistfully over lunch together whilst chewing an egg and tuna sandwich. “Dancing all night, drinking too much, chasing boys… Those were the days.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic, Tonks,” Harry told her, “you’re hardly old yet. I think you’re letting Remus rub off on you.” Tonks snickered inelegantly at that, effectively proving Harry’s point that she wasn’t as grown up as she professed. “I’m sure you can still dance and drink to your heart’s content. I’m not so sure about the boys though, you should ask Remus about that one.”

“No, Harry, that part of my life is over,” Tonks sighed tragically and Harry rolled his eyes. “I am now a married woman, a mother-to-be.”

Harry chocked on his orange juice. “Tonks?” he managed to wheeze out in between hacking coughs and gasps for breath.

Tonks just smiled beatifically at him. “I’m pregnant,” she announced calmly and Harry’s coughing and choking increased.

He had begun to turn an alarming shade of red by the time Tonks made a very motherly clucking sound and took out her wand to cast a couple of non-verbal spells that unblocked Harry’s windpipe and permitted him to breathe again.

“Thanks,” he croaked, trying to regain his breath. “So... hum... how long have you known?” he asked as soon as he was calm again.

“About a month,” Tonks answered with the same content Madonna smile. “You’re the first person we’ve told so far.”

“Thanks.” Harry was surprised and flattered.

“Tonight we’re having a family dinner to tell the parents, but Remus thought we should tell you first, seeing as we want you to be the godfather.”

Now Harry was really surprised. “Thank you,” he said, genuinely pleased and touched. “I’m really flattered. I’d love to. I only hope I’ll manage to provide a good role model. Chosen a name yet?”

“We don’t even know the sex yet!” Tonks laughed. “But oddly enough we have decided on names. If it’s a boy we’ll name him Ted after my father, and if it’s a girl Bridget, after Remus’ mother.”

“That’s nice,” Harry said simply and they lapsed into a companionable silence.

It didn’t take long for Harry’s thoughts to return to the case of Malfoy Manor. Ever since his newest discoveries, he had been turning the matter over in his mind, looking for new angles, ways to uncover further information, putting the clues he did have together. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed that Malfoy was right: the solution most definitely lay inside the manor itself. Only breaking into it would not be a simple matter.

“Tonks,” Harry suddenly said, breaking the silence. “I know I already asked you, but I was wondering if you remembered anything more about Malfoy Manor.”

Tonks shot Harry a shrewd look, but fortunately simply answered his question without asking anything more. “As I told you before, there isn’t much to say. It was a pretty typical manor-house, with beautiful extensive gardens – Mother always said that aunt Narcissa was very fond of gardening – and a very strong sense of place magic. I must confess that I did feel a strong pang of jealousy about the remarkably strong magical location of the house, but any reasonable witch or wizard would have felt the same. All the magical wards, structural and enhancement spells on the estate, not to mention house-elves, are keyed to the lord of the estate. Not long after Lucius was imprisoned for life, he passed the sovereignty over to my cousin Draco.”

Why did Harry feel a strange flutter just by hearing the name spoken? Surely there must be something wrong with him.

“To keep him from waltzing into his house any time he pleased, we had to set new wards,” Tonks continued, oblivious. “Mostly standard Auror wards for securing a crime scene, but the Unspeakable who was also assisting in the investigation set some of his own wards too. Not much else to say really. I was very curious to see the dungeons of the house – Voldemort had his headquarters there after all – but I never seemed to get a chance to.”

Harry worried his lip, thinking everything over. “House-elves, you said? The manor still has house-elves?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes, about three or four. Only Draco can free them, or demand their loyalty. They mainly stay out of sight, making sure the house doesn’t fall into total disrepair and being very unhelpful in the investigations.”

Harry found that particular piece of information very interesting and wondered if they couldn’t find a use for it.

“You mentioned an Unspeakable,” he asked next, dropping the subject of house-elves. “Do you remember his name?”

“His name?” Tonks crinkled her face in concentration, her hair changing shades of orange and red – the colours she favoured this month. “He was a pasty little fellow, spindly with a sort of reedy voice... hum... Hobson. His name was Hobson,” she said finally.

Just as Harry thought.

They soon realised they had overstayed their lunch break and quickly hurried back to Headquarters, hoping Robards hadn’t noticed.

* * * * * *

Thursday morning Harry received an owl from Septimus’ cousin. It was relatively short and to the point.

Dear Harry,
It appears that my dear matchmaking cousin unsurprisingly got his own way and prevailed upon us to agree to be set up. Now it remains to us to arrange a meeting. Does the Muggle restaurant Alastair’s in Soho seem like a good place for a blind date? If you are agreeable, I’ll make reservations under my name for two for this Saturday at eight. In keeping with the spirit of this endeavour, I’ll be reading a classic romance novel and you can wear a red carnation,
Lionel Hodge.

Talking about striking when the iron was hot! At least Lionel seemed to possess a sense of humour.

Harry quickly penned an affirmative response and returned his attention back to the case file he had just been given.

Somehow word had got round that Harry was interested in old houses and he had been given the case of an old farmhouse near the shore on the edge of Wales, where a number of reports had been made over the years about mysterious activity and suspected Dark Acts. The case had never been solved and after a report of new sightings, the whole file had been summarily tossed on Harry’s desk and he had been ordered to, “Solve it.” Harry quickly resigned himself to spending his whole morning wading through the practically illegible statements taken from various witnesses and the vague and inconclusive reports of the previous Aurors who had taken the case.

* * * * * *

The living room was meticulously clean and obsessively tidy. Harry immediately felt like an unrepentant slob every time he found himself in Penelope and Percy’s home. Penelope in particular made neatness and order seem as second nature as breathing, and as necessary, too. At the present she was managing to sit in her armchair, looking both prim and proper and utterly at ease and comfortable as she daintily sipped her tea.

Harry, on the other hand, was awkwardly perched on the edge of the sofa, afraid to somehow disturb it if he sat further back or, heaven forbid, lounged in it. He picked up his cup and saucer gracelessly, painfully aware of the pristine beige carpet under his feet. He gulped down a mouthful of hot tea that proved too large and swallowed in a hurry, ending up burning himself and spluttering as the hot liquid went down the wrong way. Eyes watering, he clumsily placed the cup back on the saucer but misjudged the distance and ended up almost dropping both. Hot tea splashed over his hands, burning them, and onto the carpet. Harry stared at the growing brown stain under his feet in horror.

“Sorry,” he breathed, acutely embarrassed.

Penelope quickly and neatly set her cup down and took out her wand. In the next moment the burning hot tea disappeared from his hands and saucer.

“Are you all right?” she asked, concerned.

“Yes, fine. Thank you,” Harry mumbled, going red, while still staring at the drying stain. With another flick of Penelope’s wand the stain disappeared.

“If you don’t remove it immediately, it seeps in and it’s harder to get rid of,” Penelope explained apologetically.

Harry put his teacup securely on the coffee table and sat an inch further back on the sofa, trying to get comfortable.

“So, Harry,” Penelope said with a knowing smile, “how may I be of assistance? Percy should be home in...” she glanced at the clock on the wall, “one hour. And you know how he gets about anything that’s not completely above board.”


Harry barely kept his mouth from dropping open in surprise. It never ceased to amaze him how good Unspeakables were at reading between the lines and deciphering body language. Penelope in particular was uncannily adept at it. So much that at times Harry suspected subtle Legilimency.

“You always see right through me,” he told her with a sigh.

“Yes, I do,” she acknowledged. “So cut to the chase.”

Harry fiddled with his teacup, stalling for time to get his thoughts in order. “I need help with a case of mine,” he finally said. “It’s all very hush hush, so I can’t tell you much. I hope you understand. Also I trust that everything we say will be in strictest confidentiality.”

“I understand,” Penelope answered, her tone indicating she understood far too well. Harry started wondering if this wasn’t rather a bad idea in the end. But Penelope was the soul of discretion, so he plodded on.

“It has come to my attention that a certain Unspeakable is somehow involved with my case. His name is Aloysius Hobson.” Here Harry paused to give her a questioning look.

“Yes, I know Aloysius. We were both Ravenclaws, he was a year younger. I don’t know him much, though. He’s a very quiet man. Keeps to himself and doesn’t talk much. He’s always observing, however, and cataloguing everything he sees. He’s also rather secretive.” So far he didn’t sound very different from the average run-of-the-mill Unspeakable to Harry.

“Secretive?” Harry questioned.

“Yes, secretive even for an Unspeakable,” Penelope answered laughingly. “He has private projects he works on intensively, but he keeps them furiously secret. No one ever knows where he goes and what he does. Most of us work on projects that are more or less secret, but we still give each other hints or talk them over in a vague way. Not Aloysius, you never get a word out of him.” Well that was certainly disappointing.

“That’s too bad,” Harry told her. “But still, maybe you could still help me. Surreptitiously look into some files or something.” At that Penelope looked at Harry sharply and he couldn’t help but smile sheepishly.

“Tell me what you want, and I’ll see if I can do anything,” she said.

“Right. I would like to find out about his relations with the Office for the Investigation of Dark Artefacts and Locations. Also what his business is with Archival and Storage of Dark Objects and Criminal Evidence.”

Penelope pursed her lips and looked thoughtful. “This could be something big, couldn’t it?” she said simply but with an undertone that showed she truly understood what the possibilities where. Harry nodded.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said finally and Harry breathed in relief. She would help him and she would cover for him. He sat another inch further back in the sofa, while Penelope serenely sipped her tea.

“Harry,” she chided, “you’re letting your tea get cold.”

“Um, yes, you’re right.” He leaned over slowly and gingerly picked up his cup to take small careful sips. He really should get going, he thought. Especially if he wanted to leave before Percy got home. But it was only polite to finish his tea first. His rather tepid by now tea.

The fireplace flared green and spat a tall thin redhead out. “Good evening, darling,” he informed the room loudly while cleaning his glasses. Only once he put them back on did he notice Harry on the sofa.

“Harry!” he exclaimed in surprise.

“Hello, Percy,” Harry said, smiling awkwardly.

“Welcome home, honey.” Penelope had placed her empty cup on the coffee table and was twisting her head round to smile her welcome.

Percy promptly put his briefcase down, forgot all about Harry and purposely strode over to her armchair till he loomed over her from behind.

“Hello there,” he said, his voice low and tender.

Harry squirmed in the sofa, suddenly feeling very much like he was intruding. That feeling only intensified when Percy leaned over to kiss his wife. It started out as a simple peck on the lips, but soon Penelope’s hand found its way to the back of Percy’s neck and the kiss dragged on. Harry found himself unabashedly staring, even when he caught glimpses of tongue and he knew it was only polite to look the other way.

The kiss finally ended and Percy lifted his head to look at Harry. “What brings you here for this unexpected visit?”

Harry blushed at being caught out and found himself at a loss for words. Thankfully he was saved the embarrassment of stammering out an ambiguous response by Penelope.

“Harry had the idea that it would be nice to organise a party for Hermione and Ron’s wedding anniversary. You know it’s coming in less than a month. I think it’s a brilliant idea.”

Percy cocked his head to the side, surprised. “I agree,” he said. “That is a good idea. Have you spoken with anyone else?”

“No,” Harry answered somewhat off balance. “You’re the first so far. I wanted to hear your opinion first.”

Percy looked flattered at Harry’s pronouncement. “It will need a lot of organising and synchronising,” he said.

So instead of making a quick getaway, Harry ended up staying over late to organise the proposed party in exquisite detail. At least, he thought, Ron and Hermione will be pleased.

* * * * * *

It was ten past eight as Harry rushed through the London drizzle and the Saturday evening crowds on his way to the restaurant. He was late for his blind date, most certainly not the way to make a good first impression. He pushed past groups of chattering Muggles, scanning the road for Alastair’s.

He had only himself to blame for this predicament. As early as Friday night he had received an owl from Penelope and as a result had spent the night tossing and turning as he thought about the letter, the case, Malfoy... Saturday morning he hadn’t even thought about it, he had donned his Invisibility Cloak and Apparated to Wiltshire, to conduct a proper reconnaissance this time.

He hadn’t stayed too long. By late midday he had returned home, only to sit at his desk, jotting down ideas and observations and chewing the end of his quill, lost in his thoughts. If Ron hadn’t firecalled to cheekily wish him the best of luck on his date, (How had he found out anyway? Word certainly got round…) he might have completely forgotten about it. As it was, he had got ready in record time and had Apparated out with his hair still damp.

Finally locating the restaurant, he took a deep breath and purposely strode inside.

“Do you have reservations?” The well-dressed gentleman at the door looked Harry up and down and obviously found him lacking.

“Yes, under the name Lionel Hodge.” Harry was far too anxious to pay petty waiters any mind.

“Follow me, sir.”

He was led to a table for two in a discreet corner. A man was already sitting down, engrossed in a book. Harry surreptitiously straightened his shirt.

“Lionel Hodge, I presume,” he quipped once he reached the table.

Lionel lifted his head from his book. “The very same,” he answered and smiled warmly in greeting. His eyes were a very, very deep blue and his smile was remarkably nice. Harry felt his stomach give a slight flutter.

“You can’t be my date, because not only am I rarely this lucky, but you’re also not wearing a carnation,” he told Harry, still smiling.

Harry blushed at the compliment and chuckled, sheepishly taking a crushed red carnation out of his trouser pocket. Lionel laughed, a deep pleasant laugh, and closed his book to show Harry the cover. Sense and Sensibility.

“Take a seat,” he said.

Harry took the book and looked it over. “I’ve heard of this book,” he said. “Isn’t it... you know?”

“An old-fashioned romance novel?” Lionel supplied. “Yes. You’ve uncovered one of my secret vices – I’m a sucker for a good love story.” Unexpectedly, Lionel blushed and Harry couldn’t help thinking that the man blushed very nicely too. Because Lionel was most definitely a man, whereas Harry sometimes wondered whether he himself was not still a boy. Septimus never told Harry Lionel’s age, but now, looking at him, taking in the mature features and the slight creases at the corners of his eyes, it was obvious that Lionel was in his early, if not middle, thirties. Not that Harry minded; the man was very easy on the eyes.

“So tell me about yourself,” Lionel asked once they had ordered. “Septimus tells me that even though rumours about you being a boy-hero are not exaggerated, you are actually unfortunately quite ordinary in the flesh.” There was a twinkle in Lionel’s deep blue eyes and Harry couldn’t help laughing light-heartedly. It was a very refreshing and pleasant experience talking - talking about himself, what’s more, - with a wizard who was not in awe of him or what he had done when he was still a teenager.

Lionel had not been in the Britain during the War Years, or the years before either, and his knowledge of the events was patchy and second-hand. Harry wasn’t interested in talking about any of that, and thankfully Lionel acquiesced easily. They ended up talking mostly about Lionel’s past adventures and Harry’s present ones. Lionel particularly enjoyed hearing about Nessie.


“Shall we order another bottle of wine?” Lionel asked, lifting their now empty bottle.

Harry reflexively looked at his watch. It was getting late, but the company was good and it was Saturday after all. “Sure, why not?” he answered.

The waiter promptly brought them another bottle of the same and Lionel lost no time in proposing a toast. “To new acquaintances.”

“May they always be this agreeable,” Harry filled in.

With the second bottle their tongues loosened even more.

It was quite a while later that they eventually decided to call it a night. Harry was almost sorry to leave, for it had been a very long time since he had had such a good time. He told Lionel as much as they left the restaurant together and turned into an empty alley.

Lionel smiled, pleased. “Good,” he said, “because, despite the certain danger of making Septimus even more smug and self-congratulatory, I enjoyed myself too and would very much like to repeat the experience.”

“Definitely,” Harry agreed. “I’ll owl you, or you can owl me, so we can arrange another meeting.”

“It’s a date. Well then, good night. See you soon, I hope.” And with a final warm smile and a tip of his hat, Lionel Apparated away.

Harry was left alone with a soppy smile on his face. He looked around and wondered what to do. He was feeling slightly restless. Without really thinking about it, he Apparated too.

He reappeared in a not particularly well-lit cobbled street a couple of feet away from the Brass Wand. The exterior of the building was sort of drab, but the sign with the club’s name was gay and bright. The letters glittered and winked and danced around, sometimes briefly rearranging themselves. Whenever the door opened as people entered, usually alone, or exited, often in pairs, loud music spilled out into the quiet street.

Harry hesitated, undecided. He didn’t know if he hoped Malfoy was there or not. He didn’t know if he wanted to see Malfoy or not. Finally coming to a decision, Harry spun on the spot and Apparated away once more.

The street he appeared in this time was better lit. He walked down it until he came to a narrow alley that led off the street. Looking down the alley he could see the tasteful and discreet sign of the Unicorn. Harry bit his lip, undecided once more. He dithered on the corner of the alley and the street, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Eventually he sighed and spun on the spot, reappearing this time in his own bedroom. He lit the lights and started getting undressed and ready for bed.

The kitchen was warm and cluttered, the sink full of unwashed dishes and the table still covered with the remains of Harry’s breakfast: a plate with some breadcrumbs and a burnt bacon rind, a jar of marmalade – the lid screwed on crookedly – and a now empty pot of tea. Harry sat in the lone ray of weak March sun, lazily reading the Sunday Prophet and sniggering at some of the most farfetched stories. He set his half-full tea-cup down to shake out the paper and turn the page. It was peaceful and comfortable and Harry was so engrossed in an article about Celestina Warbeck’s worst sartorial mistakes up to date, that it took him a while to notice the whoosh of his Floo connection and his friend calling.

“Harry! Harry, are you up? HARRY, get up, you lazy sod, and let me in!”

With great reluctance and a heart-felt sigh, Harry was forced to lay down his paper and trudge into the living-room.

“Septimus,” he grumbled. “I’m utterly unsurprised to see you. Why don’t you go bother someone else this fine morning and leave me to enjoy it a bit more?”

“I already did. I just left Lionel’s home. Now let me in, don’t you want to know what he said?”

Harry had to confess that he was curious. Even though he suspected he would regret it, he opened his Floo, made a vague welcoming gesture, and returned to the kitchen.

Septimus was in an obscenely chipper mood. With more ease than was proper for someone his age, he hopped onto the kitchen counter and gave Harry a bright smile.

“I’d offer you some tea, but I just finished the pot,” Harry told him inhospitably.

“Not a problem,” Septimus shrugged. “I had plenty of tea at Lionel’s.” Nevertheless he whipped out his wand and Summoned the marmalade from the table. He unscrewed the lid, sniffed the contents and Summoned a teaspoon from the drawer. Then he proceeded to nonchalantly eat Harry’s marmalade.

Harry felt a twinge of annoyance. His friends were far too at home in his apartment. “So, aren’t you going to tell me what Lionel said?” he asked pointedly.

Septimus shrugged again. “Not much. He had a good time and would very much like to see you again, and would I be so kind as to piss off and bother someone else as he is a very busy person. Apparently he also had an appointment with the Sunday Prophet. You two really suit each other.”

Harry felt a burst of warmth and pleasure coat his insides. He hid his small pleased smile behind his tea-cup. Septimus continued devouring his marmalade.

“Anyway,” Septimus continued, “my cousin is a man of few words. That’s why I came to you. Spill! I want to hear every last sordid little detail.”

It occurred to Harry that for a straight man Septimus was a remarkable ponce. At the present moment he was lounging on the kitchen counter, eating Harry’s marmalade and eagerly awaiting to gossip about his love-life.

“How are things going with Miranda?” Harry asked suddenly and was pleased to see Septimus raise a surprised eyebrow.

“Things are coming along nicely,” he answered. “Slowly but according to plan. Very soon now it will all come to fruition and she will not be able to do anything but acknowledge that we are meant to be.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “When will we finally meet your famous mystery woman? I’m beginning to wonder if she actually exists.”

“Oh, she exists all right,” the other man responded with a twinkle in his eye, “and the world is a more beautiful place for it. But you must be joking if you think I’ll inflict you reprobates on her delicate person, at least until I’m secure of her affections and until I prepare her accordingly, of course.”

Harry snorted. “Bloody ponce. Can’t you speak English like the rest of us?” he demanded.

Septimus’ smirk was eerily reminiscent of Malfoy’s. Harry wondered if it was a pure-blood thing. “It’s called being educated, you illiterate wanker, and if you want to spend more time with Lionel you better get used to it. Speaking of dear Lionel, do tell already. How was last night?”

“Last night was very nice.” Septimus raised an eyebrow. “Very very nice,” Harry amended. “Lionel is a very interesting bloke, and pretty easy on the eyes too.”

“Where did you go? What did you do? What did you talk about?” Septimus looked triumphant that his matchmaking attempt had been successful, but that didn’t excuse his positively indecent interest in Harry’s private affairs. Harry sighed gustily. If Septimus was like this, how would Ron be?

“You won’t leave until I give you a blow by blow account, will you?”

“Correct.”

“And then you will share every last detail with the rest of our friends, possibly with embellishments of your own, won’t you?”

“Correct again.”

Harry sighed again and embarked on an abridged description of the previous evening’s affairs.


Harry was drawing to the close of his narrative and the marmalade jar was down to the last dregs, when they were thankfully interrupted by an owl tapping at the kitchen window. The grey owl alighted on the faucet once Harry let it in, holding out its leg importantly. Once Harry untied the missive, it flew away without so much as a by-your-leave. Harry unrolled the letter.

Potter,
I will not be able to make the appointment this evening. Last night I had an unforeseen near-death experience and am currently detained in St Mungo’s and will be until Monday evening. We should reschedule our meeting sometime later this week at your convenience,
D. Malfoy.

Harry spent a couple of moments, forehead scrunched, deciphering the letter before jerking abruptly in shock. He looked up at Septimus who was gazing at him with interest.

“I’ve got to go,” Harry told him. “Urgent Auror business. My presence is demanded ASAP. Sorry. See yourself out, would you?” And with that he hurried into his bedroom to get dressed.

“See you later,” Septimus yelled from the living room before the whoosh of the Floo was heard.

* * * * *

St Mungo’s was typically chaotic as Harry navigated his way to the ward Malfoy was in. The room held four beds, but Harry easily made out Malfoy’s bright head of hair and distinctive drawl in the bed to the left by the window. It also helped that Theodore Nott was sitting in the visitor’s chair. Seeing Nott made a strange flush wash over Harry, a flush that most certainly did not denote jealousy. Harry was annoyed, nothing more. He was annoyed that Malfoy was wasting his time on such people. An insistent voice from a shadowy corner of his mind told him it wasn’t so, he was jealous of their easy camaraderie and he would have liked to find Malfoy alone, to see the other man’s face light up in pleasure at seeing Harry. Harry told the voice to kindly piss off.

“The fuzz just arrived!” Nott exclaimed as soon as he saw Harry. “Time for me to split. See you later.” On his way out Nott gave Harry a strange sort of Mugglish salute and then disappeared out the door. Harry frowned, confused.

“The fuzz?” he asked Malfoy as he sat in the uncomfortably warm visitor’s chair.

Malfoy shrugged. “You know,” he said, “the fuzz, the Bill, the police, the Muggle Law Enforcement Officials.”

Harry felt his eyes widen. “Nott speaks Mugglish? You speak Mugglish?”

Malfoy looked sheepish for a brief moment before lifting his chin in a clear gesture of defiance. “Theodore has recently discovered the Muggle motion pictures and on occasion he prevails upon me to accompany him. Ingenious things, Muggle films.”

Harry felt his eyes widen even more and his hairline rise as he tried to wrap his mind around the concept of the two snobbish purebloods rubbing shoulders with Muggles and seeing films portraying Muggle life. “I’m... surprised,” was all he managed to answer. More than just surprised, he was growing annoyed. Malfoy and Nott seemed too close for Harry’s comfort, first weekly lunches and now regularly going to the cinema together. Harry unconsciously curled his right hand into a fist.

“Yes, well,” Malfoy went on, “we all live to surprise you. The Muggle cinema is not all that bad, even though it makes one glad not to be a Muggle - too stressful and dangerous.”

“Stressful?” Harry sputtered, confused yet again.

“They always seem to be chasing and shooting each other with these odd contraptions called guns. Actually, you’re rather lucky; your Muggle counterparts look like they’re constantly busy chasing dangerous criminals and dying. Muggles have rather a high mortality rate, don’t they? Especially the Aurors, I mean police.”

“Malfoy,” Harry spoke slowly and clearly, “what sort of films have you been watching?”

“Are there various sorts? I wouldn’t know. Theodore chooses, I just get dragged along.”

Harry gave a long-suffering sigh and decided it was best not to continue the ridiculous discussion. It was beyond bizarre to be discussing Nott’s cinematic tastes with Malfoy when the latter was lying in bed, his entire body covered in pale green salve and giving off a soft glow. His blond hair was fanned around his head on the white cushion like a discreet halo and his grey eyes looked eerie and otherworldly, staring out from his green face.

“Malfoy,” Harry said abruptly, “what happened?”

“Fiendfyre,” Malfoy answered and Harry sucked in a shocked breath. “Last night when I was asleep. I smelt it just in time and woke. I had to run through the flames and jump out the window. I live on the second floor.” Malfoy stopped and swallowed. It was easy to see that under the false nonchalance, he was very rattled. His green fingers trembled slightly as he nervously smoothed down his sheets. “I almost died,” he practically whispered before swallowing again and continuing in a stronger voice. “Thankfully I still sleep with my wand under my pillow. I cast a fire-proofing charm on myself, but nothing can stand against a Fiendfyre. I landed in the road, covered in severe burns, not fit to stand, let alone Apparate. Thank Merlin the old hag across the road never sleeps and alerted St Mungo’s.”

As Malfoy fell silent, Harry’s mind was a whirl of questions and possibilities. “Don’t you have protective wards up in your apartment?” was the first thing he asked.

Malfoy’s mouth twisted in a sour grimace. “I’m not allowed to put up wards of any kind, but my flat is protected by strong Ministry wards, courtesy of the Department of Law Enforcement, seeing as there are numerous relatives of Death Eaters I helped put away that might take offence with my continuing good health.”


Harry tried to ignore the suspicion that immediately sprang to mind; it was notoriously difficult to break through Auror wards – unless one was an Auror, that is. “So there are a number of people who would want to see you dead?” he asked instead.

“I’m not certain that they wanted to kill me,” Malfoy answered unexpectedly. “Anyone who did the minimum of research concerning my habits would easily discover that I am almost never home on Saturday night before midnight, and the fire took place around eleven. The only reason I was home, and asleep, that time yesterday was because I had a cold, a rather bad one. I must say that my sinuses are quite cleared now,” he joked feebly.

It seemed like there was no escaping the nagging suspicion dogging Harry, and Malfoy obviously suspected similarly. “So why do you think your apartment was cursed then?” Harry asked, even though he knew what the answer would be.

“As a warning, of course. My solicitor has been making quite a bit of noise lately, and Potter, you should consider the possibility you haven’t been quite discreet enough in your nosing around. You know very well who I think the culprits are.”

Harry blushed; he had been as discreet as a hippogriff in a potions lab. He nervously rubbed his wrist, telling himself he had absolutely no reason to feel guilty in the slightest.

“I assume you have already been questioned by an Auror?” Harry asked, attempting to change the subject.

“Yes, of course. First thing this morning, as soon as I woke. An engaging witch, nothing like your crude run-of-the-mill Auror,” Malfoy explained with a pointed look. “Familiar face too, an old Gryffindor Chaser, Angelina Johnson. She took a full statement. Very thorough, as well as pretty.”

So Angelina’s been given Malfoy’s case, Harry mused. It certainly could have been worse. She was a good Auror, and it didn’t hurt that Harry got on well with her.

“That’s good,” he said out loud. “Angelina’s very good at her job. I’m sure she’ll crack the case in no time.” Malfoy simply raised a sceptical eyebrow in answer.

He lay there, a dejected green figure with a shock of pale gold hair, listlessly playing with his sheets and the realisation struck Harry even harder than it had earlier after reading the letter. Malfoy had almost died. The squeezing feeling in his stomach came back with a vengeance. He felt almost nauseous enough to be sick. He had to find the culprit and make sure he paid.

“How are you feeling?” he asked in an oddly soft voice.

Malfoy lifted his head to look at Harry with wide grey eyes and shrugged, only to wince in pain. “I suppose I shouldn’t complain. It was a close call, but thankfully I survived with no permanent damage done. My singed hair has already been re-grown.” Vain git, Harry thought fondly. “And this slimy green goo is doing wonders for my burns. I sprained an ankle, but that was child’s play to fix. I should be well enough to leave by tomorrow evening.”

Harry nodded distractedly in response, already itching to talk to Angelina, to hunt down the ones guilty, to do something other than sit here while his insides felt like they were trying to fold in on themselves.

“Where do you live?” he said suddenly. “I’d like to take a look, see if I can find anything out.”

“Be my guest,” Malfoy answered. “Cobbler’s Close number twelve, on the second floor.”

Not long after that a determined nurse with a large jar of bright green salve strode up to the bed.

“Mr Malfoy, I must ask your guest to leave. It’s time to renew your salve.”

“Will I get a nice sponge bath like last time? Nurse Margaret, your hands are simply divine!” Malfoy saucily answered the nurse. “Potter, it’s been nice, but scram. Nurse Margaret’s massages are one of life’s few real luxuries.” Harry got up to leave, smiling at Malfoy.

“I’ll be in touch,” he told the other man, but Malfoy was busy batting his eyelashes at Nurse Margaret.

“I’m all yours,” he was saying throatily. The nurse just shook her head at him and tutted, but Harry spied a small indulgent smile turning up one corner of her mouth.

* * * * *

Cobbler’s Close was a narrow winding alleyway that led off from Knockturn Alley. The buildings were narrow and rickety and completely blocked the sun from the sad little street. It wasn’t hard finding Malfoy’s flat - the outside was charred and the windows broken, but most telling of all were the highly visible criss-crossing Auror wards that protected the site from curious visitors and would-be mischief makers.

Harry took out his wand and carefully made his way into the apartment, easily bypassing the wards. It was a tiny cramped flat with a joint kitchen and living-room overlooking the street, and a narrow bedroom and pokey bathroom at the back, looking onto a depressing back yard with weeds and cobblestones.

There was nothing left of the flat but burnt walls, everything else had been burnt into nothingness. Harry suddenly realised that all Malfoy’s belongings had gone up in smoke and he had been left in the street, totally destitute. With an acute pang, Harry wondered where the blond would go, what he would do. A small, but insistent, part of Harry wanted to swoop in, like a knight in shining armour, to save and protect Malfoy from harm. He wondered, however, if the other man would appreciate it.

Putting all such thoughts to the side, Harry set himself to the task of exploring the flat and looking for clues. He slowly walked around, his practiced eye noting details that might prove important or, even more probably, inconsequential. To the naked eye nothing seemed out of place, there were no glaring clues lying about. Harry was not surprised. This was not a random amateur attack, of that he was sure.

Harry held his wand higher; it was time to use some of the nifty standard Auror investigation spells. When Harry had enrolled to be an Auror, he had not expected that the job required quite so much studying. Somehow he had thought that in becoming an Auror he would just continue doing what he had done for so long: solving mysteries and saving the day using nothing much more than raw talent, his (usually) dependable gut feeling, lots of brilliant luck and the backing of his friends. On the contrary, much to Harry’s chagrin (and Hermione’s amusement), in actuality Auror work mostly comprised of very, very thorough and meticulous investigations following a strict protocol, and a large amount of overly detailed paperwork.

For three years Harry had spent hour upon hour painstakingly learning investigation techniques and spells. It hadn’t been easy, since Harry wasn’t by nature a very organised or orderly person. Thankfully, his natural talent and flair had ensured that he had sailed through all the rest of his courses. However, Investigation, Observation and Analysis had proved to not only be the hardest course, but also in practice the most useful.

Creeping through the house, Harry muttered a complex revealing charm under his breath. Immediately the flat was filled with the bluish-silver glimmer of wards and spellwork. The spell revealed all active magic in a place. Looking around he barely discerned the shadow of the protective wards of the flat, an almost calligraphical criss-cross of lines and swirls covering walls, floors, ceilings, windows... On top of that glowed the brighter slashes of standard crime scene wards, coarser and more brutal.

Unsurprisingly, no other magic was visible. One of the qualities of Fiendfyre was that it not only completely destroyed all objects in its path, but it also swallowed all magic. It was a testament to the strength of the wards protecting Malfoy’s flat that their husk was still visible, albeit dimly. Though Harry had no doubt that if the fire hadn’t been halted in time, that too would have been destroyed.

Harry carefully checked the flickering wards for the slightest sign of breakage or forced entry. Nothing at all. That meant that the culprit had the “Key”. Harry frowned. The Keys to Auror protective wards were of top level secrecy and one needed clearance from the head of the Auror Department to be given one. What’s more, the Office of Protection and Concealment, a discreet part of the Auror Headquarters, was famous for being one of the most conscientious and incorruptible in the Ministry.

With an abrupt slashing motion of his wand, Harry made the fancy silver cage enclosing the apartment disappear from sight again. Shortly after, he softly whispered the next spell, “Aperire Magicus Recens,” while making a sweeping motion over the living room and kitchen.

Suddenly the room was aglow with light again. Shimmery greenish shapes had appeared, some clean cut and bright, looking like three-dimensional ideograms, and others nothing more than misty grey patches. Harry hummed under his breath, displeased. His spell revealed all magical activity that had taken place within the last seven days. Looking at the clearly visible ideograms, Harry easily made out standard Auror investigation and warding spells, obviously Angelina’s. As for the others, the mist was sparse and nearly invisible. It was impossible to tell what spells had been cast or magical objects used. Fiendfyre was truly the best way to leave no traces behind. Only not many people knew that.

He had put all his power behind the spell to get these pathetic patches of haze. Angelina was not as powerful as he was, which meant that she would have had even worse luck. Harry rubbed his eyes and then ran his hand through his unruly hair in a habitual gesture of irritation. Just one more spell was left and then he would go home to mull over the case.

It was a particularly difficult spell, so Harry closed his eyes in concentration before speaking in a distinctive and powerful voice, “Aperire Nomen Magus,” while once again making a wide sweeping motion encompassing the whole charred apartment. He put as much power as he could behind the spell. So much so that he actually felt it spitting out of his wand and zinging around that flat in a whoosh. The backlash of the spell hit him as he stood with his eyes still closed, trying to get his breath back.

He opened them and truly enough he saw a number of colourful holograms hovering over the locations of the past spells he had managed to reveal. Over Angelina’s spells the holograms were bright and sharp, whereas the rest were very faint and slightly smudged. Painstakingly he conjured up unbreakable glass bottles to enclose and keep each of these representations of magical signatures. One of these should belong to the culprit. He carefully pocketed them, cast a couple of spells to disperse all evidence of his own spellwork to anyone but a qualified Auror, and returned home.

* * * * *

Harry stretched his arms behind his back until his spine cracked and realigned itself. He was tired and frustrated. Lounging back into his squishy sofa, he stared at the four small bottles on the coffee table in front of him. After painstakingly comparing all the magical signature samples, he had narrowed them down to four distinctly different signatures, four different wizards or witches.

The spells he had used in Malfoy’s flat earlier were actually new state-of-the-art spells so far only known by the Aurors and the Unspeakables. During the war, and after, the Ministry had found itself hunting wizards and witches who routinely hid their identities behind masks and disguises and who struck often under cover of dark, leaving behind curses with imbedded time-delay charms. It had become imperative to find a way to identify wizards and witches from the aura left in a place from spells previously cast. Magical signatures had proved to be as unique to the witch or wizard as their fingerprint, and once, after a lot of research and trial and error, a foolproof spell had been devised to visually depict the aura of a magical signature, the work of Aurors had become much, much easier.

The research and de-coding of magical signatures was also still very much virgin territory and the research wizards in the Department of Mysteries were still busy furiously analysing and studying them. That was why Harry was gazing at the four colour-filled bottles with his brow furrowed. So far the official research team was keeping its findings to itself, hoping eventually to make a big splash by publishing them all at once, and Harry, just like everyone else, actually knew very little about magical signatures. He knew enough, though, to be slightly puzzled. One of the signatures was far brighter than the rest, Angelina’s obviously, and out of the other three, two were remarkably similar. Siblings? Twins? Pure coincidence? What would make two people have such similar signatures? Harry assumed that the fourth was Malfoy’s. He hummed softly. He was looking for two people with similar signatures. He wondered idly whether when two people worked together, like Merryweather and Timple, for a long period of time, their signatures eventually changed to resemble each other. Harry frowned. Wasn’t a person’s magical signature supposed to be unique and unchangeable? He really wished the Unspeakables would hurry up and enlighten them all!

* * * * *

Monday morning brought torrential rains, but Harry hardly noticed as he Flooed to the Ministry uncharacteristically early. He marched into Auror Headquarters with a hasty step, eager to quiz Angelina on all she knew about the attack on Malfoy; though lately Harry was getting into the habit of calling him Draco in his mind, especially during his late night dream-fantasies.

Last night’s had been particularly gratifying: Harry had single-handedly found Draco’s attackers and brought them to justice, and in return Draco had been amazingly imaginative and flexible in showing Harry his gratitude and admiration. Harry had woken up that morning with the image of glittering pale eyes and a smile as sharp and dangerous as a knife burnt into his retinas. He smiled a small secretive smile as he poured himself a generous helping of coffee in the Auror staff room and wondered what his chances were of really getting Malfoy to do the things he had imagined in vivid detail.

He was leaning against the counter, cradling his mug while distractedly thinking up semi-plausible scenarios by which he could make his night-time imaginings come true, when Angelina and Thomson walked in, deep in discussion. They both chorused a perfunctory “Hullo Harry”, before returning to the matter at hand.

Harry barely paid them any attention as he continued drinking his coffee distractedly. It didn’t take long for Thomson to take his leave and return to his cubicle, leaving Harry alone with Angelina, who was steeping her tea the Muggle way with great precision and concentration. Harry held his breath and waited.

“Perfect!” Angelina finally pronounced, satisfied, and with a swift swish of her wand the teabag relocated into the bin. She turned around and smiled at Harry as she lifted the cup to her lips. Harry smiled back and gave her a bit of time to enjoy her first sip of tea.

As soon as she had swallowed her second long sip, however, Harry carefully cleared his throat. “So,” he started nonchalantly by way of making simple conversation, “I hear you were given the case of the attack on Draco Malfoy.” Harry looked into his coffee, feigning indifference, but out of the corner of his eye he caught Angelina raising her eyebrows and giving him a side-long look. Maybe he hadn’t pulled of the nonchalant attitude as well as he had thought after all...

“News does travel fast, but not as fast as it could, however,” was Angelina’s enigmatic reply.

“What do you mean?” asked Harry, dropping the indifferent act.

“I was given Malfoy’s case first thing Sunday morning, but this morning I just got a memo informing me that the case has been given to Timple instead. Bloody annoying, I should say.”

“Yes, you should,” Harry agreed fervently with her. “It was given to Timple, you say?” The amount of coincidences piling up was simply ridiculous.

“Yes, Timple. It’s not that I mind losing the case, just losing my Sunday,” Angelina explained. “It’s a bloody hopeless case, anyway. The flat has been destroyed by Fiendfyre, together with all the evidence. All I got was a couple of barely legible magical signatures, and without a comprehensive magical signature archive to cross-reference them with, what good are they? Robards is hardly going to authorise the signature testing of all the possible suspects, is he?”

Harry nodded in agreement. “I suppose you had no luck with the existing signature archive, did you?”

Angelina gave him a quelling look, and Harry shrugged in response. The existing archive was very, very small, even though it was slowly growing. All it contained so far were samples from wizards and witches apprehended since the discovery of the magical signature revealing spell.

“I do feel sorry for Malfoy though,” Angelina went on. “I didn’t like him much at school, but he turned out all right in the end, so it was rather sad to see how he ended up. I wouldn’t have thought it though, he always gave the impression he was going places. And now he’s homeless to boot. I doubt he’ll even get any sort of compensation, even if they do say his lawyer is rather tenacious. At least he still has some friends. He said an old classmate, Theodore Nott, would put him up temporarily.”

Harry almost choked on the dregs of his coffee. Nott again! He really was too close to Malfoy for Harry’s comfort. “Nott?” he wheezed out. “But... but isn’t he a shady character?”

Angelina laughed at that. “A shady character, Harry?” she said between giggles and guffaws. “Many people would say the same of Malfoy. Anyway, no one has ever managed to prove anything.”

“But... but Malfoy can’t stay at Nott’s!” Harry was so aghast at the thought that he was at a complete loss for words. “What about protection wards?” he finally managed to splutter.

“That will be a problem,” Angelina agreed, “but not my problem anymore. How come you’re so interested anyway?”

Harry suddenly stood a little stiffer. “I’m not really that interested,” he disagreed. “Just curious, that’s all. We were in the same year after all.”

Angelina looked distinctly sceptical but didn’t say anything more. “How’s the haunted house going?” she asked instead and Harry groaned.

“Not well,” he answered. “Not well at all. It’s been giving me the biggest headache ever.”

* * * * *

“Tell me he’s still here!” Harry gasped at the unimpressed nurse.

“Who is still here?” she asked pointedly.

Harry had just sprinted through St Mungo’s from the Ministry Floo connection; he sincerely hoped he wasn’t too late. “Draco Malfoy,” he answered.

“Oh, him. He’s still here, but not for long. He should be leaving soon.”

Harry shouted a hasty thank-you over his shoulder as he ran towards the room he had only visited the day before.

After talking with Angelina that morning, Harry had gone to his cubicle determined to make some headway into the haunted house case. To give him his due, he had manfully plodded through a big part of the barely legible old case folders. But the whole time, at the back of his mind the thought of Malfoy had never gone away. How could he leave Malfoy to the mercy of the likes of Timple and Nott? The more he pondered, the clearer he saw what he had to do. There was no way around it, as an Auror, and a decent wizard, it was his duty to save Malfoy from dangerous Ministry conspiracies and shady so-called friends. It really had nothing to do with wanting Malfoy for himself, he assured himself.

Malfoy was calmly sitting on his bed, still in hospital clothes, reading a book when Harry gracelessly crashed into the room. Malfoy raised his head and cocked it to the side in surprise and amusement at Harry’s entrance.

“I was expecting Theo,” he informed Harry, “but you can keep me company till he comes.”

“No, I can’t,” Harry retorted.

Malfoy frowned, confused. “Okay, you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he answered reasonably. “Why are you here, then?”

Harry strode over to Malfoy’s bed, towering over the prone form. “I’m here because things are more dangerous than you think: plots within the Ministry, leaked high security Keys.. .Can’t have you without the proper wards at the mercy of shady friends like Nott, I don’t care if nothing has been proven!”

Malfoy closed his book with the air of someone being very patient, and then spoke to Harry slowly and clearly, as if to a child, or a drunk. “Potter, what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you coming with me. You’re staying at my house.”

Malfoy acquiesced to Harry’s proposition surprisingly easily, so easily in fact that it was rather anti-climatic. The only point Malfoy insisted on was that they wait for Nott, to tell him in person that his hospitality won’t be needed after all. Harry was sure that when Nott came, he would be in for a fight where he would need all his arguments and determination, but Nott simply shrugged good-naturedly.

“Sure,” he said amiably. “Suit yourselves. Less trouble for me. I’ll be seeing you around, Draco.” And with that he ambled out the ward again, winking suggestively at a pretty nurse and making her titter.

It all left Harry feeling rather hollow and deflated, not to mention cheated. He realised he had been looking forward to fighting over Malfoy, and winning.

“I’m ready, take me home,” Malfoy suddenly chirped, shaking Harry out of his thoughts. He looked around to find that the blond had already changed out of his hospital gown and into a singed and well-worn pair of pyjamas. Harry frowned, annoyed that his useless musings had made him miss the change.

Upon seeing Harry’s expression, Malfoy looked down at himself self-consciously. “This is all I have left, everything else was burnt,” he explained, suddenly looking embarrassed. “I’ll have to go shopping tomorrow,” he added sheepishly.

“You can borrow some of my clothes,” Harry blurted without thinking, and then blushed awkwardly at Malfoy’s surprised expression. “Um... I mean if you want to, of course. You don’t have to or anything, just you’re near to my size and I have plenty to spare...” Harry trailed off, feeling distinctively stupid.

“That’s very kind of you, Potter. I think I will avail myself of your generosity,” Malfoy answered with a smile that was brief yet sweet, and Harry felt himself flushing.


What proved much harder was explaining his decision to Robards. He hadn’t really thought about what he would tell his superior and how the Auror Department would take his unexpected decision. Early Tuesday morning, as he was seated opposite Robards’ frowning face, Harry realised that he really should have given the whole matter more thought.

Twenty minutes and many halting explanations later, Robards was still frowning, unsatisfied and sceptical, but Harry was free to go and hide in his office.

He had barely closed his door and sprawled into his chair when Tonks cheerfully barged in, holding two mugs of steaming coffee. She placed one in front of Harry and then sat in the visitor’s chair, grinning all the while.

“So what’s this I hear about you and my wayward cousin? Offering him shelter in his time of need. Are you just a good person like that, or is there something you are hiding from me?” Tonks waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Harry blushed. “Shurrup,” he mumbled. “And please keep your voice down!”

“Aha! Just as I thought. Something is going on with Draco dearest, what with all those questions about the Manor. One thing you are not, Harry Potter, is subtle,” Tonks crowed sotto voce, before adding, “and I wish you would stop being so bloody paranoid about your big secret, it’s not really as big a deal as you make out. Anyway, surely quite a few people should have worked it out by now.”

“What? Like who?” Harry asked, suddenly anxious. “And don’t you try to deny that the Daily Prophet and all the other tabloids won’t hound me down once they find out their Hero is gay.”

“I’m not denying that they will have a field day, and that you might receive a couple of Howlers. But it will all die down eventually.”

Harry snorted. His coming out was a subject that he and a number of his well-meaning, but ultimately naive, friends agreed to disagree on. He didn’t believe that the furore about his sexual orientation would ever die down, just like his fame never completely died down. He was an intensely private person, and he wanted to keep his private business just that, private. So what if it put a cramp on his love life?

“Do tell us about my dear cousin. We don’t have much by the way of family reunions, but from our few meetings, I did guess that our Draco was rather bent,” Tonks said, bringing the conversation back to the subject she was the most interested in.

“There is nothing to tell, because nothing is going on between Malfoy and me,” Harry ground out.

“But you would like for there to be something, wouldn’t you?” Tonks shot back perceptively.

Harry opened his mouth to answer, and then shut it again with an audible snap. What was he doing? He wasn’t going to discuss this with Tonks! “Tonks, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of work to do,” he said. “And I really have to get down to working on the haunted house file, so how about we talk about this some other time?”

“Sure,” Tonks replied easily enough, jumping up from her chair. “I’ll let you get your work done. Wouldn’t want you working overtime with a house-guest to take care of.” Once she was at the door, she turned and grinned cheekily. “I can’t wait to tell Remus that you succumbed to the Black charm. I always said we were irresistible!”

Harry groaned and sprawled back into his chair, staring unseeing at his ceiling. He knew he could only put her off for so long. Sooner, rather than later, she would be dragging the whole pathetic tale of his little crush out of him. Why did he have to have such nosy friends?

Taking a deep relaxing breath, he dragged the file on the haunted house to centre of his desk and flipped it open. He had yet to plod through the whole mire of paperwork on the case so he could finally get down to investigating the site. He always started with the best of intentions, but it was all so confusing and badly written, that it never took long for him to get distracted by daydreams and thoughts about Malfoy, Draco. Today was even worse than usual because last night the other man had slept in his house, in his pyjamas.


Once Harry had Side-Along Apparated them into his modest flat, he had immediately modified the wards to permit Draco entrance and to fortify them. Draco had curiously looked around the apartment, peering into cupboards and calmly walking into bedrooms without asking. He had been impressed by Harry’s wards. “Almost as strong as the wards we had at the Manor,” he had said, eyeing Harry approvingly. He was, however, less than impressed by the general state of the house. “How long have you been living here?” “You know, just because you’re a bachelor, doesn’t mean you have to live like a slob.” “Where did you get that sofa from?” He had scrunched his nose at Harry’s unmade bed, but thankfully refrained from commenting. Fortunately he had been rather satisfied with the guest-room. “It will do,” he had pronounced in its favour.

Later that night as they sat eating take away for dinner Draco had expressed his surprise upon finding Harry’s house so small. “I expected the Saviour of the Wizarding World to at least be living in a proper house with a garden and a house-elf.”

“I do have a house with a garden and a house-elf, but I’d rather not live there,” was all Harry offered by way of explanation.

After dinner, Draco had rifled through Harry’s drawers looking for pyjamas, and had soon come across a pair of slate silk ones Tonks and Remus had bought him one Christmas, “in case he had company over.” Harry never entertained company in his pyjamas and thus he had never worn them.

“Perfect!” Draco had exclaimed happily upon finding them, but almost instantly his expression of glee had turned to one of suspicion. “They’re not your favourites, are they?” he had asked worriedly.

“Not at all, you can take them,” Harry had rushed to answer.

“Wonderful. Thank you.” Sometimes it took so little to make someone happy.

The only problem was that Harry had not been able get to sleep that night for wondering how the other man looked in the borrowed pyjamas. He had even considered sneaking into the guest-room to take a look.

Next morning his curiosity was satisfied. Harry had been sitting in the kitchen, sipping a cup of coffee as he slowly woke up, when Draco sleepily shuffled into the room. His hair was soft and ruffled, making him look strangely young and cuddly. His sharp face was still damp from when he obviously washed himself, but not dried properly, and his eyes were half-closed. The soft fabric of the silk pyjamas draped over his figure almost obscenely, Harry thought. With a sudden jolt of shock, he realised that the other man was not wearing underwear and he could vaguely make out the outline of his cock through the grey silk. Harry’s heart stuttered and stopped.

Draco sleepwalked into the kitchen and collapsed into a chair. “Morning,” he said without opening his eyes. “Tea?”

Harry wordlessly Summoned the teapot and a cup and poured Draco some. The blond reached for the cup, cradling it in his hands with a hum of satisfaction.

Harry felt like he hadn’t drawn a single breath since Draco had appeared in the kitchen and his heart still hadn’t started beating again. His coffee lay forgotten on the table, as he stared at the other man slowly sip his tea and wake up, step by step. Harry could feel his pulse beat in his cock as it started to fill out.

With one last sip and drawn out hum of satisfaction, Draco placed his cup on the table. Then he opened his eyes, big and grey, the exact grey of the pyjamas, and smiled warmly at Harry. Harry drew one sudden sharp breath. His heart was beating, loud and fast – he wondered if Draco could hear it – and his cock gave a violent jolt and reached full hardness.

“Good morning,” Draco repeated, clearly this time. “I slept very well last night. The bed was nicely comfortable, not too soft, not too hard.”

“I’m glad,” was the only reply Harry managed to choke out. He had to escape before he made a fool of himself! He cleared his throat and said in a rush, “I have to leave. I’ll be late for work if I don’t. I hope you make yourself at home in my flat, but I really have to go now.” Harry got up suddenly, nearly toppling his chair over. “Well, I’ll be off then, see you this evening.” And without waiting for Draco to reply, he rushed to the Floo and made his escape.

Once in the Ministry, he took a couple of deep gulps of air and practically ran to the nearest lavatory to quickly take care of his problem.



Now, hours later, alone in his cubicle at Auror Headquarters with the door closed, sprawled indecorously in his chair, the folder of his latest case open and forgotten on the desk, Harry found himself yet again stroking himself to thoughts of Malfoy. He pressed down with the flat of his palm against the erection straining his Standard Auror Robes, as he brought to mind images of Draco from that morning.

He was seriously considering opening his robes to do it properly when he was startled by a sharp rap on his door and a deep masculine voice demanding, “Potter, are you in?”

It was Timple! Harry sat up straight immediately and patted himself to make sure he was in order. “Yes, I’m here,” he shouted back. “Come in.”

Timple opened the door and strode in. He was a tall, imposing man, with an intimidating expression, but Harry was never one to be easily intimidated by that sort of thing.

“What’s this I hear?” Timple began, going straight to the point. “You are harbouring Malfoy in your home?”

Timple’s attitude rubbed Harry in all the wrong ways. “I’m not harbouring Draco Malfoy, because he’s not a criminal to be harboured, but I am offering him my hospitality because he has nowhere to stay.”

“Humph...” Timple sat heavily in the same visitor’s chair Tonks has used a couple of hours previously. He took a notepad and quill out of his pocket and looked at Harry challengingly. “So how long would you say you’ve been friendly with the... subject?” he asked Harry.

“That is really neither here, nor there,” Harry responded, annoyed. “We were in the same year at Hogwarts.”

“Yes, I know,” Timple interrupted. “And I don’t recall the two of you being on the best of terms then.”

Harry scowled. He wished Timple would just pack it in and leave him alone. “Yes, well, people grow up and leave such childishness behind them. All you really need to know is that we are on perfectly good terms now. So much so that I’m perfectly happy to accommodate him in my home.”

Timple scribbled a couple of notes in his pad and returned to scrutinising Harry. “Potter, we really should arrange a meeting together with someone from Protection and Concealment to look over the wards on your house and replace some of them with more suitable ones.”

Harry fairly bristled. “Timple, I think you forget who I am,” he enunciated slowly, trying to remain calm. “My wards are impenetrable and highly secret. No one is going to touch them! No one is even going to breathe on them! It’s bloody well easier to break out of Azkaban than it is to break into my home, so you should just stop harassing me and start looking for the bloody culprits.” Harry’s voice had steadily risen the whole tirade until it had practically reached a bellow.

“There’s no need to get so upset, Potter, we won’t go near your wards since you insist. Please sit down again.”

Harry realised that he had stood up, both palms flat on his desk, and was breathing heavily, whereas Timple was still seated and calmly taking more notes.

“Oh,” he said, deflated, as he sat down. “Sorry about that.”

“If you just give me your address then, to put in the file, in case we need to speak to Malfoy,” Timple asked as if Harry hadn’t just been yelling at him a couple of minutes ago.

“Sorry, no,” Harry said. “I can’t do that. My address is still confidential. If you need to talk to Malfoy, you can simply find him during his work hours, or if it’s really urgent, inform Robards. He’s one of the select few privy to my address. Would that be all?” Harry suddenly felt very tired. He wished Timple would hurry up and leave.

Timple closed his notepad and placed it, together with his quill, back in his pocket. “That’ll be all then, Potter. I’d better get down to catching the culprits, shouldn’t I?” And then, finally, he got up and left Harry blessedly alone.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief before having a sudden thought. He jumped up, his mind whirling. He left his cubicle and walked, as nonchalantly as he could, to the coffee room, all the while looking around, trying to catch a glimpse of Timple. Craning his neck as he reached the door to the coffee room, he just about could see Timple’s door from the corner of his eye. It was slightly ajar. That meant he was still there. Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

His mind still working overtime, he went to make himself a tea. A very slow tea. And then, his ears and eyes alert, he leaned against the counter and sipped his tea, while watching various Aurors and secretaries going about their business.


His tea had gone cold and he was down to his last sip when he finally saw Timple leave his office and head towards the lavatory. Losing no time, Harry put his cup in the sink and hurried to Timple’s cubicle. The door was ajar. Harry quickly looked around; there was no-one in sight. He slipped into the small room and silently closed the door.

Whipping out his wand, he carefully cast a revealing spell. Suddenly the room was ablaze with green spell ideograms. Harry’s gaze fell onto a simple filing charm, a spell definitely performed by Timple, and he cast a localised spell to reveal the corresponding magical signature. It was bright and clear. Satisfied, Harry saved it in a conjured glass bottle.

After clearing the space of all revealed spells and signatures, he went to the desk. Just as he had thought, the Malfoy case lay on the top. Harry opened it and page by page he cast duplifying charms. Once he finished, he stuffed the new pages into his pocket and closed the file again. Suddenly anxious, he rushed out the office.

Not a moment too early. Timple was a couple of doors away, chatting with Dawlish. Harry looked around for a way out and spotted Tonks’ door. He rushed over and barged in, after a brief knock.

“Harry!” Tonks exclaimed. “To what do I owe this honour?”

“Have lunch with me,” Harry said simply, breathing a sigh of relief.

****

Malfoy was right, Harry mused, his sofa was awful. It was threadbare and sagging on one side. Maybe he should consider getting a new one, especially when he thought about the amount of time he spent sitting on it. At the moment he was sitting hunched, his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his hands as he stared at the bottles lined up on the coffee table.

Harry frowned as he thought of the bottled magical signatures in front of him. They were seven in total, four unlabelled and three neatly labelled: Angelina’s – taken discreetly Monday morning in the coffee-room from her banishing charm, Timple’s – taken earlier that day from his office, and Malfoy’s – taken the night before from the scouring charm he had thrown at Harry’s sofa before sitting down. The bottles didn’t match up properly. What they did do was confuse Harry.

The muffled crack of Apparition echoing from the entrance hall, followed by footsteps coming closer, broke into Harry’s musings.

“Good evening, Malfoy,” he said without turning round.

“Evening,” Malfoy drawled genially enough. He walked to the sofa where Harry was still gazing at the bottles lined up on the coffee table. “What are those?” he queried, catching sight of them.

He walked over to the table and picked one of the unlabelled ones up. “Pretty,” he said, “but I doubt they are ornaments.” He put the one he was holding down and picked up the one neatly labelled D. Malfoy. “This one has my name on it. Won’t you tell me what it is?” He tilted the bottle to the side to catch the light better and gazed raptly at the swirls of colours that made up his magical signature.

Harry sighed. He hadn’t planned on telling Malfoy about the signatures until he had worked them out. But then again, he hadn’t been exactly careful about hiding them from him, so he might as well tell him now.

“They’re magical signatures,” he said. “The labelled ones belong to you, Angelina and Timple. The others were retrieved from your flat.”

Malfoy looked intrigued. “I’d heard of magical signatures,” he said, “but I’d never thought they’d be so beautiful. Are everyone’s so beautiful, or only some peoples?”

Harry laughed; trust Malfoy to try to find more ways in which to be superior. “Don’t flatter yourself, Malfoy. Magic is always beautiful, and so are signatures. But some signatures do have more colours than others. Compare yours and Timple’s, for example.”

Malfoy did as he was told, and was gratified to see that his had more varied colours than Timple’s. After a brief self-satisfied smile he put the bottles down and turned to Harry.

“So, what were you frowning about before I came in?”

“As I said, the unlabelled bottles are the signatures I retrieved from your flat,” Harry explained. “One of them, the bright one, matches exactly with Angelina’s and another matches exactly with yours. So far that’s as expected. The other two, though, are strange. For example, one of them is remarkably similar to Timple’s, yet isn’t exactly the same. What does that mean? That the person is a close relative, is similar in personality and magical character to Timple? Could Timple himself possibly have two magical signatures? This is a new field of Magical Science and we don’t know much.”

Harry didn’t mention that the last unidentified signature was eerily similar to Malfoy’s. He hadn’t a signature sample from Merryweather or Hobson, but the thought of either of them having one so alike to Malfoy’s was a very strange, and slightly off-putting, thought.

Malfoy picked up the two signatures Harry mentioned and studied them intently. “Hmm... You’re right. Remarkable likeness and yet you can see the differences too. If a wizard were to use a different wand would he produce the same magical signature or a different one?” he asked.

Harry sat up. That was an interesting thought. His own wand was such an intrinsic part of him that he would never even consider using another, but what if other wizards or witches would and did? “We should try that theory out,” he said. “Malfoy, can I borrow your wand?”

Malfoy lifted an intrigued eyebrow and handed his wand over. “This should be interesting,” was all he said.

The borrowed wand felt strange and foreign in Harry’s hand, nothing like the comfortable familiarity of his own. He weighted it and adjusted his grip, trying to get the feel of it. It was too light and flexible and felt all wrong as he tried to swish it. He could feel the other man’s eyes intent on him. It felt strangely intimate handling Malfoy’s, or rather Draco’s wand. He wondered what Draco felt, seeing it in Harry’s hand.

With a sudden sharp movement, Harry cast a simple heating spell towards the far corner of the room. He misjudged the reaction of the wand and ended up lightly singing the wall-paper.

“You can have it back now,” he told Draco and the other man wordlessly retrieved his wand and hastily pocketed it. Yet Harry could see he kept his hand in his pocket, no doubt to keep physical contact with his wand.

Harry picked up his own wand, with a sigh of relief at the naturalness, and cast another, perfect this time, heating charm in the opposite corner of the room. Draco watched with undiluted interest as Harry revealed first the spells and then the signatures, which he promptly bottled.

“I am very impressed,” Draco said. “That was quite a show of expert Auror spellwork. Can all Aurors do that, or do you remain ever the prodigy?”

Harry blushed, wondering if it was an honest compliment, or if he was just been teased. A quick look at the other’s face found no trace of sarcasm or sneering.

“I am rather good at it,” Harry mumbled, suddenly self-conscious. “But most other Aurors can do these spells too. They’re pretty new, but have become standard.”

Harry sat down on his sagging sofa, holding the bottles up to the light to compare them. Draco came over, curious, and sat next to him, shifting over until their thighs were flush together. Harry’s breath hitched and his vision went out of focus, as all his attention centred on the press of the other man’s bony leg. Draco leaned even closer, his body heat washing over Harry and making him shiver, and brought his face close to the glass bottles to peer at them inquiringly. A fall of blond hair obscured Harry’s view of the signatures, but he hardly noticed, all his attention focused on the proximity of the other man – on the scent of his body, the hum of his magic, the sound of his breathing – and on keeping his own breathing under some semblance of control. It was a strange dizzying feeling he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager.

“I’m brilliant,” Draco crowed, his voice reverberating oddly in such close quarters. “Do you see it, Potter? Almost exactly alike, but not quite?” He sat back with a flourish and a self-satisfied sigh, letting Harry breath a little easier. “Potter?” he asked, perplexed by Harry’s silence.

Harry tried to concentrate on the glass bottles, but couldn’t quite do it. “Um, yeah, I see,” he said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the bottles, they did look almost the same, but not quite. It seemed like Draco was right after all.

“Potter? Are you all right?” Draco said, as he put his hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“Yes, sure. Why wouldn’t I be?” Harry answered quickly, with only a slight quiver to the end as he turned around to look at Draco, only to find his face just inches away from the other man’s. Big enquiring grey eyes were suddenly so close to Harry’s startled ones, that he stared mesmerised as he fell into the other’s gaze.

“Potter,” Draco repeated softly.

Harry simply sat there, unable to speak, his eyes flickering form Draco’s intense eyes to the tiny, almost imperceptible, freckles on his nose to his pink lips. Harry unconsciously licked his own as he wondered what would happen if he kissed that inviting mouth. Would Draco kiss him back or would he push him away? Harry felt himself start to slowly move forward.

Draco suddenly sat back. “You’re probably just tired,” he said, breaking the spell. “I bet they overwork you at the Ministry.”

Harry blinked and took a deep breath. That had been close!

Draco stretched lazily, pulling his arms over his head and Harry couldn’t help but stare at the lean line of his arms and the way the fabric pulled across his chest and stomach. With a brisk movement, Draco put his arms back down, and Harry looked up only to find the other scrutinising him.

“I’m assuming you didn’t cook anything. Do you have any preferences for dinner?” Draco finally said as he got up and moved to the kitchen.

“Um, no preferences. Why? Are you going to cook?” Harry answered, surprised.

“That was the idea, yes,” Draco threw over his shoulder before disappearing into the kitchen. Shortly afterwards noises started drifting out of the kitchen, cupboards being opened, food being chopped, saucepans banging.

Well that was certainly unexpected, Harry mused.

He sat more comfortably on his old sofa and looked carefully at the two magical signatures he was still holding. Draco was brilliant. As he stared intently at the two bottles, he saw a certain pattern emerging, the definite way they were different. He put his signatures down and picked up Timple’s and the one similar. After careful inspection he began to see similar patterns and became fairly sure that it was the same person with a different wand. He put them down, intrigued, and picked up Draco’s and his doppelganger’s, intensely curious.

*****

Draco managed to put together a surprisingly good, and fast, vegetable risotto with the contents of Harry’s badly stocked cupboards.

“Let me guess,” he asked Harry as they ate, “you mostly eat take away? It wouldn’t harm you to buy food that doesn’t come out of cans more often.”

Harry looked at Draco with a light frown. “You seem to have slipped into the role of the nagging wife astonishingly fast,” he informed the other man by way of answer.

Surprisingly, Draco threw back his head and laughed. A short bark of laughter that oddly enough reminded Harry of Sirius. He looked at Harry with a twinkle in his eye. “Point taken, husband dearest. I’ll try to behave, but I can’t give any guarantees.” The last was said with a sly glance, heavy with innuendo. Harry almost choked on his food.

As it was, he took a long sip of water before changing the subject. “So, Malfoy, I’d like to see that second, unregistered, wand of yours.”

Malfoy looked at Harry calmly, with a slight crease between his eyebrows. “What second wand?” he asked, with such genuine sounding confusion that if Harry wasn’t certain of what he was saying, he would have believed the other man. He made a note to himself not to forget what a good actor Malfoy had become.

“Save it,” Harry replied brusquely. “I have a pair of magical signatures in the living room that say you have a second wand. Don’t worry. I won’t turn you in, even though I do realise how severely you are breaking your probation orders.”

Draco gave Harry a searching look before speaking. “You’re correct. I do have a second wand. Do you have any idea how much trouble I’ll be in if anyone found out?”

“I said, don’t worry,” Harry reassured him. “Your secret’s safe with me. Only if we are going to work together on this case, you are going to have to trust me. No more secrets.”

Draco swallowed and nodded. “All right, Potter. But it should go both ways. I’m sure you’re holding out on me too.”

“I’ll need to see that wand,” Harry insisted.

“You’ll have to wait a bit then. I don’t have it at the moment. I gave to the hag across the road for safe-keeping before they came to take me to St Mungo’s.”

“Tomorrow evening, we’ll go and get it.” Harry refrained from commenting on the fact Draco had trusted his neighbour with his illegal wand and not Harry.


They finished the rest of the meal in silence and then banished the dirty dishes to the sink and returned to the living room.

Draco threw himself into one of Harry’s squishy armchairs with feeling, avoiding the sofa that was “too uncomfortable for words.” Harry took his usual seat on the less sagging end of the sofa.

Draco had taken off his coarse work robes and was wearing a baggy green jumper and worn brown corduroy trousers. Harry squinted; the clothes seemed sort of familiar. Actually, the more he looked, the more familiar they became.

“Malfoy,” he asked, “are those my clothes?”

Draco’s cheeks took on a light pink tinge and he looked at the floor. “Yes, you said I could. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all. I was just surprised. I had completely forgot. You can borrow whatever you want.” When Harry had offered, he hadn’t really thought that Draco would take him up on the offer. It was strange seeing his own familiar clothes look so different on someone else. That jumper, for example, was not supposed to be so big.

“Malfoy,” Harry noted, “you really are too thin. I think I’ll have to make sure to feed you up a bit.”

The pink tinge returned to Malfoy’s cheeks. “It’s called willowy, Potter, not thin, and I happed to have a delicate bone structure,” he retorted indignantly.

Looking at the almost sunken cheeks and the sharp angles of the bones under his neck, Harry had to disagree.

“Now that we’ve finished admiring my fine form, let’s talk about my manor. Potter, I’m sure that you put to good use your fine Auror skills and made some headway.”

Harry remembered Penelope’s letter.

“Appart from the two Aurors, Timple and Merryweather, there’s also an Unspeakable in the plot, as I’m sure you knew, Aloysius Hobson. He’s a friend of Timple and Brown from Hogwarts.”

“I really like seeing networking in action, even if it’s against me,” Draco sighed appreciatively.

“In this case it’s very much against you. This Hobson fellow is clever and dangerous. He has a penchant for working on projects that flirt dangerously with the wrong side of the Dark Arts. There have occasionally been rumours about his activities, but he always manages to avoid ministerial censor.

In my opinion, there’s no doubt about it, they’re up to something. Only I’ve got no idea what it could be. You might find it interesting to note that no Dark Objects from Malfoy manor whatsoever have been passed into the hands of Archival and Storage of Dark Objects and Criminal Evidence since well before the war.”

Draco made a surprised noise. “The manor was full of Dark Objects; the dark Lord loved collecting them, and we had plenty of our own. But somehow I doubt that all this is is a trafficking ring for unregistered Dark Artefacts.”

“I doubt if they’re selling them,” Harry agreed. “But I do wonder if they’re using them. Or at least if Hobson is, for some experiment or project of his.

The only other information I found out about Hobson I doubt has any relevance to our case,” Harry continued. “His only living relative is a younger sister, a younger Squib sister. I was told that when he first joined the Department of Mysteries, he was obsessed with finding a cure for ‘Squibness’.”

Draco snorted. “Him and who knows how many other wishful thinkers over the past couple of hundred years. I even had a distant Black relative who tried his hand at finding a ‘cure’. The results were rather disastrous.”

“Anyway,” Harry continued, “the head of the department finally put an end to it. He told Hobson to concentrate the time and resources of the department on more feasible projects. That was years ago.”

“I still think we should break into the manor,” Draco said. “We have to see for ourselves what’s going on inside. All the rest is just conjecture and will not get us anywhere.”

Harry sighed. He agreed with Draco, but it wasn’t so easy. “If it was just Auror wards,” he said, “I could break through them, unless they were using a Key, which I doubt, tracelessly and get us in and out with no one any the wiser. Only thing is that Hobson has also added his own Unspeakable wards. With enough time and effort, I could probably break through those wards as well, but not without tripping the alarm system he has no doubt imbedded into them.”

Draco slid his thin hand through his hair, loosening it from its tie and letting it hang freely round his face. He looked almost girlish, like a sharp angled girl. “I suspected that would be the case,” he said wearily. He made as if to speak again, but closed his mouth and looked away, agitated.

Harry waited patiently, and was rewarded when Draco finally looked his way and slowly started speaking again.

“I know we said no secrets, but this isn’t exactly my secret to tell,” he began. “It’s a family secret, a well kept one. But I trust you. I trust you to keep it to yourself.” Draco cut off and stared at Harry intently. Harry nodded his assent, he could keep secrets.

“Okay,” Draco continued. “I told you about the maze of catacombs under the manor, but I doubt you understood exactly how extensive they are. A couple of the tunnels run for quite a distance and then lead back above ground. They constitute secret escape routes from the manor, to be used as a last resort in the case of an attack.”

“So that’s how Voldermort escaped the siege of the manor!” Harry broke in.

“Yes,” Draco confirmed. “My father led him and a couple of others out using one of the routes, the least hidden one.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about these tunnels during the war?” Harry demanded.

“They are a family secret! No one is supposed to know. Father should never have told the Dark Lord. I shouldn’t be telling you now. But even more importantly, telling you would have been the most effective way of blowing my cover as a spy. I have never had a death wish.”

Harry grudgingly agreed that Draco had a point.

“What I’m trying to say,” Draco huffed, “is that these secret tunnels can also be a way into the catacombs and the manor. A way in that Timple and co don’t know about and thus haven’t warded against. The only problem is that I can’t find the entrances. I have been looking for them for months now with no luck. They are so well hidden as to be practically invisible.”

“So why did you bother telling me if you can’t find any of them?” Harry asked, frustrated.

“I thought you should know. Besides, I might yet discover one. There’s a map, a map that shows the manor and the whole estate, including the catacombs, the tunnels and the traps for possible intruders – Malfoys have always been a little paranoid. The only problem is that the map is inside the manor, in the library. I was hoping we could at least break into the manor to take the map.”

“If the map was in the manor, they would have surely found it,” Harry reasoned. “I’m sure they were nothing if not meticulous when searching the house.”

Draco smiled smugly. “This map is invisible to any but a Malfoy. I’m certain it’s still hanging on the library wall disguised as an old, but unremarkable, map of Wiltshire.”

Harry hummed in response, his mind working furiously on finding a way to retrieve the map. He couldn’t think of anything.

“By the way,” he said instead, “Angelina is no longer on the case of your attempted murder. It has been given to Timple.”

Draco seemed too stunned to respond. His face was a pure mask of indignation.

“I know,” Harry said. “The coincidences are far too many to be ignored. They are getting brash. I’m hoping they’ll make a mistake soon and we’ll catch them out. I took the liberty of Duplicating Timple’s file on your case.”

Harry wordlessly Summoned the file from his back and handed it to Draco. “I’ve already looked through it. I couldn’t find anything interesting or useful,” he said.

The blond was already reading the file, an intent look an his face.

Harry leaned back and made himself comfortable with a satisfied sigh. He felt remarkably content. He felt like they were slowly getting somewhere and sooner, rather than later, they were going to solve this little mystery. It felt nice having a partner for once. Too often at work he worked alone. It was easier, but it also got lonely. What they were doing now with Draco, working together, discussing things, comparing notes, sharing information and ideas, felt very nice. More than that, it felt right.