Protego Fragor

by nutmeg223344

Summary:

Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world and youngest senior auror on record, is losing control of his magic. Draco Malfoy, head of the accidental magic reversal squad, is tired of chasing him around.

Notes:

This work was inspired by Astolat, who has written my absolute favourite fics in this fandom. If you haven't read their work, go and do that.

~ Fragor (latin) - crack, breaking, fragility, explosion ~

 

The summer afternoon was drifting slowly into evening. The streets were still bright, but the sunlight had lost its glare, becoming softer and warmer as the day waned. 

Draco Malfoy walked leisurely through the dappled shade of the trees. The muggle street was quiet, and the heels of Draco’s dragon leather brogues clicked audibly on the pavement, at odds with the suburban mundanity.

This was his last appointment of the day - a highly successful day, at that. The weather had been balmy and warm, he had spoken to several delightful children, and he hadn’t had a single emergency owl. The migraine he had been maintaining over the past week was fading out, and he was even hopeful enough to daydream of a stress-free, uneventful weekend.

Draco turned into the short driveway of a small, semi-detached house. A dusty little car sat in the drive, the windowsills bursting with overenthusiastic, slightly wilted daisies, framing curtains of a different colour in every window.

He knocked neatly, before stepping back, giving the porch plenty of space. The door was answered by a harried looking woman, dressed in office clothes despite the lateness of the day. 

‘Good afternoon, madam. I am sorry to disturb you -’ Draco began. 

‘Is this a charity call, dear?’ the woman interrupted, frazzled and tense. ‘I’m afraid we already donate as much as we can afford.’ 

Draco smiled gently. ‘No madam - this is about Miss Tallulah Martin? I assume you are her mother, Mrs Julia Martin?’ 

The woman’s face dropped into alarm. Draco didn’t miss her careful glance behind her into the hall, or the shifting of her form to block the doorway. 

‘I’m afraid my daughter is - she - she is indisposed to see visitors. I don’t know how you got her name or our address, but I must ask you to leave.’ She began to close the door. 

Draco quickly stepped up and caught it, stopping her attempt. ‘I am truly sorry to alarm you, Mrs Martin. I promise that I am not here to harm, experiment on, kidnap, or disturb your daughter in any way. In fact, if you’ll let me in, I can not only reverse her situation, but I can tell you exactly why it happened in the first place. Please, allow me to explain myself - although I’d prefer not to do it on your porch, if you are amenable.’ 

Mrs Martin gave him a long, searching look. Draco tried to maintain his expression of polite urgency, hoping he wouldn’t have to use his wand. After scanning him with a sharp intensity, she opened the door, clearly reluctant to let him into her house. 

Draco, looking around, saw warm, leaf patterned wallpaper, with framed photos of the family and children’s drawings on the walls. The last of the evening light made the place seem warm and cozy, blanketing the inhabitants.

‘Can you show me to Tallulah, Mrs Martin?’ Draco asked. ‘I will fix her situation first, and then I can explain everything to both of you.’ 

Reluctantly, Mrs Martin led Draco to an upstairs bedroom. The walls were a gentle, powder blue, and filled with the compact furniture of a child around eight. 

On the bed, in the middle of the room, sat a small girl; brown haired like her mother. She was curled in a tiny ball, crying, as her body flickered and sparked with emerald green flames, enclosing her like a blanket. The fire seemed harmless to Draco - it wasn’t catching anything, and the girl didn’t seem to be hurt.

Mrs Martin began to cry. ‘Please, I promise I don’t know what happened - I can’t put the fire out, water doesn’t do anything, but she’s not burning, I don’t understand -’ 

Draco took out his wand, waving it over the child. ‘ Protego Fragor. ’ 

At once, the rebellion of the raw, young magic made itself known, fighting back against his counter. But Draco was trained for this, and in a split second, the fire vanished - leaving no evidence behind. 

Mrs Martin stood in shock by the door. Draco approached the girl, and sat cross legged beside her, leaving a good two feet of space. 

‘Tallulah?’ he said, as gently as he could. ‘The fire is gone now - it’s alright.’ 

The girl lifted her head. Watery blue eyes met his, her nose and cheeks flushed red from crying. 

Draco took his handkerchief from his top pocket, and handed it to her. ‘You were very brave - you must have been very confused. I’m sure confusing things like that happen to you all the time?’ 

Tallulah nodded. ‘I didn’t mean it.’ she said quietly, her voice wobbling. ‘I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.’ 

‘Well, you didn’t hurt anyone. What’s happening to you is totally normal - it happened to me, too.’

‘Really?’ asked Tallulah. Her eyes widened as she took him in; noticing that despite the muggle clothing, his eyes were just a little too sharp, hair a little too bright, features a little too pointed.

‘Oh, yes.’ Draco chuckled. ‘I remember one of my first incidents of accidental magic. I managed to somehow turn my childhood bed into a horse - a great wild thing it was, speckled just like my bedsheets. It took my father three hours to catch it and turn it back.’ 

Mrs Martin stood in the doorway, hand to her chest, looking down at him like a wild thing. ‘What do you mean, magic?’ 

Draco stood up. ‘Allow me to properly introduce myself. My name is Draco Malfoy; I am a wizard, and the head of the accidental magic reversal department. Your daughter, Mrs Martin, is a witch.’ 

After several cups of tea, a lot of explaining, and a great many questions, Tallulah seemed to understand her situation. She had been delighted at Draco’s magic demonstration - turning their coffee pot into a hedgehog and back again - and was thrilled to learn that she was destined to go to magic school. Mrs Martin, however, was still full of questions.

‘But - how can magic be real?’ she asked, her third cup of tea nestled in her cupped hands. 

Draco smiled. This was always his favourite part of the job - the wide eyed wonder of the kids, and the awed reality shift in the parents. Not for the first time, he felt the rushing pride and elation of magic; the gift that it was to be able to share in it. 

‘I am happy to demonstrate more magic for you if you require, Mrs Martin.’ he indicated his wand, nestled back in its holster. ‘In truth, magic has existed for millenia, and very openly, for a time. The magical community went underground after the mediaeval witch burnings, due to the persecution of our kind.’ 

‘But I’ve never expressed any of these behaviours - nor has Tallulah’s father.’ she answered. ‘How can Lulah have such a gift with no prior warning?’ 

‘Your daughter is what the magical community call a ‘muggle-born’ - muggle meaning non-magical.’ Draco answered, setting down his own tea. ‘It is very common amongst our people; although magic is passed down genetically, it also chooses children with non-magical parents. Since birth, your child has always been a witch, and she will be a witch for the rest of her life.’ 

‘And you - you’re a wizard?’ She took in his appearance; the muggle powder-blue waistcoat and grey slacks, the wand holster against his leg, his polished shoes. ‘I would have pictured you as older, with a big hat and a staff, or something. Not so young, and - and normal. Are you like Lulah? Non-magical parents?’ 

This was common, of course. Draco’s atypical features were only really discernable by wizards, and even then, only those who knew what signs to look for. It had only ever been magical children, Draco had found, who could see the strangeness of him at first glance.

‘No ma’am. I come from a wizarding line that dates back nearly a thousand years, from the conquering of England by the Normans.’ Draco answered. 

‘Goodness. That sounds very grand.’ Mrs Martin answered, before concern leaked back into her expression. ‘But she - Lulah won’t suffer for it? For not coming from a… magic family?’ 

‘Absolutely not.’ Draco replied, more firmly than he intended. ‘Your daughter will receive the same opportunities, the same education and the same treatment as every other magical child. She will learn to harness her power, and I am sure she will make a great name for herself. Many of our most successful mages have been muggle-born.’ 

A brief image of Hermione shot through his head, staking her claim on the Department of Mysteries with formidable force. 

Draco reached into his bag and pulled out a small leaflet - one of his own additions to the department. ‘I know this whole process is very overwhelming - this leaflet will tell you all you need to know about the magical world, and your place in it as the parent of a magical child. When Tallulah turns eleven, you will receive a visit from a ministry specialist from my team who will deliver her admissions letter from Hogwarts.’ 

He then rifled through his bag and pulled out another leaflet. ‘And this is for you, Tallulah - a guide on your magic, and how it expresses. This should allow you to control your flare-ups a little better.’

Tallulah took the small, brightly coloured leaflet without looking at it, her eyes still fixed on Draco - darting between his face and his wand. ‘So I’ll get to wear a big hat, and ride a broomstick with a cat on it, and mix potions in a cauldron?’ 

‘Good luck getting a cat to sit on a broom, but yes, pretty much.’ Draco laughed. ‘Although the hat is optional.’ 

As he moved to leave, Mrs Martin took his arm. ‘Mr Malfoy - I really am grateful to you for helping Tallulah, and explaining all this. But what happens next time? Or if something else comes up?’ 

Draco gestured to the leaflet. ‘I have a muggle postal address written on that leaflet. If yourself or Tallulah wish to contact me, feel free to write me a letter. I also have a muggle email monitored by my team, which is on there as well. And if there is any more accidental magic that causes a noticeable impact, myself or one of my team will be along in a flash to fix it.

‘And remember, secrecy is the safety net of our kind. It cannot be overstated that this must remain completely hidden from any of your family and friends. I am legally required to inform you that if you break the statute of secrecy, it will likely result in a memory modification that would remove all memories of magic; including those of your child.’ 

She nodded. ‘But perhaps, we could arrange another - ‘ 

Before she could finish her sentence, a piercing screech cut her off. Both mother and daughter started in alarm; Draco cursed, casting his eyes to the nearest window. 

An owl settled on the edge of the window box and screeched at him again, more insistently. Draco recognised the red ring tied around its leg - an urgent priority owl. 

‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Martin,’ said Draco, opening the window, ‘but it seems I’ve been summoned.’ 

While Tallulah gasped at the owl settled comfortably on his shoulder, Draco tore open the letter. 

 

To: Head Reverser Malfoy

Category six magical flare up located at approx. 17:48. Your presence is required. 

 

Draco looked at his watch and cursed - it was only 5:54, which means they had sent this owl along with a magical express. It really was urgent, then. 

Draco summoned his jacket from the hallway, bowed slightly to Tallulah and Mrs Martin, and disapparated. 

 

***

 

As soon as Draco strode through the ministry doors, he was swarmed by what seemed to be his whole department. He had chosen every one of them personally for their magical ability - had he known of their superior skill in talking nonsensically over each other, he may have reconsidered his selection.

‘Calm down, calm down.’ he snapped. ‘Where is Pansy?’ 

Pansy, Draco’s PA and the love of his entire life, was at his side, clipboard in hand, looking as severe as her razor sharp haircut. ‘The first response team is already on the scene; muggle repelling charms are active and memories are being modified.’ She handed him a sheet of paper and he skimmed it, taking in the details.

‘Tell me, Pans-’ Draco began, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Why I was summoned away from my last job of the day on a friday night for a category six, despite the fact that more than half of my own meticulously selected department are trained to handle sixes and above?’ 

The urgent chatter faded. His team had become chastised children in a playground. 

‘Well?’ Draco asked, sharply. ‘Out with it!’ 

‘It’s because it’s… it’s Potter, Draco.’ said Pansy. 

Draco felt his migraine return with pounding enthusiasm. ‘Again?’ he whispered to her. ‘How many times is that this month?’ 

She checked her notes. ‘Five.’

‘And what,’ he began, louder, ‘does Mr Potter’s identity have to do with it? Are you incapable of fulfilling your job descriptions when faced with famous killers of evil dictators? Or does the thought of Potter make you all swoon? Favring, you went last time - why can’t you go?’ 

Augustus Favring, one of Draco’s favourite hires, looked away, speaking to his shoes. ‘He only really speaks to you, sir. He nearly cursed me out of his house last time; demanded to see you instead.’ 

Draco remembered it. He had been taking a day off at the time, and had refused all his owls; even if the urgent screeching of the bloody birds had made his tea with Aunt Andromeda a little strained.

‘Very well, then. Time is of the essence. I want you Favring, Inkwood and Dovetail on memory support with the first response team; Leveret and Binks on countering. I’ll go straight to the bastard source.’ 

Despite his annoyance, the efficiency of his team did make him smile as they all jumped into the floo without another word, wands drawn. Draco sighed, exchanged his jacket for the dark green robes of magic reversal, and followed. 

He emerged, spinning out of the grate onto a now familiar carpet. Potter’s small living room was now familiar to him, and it was empty; clean white lines of furniture and unadorned shelves reflecting the setting sun. He was struck, not for the first time, by the wrongness of it all; the clinical, impersonal feel. Like a showroom. 

‘Oi, Potter!’ he yelled into the silent space. ‘Where are you, you berk?!’ 

‘M’in here.’ came the faint reply. 

As Draco walked across the floor, his feet splashed in what seemed to be an inch or so of strange water. It glistened slightly in the half light, casting winking specks off the ceiling and walls. 

Draco grasped the door handle in front of him, casting a quick impervius before opening it. 

As expected, a flood of shining water came spilling out of it, coating the edges of Draco’s spell and flooding the flat with flickering, metallic light. It flowed like it was full of iridescent glitter, swirling and shifting with every movement. 

In the middle of the room sat Potter, his wavy hair half-wet and sticking up like a hedgehog, his auror robes soaked with gold. The water seemed to be leaking from him, exuding steadily like a sponge being squeezed. 

‘’Lo, Malfoy.’ he greeted, weakly. ‘We really need to stop meeting like this.’ 

‘Potter.’ said Draco, struggling valiantly to keep his temper under control. ‘Do you want to explain why I have to modify the memory of almost every muggle within 10 miles because there is a glittering waterfall coming out of your window? Wanted to be a literal golden boy today?’ 

Indeed, the window was open, and the water was draining steadily out of it. 

‘Well it was either that or drowning, so.’ Potter answered, trying to keep focus on him through exhausted, half-lidded eyes. ‘I always have faith in you, though.’ 

Draco sighed, running his handkerchief over his wand before taking his counter stance. ‘Why is the rest of my team terrified of talking to you directly? Favring could have handled this, he’s taken at least two of your cases - flat out refused to do it.’

‘Not the same.’ Potter answered, slumping where he sat. ‘You do that special… magic control, thingy. The spell. It’s nice.’ 

Draco sighed, beginning to remove the golden water. Once most of the floor was clear, he turned to Potter, and began his countercharms. 

Draco gritted his teeth. Potter’s magic was always hell to fight against - it fought in his traps like fiendfyre, burning away all of his meticulous, delicate counters with sheer brutality. 

‘ Why - ‘ he muttered through gritted teeth - ‘do you always have to make this so difficult? Let me in, Potter!’ 

His eyes locked with Potter’s own, and the strain of the magic eased, just for a second. Like a sprung trap, Draco leapt through his countercharm, capturing the wild expression of magic and taming it. Potter would not stop looking at him, even when Draco turned his eyes away. 

The noise of rushing water faded, and stopped. Potter was left, exhausted, damp and shaking, in the middle of his room, looking as far from a saviour as it was possible to be.

‘Well, that was fun, Potter.’ said Draco, straightening his robes, before turning to go. ‘Always a pleasure to be challenged. The cleanup crew will be along for the water.’ 

Something in Potter’s gaze made Draco desperate to get away, as though his eyes were as searing as his magic. Unwavering, even when his whole body shook. He couldn’t explain the need he had to leave, even to himself, but something about seeing Potter like that made him feel… wrong. Out of sorts.

‘Malfoy, wait, please.’ Potter gasped out, almost desperately.

‘What.’ Draco bit out, his fists clenched. 

‘The - the counter. The anti-surge. Please -’ 

Something in Draco, that he didn’t know had risen up, sank back down again. ‘Of course, Potter; my apologies. Protego Fragor.’ 

Draco’s own spell - his masterpiece of a spell - felt bitter and reluctant as it left his wand. But Potter sighed with some kind of relief as he was hit with it, like sinking into a hot bath after a snowstorm. 

‘I’ll send the healing team up to you. Next time you surge, please try to restrain yourself to business hours.’

Without another word, Draco left, his robes sweeping around the door before it shut with a decisive snap. 

 

***

 

The report came through to Draco early the next day. All memories modified, no exceptions - although it had taken the entire first response team, Draco’s whole squadron and an additional fleet of backups to do it. Potter lived on an eighth floor flat, so his lovely shining magic waterfall had been seen by everyone within eyeline; not an easy job, by any means. 

To make matters worse, Draco woke up on Saturday morning to the insistent tapping of an owl at his bedroom window. 

Draco groaned into the pillow, tempted to throw it across the beautifully furnished room. He resisted by reminding himself that they were silk, and not to be torn, before shoving his feet into his worn slippers and opening the window. 

When his bleary eyes came into focus, he realised with relief that this was not a ministry owl. It was a tiny little creature that Draco recognised as Pigwidgeon, the owl that Hermione and the Weasel shared. 

He tore open the envelope quickly, recognising the writing at once.

 

Dear Draco,

 

Congratulations on a job well done yesterday; the whole department was talking about it. You must have modified over two hundred memories in one night, even with muggle repellants up! Your team should be very proud. 

Seriously though Draco, I’m very worried about Harry, and I know that you are too, under all of that bravado. Can we meet up for a coffee today, and have a chat about it? The usual place? 

 

Lots of love, 

Hermione x

 

PS: I think I’m converting Ron through exposure. I told him I was writing to you and he only called you a ‘git’ instead of a ‘slimy git’ or ‘poncy git’ so hooray for progress! 

 

Draco’s success as the head of magical reversal hadn’t been surprising; he was a skilled and highly trained wizard, with the charm of his father and the delicacy of his mother. As such, he had climbed the ranks of the ministry so quickly that, despite the previous reputation of his family, he had become the youngest head of a major ministry department in several generations. What had surprised him, however, was his burgeoning friendship with Hermione Granger-Weasley, the star of the Unspeakables. 

He had managed to earn her respect when she dashed into his department one day, asking for a reverser to tackle a hybrid jinx that had been invented 10 minutes before by accident and hadn’t been studied or recorded. The whole department had shrank back and turned to Draco, who had swanned upstairs and reversed the effects within 15 minutes. 

She, in turn, had earned his respect when he had announced his desire to specialise in uncontrollable childhood magical expression, and she had invited him into his office to discuss the theories of magical origin for several hours. Despite his reluctance, he had been disgusted to learn that she was a very interesting debate partner and a highly proficient scholar; he had actually come away from the conversation with several more debate areas to research, as well as a better understanding of magical signatures.

Since then, the two of them had formed a proto-unity over their obsession with magical origin theory, and their exasperation that no one around them seemed to care enough about it. Their theoretical debate meetings had become weekly, and he had even credited her as a co-contributor on his phd on the subject. 

As such, the rest of his dreary day filing the paperwork on ‘golden shower gate’ (as dubbed by his team) was lightened by the thought of his meeting up with Hermione later - despite having to talk even more about Potter. 

The summer afternoon was still balmy when he headed out of the ministry, sweeping off his cloak before heading into muggle london. It was Hermione who had converted him to muggle coffee; sweeter, stronger and without the bitter edge of magic in the aftertaste. 

The coffee shop that they frequented was fairly empty - a few stragglers, some schoolchildren, and Hermione’s mass of curls at their usual table, sticking out from over the top of whatever enormous tome she was currently toting around with her. 

‘Afternoon Granger, you selfish bint. Finally going to tell me what you’re researching?’ he said, affectionately, by way of greeting.

‘Hi, Draco.’ Hermione answered, not looking up from her book. ‘I got your usual already.’ 

Sure enough, there was a large mug sitting in front of Draco, topped with whipped cream and chocolate stars. 

‘Thank you kindly.’ he said, taking his seat. ‘How was your day?’ 

‘You know I can’t tell you that, Draco.’ Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes in a fond sort of way. 

‘Eh, one day I’ll catch you out.’ Draco grinned. ‘Well, you won’t be surprised to hear that I had a very Potter-filled day.’ 

Hermione nodded, looking grave. ‘Yes; merlin, his fourth incident this month?’

‘Fifth. He didn’t want me to tell you about the explosion - said you’d panic.’ Draco said, without remorse. 

Hermione visibly took a moment to collect herself before turning back to him. 

‘I am panicking, a little bit, actually.’ she admitted. ‘I just don’t think he’s safe. He’s going to end up seriously hurting himself, and if he does it under wizarding magical allowance, none of our sensors will pick up on it. I don’t see many options left to us.’ 

‘Oh let’s please just put the bloody trace on him, Hermione.’ Draco argued, for what felt like the tenth time that week. ‘It’s not worth the hassle.’

‘I won’t do that, Draco, nor will the misuse of magic office, no matter how many memos you send them.’ Hermione sighed. ‘It’s unethical to put the trace on a fully grown wizard. Harry deserves his privacy.’ 

Draco snorted. ‘His privacy doesn’t matter when he’s routinely destroying the statute of secrecy around every muggle in Islington.’ 

‘No; I absolutely refuse, as his friend and as a professional.’ Hermione insisted. 

Draco rolled his eyes. ‘Well, knowing you, you’ve already come up with about ten different options, so go on then - what did you have in mind?’ 

‘Well actually…’ Hermione began, looking awkwardly at him. ‘I only actually came up with one. At least, one that was actually worth anything.’ 

Draco raised his eyebrows. He didn’t like where this was going. 

‘You and I both agree that he needs to be moved. Somewhere away from muggles, to stop your team having to slave away erasing muggle memories.’ Hermione stated, looking at him seriously over her coffee cup.

‘You don’t have to persuade me.’ Draco nodded. ‘Dovetail swears she knows most of his building by name now. She’s worried poor Bertha in flat 2 is going to be permanently affected by repeated obliviates.’ 

‘Exactly.’ Hermione nodded. ‘But our places to move him are very limited. He can’t go to St Mungo’s; he could endanger everyone there, and he’s not exactly ill . Plus, he’s a public figure, so he has to be on private property, where the rest of the wizarding world won’t gawk at him. Or leak it to the press.’ 

‘Ok, so where do you suggest? Some wizarding property somewhere?’ Draco frowned.

‘Not just any wizarding property.’ Hermione began, looking at him pleadingly. 

Draco knew that look. ‘No.’ he stated firmly. ‘Absolutely not. I am not setting Harry Potter up in the Manor.’ 

‘Please, consider it!’ Hermione pleaded. ‘It’s got some of the firmest magical protection and warding in Britain; certainly the highest of any private property. It’s completely isolated, with plenty of space and grounds, and if you’re there with him, he’ll have a specialist on hand to study him, and help him in an emergency!’ 

‘Study him?!’ Draco spluttered. ‘Hermione, my specialism is children. Why on earth would I study Potter?’ 

‘You know very well that the situations are similar.’ Hermione waved away his excuse. ‘His magical signature is out of control. I believe wholeheartedly that you are the best and most skilled person for the job.’

Draco inwardly cursed his weakness for validation. 

‘Look, I’m not agreeing.’ said Draco, who had a very confusing set of emotions whirling in him that needed untangling. ‘How about I talk to Potter about it, and let him know that this is the worst case scenario.’ 

Hermione lit up, and Draco quickly added, ‘When I say worst case, I mean it. If he seriously hurts someone, or himself. Otherwise, I won’t do it.’ 

Hermione nodded. ‘Of course. Hopefully it won’t be necessary.’ 

Draco knew from her face that she was sure it would be. 

 

***

 

When Draco finally dragged himself up to magical law enforcement to talk to Potter, he was met with a harried looking secretary, who was running around at the speed of light between offices. 

‘Ahem.’ Draco cleared his throat, and she slowed momentarily to hear him. ‘Sorry. Is it a bad time?’ he asked, rejoicing at the prospect of an excuse.

‘No, not at all!’ The secretary panted, visibly sweating. ‘What can I help you with?’ 

Draco sighed. ‘I need to arrange a meeting with Auror Potter, please.’

‘I’m afraid Auror Potter is currently on a raid.’ she said, eyes widening. ‘He doesn’t have a set return time.’ 

‘Well, when can I arrange to see him, then?’ Draco sighed. ‘When is he scheduled for desk work?’ 

‘Auror Potter is never scheduled for desk work, sir.’ 

‘I’m sorry, what?’ Draco asked, sure he had misheard.

‘Auror Potter does not receive desk work. He is always scheduled for field work on call.’ she replied, seemingly confused by his lack of knowledge. ‘Mr Robards considers him a necessity.’ 

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Very well. This will have to be a… personal call.’ 

‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to give out Mr Potter’s address or contact details, sir.’ the secretary piped up, rather nervously. 

‘No worries, I already have them.’ Draco smiled ruefully to himself. ‘I’m afraid I’m a frequent visitor.’ 

After work, Draco didn’t allow himself a modicum of time to relax. He apparated straight to the apparition point outside Potter’s flat from the ministry, wanting to harness his righteous temper before it escaped him. 

When he arrived, panting, at Potter’s door, (the lift was broken) Potter answered on his second knock, looking harried. He was fully kitted out in his auror uniform, maroon and black, and the harsh, military lines of it made Potter look older than Draco was used to seeing him. 

‘What? Do they need me?’ he said urgently, already pulling his wand out of his sleeve. 

‘Potter, the workday is over. What are you talking about?’ Draco crossed his arms, trying to look disapproving, and not pay attention to the way Potter filled out his uniform. 

He seemed to finally register who Draco was, and his wand arm dropped to his side. ‘Draco? What are you doing here? I haven’t done anything without noticing, have I?’ 

Draco raised his eyebrows. ‘Something to confess?’ 

When Potter shook his head frantically, Draco pushed past him into the flat. It was as clean and sterile as it had ever been. The only sign that Potter actually lived there was a cup of tea, half drunk on the sideboard.

‘Sit, Potter.’ Draco gestured to the sofa, pacing up and down in front of it. ‘And for merlin’s sake, calm down.’ 

‘Now I’m being asked to sit in my own home?’ Potter looked bemused. ‘And I don’t know if I’m the one who needs to calm down at the moment.’ 

‘Oh, just sit, would you?’ Draco snapped, his temper rising. Potter, clearly taken aback, sat. 

‘Ok.’ Draco started, slowly settling himself in the chair opposite Potter. ‘I’m tired from sorting out your paperwork all day, and I’d like to have some time to myself this evening, so I’ll make this quick. 

‘My department considers you a volatile element. Five incidents this month so far, alone. Serious ones, at that - with repeated consequences for the residents nearby. I have been discussing this with Hermione, who agrees with me that we need to take action in a more permanent capacity. I personally suggested placing you under the trace - ‘

Potter spluttered in outrage, but Draco held up an elegant but decisive hand to stop him.

‘ But, against my better judgement , Hermione insisted that this was not an option. The alternative, however, is highly unpleasant for me, and thus I am here to present you with an ultimatum.’

Potter looked absolutely baffled. Sitting in the centre of his own sofa, he looked completely out of his element. 

‘Your magical signature is volatile, and requires study. So, you are now required to submit yourself to my department twice a week for two hours of questioning, magical detection tests, and recording.’ Draco stated, business-like.

‘I can’t do that, Malfoy - I’m on call!’ Harry argued. ‘I always have to be ready to go out into the field; I can’t be holed up in some little downstairs office, being poked with wands. I need to save lives.’ 

‘You endanger lives.’ Draco shot back. ‘You are a mess. And if you don’t attend my testing, or if you have an accident that injures or hurts anyone, you will have to be permanently quarantined in a secure area for your own safety, and the safety of everyone around you.’ 

Harry stared at him. ‘You can’t be serious.’ 

‘I am entirely and altogether serious, Potter.’ Draco sighed. ‘Because if you are quarantined, it will have to be at the Manor, and I would prefer to avoid that.’ 

Potter opened his mouth, closed it again, and let out a long breath through his nose. 

‘I’ll attend the checkups.’ 

 

***

 

Draco scheduled the first checkup for the very next day. Potter slouched into his department a quarter of an hour late, dressed in his auror uniform, clearly prepped for the field. 

Pansy, prim as ever and clearly enjoying herself, stopped him at the front desk. ‘Name and reason for visit, sir?’ 

Harry stared at her, taken aback. ‘Parkinson, you’ve known me for twelve years.’ 

‘Do you have an appointment with head reverser Malfoy?’ Pansy said, flicking her long-taloned fingers through her schedule without looking up.

‘Don’t worry, Pans, send him through.’ Draco called from his back office, propping his door open. ‘Come here, Potter.’ 

Harry shuffled awkwardly between the desks, as Draco’s team stared at him passing like moths drawn to a lamp. Many of them still had stacks of his paperwork sitting in their intrays.

He waved awkwardly to Favring, who made Draco very proud by shooting him a positively Malfoy-esque dirty look. Draco winked at him, before closing the door behind them.

‘Sorry I’m late, Malfoy - I had an auror prep meeting for a raid.’ Potter shrugged. 

‘I memo’d Robards directly.’ Draco frowned. ‘You should have been excused from that meeting.’ 

‘I can’t be excused from field meetings, I’m the head of sting operations. I can’t direct a team of aurors if I don’t know the plan.’ 

‘Well, you should have been excused from the mission, then. Don’t they have another golden boy to throw in front of curses?’ 

Potter pointedly ignored this. ‘Are you going to question me, or test me, or whatever?’ 

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. Just talking to Potter was going to give him wrinkles. 

‘Sit in that chair over there, Potter. I’ll have Pansy bring in the equipment.’ 

For the next hour, Draco hooked Potter up to every magical detection machine he had at his command, turning a very fidgety Potter into a string puppet. By the end of the hour, almost his entire department had crammed themselves into his office with him, taking notes from the machine readings and whispering urgently. 

And for good reason, too - the readings were extraordinary. Draco had never seen such a volatile, potent magical signature in his life. Some of the readings also looked wrong, to Draco; they were twisted and unnatural, sparking and flaring with spikes. 

‘What are those?’ Dovetail asked, pointing to the visual projected magically above the machine; a churning, tunneling vortex of Potter’s magic, from which small stems and sparks were leaping like lightning strikes. 

‘Those, Dovetail, are flares.’ Draco said, almost disbelieving himself. ‘Potter’s magic is flaring constantly, at a rate of about fifteen per minute.’ 

His team turned to him in disbelief. ‘You cannot be serious.’ Dovetail replied, staring back at the vortex. 

‘Erm -’ Potter began. ‘I feel a bit like a museum exhibit. What is happening?’

‘What is happening - ‘ Draco began, feeling a little lightheaded, ‘Is that you are banned from field work from here on out. No practical auror work, not even spell training. No harmful spell beyond a class 3 is to leave your wand; that includes all hexes and jinxes. I will be in contact with Robards.’

Potter stared at Draco like he had grown another head. ‘You cannot be serious.’ 

‘I feel as though I hear that a lot from you, Auror Potter. Pansy, please request unspeakable Granger-Weasley down here, if she is free; and let Robards know that his favourite chewtoy is banned from the field. Potter, you can go.’

‘You can’t tell me not to go on missions, Malfoy!’ Harry blew up. ‘I’m their best field operative! Without me out there, people could die!’ 

‘I would have you remember - ‘ Draco interrupted, calmer but louder still, ‘That as head of the Magical Reversal department, I am your superior. I insist that you stay chained to your desk, Potter, and if I hear so much as a rumour of you re-entering active field duty, I will quarantine you permanently. Now go.’ 

Potter shot him a look of unspeakable venom. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me, Draco. I just get… jumpy, sometimes.’

Draco unsheathed his wand, rolling his eyes. ‘ Protego Fragor.’

Potter gasped, as the tension coiled in his body released all at once. He collapsed into the chair. 

‘Funnily enough, that’s not normal.’ Draco stated flatly, standing over a slumped Potter with his arms crossed. ‘That spell is designed to patch a flare for magic in distress; it shouldn’t actually bring physical relief. 

‘The strain of keeping your magic contained is destroying your body, and I must say that my current theory involves a major shortening of your lifespan . Stay. At. Your. Desk.’ 

This finally seemed to silence him. He left the office without saying another word, passing a frazzled looking Hermione in the doorway. After a brief, whispered discussion between them, Hermione turned to Draco, worry etched into her face. 

Draco waved Hermione into his office, still full of whirring magical technology and half of his curious, owl-eyed team. Hermione took one look at the readings and turned to Draco in horror.

‘What am I even looking at?’ she asked, staring at the shooting vortex. 

‘Exactly what you think you are.’ Draco gestured to the projection. ‘That is Potter’s recorded magical signature over about ten minutes. We recorded almost one hundred and fifty flare ups in that time; all micro-flares, but enough that they register. My current theory, given this and the way Potter reacts to the flare protection charm, is that his body is containing every microflare that he puts out, putting a massive amount of strain on his magical core.’

‘Like a nuclear reactor.’ Hermione muttered to herself. ‘A continuous, self-fueling cycle.’

‘I don’t know what on earth a “nuclear” is, but yes.’ Draco nodded. ‘ Protego Fragor is effectively placing a temporary shield between Potter’s core and the weight placed on it by his expanding magical signature; that’s why it brings him such relief.’

At this point, the door opened, and Tobias Inkwood entered the office, looking harried and slightly sweaty, clutching a clipboard to his chest.

‘Ah, Inkwood - do you finally have the detector readings I asked you for? They should have been in an hour ago.’ Draco said, holding out his hand expectantly. 

‘I’m sorry for the delay, Reverser Malfoy,’ began Tobias, ‘But you see, we had to run the calculations again. Three times, actually. We’re convinced they’re still wrong, but they won’t come out any other way.’ 

At Draco’s imperious gesture, Tobias handed him the clipboard. Draco scanned the parchment, frowned, read it again, and handed it to Hermione. 

When they made eye contact, Draco knew they were thinking the exact same thing. 

‘Draco…’ Hermione’s voice was faint with shock. ‘He’s got two signatures. The other one…’

‘Yes.’ Draco sighed. ‘The other one is undeniably Voldemort.’ 

 

***

 

Draco and his team spent the next three days frantically examining and cross examining every reading that their spells spat out, disbelieving them and running them again. Draco and Hermione’s theories grew wilder and more theoretical the more angles that they discussed; however, they both seemed to agree that Harry’s signature had been damaged by his time spent as a horcrux. 

‘But I don’t understand.’ Hermione was saying, bent over a very complicated, colour coded chart she had whipped up. ‘Why is his signature so mixed? It’s not just that one solid chunk of it is a Voldemort remnant - they’re scattered throughout, like they’ve been blended together.’ 

‘How many times was he hit with the killing curse? Twice?’ Draco said. ‘Plus all the other intensive spells he’s been a victim of from Voldemort himself. I can’t help feeling that whenever Voldemort cursed Harry, the two twin signatures colliding caused the one in Harry to explode, and scatter across his core.’ 

‘Of course.’ she nodded, making scribbling notes with a muggle biro. ‘That explains why the effects were dormant at first, but now that Voldemort is dead, his signature is rebelling. It’s like a phone number that’s been cut off - the number still exists in theory, but it doesn’t connect anywhere.’ 

‘Granger, why must you always speak in such indiscernible riddles?’ Draco replied. ‘But that seems like a sound theory. What I find odd is that magical cores are usually self-healing - every wizard who has ever enchanted another has left a trace on their core, but the core usually rejects the foreign entity by itself. 

Hermione frowned. ‘This definitely gives us more things to test out - we’ll have to run some more tests on Harry when he comes in this afternoon.’ 

But Potter didn’t come that afternoon. Draco sat, staring out of his office door, until thirty minutes after his appointment time, before he sprang up and strode out. 

‘I’m going to find the bloody saviour.’ he snapped to Pansy, sweeping on his robes that marked him the head of his department. ‘Pass all my memos to Favring.’ 

‘Draco,’ Pansy began. ‘Don’t stress yourself out too much, darling.’

Draco only hummed in vague frustration before sweeping out. 

When he arrived at law enforcement, he was met with the same frazzled secretary. 

‘Are you here to see Mr Potter again, sir?’ She asked, nervously.

‘Yes, I bloody well am.’ Draco sighed. ‘I apologise, you are…?’ 

‘Clementine, sir.’ she replied, looking surprised to have been asked. 

‘Well, Clementine, could you point me to Mr Potter’s desk, please?’ 

‘I’m afraid it is like I told you before, sir - Mr Potter is on active duty.’ 

‘Is he now? That’s funny .’ Draco ground through gritted teeth. ‘Show me to Robards. Right now.’ 

‘Mr Robards’ schedule -’

‘Respectfully, I don’t give a rat fuck about his schedule, Clementine dear. Show me to his office, right this second.’ This seemed to alarm Clementine enough to acquiesce, and she hurriedly pointed him to the heavy door, marked ‘Head Auror’ in polished brass. 

Draco allowed for one singular knock before he strode into the office without waiting for an answer, leaving Clementine fretting behind him. Head Auror Robards was seated with three heavily armed mages, clearly in a meeting. 

In contrast to the strong, battle-hardened aurors, Robards - who was now objectively ancient - looked ridiculous in his sharp auror uniform. Despite this, his gaze was still imperious as he turned it upon Draco. 

‘Ah, Head Reverser Malfoy. How polite of you to knock.’ Robards said. ‘As you can see, I’m rather occupied.’ 

‘I’m afraid your meeting is secondary at the moment, Head Auror.’ Draco hissed, trying and failing to maintain his tone. ‘At least until you tell me why, in the name of Merlin, Harry Potter is on field duty when I have a signed note from myself and Unspeakable Granger-Weasley that forbids him from active work?’ 

Robards smiled at Draco, which made his wand hand itch. ‘Reverser Malfoy. Harry is my best agent. He was on desk work for the last three days, and the poor man looked like he wanted to jump out of his skin. I asked him if he wanted to handle a sting operation, he said yes, off he went. I don’t think that is the business of the Magical Reversal Department - or the Department of Mysteries, for that matter.’ 

‘Best agent or not, he is a ticking bomb. As I stated in my fucking letter, Robards.’ Draco spat. ‘You are putting every agent that you have in danger by sending him out there. Where is he?’ 

Robards actually laughed at him. ‘What on earth makes you think you’re privy to that information, Malfoy?’ 

‘I’ll have you know, Robards, that since we are both heads of department, and since I have a notable exception to the internal ministerial employment act thanks to my impact on the safety of the body, mind and soul of the subject, I technically outrank you when it comes to Potter’s wellbeing, despite his status as an auror. Now tell me where he is, or your lovely colleagues here will know just who to blame if the boy who lived twice dies under your command.’ 

The office fell silent. For a moment, it was a staredown.

Before Draco could threaten to go to WR, however, the silence was violently broken by Clementine, who fell into the office, panting. 

‘So sorry, Head Auror, Head Reverser, but there is someone here for Mr Malfoy who won’t -’

Clementine was pushed aside by the urgent face of Favring, who ran into the office with eyes for no one but Draco. 

‘Sir, we’ve had another one - it’s a category 9! It’s Potter’s signature, Sir, come quick!’ 

‘Where?’ Draco asked, unsheathing his wand. ‘Give me stats.’ 

‘It’s in the lake district - we don’t know why Potter’s there, since he’s meant to be grounded. No muggles present, but a very large number of wizards. No word on any injuries yet, but it’s unlikely to be none.’ 

‘Excellent work - take Dovetail and put up a suitable shield for a category 9; I trust you to assess on landing and choose the correct enchantments. Tell Inkwood to prepare for high level malicious spell engagement, with Leveret and Binks. I know his specialism is memory but we’ll need all hands on deck at the source. I’ll be right behind you.’ 

Favring nodded and sprinted away. Draco turned to Robards and his team, feeling angrier than he had felt in his memory. 

‘Let this be a lesson,’ he hissed, ‘Not to put a mission above the safety of your own agents. If you’re unaware of what we deal with in my department, a category nine is classed as a catastrophe , Robards - I hope you know that you are the cause.’ At the door, he turned. ‘And don’t bother giving me the location - it seems I already have it.’

 

*** 

 

When Draco apparated to the scene, he felt as though he had shifted into hell. The calm of the atrium vanished, replaced with the scorching heat and blinding light of fire. 

Draco had apparated into a forest - at least, what had been a forest. The trees were burning with a ferocious, bright red flame; not the harmless flame of young Tallulah Martin, but viciously hot, eating through the trees at an unnerving speed. Figures were scattered across the hill, silhouetted against the fire, throwing curses at each other; aurors in maroon robes and figures in brown leather, duelling fiercely.

Draco could spot his own team, trying their best to quell the flames; clearly intelligent enough to leave the duelling to the aurors. They were maintaining their distance, but on Draco’s count, he missed two agents. 

‘Binks!’ he called, over the roar of the flames, as he watched Daisy Binks fighting with her counterspells. ‘Where is everyone?!’ 

‘Leveret and I are countering with Inkwood -’ she began, yelling back as the fire flared, ‘But Favring and Dovetail have gone in! They’re trying to neutralise the source!’ 

Draco cursed. ‘They should have waited for me! Keep going Binks - we should have support on the way!’

Draco sprinted forward, casting the strongest protective charms over himself that he knew, before diving into the flames. They didn’t reach him, but Draco could feel the straining roar fighting against his shields - this was no ordinary fire. 

At the centre of the scorching ring, surrounded by eager, pawing flames, stood four figures, standing in a circle. Two of them were in auror robes; the other two green clad figures Draco recognised as Favring and Dovetail, who seemed unharmed, but were struggling. All four of them were channelling furious enchantments into the shields surrounding them, standing around a dark figure on the floor. 

Potter was bent over on the dirt, crouched with his hands over his head. He seemed to be unresponsive, muttering to himself below the roar of the flames. 

‘Augustus! Juliet!’ Draco called, screaming through the shield. ‘Let me in!’ 

They both looked relieved to see him; with a sweep of their wands, they dragged Draco within the bounds of the shield. The sound of the fire lowered to a muted hum, and Draco panted with relief as his own personal shields dropped. 

‘Outstanding work, the two of you.’ Draco panted, before turning to the aurors. ‘And the two of you, also. I know you’re not in my department, but you have my thanks for holding out until you had support from us.’ 

They both nodded grimly. One of them, a witch with bright eyes, had a burn across her lower face. 

Draco knelt beside Potter, drew his wand and began casting detection and monitoring charms. Harry’s magical signature appeared around him like a bubble, and Draco watched the flares peak and shift around him, violently sharp, as the fire burst and flickered. 

‘They’re synced with the fire!’ Draco realised, calling to Favring. ‘He’s maintaining it, even if he doesn’t realise it.’ 

Draco knelt down beside Harry, careful not to touch him. 

‘Potter? Harry? It’s Draco.’ he called, quietly. ‘I know you’re flaring. Merlin, I’m probably the last person you want trying to comfort you. But I’m going to try and guide you through regulating yourself.’ 

Harry shifted his head slightly on his arms, exposing his ear. Draco took that to mean he was listening. 

He sat beside Harry, cross legged on the floor, and took a breath, trying to calm himself. He had done this countless times with countless children - and Potter’s curled up position on the floor was making it easy to imagine that he was just another one.

He took a moment to picture Potter as he had first known him. A messy haired, bright eyed eleven year old with knobbly knees and broken glasses, who looked at everything with awe.

‘Ok Potter. So, right now, you’re probably feeling a big, tangly knot in the centre of your chest, right?’ Draco began, as calmly as he could. ‘That’s your magical core, freaking out. Usually, those threads of magic are spread evenly around your body, along your legs and arms, and up your back - but because you’re freaking out, they’ve all gone back into your chest to hide.

‘I need you to focus on untangling your threads. Take a deep breath in, and when you breathe out, visualise those threads spreading back out along your limbs.’

Slowly, Harry began to breathe slower, clearly putting in a conscious effort. After a few minutes, the fire seemed to quieten, the roaring lessening.

‘Great, Harry, really good job.’ Draco said. ‘I’m going to cast my protective charm over you, the one that helps you out, ok? Keep your breathing going, and the spell should help a lot.’ 

Draco waved his wand over Harry, and cast his charm. Harry’s shoulders uncurled, and he gasped out a sharp breath between his knees. 

‘That’s alright, you’ve got it.’ Draco soothed, placing his hand gently between Harry’s shoulder blades. ‘You’re doing great. Keep on breathing, and we’ll have this done in no time.’ 

Draco spent the next ten minutes monitoring Harry closely, watching his aura’s spiking slow, and eventually, stop. As it did, the flames flickered, slowed, and died out completely.

Draco looked around. The forest was a smouldering wreck - no magic would bring that back. It seemed that the aurors had apprehended all of their targets - many of them were limping, and a few were visibly burned, coughing from the smoke. 

‘Keep the shields up - sound and smell.’ Draco whispered to Favring and Dovetail. ‘No sudden changes. He doesn’t need to see this.’ 

Harry’s breathing had evened to a slow, deep draw. He managed to raise his head, and turned to Draco, sitting on the floor next to him. 

Draco smiled weakly at him. ‘Good to have you back, Potter.’ 

Harry looked at him, gave him a wide smile, and passed out into his lap. 

Dovetail giggled. Draco glared at her. 

‘Call St Mungos; get mediwizards on the scene. And… tell Pansy to get a memo to Mimsy. The Manor is going to have a guest, it seems.’ 

 

***

 

Potter was shipped to the manor the next day. Draco, resigned, met Potter at the door, who wandered in looking petulant. 

‘Welcome to your new home.’ Draco raised an eyebrow at Potter’s disgruntled look. ‘Not to your liking? To think I spent so much time doing it up.’

Harry looked away from Draco’s face and seemed to actually take in his surroundings. Draco noticed, with satisfaction, Harry’s discomfort fading into wonder in the face of the entrance hall. 

He was looking around, stunned, at the changes that had come over the manor. The rooms were airy, ventilated and well lit, curtains drawn back with sunlight streaming through the six foot windows. The rich wallpaper and carpets were cleaned and revitalised, the art refreshed, the damage repaired. The Malfoy portraits, previously so silent and austere, spoke to each other softly, their voices drifting over the speckled air. 

‘It looks so different.’ Harry mused, gazing around as Draco led him down the central corridor. ‘It almost reminds me of Hogwarts. How did you do it?’ 

‘You let a magical ancestral house go to waste with an elf like mine.’ Draco grinned. ‘She would have flayed me alive.’ 

As though summoned, Mimsy cracked! Into existence at Draco’s elbow. He saw, with even more satisfaction, the increased shock in Harry’s face when he took in the little elf. 

Mimsy had developed rather a passion for clothing in Draco’s employ. Her current outfit was a wine red tudor-inspired doublet, complete with ruff, that she was peering out of imperiously at the two of them. Her dark brown eyes peeked out from the corner of a jaunty cravat, settled neatly between her two flapping ears.

‘Ah, hello Mimsy dear.’ Draco smiled. ‘Harry, Mimsy; Mimsy, Harry. I’m afraid this is the other mouth to feed.’ 

Mimsy rose to her fullest height, and puffed out her little chest. ‘Mimsy is proud to aid the residents of Malfoy Manor, sirs.’ she said, in a voice that Pansy had affectionately dubbed her Narcissa impression.

Harry grinned down at Mimsy. ‘It’s great to meet you. I like your hat.’ 

Mimsy lost her gravitas, as her face lit with a beaming, toothy smile. ‘Thank you sir! Mimsy is buying it yesterday specially, sir!’ 

Harry looked at Draco, eyebrows raised. ‘She’s paid?’ 

Draco scoffed. ‘Of course she’s paid, Potter. Residents of my household will not live in squalor.’ 

Mimsy beamed. ‘Mr Malfoy is paying me ten galleons a day, Mr Potter sir! Mimsy is liking clothes now, so Mimsy is buying…’ she scrunched up her nose for a second, seemingly concentrating greatly. ‘ Investment pieces, sir!’ 

‘You’ve learned well, Mimsy dear.’ Draco said, affectionately. ‘Timeless pieces will never lose their value. Now, is everything ready for Harry to settle in?’ 

‘Yes sir - the west wing is prepared, and waiting for sir to cast his protective spells.’ Mimsy bowed. ‘Mimsy has left snacks in the western drawing room, if sirs are wishing to sit there.’ 

‘Who are we to refuse your splendid hospitality? Thank you, dear.’ 

Mimsy bowed deeply to the two of them, and scurried off down the hall. 

Harry turned to Draco, looking awed. ‘She is the cutest elf I’ve ever seen.’

‘Sweet, isn’t she?’ Draco grinned. ‘Pansy says I’m a bad influence. But it’s mother who put her onto Rococo, and it’s been a slippery slope from there. Her closet is bigger than mine, I’m sure.’

Harry looked at Draco with such strange clarity that he felt rather vulnerable. 

‘You really have changed.’ he said, simply. 

‘The multiple occasions of me saving your life and magic, and my close associations with one of your best friends not enough?’ Draco raised an eyebrow. ‘How open minded of you.’ 

Harry rolled his eyes. ‘If you really want to know what people are like, Draco, you look at how they treat those that work for them. I’m pretty sure she earns more than Clem, on your salary.’ 

Draco had a momentary memory of his father, bringing his sharp toothed cane down on Dobby’s back.

‘Well, I’m trying to distance myself from the evil dictator look, if you hadn’t noticed.’ Draco sniffed. ‘Black is versatile, but restrictive; I couldn’t go around looking like a dementor forever.’ 

‘I think you look good in black.’ Harry replied, before turning beet red and looking frantically at anything that wasn’t Draco. ‘I just mean - it’s flattering on everyone, isn’t it?’ 

Draco grinned in response. ‘Don’t fret, Potter - I look good in almost everything. You won’t shock me by repeating fact.’

Draco led Harry through the sweeping staircases and corridors of the manor, filled to the brim with bursting urns of fresh flowers and restored wizarding art. When they reached the West Wing, Draco showed Harry the residence rooms, and Harry stared at him like he was possessed.

‘One wing of your house could host my entire street, Draco.’ Harry stared around at the lavender drawing room; one of his mother’s favourites, bedecked with wallpaper covered in moving, swaying lavender blooms and gently buzzing bees. 

‘Be thankful it doesn’t, Potter.’ Draco rolled his eyes. ‘We’ve got quite enough people endangered already.’ 

Harry’s face dropped. Draco sighed, shooing Harry into an armchair. ‘Oh, don’t fuss. I’m putting up protective charms; even if your entire magical core ignites like a bomb, you’ll only take your sorry self out. You won’t even singe the furniture. Does that make you feel better?’ 

Harry sat in the chair, drawing his knees up to his chest, watching Draco cast his spells around him. ‘You remind me of Hermione.’ he smiled to himself. ‘She used to do this when we were camping, during the war.’ 

‘I’m glad you weren’t completely lacking in intelligent influences.’ Draco replied. ‘Goodness knows you’d be dead without her.’ 

‘I would.’ Harry replied at once, surprising Draco. ‘Ron, too. Yes, Ron - don’t scoff like that.’ he added, in response to Draco’s eye roll. ‘They saved my life, being there with me.’ 

Draco did not reply, for a time. When he did speak, he was hesitant. ‘I often wondered… what decisions I would have made for myself, if I had had different influences growing up.’ 

‘Who knows?’ Harry shrugged. ‘Your decisions were almost entirely based on your influences, when you were younger. I don’t even know who you were, under all the smog your father and your friends left there.’

Draco had no answer for this. Harry was right, of course - it had been a painful process, discerning where his personality had become entwined in the vicious claws of pureblood elitism. 

‘But I saw you, on the tower. I saw you lower your wand, with Dumbledore. You’re a good person, Draco - and now you get to be that person, for yourself.’ 

Harry’s expression was earnest and rather painful to look at, like a lamp with a raw bulb. Draco had to restrain his flinch. 

‘Well, I...  thank you, Potter. I appreciate it.’ 

Harry only smiled benignly, his attention returning to the shifting wallpaper. 

Once Harry and Draco had settled in and consumed all of Mimsy’s delicious snacks (‘you can’t call canapés a snack, Draco!’ ‘Oh don’t be infantile, they don’t even have caviar on.’) Draco led Harry to his rooms, and showed him around the west wing. 

‘Oh, and you’ll eat with us in the dining room, if you’d like to.’ Draco added. ‘My mother is looking forward to seeing you.’ At Harry’s look of surprise, he added, ‘she tends to think favourably on those who have saved the life of her son, Potter. Don’t fret.’ 

Harry nodded, somewhat nervously. Draco grinned, and stood to leave.

‘I’ll let you settle in; your belongings are already sorted. My room is just next door, for ease of monitoring. Oh, and there’s some evening wear in the wardrobe for dinner - pick whatever you’d like.’ 

With one last, gleeful look at Harry’s horrified expression, Draco swept from the room. 

Unfortunately, his impish joy expired swiftly in the face of his mountain of research. Hermione, in her ever gracious generosity, had sent Mimsy over with an avalanche of suggested reading, historical case files, and theoretical papers.

With a cup of strong, sweet tea uncurling its steam at his side, Draco sat at his carved wooden desk chair and began to read, cross referencing with Harry’s file and taking extensive notes. 

The issue was that no case like Harry’s had ever seemed to have been documented before. No-one had ever been recorded as having survived the killing curse, let alone two doses of it; when considering that they were cast by a wizard with part of his soul in Harry’s chest, the theoretical possibilities seemed almost infinite. 

The closest that Draco found was a case of a wizard in 1784 who had been hit by the imperius curse continuously for several decades; it had torn his magical core from his being, and rendered it a foreign entity. Draco shuddered over the file before dismissing it - the idea of having one’s magic removed from one’s will made Draco feel sick. 

There was no doubt about it; he needed more data.

When he looked up from his books, the sun’s light had weakened and warmed to a rich gold. He stood, stretched, and left to dress for dinner. 

He opted for powder blue, structured robes with a fleur-de-lys pattern, that shifted gently in the light of the candles. Strong, yet elegant, and with a distinctly nineteenth century feel. 

His mother, when he swept into the dining room, had chosen a similar style; in a richer blue than Draco, with a floral silver lining, and delicate lacework around the shoulders and sleeves. Her pale hair was twined around a silver hairpin, topped with a green-eyed bird with wings outstretched. Draco smiled; he had bought it for her last birthday. 

‘Mother.’ he greeted with a smile, nodding graciously. ‘You look beautiful, as always.’ 

‘You are always too kind, my son.’ she smiled, and there was no reservation in it. ‘I love you very much, dear.’ 

‘I love you too.’ Draco wrapped his arms around her, breathing her perfume; vanilla and orange blossom. 

Since the imprisonment and death of Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa had been deeply changed. She had become quieter, more reserved with strangers, but deeply and openly affectionate with Draco. It had changed them for the better; an army of two, manning the gates of their relic-filled house. 

When Harry walked in, Draco rolled his eyes. He had gone for the mildest and safest set of dress robes that Draco had left for him; auror maroon, with gold embroidered cuffs. 

When Narcissa swept forward, Harry shot Draco a look that read help me! Draco simply grinned into the glass proffered to him by Mimsy, and watched the scene unfold.

‘Mr Potter.’ his mother bowed her head respectfully, taking Potter’s outstretched hand in both of her own. ‘It is a pleasure to host you. I hope your rooms are comfortable?’

‘They are spectacular, Mrs Malfoy.’ Harry nodded back, and Draco smiled approvingly. ‘There seems to be magic in every inch of this place. Like Hogwarts.’ 

‘This house has been enchanted with the protective magic of the Malfoy line since the sixteenth century, Mr Potter; and please, call me Narcissa.’ she smiled graciously, and gestured Harry to his seat. 

‘Only if you call me Harry, Narcissa.’ Harry smiled back. ‘But I’ve never seen this room before; it’s gorgeous.’ 

He was staring around at the dining room; the rich, mahogany table that spanned over ten foot, surrounded by beautiful wing-backed chairs in green velvet. The warmth of the fire flickered over the wood panelled walls, and the chandelier in the ceiling glistened with crystalline droplets. 

‘You have, actually.’ Draco grimaced ruefully. ‘It used to be the Dark Lord’s favourite hidey-hole, when he was here. Safe to say, I stripped all traces of Dark residual magic out of it, over several painful months; and wrote a published paper on my findings, actually. It’s become quite well-renowned in the field of magical cleansing.’ 

Harry stared around with renewed focus, trying to find a point of recognition. Draco knew he wouldn’t. Everything from the cornice mouldings to the fireplace tiles was new; not a shred remained of the room that still haunted his mother’s dreams. 

‘Anywho, enough reminders of fuckface.’ Draco said brightly, ignoring his mother’s scandalised expression. ‘I’m sure Mimsy has worked hard to feed us all, let’s not leave her wanting.’

The meal was, of course, delicious. Over four stunning courses, Draco, his mother and Harry sat in a small cluster at the head of the long table, talking of Hogwarts. 

‘And then -’ Harry said, restraining his laugh, ‘The polyjuice started wearing off, so we ran out of there claiming stomach ache! All while poor Crabbe and Goyle were asleep in a broom cupboard, and Hermione was in the bathroom turning into a cat.’ 

Narcissa was laughing into her wine; even more so in reaction to her son, who was staring at Harry with a scandalised shock. ‘Potter, you were an animal in school. I can’t believe it. You roofied two fellow students on a hunch?’ 

‘I know.’ Harry giggled. ‘You only realise now, but back then it felt like life and death. It was like the three of us against the entire world, distrusting everyone like a little squad of spies.’ 

‘Usually, children would go to a teacher with this stuff.’ Draco sighed. ‘But no, your Gryffindor heroism was well and truly established at the ripe age of eleven.’ 

‘Hey, we were kind of right, weren’t we?’ Harry argued back. ‘Not about you - about needing to fight, even at that age. It’s not a brag, but if we hadn’t fought back then, who knows what would have happened.’ 

Draco thought about it. What would have happened? If Voldemort’s fight had been with established wizards, with aurors, with the order of the Phoenix - not with children. 

Maybe Draco would never have been branded with the mark that remained, lurking beneath his sleeve.

Maybe they would all be dead.

‘Lucky for us all that you possess a saviour complex the size of Mount Othrys, Potter.’ Draco rolled his eyes. ‘Although now it seems to be working against me personally, since you so love to throw yourself in front of curses like you’re made of adamantine.’ 

Harry bristled at once, his mirth leaving him. ‘Do you not know what aurors do, Malfoy? It’s our job to jump in front of curses. We’re trained to.’ 

‘No, actually.’ Draco snapped back. ‘Aurors are meant to be a carefully assigned and rotated critical response team with specialist areas in longform investigative work and reactive fieldwork. You, Potter, are not being treated like an Auror. You’re being treated like a meat shield.’ 

‘Draco - ‘ his mother began, soft warning in her tone. 

‘It’s normal for Aurors to have to make hard choices to protect civilian life!’ Harry snapped. He ran his hand through his hair aggressively, his fingers catching in the knotted waves. ‘We all do it!’ 

Draco stood from the table, bending over it with his palms on the surface to gaze at Potter opposite him, ignoring his mother’s gaze. ‘But you’re the only one who’s always on call , aren’t you? No desk work, no investigative work, no stakeouts - just lots and lots of raids. Tell me, Potter, does Robards have a pact with the department of Mysteries to investigate if you can survive being AK’d for a third time? Because he’s sure acting like it.’

‘Shut up!’ Harry yelled, standing with a snap, his chair falling backwards to the floor. 

Behind Harry, a glass vase on the mantle exploded. Dagger like shards of crystal burst outwards, digging into the backs of the chairs and bouncing off Draco’s swift shield charm. His mother ducked, gasping out in alarm - Draco feared for a moment that she’d been hit, but when she looked up, her face was clean and unmarked by anything other than shock.

Potter stood frozen. He hadn’t even drawn his wand, shielded by Draco, staring down in horror at the shards of needle-sharp glass scattered across the table.

‘Congratulations, Potter.’ Draco said coldly, straightening his robes and brushing a little glass off his sleeve. ‘You’ve committed the first act of destructive magic in this room since the dearly departed Lord Voldemort. Do you feel better now?’ 

Potter gazed around with the alarm of a cornered animal. His hands were shaking a little.

‘Harry, why don’t you go upstairs and take a moment to yourself? Mimsy will take you.’ Draco’s mother entoned, rising gracefully from her seat as though they had simply had a disagreement over the wine. ‘I’d like a word with my son, if you’d be so kind.’ 

Mimsy was there in an instant, and tentatively reached out to take Potter’s hand in her own, like a child. 

‘If Mr Potter will be coming with Mimsy, sir.’ she said, carefully. ‘Mimsy will be taking you back to your room, sir.’ 

Potter nodded gruffly at Narcissa, shot Draco a glare and followed Mimsy out of the door, allowing her to lead him. 

As soon as he left the room, his mother rounded on him. ‘How dare you upset a guest that way, Draco.’ she said, her grey eyes - so like his - flashing with rage. Draco was a fully grown man with a good foot of height over her, but he still felt himself cower slightly under her gaze. 

‘I know, I know - don’t give me that look.’ Draco answered, running a frustrated hand through his hair. ‘But it’s not like anything I said was untrue. And I got the results I wanted anyway - it’s a shame it had to be at the expense of Great Aunt Euphemia’s vase.’ 

Narcissa scoffed at this, flicking her wand impatiently. The vase resealed at once, settling itself back on the mantle. ‘The vase is of no consequence, Draco. What did you mean, results? Poor Mr Potter is not your experiment.’ 

‘I’m afraid he is, mother.’ Draco said, flopping down in his chair and tilting it back on two legs. ‘Since there are no documented cases like his, any work I do with him is, by definition, experimental.’ At his mother’s huff of frustrated breath, he continued quickly. ’I wanted to test his limits - and it seems I was right. His magical flares are kicked off by emotional imbalance, like a child’s.’ 

Narcissa sat opposite him, reaching out to pull his chair down to four-legged stability. Draco rolled his eyes affectionately at her. ‘So, you aggravated him on purpose? To discover his magical triggers? With no thought to his safety - or to our own, at that?’ 

Draco loved his mother more than anyone else on earth. But like every adult living with their parents, being underestimated made his hackles raise. 

‘Of course not.’ Draco glared back at once. ‘I am actually a professional, mother. He has protective charms on him that restrict his flares and bind them to the blood wards. He cannot hurt any of us directly, and any external harm he does is tempered in severity. Please don’t question my capability, or my duty to protect you.’

Narcissa sighed, placing a hand on his cheek gently. ‘I know - I know. You’ve worked so hard, you’ve achieved so much, you’ve saved our family. I’m so proud of you.’ 

Draco’s mother was never shy with her praise these days. And yet he had still not quite learned how to take it. 

‘Well, I try.’ he said airily, coughing, before standing and brushing his robes off. ‘I’d better go visit the saviour myself. Goodnight, mother.’ 

She nodded in graceful ascent as he turned to the west wing. 

On the way upstairs, Draco considered. Potter was so uptight, so wound up, like a spring coil. If his surge records were anything to go by, anything and everything could set him off, even when alone. 

The same conclusion returned to him - he needed more data.

A sharp rap on Potter’s door was answered with a gruff, muffled sound. Taking that as permission, Draco opened the door.

Potter was lying on his bed on his stomach, his face buried in the silk sheets. He didn’t bother to turn his head when stopped in the entry, letting the door swing open. 

It was difficult, Draco thought, to rationalise the versions of Potter he had known with a real person. In school, he had been his enemy, the famous saviour, attention grabbing Gryffindor hero and do-gooder annoyance. Professionally, Draco had only seen him jumping into apparition points with his wand drawn, or running through the corridors like he had the Dark Lord at his heels. 

But this Potter - so defeated, so exhausted - stood in opposition to everything Draco had known. He was alarmed to find that the emotion creeping into his chest was pity. 

‘Look, I’m sorry about my little rant earlier.’ Draco sighed, leaning against the doorframe. ‘I didn’t mean to make you upset. I am… not very fond of Robards, is all.’ 

Potter rolled over on the bed, pulling himself into cross legged suspicion. ‘You know, I think that’s the first apology you’ve ever given me.’ 

‘I promise not to make a habit of it.’ Draco grinned slightly, relieved when Potter grinned a little back. ‘Look, if this is going to work, we have to actually listen to each other. I appreciate that you’re a skilled field operative. But I am a head of department, an educated magical theorist and an established authority in the study of magical signatures; I’m not making this stuff up as I go along. When I give you advice, you need to take it. Or at least consider it for longer than a minute.’ 

Potter hung his head a little. ‘I know. I know I shouldn’t have gone out into the field the last time, in the forest. But I just get so antsy sitting at my desk - it’s like I’m itching out of my skin.’ 

‘I’m not surprised.’ Draco replied, making a mental note of this. ‘You’re flaring so often, your body probably needs a magical release. So if we’re going to do this, and make you better - and I am determined to make you better, Potter -’ he added, giving him a hard look, ‘then you have to listen to me, and trust I am acting in your best interest. Not least because it’ll get you out of my house faster, if that persuades you.’ 

Potter laughed a little at that. ‘Ok - I’ll listen. I’ll try. Under one condition. You have to call me Harry.’ 

Draco started. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t that. But Potter’s green eyes were full of earnest determination, and he did have a history of caving under them.

‘Oh alright, Harry. But you have to call me Draco. Deal?’

‘Deal.’ Harry smiled. 

 

***

 

That night, Draco’s protective charms awoke him with a sharp, painful jolt, his mental alarm ringing like a gong in his brain. 

He could feel the thunder of Harry’s magic against the wards, surging and bursting outwards in their attempt to break the ancestral blood protections around the house. But nothing so paltry as the wizarding world’s saviour would break a thousand years of blood magic, and the wards held fast. 

Draco got up quickly, slinging a dressing gown on and lighting his wand. He strode to the room next door to his own, feeling the pulse of Harry’s chaotic presence behind the mahogany. 

‘Harry?’ he called hesitantly through the wood. There was no answer.

‘Oh for Merlin’s sake.’ He braced himself, ready to cast a shield at whatever greeted him, and swung open the door. 

Harry was in bed, writhing and thrashing in his tangled sheets. All around him, the air of the bedroom was kicking up in great twisting vortexes, dragging the curtains and sweeping the ornaments off the tables to throw them bodily across the room, shattering on the floor.

‘Harry!’ Draco yelled through the whistle of the wind in his ears, his hair blown back and gown flapping. He couldn’t imagine what Potter would have caused if the wards were not restraining him. ‘Potter, can you hear me?!’ 

Harry continued to spasm, as though in a fit, his eyes tight shut. He was dreaming. 

Draco pointed his wand at the bed, trying to keep his hand steady against the buffeting wind. ‘ Protego Fragor!’ 

Harry gasped, taking a great, shuddering breath as though emerging from deep water. The wind died down to a light breeze, still whisking its way around the room. 

Draco strode across to the bed and shook him gently. ‘Wake up, Potter, you drama queen.’ 

Harry’s eyes opened in a confused, glazed haze. ‘Whassappened?’ 

‘You flared in your sleep, that’s what happened.’ Draco frowned. ‘Kicked up a localised tornado in your room. Caused quite a havoc.’

Harry looked blearily around the room, taking in the destruction surrounding him. Draco felt his hair shift as the wind started to pick up again, mirroring Harry’s alarm.

‘Slow down now, don’t panic.’ Draco tried to soothe, sitting at the end of Harry’s bed. He patted his foot under the sheets in what he hoped was a comforting sort of way. ‘No one got hurt, the wards stopped most of the surge. All is well.’ 

All the sleepiness was gone from Harry’s eyes now. His gaze had gone from bleary to manic, dancing from one point of destruction in the room to the next without taking in any detail, apparently without hearing what Draco had said. 

Draco vividly remembered waking up with that same panic, when the house had not been redone and still lingered with Voldemort’s influence. He had curled himself into a ball, reminding himself over and over again that Voldemort was dead and gone, he had watched him die, he had watched Harry win. On nights like those, he had sent his patronus flying to his mother, and she had held him through the night until his heart calmed. 

Without thinking, Draco reached out and took Harry in his arms. 

Harry immediately wrapped his arms around Draco’s back, burying his head in Draco’s shoulder. Draco’s hand went automatically to Harry’s hair, running gentle fingers through it, and trying not to notice that it was far softer than he had imagined it to be.

Not that he had spent much time picturing Potter’s hair. Not recently, anyway. 

‘You’re in the west residential wing of Malfoy Manor.’ Malfoy said, soft but clear, into Harry’s ear. ‘You’re awake. You’re safe. The Dark Lord is dead, and his body burned to ashes.’ 

Harry turned to Draco, and he saw the awareness slowly returning. As Harry looked at him, the wind began to die down again before stopping completely, the curtains and hangings on the bed settling to a standstill. 

Looking down, he jolted out of Draco’s arms quickly, pushing his back to the headboard and bringing his knees to his chest. His face was flushed. 

‘Sorry, Po - Harry.’ Draco apologised quickly. ‘It was the first thing I thought of.’ 

‘I - I had a nightmare.’ Harry said, his tone carefully casual. ‘That doesn’t usually happen, though.’ 

‘That may have been my fault.’ Draco admitted, leaning back on Harry’s bed. ‘You surged right before sleeping. It can’t have been good for your unconscious state. We’ll have to think about keeping you calm before you sleep, from now on.’ 

Harry frowned as he noticed Draco’s pyjamas. ‘I’m sorry I woke you up.’

‘Don’t apologise for something that isn’t your fault, Potter.’ Draco snapped, impatiently waving Harry’s apology away. ‘I deal with kids every day who beat themselves up for magical effects they can’t help. It just makes the next surge worse. You have nothing to be sorry for.’

‘But I’m not a kid!’ Harry ran his hands frustratedly through his hair before pressing his palms to his face to rub furiously at his eyes. ‘I’m so tired of this. ’It’s like I have some contract with the universe to put everyone in danger all the time.’ 

‘If it makes you feel any better, you are a uniquely singular case.’ Draco grinned despite himself. ‘Even in ineptitude, you are extraordinary.’ 

Harry went quiet, looking at Draco in surprise. 

‘You think I’m extraordinary?’ 

‘In so many words, I suppose so.’ Draco shrugged. ‘Do you think a childhood rivalry could make me blind to the fact that you survived the killing curse twice? Just statistically, you are unique, and I deal with statistics. Plus the whole destroying a despotic warlord thing - cheers for that, by the way.’ 

Harry scoffed. ‘Alright, don’t lay it on too thick.’ 

Draco pretended to swoon, laying himself dramatically across the bedspread. ‘Oh Potter, my saviour, how honoured I am to have you in my residence -’ 

He was cut off when Harry kicked him off the bed. 

 

***

 

For the rest of the day, Harry followed Draco around like a krup, asking him incessant, nagging questions about his research. Draco himself was constructing his experimental structure, trying to determine what he would need to isolate in order to determine Harry’s condition. 

This was very difficult when Harry kept prodding him, asking him about his equipment.

‘What’s that thing you’re using there, Draco?’ 

‘This is a dark detector - I’m checking for curses.’ 

‘And what’s this one?’ he asked, picking up a small, silver cube with grooves all along the edge.

‘That is a magical impact sensor - commonly called a magical magnet. It is drawn to the strongest source of magical output.’ 

‘And what about - ‘

‘Potter, I appreciate your curiosity, but I have plenty of books on the subject sitting just behind you.’ Draco bit out. ‘If you would like to stay, take a seat in the corner and let me work in peace for a little?’ 

Harry slumped himself in the armchair in the corner, a tome on theoretical magical origin in his hands. It wasn’t twenty minutes before he was lolling his head over the arm of the chair, gazing around the room in restless wonder. 

In fairness, Draco couldn’t blame him. His study was one of his proudest achievements - full of magical trinkets that sparkled down at him from the walls, lit by a beautiful, south facing window that displayed the Malfoy estate to its greatest advantage. It was spacious and calming, full of rich wood furniture upholstered in forest green. 

‘Draco?’ Harry asked, clearly unable to restrain himself. ‘Can I ask you one question?’

‘Fine.’ Draco snapped his book shut. ‘What?’ 

‘That spell you cast on me - the one that helps me with flares.’ Harry sat up in the chair, curling up like a cat by tucking his socked feet underneath him. ‘What is it?’ 

‘It’s a spell of my own invention, made to counter the magic conjured by uncontrolled flares.’ Draco said, trying not to sound too smug. 

Harry frowned. ‘But if it counters magic, why not just use Finite?’ 

Draco rolled his eyes. ‘Because Finite counters spells , not magic.’ 

Harry looked baffled by this. Draco experienced another wave of admiration for Hermione and what she must have put up with for twelve years. 

‘ Finite is a useful spell, of course; for most situations, it’s entirely adequate.’ Draco explained. ‘But finite was made to end the effects of spells, not all magic; yes, Potter, they’re different. Finite was created to oppose the will of the original caster. It traces the magic back to the enchantment, and works backwards through said enchantment to remove it. But a child’s raw magical expression is not a spell, and so finite doesn’t work because there is no specific enchantment to undo. Protego Fragor is my solution for this problem. It is an impersonal, universal shield against impulsive magical spikes, specifically designed for magical outbursts without structure; the opposite of what finite covers.’

Harry frowned. ‘So, if you fired a Protego Fragor at a hex, or a curse, nothing would happen, but if a kid suddenly bursts into spontaneous flame, you’re covered?’ 

‘Precisely.’ 

Harry looked pleased with himself. Miraculously, he kept to his promise after that - staying quiet and watching Draco work.

This was only slightly less distracting than Harry’s questions. The emerald gaze of the chosen one had never exactly been subtle. But Draco finished his day’s research regardless, and they headed down to dinner shoulder to shoulder. 

‘It’s fascinating, watching you work.’ Harry muttered. ‘I didn’t know you were so studious.’ 

Draco smiled. ‘I turned my ambition to a worthy target. Hermione gave me a proper challenge too, so the competition motivated us both.’ 

Draco had been the only Slytherin of his set to return for Hogwarts’ specially offered eighth year, for those students who could not complete their NEWTs during the war. He and Hermoione had a good natured academic rivalry throughout, which evolved into a friendship once they both moved into formal work.

Of course, Harry and the Weasel had already been enrolled in their auror training by then, and didn’t come back to school, much to Draco’s relief. He had still carried a rather inconvenient torch for Potter back then, which had now, thankfully, gone out. 

After dinner, Draco, Harry and Narcissa spent the evening curled in the softest armchairs by the fire in the receiving room, reading. Draco knew what Harry liked, of course - despite having the attention span of a squirrel in a quidditch match, Harry was absorbed in the book that Draco recommended him within minutes, and spent the rest of the night with his head in it, sitting sideways in his armchair with his feet hanging off the arm. 

 

***

 

The next night, Draco was thrust from sleep yet again by the scream of his magic alerting him. Snatching his wand from his bedside cabinet, he was getting ready to storm Harry’s room yet again before realising that the alert was not from Harry. 

Draco hadn’t had a ward intrusion in years, let alone in the dead of night. People had long since stopped yelling abuse at him from the front gates, since his career had started gaining more attention than his past, and he hadn’t had an uninvited guest in years. 

Grumbling, Draco pulled on a dressing gown and made his way as quietly as he could down the main staircase, mentally thanking Merlin that Mimsy had taken it upon herself to fix all the creaky floorboards in the entryway. 

He gritted his teeth as he crossed the entrance hall to the front doors. Whoever was at the gate was straining against the ward - it was giving him a pounding headache, as though they were trying to break into his brain. He slammed down his Occlumency shields as he strode across the silent lawns, rippling slightly in the evening breeze. 

As he caught sight of the gates, he drew his wand, and the warm weight of it was a comfort in his palm. He supposed there was some advantage to owning the weapon that had killed the Dark Lord. 

The figure came into clearer view, and Draco nearly laughed out loud at the sight of him.

‘Evening, Head Auror.’ Draco called as he approached, unable to keep the grin off his face. ‘Feeling a little queasy?’ 

Robards looked awful. Old and short, he was already at a disadvantage, but now his skin had a wan, pallid look to it, sweat beading on his wrinkled brow. He looked up at Draco’s greeting, hurriedly sheathing his wand, which had been pointed at the locked gate. 

‘Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you trying to break my blood wards at two in the morning?’ Draco leaned against the other side of the gate, looking down at Robards through the bars. ‘So eager for my company - you must miss me dreadfully. Are you aware that owls exist, and have the capacity to carry messages?’ 

Robards scowled at him. ‘Where my work takes me as head Auror is my business, Malfoy.’ 

Draco winced in mock-sorrow. ‘Ah. Well you see I’m afraid it is, when your business leads you onto my private property. And unless you have a very good excuse for why, I’ll have no qualms feeding you to my mother’s prized venomous tentacula.’

‘I have reason to believe -’ Robards panted, looking like he was trying very hard not to lean against the cold metal of the gate, ‘that you have kidnapped Harry Potter.’ 

Draco laughed out loud. ‘Me? Kidnap the saviour? And how would I have possibly managed that ? Are you implying that the defeater of the Dark Lord has met his match in me? Such little faith you place in your favourite human shield.’ 

Robards growled in frustration - at least tried to. In his weakened state, it came out more like a wheeze. ‘Release him.’ he spat. ‘He is needed elsewhere.’ 

‘Oh, is he now? Got another forest in Cumbria for him to blow up?’ 

‘He is my best agent, Malfoy. You are not his superior.’ 

‘Oh no, I’m not. But I certainly am yours, Robards.’ Draco scowled, towering over Robards’ sweating form. ‘I am your superior, since I would never place a ticking bomb like Potter in an active combat situation just because I couldn’t be bothered to train more operatives. Since I would never endanger my own, highly skilled team by introducing such a dangerous asset into their missions. And since I seem to care whether or not Potter lives or dies , you sack of worthless dung.’

‘I know you are keeping him against his will.’ Robards hissed. ‘He would never abandon his work like that.’ 

‘A suspicion clearly shared by no one else in your department, since you have no warrant, and are now trying to commit a B&E whilst wracked with ward-sickness.’ Draco hissed, feeling his rage rising in him like a snake. Before he knew it, his wand was in his hand, pointing squarely between Robards’ bloodshot eyes. ‘Now listen here, you wrinkly old cunt . You may have manipulated Potter - the man to which we all owe our lives - into thinking that his own does not matter. You may have taken over the work of the late great Albus Dumbledore in your attempt to turn him into a walking weapon, but I. Won’t. Have. It. Potter is in my care, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get off my fucking property, before I hex you into oblivion.’

Draco’s vision was fogging up, blurring in his rage. Until he realised that it wasn’t fog - he was actually smoking at the mouth, tongues of steam bursting from between his clenched teeth. 

Robards swore viciously, turning on his heel without looking at him and striding off into the night. 

Draco was so angry he could barely breathe. All the way up to the house, he had to actively restrain the urge to set something on fire, feeling his magic roaring and billowing in his chest. 

A cursory glance in the hallway mirror on the way past had him freezing. His teeth had elongated, sharp and cruel, steam still hissing from them in time with his frenzied breaths. His eyes were glowing white hot. 

It had been a long time since Draco had lost control like that. 

He pointed his wand at himself, for the first time in many years.

‘ Protego Fragor .’

Harry was perfectly cheerful at breakfast the next day, pleased that he hadn’t had a flare in the night. But Draco’s grip on his morning cup of coffee was stark-white and harsh, even if he kept his face impassive. 

He watched Harry laugh with Narcissa over some anecdote or other, green eyes alight with ease and comfort, and vowed to himself - if Robards came to the grounds again, Draco would kill him. 

 

***

 

The next day, Draco gave Harry his schedule. 

Every morning, Harry would go out into the grounds, find a nice, secluded part of the woods, and cast as much powerful magic as he possibly could. 

‘You need it out of your system.’ Draco explained, tapping the projection of Harry’s signature with his wand. Harry was currently wired up to said machine, watching his own magic swirl and spike in front of him. 

‘It’s why you kept wanting to go out into the field - your body is holding too much magic in, and you want to release it. But casting curses and being hit with them is making you emotionally aggravated, which is making you flare even more. So try powerful but peaceful - fill the forest with patronus charms, turn all the leaves to silk and the trunks to iron, transfigure the squirrels into mice and back again, etc. Just leave it all as you found it once you’re done.’ 

Harry nodded in understanding, still gazing at his own signature. It was a little calmer today, Draco noted - the flares were fewer, and their peaks lower. 

‘After that’s done, we need to go over your previous flares.’ Draco said, flipping over his chart to examine Harry’s old records. ‘The explosion, golden shower-gate, the fire - all of them. And any smaller ones that you remember and dealt with yourself.’ 

Harry looked alarmed, and Draco noted a small spike on the chart as he turned his wide green gaze on him. 

‘It’s not ideal, I know.’ Draco answered. ‘But I need to know about any specific triggers during the events. Emotional reactions you can remember. I don’t need to know the personal details, I just need to know the basics. How you were feeling, how the magic responded. That’s all.’ 

Harry nodded, acquiescing. 

‘Then, we check your responses to minor stimuli.’ Draco continued, tilting Harry’s jaw to the side to latch a sensor to the side of his neck. ‘Small amounts of physical pain, annoyance, joy - we can induce some of those with potions, of course. Tilt the other way for me?’ 

Draco moved Harry’s head to the other side, to latch another sensor to his pulse point. Behind him, the meter began to spike.

Draco turned back to the reader, scanning the small pulse that had emerged. ‘Harry, are you feeling alright? You had a little flare there for a second.’ 

Harry went to speak, coughed, and tried again. ‘Err - yeah, sorry, yeah I’m fine.’

Draco frowned at him. ‘Well you sure don’t look it. I’m not an idiot, Harry. If my being in your physical space makes you uncomfortable, you should have said something.’ 

‘No!’ Harry cried out. At Draco’s slight alarm, he spoke again, deliberately calmly. ‘No, you’re not - uncomfortable. I’m not uncomfortable. Everybody’s comfortable.’ 

Draco frowned down at the reader. ‘Maybe it was just an outlier? I’ll keep the records of that one, just in case.’ 

 

***

 

Over the next week, Draco rigidly enforced Harry’s schedule. Every morning, he’d go out and fill the forest on the edge of the grounds with blinding surges of creative magic; conjuring blinding butterflies made of silver light, gilding all the leaves with gold, turning the trees to stone and back again.

 Draco was with him, taking notes - but it was hard to concentrate on his writing when Potter’s magic was just so unbelievably strong. Even without the additional magic clogging his system, Potter was the most ridiculous wizard he’d ever seen in terms of sheer spell strength. 

After a lunch break, Harry and Draco sat in the western drawing room and talked. They went over every flare that Harry could remember - how he was feeling, how that related to the flare itself. 

In the evenings, they tested Harry’s responses. Draco would have him take small doses of elixir to induce euphoria, calming draught or enraging elixir. He would then monitor Harry’s chart to check for peaks and troughs, and note down his findings. 

Harry seemed to rather enjoy this, although Draco found it deeply stressful. Moving from one emotion to the other with such rapidity caused more flares than anything else, and though Draco was gaining a great deal of useful data in a short period of time, he never knew which pieces of his mother’s prized china he would have to shield himself from next. 

This system continued for two weeks. Potter’s flares did not stop, although Draco noticed they seemed to become less harmful, more docile. He also had a habit of hanging around Draco as much as he could, asking him questions, or sometimes just staring oddly at him. When Draco caught him at it and questioned him, Harry just shrugged.

‘Nothing.’ he would say. ‘It’s just odd to see you so professional, is all.’ 

It was a few days in when Harry first cast his Patronus in front of Draco. He had to shade his eyes as it manifested in front of him, unfurling itself gently to stand proudly on the undisturbed leaves. 

‘Showoff.’ Draco managed, trying not to squint.

‘Hey, you told me to cast it!’ Harry grinned, the light gently twisting from his wand to inform the stag’s shape in greater detail. ‘Can you still not cast one, then?’ 

Draco frowned. ‘No, I can cast one. But it’s changed shape. It used to be a peacock.’ 

Harry snorted with laughter. ‘Why does that not surprise me? Well, what is it now?’ 

‘A phoenix.’ Draco replied, quietly. ‘New life from the fire, and all that.’ 

Harry’s laughter slowed. His gaze settled on Draco, tracing over his figure. 

‘What?’ Draco said, looking subconsciously down at his outfit. ‘Have I got something on my clothes?’ 

‘No you’re fine, it’s just the light…’ Harry trailed off, before coughing subconsciously. ‘Nothing. Is that enough for the morning?’ 

It was only later that day that Draco realised all the white thread of his embroidered waistcoat had turned to pure silver.

The flares continued in this strange manner all the way into their third week. The obvious pattern that Draco had suspected quickly became fact. When Harry was angry, his magic was violent - the explosion, the fire, the vase shattering in the dining room. When he was sad, his magic was morose.

‘What about the golden water?’ Draco asked one afternoon, as he made notes on Potter’s previous flares. ‘You were alone, in your own home, with no additional stimuli. What set you off?’

Harry frowned at the warm wood of the floor. A bee gently buzzed its way across the lavender walls. 

‘I was lonely, I guess.’ he began. ‘That flat - well, it’s never felt like home to me.’ 

Draco thought back to that sterile apartment, all clean lines and white and grey. It didn’t seem like Harry’s taste at all. When he pictured Harry’s ideal house, he imagined colour and noise and mess, full of talking and laughter. 

‘I shared it with Ginny, before we split.’ Harry continued. Draco didn’t interrupt - this was the most detail Harry had ever given him. ‘She loved it there. She loved being up high, and all the windows. She filled it with her stuff, which was fine, because I didn’t have many things anyway. But when we split, she went off to fly and took all her things, and I just - I don’t know.’ 

Ginevra Weasley’s breakup with Harry after four years of courtship had been the most talked about news in the wizarding world since the downfall of Lord Voldemort. Weasley had responded rather admirably by ignoring the press, refusing interviews and promptly winning the league for the Holyhead Harpies. 

‘So, memories of her still sadden you? Still cause you grief?’ Draco said, jotting a quick note on his file and trying not to feel like a therapist.

‘No, not particularly.’ Harry said, shaking his head. ‘Not memories of her, at least. I mean, I love Gin to bits and I always will, but we were never well suited for each other. I don’t miss her, or grieve what we had. But I suppose I miss having someone around.’ 

‘I see.’ Draco said, continuing his notes. ‘That would likely explain the golden water. It was a flashy flare - it attracted attention. Your magical signature was calling for company.’ 

 He had a bad habit of sucking on the ends of his quills - a habit he hadn’t broken since his school days, and which he was doing subconsciously as he scratched his commentary out on the parchment. 

The world jolted out beneath him.

Draco blinked. 

His chair had been shifted forwards by five feet, as close to Harry’s as it was possible to go. His knees were interlocked with Harry’s to make space for the movement. Harry’s face was beet red, and he seemed more surprised than Draco was. 

‘Spatial displacement.’ Draco frowned, twisting in his chair to look around him. ‘Interesting - that’s an odd flare.’ 

‘S-sorry!’ Harry gasped out, scooting his chair backwards until it hit the wall. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it!’ 

‘Of course you didn’t mean it, it was a flare.’ Draco scoffed. ‘Now stop banging your chair into the wallpaper like a neanderthal, you’ll scratch a bee.’ 

It was strangely domestic, continuing on this way - eating meals together, going out to cast, talking all afternoon and ending each day playing card games or quietly reading. Harry had taken to shoving his socked feet under Draco’s legs as he sat on the sofa with a book, or leaning against Draco as he engaged Narcissa in conversation across the card table. 

If Draco’s teenage self, burning with unrequited attraction to Potter and a refusal to take a step out of the closet, had seen this, he would have fainted dead away. As it was, Draco was simply  pleased to see Harry so apparently content - especially since he had not flared in the night since the very first incident. 

And to top it all off, when Draco hooked Harry up to the machines on their third Friday and checked him over, he gasped in pleased surprise. 

‘Draco?’ Harry asked, staring at the projected vortex of magical data as if he could read it, too. 

‘It’s working.’ Draco whispered, almost too quietly for Harry to hear him. ‘Your core is self-healing, Harry. Voldemort’s marks are fading.’ 

Draco’s thoughts were pleased and sleepy as Harry fell asleep on the sofa next to him that evening. But even then, he had a strange, creeping foreboding that it was not to last. 

 

***

 

Despite Draco’s success with the tracking of Harry’s mood, another, more frustrating pattern also emerged. Harry’s flares followed the expected pattern when exposed to mood altering potions - things would explode when Harry was angry or glow when he was joyous. 

But he also seemed to flare furiously while Draco hooked him up to the machines. 

Draco frowned over his chart next Saturday morning, flicking through the papers on his desk. Harry was sitting behind him in the chair where they took readings, waiting for Draco to begin.

The most likely reason was that he made Harry uncomfortable, but he had already denied it, and seemed in no eagerness to avoid his company in particular. Draco’s other thought was that the machines themselves made Harry anxious, although he couldn’t imagine why - Potter had had a million injuries in the line of duty, and had been hooked up to more magical mechanisms than he could count. 

Now that he thought about it, Harry’s flares had always been worse when Draco had been near him. He felt a pricking, uncomfortable feeling low in his gut, as he realised what this must mean. 

If there was one thing Draco had underestimated, it was Harry’s willingness to put aside his own wellbeing for the good of others. To sacrifice himself, even if it made him upset, just to keep the peace.

Draco would not be another Robards. He would not put Harry through that. He would not force him to stay in the company of someone he did not feel safe with. 

‘Harry, hook yourself up to the reader today.’ he handed Harry the sensors, staring at the chart pulsing gently next to him. ‘You remember where they go, right?’

Harry frowned at him as he did as he was bid, attaching the sensors to his pulse points. But the chart remained stable, and did not spike throughout the process.

Draco stared at the graph. Every single time Harry had been hooked up before now, it had set off alarms, flaring sharply. But now, it was peaceful and still, with perhaps a slight wince of magic as Harry looked at him. 

Draco walked forward, with the pretence of fixing one of Harry’s sensor points. As Draco laid his hands on Harry’s wrist, the meter immediately spiked. 

That was it then - Draco was the outlier. Draco made Harry flare, and Harry had been lying to him about being uncomfortable. 

‘Ok, Harry -  Take tomorrow off.’ Draco snapped, unable to hold in his own irritation. He dropped Harry’s wrist as though it burned him, jotting down the morning’s readings with a ferocity that nearly tore the parchment. 

Harry started at Draco’s tone. ‘Erm, why? I feel fine - I’m happy to work tomorrow.’

 ‘I need to study my findings.’ he bit out, turning his back to Harry to gather books and papers from his desk at random. ‘I will need my space. Mimsy will attend to you if you need anything.’ 

He left without another word, leaving Harry to pick the sensors off himself and frown at the closed door. 

Draco spent the next day sitting moodily in his study, nursing a glass of Ogden’s and resisting the urge to bang his head against his stunning, cherrywood desk. 

If Potter was really flaring around Draco specifically, it threw all of his data into question. How many of the other flares recorded in Draco’s presence could be mapped to specific emotional stimulus? If Draco threw Potter off so much just by being bloody near him , then how could he draw objective results from his experiments? 

Of course, saviour Potter would do this. Of course he would try and be polite to Draco, to be kind to him, to appear comfortable with him while he was confined inside Draco’s fucking house. The same house that the Dark Lord had skulked through, leaving his filthy marks upon the boards his ancestors had built.

Draco pulled a fresh sheet of parchment towards him viciously and scratched out a missive to Hermione. 

 

***

 

Hermione apparated into the grounds the next morning at 9AM sharp, folders of research in her hands. She had no trouble entering the wards, of course - Draco had long since allowed her permanent entry as master of the house. 

She had been another motivator behind his fierce destruction and rebuilding of the Manor. He would rather have burned the house to the ground than to see Hermione reminded of the place in which she had been tortured. 

She hugged him at the door, cheerfully pressing the books and papers she was carrying into his arms. ‘Hi Draco - how’s the research going? Where’s Harry?’ 

‘Potter is upstairs, enjoying a day of leisure, no doubt.’ Draco sniffed, trying to appear dignified while balancing the scrolls and tomes in his arms. ‘He has the day off today.’ 

Hermione frowned at his tone. ‘Is it not going well? Has he hurt anyone, or himself?’ 

‘No one is any worse for wear, I assure you.’ Draco glared. ‘Potter is entirely hale in mind and body, not that I’d wish it so.’

He opened the door to his study for her, and she went straight for the papers scattered over his desk.

Draco had been charting every significant flare Harry had had since he had entered the manor. Hermione ran her eyes over the charts, taking them in at once and rendering Draco deeply grateful that he needn’t explain his entire process to her. 

‘Well, it’s definitely the emotional stimulus.’ she said, running her finger across his latest graph. ‘It’s all reactive. Oh wow - is he not flaring in his sleep anymore? That’s fantastic progress!’

Draco grimaced. ‘I have been trying to keep Potter calm in the evenings, and work off his excess magic during the day. It seems to be having a positive effect on the stability of his subconscious. His scars from Voldemort are healing over, too.’ 

She paused, pulling out a sheaf of parchment tucked behind the graphs and running a concerned eye down it. ‘But what’s this? There’s no stimulus listed here.’ 

‘Those -’ Draco began, eyeing the graph with distaste, ‘Are a record of all the flares that Harry has had while I have been close enough to him for physical contact.’ 

Hermione looked up at him sharply, her brow furrowed. ‘What?’ 

‘He flares when I am near him.’ Draco scowled. ‘It has happened continuously enough now that the pattern is definite. I already asked him to tell me if he was uncomfortable with me, and he confirmed the negative; however, he was clearly lying. Because of that, all of the rest of the data is under question.’ 

Hermione’s eyes were assessing as she leafed through the rest of the papers, taking in their contents. ‘That’s very strange. Do you think it’s universal - a reaction to other people’s magical signatures, perhaps? Or anxiety with social contact?’ 

‘As far as I can tell, it is just me.’ Draco said bitterly. He had the uncomfortable, delinquent urge to kick the leg of the desk. ‘He has had no such reaction to my mother or Mimsy, and he is in constant contact with them during mealtimes.’ 

‘And he doesn’t flare when you and your mother are with him?’ Hermione questioned.

‘No, I suppose not.’ Draco said, realising this for the first time. ‘It is only when we are alone. Which seems to reinforce the fact that Potter still bloody hates me, and won’t admit it for fear of ruining the experiment, or keeping the peace, or some equally saviour-esque bollocks.’ 

Hermione gave Draco a very significant look. ‘Can you describe these flares to me?’ 

Draco explained the pattern he had seen across the week to her. ‘And on Thursday, he filled the drawing room with live doves! It took me an hour to shepherd them all out of the grounds, and they all ended up dissolving into silvery mist or some other nonsense anyway.’ 

‘Hmmm.’ Hermione said. ‘And these have all happened when the two of you are alone? No other stimulus - no anxiety, or stress, or pain?’ 

‘None.’ Draco gritted his teeth. ‘I’ve tried my very best to make him comfortable.’ 

He could barely explain, even to himself, why he was so furious about this. It was like he was eighteen again, back in Hogwarts for eighth year, with everyone treating him like dirt, or edging around him like he was explosive.

He’d changed - he was sorry, and he’d changed. Why couldn’t that be enough? After all the work - all the late nights and studying and research and gritted teeth smiles endured through ministers praising his turning of new leaves, working under the old department head who would have done anything the Dark Lord had told him to, who’d only recruited him reluctantly even though he’d invented a life saving spell. Even Harry - Harry, who’d known him for twelve years, who’d seen him cry, who’d pulled him from the fire, who’d watched his father dragged away to Azkaban - only saw him for the branding on his arm.

‘Draco?’ Hermione asked, touching his arm. ‘You’re getting awfully worked up. Let me talk to Harry - try and get to the bottom of this. Ok?’ 

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, regretful for having alarmed her. Hermione, at least, saw him as an equal. Their connection was an intellectual one, and Draco had found that bonds formed through curiosity were as strong as those forged in bravery. 

She turned to leave, but he caught her wrist lightly, turning her about. ‘I know he’s your friend, and I know the situation is urgent.’ he said, with quiet conviction in his tone. ‘But I cannot have a patient who lies.’ 

She nodded, patted his hand, and turned from the room. 

 

***

 

Hermione did not return for an hour. Draco’s mind was full of anxiety, spiralling into imagining speculative conversations between the two of them. 

When she did return, she was alone, biting her lip anxiously. Draco knew that look - that was the look she always gave him when she was tempted to tell him some unspeakable secret or other, but was held bound by the laws of her department. 

‘What?’ Draco frowned at her. ‘Potter not come down to give his own explanation?’ 

Hermione rolled her eyes at him, and the familiar fondness of her expression did bring him a modicum of comfort. She, at least, was not angry with him. 

‘Draco - ‘ she began, taking an armchair opposite the desk and crossing her legs in it. ‘I can promise you, he is not uncomfortable with you. He does not hate you, he doesn’t dislike your presence or want to leave.’ 

Draco waited. She did not elaborate. 

‘And?!’ he waved his hand impatiently. ‘You owe me a continuation of that sentence, Granger.’ 

Hermione bit her lip. ‘I can’t tell you.’

‘I’m fucking sorry?’ he said, feeling his well worn anger relight within him. ‘I’m conducting an experiment of national importance on the most famous wizard since Merlin himself, and you can’t tell me why my subject cannot be near me? Are you serious?’ 

‘Yes.’ Hermione stated, simply. 

‘Oh, fuck off!’ Draco cried. ‘Fuck you and your golden trio saviour loyalties, fuck your Gryffindor bullshit. For Circe’s sake Granger, you were the one who persuaded me to do this shit-ass experiment in the first place, and now you won’t let me help? This is my job ! Does no one in this country believe me to be even the slightest bit capable at it, despite the overwhelming fucking evidence ?’ 

Hermione leaned back in her chair, her eyes wide with alarm. ‘Draco, no one was implying you’re not good at your job.’ 

‘Oh don’t you Draco me.’ he snapped back. ‘If you’re not going to help me, I’ll bring in people who can. Because no matter how that bastard saviour or his loyal posse feels about me, I will heal him, whether you like it or not.’ 

‘Draco -’

‘Get out.’ he spat. ‘Go. I’ll see you when this is all over.’ 

Hermione left, casting a worried look over her shoulder at him as she opened the door. Her cloud of curly hair obscured the opening as she exited - hiding an eavesdropping Potter’s messy black hair and wide eyes from his notice. 

 

***

 

That evening, Draco ate in silence. His mother was making small talk with Harry over her soup, as she always did when she could sense tension. Harry, although he was answering normally, kept shooting him distressed glances and picking at the seams of his dinner robes nervously. 

When dinner was over, Draco stood to leave. Before he could sweep from the room, however, he felt a large, warm hand close on his wrist. 

‘Draco.’ Harry said. ‘Can we talk?’

Draco saw his mother gesturing Mimsy away, leading her through the doors at the other end of the room. He cursed her silently as he turned his reluctant gaze to Harry.

Draco bit down his anger, always so close to the surface these days, waving a dismissive hand. ‘No need, Potter. I have sent missives to my team already - they will be here tomorrow. You will continue your work with them, while I return to the office to handle my usual cases. I will return every Sunday to analyse the week’s results and update my findings accordingly.’ 

‘What?’ Harry’s eyes widened. ‘You’re not staying?’ 

‘I would have thought you’d have been pleased, Potter, given the issues you have with me.’ Draco smiled, tight and forced. ‘Favring is my best agent, and has been trained to cast my flare protection spell in my absence. You should find him very agreeable.’ 

Before Harry could answer, Draco yanked his wrist from Harry’s loose hold and turned, slamming the door to the dining room behind him. 

 

***

 

Augustus Favring and Daisy Binks turned up at precisely 8:30 AM the next day, both armed to the teeth with magical readers and detectors - and equipped with equal looks of trepidation. 

‘Come now.’ Draco smiled at them both. ‘It’s just Harry Potter - he’s not going to bite.’ 

He was so pleased to see them both that his anger - so close to the surface these days - seemed to fade. 

‘With all due respect, sir -’ Favring began, giving him a cautious look, ‘if Potter is such a peaceful subject, why are you leaving?’ 

‘Many people in the magical community don’t much like me, Favring.’ he sighed, feeling all the fight leave him. ‘Potter has more reason than most not to look past my… mistakes.’ 

Binks huffed out an angry breath. ‘If they can’t see you for the amazing work you’ve done, sir, then they are all fools.’ 

‘Save your brownnosing for your pay review, Binks.’ Draco smiled. ‘You should find Potter a perfectly pliant and willing subject - if not, you have my permission to hex him.’ 

Once Draco had run them both through his strategy and schedule, he left them to it, apparating to the Ministry. 

The office was fairly empty when he strode back through the doors to the department of Accidental Magic Reversal, his emerald green robes back on, the golden stripe down the hem marking him as the head of department. Pansy was sitting at her desk as usual, chewing a wad of gum and sending purple ministry memos shooting through the chutes in the walls with her wand. The only other agent present was Jonathan Leveret, who was writing out a report at his desk. 

‘Morning, Leveret.’ Draco smiled. ‘Where are Inkwood and Dovetail?’ 

‘They’re on a memory mod job.’ Leveret looked up, obviously surprised to see him. ‘Some underage witch in Devon managed to accidentally levitate a train, and it was fifty feet in the air before we could counter it.’ 

‘Classic.’ Draco grinned. The normality of the office was a soothing comfort. ‘Any other urgent cases in my absence?’ 

‘Nope.’ Leveret said, popping the ‘p’. ‘Since you put a stop to Potter, it hasn’t been nearly as exciting.’ 

Draco spent a peaceful morning catching up on his backlog of paperwork, answering his post from muggle parents of magical children, even doing a little extra reading into the theoretical angle of some of his recent cases. He was so absorbed that he didn’t notice Pansy knocking on his open door at twelve, leaning her hip against the frame. 

‘Oi, Draco.’ she said, making him look up for the first time in an hour. His neck clicked audibly. 

She sighed at him, her reddened lips pouting into a dramatic frown. ‘That’s enough reading for you, Lord Malfoy. Come have lunch with me, and tell me all the Potter drama.’ 

Draco did end up telling her all the details, ranting at her over his pasta as she stared reproachfully back at him. After a week of eating only Mimsy’s delicious cooking, the ministry cafeteria was not improving his mood. 

‘So, let me get this straight.’ Pansy said, spearing a tomato with her fork and gesturing at him with it. ‘Potter can’t be around you without his magic flaring, but was spending all his time with you, following you around, staring at you all the time and making small talk with your mother?’ 

‘In a nutshell, yes.’ Draco muttered sullenly. ‘You can understand why I am confused by the situation. I cannot understand the meaning of his deception, besides a blind urge to keep the peace.’ 

‘Drakey darling, you know I love you, right?’ Pansy said, putting her hand comfortingly over his across the table. ‘But for one of the most intelligent mages in this building, you can be fucking obtuse sometimes.’ 

Draco stared at her. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘He has a crush on you, you numpty.’ Pansy said. 

Of all the things Draco had expected Pansy to say, this was not one of them. He couldn’t help laughing out loud. 

‘What? Potter, have a crush on me? You’ve got to be kidding, Pans.’ 

Pansy gave him the long-suffering, patient expression of someone caring for the infirm. ‘It really doesn’t take a genius to work it out. He wants to be around you all the time and his magic responds when you touch him? Doesn’t that seem a bit crush-y to you?’ 

‘Pansy, as much as I love your enthusiasm, Potter is straight.’ Draco said. ‘He dated Ginevra Weasley for four years, remember?’ 

‘Bisexual people exist.’ Pansy waved away his evidence as though flicking off a stray moth. ‘Potter dating Ginny Weasley doesn’t prove that he’s straight, it just proves he has excellent taste in attractive partners. Ergo, another reason to believe he likes you.’  

‘Your attraction to female quidditch players notwithstanding, I hardly think saviour Potter would ever have feelings for an ex-death eater, Pans.’ Draco sighed. 

But Pansy was on a roll now, leaning over the table. ‘But you’ve changed! So much! Even when you were a little shit, he used to stalk you all the time, staring at you in school. And I know you used to have a proper thing for him.’ 

‘I used to.’ Draco corrected quickly. ‘That was a long time ago - I’m long over it.’ 

‘I don’t knowww…’ Pansy said, sing-song. ‘You seem pretty easily riled up by him. No one else invokes this reaction in you, do they?’ 

Despite himself, the image he had seen in his entrance hall mirror flashed through Draco’s mind - the sharp teethed, glowing eyed face he had lost control over, when Robards had threatened Harry. He thought of how he had felt in the living room that night, filled with surety that if anything interrupted Harry’s peace again, he would strike it down.

‘Even if I did have some… unfortunate, lingering sentiment -’ Draco began, as Pansy whooped in triumph, ‘I still don’t think Potter feels anything towards me but distrust.’

‘Well, you’re a scientist, aren’t you?’ Pansy asked, finally putting the tomato she had been gesturing with to her mouth. ‘Conduct an experiment.’ 

 

***

 

Draco didn’t actually return to the Manor except to sleep. Despite his refusal to credit Pansy’s ridiculous theory, he did find himself nervous at the thought of seeing Harry again. He found himself apparating back as late as he could justify, sneaking upstairs like a robber in his own house to avoid waking Harry, or anyone else. He had even taken to sleeping in a different bedroom, just to keep his distance from Harry’s door. 

He was so distracted that he didn’t even take the pleasure he should have had in seeing Robards in the ministry atrium. Robards’ eyes had widened at the sight of Draco, before he turned resolutely around and hurried off in the opposite direction.

Although he should have felt satisfied at invoking this reaction, all Draco felt was rage. Seeing the golden stripe down his maroon auror robes reminded Draco viscerally of the power he had over Harry, the pleasure he took in commanding him to jump in front of curses like an obedient dog. He had never wanted to curse anyone more. 

On Friday afternoon, he was seriously considering asking Favring and Binks to just mail him their results, rather than go to the Manor himself. Until, as usual, Harry scuppered his plans.

There was an owl waiting for him at the window of the office when he returned. Draco unfurled the scroll, his stomach tightening as he recognised Harry’s writing. 

 

Draco,

 

I wanted to send you an update. I haven’t had a major flare since you left. My readings are consistent, and seem to be getting lower. 

I don’t know why you haven’t come back, but I thought you would have by now. I’ve been trying my best to work with Daisy and Augustus, and they are fine, but they’re not the same. 

I miss you. Please come ba I’m sorry if I upset you somehow, but if you’re avoiding me can we at least talk about it? Unless there’s some other reason you can’t come back, like another urgent case or something, in which case ignore me. Or let me know, at least. 

It’s weird living in your house without you here. It doesn’t feel right. Augustus isn’t as good at your spell as you are either - it doesn’t feel the same as yours. 

Fuck the spell. I don’t care about the spell. I want to talk to you. Please come back.

 

HP

 

Draco thought about refusing him. But the idea of not talking to Harry was even worse than the nightmarish conversations he imagined. And so Draco apparated back to the Manor on Saturday morning, apprehension rolling in his stomach and tried to prepare himself. 

To his relief, it was Favring and Binks who met him first. They led him to the study and handed him their readings, watching Draco run his wide eyes over the numbers. 

‘Wow.’ he said, looking up at his teams’ grins. ‘This is much better.’ 

‘It is - and apart from the flares you mentioned, it’s been getting better on average since he got here.’ Binks said, pushing a chart towards him. ‘This is his average with the larger flares removed.’ 

Draco skimmed it. Harry’s magical stability had, indeed, been improving since the day he arrived. 

‘I think his magic has finally calmed, sir.’ Favring said, tapping the end of the graph. ‘His responses to stimulus like mood effecting potions are also greatly reduced. We took readings of ourselves as a control, and the flare in his magical signature with potions as a stimulus weren’t all that much higher than our own.’ 

‘What did you do, sir?’ Binks asked. ‘Is there a new spell you’ve been working on? Because I haven’t seen improvement like this - well, ever.’ 

‘No spell - just good old fashioned time off, it seems.’ Draco rolled his eyes. ‘Potter - always a flair for the dramatic.’ 

‘You know me.’ came a voice from the doorway. Harry was leaning against it in a t-shirt and jeans, arms crossed, staring at Draco with intense focus. ‘So, what’s your diagnosis, Doctor Malfoy?’ 

‘Er -’ Draco stammered slightly. Seeing Harry again, poised and confident on the doorframe, after his recent self-revelations brought some rather alarming thoughts to the surface of his mind before sense took hold. 

‘Ahem - Simply put, you fight too much, I believe.’ Draco stammered out. ‘Your core is stronger than most, and with the additional fragments from Lord Voldemort in there, you have great amounts of power. I believe you have a - well, a traumatic response to combat, given your past, and it is causing your magic to rebel against you.’ 

‘Oh, is that all?’ Harry scoffed. ‘Come and walk with me.’ 

Despite himself, Draco found he was obeying. His legs moved automatically towards Harry before he knew what he was doing, following Harry as he led him up the portrait-lined corridors.

‘I got a letter from Robards.’ Harry said, casually. ‘Asking me back to the office. Begging more like, actually.’

Draco turned to Harry so fast, he felt his neck click. ‘Tell me you said no. You said no, right?’ 

‘I haven’t said anything yet.’ Harry replied, raising his eyebrows at Draco’s urgency. ‘It’s hard to respond to a letter I don’t understand.’ 

From his pocket, Harry withdrew a sheet of creased parchment. He unfolded it and read,

‘ You are a strong agent, and you do not need a guard dog. Draco Malfoy has threatened me, and is likely threatening you too, after he would not let me in to see you .’ 

He crumpled the page up in his fist, looking back at Draco, who had frozen. 

‘Robards was here.’ he said, his eyes narrowed. ‘Why did you not tell me Robards was here?’ 

‘Because he’s a scumbag, and isn’t worth the dirt on your shoes, Potter.’ Draco replied, unable to control himself. ‘And because I feared you’d go back to work, when you are clearly too volatile for active service.’ 

This time, it was Harry’s turn to be enraged. ‘You were scared I’d go back to field work? When my last major flare burned a small forest to the ground and nearly killed my entire unit? What kind of irresponsible idiot do you take me for?’ 

Draco, who had been about to retort, closed his mouth. 

He had been so fixated on Harry’s obsession with self sacrifice that he had forgotten why Harry sacrificed himself in the first place. Of course he wouldn’t have put anyone else in danger, given the severity of his situation.

‘Why does he call you a guard dog, Draco?’ Harry asked. ‘What did you say to him?’ 

‘I told him to fuck off back to hell where he belongs.’ Draco snapped. ‘I threatened him, and I nearly cursed him on the spot, as I would curse anyone who tries to turn you back into a fucking soldier, Potter.’ 

Silence fell. Harry was looking at him in shock, lost for words. 

‘Sorry if I overstepped on your precious auror department, but in all honesty, I’d do it again. Especially when their head tries to break into my wards at two in the morning, like some common criminal.’

‘No one has ever - ‘ Harry began, before tailing off. 

‘You don’t need to explain it to me.’ Draco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘I know more than anyone how it feels to be recruited into a fight you don’t understand - or not getting to choose whether to fight at all.’ 

‘You left, though.’ Harry said. ‘You stopped fighting - joined the magic reversal department. I don’t think I ever asked you why you did it.’ 

Draco took a deep breath, before continuing his stride down the corridor. Harry followed without complaint. 

‘I was like you.’ he began, looking straight ahead of him as he led them both towards the front doors. ‘My magic was unstable after the war. Hogwarts helped, but once I graduated, I had to come back here - I had nowhere else to go. But everything reminded me of them - of my crazy bitch aunt torturing me into submission, or the Dark Lord murdering innocents at the table I ate at as a child.’ 

Harry frowned. ‘How did you manage it?’

‘My mother, at first.’ Draco smiled. ‘Once my father died and the wards passed to me, they helped, but my mother is who really held me together. She was the only person who could calm me down, who made me feel safe. Remodelling the manor helped too. But I had to be able to control myself outside of the wards - to feel safe in public. And I was scared I’d hurt her by accident. So I invented Protego Fragor .’ 

‘What?’ Harry started. ‘I thought you invented that spell once you’d been hired?’ 

They were out in the grounds now. The morning light was dancing across the lawns, highlighting the edges of the carefully maintained hedgerows and flourishing flowerbeds. The breeze ruffled Harry’s hair, sending it flickering across his eyes. 

‘How do you think I got hired in the first place?’ Draco grimaced. ‘They would never have taken an ex death eater into the ministry unless I had given them something extraordinary. The old head would have taken credit for it too, if he hadn’t popped his clogs so quickly. By then, it was easy to rise through the ranks to head. Then I fired every incompetent in the department, built my own team, and started changing the ministry’s approach to underage magic.’ 

‘Wow.’ Harry said, stopping on the gravel path to stare at Draco. ‘You’re amazing.’

Draco felt himself flush. ‘Oh nonsense. Sucking up to me won’t get you released from here any faster, you know.’

Harry was grinning at him now, sharp and challenging. It felt strangely discordant - to have opened up to him, to see him smile, and yet to feel his competing urge like a schoolboy row of old. 

‘Bet my surges were bigger than yours.’ Harry smirked. 

‘Now now Potter, have some class.’ Draco tutted. ‘Comparing surge sizes is a little juvenile, don’t you think?’ 

Harry punched him in the arm. ‘Still - you said my magic was powerful. Was that a compliment?’ 

Draco couldn’t resist Harry’s provoking gaze. And Pansy had said to experiment, hadn’t she? 

‘Hardly. I don’t much value brute force, Potter - I like a little finesse, when the occasion calls.’ Draco grinned, soft and slow and catlike, running his fingers across the back of Harry’s hand between them as they walked. Harry’s caramel skin flushed a pleasing, wine red. 

Below them, the gravel of the path turned to gold. 

Draco withdrew his hand with a start. Harry gasped out, the bright shine of the path reflecting in his glasses as he turned to Draco.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to!’ 

‘I know you didn’t mean to, Harry.’ Draco said, feeling his chest constrict. 

He was sure now that Harry did like him. Pansy had been right about that, at least. But what did it matter, if Harry still flared dangerously whenever he was near? 

‘Perhaps I should keep my distance a little longer - I’m clearly a volatile element in your recovery.’ Draco said. 

‘No, no Draco, wait -’ Harry called after him, as Draco strode away towards the edge of the wards, intent to disapparate. 

He would have to go to the office, although it would be miserably empty on a weekend. He’d stay the night there and figure out a game plan for the next week. Favring and Binks would have to keep to Harry’s analysis -

But Harry seized his arm, swinging him around. ‘Wait, you prick! Can’t you just wait and talk to me for a single second?’ 

Draco realised absently that Harry was nearly in tears, his eyes watery behind his glasses. 

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Harry cried out. ‘Don’t run off again, ok?’

‘Harry, I can’t be near you if I’m making you flare, no matter why it’s happening.’ Draco said, as gently as he could, despite his urge to do the exact opposite. ‘It’s not safe.’ 

‘Yes, it is.’ Harry said. ‘It’s safe here. The wards are protecting me, aren’t they? And this is easy enough to fix.’ 

He flicked his wand, and the gold of the path returned to stone. 

Draco stopped to consider this. True, the wards would stop Harry doing anything excessive that couldn’t be easily countered, but he was still flaring more when Draco was around. Surely that was counterintuitive? 

As though reading Draco’s mind, Harry spoke again. ‘I’m flaring because I’m nervous, Draco. Surely the best solution to that is exposure therapy?’ 

‘You want me to stay here, even if you flare?’ Draco asked.

Harry laughed incredulously,  running a hand through his dark hair. ‘Fuck, Draco, I want you to do more than stay, I want - I -’ 

Before Draco could react, Harry wound his arm around his waist, pulling him sharply in and pressing his lips to Draco’s. 

Though Harry gripped Draco’s waist tightly beneath his robes, his kiss was gentle, close-mouthed at first before opening to Draco’s response. His lips were slightly chapped, and Draco could feel the calluses on his hands as he wound his fingers under Draco’s robes to touch bare skin. 

It was perfect. 

Draco gasped into the kiss as Harry traced light fingers down his sides before coming to rest at his hips, splaying his fingers over Draco’s skin and pulling him in. Draco wound his fingers into Harry’s soft hair as their gentle kisses became firmer, more eager.

‘Oh, shit!’ Harry pulled back.

He was glowing, his skin alight and gently radiating warmth. Little wisps of golden smoke were coming off him, trailing into the air. 

Draco laughed. ‘One kiss and you turn into the literal golden boy, Harry?’

‘Oh no, I flared.’ He said, feigning alarm. ‘I guess I’ll have to kiss my boyfriend some more, to get used to it.’ 

Draco pulled him in, resting his forehead against Harry’s. 

‘Boyfriend?’ he said, raising his eyebrows. 

‘If you want.’ Harry said, his grin fading to nervousness. ‘Am I going too fast, or -’

‘I’ll be your boyfriend, Potter,’ Draco interrupted, smiling into Harry’s hazy glow. ‘On one condition.’

‘What’s that?’

‘That you quit the fucking aurors.’ 

Harry laughed out loud, bright and beautiful in the morning sun.

‘Deal.’ 

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! I wrote this in a strange hyperfixated haze across two weeks, so I've likely missed a ton of mistakes, but ah well.

For those of you who are curious, the structure of Draco's team is:
Pansy Parkinson - Draco's PA
Augustus Favring - Memory and Countering, second in command
Tobias Inkwood - Memory
Juliet Dovetail - Memory
Jonathan Leveret - Countering
Daisy Binks - Countering

I hope you enjoyed this fic! <3