Chapter Text
H.J.P
The sun was sinking on the horizon, painting the city in shades of red and gold, how ironic. His untidy hair curled messily over his glasses, the lenses smudged and blurred making everything look hazy . His dark Auror robes were splattered with blood, the fabric tacky and heavy against his skin. Another major attack had struck, this time in the suburbs, aimed once again at former Death Eaters.
Harry trudged wearily towards Shacklebolt’s office. The pattern had become grimly familiar: there would be an attack, the Aurors would find little to no evidence, a few Muggles would have to be Obliviated, and then the whole miserable lack of progress would be laid out before the Minister. The routine was exhausting, but that was the reality of a difficult case.
This one, however, was different. Tonight’s attack had been more brutal than usual. Almost personal. The victims, a married couple, had once worn the Dark Mark but now ran a modest bakery that catered exclusively to Muggles. That detail alone made the crime feel… peculiar.
The first case had occurred back in February. A new group had surfaced, targeting an ex–Death Eater who lived alone and worked in a potion shop. The killing had been vicious, at first dismissed as a crime of passion. The DMLE had catalogued it as an isolated incident, only to be proven horribly wrong. Within weeks, the same grisly pattern repeated itself, scene after scene: each victim’s throat slit open with a curse, and the word TRAITOR scrawled in their own blood across the wall closest to the body.
Harry could still recall the time he was called to the case. A fresh-faced recruit had accompanied him, barely a month into training. The lad had vomited the moment they‘d stepped out of the room. It was one of the many reasons Harry disliked working with rookies: they hadn’t yet built up the… tolerance.
He had inspected the chamber carefully, finding a discarded potion vial and the faintest trace of lingering magic. He could feel it prickling beneath his skin, cold, unsettling. The room had been cluttered with arcane magical artefacts, but nothing was missing, nothing disturbed. Whomever had committed the murder had been alarmingly meticulous. Their aim had been clearly singular.
After bringing the evidence back to the Ministry, the team finally began to understand what they were up against. At first, the mystery had Harry on edge, but in the best possible way: this case was vast, different, unlike anything he’d handled before. The thrill of chasing something new, something challenging, had burned brightly for a time. But months of dead ends and tenuous leads had smothered that excitement into frustration. The whole department was running ragged.
“Today’s scene is one of the nastiest I’ve seen, mate,” Ron muttered with a sigh beside him. “I’m bloody knackered. I’m sick of these Death Eater bastards.”
Harry nodded at his friend. At least they’d been paired in this case together, he’d have lost his patience entirely if he’d had to drag a green rookie along as well. Ron stretched, drawing in a deep breath before letting it out in a long sigh
“And our uniforms are absolutely wrecked,” Harry muttered, trying to cut through the heavy mood. “Hermione’s going to murder you if you walk into the house looking like that,” he teased, giving him a light shove as they paused outside Shacklebolt’s office.
“Oi, mate, give me a break! I hadn’t thought that far ahead yet.” Ron chuckled, glancing down at his robes. “Is it really that bad?”
Harry rolled his eyes in mock exasperation and pushed the door open.
Shacklebolt didn’t look remotely pleased to see anyone at the moment. Harry didn’t take it personally, the Minister had been under crushing pressure ever since the unsolved murders had spilled into the press. The office was usually immaculate, but tonight it bore the clutter of stress: copies of the Daily Prophet strewn across the desk, their lurid headlines screaming from the pages.
DMLE UNDER FIRE: SERIAL MURDERERS ON THE LOOSE? and THE SHACKLEBOLT ADMINISTRATION: MINISTER ASLEEP AT THE WAND?
…and many more examples he didn’t even care to look at.
“Well, at least my two best Aurors have turned up before supper,” Shacklebolt remarked as the door clicked shut behind them. He didn’t immediately look up, still bent over a pile of parchment on his desk. “I want it quick and precise, tell me how it—” He finally glanced up at the pair, pausing with a weary sigh. “Merlin’s beard… with the Prophet breathing down my neck, if you two could manage to keep your robes clean for once, it would spare me a fair few headaches.”
“Er… messy crime scene?” Harry lifted his shoulders in a half-shrug and drew a steadying breath before launching into his report. “No evidence left behind, twenty Muggles Obliviated, the clean-up’s still going. But this time, the circumstances are different. Yes, the victims were former Death Eaters, but they’d set up a Muggle bakery. We asked around, no one even knew they’d carried the Mark. The neighbours were astonished .”
Ron nodded in agreement, his jaw tight. “You can’t pin this on us, sir. We’ve worked every scene flat out. We managed to trace some lingering magic, but it fizzled out, gone completely before we could follow it further.” His voice carried a professional edge, though the frustration beneath was clear. “We need something more. Truth is, we’ve got nowhere solid to even start an investigation.”
Harry gave his friend’s shoulder a quick pat. Ron had become one of the department’s sharpest Aurors since training, always steady; but now, he was also meticulous, nothing slipped past him (probably thanks to Hermione’s influence as well). Harry was proud of that. And it just made this case all the more maddening. If Ron bloody Weasley couldn’t find a lead, then the trail was colder than ice.
Shacklebolt remained silent for nearly a minute, eyes flicking between the two of them before dropping back to the stack of parchment on his desk. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then rose to his feet, planting both hands firmly on the desk.
“I wanted to keep this within the Auror Office,” he said at last, his deep voice steady though edged with weariness. “But it seems we’ve hit every dead end, and I’m running out of options.
Harry’s shoulders stiffened. It was unsettling to hear Kingsley, who never wavered, sound as though he were admitting defeat. Was he about to shelve the case entirely?
“…I’ve received a proposal,” the Minister continued. “A plan. The Department of Mysteries contacted me this morning. They suspect this case may involve blood magic, something darker, and they want to intervene.”
Normally, Harry would have bristled at the idea of another department meddling in Auror work; they always managed to botch things up. But with Hermione among the Unspeakables… perhaps this time it might not be a disaster.
“They’ve sent me a plan that’s made me… reconsider a few things,” Shacklebolt went on, choosing his words carefully. “I believe it has merit. And frankly, we can’t afford another crisis in the press. I’ll be arranging a meeting tomorrow with everyone involved. I expect the both of you to be punctual, unless you’d like to watch the rest of my hair fall out.”
With a wry clap of his hands, he gestured towards the door. “That will be all. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As him and Ron stepped out into the corridor, Harry felt a flicker of something he hadn’t in months. Perhaps, at last, the case was about to become interesting.
D.L.M
Draco’s mornings never varied. In fact, routine was what he excelled at. By six o’clock he was already dressed: dark trousers, a crisp shirt, a black leather bracer strapped over his left forearm to cover it completely, and a waistcoat, all beneath his Ministry robes.
Breakfast was always the same: tea and tartines, prepared exactly as the Malfoy house-elves had made them in his childhood. By twenty past, his teeth were brushed, and by half-past, his hair was styled, a short wolf cut, no longer the slicked-back, pressed-down style he’d worn at Hogwarts. And at quarter to seven, he was ready to Apparate close enough to the Ministry to walk the last stretch on foot after casting a Notice-Me-Not.
Draco Malfoy had become a ghost within the Ministry walls, and he had learned to prefer it that way. He kept to the emptiest corridors, dodged the busy hours even if it meant arriving early or staying late, and slipped through passages most employees didn’t know existed. He walked with his gaze lowered, always avoiding notice.
Silence, quiet, background. He had learned to make those characteristics feel comfortable, even welcome despite how different he had imagined his future before the war. His first year at the Ministry had been nigh unbearable, but Draco had his pride, and he knew he was bloody good at what he did. That knowledge had kept him standing, long after the whispers and cold stares had lost their sting, most people had forgotten he even worked there. He had fought tooth and nail for this post, and from the very first day he’d sworn he would do whatever it took to keep it.
Draco’s days at the Magical Substances Control Office were usually calm, if not entirely uneventful. He’d begin in the Department of Mysteries before retreating to his own office, a modest space that doubled as a laboratory. His work revolved around potions, identifying them, testing their antidotes, ensuring their proper use under the law, and occasionally being asked to develop new brews when necessity demanded. It was precise, demanding, and deeply absorbing. And, of course, Malfoy was the best in his office.
He had always had a talent for potions, but after the war, that gift had turned into something more, his lifeline. His freedom from Azkaban had hinged on Harry Potter’s testimony, but his punishment had been no small matter. Three long years without a wand, forbidden to practice magic in any form. For someone like Draco, who could scarcely imagine life without it, the loss had been like learning to breathe without air. He found refuge in potions. He could still study them, still measure and prepare, still create. By the time his wand was returned to him, it was impossible to imagine abandoning them.
Once, he had pictured a different future for himself. But life had made other arrangements, and at least now he had work, proper work, even if finding it had been near impossible for one of the youngest, most recognizable Death Eaters. He was grateful, in his own way, and mostly at peace with what he had built for himself.
The true blessing of working under the Department of Mysteries was that Unspeakables rarely, if ever, engaged in idle chatter. Silence was the rule, and Draco could slip through his days without exchanging more than the occasional necessary word. Which was why, when he entered his office one morning to find a letter waiting on his desk, bearing the signature of Kingsley Shacklebolt, his whole body went rigid.
Why in Merlin’s name would the Minister of Magic want to see him?
He had never done well with authority, and it wasn’t, as Pansy liked to say, merely a matter of “personality.” His aversion was earned. His father. The Dark Lord. Even Dumbledore, for Merlin’s sake. And now, most recently, Cassian Thorne, the new head of the Magical Substances Control Office.
The history there was… peculiar. The former head, Euphemia Selwyn, had been a stern but fair witch, and Draco had managed to earn her respect. It was the only reason he had this post at all, his sole anchor of credibility within the office. But Selwyn had retired a year and a half ago, and Thorne had swept in like a change of weather, bitter and cold. He still remembered the first time they spoke at his office.
“You should thank your lucky stars, Malfoy, that Euphemia had a soft spot for your talent. If it were up to me, your kind would never have set foot in this Department. But don’t mistake tolerance for trust, one mistake, one, and I’ll see you out of here so fast you won’t have time to pick up your wand.”
“I only want to do my work, sir,” Draco had replied evenly, “as efficiently and professionally as I’ve done since the day I was given the chance.”
Draco had been bent over his cauldron, the familiar hum of brewing filling his lab, when the door opened without so much as a knock. Only one man in the Department made a habit of barging into his space as if it belonged to him.
“Malfoy,” Cassian Thorne’s voice was sharp enough to slice glass. “The Minister has requested you. Consider yourself… reassigned.”
Draco set his stirring rod down with deliberate calm. Don’t rise to it. Don’t give him the satisfaction. “Reassigned? I have three pending reports and a potion in stabilization that requires—”
“—someone who isn’t a liability.” Thorne’s smile was all teeth. “Fortunately, the Auror Office has just the task for you. I’m sure they’ll be delighted to explain every detail for you.”
Draco’s stomach turned to stone. He kept his expression neutral, voice clipped. “The Aurors?” he repeated, as though the word itself were foul.
“Yes. The Department of Mysteries insists on contributing to their biggest case in hand. And I insist you’re the most… expendable asset we have.” Thorne leaned against the door frame, clearly enjoying every word. “You’ve always been useful in a crisis, Malfoy. Shame about the rest of the time.”
Draco felt his jaw tighten. Expendable. Of course he would say that. His wand hand itched, but he curled it into a fist inside the leather bracer. “And if I refuse?”
Thorne’s eyes glinted. “Then don’t bother coming back to this office at all. I’ll see to it that the door stays locked to you, permanently.”
For a heartbeat, Draco’s breath caught. Potions, the lab, this work, it was the only thing left that was truly his. He forced the panic down, burying it under a thin veneer of ice. “Understood.” he said flatly, every syllable clipped, sharp.
Thorne's smirk widened in satisfaction “Good. Report to Shacklebolt’s office tomorrow morning. Do try not to embarrass the Department… or me.”
When the door closed behind him, Draco let his shoulders sag for the first time, staring at the cauldron’s simmering contents as if they might offer him any kind of escape. He muttered under his breath, voice low enough that the room swallowed it whole, “Fuck.”
Later that day, another letter from Kingsley Shakebolt himself appeared on his desk. It didn’t have more information than what Thorne had mentioned and that only worried him more.
He knew he had to measure every step, every word, to keep his footing. And now a summons from the Minister of Magic himself sat on his desk like a ticking bomb. Had he slipped? Missed something? Was this the moment Thorne had been waiting for to toss him out? It made no sense, Draco brewed the finest potions in the Office, gave the most complete reports, worked the fastest, but sense rarely mattered when enemies were involved.
And to make matters worse, it had to be the Auror Office. He almost laughed aloud. A cruel joke, surely. Of all places, and of all people, he had no wish to engage with Aurors, their work, or their interrogation methods. His memories of those walls were anything but pleasant.
He picked up the letter and sighed, he had no choice but to show up.
[...]
That morning, as he was on his way to the office, he could spot some surprised faces, people who didn’t even recall he worked there. Some days, those stares could still managed to make him uncomfortable.
He knocked on the door and heard Shacklebolt’s voice telling him to step inside. He studied the room; it was cozier than the offices the Department of Mysteries offered, that was for sure. His gaze settled on Cassian Thorne, sitting opposite the Minister’s desk, and he suppressed the reflex to roll his eyes.
“I was told you wanted to see me,” Draco said. His tone was calm but clipped; he had no real desire to be there.
“Draco, my boy, splendid you could make it.” Thorne’s voice was all false warmth; it made Draco’s head ache. “I’m delighted you’ve decided to join us.” Draco scoffed internally, as if the man had offered him a choice. “Well, I must leave you to it. I’m sure there’s rather a lot of explaining to be done.” Thorne said finally, rising from his chair and starting his way toward the door.
Just as Draco thought he’d be gone, Thorne’s hand caught his sleeve and drew him close enough that his breath warmed Draco’s ear. “If I hear a single complaint about your work,” he murmured, venom laced through the words, “you’re gone. Understood, Malfoy? I’m watching you.”
When the door shut behind Thorne, Draco let his shoulders slump for the smallest of moments before composing himself. The threat lingered like a taste of copper at the back of his tongue.
Oh, this would be a complete nightmare.
H.J.P
That morning, Harry arrived at the Ministry earlier than usual. He had paperwork to clear before the meeting, but if he was honest, it was mostly curiosity that had dragged him in so soon. He wanted details about the new plan, and he wanted them now.
The first two hours slipped by, and before long he was leaning on the edge of Ron’s desk. “Hurry up, mate. Do you want Shacklebolt to murder us both?” Harry grinned, tossing a crumpled ball of parchment at Ron’s head.
“Oh, you really are mad. It’s eight in the morning; I’m still waking up,” Ron muttered, his voice heavy with sleep. “Just let me finish this form. You should learn a bit of patience, Harry!” He complained, lobbing the same paper ball back, smirking.
Harry’s green eyes gleamed with anticipation. He felt oddly light that morning, almost buoyant. “I don’t understand, aren't you a bit curious? I just hope we finally get some proper field work."
“Merlin’s beard, you sound like ’Mione,” Ron groaned, shuffling his papers into a pile.
“Now, hurry!” Harry pressed, though he was grinning from ear to ear.
[...]
It was exactly 8:10 when they reached the Minister’s office. Ron knocked, and Shacklebolt’s deep voice called them inside. Harry stepped in, his eyes flicking automatically to the Minister’s desk, when something else caught his attention. A flash of pale hair.
He turned, almost against his will, and froze.
Draco Malfoy. Sitting in Ministry robes, opposite Shacklebolt, as though he belonged there. Harry’s smile faltered, his whole body tightening. Malfoy? Here? Still working at the Ministry? Why in Merlin’s name would Shacklebolt have called him?
Beside him, Ron stiffened, looking as confused and shocked as Harry himself.. For a moment, no one spoke. The silence thickening until Malfoy finally lifted his gaze and met Harry’s eyes.
“Oh this has to be a bloody joke.” Malfoy’s voice was sharp, disdain curling around every word. He pushed back his chair and stood abruptly. “This is it, whatever this is, I’m not up for this nonsense." His grey eyes flashed with irritation, his posture rigid with fury as he stood up.
“Unspeakable Malfoy—” Kingsley’s stern voice cut through the silence like a whip. “I realize there’s some confusion in the room, but I expect no improper remarks—”
“Good luck with that… you know, with him here,” Harry muttered, tilting his head toward Malfoy. The blond scowled back, lips moving in a mutter Harry couldn’t quite catch.
“Auror Potter!” Kingsley’s chair scraped as he rose to his feet, his expression thunderous. “You, of all people, should be setting the example.” Harry only rolled his eyes, every line of his body strung tight with tension. He hated being in the same room as Malfoy, let alone being expected to treat him like a colleague.
“This is a delicate matter we’re about to discuss,” Kingsley continued, his voice carrying the weight of authority. “And I won’t waste time dealing with childish conduct.”
“No, Kingsley,” Harry snapped, stepping forward before he could stop himself. His voice was incredulous, edged with fury. “What the fuck is this?” His gaze flicked to Malfoy, then back to the Minister. “Why the hell is Malfoy here? Why would he be part of a meeting like this? You know…” Because of course Shacklebolt knew, he knew the story they all shared together, so why on earth would he come up with a plan that involved Harry and sodding Malfoy in the same room.
Malfoy exhaled sharply through his nose, but his voice stayed controlled and for some reason that just served to upset Harry even more. “For once, Potter, try using that head of yours. Do you honestly think I want to be here? If it were up to me, I’d be as far from this office as possible.” His eyes flicked briefly toward Shacklebolt before settling back on Harry. “I'm just following orders.” Then, with infuriating calm, he lowered himself back into his chair as though the argument had never touched him.
“Oh yeah. You. Out of everyone in this building, you are following rules,” Harry snarled back at him, he could notice Draco’s eyes light up with fury and that made him grin.
“This has to be a mistake, sir,” Ron cut in quickly, refusing to glance at Malfoy, his gaze fixed on the Minister. “Is this the plan the Department of Mysteries proposed? It can’t be.” His voice was incredulous, and Harry couldn’t blame him.
“Maybe if you two stopped bickering, I could actually explain,” Shacklebolt said, annoyance clear in his tone. Harry winced; that was the sort of voice that usually meant extra paperwork. “We’re waiting on one more person, and then—”
A knock on the door cut him off, and a familiar face stepped inside.
“Unspeakable Granger,” Shacklebolt said warmly, gesturing her in. “Always a pleasure.”
“Thanks, Kingsley. You know I love dropping by.” Hermione’s smile was quick, but Harry’s stomach twisted. She’d known about this plan all along, hadn’t she? Bloody Unspeakables and their blasted secrecy.
Ron looked utterly scandalised. “Don’t give me that look, Ronald,” Hermione chuckled. “You know I can’t talk about my work.”
“Even when fucking Malfoy’s involved?” Ron shot back, the name leaving his mouth like a curse. At that, Harry turned, eyes flicking to the blond again. Malfoy was rigid, every line of his body wound tight.
“Just my luck,” Malfoy muttered, though loud enough for all to hear. His gaze flicked between them with suspicion. “What is this, then? Some sort of trap?” Harry had to roll his eyes at how dramatic that prick could sound.
“Right, so…” Hermione began, glancing around the room. “There is an explanation for all this, so if you’ll just let me finish. I met with Kingsley yesterday, and we agreed this was the best option available."
Her voice shifted instantly, crisp and assured, the professional cadence she wore like armour.
“We all know the situation. The attacks, the murders, the lack of leads.” She paused, her gaze resting briefly on Malfoy as though braced for an interruption, but he stayed silent, jaw tight. Hermione pressed on. “What’s changed is this: a current investigation in the Department of Mysteries suggests the crimes may be linked to blood magic. And with the way the threats are escalating, we can’t ignore that possibility any longer.”
Harry’s eyes drifted to Malfoy again. The blond looked rigid, uncomfortable in his own skin. If anyone had the right to squirm, it was Hermione yet she was steady as ever. Malfoy, meanwhile, looked like he was about to bolt.
Git. Childish as always. Harry shouldn’t have been surprised.
Hermione drew in a breath. “The Dark Mark wasn’t just a brand. Voldemort’s magic went deeper than skin. For those who carried it, their blood isn’t quite the same as everyone else’s. It holds traces, residue of that magic. The Department believes that’s why the victims are being targeted."
Ron frowned, Harry could tell his mind was racing with thoughts. “You mean to say… they’re being killed because of their blood?”
“Exactly.” Hermione nodded. “Former Death Eaters carry something unique inside them. And whomever’s behind these attacks isn’t just killing, they’re harvesting. The word traitor written in blood isn’t just theatrics. It could be part of the ritual.”
Harry felt a chill run down his spine. He glanced at Malfoy, who looked paler than usual, his jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack. Then he noticed Malfoy's right hand, rising almost unconsciously to grip his left forearm even if it was completely covered.
Harry’s frown deepened. He’d seen that gesture before. A flicker of memory, a boy in the Room of Requirement, clutching at the Mark as if it burned. But this time it wasn’t only pain Harry saw in Malfoy’s eyes. It was something far stranger, and heavier. Shame. But this was Malfoy they were talking about, shame couldn’t possibly be in that git’s vocabulary, especially with the way he carried himself around, like he owned any room he stepped in just because.
Hermione folded her hands and put on the voice she used for tutorial boards and school committees, steady, precise, and impossible to interrupt. “Right. I’ll be as direct as I can. There are three connected reasons the Department of Mysteries insisted on embedding one of their own.” She glanced at Kingsley and then at the others. “First: the forensic traces at the scenes are not ordinary. The residue is alchemical, blood has been altered. The DoM has labs and clearances the Auror Office doesn’t; they can analyse whatever is in that blood in ways we can’t.”
She let that sink in, then continued. “Second: the perpetrators are targeting ex–Death Eaters, specifically. They leave the word TRAITOR, not only it shows a clear message, it also is ritualistic, and it reeks of showmanship. Whoever is doing this wants an audience.” She looked at Malfoy for a beat, then back to the room. “That makes Draco, whether we like it or not, unusually valuable as bait. He fits their victim profile exactly, and the Department has already received death threats directed specifically at him.”
Ron made a sound that was half outrage, half disbelief. “They’ve threatened him? That’s… that’s insane!”
“It's... not as insane as you'd think auror Weasley,” Kingsley cut in quietly.
Hermione raised a hand to forestall more interruptions. “Third: politics. If the DoM insists on taking the case, you lose operational control. Kingsley negotiated a joint task force instead. The Department will provide technical expertise and one representative embedded in the unit. You keep jurisdiction, but we operate together.”
She drew a small breath. “So here is the plan, step by step.” She lifted a slim folder and flicked it open. “One: Draco will be presented publicly as an expert consultant. We will control the narrative with limited, sanctioned statements only, to encourage whomever’s behind this to focus on him. Two: while he is ‘in the spotlight’, Draco will actually be working in a secured Auror lab under DoM supervision. He will run analyses on blood samples and potion residues to determine what makes the blood of former Death Eaters distinct.”
She laid out the blood evidence, the targeted victims, the politics. When she paused for breath, Malfoy’s eyebrow shot up.
“So lets see if I’ve got this straight,” he drawled, voice velvet but dripping with disdain. “I’ve received death threats, and your brilliant plan to protect me is to… parade me in front of everyone like a prize pheasant. Wonderful service the DMLE offers.”
Ron made a sound between a snort and a laugh. “You can’t be serious.”
“I assure you, Weasley, I’m rarely not serious when it’s my neck on the line.” Draco leaned back in his chair, folding his arms like armour. Still, Harry noticed the faintest tremor in his fingers before he tucked them out of sight.
“But please, by all means,” Malfoy continued, voice too smooth, “do go on, Granger. I’m positively riveted.”
Hermione’s jaw tightened, but her tone stayed professional. “Yes, Draco. Like it or not, you have their victim profile perfectly, that combined with your adance knowledge of potions and blood magic is a perfect fit. And the threats against you only confirm that. Which is why—”
Harry cut in, fists clenched. “So he’s bait.”
“Yes,” Hermione said, plain and firm.
Malfoy let out a low, theatrical sigh. “Lovely. I always dreamed of being Ministry property, dangled on a string for murderous lunatics. Truly living the dream.” His eyes flickered down for half a second, betraying something sharp and tight,fear, before he snapped them back up. “Tell me, Potter, will you be holding my hand while I wait to be slaughtered, or just watching from the shadows?”
“That’s enough, no one is getting slaughtered” Kingsley’s voice cracked across the table, but his eyes flickered, they all knew Malfoy wasn’t entirely wrong.
Hermione pressed on, determined. “Three: full protective detail. Harry will be the lead field Auror assigned to Unspeakable Malfoy’s safety.”
That got a dry laugh out of Malfoy, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Oh, splendid. My very own knight in tarnished armor. Dear Potter, do I need to sign anything, or do you just get to leash me straight away?”
Harry’s mouth opened, ready to snap back, but Hermione spoke quickly, louder: “There will be overwatch teams, wards, extraction protocols. This isn’t about humiliating you, Draco. We've thought of this taking your safety in consideration as our priority. I wouldn’t suggest this if I thought you could actually get hurt”
Ron barked, “You’re sending Harry to babysit Malfoy? That’s—”
Hermione sent him a look that made him stop talking and her voice softened for the first time. “I know how this looks and sounds. I know how it will feel for many of you. But if the theory is correct, if the Dark Mark alters the blood in a way that can be exploited or harvested, then we’re dealing with something far worse than a string of murders. We either let the DoM take complete control, or we work together and stand a chance of stopping this.”
There was a beat of silence, the kind that follows when everyone realises how stark the choice is. Malfoy’s fingers worried in the bracer of his sleeve. Harry’s jaw set. Ron looked like he might protest, then didn’t. Kingsley’s face was unreadable, the lines around his mouth taut.
For a moment, Malfoy said nothing. His lips parted, but no words came. Instead, his hand twitched again toward his left sleeve, clutching his forearm for just a heartbeat before he forced it back to his side. His mask of indifference slipped long enough for Harry to see it again, the shame, the fear, and the weight of something he didn’t want to name.
“Questions?” Hermione asked. Her tone was businesslike again, but there was something in it, too, like a plea for pragmatism over pride.
Harry swallowed, felt the weight of the position Kingsley had just dropped in his lap, and forced the words out. “How fast do we move? And what happens if it goes wrong?"
Hermione’s reply was immediate, precise: “We move now. Contingencies for extraction, medical support and containment are already in place. If it goes wrong we extract Draco, quarantine any remains, and the Department runs a full analysis. We will also be prepared to escalate to more aggressive countermeasures, legally and magically.”
She let that settle. “This isn’t about trust in any single person,” she said quietly, eyes sweeping everyone, “it’s about trust in procedure. Follow the procedure, and people live. Plus, we will only proceed with Malfoy’s consent.”
D.L.M
When the meeting had started Draco hadn’t expected to see him.
The door had opened, and there he was, the Golden Boy, walking in as if he owned the office, green eyes already scanning the room with that irritating mix of curiosity and suspicion.
For a heartbeat, Draco froze. The last time they had been in the same room, it had been at his trial.
He could still remember it. Potter’s voice steady, unwavering, when he’d spoken in Draco’s defence. The memory clung to him like a second skin. He hated it. Hated that Potter had stood there, shining, untouchable, while he himself had been on the edge of ruin.
His chest tightened with something sharp and unwelcome. It was a weird mix of shame, gratitude, fury, all tangled together. He had never asked Potter for that mercy or, even worse, pity. And he had tried to thank him for it, but their last conversation still made his stomach feel like someone was twisting a dagger into it.
“This doesn’t mean I think you’re innocent.” Draco had stopped in his tracks, staring at Potter’s back, blinking in disbelief. He expected gloating, maybe even triumph, but not that. Slowly, Potter had turned to face him, his expression frustratingly steady.
“Then why—” The words tumbled out low, rougher than he intended. The thank you he had almost spoken curdled on his tongue, swallowed down before it could humiliate him.
“I don’t think you’re innocent,” Potter repeated, unflinching. “But I do think everyone deserves a fair chance. And they weren’t about to give you one.”
That was it. No grand gesture, no saintly sermon, just blunt conviction, as though it were the simplest thing in the world.
And Draco hated it. Hated the way it made something tight in his chest loosen, hated the way it made him want to say more. Because at that moment he understood. This wasn’t about Draco Malfoy deserving a second chance at all. It was Potter being Potter, saving strays and pitiful souls because he didn’t know how to do anything else.
Draco had wanted to push, to argue, maybe even… talk. But Potter had already turned away, disappearing around the corner, leaving him alone with nothing but the echo of those words and a heart more conflicted than he could bear.
Now, Draco felt the whole room staring at him, waiting for him to say something, maybe to snap or to fight back a bit more. Under normal circumstances maybe he would, but this situation was insane. Utterly insane.
Were these people serious? Did they even see him as a person? Actually, he didn’t want the answer to that, he knew the mark on his left arm would answer for them and he already had too much on his plate.
He wanted to say no, to refuse, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.
Even if none of them knew the full weight of what it meant for him, it was obvious in a terrible, clinical way: the plan made sense. It probably had a very good chance of working. Granger was right, she always was. Still, that didn’t stop him feeling horribly, nauseatingly disposable.
You’re a grown man Draco, act and think like one, he scolded himself. As if barking orders at the part of him that wanted to slide under the table and never come up was at all effective.
“Fine.” The single word finally left him the word left him feeling flat and small as he kept his gaze on Kingsley’s desk, on the neat stack of papers as if they might swallow him whole. From somewhere near Potter, Draco heard a noise, a soft, incredulous breath like he had been hoping for Draco to decline and put an end to this shitshow before it could even start. Draco wished fiercely that he’d had that choice.
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