Chapter Text
Draco made use of the doorknocker. He was dressed in black. His white-blond hair combed up off his forehead. His tail down his right trouser leg.
His wand at a high ready position.
The door opened, and the man’s hands flew up—into surrender. “Don’t hex me!” he said. “I’m unarmed.”
The man’s graying hair was wild around his head. He was in a cardigan and pleated trousers.
“Richard Everdene,” said Draco. “We’ve received reports—”
“From my neighbors?” The man’s bushy eyebrows had shot up. “Those bigots two lanes over?”
“We’ve received reports of dismemberment and necromancy—”
“They’re trying to get me killed. They’re trying to use you to—”
“Enough,” said Draco.
“Just let me explain—”
“Oh, you will,” said Draco, glowering. “You’re going to tell me everything.”
Draco was in a detached two-story brick house across from a 12th century church and its graveyard in Puddletown, prowling around a home surgery built onto the back of the residence. An examination table. Healing potions. Anatomy charts. Windows opening onto an unremarkable garden.
Draco cast a series of tracing spells. He sniffed the air.
The man was standing in the corner with his arms crossed, watching him.
Draco eyed a set of brass calipers. He had refused tea. He did not, as a rule, drink the tea offered him by the necromancers he was investigating.
“I’m not a necromancer,” said the man. “And I haven’t dismembered anyone. I only—transfigure them.”
Draco looked sharply over. Human transfiguration was highly regulated. Permanent transfiguration was outlawed. Draco could only assume this was the reason for Everdene’s hesitation. “Heirs?” snapped Draco. The Sacred 28 had nearly sent themselves into extinction in the thirteenth century, transfiguring their baby girls into boys—
“No,” said the man. He was shaking his head. “Everyone I see is of age. And they affirm under veritaserum that they’re here of their own free will. I don’t do work for parents or pimps.”
Pimps? Draco raised an eyebrow. “You’re doing fantasy shit? Tails, wings, cat ears—”
“No.” An impatient flick of his hand. “It’s all human. Genitalia. And secondary sex characteristics—breasts, hips, vocal cords. That sort of thing.”
Draco turned more fully toward him. “You’re transfiguring men into women, and women into men—”
“That’s a simplistic formulation,” said Everdene. “Sometimes, yes. Some people are androgynous. Some people are intersex. It depends on the person. It’s not a binary—” He left off and cocked his chin. He looked irritated, resigned.
Draco nodded as his gaze drifted over the healing masteries on the wall. The leather-bound books in glass-door cabinets behind the man. This type of human transfiguration required a high degree of skill. Years of study. “You have a license for the veritaserum?”
“No,” said the man.
“Why are your neighbors telling the Ministry you’re butchering people to resurrect them?” asked Draco.
The man met his eyes with a hard look. “They think what I’m doing is against the natural order.”
Draco snorted. He’d grown up with a lot of talk about the natural order. Purebloods at the top. Squibs and muggles at the bottom. Perpetuating his line with a pureblood male heir the sole reason for Draco’s existence.
Everdene said, “They’re making me out to be more dangerous than I am, so you’ll come in with hit wizards. They’re hoping I’ll be killed.”
Draco huffed. Charges of necromancy got you an Unspeakable—not the Auror Department. These neighbors had got too clever. “What happens if your clients change their minds?” he asked.
“Then I refund their money and transfigure them back—but that’s rare. Exceedingly rare.” The man had leaned forward to emphasize this. “I’m expensive, and I use the veritaserum. It’s not a whim.” He leaned back, his voice quieter when he said: “I do good work. People are happy to be in the right body.”
Draco nodded. He glanced out at the garden.
Hellebores, rosemary, witch hazel.
Tidy enough. Ordinary. Like the house. Like this surgery. The tracing spells had come back clean. Nothing spoke to the dark magic Draco carried in his left arm.
“All right,” he said, sliding his wand into his breast pocket. He turned back to the man. “I’m done here.”
The man’s eyes narrowed as his brow creased.
“You’re cleared of suspicion of necromancy. I’ll be updating the Department files with a note to flag future accusations.” Draco was moving down the narrow hall, toward the tight entryway, his footfalls muffled by a Moroccan runner rug. He was passing framed photographs of the man’s family, hung at eye-level. “Look into reinforcing your wards.”
Everdene was following behind him. “You’re not fining me for the veritaserum?” he asked.
“I’m not DMLE,” said Draco.
“And the transfiguration?”
Draco had reached the door. He pulled it open and looked over his shoulder. The man’s hands were on his hips. His hair disheveled like he’d just run his fingers through it.
“I’m in Death,” said Draco. “I don’t care which bodies people live in.”
Draco lay with Theo in his curtained fourposter, Theo’s fingertips tracing his scars while they kissed. The scars were thin and plentiful, crisscrossing his torso—Draco had nearly bled out when he’d got them. He didn’t remember much of the aftermath—whether Theo had visited him in hospital or not. (It wasn’t that he’d been unconscious. He just didn’t remember.) Theo probably hadn’t. Draco had been in his own head a lot back then, not talking to anyone, pissing everyone off.
Now Theo’s fingers skimmed over the scars as their tongues moved together. He tasted like whiskey—he’d had after-work drinks gone late and come home to Draco already naked in bed. Theo broke the kiss, kissed Draco’s jaw, kissed down his throat. Draco tilted his head back against the pillow, sighing as Theo kissed his collarbone. His tail—long and whiplike, covered in fine white-blond hair—was thumping against the bed.
“I saw a transfigurist today,” murmured Draco.
Theo’s head jerked up. “You arsehole!”
Draco lifted his head. “Not for me. I was called out—”
“Then don’t say it like that—”
“Do you think I should get rid of the scars?” asked Draco.
“No,” said Theo, and he lowered his head and began to lick them.
Draco exhaled as his head fell back and his tail wagged.
Theo kissed his way down Draco’s body, pushing the sheet out of his way, his breath warm on Draco’s skin, Draco squirming as he got to the ticklish side of his stomach. The end of his tail flicked.
Theo kissed his cock and—yes—licked it. Draco’s cock jumped and Theo took it into his mouth. Draco made a noise in the back of his throat. Part of him still wasn’t used to this—Theo touching him as much as he liked. The other part of him couldn’t remember living without this.
Theo swirled his tongue and took him deeper, pulled up, took him deeper again—still casual. Not trying to make him come. Just working him up, because he could. Draco was breathing harder, his brow creasing as Theo’s head bobbed over him—as the pleasure rolled through him—as his boyfriend casually sucked his cock.
(Draco didn’t call Theo his boyfriend out loud. They were both grown men.)
(He called Theo his boyfriend in his head.)
(And that one time in Hell.)
(And once to shock Granger.)
Theo mouthed the head and pulled off him, and then he was fisting Draco’s cock as the longest finger of his other hand probed. Draco was lying helpless, his eyes mostly closed, knee akimbo. He felt the cool wash of the lubrication charm and then the first digit of Theo’s finger was pushing into him, his knuckle rubbing the sensitive underside of the tail.
Draco sucked in a breath.
“C’mon,” said Theo. His grip on Draco’s cock tightened. “Let’s hear you beg.”
Draco exhaled. “Please please please quit being an arsehole,” he said.
Theo snickered. His finger stroked into Draco with the lube, the knuckle rubbing on Draco’s tail, as his hand moved on Draco’s cock. Everything was sensation and pleasure, Draco’s chest rising and falling with his breath, his head too heavy for his neck as he let this happen. Let Theo do this to him. Let Theo fingerfuck him and wank him off and say—
“Let’s hear it.”
Draco’s voice was breathy: “You’re the worst. I hate you. Don’t stop.”
“Hm,” said Theo. “I don’t think you want it bad enough.”
Draco’s breath caught as Theo’s hand started moving faster on his cock, slick with lube.
“It’d be a shame,” said Theo, “if I got you close and then—”
“No, I want it,” said Draco. “I want it. I’ll be good.”
“How good?”
“So good, love. Whatever you say—” Draco was so hard, leaking precome, the pleasure radiating outward, his stomach tightening with it. Theo was pushing a second finger in. His tail was hitting against Theo, grazing his back—
“You want my cock?” asked Theo.
“Mm-hm.” Draco nodded. Theo’s fingers were pressing into him. Draco made himself relax. He was breathing out, warmth in his belly, anticipating—
“You gonna say it for me?”
“I want your cock. I want you to fuck me—”
“Say it—”
“Please fuck me, love. Please please please—”
“Oh, you are going to be good,” purred Theo.
Draco nodded quickly. “I am—you fucking arsehole.”
Theo was laughing. “Oh, I’m fucking the hell out of you.”
And he did. He got Draco good and worked up, and then he pulled his fingers and pushed his cock into Draco and took hold of him and fucked the hell out of him. Draco was panting and whimpering and cursing Theo when he came.
Draco looked up from the morning edition as Theo dropped into the armchair to his right, on the other side of the breakfast tray, in front of the fireplace in their bedroom. He was wearing one of the suits Draco had bought him and a blue tie. Theo wore more blue now that his father was dead—a little, meaningless rebellion that meant something to him. Draco knew the Hat had tried to sort Theo into Ravenclaw but he’d begged for Slytherin so his father wouldn’t beat him.
Then his father had lost everything to bad investments—one of those investments being Voldemort.
Theo was pouring his tea. Theo had used to come over in the morning with whiskey on his breath. Draco hadn’t told him to stop drinking. He hadn’t told him to take a job. He’d just moved him in and left him sleeping in his sheets when he went to the Ministry. Theo didn’t need to pay his way—Draco had money. But Theo had followed him in one day. He’d told Draco he’d got bored.
Draco wondered if Theo would get bored of this. Maybe he should resign his position so they could travel. Maybe he should be doing more to keep Theo entertained.
Draco’s eyes swept over Theo’s face. He was laughing over something Patil had said the night before. His dark eyes sparkling as he told Draco about drinks. Draco was half listening and half taking in Theo’s long eyelashes and that little mole by his eyebrow and the line of his jaw. Draco had always known Theo was good-looking but, somehow, he’d become heart-wrenchingly beautiful the second Draco had admitted he was in love with him.
“Potter was lit.”
“Wait—why was Potter at drinks?” said Draco. “I thought it was just the Love Room.”
“It was,” said Theo. “But he was there at another table. Came over.”
Draco’s eyes moved over Theo. “To talk to you?”
“What?” Theo’s grin was mischievous. “You jealous?”
“Do I have a reason to be?” snapped Draco.
Theo’s grin went wider. He reached out, his head tilted to his shoulder. “Aw, you’re jealous—”
Draco smacked his hand away. “Was he flirting with you?”
Theo laughed.
“Were you flirting with him?”
“You’re so cute when you’re paranoid—”
“I’m coming to drinks next time—”
“Oh my God—”
“Don’t think I’ll let you whore around on me,” said Draco, eyes narrowed.
“Oh my God. You’re serious—”
“I know how you are,” said Draco.
Theo was laughing. “I know how you are.” He popped up from his seat and then he was leaning over Draco, his hands on the arms of Draco’s chair—caging Draco in.
Draco could smell him—tea and sandalwood. Draco tilted his face up. Grabbed Theo’s blue tie—pulled him closer.
Theo kissed his mouth, his lips soft. “Don’t worry, lover,” he murmured. “I know whose property I am.”
Draco hummed. “Is it too much?” His voice had gone quieter than he liked. “Are you going to move out?”
A grin was spreading across Theo’s face. “Would you let me go?”
“No,” said Draco, holding onto the tie.
Talk of the devil. Draco had got to the Ministry and just pushed the button for Level Nine when he looked up to see Harry Potter striding across the atrium, hurrying for the lift.
The Boy Who Lived had grown taller but still looked like an unmade bed—hair tousled, tie askew, two days’ worth of stubble. The overall effect was a man who’d woken late for work after you’d spent the night mercilessly railing him. It was, objectively speaking, not unattractive.
Draco, however, was not objective. His lip curled.
Potter swept onto the lift in a flurry of dishevelment, and the doors banged shut behind him. “Malfoy,” he said, breathless.
“Potter,” said Draco, his hand hovering over the buttons. “Where do you work, again?”
Potter snorted, and Draco pushed the 2.
Potter turned to face the doors, and Draco watched sidelong as he jutted his chin up—showing off the muscular line of his throat—and buttoned his shirt’s top button, cinched up his tie. The stubble drew attention to the square corner of his jaw. Potter ran his hand through his hair and a black lock fell back over his forehead, framing the lightning bolt scar.
Potter’s brow furrowed and he began to pat himself down. Draco didn’t ask if he’d left his dick in the She-Weasel, which is what he would have said in school. Then Potter would have lunged at him—he had a temper.
Potter grabbed hold of his badge through his trousers—it was in a front pocket. Now Draco was eyeing his hand near his fly. His wedding ring was a dull gold.
Potter looked over.
Draco raised an eyebrow.
The lift ground its gears.
Stay away from my boyfriend. Draco didn’t say it.
Potter opened his mouth—
The lift doors slid apart.
Potter frowned and got off without a backward glance.
Draco was behind his desk on Level Nine. The office was dimly lit and chilly—he had a fire going. He had his suitcoat on a hanger (not wadded up on the floor, or whatever it was Potter did) and his tail out and disillusioned. His quill was sharp. His cuffs were crisp. His report was open before him.
He was distracted.
He looked down at the page, his jaw tight.
He glanced over at the black marble mantel, the flames dancing there. His eyes traveled over the dark shelves full of rare books, his old globe, the crystal whiskey decanter on the silver tray. Theo was off buying whiskey now—why he hadn’t been in the lift with Draco. Greg was celebrating Vince’s birthday tonight, like he did every year. They would meet him at the graveyard.
Draco set down his quill and sat back in his chair. His face felt heavy and sullen. He caught up his tail and stared at the flames and admitted to himself that he was trying not to remember Vince burning.
Draco drew in a deep breath and then slowly sighed it out.
He’d seen the fire overtake Vince. His clothes ignite—so fast. His hair.
It was a memory Draco consciously kept locked away. (The nauseating spike of panic. The world suddenly feeling flat and fake.) It didn’t do any good to relive it. He couldn’t change anything.
Draco stroked a length of his tail, hand over hand. The repetitive motion over the fine hair was soothing. Touching his tail felt good. He told Theo he’d only kept it because Theo liked it, but they both knew he was lying.
Draco looked away from the fire and remembered Vince when he was alive. Big and bulky and always breathing or sweating or belching or farting or singing the same quidditch chant over and over—you always knew he was in the room. Draco and Theo could go still and silent, but Vince just couldn’t. Even when they were meant to be quiet, he’d be knocking his book to the floor, and then groaning as he bent to retrieve it, and then dropping it on the desk. They’d taken the piss out of him for it, but he hadn’t cared. He'd been larger than life. A man’s man. Unselfconscious.
Draco had been envious of that—how Vince couldn’t be anyone but himself. He didn’t have to guess what Vince would be doing now if he were alive. He’d be working with his father, at the building firm. He’d been a chip off the block, and no qualms about it.
A rap on the door—
Draco dropped his tail and turned—
It was Corner, that eerie fucker. Hovering at the threshold. Long dark hair, shadows under his eyes, a perpetual hunch to his shoulders.
Corner’s voice was low and creaky. He said, “I’m on the Veil today. Someone’s asking for you.”
Draco felt his heart rate spike.
He imagined Vince, calling out to him from Hell as he burned.