Guilded in Ruin

The dim candlelight flickered across stacks of parchment and worn case files, casting restless shadows along the Auror Office’s stone walls. The scent of ink, coffee, and exhaustion filled the air, thick enough to drown in.

Harry Potter leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face as he skimmed yet another file. Across from him, Draco Malfoy was scribbling in the margins of a report, his quill strokes sharp and precise. They had been at this for hours.

Gawain Robards, Head of the Auror Office, sat at the head of the table, his heavyset frame stiff with barely contained irritation. He had a way of looking like he had already lost patience with everything in existence—a skill honed over decades of dealing with reckless Aurors.

Auror Savage, a veteran with more scars than patience, sat to the right of Draco, flipping through a case file with an expression of deep suspicion. Beside him was Cassie Dunmore, a sharp-eyed, quick-witted Auror who had joined the department two years ago. She had a reputation for getting results—and for making sure everyone knew it.

The only sound in the room was the scratch of quills, the occasional shuffle of parchment, and the deep sigh of men too exhausted to be civil.

Harry finally broke the silence. “Remind me again why we’re still awake at this ungodly hour?”

Draco, running on nothing but caffeine and spite, didn’t even look up. “Because crime doesn’t sleep, Potter.” He let out a slow breath, eyes scanning the file blearily. “And apparently, neither do we.”

Savage scoffed, “You think you lot are tired? Try working the Auror Office before magical forensics was a thing. We didn’t have fancy spells to detect blood types. We sniffed out dark magic the old-fashioned way—by nearly getting killed.”

Cassie’s lips curled, her tone drenched in mock sympathy. “Oh, how tragic, Savage. I’m sure your obituary will go into great detail about your heroic suffering.”

Savage shot her a glare, but Draco snorted, flipping a page in his file. “If we’re done with nostalgia hour, can we get back to the part where we uncover an actual smuggling operation?”

Robards grunted, rubbing his temples. “Right. What do we know?”

Harry sat forward, flipping through the file labeled Operation Hollow Fang.

“Over the past six months, dark artifacts have been turning up more frequently—everything from cursed daggers to old Death Eater relics. We’ve tracked the origins of several of them back to Knockturn Alley, but every time we get close, the trail goes cold.”

Draco tapped his quill against the parchment, eyes narrowed.

“We’ve also seen an increase in dark magic injuries—curses that resist counter-spells, artifacts imbued with decaying hexes. St. Mungo’s has been logging more cases, and Granger—” He hesitated, then corrected himself, “Healer Granger”—“has noticed a pattern.”

Savage raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me Malfoy’s on a first-name basis with the best Healer in Britain?”

Harry leaned against the table, smirk firmly in place. “Not exactly. He just says ‘Granger’ like he’s trying to determine if it’s a rare, highly contagious disease.”

Draco arched a brow, his tone calm and even. “And yet, she tolerates me just fine.” He took a slow sip of his tea, as if that fact alone proved his point.

Harry scoffed, shaking his head. “Please. She tolerates you the way one tolerates a particularly well-dressed plague.”

Cassie let out a soft laugh, while Robards sighed, looking moments away from assigning all of them paperwork for the next month. “Focus. We’re dealing with a smuggling ring that’s smart enough to stay ahead of us, and now we think they’re linked to these curse-resistant injuries?”

Draco nodded, “Exactly. Someone is selling dark artifacts, and they’re deliberately making them difficult to counteract. This isn’t just some underground market for dangerous trinkets. It’s strategic.”

Cassie drummed her fingers against the table. “Do we have a lead?”

Harry and Draco exchanged a look.

Harry leaned forward, his expression grim. “We think the ring is operating out of Knockturn Alley, possibly using Borgin & Burkes as a front. We’ve got a possible time frame for their next shipment.” His fingers tapped restlessly against the edge of the table.

Draco’s gaze flicked up, calculating. “Tomorrow night. If we time it right, we can intercept the buyers and get names.” His eyes glinted in the dim light, sharp with intent.

Savage sighed heavily, cracking his neck. “So, another night of skulking through that cesspool? Fantastic.”

Cassie grinned, “Cheer up. If we’re lucky, we’ll get cursed before midnight this time.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, because what I love about my job is the risk of spontaneous combustion.”

Robards tapped his fingers on the table, deep in thought. “Alright. You four will go in. No backup unless it turns ugly. This needs to be subtle. We don’t want to spook them.”

Harry nodded. “Got it.”

Robards stood, grabbing his coat.

Robards paused, “And for Merlin’s sake, try not to get yourselves hexed.”

He left without another word, leaving the four of them staring at the piles of parchment still waiting to be reviewed.

Cassie stretched, grinning. “Well. This is going to be fun.”

Savage grumbled, “Only if your definition of ‘fun’ includes nearly dying.”

Draco almost scoffed, “If it makes you feel better, Savage, I’ll be sure to use your eulogy as an opportunity to recount all the ways you annoyed me.”

Harry snorted, pushing away the files. “Come on. Let’s finish this up and get some sleep before we head out tomorrow.”

As they gathered their papers and extinguished the lamps, Harry glanced at Draco.

Tomorrow was going to be dangerous. But they were used to that.

And for better or worse, they were in this together.

Draco Malfoy did not rush.

His mornings were an exercise in control, a ritual perfected through years of rigid discipline and pureblood expectations. Chaos belonged to lesser men—those who stumbled out of bed at the last possible second, half-dressed and barely coherent as they ran to their jobs. That was not Draco.

No, Draco Malfoy started his day with precision.

He tied the final knot in his silk tie, smoothing it down against his crisp white shirt as he studied himself in the mirror. Not a strand of platinum hair out of place, not a wrinkle in sight. Perfect. As expected.

By the time he made his way down to the breakfast room, Tippy, the Malfoy house-elf, had already set the table. Eggs—softly scrambled. Smoked salmon. Freshly baked bread. A selection of fruits. And, most importantly, his tea—Darjeeling, steeped for precisely four minutes, just the way he liked it.

Draco took his seat, unfolding the Daily Prophet beside his plate.

“Ministry Reforms Continue as New Legislation Faces Pureblood Pushback.”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes as he skimmed the article.

Of course, the old families were making things difficult again.

Not that he particularly cared for Ministerial politics—he had spent far too many years being a pawn in someone else’s game—but the sheer stupidity of it all grated on him. The war had ended five years ago, and yet, some people still clung to the past as if their very existence depended on it.

Draco had no patience for people who refused to adapt.

He turned the page and continued eating, ignoring the ridiculous Op-Ed about “Preserving Traditional Wizarding Values” written by some pompous relic of a man who probably still thought Muggle-borns shouldn’t hold wands.

Pathetic.

With a sigh, he set the paper aside and focused on breakfast. He wasn’t the kind of man who skipped meals—not when his job required endurance most people didn’t understand.

Besides, he could already hear Daphne Greengrass’s voice in his head, telling him off.

“You of all people should know better than to neglect your health, Draco.”

She would know, being a Healer.

Daphne had been a fixture in his life since childhood—more like a sister than a friend, always ready to scold him when necessary (which, according to her, was often).

She had been the first to call him a stubborn arse when he refused to let anyone help him after the war. 

And, of course, she had been the one to drag him to St. Mungo’s after a particularly nasty Auror mission had left him barely able to stand. “You’re impossible,” she had snapped, arms crossed as he sat on the hospital bed, bleeding onto the floor.

“And yet, you’re still here,” he had replied, smirking.

He had gotten a very sharp jab to the ribs for that.

But that was Daphne—unapologetic, unwavering, and one of the very few people he trusted with everything.

And she, like Theo and Blaise, had been part of his life before the war. Before everything fell apart.

Draco smiled at the thought of his friends, Blaise, who had, against all expectations, remained in London instead of retreating to his family’s estates in Italy. Blaise had found his niche in post-war Britain, dealing in rare magical artifacts—legally, of course, though Draco suspected that line was occasionally blurred when the price was right.

“People will always want what they can’t have, Draco,” Blaise had told him once, lounging in his obscenely expensive flat. “I just happen to be the man who can get it for them.”

The irony wasn’t lost on him. Blaise, once the most indifferent among them, had arguably built the most influential career outside of Theo.

And Theo.

Draco still wasn’t sure how that had happened.

Theodre Nott had somehow—impossibly—become friends with Hermione Granger.

That was something Draco had yet to fully wrap his mind around.

Of all the unlikely dynamics that had formed in their strange, post-war circle, Theo and Granger made the least sense.

But then again, Theo had always been different. Clever, detached, and so damn good at reading people that he made even the most seasoned politicians nervous.

He had never been a true believer in the Dark Lord’s cause—not like their parents had wanted him to be. He had been polite to pureblood expectations, obliging when necessary, but never devoted. And after the war, after he had returned from Italy and promptly bought St. Mungo’s, he had inserted himself into the new world with the same effortless grace he handled everything.

Draco hadn’t questioned it much at first. Theo had a way of drawing people in—his quiet intelligence, his measured charm.

Draco had even expected Theo to return from Italy and rejoin him, Blaise, Daphne and Pansy—their childhood inner circle. That much had made sense.

What hadn’t made sense was Theo practically adopting Hermione Granger as one of his own.

That had been unexpected.

Draco had watched, stunned, as the two of them had seamlessly fallen into an almost effortless friendship. As if it had always been meant to happen. As if Theo trusting someone who wasn’t Slytherin—who wasn’t one of them—was completely normal.

It wasn’t.

And yet, there Theo was, letting Granger scold him about his late-night work habits, while he in turn charmed her into attending his insufferable, high-profile fundraisers.

It shouldn’t have worked.

But it did.

Because Theo, as brilliant as he was, had always been cautious with his trust. He didn’t let people in easily, didn’t form attachments unless they were earned.

And Granger? 

Somehow, she had earned it.

That alone was unsettling.

And yet, here they were—five years later, and she was one of his closest friends.

Draco wasn’t sure if he found it amusing or unnerving.

And then there was Pansy.

Head of HR for St. Mungo’s, which was, frankly, terrifying.

She had taken all the lessons drilled into her from birth—manners, negotiation, pureblood social strategy—and weaponized them. She could eviscerate a candidate with a single raised brow, could secure funding with a casual smile and a pointed threat. She was still Pansy—sharp-tongued and impossible, but she had built something for herself, something real.

Then again, Pansy and Hermione were friends now too, which was arguably more ridiculous than anything he had ever seen.

It had started reluctantly, with their overlapping involvement in St. Mungo’s. Hermione, the brilliant and infuriating Healer, and Pansy, the one who ensured the hospital functioned. Draco had been convinced they would murder each other within a month.

Instead, Pansy now sent Hermione new quills for Christmas. And Hermione made sure Pansy actually ate when she got too wrapped up in work.

Draco wasn’t sure what was more unsettling—the fact that it had happened or the fact that he had gotten used to it.

He had always known that Pansy was capable of change. He had seen it happen, had watched her shed the worst of her upbringing, had seen her claw her way toward something real after the war. He had seen it when she apologized to Potter—something Draco had never expected, never thought would happen.

It had been quiet, no dramatics, no public display. Just a dinner at Theo’s, Potter sitting across from her, and Pansy, looking uncomfortable but resolute.

“I was awful to you.” she had said, swirling her wine but not drinking it.

“Yeah,” Potter had replied, blunt as ever. “You were.”

And that had been it.

Not some grand moment of reconciliation, not some sentimental display. Just an unspoken understanding that the past was done, and they were moving forward.

Draco had been so sure they would never get along.

And yet, sometimes, when he saw Hermione and Pansy at lunch, laughing about something ridiculous, he wondered if he had ever truly understood either of them at all.

That thought bothered him more than he liked.

Draco exhaled, finishing the last of his tea, setting his napkin aside. His gaze flickered toward the clock. He still had time before he had to leave, but his mind was already shifting toward work.

Potter would be there already, of course.

It was strange, working with him.

It wasn’t bad—not anymore. Not since they had begrudgingly learned how to function without wanting to kill each other.

It had taken time. A lot of time. And many, many near-death experiences.

They still argued like it was a competitive sport, still found ways to get under each other’s skin at work, still kept score in ways neither of them would admit.

But there was trust now.

A deep, undeniable trust forged through years of working side by side, through near-death experiences and battles neither of them had walked away from unscathed.

Draco had bled for Potter.

And Potter had bled for him.

Draco still wouldn’t call Potter his friend—they weren’t that kind of close. But he trusted him. More than most.

And, because of course nothing in Draco’s life could ever be simple, by extension, that had somehow led to a truce with Ron Weasley.

And Weasley—well, Weasley wasn’t around as much, since he spent most of his time in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, but when he was in town, it was…

Oddly easy.

Draco wasn’t sure when that had happened.

Maybe it had been the countless times they had ended up at the same gatherings. Or the Quidditch matches where they had somehow ended up sitting next to each other, exchanging commentary like they hadn’t spent years trying to hex each other into oblivion.

Somehow, in some absurd twist of fate, Ron Weasley had become someone Draco could have an actual conversation with.

And really, if he could get through that, then anything was possible.

His gaze flickered toward the empty space beside the Prophet, where another paper usually sat.

The St. Mungo’s Journal of Healing.

He had taken to reading it in the mornings—ostensibly because Daphne or Theo often sent him articles, but if he was being honest with himself, it was mostly because he knew Hermione Granger wrote for it sometimes. 

And that? That was a problem.

It always had been. 

He could remember the day very clearly. It had been instinct, really.

Words had left his mouth before he even thought them—filthy Mudblood, sharp and cruel, a dagger thrown just because he could.

And then, before he could blink—

CRACK!

His head snapped to the side, the sharp sting of her fist burning across his cheek.

Hermione Granger—wild hair, furious eyes, hands still clenched—had hit him.

And he had frozen.

For the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy had been silenced.

Not because of the pain. Not because of the shock.

But because, in that moment, she wasn’t just the Mudblood he had been raised to hate.

She was something else entirely.

And that moment? That single moment had haunted him ever since.

It had been the first moment—the very first—that had made him question things.

By fourth year, it had turned into something he couldn’t name—something uneasy in the pit of his stomach whenever he watched her duel, whenever she outsmarted him, whenever she refused to break.

By fifth year, it had turned into a problem.

By sixth year, it had turned into guilt.

And by the war…

By the war, it had turned into something far more dangerous.

Because it wasn’t just the punch.

It was her. It had always been her.

She had ruined him.

She had unraveled him in ways he didn’t understand.

And yet, somehow, he had never wanted to be unruined.

Draco exhaled sharply, forcing the memory away.

He refused to dwell on it.

Because the truth was, Hermione Granger had shaped his life more than he wanted to admit.

Not just because of that punch. Not just because she had outsmarted him at every turn, bested him in every academic competition, refused to lose.

But because, from that moment forward, she had never been just someone else.

She had been the girl he watched too closely, the rival he wanted to defeat but could never quite bring himself to hate.

And now?

Now, she was—

Something else entirely.

She was Theo’s friend. She was Pansy’s friend.

She was the one who sat across from him at Theo’s dinners, debating politics like it was a sport, never backing down.

She was the one who had never treated him like he needed redemption—not because she thought he was irredeemable, but because she expected him to be better.

She was the one he had always—

No. No, he wasn’t thinking about this.

Draco clenched his jaw, finishing the last of his tea.

This was useless. He had a job to do.

He didn’t have time to think about Hermione bloody Granger and the way she had been in his head for over a decade.

Of course, it wasn’t love—not really. That would be ridiculous.

But it was something.

Something that had shaped him in ways he would never admit.

He shook off the thought, finishing the last sip of his tea.

Dwelling was useless. He had a case to focus on. He had reports to review. A smuggling ring to investigate. Potter to argue with.

Draco ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply.

Pathetic. He was bloody pathetic.

Standing, he adjusted his cuffs, rolling his shoulders before retrieving his wand. The morning light filtered in through the large windows, painting the breakfast room in soft gold.

Draco glanced down at the Daily Prophet one last time before folding it neatly and leaving it on the table.

By tonight, he would be deep in the heart of Knockturn Alley, hunting down criminals, dodging curses, and dealing with Potter’s insufferable hero complex.

And, knowing his luck?

He would probably end up in St. Mungo’s.

Again.

With a resigned sigh, Draco left the Manor, his mind already on the storm waiting for him. 

Draco Malfoy’s office was his sanctuary.

Or, at least, it was supposed to be.

It had been a hard-won privilege—specialization had its perks, after all. While most Aurors were crammed into shared spaces, he had earned the right to his own office through years of meticulous work in dark magic cases, curse breaking, and specialized forensic analysis.

His workspace reflected his nature—immaculate, precise, controlled. Shelves lined with rare tomes on curse theory, hex diagnostics, and dark artifact containment. A desk devoid of unnecessary clutter, everything arranged with quiet efficiency. The soft scent of parchment and bergamot lingered in the air.

It was perfect.

It was peaceful.

And it would have stayed that way—if Harry bloody Potter didn’t keep showing up.

The door swung open without so much as a knock.

Harry noted with a flat tone, “You need better security.”

Draco didn’t look up from his paperwork and responded equally flatly, “You need better manners.”

Harry ignored him entirely, as he often did, and made himself comfortable in one of the chairs across from Draco’s desk. He had a folder in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, already settling in like he belonged there.

Which, unfortunately, he did.

Because despite having his own office, Draco had long since resigned himself to the fact that Harry would be in it more often than not.

Draco sighed, setting his quill down and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to start charging you rent.”

“Please. The Ministry pays you enough as it is.”

“Not nearly enough to deal with you.”

Harry smirked, but before Draco could hex him on principle, Potter tossed a case file onto his desk. “We need to finalize the plan for tonight.”

Draco picked up the parchment, skimming the notes they had already compiled.

The operation was straightforward—at least, as much as anything in Knockturn Alley could be. A shipment of cursed artifacts was due to arrive at a storage facility behind Borgin & Burkes, and they were supposed to intercept it before it could be sold off to god-knows-who.

Simple.

Except that, of course, nothing involving dark magic ever actually was.

Draco sighed, flipping a page. They had a good plan. 

They had two possible points of entry: the front entrance, which was heavily warded but had the best vantage point, and a side alley, which was narrower but riskier due to the possibility of bottlenecking if things went sideways.

Draco and Potter would be leading the infiltration team, with Dunmore and Savage positioned as backup. 

The informant had claimed the smugglers were using an unregistered portkey network, meaning there was a very small window between when the shipment arrived and when it could be moved again.

The best-case scenario? A clean sweep, no major casualties, and some useful arrests.

The realistic scenario? A firefight with at least half the smugglers escaping and one or both of them getting hexed into next week.

Draco tapped a finger against the parchment, thinking. “What’s the protocol if the informant’s information is off?”

Harry sighed. “Then we’re back to square one, and I have to explain to Robards why we spent an entire night chasing shadows.”

Draco smirked. “Oh, that will be fun.”

Harry groaned, running a hand through his hair. “I swear, if we get bad intel one more time, I’m making you do the reports.”

Draco raised a brow “Excuse me?”

Harry shrugged, “You heard me. You never do them.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Malfoy responded, “That’s a gross exaggeration. I do them.”

“No, you find ways to delegate them.”

Draco smirked “That’s called leadership, Potter. You should try it sometime.”

Harry rolled his eyes, shoving a quill in Draco’s direction. “Fine. You can take point on the post-op report for this one.”

Draco scoffed, folding his arms. “I would rather duel an unregistered basilisk.”

“Tempting, but no.”

“Potter—”

“Malfoy—”

The bickering continued, sharp and rapid, until the door swung open again, and Gawain Robards, the ever-exasperated Head of the Auror Office, walked in looking as if he had already lost patience with both of them before they even noticed him.

“Merlin’s bloody beard, will you two just get on with it?”

Harry and Draco turned to him, blinking as if they had forgotten anyone else existed.

Robards pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “bloody reckless idiots” under his breath. He stepped into the office fully, arms crossed, his dark robes slightly rumpled, and his usual air of a man who had seen too much and dealt with worse.

“Every bloody time. You two can’t seem to go a month without turning an op into a full-blown disaster.”

Draco tilted his head, smirking. “That’s unfair. We went two months without an injury last time.”

Robards gave him a look. “Malfoy, you had a broken rib three weeks ago.”

“That doesn’t count. That was Potter’s fault.”

Harry scoffed. “Oh, I’m sorry, were you not the one who ran directly into a collapsing building?”

Draco replied dryly “And here I thought you were supposed to catch me.”

Harry rolled his eyes, “I was busy not dying.”

Robards pinched the bridge of his nose again, a deep sigh escaping him. “You know, I used to believe Moody was the worst thing to happen to this department. But you two—” He pointed between them, eyes narrowing. “You two argue like a married couple. A particularly violent, lawsuit-inducing married couple.”

Harry didn’t even blink. “If we were married, Malfoy would’ve been found mysteriously dead years ago.”

Draco deadpanned, “That’s Auror Malfoy to you, Potter.”

Robards muttered something unintelligible before shaking his head. “Fine. Fine. Do whatever you’re going to do. Just—please, for the love of Merlin, don’t let this turn into another fire situation.”

Draco raised a brow. “That was one time.”

Robards narrowed his eyes, exasperated “It was three times.”

Draco waved a dismissive hand. “Details.”

Robards stared at him for a long moment before turning back to Harry. “Potter, keep him alive. Try not to level a city block this time.”

Harry mock saluted the older Auror, “I’ll do my best, sir.”

“For Merlin’s sake, just once—just once—I’d like to run an operation that doesn’t turn into a bloody disaster.”

“We’ll try our best. No promises, though.”

Robards gave Draco a flat look.

“Just—don’t cock this one up.”

Harry grinned. “That’s the plan, sir.”

Robards shot them a final, unimpressed look, with another sigh—one that sounded like it carried the weight of every single one of their past disasters— muttering about “damn overgrown schoolboys” and “what in Merlin’s name happened to professional decorum”.

Robards left, muttering about needing a bloody drink before noon.

Draco smirked, leaning back in his chair.

“And you’re certain this lead is solid? Because if we’re staking out that cesspool for hours only to find some dodgy bloke selling counterfeit love potions, I’ll hex you myself.”

Harry smirked “Relax, Malfoy. It’s solid.”

Draco raised a single brow“, That’s what you said last time. And yet, somehow, I still ended up covered in bat spleen.”

Harry had the audacity to grin. “I’d forgotten about that.”

Draco grimaced “I haven’t.”

“You’ll live.”

“Debatable.”

They worked in relative silence for a while, fine-tuning the details of the operation—who would take which entrance, how to ensure they had a perimeter set up, and, most importantly, what to do if the informant’s information turned out to be wildly inaccurate (which, statistically, was bound to happen).

It was… comfortable.

Draco hated that it was comfortable.

They had settled into this strange rhythm—sharp words, dry wit, and an understanding that didn’t need to be spoken aloud.

And that was deeply unsettling.

They weren’t friends.

Not really.

“You know, we do spend an unnatural amount of time together.” Harry pointed out.

“Hazard of the job.”

Harry hummed, but there was an undeniable truth to it.

They had been through a lot—more than most partners ever did. And somehow, despite everything, they had made it work.

He flipped the file shut, glancing at Harry.

“You do realize that, statistically, if we keep working together, I will eventually be the reason you end up in St. Mungo’s?”

Harry grinned. “I’ll take my chances.”

Draco just rolled his eyes and reached for his tea.

The night ahead was going to be a nightmare.

But at least, for now, it was just another normal day.

Knockturn Alley was a pit.

It had always been a pit—damp, dark, and teeming with the kind of filth that even the most thorough cleansing charms couldn’t scrub away. The entire alley smelled of mildew, burnt herbs, and something vaguely metallic—blood, most likely.

Draco had been here more times than he cared to count, but even now, after years of working in the Auror Office, the place still crawled under his skin.

They moved quietly, boots barely making a sound against the cobblestone street. The shadows stretched long under the flickering gas lamps, throwing eerie shapes against the damp brick walls.

Draco and Harry flanked the main alley while Dunmore and Savage took the south side. The plan was simple—get in, intercept the shipment, take down any resistance, and get out.

But simple plans never stayed simple.

Draco said lowly, “Tell me again why we’re the ones crawling through Knockturn like a couple of underpaid mercenaries?”

Harry responded, his voice equally low “Because we are underpaid mercenaries. And because this is what we signed up for.”

Draco huffed, adjusting his grip on his wand. “You signed up for it. I, on the other hand, was tricked.”

Harry scoffed “Oh? Who tricked you?”

Draco cast him a sharp look, silver eyes glinting in the dim light. “The government. Society. You.”

Harry rolled his eyes, whispering a disillusionment charm over both of them as they moved closer to their target—a nondescript warehouse behind Borgin & Burkes, a place so utterly unremarkable that it practically screamed criminal activity.

Harry muttered “Remind me why we couldn’t have just raided this place in broad daylight?”

“Because then our smugglers wouldn’t be here, and we’d have nothing to show for all this hard work except more paperwork.”

They reached the warehouse’s perimeter, ducking into a shadowed alcove. The doors were heavily warded—not Ministry-registered, either, which meant someone had put in the effort to hide this place from detection.

Draco crouched low, running his wand along the invisible layers of magic. His fingers tingled as he mapped the protective enchantments.

Dark magic. Not the unforgivable kind, but certainly the illegal kind. 

“This is intricate. Not your usual Knockturn trash.”

Harry leaned in, eyes scanning the symbols appearing under Draco’s spellwork. “Looks like blood warding.”

Draco nodded. “That means at least one of them has keyed their own magic into the protections. If we try to force our way in—”

Harry finished the thought, “They’ll know we’re coming.”

“Exactly.”

Harry pulled back, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Can you break it?”

Draco gave him an unimpressed look. “Can I break it? Potter, please.”

Harry smirked, stepping back to let Draco work.

Draco lived for moments like this—the challenge of outmaneuvering magic built to keep people like him out. He had spent years mastering the subtleties of curse breaking, perfecting the art of unwinding magic without leaving a trace.

With careful precision, he traced his wand through the air, feeling for the seams in the spellwork. The blood magic curled against him like a living thing, resistant and stubborn.

But Draco was more stubborn. “Ten seconds.”

Harry stayed tense beside him, scanning the street. “If you could hurry it up, that’d be great.”

Draco ignored him. With one final flick of his wand, the magic unraveled, silent and clean, the wards dissolving into the night like smoke.

He smirked. “Done.”

Harry gave him a look but didn’t argue, instead signaling to Dunmore and Savage to move in from the south.

Draco pushed the door open, slipping inside first, Harry right behind him.

The warehouse was dimly lit, rows of wooden crates stacked haphazardly along the walls. A faint, pulsing hum of active magic filled the air—the telltale presence of cursed objects.

Draco scanned the room quickly.

No sign of the smugglers yet.

But that wouldn’t last.

Because as soon as the door clicked shut behind them, a second, much stronger ward snapped into place—one Draco hadn’t seen.

And the moment it did—

A spell ripped through the air.

They weren’t alone.

Draco’s instincts took over as he flung himself back, shielding his eyes against the sudden brilliance. The rune-work along the walls blazed, ancient magic reacting to their presence.

Harry was already moving, wand raised, barking a warning to the rest of the team. The ground beneath them trembled, and a low, sinister hum filled the air—magic, ancient and restless.

The moment Draco’s hand brushed against his left arm—where the Dark Mark used to be—an unnatural heat seared his skin.

His stomach twisted.

This wasn’t random. 

He barely had time to process before a curse erupted from the far side of the warehouse, arcing toward him in a violent burst of green and silver light.

“DOWN!”

Draco tackled Harry aside just as the spell exploded against the wall behind them. The force of it sent shards of brick and wood flying, debris clattering to the floor like shrapnel.

Figures emerged from the darkness, their robes bearing symbols he recognized all too well.

Not Death Eaters.

Something worse.

A flash of memory struck him—

The Great Hall had been reduced to a war zone, bodies littering the floor, spells ricocheting off the broken stone walls. Draco barely registered the screams, his only focus on the boy slumped against him.

“Come on, Potter, don’t make me carry you,” Draco had muttered through gritted teeth, looping Harry’s arm around his shoulders. The weight of him was too much—dead weight, barely conscious. Blood smeared his robes, but Draco didn’t have time to check how much of it was Potter’s.

They had been cut off from the others, stranded in the wreckage of a once-glorious school. The battle still raged outside, but in that moment, all Draco could hear was Harry’s ragged breathing and the thud of his own heartbeat.

He had a choice: leave Potter and save himself, or keep dragging him through the fire.

He chose the latter.

The corridor had collapsed behind them, sealing them in with the growing flames of Fiendfyre. Draco had cast every shield charm he could think of, his magic burning through him as he pulled Potter forward. A moment later, the world had twisted—Neville’s voice shouting from somewhere in the distance—and then they were yanked into safety.

Harry’s grip on Draco’s wrist, weak but firm, had lingered for a second too long—a silent acknowledgment.

Now, years later, Harry turned to him, eyes steady even as curses flew around them.

“Tell me I’m hallucinating, Malfoy.”

Draco swallowed hard, wand tightening in his grip.

“I’m seeing it too.”

The air crackled as another surge of magic erupted from the runes. Draco stumbled as his vision blurred for a fraction of a second—a whisper of magic slithering under his skin, cold and probing, seeking something specific.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

Draco barely noticed his own movements now, instinct overriding thought as he cast a shield charm to deflect a curse thrown his way. He glanced to his side, checking—Potter, still standing, breathing. Good. Not that he cared. Obviously.

From his peripheral vision, he could see Savage and Dunmore steady with their shields up.

That made Draco pause for a second.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t just targeting Aurors.

It was targeting him.

One of the attackers raised a wand, his voice slicing through the air like a blade.

“The blood of traitors stains magic itself.”

Draco didn’t hesitate. He fired a hex, knocking the man backward.

But the words clung to him, deep in the recesses of his mind.

Harry gritted his teeth, “Who the hell are these people?”

Draco’s jaw clenched as he moved to Harry’s side, breathing heavily.

Draco: “I don’t know. But it looks like they know me.”

The ground beneath them cracked, and suddenly the magic surged again, more focused, more violent.

Draco’s body tensed. He felt it wrapping around his left arm, like a brand being reignited.

His breath caught as the realization solidified—this magic wasn’t just old. It was personal.

The runes flared brighter, and for the first time, Draco felt fear coil in his stomach.

The air crackled with dark energy as the warehouse’s defenses flared to life. A low hum vibrated through the wooden beams, rattling the crates stacked haphazardly along the walls, vibrating through Draco’s bones like an unspoken warning.

And then, all hell broke loose.

Figures surged from the shadows, cloaked in heavy, rune-stitched robes. Their wands moved in perfect synchronization, sending streaks of green and silver light through the darkness.

Savage shouted “Ambush!”

He dove behind a pile of crates as a blast of magic shattered the floor where he’d stood a second ago.

Draco was already moving, instincts honed from years of training and survival taking over. His wand flicked sharply, sending a cutting hex toward one of the attackers. It met a shimmering shield mid-air and dissipated.

Skilled. Well-trained. Not amateurs.

Harry was beside him, blocking curses as fast as they were sent. His movements were raw, fueled by years of muscle memory—powerful, relentless.

“Tell me you have a plan, Potter.”

Harry grunted as he deflected a spell “Yeah. Don’t die.”

Draco scoffed “Solid strategy.”

A shadow moved to his left. Too fast.

Draco turned just in time to block a curse aimed at his heart, his shield charm flaring golden in the dim warehouse light.

The force of it sent him skidding back, his shoulder slamming into a support beam. His wand hand tingled from the impact.

They were strong. Too strong.

And something felt off.

The way they moved—it wasn’t reckless. It was methodical. Precise.

They weren’t here to fight.

They were here for something specific.

And Draco had the sinking suspicion that something was him.

The rune-marked figures moved in unison, shifting their focus. Narrowing their formation.

Shit.

Draco spoke through gritted teeth “Potter. They’re not just attacking randomly. They’re—”

“I noticed.”

Before Draco could respond, one of the robed figures raised a wand, carving an intricate motion into the air.

A familiar, sickening energy swept through the warehouse, and Draco’s vision flickered.

Not Death Eater magic.

Something worse.

The warehouse walls pulsed, the rune-work glowing brighter.

The curse shot toward him.

Draco twisted, barely dodging it. The heat of it singed the side of his face.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

That wasn’t a normal curse.

Another figure lunged, wand tip glowing a sickly green.

Draco deflected the spell, countered with a hex that sent the attacker sprawling.

Harry shouted “Malfoy, move—!”

Draco barely had time to react before he saw it—a surge of black and burning light, arcing toward Harry.

There wasn’t time to think.

Draco stepped in front of the curse.

The impact was immediate.

A scorching pain exploded through his chest, searing through every nerve. The force of it sent him crashing to the floor, his wand slipping from his fingers.

His vision wavered.

He heard Harry shouting his name, but the sound distorted.

Boots pounded against the floor.

One of the robed figures loomed over him, wand raised.

“You should have died with the rest.”

A jet of red light slammed into the attacker.

The last thing Draco saw was Harry—rage and fear twisted on his face—charging forward, green eyes blazing with fury.

And then, darkness.