keeping tabs
The scent hit Draco before he even registered it, sharp and unmistakable. He halted his calculated steps, precisely five feet from the door of his—their—office, his measured pace interrupted by the all-too-familiar stench. His fingers curled into a fist at his side as his gaze burned into the wooden door, willing his glare to pierce through and incinerate the idiot inside. If looks could kill, the bloke would’ve been nothing more than a pile of smoldering ash by now.
The rich, cloying blend of vanilla and citrus curled into his lungs, clashing against his senses, making his nose wrinkle in disgust. It wasn’t just the smell—though he despised it enough—it was everything about the person responsible for it.
He absolutely hated it. Hated him.
Four years had passed since the war, since Hogwarts, since the world as he knew had crumbled into something unrecognizable. In that time, Draco had done everything in his power to pull himself from the wreckage and rebuild his life—brick by painstaking brick. He had spent those years swallowing his pride, proving time and time again that he was not the same boy who once stood on the wrong side of history. But redemption, he learned, was never easily granted. His name still dripped like venom from people’s tongues, his past still cast a long, damning shadow.
It didn’t matter that his parents were gone, that he had been left with nothing but whispers of a family legacy now tarnished beyond repair. Their deaths had severed him from the last remnants of the life he once knew, and with them went any hope of resting comfortably on old money and an old name. The Malfoy fortune had been gutted, most of it seized by the Ministry, the rest barely enough to scrape by.
So, he did the only thing he could. He surrendered.
Draco Malfoy waved his white flag, abandoned the ruins of his past, and started over.
He sold the Manor—emptied it of its ghosts and grief—took what was left of his inheritance, and carved out a life built from the ground up. He wasn’t sure if he had changed, not in the way people seemed to want him to, but he had become tolerable, at least. And maybe that was enough. Maybe that was all he could ever hope for.
He joined the Ministry, though getting in had been nothing short of impossible. His name alone was a stain on the record while his application had been met with skepticism, resistance, and outright derision. Some of them laughed at the audacity of it, others sneered, convinced it was a ploy—some pathetic attempt at ingratiating himself with the very institution that had nearly destroyed his family.
But Draco had come prepared. His academic record was flawless, his qualifications undeniable. His time under Ministry watch had proven, if nothing else, that he was neither a threat nor a sympathizer to any remaining Death Eater factions. He had spent months under scrutiny, forced to prove his every step, his every word, as though one misstep would send him spiraling back into the darkness they all expected of him.
And, of course, he had him to thank.
It was Potter’s bloody testament at his trial that had kept him out of Azkaban. And now, years later, it was Potter’s word that had tipped the scales once again. The Chosen One had vouched for him—spoken on his behalf, argued that he had done enough, that he deserved a chance to move forward. As much as Draco hated to admit it, Potter’s endorsement carried more weight than all of his efforts combined.
That didn’t mean the Ministry welcomed him with open arms. He had been accepted, yes, but under one condition.
He was to work under and alongside the one and only Harry Potter.
The arrangement had been as much a punishment as it was an opportunity. The higher-ups had assumed that working with Potter would either break him or keep him in check. And maybe, in some twisted way, they had been right.
Because if anything was going to push Draco Malfoy past his limits, it was the insufferable, self-righteous, cigarette-smoking hero of the wizarding world.
Taking a deep breath—but not too deep—Draco squared his shoulders and strode into the office, exuding the same cool confidence he had perfected over the years. He refused to so much as falter at the thick, nauseating scent that clung to the air.
And there he was.
Potter.
Seated at his desk like he owned the place, one foot kicked up on the table in the picture of lazy indifference. A cigarette dangled between his fingers, a thin trail of smoke curling toward the ceiling, while his other hand lazily flipped through a case file. He barely spared Draco a glance.
Draco’s eye twitched at the sight before him.
The contrast between their workspaces was nothing short of infuriating. His own side of the room was pristine—perfectly arranged stacks of parchment, quills lined in exact order, every book placed with purpose. It was an environment of control, of order, of sanity.
And then there was Potter’s side.
A disaster.
Scrolls and books strewn haphazardly across the desk, as if they had been rifled through and then abandoned mid-thought. A week-old coffee mug—one that had been dangerously teetering on the edge of the table for days—which had already been charmed back together multiple times from Potter’s careless abuse, and Draco had lost count of how often he had been forced to fix it.
No matter how many times Draco attempted to tidy up, the chaos was always inevitable. The longest he had managed to keep Potter’s side in a remotely respectable state had been three days. A miracle, really. A record, even. And yet, here they were again.
Draco slammed his suitcase down onto his desk with a sharp thud, deliberately loud, watching in satisfaction as Potter flinched slightly at the sudden noise. Predictably, the movement was enough to tip his precariously balanced mug over the edge, sending it crashing onto the tiled floor.
Potter sighed, finally glancing up. “Morning to you too, Malfoy.”
Draco rolled his eyes, flicked his wrist, and without a word, used wandless magic to repair the mug. It hovered for a second before landing neatly in the small kitchen sink by the wall. He didn’t even have to look.
“What would you do without me?” Draco muttered, shaking his head.
Potter took a slow drag of his cigarette before exhaling, the smoke curling lazily into the air.
“Live in peace, probably.”
Draco scowled. “Do you really have to do that here?”
He gestured toward the cigarette with a disdainful flick of his fingers, as if the very presence of it offended him on a personal level.
Potter smirked, tapping ash into a conjured tray. “It’s my office too.”
Draco’s jaw clenched, his patience wearing thin before the day had even properly begun.
“We have a case. Looks like it’ll be a long one.”
Potter’s voice was annoyingly casual as he levitated a thick folder from his lap onto Draco’s desk. It landed with a soft thump, the weight of it promising far more work than Draco was usually assigned.
That in itself was unusual.
In the month since he had started working at the Ministry, Draco had barely crossed paths with Potter beyond the occasional run-in at their shared office. The higher-ups had kept him on low-stakes, one-man assignments, the kind of cases that required little more than patience and the ability to hold a quill.
A lost Kneazle? That was his problem now.
A child accidentally levitating their grandmother’s prized china set at a muggle family gathering? Send Malfoy to Obliviate the lot of them.
Someone at the Department of Magical Transportation reported a wizard trying to Apparate while drunk, splinching themselves in the process? Guess who got to escort the intoxicated idiot to St. Mungo’s while he babbled about how “the Ministry is corrupt, mate, I swear.”
It was almost insulting. They treated him like a joke, like an intern they barely trusted to handle real work. But Draco knew better than to complain. This was his second chance, and he would not mess it up.
Potter, on the other hand, had been perpetually absent. Draco had assumed he was just another name on the office door, a ghost of a coworker who left stacks of paperwork unattended and cigarette ashes in his wake.
On the rare occasions Potter was actually here, he was either smoking at his desk or passed out on the velvet couch at the far end of the room, sprawled out like an idiot.
So for him to be the one handing Draco a case—an actual case—was new.
Draco narrowed his eyes at the brown folder, flipping it open with deliberate care, ignoring the bubbling excitement coiling in his chest. A real case. It had taken a month, but finally, someone had decided he was worth more than lost cats and memory charms.
Still, he refused to let Potter see even a sliver of satisfaction. Instead, he scoffed, lifting a brow. “What? Too busy responding to fan mail to handle this one yourself?”
Potter snorted, exhaling a slow curl of smoke as he stood. “You’re the only person in the Ministry who can help, so…”
Draco barely heard him, his focus already shifting to the contents of the file. Several reports were clipped together, a stack of witness statements, and—most unsettling of all—photographs. His fingers hesitated over them for a moment before pulling them free.
The first few were taken in various locations: alleyways, abandoned buildings, tree trunks in dense wooded areas. Each bore the same chilling image.
The Dark Mark.
Painted in thick, dripping strokes onto cracked walls, carved into tree branches, even scrawled across the wooden beams of a collapsed house. The sight of it sent a rush of something cold down Draco’s spine, though he refused to let it show. He had spent years separating himself from that mark, from everything it stood for.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t let his grip tighten. Just studied each image with the detached scrutiny of an Auror analyzing a crime scene.
Potter leaned against his desk, close enough that Draco could smell the smoke clinging to his robes. “The others checked it before. They figured it was a prank—some idiot trying to stir up fear.” He exhaled through his nose. “Then they found a body two days ago.”
Draco stilled.
Potter tapped a finger against the next photograph in the pile. “Mark was engraved onto the chest.”
Draco pulled the image free, eyes narrowing as he took in the details. The victim was a young man, barely older than twenty, his body sprawled across the cold stone of a dimly lit alley. His clothes were torn, dirt smeared across his exposed skin. The Dark Mark was slashed into his chest, not with ink or magic, but something jagged—something brutal.
The Ministry report labeled him as Edwin Podmore, 22.
Draco’s gaze trailed lower. A deep red mark wrapped around the victim’s throat, dark against pale, lifeless skin. A strangulation wound.
“That’s odd,” Draco murmured, eyes flicking to his own forearm, the sleeve of his robes covering the place where his own Dark Mark—long since faded—remained a ghost of what it once was. He flexed his fingers instinctively. “I don’t feel anything.”
Potter crossed his arms, watching him. “That’s what I thought was strange too. If it were real Dark Magic, it would’ve notified the ministry.”
Draco hummed in agreement, glancing back at the photograph.
“What’s even stranger,” Potter continued, pushing off the desk, “is that there was no magic detected in the body. No Killing Curse, no evidence of any spell used at all.”
Draco’s brows furrowed. “None?”
Potter shook his head.
Draco exhaled sharply, staring at the image again. If no magic had been used, then this wasn’t just some amateur trying to recreate old horrors—this was something else entirely. A message? A taunt? Someone desperate to pull the past back into the present?
He tossed the photograph onto the desk and stood abruptly.
“Did you get a Pensieve memory from a passerby?”
Potter gave him a look, as if he had been waiting for the question.
“I want to see the body myself,” Draco said firmly.
* * *
They Apparated into the alley with a soft crack, their boots landing on the damp cobblestone. The crime scene itself had already been combed through by the Aurors originally assigned to the case, meaning there was little left but the ghost of what had happened. The air was thick with the stench of rain-soaked stone and something faintly metallic—old blood, maybe.
Draco took a slow glance around. The alley was narrow, boxed in by tall brick buildings, the streetlamp at the entrance flickering weakly. If someone had wanted to corner Edwin Podmore, this would have been the perfect place to do it.
He turned toward Potter, who was already pulling out his wand, muttering under his breath as he ran a few detection spells over the space. Draco didn’t bother. They weren’t going to find anything that hadn’t already been picked clean.
The Pensieve memory they had reviewed before Apparating had been next to useless. A shaky recollection from a passerby—more smoke and shadows than anything of substance. It had captured Edwin Podmore walking alone, but nothing of what had happened to him afterward.
Which meant they needed to backtrack.
Draco had done some digging before they arrived. Edwin Podmore was twenty-two, lived alone with his ailing mother in a rundown flat on the outskirts of London. Financially struggling. No known ties to any dark groups, no record of trouble. Just an ordinary young man who had, for some reason, ended up dead with a symbol carved into his chest.
And according to witness reports, he had last been seen alive in Diagon Alley, picking up potions for his mother.
Draco turned to tell Potter as much—only to find that Potter was gone.
Or rather, he had been swallowed by the very thing Draco found most irritating about him.
A crowd.
It had taken less than five minutes for a swarm of witches and wizards to descend on the Chosen One. A group of starry-eyed teenagers gushed over him, while an elderly witch clutched his arm, thanking him profusely for something—Draco wasn’t even sure what. A few younger Aurors in training had the audacity to ask for an autograph.
Draco snorted, crossing his arms as Potter shot him a desperate look over the sea of eager faces.
Potter mouthed something at him.
Help me.
Draco tilted his head, pretending to consider it. Then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, he turned on his heel and walked away.
“Malfoy,” Potter called after him, voice somewhere between pleading and murderous.
Draco lifted a lazy hand in a half-hearted wave. “You’ve got it handled, hero.”
Ignoring the indignant sound Potter made, he slipped inside the shop where Edwin Podmore had last been sighted alive.
The contrast between the busy street and the dimly lit interior was stark. The shop was small, cramped, with rows of dusty shelves packed with vials and jars filled with thick, sluggish liquids. A heavy scent of herbs and aged parchment clung to the air, and the faint candlelight flickered against dark wood.
It was the kind of place most people overlooked in favor of the shinier, well-stocked apothecaries closer to the heart of Diagon Alley.
Draco’s eyes swept the room. The counter at the back was unoccupied, a worn bell sitting beside a register. A faint rustling sound came from the storage room behind it, followed by the quiet clinking of glass bottles. Someone was here.
He stepped forward, knocking his knuckles against the countertop. “Hello?”
The rustling stopped.
A beat later, the beaded curtain separating the shop from the backroom was pushed aside, and a tall, thin man emerged, adjusting the sleeves of his robes. His eyes flicked up to Draco, wary but unreadable.
“Looking for something?” the man asked, voice low, measured.
Draco leveled him with a sharp stare. “Depends. You remember a customer named Edwin Podmore?”
The shopkeeper visibly flinched at the mention of the name, his fingers twitching as he straightened his tie. “Never heard of him,” he said, too quickly.
Draco arched a brow. “Are you sure? He was a loyal customer, from what I hear.” He let his gaze drift casually over the shelves as he walked, taking in the neat rows of vials and jars. They were arranged too perfectly, untouched, as if they were meant to be seen but never actually purchased.
The entire place reeked of a front.
Behind him, the shopkeeper’s breathing grew uneven.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the man said, voice sharp with forced authority. The telltale sound of a wand being drawn cut through the thick air, and Draco turned just in time to see the shopkeeper leveling his own at him—his grip unsteady, but not entirely unfamiliar.
Draco stared at him, unimpressed. “Really?”
The shopkeeper’s knuckles whitened around his wand.
Draco sighed, shaking his head. “With the way you’re acting, you leave me no choice. I’m going to have to conduct a search warrant.”
The man sneered at him then, lips peeling back over a set of yellowed, rotting teeth. His eyes darkened, the wariness in them now sharpened into something colder.
“Why would I listen to you?” he spat, his voice dropping to a mocking drawl. “A washed-up Death Eater playing Auror?”
Draco stilled.
It wasn’t the first time he’d heard it. Wouldn’t be the last, either. But it still dug in, settling beneath his skin like an old wound splitting open.
He let out a slow breath, schooling his expression into something blank. “I am not—”
“Refusing a search warrant and drawing a wand on an Auror is a violation of Section Four of the Ministry’s Investigation Act,” a familiar voice cut in, smooth yet firm.
Draco’s jaw tightened.
Of course.
Of course, Potter would show up at the perfect moment, swooping in with his righteous authority like some sort of walking rulebook.
The shopkeeper tensed, his eyes darting between Draco and the new figure standing in the doorway. Potter had his wand drawn, his stance casual but unreadably firm. The usual easy smirk was gone, replaced by something unreadable—something dangerous.
Because no matter how much Potter played the easygoing, reluctant hero, he was still the Auror with one of the highest conviction rate in the department. And the shopkeeper knew it.
The man’s grip on his wand faltered.
Draco didn’t bother looking at Potter, didn’t acknowledge the way his presence had once again saved him from a situation he could have easily handled himself.
Because that was just how things worked, wasn’t it?
Potter stepped forward, eyes steady. “Now, are you going to let us do our jobs, or do I need to call in the rest of the department?”
With that, the next thirty minutes passed in a blur of quiet efficiency—mostly on Draco’s part. While he meticulously combed through every shelf, drawer, and hidden compartment, Potter mostly hovered, occasionally poking at things as if that counted as helping.
Another thirty minutes later, Potter left the shop with the shopkeeper in tow, likely dragging him back to the Ministry for questioning. That left Draco alone in the dimly lit space, surrounded by the remnants of whatever illegal operation had been running under the guise of an innocent storefront.
His patience had paid off.
Behind the counter, beneath a set of loose floorboards hidden under an illusion charm, Draco had uncovered something far more interesting than a simple stash of illicit goods.
A potion lab.
It was tucked away in a cramped basement beneath the shop, the air thick with the acrid scent of brewing ingredients gone stale. Wooden brackets lined the stone walls, holding dozens of neatly stacked vials, each filled with shimmering liquids in an array of unnatural colors. Some glowed faintly, while others swirled with a thick, sluggish consistency.
Draco plucked one from the shelf, holding it up against the dim light. The potion inside was a deep, almost iridescent violet, flecked with silver streaks that pulsed faintly.
Curious.
Uncorking it, he took the faintest sniff, careful not to inhale too deeply.
Valerian root. Hellebore extract. Crushed moonstone.
And beneath it all, something darker, heavier.
Draco exhaled through his nose, recognition settling in his gut. Most Aurors would have needed a full lab analysis to determine its contents, but Draco had the distinct advantage of years spent around potions, not just as a Hogwarts student but as Severus Snape’s godson. He had learned early on to identify ingredients by scent alone, a skill that had been drilled into him with all the precision and sharpness of his godfather’s teaching since the age of 9.
It was a drug—one designed to induce a floating, dreamlike euphoria, erasing stress and numbing pain. Not uncommon in underground circles, especially among those looking to forget, even temporarily. It wasn’t quite a controlled substance, but the Ministry had been cracking down on its distribution due to the dangerously addictive side effects.
The fact that this shop had been disguising an entire brewing operation beneath its floors meant this was bigger than just one questionable vendor.
Draco sighed, corking the vial and setting it back on the shelf. He could have spent hours cataloging the rest, picking apart their compositions and determining just how many illegal potions were being produced here. But he had already inhaled enough fumes to make his head feel slightly off-kilter, and he wasn’t about to risk accidental exposure to something stronger.
He’d done his part. The rest of the department could handle it from here.
Rolling his shoulders, Draco cast a quick preservation charm over the lab, ensuring nothing would be tampered with before the Ministry’s investigation team arrived. Then, with one last glance around the dimly lit space, he turned on his heel and made his way back upstairs.
When Draco stepped back into the shop, the air felt heavier, thick with the lingering scent of dust and stale potions. Potter was nowhere to be seen.
Typical.
Draco glanced around, half-expecting him to be lurking in some corner, but the shop was silent. Either Potter had been called away, or he’d simply wandered off—neither would have surprised him.
Shrugging, Draco rolled up his sleeves.
If Potter wasn’t going to be here to do his job, then Draco would finish the investigation himself.
* * *
They spent the rest of the afternoon untangling the web of connections between the shopkeeper and Edwin Podmore, piecing together scraps of information that, at first, seemed unrelated.
Podmore’s background had appeared straightforward at a glance—a young man struggling to support his sick mother. He had been seen frequenting the apothecary under the guise of purchasing potions for her care. But as Draco and Potter dug deeper, the narrative began to unravel.
Podmore’s mother had died years ago, when he was only seventeen. The records were clear—there was no ailing parent, no dependent relative in need of care. Which meant every single visit to that shop, every purchase he made, had been a cover for something else.
A habit.
Podmore had been a longtime addict, dependent on illicit potion-based drugs, masking his addiction under the pretense of buying medicine. The shopkeeper, it seemed, had been his supplier.
It was a bleak truth, but it still didn’t explain his death.
Draco flipped through the case file again, his brow furrowing. They now understood why Podmore had been visiting the shop, but there was still no clear link between his addiction and his murder. Addicts weren’t uncommon in the underground market, and while dealers weren’t known for their kindness, they rarely killed their customers—it was bad for business.
Something wasn’t adding up.
Draco sighed, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms over his head. His muscles ached from sitting in the same position for hours, his mind numb from the endless loop of trying to make sense of Podmore’s death. Outside the office window, the sky had long since darkened, the streetlamps casting their dim glow over the nearly deserted Ministry halls.
His gaze drifted toward the empty chair across from him—Potter’s chair.
He had been called away half an hour ago, and judging by the time, he had likely gone home for the night.
Draco let out a slow breath, rubbing his temples. It wasn’t as if he needed Potter to solve this case, but some extra input wouldn’t have hurt. Still, there was nothing more he could do for now. He had followed every lead available, sifted through every detail, and yet the pieces refused to fit together. It was like staring at a puzzle with half the image missing.
Frustrated, Draco pushed back from his desk and began tidying up. He neatly stacked his notes and secured the case files, duplicating a copy to take home with him. Ministry protocol dictated that all case copies were to be burned into ashes after a set period—a confidentiality measure—but that was a concern for later.
Grabbing his coat, he cast one last glance around the empty office before flicking the lights off and stepping out into the corridor.
Draco’s stomach let out a low, undignified grumble, reminding him of just how pitiful his meals had been today—three cups of coffee and a stale sandwich that had probably been sitting in his office longer than he cared to admit. He grimaced. If he didn’t eat something decent soon, he might actually drop dead, and wouldn’t that just be a lovely headline?
Former Death Eater Found Collapsed in Flat—Experts Say It Was a Severe Case of Malnourishment and Sheer Stupidity.
Deciding that risking his life over poor eating habits wasn’t ideal, Draco made a detour. He could have simply Apparated home, but in his current state—exhausted, unfocused, and fueled entirely by caffeine and spite—he didn’t trust himself not to get splinched.
So, instead, he made his way to the Floo.
Stepping out of the green flames, he arrived at the local town market, a good fifteen-minute walk from his flat. He had settled here for a reason—no one recognized him, or if they did, they didn’t care. No whispers of “That’s him, isn’t it?” No judgmental stares. Here, he wasn’t Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater, former high-society disgrace. He was just Draco, a man buying groceries at an unreasonable hour because he didn’t know how to manage his life properly.
After picking up a few essentials—a loaf of bread, eggs, a questionable-looking bottle of juice that was either pomegranate or something far worse—he started his walk home. The streets were quiet, lined with dimly glowing street lamps. Peaceful.
And then, he smelled it.
Citrus and vanilla.
Draco halted mid-step. His brows furrowed. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. Maybe Potter had smoked so much in his presence that the scent had somehow infused itself into his very soul.
And yet, it wasn’t faint. It wasn’t a memory lingering in his brain—it was fresh.
His body moved before his mind could catch up, feet carrying him toward the source of the scent, down a side street and toward a dark alley nestled between two tall buildings. A single street lamp buzzed overhead, casting a weak glow over the narrow passageway.
The smell was stronger now.
Draco inhaled sharply, already regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment. With a final exhale, he turned, and there—unfortunately—was the beholder of that foul smell.
“Potter, what in Merlin’s name are you doing here?”
Leaning against the bricked wall like he had all the time in the world, Potter looked up, blinking as if Draco was the unexpected one. His auror robes were long discarded, sleeves of his button-up rolled up to his elbows, the top few buttons undone, exposing an irritatingly unfair stretch of warm, golden skin. His hair was an absolute mess, his glasses were barely hanging onto the bridge of his nose, and the dim street lamp above made the whole thing look like a bloody portrait. Smoke curled lazily from between his lips, dissipating into the night air.
Ridiculous.
“Malfoy?”
Draco crossed his arms, scowling. “Will it kill you to not smoke that?”
Potter exhaled another slow drag, eyes half-lidded. “Why does it bother you so much? You sound just like Hermione.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “Maybe Granger is right. It stinks, and it could probably give you that lunch cancer thing Muggles call it.”
Potter snorted, amused. “Lung cancer, Malfoy.”
“Whatever!” Draco snapped.
Potter, the insufferable menace that he was, actually laughed, low and rough, like he found this whole conversation hilarious. “Malfoy, I was starved and locked in a cupboard as a child, faced a full-grown mountain troll in a bathroom at the age of eleven, survived multiple attempts on my life—weekly, I might add—and actually died once, you know, because of Voldemort.” He gestured vaguely with the cigarette. “Some chronic lung failure is the least of my worries, really.”
Draco scoffed, dragging a hand down his face. “That doesn’t mean you can be this reckless about your health.”
Potter smirked, exhaling another slow drag of smoke. “Careful there. I might think you actually care.”
Draco’s eye twitched. He didn’t. He absolutely did not. And yet, the words died on his tongue.
Bloody Potter.
“You still didn’t answer my question,” Draco said, crossing his arms.
Potter tilted his head, lazily amused. “Visited someone.” Then, his gaze flickered down to the grocery bag in Draco’s hand. “And you?”
Draco cleared his throat, straightening his posture. “I live around here.”
Potter’s brows lifted slightly as he look at Draco slowly from head to toe, like he was processing that new piece of information. Then, with deliberate care, he took one last drag from his cigarette before flicking it to the ground, crushing it under the heel of his shoe. With a flick of his fingers, the ashes disappeared.
Draco barely had time to appreciate the lack of littering before Potter blew out the last bit of smoke—directly into his face.
“Ugh!” Draco coughed, waving a hand dramatically. “Mark my words, Potter! By the time we finish Podmore’s case, you won’t be touching another cigarette ever again!”
Potter smirked, stepping forward, closing the space between them far too quickly. Draco instinctively took a step back, only to feel the rough surface of the brick wall against his spine.
Shit.
Potter didn’t stop until he was close—too close—his breath still laced with the scent of smoke and something annoyingly warm, like cinnamon and mischief.
“How will you do that, hm?” Potter asked, his voice low, taunting.
Draco’s grip on his grocery bag tightened. He refused to let himself be flustered. He had spent years perfecting the art of not being bothered, and he wasn’t about to let Potter of all people ruin his streak.
“Anything,” Draco bit out. “Everything. Whatever it takes to get rid of that stupid habit of yours.”
Potter stared at him for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes. Then, with an infuriatingly slow smirk, he stepped back.
“Can’t wait,” he murmured—and with a sharp crack, he was gone.
Draco stood there in the dimly lit alley, heart pounding, fingers clenched around his grocery bag, jaw tight with frustration.
It took everything in him not to scream.
* * *
The next day dragged on in an exhausting blur, and Draco was no closer to finding a lead on Podmore’s death. He spent hours trudging through the area where the body had been found, scanning every inch for something—anything—the other Aurors might have missed.
Nothing.
By the time the sun was high in the afternoon sky, Draco was sweaty, stuffy, and absolutely miserable. His long hair, usually pristine, clung to his forehead and neck, and his robes felt like they were suffocating him. His momentum from yesterday had been great—he had felt sharp, capable, almost useful. But now?
Maybe that was just sheer luck. Maybe he was useless. Maybe—
“Wow, you look terrible.”
Draco blinked.
The office. He was back in the office. When had he Apparated?
Potter was perched on the edge of Draco’s desk, smirking at him with a mug of coffee in hand, looking obnoxiously well-rested. His shirt was wrinkled, like he’d just thrown it on, but his hair was the usual disaster, so Draco couldn’t tell if he had actually slept or just rolled straight out of chaos and into work.
“What?” Draco said, still catching up to reality.
Potter gestured vaguely at him. “You look like you lost a duel with a hippogriff. And your dignity.”
Draco scowled, slamming his case file onto the desk. “I was working.”
Potter hummed. “Clearly not hard enough, if you’re still empty-handed.”
Draco gritted his teeth. “Did you even do anything today, or did you just wake up and decide to annoy me?”
Potter sipped his coffee, annoyingly casual. “Multitasking, Malfoy. You should try it sometime.”
Draco rolled his eyes before slumping back into his chair, blowing a stray hair out of his face with an exasperated huff. He stared up at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the entire case pressing down on his shoulders. “I don’t know what I’m missing.”
Potter shifted, leaning against Draco’s desk, arms crossed as he studied him. On a normal day, Draco would have snapped at him, barked at him to stay on his side of the office and quit loitering like some overgrown housecat. Today, however, Draco was too drained to care.
“Give it a break,” Potter said, voice softer than usual. “Cases like these take months sometimes. You’re not going to solve it in a day just because you really, really want to.”
Draco exhaled sharply, rolling his head to the side to glare at him. “You make me sound like an impatient child.”
Potter grinned. “If the shoe fits.”
Draco scoffed, rubbing his temples. “I don’t know… I just.” He tilted his head back against the chair, closing his eyes. “I wish I was more useful.”
Potter was quiet for a beat. Draco was about to wave him off, change the subject, pretend he hadn’t just admitted something so embarrassingly honest, but then—
“You are,” Potter said. His voice wasn’t teasing, wasn’t lighthearted. It was steady. Sure. “More than any Auror I’ve worked with.”
Draco’s eyes fluttered open. He turned his head slightly, meeting Potter’s gaze, and for a moment, he didn’t know what to say. Compliments from Potter were rare, and ones like that—genuine and unprompted—were practically nonexistent.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Potter continued, his green eyes warm in the dim afternoon light. “Besides, I need you.”
Draco blinked. His brain stuttered.
And then, very slowly, he cracked a smirk. “What’s this, Potter? A confession?”
Potter groaned, rolling his eyes but unable to fight back the small grin tugging at his lips. “Merlin, I take it back. You’re the worst.”
Draco hummed, stretching in his chair like a cat. “Too late, you already admitted it. No take-backs.”
Potter shoved at his arm, laughing. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” Draco said, tilting his head smugly, “you still need me.”
Potter just shook his head, muttering something under his breath before swiping one of the biscuits off Draco’s desk and popping it into his mouth.
Draco gasped, scandalized. “That was mine!”
Potter shrugged, still chewing. “Don’t leave it out if you don’t want it stolen.”
An idea suddenly popped into Draco’s mind. He sat up a little straighter, tapping a finger against his chin in mock contemplation.
“You know,” he mused, “I heard that people with a smoking addiction like the feeling of having something in their mouth.”
Potter’s brows furrowed. “And?”
Draco smirked. “Maybe biscuits can help.” He wiggled the half-eaten one in his hand for emphasis.
Potter stared at him, unimpressed. “Malfoy, are you seriously suggesting I replace cigarettes with biscuits?”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “Do you have a better idea?”
Potter made a face. “I don’t know… I don’t particularly enjoy eating whole wheat, no-sugar, dry-as-dirt biscuits.”
Draco gasped, clutching his chest as if personally offended. “Excuse you, these are imported.”
Potter snorted. “From where, the Land of Disappointment?”
Draco scowled. “Then why did you even take mine?!”
Potter shrugged, looking far too pleased with himself. “To tease you.”
Draco gaped at him. “You absolute menace.”
Potter grinned and reached for another biscuit, but Draco swatted his hand away.
“No. If you don’t respect the biscuit, you don’t deserve the biscuit.”
Potter laughed, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. Keep your sad biscuits.”
Draco huffed, tossing the rest of his biscuit onto his desk with an air of dramatic finality. “Unbelievable.”
Potter just smirked. “And yet—”
Draco narrowed his eyes. “Finish that sentence and I will hex you.”
Suddenly, their easy banter was cut short by a sharp knock at the door. Before either of them could reply, it swung open to reveal a very frantic Hermione Granger.
“Oh, Harry, you won’t believe this—” She stopped mid-sentence, finally noticing Draco. “Oh. Hello, Malfoy.”
“Granger.” Draco gave her a polite nod, already bracing himself for whatever crisis she was about to unleash into their office.
Despite everything, Granger was one of the very few who had welcomed Draco into the Ministry.
After he had properly apologized—meaning, a very formal and awkward conversation that involved a lot of foot shuffling and carefully chosen words—she had simply given him a small smile, a handshake, and a calm, “We were young.”
It had been disarming. Almost unsettling. As if all the years of animosity between them had been packed up and stored in some dusty, forgotten corner of her mind.
Weasley, of course, had not been as gracious. He had nearly hexed Draco on sight for daring to breathe the same air as his lover. Which, frankly, had only made Draco want to breathe louder.
Looking back, Draco couldn’t quite understand why he had hated her so much. Was it because she was a Muggle-born? No. Was it because she was brilliant and effortlessly surpassed him in nearly everything? …Possibly.
It had been stupid. He had been stupid.
Potter, completely unaware of Draco’s existential crisis, leaned forward. “What brings you here, ‘Mione?”
Granger let out a heavy sigh before flopping onto the worn-out sofa in their office, frowning. “It’s just—I don’t know.” She crossed her arms. “Ron’s been distant lately.”
“Distant how?” Potter asked, frowning.
Draco, meanwhile, busied himself with reorganizing his already perfectly organized desk. Not because he cared about Granger’s love life—Merlin, no—but because abruptly leaving the room would be too obvious.
“He looks troubled every time we’re together,” Granger mumbled, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. “But whenever I ask him about it, he just shrugs it off and says it’s nothing.”
Draco rolled his eyes. Classic Weasley.
“The worst part?” she continued, sighing. “He looks fine when he’s with other people.”
Potter leaned forward, ever the supportive best friend. “He’ll probably tell you soon. You know how he is—he stews in his emotions until he finally explodes and tells you everything in a very dramatic, poorly timed confession.”
Granger shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s just—” she hesitated, chewing her lip. “Maybe he’s tired of me.”
Draco, despite himself, looked up. Weasley? Tired of Granger? The man practically worshipped the ground she walked on.
“No—Hermione, why would you even think that?” Potter said, standing straighter like he was ready to personally fight the suggestion. “You know Ron can be stubborn, but things will work themselves out.”
Granger shot him a deadpan look. “Says the man who has had numerous failed relationships.”
Draco immediately turned away, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as Potter went beet red.
“T-That’s different!” Potter spluttered.
“Oh, Harry,” Granger sighed, shaking her head like she had seen this tragedy unfold far too many times. “You’re in your twenties. When will you finally ditch that ‘no label’ rule of yours?”
Potter threw his hands up. “Okay—why is this suddenly about me?!”
Granger, apparently deciding she had bullied Potter enough for the moment, turned her attention to Draco. “What about you, Malfoy?”
Draco nearly knocked over his inkpot at the sudden shift. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” Granger said, looking at him expectantly. “What do you make of my situation?”
Draco glanced between her and Potter, as if hoping one of them would spare him from answering. No such luck.
With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Sorry to break it to you, Granger, but I’ve never been in a relationship.”
Silence.
Both Potter and Granger turned to stare at him.
Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “…What?”
Granger blinked. “Never? Not even once?”
Draco huffed, picking up his quill again as if that would make the conversation go away. “I fail to see why this is relevant to your Weasley-induced crisis.”
Potter, still looking a little scandalized, leaned forward. “Wait. You—you—have never been in a relationship?”
“Congratulations, Potter, you can repeat words back at me,” Draco drawled. “What an impressive skill.”
Granger, still frowning, ignored the jab. “But why?”
Draco exhaled sharply. “What do you mean why?” He regretted not leaving the room earlier when he had the chance. A mental note was made: Avoid being alone with the Golden Trio at all costs.
“Well,” Granger said, crossing her arms. “You and Parkinson always seemed close.”
Draco let out an undignified snort. “Pansy? That was an experiment at best.”
The room went silent. Both Granger and Potter just stared at him, expressions unreadable.
Damn them.
Draco shifted in his chair, thoroughly regretting the last five minutes.
“Look,” he sighed, rubbing his temples. “If you had been bent since the age of twelve, belonged to a family like mine, and had Death Eater on your résumé, I don’t think a relationship would be the first thing on your mind either.”
More staring.
Draco was beginning to genuinely consider throwing himself out the window.
“What do you mean by bent?” Potter asked, brow furrowing.
“Harry!” Granger yelped, immediately grabbing the nearest pillow and launching it at his head.
Draco sighed dramatically, lacing his fingers together as if he were about to give a grand lecture. “I mean bent like I love sucking dicks.” He tilted his head. “Happy?”
Potter, predictably, went bright red.
Draco really did consider hexing him so his face stayed that way forever.
Granger, on the other hand, barely reacted, just standing up with a sigh. “Okay. Since I barged in here with no decency and clearly made everything so much worse, how about I treat you two to a pub?”
Draco narrowed his eyes. “Are you bribing us into dropping this conversation?”
Granger gave him a pointed look. “Is it working?”
Potter, still somewhat pink, raised a hand. “I vote yes.”
Draco sighed. “Fine.”
* * *
Draco should’ve refused. He was better than this. He should be in his flat, wrapped in a blanket, reading a book, with a cup of tea resting on his bedside table—like a civilized person.
So why—why—was he currently babysitting two absolute disasters in a dimly lit pub?
He had expected this from Potter. Potter was a mess on a good day—drunk or sober, it made little difference. But Granger? Hermione Granger? The beacon of responsibility? He had foolishly believed she would at least be the voice of reason.
He was wrong.
“It’s just—unfair!” Granger slurred dramatically before hiccupping into her pint. “How can they—hic—treat house elves like that?”
Draco sighed and made a mental note to never let her near alcohol again. In fact, he was adding a new rule to his life: Avoid Hermione Granger in all situations where alcohol is present.
“Yep.” Potter, equally intoxicated, nodded sagely before downing yet another pint. “Agreed.”
“Merlin,” Draco muttered as he swatted Potter’s hand away from reaching for another. “That’s enough.”
“I’ll—hic—establish a campaign about this,” Granger declared, eyes wild with determination. “What do you think, Malfoy?”
Draco exhaled heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do what you want, Granger.”
She gasped. “Are you saying you don’t care about the oppression of house elves?”
Draco was far too sober for this conversation.
“I—Granger, I’m saying that this is neither the time nor the place for you to draft a manifesto,” he said flatly.
“It’s always the time for justice!” she declared, slamming her fist on the table and promptly knocking over Potter’s beer in the process.
Potter, who had been staring at the wall in what could only be described as a deep philosophical trance, suddenly gasped. “My beer!”
Draco groaned.
“Get yourselves together, you two!” Draco hissed, resisting the urge to physically shake some sense into them. Instead, he muttered an apology to the bartender, who was already looking far too done with them.
Granger suddenly burst into laughter.
Draco turned to her, unimpressed. “What now?”
“It’s just that…” she trailed off, the drunken amusement in her voice fading into something softer, something genuine. “I think it would’ve been nice if you were our friend too. Back at Hogwarts.”
Draco froze.
He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t want to know what to say. Because somewhere, buried deep in the part of him he refused to acknowledge, he had wanted that too. So badly.
But that wasn’t how things had played out, was it?
Not when Potter had looked him in the eye and refused his hand that day.
Draco swallowed hard, pushing down the sharp sting of something that felt too much like regret. He forced a smirk—sharp, bitter. “Yeah, right,” he muttered, his voice laced with a sarcasm he didn’t quite feel.
Granger frowned, like she could see right through him.
And Potter—bloody Potter—was just watching him. Quietly. Intently. Like he was actually thinking about it.
Draco hated it.
He hated that, for a split second, it almost felt like they were giving him something he could never quite reach. Something he gave up chasing years ago.
“I’ll just go for a quick break,” Potter announced, grabbing his crumpled pack of cigarettes.
Granger shot him an unimpressed look. “Seriously?”
Potter grinned like the absolute menace he was. “I’ll be back.”
Draco watched him go, exhaling through his nose.
The moment Potter stepped outside, the air in the pub shifted. It was subtle but noticeable, like the weight of the conversation had just settled entirely onto Draco’s shoulders.
He refused to look at Granger.
“I meant what I said earlier,” she murmured, voice steadier now—more sober.
Draco let out a short, forced snort. “And what would I have even gained from hanging around you lot?” He leaned back, arms crossed, the picture of indifference.
What would you gain from being around me?
He didn’t say it.
He didn’t say it because it was ridiculous—because it didn’t matter anymore. Because they hadn’t been friends. Because he’d been a different person then.
Because if he acknowledged the thought for even a second, he might start asking himself questions he didn’t want the answers to.
Granger, who rested her head on her folded arms, hummed thoughtfully. “Between us,” she said slowly, “It was actually Harry.”
Draco frowned. “What?”
Granger didn’t lift her head. “I think… he wanted to save you too,” she murmured. “You just didn’t let him.”
Draco’s stomach twisted.
He wanted to laugh. To scoff. To tell her she was talking nonsense.
He wanted to throw his drink, tip the table over, do something dramatic and childish to end this conversation before it dragged him somewhere dangerous.
Because that wasn’t true.
Was it?
Potter had never wanted to save him. He had wanted to win. He had wanted to fight back. He had wanted to beat Draco at every turn. To prove something.
He had looked Draco in the eyes at eleven years old and told him no. He had looked Draco in the eyes in that bathroom before as he casted that spell which left him with haunting scars. A reminder. A trophy of failure.
Draco clenched his jaw. He didn’t need saving.
…Had he ever needed saving?
Was he lonely? Has he ever stopped being lonely?
Draco refused to answer.
Before Draco could spiral any further into his internal crisis, the distinct crack of Apparition jolted him back to reality. A gust of air swept past him, and he turned just in time to see a very sweaty, very frantic Ron Weasley materialize behind them.
Weasley’s eyes scanned the room before landing on Granger, slumped over the table in a state of drunken distress. He rushed forward, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure whether to shake her awake or tuck her into bed right then and there.
“Merlin, ’Mione, what happened to you?” he murmured, gently brushing a stray curl from her face.
Then, as if remembering Draco existed, Weasley snapped his attention to him—expression instantly shifting from concern to mild disgust, like Draco was some particularly offensive stench lingering in the air.
Draco raised his hands in mock surrender. “Before you get any ideas and hex me into next week, let me be clear: she did this to herself. I am merely the unfortunate witness.” He defended. “No part in the disaster that followed.”
Weasley didn’t look convinced, but Granger stirred, sluggishly squinting up at him.
“Ron?” she mumbled, blinking rapidly.
Draco rolled his eyes as the two fell into their own little world, Weasley whispering reassurances while Granger tried (and failed) to lift her head properly.
With a sigh, Draco stood, fishing a few galleons from his pocket and dropping them onto the table. He wasn’t about to stick around and be subjected to whatever nauseatingly soft moment was about to unfold.
But before he left, he glanced at Weasley and, with all the subtlety of a brick through a window, said, “If you’re going to propose, just do it.”
Weasley’s head snapped up, eyes comically wide.
Draco smirked. “You’re making her worry.”
“How did you kn—”
Draco was already out the door.
As Draco stepped out of the pub, he inhaled deeply, letting the cool night air clear the lingering scent of alcohol and regret. He adjusted his coat, prepared to make his way home, when he caught movement in the shadows of a dimly lit alley.
Rolling his eyes, he turned, already knowing who he’d find.
Potter leaned against the brick wall, cigarette in hand, looking infuriatingly casual—like he hadn’t just spent the last hour drinking himself into a stupor. He blinked at Draco, as if surprised to see him.
Draco crossed his arms. “If you’re lurking around for an update, Weasley already took Granger home. So you can stop brooding in dark corners like some creep.”
Potter didn’t acknowledge the comment, just took another slow drag from his cigarette before exhaling into the night.
“You.”
Draco frowned. “What about me?”
Potter pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “Are you going home?”
Okay. Weird.
Draco scoffed. “Obviously? And you probably should as well before Granger somehow finds out you’re out here chain-smoking and lectures you into oblivion.”
Potter didn’t respond. Instead, he blew a lazy puff of smoke—directly into Draco’s face.
“You absolute menace,” Draco spluttered, fanning the air in front of him. “Could you not?”
Potter just grinned, completely unapologetic. “You did say you’d make me quit smoking. Well?
Draco rolled his eyes so hard he nearly gave himself a headache. “What do you want? A consolation prize? Shall I buy you chocolate? A lolly?”
Potter chuckled, the sound low and deep in his chest. “Not particularly fond of sugar.”
Draco let out an irritated huff. “You’re insufferable. Go die or whatever—I don’t care.”
That should have been his cue to leave. But, of course, Potter—the annoying git he is—stepped directly into his path, blocking his way.
“Move, Potter, before I transfigure you into a steam engine,” Draco deadpanned, willing his voice to stay steady.
Potter didn’t move. Instead, he tilted his head, eyes dark with something unreadable. “I’m just curious about something.”
Draco barely had time to react before Potter took a step forward—then another—until Draco was forced back against the cold brick wall.
A strange sense of déjà vu swept over him.
“What,” Draco sputtered, barely managing the single word as the heat of Potter’s presence settled over him, thick and heavy. The dim glow from the streetlamp cast soft shadows across Potter’s face, making him look unbearably warm, unbearably close.
Potter studied him like he was a puzzle he hadn’t quite figured out yet. “Are you sure you never dated?”
Draco groaned, tipping his head back against the wall. “Again with this?” He exhaled sharply, exasperated. “I said no. I mean, I’ve had a few casual—” he hesitated, suddenly regretting every word that left his mouth, “—hookups, but never a partner.”
Potter hummed, as if that answer satisfied some unknown curiosity. “Figures.”
Draco narrowed his eyes. “Figures?”
But before he could demand an explanation, Potter reached out, fingers brushing lightly against Draco’s jaw before slipping into his hair, twirling a strand of blond between his fingers.
Draco’s brain completely short-circuited.
“You’re just…” Potter mumbled, almost to himself. “So pretty. So—” The last part was lost to the night, a quiet thought swallowed by the air between them.
Draco could not—would not—process that information. His heart slammed against his ribs, his breathing went shallow, and every rational part of his brain screamed at him to move, run, apparate, do something.
“What the hell are you blabbering about?” Draco snapped, forcing himself to sound irritated rather than alarmingly, catastrophically undone.
Potter, of course, had no sense of self-preservation because instead of stepping away, he took another slow, deliberate step forward, until Draco could feel the warmth of his body against his own.
All sense of personal space? Completely obliterated.
“I’m going to kiss you,” Potter mumbled, his breath warm against Draco’s skin.
Draco should have laughed, should have shoved him away, should have apparated straight to his flat, blamed the alcohol, and Obliviated himself first thing in the morning. That was the logical, sane response.
But Draco was an idiot.
An idiot for fisting his hands into Potter’s robes and yanking him forward.
An idiot for tilting his head just enough to meet Potter’s lips, for sighing against his mouth as Potter groaned and kissed him like he had been waiting.
An idiot for matching his fervor, for parting his lips to let Potter in, for chasing the warmth of it, the right of it.
An idiot for wanting more.
The world blurred around them—the faint scent of cigarette smoke mixed with the crisp night air, the rough brush of fabric between them as Potter pressed closer, the way his fingers curled around Draco’s waist like he was afraid to let go.
Draco didn’t care. Not when Potter kissed him like this, like he was something to consume.
When they finally broke apart, breathless and slightly dazed, Draco met Potter’s gaze—those starry green eyes, pupils blown wide, lips flushed, a silent plea written all over his face.
And Draco—Draco panicked.
He pushed Potter away, ignoring the look of surprise that flashed across his face, and without another word—without giving himself a second to think—he turned on his heel and ran.