Chapter 2
Percy had thought this would be easy. A routine warding job—a simple, boring task meant to bring in gold for the Order. Locate the doxy infestation on the property, contain it, and then set up basic magical protections. Nothing remotely complicated. Nothing that should have involved Harry Potter somehow turning it into a disaster.
And yet, somehow, here he was—covered in bites, half-suffocated by doxy dust, and seconds away from losing his temper.
The property was an old, sprawling estate on the outskirts of London, overgrown with ivy and wild roses. From the outside, it looked picturesque. Inside, it was a nightmare. The doxy colony had burrowed into the rafters of the west wing, and Percy had barely stepped through the door before a cloud of the nasty, venomous creatures swarmed them.
At first, Harry had been right beside him—hands shoved in his coat pockets, his usual lazy grin on his face as though fighting off a horde of venomous pests was just another afternoon lark. But when the doxies descended, Harry… well, Harry got out of the way. With infuriating grace.
Percy, however, did not.
“What—Potter, do something!” Percy snapped, blasting a doxy that had latched onto his sleeve. The spell sent it spiraling into the wall with a loud crack. “A little help wouldn’t kill you!”
“Relax, Weasley.” Harry’s voice floated from somewhere to his left. Percy caught a glimpse of him—not even holding his wand. He was leaning against the doorframe, dodging the darting creatures with ridiculous ease, like this was all some joke. “You’re handling it fine. Besides…” He flashed a smirk. “They seem to like you. Must be the aftershave.”
Percy gritted his teeth and sent another Stunner flying. “They’re venomous, Potter! I’d rather not be paralyzed today!”
“You’re doing great,” Harry called back cheerfully, twisting to avoid another doxy without any apparent effort. His hair—as messy and windswept as always—barely shifted. “Besides, why would they come after me? You’re the one waving a wand like a madman.”
Percy wanted to hex him. Truly.
A doxy dove straight for his face. He managed to blast it back—barely—but another swooped in and sank its needle-like teeth into his shoulder. Percy cursed, shaking it off. Where was Harry?
When Percy turned, Harry was gone.
“Potter?” Percy called, voice tight with frustration. “You cannot be serious.”
Of course, Harry would disappear. Typical. Percy clenched his jaw, focusing on driving back the doxies that swarmed him. Without backup, the task grew harder by the second—he had no time to wonder where his so-called partner had vanished to.
And Harry was his partner. For reasons beyond Percy’s comprehension. He’d been stuck with Potter for months now—a walking disaster who seemed to cause more problems than he solved. Every assignment meant double the work for Percy while Harry skated by, charming everyone in sight.
A doxy shot past his defenses and clawed at his neck. Percy barely batted it away in time. “If I survive this, Potter—”
“That’s a big if.”
The voice—Harry’s voice—came from above. Percy glanced up, and sure enough, there was Harry—lounging in the rafters, of all places. His legs dangled over the edge, and he held a doxy by its wings, examining it with far too much curiosity for someone who wasn’t actually helping.
Percy’s temper flared. “Do you plan to contribute, or are you just sightseeing?”
“Patience, Weasley.” Harry tossed the doxy aside and stretched his arms above his head like he wasn’t currently leaving Percy to be mauled. “I’ve got a plan.”
Percy fired off three more Stunners in rapid succession. “Wonderful. I feel much better.”
The doxies pressed in harder. Percy’s arms ached from casting spells—how many were there?—and the buzzing filled his ears. He could feel the venom burning where he’d been bitten.
Just as his aim faltered—just as a particularly large doxy dove toward his face—everything changed.
A flash of movement. Too fast to track.
Suddenly, the swarm of doxies shifted direction—not toward Percy, but toward Harry. Except Harry wasn’t where Percy had last seen him. Somehow, he’d slipped down from the rafters without a sound. He moved like a shadow, leading the creatures away with infuriating ease.
“What—how—?” Percy sputtered, watching as Harry weaved effortlessly between the doxies, still without drawing his wand. The grace in his movements was ridiculous.
Percy begrudgingly admitted—if only to himself—that Harry probably would have made a decent Seeker if he’d actually gone to Hogwarts. Too bad he hadn’t.
“Alright, that’s enough fun,” Harry drawled lazily. Then, without missing a beat, he raised his wand and murmured something under his breath.
The air around him shifted—thick and heavy with magic. Percy’s eyes widened as silver threads shimmered into existence, weaving a glowing net across the room. The doxies—every last one—flew straight into it, tangled themselves in the light, and dropped to the floor—bound and writhing.
Percy blinked. What was that?
He frowned as he studied the shimmering web. The charm looked advanced. Too advanced for a reckless, lazy idiot like Harry Potter. How the hell had he done it?
“Piece of cake,” Harry said, ruffling his hair as though he hadn’t just pulled off spellwork Percy didn’t recognize.
Before Percy could question it—before he could even get a word out—the daughter of their client appeared in the doorway. Wide-eyed. Flushed.
“Oh, Mr. Potter,” she practically purred, brushing her hair back as she gazed up at Harry with blatant admiration. “You were amazing! I don’t know what we would have done without you.”
Percy scowled. Of course.
Harry, ever the charmer, flashed her his most dazzling smile. “Always happy to help, love.”
And because life wasn’t fair, Harry looked as fresh and effortless as ever—windswept hair, easy confidence, not a scratch on him. Meanwhile, Percy felt like he’d been dragged through a hedge backward—which, to be fair, wasn’t far from the truth.
Sometimes, being Harry Potter’s partner was an exercise in pure misery.
---
Draco Malfoy had been having a bad few months.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was a Malfoy—heir to one of the most influential pureblood families in Britain. He had grown up in a manor larger than some castles, surrounded by house-elves, fine robes, and the best of everything. Malfoys didn’t run.
And yet—he had.
He hadn’t had a choice. After his father had been killed—murdered—his mother had wasted no time. She had shoved a bag of galleons into his hands, shrunk down a trunk with as many essentials as she could pack, and ordered him to run.
"They’ll come for you next," she had said, her voice colder and more urgent than he had ever heard it. "Don’t trust anyone. Don’t look back."
He had thought she would be fine. She was Narcissa Malfoy—no one crossed her and lived to tell the tale. But two weeks after his escape, the Daily Prophet’s front page screamed the headline:
"Narcissa Malfoy Found Dead in Wiltshire Manor—Family Line Extinct?"
Draco had nearly gone back right then. Nearly.
But her words echoed in his ears—they’ll come for you next. Whoever "they" were, they had torn his entire world apart. His father—dead. His mother—dead. And he was nothing but a ghost now. A missing person. A footnote in the public gossip.
He didn’t know who to trust. Everyone wanted something from a Malfoy. And without his family’s power to back him, Draco was as vulnerable as anyone else.
So, he did what no Malfoy had ever done before. He disappeared.
The Muggle part of London was the last place anyone would expect to find a Malfoy heir. At first, it had felt like a temporary exile—a place to hide while he figured things out. But days bled into weeks. Weeks into months. And still, no plan emerged.
He had lost his wand during the escape—a humiliating, careless mistake. Without it, he was barely more than a helpless Muggle himself. The galleons his mother had given him had run out fast. London was cruel to the vulnerable. Now, his robes—once silk and velvet—were worn, threadbare, and dirty. His hair, always sleek and perfect, hung in tangled, greasy strands over his face. He blended in with the other street-dwellers—no one looked twice at another pale, hungry boy haunting the alleys.
Draco had never known what it meant to be cold before. Or hungry. Not truly. But now, his stomach twisted with constant emptiness, and the bitter wind cut through his too-thin coat, gnawing at his bones. Every day was the same—a struggle to find food, a safe place to sleep, and avoid the more dangerous parts of the city.
He was tired. So, so tired.
And miserable.
A part of him—the proud Malfoy part—hated himself for being so weak. For hiding. Another part—the part that had grown up spoiled and sheltered—wanted to scream at the injustice of it all.
But mostly, he just felt… numb.
Tonight, the cold was sharper than usual. The sky hung heavy and gray, promising rain. Draco walked along the edge of the Thames, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, trying to ward off the chill. His ribs ached. He didn’t know if it was from the cold or from how little he’d eaten.
Life couldn’t possibly get worse.
He should’ve known better than to think that.
Because, of course, that’s when it happened.
His boot—too worn to have any grip—slipped on a patch of slick, wet stone. For one heart-stopping moment, he flailed, trying to catch his balance. But the weight of his soaked coat dragged him down, and with a sickening lurch—he fell.
The icy water swallowed him whole.
Cold.
It wasn’t just cold—it was freezing. The chill punched the air from his lungs, and panic seized his chest as the current yanked him under. His arms flailed uselessly against the water, and for a terrible, breathless moment, Draco couldn’t tell which way was up.
When he broke the surface, gasping for air, the river pulled him further from the bank. His limbs felt heavy—too heavy. The water seemed to press against his chest, making it harder and harder to breathe.
"No—no—no—" His thoughts were frantic, jagged. He tried to swim, but the current was too strong, and his body—weakened by weeks of hunger and exhaustion—was giving out.
His mother’s voice echoed in his ears. Run, Draco. But there was nowhere left to run now.
His head dipped under again, and when he resurfaced, his vision was blurring—dark spots creeping in at the edges.
He was going to die here.
After everything—after surviving the fall of his family, after enduring months on the streets—this was how it would end. Alone. Forgotten. Another nameless body pulled from the river.
He was drowning.
And no one was coming to save him.
The thought struck him with a cruel finality as the cold pulled him under again, and this time—he couldn’t find the strength to fight it.
---
Percy was in a bad mood.
Not just the usual, everyday irritation that came from working with Harry Bloody Potter, but a deep, simmering frustration that had been building since they arrived at the job site. A simple warding assignment, Dumbledore had said. Quick and easy. And yet, somehow—because Potter was involved—it had turned into a complete disaster.
The doxy infestation should’ve been a minor inconvenience. Instead, it had nearly eaten him alive while Potter pranced around like some untouchable golden boy, dodging the vicious little beasts with ease and barely breaking a sweat. And to top it all off? Once the job was done—a job Percy had to finish by himself—Harry was now standing by the garden gate, flirting with the client’s daughter like they weren’t supposed to be on a professional assignment.
"I should’ve hexed him when I had the chance," Percy thought bitterly as he scrawled his signature across the magical ledger, officially sealing the wards in place. His robes were torn at the sleeve, his hair was a mess, and his fingers were still stinging from doxy bites. Meanwhile, Potter looked like he’d just stepped out of bed—wild-haired, windswept, and infuriatingly charming.
The girl giggled at something Harry said, brushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear as she promised to write to him. Of course, she would. Potter probably had a whole collection of swooning admirers who sent him letters scented with perfume and sealed with kisses.
Percy clenched his jaw, marching over and grabbing Harry by the arm. "We’re leaving," he snapped, dragging him away before he could make even more of a scene.
Harry, naturally, was unbothered.
"Jealous, Weasley?" he teased as they walked down the path. "You could’ve joined the conversation, you know. She had a friend—seemed your type. Very sensible."
Percy glared at him. "I’m not here to socialize. Some of us take our work seriously."
Harry laughed softly. "If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you didn’t enjoy my company. But that can’t be true—who else would brighten your dull, little life?"
Percy refused to dignify that with a response. He was too busy planning new and creative ways to hex Potter when they got back. Maybe he’d convince McGonagall to turn him into a ferret.
But just as Harry was about to launch into another insufferable joke, he suddenly stopped mid-step. His easygoing expression faded, eyes narrowing as he turned his head toward the river in the distance.
Percy, still fuming, nearly collided with him. "What?" he demanded, annoyed.
Harry didn’t answer. His gaze sharpened, squinting toward the water like he was trying to see something no one else could. Without a word, he pivoted and started walking briskly toward the riverbank.
"Potter—" Percy called, hurrying after him. "What are you doing? We finished the job."
Harry didn’t slow down. "Huh" he said, almost to himself. His voice was light, but there was an edge to it—a seriousness that sent a prickle of unease down Percy’s spine.
By the time Percy caught up, Harry had stopped at the edge of the embankment. The water was dark and churning, the current stronger than usual thanks to the recent rains.
Harry glanced over his shoulder, flashing him a grin that was far too cheerful for someone who had just sprinted across a field for no discernible reason. "You’re a good swimmer, right, Weasley?"
Percy blinked. "What—? Why does that—"
"And the current’s pretty strong," Harry continued, as though Percy hadn’t spoken. "I mean, you’d have to be mad to jump in."
A cold weight settled in Percy’s stomach. His wand hand twitched instinctively. "Potter," he said, slowly, warningly. "Whatever you’re thinking—don’t."
Harry just smiled—a bright, reckless smile that made Percy’s heart stop.
And then—he jumped.
"Are you INSANE?!" Percy roared, panic hitting him like a slap to the face. He bolted to the water’s edge, heart hammering as he tried to track Harry’s wild movement through the waves. The idiot was already being carried downstream, arms cutting through the water with an ease that made it seem like he had done this before.
"Stupid, arrogant—" Percy swore under his breath, yanking out his wand. But Harry was too far away for a simple Summoning Charm, and the uneven water made aiming anything else too risky.
He had no idea why Harry had jumped, but none of that mattered now. All that mattered was that his insufferable partner was going to drown if someone didn’t get to him.
And, of course, that someone had to be Percy.
"I should’ve been a bloody Slytherin," he thought grimly. But instead, he was a Gryffindor—which apparently meant diving headfirst into literal danger for people who didn’t deserve it.
Without giving himself time to second-guess, Percy shoved his wand into his belt, took a deep breath—and jumped.
The cold hit him like a physical blow. His lungs seized, and for a split second, he couldn’t breathe. The current dragged at his limbs immediately, the weight of his robes making it harder to stay afloat.
Through the rush of water in his ears, Percy barely made out the sound of Harry laughing—laughing—somewhere ahead of him.
"I’m going to kill him," Percy growled, fighting against the current and kicking hard to keep up. He pushed forward, his muscles burning with effort, cursing every life decision that had led to this exact moment.
He was going to save Harry Potter’s life—and then, without question, he was going to murder him.