Chapter 7
Draco found himself wondering—not for the first time—how exactly he’d ended up buried under so much paperwork. And then he remembered.
Because he was a sucker.
After the meeting, Harry and Percy had been assigned the delightful task of filing reports from their previous missions. Ron and Hermione were combing through the latest intelligence. Everyone else had left—except for Ginny, who had whined to her father with all the grace of a petulant child until he allowed her to stay. Apparently, she was here to go through her coursework with Hermione and Percy’s help, but Draco had a nagging suspicion there was another reason.
She hadn’t stopped glaring at him since Dumbledore left the room.
Draco didn’t know what her problem was, but he was starting to really hate her and it was clear the feeling was mutual—if not stronger on her end, judging by the narrow-eyed death glare she was currently sending his way.
Meanwhile, Harry Potter—the root cause of all Draco’s current grievances—was perched on a chair across the room, humming cheerfully to himself as though he didn’t have a care in the world. Which, of course, made sense—he wasn’t doing any of his work.
No, that thankless task had fallen to Draco. Because Harry Potter was a charming, manipulative arsehole with brilliant green eyes, and Draco… well. Draco was a sucker.
Percy was glaring at his partner with the intensity of a disappointed parent, while also managing to shoot disapproving glances at Draco—because apparently, being manipulated into doing Harry’s work was just as bad as shirking it.
Harry, in response, flashed one of those smiles—the kind that somehow managed to be both charming and infuriating—at Percy, who only looked more irritated.
Even Hermione, ever the voice of reason (and judgment), sighed loudly. "Honestly, Harry, if you're not going to do your paperwork, you could at least help me with the intel."
Harry tilted his head, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "I could," he agreed, as though the thought had never occurred to him before. "Would I? Different question."
Ron, sitting in the corner, just looked jealous—and miserable. Draco wasn’t sure if it was the fact that Harry could get away with anything or that he himself could not.
Ginny, on the other hand, seemed to be deeply regretting her decision to stay. If she thought hanging around would somehow keep an eye on Draco, she had grossly miscalculated. Both Hermione and Percy were merciless when it came to schoolwork, and the two of them were grinding her down with an enthusiasm that was almost impressive.
"This is pointless," Ginny groaned, slamming her quill down in frustration. "I mean—Harry didn’t need his N.E.W.T.s, so I’ll be fine without them, too!"
Percy scoffed loudly, barely looking up from his meticulously organized pile of reports. "That’s too low a bar to set for yourself," he said, voice dripping with disdain.
Harry just laughed, utterly unbothered by the insult, and with an unfair amount of charisma, turned all his attention—and charm—on Ginny.
"Not everyone can pull off being a delinquent, Gin," he said, his grin wicked and disarming.
Ginny, despite her best efforts, turned a little pink. It wasn’t fair how easily Harry could sway people when he wanted to—but Draco, for one, was not going to fall for it... Not again, anyway.
Ron suddenly perked up, breaking the monotony of paperwork and school assignments. "Hey—did you hear? Bill’s coming in tomorrow." His voice held a rare note of excitement, and it was enough to draw everyone’s attention.
Percy immediately frowned, setting down his quill with a delicate precision that suggested his brain was already ticking away at potential implications. "Why?" he asked, his tone sharp and suspicious—because, of course, everything had to be examined from every possible angle.
Ron shrugged. "Apparently, he’s got a potential client he’s bringing over. No idea who, though."
Percy hummed softly, his fingers tapping against the desk as he mulled that over, while Ginny, on the other hand, lit up like a Christmas tree. "Bill’s coming?" she repeated, barely restraining her delight. "Why didn’t you say so earlier?"
Draco raised an eyebrow at her sudden enthusiasm. "He’s my favorite brother, you know," she added cheekily, as if that explained everything. And apparently, to her, it did.
Ron, to his credit, tried to look indignant at being so casually dismissed—but it was half-hearted at best. He sighed, flopping back into his chair in a show of exaggerated defeat. "Whatever. It’s not like I care."
As the conversation swirled around him, Draco found his attention slipping—not to the prospect of Bill’s arrival, but to Harry.
At first glance, Harry seemed as unbothered as ever, slouched in his chair, humming an aimless tune under his breath while twirling his quill between his fingers. But as Draco studied him, he caught it—a brief flash of thoughtfulness, an expression far too serious for someone who was supposedly carefree. It only lasted a moment, gone as quickly as it came, and the mask of casual indifference slipped back into place like it had never left.
The more time Draco spent around Harry, the more he was starting to realize something: the nonchalance wasn’t real—not entirely. It was a performance, one that occasionally cracked when Harry thought no one was paying attention.
And Draco, for reasons he wasn’t ready to unpack, found himself determined to figure out what was underneath it—and why Harry Potter felt the need to hide behind that easy, careless smile.
The rest of the day dragged on, the hours ticking by in a haze of parchment, ink stains, and the occasional muttered insult under Draco’s breath—mostly directed at Harry, who, despite allegedly being on paperwork duty, seemed to be doing everything but actual work.
It wasn’t until lunch arrived—courtesy of Arthur Weasley, who stopped by under the pretense of checking on Ginny—that Draco had something pleasant to focus on.
As much as it pained him to admit, Molly Weasley was a fantastic cook. The warm, savory shepherd’s pie was better than most of the fancy, overpriced meals he’d had back at Malfoy Manor—and he knew for a fact that those had probably cost more than the monthly salary of anyone working here. The irony wasn’t lost on him.
After lunch, they returned to work—or rather, he returned to work. Harry, true to form, spent the afternoon goofing off with no remorse whatsoever.
By the time evening rolled around, Draco had made serious headway on the towering stack of paperwork, while Harry had somehow managed to contribute a grand total of absolutely nothing beyond his usual snark and charm.
When Percy finally set down his quill and announced, "That’s it for today. You’re all dismissed," Draco nearly sighed in relief.
Ginny and Ron, clearly sharing the sentiment, bolted for the Floo before Hermione could suggest they do anything resembling additional work.
Hermione, ever the responsible one, lingered just long enough to say her goodbyes. As she prepared to leave, she mentioned in an offhand tone, "I’m staying with the Weasleys these days. It’s… safer. For my parents."
Her voice was calm, but there was a flicker of sadness beneath the surface, and Draco—despite himself—felt a pang of sympathy.
When she and Percy followed the others into the Floo, Harry stretched his arms above his head with an exaggerated groan. "Merlin, I’m exhausted," he announced as they walked toward the fireplace.
Draco, outraged, snapped, "You didn’t even do anything!"
Harry just grinned lazily, clearly unrepentant, and groaned again for effect. Without waiting for a response, he stepped into the Floo and disappeared in a swirl of green flames.
Draco stood there for a moment, fuming quietly to himself. "Infuriating," he muttered, before following after him with an indignant huff.
When Draco arrived back at Grimmauld Place, he noticed that Remus Lupin had just returned as well, shaking off the cold from outside.
Draco still wasn’t entirely clear on what exactly the werewolf did for the Order. Any time he tried to prod for details, Remus was annoyingly evasive. Whatever his role was, it was evidently important—or at least secretive enough not to share with a newcomer.
Sirius Black, on the other hand, didn’t seem to do much besides exist as Lord Black. Draco had been told that Sirius had once been an Auror, but for some mysterious reason, he’d quit. The way both men grew uncharacteristically quiet when the topic came up made it obvious that the reason was… personal.
Still, whatever else Sirius did—or didn’t do—it was clear that a large chunk of the Order’s operations ran on Black family gold, and Grimmauld Place itself served as their headquarters.
Dinner was a quiet affair. Most of the conversation revolved around Order business, which Draco half-listened to while keeping an eye on Harry. For once, Harry seemed content to simply eat without chiming in with his usual snark or commentary, as though he were deliberately keeping himself outside the conversation.
After dinner, Harry and Draco made their way upstairs, leaving Sirius and Remus behind.
As they reached the landing, Harry stopped in front of a door to what was apparently his room and tilted his head toward it. "Good night, then," he said casually, already reaching for the knob.
On impulse, Draco leaned to peek inside—and Harry, catching the motion, turned to him with a familiar, infuriating grin. "Hoping for an invite, Malfoy?" he teased, his voice low and playful.
Draco scoffed, ignoring the heat creeping up his neck. "Please. I was just curious—your room’s smaller than mine."
Harry hummed, apparently indulging Draco’s inspection. He pushed the door open wider, letting Draco take a better look. The room was… modest, to say the least. Certainly nothing like the lavish space Draco was used to, or even the room he’d been given here.
"Only Sirius’s room, the master bedroom, and the room you’re in are the bigger ones. I didn’t fancy the master bedroom—gave me the creeps." His mouth twisted in mock horror before shrugging "Everything else is just a guest room—standard size."
That… didn’t make much sense to Draco. He frowned, leaning against the doorframe. "If you’re staying here permanently—and you’re Sirius’s godson—why didn’t you just take a bigger room?" His tone turned a little sharper as he added, "You should’ve taken Regulus Black’s room."
The effect was immediate.
For a split second, Harry froze—and the usual easy charm slipped, revealing something far more raw beneath the surface. His hand tightened on the doorframe, knuckles white.—his expression distant, as though Draco had unknowingly hit a nerve.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
Draco shifted uncomfortably. "...Are you okay?" he asked, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.
The question seemed to snap Harry out of whatever trance he’d slipped into. In the next breath, the charismatic façade was back in full force—bright, easy, as though nothing had happened. "I’m super low-maintenance, unlike you," Harry quipped, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I mean, you probably need that much space just for your clothes, right?"
Draco wanted to argue—but unfortunately, Harry wasn’t exactly wrong. The closet in his room at Malfoy Manor was, in fact, larger than the bedroom he occupied now. Still, that didn’t distract him from the feeling that Harry was… hiding something.
He hesitated, watching Harry closely, hoping—expecting—him to say more. But the moment passed, and instead of elaborating, Harry simply stretched his arms over his head and said, "Anyway. Good night, Malfoy."
And with that, he disappeared into his room, leaving Draco standing in the dimly lit hallway, feeling a strange mix of curiosity and disappointment.
---
The next day started much the same as the last—Draco found himself seated at the breakfast table with Harry, Remus, and Sirius. The conversation drifted lazily between Order business and pointless banter, neither of which Draco was particularly invested in. He was still too distracted by the strange moment the night before—Harry’s reaction to the mention of Regulus’s room lingered in the back of his mind like an unsolved puzzle.
But, of course, Harry gave no indication that anything had been wrong. He was the same as ever—casual, charming, and too good at deflecting.
When breakfast ended, Remus and Sirius remained behind. Apparently, Dumbledore wouldn’t be at the Three Broomsticks today—off on some school business—which meant their presence wasn’t required. Draco wasn’t particularly disappointed. It meant fewer distractions.
The walk to the Three Broomsticks was uneventful. Harry chatted idly, as if this were the most natural thing in the world—heading to a secret Order meeting with Draco Malfoy. And for some reason, Draco found it was getting easier to fall into the rhythm of these interactions. Easier than it had any right to be.
When they arrived, the tavern was quieter than usual—a few patrons scattered around the room. They found a table near the corner, and Harry ordered them coffee while Draco scanned the room with idle disinterest.
And then it started.
Harry, apparently, couldn’t help himself. With an easy smile and a glint in his too-bright green eyes, he leaned casually against the bar and struck up a conversation with Madam Rosmerta. His voice dropped to that smooth, flirtatious tone, and Draco could practically feel the warmth behind his words. Rosmerta, to her credit, seemed perfectly delighted, tossing her hair over her shoulder and flashing Harry a smile as she refilled their mugs.
Draco barely registered the warmth of the coffee in his hands. His jaw tightened.
Of course. Of course Harry Potter was a serial flirt. The boy couldn’t sit still for five minutes without charming someone—man, woman, it didn’t seem to matter. And worse, it seemed utterly effortless.
The irritation came in a slow, burning wave—annoyance that Harry couldn’t take anything seriously, that he could flash a smile and have the world at his feet. And perhaps, if Draco were being honest, the irritation came from the fact that Harry wasn't looking just at him like that. He seemed to be just one of many.
He was drowning in his own frustration when a sudden flash of red hair caught his eye. Draco shifted his gaze and found Ginny Weasley, sitting a few tables over. And the moment he registered the expression on her face—pinched and irritated, her eyes narrowed in displeasure as she observed the laughing bar maid—Draco’s scowl vanished.
Merlin’s beard, he was not going to turn into her.
He tore his gaze away, straightening in his seat and smoothing out his expression. He refused—refused—to become some lovesick, pining idiot like Ginny Weasley.
Across from him, Harry slid back into his seat, entirely unbothered, cradling his coffee with a pleased little smile. "Rosmerta’s in a good mood today," he said, far too satisfied with himself.
Draco rolled his eyes and took a deliberate sip of his coffee, willing the heat to chase away the strange tightness curling in his stomach. "Do you ever stop flirting?" he drawled, hoping his voice came off as bored rather than tense.
Harry grinned, the picture of innocence. "Why? Jealous?"
"No," Draco snapped, a little too quickly.
Harry laughed softly, and for some infuriating reason, the sound made Draco’s heart stutter.
The sound of Minerva McGonagall’s brisk footsteps echoed through the tavern before she even stepped into view. When she did, her expression was as sharp and no-nonsense as ever, though Draco could swear there was a faint glimmer of exasperation when her gaze swept over Harry, who was still slouched in his seat, halfway through his second cup of coffee.
“Potter. Malfoy,” she greeted curtly with a nod. “Upstairs. Now.”
Harry groaned dramatically, dragging himself out of his chair with all the enthusiasm of someone facing certain death. Draco followed, rolling his eyes at Harry’s antics as they trailed after McGonagall toward the Order's office above the tavern.
The air shifted the moment they stepped inside—a mix of parchment, ink, and the faint scent of wood polish. It was far quieter up here, save for the sound of quills scratching against parchment where Percy, Hermione, and Ron were already hard at work.
“As you know,” McGonagall began crisply, shutting the door behind her, “we still have paperwork to finalize for the last two missions. That responsibility falls on you, Mr. Potter, and Mr. Weasley.” Her eyes flashed toward Harry with a pointed look. “And no, Mr. Potter, you will not be avoiding it today.”
Draco barely suppressed a smirk as Harry gave a long-suffering sigh.
“Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger will be focused on research—our contacts have provided new intelligence that may prove useful. Once Bill arrives with the client, the two of you will assess them.” She cast a glance at Ron and Hermione, who both nodded seriously. “If they check out, you’ll take up the job.”
With that, McGonagall snapped her notebook closed. “I expect professionalism from all of you,” she finished, giving Harry one last meaningful look before turning briskly on her heel and leaving them to it.
As soon as the door shut behind her, Percy wasted no time. “Harry,” he said sharply, “you’re not skiving off today.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Harry muttered, dropping into a chair and flicking his wand lazily to summon a stack of reports. Draco, watching with a detached sort of interest, noted the faint pout on Harry’s lips—one that Percy, clearly, had no patience for.
“Slower than this, and we’ll be here until next week,” Percy snapped as Harry filled in the forms with exaggerated slowness, his quill scratching across the parchment at a painfully deliberate pace.
“Can’t rush perfection, Perce,” Harry drawled, flashing him a grin that didn’t do much to soften Percy’s scowl.
Draco, comfortably settled at his own station, was grateful for Percy’s vigilance. He wasn’t about to get suckered into doing Harry’s work again. Not that he had been suckered yesterday. Of course not.
Still, the minutes stretched painfully on as Harry’s half-hearted approach to paperwork wore down everyone’s patience—especially Percy’s. Hermione, clearly exasperated, didn’t bother to hide the eye roll she shot at Harry, while Ron just grumbled under his breath, pretending not to look miserable as he flipped through an enormous tome.
Even Draco, despite his best efforts to tune out the chaos, found himself increasingly irritated by Harry’s refusal to pick up the pace. But, of course, Potter seemed to find all of this utterly amusing—his humming growing louder whenever Percy’s jaw tightened in frustration.
By the time afternoon rolled around, Draco was ready to snap his own quill in half just to break the monotony. The tension was nearly palpable when, finally, the door creaked open and a familiar voice cut through the room.
“Hope I’m not interrupting.”
All heads turned toward the doorway, where Bill Weasley stood, leaning against the frame with his usual easy confidence. His long red hair was pulled back in a loose tie, and the faint glint of a fang earring flashed as he smiled.
Ginny, predictably, lit up at the sight of her favorite brother, practically beaming with excitement. Ron perked up immediately, pushing aside his research with obvious relief.
“Bill!” Ginny called out, standing up so quickly her chair nearly tipped over.
“Hey, Firecracker,” Bill greeted warmly, ruffling her hair as she tackled him with a hug. “Miss me?”
“You’re never around anymore,” Ginny huffed, though the fondness in her voice was impossible to miss.
Bill chuckled, glancing toward the rest of the room before his gaze landed on Harry—and softened, just a little. “You keeping out of trouble, Potter?”
Harry, leaning back lazily in his chair, grinned. “Define trouble.”
Bill shook his head with a laugh before he cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention back to him. His usual confident demeanor was still there, but there was a faint hint of sheepishness beneath it—an unusual look for a man who typically seemed unfazed by anything.
“So,” he began, clapping his hands together once, “I’ve brought the client in question. She’s waiting downstairs.”
Hermione, ever the professional, sat up a little straighter. “What’s her story?” she asked briskly.
Bill hesitated—a rare occurrence in itself—and ran a hand through his ponytail, glancing toward Harry and Draco in particular. “Well… there’s something you should know before I bring her in.” He shifted his weight as though considering how to phrase it delicately. “She’s—uh—half-Veela.”
That earned immediate reactions. Hermione raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, while Ron’s eyes widened in interest. Percy, to no one’s surprise, looked vaguely scandalized.
Bill held up a hand. “I just wanted to give you a heads up—Veela magic can be… distracting for some people. Particularly men.” He shot a glance at Harry, who looked far too amused by this warning. “So, you know—brace yourselves.”
With that, he turned and called toward the door, “You can come in now.”
The door swung open smoothly, and the moment the woman stepped inside, Draco’s breath caught.
She was, without question, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her silver-blonde hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall, shimmering even under the dim lighting. Her skin was flawless, glowing with an ethereal light, and her features were sharp and delicate all at once—dangerously perfect.
But that wasn’t what struck Draco the most. What struck him was the fact that—despite her beauty—he felt… nothing.
Veela magic, after all, required one to be attracted to women for it to work properly. And Draco Malfoy decidedly was not.
The same, however, could not be said for Ron and Percy.
Ron, who had previously been slumped in his chair in boredom, suddenly sat up rigidly—his ears turning bright red as he gawked at her. Percy, despite his usual composure, seemed to be fumbling with his quill, his face growing increasingly flushed.
Draco could barely stop himself from rolling his eyes. Pathetic.
What caught his attention next, though, was Harry.
Unlike the others, Harry seemed utterly unbothered. In fact, if anything, he looked… entertained—like the whole situation was one big joke. His green eyes sparkled with poorly concealed amusement as he leaned back in his chair, watching Percy’s awkward attempts to maintain dignity.
That was… interesting.
Draco knew there were only two ways to resist Veela magic. Either you needed enough willpower to throw off an Imperius Curse—which was no easy feat—or… you simply had to not be attracted to the female gender in the first place.
His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied Harry’s expression.
Which one was it?
And why did Draco suddenly feel so curious to find out?
Hermione, ever the professional, snapped out of her surprise first. With a scowl in Ron’s direction—who still seemed to be struggling not to drool—she took control of the situation.
“Right,” she said briskly, rising to her feet and fixing the Veela woman with a no-nonsense expression. “Why don’t you tell us exactly what you need from us?”
Ginny, standing beside her, looked no more pleased. In fact, she was glaring daggers at the woman, though a hint of smugness crept into her features when she cast a glance at Harry. He was still leaning back casually in his chair, as unaffected as ever, watching the chaos unfold with visible amusement.
If Harry Potter was immune to Veela charms, Ginny seemed to think that was very good news.
The woman, however, did not seem fazed by the hostility. With the poise of someone accustomed to admiration, she stepped forward, her accent thick and unmistakably French. “My name is Fleur Delacour,” she introduced herself, her voice smooth and lilting. “I work in the logistical division at Gringotts.”
“And what exactly is the problem?” Hermione prompted, all business as she pulled a blank parchment toward her, quill poised.
Fleur’s expression grew serious. “We have been experiencing… how do you say—thefts. Items are going missing from secure vaults, and the evidence suggests it is an inside job.” She folded her arms, her perfectly manicured fingers tapping against her sleeve. “I cannot trust anyone under me to investigate without raising suspicion, so I was hoping someone from the Order could assist. I need traps laid—something subtle—to catch the culprit.”
Hermione hummed thoughtfully, already scribbling notes. “Sounds like a job for the twins,” she mused. “But since they’re not available…” She glanced at Ron, who had finally managed to tear his eyes away from Fleur but still looked vaguely starstruck. She sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to handle it.”
“If Ron can manage to stop being an idiot, that is,” she muttered under her breath.
Draco snorted softly, earning a glare from the redhead, but Harry—of course—just grinned wider.
Hermione shook her head and continued writing, quickly collecting the details Fleur provided. When she was satisfied, she handed the paperwork to Percy, who was valiantly trying to maintain his composure. His ears, however, were still pink, and he barely managed to meet Fleur’s gaze as he accepted the documents.
Harry, clearly enjoying Percy’s discomfort, looked moments away from bursting into laughter. His lips twitched as he leaned back further, balancing his chair on two legs like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Meanwhile, Fleur’s attention had shifted—to Draco.
“You,” she said, a faint, interested smile curling her lips. “Yoh look familiar.” Her gaze swept over him in an appraising manner that made Draco’s spine straighten instinctively. “What is your name?”
For a moment, Draco almost blurted out his real name—and then immediately cursed himself for being an idiot. He opened his mouth to answer, when—
“Scorpius Smith,” Harry interrupted smoothly, still perfectly relaxed but with a distinct gleam of mischief in his eyes.
Fleur raised a delicate eyebrow but seemed satisfied with the answer. “A pleasure, Scorpius.” Her smile softened into something playful. “Will you be accompanying them on this mission? I would not mind the company.”
Draco, who had fully intended to keep his head down and avoid unnecessary attention, felt something twist in his chest at the blatant invitation in her tone. Before he could think better of it, he said, “Actually, I’m free. Would it be all right if I went along?”
He glanced toward Percy, hoping the older Weasley would be too distracted to say no.
Percy, who was definitely distracted, barely looked up from the paperwork. “As long as Hermione keeps an eye on you, I don’t see why not,” he muttered absently.
Fleur seemed pleased by this turn of events, but Draco—perhaps foolishly—was more focused on the expression on Harry’s face.
Harry Potter, who could hardly be bothered to take anything seriously, looked positively delighted by the situation. His grin grew wider, and he looked away suddenly, as though whatever thought had crossed his mind was too amusing to share aloud.
Draco’s frown deepened. What, exactly, did Harry find so funny?