The arrangement
Chapter One: The Arrangement**
The rain was falling in a steady, unrelenting drizzle as Draco Malfoy stood at the gates of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. He had been to this house only once before, and that was under very different circumstances. The shadows of his past loomed as heavily as the dark sky above. Yet, the house did not feel like home, not even close. It felt cold and haunted—a place where all secrets came to die.
Draco’s heart sank as he turned the heavy, iron knocker on the door. He had barely managed to escape Azkaban, thanks to the new Ministry policy. As a former Death Eater, Draco was subject to a unique form of house arrest. Instead of languishing in the dark dungeons of the wizarding prison, he would be monitored closely under the watch of someone from the other side—someone who had fought against Voldemort. And of all the people in the world, *he* had to end up with Harry Potter.
The door creaked open with an ancient groan, and standing there, with his arms crossed, was the very last person Draco had wanted to face.
“Malfoy,” Harry Potter said, his voice flat, eyes narrow. The green of his eyes seemed colder than Draco remembered, as if they had long since burned away all traces of youthful idealism. There was no surprise in his voice, no warmth, just a resigned sort of irritation.
Draco's stomach twisted into knots. He had imagined this moment a hundred times in his head—what he would say, how he would act—but now that he was here, standing in front of Harry in the shadow of the very house that had seen so much pain, all of his rehearsed lines felt useless. The truth was, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be here, not in this strange sort of limbo the Ministry had decided was "justice."
“You’re late,” Harry added, his brow furrowing slightly.
Draco had expected something like that. It was a familiar tone—an old insult wrapped in the disapproval Harry had never failed to show him. It stung more than he cared to admit, and it made his hands tighten into fists at his sides. He looked down at the floor, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.
“I didn’t ask for this,” Draco muttered, though it was more to himself than to Harry.
“No one did,” Harry replied, stepping aside and gesturing for him to come in. The words weren’t particularly cruel, but they carried an undercurrent of something Draco had no name for. Maybe it was anger. Or maybe it was pity. He couldn’t tell.
Draco stepped inside reluctantly, glancing around the entryway. The house was darker than he remembered, and it still smelled faintly of dust and something musty, like old parchment. His eyes caught on the faded portraits lining the walls, their figures looking down at him with expressions of silent judgment. The weight of the house seemed to press in on him, just as the weight of his past did.
“Well?” Harry said, breaking the silence. “You just going to stand there?”
Draco took a breath and stepped further inside, dropping his bag onto the floor. He could feel Harry's gaze on him, still assessing, still unsure. Not that Draco blamed him. They had never been friends—never even allies. It had always been fight, fight, fight. The war had demanded it, and so they had done it, each playing their part.
But now? Now they were forced into something neither of them had asked for.
Harry closed the door behind them, sealing them in together. The heavy silence that followed was suffocating.
"How long will this last?" Draco asked, his voice sharper than he intended. He didn’t meet Harry's eyes. His anger wasn’t directed at Harry, but at the situation—at his own helplessness.
“Until the Ministry decides otherwise,” Harry replied shortly. “A few months, maybe longer. Depends on how well you play nice.” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling in a way that sounded more frustrated than Draco expected.
"I’m not a bloody prisoner, Potter," Draco snapped, turning on him. “I didn’t sign up for this. I didn’t ask for this!” He gestured vaguely to the grim surroundings of the house.
Harry's expression softened, just a fraction, but it was enough for Draco to notice. It didn’t make him feel better, but it made the situation feel less... confrontational, at least for a moment.
“Yeah, well, neither did I,” Harry muttered, his voice quieter. "But we don't always get to choose, do we?"
Draco couldn't help but snort. "No, we don't. We get told what to do, and we do it, or else we go to Azkaban."
“Exactly.”
Draco was silent then, staring at the faded wallpaper that peeled in patches by the staircase. What could he say? He had made his choices, just like Harry had made his. They were both here, in this strange arrangement, for the same reason: survival. The war had taken everything, and now it was asking for some kind of reconciliation—something neither of them knew how to offer.
Harry gestured to the sitting room. “You can make yourself comfortable. I’ll show you to your room later, but... I should let you know now—no magic unless it’s absolutely necessary. The house is enchanted to detect it. And no trying to run off,” Harry added, his eyes narrowing. “If you leave, the Ministry will know. And you’ll make things worse for yourself. Got it?”
Draco clenched his jaw. “I’m not a bloody idiot.”
Harry’s lips quirked, but it wasn’t exactly a smile. “You sure about that?”
Draco looked away, biting back a retort. Of course, Harry wouldn’t trust him. He hadn’t earned that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
“Just try not to be a nuisance, Malfoy,” Harry said, his tone light but edged with something sharp. “I’d rather we get through this without any more problems.”
“I’ll manage,” Draco muttered, though he wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
Without waiting for another word, Harry turned and began walking toward the narrow hallway that led deeper into the house. Draco hesitated for a moment, but then followed, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. It felt strange, following Harry—walking into a future neither of them had asked for, but both would have to endure.
As they reached the stairs, Harry glanced over his shoulder, his voice quieter now.
“It won’t be easy, Malfoy. You don’t have to like me. But we’re stuck with each other. So just... don’t make this worse than it has to be, yeah?”
Draco nodded, though the words stung. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be anywhere near Harry Potter, not after everything that had happened. But the Ministry had made this decision, and there was nothing he could do about it now. All he could do was endure.
And maybe, just maybe, in this strange, uncomfortable proximity, they could both find a way to heal. But Draco wasn’t holding his breath.