Chapter 3
The first time Harry actually spoke to Malfoy after his release was at work.
“We have a new consultant,” Robards said one morning, walking by Harry’s desk.
Harry looked up quizzically.
“Mr. Malfoy will be assisting us with some unsolved cases relating to the war.”
A blond head popped out behind the Head Auror.
“Harry.” Malfoy said with one of his patented fake smiles. “I look forward to working with you.”
Half an hour later Harry was pacing in Robards office, wearing the carpet thin.
“Absolutely not!” He all but shouted, slamming his hands on his boss’s desk.
At the unimpressed look on Robards face, Harry took a step back, feeling slightly sheepish.
“Er, Sir.” He added after a moment.
Robards let out a tired sigh.
“Listen, Potter, I know it’s not ideal-”
“Not ideal?” Harry was incredulous.
“If you’ll let me finish?”
Harry slumped into the chair across from Robards.
“Sorry.”
“I know it’s not ideal, but he’s truly an asset. Malfoy's been in Azkaban for the past decade, spending every waking moment with other death eaters. He could prove useful in the hunt for the ones that got away.”
“What, like his father?” Harry scoffed.
“Yes, Harry. Like my father.” The silky smooth voice sent a shiver up Harry's spine. He felt his grip tighten on the armrests of his chair, body on high alert. Malfoy walked briskly into the office, stopping next to Harry and staring down at him with a polite smile plastered across his pointy face. “And his many associates," he added, placing a manila envelope on Robards's desk.
“The information you requested, sir," Malfoy offered, his full attention now on the Head Auror.
"Yes, thank you, Malfoy," Robards said with a short nod. Malfoy left the office without a second glance at Harry. Harry watched him go, his gait stiff and unfamiliar.
Over the next month and a half, Malfoy, much to Harry’s consternation, did prove useful.
He helped locate three missing death eaters who made their escape to the continent right after the war and had acquired a hefty collection of dark artifacts with plans to use them. He got the Aurors information about dark arts contraband, magical creature testing, and even got the tab at pub night a few times, earning him more than a few points with Harry’s colleagues.
It drove Harry to the brink.
“I just don’t understand,” he complained to Hermione at one of their weekly lunches at Level Nine — the new sandwich shop in Diagon.
“Why would he help the Aurors, or, or give back to charity or buy Ron a pint? It doesn’t make any sense. Why not just fuck off to the continent like his dear old dad and use his massive fortune to do as he pleases?”
Hermione eyed him over the top of her sandwich.
“Have you considered that he is doing as he pleases with his massive fortune? By donating to charity and helping the Aurors? It seems like he’s trying to make up for the past, Harry. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“There’s nothing right with it either,” Harry grumbled around a mouthful of chips. “Maybe it’s polyjuice!” He suggested after a moment.
“Yes, maybe some interloper is posing as Malfoy and rebuilding his name in society to…oh yeah, what end again?” Hermione asked, taking a final bite of her BLT. She rolled her eyes before Harry could answer, pinning him with a look he did not care for. “You could always find out,” she suggested, delicately wiping her mouth with a napkin.
“How?” Harry asked warily.
“Spend time with him,” Hermione shrugged. “Spend time with him.” He repeated flatly.
“Sure. If you notice him drinking something every hour, maybe it’s polyjuice. If he doesn’t, and doesn’t transform into someone else, well maybe it’s Malfoy and you give up this crazy obsession.”
“It’s not an obsession Hermione,” Harry said earnestly, but the thought of observing Malfoy outside his comfort zone did have a certain appeal to it.
“But I guess I could ask him to get drinks…”
“Right.” She cut him off before he could go on, looking sharply at her watch.
“Look, I’ve got to go but let me know how your date with Malfoy goes.”
“It’s not a date!” Harry called after her as Hermione left the shop, earning him some raised eyebrows from other customers.
“Well, it’s not,” he said grumpily to himself, turning his attention back to his own untouched sandwich.
**
“Of course I’ll have drinks with you, Harry,” Malfoy practically purred. “I’ve been wanting to get…reacquainted.”
Harry suppressed a shudder. He knew it was a mistake the moment he asked, but he was going to see it through. At 6 o'clock sharp Harry walked into the bar to see Malfoy had already snagged them a booth. He slid into the seat across from Malfoy, eyeing the drink in front of him with suspicion.
“Yeah, I’m not feeling much of a firewhiskey, thanks though.” Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Of course.” With a snap of his fingers it was gone, and when had Malfoy learned to do wandless magic?
“What shall I get you instead?”
“Nothing,” Harry replied, shaking his head. Look Malfoy—”
“Draco.”
“What?”
“You may call me Draco. It is my name after all.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “Alright, Draco then.”
“I feel we may have gotten off on the wrong foot, Harry.” If Harry did have a drink he would have choked on it. Instead he stared blankly at his schoolboy rival.
“What, you mean like when we were 11?” Malfoy blinked. “Precisely. And now I would like to correct that. There’s nothing I’d like more than to be friends.”
The night went on in that manner. Harry, looking for clues that something was off, trying to provoke Malfoy into being more like himself and Malfoy failing to rise to the bait, instead behaving perfectly pleasantly.
By the end of the night, Harry hadn’t seen any signs of polyjuice. And the secret diagnostic charms he performed under the table came up empty. Harry left feeling even more confused than before and with an invitation to a charity ball at Malfoy Manor the following month.