Fractured Facades
Harry’s feet moved of their own accord as he made his way through the Ministry of Magic’s bustling atrium, the thrum of voices and shuffle of papers blending into a background hum that barely registered. His mind was elsewhere—racing through fragments of the previous night, of everything that had gone horribly wrong. Malfoy shackled and beaten. The explosion. Grimmauld Place. Everything.
Merlin, what was he thinking?
He pushed open the doors to the Auror Office, nodding absently to a few colleagues as he slipped inside, his body on autopilot. The familiar smell of parchment and ink greeted him, along with the low murmur of Aurors exchanging updates on their cases. It should have felt grounding, comforting even, but right now, it only served to highlight the dissonance between the mundane routine and the utter chaos that churned inside him.
He needed to focus. To get his head on straight. But how was he supposed to do that when the image of Draco Malfoy, bruised and broken in that dark cellar, kept flashing behind his eyes?
Forcing himself to breathe evenly, Harry made his way to his desk, slipping into the chair and shuffling through the stack of unfinished reports and neglected paperwork that had piled up in his absence. He stared at the first sheet on top—something about the new protocol for handling rogue Portkeys—but the words swam in front of his eyes, blurring into meaningless lines of text.
“Harry,” a familiar voice called softly, and Harry glanced up, blinking.
Owen Bramble stood beside his desk, his expression somewhere between concerned and curious. Tall and lean, with a mop of sandy-brown hair and a youthful eagerness that belied his keen instincts, Owen was a few years younger than Harry, but he’d made a solid name for himself as a dependable Auror. He looked up to Harry, though he’d never said it outright. It was in the way he deferred to Harry’s judgment, how he tried to mirror his work ethic, how he never questioned when Harry asked for a favor.
Like covering for him when Harry had been off chasing ghosts. Or, more accurately, stalking an imposter.
“You alright?” Owen asked quietly, studying him with those sharp blue eyes that were just a little too perceptive for Harry’s liking. “You’ve been gone a lot this week. Was it... you know... something?”
Something. Right. Harry forced a tight smile, shaking his head. “Nah, it was nothing. Just a dead end,” he lied smoothly, though he hated the taste of the words even as he said them. “Thought I was onto something, but... it didn’t pan out.”
Owen’s brow furrowed, clearly not entirely convinced. “That’s not like you. You don’t usually spend days chasing a dead end.” There was no judgment in his voice, only confusion and a tinge of concern.
Harry shrugged, glancing back down at the pile of reports on his desk. “Sometimes you have to trust your instincts, even when they’re wrong.”
“Right,” Owen murmured, his gaze still fixed on Harry’s face. Then, just as quickly, he seemed to shake off the scrutiny, slipping back into his usual easygoing demeanor. “Well, whatever it was, it kept you busy. Looks like you’ve got a mountain of work to catch up on. Need any help?”
Harry exhaled slowly, letting out a small, humorless chuckle. “Yeah, I probably should get back to my regular cases. Might as well try to make a dent in it.”
“Tell you what,” Owen offered, leaning casually against the side of Harry’s desk. “If you need anything—anything at all—you let me know. I’m around. Just say the word.”
The sincerity in his voice caught Harry off guard. It was strange, being on the receiving end of such unwavering loyalty. Owen didn’t know the details, didn’t know what Harry had been risking or what he’d been chasing after, but he was still here, willing to back him up without question.
“Thanks, Owen,” Harry said quietly, meeting his partner’s gaze. “I appreciate it.”
“Anytime, mate,” Owen replied with a lopsided grin, pushing off from the desk and giving Harry a quick nod.
Harry managed a weak smile, but it faded as soon as Owen turned away and headed back to his own desk. Alone again, Harry let out a long breath, leaning back in his chair as he stared blankly at the reports in front of him.
Get a grip, Potter, he told himself sternly. Focus. You’re at work. Act normal.
But every time he tried to concentrate, his mind dragged him back to Grimmauld Place—to Malfoy’s pale face, to the hoarse rasp of his voice as he’d begged Harry not to go to the Ministry, not to call for help. His instincts had been screaming at him the entire time, and now...
Now he was stuck. Torn between duty and gut instinct. Torn between doing what was right and doing what was necessary.
A stack of parchment toppled over on his desk, snapping him out of his thoughts. Harry muttered a curse under his breath, hurriedly shuffling the sheets back into some semblance of order.
Focus. Get through the day. Then… figure out what to do next.
-
After spending the entire morning buried in a mountain of paperwork, Harry finally looked up as the door to the Auror Office creaked open and a familiar figure with a mop of red hair strode in.
“Oi, Potter!” Ron called out cheerfully, holding up a small metallic cube in his hand. “Guess what I brought for you today!”
Harry blinked, then broke into a genuine smile despite himself. Ron’s presence always seemed to bring a bit of normalcy with it, even when the world felt like it was teetering on the edge of insanity. He glanced around to see several heads turning to look at the ex-Auror, who had the habit of dropping in unannounced.
“Hello to you too, Ron,” Harry replied, his curiosity piqued as his eyes darted to the object clutched in his friend’s hand. “What’ve you got there?”
“This,” Ron said dramatically, stepping over to Harry’s desk and plopping the device down with a flourish, “is George’s latest creation. Fresh out of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.”
Owen Bramble, who had been organizing a pile of parchment on his desk beside Harry’s, looked over curiously. The small cube glittered under the soft office lights, etched with a series of delicate runes around its edges. “What is it?” he asked, leaning forward.
“It’s a Scene-Marker Cube,” Ron announced proudly. “Just set it down, twist the runes, and boom—it’ll record a perfect, three-dimensional map of whatever room it’s activated in. Everything. Spells, objects, and even disturbances. Like taking a photo of the whole space, but better.”
Owen’s eyes widened. “For Auror investigations?” he asked, clearly impressed.
“Exactly,” Ron said with a grin. “It’s designed to create a reference record of a scene before it gets contaminated. Makes it easier for Aurors to analyze crime scenes later. George’s added a few features to help you detect magical residue, too. Thought it might come in handy, what with your line of work.”
Harry picked up the cube, turning it over in his hands. He could see the utility of such a device, especially for cases that involved complex magical interactions or tampering. “This is brilliant, Ron,” he said sincerely. “Kingsley’ll want a few of these, I’m sure.”
Ron beamed. “That’s the idea. Brought one over to see if it actually does what it’s supposed to. Give it a whirl, yeah? It’s supposed to create a projection you can examine from all angles.”
“Wow,” Owen murmured, his eyes practically glowing. “That’s—yeah, that would be useful. Especially if it works as well as you say.”
“It’ll give you a good look at the scene, like you’re standing in it again. Might help catch something you missed the first time around,” Ron added, clearly proud of George’s work.
“Yeah,” Harry said quietly, slipping the cube into his pocket. “I’ll definitely try it out.”
“But first,” Ron said with a grin, crossing his arms and arching a brow, “you’re taking me to see Hermione.”
“I don’t know, Ron—”
“Nope,” Ron interrupted cheerfully, wagging a finger. “Not listening. Last time I showed up alone, Kingsley practically threw me out for lack of clearance. Didn’t believe I was just there to visit my lovely wife,” he added with a mock haughty tone, then winked. “So you’re my ticket in, mate. Let’s go.”
Harry let out a resigned sigh. “Alright, fine. But I’ve got a mountain of work waiting for me. This is a quick trip.”
Ron nodded as if in agreement, but the mischievous glint in his eyes suggested otherwise. “Lead the way, then, partner.”
They stepped out into the corridor, and as soon as they were a few paces away from the Auror Office, Ron glanced at him sideways.
“So, how’s your... stalking going?” Ron asked, his voice pitched low and casual.
Harry nearly stumbled. “What?”
Ron shot him a sidelong look, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “You know—your favorite ferret friend,” he clarified, raising an eyebrow. “Last I heard, you were still tailing him. Managed to catch him yet, or did he hop on a Portkey to America before you could drag him in?”
Harry’s chest tightened. He forced a half-hearted laugh, shaking his head. “No, I... I think I missed my chance. He’s probably gone by now.”
There was a pause. Ron’s gaze sharpened slightly, and the humor in his eyes dimmed. “Really?” he murmured softly. “Just like that?”
Harry nodded, forcing himself to stay calm. “Yeah. Didn’t seem to be as serious as I thought.” Harry’s throat felt tight. The lie sat heavy in his stomach, guilt twisting unpleasantly as he tried to keep his expression neutral.
Ron hummed thoughtfully but said nothing more. Instead, he looked away, a small frown creasing his forehead. Harry bit the inside of his cheek, resisting the urge to apologize. What could he say? That he hadn’t just missed Malfoy, but had found him beaten and broken? That he was hiding the man—protecting him?
No. He couldn’t involve Ron in this. Not when he didn’t even know what he was dealing with himself.
The rest of the walk passed in silence, tension simmering just beneath the surface. When they finally arrived at the Office of the Minister, Ron visibly brightened, quickening his pace as they approached the entrance.
Harry watched his friend, a pang of something bittersweet twisting in his chest. As much as he hated lying, he couldn’t deny that seeing Ron like this—content, genuinely happy to visit Hermione—made him feel... lighter, somehow.
Ron’s eyes lit up when he spotted his wife through the glass partition of her office. “Hello, my lovely wife!” he called out cheerfully as they stepped inside.
Hermione glanced up, her face softening into a radiant smile the moment she saw him. “Ron!” she exclaimed, pushing back from her desk. “I wasn’t expecting you so early.”
“Told you I’d be here for lunch,” Ron replied, wrapping his arms around her and pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. He glanced over at Harry, smirking. “And look—I even brought our wayward friend along.”
Hermione’s smile widened as she turned to Harry. “Come with us, Harry. It’ll be nice to catch up.”
“I was just delivering Ron,” Harry said gently, shaking his head. “I really should get back. My desk looks like a bomb went off.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed, a flash of something—disappointment, worry—crossing her features. “Are you sure?”
Harry swallowed hard. “Yeah. Next time, though. I promise.”
Hermione’s eyes lingered on his face for a moment longer, searching. Harry held his breath, bracing himself for the inevitable questions, the sharp insight she never seemed to miss.
But just as her mouth opened, the door to the office swung inward, and Kingsley step inside.
Kingsley’s tall figure filled the doorway, his imposing presence casting a shadow across the room. He raised a brow, his gaze landing immediately on Ron. “You know you’re not supposed to be here, Weasley.”
Ron straightened up, giving Kingsley a sheepish smile. “I was just dropping by to escort my lovely wife to lunch.” He turned to Hermione, grabbing her hand and tugging her gently toward the door. “And, see? I’m leaving already. No harm done.”
Kingsley’s stern expression softened slightly, though his lips pressed into a thin line. “See that you are, then.”
“Absolutely!” Ron replied cheerfully, flashing Harry a brief, meaningful look. “See you later, mate. Don’t get buried in all that paperwork.”
Harry forced a small smile. “Yeah. See you.”
With a quick nod, Ron led Hermione out of the office, murmuring something low and reassuring as they stepped into the hallway. Harry watched them go, his heart sinking. A part of him wanted to run after them, to tell them everything—to dump the entire mess into his best friends' laps and ask them what the hell he should do now.
But he couldn’t. Not yet.
“Potter.”
Kingsley’s deep voice cut through his thoughts like a knife, and Harry jerked his attention back to the Minister, who was watching him with a shrewd, assessing gaze.
“Minister,” Harry said quickly, straightening up. “I was just… uh, stopping by.”
“I see,” Kingsley murmured, his eyes narrowing slightly. He stepped further into the room, folding his arms across his broad chest. “How’s everything going? You’ve been… out a lot lately.”
Harry’s pulse quickened. He forced himself to maintain eye contact, to keep his voice steady. “Everything’s fine. Just working on a few leads.”
Kingsley nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “Right. Let me know if you need any support.” There was a brief pause, then his gaze sharpened. “Or if something comes up that needs more attention.”
Harry’s stomach churned. There was something in Kingsley’s tone—something almost… expectant.
Could Kingsley be involved? The thought made Harry’s skin crawl. But that made no sense. Kingsley had always been straightforward, solid. Why would he ever be mixed up in something as twisted as Malfoy’s kidnapping?
“I… I will,” Harry said finally, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. “But for now, I should get back.”
Kingsley didn’t move, his gaze lingering on Harry for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Then, with a curt nod, he stepped aside, gesturing toward the door. “Carry on, then.”
Harry swallowed hard, his mind whirling as he turned on his heel and strode out of the office, feeling Kingsley’s gaze boring into his back the entire time. As soon as he was free of the room, he let out a shuddering breath, his shoulders sagging with a tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding.
Focus. Just get out of here.
He made it barely three steps down the corridor before he collided head-on with a familiar blonde figure.
“Malfoy.”
The word slipped out before Harry could stop it, his stomach dropping as he stumbled back, staring in shock. The man standing before him looked exactly like Draco Malfoy—the same pointed chin, the same pale eyes, the same cold, refined sneer that Harry had seen countless times before. But it wasn’t him. It wasn’t.
The imposter.
“Potter,” the fake Malfoy drawled, his gaze flicking over Harry. “Fancy running into you here.”
Harry’s mouth went dry. He fought to keep his face neutral, to shove down the fury that roared to life in his chest. “I thought you’d be in America by now.”
The imposter’s lips curled into a faint, condescending smile, his gaze cool and steady. “Ah, yes. Well, it appears my plans have been slightly delayed.”
“Indeed,” came a voice to Harry’s left. Octavius Flint stepped up, his face open and friendly. He offered Harry a cheerful smile, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. “It seems Malfoy decided to postpone his departure. Just for a week or so. Isn’t that right, Draco?”
Harry forced himself to nod, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. How dare he? How dare he stand here, pretending to be Malfoy, speaking to people as if nothing was amiss? As if he hadn’t been torturing the real Malfoy just days ago?
Harry’s fingers twitched, his wand hand aching with the urge to hex that smug smile right off the bastard’s face.
But no. He couldn’t. Not here. Not now.
Get a grip, Potter.
“Right,” Harry managed, his voice strained. “Well, I just… thought you’d be gone by now.”
The imposter’s eyes gleamed with something Harry couldn’t quite place. “And miss out on all the fun?”
Harry’s grip tightened, but he forced himself to breathe. He needed to stay calm, needed to act natural. If the imposter was still here, that meant Harry had a chance—an opportunity to find out who was behind this, to catch the real culprits.
But first, he needed more information. He needed to understand exactly what was happening, and the only person who could give him that was currently lying in his guest room at Grimmauld Place.
“Well, I should get back to work,” Harry said abruptly, needing to get away before his self-control snapped.
“Of course, of course. Don’t let us keep you,” Flint said, waving him off with a casual smile.
Harry forced a thin smile, nodding stiffly. “Enjoy your day.”
Then he turned on his heel and strode away, forcing himself to walk, not run, even as his thoughts raced. He couldn’t believe the imposter was still in London, still keeping up the charade. But if the fake Malfoy was sticking around, then Harry had to use that. He needed to get back to Grimmauld Place, talk to the real Malfoy, and figure out what the hell was going on.
He quickened his pace, his mind whirling with the possibilities, with everything he might learn from Draco, with how he could finally gain some control over this entire situation.
But just as he reached the exit of the Ministry, a voice called out behind him.
“Harry, wait up!”
Harry turned to see Owen striding toward him, his face serious. “Robards wants us to check out a disturbance up north—something about unusual magical activity. We’ve got to head out now.”
A frustrated pang twisted in Harry’s chest. He could feel the precious time slipping through his fingers, the urgency to talk to Draco fading into the background of a new assignment. “Can’t it wait?” Harry asked, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice.
Owen shook his head. “Robards made it clear—we need to check it out immediately. You know how he gets when we drag our feet.”
Harry bit back a curse, glancing toward the exit, where freedom—where answers—waited just beyond the door. But he couldn’t refuse, not without raising suspicion. With a deep sigh, he nodded reluctantly. “Alright, let’s go.”
And with one last, lingering look toward the outside world, Harry followed Owen down the corridor, his thoughts still tangled with everything he’d left behind at Grimmauld Place.