Dangerous Trust
The sky was just beginning to lighten when Harry and Owen finally wrapped up their investigation. A pale dawn crept over the rolling hills of the northern countryside, casting long shadows over the frost-covered ground. Harry stifled a yawn, feeling the exhaustion settle into his bones. They’d spent hours tracking the strange magical signatures, following erratic trails that had led them deep into the woods and back again, only to discover that the source of the disturbance wasn’t anything sinister after all—just a set of triplets manifesting accidental magic for the first time.
Harry rubbed a hand over his face, glancing at Owen, who looked just as tired. The younger Auror was leaning against a nearby tree, watching the magical residue fade with a faint smile, clearly amused by the whole ordeal. “At least it wasn’t dark wizards this time, right?” Owen joked, though the fatigue in his voice undercut the cheeriness.
Harry managed a tired smirk. “Yeah. Could’ve done without the wild goose chase, though.” He glanced at his watch—5:03 a.m. He hadn’t been home in nearly twenty-four hours, and he felt every minute of it weighing down on him. His first instinct was to get back to Grimmauld Place and collapse into bed, let the exhaustion carry him into a dreamless sleep.
But Malfoy was there.
The thought sent a fresh jolt of tension through him. He couldn’t just go home and rest—not while Draco Malfoy, of all people, was lying low in one of his guest rooms, a tangle of secrets and trauma that Harry knew he couldn’t ignore. He still had so many questions, and they couldn’t afford to waste time—whoever had done this to Malfoy was still out there, and Harry wasn’t about to let them slip away.
“Look, why don’t you just send a message to the Ministry that it’s all under control?” Harry said to Owen, his voice rough with fatigue. “Write up the report tomorrow. Get some rest.”
Owen looked like he might argue for a second, then sighed, nodding. “You too, Harry. We’ll catch up tomorrow at the office.”
Harry gave him a half-hearted wave as Owen prepared to Disapparate. “Yeah, see you then.”
With a crack, Owen vanished, leaving Harry alone in the early morning light. He took a deep breath, then focused on the tug of Apparition. A heartbeat later, he felt the familiar wrench behind his navel, and the world around him dissolved into darkness as he made his way back to Grimmauld Place.
Harry Apparated directly into the entryway of Grimmauld Place, landing with a muffled crack that echoed softly through the dimly lit hall. As the familiar shadows of the house enveloped him, he let out a weary breath. He barely had time to hang up his cloak before Kreacher appeared, bowing slightly as he had done countless times before.
“Master Harry,” the elf greeted in his gruff voice.
It wasn’t unusual, this welcome. Kreacher had often done the same when Harry came home, though he spent most of his time at Hogwarts these days, returning only occasionally to keep the house in order. But tonight, Harry found himself oddly comforted by the routine of it. He realized he’d missed having someone—anyone—acknowledge his arrival, even if it was just Kreacher.
“Kreacher,” Harry replied, nodding in acknowledgment. “How’s Malfoy?”
Kreacher’s large eyes flicked up to Harry’s face. “Master Draco is sleeping, sir. He rests as he should. And Master Harry should rest as well. Kreacher will prepare a bath for you.”
Harry blinked at that, a little thrown. Kreacher had never prepared a bath for him before. But the thought of a hot bath after the long night was tempting, and he could feel the exhaustion settling deep in his bones. “Alright,” he said finally. “But if Malfoy wakes up, let me know.”
Kreacher bowed again, then vanished with a soft pop. Harry shook his head, glancing up the stairs toward the guest room where Malfoy slept. He still needed to talk to him, but waking him now wouldn’t do any good. Besides, he could use a few minutes to unwind before diving into whatever new complications Malfoy’s presence would bring.
In the kitchen, Harry found a plate of eggs, toast, and sausages waiting for him. He sat down heavily, digging into the meal without much thought. The food was simple, but it did the job of filling the empty pit in his stomach, and the quiet of the kitchen wrapped around him like a worn-out blanket.
By the time he finished, Kreacher had reappeared, waiting silently at the doorway. “Master’s bath is ready,” the elf intoned, his expression unreadable.
Harry nodded, pushing back his chair as he stood. He followed Kreacher upstairs to the bathroom, where steam billowed softly from the filled tub, carrying the scent of herbs and warm water. Harry hesitated, noticing that Kreacher lingered in the doorway, watching him as if waiting for further instruction.
“I can take it from here, Kreacher,” Harry said, realizing the elf had no intention of leaving. He tried to keep his voice gentle but firm.
Kreacher’s eyes lingered on him for a moment before he bowed and stepped out of the room. “As Master wishes.”
Harry waited until he heard the faint click of the door before he began to undress, slipping into the hot water with a grateful sigh. The warmth seeped into his sore muscles, easing the aches from the long night’s work. He leaned back, letting the heat and the steam work their magic, allowing himself a few precious minutes of peace.
After soaking in the bath for a while, Harry climbed out, dried himself off, and pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms. His legs felt heavy as he made his way to his bedroom, the exhaustion settling deeper with every step.
He barely registered the feel of the cool sheets as he slipped into bed, closing his eyes with a sigh. He’d talk to Malfoy later.
-
The sunlight streaming through the gaps in the curtains stirred Harry from his sleep. He groaned, rolling over to check the time—10:37 a.m. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he sat up, feeling the stiffness in his muscles from the long night before. He had hoped to get a few more hours of rest, but the weight of everything hanging over him refused to let him linger in bed any longer. He needed to speak with Malfoy.
Harry threw on a wrinkled t-shirt and padded down the hall to the guest room. He rapped his knuckles against the door, listening for any sound from within. Silence greeted him. Frowning, he knocked again, louder this time. Still no response.
“Malfoy?” Harry called, but when there was no answer, he slowly pushed the door open. It creaked as it swung inward, revealing a space that was surprisingly orderly, despite the disarray of parchment scattered across the floor. Malfoy’s bed was neatly made, its corners crisp in a way that seemed almost obsessive. Amidst the neatness, the floor was littered with sheets of parchment, each covered in a hurried scrawl.
Harry’s curiosity piqued, and he crouched down, picking up a few of the scattered pages. The writing was hurried, Malfoy’s elegant script marred by occasional smudges, as if he’d brushed a hand over the ink before it dried.
The first note he unfolded contained a rough timeline. Last time I saw Greg: mid-November, Malfoy had written. Beneath that, Kidnapped: December 16. And then, further down the page, Rescued: January 7? The date was marked with a question mark, reflecting Malfoy’s uncertainty about how long he’d been trapped. It had been at least three weeks—21 days if Harry’s mental calculations were correct.
Merlin, Harry thought, the realization hitting him hard. He’s been missing for nearly a month. Twenty-one days spent imprisoned, tortured, while an imposter walked free, deceiving everyone at the Ministry. The thought of what Malfoy must have endured during that time made Harry’s jaw tighten, a flicker of anger sparking beneath his practiced composure.
Harry forced himself to focus and turned to another sheet, noting the fragmented thoughts Malfoy had scribbled down. It seemed to be a recollection of the questions his captor had demanded answers to.
What is my research about? (Something with memories—manipulating them? Controlling memories? Not sure)
How did I help Greg? (It worked on his trauma)
Is it permanent? (They kept asking, I think it is)
Where is Greg now? (They don’t have him… yet)
Did I test it on anyone else? (No. At least, I think I didn’t.)
Did I tell anyone else? (Can’t remember. Probably not)
Did I hid my research? (Yes)
Where is it? (DON’T REMEMBER!)
This last phrase was underlined three times, the force of each stroke betraying Malfoy’s exasperation.
Harry flipped to another page, his brow furrowing as he scanned a more detailed description of the man who had tormented Malfoy. The text read like a list of observations. The bastard, Malfoy had written repeatedly in scathing strokes, a term dripping with hatred. Below it, there were notes:
Always disguised as me—every detail perfect, even my voice. (How long did he study me for this?)
Slight accent—tried to hide it, but it slipped sometimes. (Where is he from?)
Age? Mid-twenties to early thirties. Younger than he tried to sound.
Heard him talk to two others—different tones, like he respects one and fears the other. (Who are they?)
Tick—left hand. When he’s frustrated or impatient. Taps fingers or flexes them. (A habit? A tell? Recognizable?)
Harry paused, reading that last detail again. A tick, something subtle but telling. It was the kind of detail that could crack open a case if he could connect it to someone he knew. But for now, it sat in the back of his mind, a thread waiting to be pulled.
Just as Harry found himself contemplating the implications of these details, the sound of footsteps reached his ears. He glanced up sharply to find Malfoy standing in the doorway, his expression guarded. Malfoy’s gaze swept over the scattered pages before locking onto Harry, his expression momentarily tight before he masked it with a blank look. Harry stood up from where he had crouched, holding one of the sheets loosely in his hand.
“Looks like you’ve been busy,” Harry said, his tone kept casual, though his mind was racing with the implications of what he’d read.
Malfoy’s eyes flicked to the papers, then back to Harry. “Twenty-one days,” he murmured, his voice low, as if testing the words. “I... I thought it might have been longer. But I counted... at least at first. Every time he changed clothes, I’d try to keep track. But after two weeks, I... I stopped.”
The admission hung in the air, tinged with a bitterness that Harry couldn’t quite place. For a moment, there was silence, the weight of Malfoy’s words settling between them. Harry's mouth went dry, the stark reality of it hitting him like a punch. “Twenty-one days,” he repeated, shaking his head slightly, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “How... how did you even—”
Malfoy’s expression hardened, a flicker of anger in his eyes. “How did you find me, Potter?” He asked, his voice sharper now.
Harry ran a hand through his messy hair, a familiar gesture when he was trying to collect his thoughts. He let out a breath, trying to explain without giving away too much. “I heard the other you mention that he was moving someone that day. It didn’t sit right with me. And... a few days before that, I saw Goyle. Thought maybe it had something to do with you, so I checked your manor. That’s when I found you.”
Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, the suspicion flaring behind the exhaustion in his gaze. “So, you broke into my house,” he said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. “You had no real evidence, Potter. You did it illegally.”
Harry’s lips tightened, but he didn’t look away. “Yeah, well, there were other things I found weird,” he said vaguely, his voice low, unwilling to lay all his doubts out in the open. “But it wasn’t just that. I had to move quickly. The other Malfoy said he was leaving, and I couldn’t risk waiting.”
Malfoy’s frown deepened, clearly ready to press the issue further, but Harry cut him off before he could continue. “Malfoy, listen—there’s something you need to know. He is still out there. He’s still walking around the Ministry, acting like you.”
Malfoy’s expression froze, whatever response he’d been about to make vanishing as the reality of Harry’s words sank in.
Malfoy's eyes flickered with a grim realization. “Then maybe they think I did die in the explosion,” he murmured, more to himself than to Harry, his brows furrowing as the weight of that possibility settled over him.
Harry frowned, the thought sending a chill down his spine. “The other Malfoy—”
Draco’s expression twisted with irritation as he cut Harry off mid-sentence. “Stop calling him ‘the other Malfoy,’ Potter,” he snapped, his voice sharp. “He’s not me, and I don’t want to hear that comparison again. Call him what he is—a sadistic bastard.”
Harry blinked, taken aback by the sudden outburst, but after a beat, he gave a slow nod. “Fine,” he conceded, the word heavy with unspoken tension. “The sadistic bastard said he was just staying for another week,” he continued, his voice urgent. “If that’s true, maybe we should report him before he leaves—expose him before he slips away.”
Draco’s expression tightened, and he shook his head, cutting Harry off. “I already told you, Potter—if we go to the authorities now, whoever’s behind this will take action. They’ve got the means to adjust the wards, to allow Polyjuice transformations inside the Ministry without raising any alarms. That’s not something just anyone can do.”
Harry’s jaw clenched, his frustration breaking through. “You’re right, Malfoy. If Kingsley is involved—which, for the record, I still don’t believe—but if he is, then they could make him disappear before I even get a chance to start an investigation.”
Draco’s expression darkened, his mind racing. “Then I can’t leave this place. Not yet. If they find out I’m still alive, they’ll finish the job. Or worse, drag me back for another round.”
Harry stared at him, the implications of those words sinking in. “You’re saying... you’ll have to stay here?” The idea of Draco Malfoy hiding in his home indefinitely left a sour taste in his mouth, but he couldn’t deny the logic. If the alternative meant Draco ending up back in that cellar—or worse—Harry knew what the right call was. “Alright, but that means we have to figure out what they’re really after. And it starts with your research.”
Draco nodded stiffly, his jaw set. “Yes, but there’s a problem—like I told you, I don’t remember where I hid it. And even if I did, retrieving it would be like handing them my head on a platter.”
“Then we focus on the imposter,” Harry said. “He said he was leaving in a week. That gives us a few days to decide what we’re going to do about him.”
Draco’s eyes sharpened, a calculating edge creeping into his voice. “We should kidnap him. Get him away from the Ministry before he vanishes on his own terms. He might even give us information if we... convince him.”
Harry’s expression hardened immediately, cutting Draco off with a sharp glare. “Absolutely not. I draw the line there, Malfoy. We’re not stooping to that level.”
Draco’s lips twisted into a sneer, but it lacked true conviction. “You still think this can be solved by playing by the rules, Potter? If you—”
“If we kidnap him, we’re no better than he is!” Harry shot back, his voice rising. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. “If we don’t expose him before he leaves, we’ll follow other leads once he’s gone. But we do it the right way, or not at all.”
Draco’s shoulders sagged, frustration warping his features, but he finally nodded. “Fine. I’ll wait.”
Silence fell between them, the unspoken truce heavy in the air. Harry could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him, and he sensed that Draco felt it too. They both knew this fragile alliance was the only way forward, no matter how bitter the thought.
Draco glanced down at the scattered notes on the floor, then back to Harry. He seemed to hesitate before speaking again, the words coming out reluctantly. “Potter... will you help me with this?” His voice dropped, losing its edge. “I don’t have any other options.”
Harry studied him, searching his face for any sign of deceit. But all he found was a raw, wary openness that he’d never thought he’d see from Draco Malfoy. It struck him how much they’d both changed—how the war and everything that came after had carved them into different people. He didn’t fully trust Draco, but he believed that the fear in his eyes was real. “Yeah, I’ll help you,” Harry said quietly. “But understand this: the moment you do something I can’t stand by, I’m going straight to Robards with everything. No second chances.”
Draco’s mouth twisted, something like a bitter smile playing across his lips. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Potter.”
“Good,” Harry replied, the word carrying a finality that made the tension between them snap taut.
Draco bent down and gathered a few of the more crucial notes, shoving them into Harry’s hands. “You might as well know everything, then,” he muttered. “Read it. Maybe you’ll see something I missed.”
Harry took the parchment, the weight of it unfamiliar but grounding. As he scanned the chaotic scrawl, he could sense the desperation behind every word. He looked back at Draco, meeting his gaze directly. “We’re in this together now. Let’s make it count.”
Draco nodded, a faint, begrudging acceptance in his expression. “For once, Potter, we agree on something.”