Patterson
For the next two days, Harry and Malfoy barely got to see each other when both were awake. The only time they had together were the few short minutes in the mornings when they both got dressed and ready for work. An advantage and disadvantage at the same time was that, while working in the Ministry, Harry never knew what time of day it was if he wasn't checking his watch because all the floors were underground and there were no windows to look out of.
Harry came home late every day, and Malfoy was always in bed already, but he woke up as soon as Harry crawled in next to him and turned around to wrap his arms around him and pull him closer. That didn't help Harry to sleep well, though. He was awake almost the entire night, and in those few moments where he wasn't, he was haunted by old nightmares and new, of Voldemort and of Cassius Avery.
On Thursday, Harry was already in his cubicle when he checked his watch at the time Malfoy usually woke up. He had left him a note this morning before he had left the house around five o'clock, saying that he loved him and that he hoped he would have a great day. While Harry was waiting behind his desk for Ron, still fully dressed in robes and cloak, he had enough time to sit and worry. They were about to head to Diagon Alley, where they would look around themselves and ask further questions to the people who were there. Harry was nervous to speak to the civilians there because he knew now that he wasn't on all of their good sides. It also didn't help that he missed Malfoy. A lot. Harry missed their banter and making up - he missed talking to Malfoy at all for more than just ten minutes with toothbrushes in their mouths.
Ron showed up with a red face and was panting heavily. When he came to a halt in front of Harry, who had already gotten up from his chair, Ron stemmed his hands in his sides and bent over to catch his breath. "Sorry, mate. You been here long?"
Harry shook his head, chuckling. "No, it's alright."
They Disapparated right into the Leaky Cauldron, where they were greeted by Tom behind the bar. To Harry's surprise, the pub was already occupied by a few visitors: two old witches in the corner that shot Ron a very unpleasant look, and a tall, slim elderly man who sat at the table in the middle of the room and drank his mead in silence without looking up at the two Aurors. Harry saw Ron narrowing his eyes at the witches and pulled him away from them and to the door before he could start something stupid.
The air outside was chilly. It had been a cold and rainy week, and Harry longed for the sun back (not that he would ever get to see it underground). They entered Diagon Alley, which was emptier than usually during the summer days. Just for a second, Harry let himself wonder if it was okay to head down the road to visit George at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, but then the thought was pushed away by Harry's sense of responsibility. He was here to work, nothing else. It must have been harder for Ron, who was so close to his brother yet couldn't - or shouldn't - visit him either.
They reached the wall that was shown on the picture Harry had looked at for several hours a day. There was no trace of the writing Avery had left behind, nor was there anything else. No signs, no nothing. It didn't take long for people to flock around them. It wasn't easy doing your job out in the open when you were possibly the most famous wizard alive. No matter how many times Ron and Harry asked the people to please stay back if they didn't have any information, they couldn't get the privacy they needed. They were pestered for autographs and pictures and hugs and handshakes.
"Mister Potter," a woman's voice broke through the crowd, and Harry's gaze whipped around to find her. She was small and fragile but stood amongst those people like nothing could break her down or stop her from being here talking to him. Her face was pale but set in a firm expression. Harry admired her instantly. "Mister Weasley," she said, nodding at Ron. "Can I talk to you? About the Dark wizards?"
That clarification was all Harry and Ron needed. They nodded in sync before pushing through the people and following the woman to a door. She let them in, ignoring the shouts from the spectators, and closed the door behind them.
"I'm Emmilia," she said when she led the way up a flight of stairs and through another door into her flat.
Harry and Ron sat down like they were asked to and took a look around while Emmilia made them a cup of tea. There were scorch marks on the walls, a shelf was knocked over, and the sofa they were sitting on had a burned cushion. Harry and Ron shared a look that said that they were both thinking the same: something had happened here, but they didn't say anything until Emmilia sat down with them and handed them each a cup of steaming hot tea.
"You said you could tell us something about what happened outside?" Ron asked carefully.
The woman nodded, and Harry could see in her eyes that something had happened to her - here, in her flat. "They came," she said, clamping her hands together in her lap to get her fngers from shaking. "I heard someone Apparating outside, but I wasn't concerned about that. People Apparate here every day, you see?"
Harry and Ron nodded again, wordlessly, showing that they understood. Living in a place like Diagon Alley where all day, every day, people Apparated and Disapparated in front of your house must be quite a different experience, but Harry was sure that it was all a matter of time until you got used to it.
"But then they came in here," Emmilia continued and took a deep breath. "There were four of them. They took my husband!"
Harry's eyes widened at the last sentence. They had taken someone? That explained the banging that the witnesses had described to Williamson. Ron drew a sharp breath, but he, as well as Harry, had no idea what to say to make her feel any better. They had never been trained for a situation like this. All they knew was that it was advised against promising her that they would find her husband and bring him back because they shouldn't give her any hope that they would be able to keep that promise.
"Can you tell us anything about what they looked like?" Harry asked. "Anything that caught your eye?"
Emmilia slowly shook her head. "I don't know," she mused. "They were tall, all of them. I mean, my husband is tall, but they were taller. Only one of them had his hood down, so I don't know..."
"What did he look like?" Ron asked. "Do you remember anything?"
"He..." Her voice broke, but she took a deep breath to steady herself. "He had black hair and dark eyes..." She took a second to think, then continued, "and his entire hand was scarred as if he might have burned it somewhere."
Ron nodded, but he knew as well as Harry that this information didn't do them any good. A black-haired tall male could be just about anyone. As for the burnt hand, Harry and Ron would have to ask around.
"There was another Auror here on the day this happened," Harry said. "Is there a reason why you didn't tell him this?"
"They specifically told me to only talk to you."
"To us?" Ron asked.
Emmilia shook her head, then looked at Harry. "No. To you."
Again, Ron and Harry looked at each other. This was just more proof that Avery was playing with him. It was selfish of him, but Harry deeply hoped that Emmilia, this nice, kind woman, wasn't blaming him for what had happened to her and her husband. One thing they had yet to figure out was: Why him? Who was he?
Ron's next question answered it all. "What is your husband's name?"
"James Patterson."
A deep, stabbing pain erupted in Harry's chest at the sound of the name. James P. He and Ron left the flat in a hurry after that, Disapparating straight back to the Ministry. Harry slammed his hands on his desk and let his head hang down. Avery was getting personal. Taking someone with the same name as Harry's father? This was just outrageous. Who did he think he was? While Harry was trying to gather his thoughts, Ron was in the briefing room, catching up Dean and Christopher.
Harry kept shaking his head over and over, hoping and wishing that this would all just end, but he didn't know what he would have to do to end it. He didn't know how to stop Cassius Avery if they couldn't even find him or any of his followers. There were too many unknown variables, too much uncertainty. Harry was trying hard not to lose any hope, but it was easier said than done. Wanting to keep going and actually having the strength to do so were two completely different things, and now Harry wasn't so sure anymore if he could do both. It was his fault that people were in danger, his fault that a man had been taken, and his fault that everything was going bad again. He wondered why the Wizarding World never seemed to want to have peace.
"What do we do? It's your call," Dean asked when Harry entered the room.
The three men were sitting around the table, all looking up at Hary with expectant faces as if he was the solution to all of this, as if his word would make all of this okay.
"I want protection and surveillance charms on everyone with the names Lily, James, and Draco. Get protection on everyone sharing a name with your family, Ron, and don't call me."
The others didn't even frown at the last part, only nodded and got up from their chairs. Dean took Chris out of the room with him, and Harry knew that they were immediately on their way to find out who shared a name with all the important people in Harry's life. Ron, however, stayed by Harry's side for another moment longer, looking him over with a worried frown.
Harry turned to him and rolled his eyes. "What?" he asked. "Don't look at me like that, I'm fine, I just..." he hesitated, "I need to get home."
"Are you going to tell him?" Ron asked.
"Are you going to tell Hermione?" was all Harry could answer because he didn't have anything else to say. He didn't know if he should tell Malfoy. He should, yes, but would he? He quite simply didn't know.
Ron seemed to feel the same way because he didn't reply and worldessly followed Harry to the lift. "Tell him to take care of you," Ron said before the lift doors closed.
Harry gave him a small smile. "I'm not going to tell him that."
The doors closed, and he was whisked downward to where he voice in the lift announced the atrium. The doors opened again to let Harry out into the large hall, where he kept his head down so no one would come up and talk to him. He just wanted to get out of here. He made it to the fireplaces undisturbed, and the Floo Network took him right to his living room to a sight quite similar to the one three days ago: Malfoy on the sofa with a glass of wine in his one hand a book in the other. He almost dropped the book when Harry appeared in the fireplace.
"Potter?" Draco asked, putting the wineglass away and getting to his feet. "I didn't expect you so soon. It's not even five yet."
Harry grabbed Draco by the collar and slammed their lips together, drowing in the taste and smell of his husband. His senses were overwhelmed with the feel of Malfoy's hands against his chest and the soft, surprised moan that escaped his lips.
"What was that for?" he asked when Harry pulled away from him again. "What happened?"
Shaking his head, Harry took Malfoy's hand and worlessly pulled him with him when Harry made his way to the wineglass on the couch table. "You seem to like this wine," Harry noted and emptied the glass in one swig. "How many bottles was that?"
Malfoy's lips stretched into a grin. "One, smart-ass," he said and cocked his head to the side in a way that drove Harry mad, making him want to grab his beautiful pale face and shove it in his lap. "So do you want to fuck me or just stand around and talk about my drinking behaviour?"
A small gasp fled Harry's parted lips. Malfoy really had a way with words. But Harry wasn't a fan of making things easy for Draco, so he, too, leaned his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. "Is there a behaviour to talk about?"
Malfoy let out a laugh. "Shut up before I change my mind and punch you in the face instead."
Harry's grin widened. "Why does it have to be one or the other?"
There wasn't any force in the world that could pull them apart. Harry's hands were so clamped around Malfoy's waist that he was sure the gentle, pale skin would be bruised tomorrow, and Malfoy was sucking at Harry's neck like he was trying to get to the blood beneath the skin. They made it up the stairs one by one, stumbling and slipping, but never separating. It was as if their lives depended on each other, and in some ways, it was true. In some ways, Harry knew that he couldn't live without Draco. It was curious to him how, in a matter of just a few minutes, Malfoy was able to make him forget every bad thought, and make him feel lighter than a feather. Draco pulled the sadness and anxiety right out of Harry and replaced it with laughter and love and, most important of all, hope.
"Merlin, you are so infuriatinly hot, Potter, do you know that?" Malfoy groaned as he pushed Harry backwards onto the mattress.
It was a rhethorical question, because the one time Harry had answered, "No, but surely not as hot as your voice when you say stuff like that," Malfoy had pushed him off the bed and refused to look at Harry for ten whole minutes. So Harry, having learned his lesson, said nothing, and ripped off Malfoy's shirt instead.
He took in the full, glorious sight of his husband as he was hovering on top of him: his pale skin that stretched over his beautifully sculpted chest and stomach, made almost entirely of muscles that Harry couldn't explain the origin of. Malfoy was skinny and lanky, his waist so petite that Harry could easily wrap his arms around it and pull him closer to his body. There were two dark bruises on Malfoy's chest, made by Harry's lips a few days ago, and it made him grin to see that they were still there.
"Stop grinning and take off your shirt," Malfoy ordered in his dominant voice that he only ever used in the bedroom.
Harry did as he was told, but the grin wouldn't go away no matter how hard he tried. He knew what would come if he would disobey, yet he wasn't sure if that was punishment or pleasure. Then again... why did it have to be one or the other?
Draco leaned down, their naked chests touching and Harry's breath catching in his throught at the contact. The steel-grey eyes were fierce and cold, but they had that overwhelming ability of making Harry feel incredibly warm inside. "You're still grinning," Malfoy noted.
Harry bit his bottom lip to stop the corners of his mouth to twitch up. He was just too bloody happy right now; how did Malfoy expect him not to smile? "No," he breathed, his voice too weak to make an impact.
Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "Are you lying to me, Potter?"
"No."
"No what?" Malfoy asked, his voice and eyes getting more stern with every word he spoke.
"No, Sir," Harry corrected.
A pleased smile flickered across Malfoy's lips for just a second before his face froze over again and he bent down to nibble on Harry's earlobe, making his stomach turn in response "You know what happens when you lie to me, right?"
Harry bit his lip again, but this time not because he wanted to hide a smile, but a moan. It was incredible how Malfoy always knew exactly what Harry needed at the moment; if he needed to be in charge or submissive to Malfoy's will. Yes, he knew what would happen. Malfoy told him to use his words, so Harry did. "Yes, sir, I know."
"And you know why?"
"Yes, sir. Because lying is rude."
Malfoy kissed Harry so, so softly behind his ear, a whimper escaping Harry's lips. "Good boy, Potter."