Chapter 1
Draco couldn’t believe this was happening. He winced in pain at the constellation of cuts that were now slicing across his arms. He wasn’t sure what spell that man had used, but it had been an unusual and painful one.
Malfoy’s Potions and Other Magic Remedies was not unfamiliar with unhappy members of the wizarding community taking their anger out on the shop. It was situated between a loud Muggle pub and an old Muggle clothing store. Many wizards were chagrined, to say the least, about Draco’s willingness to bring magical aid to the broader Muggle population. Howlers were a frequent addition to his small flat above the shop, but he didn’t mind, not really, when he knew he was undoing at least some of the damage he had done as a much younger man.
Draco was decidedly not nice or caring. He didn’t do any of the things he did for any reason other than the fact that he needed to clear his conscience. He recoiled whenever any of the Muggles tried to thank him.
I’m not doing it for you, he’d think. I am a very selfish man and it is insulting that you think otherwise.
The backlash he had gotten had reached a fervor these past couple of weeks after a new shipment of Cancer Care had arrived. His hand was permanently curled around the cool, black wand in his pocket and his pulse quickened whenever someone came in.
He’d been in the back, cleaning up a spill from earlier of Sorrow Salve when four burly men ambled into his shop, the first one ringing the bell on Draco’s desk with his wand. As his hand slipped back into his pocket, Draco saw the familiar black skull and snake on his forearm. Draco gritted his teeth. These days, wizard extremists who shared Voldemort’s ideals on Muggle suppression had begun sporting his symbol as tattoos. Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes. Though these men were dangerous without a doubt, they looked so young they probably couldn’t even remember when Voldemort was in power. Draco’s own scar gave a twitch of hot pain. He had covered it with a tattoo of Narcissus flowers, for his mother, but it still grew red and angry on particularly cold nights or in trying situations.
He’d known immediately why they’d come, to scare him away from continuing. He wasn’t prepared, however, for the ferocity and anger with which they were supposed to be scaring him. So he lay there long after they had gone beneath his crumpled desk, the heavy smell of spilled potions thick in the air and cursed the blood that was slowly leaking out of him.
In the confusion, his treacherous body had reverted to his most comfortable form, he supposed. That was why he was no longer a slender, pale man, but a cream-coloured snake with eyes a piercing blue.
He and Zabini had become animagi in his 7th year, mostly as a joke, but also to spite everyone who had told him not to. Blaise became a sleek black Oriole and, of course, Draco a snake. Since then, he had been able to speak a little parseltongue and started noticing the comfort he felt in his reptilian form. The only trouble was that he was so injured he couldn’t turn back. If only he could use his wand to call Pansy, but he had learned a long time ago that his wand was unusable in his animagus form. He cursed every curseable thing he could think of, from badly cooked quiche to delayed orders of potions or cheap satin shirts. It was appropriate then, as he was dipping in and out of consciousness, flicking his tail feebly as he tried to turn back, that none other than Harry Potter came crashing through his falling-down door.
Draco heard him swear and look around, wildly trying to find the source of the blood. He stomped through the shards of broken glass littering the store and finally approached the desk.
“Hello,” he called. “Please, if you are hurt, you need to make a–”
He’d stopped talking, presumably because he had just spotted Draco curled vulnerably around a leg of his desk.
“Shit. Um, okay. Well, fuck.” Potter pushed his glasses up his nose. Draco tried not to laugh. Great. He had been stuck with the Boy who fucking Lived and who didn’t even know how to deal with an injured snake.
Potter looked around madly and cursed again. “Fucking Malfoy.” He seemed unsurprised by the fact that Draco was an animagus. Potter looked awkwardly down at Draco. Draco stared back at him with his stupid red robes and curly black hair and black eyes. He really did look stupid. Maybe once Draco could finally transition back he would tell him how stupid he looked in those robes.
Cursing, Potter scooped him up and gingerly clutched him to his chest. Draco, quickly slipping out of consciousness, tried with all his might to give him a seething, angry look before reluctantly passing out.
He came to in a room bathed in blue, unfortunately still a snake. Potter was out of his robes and instead was in trousers, a collared shirt, and a Ministry-issued harness. He quietly hummed as he read The Great Gatsby on a small, soft couch. Draco lay beside him in a glass container. He was relieved to see it didn’t have a lid, at least. He was covered in bandages and could immediately tell he had been given pain relief by the fuzzy feeling in his head. Potter hadn’t seemed to notice him, so he flicked his tail lazily at the glass. Potter immediately looked up and grinned, a small scar on his lip stretching as he did so.
Draco had actually seen Potter here and there after the Battle of Hogwarts. He showed up occasionally in the paper, with headlines like, “Harry Potter: From the Boy Who Lived to Britain’s Finest Auror” but he had actually stumbled into Draco’s shop occasionally, buying potions for burns and cuts after particularly brutal missions. It seemed odd that Potter had been the one tasked with cleaning up Draco’s shop, surely he had more important things to do?
Perhaps he’s getting old, thought Draco delightedly. Potter’s face loomed over his case, larger than normal due to Draco’s small size. Draco hated it.
“Oh, good, you’re up,” said Potter. “The vet said you’ll be okay eventually, after a couple of months you’ll be free to do what you please. For now, I suppose you’ll have to live with me. Won’t be too bad, it’s just me here. Teddy stays here occasionally, but for the most part, I keep to myself. ‘Mione and Ron have a much better place, besides, so we always go there for events.”
Draco laughed to himself bitterly. Of course he was to stuck with fucking Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, Champion of Hogwarts, King of Winning Smiles and Silky Black Eyelashes and all things Charming and Honourable and Stupid and so on.
It’s only two months, he thought, desperately trying not to hiss in anger.
Potter took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Then he got up and began humming again. Draco wished he would stop humming. He idly fussed with the door, looked at what seemed to be his small stash of mail, paced for a minute, then sat back down.
“The vet…ah…also told me something else.” He seemed fidgety and awkward. “She said you’re a…an animagus.”
Draco wished he could roll his eyes. Of course I’m an animagus. How else could I–unless…did Potter not know he was Draco? He’d always known Potter was dim and unobservant but this reached a new level of idiocy.
“Right them. Um. Unfortunately, I can’t speak Parseltongue anymore so you’re going to have to work with me as best as you can. What…well, who were you, um…before? And how did you get to be in Malfoy’s shop at that specific time?”
Draco just stared at him.
“The Ministry’s theory is that Malfoy went into hiding after the…ah…incident, considering we can’t find him anywhere.”
Wonder why, thought Draco drily.
“Okay, then,” said Potter, after it became clear Draco was not about to start speaking. “The vet told me to feed you live rats, but, well, I’m not going to do that, because rats are a pain in the arse to keep and, honestly, I never much cared for them anyway. Besides, I know you’re actually a person and you are probably dying for some real food by now.” He got up again and walked over to Draco’s cage. “Right. I’m going to the kitchen. You can be on my shoulders, if you’d like. I really don’t mind.” He reached into Draco’s cage. Draco hissed and flicked his tail. Potter laughed, a loud, warm rumble.
“S’pose I deserved that.” He then left Draco in the small sitting room and into what was clearly the kitchen. He was humming louder now, but soon a much worse sound was echoing from the kitchen: some kind of ’90s American Muggle music. Oooh Baby I love your way...everyday…
Draco really wished he could roll his eyes, because of course Auror Potter listened to Muggle music and danced in his kitchen by himself while he was cooking. He really did have no shame at all. Soon, along with Potter’s booming voice singing off key came the aroma of cooked meats and herbs. Draco did have to admit it smelled good.
After half an hour Potter came back with two identical, steaming bowls.
“I didn’t know what you wanted so I made a lamb pie with peas and carrots,” he said. “I won’t be offended if you don’t like it, though. Maybe I should have just fed you the rats.”
Draco was secretly very happy he had nixed the rat idea.
“Fucking hell,” Potter sighed as he settled down next to Draco. “What a day, hmm?”
If Draco could speak, he would have made fun of the fact that Potter was currently talking to an animal, but alas, he could not. They ate the rest of their food in silence, Potter making appreciative noises and enthusiastically stabbing at his lamb. Draco had never seen someone who was so excited about his own cooking before. Draco had to admit, it was delicious, full of spices and cooked to perfection. But even if he could speak, he would never say it out loud.
After dinner, Potter went over to a small closet by the front door and grabbed some salve and bandages. “The vet told me I need to change your bandages before bed for a week. So no hissing,” he added sternly. He gingerly reached into Draco’s cage and pulled him onto his lap, then began gently removing his bandages. Draco hissed when he touched a particularly nasty cut. “Right, sorry, sorry, sorry.” Potter’s hands, though large and rough, cupped him gently, like a mother cradles her child.
Afterward, Potter sank back into the couch with a Muggle beer. Draco was still curled on his thigh. It felt too intimate and soft for his comfort, but he grudgingly appreciated the warmth. Potter took out his book once more.
“Where was I…oh, yes.” He cleared his throat and began to read softly. “We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding cake of the ceiling--and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.”
Once again, Draco would have never spoken this aloud, but he rather liked lying there with nothing but Potter’s low voice and the sound of the rain that had gently started to fall.