Chapter 8
Day one in the safe house.
This was his job, Harry reminded himself, for the millionth time today. Harry was good at his job. He didn’t let his job get under his skin. He dealt with all manner of people, and smoothly handled any number of conflicts, because every relationship was fake. Skin deep. Inconsequential. So there was no reason to stand rigid, with a clenched jaw and even tighter clenched fists, while glaring down at an invalid who couldn’t even stand on his own two feet. Harry’s shoulders ached from the tension of holding himself still.
This was his job. Why the fuck would Harry let something so stupid as Draco Malfoy’s whining upset him enough to snap. Malfoy was a pro at milking real and perceived injuries for all they were worth. Harry knew this, knew he had to keep his walls up around Malfoy so he couldn’t wheedle his way out of whatever trouble he had caused. So what if Harry couldn’t recall one time since this mission started when malfoy had dug in his heels about anything. He was cunning and devious and swarmy, and Harry had to stop thinking about this because the more he did the more he didn’t quite think it was true, and if it wasn’t true then Harry might start feeling something akin to shame for his behavior.
Harry abruptly turned on his heels and stared at a wall. He wanted to say something, needed to say something. Probably something more eloquent than “shut up, you ass,” which is where Harry’s mind was stuck. Something that wasn’t as petulant as, “you don’t know me, of course I’m not sad, lonely, and pitiful!” Which, of course, Harry couldn’t say now could he. If he got caught in a lie everything would be right fucked, and while Harry couldn’t say for sure rejecting Malfoy’s taunt was a lie, he also made a point of never examining his feelings too hard and instead running in the other direction should anyone try to talk about it. Usually, he ran to work, where Marge would stare at him with her all-knowing gaze, before giving him a new file to dig into instead of sleeping. But this was his job, and he couldn’t run off and hide from it.
Maybe he was tired and it was wearing on him. He’d stayed up all night keeping an eye on this ungrateful bastard, who also didn’t seem to appreciate how Harry totally saved his life. Instantly, Harry felt guilty for thinking that. What right did he have to expect Malfoy to be grateful to him. The guilt churned in his stomach, morphing into the same anger that held Harry taunt. Harry rubbed his hands over his eyes, digging in too hard.
This was his job. Harry didn’t have to feel guilty for doing his job. He never felt guilty about it before. He’d done worse things to better people. There was no reason Malfoy’s wretched comment accusing Harry of using him just for sex, like a sex toy, would be upsetting. Malfoy said it like the goal had been to take advantage of Malfoy for his body. Or like Harry had chosen sex more than was strictly necessary for the mission just because he’d enjoyed it. Like Harry had taken advantage. Harry’s mouth thinned. He was not fucking upset about this. He was just tired, and unappreciated, not by Malfoy, who didn’t owe him anything, except for maybe his life three times over now, but by Marge who had shoved this safe house assignment down his throat when it wasn’t actually Harry’s job because he wasn’t any good at it.
Fuck, Harry shouldn’t have snapped. He snapped, then Malfoy snapped, and then Harry had to hear all of it, all Malfoy’s self-loathing, hopeless anxieties. All of his possibly on-the-nose judgements of Harry. And Harry couldn’t think of a damn way to respond.
Maybe he should just apologize. He’d been unprofessional, an auror should be able to keep their emotions in check. An apology would acknowledge he knew he’d errored. Harry tried deep, calming breaths. As soon as he calmed down he would turn around and apologize for making his comments - not for meaning them. Malfoy could scoff and complain about Harry’s insincerity and aloofness, and Harry could continue being insincere and aloof, but professional. He would calmly accept Malfoy’s reply, maybe let Malfoy yell a bit more to get it out of his system, then Harry would rearrange some furniture to create a semblance of privacy and get some sleep. Why had Harry taken them to this tiny cottage without a private room? Oh that’s right, Harry didn’t do witness protection and didn’t have a suitable safe house set up because he wasn’t meant to bring a mark with him should he ever need to lay low for a while. Merlin’s beard, he wasn’t ready for this.
Still, Harry turned around, convinced he could do what he always had and force himself forward.
Malfoy was still glaring at him, utterly unimpressed. It shouldn’t have been hot. That man had no right to look hot. He was pale, sickly, and wrapped up in hospital robes. Harry suspected he’d be hot in anything, as long as he kept that steely gaze. It was the sort of fierceness that came out when Malfoy competed at things he’d actually tried for on his own merits, like quidditch or potions. Harry recalled rare occasions as a teenager when he saw Malfoy look like this. It was before Harry understood his sexuality, or why seeing Malfoy this way compelled his attention. Only right now Malfoy wasn’t playing a game of quidditch. He was probably doing something ridiculous like trying to hold Harry accountable for how Harry’d hurt him.
This was a fucking job. Harry shouldn’t have to fight with his fake boyfriend about feelings seeing how it had been fake!
“I’m sorry!” Harry said, too loud. He sounded emotional. Fuck.
Malfoy’s sneer was an unwanted familiarity, but perhaps for once it had been earned. “Whatever for, Potter?”
Harry was silent. He felt his nails digging cuts into the palms of his hands but wasn’t conscious of squeezing his fists so hard together. He stared at the ceiling, unable to meet Malfoy’s gaze. What had Malfoy called him, a bogart bludgeoning him to death with platitudes?
“You’re not able to say what you’re sorry for?” Malfoy asked.
“Not allowed to lie, struggling to do self reflection on the spot,” Harry growled out.
Malfoy huffed. Harry wouldn’t look at him so he could read his emotions. “To hell with this. I don’t need this, I don’t need you. Turn out the damn lights, I’m going to sleep.”
An escape path, like Harry always looked for. Only he felt no relief being given it. He felt a new guilt, as if he’d missed a pivotal moment and he’d never get it back. He was afraid to examine his shame. With a flick of his wrist the lights went out and the room was pitch black. Then he cast a silencing spell so he wouldn’t hear all the small sounds Malfoy might make. Finally, he stumbled forward until he reached the sofa, collapsing on it and surrendering to sleep.
Day two in the safe house.
A soft light woke Harry. He lifted his head in time to see Draco disappear into the bathroom. The tiny crack of light that escaped under the doorway was bright in the otherwise pitch black room. Harry thunked his head back down on the sofa. Harry heard the shower start, confirming his silencing spell had worn off. Without lifting himself back up, Harry cast a tempus. 7:14 am. Harry dug his head into the sofa cushions and groaned. The coarse material scraped the bruise on Harry’s face, reminding him he’d been too emotional to heal himself before sleep. He lay prone a moment longer, before lumbering up onto his feet. There had to be something useful he could be doing.
Harry was in the kitchenette when he heard the bathroom door open. He glanced back just as Malfoy stepped out. Harry paused to review his new long sleeved pajama set, tailored expressly to fit his lean figure and tall height, in the exact shade the hospital robes had been. Malfoy caught Harry watching and glowered. Harry’s gaze didn’t flinch and he didn’t look away. It hadn’t been wrong he’d been looking and he wouldn’t let Malfoy make him feel caught out. Malfoy rolled his eyes and strolled back to his chair, trying to make it look easy when Harry could see how weary he was from the modest activity of the shower, and perhaps less modest effort of meticulous transfiguration. Malfoy didn’t see the mug of tea, next to the still full glass of water and untouched bread roll. Harry did turn away then, not wanting to to see if Malfoy rejected it.
Malfoy had started on the tea and the water, Harry confirmed when he brought over a bowl of porridge with dried fruits. Malfoy didn’t acknowledge the effort. There was no reason for that lack of acknowledgement to sting so Harry was certain it didn’t. If he focused very hard he could keep his feelings numb. Harry did see Malfoy eating small bites after he’d walked back across the room. However Malfoy was still ignoring Harry. He pulled out the copy of the auror’s handbook Harry had given him the day before and was now reading it. After a while he napped. Harry collected his dishes and replaced them with a protein bar and refilled the glass of water.
Malfoy ignored Harry again when he woke up. That was fine. Harry was a career auror who had survived countless stakeouts and reconnaissance missions. He had mastered the art of patience.
Day three in the safe house.
Harry was dying. Not literally. Maybe literally. Could one die from boredom? Harry prided himself on being good at his job, which had required his perfection of maintaining perfect concentration for days, sometimes without sleep, while he laid in wait for his suspect. That was not a transferable skill to spending three days with Malfoy in what only charitably could be called a house.
Harry had tried concentrating on the house. It had food (dried goods), extra clothing, and a sofa with a fold out mattress. There were a number of closets and cupboards, holding all the essentials one would need for a long stay to survive, but not to pass the time. There wasn’t so much as a book or a deck of cards. There wasn’t room to satisfyingly pace. Harry concentrated on the floor boards and inventorying the selection of well preserved food. A short endeavor.
Harry had tried concentrating on Malfoy. Malfoy’d found a duvet to cover himself with. He found the extra clothes, but by the time he wore them they were closer to formal attire than the joggers and sweatshirts that were stored in the cupboards. When Harry took a quick shower that morning Malfoy had transfigured his chair into a chaise lounge of all things. Harry wished he could judge Malfoy’s choice as pretentious, but ultimately it was rather practical since he spent so much time reading. He was still reading the handbook, methodically working through what Harry knew was amongst the driest instructional text. Harry watched his long slender fingers cradle the book. He saw how Malfoy’s forehead creased when he concentrated. He watched Malfoy stretch out, his boney feet slipping out from under the duvet, each digit extending to their fullest before Malfoy relaxed further into the furniture.
Harry stopped concentrating on Malfoy and tried pacing again instead.
Day four in the safe house.
Harry needed to do something so he gave in and pilfered a few eggs from the limited stock of perishable goods kept under a long-term stasis charm, along with a bit of milk and a chunk of butter. The preserved bread was stale, but that was how it was needed. It was short work to set up the kitchenette and fry each piece of toast individually in the small skillet over the single electric hob. He made up two plates, each topped with honey and a few of the sweeter dried fruit stored in the cupboard.
Malfoy didn’t acknowledge it when Harry brought him a plate. Harry lingered next to him, no reaction. He wondered how long he could stand there before it was awkward, and realized it was past that point. Harry immediately left.
He sat at the small table in the kitchenette, stabbing each bite of toast harder than necessary.
Objectively, Harry was excelling at this assignment. He and Malfoy were hidden away, Malfoy nearly recovered from the poisoning, with no quarreling to speak of. Harry was doing bloody fantastic at his job.
Harry was worried that the silence between them made him uneasy. He thought back to all the evenings the two had spent together, sharing unsatisfying conversation. It had been hellishly dull, and eventually Harry had made excuses to avoid Malfoy all together until Nibill’s meetup was scheduled.
Yet there had been a familiarity in being with Malfoy. Even if the relationship hadn’t been fake, neither Malfoy or Harry had been open enough with each other for it to have been real. It just felt, at times, that their mutual, deliberate avoidance stemmed from the same desire. Both were scarred by the past, and both wanted an escape from how it stuck to them even now. There was camaraderie in being close to someone who understood, but never asked for more than you wanted to give.
The silence was demanding. It felt like the pile of post on his dining table at home he never intended to open, or like Ms. Weasley asking why he never came for Sunday dinner.
Day five in the safe house.
It had been days since their fight, and Harry prided himself on having been so patient and giving Malfoy the space he needed to calm down. Four days was too long not to talk to the person you found yourself living with (it didn’t count that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked to his flatmates).
Harry was sitting on the side of the couch near the chaise lounge when Malfoy exited the bathroom after his morning hygiene. Harry had left a cup of tea on Malfoy’s preferred side table. Harry fidgeted with his own cup as he waited for Malfoy to once again take his seat.
Once seated, but before Malfoy had a chance to gather up the handbook, Harry piped up with, “you’re looking better, yeah?”
Malfoy paused, his eyes lingering on the book tucked into the side of the long chair. Harry’s eyes flickered over his features, taking in his restored complexion. Malfoy tilted his head up and caught Harry staring. Harry swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Malfoy shifted his weight, then he was leaning towards Harry. Harry felt himself drawn to lean forward in return.
“Finished your self reflection?” Malfoy asked.
Harry’s brow furrowed in confusion. Then he recalled the words they’d last exchanged. Harry’s excuse for not being able to give Malfoy anything of substance. Harry felt his expression shut down, his face conforming to the gentle expression where Harry felt safest.
Malfoy’s smile was bitter. “I see,” he said. “It’s only been four days. I’m putting you on the spot.” He pulled back and fished out the book, burying his nose in the text, not even drinking his tea.
Harry didn’t leave immediately. He watched Malfoy, waiting for the discomfort of Harry’s presence to needle him into discomfort, maybe even anxiety. It took a moment, but Harry recognized he was again being cruel. His job didn’t call on him to pressure Draco into engaging with him, it was only Harry’s selfishness at play. Harry tried to push down the shame as he wobbled to his feet, desperate for something else to do.
Day six in the safe house.
Harry cleaned, everywhere. Then cleaned again in agonizing detail. He avoided magic, which he’d always thought was less thorough and today he aimed to prove it. He cleaned until his back was sore and his fingers ached. He’d burned time previous days by charming various objects into weights and exercising to burn off energy. This action could be felt deeper, leaving him more exhausted than any previous effort had managed. It was valuable to have a goal. It gave him focus, and kept his mind from focusing on other things.
Day seven in the safe house.
“I’m sorry that I lost my temper and said cruel things to you,” Harry finally said.
Malfoy sighed deeply before nodding. It was less an acknowledgement of Harry’s words as it was an acknowledgment that he had the answer he’d been expecting. He did set the book in his lap for a moment as he considered. “You’re quite forgiven,” Malfoy responded.
Harry watched Malfoy for any of the signs he was lying, they weren’t there. Harry supposed Malfoy’s response must be as unsatisfying to Harry as Harry’s apology had been to Malfoy.
Nothing changed between them. Harry was irrationally disappointed, mostly in himself.
Day eight in the safe house.
Harry was hiding in the bathroom. He wasn’t doing well. Malfoy was up and moving, all healed, and now whenever Harry considered preparing anything for Malfoy he’d look up and see Malfoy already had it. He’d even found a contraption that brewed the coffee Malfoy preferred to tea and he knew how to use it. Malfoy had said he didn’t want Harry trying to take care of him, and after a week of stomaching Harry’s assistance he must be going out of his way to make clear it was unnecessary and unwelcome.
Harry wondered what Marge would do if he just left, leaving the safe house to Malfoy so that neither of them would have to stomach the other’s presence. Harry could hear Marge’s scolding in his mind. Breach of protocol.
There was no reason to leave. This was the easiest assignment ever. He could hear Hermoine’s encouragement in his mind. Take some time off work, you need time to process your trauma! Harry would need downtime to process the trauma caused by all this downtime.
There was an ache in Harry’s chest that he’d spent the last week pretending didn’t exist. It was easier when he kept moving, when he had a project to focus on. He’d dipped into the fresh ingredients again to cook real food last night. He didn’t know how long they’d have to be there, he should really hold off and partition it out. He had just been feeling antsy. He’d wanted Malfoy to notice he’d tried.
Gods, this wasn’t like Harry. He didn’t go around seeking others’ approval. He had, a long time ago. He had needed so many people’s approval as a child. He’d wanted Sirius to think he was brave. Dumbledore to be proud of him. Much too long ago, he’d wanted the Dursleys to love him.
What did he want from Malfoy? Malfoy was fit, Harry couldn’t stop thinking about it. Harry wanted something more than someone who was fit. A sly glance and an offhand joke without having to overthink whether Harry would like it first? Low stakes conversations about trivial topics, without Malfoy lying because he thought Harry would prefer he say something else? Going to bed together to feel like a continuation of everything else, not an escape from it? Fuck, Harry was thinking about an actual relationship.
None of this was possible with Malfoy. Not because of the situation Malfoy and Harry were in (although the handbook might disagree), but because Malfoy lacked the mannerisms Harry imagined when he thought of them together. But the easy way they spent time together, understanding but not dwelling on everything horrible in their past, wasn’t possible with anyone else.
Harry stayed hidden in the bathroom, his mind going in circles, recounting his and Malfoy’s past and present, never reaching any conclusion.
Day nine in the safe house.
Malfoy was in the kitchen, navigating the coffee contraption. Harry was concentrating on him again, watching his nimble fingers disassemble the device after the coffee was poured. Malfoy meticulously washed every piece, like he did each morning, laying each out to dry. Malfoy reached up and into a cupboard above the sink. He stretched, his shirt riding up slightly to reveal the dimples in his lower back. He nabbed a pack of biscuits.
Harry stepped forward before Malfoy could complete his routine of gathering his coffee and makeshift breakfast and returning to his seat. Harry reached around Malfoy, maintaining a respectful distance, and grabbed the kettle. Harry filled it with water and situated it on the hob. He paused then, feigning a realization that Malfoy was still there, clearly shocked by Harry’s arrival when they’d spent over a week avoiding each other’s space.
Harry had planned ahead not to smile when he said, “Good morning.” He hardly allowed a glance in Malfoy’s direction.
There was a brief pause, then Malfoy returned the greeting. “Good morning.”
Harry revealed a small smile then. He tucked his hands into his pants pockets and shifted his weight from side to side. His eyes stayed on the kettle. “I think you’re better at this silence thing than I am,” Harry said.
“I’m not a very social person,” Malfoy responded.
Harry glanced at him then. Malfoy looked skeptical, but not like he was about to bolt. There was opportunity here if Harry played his cards right. “Wasn’t working at the shop social?” Harry asked.
Malfoy pursed his lips. “There were transactional encounters.”
Harry shifted his weight again. He glanced at the kettle, it would be done soon. He could fix his cuppa and go along his day, leaving Malfoy’s loaded statement behind. The moment would pass, another moment hanging over Harry that he’d never get back.
“You ever find those sorts of things, you know, ‘transactional encounters’, could be kind of nice? Like, there are clear expectations,” Harry said. He remembered Malfoy would open up more when Harry shared first.
Malfoy didn’t open up. “Is that what you look for in your friends?” Draco asked, tone scathing.
Harry chuckled mirthlessly. “I mostly avoid my friends. They never want anything from me except for me to be happy. Can’t help them with that one.”
“Yes, your life is so hard, how unfortunate for you,” Malfoy bit out.
The kettle whistled high and loud, interrupting. Malfoy tried to take the moment to gather his items and leave. Harry rushed to remove the kettle from the heat, asking loudly, “How about you? You seem to be doing better. Not that you seem, uh, happy, but, uh, less, um.” Harry stumbled to pull out a cup as he stumbled over the words.
“Debilitatingly anxious?” Malfoy suggested dryly.
Harry plopped a tea bag into the cup. “Yeah. Less anxious.” Harry paused, waiting to see if Malfoy would leave now that the topic had been broached.
Malfoy was quiet for a long time. “I’m sure it’ll be back before we know it,” he said cryptically. Carefully, he picked up his coffee and began to sip at it. A sign he wasn’t leaving, Harry thought.
Harry poured the water over his tea and let it seep. The silence didn’t feel fraught. Harry removed the tea bag and began to add sugar and milk. He picked up his cup and turned to face Malfoy, both of them now sharing the moment.
“You know, muggles have medication for anxiety,” Harry said.
Malfoy’s lips quirked. “Yes, Potter, I know.”
Harry shrugged. “I’m just saying, if you were open to it maybe it would help.”
“It helped quite a lot, actually,” Malfoy said.
“What?” Harry asked, the opposite of suave.
Malfoy’s lips stretched further up. “I lived in muggle London for three years. I learned how to handle their health care system.”
Harry blinked a few times. He paused to take a sip of tea. He’d known Malfoy had spent some time living amongst muggles, but that he hadn’t considered Malfoy actually living like a muggle. Something nagged at Harry, a small peep of guilt inside of him. “I thought I should say, as part of the investigation I read the files on you,” Harry admitted.
The smile dropped from Malfoy’s face. “You thought you should say?” Malfoy made it a question.
Harry shrugged, looking down at his tea. “I just knew you’d lived in muggle London, is all. I thought you should know I knew that, and the other stuff from your probation records.”
Malfoy snorted. He put down his now empty coffee mug. The natural end of their conversation.
“Why’d you leave the muggles?” Harry asked, an attempt to extend their talk.
Malfoy didn’t frown with his mouth, but rather each line of his face deepened with sadness. There was an agonizing moment when Harry thought Malfoy wouldn’t answer. Then Malfoy shook himself, the dark lines fading from his expression until he was once again himself. Malfoy said, “they updated the probation contract. I couldn’t maintain qualified employment and I had to look elsewhere.”
Harry frowned at that. “What were you doing before?” he asked.
The thin smile Malfoy shared with him was humorless. “I worked in a shop,” he said.
Harry raised his eyebrows. “What was it selling?”
“Trousers, jumpers, the occasional waistcoat. It was a men’s fashion boutique,” Malfoy explained.
“That sounds fine, why did they reject it?” Harry asked.
Malfoy was looking at him the way you do when talking to someone particularly dense. “There’s nothing wrong with the shop, Potter. Just me. I’d manufactured the paperwork to gain employment in the first place. The probation officer changed to someone muggle born who realized it would have taken some forgery to satisfy muggle law and the ministry was notified. The contract was updated to clarify that wasn’t allowed.” Malfoy’s tone was the thoroughly bland sound of someone who cared too much and couldn’t bear to show it.
“But, was one of the probationers taking advantage of the muggle system?” Harry asked, feeling deeply that maybe he was as dense as Malfoy thought. Harry remembered from his time in probation how the contracts would be updated from time to time, to clarify a rule or patch up a loop hole. It had always made sense, at the time.
Malfoy stared at the ceiling instead of at him. “There was only me and Greg left, then.” Harry almost spoke but Malfoy interrupted. “Don’t ask about Greg, he wasn’t causing trouble.”
There was something there, something deeper that hurt Malfoy to think of. Harry didn’t want to be cruel but it was another moment he couldn’t bear to let go. As if whatever Malfoy might say now would mean more than it should and if he didn’t hear it would be another chance lost forever. “What happened with Greg?” Harry asked softly.
Malfoy barked out a laugh, surprised by Harry’s blunt question. “He’s in Azkaban, obviously.” Harry nodded, but didn’t speak. Malfoy was staring off into the distance, seeing something from the past. Harry gave him time until he spoke again. “Well, if you must know. He’d been working at the docks. People liked him, you wouldn’t know it but he was friendly. He made a better muggle than me. He had to leave his job, too, but he found another. It was under the table, but he didn’t think it was a problem. He thought his boss could just tell our probation officer that he had a job and the problem would be solved. Only, when questioned his boss didn’t say anything. It was clear the auror was with the government, and Greg’s boss didn’t want to get in trouble for evading taxes. So they took Greg away.”
Harry bit his tongue so he wouldn’t ask more. His instinct was to question Malfoy’s story, to find out the bigger picture that made clear what Goyle had done wrong. Skirting taxes was illegal, but they didn’t send folks to Azkaban for that. Then again, the probation contracts for the death eater children weren’t kind documents.
“Pardon me, Potter, but I must be getting back to it,” Malfoy said to break the silence. He’d plastered on a too-harsh smile and gathered up his biscuits. Harry didn’t interrupt him this time to stop him leaving.
Harry stayed in the kitchenette long after Malfoy left, occasionally remembering to drink too-cold tea. He had wondered what it would be like to have an authentic conversation with Malfoy. It hadn’t been anything like what he’d expected.
Day 10 in the safe house.
Harry had transfigured a scoop from the kitchen into a hollow ball and was seated on the floor, bouncing it off the wall. Desperate times, and so forth.
A choked half sob of a noise came from Malfoy.
Harry let the ball bounce past him as he jerked round to look at the other man.
Malfoy held a hand to his mouth, his eyes were wide as saucers as they flickered over the page in front of him, reading and rereading.
“Malfoy, you okay?” Harry called out as he got to his feet.
Malfoy glanced upwards. “I found it! It’s right here,” he pointed to the page he was reading. Harry started to walk towards him to read for himself. “This damn book kept hiding chapters, but I found the index and it had to make them appear.”
Harry reached out, assuming Malfoy would hand the book back, but Malfoy only turned it so Harry could read around the fingers Malfoy had gripping it. Harry’s eyes scanned the couple sentences it took to pick up on how this had something to do with informants. “I need you to put together the pieces for me, what am I looking at?” Harry asked.
“You can hire me!” Malfoy nearly shouted. His finger jabbed at one line in particular. It outlined the process for compensating informants for their effort.
“Uhhh,” Harry said.
Malfoy was too excited to be exasperated. “It’s all outlined here. You don’t even need supervisory approval if it falls into three or more of the seven extenuating circumstances outlined by Scamander in 1929. I match at least four! You can hire me!”
“Uhhh,” Harry said again.
This time Malfoy picked up on it. “You need to hire me, Potter. We’re running out of time.”
Harry glanced around, for a sign anything had changed. “Not sure I’m following, we have nothing but time here.”
Malfoy grabbed a cushion so he could groan into it. “Merlin, you’re insufferable! This is your book, haven’t you bothered to read it?”
“Yeah, Malfoy, they make you read it when you join up and then test you on the bits and pieces. But that was near on a decade ago so why don’t you refresh my memory so I know what’s got you riled up.”
“I’m on probation!” Malfoy bellowed. “I lost my job when they arrested Mr. Nibill and I don’t even know how long it’s been since that happened. I’ve been reading this blasted, sentient monstrosity for days hoping something in here would be an alternative to the clock running out and bloody Auror Clark being the one to arrest me. You need to do the paperwork now! And while you’re at it, write up a form to update my address then send them both in!”
Harry stared, hard. “Malfoy, you’ve been reading this book for nine days. Why didn’t you ask me for help?”
“What, you just would have helped me?” Malfoy snarled. “You wouldn’t have traded it to get something out of me? Or insisted on taking back your promise to keep me out of trouble from the potion poisoning?”
The aching feeling in Harry’s chest was back. Harry wanted to argue against Malfoy’s judgements, but he felt it was too well earned. He would have helped, though, he was certain.
“It’s Saturday, we’ve got a couple days still before anything happens,” Harry said instead of defending himself. “Let me get some paper and a quill.”
Harry let Malfoy dictate to him what to write out. He triple checked every detail to make sure it followed protocol. There would be no room for slip ups. Malfoy’s lips were twitching upwards as he read through it a final time for confirmation.
“This is going to work,” he murmured. “Do you remember section ZA of the chapter? It says the informant may be expected to engage in certain illicit activities as long as they’re approved by their auror supervisor.” Malfoy made a sound that was almost a giggle. “You could formally approve me having taken the potion. It would have been part of my job, to help with your case.”
Harry closed his eyes, unsettled that he couldn’t match Malfoy’s joy in the moment. Harry took a deep breath and opened his eyes again. He reached for his handbook, and flipped it open himself. It opened to the chapter on the code of ethics in maintaining relationships with colleagues and suspects. Oddly specific, to the degree that Potter wondered if the chapter had just been invented to punish Harry. The book might be angry that Malfoy had bested it. Harry tried to flip past the chapter, but every page landed back at the chapter’s beginning. Harry cursed. The book was a blasted, sentient monstrosity.
“Everything alright there, Potter?” Malfoy asked, a little too on edge.
“Yeah, yeah,” Potter muttered. “I just got to read a thing before it lets me go back to the probation chapter.” Malfoy hummed in sympathy.
Harry wished the handbook didn’t require you to focus hard enough on what it taught you before it let you move on to the next section. He didn’t want to read 37 pages outlining exactly how he was fucking up his personal relationships. He got through it with gritted teeth, then focused hard on probation while he flipped the pages over. Begrudgingly, the probation chapter appeared. Harry let Malfoy triple check the forms again until he was satisfied they’d hold up to the most aggressive scrutiny.
“Is this where we are?” Malfoy asked about the address Harry had listed.
Harry jabbed the quill into the paper still in front of him. “No, I’m not writing down the address for the super secret safe house we’re in onto the form, Malfoy.”
Malfoy chuckled. “Right there, I suppose.” He paused. “So where is it?”
“It’s my flat,” Harry said, voice calm and steady, unlike his heart which was raging in his chest.
Malfoy’s head quirked. “Your flat?” he asked. Harry shrugged, not looking at him. “Okay. We’ll need a lease.” Potter did look at him then. Malfoy didn’t return the gaze. Instead he collected the quill from Harry and wrote up a short agreement to cohabitate in Harry’s flat for a modest monthly fee, payable after the fact.
Harry wondered if they’d leave the safe house in time that Malfoy would have to move in, to satisfy probation.
Day eleven in the safe house.
“How’re you going to send them?” Malfoy asked the obvious question.
Harry had just been poking at the letters, now in triplicate so they could cover all their bases, contemplating Malfoy’s cleverness in thinking the plan through so thoroughly. Of course Malfoy had managed to stay out of Azkaban. He understood that 95% of satisfying the ministry was meticulous paperwork.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Harry said. He had been thinking about it, he just hadn’t quite landed on an answer.
Malfoy worried his lip. Harry found it distracting. “There’s a way to send them, isn’t there?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah, that’s the easy part actually,” Harry said. Harry leaned over to tap a grate in the wall. The house had been temperate since they arrived, with no heated or cool air being pumped in. “I can open this like a floo and send the letters through. It’d only take a minute.”
“So what’s the hard part?” Malfoy asked.
Harry crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, staring at the grate. “I’ve been thinking about this, and I think I should set these up to send back a confirmation when they’re delivered. It’s a quick charm, standard ministry protocol when a record would be useful. That way no one can say we didn’t send them by the deadline, and the recipient would know it came from me, so if the forms did go missing they’d know I’d go after them for it.” Harry didn’t have to say he still could throw the whole Harry Potter celebrity weight around, Malfoy understood what he was getting at.
Malfoy nodded slowly. “I could see the benefit, what’s the problem?”
Harry lifted a hand and started ticking off fingers as he spoke. “First, opening any channel out of here goes both ways, and folks looking for you might catch wind. Second, the longer it’s open the longer folks have to search. Third, I’d have to put on a return address, which honestly is easier to get access to than your probation records, even if someone would have to be clever to check for that. Fourth, I don’t know what Marge is up to and this might interfere. We don’t have to put the return charm on hers, but she won’t have a way to contact us once we shut down the floo again to let me know how big of a wanker I am this time.”
“That doesn’t seem as bad as it could be,” Malfoy suggested.
Harry looked at his four fingers. Seemed like there was probably a fifth thing he hadn’t thought of yet. Something to round out his worries.