Chapter Text
Somewhere in November
“Harry.”
As soon as Harry enters the bar, Malfoy calls his name.
He's sitting in the far corner of the room, spread out in an armchair. People stare but keep their distance. The air around Malfoy is heavy with the way he holds himself. Approaching him is a gamble most people won't dare to take.
Harry doesn't have such qualms.
“Draco.” He greets Malfoy with a forced smile, but his eyes soften into the expression when Malfoy smiles back.
They have seen each other plenty within the last month. They run into each other in the ministry and get their coffee or even their lunch together, they spy on Paul Harrison or Tremblay, or meet up on the weekends to waste their time playing board games while missing their children.
“I have news,” Harry says and pulls a chair over.
“It doesn't sound like good news.” Malfoy raises a brow.
“It depends,” Harry sighs.
“Out with it.”
“I was offered the position as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”
Malfoy is quiet for a moment.
“You don't want the position, do you?”
Harry is surprised. He had expected Malfoy to be pleased or to feign ignorance, but not for him to understand.
“I-”
“Potter,” Malfoy says. “We may not have gotten along during our time at Hogwarts, and we may not have interacted with each other for the past twenty years, but I know you.”
Harry's breath catches.
“You're going to resign,” Malfoy says, with a certainty Harry himself doesn't have.
“I thought about it,” Harry croaks.
Malfoy makes a doubtful noise.
Harry groans and buries his face in his hands. “I can’t just-”
Malfoy tsks. “Potter.”
As if Harry would listen to Malfoy.
“Harry.”
Shit.
“Draco.” The name tumbles from his tongue before he can stop it.
Malfoy’s eyebrow twitches.
“I have a couple of weeks to decide,” Harry says. “If I want the position.”
Malfoy nods, sits upright, and crosses his legs. His fingers drum a rhythm on his knee.
“I’m going to use the time to finish the investigation,” Harry explains. “We’re so close to getting them.”
“Ah?”
“Someone influential is playing them like marionettes.”
Malfoy’s eyes narrow. “Who?”
“We don’t know,” Harry admits. “But we have a lead.”
“Tell me,” Malfoy beckons.
“I can’t.” Harry shakes his head.
Malfoy sighs, his jaw clenching.
“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I’m bound by the law.”
Malfoy scoffs. “The law.”
Harry sighs and leans back in his chair, closing his eyes.
They’re both quiet for a moment.
It’s still a mystery to Harry why Malfoy needs his help.
It’s still a mystery to Harry what Malfoy is doing in general.
“Who are you voting for?” Malfoy breaks the silence.
“Huh?” Harry opens his eyes, tilting his head.
“The election for the Minister for Magic is coming up.”
“Right.”
Harry hasn’t given it any thought yet. He has never cared much about politics, but Malfoy does.
“So?” Malfoy looks at him expectantly.
“I- “ Harry hesitates. He’s always followed Hermione’s lead when it came to voting. “No idea.”
Malfoy chuckles. “I am not surprised in the slightest.”
“Who’s running?” Harry asks.
Malfoy shrugs. “Barclay. Smith. Jackson.”
“No idea who they are.” Harry frowns. “Aside from Barclay, of course.”
He searches his memory for the names, but they don’t ring a bell.
“Charles Smith,” Malfoy says dryly. “He’s against everything.”
“And that means?”
“He wants the wizarding society to regress.” Malfoy pinches the bridge of his nose. “No contact with any muggles, no muggle technology, and the exclusion of any magical creatures.”
Harry blinks.
“Someone like that is allowed to be a candidate?” he asks incredulously.
“Lisbeth Jackson is progressive, liberal,” Malfoy says. “She’s hugely supported by witches.”
“And why do you sound like you don’t like her?”
“She is not assertive,” Malfoy says. “She is not fit for the position of a leader.”
“So, you’re voting for Barclay?” Harry concludes.
Barclay may be a slimy bastard, but he isn’t a bad minister per se. He has kept everything stable, avoiding any conflict but also avoiding any progress.
Hermione likes him.
Malfoy huffs. “Barclay is incompetent. He’s set on keeping the status quo.”
Harry laughs. “You’re way too picky. Just don’t vote at all.”
Malfoy regards him with a sharp look.
“What?” Harry shrugs. “If it weren’t for Hermione, I wouldn’t have voted at all. None of the candidates makes a good minister.”
Malfoy smiles at him, his features softening slowly. “It doesn’t work that way.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t want a good leader,” Malfoy says. “There is no such thing.”
Harry frowns. “—Dumbledore was a good leader.”
Malfoy doesn’t answer for a moment.
“I choose the one that brings the least evil,” he says firmly. “The one that will not bring society to shambles. Maybe a fourth candidate will find their way.”
Harry smiles.
“What are you smiling at?” Malfoy inquires.
“You,” Harry says simply.
Malfoy’s eyes widen, and his eyelashes flutter. A thin veil of red stretches across his cheeks. Harry’s heart stutters at the sight. He doesn't know what to make of it - not yet.
His smile broadens. “I like your enthusiasm.”
Malfoy opens his mouth to respond, his fingers picking at the fabric of his robes. The mood shifts as a shadow falls over their table.
“Mr Malfoy?” someone interrupts them.
Their gazes snap towards an older man in deep purple robes. He has yellow-tinged skin and crooked teeth, the skin of his thin lips tearing when he grins at them.
“Forgive me,” Malfoy says, his tone sugary sweet. “But have we been introduced?”
The man grits his teeth. “I am William Authbert. I am a member of the Wizengamot.”
“Oh,” Malfoy stands up. “I sadly do not know all forty-eight members of the Wizengamot, I apologise.”
Authbert rolls his eyes. “Sure, sure.”
Malfoy offers him his hand. “Good evening, Mr Authbert.”
Authbert doesn’t take it.
“You’re such a brat,” he accuses Malfoy. “You should watch your mouth.”
Malfoy lifts a brow. “I was not aware that I was being impolite. I apologise.”
Authbert scoffs.
“What was your reason for approaching me?” Malfoy asks.
Authbert’s mouth curls into an ugly smile. “My wife teaches at Hogwarts, were you aware?”
Harry is pretty sure that there is no Professor Authbert at Hogwarts. Maybe they do not have the same surname.
“I was not,” Malfoy says. “I have not heard of a Professor Authbert from my son.”
“She is called Professor Crawford,” Authbert says. “She teaches your Scorpius.”
Malfoy’s whole body tenses. His shoulders strain the fabric of his robes, and his hands ball into fists.
Harry gets up. “Why are you here?”
“Mr Potter,” Authbert says with wonder in his eyes, as if he has only noticed Harry just now.
“Mr Authbert,” Harry says in the same tone.
A vein on Authbert’s temple pulses.
“May we help you with something?” Malfoy asks. The impatience that has prickled inside Harry is finally audible in Malfoy’s voice.
“Yes,” Authbert says. “I want your support for the new law I proposed yesterday.”
Malfoy crosses his arms, jutting his chin forward. “No.”
“No?” Authbert says, and a disgusting smirk plays on his lips. “Are you certain?”
Malfoy glares.
“My wife and your son are rather close.”
What?
What does he mean?
Harry steps even closer.
“I do not like what you’re insinuating, Mr Authbert,” he says, anger vibrating in his voice. “You do remember I’m Head Auror?”
“I do remember,” Authbert says. “And I also recall your son from my wife’s stories.”
Harry’s hand shoots up, ready to punch Authbert in the face, but Malfoy’s fingers wrap around his wrist before he can.
Malfoy presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek. “Mr Authbert. Do you know what a camera is?”
Authbert sneers. “Of course."
“And you know what a video is?”
“Yes,” Authbert says impatiently.
Harry wants to wring his neck.
“Well, I have such cameras hanging in the corners of my office,” Malfoy says.
Oh.
Authbert freezes, and all colour drains from his face aside from the sallow yellow.
Harry smiles. Damn.
“Mr Malfoy,” Authbert stutters.
“I believe you’ll drop that proposal,” Malfoy says coldly. “And instead, you will propose the idea of council, won’t you?”
“A council?”
“You enjoy drafting laws,” Malfoy says. “A council, a faction separated from the Wizengamot, should be perfect for that.”
“You- you mean the Wizengamot should only pass laws?” Authbert sounds as if he can’t even believe the words leaving his mouth.
“Don’t you think so too?” Malfoy asks. “With only forty-nine members, drafting and passing laws is far too time-consuming. A council with new members should solve that problem.”
“Yes.” Authbert nods, his fingers fidgeting at his sides. “Excellent idea, Mr Malfoy.”
“Oh, I sure hope so,” Malfoy says. “Well, thank you, Mr Authbert.”
“Yes, yes.” Authbert is shaking. “Good evening, Mr Malfoy.”
“Good evening,” Malfoy and Harry say in unison.
The moment Authbert has vanished in the crowd, the tension drains from Malfoy’s body and Harry slumps.
“What the fuck was that?” he plops down in his chair.
Malfoy smooths out the wrinkles in his robes and sits down as well.
“Authbert has been on the Wizengamot for half a century,” he says, disgusted. “He has passed horrifying laws.”
“What about our children?” Harry asks.
He can’t believe Malfoy ignored those threats so easily.
“Professor Crawford divorced him a long time ago,” Malfoy says. “And besides, no one hurts my son.
“They don’t dare.”
December 21st, Ministry’s Winter Solstice Ball
Harry feels worse than after the Final Battle.
He hasn’t slept in days and - fuck - it’s showing.
His body feels heavy, each move dragging on for an eternity. His eyes flutter shut every other second, and he can’t formulate a clear thought.
But the burden he carried on his shoulders until recently has finally fallen away.
“Potter,” someone says. “Harry.”
Harry blinks and rubs his eyes. “Yeah?”
Malfoy is standing before him, arms crossed, tapping the floor expectantly.
“What are you doing here?” Harry squints.
“This is a ministry function, as you are surely aware,” Malfoy says.
“Oh, right.” Harry may have forgotten about that.
“You-” Malfoy sighs.
“I know,” Harry says. “I look like shit.”
“I mean-”
“You’ve told me before without restraint,” Harry says. “Why so polite now?”
The corner of Malfoy’s mouth twitches. He takes Harry by the elbow, long, slim fingers wrapping around and pulling him.
“Where are we going?” Harry lets himself be dragged away.
“Outside,” Malfoy says. “Just for a moment.”
“Didn’t you prefer it if we were seen in public together?”
“I believe the public has seen us plenty,” Malfoy says snappishly.
“Okay.” Harry grins lopsidedly at that.
They step outside into the chilly winter air. Harry tries to bury himself in the warmth of his coat. The cold bites uncomfortably into his skin.
Malfoy, on the other hand, stands there, shoulders relaxed and head raised, staring at the clouded night sky.
Harry holds his breath and tenses his muscles in hope of suppressing the shivers that wreck his body.
“Harry,” Malfoy says.
“Malfoy,” Harry says.
Malfoy coughs.
“Draco.” Harry sighs.
“Yes?”
Harry groans.
“What has you calling my name sweetly?” Malfoy's eyes twinkle.
Harry buries his burning face in his hands. “Bastard.”
“Oh, what crude words you speak.”
Harry punches Malfoy's arm.
Malfoy squeaks - very unmanly.
“Harry!”
“Draco!” Harry snorts.
“Yes?”
Harry huffs.
“I have something to tell you,” he says.
“Yes?” Malfoy smiles.
“I resigned.” The words come tumbling from Harry's mouth. “I rejected the position of Head and handed in my resignation. And they accepted it.”
Malfoy's eyes soften, and at his gaze, Harry's heart beats faster. He swallows.
“I'm glad,” Malfoy says. His voice is raspy.
Harry bites his lip. “I'm glad too.”
Malfoy chuckles, and something sparks in his eyes, breaking the tenderness of the moment.
“So, now you're jobless?” he grins.
Harry rolls his eyes as if he's annoyed, but the only feeling tingling in his stomach is excitement.
“I'm pretty sure I'm richer than you,” he counters, even though it's a weak argument. “I can afford it.”
“One might say you resigned because you were lacking the necessary capabilities,” Malfoy says.
“Which is why they promoted me to Head Auror, of course,” Harry says sarcastically.
“You used your status as the 'Man-Who-Conquered' to achieve that position,” Malfoy says, slowly mulling over the ridiculous name Harry had eventually been given.
Harry glares at him.
Malfoy snorts.
“Are you losing your manners in my presence?” Harry asks.
Malfoy snorts again. “It appears that way.”
Harry grins. “I'm glad.”
“I'm glad too.” Malfoy smiles back at him. “What are your plans now?”
Harry lets out a suffering sigh. “No idea.”
Malfoy laughs.
“Hey!” Harry pouts. “Don't laugh at my misery.”
“Your misery makes me feel less miserable myself,” Malfoy says. “It's quite entertaining.”
Harry imitates his snootiness, which also earns him a hit over the head.
“Resorting to physical violence?” Harry gasps. “You have abandoned all morals.”
“You have inspired me,” Malfoy says, which also earns him a hit over the head.
Annoyingly, Harry’s punch doesn't pack much power because he's shaking from the cold.
Malfoy stares at him, eyes roaming over his body. He sighs, takes off his coat and replicates it with a swift spell. He hands it to Harry.
“Thanks.” Harry snuggles into the soft cloth.
“You were looking pitiful.” Malfoy wrinkles his nose, “And you had forgotten about being a wizard again.”
Harry sticks his tongue out at him and sneezes.
Malfoy blinks. “What’s the word again? - Oh right: Bless you!”
Harry pouts. “Mean.”
“Let's go back inside,” Malfoy sighs, “before you catch a cold.”
Harry smiles and vanishes the coat with a tap of his wand.
“We don't want anyone coming to false conclusions, do we?”
Malfoy rolls his eyes. “What a horror that would be.”
Harry hopes that Malfoy doesn't mind that his replicated coat is now hanging in Harry's closet. It's not Malfoy's real one after all.
Though Harry might steal that one, too.
The more, the merrier.
They head back inside, and it's a great decision because Harry's teeth stop chattering and his limbs stop trembling. His shoulders lose their tension, and he sways.
Malfoy's hand finds the small of Harry’s back and stabilises him.
“Thanks,” Harry says, a blush already rising, before shaking him off - and promptly feeling cold again.
“Mr Malfoy!”
Harry winces when a shrill voice cuts through the noise like a knife through skin.
Malfoy closes his eyes, his expression exasperated. He breathes in, throws Harry an annoyed glance and turns around.
A polite smile on his lips, he greets the young man who has approached them.
“Good evening. How may I help you?”
“Mr Malfoy,” the man repeats, “my name is Albert, Thomas Albert.”
“What can I do for you, Mr Albert?” Malfoy clicks his tongue.
“Oh, I- I wanted to talk to you about my idea for a business,” Albert says.
“I don't believe I am the right contact person regarding business,” Malfoy says.
“I thought you might want to sponsor my project.”
Harry snorts.
Albert squints at him and opens his mouth.
“Before you utter a derogatory remark about this man,” Malfoy interrupts, “please let me introduce you to him.”
Albert huffs. “Sure.”
“This is my close friend Harry Potter,” Malfoy says. “I assume you have heard of him. I am truthfully surprised you have not recognised him.”
Albert's mouth falls open. His eyes flit over Harry's form as the realisation dawns.
“Mr Potter,” he stammers, “it is such an honour. I am incredibly sorry I did not recognise you.”
Harry grins. “You have now, but I think you don't need me for this conversation.”
He claps Malfoy on the shoulder. “I'll see you, Draco.”
Malfoy smiles and nods. “We'll talk later, Harry.”
“But Mr Potter-”
Harry doesn't hear the rest of his words.
He finds a spot at the edge of the chaos from where he can observe Malfoy and Albert.
Malfoy is nodding along to Albert's rambling, his brows arching here and there, and his lips curling every few seconds.
Five minutes pass, and Harry considers getting a glass of champagne when Albert finally stops talking.
Malfoy taps his chin, pursing his lips. Then his lips start moving rapidly.
He's probably spilling facts after facts, mixing in a few convincing arguments to turn Albert's idea into a business he can profit from.
Harry slides sideways, deciding to have a glass of champagne anyway. Malfoy is talking, his right hand following the circles of his own nods.
Harry grabs a glass for himself and for Malfoy and elbows his way through a group of young people, skilfully tilting the glasses so nothing spills.
“And selling this so-called comp- computer will be much more profitable?” Albert asks.
“I am certain of that, yes,” Malfoy says.
“That sounds like a plan,” Harry comments.
Albert flinches, not having noticed Harry approaching. Malfoy smiles and accepts the glass that Harry gives him. Albert sneers at not being offered one.
“Cheers.” Harry clinks their glasses.
“Cheers.” Malfoy's eyes are twinkling, locking with Harry’s and freezing him in place.
The champagne fizzes on Harry’s tongue, echoing the thrill curling low in his stomach under Malfoy’s gaze.
Somewhere in February or March
Harry shoves his twitching fingers into the pocket of his coat and strolls into the bar. He gropes for the small package, his fingertips brushing over the rough paper that hides a shrunken gift inside.
A couple of people try to approach him, but he shakes them off with a glare in their direction. He’s looking for Malfoy.
“Harry,” a high voice calls.
A little further ahead, leaning against the bar counter with a glass of red wine in her hand, stands Hermione. Her right foot is tapping an unsteady rhythm on the floor.
“Hermione.” Harry hugs her and tidies her hair. “How are you feeling?”
Hermione smiles. “I’m good. How’s everything?”
“Fine,” he replies, wrapping an arm around her waist and squeezing. “Everything is going quite well.”
Hermione puts her head on his shoulder and hums.
“Have you seen Malfoy?” Harry asks.
“No, I don’t think he’s arrived yet,” Hermione says.
Harry sighs. His fingers clench around the package.
Suddenly, Hermione chuckles and points towards the entry. “Speaking of the devil.”
Malfoy struts in, head held high and an arrogant smile on his lips. He smooths out his ink black coat and takes off his gloves. He greets people left and right, shaking a few hands. His gaze flits over the crowd, his forehead creasing.
Harry raises a hand, waving, and Malfoy’s eyes catch his. The wrinkles disappear, and he winks.
Harry blinks, heat suddenly rising to his cheek. He scratches his neck, jostling Hermione, who detaches herself from Harry and grins.
“I’ll go and do some networking,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows.
Harry can’t even be offended at her teasing. His eyes lock with Malfoy’s, blush still high on his cheeks.
Malfoy makes his way through the crowd, long strides quickly overcoming the distance between them.
“Hi,” Harry says when Malfoy stands before him.
“Hello, Harry,” Malfoy says. “How are you?”
Harry rolls his eyes, but some of the tension bleeds from his muscles. “Malfoy. No small talk, please. Everything’s just fine.”
“Still calling me by my last name?” Malfoy cocks a brow.
“Draco.” Harry sighs. He bites his lips and closes his eyes to gather his thoughts. He carefully pulls the package from his pocket. His fingers are still trembling, taking all of his effort not to let the package fall.
Malfoy’s eyes widen.
Harry holds the package out to him, holding his breath so his hands still for a moment.
“For me?”
Harry nods.
Malfoy accepts the package, his fingers brushing over Harry’s as he takes it.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
Harry sucks in a breath. “You haven’t even opened it yet. It could be a spider for all you know.”
Malfoy smiles. “It could be.”
He unwraps the paper with eager moves, crumpling it and stuffing it into the pocket of his coat. Before he can unfold the piece of shrunken clothing in his palm, Harry taps it with his wand. Malfoy wavers under the added weight.
“It’s a coat,” Harry says unnecessarily.
Malfoy runs his hand over the light brown fabric, idly toying with a white button.
“It’s beautiful,” Malfoy says.
Harry smiles. “So are you.”
The words leave his mouth before he has thought about them.
“I- I mean, yes,” he stutters, shame creeping up his neck. He wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. “The coat is beautiful.”
Malfoy laughs, eyes turning into little crescents. “Thank you.”
Harry swallows, the words stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat. “I-”
“I’ll put it on right now, if you do not mind,” Malfoy says.
“Here?” Harry squeaks.
“You gave me this present here,” Malfoy says. “I believed you didn’t have any qualms about our privacy.”
“Oh shit,” Harry gasps, “I forgot to cast a privacy charm.”
Malfoy smiles softly. “Don’t worry. I cast one.”
Harry exhales. “Oh, good. That’s, that’s great.”
Malfoy hands him the brown coat and strips out of his own. They exchange the pieces of clothing. He slips the new coat on and buttons it up.
“What do you think?” he asks Harry with a spark in his eyes. “Twice the beauty, isn’t it?”
Harry nods.
“Yes,” he breathes.
Malfoy chuckles and shrinks the black coat, stuffing it into his new coat. He cancels the privacy charm.
“Please excuse me,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
While he is gone, Harry takes the time to bite each of his nails short, while keeping the people away with a nasty glare.
He is biting the skin off his lips when a blond man returns.
“Malfoy,” he says.
“Potter.”
“Erm.”
“I have to talk to some other people.”
“Of course.” Harry scratches his neck.
“I’ll see you later.”
“Of course.”
“Great.”
“Wait-”
“Yeah?”
Harry reaches for the other and fixes his crooked collar. “Now you can go.”
And gone he is.
Harry slumps and hops onto a bar chair, turning over to face the man behind the counter.
“Hey.”
“Hey mate,” he says.
“Give me your strongest,” Harry says, reading the name tag, “Alexander.”
Alexander nods dutifully and snags the nearest whiskey glass. He fills roughly two fingers with a sparkling brown liquor.
“It’s really strong,” Alexander warns him.
“Thanks mate,” Harry says and downs it in one go.
To say that Alexander is surprised by the attitude of the Chosen One would be an understatement.
Harry Potter is sitting here, at his bar, downing one shot after the other. He doesn’t seem to be drunk yet, cheeks still pale, and his posture still slumped. He isn’t swaying; he isn’t talking. He’s just drinking.
“You want some water?” Alexander asks after a while.
Potter blinks and stares.
“Water?” Alexander repeats.
“Yeah, give me some,” Potter says. His words are slurring, but his gaze isn’t foggy. He’s fidgeting, playing with a napkin.
Alexander fills a glass of water and hands it over.
“Thanks, man,” Potter says.
Alexander nods curtly. “Sure thing.”
“Can I ask something of you?” Potter sips on his water, and his nose scrunches in disgust.
“Go ahead,” Alexander prompts. He’s curious what the Man-Who-Lived-Twice would want from him.
“Could you not tell anyone that I’ve been- “ Potter gestures somewhat awkwardly at his half-full whiskey glass.
“Well, I won’t,” Alexander says. “But other people have seen you.”
“Yeah, but they don’t know I knocked back like ten of these,” Potter says, ripping the napkin into two.
“Nobody is going to be hearing from me about your drinking habits,” Alexander promises. He isn't that big of a talker anyway.
“It’s not a habit.” Potter shrugs, folding one half of his napkin into an ugly swan. “But I appreciate it, thanks.”
“Then why are you drinking?”
“Distraction,” Potter says and throws the swan on the ground.
Alexander’s gaze wanders over the crowd. A tall, blond man is heading towards them.
“Mr Malfoy,” Alexander greets him.
Malfoy frowns.
“Hello,” he says slowly.
Potter snaps around, and his eyes widen. He opens his mouth but doesn’t find the words for a moment.
“Potter,” Malfoy says coolly. “Bloody- have you been drinking at this time?”
He tugs his black coat into place and runs a hand through his hair.
“Malfoy,” Potter says. “Good to see you again.”
“I’m going to the loo,” Malfoy says, shaking his head. Alexander isn’t used to him being so informal. Maybe he’s close with the Chosen One. Maybe they’re friends.
He also isn't used to Malfoy going to the loo twice within the hour.
“Yeah,” Potter says, licking his lips.
Alexander half expects Potter to follow Malfoy, but he doesn’t.
Potter sighs and buries his face in his hands.
“Trouble in paradise?” Alexander asks.
Potter’s eyes widen comically, and his mouth falls open. He blushes, blinking frantically.
Alexander snorts. “So, you’re not in paradise yet?”
“Erm,” Potter stammers, rubbing his hands together, “We, we aren’t-”
“But you want to.” Alexander grins.
“I- ” Potter shakes his head, beet red.
Alexander opens his mouth to relieve Potter of his shame, but in that moment, Malfoy comes back from the loo.
Potter springs up, nearly knocking over the chair in his vigour.
“Draco!” Harry exclaims happily.
“Harry,” Mal- Draco breathes out.
“Everything okay?” Harry asks, stepping closer. He stumbles and catches himself on Draco's beautiful light brown coat.
Draco's grey eyes twinkle in amusement, but Harry is nauseous.
?“Are you drunk?” Draco raises his eyebrow.
Harry swallows. The world is spinning around Draco's face. He reaches out and pats Draco's cheek.
“He’s had quite a bit to drink,” Alexander comments, “I wouldn't trust him to stand on his own.”
“Thank you, Alexander,” Draco says.
He takes Harry by the elbow and guides him outside. Harry can’t hold the nausea in much longer.
Wait.
Maybe someone else can do it for him.
“Hold me,” Harry demands.
Draco stares.
“Or else I'll vomit,” Harry says.
Draco's eyebrows shoot up.
Harry spreads his arms, but the enthusiastic movement causes him to lose his balance, and he falls backwards.
An arm wraps around his waist and pulls him back up.
Harry swallows back the bile that builds up in his throat.
“You have to hold me,” he tells Draco, “I can't hold the vomit on my own.”
The corners of Draco's mouth twitch, but he follows Harry's command and leans in.
His arms squeeze Harry's waist.
Harry buries his nose in Draco's coat, putting his arms around Draco's shoulders.
The world tilts, then stills - caught in the space between his arms and Draco’s warmth.
May 2nd
Excitement buzzes in Harry's veins. He skips the last steps of the stairs and lands safely on the ground.
It's election night.
The current minister is standing on the podium. Barclay is dressed impeccably, but he's nervous. He's brushing over his robes every couple of seconds, drinking sips of water, and running his hand through his hair. He has dark circles under his eyes, evidence of the countless nights he's spent on his campaign.
Harry’s eyes flick over the people.
Both Charles Smith and Lisbeth Jackson, who are also candidates for the position, are arguing on one corner, heads red and hands put on their hips. Their advisors are trying to pull them away from each other, with little success.
“Good evening,” someone says into Harry’s ear. Harry winces, his head knocking back.
The person behind him curses. Harry turns around.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says when he recognises Draco. “Bloody hell, don’t scare me like that.”
Draco rubs his forehead. “You have a head made from stone, Potter.”
“Back to Potter, are we now?” Harry huffs.
“You have a head made from stone, Harry,” Draco says.
Harry breaks into a smile. “Good to see you here, Malfoy.”
Draco’s mouth opens, his forehead creasing with feigned indignation, but before he can say something, Barclay clears his throat.
“Good evening,” he says.
Draco ceases to pinching Harry’s waist, sending the minister a disgruntled look. Harry has to press his palm to his lips to muffle his laugh.
“We have all gathered tonight to celebrate our new minister,” Barclay says. “The votes have nearly all been counted. Only minutes remain.”
Harry has never seen the process of counting votes, but it changes every election.
This year, letters fly through the huge windows of the largest ballroom the ministry has to offer. They are special letters, designed like carrier pigeons. You can send them in within the twenty-four-hour period that started at midnight yesterday. Employees scan them and place them in four brown boxes, each labelled with a candidate’s name. Once it is one a.m., the last letters will have arrived and the box with the most votes will explode into confetti.
“Let me introduce you to all of our candidates,” Barclay says.
Polite applause can be heard.
“First, myself,” he says with a big grin, “My name is Walter Flavius Barclay, as you surely all know. I’ve been your minister for the last seven years, and I offer myself to you again.”
The people clap quietly.
Barclay waves the other candidates up to him.
“This is Charles Smith,” he says, shaking Smith’s hand, “He presents the conservative faction.”
Strong applause.
“And this lovely lady is Lisbeth Jackson for the progressive faction,” Barclay continues. He kisses the back of Jackson’s hand, who makes a face.
Enthusiastic cheers.
Barclay nods. “And lastly, we have Hermione Granger, a hero from the last wizarding war, whom you have surely all heard of.”
Harry cheers, screaming his best friend’s name. The pride makes him giddy.
“Can you believe it?” he tells Draco. “She’s up there!”
Draco laughs. “I am the one who put her up there. I can very well believe it.”
Harry giggles and squeezes Draco’s arm. “Thank you for that.”
Draco smiles.
“Five,” Barclay shouts all of a sudden. “Four!”
The crowd joins him. “Three!”
Harry grins and yells, “Two!”
He nudges Draco. “One!”
“Zero!” they shout together.
One of the boxes explodes, and the room drowns in noise. Harry flinches at the sudden increase in volume.
Who won?
“Harry!” Draco exclaims. “Granger won!”
What?
Harry’s jaw drops, and his eyes snap to Hermione. She’s standing there, mouth open, eyes wide. She isn’t moving until Ron sprints up the podium and throws himself onto her. They fall to the ground.
Oh dear God.
“Hermione won?” Harry asks incredulously. “Hermione won?”
Draco laughs. “She did, Harry. She did.”
Oh dear God .
Harry cries out and throws his arms around Draco’s neck. Draco stiffens under him before he relaxes within a matter of seconds.
“She won,” Harry gasps. He pulls back and stares into Draco’s grey eyes.
“She did,” he says. “You should go and congratulate her.”
“Yes!”
That’s a great idea.
Harry runs through the crowd, dodging elbows. He jumps up onto the podium and joins the Ron-Hermione pile. He squishes them, screaming in their ears.
“Harry,” Hermione says. “Let’s get up.”
Harry bobs his head and stands up, stumbling a bit.
Hermione takes the hand Ron offers, straightening up. Harry promptly hugs her again.
“Congratulations,” he says.
Hermione grins. “Thank you, Harry.”
Harry whoops. “I’m so happy.”
Hermione laughs and hugs him again.
Draco watches Harry with fond eyes, observing how he is yelling at Granger and Weasley, shaking with enthusiasm.
He lets Harry take his hand when he comes back and they listen to Granger’s speech.
He doesn’t listen but he hopes Harry does.
He closes his eyes instead.
Draco’s fingers clench around the soft fabric of the light brown coat.
He can’t breathe.
He walks to the toilets, staring at himself in the big mirror, leaning on the counter.
The feelings that have been building up inside him overwhelm him beautifully. His fingertips skim over the pockets. The coat buzzes beneath. There’s a protection charm built inside.
Draco can’t breathe.
“Malfoy,” someone says. Their voice sounds like his own. He whips around.
“Weasley?” he asks.
And Ron Weasley steps out of the stall, wearing Draco’s face and clothes. The Polyjuice Potion is working perfectly.
“Yes,” his clone says. “Are you ready?”
Draco nods. “I’m good. You?”
“Obviously,” Weasley says.
“Remember to talk to as many people as possible,” Draco says. “Talk about nothing.”
“I know,” Weasley replies.
“Good.” Draco exhales. “Then go and bring him to me.”
“Will do.” Weasley claps his shoulder. Draco smiles, but his jaw is tense. He can hear his blood rushing in his ears. Weasley leaves.
Draco sucks in a shaky breath. It takes six minutes for Paris Barclay to show up. He steps inside, a confused expression on his face. With a twist of his wand, Draco charms the door shut.
Barclay Junior’s eyes widen.
“Paris Barclay,” Draco says slowly as if he’s trying to remember, “The minister’s son.”
“What- what do you want?”
Draco grins. “A confession.”
“I don’t have anything to confess.” Little Barclay is gnawing on his lips.
“Do you, now?”
“I- I’m innocent,” Barclay says.
Draco chuckles. “Of course.”
“I- I have a wand.” He sadly isn’t threatening at all.
“I do too,” Draco says.
“My- my father is the minister, you can’t-”
Draco snorts, a habit he’s learned from Harry. “He won’t be in a few months.”
He leans in and whispers into Baby Barclay’s ear. “Paul Harrison, Flavius Vandermoon, Tilda Hendery. Have you heard those names before?”
“They’re part of the Wizengamot,” Barclay Junior stutters.
“They have all turned up at your doorstep, haven’t they?” Draco asks. “As has Antonin Dolohov, hasn’t he?”
Barclay’s son shakes his head frantically.
“I have evidence but with your father in the position of minister I am powerless right now as a former Death Eater myself,” Draco says. “Wouldn’t it be great if his son would speak out against him? Expose him for colluding with Death Eaters?”
“He’s not-”
“He’s not what?” Draco interrupts him. “He’s not a Death Eater?”
Little Barclay nods.
“So what?” Draco tilts his head.
“I could just run outside right now and tell everyone,” the minister’s son says.
“Could you?”
Baby Barclay stocks, then furrows his brows. “Why would I even help you? You have nothing to threaten me with.”
Draco grins. “You could be the one to save the Ministry from what it’s becoming. You know your father isn’t clean - you simply do not want to admit it. But if you don’t speak out, you’ll be complicit too.”
Barclay Junior freezes.
Draco has him.
He adjusts his coat before he realises, shit, that he’s wearing Harry’s gifted one while Weasley is wearing a copy of his old, black one.
He takes a breath. He can’t panic right now.
It doesn’t matter. People do not remember the colour of coats. Even if they do, they will just make up excuses why he’s changed.
He can’t take it off - it’s a present from Harry.
“O- okay,” Little Barclay says. “I’ll do it.”
“Perfect.”
One interview with the Prophet and the public lost its trust in Barclay.
With Granger as the minister, bringing him and the others to justice will hardly be a challenge.
Harry tugs at Draco’s coat. “Can we go outside?”
They do go outside.
Draco solemnly stares at the starry sky.
“Hermione just became Minister for Magic,” Harry says. “You could at least show a bit of enthusiasm.”
Draco glances at him. “You showed enough enthusiasm for both of us.”
Harry grins a crooked and tired grin. “You’re in a mood.”
“I’m always in a mood. You’re just usually worse.”
Harry snorts and rolls his eyes. Draco swallows. There’s a strange ache in his chest.
He doesn’t mean to say it. But it slips out anyway.
“I didn’t think we’d win.”
Harry’s smile softens. “I did.”
Of course he did.
Maybe Harry’s the sun and Draco is a pathetic, small plant, circling him, pulled in by his gravity.
He turns fully toward Draco. There’s a streetlamp flickering above, casting Harry in pale gold.
He looks older than he used to. So does Draco.
But there’s something in Harry’s stubborn eyes that makes Draco feel young in the worst way.
He steps closer; he’s not thinking clearly.
“Draco-” Harry starts, but doesn’t finish.
So Draco kisses him.
Harry doesn’t pull away. He licks Draco’s lower lip, biting and sneaking his way into Draco’s mouth.
When they part, it’s only an inch.
“You’re impossible,” Draco murmurs.
Harry smirks, breath ghosting against Draco’s lips. “And you kissed like you were trying to prove something.”
“I am.”
“Did it work?”
Draco smiles. “You tell me.”
“I love your smile,” Harry tells him instead.