Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Draco shrugged off his overcoat, draping it neatly on the old-fashioned hat stand by the door. His eyes swept across his new office, taking in every detail with quiet satisfaction. The large window immediately caught his attention, offering a view of the warehouse where his completed potions were stored. To most wizards, the sight of a plain, industrial brick building wouldn’t hold much appeal, but to Draco, it was a source of pride. He imagined the shelves inside, lined with potions bearing his green and silver branding, and a small smile tugged at his lips.

The office itself was sparse, partly because he had only just moved in, but also by design. Draco had no interest in recreating the opulence he had grown up with. Instead, the space exuded a certain severity, its simplicity speaking to his new identity. The only personal touch was the elegant rosewood and brass chess set on the corner of his desk, a graduation gift from his mother.

He set his brown leather briefcase on the desk, unlocking it with a subtle flick of his wand. His fingers brushed over the hardened wax seal of his new contract with St. Mungo’s—a hard-won reward after six months of calculated effort. His strategic donation to remodel the Janus Thickey Ward had helped win over the Chief Mediwizard, who, though hesitant at first, had ultimately agreed to make Draco the hospital’s new supplier of burn-healing paste, disinfectant potions, fever reducers, and antacids. Draco clung to the hope that the quality and consistency of his products would solidify the hospital’s trust, paving the way for larger contracts—and, perhaps, a quiet kind of atonement.

“Mr. Malfoy?” Miss King appeared in the doorway, her skirt suit sharp, her heels polished. “There’s a delivery for you.”

“A delivery?” Draco frowned. His record-keeping was meticulous, and as far as he could recall, no such arrival was scheduled.

“I believe it’s a gift,” she replied, stepping aside.

The wizard who entered was solidly built, sleeves rolled to the elbow. A heavy vase brimming with roses, carnations, chrysanthemums, tulips, and stocks rested effortlessly in his grip. Lush sprays of green ivy, baby’s breath, and elegant willow branches spilled dramatically over the edges of the extravagant arrangement, commanding attention.

“Where do you want me to put this?” 

Draco’s mind snagged on the phrasing—Where do you want me?—twisting it into something far more intimate. The image of the man, uniform discarded, shoulders relaxed, rose unbidden and unwelcome. Heat crept up Draco’s neck, frustration rising as he forcibly shoved the thought away.

“On the desk,” he said, sharper than intended.

The man raised an eyebrow but complied, setting the vase down with practiced care. He lingered, hands slipping into his pockets. Draco’s gaze caught on the freckles scattered across his face, and for a moment, he couldn’t quite look away.

“Do you want me to get a tip from petty cash?” Miss King's voice cut cleanly through the haze. 

“No need,” Draco said quickly, fumbling for his wallet. He passed over a few galleons, his fingers brushing the deliveryman’s skin. Draco flinched at the contact, the heat in his neck spreading anew.

“Thanks,” he said flatly, his tone as unimpressed as the look he gave Draco. 

“Anything else before I head off?” Miss King smoothed an invisible crease on her skirt. “I’m leaving a little early—I’ve got a date.”

Draco hesitated. “Right. Well… go on, then.”

“Thank you, sir. Have a good weekend.” She smiled, grabbed her coat and bag, and slipped out. The door clicked softly behind her.

He sank into the leather chair, his gaze drifting to the vase on his desk. As the heir of a Sacred Twenty-Eight family, he was fluent in the language of flowers, and he could read his mother’s intentions without even glancing at the card. And yet, curiosity tugged at him. With a quiet sigh, he unfolded the parchment.

“My dearest Draco,” it began, her graceful handwriting as familiar to him as the scent of her perfume. “Ambition is the cornerstone of our family's legacy, and it brings me great pleasure to see you upholding it with such distinction. Completing a Potions Mastery at Europe’s most revered Academy of Alchemical Sciences, and establishing your potions firm, Sanus—these are achievements befitting the Malfoy name, and your father and I are proud.”

Draco snorted quietly. His father’s pride likely stopped short at his choice of profession.

“Still, darling,” the letter continued, her tone soft but unmistakably firm,“there is more to life than work, no matter how meaningful. Marriage and family carry immeasurable importance, and I would be remiss not to remind you of such obligations. The Greengrasses are hosting a ball on Saturday to present their daughter Astoria to society. I trust you understand the significance of attending.”

Draco exhaled sharply and tossed the card aside. His mother’s matchmaking showed no signs of slowing, despite his repeated—and pointed—attempts to shut it down.

He opened a drawer, retrieved a bottle of Ogden’s, and poured a generous measure into a crystal tumbler. The firewhiskey burned, steadying him for a moment. But the unease remained.

He had no desire to start a family, not when his new business demanded every ounce of his focus, but deeper than that lay an undeniable truth: none of the polished, elegant young women his mother paraded before him had ever stirred his interest.

His fingers trembled slightly as they rested on the glass, and it was only with a deliberate effort that he managed to still them. Taking a slow breath, he closed his eyes, drawing on the steadying force of his mental magic.

The world around him dissolved, replaced by a vision of rolling hills awash in the golden light of a spring afternoon. He could almost feel the sun’s gentle warmth on his skin, soothing and familiar, while the delicate fragrance of lavender and elderflower drifted through the air. Memories of the Malfoy estate, where those flowers grew in abundance.

In his mind’s eye, he wandered along a narrow, meandering path. The cheerful songs of skylarks and blackbirds filled the air, blending harmoniously with the faint rustle of leaves in the hedgerows. Each step felt grounding, each breath slow and steady, as the tension in his chest gradually ebbed away.

A faint smile curved his lips as he envisioned a babbling brook coming into view. He lingered there in his imagination, allowing the Wiltshire countryside to envelop him, anchoring him in a peace he seldom experienced outside his daily occlumency practice.

When he opened his eyes, a sense of calm had settled over him. The sharp, nagging awareness of his body's needs faded—banished, for now, to some distant corner of his mind.

He glanced at his watch, startled to see that nearly an hour had slipped by during his meditation. Rising from his chair, he stretched briefly before heading toward his lab. It was only quarter to seven, and with his mind clear and steady once more, he felt ready to tackle several hours of uninterrupted work.

Chapter Text

“Morning, George,” Ron called over his shoulder as he fried two eggs in a cast-iron skillet. The rich scent of bacon filled the small, cluttered kitchen above Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes, the flat they’d shared since the war ended. “Coffee?”

“You’re a lifesaver, Ronnie,” George muttered, shuffling to the counter. He grabbed his favorite mug, filled it to the brim, and took a long, slow sip, like the coffee was the only thing keeping him upright.

“You and Lee really went for it last night, didn’t you?”

“Some of us are living it up while we can.” George dropped into one of the two chairs by the small table, slouching comfortably as he settled in. “Lee found this new club in Muggle London—Ministry of Sound, I think it’s called? You should come next time. Never seen so many fit girls in one place.”

Ron set two plates piled high with breakfast sandwiches on the table and sank into the chair across from George. “Thanks, but I’ll give it a miss. Dating’s not exactly a priority for me right now.”

“Dating? Who said anything about dating?” George flipped straight to the business section of the Prophet. He slid the sports pages across to Ron without looking up. “It’s just a bit of fun.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have time for fun either,” Ron said around a mouthful of bacon. “I might be a proper Auror now, but no seniority means I’m stuck with all the night shifts and weekend emergencies.” He shook his head and took a sip of coffee. “The last girl I went out with—”

“Padma Patil,” George interrupted, grinning as he pictured the scene. “She nearly took the door off its hinges, charging in here to give you an earful.”

Ron groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “She’s still not speaking to me. For the record, I didn’t stand her up. I was called in to stop a rogue Hippogriff from trampling a Muggle neighborhood in Chelsea, but any goodwill I had with her probably ran out after the Yule Ball.”

George opened his mouth for another quip, but his attention snagged on something in the paper. His grin vanished, replaced by a scowl. “What’s this rubbish?”

“What is it?”

“Draco Malfoy’s back in England. Did you know about this?”

“Malfoy?” Ron’s brows furrowed, caught off guard. “No. Last I heard, he was studying potions at some fancy university in Germany. What’s he up to now?”

“Somehow, he’s wormed his way into becoming St. Mungo’s go-to for potions,” George said, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Have people forgotten who he is? A Death Eater, brewing up healing potions for sick people? It’s mental.”

“Let me see,” Ron said, tugging the paper from George’s hands. Since the war, George had been glued to the Death Eater trials, particularly anything involving Corban Yaxley. The Malfoys had dodged Azkaban by turning crown’s evidence against their former allies, and it never failed to set George off.

“At least Mandy’s giving him what he deserves,” George said, naming the Prophet’s newest star reporter, Mandy Brocklehurst, a Ravenclaw from Ron’s year. “She’s built her career ripping into anyone with power. About time Malfoy got his turn—took long enough, didn’t it?”

MALFOY IN, JUSTICE OUT? Dr. Adam Turner, Chief Mediwizard at St. Mungo’s, has sparked outrage with his decision to partner with none other than Draco Malfoy. Yes, that Draco Malfoy—the former Death Eater now rebranded as the owner of a shiny new potions firm. Convenient, isn’t it?

While Malfoy boasts a Potions Mastery from the Aurich Academy of Alchemical Sciences, his record isn’t exactly spotless. And yet, he’s been handed a lucrative deal to supply the hospital with healing potions, all thanks to “competitive pricing” and “product quality.” Patients who survived the war might not feel so reassured.

The kicker? Gregory Goyle, one of Malfoy’s old pals, was just sentenced to five years in Azkaban. Malfoy, meanwhile, sidesteps accountability, his deep pockets smoothing the way. Justice? Looks more like privilege in disguise.

With the DMLE asleep at the wheel, no wonder groups like Mourning Star are stepping in to do their job for them. Can you blame them when the system seems rigged for the rich and powerful?

It’s high time someone reminded the wizarding world that justice can’t be bought.

Ron lowered the paper. “Look, I’m no fan of how the Ministry’s handled Malfoy, but this Mourning Star lot? I’ve seen what they’re up to. Kidnapping, torture, even murder. The legal system might be a mess, but at least it tries to do things properly.”

“Come on, Ron. You didn’t exactly wait around for the Ministry to sort out Voldemort during the war. Bit hypocritical to knock Mourning Star for doing the same thing, don’t you think?”

Ron bristled, his tone sharpening. “Yeah, we took matters into our own hands, but we weren’t running around torturing people or deciding guilt on a whim, were we? We were up against people doing exactly that. There’s a difference.”

“I reckon Mandy deserves some flowers for this,” George said, getting up from the table and chucking his empty plate into the sink with a clatter. “And if I catch that ponce Malfoy strutting around Diagon Alley like he owns the place, well… Let’s just say he’ll find out exactly what I think about Death Eaters buying their way out of trouble.”

Ron bit back an angry retort. Starting a row now would only make George dig his heels in further, and the last thing Ron wanted was to visit his brother in a holding cell because he’d knocked Malfoy’s teeth in.

“Angelina coming over to help with inventory today?” he asked, steering the conversation to safer ground. If anyone could talk sense into George, it’d be her.

George perked up at the mention of Angelina, the shadow of a grin pulling at his features. “Yeah, she is. Wish I could talk her into working at Wheezes full-time. All that invoice-sorting and account-balancing rubbish? It’s enough to make me want to hex the bloody ledger.”

"I'd offer to help, but I really don’t want to.”

“Git,” George said with a lopsided grin, swiping half-heartedly as Ron leaned back, well out of reach. “So, what’s on your agenda? Anything thrilling, or just the usual?”

“Bit of Quidditch with Seamus and Dean,” Ron replied, flicking his wand toward the sink. Dishes began to scrub themselves with a rhythmic clink. “After that? Probably the pub—unless work calls.”

“Here’s hoping the Ministry can survive a single day without Junior Auror Weasley.” 

“Not holding my breath,” Ron said, pulling on his jacket. “Say hi to Angelina for me,” he added, tossing the words lightly over his shoulder as he headed out the door.

Chapter Text

Ron flicked his wand over his sweat-soaked Quidditch kit, muttering a quick transfiguration charm. The fabric shimmered, shifting into a plain grey suit that still smelled faintly of broom polish. He ran a hand through his wind-tossed hair and sighed. It would have to do.

"Pulled you out of your match, did I?" Head Auror Robards strode past, voice brisk with a flicker of dry amusement. He gestured for Ron to follow. The door clicked shut behind them, and the hum of the outer office vanished as a privacy spell sealed the room. "Timing’s not ideal, I know—but this couldn’t wait. Take a seat."

Ron sank into one of the well-worn leather chairs across from Robards’ desk. "No problem, sir. What’s the case?"

"Straightforward break-in and vandalism, at least on the surface." Robards slid a stack of photos across the desk. "Target was Draco Malfoy’s new potions lab in Stirrup Court, Hackney."

The top photo showed a plain brick building—window shattered, front door torn off its hinges.

Ron flipped through the rest of the stack, his brow furrowing with each image. He paused at a potions lab in complete ruin. Shattered glass littered the floor, metal equipment twisted and broken beyond use. Deep gouges scored the workbenches, once pristine. Not even the most skilled Reparo could undo this kind of damage.

"Think this has anything to do with that article Brocklehurst wrote about Malfoy’s deal with St. Mungo’s?"

“That article’s just more fuel on the fire.” Robards flicked a hand toward the Prophet lying on his desk, irritation tightening the lines around his mouth. "Brocklehurst’s been stirring the pot for years, making Shacklebolt’s job harder with every word. Reporters love their black-and-white stories. Malfoy walks free, and they cry injustice. But they never stop to consider the bigger picture.”

He paused, jaw set. “That deal with Lucius wasn’t ideal, but it worked. We put some of the worst Death Eaters behind bars because of it. Without that compromise, we’d still be chasing shadows—or burying more of our own.”

Ron set the photos down, his expression unreadable. "Are we sure this is political? It’s Malfoy—we both know he’s got enemies lined up a mile long. Couldn’t it just be a rival supplier trying to muscle in on his contract?"

"Exactly why I put you on it." Robards slid a final photograph across the desk. "There’s one more thing you should see."

Ron studied the image for a long moment. "That definitely looks like a threat."

"Your other cases are being reassigned. This is your top priority now—I want your full attention."

"Understood, sir."

"Start with Malfoy," Robards said, checking his watch. "He’s in Interview Room Four. His solicitor, Doubleday, is probably with him by now. Don’t underestimate him. He may look like someone’s kindly old grandfather, but he’s razor-sharp. One misstep and he’ll have us tied up in a misconduct suit before you can blink."

Ron stood, brushing down his jacket. "I’ll handle it."

"Keep it professional, Weasley. We can’t afford mistakes on this one." Robards flicked his wand, lifting the privacy spell. The low hum of the office filtered back in. "Let Malfoy know he’s barred until forensics finishes processing the scene. Should be done by week’s end."

Draco sat at a narrow, rectangular table, flanked by two solicitors. The older one—plump, professorial—offered Ron a genial smile. The younger passed Draco a to-go cup of Muggle coffee, steam curling lazily from the open lid.

“You must be Auror Weasley,” the older solicitor said, rising with an outstretched hand. “Jonathan Doubleday. This is Collins, my associate,” he added with a nod. Collins offered Ron a subdued smile. “And of course, you’re already acquainted with Mr. Malfoy.”

"Malfoy." Ron extended his hand without thinking, the gesture automatic. Draco froze, his entire body rigid with discomfort. Ron hesitated a beat before letting his hand fall, sliding into the chair opposite.

He still thinks he’s above me. Unbelievable.

"Apologies, Auror," Doubleday said smoothly, stepping into the silence. "Mr. Malfoy is understandably unsettled after this morning’s events." He paused, his tone shifting—still polite, but edged with quiet reproach. "And, if I might add, waiting here for nearly two hours hasn’t exactly helped."

"I’m not worried about my time," Draco cut in. "It’s the Auror’s I’m wasting. My father warned me. I thought private security was excessive." He exhaled sharply, almost a laugh. "Clearly, I miscalculated. I’ll contract Aegis and handle it myself. No need to keep the Ministry tangled in this."

“Your father was quite clear. He expects the Aurors to take every necessary step to ensure your safety—as outlined in his agreement with the Ministry.”

Draco lifted his chin, just slightly. “I was under the impression that, now I’m of age, my father’s arrangements no longer apply. Or is that not how it works?”

Ron leaned back in his chair. "You seem eager to get this over with. Here's a thought—work with me, and we'll both be out of here faster."

“Fine,” Draco muttered, loosening his tie with a sharp tug. “Ask whatever you need to ask. The sooner you’re finished, the sooner I can get back to cleaning up this mess.”

Ron flicked his wand. A notepad and self-writing quill hovered into place above the desk, poised and waiting. "You were the first to arrive at the scene, correct? Did you contact the police?"

"I was 'first on the scene,' as you put it, but there was no need to alert anyone. The vandals breached the safe—triggered the bank's defensive charm. The authorities were notified automatically. I didn't have to lift a finger."

"Was anything taken?"

"There wasn’t anything worth taking. A courier from Gringotts collects the larger deposits before we close each day. We only keep petty cash in the safe, enough for tips and minor expenses."

"Just to confirm," Ron said, his tone steady as he studied Malfoy. "All the money’s accounted for, is it?"

"Yes."

"What time did you arrive?"

Draco flushed slightly. "Around eight, I’d say."

"Eight in the morning?" Ron raised an eyebrow. "Bit early for a Saturday, isn’t it?"

"Sanus is a start-up. I handle the whole process myself. Brewing, bottling, the lot. It’s not exactly your typical nine-to-five, that’s for sure."

Ron gave a slight nod, filing that away. "Right. Did you see or hear anything unusual when you got there?"

"You mean, other than the window shattered across the pavement and the front door ripped off its hinges?"

"And you didn’t think to call for help?" Ron’s eyebrows lifted just a touch. "Most people wouldn’t just stroll into a shop that’s been wrecked. For all you know, whoever trashed the place could’ve been waiting around."

Draco ran a hand through his hair, disrupting his neat side-part. "I wish I had caught them in the act. They destroyed some of my most valuable equipment. My spectrophotometer, for one, and my continuous-flow centrifuge. Do you have any idea how difficult—or expensive—they’ll be to replace?"

Since when do you care about the price tag?

"Did you touch or move anything before the police arrived?"

"Yes," Draco admitted, his voice tight.

Ron’s head snapped up. "Yes?"

"I needed to check if the vandals had gotten into my private papers," he said stiffly. "In my haste to ensure my diary was safe, I might have… disturbed the evidence."

"Quite understandable," Doubleday said, folding his hands neatly. "These situations can be overwhelming, and it’s not uncommon for someone in your position to unknowingly interfere with a crime scene. The authorities will take that into account, of course."

"What evidence did you disturb?" Ron pressed, pointedly ignoring Doubleday’s interruption.

"The diary was hidden in a compartment in my desk. It was already damaged when I arrived, but I had to break it further to get to my papers."

"Where is the diary now?"

"Really, Auror." Doubleday shook his head. "You can’t seriously expect Mr. Malfoy to hand over such an intensely personal document, particularly when it clearly has no relevance to your investigation."

Ron didn’t take his eyes off Draco’s face as he answered, his voice firm. "This isn’t a negotiation. It’s evidence from the crime scene. If it has nothing to do with the investigation, fine, but we’ll be the ones to determine that, not you."

"I must remind you of Rutherford v. Ministry of Magic, 1974." Doubleday paused, ensuring all eyes were on him. "As I’m sure you’re aware, the Wizengamot ruled that deeply personal documents—diaries, in particular—cannot be seized as evidence without irrefutable proof of their direct relevance to the matter at hand. And I see no indication this diary meets that standard." He smiled faintly, the picture of polite insistence.

"You can hand it over now, or I can let the Ministry take it through official channels," Ron said bluntly. "But let me make one thing clear—if this ends up in their hands, they won’t look too kindly on a solicitor playing games to stall an investigation."

"It’s fine, Jonathan." Draco slid a hand into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and drew out a black, leather-bound journal. "The diary’s coded. I highly doubt anyone at the Ministry has the brains to decipher it, even if they tried."

The solicitor launched into another round of objections, but Malfoy silenced him with a slight shake of his head. He slid the journal across the desk toward Ron, who wasted no time pocketing it.

"Will there be anything further, Auror? Mr. Malfoy has cooperated fully with your investigation, but as you can appreciate, he has urgent matters to address following the attack on his business. I trust you will respect his time and allow him to return to those pressing responsibilities."

"Just one more question, and then you’re free to go." Ron slid the final photograph across the desk toward Malfoy, his eyes steady. "The message the vandals painted on your wall, ‘Cowards die many times before their deaths.’ What does that mean to you?"

Draco’s face lost its color, but when he spoke, his tone was dismissive. "It’s Shakespeare, isn’t it? We covered it in university. Mandatory course on Muggle Literature, if you can imagine."

Ron crossed his arms. "I didn’t graduate from the Aurich Academy of Alchemical Sciences, but I know a threat when I see one."

"You believe the vandals will strike again?" Doubleday’s brow furrowed as he lifted the photograph. "Draco, why ever didn’t you bring this threat to my attention? Your father will undoubtedly—"

"For the last time, Jonathan, I don’t want him involved," Draco snapped, his sharp tone reinforcing Ron’s suspicion that he hadn’t changed a bit since their school days.

"This message doesn’t ring any bells for you?" Ron asked again, his tone steady but probing. "No one’s made any threats, mentioned Julius Caesar, or brought up Shakespeare—or anything along those lines—recently?"

"No. And if this is someone’s attempt at intimidation, they’ll have to try much harder than cryptic messages to get under my skin." He stood, straightening his jacket. The solicitors followed suit, quickly collecting their papers. "Now, if there’s nothing further, I’d like to get back to my business and start setting things to rights."

"I’m afraid you’ll have to wait. The Unspeakables are still working the crime scene, and I’ve been directed to let you know that you’re not to return to the premises until they’re finished. It’ll take about a week, give or take."

"You expect me to go an entire week without access to my business? St. Mungo’s is expecting a delivery on Monday. That gives me barely thirty-six hours to restock hundreds of potions!"

Ron blinked, caught off guard by the genuine distress in Malfoy’s voice. For a moment, he almost felt bad for him. "I’m sorry to hear that," he said, and to his surprise, he meant it.  

Ron’s surprise deepened when Draco lowered his eyes, an uncharacteristic gesture that felt almost vulnerable. The moment was brief, though, as Draco’s expression quickly hardened, locking away whatever had slipped through.

“Let me know if the investigation wraps up sooner than expected.” 

“I’ll be in touch,” Ron called after him, watching as Draco strode out, his solicitors scrambling to keep pace. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving Ron alone to mull over his next steps.

Chapter Text

“Miss King?” Draco stopped short. His usually polished PA was in jeans and a jumper, clipboard tucked under one arm as she moved methodically between the shelves.

“Mr. Malfoy.” Her expression softened as she stepped toward him. “I came as soon as I heard. Mr. Collins owled—said you might need help sorting through everything. It’s brutal, what they did to Sanus.”

“It is,” Draco said, voice low. “I was so rattled I nearly forgot—most of the potions are stored here. Lucky for us, the vandals weren’t clever enough to realise this warehouse is mine too.”

“The only thing missing is burn-healing paste,” she said, eyes on the clipboard. “You were brewing that fresh in the lab, weren’t you? Something about a short shelf-life.”

Draco reached for a bottle of Murtlap Essence on a nearby shelf and slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll need to brew more,” he said, voice flat. “If we’re going to make the deadline, I should start now.”

“But where will you work, sir? The lab’s been completely cordoned off. I saw Unspeakables going in and out of Sanus. They looked terribly serious and official.”

“Yes,” Draco said, expression tightening. “The Aurors have informed me we won’t have access for at least a week. Consider it a vacation, Miss King.”

“I’d prefer to stay here and help you.”

Draco glanced at her, startled by the offer. Miss King had always been professional, but she’d never given any indication that her commitment extended beyond her job requirements.

“Thank you. That means a great deal,” Draco said, voice low. “But the Aurors aren’t wrong about everything. Sanus needs proper security. Take the week off—I’ll use the time to bring in Aegis Defensive Services. I won’t have you back until I’m certain it’s secure.”

“Understood, sir. Shall I contact Gringotts to arrange custody of the potions? It would be reassuring to know they’re protected from further disruption.”

“Smart thinking,” Draco agreed. “Send your Patronus. I’ll stay until their courier arrives.”

Miss King flicked her wand, and her heron Patronus appeared in a flash of silver light, soaring gracefully out of the warehouse.

She chose not to question why her boss, a graduate of one of the most prestigious magical universities in the world, hadn’t performed the spell himself.

Draco removed his lab coat with a brisk motion, handing it to their chief house-elf, Riggins, who accepted it silently. “Good evening, Mother,” he said—calm, but unmistakably weary. “I hope it’s alright if I stay a few days. I’ve been brewing in the carriage house, just like before Sanus.”

“This is your home, darling,” Narcissa replied, offering a small smile. Her gaze lingered, concern barely masked. “You don’t need to ask. But are you certain this business is worth the trouble? When Jonathan told us about the attack, I could hardly believe it. Who targets a company making healing potions?”

“Mourning Star, for one,” Lucius said, crossing the room to join Narcissa. “Have you finally seen the wisdom in my advice? If you insist on continuing this... experiment, the least you can do is hire private security.”

“I’ll owl Charles on Monday and have him arrange it,” Draco said tiredly. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m heading to bed.”

“If you’re finally beginning to see sense, take the next logical step. Make yourself presentable and join us at the Greengrasses’ soirée. Astoria is a charming young woman—far more deserving of your attention than this misguided attempt at running a business.”

Draco paused midway up the stairs, turning slightly to face his father. “I don’t see my business as misguided. It’s an opportunity to redefine the Malfoy name, to make it synonymous with healing and progress.”

Lucius smiled, faintly amused. “You concern yourself far too much with the opinions of others, Draco. I’ve lived through two wars and more scandals than I care to count. Families like ours—good, pureblood families—always come out on top. Let Brocklehurst and her kind rile the masses. Their resentment is fleeting. Their anger, inconsequential. In the end, our power remains.”

Draco turned fully, meeting his father’s gaze. “If public opinion is truly irrelevant, why did you bury the Prophet’s coverage of the vandalism?”

Narcissa moved quickly to her husband's side, placing a hand on his arm. “Please, Lucius. You know how much I dislike these arguments. Can we call a truce, just for tonight? Draco has been through enough, and you can see how tired he is.”

Lucius patted her arm. “Your mother is quite right. We’ll discuss this further once you’ve rested and can approach the matter with clearer judgment.”

Draco gave a slight nod before continuing up the stairs.

After his shower, Draco changed into the grey silk pajamas that Trilby, his ever-efficient house-elf, had prepared for him. Then he sank into his feather bed, the faint warmth of a heating charm still clinging to the sheets.

He breathed deeply and closed his eyes, willing his body to relax, but his mind, though tired, stubbornly resisted sleep.

He tried to summon the familiar image of the Wiltshire countryside, its rolling green hills and endless skies his usual refuge when his thoughts refused to settle, but this time, it slipped through his grasp, unable to compete with the intrusive image of Ronald Weasley…

Was it Draco’s imagination, or had he somehow grown taller and broader since the war? His striking blue eyes—still as intelligent and endlessly kind as Draco remembered—hadn’t changed a bit, though everything else about him seemed to have.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ron’s voice replayed in Draco’s mind, but his traitorous imagination twisted the memory, layering the words with a tenderness that only existed in Draco’s fantasies.

Draco groaned, burying his face in his hands, frustration curling tight in his chest. His daily Occlumency practice was supposed to keep thoughts like this far from his conscious mind. Perhaps I’m just overtired, he reasoned. It’s been a hell of a day. He exhaled slowly, trying to convince himself. Tomorrow, once I’ve had time to adjust, he won’t affect me like this.

He closed his eyes again, focusing on a breathing exercise meant to guide him into meditation. Normally, the rhythmic pattern would help him drift away from the relentless hunger of his body, pulling him into a soothing void. But this time, instead of the usual emptiness, an image surfaced unbidden. Ron, his large, freckled hand extended toward Draco in an invitation that felt far too vivid, far too real…

Draco sat up abruptly, the pain in his chest driving him to his en suite bathroom. With a flick of his fingers, the medicine chest on the marble counter clicked open, revealing its neatly arranged contents.

“There you are,” he murmured, his trembling hand closing around a vial of potion marked with a skull and crossbones. Unscrewing the cap, he hesitated for a moment before placing two drops on his tongue. Then, after a brief pause, he added a third, the bitter taste spreading across his mouth.

The effect was almost instantaneous. The whirlwind of intrusive thoughts stilled, as though a heavy curtain had fallen to smother them. Relief washed over him, though a faint numbness crept into his fingers and toes, the telltale sign of the belladonna in the potion.

His body felt heavy as he shuffled back to bed, each step slower than the last. Sinking into the warmth of the sheets, he barely registered the lingering charm’s comforting heat before sleep pulled him under.

Chapter Text

"Nice choice, Weasley," Pansy said, her voice laced with dry amusement as she scanned the elegant menu. "I wouldn't have pegged you for the fine dining type."

“I’m not,” Ron replied with a shrug. “Figured a bit of wining and dining might persuade you to help me with a case.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate the effort,” she said, flipping the menu closed, “but isn’t cleaning up Aurors’ messes already part of my job?”

Ron ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “What I’m about to tell you stays between us. Robards is breathing down my neck, and the pressure’s unreal. If this leaks, it’ll blow up—rumors, speculation, the works. I need an Unspeakable I can trust.”

“Secrets and pressure served with a side of vulnerability?” Pansy teased, leaning in. “You’re making it hard to say no. Go on, I’m all ears.”

Ron pulled a sleek black diary from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and set it on the table between them. “This,” he said, voice steady but edged, “is the key to my investigation. The pages were blank at first, but I managed to reveal the writing. Problem is, it’s all encoded—a cipher I can’t crack.”

Pansy picked up the diary, flipping through a few pages with casual precision. Her smirk widened. "Well, well. Prepare to be impressed, Weasley. I know exactly what this is."

"You do?"

“It’s a substitution cipher. Old-school, but common among wizards of a certain class. Diaries are risky, so encoding them is second nature. Basically, each letter is swapped for another letter, number, or symbol based on a set key.”

"Can you crack it?"

“Not so fast. Your diarist wasn’t lazy—they’ve layered it. Looks like the cipher’s tied to a book. Maybe even multiple books. Without knowing which one they used as the key, breaking it’s nearly impossible.”

Ron groaned, slumping back in his chair. "Brilliant. How am I supposed to figure out what book they’d use? Could be anything."

“Tell me about your diarist,” Pansy said, sipping her wine. “From the style of the cipher and the handwriting, I’d guess he’s pure-blood. Educated, careful, well-off. Maybe even pretentious. Sound about right?”

Ron sighed, mildly impressed. “Spot on. Any ideas about the kind of book someone like that might use?”

Pansy shrugged, idly flipping another page. "Could be something niche. My uncle Alfred used a book on Kneazle breeding for his cipher key."

Ron groaned again, throwing his head back. "This is hopeless. What about magic? Any spells to break it?"

“Bad idea,” Pansy said, swirling her wine. “Diaries like this tend to have failsafes. Aggressive magic could trigger a self-destruct charm. You’d lose everything.”

"So, niche interests, hobbies, rare books. Not exactly promising, but at least I’ve got a direction. Thanks for the help, Parkinson."

"Evening, Auror," the police guard said, stepping aside to let Ron through.

"Evening," Ron replied evenly. "Anything to report?"

"Dead quiet. No fresh leads either, from what the Unspeakables said before clearing out for the night."

Ron nodded in acknowledgment before heading into Malfoy’s private office. Searching Malfoy’s swanky Islington flat—or the Manor—was out of the question for now. But the crime scene? That was fair game. If the cipher key was hidden here, Ron was determined to find it.

He opened the lid of a nearby evidence box, revealing a stack of books that the Unspeakables had already combed through. Reaching inside, he activated the automated search charm he’d been fine-tuning. A faint hum filled the air as the charm set to work, scanning each book for patterns matching the cipher’s structure.

As the charm quietly hummed, Ron paced the office, his intelligent blue eyes scrutinizing every detail. The room was bland and impersonal, as though Malfoy had only recently moved in. The only hints of personality were a shattered vase of flowers in one evidence tray and the remnants of an antique chess set in another.

Ron sifted through the tray until his fingers brushed against a knight, remarkably intact amidst the splintered wreckage. He held it up, turning it over in his hand.

Does Malfoy play? Or is this just another pretentious ornament, meant to impress?

He returned to the evidence boxes, flipping through the books while the charm continued its methodical scan. The titles were dry and academic, tomes on potions, herbology, and arithmancy—but two Muggle business guides stood out, awkwardly tucked among the magical texts.

Frowning, Ron picked up one of the business books and thumbed through its pages. This definitely wasn’t on your university syllabus, he thought, recalling Malfoy’s sneering remark about the Muggle Literature course.

I’ll test the lot against the cipher, Ron decided, setting the book aside. And I’ll add Shakespeare to the mix, just in case.

He stacked the boxes neatly, preparing to Apparate them back to Wheezes. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him, but he wasn’t ready to call it a night.

Ron dropped heavily onto his bed, a towel slung carelessly around his waist. Damp strands of hair clung to his forehead as he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. The stack of books from Malfoy’s office hadn’t turned up anything useful, and the Shakespeare plays scattered on his bedside table didn’t seem promising. He rubbed a hand over his face, frustration weighing on him.

The toughest part of cracking a substitution cipher was that no two editions of a book were ever exactly alike. Every version had its quirks. Minor changes in text, layout, even punctuation. Any one of them could hold the key, leaving hundreds, maybe thousands, of possibilities to sift through. The sheer scale of it all made his head ache.

He slumped back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. His thoughts, as always, circled back to the case. And, inevitably, they landed on Malfoy.

Five years had passed since their school days, but Malfoy was still the same arrogant, entitled daddy’s boy he’d always been. He hadn’t even bothered to shake Ron’s hand—not surprising—but it wasn’t the snub that stuck with him. What nagged at Ron most was how freely Malfoy had handed over the diary. No fight, no stalling. His solicitor could have wrapped the whole thing in red tape, yet Malfoy hadn’t even tried.

He’s always looked down on me, Ron thought, anger simmering in his gut. To him, I’m nothing more than Harry Potter’s dim-witted, second-rate sidekick. He doesn’t think I’ve got the brains to crack it.

He rolled over, his eyes scanning absently over the cluttered bookshelf beside his bed. His eyes landed on Modern Chess Openings by Nick de Firmian, its sleek spine gleaming under the lamplight. Hermione had given it to him years ago, though he’d never been particularly keen on it.

What if Malfoy really was into chess? Trust him to use a Muggle book as his cipher key. It’d be clever. No one in his stuck-up pure-blood circle would even glance at it, let alone read it.

Ron canceled the search charm mid-scan, dismissing Hamlet as a potential key. His fingers hesitated, hovering over de Firmian’s chess guide before finally selecting it. He didn’t expect much, but as the charm processed the new input, a triumphant melody burst forth—This Is the Night by the Weird Sisters, his chosen indicator of success.

The cryptic symbols melted away before his eyes, shifting and dissolving into elegant, flowing penmanship. English. Clear and unmistakable.

Draco Malfoy’s diary, finally decoded.

Chapter Text

“Draco, is that you?” Narcissa called, her voice soft but edged with unmistakable concern. “Come sit with us, darling. You’ve barely eaten, and I can’t help but worry. Just a moment of rest—even a sip of coffee. It’s important to take care of yourself.”

Draco fastened the final button on his grey topcoat, his black leather gloves already snug on his hands. “I’m sorry, Mother. I’ve got work waiting in the carriage house. The murtlap essence is fully infused, and I need to mix it with the calendula tincture before it loses potency—”

“Sit down, Draco,” Lucius interrupted, calm but commanding. With a flick of his wand, one of the Queen Anne chairs slid away from the polished Regency table, its legs scraping softly against the floor. 

Draco hesitated, then sank into the chair, the tight set of his jaw betraying his reluctance. The Quietus potion he’d taken the night before still weighed on him—a fog dulling his thoughts, slowing his reactions. Brewing burn-healing paste was routine, methodical, even soothing. Facing his father’s interrogation was another matter entirely.

“Jonathan owled me. Said the vandals left a threat behind. Care to explain why you saw fit to keep that detail from your family?”

Draco’s gaze flicked between his father’s penetrating grey eyes and his mother’s softer, though no less concerned, blue ones. “I didn’t want to worry you,” he said carefully. “I’ve already agreed for Charles to step in. With private security in place, it won’t be an issue.”

“The Aurors don’t share your confidence. They believe another attack is imminent. Possibly even an attempt on your life.”

“They said that?” Draco’s stomach tightened at the thought of Lucius storming up to Ron, his anxiety bubbling to the surface. “You spoke to him—to Auror Weasley?”

Lucius’ lip curled with quiet disdain. “Weasley? Hardly. When it comes to my son’s safety, I don’t waste time on junior officers incapable of providing meaningful assurances.” He straightened, expression tightening. “The Head Auror himself assured me—under the terms of our arrangement—that every precaution was in place.”

Draco exhaled slowly. “It’s unrealistic to expect the Ministry to prevent every crime. I understand your concerns, Father, but honestly, I think you’re overreacting.”

Narcissa rested a steadying hand on Draco’s arm. “Overreacting? No, darling. If anything, you’re underestimating the gravity of the situation. I understand your need for independence, and I’ve always admired it—but this is about your safety. You should have come to us.”

“Yes, you should have,” Lucius agreed. “Naturally, I’ve already taken steps to address the oversight. Charles has been contacted, and his most capable bodyguard is en route. He’ll be here shortly. Until he’s in place, you’ll remain on the estate, where proper protections can be ensured.”

Draco pulled his arm away from Narcissa’s grasp. “I’m not a child, Father. You don’t get to control my life anymore.”

“Don’t be absurd, Draco. This isn’t about control.”

The rising tension broke with the soundless entrance of Riggins, their chief house-elf. “Pardon the interruption,” he said in a low, respectful voice. “Mr. Marcus Flint, the bodyguard from Aegis Defensive Services, has arrived. He awaits your reception in the Blue Saloon.”

“Marcus Flint? You hired one of my former schoolmates to be my bodyguard?”

Lucius set his cup in the saucer with a deliberate click. “He is highly qualified. The Auror Academy would have been his path had Aegis not identified his talents first. Private security has become a necessity for families like ours—thanks, in part, to agitators like that Brocklehurst woman stirring resentment.”

Draco rose abruptly. “Don’t bother getting up. I’ll speak to Flint myself and decide whether or not I want his services.”

Narcissa silenced Lucius with a glance. “Of course, darling. Just promise me you’ll give him a fair chance. Your father has gone to great lengths—and no small expense—to ensure you’re protected.”

Draco nodded once, a small gesture of acknowledgment, before trailing after Riggins toward the Blue Saloon. He schooled his features into an expression of cool indifference, the kind he’d perfected over years of practice.

Marcus Flint, three years ahead of him at Hogwarts, had been both a Slytherin Prefect and Quidditch Captain—a figure who’d loomed large in Draco’s early memories of school. Back then, before Occlumency had sharpened his control, hiding his thoughts and feelings had been harder than he cared to admit. Flint had been the first to spark an awareness Draco couldn’t quite define at the time. Even now, the faint worry that Flint might have noticed—might know—gnawed at the edges of Draco’s carefully crafted composure.

He pushed open the heavy oak door to find Marcus standing by a glass display case, attention focused on a collection of cursed blades. His stance was loose, but there was an alertness in the way he held himself, as though instinctively assessing his surroundings. At the soft click of the door closing behind Draco, Marcus glanced over his shoulder. A moment later, he turned fully, extending a hand that Draco took almost reluctantly.

“Malfoy,” Marcus said, his smile tilting into a sharp-edged smirk. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Flint,” Draco replied curtly, nodding as he released the larger man’s grip the moment courtesy allowed. “I wasn’t aware you’d gone into private security.”

Marcus eased himself onto the velvet settee, his muscular thighs sprawling slightly. “Well, when I realized professional Quidditch wasn’t in the cards, I figured it was time to get practical. Seems like you’ve come to a similar conclusion yourself.”

Draco took the chair opposite. “Yes. I’ve started a potions firm. It’s a small operation—just myself and a personal assistant for now—but I’d feel better with someone stationed on-site to ensure her safety.”

Marcus leaned forward, gaze sharpening. “That’s doable. But let’s not pretend. You know as well as I do you’re the one they’re after.”

Draco’s fingers twitched briefly on the armrest before he stilled them. “You heard about the vandalism?”

“Lucius sent over the Auror’s report. Tough luck getting Weasley as your investigator,” Marcus said. “Can’t imagine he’s any less insufferable than he was at school. Still acting like he’s got a monopoly on virtue, is he?”

Draco exhaled slowly, summoning his mental magic to shove aside the image of Ron that flickered in his mind—his hand outstretched, treating Draco as though he were someone worth helping, not just a marked Death Eater. He steadied his tone. “Yes, very bad luck. But you don’t mind working with him, do you? If you take this on, I imagine you’ll have to put up with quite a lot of his company.”

Marcus chuckled. “I can be professional, even if I can’t stand the bloke. At the end of the day, we’re both here to keep you safe. That’s the job.”

Draco crossed his legs to mask the restless energy stirring in him. “I’ve never worked with a bodyguard before. What does your role actually entail? Are you just meant to stand around looking intimidating, or is there something more to it? And how do you balance discretion with effectiveness? I can’t have you hovering while I’m brewing dangerous potions.”

“I’m not here to hover or get in your way. My job’s about anticipating and preventing threats before they become a problem. Day-to-day, that means vetting anyone you meet with, checking the places you go, and making sure everything’s secure without drawing attention.”

He paused, steady and pragmatic. “Bottom line: I’ll stay in the background unless something demands I step in. You’ll have your space, Malfoy, and I’ll make sure no one interferes.”

Draco hesitated, fingers idly twisting the heavy gold signet ring on his smallest finger. “I’ve got a flat in Islington. A high-rise in the Muggle part of town. I’d like to return there soon. Can you make that happen?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it. Muggle areas are magic dead zones—no wards, no protective charms, nothing like what you’ve got here. It’s not as secure as you might think. But,” he added, leaning forward slightly, “if that’s what you’ve decided, I’ll pull together a team to secure the place and make it as safe as possible.”

Draco rose, smoothing the front of his topcoat. “You’ll have a week to sort out the arrangements. For now, I’ll remain here and focus on my work—at least until the Ministry finishes tearing through my lab. After that, I expect everything to be ready.”

Marcus stood as well. “Fair enough. I’ll handle it.” He paused, gaze steady. “In the meantime, focus on what you need to do. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Come back to bed,” Harry mumbled, raking a hand through his hair as he watched Pansy button up her blouse from the night before. It was wrinkled, half-tucked, but she still looked far too composed for someone who’d been tangled in his sheets an hour ago. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, but the smirk tugging at her mouth gave her away. “It’s nearly nine. Shouldn’t you be dragging yourself off to your shift by now?”

“What are they going to do, fire me? I’m the Chosen One, remember.”

“Merlin,” she muttered, twisting her hair into a bun. “I’m starting to see what Ron meant.”

“Ron?” He sat up, brows drawing together. “You’re not still taking him up on dinner invites, are you?”

“That was one time,” she said, clipping on her earrings. “Honestly, he’s so painfully loyal, he probably wouldn’t have asked if he knew about us.”

Harry stood, crossing the room to loop his arms around her waist. “Yeah, well. Whose fault is it that he doesn’t?” 

“It was business,” Pansy said, half-turning toward him. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous. He needed help with a case—some encrypted diary. He was in over his head.”

Harry stilled. “You helped him crack a diary?”

“I didn’t crack it. I pointed him in the right direction. What’s wrong with that?”

Harry’s voice was slower now. “He’s only working one case. Break-in at Malfoy’s new business.”

Pansy blinked. “Wait—you’re saying I helped Ron decode Draco’s diary?”

Harry nodded, watching the realization settle.

She exhaled through her nose. “Of course he didn’t mention Malfoy. Just handed me the puzzle and let me think it was some anonymous mystery.” She reached for her coat. “When I see him…”

“I’ll warn him you’re coming for blood.”

“Don’t bother,” she said, slipping into her heels. “He’ll figure it out when the hex lands.”

Chapter Text

Ron Apparated to Sanus Potions, the route etched into muscle memory. He’d made the trip so often, coordinating with the Unspeakables during the week they spent combing through the lab and reconstructing the timeline, that it no longer required thought.

The exterior had changed since the break-in. The windows had been re-gilded, trim catching the light like it meant to be seen. The glass shimmered faintly—unbreakable, probably, and warded against scrying. The door was freshly painted, a deep green that didn’t bother pretending not to be Slytherin, and the brass knocker in the center was shaped like a serpent swallowing its own tail.

Ron reached for it, but the door opened before he could touch it.

A man filled the doorway—tall, broad, dressed in a tailored black suit that didn’t quite hide the bulk underneath. Ron blinked, thrown by the familiarity.

“Marcus Flint?”

Flint smiled, just enough to show teeth. “Hope I didn’t startle you. As you’ve noticed, we’ve made a few security upgrades.”

“I heard you’re with Aegis now,” Ron said, returning the handshake with crushing pressure. “Malfoy mentioned hiring private security after the attack.”

“Smart move,” Flint said, still planted in the doorway. “The Ministry’s been a bit slow-footed with this Mourning Star lot. Not that you need me to tell you that.”

“Is Malfoy in? I need to speak with him. There’s been a development.”

He didn’t flash his badge. Didn’t remind Flint that he was an Auror and technically had the authority to walk in. He didn’t need to. They both knew exactly where they stood.

Flint stepped aside. “He’s in the lab.”

The interior had been cleaned up, but Ron was struck by how sterile it felt. Everything was polished and in its place, but there were no personal touches. No photographs, no art, nothing to suggest anyone spent time here unless they had to.

A young witch sat behind the desk, working briskly at a charmed typewriter. Her suit was sharp, Muggle-cut, and she looked up the moment Flint walked in, her smile immediate and professional.

“You must be Auror Weasley,” she said, rising and offering her hand. “Charlotte King. I’m Mr Malfoy’s PA.”

Ron shook her hand, firm but polite. “Pleasure.”

“We’re glad to have you on the case,” she continued. “It’s reassuring—Mr Malfoy and I both feel better knowing someone with your experience is involved.”

Ron gave a small nod, eyes flicking past her. “Right. Well. I’ll do what I can.”

She smiled again, just enough to smooth the moment. “Of course. Let me check if he’s free.”

Ron let his gaze drift across the room, scanning for signs of additional security. The shelf near the far wall caught his attention—a row of books and nestled between them, what looked like a decorative terrarium. Inside sat a small thestral figurine, faintly pulsing with magic.

“Emergency portkey?” he asked, nodding toward it.

Flint followed his line of sight and gave a slow, indulgent smile. “Very good, Weasley.”

“Who’s it keyed to?”

“Miss King. We’ve got redundancies, of course. Panic room in the lab, perimeter wards, silent alerts. But in the event of a serious breach, she goes first. Draco insisted.”

The door opened before Ron could respond. Draco stepped through, pale and tight-lipped. He wore a long white lab coat, the pocket weighed down with a self-inking quill, and carried a pair of goggles in one hand. His hair, usually immaculate, was flattened and slightly damp, like he’d peeled the goggles off mid-brew and hadn’t bothered to fix it.

“Auror Weasley,” he said, voice cool but measured. “I’m in the middle of stabilising a Blood-Replenishing potion.” He turned toward the inner office without waiting for a reply. “I can give you fifteen minutes.”

Ron followed him in, the door clicking shut behind them. “I see you’ve hired Flint,” he said.

Draco didn’t look up. “I’ve had people breaking in and leaving threats,” he said, voice dry. “Seemed sensible.”

Ron reached into his coat and placed a small, leather-bound book on the desk between them. “I’m glad you mentioned Mourning Star. Funny I had to read your diary to learn they’d threatened you before the break-in.”

Draco stilled. He lowered himself into the chair, paler than before, and picked up the diary like he wasn’t sure it was his. His fingers moved slowly over the pages, avoiding Ron’s gaze.

“I didn’t know you played chess,” Ron said. “But de Firmian’s guide made a clever cipher key. Not exactly standard reading for a pure-blood. Where’d you pick it up?”

“Who else read it?” Draco asked, voice low but tight. “The Unspeakables who were here earlier?” A pause. He swallowed hard, the motion sharp and visible. “Your boss, Robards? Potter?”

Ron settled into the armchair opposite, his voice quieter now. “I had to share the entries about the threats. They’re evidence. Could help us identify who broke in.”

Draco’s hands tightened around the diary.

“The rest of it,” Ron added, watching him carefully, “the personal entries—no one else saw those. Just me.”

Draco nodded once, still not looking up. “I know I’ve got no right to ask, but I’d prefer it stayed that way. If it’s not too late to keep it out of the report…”

He hesitated. “I can offer compensation, if that’s—”

“Compensation?”

Draco looked up then, face drawn. “I mean—if discretion’s a problem. I’d rather not have my private life dragged into this.”

Ron shook his head. “Malfoy, no. I’m not interested in your money.”

A beat.

“Your secrets are safe with me.”

Draco didn’t answer. His fingers drifted to the edge of the desk, tracing the grain like he needed the texture to steady himself. A slow breath slipped out—controlled, but not quite even.

Ron watched the shift. The way Draco’s shoulders squared, just slightly. The way his gaze sharpened, as if he’d pulled something inward and locked it down.

Mental magic. Ron had seen it before. Mostly in training, occasionally in the field. Occlumency was common among Dark wizards, and learning to spot its signs was standard Auror protocol.

“I appreciate that,” Draco said at last, voice low. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to finish.”

“We’re not quite done.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I need to ask about the letters,” Ron said, keeping his tone even. “Do you still have them? Pensieve testimony’s solid, but physical evidence gives us more to work with—paper, ink, spell residue. Sometimes the sender leaves behind more than they mean to.”

“I destroyed them.” His voice was clipped, the edge unmistakable. “My family’s received dozens since the war. Most came to nothing. I assumed it was another bitter nobody trying to frighten me.”

“Do you remember what they said? Anything specific—names, threats, demands?”

“They told me to leave England if I knew what was good for me. The usual bile. Nothing as literary as the man who broke in.”

“Any symbols? Unusual phrasing? Even the kind of ink could help.”

Draco hesitated. “Black ink. Thick strokes. No signature.” He stood, movements sharp and economical, like he’d drawn a line under the conversation. “Now really, Auror, I have work to do.”

Ron stood as well, slower. “Fair enough. But we’re not finished. This is serious, and I need more than fifteen minutes.”

“Aurors make house calls now?”

“When it matters.”

Draco considered him, eyes narrowed. Then he gave a short nod. “I won’t be home until after ten. Not the Manor. My flat. In Islington.”

“That’s fine,” Ron said. “I’ll see you then.”

Chapter Text

Draco moved through the flat without turning on the lights. The city offered enough—just the dull glow bleeding in through the windows, casting long shadows across polished floors. In the kitchen, he loosened his tie with one hand and reached for the firewhiskey with the other. He poured a measure, drank it in one go, and left the glass on the counter without a second thought.

Ron would be arriving soon.

Draco needed a shower. Something to reset. Something to make him look less like someone who’d spent the day holding himself together with magic.

After Ron admitted he’d read his most private thoughts like they were case notes, Draco had turned to Occlumency. Not to hide anything. Just to stay upright.

It had worked, mostly. He’d finished his tasks. Spoken without shaking. Breathed without feeling like he’d been cracked open. But it was draining. Hours of mental magic without pause, and now Ron was coming. To his flat. To ask about the letters.

Draco walked to the bathroom. The mirror caught him in passing, but he didn’t stop. He opened the cabinet above the sink. His hand hovered over the Quietus potion—tempting, but too final. He reached for an extra-strength calming draught instead.

It would help him act naturally. Or close enough. There was always the risk it would help too much, but his hands were shaking, and his heart wasn’t keeping time. He needed something stronger than firewhiskey.

He had just swallowed the draught when a crack of Apparition echoed from the kitchen, followed by a bright—“Good evening, Master Draco!”

Draco cursed under his breath. He’d forgotten his mother had assigned the house-elves to keep an eye on him now that he was back in the London flat.

He stepped into the kitchen and found Trilby garnishing a bowl of chilled cucumber soup with a precise swirl of crème fraîche.

“Is that a four-course meal?” Draco asked, voice flat.

“Not technically,” Trilby replied, without looking up. “There’s no appetizer. You said you preferred simpler meals, now that you’re living on your own.”

Draco scanned the kitchen island: seared duck breast, roasted vegetables, herbed potatoes, and a dark chocolate tart with raspberry coulis, which Trilby was attempting to hide behind his back.

“Simple,” Draco repeated. “Right.”

He rubbed his temple. “Take it back to the Manor. It’s too much for one person.”

There was a knock at the door.

Trilby perked up. “Expecting guests, sir? Then it seems I’ve brought exactly the right amount after all.”

Draco didn’t respond immediately. He was already moving toward the door. “You’ve done enough, Trilby. Go home.”

“How many bodyguards are you running?” Ron asked as he shrugged out of his heavy Ministry greatcoat—charcoal wool, rain-slicked at the hem—and hung it on the hook beside Draco’s.

“Two,” Draco said, stepping aside to let him in. “Jones covers nights.”

“He’s thorough. Didn’t let me near the lift until he ran a full scan. Polyjuice, concealment, wand trace.”

“That’s what he’s paid for.”

Ron let his gaze drift across the flat, cataloguing details like evidence. One low-profile sofa, pale grey wool. A glass side table stacked with potions journals, arranged too neatly to be casual. Overhead, a chrome lamp arched forward, casting sterile light across the space. No dining table. Just a sleek kitchen with a few high-backed stools tucked under the bar.

He turned back to Draco. “What other security measures have you put in place?”

“Flint installed wards. Layered some protective runes. There’s an emergency portkey in the bedroom.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

Draco hesitated. “This way.”

Ron followed him down the hall, noting the layout as they passed: a narrow bathroom, a single bedroom. The space was spare, almost clinical. A low-profile bed with a white duvet and sheets, crisp and untouched. No personal items. No clutter.

Draco lingered near the doorway, arms crossed. “I’ll just leave you to it, shall I?”

Ron glanced at him. “Is it just the one room? Or is there more to the flat?”

“You’ve seen it all now.”

Ron didn’t respond. He turned back to the wards, methodical and quiet, but his thoughts were anything but. Malfoy had made it clear from the start that he didn’t want the Ministry’s help. Now Ron had confirmation he’d withheld evidence—likely something tied to the break-in.

How was he supposed to get him to cooperate? Or at the very least, stop making it harder to protect him?

Draco left Ron in the bedroom and returned to the kitchen. Trilby’s feast was still laid out, preservation charms keeping everything perfectly warm and offensively aromatic.

The calming draught had settled, but not comfortably. It dulled the edges of his nerves without quite soothing them. The sight of the food made his stomach turn—too rich, too much. Draco drew his wand and pointed it at the platter of duck breast.

“You’re banishing that?”

Draco half-turned, surprised. Ron stood in the doorway, his usual professional composure softened by something faintly incredulous.

“It’s duck,” Ron added, as if that clarified things.

Draco lowered his wand slightly. “You want it?”

Ron hesitated. “Technically, I’m not supposed to accept gifts from a victim.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “I won’t report you to the Ministry, Weasley.”

He realized, a beat too late, that he hadn’t used Ron’s title. The slip hung between them, unacknowledged.

“I’ll eat if you do.”

Draco’s stomach gave a weak protest, but he ignored it. “Alright,” he said. “I suppose it shouldn’t go to waste.”

“This was really good,” Ron said, pushing his plate away. “Do you get all your meals delivered from the Manor?”

Draco set down his fork. The pinched look he’d worn since Ron arrived had finally eased, and Ron felt a quiet satisfaction. The meal had been a calculated risk, but it was working. Draco was talking.

“I don’t usually bother with dinner. This meal is here because of my mother’s meddling—and Doubleday’s paranoia. He advised her to send food from the Manor, said it was safer. Just in case whoever attacked Sanus tries something again.”

“You could get a different solicitor,” Ron said, reaching for the chocolate tart. “Someone who works for you, not your father.”

Draco snorted. “Sure. I’ll just walk into a firm and ask for someone willing to cross Lucius Malfoy. That’ll go well.”

“Is that why you withheld evidence?” Ron asked, keeping his tone neutral. “Because you know either Robards or Doubleday will brief your father on any developments?”

“It’s not complicated. The Ministry still needs my father’s cooperation in half a dozen open cases. They won’t risk alienating him over me. And Doubleday knows exactly where his loyalties need to lie if he wants to keep his career intact.”

Ron leaned back slightly, letting the words settle. “What if I told you that anything you share with me now stays between us? At least for the moment. I’ll have to file it eventually, but not until I’ve got something solid.”

Draco didn’t look up. “I already told you—I don’t have the letters.”

“I know,” Ron said. “But could you send me the memories of receiving them? I can review them in the department’s Pensieve. It’s less invasive. You won’t have to come in or sit through questioning.”

“Fine.” He looked up, meeting Ron’s eyes. “But you can’t keep coming to Sanus. Brewing potions takes focus. Interruptions aren’t ideal.”

“Fair enough,” Ron said. “But I’ll need a way to reach you.”

“You can come here.” Draco lowered his gaze again. “I’ll tell Jones you’re authorized to visit anytime. Just… keep this away from my business.”

“Alright. It’s a deal.”

Ron stepped back from the counter. “I won’t keep you. Just owl the memories when you get a chance. If I need anything else, I’ll come by.”

Draco smoothed his shirt with a practiced gesture. “Right. I’ve had enough for one day.”

Ron nodded. “Get some rest.”

Draco hesitated, then said, quieter, “Goodnight, Ron.”

Chapter Text

Draco blinked awake, ears full of noise. The alarm was speaking—weather, headlines, Quidditch scores. He silenced it with a flick of his wand, cutting the voice mid-sentence. Ninety percent chance of rain. Yaxley’s case moving to trial. The Arrows had edged out the Cannons.

A normal morning. Only it wasn’t.

His head was thick. The calming draught had left him muzzy, slow to surface. His mouth tasted of mint and metal. Limbs heavy. He blinked again, trying to clear the fog and shifted under the sheets.

That’s when he felt it.

He was hard. Miserably so. Draco stilled, nauseated. His hips had already pressed into the mattress, seeking friction without permission. The ache was insistent, humiliating. Occlumency was supposed to prevent this—suppress urges, maintain control. And usually, it worked. He could keep himself contained. Composed.

So why wasn’t it working now?

Ronald Weasley.

Of all the Aurors in the Ministry, it had to be him. And Draco had handed over the diary. Just handed it over, like he was daring Ron to crack it.

Some part of him must’ve wanted Ron to see it. There was no other explanation for something so careless. So stupid.

And it hadn’t stopped there. He’d let Ron into the flat. Into his bedroom. Let him check the wards. Share a meal. Ask questions.

He’d looked good, too. Rain-slicked and flushed from the cold, his coat heavy on his shoulders, eyes steady and intelligent. That low, grounded voice—Get some rest—still echoed in Draco’s mind. Too real to ignore. Too kind to forget.

Draco pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and reached for Occlumency. Not to soothe. To cauterize.

But his mind resisted. The silence he reached for fractured, and in its place came something softer. Dangerous. It conjured a version of Ron that didn’t exist—one who stayed. Who curled behind Draco in the dark, steady and warm. Who touched him like it wasn’t a question. Like he knew what Draco was and didn’t flinch.

Draco slipped a hand beneath the waistband of his silk shorts, fingers brushing the damp at the tip. He pulled back the foreskin, slow, deliberate, trying to stay in the fantasy. Ron’s breath against his neck. Ron’s hand steady on his hip. His voice, low and certain, saying yes.

Then—Granger. Her laugh, her clever mouth, her hand on Ron’s arm like she belonged there. The image broke the spell. Shattered it.

Draco stilled. Curled onto his side, hand withdrawn, the ache unresolved.

It was always a mistake to indulge. The fantasies didn’t soothe, they soured. Left him sick with himself, and the emotions harder to suppress with magic.

He focused on his breath, steadying himself with practiced rhythm. The ache didn’t vanish, but it dulled—contained by habit, by magic, by sheer force of will.

He boxed up every thought of Ron Weasley and shoved it deep into the quietest corner of his mind.

Then he got up.

He had work to do.

Ron stood outside Courtroom Ten, not pacing, not checking his watch—just waiting. He looked more like an Auror on quiet surveillance than an ex-boyfriend hoping for a word. The corridor moved around him in familiar rhythms: the low murmur of legal jargon, the rustle of robes, the clipped heels of junior solicitors rushing between hearings.

She stepped out a few minutes later, curls pulled into a tight twist, solicitor’s robes layered over a skirt suit that had clearly been worn too many times this week. The strap of her bag dug into her shoulder, and there was a faint ink smudge on her wrist—evidence of last-minute notes or a morning that hadn’t allowed for breath, let alone breakfast.

Ron stepped forward, holding out a to-go cup. “Caramel latte. Still your favourite?”

Hermione took it without breaking stride, her fingers brushing his briefly. “If this is about the Ketteridge case, I’m not on it anymore.”

“It’s not,” he said, falling into step beside her. “I wanted to ask if you’re still working on that judicial review. The one about restricted post—prisoners not receiving correspondence.”

She glanced sideways, finally meeting his eyes. “You remembered that?”

“Of course I did,” he said, quiet. “You were furious about it.”

She pressed the button for Level Three, the floor that housed the Ministry’s archives. “Still on it. We’ve submitted findings to Magical Corrections, requested access to internal logs. They’re dragging their feet.”

Ron lowered his voice. “Was Goyle one of the flagged cases?”

Hermione turned, her gaze sharpening. “Why do you care about Goyle’s mail? You’re an Auror. Isn’t your job to lock people up, not worry about what happens after?”

Ron lifted his brows, a trace of defensiveness in his voice. “I wasn’t even on the force when he was arrested. And sentencing’s not my remit. But I care when someone’s being punished twice.”

She took a sip of her coffee, then gave a tight nod. “Sorry. That was sharp. I’ve had four hearings this week, two briefs due tomorrow, and I’m running on fumes. Tact’s not exactly top of the list.”

Ron glanced down the corridor, then back at her. “I get it. I wouldn’t bring this to you unless it mattered.” He lowered his voice. “Robards assigned me to a case—looks like Mourning Star might be involved. The witness I’m protecting isn’t talking. Doesn’t trust Aurors. Doesn’t trust the Ministry.”

“Mourning Star?” Her posture straightened slightly, and for the first time that morning, she looked fully alert. “That’s serious.” She hesitated. “Who’s the witness?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

The lift dinged. A cluster of trench-coated Ministry staff spilled out, and Ron stepped aside to let them pass.

“But they wrote to Goyle. Several times. All came back unopened. The witness thinks he didn’t want contact. I think someone made that decision for him.”

“It’s Malfoy, isn’t it?”

Ron didn’t answer. Just crossed his arms and followed her into the lift.

“Right,” she said once the doors closed. “You can’t say.”

She exhaled, the sound sharp in the quiet. “Normally I wouldn’t go out of my way to help an Auror.”

Ron gave a crooked smile, more reflex than warmth. “Yeah, I’ve picked up on that.”

She didn’t return it. “Goyle’s under restriction. Post, visitation, even legal correspondence. None of it meets statutory thresholds. I’ve filed twice to have it lifted.”

Ron nodded, absorbing it. “That’s helpful. I’ll pass it on. And I hope you get it overturned.”

Hermione turned to him again, her tone cooler now, more professional. “Glad I could help. But I don’t see how this earns you any trust. If anything, it just makes the Ministry look worse.”

Chapter Text

Ron slid into the booth across from Harry, fatigue dragging at the edges of his face. Between them sat the remnants of a lamb and rosemary pie—Harry had already carved through more than half—and two pints of stout, dark and creamy, their heads softening under the low pub light.

Harry nudged one of the pints toward him. “Go on, have a drink. You look wrecked. Want me to get you something to eat?”

Ron took a long pull, the cold cutting through the pressure curled behind his eyes. The headache didn’t lift, just shifted, lurking at the edge like it was waiting to catch him out. He set the glass down but didn’t let go, elbows braced on the table, fingers curled around the pint like he might wring some relief from it.

“Nah, I’m all right. Haven’t got time anyway.” He let out a breath, slow and tight. “But this—yeah, this helps. Cheers.”

“Case going well, then?”

Ron let out a dry laugh. “Robards wants answers yesterday and a name he can slap on a report. The Unspeakables’ve been dancing in circles—brilliant theories, loads of speculation, but not a scrap of magic that’ll hold up in court.”

“Robards still likes Mourning Star for it?”

Ron took another sip of his stout, slower this time, and watched the foam cling to the rim of the glass like it was trying not to let go. “They fit, on paper. Malfoy's past, his family’s clean getaway after the war… lot of resentment still floating around.”

“But you’re not sold.”

Ron shook his head. “Doesn’t match their usual.”

Harry looked up. “What doesn’t?”

“Message at the scene. Quote from Shakespeare—Muggle playwright. ‘Cowards die many times before their deaths.’”

“Bit highbrow for that crowd.”  

“Exactly.” Ron leaned back, but the tension in his shoulders held. “Bold phrasing, Muggle quote… but it’s not about revenge. It’s about hesitation. Choking. Living with the weight of what you didn’t do.”

Harry sat back too, pint cupped loosely in his hands. “Someone’s calling Malfoy out.”

Ron nodded, thumb running along the side of his glass. “Feels personal. Like someone believes he could’ve changed things.”

“If he hadn’t frozen, Voldemort might’ve won.”

Ron’s jaw tightened. He glanced toward the pub window, where rain drifted against the glass in steady streaks. “Voldemort’s gone,” he said quietly. “But not everyone who served him vanished with him.”

“You think this is one of them?”

“Could be.” Ron paused. “Or more than one. Maybe they’ve rebuilt—same bones as Mourning Star. Different spin.”

“Have you told Malfoy?”

“He knows I’m investigating every possibility. Offered to send over memories—context from the break-in.”

Harry pushed his plate away. “That’s awfully charitable of him.”

Ron hesitated. “I don’t think it’s charity. I think he’s trying.”

“Trying to help, or trying not to get hexed?”

Ron’s smile barely registered. “Does it matter? He’s trying. That’s more than I ever expected.”

“Never thought I’d see you defending him. That diary must’ve been something else.”

Ron huffed. “Pretty boring, if you want the truth. Mostly him griping about supplier delays and Ministry forms. There’s a whole series of entries about a cauldron distributor who kept shorting his orders.”

“Sounds thrilling.”

Ron gave a slow shake of his head. “I filed anything relevant to the case.”

Harry watched him. “And the rest? That’s what convinced you?”

Ron shrugged, tracing a ring of condensation on the table with the edge of his finger. “There were a few personal entries. Didn’t read like he was performing for anyone. Just wrote like no one would ever see it. That kind of honesty… it’s hard to fake.”

“I don’t trust diaries,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair. “Lucius handed one to Ginny in second year, remember?”

Ron sat up a bit. “This one’s clean. No enchantments—aside from the substitution cipher.”

“Right. The de Firmian chess guide.” Harry’s voice was light, but it carried an edge. “Hermione gave you that for your birthday, didn’t she? Witch Weekly did a whole spread on it—in their ‘Golden Trio Moments’ segment.”

Ron grimaced. “‘Golden Trio Moments.’ Yeah. I tried to forget.”

Harry didn’t smile. “Look, I’m just saying—the diary that’s meant to prove Malfoy’s reformed just happens to be locked with a cipher keyed to you?”

He let the silence stretch.

“Convenient, isn’t it?”

Ron left the pub not long after, shoulders hunched against the light rain. It wasn’t enough to soak through, just enough to creep past the collar and cling, persistent as tension. The streets were thin with foot traffic, most everyone tucked inside by now, warm behind warded windows.

He’d planned to go back to the Ministry. Reread the witness statements. Re-run the magical trace logs that had, by now, stopped offering anything new. It was all busywork, the kind that passed for progress while waiting on Malfoy, his last real hope for a breakthrough.

He checked his watch. 10:37. Late enough Malfoy would be done with work. Not so late it’d be rude to show up.

He reached for his wand. He’d waited long enough. If Malfoy had a reason for withholding the memories, Ron intended to hear it face to face.

“Sorry,” Ron said, blinking as his eyes swept over Draco—silver-grey pyjamas, navy dressing gown cinched tight at the waist. “Didn’t expect you to be in bed yet.”

“I do sleep occasionally,” Draco said dryly, stepping aside.

Ron shrugged off his greatcoat, the collar damp and slightly misshapen. Draco forced himself to look away. The suit was tragic—cheap wool blend, bulging at the shoulders—but it failed to hide the brute appeal underneath.

“To what do I owe this unexpected delight?”

“It’s Friday,” Ron said, voice low, steady. “You’ve had nearly a week to send those memories we talked about. I wanted to know what the hold-up is.”

Draco stopped just inside the sitting room, spine drawn tight. “I don’t know why you won’t let it go,” he snapped. “I’m fine. I’ve got protective wards, round-the-clock security—”

His irritation didn’t fade so much as recalibrate, sharpening into scrutiny as he studied Ron’s face.

“What?”

“How long have you had that headache?”

Ron grimaced. “Potions just fog me up, and I need to stay sharp.”

Draco didn’t respond right away. He studied Ron for a beat, then gestured toward the sofa. “Sit.”

Ron hesitated, then dropped onto the edge.

“I’ve got something that won’t fog you,” Draco said, already moving toward the kitchen. “Brewed it myself.”

He returned with a slender vial of green-tinted potion, faintly luminous in the low light.

“Take this,” he said, holding it out.

Ron cracked one eye open. “Is it fishy?”

Draco gave the vial a sharp little shake. “Don’t be a baby. I was under the impression you’d survived worse than this.”

Ron muttered something about hating potions, then swallowed quickly.

Draco watched, just long enough to catch the shift—the slow unwinding of tension. First at the temples, then behind the eyes, until the pulse of discomfort softened into quiet relief.

“That’s the first thing that’s actually taken the edge off.”

Draco turned back toward the kitchen to hide his smile. “Water helps with the aftertaste.”

Ron followed, steadier now. “Didn’t realize a Potions Mastery made you halfway decent at healing.”

Draco shrugged. “Potions is a related discipline, but recognizing a stress headache doesn’t exactly require Healer credentials.”

He set a water glass in front of Ron. “I assume you’re hungry. Trilby brought venison earlier.”

Ron snorted. “Venison. Of course. Only someone with a family crest stitched into his dressing gown would offer venison when most people serve toast.”

Draco opened the fridge and pulled out a tray. Venison medallions rested at the center, seared to a glossy finish and decorated with sprigs of rosemary.

“There’s nowhere to sit.”

Draco slipped a hand into his dressing gown and drew his wand. “Are you a wizard or not?” A dining table appeared, sleek, modern, tailored precisely for two. Draco took his seat first, the folds of his dressing gown settling gracefully around him.

Ron conjured a fork and glanced across. “You’re not eating?”

“Not all of us need to graze hourly to maintain cognitive function.”

Ron didn’t rise to it. Just kept chewing, unfazed. “This is good.”

“It’s not like I made it myself.”

“Still appreciated. Not just the food. The medicine.” Ron swallowed, voice gentler now. “I meant what I said before. I’ve never taken anything that worked so well, or so fast.”

Draco gave a noncommittal shrug. “Headache draughts are hardly advanced work.”

Ron nudged the tray aside. “Look—I get you’re not thrilled about the investigation, but last week, you were cooperating. What changed?”

Draco’s mouth tightened. “Last time someone I knew ‘cooperated’ with the Ministry, he was sentenced to five years in Azkaban.”

Ron sat back a little, watching him. “That was Goyle, wasn’t it?”

Draco didn’t answer. His fingers curled beneath the table, pressing hard into his palm.

“Hermione’s looking into his case. Turns out those letters you thought he was ignoring? He never got them. Ministry’s been blocking his mail.”

He gave Draco a moment, then added, “She’s trying to get the restriction lifted. I figured you’d want to know.”

Draco didn’t look at Ron. Couldn’t. The name ‘Hermione’ sparked something sharp beneath his ribs, pulling tight.

“Malfoy?” Ron leaned slightly, trying to catch his gaze. “You haven’t said anything.”

“I suppose I’m still adjusting to the fact that you’ve read through my most personal thoughts,” he said, voice thin and sharp. “That’s why you asked about Goyle, isn’t it? Because of the diary?”

“If I hadn’t read it,” Ron said, quiet but firm, “I wouldn’t know someone threatened you before the break-in.”

Draco kept his eyes on the table.

Ron exhaled slowly. “I get it. It’s not exactly comfortable, me knowing any of that. Especially given… everything.”

Ron hesitated, then added, “I haven’t told anyone. And I won’t. Even if you choose not to help.”

Draco’s voice was low when it came. “The things you know about me…” His eyes stayed on the table, glad Ron couldn’t see how badly his hands were shaking beneath it. “If this were Hogwarts, and I had what you have—I think we both know what I’d’ve done with it.”

Ron was quiet for a moment. Then: “My brother’s gay.”

Draco looked up, startled. “What?”

“Charlie,” Ron said. “You probably never met him—he was a few years ahead of us. Works with dragons in Romania.”

He rubbed at his jaw. “Lives out there with his partner. Been together ages. Little place near the edge of the preserve. No neighbours. Just dragons. I think they like it that way.”

Draco blinked, silent.

“You’re not the only gay wizard in England,” Ron said gently. “You do know that, right?”

“I…” Draco swallowed, the sound far too loud in the quiet.

“You don’t have to answer.” Ron stood, straightening his jacket with a familiar pull at the sleeves. “Mind if I come by Sanus tomorrow? To pick up those memories.”

Draco rose as well, sliding his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown. “You can come. Miss King won’t be in, but Marcus will. Guarding me while I work.”

Ron nodded once. “Good.”

Their eyes met, just for a breath. Draco looked away first.

“Goodnight, Draco,” Ron said quietly.

Then he let himself out.

Chapter Text

Draco peeled off his goggles and stepped back from the worktop. The potion held its temperature, a steady shimmer of rose-tinted light beneath the glass. With the brew stable, his focus shifted. No longer narrowed to the flame or the stir rate, it turned instead to the heat pressing at his collar, damp at the throat.

He loosened his tie with a practised tug, though the relief was slight. His shirt clung unpleasantly to his back. Raising his wand, he angled it toward the ceiling and murmured a cooling charm.

He ought to have worn something lighter. A three-piece suit beneath his lab coat was excessive for a London summer, but he’d chosen it deliberately, layering fabric like armour. Ron was due to visit. That had factored in more than he cared to admit.

He was always more conscious of his body when Ron was near: how he moved, how he occupied space. After last night, that awareness had sharpened. He needed the suit. The structure. The reminder.

Ron was only in his life because of the investigation. That would end soon, and with it, whatever this was. No more late nights in Draco’s flat, no more quiet conversations that settled too easily into something like comfort.

He turned back to the cauldron, watching the potion swirl. The colour was holding. The temperature was stable.

Everything was under control.

Then came the pop—sharp, sudden, and far too close.

Draco spun, wand half-raised. “Trilby!”

The young house-elf stood in the center of the lab, clutching a garment bag like a shield. His ears drooped guiltily.

Draco’s frown deepened. “You know you’re not supposed to Apparate into Sanus. It can cause—”

A second presence registered before the sentence finished. Marcus stepped through the doorway with deliberate calm, wand already drawn. His eyes swept the lab in a practiced arc, pausing on Trilby with faint distaste. “I thought I felt house-elf magic,” he said, lowering his wand.

Trilby squeaked, clutching the garment bag tighter. “Sorry, Master Draco! Mr Flint! I know it’s not proper, but—”

Marcus gave the bag a once-over, then raised an eyebrow at Draco. “Let me guess. Your mother.”

Trilby nodded fervently. “Mistress says you’ve refused your tailor. She sent me to check the fit of your dress robes before the gala tonight.” The bag dragged slightly across the polished concrete, its fine fabric and silver embroidery absurdly formal against the sterile lab.

“That’s tonight?” Draco rubbed his temple, a headache blooming behind his eyes. He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat. “I thought you were here for lunch.”

“I brought that too!” Trilby said proudly. With a snap of his fingers, a large hamper appeared. “Cold roast beef with proper English mustard, watercress salad, new potatoes with butter and mint—”

The buzzer rang.

“It’s Auror Weasley,” Draco said curtly, cutting him off. “Marcus, will you show him to my office?”

“But the meal!” Trilby protested. “I brought enough for Mr. Flint, of course, but I didn’t know you were expecting guests—”

“Auror Weasley isn’t a guest,” Draco said loudly, for Marcus’ benefit. “Leave some for Marcus and take the rest to my office. I’ll finish up here…”

He turned back to the potion, not because there was anything left to do, but because he needed a moment. Just one quiet breath before facing Ron again.

“Any updates on the case?” Marcus asked, his gaze settling on the rumpled blue suit beneath Ron’s greatcoat. His expression remained cool, with just a hint of disdain. “No rush, of course. I know the Ministry likes to move at its own pace.”

“We’re thorough. I imagine that’s something you appreciate,” Ron said, stepping toward a stack of crates—potions ingredients bound for Draco’s lab. “Speaking of which, I assume this delivery’s already been cleared?”

“Naturally.” Marcus gave the crates a cursory glance before turning back to Ron. “Obvious target for a saboteur. I took care of it before you arrived.”

“Excuse me, sirs,” Trilby murmured as he slipped past, moving with the quiet urgency of someone practiced at vanishing. At Draco’s desk, he began laying out lunch, silverware aligned carefully against a snowy white napkin.

Ron softened his tone. “Did you make all this? It looks brilliant.”

“Oh—no, Auror Weasley,” Trilby said, ducking his head with a shy smile. “The estate has proper elf-chefs. Trained in Paris, at École Enchantée deGastronomie. Very posh.”

“You don’t mind if Draco eats in front of you?” Marcus asked sweetly. “He rarely takes breaks, and I’m sure he’ll want to multitask. You always have so many questions.”

Ron was spared the need to answer by Draco’s arrival. He slipped off his lab coat, revealing a charcoal three-piece suit, sharply tailored. He hung the coat neatly on the hat stand by the door, then let his gaze sweep over the lunch laid out on his desk. A single nod signaled his approval. “Thank you, Trilby. If you wouldn’t mind giving us a moment, I’d like to speak with the Auror privately.”

“Of course, sir.” Trilby finished pouring the Bordeaux, then nudged the glass into place. “I’ll be in the lab—call if you need anything.”

Marcus lingered in the doorway. “I’ll be just outside,” he said, voice cool.

The latch clicked shut. Draco exhaled—not loudly, but enough for Ron to notice. He sank into the high-backed chair behind his desk, fingers twitching once before he stilled them against the armrest.

“Sit, if you want,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the chair opposite. “Trilby went overboard again. Roast beef. Supposedly.”

Ron took the seat. “You do this a lot.”

Draco’s hand paused mid-motion. “Do what?”

“Offer food.”

Draco shrugged, eyes on the desk. “It’s not personal. He just brings too much.”

Ron didn’t answer right away. “I shouldn’t. Aurors aren’t supposed to take anything. You’ve fed me twice already.”

Draco pushed the plate an inch closer, still not looking at him. “Then you’re consistent.”

Ron picked up his fork and speared a potato, pausing before taking the bite. He chewed slowly, then said, “You’ve been at it a while, haven’t you? Even on a Saturday.”

Draco arched a brow. “I could say the same of you.”

Ron gave a quiet smile, sipping his water. “Fair enough.” He set the glass down, fingers resting lightly on the rim. “So—what are you working on?”

Draco hesitated. “I’m trying to create something new.” His voice was measured, cautious. Talking about his research always felt like stepping onto uncertain ground, especially with someone outside the field. But Ron didn’t interrupt. He just nodded, waiting. “It’s based on Köhler’s work. He was one of my professors at the Academy. He’s been developing a potion for magical scarring—injuries that resist healing, even with spells.”

Ron leaned in slightly. “What kind of scars? Cursed objects? Spell damage?”

Draco nodded. “Some curses leave marks that don’t just stay—they change. React to magic. Sometimes they get worse. Köhler’s formula showed promise, but it’s unstable. I’m trying to make it safer. Something the body won’t fight off.”

“Didn’t know you did that kind of work for St. Mungo’s.”

Draco flushed. “It’s not for the hospital. There I mostly handle the basics—burn salves, blood-replenishing draughts, that sort of thing.” He hesitated, then added, quieter, “This is just something I’ve been working on. If it holds up, I might be able to publish. Finally get out of the first-aid cupboard.”

“You want them to see what you’re capable of.”

Draco glanced down, nudging his fork across the plate. “And you? How’s the investigation going?”

Ron sat back, exhaling through his nose. “Honestly? Bit of a mess. The Unspeakables haven’t found anything that lines up with known Mourning Star patterns. We’re combing through old records, but it’s mostly guesswork.” He paused, then added more gently, “I was hoping your memories might help narrow things. Even a small detail could shift the whole picture.”

Draco didn’t answer right away. He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and drew out two slender vials of silvery-grey liquid. He placed them on the desk in front of Ron, his fingers lingering a moment too long.

“I hope they give you what you need. If I could ask one thing…”

“Go on.”

“Does it have to be a Ministry Pensieve? I know they’ll need to be filed officially if it goes to trial, but I’m not exactly thrilled about the idea of anyone in the department rifling through my memories.”

Ron was quiet for a moment, then said, “Procedure means I’ve got to use the department Pensieve. But I won’t log anything unless it helps move the case forward. Until then, your memories stay between us.”

“I suppose I should thank you. You’ve been… more than fair.” A pause. “I thought working with you would be…” He gave a tight shake of his head, mouth pulling slightly. “Well. I wouldn’t have blamed you if it had been harder.”

Ron let the words settle. Then, with a small nod: “You’ve made it easier too.” He rose slowly, movements deliberate, as if reluctant to break the moment. “I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

Draco stood, smoothing a hand down the front of his jacket. “Goodbye, then.”

Ron paused at the door, fingers brushing the handle. “Take care of yourself, Draco.”

Chapter Text

“Working a Saturday?” The front desk witch straightened, reaching for his wand. Her voice was warm, lightly teasing. “You’re either very dedicated or very unlucky.”

Ron handed it over with a faint smile. “Bit of both.”

She ran the security quill along its length. It glowed green.

“Still,” she said, stamping the ledger, “I suppose it’s quieter. Fewer interruptions. Just you and the ghosts of paperwork past.”

He bent to sign his name in the column marked Authorized Staff – Evidence Access. “Thanks,” he said, tucking his wand away. “I’ll try not to haunt the place myself.”

The archive room was circular and windowless, painted in the dull taupe favored by Ministry departments closed to the public. Steel shelves lined the walls, crammed with memory vials and manila folders stamped in faded typewriter ink. At the center stood the Pensieve, anchored in a reinforced pedestal, its brushed metal surface bare and utilitarian.

Ron’s fingers brushed the inside pocket of his greatcoat until they closed around the vials. Each one was labeled in Draco’s elegant, exacting hand. He stared at the script, thinking how it mirrored Draco himself: composed, meticulous… almost graceful.

Graceful?

Ron frowned. That wasn’t the word he wanted. Not for evidence. Not for someone whose memories he was about to dissect.

When the case first landed on his desk, he’d felt that familiar tug of ambition, sharp and immediate. As a junior Auror, he was still earning his place. This case could tip the balance, if Draco cooperated.

And Ron knew how to make people talk.

Not like Hermione, with facts and precision, but through something softer. A kind of emotional fluency. He knew when to press, when to retreat, when a flicker of warmth could coax something real. It wasn’t manipulation. Not exactly. Just knowing how to make space for truth.

It had worked before. A grieving father, a reluctant witness. People who wouldn’t speak until Ron did something simple: sat with them, listened, let silence do the asking. Sometimes he made tea. Just the act of it—filling the kettle, choosing the mug—was enough to soften the room. That was the part he trusted. The part he knew how to use.

But lately, he’d started to wonder if that skill was ever neutral. If kindness could be a tool. If he’d leaned too hard on empathy, knowing Draco needed someone to listen.

Ron grimaced. Absurd, really—ethical qualms about using warmth to manipulate Draco Malfoy.

But the diary had shifted something.

It wasn’t just Draco’s desire to change. Or the years he’d spent hunched over cauldrons, mastering potions to make healing medicines. Ron had never seen that kind of work from other purebloods with vaults full of gold and too much time to waste. They preferred to endow charities with their names stamped across the front, or sit on ceremonial boards at Hogwarts or St Mungo’s, sipping elderflower cordial and calling it service. For them, work was optional.

But Draco had worked. Quietly. Doggedly. Like he owed something.

And then there was the way he circled his attraction to other men, treating it like a wound he couldn’t name. That had caught Ron off guard. Not because it was shocking, but because it was him. The boy who had spat “blood traitor” like poison. The one who had stood with Voldemort.

Ron hadn’t expected it. Hadn’t even considered the possibility. That Draco Malfoy might have spent years trying to outrun something as simple and complicated as desire. Not just the wanting, but the shame woven into it. The fear of being seen. The need to become someone else. Someone acceptable to his family, his peers, maybe even to himself.

It made Ron pause. The boy he remembered had been all sharp edges and venom, but now he wondered if that cruelty had been armor. If the posturing had been desperation. If Draco had spent the war trying to prove something to people who would never offer him grace, no matter how perfectly he performed the role they demanded.

It didn’t excuse anything. But it changed the lens. Made Draco’s choices during the war feel less like malice and more like survival.

Ron didn’t forgive him. Not exactly. But something had shifted, and now he couldn’t help wondering what else he’d missed. His instincts stirred, not with suspicion, but with something quieter. A pull toward the truth, toward whatever lay beneath the surface, waiting to be seen.

He exhaled slowly, the sound loud in the stillness. His grip tightened around the vial, thumb pressing hard against the glass. He tipped it into the Pensieve. The liquid hissed softly as it met the surface, then stilled.

He leaned forward, breath shallow, and let himself fall.

The courtyard hummed with quiet celebration. Glasses clinked, lanterns drifted overhead, and laughter rose from scattered groups. Ron lingered at the edge of the gathering, watching Draco cross the lawn with quiet urgency. He approached a genial-looking man in formal scholar’s robes, the kind worn at Ministry functions or university convocations. A round academic bonnet sat atop his head, its corners dyed ceremonial red.

Draco waited until he turned away from a cluster of laughing students before speaking. “Professor Köhler—did you receive my latest owl about silverweed?”

Köhler’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “Ah, Herr Malfoy. The thesis is done, the champagne’s flowing—and still your mind’s on cursed tissue?”

“I don’t celebrate unfinished work.”

Köhler chuckled softly, then folded his arms, the teasing giving way to thought. “Understandable. Curse scars are rarely simple. They don’t remain in the flesh—they entangle themselves in the magical field. Especially when the wound is... compromised.”

Draco’s gaze sharpened. “Like a werewolf bite.”

The Professor nodded. “Precisely. Some curses disrupt standard healing responses.”

“I don’t accept the idea that some wounds can’t be healed.” Draco shook his head when a waiter paused to offer him a flute of champagne. “I’ve been revisiting your layering model—the one using stasis draught to delay cellular regeneration. It allows the tissue to stabilize before ambient magic resumes.”

Köhler tilted his head, intrigued. “You’ll need a transitional binder to maintain structural coherence during the latency phase.”

“That’s where silverweed comes in. It’s volatile, but its affinity for cursed tissue is promising. If it holds, we might suppress the recursive feedback that keeps the wound active.”

Köhler studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “That is promising. If you intend to pursue this formally, forward your findings. I’ll review them personally.”

Draco blinked, caught off guard. “You’d still—”

“Of course,” Köhler said, smiling. “Research doesn’t stop at borders. Neither does mentorship.”

Another waiter approached, balancing a tray of canapés. “Pardon, Herr Malfoy,” he said, his voice low and courteous. “I was asked to pass this along.”

Draco accepted the small white envelope with a quiet thanks, not attempting to reclaim the professor’s attention once it shifted to another student. He drifted toward one of the tall beech trees that bordered the Academy grounds, the canopy casting dappled shadows across the lawn. Ron watched Draco slit the envelope open, his face looking bored.

You think you’re clean now, Malfoy? You think distance makes you safe? Some of us still remember what you cost us. Don’t come back. We’ll make sure you don’t stay.

Ron watched Draco cast incendio, the note flaring into ash before the flame had fully caught. His face was bloodless, jaw locked in something Ron couldn’t name. Rage, maybe. Or fear disguised as control.

Then the Pensieve released him.

Ron staggered back into himself, mind racing. Köhler’s words had sounded academic, but the subtext was unmistakable. Draco’s research wasn’t theoretical—it was personal. He was trying to heal Bill’s wounds. The ones from the Astronomy Tower. From the night Dumbledore died. The night Draco let them in.

Something twisted in Ron’s chest, but he boxed it away. The note was evidence. Evidence had structure. That, at least, he understood.

The paper was cheap: accessible, impersonal. It didn’t give him much, but the handwriting told a different story. It was measured, deliberate. Not the erratic scrawl of panic or concealment. The descenders were consistent, the ts flicked upward with practiced speed. That kind of muscle memory didn’t come from casual use. It came from repetition, from schooling. Formal magical education. British. Likely Hogwarts.

Ron sealed the memory back into its vial, fingers steady. He would cross-reference the script later, compare it to Golden Dawn’s previous threats, chart linguistic patterns. But first, the second memory.

He braced himself. If the first had raised questions, the second might answer them—or complicate everything.

Ron blinked. Even in the low light—late, judging by the angle of the shadows—he recognized the angular grey sofa and the unlit chrome lamp from Draco’s flat.

Draco summoned a glass, poured firewhiskey, and drank it all at once. He tore off his tie and unfastened the top buttons of his shirt.

Ron had never seen him like this. Exposed. Unarmored. The skin at his throat looked vulnerable in a way Draco never allowed.

He sank onto the sofa and buried his face in his hands. Not dramatic. Just emptied.

When he moved again, it was slow. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter with Ministry letterhead. Department of Magical Corrections.

Draco stared at it like it had betrayed him. Not angry. Not afraid. Just lost.

Ron leaned in, cataloguing the details. Clean envelope. No tampering. No visible magical residue. Either it came through official channels, or someone wanted it to look that way.

You should’ve stayed gone. Next time, I won’t use words.

Ron read it twice. Again, the phrasing was surgical. No wasted language. No signature.

But the letterhead changed everything. The sender either worked inside the Department and had access to internal stationery or was skilled enough to forge it.

Had someone inside the system targeted Draco?

The instinct to react—to feel—he shelved for later. Right now, he had to think like an investigator. Strip it down. Follow the logic.

He’d start with the correspondence logs. Every official letter was recorded. If this one wasn’t, someone had bypassed protocol—or someone in Records had helped them do it.

And if it was forged, he’d trace the spellwork. Only a handful of casters could replicate Ministry formatting with that kind of precision. He’d need their names. Their movements. Their motives.

Ron emerged from the Pensieve, hunger low in his gut but easy to ignore. The memories had left him unsettled, but clearer. He had leads now—real ones. The handwriting, the Ministry letterhead, the way Draco didn’t react so much as absorb—it all gave him something to work with. And this time, Ron could feel it: the case was moving. He wasn’t chasing shadows anymore.

He was closing in.

Chapter Text

“I’m glad you chose to come,” Narcissa said, her gloved hand resting lightly on Draco’s arm. Her voice was gentle, but not without pressure. “One must be seen, darling. Especially by the right people.”

Draco’s gaze drifted toward the ballroom doors, then back to her. “Are these still the right people?” He didn’t sound angry. Just tired. “Pretending nothing’s changed doesn’t make it true.”

Narcissa’s lips parted, but before she could answer, a tall, willowy woman in emerald silk swept toward them. “Cissy, darling,” she said, her smile gracious and practiced, “you do remember my youngest, Astoria?”

Astoria stood just behind her mother, eyes lowered, dark lashes brushing against a pale cheek.

Narcissa’s expression softened. “Of course I remember you, Astoria dear. I was just telling Draco about your work with the Selwyn Trust. Very commendable.”

“A pleasure,” Draco said, the words automatic.  He knew he was meant to feel something. He could mimic the interest, play the part, but the sight of a lovely young woman left him blank, like always.

Astoria’s mother turned slightly, her gaze drifting toward the musicians gathered beneath a canopy of floating lights. “Is that a waltz?” she asked, as if the thought had just occurred. Then, with a glance at Draco that held no pressure, only suggestion: “You always moved beautifully, Cissy. I imagine Draco takes after you.”

Narcissa’s smile didn’t shift, but her fingers brushed Draco’s sleeve. “He’s never needed coaxing when the music’s right. And Astoria does look lovely tonight.”

Draco turned to Astoria, offering his hand with the kind of courtesy that felt inherited rather than chosen. “Shall we?”

They stepped onto the floor together, the crowd shifting around them with quiet expectancy. Draco felt the weight of eyes settle on them, but he kept his gaze forward.

The steps came easily, unfolding from muscle memory. He was vaguely pleased when she matched him with fluid grace.

“The Selwyn Trust,” he said, voice dry. “Was that your idea, or just something you were volunteered for?”

Astoria’s steps faltered, a flicker of anxiety crossing her face. “Sorry?” she said, a little breathless.

Draco cursed himself. “I meant—do you enjoy the charity work?”

“Oh. Yes,” she said, her voice soft but earnest. “I mean… after Hogwarts, I wanted to be useful. I didn’t think I’d be very good at anything else.”

They moved in time with the music, the steps unfolding in threes. Around them, the crowd blurred into candlelight and silk.

“You’re very quiet,” Draco said—not unkindly.

Astoria’s fingers tightened slightly in his. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I’m not used to… this.”

“Dancing?”

“Being looked at,” she said. Then, after a beat, more quietly: “Everyone’s staring at you. I mean—us.”

Draco’s jaw shifted, just slightly. “You get used to it.”

“Do you?”

The music faded. Draco released her hand, but before he could step away, Julian Penn—the Prophet’s society photographer—was already approaching, camera raised. “If I could trouble you both for a quick photo—Miss Greengrass, Mr. Malfoy. The press will want to know who’s setting the tone tonight.”

Astoria drew back as Julian neared, her fingers brushing Draco’s sleeve in a quiet, instinctive plea. He shifted subtly, angling his body between her and the camera, his hand resting lightly at the small of her back, a gesture polished by years of public appearances.

“That should make the cover of the Society Page,” Julian said, cheerful and oblivious.

Astoria tilted her face up toward Draco, her expression open, almost adoring. It caught him off guard. One dance—surely she didn’t think it meant anything. He was still calculating how to step away without drawing attention when the camera flashed again.

“You don’t mind if I take another?" the photographer asked, already snapping. "You make a very striking pair.”

“Excuse me, Miss Greengrass,” Draco said, slowly withdrawing his hand from her back. “I see my father wants a word with me.”

“Look who’s finally awake,” George said, shaking his head as Ron shuffled into the kitchen, hair flattened on one side, pajamas sagging at the knees.

Ron blinked at the counter. “Was I supposed to make breakfast?”

“I’ve learned to fend for myself. It’s called pizza.” He opened the fridge, tossing the box on the table. “Angelina came by last night. We ordered in.”

Ron paused, hand halfway to the kettle. “Angelina was here?”

George didn’t look up. “Briefly.”

“No wonder you’re all perky this morning.” Ron flipped open the box and started eating straight from it, chewing between sips of instant coffee.

George gave a tight smile. “She’s been helping with the books. You know I’m useless with numbers. Not like…” His voice snagged, and he shut the fridge with a dull thud.

Ron swallowed. “Fred was good at that.”

George turned away, rummaging through the cabinet with more force than necessary.

“He was good at a lot of things,” Ron said, quieter now. “I think about what he’d say if he saw the shop. What you’ve done.”

George’s back stiffened. “He’s not here,” he said, clipped. “So it doesn’t matter.”

Ron hesitated. “I think he’d be proud.”

George set the mug down hard. “Yeah. Well.” He poured the coffee, eyes fixed on the sink.

Ron let it go. He picked up the Daily Prophet, slid the business section across the counter to George—part of their unspoken morning routine—and sat down at the table.

His hand stuttered over the Society Page. Draco Malfoy stared out from the cover, expression taut with disdain, his body angled protectively in front of a younger woman. Astoria Greengrass, Ron’s memory supplied. One of the younger Slytherins. Soft-spoken, shy, always a little apart.

The image shifted, as wizarding photos did. Astoria looked up at Draco, her face open, almost luminous. She leaned into him like she trusted him completely. His hand cradled her back with something close to tenderness.

“Malfoy again?” George grabbed the paper with a grimace. “Figures. You can get away with anything, long as your vault’s deep enough.”

Ron pushed back his chair. “I’m going to get dressed.”

“You’re heading out again?” George called after him. “What case is it this time?”

Ron didn’t answer. He was already halfway up the stairs, thoughts louder than George’s voice.

He’d get dressed. Apparate to Sanus Potions. He didn’t doubt Malfoy would be there.

He had updates to deliver. That was the reason. The only reason.

“Back again?” Marcus Flint lounged in the doorway like he owned the place, slow to move. “You know he’s got actual work to do, right?”

Eventually, he stepped aside, letting Ron pass with all the enthusiasm of a man surrendering turf.

“I’ve got an update on the case. Malfoy around?” Ron didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“He’s working,” Marcus said. “And I know you didn’t book anything. He tells me when he’s expecting someone.”

“Investigations don’t run on appointments. So either you get him, or I walk in.”

Marcus exhaled through his nose, clearly weighing the risk. “I’ll get him. Just don’t go stomping in—he’s brewing something experimental. Touchy stuff.”

Ron gave a curt nod, eyes fixed on the hallway beyond. “Fine.”

Draco appeared moments later, dressed in a navy turtleneck that looked soft enough to be cashmere. No jacket, no tie—just clean lines and quiet luxury. Ron hadn’t expected softness, not here.

Draco folded his arms, one brow lifting with practiced impatience. “Auror Weasley. Marcus says you’ve got an update.”

“Can we speak in your office?” Ron asked, recalibrating.

Draco hesitated, then gave a clipped nod. “Very well.”

He led the way inside, spine straight. When the door clicked shut behind them, he turned. “I thought we agreed—no updates at the business.”

“Sorry. This couldn’t wait.” Ron pulled out the chair opposite Draco’s desk and sat, clearly expecting Draco to follow suit.

Draco lingered a beat before sitting, his movements tight. “Well?”

“You could’ve told me one of the threats came from inside the Ministry.”

Draco shrugged, eyes flicking away. “You said sharing memories would make the investigation easier on both of us.”

“I’d have thought that detail would’ve stood out.”

“I fail to see how this qualifies as an update,” Draco said coolly, shifting his hands beneath the desk, out of sight. They were trembling. Ron had been professional until now—sometimes even kind—and Draco didn’t know how to meet this new, flint-edged version of him.

“You want me to trust your memories, Draco. Fine. But if you’re picking and choosing what I see, that’s not cooperation. It’s manipulation.”

“If you think I’m manipulating you, you’re welcome to leave. I didn’t ask for your help.”

Ron’s jaw worked. “You’re right.” He looked away. “That was out of line.”

Draco blinked, thrown.

“I didn’t mean to come in swinging,” Ron said, voice rough. “Mourning Star is bad enough. But someone inside Magical Corrections? With clearance?” He shook his head. “That’s a different kind of threat.”

“You’re worried about me.” Draco said it like he was testing the words for irony.

Ron’s eyes snapped back to him. “Yeah, I am.” He hesitated. “I’m glad Flint’s here. This is worse than I thought. But if I’m going to protect you, I need you to be straight with me.”

“I have been.”

Ron gave him a look—flat, tired. “Have you?” He lifted a hand before Draco could speak. “I saw the Society page. I know how you operate when you want something. What if you’re playing me the same way you’re playing Miss Greengrass?”

Draco’s hands curled beneath the desk. “That’s not—” He exhaled. “If it looked like I was leading her on, I wasn’t. I danced with her. It would’ve been rude not to. Then the Prophet photographer showed up—what was I supposed to do? Fling her across the ballroom?”

“Do you intend to pursue her?”

Draco’s fingers tightened.

“Well?” Ron’s voice was quiet now. “Do you?”

“I don’t know.”

Ron leaned back, exhaling like the answer had winded him.

“I wouldn’t pretend it’s a love match,” Draco added, too quickly. “But marriage of convenience isn’t unheard of. Not in my world. What does it matter to you?”

Ron leaned forward again, slower this time. “Were you planning to tell her you’re gay?”

Draco flushed. “That’s not—You’re twisting this. It’s personal, and it’s irrelevant.”

“Maybe not,” Ron said, “but it’s still wrong. You know that, don’t you? To let her believe something that isn’t true. She clearly admires you—”

“You got all that from one photograph?”

“Yeah, Draco.” Ron’s voice was flat. “It’s obvious.”

Draco looked away. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

Draco’s voice rose, brittle. “The Malfoy estate needs an heir.”

Ron scoffed, but Draco pressed on, the words coming faster now. “It’s been an unbroken line for forty generations. Since Armand Malfoy came over with William the Conqueror. And you expect me to be the one who breaks it?”

“There are other ways to have children.”

“Not ones my father would recognize.”

Ron exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Look,” he said quietly. “We can come back to this. Right now, I need you to double your security.”

Draco frowned. “You really think that’s necessary?”

Ron nodded, grim. “I do.” He reached for his greatcoat, brushing it off absently. “I’d even suggest going back to the Manor for a few days. Just until we trace the threat’s origin.”

“No.” Draco stood too, pale but steady. “I’m not running. That’s what they want.”

Ron studied him. “It’s not about pride, Draco. It’s about staying alive.”

“I know.” Draco’s voice was quiet. “But I have to live with myself, too.”

Ron didn’t argue. He slid his hands into his pockets. “All right. I’ll bring the next update to your flat.”

Draco followed him to the door. “When? It’s easier if I know when to expect you.”

“Tonight,” Ron said, voice softening. “Even if there’s nothing new, I’ll check in nightly. Until we’ve got a handle on this.”

Draco nodded. “Thank you.”

Ron paused, hand on the door. “Don’t wait to reinforce your wards. Do it now.”

“I will.”

“Good.” He opened the door. “Until tonight.”

Chapter Text

“What was that all about?” Marcus’ eyes tracked Ron’s exit before settling on Draco, suspicion sharpening his tone. “What’s ‘tonight’? You expecting company?”

Draco crossed to the door, lifted his lab coat from the antique hat stand, and gave it a brisk shake. “He’s chasing a lead. Thinks someone inside Magical Corrections—or someone with clearance—is involved.” He slipped the coat on, adjusting the collar as he spoke. “He said he’d stop by the flat later with an update.”

“And he tells you, not me? I’m Head of Security.”

“I said I’d pass it on.” Draco’s voice was quiet, clipped. “You two don’t exactly exchange pleasantries.”

“And you do? I don’t need to like him to do my job.”

“He talks to me because it’s protocol. Nothing more.” Draco reached into his pocket, fingers closing around his goggles. “He suggested reinforcing the wards at the flat.”

Marcus shook his head, frustration flickering beneath the professionalism. “Forget the flat. You should be at the Manor. If this bloke’s got Ministry clearance—”

Draco met Marcus’ eyes with practiced calm. “I don’t have a Floo at the flat, and your wards prevent incoming apparition. It’s secure.”

Marcus followed him into the hall. “Secure’s not the same as protected. The Manor’s got ancestral magic layered into the stone. You know that.”

“Just see to the wards.” Draco paused at the door to his lab. “The potion’s at a critical stage, and I don’t have time to argue.”

Marcus nodded, jaw tight. “I’ll send my Patronus to headquarters, get backup to reinforce the perimeter. But next time Weasley’s got an update, I should be the one he talks to.”

“He knows how to reach you.”

“Yeah, but he keeps reaching you,” Marcus said, pointed. “You two have been beefing since Hogwarts. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s using his badge to push you around.”

Draco opened the door, not bothering to look back. “Just see to the wards. Leave Weasley to me.”

“Trilby, what is this?” Draco picked up a tall, slender bottle, eyes narrowing at the label. “I asked for butterbeer, not a dry Riesling.”

“Butterbeer, sir? With roast chicken?” Trilby smoothed a napkin and set it neatly on the table—freshly conjured, and still faintly shimmering at the edges. “I think you’ll find the apple notes in the Riesling rather charming with the lemon and herb. And the asparagus—well, it practically insisted.”

Draco frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t think Ron is a wine person.”

Trilby straightened, a glimmer of interest sparking in his eyes. “Entertaining again tonight, sir? Is it Auror Weasley? Because if so, I should mention—Ministry men do tend to prefer stout. One of my mother’s brothers works under the Head Auror, and he swears by it. Says it’s practically regulation—”

“Can you take it back? Or at least apparate to the Three Broomsticks and grab a few bottles?”

Trilby nodded, though his expression soured. “It won’t go with the meal at all, sir. And as for dessert, I can think of few things more ruinous to a rhubarb and custard tart than—”

“Trilby, for Merlin’s sake, just do it.”

“If you say so, sir,” he muttered, preparing to apparate. “Though I can’t imagine Auror Weasley asking for butterbeer.” He vanished with a faint pop, leaving behind the scent of rosemary and quiet disapproval.

Almost immediately, there was a knock at the front door. Draco ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it into something presentable. The calming draught he’d taken hadn’t settled his nerves. If anything, it had made them feel politely anesthetized, like they were waiting for permission to panic.

Maybe food would help. Maybe if he ate something, the nausea in his stomach would stop gnawing. It was strange—wanting to be alone with Ron so badly it hurt, and hating the feeling just as much. Wanting it, dreading it. He felt like he might be sick.

Ron stepped inside as Draco opened the door, his coat already half-unbuttoned. “Evening,” he said, scanning the flat with a practiced eye before settling on Draco’s face. “You look a bit peaky. Been eating at all?”

Draco turned toward the table. “Not yet,” he said, voice clipped. “There’s food. I can conjure another chair if you’re staying.”

Ron’s eyes flicked to the table—roast chicken, asparagus salad, and the tart Trilby had insisted on, gleaming like it belonged in a food magazine. He paused, mouth tilting like he was about to make an excuse, then seemed to change his mind.

“I’ve got a few things to go over,” he said, conjuring a second chair with a flick of his wand. “Might as well eat while we talk. Let me wash up first.”

“You know where it is.”

Ron disappeared down the hall, and Draco reached for his wine, taking a slow sip to steady the tremor in his hand. There was a loud pop, and Trilby appeared, arms full of dusty-looking bottles of butterbeer.

“Has our guest arrived, sir? I brought the butterbeer you requested—”

“Yes, very good,” Draco interrupted quickly, not wanting Ron to hear anything else that might expose him. “You can leave it there.”

Ron emerged from the hall, smiling when he saw the young house-elf. “Hello, Trilby.” He picked up one of the bottles from the kitchen island, eyebrows raised. “Butterbeer? Haven’t touched one since Hogwarts.”

Trilby cast a meaningful look at Draco. “Indeed, sir. I think you’ll find the Riesling goes better with the meal—”

“Thank you, Trilby,” Draco cut in from his seat, cheeks a little flushed. “That will be all.”

Trilby inclined his head politely. “Goodnight, Master Draco. Auror Weasley. I hope you enjoy your meal.” He vanished with a loud pop.

Ron settled across from Draco, still holding the butterbeer. “Did you get this especially for me?”

“You’re on duty,” Draco said stiffly. “I thought you might prefer it to something stronger. And I—” he faltered, then pressed on. “I remember how much you used to drink it at Hogwarts.”

Ron smiled, twisting the cap off. “Yeah, but that’s Hogwarts. Everyone drinks it there. Doesn’t mean it’s good.”

Draco gestured toward the wine. “If you’d rather—”

“No, this is perfect.” Ron set the bottle down and picked up his fork. “Wouldn’t want to be tipsy if I get called in.”

Draco watched him take a bite. “How’s the case? Anything I should know?”

Ron nodded. “The letter’s not in the logs. If it went through official channels, someone helped it disappear.”

“From inside.”

“Probably.” Ron’s voice was steady, but his grip on the fork tightened. “I flagged the Records officer. If someone tampered with the logs, their wandwork will show it.”

Draco reached for his glass, fingers steady. “You think it was forged?”

“Could be.” Ron didn’t look up. “Or someone used real stationery to make it look clean.” He paused. “I’m checking access—clearance logs, internal transfers, disciplinary records. This kind of thing doesn’t happen in isolation.”

Draco waited. When Ron didn’t continue, he set down his glass. “And?”

Ron met his eyes. “A list of enemies would help. I’ll cross-reference with Ministry staff—see if anything lines up.”

Draco’s mouth tightened. “It’s not a short list.”

“Then give me the worst of them,” Ron said quietly. “The ones who’d risk their job to see you buried.”

Draco nodded once. “I’ll work on it. You’ll have it when you drop by tomorrow.”

Ron’s shoulders eased, barely. “Thanks. I know that’s not easy.”

He hesitated. “How are you holding up? Emotionally, I mean. Is there anyone you talk to about all this? A friend, or… someone closer?”

Draco leaned back, brows raised. “Is this a welfare check or are you asking if I’m shagging someone?”

Ron didn’t flinch. “I don’t like to assume. Your diary made it sound like… not, but I didn’t want to jump to conclusions.”

Draco’s mouth twisted. “My best friend’s in prison for war crimes. I’m told he hasn’t been ignoring my letters, at least. So that’s something.”

Ron nodded slowly. “I mentioned Hermione’s working on lifting the restriction. When she does, I’d be happy to go with you to Azkaban. Visits are allowed with an Auror escort.”

“You’d do that?”

“Of course.” Ron’s jaw tightened. “Technically, Goyle should’ve been allowed visits already.”

Draco returned to his salad, voice dry. “The Minister needed a win. They couldn’t get me, so they settled for Greg. One teenage Death Eater to make an example of.”

Ron watched him for a moment. “You sound like Hermione.”

Draco looked up sharply. “Do I?”

“She used to think Shacklebolt’s government would fix everything. Reform the Ministry, push for creature rights, prosecute everyone who worked on the Muggleborn Registration Commission.”

“And then reality happened.”

Ron nodded, expression tight. “Change is slow. And you can’t punish everyone who served Voldemort’s regime. Half the Ministry would be implicated.”

“That must be why she’s working on Greg’s case. I know she’s one of his solicitors.”

“Yeah. Junior solicitor. I didn’t expect the papers to pick up on it, but I guess…”

“Gryffindor’s golden girl draws attention. So do you. And Potter. The holy trio.”

Ron gave a dry huff, not quite a laugh. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Draco reached for his wine, swirling it once before taking a sip. “Not just your work. Your personal life’s public property too. Your breakup with Granger made headlines in Germany.”

Ron grimaced. “The papers sensationalize everything.”

Draco hummed. “Everyone assumes you’ll get back together. You’re the fairytale—the plucky Muggleborn and the noble pureblood who saved the world.”

Ron made a face. “That’s more or less how they frame it. But… we’re not getting back together.”

Draco speared a piece of asparagus, eyes on his plate. “Why not? You seemed made for each other.”

“Hermione doesn’t agree with my choice to stay in the Ministry. Especially not in the Auror Office.” He set his fork down. “She’s seen too much of the corruption, the abuses, the favoritism… and it disappoints her that I won’t join her on the outside, trying to change things.”

Draco looked up sharply. “If everyone decent walks away, what’s left? Someone has to hold power. Better you than—” He stopped short, lips pressed thin, and took a slow sip instead.

Ron sat back, watching him. “Yeah. That’s more or less how I feel.”

They ate in silence for a few beats before Ron spoke again. “What about you? How’s your work?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You want to talk about advanced potions and magical theory?”

Ron shrugged. “I saw your memory. The one with Professor Köhler.” He took a sip of butterbeer. “So this isn’t new? You’ve been working on that scar-removal potion for years?”

Draco nodded. “I have a prototype, but no one to test it on.” He set his glass down. “Progress would be faster with volunteers, but the optics of a former Death Eater asking for test subjects…”

Ron looked down at his arm, fingers brushing the cuff of his sleeve. “You could test it on me.”

Draco looked up sharply, color draining from his face. “You have magical scars?”

Ron hesitated, then began rolling up his sleeve. “Not sure this is what you meant,” he said, revealing the faint, silvery marks winding around his forearm. “Enchanted brains. Department of Mysteries. Thought tendrils—wrapped around me like ropes. Healers tried everything, but they never really faded.”

Draco leaned in, gaze fixed. His hand twitched, as if he meant to reach out, but he stopped himself. The sight unsettled him—Ron Weasley, strong and steady, marked by the war in ways he hadn’t imagined.

“Yes,” he said finally, voice quieter. “That would be helpful. But are you sure? It’s experimental.”

Ron rolled his sleeve back down, slower this time. “You’ve tested it on yourself, yeah?” He met Draco’s eyes. “If you’re willing to risk it to help people, so am I.”

Draco sat back, still pale. “I’ll have it ready for tomorrow’s visit.”

Ron nodded, then glanced around the room—as if seeing it differently now. “You’ve done well here,” he said quietly. “The flat. The work. It suits you.”

Draco blinked, caught off guard. “Thank you.”

Ron reached for his coat, hesitating as he shrugged it on. “I should get going. Early shift tomorrow.”

Draco stood too, slower. “Right. Of course.”

They lingered by the doorway, the silence stretching—not awkward, but full.

Ron offered a small smile. “Thanks for dinner. And for trusting me.”

Draco’s voice was low. “You didn’t have to offer.”

“I know.” Ron’s gaze held his. “But I wanted to.”

“Until tomorrow,” Draco said, eyes lingering on the way Ron’s cheap suit couldn’t hide his beauty—or his goodness. “Goodnight, Ron.”

Ron paused, hand on the doorknob. “Goodnight, Draco.”

Chapter Text

Draco lit the Bunsen burner with a flick of his wand. The flame held steady—blue, contained. The lab was quiet. Just the way he preferred it. No interruptions. No questions. Only the work.

He dropped the shea butter into the glass cauldron and watched it melt, pooling into soft gold. The base potion followed in a dark ribbon, folding into warmth. As it settled, he sprinkled in the silverweed; the powder vanished with a faint shimmer. He stirred counterclockwise, slow and steady, coaxing it into cohesion. When it held its shape on the spoon, he lifted it off the flame to cool.

The treatment was ready. All that remained was application.

When he’d first formulated it, he’d imagined someone else administering it—a Healer, a Mediwitch, anyone but him.

But Ron had offered. And now Draco would be the one to touch him.

He shoved his hands into his coat pockets—an automatic gesture to hide the shaking. He’d done it for years, whenever nerves threatened to show.

Maybe he could teach Ron the incantation. Let him apply the lotion himself. That would be safer.

He already knew Draco was attracted to other men. That part wasn’t a secret. Not anymore.

But at least he didn’t know about this. About Draco admiring him.

No. Not admiring. That had been true once. But this was something else.

Draco swallowed, his throat tight. When had it started? Fifth year, perhaps. Or earlier.

He summoned his mental discipline, forcing the memories out of conscious awareness.

If he couldn’t hold himself together here—alone, in the quiet of the lab—how was he meant to survive Ron’s visit?

He’d taken so much Calming Draught lately its effects had dulled to a whisper.

Quietus was out of the question. Too strong. He’d be asleep on his feet.

He could only hope his control held.

It hurt, having to shut himself down around Ron. Occlumency dulled everything, not just the feelings he needed to avoid. The quiet pleasure of Ron’s company. The unexpected ease between them.

But it was better than letting the truth slip through.

He didn’t have time to dwell. A knock at the door, then Miss King’s voice.

“Mr Malfoy? Apologies for the interruption. Your mother’s arrived. She’s brought a guest.”

Draco frowned, then crossed the room and opened the door.

“A guest?” he repeated, but the answer came before Miss King could speak.

Astoria’s soft, well-modulated voice drifted down the corridor, overlapping with Narcissa’s. Laughter followed—light, familiar. And Marcus, unmistakably.

Draco exhaled.

“What on earth is she playing at? She knows I’m working.”

“Sorry, sir,” Miss King murmured. “I did mention—discreetly—that you prefer not to be disturbed during lab hours. But she was rather insistent.”

Draco cast a refreshing charm over his face and smoothed his tie, then walked slowly toward the lobby.

“—So the Muggles were Obliviated, naturally,” Marcus was saying, just as Astoria let out a laugh and covered her mouth. Narcissa gave a slow shake of her head, half disbelief, half amusement.

“Mother.” Draco inclined his head. “Miss King said you’d brought a guest.”

Narcissa smiled fondly at Astoria, whose sapphire robes brought out the cool tones of her skin and set off the dark sheen of her hair. “Astoria was at the flower market on Columbia Road—she’s hosting a dinner for the Selwyn Trust. I’m sure I mentioned it. And we realised how close we were to Hackney, so I thought—why not drop in?”

“We wondered if you might join us for lunch,” Astoria added, her voice shy but hopeful.

“Lunch sounds charming,” Draco said, glancing at Marcus. “Though I suspect my bodyguard might object. The Aurors are investigating a break-in at my business. Nothing too theatrical—but they’ve asked me to keep to my routine until it’s sorted.”

Astoria’s expression shifted. “A break-in? That’s dreadful. You weren’t there when it happened, were you?”

“No, I wasn’t. If I had been, they’d have had a harder time of it. They wrecked some of the more delicate gear. Infuriating, really.”

Narcissa’s hand brushed his arm gently. “No need to worry, darling. I’ve already spoken with Marcus.” 

Marcus met Draco’s gaze briefly before replying. “Maison François is quiet, discreet, and dull enough to be safe. I’ve got it covered.”

Draco gave a smooth, practiced smile. “Wonderful. The Floo’s this way, ladies—if you’ll follow me…”

By the time Draco escaped his mother and finished up in the lab, he was spent. Brewing the scar-healing potion had drained a good portion of his magical reserves. Then came Astoria—polite warmth, precisely rationed: enough to satisfy Narcissa, not enough to give Astoria reason to hope. He’d kept his shields up the entire time, Occlumency woven through every glance, every word.

Necessary.

Exhausting.

Now, back at the flat, he was too depleted to summon it again. He needed a shower, clean clothes, a moment to reassemble himself. If he couldn’t shield properly, he could at least look decent before Ron arrived.

A soft pop interrupted him.

“Good evening, Master Draco!”

Trilby appeared, conjuring the usual table and single chair with a flick of his fingers.

“I do hope you’re hungry—though after lunch at Maison François, I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t,” he added cheerfully, setting several covered dishes atop the crisp white cloth.

Draco loosened his tie, not quite meeting Trilby’s eye. “Did you bring wine?”

“A nice Chianti, sir.” Trilby summoned the bottle with a practiced flourish, poured it into a crystal goblet, and gave it a gentle swirl before offering it across the table.

Draco took a sip. “That’ll do. Just leave everything—I won’t need you again tonight.”

“Would you like to know what I brought, sir? It’s roast lamb with glazed carrots and a lovely apple and spinach salad—baby greens, goat cheese, toasted walnuts—”

Draco gave a tired nod. “Sounds perfect. But I’ve got a headache. I’d appreciate some quiet.”

“Of course, sir. Just one last thing: would you prefer lemon tart or sticky toffee pudding for afters?”

Draco rubbed his temple. “Whichever’s easiest.”

A memory surfaced. Ron at the Gryffindor table, tugging a plate of pudding out of his brother’s reach, that crooked grin already halfway there.

“No—make it the toffee.”

“Right you are, sir.” Trilby’s ears gave the faintest twitch, as if surprised, but he said nothing more. He placed the final dish on the table, and with a soft pop, he was gone.

After his shower, Draco cast a drying charm on his hair and spent far too long choosing a pair of navy trousers and a plain black jumper—the least formal clothes he owned outside of pyjamas. He felt vaguely exposed, but it would’ve been absurd to wear a suit this late in the evening. Ron would notice. Might even say something.

He returned to the kitchen and poured himself a larger glass of wine, drinking it down in one go. Then he conjured a second chair for Ron, certain he’d stay for dinner this time.

The knock came. Draco’s heart kicked against his ribs, sharp and sudden, though he’d been expecting it. He swallowed, wishing he had the energy to summon his mental magic, and opened the door.

“You alright?” Ron frowned, shrugging off his greatcoat and hanging it beside Draco’s robes. “You look done in.”

“Charming as ever.” Draco turned away, already heading for the kitchen. 

“You should sit down.” Ron followed him in, his gaze catching on the table—and the second chair.

Draco felt heat rise to his face. “Have you eaten? Trilby brought too much again.”

“Could eat.” Ron sat down and reached for the wine bottle, pausing as his gaze flicked to Draco’s empty glass. He poured quietly. “I’m off-duty,” he said. “Won’t touch it if it interferes with your potion.”

“No, it’s fine,” Draco said quickly, serving himself so he wouldn’t have to watch Ron’s throat shift when he swallowed.

“Is that sticky toffee pudding?” Ron asked, already reaching for a spoon.

Draco took a sip of wine to hide his smile.

“So, this scar-removal thing—how does it work, then?” Ron asked between bites. He hadn’t touched the salad, Draco noticed. “Do I drink it, or…?”

“I reformulated it as a lotion. Easier to control. You apply it directly—small area only, to start. The magic’s layered into the base, so it absorbs through the skin.”

“Sounds clever. So it just…soaks in?”

Draco nodded. “You should feel it working within a minute or two. If it holds, we can try a larger area. Tomorrow, if you want.”

“You mentioned that you’ve already tested it on yourself.” Ron took another sip of wine, watching Draco’s face carefully. “Did it ‘hold’ for you?”

Draco smoothed a crease in the tablecloth. “Eventually, yes—but magical treatments aren’t universally reliable. They have to be tested across different magical profiles. The formulation works on me, but that doesn’t mean it’ll behave the same way for anyone else.” He paused, cleared his throat. “That’s why I’m—grateful you agreed to help.”

Ron ate in silence for a few beats before speaking again. “I’m no expert. Magical theory, potions—that’s not really my thing. But I do know a bit about cursed wounds. The healers always said they don’t heal the usual way. You can ease the symptoms, maybe slow things down, but you can’t fix it. Not properly.”

Draco nodded. “That used to be true—until Köhler’s breakthrough. He showed that some cursed wounds can be healed, if you clear the curse residue first. The trick is slowing the body’s response—giving the tissue time to settle before magic kicks back in.” He reached for his glass. “It only works on surface injuries so far, but that’s what my formulation’s built on.”

Ron took a slow sip of water, then looked back at him. “That’s a pretty specific thing to focus on. Was there a reason?”

Draco didn’t look up. “It’s not random.” He paused, thumb tracing the rim of his glass. “Someone got hurt. Because of me. I thought… maybe I could do something about that.”

“You were thinking of Bill.”

Draco’s head lifted—fast, involuntary.

“I saw your memories,” Ron said quietly. “I’m not as sharp as you, but I can put things together.”

He paused, watching Draco. “The night you let them in… that’s when Bill was attacked. Greyback tore into him. The curse damage never healed right.”

Another pause. “You’ve been carrying that. Haven’t you.”

Draco was shaking now. Not just his hands—his whole body, like something had come loose inside him. He reached for his mental magic, tried to steady himself, but he couldn’t hold it. He was too drained.

“I hurt a lot of people during the war,” he said finally. “Bill was just one of them. I thought… if I could undo even one thing…”

Ron stood slowly, each movement deliberate. He rolled up his sleeve, then met Draco’s eyes with a gaze that was steady and unflinching.

“I trust you,” he said. “And I want this to work.”

He didn’t look away. “Let’s fix what we can.”

Draco swallowed, the words catching in his throat. He couldn’t speak—not yet. Instead, he turned toward the counter, wand steady despite the tremor in his fingers.

He conjured a sterile glass dish, shallow and clear, the kind Healers used for topical applications. A second flick summoned the potion. It was thick, amber-gold, and faintly luminous, catching the light as it settled into the dish with a soft ripple.

He set the dish on the table between them, close enough for Ron to reach, but not so close that it presumed.

“This is the base formulation,” he said, quieter than he meant to. “It’s stable. Should hold for about an hour once it’s exposed to the air.”

He hesitated, then met Ron’s eyes. “You can do it yourself, if you prefer. Or I can. Whatever’s easier.”

Ron gave a small smile. “Better you than me. I’d probably throw the whole thing off.” He offered his arm, bare and freckled, without fuss.

Draco steadied Ron’s arm with his left hand. He should’ve conjured gloves. He meant to. But the feel of Ron’s skin—warm, real, right there—made it hard to think. He dipped two fingers into the lotion and began to work it into one of the smaller scars just above Ron’s wrist. Slow, careful strokes. Gentle, but firm enough to do what was needed.

Ron flinched.

Draco looked up, startled. “Did I—?”

Ron let out a breath of laughter. “It’s cold.”

“Right. Sorry.” Draco cleared his throat, then cast the incantation over the treated skin. The lotion glowed white once, then settled.

Ron watched, silent at first. Then: “That’s it?” He lifted his arm, inspecting it. The silvery mark near his wrist faded before his eyes, revealing pale, freckled skin, whole and unmarred.

“That’s it,” Draco said, stepping back. “I’ll need to check it tomorrow. Make sure it’s holding.”

Ron didn’t answer right away. He was still staring, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and quiet awe.

“That’s brilliant,” he said finally, voice low. “It’s actually gone.”

Draco busied himself with the supplies. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. We don’t know how long it’ll last.”

Ron nodded, still staring at his arm. “Still. It’s a start.”

Draco paused, fingers hovering over the dish. He didn’t speak. Just nodded once, tight and controlled, and resumed packing.

Ron lingered. “Before I go…”

Draco glanced up, pulse still thrumming faintly in his fingertips. “Yes?”

He hadn’t expected the contact to linger. Ron’s skin had left something behind. A buzz, a phantom echo. Irrational, he told himself. But it was still there.

“Did you get the list together?”

Draco frowned. “The list—right. I forgot. Sorry.”

Ron reached out and gave his shoulder a brief squeeze. “Just have it for tomorrow. If you can.”

Draco blinked, startled by the touch. Ron was close now, his eyes steady and kind in a way that felt too much. Not for Ron, surely. But Draco’s body read it differently, stupidly. “I will,” he said, trying to sound normal.

“Alright.” He lingered a beat, then crossed to the foyer and reached for his greatcoat. “Thanks. For everything. I really mean it.” He gave a small, incredulous laugh. “I still can’t believe it worked. Even if it fades, it’s… kind of amazing.”

Draco swallowed. “Thank you, Ron. And… goodnight.”

Chapter Text

Ron slid into the corner booth, set one tray in front of Harry, and peeled the clingfilm off his sandwich. Ham and cheese. No mustard. The bread was dry—typical of the Ministry canteen—but it still caught him. He’d been eating well lately. It took him a second to stop noticing.

Harry stirred his coffee—black, no sugar—and glanced over. “Glad we could sit down. You’ve been neck-deep in the Malfoy case.”

“It’s been a mess. The Unspeakables ran their scans—twice. No magical residue, no breach signature. And the threat at the scene doesn’t match Mourning Star’s usual tone or methods.”

“So you’ve got nothing solid?”

Ron shook his head. “Not until Malfoy shared a few memories. Turns out he’d received threats before the break-in.”

Harry leaned in slightly. “What kind of threats?”

“Written. One of them was on Ministry letterhead.”

“That’s bold.”

Ron nodded, sipping his tea. “Reckless, but useful. It’s the first proper lead I’ve had.”

“You’re sure it’s not a forgery?”

Ron set his mug down. “I don’t think so. Twigg—Records Officer—checked the duty roster for when the letter was sent.”

“Anyone stand out?”

“Zacharias Smith.”

Harry paused mid-chew. “Smith. Didn’t know he was in Records.”

“Been there a few years. Quiet post. Suits him—lots of rules, no risk.”

Harry wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then glanced at Ron. “Prophet dragged him for deserting at the Battle. Must grate, seeing Malfoy get glossy write-ups in the Society page.”

Ron felt something twist at that—sharp, unwelcome. He pushed it down. “You saw that?”

Harry shrugged. “Didn’t everyone? Pansy says the pureblood lot are just waiting for Malfoy to pop the question. Astoria ticks all the boxes—beautiful, rich, and her family didn’t get their hands dirty during the war.”

Ron’s jaw tightened. He told himself it was Smith that bothered him.

Harry tapped his mug. “So. Motive’s solid. You got anything physical?”

“Twigg flagged tampering in the correspondence logs—same window Malfoy got the letter. Smith was on shift.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Can she tie it to his wand?”

Ron shook his head. “Not yet. I’m pulling him for a Voluntary at three. You free? Might rattle him if we go in together.”

“I’m in. Let’s hope he cracks. Robards still pushing for a wrap?”

Ron exhaled. “Yeah. Yaxley’s trial starts tomorrow. Lucius agreed to testify for immunity, but if he thinks Draco’s being targeted from inside the Ministry...”

“He’ll still testify. But not the way we need.”

Ron nodded, jaw tight. Yaxley’d do time no matter what, but without Lucius’ full cooperation, he could be out in twenty years.

Harry nudged his tray aside, seeming to read the shift in his silence. “George holding up? He can’t be thrilled you’re investigating a break-in at Malfoy’s business.”

Ron wiped his hands on a napkin, eyes fixed on the table. “I haven’t said anything.”

Harry paused. “Ron…”

“I know.” Ron’s voice came out low, rough. “But he’s… not great. Angelina’s been around more—it helps. I just don’t want to tip anything.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. Then: “If this leaks—and it will—he’ll hear it from someone else.”

“I’ll tell him,” Ron said.

Harry took another sip of coffee, then set the mug down. “I should ask how you’re doing with all this. George wasn’t the only one who lost people in the war. It can’t be easy, being assigned to protect someone like Malfoy.”

Ron shook his head. “I told you before… he’s not what I expected.” He straightened his cuff, eyes lingering on the scrap of skin Draco’s potion had healed. Draco had warned it might not last, but the skin was still clear. Still whole.

“We’ve talked a bit about the war. As part of the investigation.” He looked up, meeting Harry’s eyes. “He didn’t make excuses. The work he’s doing now—it’s all aimed at fixing what he can. And I don’t think it’s just optics.”

Harry settled back in the booth, skeptical but not dismissive. “If that’s true, he’s changed a lot. Just…”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful with him.” Harry took off his glasses, cleaning them with a charm Ron had seen him use a hundred times. “Pansy says he’s good at curating his image. He has to be—he’s the Malfoy heir, and now he’s trying to look like a reformed Death Eater.”

He slid the glasses back on, eyes steady on Ron’s face. “I know how much you want things to get better. Just make sure that hope isn’t clouding your judgment.”

Ron’s fingers curled around his mug, then tightened. He didn’t lift it. “It’s not blind hope. I’ve seen him try—when no one’s watching. He’s not performing, Harry.”

Harry shifted in his seat, like something in him didn’t quite settle. “Yeah. All right.” He didn’t sound convinced, but he didn’t argue either. “If you trust it, I trust you.”

They let it sit there. Then Harry nudged his tray aside. “Did you see the Arrows traded Conroy?”

Ron blinked. “Seriously?”

“Mid-season. Puddlemere picked him up. They’re betting on his left-side sweep.”

Ron snorted, relieved for the change in subject. They drifted into easier talk—Quidditch, the new security charms at the Ministry, a book Angelina swore would fix George’s sleep.

But his mind kept slipping back to the previous night. To Draco’s flat.

The cold touch of the potion. Draco’s fingers, careful and trembling. The way he’d looked up, startled, when Ron flinched.

Ron reached for his drink, trying to ground himself. Focus on Harry’s voice. The rhythm of normal things.

But the memory pressed in. Draco’s unexpected honesty, the way he’d looked at him. Not like he was owed anything, but like he hoped.

Ron took a slow breath and pushed the thought aside.

It didn’t mean anything.

He just hadn’t expected it. That’s all.

Zacharias hesitated in the doorway, then stepped inside. The interview room felt smaller with him in it. Just a table, three chairs, and the steady scratch of the recording quill. He took the seat opposite Ron, gaze skimming past Harry without landing.

“Right,” he said, aiming for casual. “Twigg said you wanted to talk about the correspondence logs?”

Ron nodded warmly. “Appreciate you coming in. Just a few questions about your shift on…” He glanced at the parchment. “March twelfth.”

Zacharias blinked. “That was three months ago.” He scoffed, but his collar was damp. “Do you remember what happens on your shifts that far back?”

Harry didn’t look up. “I think you’d remember this one.”

Zacharias shifted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ron leaned in slightly, voice easy. “Look, Zach—can I call you Zach? We did go to school together.”

“Yeah, Ron. Sure.” The look he gave wasn’t friendly.

“I’ll be straight with you.” Ron let his posture relax. “Someone in Records sent Draco Malfoy a threatening letter. No return mark. Deleted from the logs.”

Zacharias squirmed. Not much, but enough.

“If it were up to me,” Ron continued, “I’d say it’s not exactly a hanging offence. But Harry—” He gestured across the table. “Harry’s got a lot on his plate.”

Harry finally looked up. His voice was flat. “I’ve got a missing person and a cursed artifact in evidence. If I have to waste time with this…”

Zacharias swallowed, voice thinner now. “Yeah—I mean, I don’t care for Malfoy either. He was a prat in school, everyone knows that. And during the war—people forget, don’t they? Inquisitorial Squad. Hexing first-years just for being Muggle-born.”

Ron leaned forward. “Honestly? If someone gave Malfoy a bit of a scare, I wouldn’t lose sleep. But deleting logs—that’s where it gets tricky.”

Harry’s tone sharpened. “Once the spell residue report comes back, we’ll know whose magic was used. If they wait that long, they lose the chance to explain it on their own terms.”

Zacharias paled. “Spell residue?”

Ron kept his voice friendly. “Oh, didn’t you know? Everyone in the Ministry’s magical signature is registered. Helps when someone gets a bit above themselves. Tries to administer justice off the books… however understandable.”

Zacharias looked down, jaw tight. “It was me,” he said finally. “I sent the letter. I didn’t think it’d be traced.”

Ron sat back, careful not to glance at Harry. Sympathy had to hold, just long enough.

“I didn’t write it, though.”

Ron raised his brows. “What do you mean?”

Zacharias pressed his palms flat against his thighs. “If you understood what my life’s been like since the war…” His voice cracked. “I earned six N.E.W.T.s. Six. And I’m stuck in Records. Denied promotion three times. They’ll never let me climb higher. While Malfoy—” He shook his head. “You’ve seen the Prophet. New business venture. Partnering with St Mungo’s. After everything he did?”

Harry didn’t blink. “So you let someone else do your dirty work.”

Zacharias flinched. “It wasn’t like that. I met this bloke at the pub—I’d been drinking. Got stood up. Susan Bones said she’d set me up with one of her friends, but the woman never showed. Typical.” He looked bitter. “This bloke sits down next to me, starts talking. I mean—he got it. What it’s been like for those of us who weren’t handed the Order of Merlin and a front-page spread after the war.”

Ron kept his tone steady. “What night was it?”

Zacharias frowned. “I don’t remember exactly. A Friday, I think. Maybe the week before the letter went out.”

“Which pub?”

“The Broken Wand. Near Knockturn. I know—it’s dodgy. But it’s quiet. No one from the office goes there.”

“You said you were drinking. How many pints?”

Zacharias hesitated. “Three? Four? I wasn’t pissed, just… annoyed. I’d been stood up.”

“Did you speak to the bartender?” Ron asked. “Anyone else see you with this man?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t even catch his name.”

Harry leaned forward. “But you took a letter from him. Trusted him enough to send it.”

“He said it’d be a laugh,” Zacharias muttered. “Said people send Malfoy hate mail all the time. That it’d get lost in the pile.”

Ron kept his tone light. “Did he say why he wanted you to send it? Why not do it himself?”

Zacharias shifted. “He said it’d mean more coming from someone inside the Ministry. That it’d rattle Malfoy more.”

Harry’s voice was cold. “So he knew where you worked.”

Zacharias nodded. “I suppose. I might’ve mentioned it.”

Ron tapped the parchment. “Did he give you the letter already written?”

“Yes. Folded. Sealed. I didn’t even read it.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “But you deleted the log.”

Zacharias swallowed. “I didn’t think it mattered. It was just one letter.”

Ron’s voice gentled. “Did he say anything else? Accent, age, wand type, anything?”

Zacharias shook his head. “He was older than me. Late thirties, maybe. Wore a hooded cloak. Didn’t take it off. I thought he was just another bitter war vet.”

Harry stood. “We’ll need a full statement. And you’ll submit your memory to the Department Legilimens for analysis.”

Zacharias looked up sharply. “I’ll help however I can, just… you’ll make sure I get leniency, right? If I lose this job, I don’t think I’ll find another.”

Ron stood as well. “I’ll see what I can do.” He glanced at Harry. “Can I have a word in the hall?”

Once the door shut, Harry crossed his arms.

“I don’t know if I buy Smith’s story. It’s a little too neat.”

Ron nodded. “The memory’ll give us something to go on, at least.” He rubbed his temple, the headache already blooming.

Harry watched him. “You alright? Maybe take a break. Let Smith stew for an hour or two.”

Ron straightened. “No. I’ll get the Legilimens now. I don’t want him clamming up or calling a solicitor.” He flicked his wand, and a silvery Jack Russell terrier shot down the corridor. 

Harry touched his shoulder briefly. “Alright. But this is good news, yeah? I know you can’t show it in front of Smith, but it’s a real breakthrough.”

Ron nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Good news.”

He didn’t say what he kept seeing: Draco, alone in his flat, face in his hands.

Then he turned back toward the door.

“Let’s finish it.”

Chapter Text

“Trilby, what is that?” Draco asked, arms crossed as he surveyed the conjured table. He hadn’t changed out of his suit, though he’d discarded the jacket.

“Ambiance, sir.” Trilby placed a small votive candle into a cut-crystal glass at the center of the table. The flame caught the facets and scattered soft light across the linen. “Chef was briefly alarmed when you requested steak and ale pie,” he added, tone light, “but relaxed once I mentioned you were hosting a policeman.”

Draco looked up, sharp. “You told him that?”

“Just teasing, sir,” Trilby said quickly, ears tinting pink. “I know Mr. Weasley’s an Auror. Far more distinguished. Though I imagine he still appreciates a proper crust.”

Draco reached for one of the wine bottles on the table, then paused to align the label toward him—a needless gesture of control. “Why two?”

“I thought you might want options.” Trilby picked up a wine glass and polished it on his apron, inspecting it against the light. “The Malbec’s a bit assertive. The Shiraz—well, it broods nicely. I wasn’t sure what kind of evening you were planning.”

Draco tapped the Shiraz. “This one. I don’t need both—Weasley’s on duty. He’s only stopping by with a case update.”

“Of course, sir.” Trilby offered a small smile, folding the napkin with practiced ease. “I trust the dessert meets your approval? You don’t often request the chocolate tart.”

Draco poured himself a glass of wine and raised it to his lips, pausing just long enough to suggest distraction. “Hmm? Yes. Fine.”

“With sea salt and orange zest,” Trilby added, watching him. “Very... evocative. I do wonder if Auror Weasley likes chocolate.”

Draco’s hand stilled, the glass hovering midair. He didn’t look up. “Thank you, Trilby. That will be all.”

“Goodnight, sir. I hope you have a pleasant evening.”

As soon as Trilby Disapparated, Draco cast a refreshing charm over his shirt and smoothed his tie. Ron would expect him to treat the whole arm tonight, and Draco needed the suit. The structure. The armor. Something to remind him of the boundaries he’d drawn. However thin they felt lately.

Without it, his imagination had a tendency to misbehave. To interpret touch as something else. Charged. Intimate.

Romantic.

Which was absurd.

Ronald Weasley was one of the straightest men Draco had ever met. Even without knowing his full dating history—something he’d easily followed in Germany, courtesy of Witch Weekly—he was far too unselfconscious to be queer. No calibration. No caution. He didn’t second-guess every glance, every word, every breath.

A knock cut through Draco’s brooding.

He crossed to the door, slipped back into his dove-grey suit jacket, and opened it.

“Again?” Draco said, taking one look at Ron’s face. His tone was clipped, but not cold. “Go sit. I’ll get the potion.”

Ron stepped inside, squinting against the light and pressing a hand to his temple. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to drop in like this.” He hung his greatcoat beside Draco’s robes, voice low. “I’ve got an update. Urgent. Otherwise I’d’ve waited.”

Draco handed him the headache potion as soon as he sat down. “Save the briefing. Drink first.”

Ron downed it in one go, eyes fluttering shut. “Merlin. You should sell these. DMLE stocks don’t come close.”

Draco banished the empty vial with a flick of his wand. “I’ll add it to my business plan. Are you hungry?”

“You’re offering?”

Draco was already heading to the kitchen. “I’m not letting you faint mid-sentence. Sit at the table. You look less tragic now.”

Ron followed, easing into the chair. “We had a breakthrough on the case. I didn’t want to stop working to eat.”

Draco poured the Shiraz and sat across from him. “Go on.”

Ron hesitated, watching Draco’s face. “You alright? You look a bit pale.”

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

Ron didn’t press, but his voice softened. “Do you remember Zacharias Smith?”

Draco’s face stayed neutral. “Hufflepuff. Our year. Loud. Smug. Always thought he was cleverer than he was.”

“He’s in Records now,” Ron said. “Ministry. He admitted to sending the second letter.”

Draco went still, fingers tightening around the stem of his glass. “Did he.” A beat. “I made that list of enemies you asked for. Didn’t even cross my mind. Makes you wonder who else I’ve missed.”

Ron leaned forward slightly. “I don’t think he’s the mastermind. Says some bloke handed it to him in a dodgy pub off Knockturn.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, voice steady. “You buy that?”

“Not really,” Ron said. “We’ve got a Legilimens checking the memory for tampering. If it’s clean, I’ll go through it tomorrow.”

Draco’s thumb traced the rim of his glass. “You think he’s hiding something.”

“If he’s not lying, he was played. Whoever planned this knew exactly where he’d be—right place, right time. Smith told us he got stood up that night. Supposed to be on a date with one of Susan Bones’ friends. Easy to manipulate when you’re already off balance.”

Draco glanced down, swirled the wine once, then set the glass aside. “Us?”

“Harry helped with the interview. He’s good at it. Direct. Doesn’t have to say much—just being Harry Potter’s usually enough. People talk faster when they’re nervous.”

Draco looked up, eyes sharp. “And you play the nice one.”

“Sometimes.” Ron swallowed, and Draco watched the movement—subtle, but telling. “But that’s not what this is,” Ron said, voice low. “Maybe it started that way. But I’m not here to handle you.”

“You’re here because we’re friends.” Draco tried for faint incredulity, not hope.

“I’d like to think so.”

Draco reached for his fork, eyes on his plate. “Then you should definitely stay for dessert.”

“Thanks. I really am hungry. Although…”

Draco didn’t look up. “Yes?”

“This is way too good. I’ll be ruined for George’s toast and whatever the DMLE calls lunch.”

Draco reached for his wine glass, letting the stem turn slowly between his fingers—hoping the motion might mask how absurdly pleased Ron’s words made him.

“All the excitement nearly made me forget—how’s your scar?”

Ron smiled, easy and unguarded. He rolled up his sleeve and extended his arm across the table. “See for yourself.”

The skin was freckled, warm, and completely unmarked.

“Gone,” Ron said softly. “I didn’t think it was possible.”

Draco swallowed. Ron was here as an investigator. Maybe even a friend. But that soft smile, that warm tone—it didn’t mean anything more. It couldn’t.

He anchored himself in protocol, clinging to scientific detachment like a shield.

“After dinner, I’d like to proceed with the next application—if you’re comfortable. The compound’s stable, no adverse effects so far. But to be cautious, we’ll start with one arm.”

Ron nodded, drawing his arm back. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

Ron shrugged off his jacket, draping it over the chair. Then he loosened his tie, tugged it free, and laid it across the jacket. His fingers moved to the buttons next, working methodically down his shirt.

Draco’s gaze flicked away from the exposed skin, landing on the sterile glass dish in his hand. His cheeks were flushed, and his fingers had gone still—hovering just above the lotion, like he’d forgotten what they were meant to do.

Ron hesitated. “Hope that’s alright,” he said, voice dropping. “Can be a bit much, first time seeing it.”

He meant the scars. He wasn’t ashamed of them. Not anymore. They were part of him—like the freckles and the red hair and the years of fieldwork etched into his skin. But people stared sometimes. Winced. Looked away.

“It’s fine.”

Ron watched Draco cast a charm over the dish.

“What’s that?”

“Warming charm. You said it was cold last time.”

Ron gave a small smile. “Oh. Right. That’s… actually really thoughtful.”

“Hold still,” Draco murmured.

Ron offered his arm, watching Draco’s fingers move—slow and deliberate, smoothing lotion from wrist to shoulder. He didn’t rush. Didn’t flinch at the scars. Just worked like Ron’s healing was the only thing in the room worth his attention.

“It’s strange,” Ron said, voice low. “I usually brace for it—like it’s going to sting, even when it doesn’t.”

Draco didn’t answer.

“But this… with you…” Ron hesitated. “It’s different. Doesn’t hurt. Not even a little.”

Draco’s fingers faltered—just briefly—then resumed. His eyes lifted to Ron’s face, and Ron caught a flicker of something raw. Not discomfort. Not pity. Just a quiet ache, quickly buried.

He thought about saying something. Maybe resting a hand on Draco’s shoulder again, but the moment slipped past. Draco looked down, his touch steady once more.

He finished the final pass, wiping his hands on a cloth. Then he murmured the incantation. Ron’s arm flared white, bright and blinding. For a heartbeat, the light clung to him, pulsing along freckled skin and silvery scars. Then it drained away, leaving only warmth.

Ron flexed his fingers, watching the smooth skin catch the light. The scars were gone. Not faded—gone.

“I still can't believe it. It’s like they were never there.”

Draco turned away, fussing with the lotion, the cloth, anything that didn’t require facing Ron. “Yes. I’m… glad the formulation held.”

Ron pulled on his shirt, fingers slow against the fabric. “Thank you. I mean it.” He glanced over, but Draco was still fussing with the dish. “This thing you’ve made—it’s brilliant.” He hesitated, then added, softer, “Do you think… maybe we could offer it to Bill? Now that you know it works on me?”

“Yes. That’s why I invented it.”

Draco turned then, meeting his gaze—but his face was blank.

Too blank.

Ron knew that look.

Occlumency.

He’d seen it in courtrooms. In holding cells. In the eyes of men trying not to break.

But this wasn’t defense.

It was retreat.

Draco was hiding—from him.

“The list of my enemies is on the table,” Draco said, voice stripped of warmth, pared down to function. “Don’t forget it.”

Ron shrugged on his jacket. His shirt was half-buttoned, tie draped loose around his neck.

He paused.

Thought about the flushed cheeks. The way Draco couldn’t quite meet his eyes. 

It wasn’t discomfort.

It was something else.

Something quieter.

More fragile.

The thought settled behind his ribs—warm, and suddenly obvious.

He’s attracted to me.

The realization felt impossible, but he knew it anyway.

“Alright, I'll go.” He kept his gaze steady, hoping Draco wouldn’t shut the door completely. “Can I stop by tomorrow with another update?” 

“That’s fine,” Draco said. “But now… I really need to rest.”

Ron nodded. “You’ve done enough for today.”

He wanted to say something—anything—to ease the tension, to offer back the quiet care Draco had given him, but the words didn’t come. So he gave what he could.

Gentleness.

“Goodnight, Draco. And… sleep well.”

Chapter Text

“Miss King,” Draco said, pausing beside her desk, brow furrowed in quiet concentration. “Have the lab results come in for the latest batch of blood-replenishing potion?”

“They arrived about an hour ago.” She reached for the scroll, already anticipating his next move. “I’ve flagged the file—slight variance in viscosity, but still well within acceptable limits. Would you prefer I hold off on forwarding until you’ve had a chance to review it?”

Draco said nothing for a moment, eyes tracing the figures with quiet absorption. “Yes… thank you.”

Miss King waited, then cleared her throat delicately. “And since it’s Friday, sir, I thought I should remind you—your father’s taking you to lunch.”

“That’s today?” Draco glanced sharply at the clock: half past eleven. Too late to reschedule.

Miss King offered a sympathetic smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Mr. Flint confirmed the reservation this morning. I must say, I’m a bit envious. Aurum was featured in the Prophet last week. It’s so popular, I think even the Minister’s assistant had to pull strings.”

A voice drifted in from the doorway behind Draco. “I could get you a table, if you’re that curious.”

Miss King looked up, amused. Marcus leaned against the frame, arms folded, wand holstered but visible. His usual posture of casual menace was softened by the grin tugging at his mouth.

“Oh?” Miss King said, arching a brow. “And what would that cost me?”

“Nothing at all,” Marcus said easily. “Just a name drop and a smile. I know the owner—used to hex him in school.”

Draco didn’t look up from the scroll. “That’s not reassuring, Marcus.”

Miss King laughed softly, shaking her head. “Tempting. But I suspect they’d seat me faster if I showed up with you than if I dropped your name.”

Marcus winked. “You say that like it’s not an option.”

Draco passed her back the scroll. “If the flirting’s concluded, perhaps we can return to potion logistics.”

“Yes, sir,” Miss King said, straightening. “I’ll send my Patronus to Gringotts to alert the courier—he’ll want the timing confirmed before taking the batch to St Mungo’s.”

“Very good. And I’ll need the inventory reports on Bicorn horn—last quarter’s, and the current projections.”

She nodded. “They’re in the ledger. I’ll bring them in.”

A firm knock echoed from the front entrance.

Marcus straightened, shoulders squaring. “That’ll be Lucius.”

“Show him through to my office, please.”

Alone again, Draco adjusted the placement of a ledger that didn’t need adjusting and flicked through a stack of invoices he’d already approved. Lunch with his father was almost certainly on the agenda, but if he could fabricate a potion emergency—something volatile, preferably flammable—he might be able to cancel it without offending Lucius.

The door handle turned. Too late.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” Lucius said, voice dry. His eyes swept the room: Draco’s broad desk, two plain chairs, shelves lined with neatly ordered books. Mostly academic texts, with a few potion journals tucked in.

“Your mother would have this place redone before supper. Something tasteful. Something that reflects your name.”

Draco didn’t respond, but Lucius caught the flicker in his jaw.

“You may not care about appearances,” he continued, “but the people who walk through that door will. In business, presentation is the first move.”

Draco gestured for his father to take a seat. “My clients don’t hire me for the décor. They want results. Proof I’m not wasting their time—or their money. This setup tells them I’m focused. Efficient.”

Lucius settled into the chair opposite, crossing one leg with practiced ease. “Efficiency is fine. But a well-appointed space signals power. Stability. It tells your clients they’ve chosen someone who commands respect—not someone trying to look humble.”

“With respect, Father, presentation doesn’t heal anyone. Dr. Turner cares about things like dosage accuracy, shelf stability, and cost. He’s not judging the curtains.”

Lucius’ gaze drifted over the desk, the unadorned walls. “I suppose the metrics are different when one works in public service,” he said, as if offering a reluctant concession. “And Sanus is reshaping how the Malfoy name is perceived. Not through grandeur, but relevance. That’s no small feat—even if it’s not the kind I’d have chosen.”

Draco glanced up, wary. “Relevance?”

Lucius’ smile was faint, but sharper than before. “Astoria seems to think so. I overheard her telling your mother how much she admires your work—reducing the cost of healing potions, making them accessible. It’s not just clever, Draco. It’s socially astute.”

He paused, watching Draco’s reaction.

“She will make a fine mistress of the estate. She’s poised, discreet. Her work with the Selwyn Trust hasn’t gone unnoticed. She knows how to be visible without being... ordinary.”

Draco gave a dry laugh, more breath than sound. “One dance, and suddenly you’re planning our wedding.”

“And a lunch,” Lucius added, as if ticking boxes. “Your mother says Astoria’s impressed by your dedication. She won’t demand constant attention, Draco. That’s rare, especially in someone with her background. She understands her place. She won’t interfere.”

Draco rose from his desk. “I know you mean well, but I’m not a schoolboy anymore. I don’t need steering. I have my own plan for restoring the Malfoy name, and it doesn’t include marriage.”

Lucius stood as well, looking perturbed. “Doesn't include marriage? Of course it does.”

Draco shrugged, not meeting his father’s eyes. “It’ll happen when it makes sense. Right now, I’m focused on the business.”

Lucius’ hand shifted on his silver-tipped cane, more punctuation than support. “The estate has waited. I’ve waited. But patience wears thin, Draco.”

Draco’s face was pale, but his tone was perfectly steady. “You’ve said what you came to say. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” He slipped his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, fingers closing around his goggles like ballast.

Lucius nodded, clipped and cold. “Very well. Since you’re evidently in one of your moods, we’ll forget about lunch.”

He paused at the threshold, gaze lingering. “I hope you’ll reflect on what I’ve said. Being a Malfoy comes with privileges—ones you’ve benefited from all your life. But it also demands sacrifices. I trust we haven’t failed so thoroughly that you now feel entitled to ignore them.”

Then he swept out, the echo of his cane tapping once against the floor.

Draco sank into his chair.

All day, he’d tried not to think about Ronald Weasley, but his father's talk of marriage had dragged it all back. Ron’s handsome face in the candlelight, calling them friends. His warmth. The way he never pressed, just sat with things. Draco hadn’t known how much he craved that—someone gentle enough to leave space.

Then came the image, unbidden and sharp: Ron undressing—casual, unguarded. The memory lingered with painful clarity, preserved by Draco’s mental magic. He felt guilty for staring. Ron had stripped so Draco could treat his war wounds, not to be leered at, but Draco couldn’t forget the sight of him.

He’d been lanky in school, but years of fieldwork had reshaped him into something stronger, sturdier. Broad shoulders, a firm abdomen, muscle shaped by lifting, shielding, running. Not sculpted for show, but for use. Red hair dusted his chest in uneven patches, trailing down over his stomach in a line that disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers—suggestive enough to make Draco’s breath catch.

His arms were solid, corded with muscle. Not bulky, but capable. Draco imagined what it would feel like to be held by them. To be pulled close, chest to chest, his slighter frame enveloped by Ron’s warmth and steadiness. Would Ron stroke his hair? Press their foreheads together, breathing slow and deep? Would he be hard, like Draco would be, just from being close? Would he look into Draco’s eyes with that kind, intelligent gaze and kiss him?

Draco had never been kissed.

He made a low, frustrated sound in his throat and summoned his Occlumency, forcing the image away. It had been difficult enough to hide his feelings before, but now—after touching Ron’s bare skin—it was becoming nearly impossible to maintain control, even with magic.

He summoned a quill and parchment before he could second-guess himself.

Weasley,

I won’t be available for dinner this week.
If you have a case update, please contact Marcus Flint, my head of security. He will keep me informed and is authorized to schedule a meeting between us, should the need arise. 

D. Malfoy

“Miss King?” he called sharply, sealing the letter with his heavy gold signet ring. The wax hissed faintly as the ring pressed down, the green ‘M’ gleaming against the parchment like a verdict.

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy?” she said, the Bicorn horn report in hand. If she was curious about Lucius’ visit—or why he’d left without taking his son to lunch—she was too discreet to ask.

“Please send this letter to Auror Weasley, and let Marcus know he’s to handle any further developments in the case. I’ll be in the lab for the rest of the day—no interruptions.”

“Of course, sir,” said Miss King, taking the message. “I’ll see to it straightaway.”

She hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around the parchment. “Just to confirm—you’re certain—”

“That will be all, Miss King,” Draco said, his tone sharper than usual.

She nodded and left, closing the door quietly behind her.

Chapter Text

Ron,

The list you asked for—though I remain unconvinced this exercise will prove useful. Plenty of people have sound reasons to wish me harm. Some are personal. Some are structural. I’ve noted those with the strongest motive and the means to act.

There are others, of course—people who’d rather see me gone but wouldn’t dare move first. Still, if you’re looking for trouble, this is where I’d start.

Madam Rosmerta

Imperiused during the war. I doubt she remembers much, but if she does, I wouldn’t blame her for holding a grudge.

Katie Bell

Ended up with the cursed necklace meant for Dumbledore. I doubt the pain ever fully left her.

Neville Longbottom

The Carrows had a fondness for the Cruciatus Curse as a teaching tool. I followed orders. Neville was a frequent target.

Bill Weasley

Mauled the night of the Astronomy Tower. That wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t repaired the Vanishing Cabinet and let them in.

Harry Potter

I tried to hand him over to the Dark Lord during the Battle of Hogwarts. There were other moments, but that one tends to stand out.

Ronald Weasley

Slughorn gave you the poisoned mead I was meant to pass along. You nearly died. I imagine that’s difficult to forget, even if you’ve made a habit of pretending otherwise.

Which brings me to the end. I assume it’s obvious to you that anyone who loves these people should be considered a potential suspect. If someone tried to harm those I care for the way I harmed you—and so many others—I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d retaliate with everything I have.

For what it’s worth.

D. Malfoy

Ron lifted his eyes from the parchment. He’d read it—ten times, maybe more.

His tea sat untouched by his elbow, long gone cold.

The cubicle around him was quiet, boxed in by parchment stacks, half-sorted case files, and the low, padded hum of sound-dampening charms overhead.

His gaze settled on the motivational portrait on the far wall: a bucolic stretch of rolling hills, dotted with sheep grazing in slow, meandering paths. Beneath it, a brass plaque read:

AURORS – PROTECTING THE INNOCENT SINCE 1733.

Ron exhaled slowly through his nose, the kind of breath that stalled halfway down. His hand drifted across the parchment, tracing the graceful loops of Draco’s handwriting. Almost as if, by touching the ink, he could offer comfort to the man who’d written it.

The list was brutal in its restraint.

Draco hadn’t asked for forgiveness. Hadn’t hedged or softened or tried to explain. Just laid it out, like a ledger of harm.

Ron knew that kind of accounting. He’d done it himself, after the war, in the quiet hours when sleep wouldn’t come.

The difference was, Draco had been a Death Eater. An enemy.

And yet, Ron didn’t feel anger. He supposed he’d burned through that years ago. What settled in his chest now was quieter. Sadder. A kind of tired understanding. He knew, now, how deeply Draco regretted his actions, and how tirelessly he’d worked to atone.

Ron looked again at his own name on the list. Ronald Weasley. Not you. Just formal enough to keep distance, just personal enough to sting.

Draco hadn’t meant to poison him, but that didn’t help much. Someone that sharp had to know his choices would hurt people.

Ron wanted to ask—not for the first time—why Draco had done any of it.

His parents were Death Eaters. That was the obvious answer. Ron understood, in a way. Loyalty to family could be its own kind of code.

But was that all? Had Draco really believed all that pure-blood rubbish?

Ron thought he had, once.

He didn’t think Draco believed it now.

He wanted to ask. Not about the facts—he had those now, laid out in Draco’s careful, clinical prose. He wanted to know what it had felt like. What Draco had believed, feared, told himself. What had made him choose what he chose.

Ron knew Draco felt things deeply, even if he kept it dry on the surface. Brisk.

Maybe tonight he’d show up at Draco’s flat with food. Draco usually fed him. Maybe it was Ron’s turn to offer something back. If he brought pizza and beers, would Draco unwind enough to talk—really talk—about the war, and the part he’d played in it?

“Am I interrupting?”

Pansy’s voice, dry and faintly amused, broke through Ron’s thoughts. He jerked upright, nearly sloshing tea across a stack of parchment.

“Parkinson—hey,” he said, steadying the cup. “Didn’t expect you to have the memory analysis back already.”

She handed him a manila folder, then nudged a box of files off the spare chair and sat, crossing one leg over the other. Ron skimmed the first page, but her pause registered.

“What?” he asked.

“I’ll keep it brief,” she said. “Smith’s memory is worthless.”

Ron looked up sharply. “What do you mean, ‘worthless’?”  

“Whoever your mystery man is—if he’s even a man,” she added, “we can’t be sure. Polyjuice was involved. Probably a Muggle, just to make things extra annoying.”

Ron dropped the folder onto his desk with a frustrated groan.

“It gets worse,” Pansy said, her tone softening just slightly. “I think the memory itself was tampered with. Whoever you’re looking for has a strong affinity for mental magic.”

“Mental magic?” Ron looked up sharply. “Like Occlumency?”

She shrugged. “There’s more to mental magic than Occlumency and Legilimency. I think they used a modified memory charm on Smith—just in case.” She paused. “It gives him an out.”

“You’re saying he didn’t do it willingly?”

“I know that’s not what you want to hear. And we’ll never be able to prove it. But someone with that kind of skill could’ve Imperiused him into sending the letter.”

Ron’s jaw tightened. “So I’ve got nothing to go on.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” She leaned back. “You could go to the scene. Talk to the staff. The regulars. Even the strongest witch or wizard couldn’t have tampered with every memory.”

“But if they were using Polyjuice...” he scrubbed a hand down his face.

“You’re genuinely bothered by this,” Pansy said, watching him with a tilt of her head. “Funny. I didn’t think you cared what happened to Draco.”

“About Draco…” Ron shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been meaning to say—I wasn’t honest about the diary. I misled you.”

Her brows lifted. “I’d gathered that, thanks.”

“I thought you were close to him,” Ron continued. “Figured it might be hard for you to stay objective.”

She laughed—dry, a little rueful. “I suppose I earned that. I was ridiculous about him at Hogwarts—once even signed a Potions essay ‘Pansy Malfoy’ in glitter ink by mistake.”

She shook her head. “Embarrassing. But yeah, I was into him. Everyone knew.”

“Past tense?”

“I still cringe to remember it,” she said, the grimace barely passing for a smile. “Draco was spectacularly indifferent. I mistook that for depth. Thought if I could make him care, it’d mean I was exceptional.”

She gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “It wasn’t about him, really. It was about winning. About proving I could matter to someone who didn’t seem to need anyone.”

She rolled her eyes. “Turns out he wasn’t mysterious. Just… closed off. One of the most emotionally unreadable wizards I’ve ever met.”

He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, grounding himself. He knew the truth behind Draco’s indifference. It wasn’t arrogance, or cruelty, or any of the things people liked to pin on him. It was quieter than that. Private. And Ron couldn’t touch it. Not without breaking trust.  

“So, you’re still willing to help?” he asked, nudging the conversation back. “Not just the official stuff. I could use someone who knew him—really knew him. Especially back then.”

“Did I know him?” Pansy’s mouth tilted, but she didn’t smile. “I lived with him for seven years at Hogwarts. Our families go back even further—Sacred Twenty-Eight and all that. Small world. Doesn’t mean I understood him.”

She watched Ron’s face, something sharp and curious in her gaze. “Didn’t the diary give you anything?”

“I think so,” Ron said. “And I’ve seen what he’s doing at Sanus. Healing potions for St Mungo’s. New treatments for magical injuries. He’s not what I expected, given… everything.”

“Mm,” Pansy said, her tone unreadable. “He’s always been good at that—becoming what the moment requires. Occlumency doesn’t just keep people out. It teaches you how to curate. How to present the version of yourself that’s safest.”

“Yeah,” Ron said slowly. “He does curate his image. Not to deceive—more like survival. I don’t think he believes he’d be safe, or accepted, if people saw who he really is.”

A small crease formed between her brows. “During the war, maybe. Living under Voldemort’s roof, you learn to vanish.” She paused. “But now?”

Before Ron could respond, a mail clerk leaned into view, his head dipping over the edge of the grey cubicle partition.

“Excuse me, Auror. Ms Parkinson.” His tone was careful, almost formal. “Urgent delivery from outside the Ministry.”

Pansy stood, smoothing a hand over her hair. “I’ll let you get on with it. Call if you need anything.”

“Thanks again,” Ron called after her, already unfolding the parchment. His eyes caught on the signature.

Draco.

He straightened in his chair, the casual posture gone. His gaze swept the page, quick and intent.

Weasley,

I won’t be available for dinner this week…

He tossed the parchment onto his desk, startled by the flash of anger that rose in his chest. He breathed through it—like he’d trained himself to do—and waited for the heat to ebb. Slowly, his thoughts began to settle.

Why was Draco pulling away, just when they’d finally found their footing as friends?

But Ron knew the answer.

Draco was uncomfortable with his attraction to other men. The diary had made that painfully clear. He’d carried the shame since school, and by his own admission, he’d never acted on it. Not once.

Feeling attraction to Ron must’ve felt threatening. Destabilizing.

Draco had already been overwhelmed in that moment. The cure’s success meant everything to him—a chance to “change one thing,” as he’d put it. To fix the past. And when it worked… Ron imagined it must’ve hit hard.

Draco didn’t do emotion. Even when he’d confessed his guilt, his tone had been brisk. No excuses, no explanations. Just brittle. Terse.

If healing Ron’s arm had stirred up shame—not only about his sexuality, but about the war—then the withdrawal made sense. Ron could understand it. But he wasn’t going to let Draco retreat. Not when isolation would only deepen his feelings of shame and unworthiness.

He sat up straighter. He wouldn’t just bring pizza to Draco’s flat. He’d bring his chess set, the one handed down from Grandfather Weasley, one of his most beloved possessions.

Maybe over a game, a meal, and a few beers, Draco would see it clearly: Ron was on his side. He had nothing to hide. 

And he wasn’t alone.

Chapter Text

Draco kicked off his shoes with a dull thud, fingers already tugging at his tie. He let it fall where it landed. The firewhiskey stayed untouched on the shelf. Tonight he bypassed ritual and went straight to the potions cabinet.

His chest ached in that familiar, hollow way — the kind Quietus dulled best. He stared at the bottle, hand hovering, then veered, deliberately, toward the vial of extra‑strength calming draught.

Quietus was habit‑forming. And as much as he craved the oblivion it offered — the soft erasure of that grief‑adjacent tightness in his ribs, the silencing of thoughts he didn’t want to have about Ron — he wasn’t ready to risk addiction.

So he settled. Calming draught, paired with a Babbling Beverage to boost absorption; his body had long since developed a tolerance, and he needed the full dose. Just enough to quiet the spinning and soften the ache.

A faint crack split the air.

“Master Draco?” Trilby’s voice held a thread of concern. “You didn’t send down your dinner order.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Trilby hesitated, taking in Draco’s shirt and the faint flush along his cheeks. He retrieved the discarded tie and nudged the shoes into alignment against the skirting board.

“Mistress ordered Lemon Chicken Orzo Soup with dinner. I could warm you a bowl.”

“I’m not sick. I’m tired.”

“If you’re sure, sir.”

“I’ll be in bed the moment you leave.”

Trilby inclined his head, still watching him with quiet reluctance.

“Goodnight, sir. Please call if you need anything.”

He Disapparated.

Draco veered toward the sofa. Maybe he’d read before bed. Work always helped when things were at their worst. Köhler’s paper on magical immunology sat untouched on the side table. He’d been meaning to get to it.

The knock came before his hand reached the paper.

He stilled. For a moment, he couldn’t believe it — Ron, here, after Draco had made it explicitly clear he didn’t want visitors.

He swayed slightly, the corridor tilting just enough to make him consider staying put, pretending not to hear. But after a beat, he turned and walked to the front door.

“Sorry to barge in,” Ron said as soon as it opened. He had a pizza box in one hand and a six‑pack in the other, looking sheepish but determined. “I know you said not to come around, but Jones let me up, so… I figured if you were really set on not seeing me, you’d have told him to turn me away.”

“You brought dinner.” Draco didn’t step aside, but he didn’t close the door either.

“That’s not all I brought.” Ron jostled the box, shifting the six‑pack in his grip. “I know you like chess. Thought maybe, since it’s the weekend and you’re not due at work early, we could have a game.”

“I…” Draco’s chest tightened so sharply he couldn’t breathe.

Ron’s expression shifted — concern flooding in fast and unfiltered. He set the box down and reached for Draco’s shoulders, the touch warm and so unexpected that Draco flinched, stepping back with a small, involuntary sound.

“You really are sick,” Ron said quietly. “I thought you didn’t want to see me. That I’d crossed a line. Or made things worse.”

“It’s nothing you did.” The words slipped out before Draco could stop them. The potion was loosening his tongue — too honest, too fast. “I just… I’ve been…” He swallowed hard, jaw tight, trying to hold the rest back.

“Let’s sit down,” Ron said, guiding him toward the sofa. “We’ll get some food in you. Then you can tell me what’s going on.”

Draco sat obediently, watching Ron retrieve the pizza box. With a flick of his wand, he conjured a low table, and when he spoke again, his voice was level — ordinary, as if it were perfectly natural to sit here together like this.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I went half meat, half vegetarian. Figured that covered the bases.”

“Vegetarian,” Draco said, taking a slice — more for something to do with his hands than any real appetite.

“Is amber ale okay?” Ron cracked open a can. “I figured you probably prefer wine.”

“I shouldn’t have any,” Draco said after swallowing. “I… I took a potion before you arrived. Just something to help me wind down.”

Ron nodded. “You look like you’ve had a rough week.”

Draco focused on chewing, letting the food fill the silence he didn’t trust himself to break.

“Glad you’re getting something in you. If my mum saw you, she’d say you need feeding up.”

Draco set his slice down, appetite gone. “If your mum could see us, I doubt my wellbeing would be her first concern.”

“Hey—come on.”

“You know I’m right.” His voice cracked down the middle, humiliatingly thin. “The Weasleys and the Malfoys have hated each other for centuries. And that’s before you even factor in the war.”

Ron set his beer aside and inched closer. He hesitated, then slipped an arm around Draco’s shoulders.

The sting of tears rose fast, shocking him. He knew he should pull away, but Ron’s warmth — his closeness — was impossible to resist.

“You’re really upset,” Ron said quietly. His hand began moving in slow, steady strokes along Draco’s back.

Draco couldn’t hold the tears back any longer. Ron was so calm, so steady, and the potion had left him too raw to pretend. He started to cry.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me.” Draco tried to sit up, tried to summon his Occlumency, but he felt too shaky to hold the concentration.

“Just rest,” Ron said, voice perfectly level. “I know you must be feeling a lot, after yesterday.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, softer. “It’s okay to feel things, Draco.”

Draco pressed his burning face to Ron’s shoulder, fully aware he was soaking the fabric of Ron’s cheap Oxford, but too far gone to care.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to look you in the face after this,” he said, voice thick and uneven.

Ron shifted slightly, pressing his shoulder more firmly against Draco’s cheek.

“You’re looking at me now. And I’m still here.”

Draco let out a laugh — sharp, too high. “You’re going to regret this. Offering me your friendship.”

He sat up, wand flicking automatically to summon a handkerchief. He wiped his face with quick, practiced motions, avoiding Ron’s gaze.

Ron shrugged. “Too late. I already did.”

He leaned back a little, giving Draco space without pulling away. “I’ve seen you at your worst. Doesn’t scare me.”

Draco folded the handkerchief and set it aside, then reached for his abandoned slice of pizza.

“I should eat,” he said, voice a little steadier. “It’s ridiculous to let good food go cold.”

Ron nudged the box toward him. “You sure you don’t want a meat slice? Pepperoni, ham, sausage.”

“Maybe after this one.” Draco swallowed, then added, almost offhand, “Thanks. For bringing dinner.”

“You’ve fed me often enough,” Ron said, chewing. “Figured it was my turn.”

Draco glanced at the chessboard. “You really want to play?”

“Maybe not tonight. You’re done in — I can see that. But some other time? Yeah. I do.”

“I should warn you,” Draco said, wiping his fingers, “I was Slytherin champion three years running.”

Ron smiled, amused. “Is that so? I’ll have to be on my mettle, then.”

“Who taught you to play?”

“My grandfather.” He nodded toward the chessboard. “That’s his set. Gave it to me before he passed. I’m the only one of my brothers who loved it like he did.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “It’s such a pure-blood thing to do.”

Ron gave a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well… I am a pure-blood.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

They kept eating. The silence between them settled into something companionable, and Draco found himself—unexpectedly—wanting to speak.

“My grandfather played like he was defending a fortress. Every move was about control. He said vulnerability was how you lost.”

Ron leaned back, thoughtful. “Mine played like he was telling a story. Said the best games were the messy ones—where you risk something real.”

Draco gave a dry smile. “That explains a lot.”

“So does yours,” Ron said quietly.

Draco yawned. The potion had fully kicked in now. He was calm, but tired. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep his eyes open, even though being with Ron like this was… exhilarating, in a way.

Ron watched his face, then moved like he’d made a decision. He stood, brushing crumbs from his trousers.

“I should go. You look half-asleep already.”

“Will you leave the chess set?” Draco stood too, a little unsteady. “I really do want to play. Maybe… tomorrow night?”

“Yeah. ’Course.” Ron picked up the pizza box and moved smoothly to the kitchen. He tucked it inside the Muggle refrigerator before turning.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. And Draco…”

“Yes, Ron?”

“If you need space after this…” A flicker of vulnerability crossed Ron’s face—there, then gone. Draco wasn’t sure he’d seen it at all. “I’ll understand. I’m only asking that you don’t shut me out again.”

“I’ll try,” Draco said quietly.

“Good. That’s all I want. Us to be good friends.”

After Ron left, Draco didn’t reach for the paper on magical immunology. He didn’t cast Occlumency.

He just lay down. Tired. Quiet. Let the feeling settle. Familiar, and no longer something to outrun.

It hurt, as it always did. But this time, he let it.

And before sleep took him, he smiled.

Of course he loved Ronald Weasley. How could he not?

Chapter Text

“Ms. Brocklehurst?” Ron said, flashing his badge just long enough to be polite. “Your editor said you had a minute.”

Mandy didn’t look up. The enchanted typewriter beside her clacked on, transcribing thoughts she hadn’t voiced. When she finally glanced over, her gaze flicked to his Auror greatcoat—dark, double‑breasted, cut to broaden the shoulders.

“Ronald Weasley. If they’re sending you, I must’ve really rattled someone.”

Ron pocketed the badge. “I’m not here to lean on you. I think you can help with an investigation.”

“How exactly does a journalist help an Auror?”

Ron took the chair opposite her. “Your article about Draco Malfoy’s business stirred up a lot of response. I’m trying to trace what came next. Did you get letters? Readers who agreed with you. Praised the angle. Anything unusual.”

“It went through legal. We didn’t break any laws. And last I checked, criticism of the Ministry isn’t a crime.”

“No one’s charging you,” Ron said. “But praising Mourning Star—whether you meant to or not—wasn’t exactly subtle.”

“I said what people are already thinking,” Mandy replied. “If the Ministry believes I’m the reason there’s unrest, they’re even more deluded than I thought.”

“People are angry. I get that, but I’ve seen what Mourning Star leaves behind. Blood magic. Cursed bodies. Families who’ll never get answers.”

A brief pause.

“If people saw it up close, they wouldn’t be cheering for it.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“If you actually read my article, you’d know I wasn’t cheering. I pointed out that when the Ministry fails to deliver justice, someone else will. That’s not endorsement. It’s inevitability.”

She leaned back, gaze cool and assessing.

“You could argue I’m helping the Ministry. Giving them a reality check. Showing them what people actually think.”

Ron didn’t smile.

“Then in the spirit of helping—those letters.”

She gave him a look—flat, unimpressed.

“I know Malfoy’s business was vandalized after the article ran,” she said, tone dry, almost smug. “I wrote the follow‑up myself. My publisher killed it. He and Lucius go way back—same Hogwarts house, same circles. So you can drop the pretense.”

Ron studied her for a moment.

“So you know why this matters. Whoever did it isn’t likely to stop. And if it is Mourning Star, Malfoy’s not the last name on their list.”

“You think I’m sitting on a list of suspects?”

“I think someone read your column and decided it was permission,” Ron said.

“If you’ve got anything that points to who that might be, I need it.”

With a sigh—more irritation than concession—she reached down, unlocked a drawer, and pulled out a bundle of parchment. She dropped it onto the desk.

“Legal counsel said to keep everything. In case someone from the Ministry came sniffing around. Knock yourself out.”

Ron slipped the stack into his satchel.

“I’ll return anything that’s not evidence. The rest stays with the case.”

“Our legal department already made copies,” she said with a shrug. “So I’m not expecting it back.”

“Noted.” He stood, adjusting the strap across his shoulder. “Appreciate the cooperation.”

He thought that was the end of it—until she spoke again.

“If you ever get tired of playing the dutiful Auror, and feel like rattling the Ministry yourself… well, you know where to find me.”

Ron paused at the door.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Then he left.

Ron slid open the desk drawer, searching for the bottle of Muggle headache tablets. He wished Draco were here with his potion; that one always worked. The pills weren’t perfect, but they were still better than whatever the Medical Officer stocked.

He looked at the stack of parchment. Over a hundred letters. A windfall for the investigation—especially after the interview at the Broken Wand had yielded nothing. Not that he’d expected much. Months had passed since Smiths’ meeting with the cloaked man, and the perpetrator had used Polyjuice on top of everything else. Still, it was a lot to sift through.

He was so deep in thought he nearly jumped when Harry said his name.

“You looked miles away,” Harry said, leaning against the desk with a half‑smile. “Let me guess—still chasing leads on the Malfoy case?”

“Yeah… I think I might actually have something this time.”

“Go on, then.”

“Met with Mandy Brocklehurst. Thought she might’ve had some letters after that Malfoy piece—supporters, maybe. Long shot, but if the bloke we’re after wrote to her…”

“Didn’t George send her flowers after that piece?”

“Yeah.” Ron sighed. “Two dozen roses and a bottle of wine.”

“Right. That was… very George.”

Ron gave a faint, distracted smile, then his expression tightened.

“Hang on—it’s Saturday. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be off enjoying the weekend?”

Harry shrugged. “Figured you’d be buried in paperwork. Thought I’d try and drag you to the Arrows–Wasps match. Justin Finch‑Fletchley’s got box seats.”

Ron brightened, then shook his head. “Sorry. I’ve got plans.”

Harry’s eyebrow lifted. “Plans?”

Ron hesitated. “I told Draco I’d drop in. Play a game of chess.”

“Chess. With Malfoy.”

Ron straightened a few papers on his desk, eyes on the parchment rather than Harry. “We’ve talked a bit through the case. He hasn’t exactly got a crowd around him these days.”

“So you’re checking in on him.”

Ron leaned back, attempting a shrug. “It’s not against regs to be decent. And he’s been through a lot.”

Harry nodded slowly. “I’m not saying don’t. Just… be careful. Lines blur quicker than you think. And he’s still your case.”

“Maybe. But it’s a bit late to pretend we’re not friends.”

Harry considered that. “In that case… why not invite him along? Malfoy still follows Quidditch, doesn’t he?”

Ron bit the inside of his cheek, surprised by the resistance that rose up. Something about giving up their quiet evenings in the flat felt wrong. He didn’t examine it.

“Maybe another time. He’s lying low while the perpetrator’s still out there.”

Harry seemed to accept that, though a faint line appeared between his brows. “It’s not like someone’s going to attack him from the owner’s box. Especially if he’s seated between two Aurors.”

“I’ll ask him,” Ron said with a shrug. “Maybe next time.”

“Alright.” Harry lingered a moment, then stepped toward the entrance of the cubicle. “Maybe we can hit the pub later this week—assuming the case gives you a spare moment.”

“Of course,” Ron called after him. “Looking forward to it.”

“You’re setting the table for two?” Draco said as he stepped into the kitchen. Trilby had just finished arranging the plates, a taller candle flickering at the centre.

“You’re expecting Auror Weasley again tonight, aren’t you?” Trilby asked, studying Draco’s expression as he poured two glasses of Chardonnay. “Jones mentioned he stopped by after I’d left. I do hope he didn’t keep you up too late.”

“No, he didn’t stay long.”

“Long enough to bring pizza.” Trilby added the final touches to the pan-seared sea bass, charred broccolini, and garlic-herbed potatoes arranged artfully on each plate.

“He’s a friend. Friends… bring food sometimes.”

“I’m glad.” Trilby straightened. “If you’ll forgive me, sir, you’ve kept to yourself for far too long. It’s well past time you started enjoying a social life.”

Draco picked up one of the glasses and drank nearly all of it in lieu of answering.

Trilby tilted his head, eyeing the light grey crewneck jumper Draco wore over his crisp white shirt. “If you find yourself in need of more casual attire to suit your revitalised social calendar, I’d be happy to assist. I believe young men in London are wearing something called polo shirts when meeting informally with friends.”

Draco set the glass down. “Thank you, Trilby, but my wardrobe is more than sufficient.”

“If it’s the sleeves you’re concerned about,” Trilby continued, undeterred, “I’ve seen long-sleeved versions at a shop called Burberry. They cater to discerning gentlemen, and—”

“There’s no need.”

A knock sounded at the door.

“I’ll go,” Trilby said, as if anticipating Draco’s next instruction. “I hope Mr. Ron enjoys the meal. If he has any preferences—favorites, aversions, or nostalgic dishes—I’d be most pleased to accommodate.”

“Thank you, Trilby,” Draco said, already turning toward the entrance. “That will be all for tonight.”

He waited until the elf Disapparated to open the door.

“Hi,” Ron said, his smile widening when he caught sight of Draco. His gaze lingered on the soft grey jumper, and Draco felt heat rise in his cheeks. He stepped back instinctively, quietly satisfied with his choice to dress down. His mother always said grey brought out the clarity in his eyes.

“It smells amazing in here.” Ron shrugged off his greatcoat, glancing toward the table. “Is that fish?

“I remembered you liked kippers at school,” Draco said, a little stiffly. “Sea bass seemed… adjacent.”

Ron grinned, settling into his seat like he felt perfectly at home. “Potatoes too? You’re spoiling me.”

“There’s strawberry ice cream for afters.”

“That’s my favorite. Did you know?”

Draco had read it in Witch Weekly, but he kept his tone neutral. “Lucky guess.”

Ron poured himself a bit more wine, then glanced up. “I’ve got an update on the case. Broken Wand turned up nothing—no surprise—but I stopped by the Prophet. Mandy Brocklehurst's article about Sanus pulled in a flood of letters. I’m hoping one of them leads somewhere.”

Draco nodded. “Thanks. I appreciate you keeping me in the loop.”

Ron hesitated. “Is it hard? Talking about all this?”

“Not with you.” Draco set down his fork, then added, a little stiffly, “I know you’re not secretly enjoying it when I… struggle.”

Ron gave a quiet nod. “I used to think you had loads of mates at school. You were always surrounded.”

“They weren’t real friends.” Draco took a sip of wine, eyes on his plate.

Ron raised his glass. “Well, I’m glad you think I qualify. To real friendship.”

Draco clinked his glass against Ron’s, quiet. “Real friendship.”

Ron leaned back. “Speaking of friends—Hermione got the restriction lifted. We can finally schedule a visit to Greg.”

Draco looked up sharply, colour draining from his face. “Really?”

“I thought you’d be pleased,” Ron said, watching him carefully.

“I just… I don’t know how he’ll react,” Draco said, nudging a potato across his plate.

“He’s been on his own since the transfer to Azkaban. I’d bet anything he’d welcome the company.”

Draco nodded slowly. “Then let’s go soon. When can you take me?”

“I’ll submit the request Monday. It takes about a week.”

Draco nodded again, eyes down.

Ron hesitated. “I guess I thought you and Greg were closer. That maybe… it meant more.”

“We’re just friends,” Draco said quickly. “Greg’s… normal.”

Ron frowned. “Normal? You’re normal, Draco.”

Draco shook his head, slipping his hands into his lap. “You know what I mean.”

Ron’s voice softened. “Yeah. I think I do.” He studied Draco’s face for a moment. “But I don’t want you thinking there’s anything wrong with it.”

Draco looked away.

“It might help—meeting other people like you. I get why you wouldn’t want to do that here, in the wizarding world. But there are Muggle pubs. Places where people don’t have to pretend.”

“There are pubs for gay Muggles?”

“Yeah,” Ron said, smiling. “I’ve gone with Charlie. Wall-to-wall blokes who like blokes. Might be good for you—to see you’re not the only one.”

Draco shook his head. “I wouldn’t fit in. Not because they’re Muggles,” he added quickly. “It’s just… I can’t imagine being open.”

“Don’t you want someone?”

Draco swallowed. “I don’t think it’s possible.”

“Why not?”

Draco hesitated, then spoke carefully. “It’s not just my parents. It’s… more than that.”

Ron leaned in slightly. “Go on.”

Draco shook his head. “There is someone. But it wouldn’t work.”

“You fancy someone?”

Draco flushed. “It doesn’t matter. He’s… normal. And until I get past it, there’s no point trying to meet anyone else.”

Ron pushed his plate aside, suddenly uninterested in the food. “What’s he like, this bloke? Clever, I bet.”

Draco gave a small, reluctant smile. “He’s bright enough. That’s not really the point.”

“So what is?”

Draco twisted the napkin in his lap. For a moment, Ron thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, quietly: “He’s strong. Loyal.” He swallowed. “And kind.” He glanced up, just briefly. “Surprisingly kind.”

Ron’s voice stayed casual, but his jaw had tightened. “Is it someone I know?”

Draco shook his head. “Like I said, it doesn’t matter. He’d never be interested.”

Ron reached for his wine, but didn’t drink it. The candle flickered between them, casting soft shadows across the plates.

“Well,” Ron said finally, “he’d be an idiot not to.”

Draco looked up, startled.

Ron gave a small shrug. “Just saying.”

He reached for his glass again, finally taking a sip. “Anyway. Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

Chapter Text

“Marcus,” Draco said, eyes fixed on a lab report he wasn’t really reading. “Could you arrange for me to visit a bookstore today?”

“A bookstore? You mean Flourish and Blotts.”

“I was thinking Waterstone’s. In Piccadilly.”

Marcus blinked. “But... that’s a Muggle shop.”

“A Muggle shop?” Miss King echoed, as if she hadn’t heard correctly.

“Yes,” Draco said, shrugging like it was nothing. “The book I need is Muggle. It was reviewed in The Financial Times last week—something on public relations and post-crisis recovery.”

Miss King shifted the stack of parchments. “What’s the title? I can fetch it for you.”

“I’d rather go myself,” Draco said, a shade too casually. “I want to browse.”

Marcus glanced at Miss King, then back at Draco. “You know I don’t love the idea of you walking around Muggle London. Even with a security detail, it’s an unnecessary risk.”

“I’m not letting a few vandals decide my movements,” Draco said, tone even. “Safety isn’t the point.”

Marcus didn’t look convinced, but he let it go. “All right. If you’re set on going, we’ll do it properly. Floo to Cicchetti’s, then walk from there. Less chance of being followed.”

Draco nodded once. “Fine. Make the arrangements. I need to finish the Skele‑Gro batch before we leave.”

Miss King hesitated. “Would you like me to call ahead? Just to make sure the title is in stock?”

Draco shrugged into his lab coat, smoothing the collar into place. “No, thank you. Although—this does remind me. I’d like to buy some Muggle clothes.”

Marcus looked up sharply. “Clothes shopping? That’s on the agenda now?”

“No,” Draco said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I’m not pretending I know anything about Muggle fashion. If you’re willing, Miss King, I’d prefer you choose something appropriate.” A brief pause. “Burberry, I think. That’s what Trilby called it.”

“Of course, sir.” She stepped back, her gaze taking in the lines of his grey suit. “Would you like me to take your measurements before you go? It’ll help me choose pieces that fit your frame and your… preferences.”

“No need—I have them memorized.” Draco summoned a quill, jotted them down, and folded the parchment before handing it to her. “I’m particularly interested in… polo shirts.”

“Polo shirts?” she repeated, clearly trying not to smile as she accepted the note.

“Or whatever passes for casual,” he added. “Provided it has long sleeves.”

Her smile faded slightly. “Of course, sir. I’ll take care of it.”

When Draco was gone, Miss King began tidying the papers on his desk. 

“Think the new clothes are for Astoria’s benefit?” Marcus asked, flicking a glance toward Draco’s lab. “About time he did something other than brew potions. Back at school, I’d never have bet on him turning into such a joyless workaholic.”

“I’ve wondered what he was like back then.” She straightened, smoothing a hand over her skirt. “I went to Beauxbatons. My parents didn't want me anywhere near Hogwarts during that period.”

Marcus’ expression flattened. “Yeah. It was… not a great time.”

“If Mr. Malfoy is feeling more at ease these days — with Astoria’s influence — that can only be good for him.”

Marcus gave a slow nod, though something uncertain lingered between them.

Draco picked up Good to Great, flipping through it without really reading. Behind him, Marcus stood stiffly, arms folded, scanning the aisles with quiet distrust. 

“Why don’t you grab a table at the café next door? I’ll join you once I’ve found it.”

“You know I’m not supposed to let you out of sight.”

“I’ll be visible through the window. It’s a bookshop, not Knockturn.”

Marcus glanced toward the café, then back at Draco. “Ten minutes. If I lose sight of you, I’m coming in.”

Draco gave a faint nod, eyes still on the book. “Understood.”

He waited until Marcus was gone, then slipped the business guide under his arm and walked straight to the Health & Wellbeing section. The shop assistant on the phone had been precise: lower shelf, left‑hand side, beneath the subheading LGBTQ+ Nonfiction.

The Joy of Gay Sex.

The title stared back at him. Just as described.

Draco reached at once for the book, sliding it behind Good to Great before anyone could glance his way. Then he headed for the tills, outwardly calm, though his pulse hammered beneath the surface.

“All right there?” The man behind the counter glanced up, expression neutral.

Draco didn’t smile. “Fine.”

The assistant scanned the first book, then the second, not lingering on the covers. “That’s twenty‑eight fifty, please.”

Draco withdrew a crisp fifty‑pound note from his coat and set it on the counter, gaze fixed ahead.

The man counted out change. “Would you like a bag?”

“Yes,” Draco said, already trying to rearrange the books. The sex guide was larger than the business title, and no matter how he angled them, the cover refused to stay hidden.

The assistant reached under the counter and produced a plain brown paper bag—wide, and mercifully opaque. “Receipt?”

“No. Thank you.”

He slipped both books inside and folded the top neatly. “Take care.”

Draco took the bag with a nod, fingers tightening around the folded edge. He turned—and saw Marcus approaching, stern and unsmiling.

“You were supposed to stay in my line of sight.”

“I was behind a shelf,” Draco said, too casually. “You’re not losing your edge, are you?”

“You were behind a shelf in a public shop with three exits and no wards. That’s not clever—it’s reckless.” Marcus shifted his weight, eyes sweeping the room again. “Next time, stay visible.”

“Understood.” Draco adjusted the strap of his bag, already angling toward the door. “Let’s go. I want one of those blueberry scones before they sell out.”

Draco set the Waterstone’s bag on his desk and hung up his coat. He paused, listening, then raised his wand and locked the door without a sound. Miss King was still out. Marcus had retreated to the hallway—still simmering, but silent. At least he wasn’t hovering.

He turned back to the bag.

Good to Great came out first. Neutral. Presentable. He set it on the desk, aligning the spine with the edge, fingers lingering just long enough to make the gesture look intentional.

Then the other book.

He opened to the front, scanning the alphabetical entries, frowning at words that felt foreign in his mouth. Cruising sounded nautical. Rimming—he wasn’t sure if it was anatomical or slang, and he didn’t want to guess. Sixty‑nine read like a joke he was meant to laugh at without understanding.

He skimmed faster, hoping speed might dull the discomfort, until one entry stopped him cold.

Affairs with Straight Men.

He stared at the words, unmoving. Then he turned the pages quickly, fingers tight against the spine.

Many gay men, at some point, find themselves emotionally or sexually involved with someone who identifies as straight. These relationships can be thrilling, confusing, and deeply painful. Often all at once.

Draco lowered the book, heart thudding painfully in his chest. When he’d steadied himself enough to continue, he read on, feeling—absurdly—like the page had been written with him in mind.

For the gay partner, this dynamic can feel intoxicating. There’s a sense of being chosen, of accessing something hidden. But it often comes with emotional cost: secrecy, instability, and the ache of wanting more than the other person can give.

He blinked against the sudden pressure behind his eyes.

If you’re in this situation, ask yourself what you need. Are you hoping he’ll change? Are you satisfied with what’s available?

Are you protecting yourself emotionally?

He closed the book, as if that might quiet the tangle of feeling inside him.

Ron had no idea. No idea what it meant, being hosted night after night. No idea that Draco asked Trilby to prepare meals he thought Ron might like, or that he’d sent Miss King out for casual Muggle clothes just to see if Ron would look at him differently.

If he understood what Draco was really doing, he wouldn’t sit beside him on the sofa. He certainly wouldn’t touch him again. Not even to be kind.

Draco sat down slowly, breathing through his nose, trying to steady himself without resorting to his mental magic.

After a moment, he flicked his wand. The hidden compartment in his desk opened, keyed to his magic alone. He slipped The Joy of Gay Sex inside and sealed it shut.

He’d read more eventually. He was too curious not to. But for now, he needed to think—really think—about how to stay in control around Ron.

The fantasy was pleasant. Addictive, even. But it was dangerous. Because if Ron ever saw it for what it was, the friendship might not survive.

And that, Draco couldn’t afford.

Ron lay on top of the covers, Pansy’s analysis of Smith’s memory scattered across the duvet in loose, annotated pages. He’d gone through it three times—highlighted, cross-referenced, even double-checked the timestamps—but nothing new had surfaced. Still, he kept hoping something might jump out. A contradiction. A missing beat. Anything.

At least Brocklehurst’s letters were still waiting. He’d told himself he’d head back to the office after lunch, sort through them properly, but now that he was home, the tension in his shoulders had settled into something heavy and unmoving.

The pages on the duvet blurred at the edges, notes fading into soft static. He closed his eyes for a moment. Just a moment…

And then he was on the sofa in Draco’s glass-walled flat in Islington, quiet and dim. The city outside looked wrong somehow — too still. But Ron didn’t notice at first.

Draco was curled against his side, head resting lightly on Ron’s chest. The weight of him felt natural. Familiar. Ron’s arm was draped around him, steady, like it had been there for a long time.

Draco lifted his head and smiled. Not the usual flicker of politeness or deflection. His face was open. His emotions sat close to the surface in a way they never did when Ron was awake.

“Ron,” he said, breathing the name like it meant something sacred. He settled closer, cheek brushing Ron’s collarbone with a deep, contented sigh.

“I can stop trying so hard, now that you’re here.”

Ron’s hand moved instinctively, stroking down Draco’s back. But in the way of dreams, Draco was no longer wearing a jacket. Or a shirt. His skin was bare and warm, and the smooth feel of it made Ron’s throat tighten.

Draco’s hand settled over Ron’s heart. He looked up again, his grey eyes clear.

“You always make me feel so safe.”

Their foreheads nearly touched. Warm breath. Close. Ron shifted slightly, lips hovering near Draco’s. 

And then—

Ron woke with the uncomfortable awareness that he was still fully dressed, parchment crinkling beneath him. For a moment, he couldn’t place himself—what time it was, what he’d been doing before—

The dream. Draco’s voice. That closeness.

The pressure between his legs registered next, and he froze. He was hard. Still half in it. Still caught.

He sat up slowly, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Not panicking. Just trying to think.

It wasn’t the dream that threw him. Not really. It was how good it had felt.

He liked being around Draco. That wasn’t new. But this—this was different. Maybe.

He didn’t know what to do with it. Not yet.

But he knew he couldn’t figure it out on his own.

He needed to talk to Harry. Even if he didn’t know how to start.

Chapter Text

“Thanks for meeting me last minute,” Ron said as Harry slid into the booth, shaking out his jacket and dropping it onto the bench beside him. One pint glass sat empty in front of Ron; the second was already halfway gone, the condensation leaving rings on the scarred tabletop.

Harry glanced at the glasses, then at Ron’s face. His brow creased. “You alright? You look like you’ve been thinking too hard.”

Ron smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That obvious?”

“You’ve been working nonstop on Malfoy’s case. I thought it might’ve gotten to you.”

Ron rubbed his thumb along the rim of his glass. “It’s not the case. That’s still a disaster. But this is... something else.”

Harry leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “Personal?”

Ron nodded, eyes fixed on the amber swirl of his beer. “Yeah. And I don’t know how to talk to you about it. I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out where to start.”

Harry’s posture shifted—just a flicker of tension in his shoulders. He glanced around the pub, scanning for familiar faces, then leaned in, voice low. “Alright. I was going to tell you. I swear. She just—she asked me not to.”

Ron blinked, his expression sharpening. “Who?”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, the collar of his jumper riding up awkwardly. “Pansy. I’ve been seeing her. It’s not some big secret, it’s just... she didn’t want it getting out. And I figured you’d have thoughts.”

Ron stared at him, pint halfway to his mouth. The pub noise seemed to dull around them.

“You’re dating Pansy Parkinson?”

Harry nodded, eyes steady. “We worked together on that selkie trafficking case last year. Got close. One thing led to another.”

“This has been going on for over a year?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, mussing it worse than before. “No. Just a few months. I swear. You remember what happened to Ginny—the press tore her apart for getting with Longbottom during seventh year—”

“‘Savior’s girlfriend abandons him in his hour of need,’” Ron quoted, bitter.

Harry gave a grim smile. “Exactly. That kind of rubbish. Pansy’s not a war darling like Ginny. She’s worried what people would say if they found out. It’s not that I didn’t trust you, it’s just…”

“You wanted her to feel safe.”

He’d been rehearsing how to talk about Draco, but now, watching Harry squirm through his own confession, Ron knew he couldn’t say a word. Not while Draco’s secret was still his to protect. 

A waitress passed by, dropping off a fresh pint for Harry and giving Ron a polite nod. The smell of fried chips drifted from the kitchen, grounding the moment in something ordinary.

Ron picked up his pint, turning it slowly in his hands. “I’m glad for you,” he said finally. “You haven’t really been with anyone since the war. I guess I worried you were still hung up on Ginny.”

Harry leaned back, shoulders loosening. “Ginny’s family. I’ll always care about her, but she made the right call with Neville. And… I’m not sorry about how things turned out.”

Ron shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “I’ll say this—Slytherins know how to keep things quiet. The way Parkinson used to wind you up, I figured she hated you.”

He paused, brow furrowing as the memory reeled back. “Actually… she always sat next to you in briefings. Called you ‘hero’ with that weird little smirk.”

Another pause. “On second thought, yeah. She fancied you. Can’t believe I missed it.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “She reckons people’ll lose their minds if they find out. But if I tell her you didn’t drag me to St. Mungo’s for a full diagnostic, maybe she’ll relax a bit.”

“So it’s serious?”

Harry nodded. “For me, yeah. It’s complicated for her, obviously.”

“She did try to hand you over to Voldemort,” Ron said dryly.

“She panicked. A few hundred students against actual Death Eaters—she thought she was preventing a massacre.”

“It’s not like she didn’t have a point,” Ron said, draining his glass.

Harry arched a brow. “Funny how things change, isn’t it? A few years ago, I wouldn’t have blamed Pansy for worrying you might blow up at the news.”

“I like to think I’ve grown up a bit, thanks. Besides… I’ve worked with her. Not like you, obviously.” He raised his eyebrows pointedly, earning a nudge from Harry.

“She’s not who she was back then. I’m glad you can see that.”

Ron hesitated, fingers tapping the rim of his glass. He searched for a way to speak without saying too much.

“Draco’s the same. He doesn’t spin it. Doesn’t ask for forgiveness, either. I think maybe… he doesn’t think he deserves it.”

Harry leaned back, thoughtful. “Malfoy was deeper in it, thanks to his family. But Pansy’s similar, in her own way. She doesn’t really believe in apologies—not the spoken kind. She thinks actions matter more.”

He swirled the last inch of his pint, watching the foam settle. “Her work at the Ministry—specializing in dark magic containment—it’s her way of making it right. Or trying to.”

Ron nodded slowly. “I see that in Malfoy too. You can tell he’s trying to tip the scales, even if he doesn’t think they’ll ever balance.”  

He paused, then added quietly, “It’s hard not to forgive someone when you see that.”

Draco waited until Trilby Disapparated before changing into the new clothes: a long-sleeved navy polo and grey trousers, just tailored enough to look unintentional. For Ron’s visit, he was aiming for casual, but not careless.

In the mirror, he assessed the result. Miss King had claimed navy would soften the iciness of his hair, draw out the cooler tones in his skin, and make him look less stark. He wasn’t convinced. The wizard staring back at him looked composed, but tired. And slightly off-balance, as if the softness of the cotton had unsettled something he hadn’t meant to expose.

“You’re not changing now,” he told his reflection, grateful the Muggle flat’s mirrors didn’t talk back.

He pulled on black socks and slipped into his loafers—more forgiving than the oxfords he wore to work. His feet, at least, seemed relieved.

“Ron dresses casually,” he reassured himself, turning to check the back view. “Maybe he prefers his companions to do the same.”

He grimaced. It was foolish, acting as though he had any chance of attracting Ronald Weasley, as though the right shirt might tip the balance. But apparently, foolishness wasn’t enough to stop him.

The knock came.

Draco crossed to the floating side table beside his platform bed and opened it, just to check. The Joy of Gay Sex was still there, tucked beneath a stack of potions journals, exactly where he’d left it. It was paranoid, but his mind kept looping back to the possibility that he’d left it out somewhere.

Satisfied it hadn’t staged a quiet escape, Draco closed the drawer and crossed the room toward the door.

“Hi,” Ron said, eyes flicking up Draco’s body with a blink of surprise. “Is that new?”

Draco stepped back, watching Ron shrug off his Auror greatcoat. “Not really.”

Ron hung it beside his robes, then glanced back. “Looks soft.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “It’s just cotton.”

Ron’s ears went a bit pink. He shifted, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. “Smells good in here.”

Draco turned toward the table, voice casual. “Come eat, then. Before it gets cold.”

Ron followed, eyeing the plates. “French beans I know. But what’s the other thing?”

“Coq au vin,” Draco said, then hesitated. “You’ve never had it?”

Ron smiled across the table. “If it’s not stew or roast, I’m probably out of my depth.”

“It’s just chicken. With wine.”

Ron picked up his glass, sniffed it. “What kind?”

“Pinot noir.”

Ron took a sip, then made a face. “Tastes like it costs more than my boots.”

Draco didn’t smile, but his shoulders eased. “It probably does.”

Ron tried the chicken and made a pleased sound—low, surprised. Draco took a slow sip of wine, using the glass to hide the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“There’s an update on the case,” Ron said.

Draco nodded, his expression flattening into something unreadable. “Go on.”

“Susan Bones sent a letter to Mandy Brocklehurst after the column ran about Sanus,” Ron said, watching him closely. “Given that she—”

“Was the one who set Smith up with a friend,” Draco cut in. “The one who stood him up. Same night he got the letter.”

Ron nodded, not surprised he remembered. “Could be coincidence. Could be something. I’ll know more once I speak to her.”

Draco looked down at his plate. “Susan lost her parents in the first war, didn’t she?”

“And her aunt. Amelia Bones.”

“Will it be difficult for you? Defending me… to someone who fought. Someone from the DA.”

Ron ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. “We don’t even know if she’s involved. But if she is… I’m not letting it slide.” He met Draco’s eyes. “Doesn’t matter who she was back then. If she’s hurting people now, that’s what counts.”

Draco swallowed. The sincerity in Ron’s voice landed too close to something raw.  

“I had a meeting with Dr. Turner today.”

Ron glanced up, chewing a forkful of chicken and mushrooms.

“Oh?”

If the shift caught him off guard, he didn’t show it.

“He mentioned the Phoenix Ball. Said the proceeds are going to the hospital this year.”

He hesitated, then added, voice lighter but still careful: “I wondered if you’ll be attending.”

“Yeah, I go every year,” Ron said, nudging a mushroom to the edge of his plate with the side of his fork. “Harry always gets pulled into these charity things—photo ops, speeches, the works. It helps if Hermione and I are there. Makes it feel less like he’s on display.”

“Dr. Turner asked if Sanus would buy a few tables.”

Ron blinked. “A few? Bloody hell, Draco—those things go for six thousand galleons each.”

Draco nodded, eyes on his plate as he pushed a pearl onion in slow circles. “It’s not the expense that worries me. It’s the room. Thought if you were there, I’d have at least one person I wouldn’t have to dodge.”

Ron shifted in his seat. “Well, if you’re there, at least I won’t be the only one pretending to enjoy it.” He glanced at Draco, half-smiling. “Hermione says I’ve improved, but McGonagall’s fourth-year dance lessons didn’t exactly prepare me for waltzing in front of half the Ministry.”

Draco sat up a little straighter, smoothing a hand over the napkin in his lap.

“If it’s the dancing that’s got you worried… I could show you a few things. If you want.”

Ron blinked, surprised. His fork paused midair.

“You’re serious?”

Draco stood, folding his napkin and setting it aside. He stepped around the edge of the table and extended a hand.

“Consider it a public service.”

Ron rose slowly, taking the offered hand. They stood facing each other, close but not yet aligned. The space between them felt charged, uncertain. Like the air had thickened but neither of them wanted to name it.

“Should I lead?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Do you even know the follow part?”

“I barely know this part.”

“Relax. I’m only teasing.”

He lifted Ron’s left hand into place, palm open, then guided Ron’s right to his waist—just above the hipbone, where the warmth settled through the fabric. Draco’s own left hand rose to meet it, fingers brushing before they found their hold.

Ron looked down at their joined hands, then up again.

“Am I doing it right?”

“You’re fine.”  

They began to move. The first box step faltered, and Ron winced as his shoe clipped Draco's.

“Sorry—told you I’ve got two left feet.”

Draco shrugged, adjusting their spacing with a subtle shift of his shoulder. “I’d rather you learn on me than trip over someone in heels at the gala.”

“I know you’re not fragile,” Ron said. “But that doesn’t mean I want to hurt you.”

Draco didn’t answer. He let the rhythm carry them through another step. Forward, side, together.

“You’re careful with your partner,” he said finally, voice low. “That’s half the battle when—dancing.”

Ron’s gaze lingered.

“Have your partners been careful with you?”

Draco’s fingers twitched in Ron’s hand.

“I haven’t had partners.” He said it plainly, but his voice caught. “Not like this.”

“Then I’ll be careful.”

Draco looked up. Ron was close—close enough to see the freckles across his nose, the flush creeping up his face, the way he wasn’t trying to hide how much he wanted this. The music in Draco’s head went quiet. All he could hear was Ron’s breath and the soft drag of their shoes against the floor.

Draco swallowed. His voice barely carried. “Ron, I…”

Their mouths met—hesitant, slightly off-center, more question than answer. Draco didn’t close his eyes. He needed to see Ron’s face, proof that he wasn't imagining it. 

Ron's hand at Draco’s waist was steady, not insistent. His thumb moved once—barely—a quiet check for recoil. Draco didn’t flinch. He was too focused on the soft drag of lips, the catch of breath, the way the contact held without deepening.

Draco’s fingers curled against Ron’s shoulder—not to pull him closer, just to stay upright. His pulse was loud in his ears, but the kiss itself was quiet.

“Was that alright?” Ron pulled back just enough to meet Draco’s eyes. His breath was still warm between them, but his voice had gone quiet. “I didn’t exactly plan it.”

“You didn’t plan…” Draco swallowed. “But did you mean it?”

Ron wet his lips, then pressed them together. “I’ve already crossed lines just being here. I told myself it was fine because I just wanted to help. To be your friend.”

He glanced down, then back up. “But this—what I feel now—it’s more. And I’m scared I’m not seeing it clearly. You’re vulnerable. You’re inexperienced. And I’m in a position where you might feel like you have to say yes just to keep me close.”

Draco flinched, just slightly. His throat felt tight, but his voice stayed even. Controlled.

“I know what pressure feels like. This isn’t that.”

He looked away, then back. His jaw was tense, but his eyes were clear.

“Do you think you’re the first person to be kind to me? You’re just the first one I didn’t want to push away.”

Ron’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t interrupt.

“So if you’re asking whether I want this—whether I want you—the answer’s yes.”

Ron’s thumb shifted against Draco’s waist, like he was weighing the moment before responding.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Then I’ll stay.”

Chapter Text

Ron shifted, one hand braced on the sofa’s edge. “It’s late. I should—”

“You don’t have to go.”

Draco sat up slowly, the grey upholstery warm beneath him. His cheek still tingled from Ron’s stubble—rough enough to leave a trace.

“Do you have a spare toothbrush?”

“Top drawer. Bathroom.”

“Thanks.”

Ron stood. His blue button-up was half untucked, the hem pulled loose from where Draco had gripped it without thinking.

Draco watched him go, still a little breathless. After a moment, he crossed to the table, where dinner sat mostly untouched—abandoned for Ron’s dance lesson. With a flick of his wand, the plates vanished. His hand trembled slightly.

He hadn’t made it far into The Joy of Gay Sex. The illustrations had thrown him—unexpected, too anatomical—and the chapter on Affairs with Straight Men had left him unsettled. He’d assumed he had time — to think, to prepare.

He hadn’t expected Ron to kiss him.

And now Ron was staying the night.

Draco walked to the bedroom, resisting the urge to steady himself with magic. He reached for the curtains and drew them closed, muting the soft blur of city light beyond the glass. The flat dimmed around him, its sharp edges softening into quiet.

He flexed his jaw, trying to ease the tightness there. His stomach felt off — not pain, just a low ache, as if his body had registered the stakes before his mind had. At the armoire, he opened the top drawer and pulled out his pajamas: grey silk, long trousers, and — more importantly — a long‑sleeved top.

“Bathroom’s free.”

“Right.” He moved to pass, and Ron stopped him with a light touch to his arm.

“I don’t have any expectations. I just want to be with you.”

Draco shrugged. “I’m just going to change.”

Ron looked at the pajamas in Draco’s hand. “I didn’t bring anything.” He swallowed, the movement quick and visible. “Do you want me to… I mean, could I borrow something?”

“Nothing I own would fit you,” Draco said. “You could just—keep your underwear on.”

The thought of Ron’s bare chest was enough to make his pulse stutter. The idea of him fully naked in Draco’s bed felt like something his body wasn’t built to survive.

Ron nodded quickly. “Yeah. That’s fine. That’s... good.”

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Draco said, slipping into the bathroom.

He changed quickly, keeping his eyes from the mirror. He washed his hands and face, brushed his teeth, then reached for the bottle of face oil on the shelf — lavender, faintly medicinal. He didn’t believe in aromatherapy, but the ritual helped. It signaled the day was over. That he could stop performing.

When he returned, Ron was looking around, taking in the room with quiet curiosity. “This is so posh,” he said, nodding toward the structured leather armchair by the curtained windows. “And so… Muggle,” he added, glancing at the low platform bed, the twin night tables, the sconces, the absence of anything enchanted.

“That’s why I chose it,” Draco said, folding his arms. “Wizarding homes are never just yours. There’s always a portrait watching, a fireplace listening. Privacy isn’t built in. Here, it is.”

Ron nodded and stepped closer. “It feels like the world can’t reach in here. No noise, no eyes. Just us.”

He took Draco’s hands, voice low. “I didn’t realise how much I needed that. Not until you gave it to me.”

Draco tried for lightness. “I imagine privacy wasn’t exactly abundant — growing up with that many siblings and not much space.”

“You mean poor,” Ron said, smiling faintly. “It’s alright. You can say it.”

Draco looked down at their joined hands. His throat tightened. His chest did too. “I never let you forget it. At school.”

He blinked hard. The pressure behind his eyes didn’t ease. His jaw clenched, but the words kept coming.

“I made it a point. Every chance I got. To remind you what I had and you didn’t.”

His voice dropped. “Ron, I’m sorry. For all of it.”

Ron pulled him in, arms tightening around him. Draco didn’t mean to make a sound, but the sob escaped anyway — sharp, involuntary. He pressed his face into Ron’s shoulder, breath hitching once, then again.

“Let’s lie down,” Ron murmured, stroking his back. “I can hold you better that way.”

Draco stepped away, head lowered, as if Ron shouldn’t have to see his face. “How should I…” He gestured toward the bed, uncertain.

“I’ll lean back,” Ron said, settling against the headboard. He patted the space over his chest. “You can put your head here, if you want.”

Draco hesitated, then climbed in beside him. For a moment he hovered, then lowered his head to the center of Ron’s chest.

Ron was warm and solid beneath him. The soft red hair against Draco’s cheek tickled faintly.

“That’s good,” Ron murmured, voice a low rumble. He stroked Draco’s hair.

Draco made a soft, involuntary sound, surprised by how much he liked it.

Ron waited until Draco’s breathing had steadied. “Thanks for saying it,” he said quietly. “It hurt, back then. I won’t pretend it didn’t.”

Draco swallowed. The pressure behind his eyes gathered again, sharp and familiar. “I don’t deserve this. You. Any of it.”

“You don’t have to deserve it. I’m here because I want to be.”

Draco’s fingers curled tighter against Ron’s side, a reflex he couldn’t quite control.

“I know who you were,” Ron said. “And who you are now. That’s enough.”

Draco stayed quiet, cheek pressed to Ron’s chest.

“I didn’t think you’d want this,” he said finally. “Not just the queerness. Me.”

Ron hummed low in his chest, the sound vibrating through Draco’s skin. “I didn’t realise I fancied you until recently,” he said. “But once I did, it was obvious. Looking back, I’ve been weird about you for a while.”

Draco tilted his face up, trying to catch Ron’s expression in the dim light. “Weird how?”

Ron’s hand moved slowly down Draco’s back, like he liked the feel of the silk. “I don’t know when it started. Maybe when I saw you in the Prophet, dancing with Astoria Greengrass. I felt… off. Jealous, I think.”

“You were jealous?” Draco’s smile was involuntary.

“Then Harry asked me to bring you to an Arrows match. I didn’t want to.”

Draco stiffened.

“Not because I didn’t want you there. It’s... hard to explain.”

“Try.”

Ron’s hand moved gently down his back. “I know it’s just food. But with you, it never feels casual. It’s like you’re looking after me. Without making a thing of it.”

“It’s easier than talking. And I… wanted you to feel looked after.”

Ron’s hand stilled for a moment. “When did you know?”

“When you interviewed me about the break‑in,” Draco said, lying easily. “You looked competent. And tall. It was unsettling.”

Ron laughed, low and warm beneath his cheek. “I’ve always been tall.”

Draco huffed softly. “Blame the greatcoat. I was managing just fine until you showed up in uniform.”

Ron’s hand paused, then resumed its slow rhythm. “So… are we calling this something?”

Draco hesitated. “Depends,” he said, dry. “Are you even gay?”

“I spent the evening snogging you on your sofa,” Ron pointed out.

“Yes,” Draco said, cheeks flushing pink, “but as far as I know, you’ve only ever dated women.”

“And I’m sleeping with you. In your bed,” Ron continued, unfazed. “One could say we’re cuddling.”

“Cuddling,” Draco repeated, like the word was foreign.

“I’m holding you,” Ron clarified. “I like holding you. I want to keep holding you—”

“Alright,” Draco said, laughing softly. “We’re—boyfriends.”

His smile dimmed. “But that doesn’t mean we can tell anyone. Not because I’m ashamed of you,” he added quickly, as if afraid Ron would misunderstand.

“I know,” Ron said gently, squeezing his arm. “You’re still figuring it out. I won’t rush you. It’s enough for me to know I matter to you.”

Draco swallowed. “You’re important,” he managed.

Ron guided his face up for a kiss. When he pulled back, Draco was a little breathless.

“Good,” Ron murmured, eyes closing. “I like ending the day like this.”

Draco’s voice was soft. “It’s… a good ending.”

Chapter Text

When Ron opened his eyes, Draco was no longer curled against his chest. He’d turned onto his side, hair tousled against the pillow, his face angled toward the wall.

Ron shifted closer, fitting himself around Draco’s back.

“Morning,” he murmured.

He brushed his lips against the nape of Draco’s neck, then kissed his shoulder. His hand traced down Draco’s side, silk slipping over muscle.

“You’re tense,” Ron said, voice thick with intent. “Want me to take care of that?”

Draco’s head shifted slightly on the pillow, cheek pressed to the fabric. Ron caught the flush rising on his cheekbones.

“You want to do that,” he said, quiet and uncertain, like he was trying to believe it.

Ron let his hand drift lower, fingers grazing the waistband of Draco’s pajamas.

“I’ve never done this for someone else before, but it can’t be that different from doing it to myself.”

Draco swallowed. Ron watched the movement in his throat, the way his shoulders stayed braced.

“If it’s easier, you could touch yourself. I’d like to see what undoes you.”

“I don’t—” Draco started, then stopped.

Ron pulled back, hand retreating. “Sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t trying to push. Just thought—since we’re both—”

Draco sat up fast, duvet dragging with him, cool air rushing in. “I know what you thought,” he said. “It’s not you. It’s—” He broke off, jaw tight. “I’m going to shower.”

Once Draco was gone, Ron spelled the bed neat and reached for yesterday’s clothes, folded over the armchair to avoid creases. He was still half-hard, but the memory of Draco’s flinch was taking care of that.

Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed.

He fumbled the knot of his tie, then started over, playing the morning back in fragments.

What if I’m moving too fast for him?

He passed the bathroom in the hall, pausing just long enough to catch the scent of Draco’s soap—lavender, but not the soft kind. Clean. Sharp. Masculine, in that expensive way that lingered on skin long after you’d touched it.

The scent followed him into the kitchen, where he expected to find the remains of dinner, but the table was bare. The fridge held nothing but a single carton of milk.

“Doesn’t he have anything to eat?” Ron muttered, rifling through the cabinets.

No tea. No biscuits. No trace of the boy who used to down half a box of chocolates before first period.

He shut the last cupboard with a sigh. So much for making breakfast.

Just as he turned away, a soft pop broke the silence and Trilby appeared, clutching a tray: porridge laced with clotted cream and honey, one perfectly boiled egg nestled beside it.

“Auror Weasley!” he exclaimed, nearly dropping the dishes before settling them on the conjured table. “I didn’t realize we were expecting you for breakfast.”

“Had a case update,” Ron lied easily, helping Trilby make room for the teapot, a single cup, and a small sugar bowl and milk jug. “Figured Draco wouldn’t mind me dropping in—he’s usually up early anyway.”

“Yes,” Trilby said, gaze lingering on Ron’s collar. “That is true.”

“Looks great. Do you always feed him like this?”

“I’d have brought more if I’d known,” Trilby said, nudging a small bowl of sugared raspberries toward him. “You’re welcome to them. Master Draco rarely touches breakfast. Most mornings I wonder why I bother at all.”

“He doesn’t?” Ron reached for the spoon, then the bowl.

“It’s a problem,” Trilby said, nodding. “His appetite’s been poor since… well, since the war. Sixth year, really. Stopped drinking his morning chocolate. It used to be his favorite—”

“Trilby, what are you doing here?”

Draco stood in the doorway, grey suit immaculate, hair damp but combed into place.

Trilby straightened. “Breakfast, sir. I thought—”

“I didn’t ask for breakfast.”

“No,” Trilby said, tilting his head. “But I thought it might be wanted.” His eyes flicked to Ron, then back to the porridge. “Do you take honey and clotted cream, Auror Weasley? Or are you more of a brown sugar man?”

“I’m not picky,” Ron said, finishing off the raspberries with a shrug.

Draco watched him swallow, then seemed to remember himself. “Thank you, Trilby. That was… considerate.” He paused, too long. “I’ve got a full morning. You’re dismissed.”

Trilby bowed, lingering just long enough to make it noticeable. “Of course, sir.” His gaze drifted to Ron, voice light. “Enjoy the porridge.”

With a soft crack, he Disapparated.

Draco crossed to the table, picked up the silver teapot, and poured himself a cup. He didn’t look at Ron.

“I told him I came by with a case update,” Ron said quietly. “He won’t think anything of it.”

Draco nodded, still focused on the tea. “It’s fine. I’ve got work this morning. Otherwise I’d…” He glanced up, just briefly. His face had that tight, drawn look Ron had come to recognize: stress, discomfort, the effort of holding something in.

“Yeah. I’ve got to head out too.”

Ron stepped closer, one hand settling lightly at Draco’s waist, the other brushing his cheek. Draco flushed and looked down, avoiding Ron’s eyes.

“Wish I could have dinner with you,” Ron said, sighing. “But I promised George I’d help out—he’s got people coming over and it’s turning into a whole thing.”

Draco’s posture didn’t shift, but something in his voice did. “So I won’t see you.”

“Not tonight,” Ron said. “But I’ll be thinking about you.”

He leaned in. Draco tilted his face up, which pleased Ron, but he kept the kiss brief. Gentle. Not deep.

“Whatever’s going on in that head of yours,” Ron said, trying for a smile, “just… don’t spiral, yeah?”

Draco’s mouth twitched. He looked away, then back. “I’ll keep it together,” he said quietly. “For you.”

Ron kissed him again. Then he crossed to the coatrack and shrugged into his Auror greatcoat.

“Eat something, alright? I only stole the raspberries.”

“That was the best part,” Draco countered, folding his arms.

Ron smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

Then he let himself out.

Back on the street, Ron walked a few blocks, trying to clear his head. He hadn’t planned this thing with Draco—just followed his heart, like he always did. Now he was starting to wonder if that was a mistake. Draco was cautious, still sorting himself out, and Ron’s instinctive way of moving forward might not be what he needed.

He thought about how Draco had gone tense when he touched his waist and winced. Draco liked being kissed, liked Ron’s gentle affection, but the moment things edged toward sex, he pulled back.

It wasn’t rejection. More like hesitation. Or fear. Or something Ron hadn’t learned to read yet.

And if he was honest, Ron hadn’t figured out what he wanted either. He’d never been with a man before. Hadn’t thought past wanting Draco, assuming that would be enough.

Then there was his family. That was its own mess. The thought of George’s dinner hit like cold water, sharp and bracing.

A Malfoy and a Weasley. Even if Draco was out, even if Ron didn’t care what anyone thought, it was going to be messy.

Loud.

Complicated.

Ron didn’t have time to untangle it now. There was work to do, and he knew how to lock things down when it counted.

He cut through Diagon Alley toward the shop, planning to grab a quick shower and change before heading out.

Susan’s letter to Mandy Brocklehurst was too neat to be coincidence, especially since she’d been the one to set Smith up the same night he got the letter at the Broken Wand.

Ron had questions. She’d better have answers.

He reached Hogwarts just after second period. Late enough that the corridors were hushed, early enough that the infirmary hadn’t filled. 

“Ronald Weasley.”

Susan turned from the apothecary cabinet, one hand still resting on a half-filled inventory sheet. Her voice was calm, but there was a flicker of wariness behind it. “Didn’t expect to see you here. What’s the occasion?”

Ron flashed his badge just long enough to make it clear. “Sorry, Susan. I’m here in an official capacity.”

She raised an eyebrow, shutting the cabinet with a soft click. “That sounds ominous.”

Ron gave a small shrug. “Just chasing down a lead. Thought it was better to come straight to you than let it get twisted secondhand.”

Susan motioned toward the office tucked behind the ward. “Just one Quidditch mishap—Bludger to the ribs. He’ll live. I’ve got a few minutes.”

Ron stepped into the office and took the narrow chair opposite her desk. The space was spare and efficient. Clipped bundles of patient notes lined one edge, a half-drunk cup of tea sat cooling beside a jar of burn salve. Susan finished jotting something on a chart, then set her quill aside and met his eyes.

“We’ve known each other a long time—D.A., the war, all of it. So I’ll be straight with you. I’m looking into the break-in at Malfoy’s business. One of the leads pointed to Mandy Brocklehurst. And from there… it led to you.”

Susan gave a small shrug. “I sent Mandy a note after the column ran. She said what most of us have been thinking.”

“So you agreed with her, then?”

“It’s obscene, the way the Ministry let the Malfoys walk. Especially Lucius. Don’t tell me you buy that line about how ‘essential’ his testimony was.”

“He tortured people,” Ron said, his jaw tightening. “And now he’s sipping champagne under fairy lights like it never happened.”

Susan looked up sharply, like she hadn’t expected to hear that from him. “The Ministry had enough to bury Dolohov, Rookwood—all of them. Luna and Dean testified. That should’ve been enough. Life in Azkaban, no question.”

She leaned in, voice dropping. “Money changed hands. Favors were traded. It’s the only way any of this makes sense.”

Ron let out a slow breath. “The official story is that Lucius had intel no one else could give us. Luna and Dean were prisoners—they saw what was done to them, not what was planned. Lucius was in the room when those plans were made.”

Susan rolled her eyes. “Every time someone asks why Malfoy’s still walking free, it’s the same excuse—‘he had intel.’ But come on, Ron. Did they even need it? The Muggle-born Registration Commission wasn’t some secret plot. It was public policy. That alone should’ve been enough to bury half the collaborators.”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe we didn’t need Lucius’ testimony to make the case.”

“I knew you’d get it. People say you’ve gone full Ministry, like Harry, but I never bought it. I know how much you hate the Malfoys.”

“They’re saying that about Harry now?”

“Not everyone,” Susan said, eyes dropping to the desk. “Just—some of us who aren’t thrilled with how Shacklebolt’s government has handled things.”

Ron nodded. “Hermione’s been vocal too. You know she’s working as a solicitor now—trying to hold the Ministry accountable from the outside.”

Susan’s face hardened. “She defends Death Eaters.”

“She defends due process. That’s not the same thing.” He leaned in slightly. “If the system’s broken… what’s the alternative? How do you hold it accountable?”

Susan’s eyes flicked to the door. “If you’re asking that seriously… maybe I can point you in the right direction.”

Ron didn’t blink. “You’ve got a contact in Mourning Star?”

Susan nodded. “I don’t know his name. Never seen his real face. But I know they’re looking for people inside the Ministry. Look what they managed with Smith.”

“You helped set that up. Got Smith in place to send the letter.”

“One threatening letter. It’s not nearly enough.”

Ron nodded slowly, eyes drifting to the shelf behind her—lined with neatly labeled vials and a framed photo of the D.A. “Fred’s gone. Bill’s changed. And George—he’s barely holding it together. Malfoy shouldn't just get to walk away.”

Susan reached across the desk, her fingers brushing his forearm. Her voice softened, but there was tension beneath it. “I’m glad you understand. I wasn’t sure you would, working for the DMLE.”

“Harry and I joined the Aurors to go after Death Eaters. Not to make excuses for them.”

Susan nodded, voice low but bitter. “People like to say Draco was just a scared kid. But he chose his side. He picked his targets. He enjoyed it.”

Her gaze drifted, jaw clenched. “You weren’t at Hogwarts that year. You didn’t see what he was capable of.”

“I saw enough.” He let the silence stretch, then leaned in. “How do I reach him? Your contact. If I want to help.”

Susan studied him, eyes narrowing slightly. After a moment, she nodded. “I’ll send word. If he’s interested, I’ll let you know where and when.”

Ron offered a faint smile—just enough to pass. “Thanks, Susan. You’ve helped more than you know. I joined the Ministry chasing justice, but the reality—the politics, the compromises—it’s been an education.”

Susan’s expression shifted, something wary giving way to belief. “Sorry I doubted you. I should’ve known. After everything you’ve seen—everything your family’s been through—you’d get it.”

Ron stood, brushing off his coat. “No hard feelings. And if you ever feel like it, we do pub night most Fridays. Neville, Harry, a few of the old D.A. You’d be welcome.”

Her smile flickered. “I’m not sure I fit with the Hogwarts crowd anymore.”

“Fair enough.” He paused, then added, “Maybe next time, it’s your crowd.”

“I’ll let you know. If they’re willing.”

Ron nodded, then let himself out.

Chapter Text

“You’re late,” George called from the kitchen. He was wearing one of Molly’s old aprons — pink, frilly, streaked with something sticky.

Ron rolled up his sleeves as he walked to the sink. “Case ran long.” He washed his hands, drying them on a tea towel that had seen better decades. “What needs doing?”

“Chicken’s in,” George said, stepping back from the oven. “Might’ve forgotten the lemon.”

“You didn’t forget the lemon,” Ginny said, leaning against the counter in a Harpies tank top, hair still damp from practice. “You added two. Then tried for a third until I staged an intervention.”

“She’s been like this all day,” George said, pulling the apron over his head and tossing it onto the counter. “I’m being emotionally micromanaged.”

“You’re being citrus-managed,” Ginny said, pouring herself a glass of elderflower cordial. “There’s a difference.”

Ron glanced at the stove. “Go shower. I’ll do the mash and the broccolini.”

George clapped Ron on the back and left the kitchen.

“Didn’t know George and Angelina were a thing.”

“I don’t know that they are.” Ron cast a peeling charm on a pile of potatoes, then started breaking apart a bulb of garlic. “I think George wants them to be.”

Ginny stirred her drink. “Well. I suppose it’s time he started dating. Even if it is our dead brother’s girlfriend.”

“I think he just wants someone who knew Fred. Someone who doesn’t need the backstory.”

“Still a bit incest-adjacent.”

Ron added the potatoes and garlic to the boiling water, then picked up a knife and started trimming the broccolini.

“Can I ask you something without you taking the piss?”

“You can try,” Ginny said, not looking up.

“What was it like?” he asked. “Hogwarts. Seventh year.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Why do you want to know?”

Ron lowered his voice, eyes flicking toward the hallway. “This stays between us for now. I’ve been assigned a new case—break-in at Malfoy’s business.”

“Draco Malfoy?” Ginny’s voice went sharp, her grip tightening on the glass. Ron gestured for quiet. “I thought he hired private security.”

“You heard about that?”

“From Astoria Greengrass,” Ginny said with a shrug. “Apparently, she’s all but promised to him. One of those pure-blood things that never quite died out.”

Ron turned to the sink, heat rising between them as he drained the potatoes. “It’s not just a break-in. It’s payback. Someone still wants him to answer for something.”

He reached for the butter and cream, added them to the steaming potatoes, and stirred until the edges softened.

“It’s not Neville, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Did he have other enemies?”

He cast the mashing charm, watching the mixture turn smooth and pale as warmth curled up around his hands.

“The Carrows hated him. His dad was out of favor, and they liked throwing their weight around. Might’ve been payback for something Lucius pulled back in his own Hogwarts days.”

“So Draco was a victim?”

“He was a Death Eater. I’m not losing sleep over it.”

Ron waited for her to say more.

“But they made him do the worst of it,” she admitted. “Punishments. Curses. I think they liked watching him flinch. Snape tried to shield him, but once he was gone…” She shook her head.

“Anyone else go after him?”

“Crabbe and Goyle stuck close. No one got near him unless they wanted a hex to the face.”

Ron set a pan on the hob and added a splash of olive oil, waiting until it shimmered before tossing in the broccolini. He added a few smashed garlic cloves, letting the scent rise.

“We were busy keeping the Room running. Food, healing potions, trying not to get caught. Malfoy wasn’t exactly top priority.”

Ron stirred the broccolini gently. “Anyone you can think of who might go after him now? Someone still stuck in the past.”

“You mean like Susan Bones?”

Ron looked up, too fast.

“It’s not a secret,” she said, sipping her drink. “She hates his guts. Not that I blame her.”

“Do you see her much?”

Ginny shrugged. “Not really. She’s at Hogwarts now. Like Neville. I run into her sometimes.”

“Who’s she close with?”

Ron gave the broccolini a final toss in the pan before finishing it with a squeeze of lemon.

“Hannah. Justin. Ernie. Same crew as always.”

Ginny leaned in, trying to sneak a spoonful of potatoes. Ron swatted her hand away.

“You don’t actually think she had anything to do with this. Ron—she’s a nurse.”

“Who’s a nurse?” George stepped into the kitchen, dressed in dark jeans and a green button-down.

Ron grinned. “Well, don’t you clean up nice.”

“Hard to believe I’m still single,” George said, flexing.

“Hard to believe you’re still flexing,” Ginny muttered, sipping her drink.

The buzzer went off—front door.

Ron flicked his wand, sending the chicken platter floating toward the sitting room. They’d shifted the table out of the kitchen earlier—too many guests, not enough space—so dinner was happening where the sofa used to be.

“Table, George. Door, Ginny.”

He didn’t get another chance to ask about Draco. Dinner took over, and the quiet choreography of keeping George’s night with Angelina on track.

“I hope you're hungry tonight, sir,” Trilby said, conjuring the dinner table with a flick. “Wild mushroom risotto and radicchio and pear salad on the side. Chardonnay to go with.”

Draco didn’t look up from the journal spread across his lap. “Fine. Just leave it—I’m halfway through this article on dittany and murtlap.”

“Of course.” Trilby adjusted a small vase of purple calla lilies at the center of the table. “There’s enough for two, if you’re expecting company.”

Draco kept reading.

Trilby’s tone stayed light. “Will Auror Weasley be joining us for breakfast again? I have a feeling he’d appreciate Chef’s smoked salmon blinis.”

Draco turned a page. “He stops in when there’s an update. It’s not exactly scheduled.”

“Yes,” Trilby said mildly. “Jones mentioned he’s got clearance to come upstairs at any hour.”

Draco set the journal aside and rose to join Trilby at the table. “He’s a dedicated officer. I respect his professionalism.”

“He does seem very dedicated,” Trilby agreed, pouring the wine.

Draco shook out his napkin and placed it on his lap. “He is an Auror. They only take the best.”

Trilby nodded. “Very much so. Mistress was just saying he earned the Order of Merlin for what he did during the—” He faltered, cheer slipping.

“During the war,” Draco said calmly. “You can say it. Ronald Weasley is a war hero.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so,” Trilby replied, stepping back from the table, eyes lowered. “Master Malfoy—that is, your father—”

“I know what my father thinks.”

“Yes. Well.” Trilby smoothed his waistcoat. “I’m just glad you haven’t let his opinion interfere with a very promising… friendship.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Thank you, Trilby. You may go.”

He began eating the risotto as if the conversation had never happened.

“Goodnight, sir,” Trilby said quietly, and Disapparated with a soft pop.

Draco pushed his plate away as soon as Trilby vanished, appetite gone. The elf had obviously noticed how he felt about Ron. Not that he’d say anything directly, but Narcissa had a way of coaxing things out of people...

He walked to the bathroom and measured out the same blend of calming draught and babbling beverage he’d used the night Ron brought the pizza. It had helped him relax. Pass for normal. And Draco needed that numbness again tonight.

Being with Ron was… wonderful. Unbelievable, really. Which was the problem. He needed the potion to make it feel like it wasn’t.

Draco closed his eyes, fingers curled against the sink. The memory of Ron’s voice—warm, maddeningly unfazed—pressed in. Want me to take care of that? His body close. Protective. Familiar in ways Draco had only ever imagined.

He blinked hard, splashed water on his face. Then moved through the motions: teeth, shave, pajamas, hoping the routine would settle him. If the potion kicked in soon, he might sleep. Or at least stop replaying Ron’s offer in his head.

He fell asleep on top of the duvet, The Joy of Gay Sex still open beside him.

Draco surfaced slowly, the potion still thick in his veins. He blinked at the ceiling, disoriented, and cast Tempus with a sluggish flick of his wand.

01:17.

The knock came again. Draco turned onto his side, brain foggy, piecing it together bit by bit.

Ron.

He must’ve come. Even after saying he couldn’t.

He slipped into his cashmere dressing gown and ran a hand through his hair, hoping it didn’t look too mussed. Then he crossed the room and opened the front door.

Ron stood there in a soft crewneck and faded jeans, posture uncertain. “Sorry,” he said, hands buried in his pockets. “I think I woke you. I just—had a rough day. And I really wanted to see you.”

Draco stepped back, letting him in. “No need to apologize. I’m glad you came.”

Ron kicked off his trainers and stepped in close, arms sliding around Draco’s waist. “This dressing gown’s going to be the death of me.” 

“You like it?”

“I like everything you wear. But when you’re dressed for bed…” His voice dipped. “It makes me want to touch you. More than usual.”

Draco’s face went warm.

“Only if you’re alright with that,” Ron added quickly. “I don’t want to push.”

Draco leaned in, potion loosening the edges of his restraint. “I love when you touch me,” he said quietly. “It just feels… unreal sometimes.”

“Would it be alright if we went to the bedroom? Not for sex. I just want to lie down with you.”

Draco hesitated, then reached for his hand. “Come on,” he said, leading him down the hall.

In the bedroom, Ron peeled off his jumper, then reached for the button on his jeans.

Draco spoke without thinking. “I’d strip down too, only…”

Ron paused, already alert. “Yeah?”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “It’s my arm,” he said quietly. “You know what’s there.”

Ron’s voice was low. “I do. There are pictures in your file.”

Draco’s breath hitched. His shoulders began to shake.

Ron pulled him close, chest warm against his. “Is this too much?” he asked softly.

Draco shook his head, eyes closed. “I don’t usually talk like this. But I want you to know—I do want to kiss you. Touch you. Even…” He hesitated, then forced the rest out. “Have sex with you.”

He swallowed. “But when things start heading that way, I get stuck. It’s not you. It’s thoughts. Memories. From the war. I hate the idea of you…” His voice thinned. “I don’t want you to have to touch it.”

Ron stroked his hair, slow and careful. “I don’t care about the mark. I won't touch it unless you want me to.”

Draco started to cry.

Ron didn’t let go. “Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s lie down.”

He bent awkwardly, trying to turn down the duvet without breaking contact—one arm still wrapped around Draco’s waist. Then he paused, eyes catching on the book.

“That’s not—” Draco moved fast, reaching to shove it aside. He froze halfway through, then gave a short, broken laugh. “Here,” he said, handing it over. “You can look. It’s… a gay sex guide.”

Ron blinked at the cover, then gave a low, amused hum. “This is brilliant, actually.” He turned it over once, then set it gently on the nightstand, careful not to knock the lamp. Only one was lit, casting the room in soft, moody light—enough to read by, but dim enough to make everything feel quieter.

“I should’ve thought of it myself. You can learn a lot from books like this.”

“You think so?”

Ron finished undressing, leaving his shorts on like before. “Yeah. Fred and George gave me one in sixth year,” he said, settling onto the bed. “Different book—about witches, not wizards. But same idea. How to not be a disaster in bed.”

Draco slipped out of his dressing gown and draped it neatly over the leather armchair. “There are wizarding equivalents? I thought this sort of thing was strictly Muggle.”

“It was called Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches. Mostly flirting and flowers, but there was useful stuff too. Anatomy. What actually works.”

“I can’t believe it wasn’t banned. I half expected a hex buying this at Waterstones.” He climbed into bed, smoothing his pajamas. “But the Muggle at the till didn’t even blink. Just rang it up like I was buying a cookbook.”

Ron lifted his arm in invitation, and Draco shifted closer, settling against his side.

“Stuff like this isn’t so rare. Outside certain pure-blood circles, anyway.”

“We definitely don’t have anything like this in the family library,” Draco muttered.

Ron brushed a kiss against Draco’s hair. “Is that lavender?”

“Yes.” Draco shifted slightly, as if that might ease the pressure building low in his belly. He hated the way his body responded before he’d decided anything. Before he felt ready.

“It’s sexy,” Ron said, reaching for the book. “Sets the mood for our reading.”

Ron flipped through the pages, stopping at a line drawing labeled spoon position. He tilted the book slightly so Draco could see.

“This one looks comfortable.”

Draco’s face warmed. “Yes. I’ve… thought about it before. Didn’t know it had a name.”

“You like being held from behind?”

Draco hesitated, then nodded. “It makes me feel less on display.”

“You don’t want me looking at you. During.”

“It’s just—less intense that way. I’m not used to people seeing me feel things.”

Ron nodded once. “I get that.”

Draco lowered his gaze. “You’re bigger than me… and you’re you. An Auror. It feels good, having you hold me like that.”

Ron set the book aside. “If you want to try it… we can.”

“Should I… take these off?” Draco smoothed the silk over his thigh. 

“Right now?” 

“I... want you to. Like you said you would.”

“Yeah,” Ron said, too quickly. “Yeah, I—okay. Do you use anything?”

“There’s a vial in the drawer.” Draco tipped his chin toward it.

Ron reached over, fumbling until he found it. He turned it over once.

“You made this?”

Draco nodded. He shifted beneath the duvet, easing out of his clothes without disturbing the covers.

“Turn over,” Ron said, voice a little rough.

Draco moved quickly, face angled toward the wall. Ron settled close behind him, the mattress dipping with his weight.

The sound of the vial uncapping was quiet. A pause, then the slick drag of potion over skin. Draco felt the warmth of it before Ron even touched him.

“I want you to feel good. Tell me if anything's too much.”

Ron’s hand found his hip before sliding down. Big, callused fingers wrapped around him, firm and sure.

The contact was startling.

Hot.

Intentional.

Real.

Ron stroked him slowly, thumb dragging along the underside, then circling back with deliberate pressure. Draco’s breath hitched. He tried to stay still, but his hips shifted, chasing the rhythm. The duvet rustled. Ron’s cock pressed against his ass—still covered by his shorts, but hard enough to feel. The weight of it made everything sharper.

“You’re gorgeous like this.”

Ron's thumb slid over the head, catching the slick. Draco bit the inside of his cheek, trying to stay quiet. His legs tensed. He was already close—too close.

Ron’s breath was warm against his neck. “I wish you could see yourself.” 

Draco made a sound—half protest, half warning—but it was already happening. His body jerked, sharp and involuntary, and he came with a muffled gasp, face buried in the pillow.

Ron wiped his hand on the duvet, then his arm slid around Draco’s waist, palm splayed low.

“You’re alright,” he murmured, voice still rough. “I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

Draco’s heart was still racing. He felt stupid. Exposed. But Ron didn’t tease. He didn’t shift away. Just held him, like that was the point.

After a moment, Draco turned slightly, eyes flicking up.

“Should I do something for you?”

Ron pressed a slow kiss to Draco’s shoulder.

“Not now.”

Draco hesitated. “But... you’re hard.”

Ron let out a breath. “Yeah. You’re... beautiful. Makes me want—” He pressed his hips forward a little, like he couldn’t help it. “This is enough right now.”

“If you’re sure,” Draco said, uncertain.

Ron squeezed him gently.

Draco let himself be held. He wanted to clean up. Cast something, or at least shift away before the wet spot cooled, but that would mean moving away from Ron.

It wasn’t completely comfortable, but it was good. And Draco’s body, flushed and oversensitive, was already slipping under.

He let himself fall asleep.

Chapter Text

“Hey.”

Draco stirred. Ron was already dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed. His red hair curled damp from the shower, and he held a steaming mug of tea.

“Is that for me?” Draco sat up, tugging the duvet higher.

“Was going to make breakfast, but your fridge’s a disaster. Tonic water, one lemon, and not a single slice of bread.”

“I don’t cook,” Draco admitted. “Trilby keeps me fed. I forget to check what’s actually in there.”

Ron nodded, brushing a strand of hair off Draco’s forehead. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Draco looked down at his hands. He hesitated. Then: “If you’re going to keep staying over…”

“Yeah?”

“You could bring a few things. Toothbrush. Shirt. Whatever. There’s space.”

Ron smiled. “I’d like that. Easier than sprinting home before work.”

Draco glanced up. Held his gaze. It took effort.

“Will I see you tonight?”

Ron leaned in and kissed him. “You’re thinking too hard.” He brushed Draco's cheek with his thumb.

Draco gave a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “I know.”

“Don’t.” Ron squeezed his hand once. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Draco lowered the flame beneath his cauldron, coaxing the ginseng infusion into a gentle simmer. He added the peppermint oil, then dropped in the fireseed pods one at a time. The potion hissed, releasing a flicker of heat that licked his wrist.

Normally, he had no trouble keeping his mind on his work, but his thoughts kept drifting to Ron, and the promise of dinner together at the flat. They did it often enough, but tonight felt different.

Ron was bringing things. A toothbrush. A shirt. Possibly more.

Draco didn’t smile so much as exhale, the corners of his mouth tugging upward.

Two razors on the sink. Ron’s dressing gown draped over the armchair.

The thought made his chest—

Pop!

Draco blinked, pulled back to the present by the sharp crack of Trilby’s Apparition.

“Lunch is here,” Marcus called.

“Coming,” Draco said, casting a stasis charm over the cauldron.

He peeled off his dragonhide gloves, slipped his goggles into the pocket of his lab coat, and headed toward Miss King’s desk.

He wasn’t sure when it started, but now he, Miss King, and Marcus ate lunch together most days, folding it into a review of his afternoon appointments.

“Quail egg and asparagus salad,” Trilby announced, clearly delighted, as Draco stepped into the room.

Marcus looked less than pleased with his bowl, his fork nudging the greens without conviction.

“There’s a lovely seeded bread to go with,” Miss King said cheerfully, settling at her desk.

“The butter’s from the estate,” Trilby said, puffing up. “Mistress has restarted the home farm. We didn’t have it during—well. It’s good to see the tradition revived,” he finished, a beat too fast.

“Thank you, Trilby.” Draco accepted his bowl, then leaned against the wall, chewing thoughtfully. The vinaigrette was tarragon—his favorite. Of course Trilby had remembered it. “What’s on for this afternoon?”

“Your one o’clock rescheduled,” Miss King replied. “You could bump up inventory—moonstone levels are due for review.”

“If I’ve got a gap, I might head to Diagon Alley. Assuming it’s not a security nightmare.”

Marcus looked up. “Should be manageable. Where to?”

“Nowhere urgent,” Draco said, keeping his tone light. “Just felt like getting out. Flourish and Blotts, maybe. Rococo Chocolates—I should bring something back for my mother.”

“Lovely idea, sir,” Trilby said, pouring Miss King a glass of cucumber-mint iced tea. “May I come? I could carry the packages.”

Draco shrugged. “If you like.”

Which is how he ended up at Rococo Chocolates an hour later.

The shop was narrow and dim, steeped in curated gloom that made every truffle feel like an heirloom. Marcus lingered near the door, scanning exits. Trilby drifted toward a display, already murmuring approval.

“Good afternoon,” said the man behind the counter. “May I help you?”

“I’ll take a twenty-four-piece box,” Draco said, eyes flicking over the packaging options. “Orange ribbon.”

“They’ve got rose creams,” Trilby called, peering into a tray. “Your mother loves those.”

“Yes,” Draco said, his gaze settling on a cluster of truffles dusted with dried petals. “Two rose. And—two lavender creams.”

“Narcissa doesn’t like lavender,” Trilby said, helpful as ever.

“She can share,” Draco replied, not looking at him.

“Your father likes hazelnut pralines. Don’t forget.”

“I haven’t.” Draco nodded to the shopkeeper. “Two hazelnut pralines, please. Blood orange ganaches. Sea salt caramels. Peppermint thins. Cognac truffles.”

Draco listed the rest of his choices calmly, Occlumency doing most of the work. He’d never bought Ron a gift before. If this one landed without incident, he might be allowed something more ambitious next time. An evening suit, perhaps, for the Phoenix Ball.

He’d seen Ron wear and rewear that off-the-rack disaster to every charity event the Prophet had bothered to photograph. The fit was wrong, the fabric worse, and Draco’s hands itched with the quiet, unspoken urge to fix it.

“Would you like it delivered by owl post?”

“No need,” Draco said easily, adjusting the ribbon. “My elf will handle it.”

Marcus met Jones in the foyer of Draco’s building. The other man was halfway out of his doorman’s uniform, changing in the staff cupboard tucked behind the brass-trimmed desk where guests were buzzed in and parcels discreetly accepted.

“Cheers for stepping in, mate,” Jones said, tugging off his tie. “I know you’ve just come off a twelve.”

“Don’t worry about it. Your missus is having a baby—that trumps everything. What do I need to know?”

“Evenings are usually dead quiet. Maybe a takeaway or two for the Muggles. No trouble.”

Marcus pulled on the jacket, adjusted the shoulders, then reached for the cap. “Anyone I should be expecting?”

“Weasley’s got clearance. Comes and goes as he likes.”

Marcus paused. “Ron Weasley?”

Jones nodded. “Yeah. Auror access. Malfoy signed off on it himself.”

Marcus frowned. “He comes often?”

“Thought you knew. He’s usually in by ten. Sometimes stays over. Richmond’ll be here to relieve you before sunrise.”

Marcus kept his tone neutral. “Right. Well—good luck tonight. Tell Mary I said congrats.”

Jones grinned, already reaching for his wand. “Will do. Cheers again.”

Marcus didn’t have long to sit with what Jones had told him. Barely an hour into the shift, the glass doors slid open and Ron Weasley walked in cool as you please, overnight bag slung over one shoulder.

He stopped when he saw Marcus. “Where’s Jones?”

“Wife’s in labour,” Marcus said, arms folded. “He asked me to cover.”

Ron gave a short nod and headed toward the lift.

“He also mentioned something I thought I’d misheard.”

Ron paused, one eyebrow raised.

“You staying over,” Marcus said. “Nights. You can’t tell me that’s part of the investigation.”

“If you’ve got questions, take them up with Draco.”

Marcus squared up, eyes narrowed. “Come on, Weasley. You really expect me to believe Draco asked for Auror backup? He’s already got a full protection detail.”

Ron set the bag down beside the desk. “Call him,” he said, gesturing toward the phone. “He’ll tell you to let me up.”

Marcus reached for the receiver and dialed the flat. It rang twice before Draco picked up, voice distant.

“Yes?”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Marcus said. “Weasley’s here. Says he’s authorised to come up.”

There was a pause—long enough for Marcus to hear Draco clear his throat.

“Send him up.”

Then the line went dead.

Marcus hung up slowly. Ron reached for his bag, but the ease was gone from his movements.

The lift dinged. He stepped inside.

“Does your boss know you're sleeping here?”

“I don’t answer to you, Flint.”

Then the door slid shut.

“I’m sorry,” Ron said, the moment Draco opened the door. “I wouldn’t have come if I’d known Flint was covering.”

Draco stepped back to let him in. “You’re here now.”

The flat was dim, as usual. The chrome lamp over the sofa cast a soft pool of light. Beyond the windows, the London skyline blinked in silence—warded glass, no sound. Ron set his bag down gently, like he didn’t want to disturb anything.

“I don’t think he believes I’m here for the case.”

“It’s alright.” Draco tried to smile. “Everyone at Aegis makes the Unbreakable Vow. Discretion’s not optional.”

Ron didn’t know what to say, so he opened his arms. Draco fit easily, cheek resting against his shoulder.

“You’re sure?” Ron stroked Draco’s back, feeling the tension beneath his crisp white shirt. “I don’t have to stay.”

Draco pulled back—not abruptly, just enough to collect himself. “And miss dinner?” He smoothed his sleeve, already turning toward the table. “Trilby brought smoked haddock with chive cream.”

Ron followed, pulling out his chair. “Potatoes too,” he said, eyeing the plate. “And—are those leeks?”

“Ten points to Gryffindor,” Draco said, settling into his seat. He unfolded the napkin carefully, but Ron caught the tremor in his hand.

“I’m surprised Trilby didn’t bring dessert,” Ron said, aiming for lightness. “You’ve spoiled me. I’ve started to expect it.”

“Actually…” Draco speared a potato but didn’t lift it. “I brought you something. A gift.”

Ron looked up, brow furrowed. “You didn’t have to.”

“It’s just chocolates,” Draco said, eyes on his plate. “I thought we could eat them in—” His voice caught, color rising in his cheeks. “In bed.”

Ron blinked, then softened. “That sounds nice.”

Draco nodded, still not meeting his eyes. “It’s not much. Just… comfort.”

Ron reached across the table, brushing his fingers against Draco’s. “Then let’s have comfort.”

While Draco shaved in the bathroom, Ron got ready for bed. He tugged on the old checked pajama bottoms and the faded Chudley Cannons shirt he’d brought along. Normally he slept nude, but he’d figured Draco might be more comfortable if he wore something.

He was still adjusting the hem when Draco appeared in the doorway, toweling his face. He was smiling.

“Did you have that shirt in school?”

Ron glanced down, then back up. “Actually—yeah.” He smiled, a little sheepish. The flat was all sleek surfaces and soft lighting, and he suddenly felt very threadbare in comparison.

To his surprise, Draco stepped closer, fingers grazing the worn cotton like it was something precious.

“I thought I recognized it. You wore it once on prefect rounds. I think you were out looking for—”

“Seamus and Dean,” Ron said. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“I had rounds too.” Draco’s hand settled over Ron’s chest, just above the faded logo. “You’ve worn it a lot, haven’t you?”

Ron shrugged. “I guess? It’s a bit snug these days. Didn’t think much about it—just grabbed something to sleep in.”

Draco kissed him before he could say more. Ron made a low sound, hands finding Draco’s hips and pulling him closer. It thrilled him, being kissed first. They stood like that for a moment, foreheads touching, breath mingling.

“Can I wear it?” Draco asked, voice suddenly shy.

Ron blinked. “You want to wear—? But this is silk,” he said, brushing a finger over Draco’s own sleep shirt. The fabric was cool and lustrous, a soft grey that matched Draco’s eyes perfectly.

“I want something of yours. Especially if you’ve had it a long time. That feels like… comfort.”

Ron nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

He pulled off the shirt, shoulders tightening with a flicker of self-consciousness. His left arm still bore the ropey scars from the Department of Mysteries; the right was smooth, untouched, thanks to Draco’s healing magic.

Draco’s gaze lingered—quiet, reverent—on Ron’s bare chest. Then, slowly, he reached for his own buttons.

Ron realized he was holding his breath. Draco had never shown him the Dark Mark before.

Draco slipped the Cannons shirt over his head, smoothing the front. It hung loose on him, the off-white cotton clashing with his complexion, the orange letters loud and ridiculous.

He looked down, fingers brushing the hem. “Can I keep it?”

Ron smiled, helplessly charmed. “Yeah. Looks better on you.”

Draco kissed him again, then led him to the bed.

Ron settled against the headboard, and Draco curled lower, resting his fair head on Ron’s chest. His cheek was warm. His hair tickled.

“Accio chocolates,” Draco murmured, wandlessly.

A sleek black box appeared, tied with an orange ribbon. Ron stroked the grosgrain, admiring the texture.

“Did you know orange’s my favorite color?”

“Everyone knows orange’s your favorite color, Weasley. Just look at this shirt.”

Ron grinned and opened the box. A warm, heady scent rose up, dark chocolate laced with something floral and creamy, like petals steeped in milk.

“They’re almost too pretty to eat,” he said, licking his lips. “Are these… actual flowers?”

“Rose creams,” Draco said.

Ron picked one up, sniffed. “Doesn’t smell like rose. This is definitely—”

“Lavender,” Draco agreed.

Ron took a bite and let out a low, appreciative sound. “Merlin. That’s good.” He glanced down, voice dipping into something teasing. “Is this how you taste, Draco?”

“Kiss me and find out.”

Draco’s voice was unexpectedly bold, and Ron kissed him hard, chocolates forgotten. The sweet melted on his tongue, mingling with the lavender and the faint trace of Draco’s cologne.

Draco’s lips were red when they parted, his cheeks flushed.

“Can I touch you?”

Ron nodded, breath catching. “Yeah. Just—how do you want to…?”

Draco’s hand moved to the front of Ron’s pajama bottoms, where he was clearly straining against the fabric. “Here,” he said, swallowing. “I want to use my mouth. Will you show me?”

Ron reached for the chocolate box, fumbling it onto the nightstand. “Did you read about it? In the book?”

“I’d rather learn from you.”

Ron shifted back against the headboard, legs spreading slightly as he settled. “Mind if I take these off?”

“You don’t want me to do it?”

Ron shook his head, voice soft. “Just thought I’d get comfortable. Makes it easier for both of us.” He slid the flannel bottoms down and off, folding them once before tossing them toward the foot of the bed.

Draco’s gaze dropped, cheeks flushed, eyes fixed on Ron’s cock.

Ron cleared his throat, low and uncertain. “I know I’m… a bit much,” he said, voice dipping with self-consciousness. “You don’t have to take everything. Just use your hand when you need to—whatever feels manageable.”

Draco moved slowly, settling between Ron’s legs. One hand skimmed along the shaft, then cupped his balls with gentle pressure, weighing them in his palm.

He stroked in slow, exploratory passes, fingers easing back the foreskin to reveal the flushed, plum-dark head beneath.

“You even have red hair here,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles through the coarse hair at the base.

Ron’s cock twitched at the touch, and the quiet awe in Draco’s tone. He swallowed. “D’you like it?”

Draco nodded, murmuring a spell to summon lube.

His thumb traced the ridge, then gently drew the foreskin back again—slower this time—revealing a glistening bead of precum.

“It’s… big,” Draco said softly, more marvel than tease.

He leaned in, tongue flicking out to taste the ridge. Ron’s breath stuttered. His hips twitched, restrained by effort.

Draco glanced up, eyes dark. “Tell me if I’m doing it wrong.”

“You’re not,” Ron said, voice rough. “Just go slow. Let yourself feel it.”

Draco nodded, lips parting as he took Ron into his mouth. Just the tip at first, cautious.

Ron’s fingers threaded through Draco’s hair, not pushing, just holding.

“That’s good,” Ron murmured. “You’re doing good.”

Draco hummed softly, and the vibration made Ron groan, head tipping back against the wall.

“Will you teach me how to take it in my throat?” Draco asked, pulling off with a soft, wet squelch.

Ron blinked, breath catching. “That’s… advanced,” he said slowly. “We don’t have to rush. I’m already more than happy.”

Draco’s eyes darkened. “I can do it. You don’t have to baby me.”

Ron huffed softly, then reached up and cupped the side of Draco’s face, thumb brushing just under his eye. “Merlin, you’re bossy,” he muttered, but his voice was warm. “Go on, then.”

Draco took him back in, tongue flicking under the head—right where Ron liked.

It was nearly perfect, but Ron caught the tension in Draco’s jaw, the angle just a little off. He reached up, fingers pressing gently at the hinge. “Here. Ease this muscle. Let your jaw drop. Don’t force it.”

Draco nodded, barely, eyes squeezed shut in concentration.

The tightness softened as he adjusted, and the pressure melted into wet heat. Ron’s breath caught—low, uneven.

“Fuck,” he whispered, watching the slow, impossible slide of his cock disappearing into Draco’s throat. “So fucking gorgeous like this,” he breathed. “I can’t—”

Draco pulled back just enough to breathe through his nose, then eased forward again, lips stretched wide around Ron’s girth.

“Perfect,” he groaned. “Fuck, Draco—yes. Just like that.”

Ron felt the depth of it. The tight seal of Draco’s throat, the humid suction pulling him in. His body locked up, breath gone. Pleasure surged hot and total, a full-body flood. He bucked once, then stilled, the climax tearing through him in hot pulses.

When his mind cleared, Draco was already curled into his side, breathing just as ragged.

“Let me take care of you,” Ron murmured, shifting to move, but Draco caught his wrist, stopping him.

“It’s already done,” he said, voice quiet, cheeks flushed. “I came just… watching you.”

Ron blinked, then pulled him closer, settling Draco against his chest.

“That was—bloody hell, I can’t believe that was your first time.”

“Was I okay?” Draco asked, voice small.

Ron huffed a soft laugh. “Okay? You were brilliant. I’ve never had anyone take me that deep. Thought I was too big.” He frowned, trying to think, but his body was too relaxed to manage much. “You didn’t even gag.”

“I… may have brewed something,” Draco admitted. “Just a mild suppressant. For the reflex.”

Ron laughed again, low and fond. “Should’ve guessed. You and your bloody potions.”

He kissed the top of Draco’s head, lingering there to breathe in the lavender warmth of his posh shampoo.

After a moment, Draco got up, cleaned himself with a muttered charm, and changed into fresh shorts.

Ron rolled onto his side to watch him move. “You’re still wearing my shirt,” he said, warmth blooming in his chest at the sight of the gapped neckline, the way it framed Draco’s long, pale throat.

“You said I could keep it,” Draco replied, matter-of-fact, climbing back into bed.

He let Ron pull the duvet up and settle behind him, one arm sliding protectively across his waist.

“I’d love to see you in Gryffindor red and gold. Bet you’d look gorgeous in that. Although, to be fair, you look a treat in everything.”

Draco snorted. “I’m a cool winter, I’ll have you know. Red makes me look like I’ve got the flu. And gold—”

“Beautiful,” Ron insisted, squeezing him gently.

“You’re daft,” Draco murmured, but his voice was soft, almost pleased.

Their breath seemed to sync, and they fell asleep only minutes apart.

Chapter Text

“D’you need the mirror?” Ron asked, turning slightly with his toothbrush still in his mouth. He was mostly dressed for work, though his jacket and the navy tie he always wore were still waiting on the bed.

“Just admiring the view.”

Ron smiled back, then held up his razor. “Where do you want this? Sink’s too clean to leave it out.”

Draco nodded toward the mirror. “Cabinet’s charmed. Extension spell. Should be space.”

Ron opened it and slid the razor inside—then paused. His gaze caught on a small bottle tucked behind a shaving tin, black-stoppered and marked with a skull and crossbones.

Draco’s stomach gave a slow twist.

“What’s this?” Ron asked, lifting it carefully.

“Quietus potion.”

Ron turned, brows drawing together. “Quietus? That’s restricted. You’re not supposed to have it outside a hospital.”

“You’re not going to report me, are you, Auror?”

Ron didn’t smile. “Draco. Be serious. How often are you taking it?”

“Not often. I’ve been using a modified calming draught instead. Works almost as well.”

“And how often are you taking that?”

“Why does this feel like an interrogation?”

Ron set the bottle down on the sink. “Sorry. I do sound like an Auror sometimes.”

“My shop was trashed. Someone threatened me. Sometimes I need a little help staying calm.”

Ron moved closer, wrapping an arm around Draco’s waist. His other hand moved slowly along his back. “You’ve been through a lot,” he said softly. “I just wish…”

Draco tilted his head, not quite meeting his eyes. “Wish what?”

“That you’d talk to me. Instead of reaching for potions.”

Draco ducked his head, hair falling forward. “I just wanted to feel normal. Especially…”

“Especially?” Ron prompted.

“When I thought you were straight. It made it easier to be around you without giving anything away.”

“I hate that you felt like you had to hide that. Especially from me.”

“I’m not hiding it now,” Draco said, trying for lightness, though his voice came out thin.

“But you’re still taking calming draughts.” Ron hesitated. “Did you have one last night? Before we were together?”

Draco’s face went hot. “Yes,” he admitted. “It’s easier now, knowing you care for me, but it doesn’t make everything disappear.”

“I hate that this is something else you have to brace yourself for.”

Draco’s eyes burned. He turned toward the cabinet, reaching for the bottle. “I’ll get rid of it. Flush it, banish it—whatever. I don’t want you thinking you make things worse.”

“Wait.” Ron’s hand covered his, firm but gentle. “I’m not asking you to prove anything. I just want you to be yourself when you’re with me.”

Draco didn’t look up. “Be myself,” he repeated, dry. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“It means when you’re anxious or scared, you don’t have to cover it with potions or sarcasm.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “I’m not scared.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Ron said calmly. “I said you don’t have to hide it when you are.”

He reached up, cupping Draco’s face, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone.

“You’re brilliant. You’re resilient. You’re gorgeous, yes—but you also feel things deeply. That’s not a flaw. It’s one of the reasons I love you.”

Draco swallowed, throat tight. “You… love me.”

Ron nodded, voice low. “I just want to know what it feels like when you’re with me. Not dulled. Not buffered. Just you. If it’s too much, we’ll figure it out. But I want to try.”

Draco pressed his face into Ron’s shoulder. His eyes burned, and he knew Ron’s shirt would be damp when he pulled away.

“Okay,” he said, breath shaky. “I’ll try. For you.”

Ron held him tighter, hand steady at the small of his back. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I meant to say it differently. Something romantic. But it just… came out.”

Draco let out a shaky laugh, then stepped back, reaching into his trouser pocket. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. “You can make it up to me tonight,” he said, voice steadier now. “At our—date.”

Ron leaned in, eyes warm, like he meant to kiss him, but before he could, a sharp crack of Apparition echoed from the kitchen.

Trilby’s voice followed immediately, bright and getting closer. “Morning, Master Draco! Green juice, as requested—and a sausage roll you didn’t ask for, because juice is not breakfast and I refuse to pretend otherwise.”

He stepped into the hall, then stopped short at the sight of Ron.

“Auror Weasley. I didn’t realise we were entertaining.”

“He had a late shift,” Draco said, voice even as he folded the handkerchief. “I let him crash on the sofa.”

“Of course,” Trilby said, nodding with polite gravity. “Very civic-minded of you.”

He held out the sausage roll. “Perhaps the Auror would like something solid before he returns to duty.”

“Thanks,” Ron said, accepting it. “Perfect for the road.”

“Come with me to the kitchen,” Draco said quickly, steering Trilby away from the hall. “I need your help with something.”

“More gifts for your mother?” Trilby asked, glancing back toward the bedroom with a flicker of amusement.

“Not this time,” Draco said, lowering his voice. “I was thinking… maybe my tailor could make Auror Weasley a suit for the Phoenix Ball. As a thank-you.”

Trilby’s eyebrows lifted. “Thoughtful. He's broad through the chest, long in the leg—classic Auror proportions. I’d guess he’s a forty-two long—”

“Let’s keep it quiet,” Draco said, cutting in a touch too fast. “I’m not sure how he’ll take it.”

“You do hear things about Aurors and gift restrictions,” Trilby murmured, tapping his chin. “Leave it with me, sir. I’ll handle it.”

Ron stepped into the room, jacket buttoned, that navy tie knotted neatly at his throat. He took his greatcoat from the hook by the door and shrugged it on.

“Thanks again for letting me crash,” he said. “I’ll stop by with an update tonight. Probably around ten.”

“Perfect.” Draco met his gaze and held it. “I’ll see you then.”

Chapter Text

“We need to talk.”

Draco hung his coat, then paused to smooth the cuffs—left, then right. Behind him, Marcus stood silent, arms crossed. Still in yesterday’s suit. No fresh shirt. No sign he’d gone home.

“Fine,” Draco said. “In my office.”

He led the way. The door clicked shut behind them, and a privacy charm shimmered faintly as it settled over the room. Standard protocol, but Draco’s was tuned to block even magical eavesdropping.

He’d barely reached his desk when Marcus spoke.

“Why was Ron Weasley at your flat last night?”

Draco lowered himself into the chair and reached for the coffee Miss King always left—still hot, lid slightly askew. “He needed the contractor list for the St Mungo’s bid. He’s working a new angle on the break-in—thinks it might’ve been sabotage from a rival firm.”

Marcus didn’t sit. “He stayed all night.”

Draco took a sip. “We worked late.”

“He had a bag. Jones says it’s not the first time.”

“I offered the sofa,” Draco said evenly. “He’s been pulling long hours. It was either that or send him home half-drunk with a dozen files.”

“You really expect me to buy that?”

Draco didn’t answer.

“Has there been another threat?” Marcus leaned in, hands splayed on the desk. “No—you’d have said something.” His jaw tightened. “Is he blackmailing you?”

“You’re starting to sound like a bad play.”

“You’ve hated him for years,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “Now he’s sleeping on your sofa? Come on.”

“If you’re done, I have actual work to do.”

“I’m not done.” Marcus’ voice sharpened. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll have to go to my boss. And you know he’ll Floo the Manor before lunch.”

Draco stood, the chair scraping softly against the floor. “Don’t.”

“Then tell me.”

Draco slipped his hands into his pockets, hiding the tremor in his fingers. “You have to promise it stays between us. No one else can know.”

Marcus nodded slowly. “I wouldn’t be pushing if I didn’t think you were in trouble.”

“He’s not coercing me.”

Marcus waited.

Draco’s gaze dropped. “We’re involved,” he said. “It’s real. I just… can’t afford it being public.”

Marcus straightened, exhaling hard through his nose. “Draco, help me out. How do I know this isn’t Imperius?”

“You think Ron Weasley would use the Imperius Curse on me? He’s an Auror. A war hero.”

“That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “Fine. If you’re that convinced I’m compromised…”

He crossed to the bookshelf, fingers trailing over the spines until he found the emergency potions kit. A flick of his wand released the clasp. He pulled out a small vial—silvery-grey, faintly luminous.

“Revelio potion.” He held it up. “If I’m under anything—spell, potion, compulsion—it’ll show.”

Marcus stepped closer. “I know you hate this, but if someone’s got their hooks in you, I need to be the one who catches it.”

Draco uncorked the vial and tipped three drops onto his tongue. Bitter herbs lingered. Almost instantly, green light shimmered over his body, then faded—except for the faint glow of the Dark Mark, residual magic pulsing like an old scar.

“It always does that,” he said, arms folding. “Now do you believe me?”

“I had to ask. You know I did.”

Draco slid the vial back into place.

Marcus cleared his throat. “I didn’t know you were gay, but it’s not… shocking. The way you were in school. Still—Ronald Weasley?”

“You think I settled?”

“That’s not what I meant. I just didn’t know he swung that way. And with your history…”

“You don’t have to understand it.” He sat behind his desk again, hand already reaching for his quill. “My private life isn’t your concern.”

“Fair enough. For what it’s worth—I’m glad you’ve got someone.”

Draco’s quill paused mid-line, but he didn’t look up. “Get some rest, Marcus. You’re overdue.”

Marcus lingered, hand on the door. “I’m on nights while Jones is out. I’ll be back later.”

Draco nodded once, still focused on the page. “Alright.”

“If it’s too much, just say.”

Draco’s voice was quiet, even. “It’s fine.”

“Right. I’ll see you tonight.”

Draco stepped back to let Ron in, eyeing the Tesco bag with suspicion. “What’s that?”

Ron held it up—crinkled plastic, heavy with groceries. “Breakfast supplies,” he said, toeing off his boots and lining them up neatly beside Draco’s polished oxfords. “Just milk, eggs, a few vegetables.”

Draco’s gaze drifted to the handle poking out. He raised an eyebrow. “Is that a whisk?”

Ron grinned and set the bag on the kitchen island. “Ten points to Slytherin. Whisks are essential. You want a proper omelet, you whisk.”

Draco watched him unpack, trying not to fidget. He’d changed out of his suit earlier, and now the long-sleeved polo and casual trousers felt wrong—soft where he was used to structure. He kept tugging at the collar, as if that might make it sit right. As if Ron couldn’t see the seams of him, pulled taut without a calming draught to blur the edges.

“Trilby can bring whatever you want.”

“I know,” Ron said, placing the spinach in the fridge. “But I wanted to cook for you.”

He turned toward the table, eyes catching on the now-familiar votive candle flickering at the center. “Smells like chicken.”

Draco slid into his chair, smoothing the napkin across his lap. “And rice pilaf. Fennel and pear salad on the side.”

“You don’t wait dinner for me, do you? Auror hours are brutal.”

Draco shifted, the barest suggestion of a shrug. “St. Mungo’s needed Dragonburn salve. I spent most of the day brewing.”

“So we both spent the day saving people. In our own ways.” He reached across the table, fingers brushing Draco’s hand. “How’d it go with Marcus?”

Draco kept his eyes on his plate. “He didn’t believe the cover story. I tried, but…” His hand trembled, and he slipped it into his lap. “I had to tell him. About us.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m glad he knows.”

Draco looked up sharply. “How can you say that? If your family knew—your brothers—”

Ron reached for his hand again, slower this time. “They’d have opinions. Loud ones.” His thumb brushed Draco’s knuckles, not quite a squeeze. “But they’d see how you are with me, and I think they’d come around. Not overnight. But they would.”

Draco’s mouth twisted. “That’s a generous theory. Maybe you should test it on George first.”

“He doesn’t know the real you.”

“The real me.” He looked away. “How do you know the coward—the one who didn’t fight back, who let people get hurt—isn’t the real me?”

Ron held his gaze. “Because you had every out. You could’ve disappeared to France, lived off your vaults, let the war fade behind you. You chose the harder thing.”

Draco looked down. “I wish I could believe it’s that simple. Even if your family somehow accepted me, mine never will.” His voice thinned. “I don’t know how to explain that I’m not the son they built me to be. In his eyes, I stopped being a man the moment I chose this.”

Ron rose without a word and came around the table. He stood beside Draco’s chair, hand still wrapped around his. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he said. “I just needed you to feel it. That I love you.”

Draco drew a sharp breath, eyes stinging, and suddenly he was crying.

“Come on,” Ron said, helping Draco up. “Let’s get you somewhere warm. I need to hold you properly.”

Ron walked Draco to the bed, one hand steady at his back. “Where’s that shirt I gave you?”

Draco gestured vaguely toward the wardrobe. “Top drawer.”

Ron crossed the room, opened the drawer, and pulled out the faded Chudley Cannons t-shirt. He nudged aside a few neatly rolled cashmere socks and found his own pajama bottoms tucked beneath them.

He returned to the bedside, voice low. “Want help changing?”

Draco blinked at him, brow furrowing. “You want to? Why would you?”

Ron gave a small shrug. “I like looking after you.” He reached for the hem of Draco’s polo but didn’t lift it yet. “Will you let me?”

Draco swallowed, then raised his arms. Ron eased the shirt up, carefully avoiding the Dark Mark. He pulled the oversized t-shirt over Draco’s head, smoothing it down gently.

“Trousers next.”

Draco hesitated, then leaned back against the pillows. He lifted his hips, trembling slightly as Ron slid the trousers down, leaving the silk boxers in place.

Ron stripped off his own shirt and tie, folding them neatly and draping them over the armchair. Draco watched him undress, eyes lingering on the warm line of hair across Ron’s chest, the way it tapered down over his stomach and disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers.

“Okay if I just wear my pajama bottoms?”

Draco nodded, slow and silent. Ron stepped out of his trousers, pulled on the pajamas, and climbed into bed beside him.

“Accio chocolates,” he murmured.

The Rococo box zipped into his hand, orange ribbon still perfectly tied.

He offered it to Draco. “You don’t have to talk. Just chew.”

Draco hesitated over the flavors, then chose a sea salt caramel. He bit down, chewing quietly—not tasting much, but craving the comfort of being cared for.

“You like caramels. I’ll remember that.”

Ron chose a blood orange truffle, the paper rustling softly before he set the box on the nightstand. Then he lifted his arm and shifted closer, letting Draco curl into the warmth of his bare chest.

“Should I get a calming draught?”

Draco shook his head, turning his face slightly into Ron’s skin. “I’m alright now.”

They ate in silence. Draco’s body finally began to unclench, each breath growing steadier as he rested against Ron’s side. He was just starting to feel the edges of calm when Ron spoke again, voice low and close against his hair.

“I know I fuss. I just… I like looking after you. If that’s alright.”

Draco swallowed, throat tight. “It’s not easy. Letting someone see me like this. But… I don’t want you to stop.”

“Good.”

He hesitated, then continued.

“What you said about your father—it stuck with me. I hate thinking you’ve had to carry that kind of shame.” His thumb traced a slow line along Draco’s arm. “And it makes me worry. When I take care of you like this… does it make that feeling worse? Like I’m proving him right somehow?”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to cry again. Not a second time. Not with Ron still watching him like that—like he was something fragile and worth holding.

“I’m afraid of the things I want from you,” he said, voice low and uneven. “I don’t want to lose your respect.”

“You won’t.” Ron's voice was quiet but certain. “I only want to take care of you—the way you’ve taken care of me. With my arm. With this place. And… last night.”

Draco’s face went hot. “You really want that? I mean... it’s not exactly your usual.”

“You mean because I’ve only ever been with women.”

Draco nodded, eyes flicking away. “I just… I don’t want to be something you tolerate.”

Ron’s brows lifted. “Tolerate? No. I wanted it. I want you.”

Draco looked down at their hands. “You might not know everything I want yet.”

“Then tell me. Or don’t. I’ll figure it out eventually. I’m very motivated.”

Draco let out a shaky breath that might’ve been a laugh. “I’m not sure you know what you’re volunteering for.”

“Try me.”

“Maybe later.” Draco’s fingers traced the pillowcase. “Right now I just want to sleep next to you. Literally sleep. Nothing coded.”

Ron nodded and flicked off the lamp, the room dimming in an instant. “Alright. Sleep it is.”

Draco closed his eyes, more at ease now that Ron couldn’t see him clearly. The slow rhythm of breath beneath his cheek steadied him.

“Goodnight, Ron.”

Ron squeezed him gently. “Goodnight, Draco.”

Chapter Text

The café was half full. Conversation hummed at a steady pitch, and the milk steamer hissed in slow, predictable bursts. Ron ordered a coffee and a blueberry muffin, then chose a small table by the window—back to the room, eyes on the door.

Susan arrived a few minutes later, still in the white apron that marked her as Hogwarts’ matron. It looked like something out of a different decade—crisp, formal, and slightly out of place. A couple of Muggles at the next table glanced over, puzzled. At least she’d left the cap off.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. “Want anything? Coffee? Tea?”

“No, I’m fine. Can’t stay long.” She glanced over her shoulder—quick, habitual—then leaned in just enough to make the gesture feel deliberate. “My contact asked me to give you this.”

She slid the coin across the table. Dull gold, stamped with fine numerals around the edge. Ron picked it up and turned it once between his fingers.

“Looks like the old DA ones,” he said.

Susan gave a small smile. “Yeah. Makes you think whoever made it was in the DA.”

She hesitated. “You don’t think it’s Harry, do you?”

“If it is, he’s been keeping secrets. I’d’ve thought he’d loop me in before now.”

He let the coin sit in his palm a second longer, then slipped it into his pocket. “Still works the same? Time shows round the edge?”

“Yeah. It’ll heat up when there’s a meeting. Broken Wand, ten-ish. Quiet back room.”

Ron nodded. “Right. Low profile.”

Susan brushed a few crumbs off the table with the side of her hand. Then she adjusted her sleeve, glanced at the coin again. “I know how it sounds. Signing on with someone I’ve barely spoken to.”

“Honestly,” Ron said, keeping his tone even, “if this lot’s serious about doing what the Ministry won’t… I’m not picky about who’s running it.”

That landed. Her shoulders eased, just slightly. She looked down at his empty cup, then back at him.

“I’ll let him know you’ve got it,” she said.

“I’ll be ready.”

She stood, smoothing the front of her apron with one hand. “Take care, Ron.”

Then she turned and walked out, quick and quiet, without looking back.

Robards turned the coin in his palm, watching the light catch on its edge. Then he looked at Ron. The smile he gave wasn’t warm, but it was the first Ron had seen since the case began.

“Well done,” he said. “I figured you’d be useful on this one. If it pans out, we’re not just dealing with the Malfoy vandal—we might finally get a line on Mourning Star.”

Ron nodded. “Wouldn’t mind putting that name to bed.”

Robards flipped the coin once more, then dropped it into a narrow evidence pouch. “I’ll have the Unspeakables strip it down. If it’s hiding anything—curses, trackers, layered concealments—they’ll find it.”

He sealed the pouch with a flick of his wand. “Once it’s cleared, I want you carrying it. Keep it on you. If it activates, we move.”

Ron nodded again. “Who’s backing me up?”

Robards raised an eyebrow. “You have a preference?”

“Harry, if he’s free. And if we’re pulling Unspeakables—I’d take Parkinson.”

Robards frowned. “Can’t pair Potter and Parkinson anymore. They filed relationship papers. Protocol says we keep them separate in the field.”

Ron kept his tone neutral. “Didn’t realize that was official.”

Robards gave him a long look—clearly unconvinced—but let it go. “You’ll have Potter. I’ll sort the rest.”

Ron hesitated, then said, “Whoever’s running this cell—they’ve got Ministry contacts. Smith proved that. How do we know who’s clean?”

Robards leaned back slightly. “You suspect anyone?”

“Not yet,” Ron said. “The DA coins are public knowledge now. Skeeter made sure of that. Protean Charm’s tricky, but doable—especially if they’re working in tandem.”

Robards nodded once. “I’ll handpick your team. I want this bastard in custody. If we’re lucky, he talks. Better luck—we get the master coin. Then we invite the whole cell to a meeting they won’t walk out of.”

Ron allowed himself a small smile. “That’d be something, sir.”

Robards checked his watch. “Right. Prep your gear and stay reachable. I’ll be in touch.”

As soon as he left Robards’ office, Ron spotted the familiar mess of hair rising over the grey partition that separated his cubicle from Harry’s. He headed straight for it.

“Fancy a coffee?” he asked, voice low but already halfway to a grin.

Harry looked up from a stack of files, distracted for a beat. Then he clocked Ron’s face and stood, stretching. “Yeah, go on. Could use a breather.”

They walked toward the lifts. Ron didn’t speak again until the doors closed behind them.

“So. Parkinson agreed to go public.”

Harry glanced over, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Robards told you?”

Ron shrugged. “Said you filed papers.”

Harry exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. She brought it up. I didn’t push. Just… said yes before she could change her mind.”

Ron nodded once. “You might want to tell Mum before she reads it in the Prophet.”

Harry scratched the back of his neck. “That’s the plan. I was hoping you’d be there. Sunday? You making it home for roast, or is the office holding you hostage again?”

“I’ll be there.” Ron’s grin was brief, but his tone was steady. “Mum’s mostly over the Ginny thing. These days she’s more interested in pestering Neville about when he’s going to propose. Still… not sure how she’ll take it.”

Harry’s smile faded. “Yeah. That’s why I need backup. We can… ease her into it.”

The lift doors opened. A few solicitors stepped in, murmuring about courtroom three. Ron stepped aside to make room, then fell into step beside Harry as they headed toward the canteen.

“I’ll vouch for her,” Ron said quietly. “Tried to get her on my case, actually. Not happening—Robards won't put you in the field together.”

Harry grimaced. “Yeah. She’s off my forensics queue too. I’m stuck with Ferris.”

He paused, then added, “Still. Wouldn’t change it.”

“Alright if I come up?” Marcus asked, stepping into the private lift beside Draco. “Wards need refreshing.”

“Fine.”

Draco leaned back against the wall, drained. He’d spent the day brewing scar-healing potion for Ron’s arm and didn’t have the energy for conversation.

They rode in silence until Marcus finally said, “Are we expecting company tonight?”

“Ron’s coming for dinner.”

“Will he be staying?”

Draco turned his head, expression sharp.

“It’s a security question,” Marcus said evenly. “Not personal.”

“Yes. He’s staying.”

The lift opened. Draco unlocked the flat with a flick of his wand and stepped inside. Trilby was already bustling around the kitchen, several boxes on the island and a garment bag draped over one of the conjured dining chairs.

“Master Draco, Mr. Flint,” Trilby called cheerfully. “Dinner’s nearly ready—herb-crusted rack of lamb with minted pea purée, and a lovely Bordeaux—”

“Thank you, Trilby,” Draco said, eyes narrowing at the garment bag. “What’s that?”

Marcus paused behind him, gaze fixed.

“Oh, that!” Trilby snapped his fingers. The bag opened, revealing a tailored black dinner jacket and trousers. The suit inflated gently, shaped to Ron’s exact proportions.

“Traditional black tie,” Trilby explained. “I thought it might suit the occasion. I also brought your cufflinks from the vault, in case there’s something you’d like to lend—or give—the Auror.”

Draco stepped closer, brushing his fingers over the lapel. “Good idea,” he murmured, then turned toward the leather box on the kitchen island. He flipped it open and frowned down at the contents.

“You bought Weasley a suit?” Marcus folded his arms. “Has he gotten other gifts?”

“Just chocolates,” Trilby said, stepping in with quiet enthusiasm. “But you did mention cufflinks last week, sir—so I spoke with Alphonse. He says a lionhead design would be easy to commission. Emerald eyes, if you like. Very striking. Unless you’d prefer something from your vault?”

Draco glanced down at the open box, fingers brushing the edge. “It’s worth considering,” he murmured. “Though I’m fairly certain I’ve still got that crown-shaped pair from Nicholas Malfoy’s estate…”

Marcus exhaled. “Trilby, I need a moment alone with your master.”

Trilby looked between them, ears twitching. “Have I said something wrong?”

“It’s not you,” Marcus said. “Just a private word.”

Trilby turned to Draco for confirmation.

Draco gave a small nod. “You can leave it with me. Pick it up tomorrow.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll stop by in the morning to collect it.”

With a snap of his fingers, the suit rose from the chair and slipped into the garment bag. It zipped closed, hovered across the room, and settled into the hall closet, hanging itself neatly beside Draco’s winter coats.

“Afternoon,” Draco said, without looking up. “I’ve got an early meeting. I’d prefer not to be interrupted.”

Trilby inclined his head. “Very well, sir. Goodnight, Master Draco.” He turned to Marcus, tone more reserved. “Mr. Flint.”

The moment Trilby vanished, Marcus shifted. “I need to say something, and you’re not going to like it.”

“You’ve already decided to. So say it.”

Marcus hesitated. “Look, I know it’s not my business. But Weasley’s never been with a man. Not publicly. And now he’s spending nights here, wearing your money. That’s a sharp turn. You sure he’s not playing a part?”

Draco’s eyes flashed. “We already had this conversation. The Revelio potion cleared him.”

“Magic isn’t the only way people get manipulated,” Marcus said. “You’re rich. He’s not. He’s an Auror. You’re…” He swallowed. “There’s an imbalance. And imbalance gets exploited.”

Draco’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Get out.”

“Draco—”

“You’re here because I trust you. Don’t mistake that for permission to insult the one person I—” He cut himself off. “Get out.”

Marcus exhaled, then nodded. “Alright. I crossed a line.” He glanced toward the hallway. “The wards—”

“Ron can handle them.” Draco’s face was pale, two bright spots of color burning on his cheeks. “I don’t want to see you.”

Marcus nodded once. “I’ll give you space.”

Draco’s voice was quiet but final. “And if you ever say something like that to him, we’re done.”

Marcus paused, hand on the door. “Understood.”

“Can you change the wards?”

Ron hung up his Auror greatcoat. “Change them how?”

He turned, eyes catching on Draco’s waistcoat—charcoal grey, still buttoned. “I love when you’re still dressed for work,” he said, drawing him in for a kiss. “Not that I don’t like the casual stuff too. Just… there’s something about being the only one who gets to see you like this.”

Draco’s mouth twitched. “That does it for you, does it?”

Ron hummed, already reaching for the buttons. “Can I take this off you?”

Draco caught his hands. “We should eat first. Trilby brought lamb.”

Ron kissed him once more, then moved to the table. “Alright. So—how exactly do you want me to change the wards?” He poured Bordeaux into Draco’s glass, then served himself.

“I thought… since you’ll be coming and going, it might be more efficient to key your magic to the door.”

Ron paused with the bottle in hand. “You want me keyed in?”

Draco’s cheeks warmed. “You don’t have to say yes. It just seemed simpler than having me let you in every time.”

“No, I want that.” 

Draco met his eyes. “I want you to feel comfortable here. Come and go as you like. Even if I’m working.”

Ron smiled, picking up his knife. “Thanks. I do.” He started cutting his lamb. “How was work?”

“I brewed more scar-healing potion for your arm. I thought… after dinner…”

Ron chewed slowly, noting the tightness in his expression. “Will it keep a few days? You look like you’ve got nothing left. I was thinking—shower, then sleep.”

Draco sighed. “I am feeling a bit… enervated.”

“No surprise. It’s a complex potion.” Ron nudged his foot against Draco’s under the table. “I’ve got news that might interest you.”

“About the case?”

“Better.” Ron took a sip of water. “Guess who Harry’s dating.”

Draco blinked. “Harry Potter?”

Ron grinned. “Pansy Parkinson.”

Draco stared. “Seriously?”

“He asked me to talk to my mum. She’s always been Harry’s, too.” Ron pushed peas around his plate. “If she’s okay with Pansy, it might help when it’s our turn.”

Draco adjusted his napkin. Ron caught the faint tremor in his fingers.

“No rush,” Ron added, watching him. “We go at our own pace. I just thought you’d want to know. Pansy’s a friend, right?”

Draco exhaled. “I’ve never been a particularly good one, if I’m honest.”

“Still. I thought you’d be glad. If my family accepts her…”

“No, you’re right.” Draco reached across the table, squeezed his hand. “It’s… promising.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Draco cleared his throat. “I got another letter from Magical Corrections.”

Ron looked up.

“This one’s legitimate. They say I can visit Greg, if I have an Auror escort to Azkaban. I was hoping—”

“Course.” Ron nodded. “We can go tomorrow, if you want.”

Draco blinked. “I thought you’d need more warning.”

“I had a breakthrough on the case. The evidence is with the Unspeakables now.” He reached for his glass. “So we’re clear. At least until they finish processing it.”

“Then tomorrow it is.”

After dinner, Ron showed Draco how to do the washing up properly. Normally they banished the dishes, but they’d need them intact if Ron was going to cook breakfast.

“I didn’t think you’d know what to do with a sponge,” Ron said, amused. “But you’ve got a decent hand with a washing charm.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but he smiled. “I use them in the lab. Cauldrons don’t clean themselves. Your drying charm’s new to me, though… we just leave things on the rack.”

“We could get one,” Ron said, folding the tea towel and hanging it across the stove handle. “There’s no one right way to do it.”

He turned, eyes landing on the leather box on the kitchen island.

“What’s that?”

Draco looked at the box, the memory of Marcus’ words returning. “Cufflinks. From the Malfoy vaults. Trilby brought them out—thought I might want to pick something for the Phoenix Ball.”

“Looking forward to it. You always look good—elegant.” Ron stepped closer, hand settling on Draco’s lower back. “Want to shower together, or should I give you a minute?” 

“You first,” Draco said, stepping back. “I’ll finish tidying up.”

When Draco joined Ron in the bedroom, he was wearing the now-familiar Chudley Cannons shirt.

“This looks alright, doesn’t it?” he asked, running a hand through his hair. “You said you liked it when I looked elegant…”

Ron stepped closer, keeping his touch light. Draco had pulled back earlier, and Ron wanted him to know he’d listened.

“I like you in anything,” he said. “But yeah—this especially. You feel more… mine, like this.”

Draco gave a small, crooked smile. “I’m not always yours?”

“I’d like to think so.” Ron smiled back. “But seeing you in my kit… it’s different. I’ve got a sweatshirt from Auror Academy you could have, if you want something else.”

Draco looked up. “You’d give me that?”

“I told you I liked seeing you in my things. Maybe now you’ll believe me.” He leaned in, brushing his nose against Draco’s jaw—smooth, freshly shaved, faintly lavender.

“Bring it tomorrow,” Draco said, turning toward the bed. He pulled back the duvet and made space for Ron to lie down in his usual spot.

“C’mere,” Ron said once he was flat on his back, arms open.

Draco curled onto his chest, breathing deeply.

“Nox.” Ron extinguished the light.

“Goodnight, Ron—and… thanks. For not pushing.” Draco swallowed, grateful Ron couldn’t see his face. “Sometimes this is what I need.”

“I need it too,” Ron said, stroking his hair gently.

“I know George will probably start asking questions if you’re always here, but I… I don’t care. I want you with me.”

“Then I’ll be here,” Ron said simply.

Draco’s breathing settled quickly, and within minutes, they were both asleep.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

“That was the best omelette I’ve ever had,” Draco said, folding his napkin and placing it neatly beside his empty plate.

Ron grinned and carried their dishes to the sink. “You don’t have to stroke my ego. Trilby feeds you better than this three times a week.”

“I’m not stroking anything,” Draco said, stepping in behind him. He slid his arms around Ron’s waist, chin settling lightly on his shoulder. “Food tastes better when you make it.”

Ron huffed — not quite a laugh. “Glad you liked it. We’ve got time to grab coffee on the way in.”

Draco watched the washing charm flicker across the plates. When Ron turned to dry his hands, Draco let go.

“You won’t be able to take your wand into Azkaban,” Ron said, quieter now. “Might be easier to leave it here. Otherwise you’ll have to check it with the reception officer.”

“I’ll leave it. I trust you to keep me in one piece.”

Ron reached up, thumb grazing Draco’s cheek. “I’m going to shave. Then we’ll head out.”

Draco returned to the bedroom. The duvet was rumpled, a few Potions journals stacked on the nightstand, but the space still felt more like a high-end hotel than a home. He straightened the bed with the charm Ron used, then opened the drawer and slid the journals inside, hesitating just long enough to notice the book beneath them — The Joy of Gay Sex, spine still uncracked. He’d had it for weeks. Barely touched it.

He shut the drawer with a snap. He had more important things to think about.

At the mirror, he adjusted his tie. For the visit, he’d chosen one of his most conservative suits — grey, two-piece, well-cut — with a white shirt and a navy tie to match Ron’s. He looked neat. Pale, maybe. Tired, certainly. But neat.

“You look good,” Ron said, appearing behind him.

Draco turned, hands slipping into his trouser pockets. “Are we allowed to bring Greg anything? Food? Drink? I can’t imagine what they’re feeding him in there.”

Ron shook his head. “Photos and letters are fine. Books too, if the reception officer signs off.”

“Doubleday said I should bring these.” Draco crossed to the dresser and picked up a small bundle of parchment, tied neatly with string. “My letters to Greg. The ones that got sent back.”

“That’s perfect,” Ron said, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. “We’ve only got thirty minutes. He’ll be glad to have something to hold onto.”

Draco nodded, straightening. “Maybe this way he won’t think I forgot about him. That I just… stopped caring.”

“He knows,” Ron said. “He has to. Not even his family could visit until Hermione got the restriction lifted.”

Draco gave a short nod. “Right.” He adjusted his cuff, then glanced toward the door. “Ready when you are.”

The guard at the intake desk looked up as they approached. “Morning, sir.” His eyes flicked to Draco, and the polite tone cooled. “Name?”

“Draco Malfoy,” Ron said before Draco could speak. “He’s here to visit Gregory Goyle. I’m his Auror escort.”

The guard gave a short nod and pulled a heavy ledger from beneath the counter. “Visitors need to sign in.” He slid it across the desk without looking up. “No wands past this point. If you’ve got one, hand it over.”

“I didn’t bring one,” Draco said, reaching for the quill. “There are some letters in my pocket.”

The guard gave a noncommittal grunt, still avoiding his gaze. “Fine. Once you’re signed in, you’ll be tagged for internal tracking. Standard protocol.”

As Draco finished signing, a faint shimmer passed over his wrist—the charm activating with a soft pulse.

The guard scanned Ron’s wand, then handed it back. “You’ve got thirty minutes. Officer Davies will take you to the visitors’ wing. Any questions?”

Ron shook his head. “We’re all set.”

Davies led them down a narrow corridor to a small, windowless room, lit by a harsh overhead lighting charm that cast a cold, clinical glow. A steel table sat bolted to the floor, flanked by three hard-backed chairs. Greg was already seated, his wrists locked in charm-bound restraints—thick steel cuffs anchored to the tabletop, faintly pulsing with containment runes.

He looked up as they entered. His posture shifted, shoulders straightening out of habit more than confidence. He’d lost weight, and his skin had the dull, waxy pallor of someone kept indoors too long.

Ron turned toward the guard. “I’ll take it from here. Hold position outside.”

“Understood, Auror.”

He stepped back and sealed the door with a flick of his wand. The locking charm clicked into place, leaving the room quiet but charged.

Draco hesitated, fingers twitching at his cuffs. Then he crossed to the chair opposite Greg and sat down, spine straight.  

“I tried to come sooner.” His voice sounded too formal in the room, too clean. “Letters, visit requests. The Ministry blocked all of it.”

Greg shifted, the restraints creaking as his shoulders moved. “I know. Granger told me. She’s my lawyer now.” His eyes flicked to Ron, then dropped back to the table.

Draco reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, fingers brushing parchment. He pulled out the bundle and set it on the table, nudging it forward just shy of the containment line.

“I wrote every week,” he said quietly. “They kept coming back. After a while, I thought maybe you didn’t want them.”

Greg’s eyes dropped to the parchment, then back to Draco. “I got the first one. After that, they stopped letting anything through.”

Draco nodded, jaw tight. “I should’ve pushed harder.”

Greg gave a brittle laugh, the sound scraping out of him. “You were in Germany. Brewing potions. Azkaban probably wasn’t top of mind.”

Draco’s fingers curled against his knee, then loosened. “I wasn’t a good friend. Sometimes I wonder if you’d even be here if not for me.”

“My father followed Him. Same as yours.” Greg looked up, eyes dull but steady. “Do I hate that you walked out while I got dragged under? Some days more than others. But I wouldn’t wish this place on anyone.”

He glanced at Ron again, like he expected a correction or a defense. When none came, he went on.

“It looks better now. No dementors. Spell-lit corridors. Food’s passable. But it’s still a prison.”

He shifted in his seat, the restraints clinking softly. “Nearly everyone in here followed the Dark Lord. Some still go on about bloodlines, but the rest just like hurting people. No Muggle-borns in here. So they settle for each other.”

Draco’s voice dropped. “Have they hurt you?”

Greg shook his head, but the movement was too fast, too practiced. “You learn fast who not to look at. Who not to speak near.”

“There’s got to be something I can do. What about your lawyers—are they saying anything?”

“Ash & Adler handled my trial. Best our family could afford. They stuck around until the vault ran dry—then stopped answering owls.” He rubbed his thumb against the edge of the table, a nervous tic. “If it weren’t for Granger and the rest of the do-gooders at her firm, I wouldn’t have anyone.”

Draco straightened, instinctively reaching for control. “Then I’ll hire someone better. Doubleday handled my family’s appeals. He’s sharp, strategic—”

“I want Granger.” Greg’s voice was flat, but his jaw had set. “I trust her.”

Draco hesitated, then gave a single nod. “All right. If that’s what you want, I’ll make sure she stays on.”

“Five minutes,” Ron said quietly. It was the first time he’d spoken. Greg flinched at the sound, then glanced over—wary, like he wasn’t sure if it was a warning or a courtesy.

Draco leaned forward. “Can I bring you anything next time? I think you’re allowed books. Photographs.”

Greg licked his lips, dry and cracked. “Didn’t Skeeter write a biography of Potter?” He gave a faint shrug. “I’d like to read that.”

Draco frowned. “Sure. If that’s what you want.”

Greg nodded, eyes dropping to his hands. “Granger doesn’t talk about herself much, but she mentioned something once—charity work at Hogwarts. For Muggle-born kids. Make a donation.”

Draco’s throat worked as he swallowed. “I will.”

A knock broke the silence. The guard opened the door, the locking rune pulsing once—bright, then dim—before fading.

“Time’s up,” he said, stepping back.

Ron nodded, already rising. “Understood. We’re done here.”

Draco stood more slowly, reluctant. “The Ministry allows one visit a week. I’ll be back next Tuesday, if that’s all right.”

Greg gave a small nod, eyes distant. “I’ll be here.”

Back on the street, Ron reached out instinctively, fingers brushing Draco’s shoulder.

Draco flinched—just a twitch, but enough. His eyes flicked up, guilt flashing before he caught himself. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I wasn’t expecting—”

Ron let his hand drop. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Just wanted you to know I’m here.”

Draco gave a tight nod, eyes flicking away. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He checked his watch, then slipped it back under his sleeve. “I just… I need to do something. Sitting with it isn’t helping.” He hesitated. “Do you think Granger might be free?”

“We can check. She usually answers fast if she’s got a minute.” Ron raised his wand, touched it to his tongue, and sent his Patronus—a burst of silvery light that shot down the cobbled lane like a flare.

“It’s still a Jack Russell Terrier, then,” Draco muttered, barely audible. He folded his arms, scanning the street as witches and wizards passed by—robes swishing, parcels tucked under arms, the scent of roasted chestnuts and ink drifting from nearby shopfronts. A delivery owl skimmed overhead, wings stirring the air.

Before long, a silvery otter darted into view, circling Ron’s feet before pausing to speak in Hermione’s voice:

“I’m at the Gryphon’s Head. I’ve got a few minutes, if you can meet me for lunch.”

The pub was only a few blocks away, but by the time they arrived, the lunch rush had thinned—just a few stragglers nursing butterbeer or scribbling notes over half-eaten meals. Hermione sat in the back corner, briefcase open, a stack of parchment beside her and a glass of lemon water in hand.

Ron led the way, giving Hermione a nod as he slid into the seat across from her. “Thanks for making time. You know Draco Malfoy—we just came from visiting Goyle at Azkaban.”

Hermione closed her briefcase with a soft click. “Hi, Ron.” Her eyes flicked to Draco. “Malfoy. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Granger.” Draco sat down across from her, posture rigid. “Greg said you’re part of his legal team.”

“I am,” Hermione said, tucking a curl behind her ear. “My firm picked up his case after Ash & Adler dropped him. We were assigned through the Ministry’s legal aid rotation.”

Draco nodded once, jaw tight. “He told me. I want to hire you to file his appeal.”

Hermione blinked, then sat back slightly. “That’s… generous. But appeals from Azkaban are high-profile, and I’m not senior enough to lead one. It would have to go through one of the partners.”

“I’ll pay whatever’s required. He mentioned your charity for Muggle-born students—if that’s easier, I’d be happy to donate.”

Hermione glanced at Ron, then back at Draco. “It’s not about money. It’s about firm policy and experience. I can’t promise anything.”

Draco’s fingers tapped once against the table. “Just… ask. Please.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “All right. I’ll bring it to my supervisor.”

Draco held her gaze. “Thanks. I know you don’t owe us anything. Least of all your time.”

Hermione was quiet for a moment. “Everyone deserves to be heard, Malfoy.” Then she stood, gathering her briefcase. “I’ll speak to her this afternoon. If there’s a path forward, I’ll let you know.”

Draco passed the kitchen island for the third time, loosening his tie. “What are you doing?”

“Making hot chocolate,” Ron said, whisking one of the Rococo truffles into warm milk. “Thought it might help. But if you’d rather a calming draught, I can grab one.”

Draco stopped pacing and sank onto the sofa, elbows on knees, hands over his face. “I hate this,” he muttered. “Being like this. Especially with you.”

Ron poured the chocolate into one of Draco’s minimalist white mugs and brought it over, setting it within reach. “You don’t have to perform for me,” he said gently. “If you’re struggling, I’d rather see that than have you pretend you’re fine.”

Draco glanced up, eyes tired. “You still want this?” His voice was low, almost wary. “After today?”

“Yeah. I do.” Ron sat beside him, draping an arm across the back of the sofa. Draco hesitated, then leaned into the space Ron offered, letting his shoulders drop.

“Talk to me. Seeing Goyle like that… it must’ve hit hard.”

Draco stared into the mug. “He’s where I should be. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

“No.” Ron frowned. “I don’t think you should be in Azkaban. And I don’t think Greg belongs there either—not with people like Rookwood and Rowle.”

“But he is there.” Draco set the mug down, voice tightening. “And everything he did—he did because I pushed him. In the Room of Requirement, at the battle… Vince died because of me.”

Ron shook his head. “You didn’t cast Fiendfyre. You didn’t kill anyone.”

“I egged them on. And now Greg’s rotting in a cell while I’m here, drinking chocolate and pretending I deserve any of this.”

Ron reached for his hand. “Greg’s family backed Voldemort, same as yours.”

“But we didn’t get the same punishment.”

Ron’s grip tightened. “So what are you saying? That you want to be punished more? Or that Greg should get out? Because right now, I can’t tell which one you’re fighting for.”

Draco swallowed, throat tight. “Maybe both.” He looked away. “You know I did worse things than Greg. Do you honestly think I deserve to walk free?”

Ron’s voice was firm. “I don’t think you have walked free. You spent years in Aurich studying potions so you could heal people. You came back because you wanted to make things right.”

Draco reached for his handkerchief, voice thick. “Choosing penance isn’t the same as being held accountable. You know that.”

“So it’s not fair.”

Draco looked up sharply at the steel in Ron’s voice, but Ron didn’t soften.

“Harry’s parents were murdered before he could speak. Sirius rotted in Azkaban for twelve years for a crime he didn’t commit. Lupin spent his life hiding from people who feared him for something he couldn’t control.”

Ron’s jaw tightened. “Hell, even Tom Riddle grew up in a Muggle orphanage, unloved by anyone. That wasn’t fair either. But he still made choices. So did you. So did I.”

He took Draco’s hand again. “Fair’s never really been the measure, has it? We get what we get—and we decide what to do with it. Doesn’t matter if we earned it, inherited it, or just got stuck with it.”

Draco’s breath caught. “Ron…”

His lip trembled. He leaned in, pressing his face to Ron’s shoulder—not collapsing, just needing cover. Ron let him, one hand steady on his back, the other resting lightly on his arm.

“I’m proud of you,” Ron said, voice low. “Whatever comes next—we’ll deal with it. Together.”

Draco gave a short laugh, but Ron could hear the tears in it. “Could I have that calming draught? I think I’d rather sleep now, if that’s alright.”

Ron stood, gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ll get it.”

Draco nodded, eyes fixed on the knot of Ron’s tie. “You’ll stay? While I rest?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

When Ron returned to the bedroom, Draco was already under the duvet, eyes closed but clearly awake. He sat up just enough to drink his calming draught, then settled again—head resting on the silken pillow.

“You’re not sleeping?”

Ron brushed a bit of hair off his forehead. “Thought I’d read for a bit. That book you showed me.”

Draco’s eyes opened, just a sliver. “The Joy of Gay Sex?” he said, trying to keep his tone neutral. “It’s in the nightstand. Left drawer.”

Ron summoned it wandlessly, flipping to the index. “Might doze off later. Just… still a bit wired.”

“What chapter?” Draco murmured, trying to shift so he could see.

“Starting at the beginning. Seemed like the logical move.”

Draco let out a slow breath, tension easing. “I didn’t think I was tired. But now that I’m here…”

Ron’s hand moved gently through his hair, nails grazing his scalp in slow, steady strokes. “Rest if you can. I’ll give you a full report when you wake up.”

Draco smiled faintly, eyes drifting closed. Within minutes, his breathing had deepened, and he was asleep.

Chapter Text

“You’re still in bed,” Daphne said, tapping once on the doorframe. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, ponytail damp at the nape. She was still in her running gear—leggings, windbreaker, wand tucked into the sleeve elastic. “Should I be worried?”

Pansy blinked slowly, her arm draped over her eyes. “Just tired.”

Daphne sat carefully on the edge of the mattress, avoiding the dip near Pansy’s hip. “Did you sleep?”

“I did,” she murmured, voice muffled against the pillow. “I just… still feel wrecked.” She turned her head slightly, then winced. “Is that coffee?”

“Flat white. Extra hot.”

Pansy grimaced and pulled the pink toile duvet higher, the delicate sketches of nymphs and urns bunching around her shoulders. “It smells awful.”

Daphne blinked, surprised. She glanced down at the paper cup in her hand, then crossed to the far side of the room and set it on the windowsill. “Sorry. I thought it might help.” She cracked the window open a few inches, letting in a thread of cold air. The scent of coffee thinned. “How’d it go with Robards?”

Pansy exhaled, eyes still closed. “I think he resents the whole idea of relationship paperwork. Would’ve preferred we kept it quiet and let him pretend not to notice.”

“Well, it’s in the system now. And you know how fast things move once internal memos start flying. I give it a week—maybe less—before someone tips off the Prophet.”

Pansy pressed her fingers to her temple. “Ron knows. Harry says he took it well. He’s telling the rest today—over Sunday roast. Just trying to get ahead of it before Molly reads something in Witch Weekly and decides I’ve corrupted him beyond repair.”

“I still think it was smart—screening your mail before the disclosure went through,” Daphne said. “That was Harry’s idea, wasn’t it?”

Pansy let out a breath. “He’s had his share of strange letters. Figured I’d start getting them too, once word got out.” Her stomach turned again—sharp, sour. “Not to be rude, but could you move the coffee? The smell’s making me nauseous.”

Daphne glanced toward the windowsill. “I thought cracking the window would help, but I’ll get rid of it.” She stood, lifted the cup, and vanished it with a quiet flick of her wand. “Better?”

Pansy nodded, eyes still closed. “Thanks.”

Daphne lingered by the window. “You don’t think…” she said slowly.

“Think what?”

Daphne hesitated. “Could you be pregnant?”

Pansy sat up, robe summoning itself with a flick of her fingers. The silk settled gracefully over her shoulders. “That’s not even—no.” She let out a short laugh, dry and automatic. “Absolutely not.”

Daphne lifted a hand, not quite apologetic. “Ignore me. I’ve had pregnancy on the brain all week. Ever since Tracey’s announcement.”

“Merlin, I forgot. That’s this weekend?”

“I sent your rose tea dress to the cleaners with mine. Take the dove grey fascinator—it suits you better anyway.”

“Thanks, Daph. You’re a lifesaver.”

Still groggy, Pansy padded into the bathroom. The mirror was fogged from the charm she’d set the night before—steam without heat, meant to ease her sinuses. She reached into the drawer for her hair tonic, nearly empty, and found something tucked behind it: a Muggle pregnancy test. Still sealed. Part of a two-pack Daphne had bought after that thing with Adrian Pucey at her sister’s coming out party.

Pansy stared at it for a moment.

She’d been sleeping more than usual. Off her food. The coffee had made her nauseous. It wasn’t likely, but it wasn’t impossible either.

There’d been that one time in the office. On Harry’s desk.

She opened the box, eyes scanning the instructions.

It wouldn’t hurt to take the test.

Molly flicked her wand, guiding the plates into the sink. Suds bloomed instantly. “Why don’t you and Ron go play Quidditch with the others?” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “You don’t need to stay and help me. You barely get any time off—those Aurors run you ragged. And Katie Bell’s here,” she added, with a pointed smile. “Lovely girl. I’m sure you’d enjoy getting to know her.”

Ron leaned against the counter, arms folded. “We already know her, Mum. She was on our Quidditch team. You remember—Harry was captain?”

Harry shot him a look, half amused, half warning.

Molly tutted, drying a mug with a flick of her wand. “Well, I just thought—never mind. You’re grown. You know your own mind.”

Harry cleared his throat, fingers brushing a damp spot on the counter. “Actually… I’ve met someone.”

Molly turned, her expression brightening. “Oh, how wonderful! You know I always adored you and Ginny together—and you’ll forgive me, it took me a moment to come around when that ended—”

“I know. And I appreciate how gracious you were about it. Ginny’s family to me—she always will be. And Neville… he suits her.”

Molly’s expression softened. Her wand flicked automatically, and the teapot began to pour into three waiting mugs. “He does. You’ve all come through so much, haven’t you? All’s well that ends well, I say.” She nudged a mug toward him, steam curling between them. “So—who’s the mystery woman?”

Harry sat down at the table, waving off the biscuit tin she nudged toward him. “We connected at work.”

“Oh, Ministry girl?” Molly asked, stirring her tea. “Department of Magical Law Enforcement?”

“She’s an Unspeakable. We worked together on the Selkie trafficking case last year.”

Molly’s eyebrows lifted, impressed. “Unspeakable? Well, she must be clever. They don’t take just anyone.”

Ron reached for a piece of lemon shortbread. “She is. And she doesn’t make a fuss about the whole Chosen One thing. Just talks to him like he’s Harry. Which… not everyone does.”

Molly’s expression softened. “Well, that’s what matters, isn’t it? Someone who sees the real you.” She turned to Harry, eyes warm but searching. “Did she go to Hogwarts? Would I know her family?”

Harry hesitated, fingers tightening around his mug. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I think you do.”

Ron glanced at him, then added, “You’ll recognize the name. But she’s not who she was back then.”

Molly paused, her face stilling. “Oh?” Her voice was careful now. “Who is she, Harry?”

Harry’s gaze was steady. “It’s Pansy Parkinson.”

Molly took a slow breath, fingers resting lightly on the rim of her teacup. “Well,” she said, voice tight with surprise. “That’s not a name I ever expected to hear at my kitchen table.”

Ron leaned forward, biscuit still in hand. “She’s good at what she does, Mum. Dark Magic containment. Worked with the Aurors on some nasty stuff. She helped me crack a lead on my current case—wouldn’t be half as far along without her.”

Molly looked up, brows drawn. “Are you sure, Harry?” Her voice was quiet, careful. “Truly sure—about who she is now?”

“I am,” Harry said. “I’d really like you and Arthur to meet her. See for yourselves.”

Molly brushed her hands on her apron, still not quite meeting his eyes. “Well… I won’t lie, Harry. That name takes some getting used to.” She paused, then sighed. “But if you trust her—and Ron does too—I suppose I can try to keep an open mind.”

“I’m home,” Ron called, setting the hamper of steak and stilton pasties—still warm from his mum’s kitchen—on the center island.

Draco stepped out of the bedroom, still in his grey silk pajamas, hair mussed from sleep. He held a marked-up copy of Potions Science in one hand, thumb pressed against a margin note he hadn’t finished rereading.

Ron smiled. “You look like a very elegant ghost.”

“Back already?”

Ron reached for his hand, guiding him into a slow waltz like it was second nature. “I am. And guess what? Mum barely blinked when Harry told her about Pansy.”

Draco let himself be led, steps automatic. “Different situation. Potter’s not her son.”

“Maybe she’s not as judgmental as you think.”

Draco stopped mid-step. Ron’s hand slipped from his, the rhythm breaking. “She hasn’t met Pansy yet. Maybe hold off on celebrations until she does.”

Ron reached for Draco’s hand again, thumb brushing over his knuckles. “They’ll be at the Phoenix Ball together. Just imagine—this time next year, maybe we’ll be dancing too. I’d like that. Us, out in the open.”

Draco swallowed, eyes flicking up to Ron’s. “About the ball…”

“Yeah?”

“I bought you something,” Draco said, throat tightening. “A suit. You don’t have to wear it.”

“You did? Can I see it?”

Draco nodded. “It’s in the hall closet.”

Ron crossed the room and opened the door. The garment bag hung there, sleek and black, the modiste’s crest stitched in silver thread. He brushed his fingers over the fabric like it might vanish.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said quietly.

Draco licked his lips. “I know. I just… I’d really like to see you in it. Just once. Doesn’t have to be for the ball.”

Ron picked up the bag. “Alright. I’ll try it on now.”

He disappeared into the bathroom. Draco lingered near the door, heart thudding at the soft, domestic sounds—belt unbuckling, buttons slipping free, the quiet rustle of fabric. He could picture it too easily: Ron rolling down his sleeves, red hair dusting his forearms, toned and freckled, utterly unaware of the way they unraveled Draco’s composure.

“Are these French cuffs?”

He stepped out of the bathroom, and for a moment, Draco forgot how to breathe. “Yes. No buttons. You’ll need cufflinks.”

Ron turned his wrist, inspecting the sleeve. “I could nick a pair from my dad.”

Draco made himself look up. “You don’t have to. I’ve got some you can use.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “First a suit, now cufflinks? You do know this is the opposite of subtle.” He paused. “Everyone at the Ministry knows I couldn’t afford anything half this nice.”

Draco reached for Ron’s collar, fingers brushing stubble as he straightened the fold. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.” He stepped back, eyes tracing the way the fabric settled over Ron’s shoulders. “One moment.”

He retreated to the bedroom, fingers unsteady as he opened the leather case Trilby had brought from the Malfoy vault. Inside, the crown-shaped cufflinks gleamed—gold, heavy, set with tiny diamonds. Draco closed his hand around them, the cool metal pressing into his palm, then returned to the sitting room.

Ron was admiring the silk lining of his jacket, fingertips brushing the fabric like he didn’t want to admit how much he liked it.

“Here,” Draco said, holding out the cufflinks. He’d meant to give them to Ron outright, but now that the moment was here, it felt too exposed. Too pointed.

Ron studied them. “Crowns?” His voice was mild, but his eyes searched Draco’s face.

“They were my great uncle’s,” Draco said, keeping his tone even. He shrugged, like the design hadn’t been deliberate. Like it didn’t mean anything.

“You’d better keep them here. I’d lose them in a week, and I don’t think I could replace something like that.”

Draco hesitated, then gathered what was left of his nerve. “Can I put them on you?”

Ron nodded and offered his wrist. Draco took it gently, folding the cuff so the holes aligned. He slid the cufflink through, then secured it with the golden screw at the back—an old-fashioned mechanism, precise and a little fussy.

“Do I pass inspection?”

The question was light, but there was something in Ron’s voice—a flicker of vulnerability beneath the humor.

Draco swallowed. “You look good,” he said. “You always do. But in this…”

Ron stepped closer, the smile tugging at his mouth no longer tentative. “You really like it.”

Draco nodded, throat tight. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

Ron’s posture softened. He lifted one hand, palm-up between them, the other resting gently on Draco’s shoulder. They began to move together again.

“If I can’t dance with you at the Ball,” Ron murmured, “I’ll settle for this.”

Draco leaned in, Ron’s hand a quiet weight at his back. He closed his eyes—not to retreat, but to consider, just for a moment, what it might be like if this didn’t have to stay hidden.

Chapter Text

When Pansy arrived at work, she barely had time to drop her purse on her desk before Ferris—senior Unspeakable and her assigned mentor—appeared at her elbow.

“Don’t get comfortable,” he said, nodding toward one of the larger Auror conference rooms. “Briefing in five. Robards wants us front and center.”

Pansy shrugged off her trench coat and hung it over her chair. “Can I at least pretend I have a desk for thirty seconds?” she muttered, but followed him anyway.

The conference room was already packed with Aurors. Pansy slipped in and took a spot against the wall, scanning the crowd until her eyes landed on Harry.

No suit coat, naturally. The dragon-leather wand holster was slung over one shoulder like it had been born there. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow—because of course they were—and his forearms looked like they’d spent the morning wrestling Dark magic into submission.

He had that look about him: mildly rumpled, quietly lethal, and entirely too competent for eight a.m.

She’d meant to pull him aside. She had a plan. But now, faced with the full Auror version of him—holster, forearms, and all—her throat went tight. She hesitated.

How exactly was one supposed to tell Harry Potter he was going to be a father?

Robards stepped forward, voice clipped. “Alright, listen up. We’ve got a site—new one. Northern bog, looks like Foulshaw Moss. Grim terrain. Wet, unstable, and full of secrets.”

He gestured to the magical projector, where a bleak photo of the bog flickered into view.

“Lucius Malfoy gave us the tip during the Carrow trial. Said there were bodies buried out there—ones we missed. We’ve confirmed magical residue and signs of concealment spells. It’s a Death Eater dump site.”

He snapped his fingers. A map appeared, marked with coordinates.

“Recovery’s going to be slow, messy, and magically sensitive. I want clean documentation, no shortcuts. These families deserve answers.”

He scanned the room, eyes sharp.

“Questions before we assign teams?”

Harry shifted on his feet. “Do we have confirmation on how many bodies we’re expecting?”

Robards shook his head. “No idea, but I imagine it’s more than a dozen. We found over fifty at the mass grave in Thorne Moors.”

A low ripple of anger moved through the room. Pansy felt the blood drain from her face. She’d still been in training during the last recovery, but she’d spent days in the lab cataloguing what came back.

She could still see it: skin darkened and tanned by humic acid, muscle and organ tissue half-liquefied, the faint shimmer of lingering cursework clinging to bone.

Her stomach turned. And that was before she even let herself think about who those bodies had been.

“Any signs of Inferi?” Ron asked.

“No Inferi confirmed,” Robards said. “But bring your fire charms. Terrain’s unstable, and we’re not ruling anything out. Cause of death looks varied—Unforgiveables are the most likely.”

A few Aurors shifted, muttering under their breath. John Dawlish spoke next, tone sharp. “Is this staying internal? Last time we had a leak, and I had a Prophet photographer in my face before we’d even reached the families.”

The room bristled. Robards raised a hand.

“We’re keeping the teams tighter this time. If anything leaks, we’ll know who it came from.” He snapped his fingers, and the projector shifted to a duty roster. “These are your assignments. Team leads will brief you on-site and distribute protective gear as needed.”

Pansy scanned the list. Ferris was assigned to Harry’s team. She’d expected it, but the confirmation still unsettled her.

She was one of the Ministry’s leading experts in Dark Magic, but her expertise lived in the lab—in clean rooms and containment spells, behind layers of protocol and protective wards. Fieldwork was different. Unpredictable. Unfiltered.

It would’ve helped to have Harry nearby.

He wasn’t the most senior Auror, or the most by-the-book, but he had a way of making chaos feel navigable, like the worst of it could be endured if he was the one standing next to you.

She shook her head. It was better this way. The mission was grim, and she needed her focus. If Harry were close, she’d be thinking about the pregnancy.

They’d only just made things official—signed the paperwork, let the Ministry label them as a unit. It was public now, technically. But it didn’t feel settled. Most of the women she knew were married, or planning to be. And none of them had a baby before that.

She and Harry hadn’t even talked about children. She had no idea how he’d react.

What if he thought she’d done it on purpose? That she was trying to trap him?

“Rough draw for your first field case,” Ferris said quietly, stepping up beside her. His voice was low, meant only for her. “If you want out, say the word. I’ll talk to Robards. He’ll understand.”

Pansy shook her head, too fast. “No. I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to prove anything. My first field case was cursed wine goblets at the old Rosier vineyard. No bodies. No bog.”

“I’m not asking for special treatment,” she said, steadier now. “I’m here to do the job.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but he only nodded. “Alright. Suit up. I’ll meet you at the portkey office.”   

Harry was waiting outside the Unspeakable changing rooms with two paper cups of coffee from the canteen. Pansy took one without sipping.

“You don’t have to wear the overalls?” she asked, nodding at his robes—dark, reinforced, already dusted with protective charms.

“Tactical gear,” he said. “Dawlish knows what he’s doing. You’ll be safe.”

She gave him a flat look. “I earned seven NEWTs, Potter. I’m not a liability.”

“I know.” He ran a hand through his hair, distracted. “It’s just—this site’s worse than the brief made it sound. I keep thinking about what you’ll see out there.”

“I’m not here to be comfortable,” she said. “And I need them to see I can handle it. That includes you.”

He nodded. “Right. You’ve got a job to do—same as me.”

A pause.

“I still haven’t told you how it went with the Weasleys.”

“Did they hex you or just drag you to St Mungo’s for a full diagnostic?”

“Neither,” he said, smiling. “I know this isn’t the moment, but… later tonight—Ginza Kyubey?”

She froze for half a second.

Sushi was her favorite. Not the casual kind—the real thing. Harry had made a quiet game of finding the most exclusive spots in Muggle London just to see her dissect the menu. He’d even floated Tokyo for her birthday.

Normally, she’d say yes without blinking.

But now… now was different.

She was pregnant. And until she spoke to her Healer, raw fish was off the table.

“I can’t,” she said lightly. “Promised Daph I’d help her shop for Tracey’s baby shower.”

Harry frowned. “That’s not till Saturday.”

She shrugged. “We’re indecisive. Neither of us has kids, so it might take a while to land on something that isn’t hideous.”

“Didn’t you say silver rattle last week? Traditional pureblood gift.”

“Oh. Right.” She looked away, annoyed he remembered. “I forgot.”

Ron jogged up, a spare pair of dragonhide gloves in one hand. “Here,” he said, handing them to Harry. “George added a shielding charm. Don’t ask what it’s made of.”

Then he turned to Pansy. “You’re with me.”

He glanced at Harry, and she didn’t need Legilimency to catch the subtext: I’ve got her.

She rolled her eyes. Predictable. But when Harry’s mouth tugged up—barely—her own smile slipped through.

“Come on, Weasley,” she said, brushing past him. “Let’s not turn this into a farewell scene.”

She dropped her untouched coffee in the bin and didn’t let herself look back.

Pansy didn’t spot Harry again until her unit was rotating in for lunch and his was heading out. A uniformed liaison stood near the cordon with a charmed cooler, handing out wax-paper sandwiches and steaming cups of black coffee.

Her odour-repelling charm was fading. The scent hit her hard—burnt grounds, stale mustard, and something eggy that had no business being warm. Her stomach lurched.

Harry stepped up beside her, brushing her arm before pulling back. “You okay?”

“I’ve had better mornings,” she said, managing half a smile. Nine bodies recovered, and they still hadn’t cleared their zone.

“I saved you a sandwich,” he said, holding out a waxy bundle.

She took it without enthusiasm. “Tell me you ate.”

He shook his head. “It’s the last ham and cheese.”

Of course it was.

She peeled the wrapper slowly, hoping he’d get called away before she had to pretend to eat it.

He didn’t.

She raised it to her mouth, still stalling, unsure how to get out of it without raising suspicion—then the smell hit her. Mayonnaise. Rich and cloying.

Her stomach flipped.

“Pansy?” Harry’s voice sharpened. He caught her elbow as she swayed. “Ron—can you come here?”

Ron was already moving, wand out. “What happened?”

“She’s going pale,” Harry said. “She’s shaking.”

Ron cast a quick diagnostic—standard field protocol. His brow furrowed. “Her blood pressure’s tanked. And she’s badly dehydrated.”

Harry kept a steady hand on her back. “What does that mean?”

Ron glanced at the readings again. “Could be heat, stress, not eating—maybe she’s sick. But she shouldn’t be upright.”

Dawlish appeared, clipped and direct. “You knew you weren’t fit—why didn’t you say something?”

“She didn’t do it on purpose,” Harry snapped. “She needs a Healer.”

“I’ll take her,” Ron said, already adjusting his stance. “Your team’s heading back out, yeah?”

Harry hesitated. Pansy saw it—the jaw twitch, the flicker of resistance.

“I’m fine,” she said quietly. “Didn’t mean to disrupt anything.” She turned to Dawlish. “Sir.”

His tone softened. “First field deployment?”

She nodded.

“You never know how this stuff hits until you’re in it,” he said. Then to Ron: “Get her to Mungo’s. Return if cleared—we’re stretched thin as it is.”

“Yes, sir,” Ron said. He held out his arm. “Ready?”

Pansy met Harry’s eyes. “He’s probably right. You don’t know how this kind of thing hits you until you’re standing in it.”

Harry nodded, jaw still tight. “Let me know when you’re sorted.”

She gave a small nod back—and then the squeeze of Apparition took her.

As it turned out, the Healers weren’t keen to let her leave.

Apparently, being pregnant and wandering through unstable dark magic sites was—shockingly—frowned upon.

“I’m fine,” Pansy said, exasperated, after choking down her third purifying draught. “Can I at least go back to the office?”

The nurse clipped a fresh bag of fluids to the IV line with maddening efficiency. “Dr. Turner says you’re staying overnight for observation.”

Pansy eyed the drip. “That feels excessive.”

“It’s standard,” the nurse replied, already updating her chart. “And you’re not the first field agent to insist they were fine.”

“I am fine,” Pansy muttered, though the nausea hadn’t fully settled and her limbs still felt like they’d been hexed with lead.

“Try to rest,” the nurse said, sliding the chart into the wire rack at the foot of the bed. “That’s what you and the baby need most right now.”

Pansy sighed—irritated by her tone and already bracing for the fallout. After convincing Ron to return to the site, she’d had a brief conversation with Dr. Turner about her role. He hadn’t said much, but she could read between the lines. Anything involving Dark Magic containment was off the table now, and any hope of keeping her pregnancy from her superiors had evaporated.

Her worry about telling Harry returned—alongside the quieter, more insidious dread of her family finding out. Her mother, in particular, would be unbearable. She’d always treated Pansy’s job at the Ministry as a temporary lapse in judgment, something vaguely sordid that would “burn itself out” if ignored long enough.

And now this. Unmarried. Twenty-four. Already “on the shelf” by wizarding standards, and about to have a baby out of wedlock. She’d go from headstrong daughter to full-blown disgrace in the blink of an eye.

She sank back against the pillow, too tired to care about the flame-retardant polyester sheets or the pale blue blanket that smelled faintly of bleach and old charms. Her limbs ached. Her thoughts looped, slow and useless.

She should plan. She should fix it. She should at least pretend to try.

Instead, she closed her eyes.

Sleep took her before she could finish the thought.

When Pansy woke, Harry was sitting beside her cot, reading a field report. A paper cup of coffee sat cooling at his elbow, untouched. He’d changed out of his tactical robes, but a faint shimmer of containment charms still clung to his undershirt. His hair was damp and flattened—decontamination shower, not comfort.

He looked up, eyes tired but steady. “You’re awake,” he said. “How’re you feeling?”

She sat up slowly, wincing at the pull in her shoulders. The hospital gown was pastel green and offensively drab, the kind that washed her out completely—not that she had a mirror to confirm it.

“Mortified,” she said crisply. “I fainted in front of half the department. I assume the gossip’s already reached Level Two.”

Harry shrugged. “Ron said you were dehydrated. Happens.”

“To interns,” she muttered, accepting the glass of water he handed her. “Not to people with clearance.”

“Did they give you any restrictions?”

She lowered the glass. “Not you too. Ron already fussed over me. I’m fine.”

She reached up, trying to smooth her hair. It had to be a disaster. Bog water, polyester, and unconsciousness rarely left anyone looking presentable.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“Tell you what? That I skipped breakfast and fainted?” She tried to laugh, but it came out thin. “I think you’re all caught up.”

“No,” Harry said, reaching for her hand. “That you’re pregnant.”

Pansy stilled. “I—” She blinked, once, deliberately. “That’s a rather dramatic conclusion to draw from one missed meal.”

Harry raised a finger, calm and maddening. “You didn’t drink the coffee.”

“I hate the Ministry coffee,” she said sharply. “You know this. It’s somehow both watery and acidic—like betrayal in liquid form.”

He raised another finger. “You turned down sushi.”

Pansy scoffed. “Daphne and I have to go shopping. I told you this.”

Harry gave her a look. “For a gift your house-elf probably bought, wrapped, and monogrammed last week?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

“And,” he added, “you expect me to believe you weren’t avoiding sushi when I know you’ve been dying to hear what Molly said after I told her about us?”

“You’re extrapolating.”

“I’m an investigator,” he said. “It’s what I do.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You read my chart.”

“I did,” he admitted. “But I already knew.”

She exhaled, sharp and annoyed. “That’s a violation.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I just—I was worried. And I thought…” He hesitated, then met her eyes. “Look, I know you only just agreed to go public, and this probably isn’t how you pictured it, but… would you marry me?”

She pulled her hand back, startled. “What?”

“There’s a ring,” Harry said, quietly. “In my dresser. I was going to ask you. This just… moved things up.”

“You’re proposing,” she said slowly, “while I’m in a hospital gown, hooked up to an IV, and likely radiating bog residue.”

“You look beautiful,” Harry said. “Not that it matters. I’d want to marry you regardless.”

He hesitated. “So. Pansy. Will you marry me?”

She stared at him. Her heart thudded. Her mouth was dry. Her brain offered nothing but static.

“…You’re serious.”

“I am.”

She let out a slow breath. “You’re lucky I’m too dehydrated to mount a proper objection.”

Harry’s fingers tightened gently around hers, his green eyes steady on her face. “Was that a yes?”

She looked at him—really looked. The exhaustion. The steadiness. The way he was holding still, like he didn’t want to spook her.

Her grip firmed. “Yes, Harry,” she said quietly. “I’ll marry you.”

Chapter Text

“Off again, are you?”

George stood as Ron passed the sitting room, overnight bag slung over one shoulder, the strap creasing his jumper. His tone was casual, but Ron felt the weight behind it.

He stopped, turned halfway. “Sorry. I know I’ve not been around much.”

“Didn’t Robards have you traipsing ‘round Cumbria yesterday? When exactly are you meant to sleep?”

“Cheers for the concern. But I’m not leaving for the case.”

George tilted his head. “Go on.”

“I’ve… met someone.”

George blinked. “You’ve met someone. When? You practically live at the office.”

“We didn’t meet at work.” It was true, technically. Still, Ron shifted, suddenly aware of how heavy the bag felt on his shoulder.

“Good,” George said. “Because shitting where you eat is—”

“George.”

“—asking for trouble,” he finished, breezy as ever. “So who is she?”

Ron sighed. “I’m not really in the mood for you to take the piss.”

“Why would I do that?” George said, mock-innocent. “Just because your romantic history’s a flaming wreckage—”

“Are you quite finished?”

George folded his arms. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But at least tell me about the case. Is it going to drag on much longer? You look like you’ve not slept in a week.”

Ron hesitated. “You heard about Malfoy’s place getting vandalized?”

George’s grin was immediate. “Yeah. Tragic. Real loss to the magical economy.”

“Robards put me on it,” Ron said. “It’s my job to find out who did it.”

George stared at him. “You’re helping Malfoy? Brilliant. What’s next—tea and biscuits with the Lestranges?”

Ron’s jaw tightened. “I’m meant to uphold the law. That includes investigating crimes, even when the victim’s someone you don’t like.”

Geroge snorted. “Someone I…? Thought we were still on the same side.”

Ron dropped his bag. “Right. Fine. Let’s have it out.” He rubbed a hand over his face, then met George’s eyes. “I’ve gotten to know Draco. Through the case. I’ve seen what he’s working on—healing magic. He’s not the same as he was.”

George let out a short, bitter laugh. “You’ve actually bought into the redemption tour.”

Ron rolled up his sleeve. “He’s working on a potion for magical scarring.” He held out his forearm—smooth, unmarked. “He tried it on me. Thinks it might help Bill.”

George stilled. “He’s the reason Bill was mauled.”

Ron shook his head. “Greyback was. Malfoy let him in, yeah—but he was sixteen.”

George’s voice was quiet. Flat. “And you were eleven when you first stood up to Voldemort. Don’t give me excuses. He made his choices. People paid for them.”

Ron held his gaze. “I know. I’m not saying otherwise.” He paused, then went on, slower: “He could’ve disappeared—lived off the family gold, never lifted a wand again. But he stayed. He’s trying to fix what he can.”

George’s jaw tightened. “You’ve really lost the plot. Maybe Hermione was right to leave you.”

Ron froze. “What did you just say?”

“I thought she was being harsh,” George said, still not raising his voice. “But now? Watching you fetch and carry for the Ministry—defending the same people who got Fred killed—your own brother—”

Ron turned for the door. “I’m not listening to this.”

George followed, voice sharp. “Course you’re not. Walking off’s easier.”

Ron stopped at the door, shoulders tense.

There were things he could’ve said—about the war, and grief, and the effort it took to keep moving.

But he didn’t.

He just opened the door and walked out.

“You’re home.”

Draco set his journal aside and stood, crossing the room as Ron stepped in and hung up his coat.

“Trilby brought duck. Port and cherry reduction. Thought you might be hungry.”

Ron gave a small nod but didn’t speak. His jaw was tight, shoulders hunched like he hadn’t stopped bracing since he walked through the door.

Draco frowned. “Is it your head again? I’ll get the potion—”

He turned toward the bathroom, but Ron caught his wrist and pulled him in, holding him close.

Draco stilled. “Alright,” he said quietly. “What happened?”

Ron didn’t let go. “I told George about your case.”

Draco’s voice was cautious. “Does he know about us?”

Ron shook his head. “No. Not yet.” He ran a hand gently down Draco’s back. “But I’d tell him. Today. If you wanted.”

“I take it he’s not thrilled you’re helping me.”

“He said some things. Dug up old stuff I thought I’d moved past.”

Draco’s voice came out sharper than he meant. “Like what?”

Ron hesitated. “I’ll tell you over dinner.” He let go, reluctantly. “Everything feels worse on an empty stomach.”

He crossed to the table. Trilby had laid it with the best china and linen from the Malfoy vault. In the center sat a low ceramic bowl of blush roses, jasmine, scabious, and feverfew—elegant and fragrant, but not showy.

Ron sat down, unfolding his napkin. “Those potatoes look different.”

“Fondant,” Draco said. “Sliced thin. Crisp outside, soft in the middle.”

“Sounds good.”

Ron served Draco first, then helped himself. “Sorry I missed you last night.”

“You said it was work.”

Draco took a bite of the salad Ron was ignoring.

“Yeah. We pulled thirty bodies out of Foulshaw Moss. Cumbria.”

Draco looked up. “The site my father reported.”

Ron nodded, then reached across the table, palm up. “I wanted to be here. I did. Just couldn’t get my feet under me. And you’ve had enough going on without me adding to it.”

Draco turned his hand and held it. “I wouldn’t mind. Might be nice, actually—someone else’s mess for a change.”

Ron gave a tired smile. “I’ll tell you. It’s just… a lot. And right now, with you, with this—”

He glanced at the table, the flowers, the skyline beyond the glass. “I’d rather not be in that place.”

Draco followed his gaze. “It’s quiet here. Like we’ve carved out a bit of peace.”

Ron nodded, reaching for his fork again. “I love it here. And this duck…”

He paused, tasting it. “It’s—”

“Your favourite,” Draco said, the corner of his mouth lifting.

The conversation eased after that. Ron had missed the last Quidditch match—stuck at work during the wireless broadcast—so Draco filled him in. The Arrows had edged out the Falcons, which meant they’d face the Harpies next.

“My sister’s team,” Ron said, unnecessarily. Draco knew perfectly well Ginny Weasley was one of the best Chasers in the league.

“She gives me tickets sometimes,” Ron said. “Neville comes, or Harry, if he’s free. You could come too. Next time. Just… as friends.”

Draco looked up, one brow raised. “I’m not sure,” he said carefully. “Neville and I… he and your sister have every reason not to want me there.”

Ron nodded. “I know. But I could talk to them first. Not about us—just that you’re a friend. Someone I trust.” He squeezed Draco’s hand. “I love what we have here, but I want to bring you into the rest of my life too. Let them get used to you. Because I don’t plan on this ending.”

“If you promise to be honest with me—if they’d rather I didn’t come, you’ll say so.”

“I will,” Ron said.

Draco nodded, quiet. “Then yes. I’ll go to a match with you, Ronald.”

While Draco showered, Ron lingered in the bedroom—dimming the lights, folding back the duvet, even thumbing through The Joy of Gay Sex, which Draco had, for once, left out in plain sight.

“I actually read some of it,” Draco said when he joined him, towel around his waist, another rolled under his neck.

“Yeah?”

Ron stood and moved closer. Draco had never let him see this much before—not even when he’d gone down on him. His skin was smooth and pale, almost hairless, and Ron’s hands moved gently over his chest, admiring the softness. His nipples were tight and pink, and Ron leaned in, licking one experimentally.

Draco flushed. Color rose high on his cheeks, making his grey eyes look almost translucent, but the pensive look he wore during intimacy was there too—sweet, uncertain, and growing more anxious by the second.

“I’ve been thinking about going down on you,” Ron said softly. “If you’d want that.”

Draco’s breath caught. “I don’t… I don’t think I want that.”

Ron’s brow furrowed, gently. “You don’t want it? Or you don’t think I do?”

Draco opened his mouth, then stopped himself. His fingers twitched in Ron’s grip.

Ron guided him down beside him on the bed. “What is it?”

Draco hesitated, then spoke too fast. “Can we just… kiss? Like this. Without our shirts.”

He tugged lightly at the hem of Ron’s T-shirt, not quite meeting his eyes.

“Yeah. Course we can.” He pulled the shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor. “Anything else you want off, you just say.”

They kissed for a while, slow and unhurried. Ron kept his hands above the towel, resting them lightly on Draco’s ribs, then his shoulders, never straying lower. When Ron shifted, letting more of his weight settle over Draco’s chest, Draco made a soft, broken sound.

“This alright?” Ron asked, voice low, eyes steady on him.

Draco didn’t meet his gaze, but he nodded. “I… like this. You on top.”

“Not too heavy for you?” He pressed his hips forward. He was only wearing his checked shorts, and even through the towel, he was sure Draco could feel him.

“Would you…”

Draco’s gaze stayed fixed on Ron’s collarbone. His cheeks were flushed, mouth parted, but the words wouldn’t come.

“I’d do anything for you,” Ron said quietly. He hesitated, then added, “Not that I’m expecting to match your technique. That deep throat potion—bloody hell. If you sold that at Sanus, you’d be minted.”

Draco let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh, but didn’t quite get there.

Ron caught himself and softened. “Sorry. I’m talking too much. I just… I want this to feel good. For you.”

Draco shifted, sitting up slightly. He reached for The Joy of Gay Sex on the bedside table. Ron eased back, giving him space. Draco’s hand trembled as he turned the pages. When he found the section, he hesitated—then passed the book to Ron without looking at him.

Ron glanced down. “Sexual fantasies,” he read, brows lifting.

Draco ducked his head, shoulders tight.

“You’ve got one,” Ron said, gentler now. “With me on top?”

Draco nodded once.

“Alright.” Ron reached out, resting a hand lightly on Draco’s knee, still covered by the towel. The flush had crept down Draco’s chest, turning his pale skin pink.

“Are we naked?”

“I am,” Draco said, fingers brushing the knot of the towel. He still wasn’t looking at Ron. “You’re… not.”

“What am I wearing?”

Draco gave a small shrug. “Clothes.”

Ron huffed a quiet laugh. “Helpful.”

He reached out again, slower this time, fingers trailing up Draco’s bare side. The skin was warm, smooth, and tense beneath his touch.

“And what am I doing?” Ron asked. “While I’m on top?”

Draco looked up at him, just for a second. “You put your fingers in me,” he said. “You’re getting me ready. For…”

He trailed off, eyes dropping again, cheeks burning.

Ron swore under his breath and set the book aside.

“Lift up,” he said, hands already at the towel cinched around Draco’s waist.

Draco hesitated, then raised his hips—quiet permission.

Ron eased the towel away.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he murmured, gaze sweeping down.

He settled between Draco’s legs, knees braced on either side, and reached down to cup his balls. The skin was warm, the sac pulled close to his body. Ron held him gently, thumb tracing the seam.

Draco twitched at the touch, breath catching. Ron slid his hand upward, slow and careful, thumb brushing the slick at the tip as he teased the foreskin back.

“Ron…”

Draco’s back arched slightly, and Ron’s eyes caught on the pale column of his throat—bare and vulnerable in a way that made something deep in him tighten.

“Tell me no one’s seen you like this,” Ron said, voice gone rough. “Tell me it’s only me.”

Draco nodded, face flushed deeper now, almost blotchy.

Ron’s hand slid between his legs, fingers resting just shy of the place Draco hadn’t named.

“No one’s ever touched you here?”

Draco trembled. His thighs twitched like he wanted to close them, to hide, but he held still.

“Only you.”

“Good.” Ron kissed the edge of Draco’s jaw, breath hot against his skin. “Hold on.”

He reached toward the bedside drawer, summoning the small bottle with a flick. It bumped against his palm, and in his haste, he spilled more than he meant to. He rubbed the slick between his fingers, then whispered, “Calefacio,” casting the warming charm.

His hand returned—slick and warm. He pressed gently against the tight ring of muscle, eyes never leaving Draco’s face.

“Bear down a bit for me—yeah, just like that. You alright?”

Draco nodded, jaw tight. His thighs trembled with the effort, but the tension eased, and Ron’s finger slipped in to the first knuckle.

“There you go,” Ron breathed. “You’re doing so well. Let me in a little more, yeah?” He kissed Draco’s temple—soft, grounding. “You feel incredible.”

Draco’s eyes fluttered open, pupils blown and glassy. “R-Ron…”

“You’re so tight,” Ron murmured. “So warm around me.”

Draco exhaled—slow, shaky—and the tension in his body loosened just enough. When Ron added a second finger, Draco gasped at the stretch, hips twitching, but he stayed open, trembling beneath Ron’s touch.

“Tell me you like it,” Ron said roughly. “I need to know.”

“I—” Draco’s throat worked. “I like it. I do. Just… don’t stop.”

Ron curled his fingers, angling them forward like the book had said—toward Draco’s belly, not straight in. He moved slowly, feeling for the subtle swell. When his fingertips grazed the firmer ridge, Draco gasped, hips jolting.

Ron paused, then brushed it again. Lightly, then with more intent.

Draco cried out, back arching, his stomach muscles jumping. His cock twitched against his belly, flushed and leaking.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Ron murmured, watching Draco’s face crease tight, lashes wet, like he was bracing against something too much.  

Ron shifted closer, letting Draco feel the weight of him. His own arousal was sharp now, aching. He reached down, pushed his shorts low, and wrapped a hand around himself, matching the rhythm of his fingers inside Draco.

“You want to come like this? You look beautiful—open, taking me.”

Draco shuddered as he came, release painting his stomach in slow, deliberate pulses. His chest heaved—stunned, like he hadn’t expected it to feel so much.

Ron groaned. His own climax crested fast, pulled from him by the sight of Draco trembling beneath him, open and trusting. He stayed still for a moment, catching his breath, then eased his fingers back. Draco still flinched, a sharp intake of breath betraying the oversensitivity.

“Sorry,” Ron murmured, wiping him clean with the edge of the sheet. He pulled Draco close, chest to chest, one hand steady on the back of his neck.

They lay like that for a while, breathing together. Draco’s skin was still hot, his body twitching with aftershocks.

Ron pressed a kiss to his temple. “Was that… what you pictured?”

Draco didn’t answer right away. “It was better,” he said finally, but his voice was quiet, uncertain.

Ron shifted to look at him. “You wanted me clothed. You naked. Like a power thing?”

Draco shivered, and Ron summoned the duvet, tucking it around them both.

“Something like that,” Draco said, barely audible.

“Whatever it was, I wish you’d tell me,” Ron said. “I think I’d like it. I mean—what we just did—it wasn’t, you know, full-on or anything, but it felt… close. And yeah. Hot. Properly hot.”

Draco’s gaze stayed fixed on Ron’s collarbone. “I’d rather talk about George,” he said at last. “You still haven’t told me what happened.”

Ron had wanted him to stay in the moment—to name the thing he’d asked for—but Draco’s voice had thinned, his body gone still, and Ron felt the shift. He let the boundary stand, though something in him ached to follow.

“He brought up some things from the war.” He exhaled, eyes drifting. “When we were on the run, we found this… artifact. One of Voldemort’s. I had to carry it for a while—before we figured out how to destroy it. We all did.”

“I didn’t know that,” Draco said quietly. “But how did that lead to a fight with George?”

His finger moved absently over the red hair on Ron’s chest, tracing the texture. Ron found it grounding.

“It’s hard to explain,” Ron said. “Tom Riddle put part of himself into it. It whispered things. Said I was second-rate. That even Mum and Hermione preferred Harry. That everyone would, really. Because he’s Harry, isn’t he? Brave. Brilliant. Always the best of us.”

“That’s not true.” Draco’s voice was low but emphatic. “That’s Him. He doesn’t just lie—he corrodes. Twists what you already fear and makes it feel inevitable.”

“I know.” Ron tightened his hold on Draco. “I do. Now. But we were starving, we had no plan, and my family was in danger—could’ve been killed, for all I knew. After a bad fight… I left.”

“You left?” Draco’s voice was soft, incredulous. “Where did you go?”

“Nowhere in particular,” Ron said. “I think I just… needed to calm down. George knows I regret leaving. And during this row we had, he… he threw it in my face. Said I walk out when things get hard.”

“That’s bollocks,” Draco said sharply, his voice tight with anger. “You’re the most loyal man I know. You always have been. George wouldn’t last five minutes in your shoes—being best mates with the bloody saviour of the world. But you’ve never begrudged Potter anything. I’m sure you’d give him an arm if he asked—no questions asked.”

Ron flushed—part embarrassed, part quietly pleased. “I don’t know about that… but thanks.”

Draco settled back against Ron’s chest, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. “I won’t let him make you feel ashamed,” he said. “You’re a hero, Weasley. Don’t make me say it again.”

“I won’t—if you won’t.” Ron’s hand moved slowly through Draco’s hair. The strands were fine, a little static-prone, soft in a way that surprised him. “I only carried the artifact for a few weeks. You grew up surrounded by Dark Magic—by people who expected you to embrace it. And then Riddle himself lived in your house.”

“He’s gone now.” Draco shifted, tucking his face into the curve of Ron’s shoulder. His voice was muffled. “I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”

“Alright.” Ron pulled the duvet up, covering Draco’s bare shoulder. “We don’t have to.”

Draco’s breathing began to settle, the tension in his limbs easing bit by bit. His hand, which had been curled lightly against Ron’s ribs, went slack.

Ron stayed awake a little longer, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the hush between them. Eventually, he let himself drift too.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Draco stepped into the office to find Miss King and Marcus bent close in hushed conversation. They broke apart at once, words cut short.

“Anything I should know?” he asked, one brow lifting as he shrugged off his coat.

“Marcus was just telling me about an old schoolmate,” Miss King said smoothly. “Cassius Warrington.”

Marcus straightened. “You remember Cassius, don’t you?”

“The Chaser on our Quidditch team?” Draco said dryly.

“He came to me about Sanus,” Marcus admitted, shifting his weight. “He’s been struggling since the war. Thought you might… have room for him.”

“I see.”

“I told him it wasn’t my place to ask,” Marcus added quickly. “You don’t owe him anything. But he’s determined, and—”

“Put a meeting on my calendar,” Draco said to Miss King.

“You’re not doing this for me, I hope,” Marcus pressed, holding his gaze. “Cassius and I go way back, but—”

“I can’t hire him here,” Draco said evenly. “Even if he had skill in potions—which he doesn’t—the optics make it impossible.”

“So what will you tell him? I tried to get him in at Aegis, but it was the same story.”

Draco shrugged. “I’ll give him something to tide him over. He should look elsewhere—America, perhaps.”

“Thanks,” Marcus said quietly, gratitude clear in his voice. “It’s hard seeing the lads we grew up with shut out now, all because of the war.”

“Believe me, I understand. My name’s still under scrutiny,” Draco replied. “Winning St. Mungo’s was hard enough. Until Sanus is secure, I can’t take risks like that. Later… maybe then I’ll be in a position to help men like him.”

“Coffee’s on your desk,” Miss King said gently, passing him a folder. “You’ve got the mandrake supplier at three. And Dr. Turner sent over a request for more Analgesic Draughts—their stock’s nearly gone.”

“Right.” Draco’s eyes flicked down the page. He set the folder aside. “I’ll be in the lab.”

He worked steadily through the morning, pausing only when the clock chimed for lunch. Once he finished bottling the analgesic draughts, he set about brewing a fresh batch of scar‑healing potion. Ron’s left arm was already fully restored, the magic stable and strong. It was past time to complete the work—to make Ron whole again.

He was so lost in reverie that he almost missed Miss King’s light tapping on the lab door. Only when she opened it and raised her voice did he look up.

“I’ve scheduled Cassius for Tuesday morning,” she said. “That should give you time to travel to Azkaban with Auror Weasley, if you’re still planning to visit Mr. Goyle.”

Draco set down the vial he’d been corking. “Yes. Thank you. I intend to see Greg as often as possible now that the restriction’s been lifted.”

She lingered, her expression troubled. “Is it true, what Mr. Flint suggested? That the Ministry deliberately kept him isolated?”

Draco’s mouth tightened. “It’s true. They refused him visitors. I have time to make up for. Which reminds me—Greg is permitted books. He asked for Skeeter’s biography of Potter. You know it?”

“Yes, sir,” she said quickly. “I can pick it up from Flourish and Blotts today. You’ve a gap after inventory, if you recall.”

“Good.” Draco hesitated, then said, voice lower, “There’s one more thing. Not strictly business.”

Her eyes lit with professional eagerness. “Of course, sir. Whatever you need.”

“I require new clothes,” Draco said, tone clipped. “Something fashionable, but not ostentatious. What young men wear to Quidditch matches.”

Miss King smiled. “Dark jeans, perhaps. A quarter‑zip instead of a polo, if you want to look sharp but relaxed.” She tilted her head. “May I ask who you’ll be attending with?”

Draco’s gaze flicked back to the washbasin. He busied himself with rinsing glassware, as if the task required his full attention. “My partner. He prefers me dressed down, but still formal. I trust you to choose appropriately.”

She blinked, surprised, then softened. “I see. Would it be impertinent to ask who?”

Draco’s jaw tightened. He kept his eyes on the basin. “Auror Weasley. It isn’t public knowledge. I expect your discretion.”

There was a pause—long enough for Draco to regret saying it aloud. 

Miss King’s voice was gentle. “You have it, sir. And if I may—well done. A war hero—and handsome, too.”

Draco flushed, though his tone stayed cool. “Indeed. He’s important to me. Which is why I must look correct when meeting his friends socially. I’m counting on you.”

“You can,” she said simply. “Your trust isn’t misplaced.”

“Very good.” Draco’s tone was brisk, almost dismissive. If Miss King noticed the edge, she gave no sign. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to finish.”

“Of course, sir.” She stepped toward the door, then paused, her voice softer. “I’ll find a textured quarter‑zip for you—something to layer over a white shirt. Slate grey, perhaps. It would suit you. I imagine Mr. Weasley will notice.”

Draco inclined his head, keeping his expression neutral. “Thank you.” He raised his wand and began mincing fluxweed stems as though the conversation had left no mark. But his grip on the knife‑like motion was tighter than usual, his pulse quickening.

Inside, his composure frayed. Marcus, Trilby, and now Miss King. Each admission felt perilous, yet liberating. None had recoiled, or even acted particularly surprised. Miss King, in her quiet way, had even seemed pleased.

The thought unsettled him, yet warmed him all the same.

If he succeeded in healing Ron, and then Bill, perhaps he would no longer flinch at the thought of facing Arthur and Molly. Perhaps then he’d be strong enough to claim Ron openly, not just to a trusted few, but to the world…

He forced the daydream back down, Occlumency walls rising.

Dreams could wait. The potion could not.

“Thanks for coming,” Ron said, pushing a pint of butterbeer across the scarred tabletop. The summer lull had emptied the Three Broomsticks of its usual crowd—no Hogwarts students spilling in, no chatter echoing off the beams. Apart from him and Neville, the pub sat quiet, almost deserted.

Neville grinned, already lifting the glass. “Cheers, mate.” He drank deep, then set it down with a satisfied sigh. The neatly trimmed beard suited him—Ginny’s touch, Ron thought. “Merlin, I needed that.”

“Busy day?” Ron asked.

“Always,” Neville said with a shrug. “Between lesson prep and Hermione’s charity, I hardly stop to breathe.”

“H.E.A.R.T.?” Ron prompted.

Neville nodded. “Yeah. Hogwarts Educational Aid for Rising Talent. Applications are through the roof this year. Good problem to have, but it’s a lot of paperwork.”

“You’ll still make Gin’s match against the Arrows?” Ron pressed, trying to ease into his real reason for coming.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Madam Rosmerta appeared with a plate of chips, setting them beside Ron’s elbow.

“On the house,” she said with a wink. “Your drinks too. I keep telling Neville his money’s no good here, but he insists on paying.”

“I work here,” Neville protested. “Doesn’t feel right to take advantage.”

“I don’t mind drinking for free,” Ron said cheerfully, raising his glass.

She tapped his shoulder playfully. “You’d drink for free, war hero or no, with charm like that,” she teased, before leaving them.

Ron leaned in. “So, a lot of admin with H.E.A.R.T.?”

“Not usually,” Neville said, stealing a chip. “But you’ll like this—Malfoy just donated a fortune. Biggest gift we’ve ever had.”

Ron blinked. “Draco?”

Neville raised his brows. “Hermione said you’ve been spending time with him. That true?”

Ron ducked his head, fiddling with his napkin. “Yeah. Robards put me on a case at his firm, Sanus. I’ve gotten to know him. He’s… not like he was at school.” He hesitated, then added carefully, “Truth is, I respect him. He’s trying to make amends. The potions, the donation—it’s all part of it.”

Neville chewed thoughtfully. “You’re about the last person I’d expect to hear defending Malfoy.”

Ron’s face grew serious. “You knew him best, back then. We were on the run during the Carrows’ reign. Ginny hasn’t said much, but I gather you don’t have many reasons to think well of him.”

Neville’s eyes darkened. “The Carrows hated him almost as much as the rest of us. His family was out of favor. Voldemort broke his father’s wand, you know.”

Ron looked startled. “No. I didn’t.”

“They enjoyed tormenting him,” Neville said quietly. “I won’t pretend to know the politics, but it was obvious. He was rich, spoiled… easy to resent. But in the end?” Neville ran a hand through his hair. “I just felt sorry for him. Ginny’s probably told you he cursed me on their orders. I can’t hold it against him. He was pathetic, really.”

Ron shifted, wiping his palms on his napkin.

“I was thinking of asking him along to Gin’s next match. Figured it might be good for everyone to see him outside the old school rubbish. But only if you lot are alright with it.”

Neville studied him for a moment, then took another drink before answering. “If he’s trying to change, then good on him. I’m not about to stand in the way of that. And if you reckon he’s worth a second chance, I’ll trust you on it.”

Ron’s grin broke out before he could stop it, his shoulders loosening. “Brilliant. I’ll bring him along—just as soon as I clear it with Gin.”

Neville raised his brows, amusement flickering. “That’s the tricky bit, isn’t it?”

Ron ran a hand through his hair, sheepish. “Yeah. Figured I’d better make sure you were alright with it first. No point charging in without backup.”

Neville chuckled into his pint. “Smart. I’ve learned—if Gin’s not sold on something, you’ll know before you’ve finished your sentence.” He shook his head fondly. “Best of luck, mate. I’ll be over here, denying all involvement.”

Chapter Text

Ron stepped out of the Floo in a rush of green flame, coughing as he brushed ash from his sleeves. Living above Wheezes meant running into George was inevitable, but he couldn’t put off laundry another day. He was halfway to his room when Ginny’s voice cut through the flat.

“For Circe’s sake!” she shouted, slamming her wand against the oven with a clang that rattled the pans.

Ron dropped his bag and stepped into the kitchen. The stew had fused to the pan, a blackened slab smoking like a failed potion.

“Problem?” he asked, banishing it before the alarms could shriek.

“I promised George I’d make him something decent for dinner.”

“He should’ve known better than to trust you with it,” Ron teased, flicking flour and potato peels off the counter with the domestic spells their mother had drilled into him since childhood.

“Oi, don’t start.” She didn’t stop him, though; after a beat she sighed and added her own spells. “Mum made this look easy.”

“It just takes practice,” Ron replied, drying his hands on a tea towel. He crossed to the cooling cabinet and pulled out eggs, milk, cheese, and mushrooms.

Ginny poured herself a glass of wine. “If you weren’t fighting, I wouldn’t be stuck playing house.”

Ron cracked the eggs into a bowl. “So you’ve heard.”

“He regrets it,” she said, leaning against the counter, glass balanced loosely in one hand. “I don’t know what was said, but—”

“He called me a Ministry lackey. Said it wasn’t surprising Hermione left me.” Ron’s jaw tightened as he whisked.

Ginny slid a second glass of wine across the counter. “That’s low, even for George.”

Ron took it, turning to the pan where butter melted. He poured in the eggs, keeping the heat low, coaxing them into a soft set. “Yeah. And his parting shot was that I always walk away when things get hard.”

Ginny watched him fold in the mushrooms and cheese. “You’re still here, though. Cooking his dinner.”

Ron gave a humorless snort. “Cooking yours, more like.”

He slid the omelette onto a plate. She took a bite, fork hovering.

“You can’t really be surprised he lost it. George was never going to take kindly to you backing Malfoy—and you know how short his fuse is.”

“I’m not apologizing.” Ron set a second omelette on the table, flicking a preservation charm over it. “If George wants to think I’ve got no integrity—”

“You don’t believe that,” Ginny cut in.

Ron sighed. “Even if Draco hadn’t changed, an Auror’s job is to keep the law straight. You don’t bend it just because you don’t like the bloke.”

Ginny lowered her fork, eyebrows raised. “Draco, is it?”

“We’re friends. Does that bother you?”

Ginny swirled her wine, giving him a long look. “I’m not about to throw a fit like George. But it is odd, you suddenly acting like you’re mates.”

Ron rolled up his left sleeve, showing smooth, unmarked skin.

Ginny blinked. “What—?”

“He’s been working on a treatment for magical scars. Bill’s the reason he started. I let him try it on me.”

Ginny’s eyes widened. She reached out, fingertips brushing his arm. “Merlin…”

“He’s poured years into the work.”

“Or he nicked the research off someone else and slapped his name on it. That sounds more like the Draco I remember.”

Ron buttoned his cuff, voice steady. “Talking won’t change your mind. Let me bring him to your next match—you can see for yourself.”

Ginny scoffed. “What’s this then—omelettes as a bribe?”

“Is it working?”

She tipped back the last of her wine. “Patch things up with George. Then… I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I get?”

Ginny shrugged, leaning back in her chair. “Forget the match. The Phoenix Ball’s Saturday. He’ll be there—I heard Susan Bones moaning about it when I stopped by Neville’s.”

“You mean it—you’ll actually give him a chance?”

She studied him for a moment, brow creased. “Why not,” she said finally, setting her glass down with a soft clink. “If Harry can date Pansy, I can bloody well be civil to Draco.”

“Trilby?” Draco called, shrugging off his coat. The Muggle lamp above the sofa glowed with a soft, ambient light that seemed almost enchanted, spilling across the open room.

He crossed to the kitchen island, lifting the silver dome from one of the plates. A rich peppercorn sauce gleamed over the steak, its aroma sharp and inviting. His gaze shifted to the dining table conjured nearby, set far more formally than usual, white linen trailing nearly to the polished floor. A single rose stood upright in a slim vase, as if the flat had been transformed into a restaurant.

He loosened his tie as he moved toward the bedroom. He found Trilby bent over a silk duvet he didn’t recognize, pressing each crease flat, then arranging throw pillows in rigid symmetry.

“You’ve been busy.”

“A touch of elegance, sir,” Trilby said, smiling up at him. “I thought you and Mr. Weasley might enjoy the atmosphere.”

“Enjoy is a strong word.”

Trilby straightened. “If there’s anything else I can do to make the home more suitable for romance, you need only tell me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He hesitated, then added, “Though I doubt even you can salvage Ron’s shirts.”

Trilby’s ears perked. “Ah, yes. I offered to iron them, but he’s hardly left any here. And the ones he has…” He sighed dramatically. “They’re a challenge even for me.”

“An accident with the laundry might be the only solution.”

Trilby’s eyes gleamed. “A tragic mishap. Beyond repair, of course.”

“Precisely.” Draco’s tone was cool, though his eyes softened. “My tailor could replace them—he has Ron’s measurements.”

“Cream or ivory would flatter his skin,” Trilby mused. “And greens, blues—he’d look quite distinguished.”

Draco nodded. “A new suit to complement that, perhaps in warm brown or navy. And shoes to finish it properly.”

“I know just the thing,” Trilby said, snapping his fingers with satisfaction. “Leave it to me, sir.”

After Trilby left, Draco considered banishing the throw pillows. Ron would almost certainly find the velvet excess ridiculous, but he let it remain. He showered and shaved, then pulled on the polo and trousers Miss King had pressed on him as “comfortable for home.” Settling onto the sofa with work he’d carried back, he found his attention drifting. He was just about to rise for a focus potion when the front door unlocked and Ron stepped inside.

“You waited dinner for me? You must be starving.”

“Starving is a bit dramatic. I thought you might prefer not eating alone.”

“I’ll just get cleaned up,” Ron said, his eyes lingering on the table. “I’ve a lot to tell you.”

When he came back from the shower, he wore soft joggers, thinned at the knees, and a training tee from the Auror Department.

“I spoke with Neville today,” he said, settling opposite Draco and reaching for his knife. “Asked if he was all right with you at Ginny’s next match. He said he was.”

Draco arched a brow. “And Ginevra? I’d have thought her opinion mattered more.”

“Saw her too.”

Draco’s fork stilled, his gaze lifting.

“She knows I’ve been at odds with George,” Ron continued. “Told me she’d give you a chance if I made it up with him.”

Draco shook his head. “I’m not convinced this is wise. I don’t want to cause tension in your family.”

Ron reached across the table, his hand closing lightly over Draco’s. “George doesn’t like my job much more than Hermione did. If it weren’t you, he’d only be picking another fight.”

Draco wasn’t convinced, but he let it drop. He smoothed the napkin in his lap. “I’ve news as well.”

“Go on.”

“I told Miss King about us.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “You did? And?”

“Not much.” Draco nudged the spinach on his plate. “She wasn’t disgusted. I think she’ll be discreet. But…”

“But what?” Ron shifted, his shoe brushing against Draco’s under the table.

“Marcus, Trilby—even her. None of them seemed surprised.”

“I keep telling you—being gay isn’t the shock you imagine.”

“No, I mean me.” Draco pressed the napkin flat in his lap, voice taut. “That I’m gay. It unsettled me. Made me wonder if there’s something in how I act—something feminine—or…” He broke off, swallowing hard.

Ron leaned forward, catching his hand. “No. That’s not it. Maybe they’re just—”

“Just what?” Draco hated the high edge in his voice.

“Other than Parkinson, you never dated anyone at school. You’re twenty‑three, and you’ve never had a girlfriend.”

“So that makes me a homosexual?”

“No. I mean—look at Witch Weekly. Women clearly find you interesting. If you’d wanted a girlfriend, you’d have had one.”

“And what about you?” Draco countered. “You’re twenty‑three, and you’ve never had a boyfriend.”

Ron picked up his knife and fork again, easy. “I’ve been thinking about that, actually. I reckon I did like blokes in school.”

“Wouldn’t you have known?”

Ron shrugged. “I read that chapter in the book—the one about coming out. Sometimes bi men don’t realise until later, especially when everyone assumes you’re straight.”

“Tell me who you liked,” Draco pressed.

“Krum, if you must know. I made a fool of myself over him. Thought I was just a fan, but now… I wonder if I fancied him.”

“That lunk!” Draco said, almost outraged.

“Maybe I’ve just got a type,” Ron teased. “You’re both Quidditch players.”

“That’s where the similarity ends.”

“I’m not so sure. You’re both brooding and mysterious. Graceful on a broom—”

“That’s enough.” Draco’s cheeks had gone pink.

Ron smiled, easing off. He took a sip of wine, glancing around the flat. “I like what Trilby’s done with the place.”

“You say that now. Wait until you see the bedroom. It looks like we’re staging a Roman orgy.”

Ron laughed, nearly spilling his wine. “I thought all this minimalism was his idea.”

“Not a chance.” Draco dropped his napkin onto the plate. “He hates this flat almost as much as my mother.”

“He doesn’t act like he hates it.”

“Islington isn’t fashionable, even in the Muggle world—”

“The Black townhouse is in Islington,” Ron cut in.

“Yes, but that’s different. This place doesn’t have wizarding comforts. And the furnishings are too drab for Trilby. He likes antiques, portraits—anything that shouts Malfoy exclusivity.”

“I’d never have guessed,” Ron said, still smiling. “Still, it’s sweet… like he’s trying to give us a proper date, even if we can’t leave the flat.”

Draco hesitated, then admitted, quieter, “Yes. I suppose you’re right.”

Draco came back from the bathroom, ready for bed, and found Ron sprawled against the throw pillows, a book open in his hands: The Joy of Gay Sex.

“I can banish those if you like,” Draco said, climbing in beside him.

“The pillows? Not on my account.” Ron tossed a few aside anyway, grinning. “They’re ridiculous, but… kind of nice.”

Draco gave a skeptical hum.

Ron shifted closer, eyes catching on the Cannons tee Draco wore. “Looks good on you,” he murmured, fingers brushing the waistband of Draco’s pajama bottoms.

“I meant to heal your arm tonight,” Draco sighed. “I keep meaning to, but something always happens.”

“You had a tiring day.” Ron eased him down until Draco’s head rested against his chest. It was the position Ron seemed to prefer, and Draco found he didn’t mind.

“Telling Miss King, you mean?”

“Yeah.” Ron threaded his fingers through Draco’s hair, gentle. “What you said at dinner… I’ve been thinking about it.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“You’re worried people will think you’re… what, soft?”

Draco lowered his eyes. “You can’t understand. You’re an Auror, a fighter. I’ve spent my life in labs and libraries. That’s one strike already. And now—” His voice dropped. “I’m not just queer. I’m weak. Effeminate. The sort they whisper about.”

“Effeminate? Merlin, what century are you living in?”

Draco turned his face against Ron’s chest, ashamed. “It’s what they’ll say. That I’m less of a man.”

Ron’s hand stilled in his hair, then resumed, steady and reassuring. “I don’t think that’s how people see you. Cold, maybe. Detached. Posh.”

“This isn’t helping,” Draco muttered.

“Witch Weekly thinks you’re a bad boy,” Ron reminded him with a half‑smile. “Not some weakling.”

“Insufferable rag.” Draco sighed again. “I’m only desirable because of my galleons. Take that away, and I might as well be Cassius Warrington.”

“Warrington?” Ron sat up a little. “What’s got you thinking of him?”

“Marcus says he can’t get work anywhere. He asked me for a meeting—hoping for a role at Sanus. But I can’t risk it. He’s tainted by the war, same as me. People don’t forget.”

Ron’s thumb traced slow circles over his knuckles. “Your mind’s turning every worry into something bigger than it is. What you need now is rest. And me—right here.”

Draco’s cheeks warmed, the familiar tightness gathering behind his eyes. “If you’re here… I suppose I can try, Ron.”

Draco closed his eyes, certain sleep wouldn’t come. Yet within minutes, he was gone.

Chapter Text

“Good morning, Mr. Warrington. I’m Charlotte King, Mr. Malfoy’s assistant. May I take your coat?”

Cassius’ fingers tightened on the lapel before he surrendered it. Beneath, the suit was well‑cut, though the grey fabric had dulled with age.

“Mr. Malfoy will be with you shortly. Tea or coffee?” She hung the coat neatly and gestured toward the chair opposite her desk.

“Tea, please.” He sat, straightening his cuff. “King — that’s a name I remember. Do you happen to know Charles King? He was at Hogwarts a few years ahead of me.”

She slid the cup and saucer across the desk with a small, courteous smile. “I don’t, I’m afraid. My schooling was at Beauxbatons.”

“Ah. I wouldn’t have guessed. You don’t look as though you’ve Veela blood.”

Marcus shifted uncomfortably. “He’s only remembering ’94, when Beauxbatons came for the Tournament. Every girl seemed fair‑haired to us then — it left an impression.”

“I wish I’d seen it myself. I was too young for school at the time.”

Cassius set his cup back into its saucer with a soft click. “Have you been with Draco long?”

“Nearly from the start. This was one of my first positions.”

“Beauxbatons must have been quite different from Hogwarts. Did your family always prefer the French schools?”

“Not especially. The majority of my family went to Hogwarts — Hufflepuff House, more often than not.”

The door to the inner office opened with a quiet click, and Draco stepped through. His gaze flicked once to Charlotte before settling on Cassius. “Warrington,” he said, extending his hand. “It’s been some time.”

“Long enough that I decided to send word first. I wasn’t sure you’d answer.”

Draco released Cassius’ hand and gestured toward the inner door. “Come through — we’ll talk inside.”

The privacy charm sealed behind them with a soft hum. Draco sat at his desk, the surface immaculate, not a sheet out of place. Cassius drifted toward the bookcase, scanning the rows before turning back.

“You’ve changed,” he said at last, lowering himself into the chair opposite. A faint smile curved his mouth. “I’d never have imagined you hiring a Hufflepuff.”

“Beauxbatons, actually. You’ve misfiled her.”

“Beauxbatons, then.” His smile lingered, testing. “You do surprise me. But I didn’t ask for this meeting just to reminisce. I’m looking for a position.”

“I wasn’t aware you had any skill in potions.”

Cassius inclined his head, conceding with a wry curve of his mouth. “No. And even if I had as many NEWTs as you, I doubt anyone would hire me now. Not after… what we were part of.”

“I sympathize. But Sanus is a potions firm.”

“You’ve got a PA. A bodyguard,” Cassius pressed. “I’m no brewer, but I could manage your warehouse. Keep things running.”

“Gringotts already manages the stock.”

Cassius tilted his head. “Unusual, isn’t it?”

Draco’s gaze slid past him to the bookcase. “We’ve had… security problems. That’s why Flint’s here.”

“What kind of problems?”

“Nothing dramatic. A break‑in. Some equipment smashed.”

“But you sell healing draughts. Who would bother with you?”

Draco met his eyes at last, voice clipped. “Aurors are investigating. In the meantime, everything finished — potions, ingredients — stays in the Sanus Vault. Safer there.”

“You really can’t bring on another guard? Seems you could use one.”

Draco shook his head. “Margins are razor thin.”

Cassius’ brows rose. “Forgive me, Draco, but you’re hardly destitute. I’ve heard what you’ve poured into Granger’s little venture.”

“That wasn’t generosity. It was debt. And it came from my personal fortune, not the business.”

Cassius’ smile vanished. “So that’s it, then? You’ve moved on, made new friends… and you’d rather forget an old tie.”

Draco held his gaze, lips tightening. “We both chose badly, and we’re paying for it still. I’ve been fortunate enough to stay, but if I hadn’t had the means, I’d have gone abroad. You might find it easier there.”

“Abroad takes coin. More than I’ve got for a Portkey.”

Draco opened the top drawer of his desk, retrieving a black leather pouch. “This should be enough.”

Cassius reached out, grasping the pouch with a quick, reluctant motion. “I’ll take it, though it galls me. We were raised to give, not to beg.”

Draco nodded once. “Survival leaves little room for pride.”

Cassius stood, the movement curt. He slipped the pouch into his pocket, smoothing his jacket as though neatness might restore dignity. He paused at the door.

“My great grandfather endowed a chair at Hogwarts. My uncle sat on the Wizengamot. And now I can’t even find work as hired muscle in London.” His laugh carried a brittle edge. “The world’s turned itself upside down.”

“Marcus,” Draco said as he stepped from his office. “Do you see Warrington much these days?”

Marcus straightened, then gave a small shrug. “Not really. He thinks it’s because he’s down on his luck, and I hate that… but truth is, he’s hard to sit with.” He shifted, uneasy. “Family in prison, estate seized by the Ministry—it would sour anyone. But he doesn’t let it go.”

Draco nodded. “I heard enough.” His gaze flicked toward Miss King. “He won’t be coming here again.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s all right, sir. He’s not the first to make assumptions. And it isn’t shameful, of course—being part Veela—”

“Of course not.” Draco paused, as though the words resisted him. “I won’t stand for that kind of talk. Your place here is earned, and I won’t have it questioned. You’re vital. Essential.”

Colour rose in Miss King’s cheeks. “That’s very kind of you, sir.”

“No need for ‘sir.’ Just Draco.”

She inclined her head, the faintest suggestion of a smile. “In that case, Draco, you ought to be on your way — you’ve an appointment at the Ministry.”

Draco’s hand brushed the watch hanging from a gold chain across his waistcoat. “Quite right. And the biography of Potter—were you able to find it?”

“I was.” She reached across her desk and drew out a glossy hardback. The cover showed a close‑cropped portrait of Harry, the lightning scar stark under harsh light, his expression grim as though caught off guard. Across the top, in garish pink lettering, ran the title: Harry Potter Unmasked – the unauthorized biography by Rita Skeeter.

Marcus cleared his throat. “Do you want me to come along?”

“I’ll Floo straight to the Ministry Atrium. I’m unlikely to encounter our saboteur there. Besides… Auror Weasley will be waiting.”

Miss King’s smile brightened. “Do give him my regards.”

Marcus’ hand settled briefly on the wand holster at his belt. “I’d still prefer to go with you — at least until you meet Weasley.”

Draco shook his head. “I need you here to keep the business secure. I’ll be back after lunch to finish that willowbark infusion for Dr. Turner.”

Draco was so absorbed in thoughts of his upcoming visit to Goyle that he almost missed the sound of his name.

“Malfoy—Draco!” Harry's voice rang down the corridor, insistent. He was nearly jogging to catch up—hair untidy as ever, sleeves rolled, suit jacket nowhere in sight.

“You have my attention, Potter. No need to shout.” Draco shifted the book in his hands, tilting it just enough to keep the title from view.

“Ron got pulled into an emergency with Robards,” Harry said, still catching his breath. “He asked me to take you to see Goyle. I think there’s been a breakthrough in your case.”

“Splendid,” Draco said, his tone flat enough to strip the word of any enthusiasm.

Harry's gaze dropped again, lingering on the book in Draco’s hand. “Is that…?”

Heat rose in Draco’s cheeks. “It isn’t mine,” he said quickly. “It’s for Greg. He’s allowed books, and… unfortunately, this is the one he asked for.”

Harry started walking again toward the Azkaban portkey office. “Right. Well, just so he knows—it’s mostly rubbish. Not that I’ve read it,” he added, awkwardly. “I’m not exactly keen on Skeeter’s version of me.”

They passed the first checkpoint and stepped into a windowless, warded chamber where the portkey was housed. The room was stark, its only furnishing a pedestal at the center, crowned with a brass paperweight stamped with the Ministry seal. Both men set their hands upon it, and in the next instant Draco felt the familiar tug behind his navel, an abrupt pull that allowed no resistance.

When the world steadied again, they were in the intake chamber of the prison. Another checkpoint waited ahead, a reminder that in Azkaban clearance was never a single step but a chain of them.

The guard looked up as they approached, his eyes widening. “Wait—you’re Harry Potter?” His voice caught, then hurried on. “Merlin’s beard, I never thought I’d see you here.”

“Yes,” Harry said evenly. “This is Draco Malfoy. He’s here to visit Gregory Goyle.”

“Right, of course,” the guard said quickly, fumbling with the heavy ledger until his quill nearly slipped from his fingers. He slid the book toward Draco without taking his eyes off Harry. “If you’ll sign here, please. And—if you don’t mind me saying—it’s an honor to meet you.”

Harry gave a small nod. “Thank you. Let’s keep moving with the paperwork.”

Draco set Skeeter’s book on the desk, then bent to sign.

The guard glanced at the book jacket. “That for Goyle? Merlin, if I had one I’d beg you to sign it—for my wife. She’s mad about you.”

“Sorry. We’ve only got half an hour, and I’d like to get on with it.”

“Right, of course.” He nodded quickly, motioning to the officer beside him. “Davies’ll take you through. Enjoy your visit.”

The guard led them down the corridor to the familiar room. Greg sat waiting, wrists cuffed to the table.

Harry turned to Draco. “How does Ron usually handle this? Does he put up a ward, or—”

“Yes,” Draco said shortly. “And he sits over there, so we feel less… watched.”

Harry lifted his wand. Greg flinched, then forced himself still as Harry crossed to the far wall, eyes fixed away from them.

“Where’s Weasley?” he asked, staring down at the book Draco slid across the table.

“Working,” Draco said. “Potter wasn’t my choice.”

“It’s fine.” Greg shifted, awkward. “Still… decent of him, putting up the ward. Weasley just sat there—”

“He followed the rules,” Draco cut in, sharp. “Potter’s always acted like they don’t apply to—” He stopped, jaw tight. “Sorry. Old habits.”

Greg nodded. “You never liked him. I figured you’d be over it by now—that old rivalry.”

Draco’s mouth twisted. “I misjudged him. I thought he was only pretending to despise the attention.”

“Yeah,” Goyle murmured. His gaze fell to Skeeter’s biography. “You’re probably wondering why I asked for this.”

“It wasn’t what I expected,” Draco admitted.

“The library copy’s redacted. Almost everything about Granger. I think because of her blood status—some of the inmates fought over it. I… wanted to know what it said.”

Draco leaned forward. “Speaking of Granger… she agreed to take your case. And I made the donation to her charity, like you asked.”

Greg’s expression softened, almost shy. “I know. She told me. She’s here Mondays—solicitors get different hours.”

“Did she mention the appeal?”

Greg shifted in his chair. “She said there’s a chance. Five years in Azkaban’s a long stretch at my age. She thinks the Wizengamot might consider cutting it short. Maybe swap the rest for house arrest, with monitoring charms.”

“That’s promising.”

Greg’s mouth tightened. “I’m not letting myself get carried away. Still… it’s good seeing her. I was worried the lead solicitor might come instead, the one she says heads my case. She told me sometimes he’ll have to—but she’ll try to be there too.”

“Trust her to overcommit. Still, if anyone can drag the Wizengamot into sense, it’s her. You’ll get your house arrest if she decides you should.”

Greg stared past Draco’s shoulder. “Do you know if she’s seeing anyone? I’d think it’d be in the papers, but we don’t get them in here.”

“Not that I’ve heard.” Draco frowned. “I can ask around, if you want.”

Greg nodded, voice low. “I know it’s stupid. She’d never look twice at me—former Death Eater, locked up. But I can’t help it. I’ve got too much time to think in here.”

Draco hesitated, then said, “There are books about her. Clara Holt wrote one on her early life—growing up with Muggles. Granger even endorsed it, something about helping wizards understand Muggleborns better.”

Greg looked up, almost eager. “I’d like that. If you can bring it next time.”

“Fine,” Draco said. His tone hardened. “But promise me you won’t do anything that makes her drop your case.”

Greg shook his head. “I know it’s impossible. It’s just dull in here, and… well, you have to admit she’s interesting. Can’t believe Weasley let her go.” He leaned forward, voice dropping. “You don’t think they’ll get back together?”

Draco shifted uneasily, glancing up as Harry approached. “No. He’s moved on.”

“Sorry to cut in,” Harry said, stopping at the table. “Time’s up.”

Draco rose, smoothing his jacket. “I’ll see you next week.”

Greg’s gaze shifted to Harry. He licked his lips, the motion quick and uneasy. “Thanks, Potter. For bringing him. I don’t expect we’ll meet again, so… I’m sorry. For trying to stop you. You were right.”

Harry gave a small nod. “It’s past. What matters now is moving forward.”

They traveled back to the Ministry in silence. Draco had half‑hoped Ron might be waiting  in the Atrium, but whatever task Robards had set him must have run long.

“This is me,” Harry said, pausing by the lifts to the Auror department. He ruffled a hand through his hair, mussing it worse than before. “You can find your way back?”

“Yes, Potter. I can manage the Floo to Sanus.” Draco’s shoulders stiffened, his tone edged before he forced it back toward civility. “Look—what Greg said back there… it’s past time I said it too. I thought my apology wouldn’t mean much to you—”

Harry cut him off. “Did you mean it? What you told Goyle?”

Draco’s chin lifted, sharp. “You said you cast a privacy ward—”

“I lied,” Harry said evenly. “I know the rules, and I follow them most of the time. But I wanted Goyle comfortable. He turned white when he saw me.”

“What did you expect? You’re the saviour of the world, Potter. People like us don’t exactly relax when you walk in.”

Harry’s mouth twitched into a faint smile. “Were you trying to apologize?”

Draco let out a sharp breath, the words dragged from him. “I misjudged you at school. I regret it. You weren’t chasing glory — you hated it. I couldn’t see that. Back then I thought I’d have loved that kind of fame… or at least I told myself I would.”

Harry nodded once. “I appreciate you saying that.”

Draco’s gaze flicked away, then back, restless. “And I’m sorry for the rest. It’s a long list, but I could name every one of my sins if you’ve got the time. I’ve thought about them often enough.”

The lift doors opened, a stream of Ministry workers spilling past. Harry glanced at them, then lowered his voice.

“Ron trusts you. That’s enough for me. Just… don’t let him down.”

He extended his hand.

Draco took it, dazed, his grip clammy, a sudden tightness in his chest.

Harry released him with a single nod, then stepped into the lift, leaving Draco standing there with far too much to think about.

Chapter Text

After his shower, Draco pulled on soft navy pajama bottoms and the old T‑shirt Ron had given him. He curled up on the sofa with the latest issue of Potion Science, trying to quiet his mind. Ron’s Patronus had already explained he wouldn’t be home for dinner; he was meeting George at the Gryffin’s Head to mend their quarrel.

Draco pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, the journal slipping aside. It was already clear he had become a point of strain within Ron’s family—and they did not yet know the truth. He could see it too easily: Molly’s disapproval, Arthur’s disappointment, George’s hostility…

Ron belonged in that warmth, in the laughter and easy loyalty that had always been his. If he lost it because of Draco… the thought tightened, turned over, and came back heavier each time. Draco sat with it, silent, certain he wasn’t worth the cost.

The soft pop of apparition pulled him back from his brooding.

“Good evening, sir,” Trilby said, setting a large silver tray on the kitchen island before conjuring the dining table with a flick of his fingers. “You didn't send down your order, so I took the liberty—ravioli in a classic red sauce, arugula salad, and a proper glass of Chianti.”

“Ron’s not coming tonight,” Draco said, though he rose anyway, drawn by the smell of garlic and tomatoes.

“I see,” Trilby murmured, pouring the wine. “That explains why you seem a touch out of sorts.”

“Absurd,” Draco muttered. “He’s barely here, yet I’m unsettled when he’s gone.”

“There’s nothing absurd about it,” Trilby replied, plating the ravioli and gesturing toward the chair. “Ronald Weasley is an exceptional man. Dinner feels emptier without him.”

“Yes,” Draco said quietly, his gaze lingering on the empty place opposite. “So exceptional I’ve no interest in dinner without him.”

“If the ravioli won’t tempt you,” Trilby said gently, “perhaps something else will. Your tailor and I have finished several pieces for Mr. Weasley. I thought you might like to see them.”

Draco looked up, eyes sharpening with interest. “Already? We only just discussed the changes.”

Trilby snapped his fingers, and a deluxe garment bag appeared, unfolding to reveal a grey silk lining. Two suits floated free, filling out as though worn by an invisible man with Ron’s exact proportions.

Draco circled one in rich brown cloth, wine glass in hand.

“I thought you’d approve,” Trilby said, fussing with the drape. “Wool flannel—practical for fieldwork, sharp enough for the Ministry.”

Draco brushed the sleeve with his fingertips. “It’s good, but not the finest cloth. Ron deserves better.”

“I’ve considered that,” Trilby replied, producing a cream shirt to show the pairing. “But Mr. Weasley wouldn’t want anything too fine. People might talk, and he himself might not accept something so extravagant.”

Draco reached into the bag and drew out a regimental tie in navy and green stripes. He held it against the suit, studying the effect. “This looks smart.”

“The navy suit you ordered is medium‑weight wool,” Trilby continued, adjusting the shoulders. “More formal—perfect if he’s leading a meeting or giving a briefing.”

Draco tilted his head, then summoned the charcoal grey paisley tie Trilby had tucked inside. He held it against the rich blue fabric, lips curving faintly. “This… is very nice indeed.”

Trilby set the box on the counter and lifted the lid with a flourish. “Last but not least… John Lobb Derbies. A fine pair.”

Draco picked one up, turning the shoe in his hand. His mouth broke into a rare smile. “Perfect.”

Trilby inclined his head, pleased. “If I may, sir… perhaps something more personal next time. Twilfitt and Tattings has a velvet smoking jacket in hunter green that would suit the Auror beautifully. Ideal for evenings by the fire.”

“This flat doesn’t have a fireplace,” Draco said dryly, setting the shoe back down.

“True,” Trilby replied with a small smile, “but the Manor does. And, if I recall, several other properties besides.”

“Those are my father’s. And Ron would never be comfortable in all that pomp. He prefers simplicity—like this.” He gestured at the clean lines of his flat.

“Then perhaps a brushed cotton dressing gown in autumn checks. Or slippers—something soft for nights in with you over hot chocolate.”

Draco hesitated, then nodded once. “Ask Miss King to put it on my calendar. I’d replace all his clothes if I could… but I don’t want him thinking I’m ashamed of him.”

Trilby’s expression softened. “Quite right, sir. A delicate mission.”

“Slowly,” Draco said, guarded but tender. “Christmas, perhaps. His birthday falls on the first of March.”

Trilby smoothed the fabric before tucking it into the bag. “I’ll hang these up. Do you mean to tell the Auror soon?”

“After the Phoenix Ball. He’s already agreed to wear the suit I gave him. If he enjoys it… then perhaps I can offer more. It needs to feel natural.”

Trilby gave a small, approving nod as he lifted the garment bag. “Very wise, sir. One step at a time. But I believe the Auror will see it for what it is—a gift freely given.”

With that, Trilby slipped from the room, leaving Draco alone with his dinner, and the empty chair opposite.

“Hi, Harry,” Ron said, dragging a hand through his hair, distracted. “Draco get to Azkaban all right?”

Harry glanced up from the paperwork scattered across his desk. “Yeah. He wasn’t thrilled about the company, but he went.”

Ron let out a breath and dropped into the chair opposite. “Cheers. Robards kept me longer than I thought.”

“Anything useful come of it?”

Ron dug into his pocket and slid a galleon across the desk. “Susan Bones gave me this. Says her contact uses it to set meetings. Robards had a Senior Unspeakable check it—came back clean. No curses, no tricks.”

Harry turned the coin over, frowning. “So it’ll show the date and time? Where’s the meet?”

“Broken Wand,” Ron confirmed, taking it back. “Susan says it even heats up, same as the old DA coins.”

Harry’s mouth tightened. “Then whoever’s running Mourning Star knows the DA. Maybe even one of us.”

“Could be,” Ron said, slipping the coin back into his pocket with a sigh. “Between Rita Skeeter and all her copycats, the coin trick’s public knowledge these days.”

“You think he’s the same bloke Smith met?”

“Would fit,” Ron said. “Pansy thought the man in Smith’s memory was polyjuiced. Could’ve scrambled his head too—muddled what he remembered, maybe even pushed him into sending that letter.”

Harry leaned back, breathing out slow. “So we’re after someone who can brew Polyjuice—”

“—and might be a legilimens,” Ron cut in, grim. “Not exactly a short list. That’s as far as she got before Robards pulled her off.”

“Sorry. That one’s on me.”

Ron gave him a look, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “You just had to file relationship paperwork with my favourite Unspeakable. Couldn’t resist, could you? How’s she holding up?”

Harry’s eyes went a little distant. “She’s alright. Not thrilled about being stuck on records duty, but otherwise fine. We’re meeting Molly and Arthur at the Russian Tea Room Wednesday. Hoping the fancy setting keeps things civil.”

Ron snorted. “Civil? With Mum? Good luck. She’ll grill her six ways to Sunday.” He shifted in his chair, more thoughtful now. “Still… records duty. That’s where they send people who need a breather. She really alright?”

Harry hesitated, then flicked his wand. The air thickened with a privacy ward that made Ron’s ears pop. “About that. Pansy’s not sick. She’s… pregnant.”

Ron jerked back in his chair, eyes wide. “Pregnant? Bloody hell, Harry. Are you going to tell Mum? If she hears it from Witch Weekly first, I won’t be able to save you—badge or no badge!”

Harry laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I will. Just… not yet. Pansy’s got enough to deal with, and I don’t want Mum piling on before she’s ready. So keep it between us, yeah?”

Ron pushed himself up and clapped Harry into a hug. “I can’t believe you’re going to be a dad,” he said, blinking fast and swiping at his face with the back of his hand. “Now I’m glad she’s off the case—but maybe you ought to be too.”

Harry’s smile wavered as he hugged him back. “Me—a dad. Mad, isn’t it? Terrifying and brilliant all at once. But I’ll manage. It’s you I’m worried about.”

“I'll be alright,” Ron said, pulling away, eyes bright. “I promised Robards I wouldn’t go in alone. When our man makes contact, we’ll take him down together.”

Draco was already asleep when Ron came in. He stripped down quickly, tossing his clothes over the armchair, and slid beneath the covers. The mattress dipped under his weight as he pressed close, arm slipping firmly around Draco’s waist to draw him in.

“About time,” Draco muttered, voice thick with sleep. He leaned back into Ron like he’d been waiting all night. “I nearly gave up on you.”

Ron smiled, burying his face in Draco’s hair. “Not likely. You’d never give me up.” He let his hand drift slowly down the length of Draco’s side, fingers tracing the lean line of his body until they settled at the sharp curve of his hip. “How’d it go with Goyle? Was it alright, having Harry take you?”

Draco sighed. “I’d rather have you, obviously. But Potter was fine. I even apologized to him.”

Ron’s arm tightened around him. “And?”

Draco shrugged, lids closed. “He said he appreciated it. Or something like that.”

Ron pressed another kiss to the back of his neck. “I sorted things with George. You won’t have any trouble at the Ball.”

“Mm,” Draco hummed, already drifting.

Ron let out a long breath, tension easing from his shoulders. Draco was warm against him, his hair soft beneath Ron’s cheek, lavender clinging faintly to his skin. Ron closed his eyes, breathing him in, and sleep found him fast.

Chapter Text

“Oi, don’t wander off,” Angelina laughed, tugging George back toward the hob. She gave the spoon a brisk swirl. “Risotto sulks if you ignore it. Keep stirring—you’re stuck here with me.”

A flush crept up George’s neck. “Right. Constant vigilance.” He slid in beside her, his hand brushing hers on the spoon before he took over. “So what’s your job while I do all the hard work?”

“I’ll open the wine.” She flicked her wand; the cork popped free and skittered across the counter. She poured the pale liquid into two chipped mugs and held one up with a grin. “Mugs, George? Not a single wine glass in the flat?”

He ducked his head, embarrassed but smiling. “I keep saying I need help.”

Ron swiped a slice of prosciutto from the board Angelina had brought. “You should see his bedroom. Still looks like it did when we were teenagers. Absolute time capsule.”

“Git,” George muttered, swiping at him. Ron dodged easily, grinning.

“Shouldn’t you be getting yourself ready for the big night?”

Ron shrugged, leaning against the counter. “I’ll meet Harry later. Pansy’s booked us in for some fancy barber—haircut, shave, the works. Then I’ll throw the rest together.”

“First Draco, now Pansy. What’s next? I’d rather Harry stayed himself, not some Slytherin project.”

“It’s their first night out together,” Angelina reminded him. “And it’s a charity gala. Of course she wants him looking sharp.”

Ron kept his tone light. “You sure you don’t want to come? We could dig up something decent for you to wear.”

George shook his head, a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not a chance. Those things aren’t about charity. They’re about people wanting to be seen giving. Doesn’t sit right with me.”

Ron raided the charcuterie board again, popping a chunk of sharp cheddar into his mouth. “It’s not all bad. They raise a fair bit, and St Mungo’s needs it. Families get help they wouldn’t otherwise. Still—crowds, speeches, everyone pretending it’s a party… not really your scene.”

George kept his eyes on the pan. “Exactly.”

Angelina brushed his shoulder as she passed him a mug of wine. “We’re fine here,” she said gently. “Enjoy yourself, Ron.”

Half an hour later, Ron sat rigid in the leather chair as the barber pressed a hot towel to his face, steam curling with the sharp bite of sandalwood and bay rum. Every muscle stayed taut while the straight razor swept cleanly along his jaw.

Across from him, Harry lounged maddeningly at ease, chatting as the blade flashed at his cheek. He caught Ron’s eye, his mouth twitching. “Feels like they’re about to slit your throat, doesn’t it?”

Ron gave a low grunt, fingers gripping the armrest. “Brilliant. Just what I needed.”

“Relax. You’ve faced worse.”

“Yeah?” Ron muttered. “Pansy rope you into this sort of thing often?”

“First time. She said it’d make me look presentable.”

“She pick the suit too?”

Harry shrugged, easy. “Course she did. Honestly, it’s a relief—I’ve never cared much about clothes. What about you? Did you rent something at Rathbones, like last year?”

“Not this time,” Ron said, as the barber brushed fresh foam along his jaw, the bristles whispering against his skin.

Harry’s grin sharpened. “Tell me you didn’t drag Percy’s old suit out again. No offense, but even I could see it never fit.”

“Actually… Draco sorted me out.”

“Malfoy lent you a suit?”

Ron shrugged, eyes fixed on the floor. “He called it a gift. A thank‑you for the Sanus case.”

Harry’s smile slipped. “Ron… you know how it looks, taking something from someone you’re meant to protect.”

Ron shifted, the leather creaking under him. “Put that way, maybe I shouldn’t have. Only…”

“Only what?”

“Tell you later.”

The barber wiped the last streaks of lather from his jaw, rinsed the blade, and shook it dry. The towel disappeared, cool palms pressing aftershave into his skin.

“Smooth as it gets. You’ll be turning heads tonight.”

Ron glanced at the mirror. His jaw looked sharper than he was used to, clean‑shaven and stark. The barber had coaxed his red hair into a neat side‑part, brushed back with a faint shine. Tidy, restrained—almost like looking at a stranger.

Beside him, Harry’s barber slicked Sleekeazy’s through his hair, leaving it polished in a way Ron had never seen.

“All set, sir. If you’ll step this way, I’ll show you to the changing rooms.”

They were shown into a corridor lined with dark wood paneling, gleaming brass numbers fixed to each door.

“Mr. Potter, your suit is laid out in number ten,” he said, pausing with a courteous gesture. Then he turned to Ron.

“And Mr. Weasley, yours is in number eleven, just across the hall. Ring if you need anything further.”

Ron raised his eyebrows at Harry, who only smiled before disappearing behind his door.

The changing room was tiled in black‑and‑white marble, the pattern sharp beneath Ron’s feet. Polished copper planters flanked the mirror, palms brushing the air as if they belonged here more than he did.

On the garment rack, his suit bag waited, square before the full‑length glass.

How was he going to explain Draco’s gift to Harry—and the rest of their friends? He hadn’t let himself dwell on the awkwardness before. It had mattered to Draco, giving it to him… and Ron hadn’t been able to resist the feel of something new, tailored, and far finer than anything he’d ever worn.

“Nothing for it now,” he muttered, drawing on the unfamiliar black trousers with their silk braid running neatly down the outer seam. The starched white evening shirt came next, tucked carefully into place before he shrugged into the braces that crossed over his shoulders. He laced the patent shoes, his gaze straying to the discreet black box on the dresser—the one that held the cufflinks Draco had pressed on him.

Ron had been reluctant to take them. Draco had called them a family heirloom, and they glittered with tiny diamonds besides. Ron didn’t want to think about what something like that might be worth. He slipped the box into his pocket instead, turning back to reach for the black dinner jacket.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Ron?” Harry called. “Can you help me with these French cuffs?”

Ron turned from the mirror and let him in. Harry blinked, nudging his glasses up.

“Nice shirt.”

“Bit fussy, isn’t it?”

“Nah. Looks good,” Harry said, holding out his wrist.

Ron took the cufflinks—gold lions rampant—the metal cool against his fingers as he worked them into place. He kept his eyes down, unwilling to risk what he might catch in Harry’s face if he looked up.

“I can help with yours too,” he said when Ron finished.

“Draco lent me a pair. He’s got… well, a box of them. Family things, mostly.”

“You know you can always come to me if you need anything.”

Ron lifted a shoulder, gaze still down. “Draco offered. Easier than saying no.”

“Alright. Let’s see them, then.”

Ron reached into his pocket, fingers closing around the box. He flipped it open and dug out the cufflinks. For a moment he felt every eye in the world on him, though it was only Harry, and he dropped them into his palm.

“Crowns?” Harry turned one over between thumb and forefinger, the diamonds catching the light.

Ron tried for casual. “You think he meant it as a nod to that old Slytherin chant?”

“Course he did. He wrote it, didn’t he?”

“Right,” Ron muttered, extending his arm.

Harry caught his wrist, turning the cuff toward him. His voice was quiet, almost offhand.

“The two of you must be close, if he can joke about that.”

“I don’t reckon it was meant as an insult. He’s… made it clear he’s sorry. For all of it.”

Harry fastened the second cufflink, then let Ron’s arm drop back. “You spend a lot of time with him, don’t you? More than you let on.”

Ron turned back to the mirror, fingers fumbling with the bow tie. He kept his eyes on the knot.

“He’s not what people think. Works harder than anyone gives him credit for. Smarter too—comes up with his own potions. And he’s funny, once you actually spend time with him. Doesn’t sit around feeling sorry for himself either—just gets on with it.”

“Sounds like you admire him,” Harry said quietly. “If there’s more to it, you can tell me.”

“There isn’t.” The words sat wrong, but he forced them out anyway.

Harry nodded once. “All right. Just know—you don’t have to hide anything from me. Whatever’s going on—you’re my brother. That’s not changing.”

Ron swallowed, throat tight. “I know.”

The silence was interrupted by a courteous knock upon the panelled door.  

“Mr. Potter? Are you within, sir?”

A house‑elf appeared at the threshold, attired in a crisp black‑and‑white suit with gleaming white gloves. He bowed low before speaking.

“Miss Parkinson and Miss Greengrass have arrived. They are in the ladies’ saloon and ask that you join them promptly.”

Harry smiled faintly, though his eyes lingered on Ron. “Thanks. I’ll get my jacket.”

The elf stayed at the door, posture expectant, ready to lead them on.

“Can I leave my things here?” Ron asked, folding his rugby shirt and jeans into the garment bag. He bent to scoop up his battered trainers, uncertain where they belonged.

“Do not concern yourself with your attire,” the elf replied. “Miss Parkinson has arranged for it to be returned to your residence once you depart for the ball.”

“Er—great,” Ron said, setting the shoes down again. “I’ll just wait for Harry, then.”

Harry reappeared, tie in hand. “There must be a spell for these blasted things…”

“Permit me, sir,” the elf said, bowing slightly before snapping his fingers.

Ron started as his tie jerked at his throat, the knot sliding into perfect symmetry. Harry’s followed suit, settling neatly against his collar.

“Now you both look much improved,” the elf declared, as he ushered them through a set of double doors into a wide lounge. A Chesterfield sprawled across a faded rug—so worn Ron knew his mother would have banished it, though here it passed as antique.

Pansy stood by the fire, emerald silk falling in a long, uninterrupted line, a glass of gillywater balanced in one hand. Beside her, Daphne Greengrass idly stirred her cocktail, the faint murmur between them breaking off as Harry stepped inside, Ron a pace behind.

“Well,” Pansy said, satisfaction curling at the edge of her voice, “that was worth the effort. I knew you’d polish up nicely.”

Harry smiled as he stepped closer, brushing a kiss against her cheek. “You look beautiful,” he said, plain and certain.

“Evening, Ron,” Daphne said, her smile warming. “You look sharp tonight.”  

“Thanks. You look sharp yourself.” His eyes flicked to the silver of her dress. “Is that silk?”

“It is,” Daphne replied, gathering the skirt lightly in one hand. “And before you ask—no, Pansy and I didn’t coordinate to fly the Slytherin flag tonight.”

Ron chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Silver suits you, though. Makes sense you’d pick it.”

Daphne slipped her hand through Ron’s arm, steering him a few steps from the fire. Her tone was light, though the words carried intent.

“I hate to corner you, but I need a favor.”

“What sort?”

“Adrian Pucey still thinks I’m hung up on him. If we look like we came together, it’ll save me the trouble. That is—if you’re not already spoken for.”

Ron busied himself with the decanter, pouring a measure of whiskey into a cut‑glass tumbler. “No problem,” he said, steady but subdued.

Relief touched her smile. “Thanks, Ron. You’re a good sort. And don’t worry—I won’t keep you on the dance floor all night.”

“Fair warning, I’m not much out there. Better than I used to be, but Draco’s the one who makes it look easy.”

Daphne’s brows lifted. “Draco…?”

“He’s been giving me lessons,” Ron said, lifting his glass for a quick swallow. “Calls it a public service.”

Daphne laughed, low and elegant. “That does sound like him. I’m only surprised—you weren’t exactly friendly at school.”

“Fair point. Things changed once I was assigned to his case.”

“Oh, yes. The case.” Daphne’s tone warmed, curious. “Astoria mentioned you were working the Sanus break‑in. How’s that going?”

Ron’s eyes lifted as Harry crossed the room, Pansy’s hand in his—rare for him, protective in the way he leaned toward her.

“We’ve seen some movement,” he said. “Shouldn’t be long before it’s wrapped up.”

“All set?” Pansy asked, her gaze flicking from Daphne to Ron. “We can Floo straight to the venue from here—far preferable to running the gauntlet at the door.”

Ron set his glass aside with a nod. “Sounds good.” The edge of anticipation broke through despite himself; he couldn’t wait to see Draco’s reaction to the change in him.

Miss King’s gown traced a line of lavender through the crowd as she moved toward the bar, eyes bright. “Sir, would you believe—”

“Draco,” he interrupted, tone clipped but not unkind.

She corrected herself with a small smile. “Draco. I’m glad you agreed to add your ski chalet to the auction list. The bids are already past ten thousand galleons.”

Draco swirled the Elf‑crafted Cognac in his glass. “Mm. People do love the idea of Mont Blanc views and a private spa. Easier to sell the fantasy than the upkeep.”

Miss King’s lips curved. “Still, it’s the prize everyone’s talking about. The library with its carved beams, the ski room stocked for both broom fittings and Muggle gear—it’s become the centerpiece of the evening.”

“Better they keep their attention on the chalet. I’ve no interest in becoming the entertainment.”

Just then, Harry Potter stepped into the room. The crowd shifted almost instinctively, bodies angling closer as if proximity alone might earn a handshake. Julian Penn, the Prophet’s society photographer, was already raising his voice, calling Pansy’s name, trying to catch her face for the flash.

Marcus, immaculate in his evening suit yet carrying himself with the watchful ease of a bodyguard, glanced toward the commotion. “Looks like the attention’s shifted to Potter. Some things never change.”

Draco didn’t answer. His gaze had already slipped past Harry, searching for Ron. He found him at Harry’s side—taller than most, the neat cut of his red hair catching the light and setting him apart from the sea of black suits.

Miss King’s smile curved as she followed the line of his gaze. “Mr. Weasley looks every inch the gentleman tonight—and perhaps a few inches more.”

“Pardon me,” Draco said, setting his glass aside. “I should greet him. No need to follow, Marcus. I’m perfectly safe in the Auror’s company.”

He had only made it halfway across the room before Dr. Adam Turner, the hospital’s chief mediwizard, intercepted him.

“Draco! I’m glad you could make it tonight.” He extended his hand, clasping Draco’s firmly. “We’re grateful—not just for your donation this evening, but for the potions you’ve kept flowing into our wards. It makes a real difference.”

“Please,” Draco said, the faintest curve of a smile touching his mouth as he met Adam’s eyes. “I should be the one thanking you. Not everyone in your position would have trusted a supplier with my history.”

“You’ve earned that trust. The staff rely on your work, and the patients see the benefit every day.”

“Your confidence means more than you know. I’ll keep earning it.”

Adam’s smile broadened as he gestured to the glamorous young woman beside him. “May I introduce Cecilia Price? She’s one of our research fellows, eager to learn from those shaping the field. I thought you two should meet.”

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Malfoy. Adam speaks very highly of you, though I confess I’m curious about another gift you’re reputed to have.”

“Indeed?”

“They say you’re a remarkable dancer,” she admitted, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. “The orchestra is beginning a waltz—would you do me the honor?”

“The honor would be mine.” He extended his hand, leading her onto the floor with practiced courtesy, even as his thoughts strayed—Ron’s nearness a constant pull, each moment of delay stretching into eternity.

“Come now, Harry,” Mandy Brocklehurst said, quick‑quotes quill poised. “One quote, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Funny. I thought you were a proper reporter, Brocklehurst. Didn’t expect to see you sniffing around for gossip.”

Julian Penn, the Prophet’s photographer, crouched low to catch all four of them in the frame. The camera’s flash burst white, leaving their eyes stung and blinking. Mandy didn’t flinch, her quill already scratching.

“I got a tip you’d be here with Parkinson, and you know exactly how fast the Prophet’s readers will jump on it. 'The savior of the wizarding world and the girl who once tried to hand him to the Dark Lord.' That’s not gossip, Harry. That’s my break.”

Ron glared down at her. “Didn’t you already get your break trashing Draco? How do you sleep at night, knowing you’re the reason his lab was wrecked?”

“Appreciate the quote, Auror Weasley.” Mandy’s quill scratched eagerly across the page as she turned back to Harry and Pansy, eyes sharp with calculation. “So—how did you end up with Miss Parkinson? A workplace romance, if the whispers are true?”

Harry’s hand found Pansy’s, his grip easy but sure. He glanced at her, a smile flickering, though his words were meant for Mandy. “Pansy was the one who cracked the selkie trafficking case last year. I couldn’t have stopped it without her.”

“So it’s her brains, then? Not the looks or the family gold?”

Harry’s mouth tightened. “You don’t honestly think I’m going to play along with that, do you?”

“Come on, Harry. The Prophet’s readers want to know how the Chosen One ends up with a Death Eater fangirl.”

Harry bristled, his shoulders tightening as if he might move, but Mandy kept on, quill scratching.  

“That’s what she was, wasn’t she? No offense, Miss Parkinson, but everyone at school saw you trailing after Draco Malfoy.”

“Lay off her,” Ron snapped, face darkening. “You weren’t fighting either, so don’t act like you’ve got the right to judge. At least Pansy’s doing something useful now.”

Harry flicked Ron a look — gratitude, quick and wordless — then turned back to Pansy, shutting Mandy out. “Didn’t plan on talking to Witch Weekly,” he said, dry. “But I guess they’ll have their exclusive now.” He took Pansy’s hand and guided her onto the dance floor. The crowd parted easily, eyes following as they began to move.

“Wow, Ron,” Daphne said once Mandy and Julian had gone. She squeezed his arm, looking up at him with a new respect. “I didn’t expect you to stand up for Pansy like that.”

Ron shifted, scowling. “Yeah, well… Draco takes enough of Brocklehurst’s rubbish. I’m sick of her twisting things, always putting the worst spin on people. I’m not letting her do it to Pansy too.”

“Do you want to dance?” Daphne asked, her voice quick with eagerness. “Adrian’s at the bar — perfect chance to send him a message.” 

She tugged him toward the floor, and Ron let himself be drawn in. His other hand settled awkwardly at her waist, the placement stiff, more duty than desire.

“You dance better than I expected,” Daphne said after a few minutes, surprise flickering in her tone.

“Yeah, well… I had a good teacher,” Ron muttered, his gaze sliding past her shoulder, still scanning the crowd for Draco.

“Draco’s the best dancer here,” Daphne went on. “My sister never shuts up about it. That and the brooding — he tries to put her off, but she only likes him more for it.”

Ron’s jaw tightened. “So your parents still think Draco’s going to marry her?”

Daphne laughed. “Careful, you sound like a jealous suitor. I didn’t know you’d even met Astoria.”

Ron swallowed, forcing his expression flat. “No. Never had the pleasure. I might’ve seen her at school once, but she was years below us. I didn’t pay her much attention.”

Daphne nodded. “My mum’s close with Narcissa. At first they thought Draco and I might suit, but I’ve never seen him that way.”

“I’d have thought he was what every girl wanted,” Ron said. “Good‑looking. Clever. Rich.”

Daphne laughed again. “And arrogant. Moody as sin. Attractive, sure — until you realize he never lets anyone in. I’ll save myself the trouble.”

Just then Ron caught sight of Draco. He was leading a striking woman through the waltz, their movements so fluid that the crowd had stilled to watch.

“There he is,” Daphne said, following Ron’s gaze. Her brow creased. “Do you know the woman with him?”

“I was about to ask you,” Ron said, dragging his eyes from Draco’s charcoal jacket — satin lapel flashing in the low light.

“I don’t recognize her,” Daphne said, stopping as the music faded. She let her left hand slip from Ron’s shoulder, the other falling from his.

“Want a drink?” Ron asked quickly, seizing the excuse not to start another dance. 

“Oh, I’d love some champagne,” Daphne said. “Will you bring it to me? I see Padma with Hermione — I haven’t caught up in ages.”

“No problem,” Ron said, glancing toward the corner where Hermione stood with Padma, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. “Anything else while I’m up?”

“I should’ve asked you to be my pretend date sooner,” Daphne teased. “You squire a lady beautifully.”

Ron moved through the crowd toward the bar, nodding and smiling automatically at familiar faces. The gestures felt thin, practiced. Being here with Draco, pretending they were only friends, was harder than he’d expected — each step tightening something inside him. First the lie to Harry. Then the arrangement with Daphne. And now this: Draco dancing with eligible women while quiet voices speculated about his future. Ron’s stomach turned, a dull ache he forced down, willing it not to show.

“Whiskey, neat,” he said, bracing his elbows against the polished mahogany. He knocked it back in a single swallow, the burn cutting quick and clean. “And two glasses of champagne,” he added, his voice steadier than the pulse in his chest.

“Careful,” a familiar voice drawled behind him. “You’ll be useless if you keep that up.”

“Draco!” Ron turned, warmth flooding him at once. “I’ve been trying to see you all night.”

“And I you,” Draco said quietly, lowering his voice. “But we have to be discreet.”

Ron nodded, holding himself back, though his hand ached to brush the velvet of Draco’s jacket. “I thought you’d be in black,” he said, reaching for something safe.

“Black is traditional,” Draco said, gesturing for a whiskey of his own. “But charcoal is an acceptable—if slightly eccentric—alternative. I’ve worn enough black to last a lifetime.”

“You look… good,” Ron said, his voice rough.

Draco’s mouth curved faintly. “Evening dress suits you, Ron.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d like it. Not exactly my usual.”

Draco’s gaze lingered, unreadable to anyone else. “Different doesn’t mean wrong. You carry it well.”

“Draco, there you are,” Narcissa said smoothly, sweeping into view in a white gown dusted with seed pearls that caught the light like frost. “Astoria has just placed a bid on your chalet, but I assured her there are far simpler ways to secure an invitation.”

“I said I shouldn’t disturb you,” Astoria murmured, lashes lowered in practiced modesty, “but she promised you wouldn’t mind.”

Ron stiffened at once, heat rising under his skin at the abrupt severing of his private moment with Draco.

Draco inclined his head, voice even. “You’re no disturbance, Astoria.” He shifted slightly, the gesture formal rather than intimate. “Permit me the introductions. Mother, Astoria — Ronald Weasley, a friend I hold in high regard.”

Narcissa’s smile was gracious, but distant, the kind reserved for household staff. “A pleasure, Auror Weasley. My husband mentioned you were assigned to investigate the break‑in at Draco’s offices. Tell me — has there been progress?”

Ron nodded, jaw tight. “Not as quickly as I’d like, but we believe we’re closing in on the culprit.”

“I cannot tell you what a relief that is,” Narcissa replied, her composure easing. “And where did you learn to dance so well? Astoria and I noticed how deftly you led Daphne across the floor.”

“Your son, actually. He’s a brilliant dancer — and an even better teacher.”

Astoria’s brows rose in surprise. Narcissa, too, looked momentarily taken aback.

“Ron is too modest,” Draco cut in, voice clipped, dismissive. “I barely had to do anything.”

The orchestra swelled into another waltz, and Astoria’s eyes lifted to Draco, hopeful.

“Voices of Spring,” Narcissa said, her tone warm but commanding. “Draco, you must take Astoria out. No one else here could do the piece justice.”

Draco extended his hand, not once glancing at Ron, and led Astoria onto the floor.

“The very picture of a perfect couple,” Narcissa observed, her gaze following their graceful turn beneath the chandeliers. “A June wedding at the manor would be ideal — the peonies will be at their finest.”

Ron stiffened, fingers tightening around his glass. “I hadn’t realized they were engaged.”

“Perhaps not formally,” Narcissa allowed, her tone light, almost indulgent. “But Draco understands what is expected of him. He would never disappoint us.”

“Excuse me,” Ron said shortly, setting down his glass. “I promised Daphne I’d fetch her drink.”

Ron took the glass of champagne with him, but instead of heading toward the corner where Daphne laughed with Hermione, he drained it in one swallow. He set the empty glass on a passing tray without a word and stalked out of the ballroom. He had no idea where he meant to go — only that he longed to apparate far from here, anywhere he wouldn’t have to watch Draco obey his mother’s every command and hear himself introduced as nothing more than a friend.

Chapter Text

Draco returned to his mother, releasing Astoria’s hand the instant courtesy no longer bound him.

“Where’s Ron?”

His gaze swept the room, restless. Daphne’s laughter rang from a knot of conversation with Hermione and Padma. Harry lingered at the canapé table with Ginny and Neville. Blaise spun Pansy across the polished floor, her smile flashing beneath the chandeliers. Faces blurred, voices rose and fell—but Ron was nowhere.

“Did you say something to him?”

Narcissa’s eyes flicked briefly to Astoria. “What could I possibly have said, darling? He mentioned fetching Daphne a drink, then walked out of the ballroom. No explanation—only temper.”

“Excuse me,” Draco said curtly, already turning toward the double doors. His mother’s voice followed, smooth and insistent, but he didn’t slow.

Ron’s hurt expression weighed in him like stone. He hadn’t meant to cut him down, only to shore up appearances, to let their friendship pass as ordinary. Ron must have known how conspicuous it looked—Draco offering himself as his dancing master. Yet he’d spoken without pause, easy as breath. Unguarded in a way Draco could never afford.

“Draco, wait!” Marcus called, jogging to catch up. “I know you’d rather shake me off, but you’ve got to let me do my job.”

“I need to find Ron. Did you see him leave?”

Marcus shook his head, irritation flickering. “I’m watching you, not him.”

“I have to find him,” Draco muttered, cutting toward the Floo.

Marcus closed the distance in two strides. “You can’t chase him across London. He could be anywhere, and it’s not safe. The Aurors still haven’t caught the man threatening you.”

Draco turned on him, sharp. “Stop hovering. I’ll go to the flat and stay there. That should satisfy you.”

“Your flat doesn’t have Floo access, and the wards block Apparition inside. I’m coming with you.”

Draco didn’t waste breath on another argument. His hand closed around his wand, and with a crack of displaced air, he was gone.

Ron walked fast, heat burning in his chest, night air sharp against his face. He hadn’t meant to come this way, but when he looked up, the familiar high‑rise loomed: Draco’s building.

He stopped at the edge of the pavement, breath uneven. The ball had shown him more than he could bear. Too easy to picture Draco bowing to expectation—marrying Astoria, leaving him behind.

And Draco had never said it, had he? Never given him the words Ron had been holding onto like a promise. What if he didn’t love him at all?

He pushed through the doors as if momentum alone might keep him from breaking.

“Evening, sir.” Jones straightened from behind the desk, the cut of his uniform neat, but his posture too precise for a simple doorman. His eyes flicked over Ron’s dinner suit, widening just a fraction. “Everything all right at the gala?”

“Fine.” Ron offered his wand for the usual checks, voice clipped. “I’d like to be let up.”

“Of course.” Jones pressed the button that summoned the private lift to Draco’s flat. Then, as if remembering, he ducked into the post room tucked discreetly behind his desk and returned with a garment bag.

“Magical delivery,” he explained at Ron’s look. “Unpredictable, you know. The order was to return it to your home, and I suppose your magic thinks that’s here.”

Ron’s throat tightened. He snatched the bag with a jerking movement. “Right. I’ll just be on my way.”

He stepped into the lift. The doors closed with a soft chime, carrying him upward. His shoulders sagged, breath leaving him in a rush. He wasn’t surprised his magic had called Draco’s flat home. He wasn’t sure when that had started—but here was proof, as if he needed it, that Draco was home to him.

A moment later the doors parted, and Ron crossed into the flat, tugging off his patent shoes and dropping them where he stood. He called for Trilby, half‑expecting the elf to appear, but the silence held.

The dinner table stood in its usual place, draped in the creamy linen Ron had grown used to. Tonight, though, the plates were different—white porcelain edged with a braided band of gold so fine he had no trouble believing it was real. On them sat steak with buttered potatoes and asparagus, steam rising, the preservation charm working in silence to keep it hot.

He walked to the bedroom, bracing for whatever Trilby had staged. As expected: the silk duvet turned down, pillows stacked high, candles floating at the bedside, the wizarding romance clashing with the glass wall and the Muggle skyline glittering beyond.

He sat on the bed, staring out at the city lights. He should think about what he wanted to say when Draco came back, hours from now. Draco would be working the room, charming the other donors, coaxing the hospital board toward renewing his contract. Maybe even dancing with Astoria again, if Narcissa had her way.

Ron tugged the bow tie loose. Pressure sharpened behind his eyes, vision blurring.

“Ron?” Draco’s voice carried in, higher than usual. “Are you home?”

“Draco?” Ron rose quickly, hurrying out into the hall.

Draco was still beautiful in charcoal velvet, but the smooth composure he’d worn at the ball was gone. His face was tight, pinched with anxiety.

“Thank Merlin.” He crossed the space at once, arms wrapping Ron in a fierce embrace. Ron kept his hands at his sides, anger too raw to return it. “I didn’t know where you’d gone. Thought I’d lost you.”

“You were worried?” Ron closed his eyes, fighting the sting behind them.

“Of course I was.” Draco pulled back, his voice catching. “Ron, I didn’t mean to hurt you. The dancing lessons—my mother knows I’d never do that for a mere friend.”

Ron let out a hard breath. “Right. Wouldn’t want to upset your mother.”

“Don’t twist this. You know why it matters.”

“No, I don’t.” Ron’s voice cut in, harsh. “So what then? I stay hidden forever?”

Draco flinched. “It’s not forever. It’s until—”

“Until what? She’s already picked your bride.”

“That’s not fair.”

Ron’s voice rose. “It’s true. I’ve had to lie to Harry, to everyone, because you told me to. And I’ve got to stand there—while she goes on, smug, certain you’ll do exactly what she wants—”

“Stop. Please.” Draco’s voice cracked. “I can’t—”

“I can’t keep hiding. I need to know I matter to you.”

Draco’s tears spilled unchecked. “Ron… you do. More than anything. I thought you knew. I’ve tried to show you—in every way I know how.”

Ron shook his head, moving for the door. “You haven’t told them. Maybe you never will.”

“Wait!” Draco’s wand trembled in his hand. “I love you. I’ll prove it—bind myself to you.”

“Bind yourself?” Ron’s anger faltered, concern breaking through. “Draco, don’t do something stupid—”

“Vinculum aeternitatis, corda ligate, fides servate!”

The words ripped out of him, dark magic threading into his chest. He staggered, coughing, one hand braced against the wall.

Ron caught him before his knees gave way.

“What did you do?” Ron bent over him, his words shaking, heat pulsing in his chest as if the spell had touched them both.

“Vinculum Aeternitatis,” Draco whispered, curling against him. “You know the spell. It binds the heir of a noble house to his intended—”

“That spell’s dangerous. No one’s touched it in a century—for good reason.”

“I had to make you believe me.”

“Bloody hell, Draco.” Ron’s voice was rough, almost breaking. He swept Draco up, arms under his knees and back, holding him tight against his chest. Draco stiffened, then flushed, his fingers clutching at Ron’s jacket.

“Ron—”

“You’re coming with me,” Ron said, low and fierce. “I need to see you’re all right.”

He shouldered the bedroom door open, ignoring Draco’s protests, and laid him down. When Draco tried to sit up, Ron swung over him, knee planted between his legs, holding him there with his weight.

“Off,” Ron said, tugging at the fine cloth of Draco’s shirt so roughly that the mother‑of‑pearl buttons snapped free, exposing the pale line of his stomach and the lean muscle of his chest.

“It’s there, isn’t it?” Draco asked, sitting forward a little to help shrug out of his velvet jacket and the torn remains of his shirt.

“Yeah, it’s there.” Ron’s hand brushed the mark over Draco’s heart—a black serpent swallowing its own tail, inked into the skin above his sternum.

“Then it worked.” Draco sank back against the pillows, relief breaking through his exhaustion.

“Don’t sound so bloody pleased with yourself.” Ron stripped away Draco’s trousers with rough hands, leaving him in black silk shorts, long and lean against the sheets. His palms roamed over Draco’s skin, searching for damage.

“I suppose there’s no reason it wouldn’t,” Draco said, as if working through a difficult equation. “We may both be men, but you’re still a pure-blood, unmarried. And I’m a…”

Ron’s stare burned into him. “Say it, Draco.”

Draco lowered his eyes, heat rising in his face. “We’ve never… not that. And I wouldn’t with anyone else.”

Ron gave a jerky nod. “I’ll do it now. After that spell—you could make yourself ill if we don’t.”

Draco pushed up on his elbows, gaze raw. “Is that the only reason? Don’t you want me?”

Ron’s jaw tightened, desire pulling at him. “Not like this. Bound and unwilling—”

“I’m not unwilling.” Draco caught his wrists before he could reach the buttons of his shirt. “You know I want you. I always have.”

“I don’t want to rush you. I feel like I’ve pressured you without meaning to.”

Draco’s eyes held his. “I learned that spell weeks ago. Maybe tonight pushed me to cast it, but I always meant to. You’re the only person I could ever marry.”

Ron’s hand closed at the nape of Draco’s neck, pulling him into a kiss. Draco yielded instantly—a rare surrender. Normally there were rituals first: dinner, a bath, the armour of pajamas before he’d allow closeness. But now he gave way, lips parting, body pliant beneath Ron’s weight.

“Soon,” Ron promised, shifting as if to rise. “Let me take this off—”

“No.” Draco dragged him back down, breath breaking. “Please—like my fantasy.”

“I’ll give you anything you want. But you’ve got to tell me what your fantasy really is.”

Draco’s gaze dropped, fingers tracing the satin lapel of Ron’s jacket. “You keep this on… and I don’t wear anything at all.”

Ron groaned, grip tightening as he pulled at Draco’s shorts. “Keep talking. I want every detail while I strip you bare.”

Draco clutched at him, words spilling too fast. “Hold me down—I want to be yours.”

Ron summoned the vial from the bedside table, warming the slick with a muttered charm. His hand slid between Draco’s thighs, teasing the pale skin before closing firmly around him. He stroked slow, then harder, until Draco was gasping, body taut beneath him.

“Merlin, you’re gorgeous like this.”

Draco’s grip in Ron’s hair was frantic. “Please… I need you there. I can’t wait.”

Ron’s pulse hammered. His hand slid lower, squeezing the curve of him. His fingertips skimmed the cleft, dragging a gasp. His mouth pressed hard against Draco’s cheek, voice low and urgent. “Open for me.”

“Only you,” Draco breathed, shivering. “I kept myself for this—for you.”

Ron’s reply was a strangled sound, half‑curse, half‑groan, before his fingers pressed hard, circling the rim until the muscle gave, sliding into the heat.

“Breathe for me,” Ron coaxed. “Let me make you ready.” His fingers worked deeper, restraint fraying with every needy sound Draco made.

Draco shifted restlessly, thighs shaking, clawing at Ron’s jacket. “More,” he gasped, the words torn from him. “I’m ready—please.”

Ron groaned, pressing harder. “You’re driving me mad, begging like that.”

His hand snapped at his flies, dragging himself out through the gap, trousers still clinging to his hips. He slicked himself quickly, breath rough, then braced on his forearm beside Draco’s head, chest pressing down to pin him.

The blunt head nudged at the stretched rim, sharp, insistent. Draco’s breath hitched, legs sliding higher against Ron’s hips, hooking to drag him closer. His fingers clutched Ron’s shoulder, tremor running through him.

“Do it—make me yours.”

The plea tore at Ron’s restraint. He pressed forward, slow at first, resistance giving way until Draco cried out, body taut then shuddering as Ron sank deeper.

“That’s it,” Ron growled, grip firm at his hip. “I’ll take what you’ve kept for me.”

Draco’s chest heaved beneath the weight of Ron’s jacket, fabric rasping against bare skin as Ron drove harder. Each thrust tore a gasp, Draco shuddering beneath the rhythm.

“Ron—I’m… I can’t—” His voice broke, grey eyes wide, unfocused.

Ron bent closer, lips grazing his jaw. “Come for me, Draco—now.”

Draco arched beneath him, a strangled sound tearing free, and Ron knew—with the heat and the frantic tremor against his grip—that he had undone him completely. The realization tore through him; his own control snapped. His hips stuttered, forcing through until he buried himself deep in a final thrust, release surging in hot pulses.

Draco’s chest rose in ragged bursts, air catching as though he couldn’t draw enough. Color burned high across his cheekbones, sweat dampening the pale strands at his temple, and Ron thought he had never looked more breakable.

He stayed pressed close, jacket damp with sweat, unwilling to let go. When he finally eased back, he wrapped Draco tight against him, fingers curled at the nape of his neck, holding him as if he could keep him there forever.

Chapter Text

Ron drifted for a while, half‑asleep, Draco’s weight warm against him. When he finally woke properly, he was overheated and sticky, still trapped in the dinner suit he hadn’t bothered to take off.

“Think I should shower,” he murmured, though he didn’t move. He felt oddly anchored, reluctant to break the contact.

Draco turned his head, eyes still heavy.

“I’ll come with you,” he said simply, trying to push himself upright with a careful, not‑quite‑steady grace that made guilt tighten hard behind Ron’s ribs.

Ron steadied him immediately, keeping a hand at his back as they crossed to the bathroom. He turned on the Muggle tap; steam was already fogging the mirror by the time he shrugged out of his jacket one‑handed, keeping the other braced at Draco’s waist. The shirt followed, damp at the collar where Draco had been resting.

“Water alright?” Ron asked, guiding Draco under the spray so it hit him first. It was cooler than he preferred, but Draco’s comfort mattered more.

Draco closed his eyes, letting the water run over him. “It’s fine,” he said, stepping in closer so Ron could reach his hair.

Ron washed him gently, working through pale strands, then down the line of his back.

“You sore anywhere?” he asked, voice gone hoarse. “You’d tell me if anything hurt.”

“I’d tell you,” Draco said, leaning in a little. The way he did it was soft enough that Ron could tell he wasn’t giving the full truth.

Back in the bedroom, Ron pulled on a pair of shorts but didn’t bother with anything else. His skin still felt warm from the shower, and the thought of covering up more felt wrong somehow—too far from Draco.

“This alright?”

Draco hummed, tugging on his own shorts, the sound low and distracted.

“Want to lie down?”

He guided Draco toward the bed, flicking his wand to snuff the candles. Their flames vanished, but the room didn’t go fully dark—the city outside pushed a thin wash of light through the glass, soft and distant.

Ron settled first and drew Draco down with him, easing Draco’s head onto his chest. His fingers slipped into Draco’s fine hair, stroking once, twice.

“You sure you’re alright?” Ron asked softly. “Feels like I might’ve pushed too far.”

“You didn’t,” Draco said quietly. “You were exactly what I expected. Passionate. Possessive.” His throat worked. “I liked it.”

Ron let out a breath, slow and uneven. “I’m asking you again. Are you hurting anywhere?”

Draco’s gaze dipped. “Not from you,” he murmured. “It’s my chest… a bit.”

Ron shifted slightly, letting his hand drift up Draco’s chest until his thumb brushed the ouroboros above his heart. The skin there was warm—too warm—and Draco’s breath hitched at the touch.

“Maybe we should get you to St Mungo’s. That heat’s not nothing.”

Draco shook his head before he could finish. “It’s normal. For this kind of magic. It… takes something out of you.”

“If I hadn’t gone off like that, you wouldn’t have felt you needed to do this.”

“I told you,” Draco said quietly. “I meant to do it anyway.”

“Then help me understand.” Ron’s arm curved around Draco’s bare shoulders, holding him closer. Draco let his forehead rest against Ron’s collarbone—skin warm against skin. “A magical betrothal bond—Draco, no one does that anymore. It’s completely unnecessary—”

“It means there’s no choice left to argue about,” Draco said, fingers curling lightly against Ron’s ribs. “Not with my parents. Not with myself.”

Ron frowned gently. “Draco…”

“It’s easier this way,” Draco went on, each word careful. “If it’s the bond, then it isn’t me choosing something I was raised to think was wrong.” He swallowed, throat brushing Ron’s chest. “It makes wanting you feel… inevitable. Not shameful.”

Ron felt himself go still, something sharp and aching opening in his chest at the word.

“If the bond helps you feel at peace with yourself, then… I’m glad it’s there.”

A shiver ran through Draco, small and helpless, and Ron felt the dampness before he heard Draco’s breath hitch.

“Please don’t think I’m ashamed of you. That has never been the problem.”

Ron’s hand stilled in Draco’s hair. He tried to speak, but his throat closed on the first attempt; he pulled Draco closer instead.

“I wish I could’ve helped you back then,” he said when he finally managed it. “You learned to do everything alone. But you don’t have to anymore. Let me help now.”

Ron finished whisking the chocolate into the milk and poured it into Draco’s favourite mug.

“You heading to Sanus today?” he asked, nudging it across the island.

Draco was still in his dressing gown, hair mussed from where Ron’s fingers had been earlier. At nearly seven he should’ve been immaculate; the softness of him now made Ron’s chest tighten.

“I think I’ll take the day,” Draco said quietly, eyes on the steam before lifting them to Ron. “Last night was… what I needed. But I still feel a bit…”

“Raw,” Ron supplied with a small nod. “Wish I could stay with you, but—”

“You’ve got a briefing,” Draco finished for him. He set his mug down and reached to straighten Ron’s tie, fingers gentle. “I remember.”

Ron exhaled.

“Feels wrong leaving you like this.”

“I’ll be fine,” Draco said, smoothing the knot one last time. “I’ll stay in. Read a few things. Keep myself quiet.”

“I just want you safe.”

“I will be. And tonight we can have dinner… maybe even that chess match you promised me. Provided you're prepared to lose with dignity.”

Ron huffed a quiet breath. He cupped Draco’s jaw and kissed him. Not rushed, not hesitant, just there, solid and reassuring.

He didn’t go far when he pulled back.

“You’ll be alright here,” he murmured, not quite a question, more a promise he needed to trust.

Ron cut down from the Strand toward Whitehall, the June heat already gathering in the air. A few Muggles glanced at him as he passed, their eyes snagging on the heavy Auror greatcoat, an odd choice for the weather, if not for the cooling charms stitched into the lining. He kept his pace steady, letting the city move around him.

The coin in his trouser pocket warmed.

He stopped just long enough to feel the jolt of it—sharp, electric—before his pulse kicked.

Finally.

The lead he’d been waiting on. Susan’s contact at Mourning Star reaching out at last. The meeting time. The break in the case. Robards had a whole team ready for this, Harry included, plus the new Unspeakable he’d brought in to replace Pansy. All they’d needed was the signal.

Ron slipped a hand into his pocket, fingers closing around the coin as the morning seemed to narrow to a single point. He stepped off the pavement into the nearest alley, lifting the Galleon to catch the light, eyes on the tiny serial numbers beginning to shift—

The hook behind his navel hit like a punch.

He had just enough time to recognize the unmistakable pull of a portkey—the coin, the bloody coin—before the world yanked itself out from under him. A violent jerk, a rush of wind, the alley smearing into color—

He hit stone hard.

Cool air. Stale. Close. A cellar, maybe—underground, definitely—and he barely had time to register any of it before a burst of red light slammed into his chest.

Everything went black.

Chapter Text

Ron surfaced slowly, the world returning in fragments — cold first, then the tight pull across his shoulders, then the smell.

Damp stone. Old oak. The faint, sour ghost of wine long evaporated.

His eyes opened to dimness: a low, arched ceiling of chalk‑pale brick, mottled with damp. A single lantern sat on a crate a few feet away, its light thin and yellow, throwing long shadows across rows of empty barrel racks. Dust drifted lazily in the beam like ash.

He tried to shift and found his back pressed hard against a thick wooden support post, its grain rough against his spine. His hands were pulled behind it, wrists bound tight. His legs were stiff beneath him, feet planted on packed earth. They’d tied him upright.

He centered himself with a controlled inhale, cataloguing the room as it came into focus. 

A vineyard cellar. Underground. Kent, if he had to guess.

His pulse kicked once, hard, as memory snapped back into place — the coin warming, the alley, the pull behind his navel.

The Portkey.

He exhaled through his nose, grounding himself. No panic. Not yet.

A soft scrape of a boot on stone came from the shadows beyond.

Ron lifted his head.

“Welcome to Mourning Star,” the man said. The vowels were clipped and aristocratic — the kind Draco had been raised on. “I’m told you’re eager to join us.”

“This how you run all your recruitment meetings?” Ron twisted his wrists against the ropes. They held firm.

“No. But you’re a special case.”

He lifted Ron’s wand, turning it under the lantern’s thin light as though examining a rare artefact.

“Willow, unicorn hair, fourteen inches… travelling with this will give me access to parts of the Ministry I might otherwise struggle to reach.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ron said. “You seem pretty connected already. Smith, the Unspeakable who was meant to check the coin — I’m guessing he’s yours as well.”

The man only smiled, pocketing the wand as he stepped closer. Ron took in the sharp cheekbones, the cold, appraising eyes, and the pieces slid into place.

“Warrington?”

Up close, there was no mistaking him: the former Slytherin Chaser, two years above Ron at school. Ron had barely exchanged a handful of words with Cassius back then, but he remembered the badge — Inquisitorial Squad — and he knew the name from the Auror watchlist tracking former Death Eaters suspected of harbouring sympathies after the war.

“What were you expecting? A reunion of Dumbledore’s Army?”

Ron forced a breath, mind racing. “Right. So Mourning Star’s a front. You tell people like Susan you feel their anger — that you’ll go after the Death Eaters Shacklebolt let walk — but underneath it, you’re running your own vendetta.”

Cassius flicked his wand. A ghostly stoat burst from the tip — pale, sleek, predatory — and slipped up the stone stairs toward whatever lay above.

He watched it go.

“I’ll admit, I didn’t expect people like Bones to flock to a cause without knowing who leads it. Give them a dead Death Eater and they’re satisfied. Motives are wasted on people like that.”

Ron's gaze sharpened. “But they matter to you.”

“I’m not interested in explaining myself to you. Blood traitors rank just above deserters. Hardly worth the conversation.”

A low groan came from the warped cellar stairs. Another man in black descended, boots thudding on the boards.

“Weasley’s awake?” he asked, stepping into the lantern light. His voice had a strange, hollow eagerness to it, and Ron recognised him a heartbeat later.

Montague.

Fred and George had shoved him into the Vanishing Cabinet in fifth year. He’d come back wrong — dazed, confused, muttering about being trapped between places. Ron hadn’t thought of him in years.

“And ready for interrogation,” Cassius said.

Montague’s gaze fixed on Ron with unsettling intensity. “He’ll hold out. Aurors always do. Takes work to break through that.”

Ron’s stomach tightened. There was no gloating in Montague’s tone, just a flat, practised certainty.

“Get his hair first.”

Montague bent, tugged a slim silver blade from the sheath in his boot, and flicked it open.

Ron’s pulse lurched. Training told him to stay still, to breathe, to think — but Montague’s blank, intent stare sent a cold jolt through his chest. The ropes bit into his wrists as he instinctively tried to pull back.

He caught a fistful of Ron’s hair and sliced it off at the root. The tug was sharp, humiliating. Ron forced himself not to react.

Cassius reached into his coat and took out a small glass vial. He uncorked it and held it out.

Montague dropped the hair inside. “When you’re done… he’s a Weasley. I owe that family.”

“You’ll get your turn. After.”

Cassius slipped the vial into his pocket.

“I’m going to Knockturn for the Polyjuice. Get what he knows. And keep him intact.”

He disappeared up the stairs the way Montague had come.

Ron swallowed, then said, “Why Polyjuice? Who’s the target?”

“Depends what you tell us. We pick the target after.”

“So it’s not Malfoy, then?” Ron kept his tone mild. “I thought that’s what this was about.”

Montague rolled his shoulder as he drew his wand, loosening up like a Chaser before a penalty.

“Malfoy’s an option. But Potter and Granger? They’re worth ten of him.”

Ron let out a slow breath, as if considering. “If you want anything useful out of me, you need to pace this. Go in too fast and you’ll scramble the memories. You’ll get noise, not answers.”

Montague didn’t move, but something in his eyes sharpened.

“You’re not nearly clever enough to stall me, Weasley.”

He stepped in, wand lifting.

“And I don’t need you to talk.”

The tip of his wand hovered inches from Ron’s face.

“Legilimens.”

A cold hook punched in behind Ron’s eyes. He braced — too late. The pressure sharpened—

and then his mind wasn’t his anymore.

Draco spent the morning reading, just as he’d told Ron he would. He even made a show of starting with Potions Science, but the words slid past him, refusing to catch. Eventually he gave in and reached for the other book — The Joy of Gay Sex.

He opened it to the chapter he always returned to. 

Dealing with Shame, the heading announced in bold.

Draco didn’t need to read the first line; he knew it by heart. He’d skimmed this chapter more times than he’d ever admit, always with the detached air of someone gathering information rather than seeking comfort.

He let his eyes fall to the familiar paragraph.

Shame doesn’t come from desire itself. You learned to fear your own wants because someone else taught you that wanting men made you weak, wrong, or dangerous. None of that was ever yours.

He shifted by a fraction, barely perceptible. His thumb skimmed the edge of the page, smoothing at a crease that didn’t exist.

You don’t have to force yourself to be unafraid. You only have to notice when the fear is speaking instead of you. Shame is loud, but it isn’t truthful. It’s a memory of other people’s expectations.

His throat tightened; he had to swallow twice before he could keep reading.

What matters now is honesty with yourself and with the person you trust. If you feel safer reaching for connection through structure or ritual, that’s not failure. It’s a way of giving yourself permission until you can offer it freely.

Warmth gathered beneath his sternum, the bond stirring as if the magic recognised something in the words. Draco pressed his hand to the mark, thumb moving in a controlled, almost absent gesture.

Desire isn’t something you need to justify. It’s something you’re allowed to feel. And the more you let yourself be seen by someone who treats you with care, the less power the old shame will have.

The warmth eased, settling into a low, steady glow that spread across his ribs. Draco let the book fall half‑closed in his lap, thumb still marking the page. He’d read these lines before—many times—but they had never reached him quite like this.

A soft pop of Apparition drifted in from the kitchen, and then Trilby’s voice followed.

“Master Draco? Miss King told me I would find you here.”

Draco straightened at once, sliding The Joy of Gay Sex beneath a stack of potions journals.

“Morning, Trilby. I may have overdone it at the Ball. Thought it best to take the day.”

With a flick of his fingers, Trilby vanished the breakfast table and set the dishes scrubbing themselves in the sink.

“She mentioned as much, sir. And I heard you slipped out early. Mr. Flint’s still grumbling, if I’m honest, and not without reason. What possessed you to go off without your protection?”

Draco tightened the belt of his dressing gown as he crossed to the island.

“I introduced Ron to Mother. It went… as expected. He left rather abruptly, and I didn’t want him wandering off upset and alone. Marcus overreacted.”

A silence settled between them. 

“Even so, sir, you oughtn’t go running off like that. You gave us all a fright.”

“Yes, well… I’m aware. Let’s leave it there.”

Trilby turned back to his work, letting the quiet clink of dishes and the soft swish of magic fill the pause. When he spoke again, it was with careful restraint.

“If I may… did the Mistress speak unkindly to Mr. Ron?”

“Mother isn’t the issue. Not… directly.” Draco gave a small, dismissive tilt of his head. “Ron doesn’t take well to being pushed to the margins. That’s all.”

Trilby folded a tea towel, attention fixed on the neat line of the fabric. “Mr Ron has been patient, sir. Exceptionally so. But patience isn’t the same as feeling valued. I worry he may reach his limit.”

“Yes. I know.” He drew a slow breath. “And you needn’t worry, Trilby. I’ve no intention of losing him. There’s a plan in motion. He won’t be a secret much longer.”

Trilby bowed his head, relief softening the line of his shoulders.

“Very good, sir.”

Then, more gently,

“Shall I see to the bedroom?”

Draco hesitated, a prickle of heat rising at the thought of the state he’d left things in. Still, he followed.

“This needs a proper clean,” Trilby said briskly, lifting Ron’s dress shirt from the armchair. “I’ll take it back to the manor. The laundry elves will know how to set it right.”

“Yes, well… the suit had a busy evening.” Draco kept his eyes firmly on the far wall. “Just have it cleaned.”

“Of course, sir.”

Draco barely had time to recover before Trilby set upon the bed.

Fresh linen appeared in a neat stack. With a smooth spell, the duvet slid into a new silk cover; pillowcases whisked themselves off and vanished, replaced by crisp ones that floated neatly into place. The bed settled into perfect order, embroidered throw pillows aligning in a neat, almost artistic line.

“The candles were a bit much,” Draco said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to flustered.

Trilby paused, looking faintly wounded. “I only meant to improve the atmosphere, sir. This Muggle minimalism is all very well, but it isn’t exactly… inviting.”

Draco sighed, trying again. “Ron and I prefer—”

A firm knock sounded at the front door, cutting him off.

Draco and Trilby exchanged a quick, startled look. Then came the voice — tight with worry, and unmistakably Harry’s.

“Malfoy? Open up. I need to talk to you.”

Chapter Text

“There’s no need to shout, Potter,” Draco said as he opened the door, keeping his tone cool. “And I’d very much like to know how you got past the private security I pay an absurd amount for.”

Harry’s gaze snagged briefly on the cashmere dressing gown — a flicker of surprise Draco caught before it vanished.

“I’m here on Ministry business,” he said. “Can we talk inside?”

Draco hesitated just long enough to make a point of it, then stepped aside. Harry’s eyes swept the flat — sofa, lamp, glass wall — that quick, assessing Auror scan Draco had seen before. It didn’t feel like the flat was what he was really looking at.

“I’ll cut to it,” Harry said. “I’m looking for Ron. He didn’t show up to the eight o’clock briefing. Thought he might be here.”

Draco stiffened automatically. “Why would you think that?”

“He left the Gala early,” Harry said. “You sort of left together, actually. I’ve already checked Wheezes. George says he didn’t come home.”

Draco swallowed. “Ron was with me,” he said simply. A flicker of defensiveness rose — he hated how easily Potter leapt to conclusions — but the cold weight of worry smothered it.

“Right.” Harry’s eyes flicked toward the hallway leading to the bedroom. “He’s not sick or anything?”

“He left for work over an hour ago.” Something cold settled under Draco’s ribs. “You’re saying he never made it to the Ministry.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Trilby said, glancing nervously at Harry before addressing Draco. “A Patronus would reach Mr. Ron immediately. It may ease your minds.”

“I tried that first,” Harry said, giving the elf a quick, apologetic nod. “When it didn’t reach him, I thought maybe your wards blocked it.”

“The wards don’t interfere with communication. So it isn’t that.”

Harry scrubbed a hand over his jaw, tension tightening his shoulders.

“Right.” He turned for the door, all forward momentum and no hesitation. “If he turns up, send word. I’m going to retrace his route to work.”

“Wait.” Draco stepped into his path before he could take another stride.

“If Ron’s missing, I’m coming with you.”

“Malfoy…” Harry’s voice softened, though the Auror edge stayed. “I know you’re worried. Anyone would be. But this is an active investigation. I can’t just take you along.”

“I’m not staying here,” Draco said. His voice came out sharper than he intended, but he didn’t bother to rein it in. “You know I’m not.”

Harry let out a slow breath — the kind Draco had seen him use when he was trying not to escalate something. “I get it. I do. You and Ron are—” He stopped himself, choosing a safer word. “—close. But if you come with me, you follow my lead. No wandering off. No charging ahead. No improvisations.”

Draco held his gaze. “Fine.”

Harry hesitated only a moment — long enough for Draco to see the calculation behind his eyes, the reluctant acceptance that leaving Draco behind would be worse.

“Alright,” Harry said at last. “Go and get changed. I’ll wait.”

Draco nodded once and turned away. Trilby hurried after him.

“I’ll fetch your duelling gloves,” the elf said, already snapping open the wardrobe. “And your emergency potions kit—”

“It’s in the bathroom,” Draco said, reaching for his trousers. “And the trench coat Miss King bought me — the one with all the pockets. Do you know where that ended up?”

By the time Draco had buttoned his pale grey shirt — one button wrong, fixed with a muttered curse — Trilby was back, arms full: gloves, kit, and the lightweight charcoal trench.

“Thank you,” Draco said, shrugging into the coat. He pushed his hair back with both hands and let it fall where it wanted.

“Please, sir,” Trilby said, wringing his hands. “If you’re going after Mr. Ron, I can be of use.”

“It was hard enough getting Potter to agree to me.” He steadied his tone with a hand on Trilby’s shoulder. “Stay here. If Ron comes back, I need to know immediately.”

“As you wish, sir,” Trilby said, his voice thinning. “I’ll remain here and send word at once. I hope you find him.”

Draco lingered only long enough to swallow a measure of Focus Draught from his emergency kit, the bitterness cutting through the fog of panic.

“Don’t the Aurors have some way of tracking their people?” he asked, as soon as he rejoined Harry.

“He wasn’t on duty yet. Tracking only activates once you check in or sign out field gear. Ron never made it that far — whatever happened to him happened before the system could register him.”

They moved down the corridor to the private lift. Draco pressed the call button; the doors opened immediately, polished steel catching the low, ambient light. They stepped inside, and the lift carried them smoothly toward the ground floor.

“What about Parkinson?” Draco said, eyes on the numbers ticking down. “She’s an Unspeakable, isn’t she? She’d know if there’s a less… official way to track an Auror.”

“She’s been temporarily reassigned to Records.” Harry’s gaze went distant for a moment, unfocused. “She can still consult, though. Let’s retrace Ron’s route first. If that gets us nowhere, we’ll bring her in.”

Retracing Ron’s likely walk to work yielded nothing but rising dread. Harry sent his stag Patronus ahead to Pansy, a Disillusionment charm rippling over its silver hide, rendering it little more than a shimmer to Muggle eyes.

“Wouldn’t it be faster to go to her?” Draco demanded as they stepped into a bustling Muggle café. Harry joined the queue immediately, which only made Draco’s temper spike. “She has access to Ministry resources, Potter. That seems rather more useful than queueing for refreshments.”

Harry didn’t look at him, eyes fixed on the chalkboard menu. “Unless you’ve suddenly acquired Ministry clearance, getting you through security will take forever. And the archives aren’t exactly welcoming to… visitors.”

Draco let out a sharp breath. “I’d assumed the Chosen One could breeze past a few checkpoints.”

“I’d rather use whatever pull I’ve got on something that actually helps us find Ron.”

His turn came. Draco watched, incredulous, as Harry ordered a ginger–peach smoothie — of all things — and carried it to a table by the window.

Pansy arrived soon after they sat down. She stopped short when she spotted Draco — a flicker of surprise, quickly shuttered. Harry immediately stood to pull out her chair, which only irritated Draco further.

“Right. What’s all this about?” Pansy said as she sat, accepting the smoothie without comment, as if Harry routinely summoned her to cafés with drinks waiting. “Because this clearly isn’t lunch.”

“Ron’s missing.”

“Missing?” Pansy frowned. “He sent an owl this morning. Said he was off sick.”

Draco’s head snapped toward Harry, heat rising in his chest. “You said he was missing—”

“He is missing,” Harry cut in, sharper now. “He’s not at Wheezes, he wasn’t at Draco’s flat, and St Mungo’s hasn’t seen him. He didn’t go off sick. He’s gone.”

Harry sank back into his seat as he said it, the movement controlled but tight, like he was bracing himself for the rest. Draco slid his hands into the pockets of his trench coat, grounding himself while Harry laid out the steps he’d taken. Pansy interrupted only to ask a precise question here and there, her focus narrowing like a blade.

She didn’t ask why Harry had come to Draco. Didn’t even blink at the idea of the two of them searching together. She simply accepted it — as though it were obvious.

A brief, unwelcome flush crept up Draco’s neck, but it passed quickly. There were more important things to worry about than whatever assumptions Pansy might be making.

“Malfoy wanted to know if there are ways to track an Auror that aren’t… widely known in the department,” Harry finished.

“We used to monitor Aurors through their wands.” She glanced between them, a flicker of regret crossing her face. “But after the war — after Rookwood — the Wizengamot shut it down. Too much power in one department, apparently.”

“So that’s it?” Draco’s voice came out sharper than he meant, loud enough that a few Muggles looked over. He didn’t bother lowering it. “Ron could be anywhere, and we’re just—what? Waiting for him to stroll back in?”

Harry didn’t look at Draco. His attention stayed fixed on Pansy.

“What about residual magic? If he cast anything recently — a Shield, a Disillusionment — could you pick up the signature?”

Pansy pressed her lips together, thinking fast. “Possibly. But residual magic decays quickly.” A flicker of frustration crossed her face. “And I’d need a lab to work, and my clearance is still suspended because—” Her gaze flicked toward Draco, then dropped again.

“If you need a lab, use mine,” Draco said, already pushing back his chair. “Come on. We’re close to the Central Floo Exchange.”

They cut across the plaza at a clipped pace and slipped into the Exchange, the main hub for Ministry‑adjacent travel. Inside, witches and wizards queued in front of numbered hearths. Draco extended his hand toward Pansy, but she only stared at it.

“The Sanus Floo won’t accept anyone who isn’t staff,” Draco said shortly. “I can bring one person through if they’re touching me.”

Pansy blinked, then nodded. “Right. And Harry?”

“You take him,” Draco said. “The wards will read the chain as a single entry.”

He took Pansy’s hand, his own palm clammy. She reached back for Harry’s, and Draco pulled them into the grate.

They stumbled into the Sanus reception room. Miss King straightened at her desk, startled, just as Marcus strode toward them, wand half‑raised in reflex.

“There you are,” he said, relief and irritation tangled in his voice. “Jones reported you left the flat with Potter and refused your escort. Again.”

“Ron’s missing,” Draco said, clipped. “Run whatever checks you need. I’m going to the lab.”

He swept past Miss King’s desk and headed straight for the corner of the lab where he kept his parchment and quill. He grabbed both without slowing and sketched a quick decay curve—residual magic behaved enough like volatile potionwork that he could estimate how long Ron’s signature might linger if he’d cast anything at all.

He was still working when Harry and Pansy joined him, deep in conversation.

“If the residual trace is gone,” Pansy was saying, “then we isolate something he’s magically connected to. Something distinctive enough to stand out in a city full of wizards.”

“Like his wand?” Harry said. “But that won’t help — loads of people have willow and unicorn.”

“Exactly.” Pansy nodded sharply. “Objects won’t cut it. We need something that’s been in direct contact with his magical field — something personal enough to hold a strong imprint.”

A cold numbness crept up Draco’s stomach, tightening everything inside him.

“There… might be something.” The words came out thinner than he liked, stretched between dread and humiliation. “I don’t know if it’ll work.”

Pansy turned toward him, instantly alert. “Go on.”

“Last night… I cast a betrothal bond. On myself. Ron was the intended.”

Pansy blinked once. Then again. “I’m sorry — you cast a what?”

“Betrothal bond,” Draco said, jaw tight. “You heard me.”

Pansy let out a short, incredulous breath. “Draco, no one uses that spell anymore. It’s practically medieval. And wildly misogynistic.”

Harry looked between them, tense. “Can someone explain what that means? In English?”

“Old pure‑blood control magic,” Pansy said. “Wives were bound to their husbands to prevent… extracurricular activities.”

“You’re kidding. People actually did that?”

“Yes. But even the Sacred Twenty‑Eight dropped it generations ago.”

Harry stared at Draco. “Ron would never want that. So why would you—”

“It doesn’t matter why,” Draco snapped, heat rising in his face. “What matters is whether we can use the bond to find him.”

“If the bond exists and it’s active,” Pansy said, “then yes. We can use it.”

Harry’s voice tightened, the worry bleeding through. “How?”

“A betrothal bond creates a one‑way tether from the caster’s core to the intended,” she explained. “If we amplify it, it should behave like a directional pull.”

“Like a compass?” Harry asked.

“More like resonance. Draco’s core will lean toward Ron’s. The closer we get, the stronger the pull.”

Draco swallowed. “And to activate it?”

“There’s a simple incantation.” Pansy lifted her wand. “Vinculum Revelare.”

The spell unfurled in a clean arc. A thin golden thread shimmered into being, blooming from the center of Draco’s sternum — warm, startling — before sliding straight through the far wall.

“That’s the tether,” Pansy said. “It’ll pull once it settles.”

Harry stepped closer, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. “Thank you,” he said quietly, and gave her hands a quick, grateful squeeze before letting go.

“Tell Robards what’s happened. Get a team ready. I’ll send a Patronus once I know where it’s pointing.”

“Harry—”

“No.” His voice was firm, protective in a way that made the air shift. “I can’t focus if you’re in danger.”

She exhaled, sharp and unhappy. “Fine. Just… don’t do anything idiotically brave.”

Harry’s posture changed the moment she was gone. His whole frame sharpened, tension narrowing into purpose. He turned toward the thin line of gold cutting through the doorway.

“Come on. We’re finding him.”

Chapter Text

“Where’s the tether now?” Harry asked as they stepped onto the pavement, eyes scanning the air for gold that wasn’t there.

“I don’t know.” Draco’s hand went to his chest, fingers pressing hard as the tether pulled again. “Maybe it only shows while the spell’s forming. After that it just—” he flicked a sharp, impatient gesture at the empty air, “—stops being visible.”

“But you still feel it.”

“Yes.” Draco moved ahead, the bond tugging him southward with steady insistence. “It’s stronger now.”

They walked in tense silence, shuttered warehouses sliding past, the Overground’s distant hum vibrating faintly through the concrete.

“Walking’s too slow,” Harry said at last. “We need transport. I could… borrow a car.” His gaze flicked to the line of parked vehicles, their windows reflecting the flat grey sky.

“Borrow. Right. No — brooms are faster.”

“Fine.” Harry ducked into the nearest alley, wand already in his hand. “Stay here. I’ll Apparate home and grab—”

Draco cut him off with a sharp shake of his head. “Whatever you have, mine are better.”

“You don’t know what I’ve got.”

“And you don’t know what I’ve got,” Draco shot back.

“Nimbus and Firebolt send me prototypes,” Harry said — not bragging, exactly, but issuing a challenge. “I’ve got good brooms.”

Draco turned away, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Then go get them.”

Harry Disapparated. He was back minutes later with two sleek brooms. Draco accepted one without comment, blurred himself beneath a Disillusionment Charm, and kicked off hard. Harry rose after him.

A brief charm from Draco collapsed the wind’s roar into a manageable rush, sharpening the air between them into something they could speak through.

“You’ve got top‑tier brooms lying around. And it never occurred to you to give Ron one?”

Harry twisted midair, wind pulling at his hair. “What are you even talking about?”

“You heard me.” Draco kept his voice level, though it felt stretched thin. “You let him fly that antique Cleansweep while you sit on prototypes.”

“Malfoy.” The warning in Harry’s voice was unmistakable. “If he’d wanted one, I’d have given it to him.”

“Right.” Draco let the word hang, acidic. “All he had to do was ask.”

“He wouldn’t,” Harry said, angling his broom to stay beside him. “He hates taking things. Especially expensive things. I still don’t know how you talked him into that suit — that must’ve cost a fortune.”

“Funny. He never seems to mind when it’s from me.”

Harry exhaled —not frustration, something more complicated. “Yeah. That was… honestly, that was when I realized you two were… you know. Together.”

Heat climbed Draco’s neck, cutting through the cold air.

“I didn’t know about the betrothal bond, though,” Harry went on. “I still don’t get why he’d agree to something like that.”

“What makes you think he got a say?” Draco’s grip tightened until his knuckles ached. “Look, Potter… I didn’t ask him. I did it because I couldn’t think of anything else.”

“You— you didn’t ask?”

“It doesn’t affect him,” Draco said, trying for calm and not quite reaching it. “He can still do whatever he wants with whoever he wants. I’m the only one the bond limits.”

Harry didn’t speak again until they crossed the Thames Barrier, its silver gates rising cleanly from the dark water.

“Pansy said those bonds are basically extinct. Even the Sacred Twenty‑Eight don’t use them anymore. So what made you— is this some Malfoy tradition or—”

“My parents think I’m going to marry Astoria Greengrass,” Draco cut in, voice flat. “They’ve practically drafted the contract.”

Harry blew out a breath. “Right. So tell them you’re gay. They’re traditional, sure, and you’re worried about the fallout. I get that. But—”

“You don’t.” Draco cut him off, jaw tight. “I’m their only heir. Blood status is nothing compared to legacy.”

Harry’s expression shifted — not sympathy, exactly, but recognition. “And since you and Ron can’t have kids… you think they’d try to force you into a marriage with a woman.”

Draco’s eyes snapped to his. “I don’t think it. I know it. And as Ron’s bonded, I can’t be with anyone else — not legally, not magically. My parents can despise it all they like, but they can’t undo it. Even my father isn’t that delusional.”

He angled his broom south‑southeast, letting the wind take the rest of what he couldn’t say. The city dropped away beneath them, terraces giving way to widening stretches of field.

Harry pulled up beside him, eyes narrowed against the wind. “Kent? Why would Ron go there.”

“I don’t know,” Draco snapped. His shoulders burned from the constant forward‑leaning strain, but he didn’t ease up. “The bond keeps driving me this way. It hasn’t shifted once.”

“Can you tell if we’re gaining on him?”

“We’re getting closer. Just—keep going.”

Draco pushed the broom harder. It shuddered under the strain, the air vibrating around the handle. Harry matched him, staying close. Draco could feel him watching — not judging, exactly, but assessing.

“Malfoy. Listen to me for a second.”

Draco didn’t look over. “If this is about ‘following your lead’ again—”

“It is. Because when we land, I need you to let me handle the scene.”

“I already said I would.”

“And I’m checking,” Harry said, sharper now. “Because you’re flying like someone who’s about to do something reckless, and if something’s happened to Ron—”

“Something has happened.” The words tore out of him. “That owl wasn’t from him. Someone’s taken him.”

Harry didn’t argue. “Yeah. I know. Which is why I need you steady.”

Draco’s jaw locked. “I’m not going to fall apart.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Harry said. “I’m worried you’ll rush in before I’ve cleared anything. I can’t have you triggering a trap or getting yourself hexed because you think you can reach him faster.”

Draco finally glanced over, the wind stinging his eyes. “You think I’m a liability.”

“I think you’re terrified,” Harry said, blunt as a blow. “And I need you to let me do my job so we can get him back alive.”

“I said I’d follow you.” Draco’s knuckles whitened around his broom. “And I will.”

Ron’s head sagged forward, then jerked upright as consciousness dragged him back. Voices moved around him, the conversation continuing as if he were a piece of furniture. He was still bound to the post, wrists cinched tight behind him. His legs had gone numb from standing too long, and a deep, bruised throb pulsed behind his eyes, the aftershock of Montague’s mind forcing its way into his.

He let his head hang again, breath slow and shallow, letting the ache settle. If they thought he was still out, he might catch something useful.

“…Legilimency isn’t mind‑reading,” Montague was saying — irritation roughening his usually flat voice. “I can’t just pluck ‘time‑turners’ out of his head. If you want specifics, we need Veritaserum.”

“And we’ve been over this. We can’t afford it. Everything Malfoy gave me went into the Polyjuice.”

“Then ask your Unspeakable,” Montague said. “He’d know whether the rumours hold water. More than Weasley ever will.”

“I’d rather not,” Cassius replied. “He’s useful, and I don’t want him spooked.”

Montague snorted. “Tell him it’s for Diggory or some other fallen hero. Half the Order died in the war. He’s not going to leap straight to ‘resurrecting the Dark Lord.’”

Cassius crossed to the nearest cask and loosened the tap with a precise flick of his wand. A thin stream of wine spilled into the glass, dark and steady.

“It’s too risky,” he said, tone clipped. “Now—Malfoy’s security. Did you find anything worth hearing?”

Montague gave a low grunt. “Actually… you won’t believe this. Or maybe you will.”

Cassius shut the tap with the same economical motion and carried the glass to the table where Montague was eating.

“Go on.”

Montague wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I always knew the Weasleys were twisted, but this—this is something else.”

Cassius settled into the chair opposite him, swirling the wine and inhaling as though assessing the vintage. “What is?”

“Weasley and Malfoy are fucking.”

Cassius looked up sharply, disgust flickering across his face. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious. I saw enough of it in the memories he was trying to hide. And the way he panicked when I got close? He didn’t want me anywhere near it.”

“I always knew Draco was craven. But to stoop to something as perverse as that…”

Ron felt Cassius’ attention slide to him, slow and appraising. He kept his expression slack, breath thin and controlled.

Montague didn’t laugh; he only let out a thin, emptied breath. “Draco was the one on his knees.”

Cassius turned slightly, interest sharpening. “You’re certain?”

“Even a Weasley wouldn’t let another man touch him like that. You can see it in how he holds himself. He still thinks he’s… normal.”

Cassius considered this, fingers tapping once against his sleeve.

“If Draco’s accustomed to being alone with him…”

“Polyjuice as Weasley. Kill him,” Montague said, as if naming a tool on a shelf.

“Or capture him. As much as I dislike admitting it, that little message Thomas left for Malfoy at Sanus was… instructive.”

Montague’s voice was flat as he quoted, “‘Cowards die many times before their deaths.’”

“Exactly. One death hardly balances the scales for the wizard who cost us the war. There are ways to make consequences… proportionate.”

Montague shook his head. “Malfoy will cry for his mother. He always does. Gets dull.” His gaze slid to Ron, empty as a shuttered window. “I’d rather see what Weasley can manage.”

“And you will—once he’s no longer useful to me. Did you get anything on Potter or the Mudblood?”

Montague pushed his plate away, expression unchanged. “Not yet. Give him a few more days of this and he’ll start to crack properly.”

Cassius slipped a hand into his coat and drew out the vial of Polyjuice. He tipped it into his empty glass, then added several strands of Ron’s hair. The mixture thickened at once, curdling into a dull grey sludge.

He studied it with mild disgust. “It was unpleasant enough before I knew how Weasley spends his time.” A brief grimace, then he drank it in one practiced swallow. The shudder that followed was small, quickly mastered.

Montague watched him. “Where are you going now? I thought you wanted to see what Weasley could give us before settling on a plan.”

Cassius rose, drawing Ron’s Auror greatcoat over his suit and fastening it high at the throat. “I’m going to Sanus to collect Draco.”

The Polyjuice was already taking hold—a tightening beneath his skin, a pressure building at the hinge of his jaw. Bones shifted with a soft, unpleasant crackle. Cassius winced once, breath catching as his features blurred and settled into Ron’s.

“I’ll be back within the hour. When he comes to, try again. I want a definitive answer about that time‑turner.”

Montague rose, gaze drifting to Ron’s slumped body. “He’s awake already. Been pretending. They always think it helps.”

Cassius adjusted the collar of the greatcoat, already turning toward the stairs. “Then stop indulging him.”

Draco slowed so abruptly his broom dipped.

Harry pulled up beside him at once, close enough that Draco could feel the heat of him.

“Draco. Talk to me. Is Ron down there.”

The vineyard below sprawled in brittle, desolate rows. Dead vines twisted into ropes and trellises slumped under their own age.

“This is the Rosier estate,” he managed. The words scraped out of him like something dragged over stone.

Harry glanced over. “Rosier? As in—”

“Yes, Potter, those Rosiers.” Draco heard the edge in his own voice and couldn’t rein it in. “Most of the family was wiped out after the first war. What was left of the estate should’ve gone to my mother, but the inheritance has been stuck in probate for decades.” He gestured at the ruins below with a tight, jerky motion. “Hence… this.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Ron wouldn’t come here on his own.”

He raised his wand and sent a Patronus streaking into the sky. Then he turned back, eyes sharpening. “Tell me about the estate’s protective magic. What are we dealing with?”

“Blood wards,” Draco answered. His gaze stayed locked on the ground, as if staring hard enough might make Ron appear. “Old ones. The house won’t open for anyone except the heir.”

Harry let out a dry breath. “Right. So unless Narcissa’s down there with Ron…”

“She isn’t.”

Harry nodded once and edged his broom closer. “Come on, Draco. Stay with me. You know this place. Where would they keep him?”

His mind raced through every half‑remembered comment his mother had ever made. “Not the house,” he said quietly. “Not the crypts either. Those are tied to the family line.”

“Then where?”

Draco’s gaze swept the overgrown land, and something inside him gave way. “The wine cellar,” he said. “It’s the only part of the estate that wouldn’t be protected. If someone wanted to hide him—somewhere no one would think to check—”

He pointed toward the southern edge, his hand shaking. “There. Best sun exposure for the vines.”

Harry cut ahead of him in one clean motion. “Good. Stay behind me. We’re going down.”

Cassius climbed the narrow stairs into the press house, his mind already halfway to London. Draco would still be in his lab at this hour; Flint would be stationed outside the door, predictable as clockwork.

Normally, that would be an obstacle.

Not today.

Flint wouldn’t think twice about Ronald Weasley turning up with a case update. The face matched, the wand matched. He’d let him through without a second look.

And once Cassius was through the door, getting Draco alone would be simple. A few urgent words, a hint of crisis, and Draco would follow him anywhere.

He allowed himself a thin smile.

Better than expected — far better.

Draco hit the ground hard, dead vines crunching under his boots. By the time he caught his balance, Harry was already moving — slipping his broom beneath a collapsed trellis with quick, economical motions Draco barely tracked.

“I’m going to clear the cellar,” he said. “You stay here and wait for Robards and the team.”

“I’m not letting you go in there alone. We don’t know what’s down there—wards, traps—”

“Malfoy.” Harry set a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done a lot to get us this far. But I’m not taking a civilian into a confined space that might be cursed.”

“Harry… it’s Ron.”

“Draco. Don’t make this harder.”

Draco blinked hard, jaw tight. “Fine.”

He dug into his coat with unsteady hands. “Then take this.” He held up a thin vial. “Crush it outside the press house. It’ll disable most defensive wards — standard ones, at least.” His hands shook harder now, but he kept searching. “And a blood‑replenisher. Just in case—if there’s—”

“We don’t have time.” Harry guided him back until his legs hit a fallen tree and he sat. “Stay here. Put your Disillusionment up. When Robards arrives, tell him where I’ve gone.”

Harry held his gaze. “And whatever happens, you do not follow me in. Understood.”

Every awful possibility about Ron clawed at the edges of Draco’s mind. His whole body shook. “I’ll stay. Just… go.”

Harry rose and cast another charm. The Disillusionment rippled over him—sharper this time—air bending until Draco could barely track the outline of his form. A heartbeat later, even that was gone.

He only knew Harry had moved by the faint, soft impressions of boots sinking into the mud, leading toward the cellar door.

Cassius had barely cleared the press house—five yards at most—when the air in front of him shimmered. He lifted Ron’s wand on instinct, only realizing a beat too late that it wasn’t the weapon he trusted most.

“Ron?”

Harry Potter stepped out of thin air, Disillusionment sliding off him like water. His Auror greatcoat snapped around his legs, hair still windswept from flight. “Thank Merlin. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Cassius didn’t speak. He let his body fold inward, one hand pressed to his ribs, breath coming in short, pained bursts. A man too hurt to answer. A man who needed help.

Harry’s expression changed instantly—concern overriding caution. “Easy. Easy, mate.” He hesitated only a second before lowering his wand and reaching out. “What happened? Ron, look at me—”

Cassius angled his real wand up from beneath the borrowed coat and fired a silent Stunner.

Harry’s eyes widened—shock, confusion, the barest flicker of realization—before his body went slack. He hit the mud with a heavy, wet thud.

Draco forced himself to breathe—slow, deliberate pulls of air dragging against the tightness in his chest. The red rim of panic thinned, then retreated, leaving him cold and nauseous but able to think.

He reached for his potions kit with fingers still lagging behind his mind. They fumbled at the clasps, slipped once, then finally found the hidden seam.

“Ostendere Abdita,” he whispered.

The concealed layer shimmered into being. He unzipped it too fast—the teeth snagged, stuttered, then gave—and he went straight for the Ironheart and Maxima vials. Glass clicked against his nails as he pulled them free. Two sharp swallows burned down his throat, heat blooming under his skin, magic cinching tight around his muscles.

Better. Not steady. Functional.

His hand closed around the Thunderbrew next.

Auror‑grade. Stronger, really, because he’d brewed it himself. Even through the fog of fear he felt the volatile hum of it through the glass. One dose would unleash a violent electrical field around him.

Ron was somewhere underground. Maybe hurt. Maybe worse. He couldn’t risk the Thunderbrew—not until he knew exactly where Ron was.

The Maxima would have to be enough. For a few minutes, at least, his spells would hit harder, faster. Enough to matter.

He straightened, breath unsteady.

He’d told Harry he’d stay put.

He hadn’t said for how long.

Cassius stood over Harry’s unconscious body, smiling. When he’d taken Ron Weasley, his ambitions had been modest. Wearing Weasley’s face would grant him access to Draco—Auror to protectee, unquestioned and unchallenged. And if Weasley happened to know anything about the Ministry’s last surviving time‑turner—the one Nott Senior had drunkenly revealed, the one the Ministry insisted was destroyed—so much the better.

He had not expected this.

Potter had seen “Weasley” hurt and dropped his wand without hesitation. Of course he had. Weasley was the weak point, the soft underbelly of the great Chosen One. The irony of it—Harry Potter felled not by skill or strategy, but by loyalty—thrummed through Cassius like vindication. If they’d known this during the war, the world might look very different now.

He crouched beside Potter, eyes fixed on the fallen wand. If its allegiance shifted, that would settle everything. Proof that he—not the Order’s overpraised hero—was the one marked for greater things. Someone had to restore the proper hierarchy. Someone had to bring back the Dark Lord.

He reached for the holly‑and‑phoenix‑feather wand, hands almost trembling with anticipation.

So absorbed was he in the moment that he missed the crunch of approaching boots. Only when the spell was already leaving the caster’s lips did he twist his head, catching nothing but the shimmer of a Disillusionment Charm before the word—

“Glacius!”

—hit him like a hammer, freezing him where he knelt.

Draco didn’t spare the frozen impostor a glance. He turned his wand on Harry instead, forcing his hand steady enough to cast again.

“Ennervate.”

Harry blinked hard, breath dragging in as he pushed himself upright. “I gave you a simple instruction.”

“And it’s a good thing I ignored you.” He bent, scooped up Harry’s wand, and pressed it into his hand. His fingers were still shaking. “If they’re using Ron for Polyjuice, he must still be alive.”

Harry winced, the last of the stun still dragging at his movements. “What makes you so sure it’s Polyjuice? If Ron’s been Imperiused—”

“Ron wouldn’t raise a wand at you.”

Harry didn’t argue — which was answer enough.

“Whoever that was, he came from down there.”

Harry was already moving toward the trapdoor set into the center of the press house floor, its heavy wooden lid still thrown back to reveal the narrow stairway descending into the wine cellar below.

“I’m not staying behind,” Draco said, keeping close as Harry moved.

“Disillusion yourself. And stay quiet,” Harry told him, already blurring out of sight as the charm settled over his skin. “We don’t know how many are down there.”

Harry murmured another charm, muting the sound of their boots on the narrow ladder as they climbed down into the dark.

As Draco descended, the cellar emerged from the gloom—damp stone walls, a low ceiling sagging under thick beams, and a long table pushed to one side, a half‑finished meal left to congeal in the lantern’s thin yellow light.

His heart jolted when he saw Ron — the real Ron — bound upright against a support post. Sweat shone on his face despite the cellar’s chill, his skin blotched with uneven colour, eyes half‑open and unfocused, the muscles around them fluttering with the strain of holding someone out.

Montague stood directly in front of him — Draco recognized his old Quidditch captain instantly — leaning in as he forced a Legilimency spell into Ron’s unprotected mind.

“Stupefy.”

Harry’s spell hit cleanly; Montague dropped as if the floor had been pulled out from under him.

“Incarcerous.”

Ropes snapped into place, binding his limbs before he could even twitch.

“Draco…? You’re really here,” Ron murmured, lifting his head a fraction when Draco came close.

“Of course I’m here,” Draco said, slicing through the ropes with a clean flick of his wand. Ron pitched forward heavily, dragging Draco a half‑step off balance.

“Sorry,” Ron winced, licking at dry lips. “Everything’s gone numb.”

“Here—let me take him,” Harry said, catching Ron’s weight before he could slip.

“How do we get him out? He can’t sit a broom like this.”

“There’ll be a Floo point somewhere,” Harry said, checking Ron for injuries with steady, searching hands. “Ron—are there more of them here?”

“Cassius… and Montague,” Ron whispered. “Cassius—Polyjuice…”

Harry’s eyes flicked to Draco. “Your double’s handled. He’s frozen upstairs.” He hitched Ron’s arm higher. “We’re going up. Hold on.”

The squeeze hit — and the cellar tore away.

Draco staggered as they reformed in the clearing, the Apparition crack ringing in his ears. Before he’d fully found his footing, half a dozen wands were trained on them.

“Weasley’s with me!” Harry called, tightening his grip.

Only then did Draco register the scene ahead: Cassius kneeling in the mud a few yards away. His face was pale and furious now that the Polyjuice had burned off. Two Aurors held him steady while another checked the cuffs.

A healer in lime‑green robes reached them first, her diagnostic charm washing over Ron. “Severe dehydration, significant mental strain. He needs St Mungo’s immediately.”

Robards arrived as she spoke, looking like he’d been summoned from three crises at once. “Potter. What in Merlin’s name am I walking into.”

Harry straightened automatically. “Sir—”

“I’ve got an abducted Auror, a Polyjuiced suspect, and Draco Malfoy standing in the middle of my crime scene.” Robards exhaled through his nose. “One straight sentence. Now.”

“Draco’s the reason Ron’s alive.”

Robards’ gaze flicked to Draco, not hostile, just tired of surprises. “Then Mr. Malfoy will remain here for questioning.”

Draco shifted Ron’s weight more securely, spine straightening. “I’m going with Ron.”

Robards’ brows drew together. “Mr. Malfoy—”

“He’s my betrothed.”

A sharp hush cut through the Aurors — the stunned, uneasy kind that follows a truth no one expected to hear.

Draco didn’t look at them. His gaze stayed on Ron’s — unfocused, exhausted, but still blue. Something in Ron’s expression eased, a faint, weary warmth that read like pride.

The healer drew a portkey from her pocket; a coin stamped with the Rod of Asclepius. “Ten seconds,” she said.

Draco squeezed Ron’s hand, and Ron’s fingers curled weakly around his.

Robards exhaled once, a short, contained sound. “Fine. He’s responding to you. We’ll take your statement at St Mungo’s.”

The Portkey activated, and the familiar hook behind his navel dragged them away.

Chapter Text

When Ron surfaced from sleep, the first thing he registered was the familiar contour of an adjustable hospital bed beneath him. That part made sense. Everything else didn’t.

The stiff, bleach‑scented pillows were gone, the fire‑retardant blankets with them. What remained was softness—sheets with a finish so smooth it bordered on enchanted—and a camel‑colored blanket that settled over him without the slightest weight.

Draco was stretched out on a velvet chaise that had absolutely not been issued by St. Mungo’s, a book open across his knee as he read. A low tea table sat within reach, set with lemon shortbread, two delicate porcelain cups, and a silver service still steaming gently under a heating charm.

“Draco?” He pushed himself upright, surprised by the rough scrape of his own voice.

“Ron. You’re awake.” Draco straightened at once, setting the book aside.

Ron frowned as Draco stepped closer, one hand steadying an IV pole. “What’s that for?”

“The healers insisted. Apparently I ‘overexerted my system.’ They dosed me with a detox draught.”

“A detox draught?” Ron tried to follow the thread of memory, but it slipped. The cellar. Harry’s hand on his shoulder. Robards somewhere in the noise. And Draco—calling him his betrothed, the word shining with a clarity nothing else had.

“Just Ironheart. And Maxima.” Draco caught Ron’s hand, thumb brushing once across his. “Don’t worry about me. How do you feel?”

“Weird.” Ron glanced around the room. “And this… didn’t look like this before.”

“Trilby declared the room ‘unacceptable for convalescence.’ His exact phrasing.”

Ron smoothed the blanket. “It’s stupidly nice.”

“It’s Vicuña,” Draco said. “If you like it, I’ll have him put it on the bed at home.”

Ron’s gaze drifted to the window. “Weren’t there vertical blinds?”

“Trilby thought the drapes would keep the sun off you better. He tried to add a rug and a few portraits, but the nurse threatened to hex him.”

“How long was I out?”

“A few hours.”

Ron’s jaw tightened, a brief tension crossing his face before he masked it. “My brain’s alright, though?”

“Yes.” Draco’s answer was immediate. “Dr. Roundtree assured me there’s no permanent damage.”

Ron nodded once, absorbing the words in silence. “Harry—he’s alright? I didn’t really get to say anything to him back there.”

“Harry’s fine. He stopped in while you were out. Said he’d come back after his shift.”

“How’d you find me? Was it… the bond?”

“Pansy tweaked it — made the bond act like a locator.” Draco touched the spot above his heart, where the ouroboros tattoo lay. “Gave us a direction. Straight to the Rosier estate.”

“And Robards—he got Warrington and Montague?”

“They’re in a holding cell,” Draco assured him. “Both of them.”

Ron let out a slow breath and eased back into the pillows, the tension in his shoulders loosening by degrees.

“You should try to eat.” Draco turned back to the tea table. “There’s lemon shortbread, or I can ask Trilby for something else.”

Ron shook his head. His eyes dropped to the IV line taped to Draco’s arm.

“No. Just… come here? If you can. It’s a tight fit, but…”

“Please. We’re wizards.” Draco flicked his wand, and the narrow mattress widened by a few inches.

Ron shifted over, making room. Draco lowered himself beside him, careful of the IV, and Ron slid a hand to the back of his neck, bringing him down until Draco’s cheek rested against his chest.

“There. Now I can breathe.” Ron’s fingers moved through his hair in a slow, absent pattern.

Draco blinked hard, a small tremor running through him.

“I was out of my mind. I thought I was going to lose you.”

“I tried not to think about it. When they took me.” Ron’s voice thinned. “But there were moments I… wasn’t sure anyone would get to me. And then you and Harry were there.”

Draco turned his head slightly, eyelashes wet.

“I’m no duelist. But I was prepared to do whatever was necessary.”

“Yeah. Like taking dangerous potions.” Ron’s thumb brushed along Draco’s jaw. “You could’ve been hurt.”

“Ironheart and Maxima aren’t illegal. Just… heavily regulated.”

“You still shouldn’t have had to take them.”

Draco let out a low, frustrated sound. “I’m saying this badly. I’m furious you were hurt. But it… put things in perspective.”

“You claimed me in front of Robards and half the department. Didn’t expect you to do that.”

Draco’s voice dropped to something thin and honest. “What my parents think. What the press says. None of it matters next to you.”

Ron’s hand slid to the back of Draco’s neck, thumb brushing the soft hair there. He leaned in, closing the last inch between them, and their mouths met in a slow, tender kiss.

When Ron drew back, Draco’s voice was quiet. “You won’t get in trouble for what I said, will you? Telling Robards we’re betrothed. When you’re assigned to me.”

Ron exhaled, eyes closing for a moment. “If Robards wants a word, he can have one. But he’s not sacking me over something you said while you thought I was dying.”

Draco’s shoulders drew in by a fraction, but whatever he meant to say never made it out. Exhaustion pulled at them both, and they slipped into a light doze.

“Master Draco.”

The whisper rose from just beside the bed—soft enough not to wake Ron, but carrying a sharp undercurrent. Draco opened his eyes to Trilby, ears pitched forward in that unmistakable way that meant trouble.

“I’m sorry to wake you, but Arthur and Molly Weasley have arrived. They’ll be brought to this room in… just under four minutes.”

Draco went still. “Four minutes?”

“Three and a half now.”

Draco eased himself upright, careful not to disturb Ron or tug the IV line. He smoothed a hand down the front of his dove‑grey shirt, trying to restore its lines. “Perfect.”

“No need to fret.” Trilby snapped his fingers; the wrinkles vanished, and the right sleeve rolled itself neatly to the elbow around the IV. “There we are.”

Draco exhaled, a thin, controlled breath. “Should I put on a tie?”

“I would not recommend it. Mrs. Weasley will appreciate sincerity more than formalwear.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “Right.”

Trilby flicked his fingers; the charcoal trousers straightened themselves, the fabric settling cleanly. He crouched to check the black derbies. “Shoes are in good order.”

“Good. Yes.”

Trilby straightened, expression softening. “She will see that you care for her son. That is what matters.”

Draco’s fingers brushed the open collar again. “You’re certain.”

“Yes, sir,” Trilby said quietly. “Anyone would.”

“Where am I supposed to go? They’ll want to see Ron, but I don’t want to wake him.”

“I’ve arranged a small waiting room for you,” Trilby said, guiding him quietly toward the door. “Some refreshments. A comfortable chair.”

Draco paused in the doorway. “And I… stay out of the way.”

“For the moment.” 

Draco’s hand went to his collar again. “I’m not hiding.”

“Of course not,” Trilby murmured. “You’re giving them space. That’s all.”

Footsteps approached. Harry rounded the corner with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley close behind, speaking to them in a low, urgent voice. They looked worried, but braced.

Harry stopped when he saw Draco, giving him a small, steady nod. “Draco.”

Molly’s gaze fixed on him, sharp and assessing. “Harry says you helped the Aurors find Ron. Is that true?”

“Yes, Mrs. Weasley.”

Arthur stepped forward, offering his hand. “Then thank you. Truly.”

Draco shook it, the motion landing through a faint, distant haze. He’d imagined Ron beside him for this. Instead, he stood alone — and the panic he’d expected simply wasn’t there. Whatever reserves he’d had for fear, he must have spent them in the cellar.

Molly’s expression shifted, still wary but no longer hard. “I’d like a word with you,” she said. “After I see my son.”

“Naturally.” Draco stepped aside. “My house‑elf has arranged a waiting room. He can show you once you’ve finished.”

Arthur gave him a brief nod before following her inside. Harry hesitated a moment, his gaze passing over Draco as if taking stock, then went in after them.

Draco stayed very still until the door closed.

Later, in the small, windowless room St Mungo’s kept for families during ‘difficult moments,’ Draco paced. “It’s far too much food,” he said.

“Not at all, sir.” Trilby snapped his fingers, and the teapot began to pour itself into one of the cups.“People in crisis often forget to eat.”

Draco eyed the neat tower of pastries, scones, and sandwiches with clear misgivings. “I don’t think anyone will want any.”

“We’ll see,” Trilby murmured. A nurse in blue robes entered, and Trilby moved aside.  

“Hello, Mr Malfoy,” she said. “I’m told you’d like your IV removed. The doctor says we can do that now.”

Draco glanced at the IV pole, then toward the corridor. “Right. Yes. I did say that. But… perhaps it should stay in a bit longer.”

The nurse blinked once, slowly. “You spent twenty minutes telling me you wanted it out, Mr. Malfoy.”

“I know,” Draco said. “I just—might need a little more of the detox.”

She let out a quiet breath through her nose. “Fine. I’ll come back shortly.”

When she left, Trilby adjusted one of the plates. “Very good thinking, sir.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Draco said too quickly, eyes already shifting toward the corridor. “Trilby—go meet them, please. And… give us a moment.”

Trilby inclined his head. “Of course.”

Draco rested his hands on the back of one of the chairs, the grip tightening as the sound of footsteps drew closer. The numbness from earlier had begun to lift. He kept his eyes on the doorway, shoulders held carefully still.

A shadow passed across the glass pane, and then Arthur stepped in first, holding the door for Molly. Harry followed a pace behind them.

“Hello again,” Draco said, pulling a chair back. “Please—take a seat. My house‑elf, Trilby, has arranged some refreshments.”

“Thank you, Draco,” Arthur said. When their eyes met, a brief echo of Ron surfaced in the warmth of Arthur’s face and the brightness of his blue eyes. “That’s very kind.”

Molly’s expression softened as she took in the room — and the IV pole. “Yes… thank you, dear.” She eased into the chair he’d pulled out. “You didn’t have to go to any trouble.”

Harry stayed near the door. “I told them what mattered — you saved Ron. And probably me. The rest is yours to say.”

Draco gave a brief nod. “Right. Thank you.”

“I’ll be with Ron. I’ll let you know when he’s awake.”

Draco lowered himself into the chair, careful not to pull the IV line. “Would you like some tea?”

“Oh—let me,” Molly said. A quick flick of her wand, and the tea poured itself neatly into three cups. “You look like you should be resting, not playing host.”

“You ought to eat something,” Arthur said, setting a cheddar‑and‑chutney sandwich on Draco’s plate and adding a couple of macarons. “Harry said you’ve had quite a day — Rosier’s estate, freezing the man who took Ron, getting him out of there.”

“Pot—Harry handled most of it. I only stepped in where I had to.”

Molly glanced at the IV line again. “That can’t be comfortable. Are they giving you enough pain potion?”

“It’s a detox potion. I took Ironheart and Maxima during the rescue. I’m not exactly a fighter, so it seemed prudent.”

“Most people wouldn’t follow Harry into an abandoned cellar,” Arthur said. “That’s usually Auror work, that is.”

“Please,” Draco said, heat rising in his face. “It wasn’t bravery — it was necessity.”

Molly studied him for a moment. “You must care for our Ron very deeply, to do what you did.”

Draco swallowed, blinking once too sharply. “I know I’m not what you’d have chosen,” he said, the words thinning. “But I love your son.”

Molly nodded, eyes brightening. “We may not know you yet,” she said softly, “but we can see that.”

Arthur rested a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “I know your family,” he said quietly. “So I understand why you and Ron kept this to yourselves. And for what it’s worth… our Charlie’s gay. We learned a long time ago that love doesn’t always look the way you expect.”

Molly dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “You don’t have to be afraid of us. Truly. If Ron loves you — or if you love him — that’s enough for us to start from.”

Draco nodded once, reaching for his own handkerchief with a too‑careful motion. A tear had already slipped free. “Thank you. I know you’ll need time — and explanations — but… your kindness means a great deal.”

“Harry?” Ron pushed himself upright, blinking through the fog of sleep. “Draco was here a minute ago…”

“Easy.” Harry reached automatically for the plastic hospital pitcher, then abandoned it in favor of one of Trilby’s charm‑warmed teacups. “He’s still here. He’s meeting with your parents.”

Ron nearly spat his tea. “Draco’s alone with my parents?”

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, already reaching for the shirt and trousers Trilby had laid out. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You needed the rest,” Harry said. “And… I think he can handle it.”

Ron buckled his belt with quick, uneven movements. “Yeah, but Mum and Dad don’t know about us, and Draco’s alone with them, which means—”

“I prepared them. A little.” Harry held out a camel‑colored jumper, soft as the blanket Ron had woken under. “They know the important things. I think it’ll go better than you expect.”

“You didn’t tell them about the bond, did you?”

“No. That’s for you two to decide.” Harry smoothed the shoulder of Ron’s jumper. “You alright?”

“A bit tired,” Ron admitted. “Healer says it’ll pass.”

He moved toward the door, then paused with his hand on the handle.

“I don’t even know where Draco is.”

“I’ll take you.”

Ron pulled the door open—and stopped.

Lucius Malfoy stood a step away, hand frozen mid‑knock. Narcissa hovered beside him, her poise intact only by force of will; worry pinched the corners of her mouth.

“Auror Weasley.” Lucius’ expression cooled from strained to glacial. “Is my son in that room?”

“What do you want with Draco?”

“What do I—” Lucius’ voice fractured, then hardened. “I want to hear from him directly that Healer Roundtree has not taken leave of her senses. That he has not—” a flicker of disgust crossed his face, “—bound himself to you.”

“And if he has?” Ron said, voice rising enough to draw a few startled looks from the nurses’ station. “That’s between Draco and me.”

“You overstep.” Lucius closed the distance in a single, sharp movement, breath tight with fury. “My son would not jeopardize his future with… this. Whatever influence you’ve exerted ends now.”

“Lucius.” Narcissa’s fingers touched his sleeve—light, warning, afraid of what he might say next.

Harry stepped between them. “Let’s all take a moment—”

But Ron didn’t look away from Lucius.

“Threaten me all you want. I’m not scared of you. I love Draco. And if he wants me, I’ll marry him. You don’t get a say.”

Lucius’ jaw tightened. Something—shock, perhaps—flared and vanished. He turned sharply, dismissing Ron as beneath his notice.

“This is nonsense,” he said, already striding away. “Come, Narcissa. There’s nothing to be gained from speaking to a Weasley.”

When they disappeared around the corner, Harry let out a breath. “The healer told Draco’s parents?”

“I need to find him.” Ron strode toward the nurses’ station. “Sorry—have you seen—”

He broke off. Draco stood only a few feet away, pale and rigid, watching him with a sharp, unblinking intensity.

Ron moved toward Draco without thinking, the corridor narrowing to just the two of them.

“Are you alright?” Ron asked, stopping just short of touching him.

“In there.”

Draco walked into the hospital room and stood by the bed, perfectly still. The crook of his arm was bare now, the IV gone.

Ron closed the door with a low swish of his wand. “I hope it’s alright—what I said to your dad—”

Draco kissed him before he could finish.

“You claimed me,” Draco said when they broke apart.

“You’re surprised?”

“You never said you wanted to marry me.”

“Right.” Ron nodded once. “I should’ve made things clearer.”

He dropped to one knee.

Colour climbed high on Draco’s face. “Ron, get up.”

“Not until you say yes.”

Draco shook his head, unable to speak.

“I wanted to do it properly. Not in the middle of all this. But it doesn’t look like we’re getting a calm moment any time soon.”

He cleared his throat.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy. Will you marry me.”

Draco stared at him, eyes bright.

“Get up,” he said again, softer. “And yes.”

Ron rose. Draco caught him by the jumper with a trembling hand and drew him in, their foreheads meeting as he kissed him, breath warm and uneven between them.

Ron’s hand settled protectively over the ouroboros on Draco’s chest.

Nothing was simple. But together, they could face whatever came next.