Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy strode through the corridors of the Ministry of Magic, polished shoes clicking against the floor with a rhythmic precision that spoke of years of pureblood training; confident but not aggressive, purposeful but not rushed.
A carefully cultivated performance, really. One he'd perfected in the almost eighteen months since the trials.
He kept his gaze forward, his expression neutral — the same aristocratic mask he wore everywhere now. It was easier than acknowledging the stares. The whispers that followed him like a second shadow. The way witches pulled their children closer when he passed, as if proximity to a Malfoy might somehow taint them.
Death Eater scum.
He'd heard it muttered just last week by a wizard in the lift. The man hadn't even bothered to lower his voice.
Draco was technically here to represent the interests of the Malfoy family, which was a polite way of saying various groups were asking for money again. They always were. Another "charitable contribution" to the war orphans fund. Another "generous donation" to rebuild Diagon Alley.
Not that he minded, exactly. Draco had donated substantial sums — enough galleons to make the vein in his father's neck stand out (if he wasn't in Azkaban, that was). Remorse couldn't be bought, but apparently it could be performed. Each donation was another brick in the wall he was building between his past and his future, another attempt to prove that the Malfoy name could mean something new.
It wasn't working.
They wanted him punished and pardoned in the same breath. Wanted his money but not his presence. Wanted him remorseful but not redeemed.
The gold disappeared into Ministry coffers, his name appeared in the Prophet's donor lists, and still the whispers followed. Still the stares. Still the occasional hex thrown at his back by someone who thought he'd gotten off too lightly.
Draco was trying to keep his head down, trying to rebuild, but ever since the war ended, he found himself feeling, well, lonely might be the best word for it. It was amazing how quickly his days filled with tedious meetings after tedious meetings, and yet he felt like he did absolutely nothing.
As he turned a corner, he nearly collided with a figure moving at a brisk pace in the opposite direction. Draco instinctively reached out to steady himself. He looked up, his usual sneer ready to surface, but it faltered when he recognized the unruly black hair and vivid green eyes of Harry Potter.
Potter looked... different.
Of course, Draco had seen him since the trials. The memory was seared into his mind with uncomfortable clarity: Potter standing before the Wizengamot, voice steady and certain, testifying about Draco's "reluctance" and "hesitation." About how he'd lied to Bellatrix to protect them in the Manor. About how he'd been "a bit of a shite Death Eater, really."
The courtroom had actually laughed at that. Draco had wanted to hex him and thank him in equal measure.
Then afterward, in the corridor outside, Potter had returned his wand. Just handed it over like it was nothing, like it hadn't been the only thing keeping Draco's magic from eating him alive during those wandless months.
"Here," Potter had said simply.
Draco had taken it, the familiar warmth of hawthorn wood singing through his fingers. "I suppose this means I'm meant to be grateful."
"You're meant to do whatever you want," Potter had replied, something unreadable in his expression. "Just... try not to be a complete arse."
"No promises, Potter."
The corner of Potter's mouth had twitched. Almost a smile. Then he'd turned and walked away, and Draco had stood there holding his wand and feeling something uncomfortably close to hope.
He'd seen Potter plenty since then, of course. Impossible not to, really — the Prophet couldn't go a day without plastering his face across the front page.
And Draco would deny it until his dying day, but he couldn't help tracking Potter's shifting appearance in those photographs. The way he had looked absolutely wrecked in those first months — gaunt and hollow-eyed, grief hanging on him like a second skin through endless funerals. Then gradually, slowly, the change. More muscle filling out his frame. Color returning to his skin. A haircut that was decidedly Muggle but somehow worked.
And then, most dramatically, the glasses had disappeared. Some Muggle procedure involving something called a "laser" had corrected his vision. It had been front-page news for a week straight, complete with before and after photographs that Draco definitely hadn't studied.
He'd half-wished the procedure hadn't worked. Potter's eyes, unobscured by those hideous frames, were horribly distracting.
Potter hadn't returned to Hogwarts either. That much they had in common, at least. Draco hadn't had the stomach for it — couldn't imagine subjecting himself to a castle full of students who'd spent the last year living under the Carrows' regime. Who'd watched him walk those corridors as one of them.
Better to stay away. Better to let that particular wound scar over without picking at it.
Now, facing Potter in the Ministry corridor, Draco could see there was an edge to him. A simmering anger just beneath the surface. His jaw was clenched, and his eyes, usually so full of determined fire, were dark with frustration. The air around him seemed to crackle with barely contained magic — not a visible display, but something Draco could feel raising the hair on his arms.
It was an unfairly good look on him. The bloody prat.
"Watch where you're going, Malfoy," Potter snapped, shaking off Draco's hand with more force than necessary.
The hostility was familiar, almost comforting. This, at least, Draco knew how to navigate. He raised an eyebrow, slipping into old patterns like a well-worn coat. "Potter. Always a pleasure to be graced with the presence of the Chosen One."
"Funny, I was about to say the same about Death Eaters."
The words hit like a physical blow, even though Draco had heard variations a hundred times before. From Potter's mouth, though, they stung differently. "Still beating that particular dead horse, are we? I'd have thought you'd found new material by now."
Potter's eyes flashed dangerously, and for a moment, Draco thought he might actually get hexed in the middle of the Ministry. The thought probably should have worried him more than it did.
Instead, the Boy Savior just huffed and ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more wildly. Some of the anger seemed to deflate, leaving behind something rawer.
"Sorry," Potter muttered, surprising him. "That was — I shouldn't have said that."
Draco studied him carefully, recalibrating. "Something on your mind, Potter? You look like you could murder someone."
Potter let out a humorless laugh that sent an unexpected shiver down Draco's spine. "Yeah, well, that's pretty much how I feel." His fingers twitched at his side.
Draco's curiosity was piqued. He'd never seen Potter like this — so raw and volatile, so far from the golden Gryffindor hero. "Care to share, or is this one of those 'suffer in silence' things you lot are so fond of?"
Potter glared but seemed to deflate further. "Not that it's any of your business, but I just got out of a meeting with Kingsley and Head Auror Robards. Apparently, it's been decided that I can't join the Auror program."
Draco blinked, genuinely surprised. "What? Why not? You're practically the poster boy for heroism and saving the world and all that rubbish."
"I'm too much of a liability to be on the force —"
"Well, they're probably right about that."
"— according to them." Potter's magic flared again, a wave of pressure that made the air feel thick. "Robards is worried it'll draw undue attention if the public knows I might be responding to calls. Actual threats and people causing issues just in the hope of seeing me." He laughed bitterly. "They told me they'd rethink it in a year or two after some of the hype dies down."
He shot Draco a sideways glance, those unnervingly green eyes intense. "So laugh it up, Malfoy. You've come out of this all surprisingly well. The Malfoy name still carries weight around here."
Draco's expression hardened. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of Potter's statement.
Come out of it well?
Did Potter have any idea what it was like? Walking through the Ministry knowing that half the people here had called for his execution? That the only reason he wasn't rotting in Azkaban was because Potter himself had stood up and testified? The weight of that debt sat heavy on Draco's shoulders, a constant reminder that his freedom had been gifted to him by the person who had the most right to see him punished.
Yes, the Malfoy name still carried weight — the weight of gold and old power and political connections too entrenched to fully uproot. But it also carried the weight of Dark Marks and dead Muggleborns and a year of torture conducted in his childhood home.
He thought of last week, walking through the Ministry atrium with his head held high while witches whispered behind their hands. Of the junior Auror who'd deliberately shoulder-checked him in the lift, hard enough to bruise. Of the meetings that got moved without his knowledge.
He thought of the Howlers. The extra wards they needed to place around the Manor to keep them out. How he had to hide his own face to buy potion ingredients.
He thought of his mother, who barely left the Manor anymore. Of his father, bitter and broken, serving a lifetime sentence in Azkaban. Of the family friends who'd quietly dropped the Malfoys from their social circles, afraid of the taint of association.
Try rebuilding a name when everyone wants to see it buried.
But Potter was looking at him with sharp green eyes, and Draco found himself swallowing the words. What was the point? Potter had his own problems — had just been rejected from the one path he'd probably been counting on. The Boy Who Lived, too famous to be allowed to live normally.
There was something darkly funny about that, actually. Both of them trapped by their names, their histories, their wars.
"You'd be surprised," he said carefully, letting his pureblood mask slip just slightly. Just enough to let Potter see the exhaustion underneath. "Redemption isn't as easy as it looks." He paused, then added with deliberate lightness, "Though I must say, the whole dangerous outcast thing you've got going is quite fetching. Certainly more interesting than your previous savior routine."
Potter's eyes widened slightly at the compliment —and Merlin, when had Draco started complimenting Potter?— before his lips quirked into a slight smirk. "Careful, Malfoy. Keep talking like that and I might think you actually like me."
"Perish the thought," Draco drawled, though he couldn't quite hide his answering smirk. The banter felt easier now, less barbed. Almost... friendly.
There was a moment of silence between them, filled only by the distant murmur of Ministry workers and the shuffle of parchment. It was a fragile truce, a brief understanding between two former enemies who'd both survived the war only to find themselves floundering in the aftermath.
Potter sighed, the fight seemingly leaving him. "Sorry for earlier. The Death Eater comment. I just — I've been feeling a bit... lost, I suppose, lately."
Draco studied Harry for a moment, the usual animosity between them tempered by an unexpected flicker of empathy. "Lost, huh? I suppose the Chosen One doesn't get to feel lost very often."
The Gryffindor gave a half-hearted shrug. "I thought defeating Voldemort would make everything clear, you know? But it just... left a void. I figured the Auror program would give me purpose, but now that's been taken away too."
Draco nodded slowly. "I know the feeling. Everyone expects you to just... fit back into the world, like nothing happened. But everything's different."
Potter looked at him, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. "And you? What do you do now that you're not... you know."
He didn't finish the sentence, but Draco heard it anyway. Now that you're not a Death Eater.
He stiffened reflexively, old defenses rising — but then forced himself to relax. Potter, surprisingly, was one of the few people who didn't seem to hold his past against him. Or at least, held it against him less than everyone else did. The man had literally saved him from Azkaban. That had to count for something.
"Rebuilding, whatever that means," Draco said quietly. "Trying to prove that the Malfoy name can stand for something other than darkness and terror. Going to meetings where the Ministry asks for donations with one hand while spitting on me with the other. Wearing glamours to buy potion ingredients because apparently I'm not fit to shop in my own world without a disguise." The words came out more bitter than he'd intended. "It's... not easy."
Potter's expression softened with something that might have been understanding. "Right, well, so long as we're both suffering."
Draco felt a surprised laugh escape. "Who would have thought? Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, bonded by our personal crises and mutual misery."
Harry chuckled softly. "Stranger things have happened."
Draco's expression softened further. The offer came out before he could think better of it: "Look, Potter, if you need... I don't know, someone to talk to or whatever, let me know."
A beat passed as Potter stared at him, eyes intense as he seemed to search Draco's face for something. Whatever he found must have satisfied him, because he said: "Yeah, okay, let's get drinks tonight, Malfoy."
He blinked, caught off guard by the sudden invitation. He felt a wave of emotion at the offer — years of isolated hope flooding to the surface embarrassingly quickly. How long had it been since someone had invited him somewhere that wasn't a Ministry obligation or a thinly veiled demand for money?
"Drinks? With you?"
Harry shrugged, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Why not? We both seem to need it. Besides," he added with a dangerous grin that made Draco's stomach flip, "you did just admit to finding me attractive."
Bloody prat.
Draco hesitated, then nodded. "Alright, fine. The Leaky Cauldron at seven?"
The words were out before his brain caught up with his mouth, and immediately panic flooded through him. What the fuck was he thinking? The Leaky Cauldron? He might as well have suggested they meet in the middle of the Wizengamot chambers.
He couldn't go to the Leaky — couldn't go anywhere in Diagon — and certainly not within arm's reach of Harry Potter, the wizarding world's golden boy. The beloved war hero seen publicly with a Death Eater? The Prophet would have a field day. And Draco would be lucky if he only got bottles thrown at his head this time. More likely, he'd be driven out by an angry mob before their drinks even arrived, or hexed in the street while the Aurors looked the other way.
Draco opened his mouth to suggest somewhere else — anywhere else — but Potter was already shaking his head.
"Not the Leaky. I can't go anywhere near Diagon without it showing up as the front page of the Prophet the next day." Potter scowled as he said it, and Draco felt an unexpected kinship with the frustration in his voice. Different reasons, same result. "Let's go somewhere Muggle."
Relief flooded through Draco so quickly he nearly sagged with it. "Somewhere Muggle?" he managed, keeping his voice carefully neutral despite the gratitude singing through his veins. "Alright, I suppose I can manage that. Where exactly?"
Harry thought for a moment. "There's a decent pub near Charing Cross Road. The Crown and Anchor. Meet me there?"
Draco nodded, feeling a mix of curiosity and apprehension — and underneath it all, a fragile flutter of something that might have been anticipation. "Fine. The Crown and Anchor at seven."
"Try not to look too much like a pureblood, yeah?" Potter gave a lopsided grin as he said it.
Draco raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, his grey eyes flashing with a hint of amusement. "And here I thought you preferred me just as I am, Potter. But very well, I shall endeavor to blend in with the common folk."
"Somehow I doubt that's possible," Potter said, but he was smiling properly now. "But I'll take what I can get."
***
By the time Draco arrived at the Crown and Anchor, he felt a strange mix of anticipation and unease. He had changed three times before he left his apartment — a fact that would have mortified him if anyone knew. His final choice — a pair of tailored dress pants and a button-down shirt under a sweater — felt sufficiently Muggle, though he'd kept his dragonhide dress shoes, liking the way they pulled the look together.
His father would have disinherited him for the sweater alone.
Well, he would have, if he'd been in any position to do so. But Lucius Malfoy was currently rotting in Azkaban, stripped of his wand and most of his legal rights, leaving Draco as the head of the family. A role he once coveted and now had no idea how to fill.
If his father knew Draco was going to a Muggle pub, of all places... Merlin, the apoplexy alone might have killed him. And if he knew about the books — the Muggle novels that now lined Draco's shelves, the poetry, the philosophy texts, the histories written from perspectives his father would have called "blood traitor propaganda"— well. That might have been worse than Azkaban for the proud pureblood.
Draco had spent the past year and a half quietly, systematically questioning every moral he'd been raised with. Every belief his father had repeated again and again and again about blood purity, about power, about their place in the world. It was exhausting work, pulling apart the foundations of your entire worldview and trying to build something new from the rubble.
The only person who knew was his mother.
And while it was all likely appalling to her — this dismantling of everything the Malfoys had stood for — she was too broken, too unmoored by everything that had happened, to judge him for it. Narcissa Malfoy had lost her husband to Azkaban, her sister to madness and death, her home's sanctity to a year of horrors she couldn't speak about. She moved through the Manor like a ghost, pale and beautiful and hollow.
Draco thought she would forgive him anything now, purely because he was still here. Still alive. Still hers in a way that nothing else was anymore.
It was a strange kind of freedom, he supposed. Devastating, but freeing.
Draco walked into the pub, his eyes quickly scanning the place for any sign of Potter. He spotted him almost immediately, sitting at a table in a shadowed corner, nursing what looked like a pint of beer. Draco approached with measured steps, trying to quell the odd fluttering in his stomach.
"Malfoy," Harry greeted, his demeanor more relaxed than Draco had ever seen it. "Glad you found the place."
"Potter," Draco responded, sliding into the seat opposite him, feeling the privacy charm already on the booth. "Interesting choice. I don't think I've been in a Muggle pub before."
Potter smirked. "First time for everything, then. What'll you have?"
Draco glanced at the selection behind the bar. "Some sort of whiskey. Whatever you recommend."
The Gryffindor signaled to the bartender for another drink. As they waited, Draco took in the surroundings — the worn wooden tables, the dim lighting, the eclectic mix of patrons. It was worlds away from the opulence of his usual wizarding establishments, and yet, it felt oddly... comfortable.
Their drinks arrived, and Draco took a tentative sip. The whiskey was surprisingly good, and he found himself relaxing a bit more.
Harry leaned back in his chair, eyes glancing around the room as he fiddled with an unlit cigarette. Draco took a minute to study him.
"You look different," Draco noted.
"Different bad?" Potter asked, an amused smirk on his face.
"No, different good," Draco assured him.
"Considering how pretty you are, I'll take that as a compliment," Potter grinned over the top of his glass as he took a sip.
Draco smirked back, a curl of satisfaction twisting down his spine at the idea of Potter finding him pretty, and at the ease with which they had slipped into their usual banter. "Well, we can't all carry off the disheveled hero look as charmingly as you do, Potter."
The other wizard chuckled, setting down his glass. "Glad to hear I have something going for me."
He paused, his expression sobering slightly. "Thanks for coming, by the way. I know it's... well, unusual for us."
"Unusual is putting it mildly," Draco replied dryly. "But these are unusual times, aren't they?" He took another sip of his whiskey, feeling the warmth spread through him.
"Indeed they are," Harry agreed, gazing into his drink. "You know, I've been thinking a lot about what you said earlier. About feeling lost and trying to rebuild. I never expected any of this —the aftermath, the void. It's... overwhelming at times."
Potter took a pause, looking contemplative as he played with his cigarette. "Things haven't been easy since it ended. I didn't cope so well. Still not doing great, if we're being honest. Hermione's been on my back about it, says I have quote unquote unhealthy coping mechanisms."
Draco stared at him, understanding more than he cared to admit. His eyes traced the tension in Potter's shoulders, the barely contained power that seemed to radiate from him. "Do you?"
"What?"
"Have unhealthy coping mechanisms?" Draco asked. He hesitated before adding, "Not that anyone would blame you for it. You've had a bit of a shite life."
Potter laughed, but it was tinged with bitterness. "Yeah, you could say that. But I'm trying to find healthier ways to deal with everything. I started running a while back. Trying to replace the urge to go and pick a fight somewhere."
"Always were a violent thing, weren't you?" Draco quipped, though there was genuine intrigue in his voice. He'd noticed Potter's new physique, of course.
Harry's laugh this time was genuine, a spark of something lighter flickering in his eyes. "Only on the best of days, Malfoy. But it's a start, right? Trying to channel it into something less destructive."
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table between them. "And you? How are you handling things these days?"
Draco hesitated, his gaze drifting momentarily to the window. "I read a lot," he confessed quietly. "Fiction. Nonfiction. Muggle and magical...trying to understand more than just what I was raised with. It helps distract me from... well, from everything else."
He wasn't sure why he admitted that. Outside of his mother, Draco hadn't told anyone about his sudden interest in reading, in Muggle fiction.
He looked back as Potter's unnervingly green eyes stared at him, contemplative and far too perceptive.
Uncomfortable with the continued vulnerability, Draco took a breath in. "So running? Anything else? Besides terrorizing the Ministry and making Robards nervous, that is."
"In my defense, they deserve it," Potter laughed before giving a little shrug. "Gotten into music lately."
Draco raised an eyebrow, "I had no idea you were musically inclined."
"Oh, I'm not at all. It's mostly me banging about on a piano, but it's been fun. Kind of nice to enjoy being bad at something."
"You are so very humble," Draco laughed into his drink.
"Shut up, you know what I mean," Harry said.
"Yes, yes, I'm sure life has been hard when you're a natural prodigy at Quidditch and have enough raw magic to level a small country." Draco joked back, though he couldn't help but notice how true the latter statement felt — Potter's magic could be almost overwhelming.
He was such a prat. He could have at least been a terrible person if he was going to be so bloody powerful.
Potter rolled his eyes, but the smile tugging at his lips was genuine. "Well, when you put it like that, I sound almost bearable."
Draco smirked, leaning back in his chair and studying Harry with a more pensive gaze. "You're more than bearable, Potter. You always have been. Infuriating, yes. Reckless to the point of stupidity, absolutely. But more than bearable."
There was a moment of silence as they both allowed the weight of Draco's words to hang in the air. The pub noise swelled around them, people laughing and talking as they sat in their own little world.
Harry cleared his throat slightly, breaking the quiet. "Thanks, I guess." He paused, then added with a harder edge, "Not quite sure what that means, considering what a self-centered arsehole you were at school and how you made my life hell for years."
Draco stiffened, the familiar guilt rising in his throat. "I was, I did," he admitted quietly, the words harder to say than he'd expected. "I was an absolute prick to you. To everyone, really, but especially to you and your friends."
Potter watched him carefully, those green eyes missing nothing. "You sent Hermione an apology letter."
It wasn't a question.
"I did," Draco confirmed, his fingers tightening around his glass. "Several, actually. I'm not sure if she read them all. I wouldn't have blamed her if she'd burned them."
"She read them," Harry said softly. "Mentioned it to me once. Said they were...polite."
Draco swallowed hard against the wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. Granger had been tortured in his home. In his drawing room, on his mother's antique rug, while he'd stood there frozen and useless. His aunt's voice still echoed in his nightmares sometimes, high and cruel, and Granger's screams—
He took a long drink to steady himself.
"What I did — what I said to her over the years—" Draco started, then stopped. How did you apologize for years of cruelty? For standing by while someone was tortured? "And then what happened at the Manor—"
He looked down at the table, unable to keep eye contact.
"It was my home, Potter. My family. My aunt who —" Draco's voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat. "I just stood there. I did nothing."
"You were seventeen and terrified," Harry said. "Trust me, I was there. I saw your face."
Draco looked up, meeting Harry's gaze. "That's not an excuse."
"No," Potter agreed. "But it's context. And for what it's worth, Hermione appreciated your letters. Said the one where you actually detailed all the shitty things you did was... cathartic for her. And don't take too much credit for Bellatrix. She did plenty of terrible things all on her own."
Gods, his bloody family. The legacy of darkness and cruelty that seemed to poison everything they touched. His father in Azkaban. His aunt dead by Molly Weasley's hand. His mother a ghost in a house full of terrible memories.
And Draco, trying desperately to be something different.
"Well," he said, forcing a lightness he didn't feel, "at least someone appreciates my verbose self-flagellation."
Harry's lips twitched. "She said you were 'surprisingly eloquent for a reformed bigot.'"
Despite everything, Draco felt a genuine laugh bubble up. "High praise from Granger."
"The highest," Potter confirmed, and the tension between them eased slightly.
Draco nodded once, sharply, acknowledging the moment but pushing past it. "So, this Muggle pub," he gestured around with a slight frown, "is this going to be our new regular spot then? Or are you going to make me suffer through more of your questionable taste in establishments?"
"Maybe, depends on how much you annoy me tonight," Harry said with a pleased grin, reaching into his leather jacket to pull out a Muggle coin. "Alright, let's flip to see who buys the next round. I'm heads."
"Fine, but if it's you, just know I have expensive taste."
Potter laughed and flipped the coin with a practiced flick of his thumb, catching it on the back of his hand before smirking up at Draco.
"Looks like I'm buying then," Draco said, flagging down the bartender and ordering another round of drinks.
"Where'd you get that anyway?" he asked, nodding his head at Harry's beat-up biker jacket. "It's surprisingly stylish for you."
Potter's grin faded, and an air of melancholy surrounded him as he looked down at the jacket. "It was my godfather's. He left it to me. Along with some of his other Muggle stuff. Records, motorcycle, stuff like that." Potter cleared his throat, looking back up. "You never would have met him, but I'm sure you know about Sirius."
He wanted to snort at Potter's casual statement. He left it to me. Along with some of his other Muggle stuff. As well as the entire Black family fortune and Noble house. Not that Potter seemed to care for either in the slightest.
Draco's features tightened slightly at the mention of his wayward cousin, his lovely complicated family relationships once again settling uncomfortably around his shoulders. "I've heard a lot, mostly from my own family's less than favorable perspectives," Draco admitted, his voice even.
"Which I'm sure was in no way biased," he joked, his eyes locking with Harry's. The underlying tension softened as Potter nodded in acknowledgment.
"Sirius was... he was a lot of things," Harry said slowly, searching for the right words. "Rebellious, fiercely loyal, a bit unhinged really. Not sure if that was Azkaban or not. But he cared deeply about the people he loved."
"Sounds complicated," Draco replied thoughtfully.
"Complicated," Potter echoed with a small smirk. "That's putting it mildly. No offense to you, being cousins and all, but that whole family was a complicated mess."
Draco chuckled, the sound tinged with a hint of bitterness. "No offense taken. The Black family could give ancient Greek tragedies a run for their money."
Harry's smile widened. "A few of them turned out alright. Not particularly happy endings, but they were good people."
Potter brought his glass back up to his mouth. "Perhaps there's hope for you, yet," he joked softly, green eyes focused on Draco.
He felt a mix of pride and guilt in his stomach. Absurd how that simple statement brought such hope to him; the idea that perhaps he was not a lost cause after all the terrible decisions he made these last few years.
He raised his glass in a mock toast. "To hope, then, and complicated legacies," he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. They clinked glasses, the sound sharp and clear over the din of the pub.
"Right, lovely talk about the past, that," Draco started, setting down his glass and leaning forward with renewed interest, "I'm more curious about what you plan to do next. Running, music... but what else? You've always been one to chase after something bigger. Usually something likely to get you killed."
"That's the question, innit?" Potter said, taking a deep inhale. "To be honest, now that the Aurors are out, I haven't the foggiest. Might just wait for Hermione to figure it out for me," he laughed.
Draco smirked, swirling the last of his drink in his glass. "How is Granger these days?"
The shorter wizard gave a genuine smile. "She's good. She's been off doing some project with one of the programs she got into after she graduated. She pops between England and France a couple of times a week, it feels. All very secretive, but she seems happy enough."
"Sounds about right. She always had a knack for finding her way into the heart of mysteries. Good for her."
Potter chuckled, his eyes drifting to the window. "Yeah, she's doing what she loves. Can't really ask for more than that."
"And her and Weasley are officially over?"
Harry nodded slowly, a hint of relief in his eyes. "Yeah, they ended things amicably enough a while back. Both realized they were better off as friends. Ron's doing well too, keeping busy with the shop and all."
"Well, huzzah for us all, then," Draco said, raising his empty glass. "Alright, Potter, let's see, we covered coping mechanisms, your dead godfather, my fucked up family, and your wildly successful best friend, right?" he said, counting off the topics on his fingers. "Anything else we need to do to call this a success?"
"Jesus, Malfoy," Harry laughed while taking the last sip of his beer.
Draco's smirk widened, his eyes glinting with humor. "Just making sure we're thorough. Wouldn't want to miss any traumatic topics."
Potter set his empty glass down and slapped his hand on the table. "Alright, let's take a walk. I'm getting restless."
Draco nodded, pushing himself up from the table with the grace his mother had drilled into him, pulling his overcoat on, and leaving a few Muggle bills for the drinks. Potter assured him it included a tremendously generous tip. They stepped outside into the chilly winter night, the air crisp with the threat of snow.
The streets were quieter here, away from the raucous laughter and clinking glasses of the pub. Potter shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, his breath puffing out in the cold as he finally lit his cigarette.
How long had Potter smoked? He didn't remember him doing it at school.
They walked in comfortable silence for a few blocks, each lost in their own thoughts. It was Draco who broke the silence first. "How are you and the Weaslette doing?"
"Delightfully offensive, Malfoy," Potter huffed, smoke curling from his lips. "Ginny and I broke up a while ago. Surprised you don't know that."
He did know it, actually. Hard not to when it was all over the bloody papers for weeks straight, especially once they sniffed out the fact that Potter was an equal opportunist.
Draco had most certainly not spent an entire evening staring at that particular article when it came out. Had definitely not felt something complicated and dangerous unfurl in his chest at the revelation. Had absolutely not reread it three times while drinking his way through a bottle of his father's best firewhiskey.
He'd been entirely normal about the whole thing.
"And here I thought you'd end up a Quidditch husband, cheering from the stands with a big foam finger. Well, apologies for not keeping up with the latest gossip columns," he remarked dryly.
"Yes, it's a shame. You may never find out what shampoo I'm using now."
They continued walking, chatting about Quidditch and other light topics, their steps syncing as they meandered through the dimly lit streets.
Draco was about to call it a night and head home, embarrassingly proud of how well it had all gone, when Potter paused abruptly in the street. Hands went frantically into pockets until he pulled out a small mirror. A voice was calling from it. Harry held it up, "Mione? What's wrong?"
The pleasant buzz from the alcohol vanished instantly at the strain in Granger's voice. "Are you home? Can you meet me at my lab? Something's wrong. I'm being followed, I think. I don't know who, but they know about the project."
She paused before breathing heavily as if she were moving quickly. "I need to get my notes. I can't explain everything over this. There's no time. Meet me there?"
Without hesitation, Harry nodded. "Of course."
Potter pocketed the mirror and gave Draco a searching look, silently asking if he was coming.
The question felt monumental.
For a brief, paralyzing moment, Draco hesitated. If this turned out to be Dark magic — if whoever had attacked Granger's lab was connected to Death Eaters or Dark artifacts or anything that could be traced back to that world — and Draco was found anywhere near it... The Ministry would have him back in front of the Wizengamot before he could blink. His parole was conditional. His freedom, tenuous.
One wrong move, one bad association, and everything he'd been trying to build would come crashing down.
But Potter was looking at him with those green eyes, and Granger was in danger, and —
Fuck it.
"Let's go," Draco said.
And then he was following Potter. The streets blurred past as they made their way to the nearest Apparition point, further away than either of them hoped.
Finally finding it, they vanished with a crack from the London street and reappeared in a quiet suburban road. "C'mon, it's a few streets over," Harry said, grabbing Draco's arm.
They quickly made their way to a somewhat secluded building housed at the end of a private lane.
"Shite," Potter swore as they approached the building. "The wards are down." Draco's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the situation, taking in the lingering magic in the air. "Not good."
Harry nodded grimly, moving towards the entrance with quick, determined steps. Draco followed closely behind, his wand already drawn, trying not to think about how this would look if Aurors showed up. Former Death Eater found at scene of attack on Muggleborn war hero. The headlines wrote themselves.
They entered the building, the silence inside ominous and thick with tension.
"Stay alert," Harry whispered as they moved through the quiet hallways, their footsteps echoing softly. The dim lighting cast long shadows that seemed to flicker as they passed.
As they approached the main room, Harry paused, a hand held up to signal Draco to stop. He leaned close to the door, listening for any sound from inside. Hearing nothing, he carefully pushed the door open and peered inside.
The lab was in disarray, furniture tipped over and half destroyed, papers scattered everywhere, and a large hole in the wall at the opposite side of the room. Granger was nowhere to be seen.
"Hermione?" Harry called out softly, his voice tense with concern.
There was no response.