Chapter Text
- Act I -
We joust with words, yet strike no blow,
Each parry met with equal jest;
Thus spins our sport, with neither best.
The Tuscan hills rolled out beneath her like a painting. Aurora Malfoy stood at the edge of it all, admiring the sprawling view. Looking resplendent in her bright yellow dress robes with a glass of elf-made wine in hand, Aurora can’t help but feel an odd sense of achievement. After all, she was here to witness the result of her most unlikely (and most successful) match: Ginny Weasley and Blaise Zabini, who married after a year and a half of dating.
She’d been here before, one unforgettable summer after fourth year. Pansy had scorched herself on the first day after forgetting to cast a sunscreen charm on herself, and spent the rest of the trip cursing the sun from beneath a parasol. Theo drank half a bottle of Blaise’s mother’s Masseto and tried to duel a scarecrow. Daphne trailed after him like a heartsick nymph. And Aurora? Well. She kissed a devastatingly handsome Italian wizard named Matteo and spent two whole weeks pretending she didn’t care when he ghosted her the moment she got back to England.
It was strange being back, all things considered. She felt older than she ought to. Sharper around the edges. A little more jaded. A lot less reckless. In the years since the war, dating had become... complicated. Too hard to explain her past to those who didn’t know it, and even harder to change the minds of those who did. It’s far easier, simpler, safer to keep it all at arm’s length.
Not that she was bitter, of course. Romance just didn’t hit the same way it had when she was fifteen and sun-drunk in Italy, kissing boys like secrets. She still, however, looked fantastic in mulberry silk— surely that had to count for something?
After the war, the Malfoy name had survived, but only barely. With Lucius in Azkaban, she and her mother had narrowly escaped conviction. Spared, perhaps, by the absence of Dark Marks on their forearms and a well-timed defection. Mother retreated into quiet respectability, reclaiming an old version of herself and rekindling ties with her estranged older sister. This shift gave Aurora the push to turn away from the rigid expectations of a pureblood daughter and carve out a different life entirely.
She didn’t join the Ministry. She didn’t beg for public forgiveness or hide behind gated estates.
Instead, she joined ADORE.
Founded by Pansy Parkinson and half-funded by scandal, the matchmaking agency had started as a joke of sorts. A post-war pet project for pureblood society girls who were tired of pretending they didn’t care about love, and even more tired of being told who to love. They didn’t just want to marry rich or marry right; they wanted to marry their own way. As it turned out, Aurora had a talent for it. She was sharp, intuitive, and frighteningly good at reading people. What made her a good seeker, made her a great matchmaker. She could spot a doomed relationship before the couple had even touched hands.
And more importantly, ADORE gave her a chance to rebrand the Malfoy name— not with press statements or charity balls, but with something more powerful: happy endings. If people saw a Malfoy putting lovers together instead of tearing families apart, well... that was the kind of rehabilitation even galleons couldn’t buy.
Her thoughts were interrupted when a small group of women drifted toward her like moths to a flame. Familiar faces under unfamiliar makeup and enchanted hair. Hogwarts? definitely. She tried to picture the house robes beneath the silk gowns, but came up short.
One of them, a blonde with a neat up-do and the open expression of someone who hadn’t been to enough bad dinner parties yet, leaned in.
“I can’t believe Ginny and Blaise actually ended up together,” she said, her voice a little too sincere to be faking the curiosity in her eyes.
Aurora tilted her head, eyebrows lifting as she tried to place her. The voice helped somewhat. “And why’s that?”
“Well… she’s all fire and ferocity. And he’s, I don’t know, usually aloof and unreadable. It just seems unexpected.”
That voice clicked. Hannah Abbott: Hufflepuff, Herbology, the one who cried when a mandrake bit the end of her pigtails.
“Hannah,” Aurora said aloud, snapping her fingers with a smile. “Hufflepuff, right? You used to wear pigtails back in school.”
Hannah flushed. “You remember me?”
“I remember everyone, darling.” Aurora drawled, swirling the drink in her hand. “It’s my job.” She took a sip.
“So?” Hannah asked. “How did you know they'd work?”
Aurora’s eyes flicked over the crowd, catching briefly the unmistakable green eyes of Harry Potter. He stood near the outdoor bar with a tumbler in hand, his expression unreadable. She filed it away for later.
Her gaze shifted to the far right where Blaise was holding court with Ginny’s parents like he was trying to sell them a Quidditch team, gesturing with a champagne flute in hand. Ginny was nowhere in sight.
“They were a perfect match,” Aurora said carefully, silver-grey eyes staring back at sunlit green. “Their personalities balanced like instinct; where one leaned, the other caught. Being together was like second nature. As if loving each other was the only thing that ever made sense.”
Hannah sighs. “You make it sound like poetry.”
“It’s a bit like Arithmancy I suppose,” Aurora replied with a shrug. “A little intuition. A little data. A lot of listening.”
“Arithmancy?” another witch from the group asked, incredulous.
Aurora smiled. She could still hear Pansy’s voice in her head. The first week she joined ADORE, Aurora had asked how matchmaking was supposed to work without love potions, a gift for divination, or a crystal ball.
“You’re not casting spells, darling,” Pansy had said, filing her nails. “You’re just giving people permission to want what they actually want. Most of them have no idea.”
She looked back at the circle of wide-eyed women, then caught sight of Potter who is now leaning against the bar, his drink forgotten in his hand. He wasn’t just casually eavesdropping anymore. He was tuned in, hanging on to every word like he was waiting for her to reveal something he’d missed.
Well. Two could play at that game.
She gave him a pointed look— half challenge, half question— but it took more effort than it should have to remember where she’d left off.
“Some people believe love is luck. A chance encounter. A wrong turn that ends right. And honestly? It can be. Most people could find love on their own…eventually.”
The witches leaned in slightly, drawn in by the way she said it, like she was letting them in on something secret. Aurora offered a sly smile.
“We can all meet our person out in the wild, you know? At the Leaky, at work, or even in Flourish and Blotts while accidentally knocking over a display of self-inking quills.” That earned some snickers. “But the happy ending to a good first date isn’t the second date. It’s… brewing each other’s Skelegro-Plus because your joints sound like a cursed wardrobe. It’s casting warming charms on their side of the bed before they get in. Wizards live to what, one-thirty if we’re lucky? You’re not just picking a partner. You’re picking a grave buddy.”
The room quieted, her dulcet voice soothing but sure. Not one witch looked away.
“Who we love… it shapes everything. Not for one year, or ten, but for all of it.”
She let that sit for a breath. Then smiled.
“But between all the noise and the mess, people forget to listen to themselves. So at ADORE, we don’t leave it to fate. We calculate compatibility. We intuit instinct. And we listen— better than your mum after two glasses of Firewhiskey.”
“And when we do our job right… you get this.” She gestured back toward the reception hall, where the light spilled out like warmth itself. “Two people who found what they didn’t even know they were missing.”
Before another question could be tossed her way, Hermione Granger appeared at Aurora’s side, brows drawn together, her usual calm tinged with quiet urgency.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Granger said, glancing apologetically at the small crowd. “But Ginny’s looking for you. She, um… she needs you.”
Aurora didn’t hesitate. She handed her drink to a passing server and politely excused herself from the crowd of potential clients. With Potter and the rest of the wedding party in her periphery, she swept back into the main hall, Louboutins clicking softly against the polished stone. She moved quickly through the side corridor and up the narrow staircase that led to the bridal suite. Warm sconces lit the hallway in soft gold, but the energy shifted as she reached the door just ahead.
A small cluster of bridesmaids had gathered outside the door, their hushed voices and anxious expressions unmistakable.
Aurora slowed her pace as she neared, quietly assessing. Ginny sat on the king-sized bed, shoulders tense and mascara smudged in the unmistakable way of someone who’d been crying.
“Ladies,” Aurora said gently, “would you give us a moment?”
The bridesmaids, mostly Gryffindors (and Daphne, bless her), exchanged glances and nodded, dispersing with quiet understanding.
Hermione quietly ushered everyone out the door. Once they were gone, Aurora stepped closer. “Hey, Red. How are you holding up?”
Ginny gave a half-hearted smile, her fingers still twisting the diamond ring at her hand. “Did Hermione say I was being dramatic?”
“She said you needed me,” Aurora said, voice calm and even.
Ginny didn’t answer. She kept her gaze fixed outside on window, the sunset starting to spill across the distant hills like honey.
“Everything okay?” Aurora asked gently, sitting beside her on the bed.
Ginny didn’t look at her right away. “Yeah. I mean… I think so.”
Aurora leveled her with a look. “Ginevra.”
That got a glance— A breath. A crack in the armour. For all the headlines that painted Ginny as a firecracker on and off the Quidditch pitch, she was still the girl who used to lace her boots an hour early for Harpies practice just to calm her nerves.
“I don’t know why I’m so nervous,” Ginny admitted. “Maybe it’s just the day, you know? And all the attention. And the dress. And the whole forever part.”
There was a pregnant pause. Then Aurora said, carefully, “If you want to leave, we’ll go.”
Ginny turned to her, startled.
“I’m serious,” Aurora continued, voice quiet but steady. “And as the person who introduced you to Blaise, I will walk right out of here with you. You don’t have to do this for anyone. Not your family, not me, not Blaise.”
Ginny swallowed. Her eyes brimmed, but she blinked it back.
“So tell me. Do you not want to get married today?”
“No—I mean yes—I mean—” Ginny shook her head, frustrated. “I have to.”
Aurora waited. Then, softly: “Why?”
Ginny let out a breath. “Because my parents spent galleons for this wedding. We’re not rich by any means. This is a huge deal for them. For us.”
Aurora didn’t blink. “That’s a reason. But it’s not your reason.”
She shifted on the bed, folding one leg beneath her. “Alright… Forget your parents. Forget Blaise. Forget everything. Why do you really—deep down, in the darkest, ugliest part of yourself—want to marry Blaise?” Aurora softened, just a fraction. “I promise you, I’ve heard every reason a person chooses a marriage. Some petty, some practical, some shameless. None of them are shocking, or wrong. None of them make you a bad person.”
Ginny buried her face in her hands. “You promise it stays between us?”
"I promise." Aurora said, tucking a stray hair behind Ginny’s ear. “You can Obliviate me after, if you need to. But it will never leave this room.”
Ginny grabbed her hands, squeezing tight. Her breath came shallow. "You can't tell anyone. Not a soul, Rory. It is so awful."
Aurora squeezed her hand back. “I will take it to my grave.”
She waited.
And waited.
Then, Ginny spoke slowly, like opening Pandora’s box.
“Because,” she huffed. “He’s everything. He’s hot, he’s smart, he’s politically neutral, and he’s rich— like generational, effortless, vineyard Zabini rich. Merlin, he even wears cuff links to brunch! Who even does that?”
Aurora raised a brow but said nothing. She wanted to make a quip about how the Zabini vault was basically sponsored by a series of mysteriously dead husbands, but given the occasion, she thought it best to keep it to herself.
“He knows how to walk into a room and make people look. And he owns it. He always makes me feel like I’m on the inside of something. Like I belong to a life I never thought I’d have.”
Aurora gave the faintest nod, absorbing it like a data point.
“I know that sounds awful,” Ginny said quickly. “It’s not just that—”
“Of course it’s not,” Aurora cut in, voice cool but not unkind. “But it’s part of it. And that doesn’t make you shallow. It makes you honest.”
Ginny looked down, twisting the glittering rock on her finger again.
Aurora’s tone softened. “When you’ve spent your life elbowing for space in a family with six brothers, being with someone who symbolizes power, stability, status... well, it kind of makes sense. You want to stop climbing. You want to feel like you’re at the top.”
“When I’m with him…” Ginny’s voice cracked, but she pushed through. “I feel seen. Not just looked at. Not tolerated. Not overshadowed. He listens and puts me first. All the time. For the first time in my life, I feel like I don’t have to fight to be enough.”
Aurora exhaled slowly. A faint knowing smile ghosted across her lips.
“You feel valued,” she said.
Ginny met her eyes, tears threatening. She nodded.
“Then that’s the only reason you need,” Aurora said with finality.
Ginny gave a watery laugh. “You’re disturbingly good at this.”
“I’m not here to make you feel better,” Aurora said, pulling her into a hug and giving her shoulders a firm squeeze. “I’m here to make sure you’re making the right decision. That’s the job. The speeches, the dress, the ostentatious flower arch out front? That’s all smoke. The marriage is the real deal.”
She sighed, glancing toward the window, where the last sliver of sun was slipping below the hills. The reception would be starting soon. “Look, Red. You’re not just saying yes to fireworks. Love is easy. But marriage? Marriage is…hard work. It’s…a vineyard,” she said, for lack of a metaphor. “You don’t marry someone for the grapes they’ve got today. You marry them because you believe you can grow something together, slowly, and intentionally. You show up every day and do the maintenance.” Aurora continued. “And Blaise— Blaise doesn’t just want to reap the harvest. He knows how to care for the roots. He knows when you need space. When you need sun. When to step back, and when to step in.”
Ginny’s face softened, her breath evening out.
“But the thing about vineyards is this,” Aurora continued. “You grow together, or you grow apart. One person stops showing up, and the whole thing wilts. Slowly… quietly. Until it’s too far gone to bring back.” Her eyes were steady now, her jaw set with quiet resolve.
“I’m familiar,” Ginny murmured, the words slipping out before she could catch them, her mind flicking to a past she didn’t name. Aurora didn’t dare ask.
“So,” Aurora’s voice tinged with a tone of finality. “If it’s cold feet you’re getting, I’ll go ahead get your shoes. We’ll be out of here before the champagne hits the first flute. But if it’s just nerves? Then this is the part where you take a breath, square your shoulders, and walk through the door.”
A beat. Then a nod.
“Ok. I’m ready.” Ginny whispered.
Aurora smiled— businesslike, confident. The closer who just closed.
“That’s my girl.”
The ceremony was flawless. The room cheered. Blaise grinned from ear to ear. Ginny laughed, blinking back tears behind her bouquet. And by the time desserts were served, ten new clients had already found their way to Pansy Parkinson’s clipboard.
It was, by all accounts, another win.
Back inside, the seating arrangements— probably Pansy’s doing— had Aurora planted beside Harry Potter. Of fucking course, she thought, eyeing the ex-boyfriend of the bride, who was currently scowling at his drink as if Snape had just dressed him down in front of the entire class. Most of the guests had spilled onto the dance floor, leaving the table in a quiet sort of aftermath.
“Evening, Potter. Enjoying the ceremony?”
“Er, I suppose.” He looked up and gave a noncommittal shrug. “Didn’t know you were in the business of selling fairy tales.”
“Not fairy tales,” Aurora drawled, topping off her glass. “Real connections. Grown-up magic.”
“Right,” he said, scoffing. “With monthly fees and personality quizzes?”
“Better than getting set up by nosy colleagues with awkward blind dates.”
“Really, it was a lovely speech you gave back there,” he said, tone dry. “You should go into acting.”
She snorted. “Coming from the boy who faced down Voldemort with a monologue, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Potter ran a hand through his hair. “You don’t really believe all that matchmaking rubbish, do you?”
“Rubbish? I’ve matched five couples this year alone.”
“Lucky guesses.”
“Some would call it honed intuition.” She took a sip.
“Which is a fancy term for guessing.”
She tilted her head, watching him over the rim of her glass. He was starting to grate on her nerves but Merlin be damned, she will not let this man ruin her night. “What’s got your knickers in a twist, Potter?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly caught off guard by her question.
“You sound bitter,” Aurora said, smirking as she went in for the kill. “What, still not over Ginny?”
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t flinch. The firewhiskey was beginning to feel like a tactical error as he felt his tongue move faster than his sense of self-preservation. “We didn’t break up over some scandal, Malfoy. It wasn’t drama. We just… outgrew it. We were kids playing house, and then life got in the way. Too many nights with her on tour with the Harpies and me chasing rogue Death Eaters in Bulgaria. At some point, we just stopped showing up for each other, I guess.”
Aurora leaned forward, an eyebrow raised. “So now you’re what? Done with love? Planning to marry your work?”
“I’m an Auror, Malfoy. Not the lead in some romance novel.” He dead-panned.
“You’re 27, Potter. That’s prime matchmaking material. Mildly broody with a tragic hero backstory and a saviour complex to boot? You’re catnip to half my client list.” Her lips curved. “If you want, I could find you the one.”
He gave her a flat look. “Spare me the sales pitch. I’d rather kiss a troll.”
Aurora leaned back in her seat and took a slow sip of wine, eyes narrowing slightly as she assessed him. Potter was dressed in deep forest green dress robes, the shade striking against the sharp lines of his black waistcoat and crisp white shirt. The colour made his eyes look almost unreal—too vivid and too intense, like they belonged to someone in a painting you weren’t supposed to touch. His slacks, tailored and dangerously well-fitted, clung to him in a way that suggested someone (definitely not him) had an eye for detail. His hair was its usual mess, and his tie—if you could even call that crooked, lazy knot a tie—sat just off-center. For someone who ducked the press and dodged social functions like they were curses, Harry Potter cleaned up infuriatingly well.
She hated to admit it, but with professional certainty, Aurora could now say: the man was decidedly, regrettably, not ugly.
“Someone physically active, emotionally low-maintenance. Doesn’t idealize you, but doesn’t resent the hours either. Probably a fellow workaholic— healer, curse-breaker, someone used to triage. Familiar with your schedule. Respects it. Tolerates Quidditch. Massive bonus if she actually enjoys it.” She crossed her arms, wine glass balanced loosely in one hand. She looked like a healer who just handed him a prescription he didn’t ask for.
He stared at her, unimpressed. “You done diagnosing me, Healer Malfoy, or is there more?”
“I’m serious, Potter.” Aurora set her glass down with intent.
Harry narrowed his eyes. “You think you know me?”
Aurora met his gaze, propping her cheek against her fist where it leaned on the table. “I’ve known you since we were eleven. I know more than you think.”
Harry let out a short, mirthless laugh and shot her a look. “You don’t know what it’s like. The pressure. The expectations. The guilt when anything actually goes right."
"Okay… so you’re looking for someone with bite, but soft enough to handle your baggage. Noted.”
Harry’s jaw tensed. “I’m not a bloody shopping list, Malfoy.” His voice was tight, like he was holding back. “You think you can analyse me like one of your clients? Tick a few boxes, make a match, and call it done?” He let the words fall with a sharp, bitter laugh. “What a load of bollocks.”
Aurora didn’t flinch. This was not her first rodeo. “Then help me understand,” she said, voice low, eyes steady.
Something flickered behind his eyes. The air between them shifted, charged with something nameless but familiar. It felt like those breathless moments in a Quidditch match when you're high above the pitch, waiting for the Snitch to appear. Not quite danger, but close.
For a heartbeat, his expression cracked. He looked at her mouth. Just once.
Before he could answer, a voice interrupted.
“Excuse me, are you Aurora Malfoy?”
Aurora turned, smiling as though she'd been expecting him. “In the flesh.”
“Cedric Diggory,” he said, offering a hand. “I don’t think we’ve officially met.”
Aurora stood to shake it, amused. Her gaze flicked to Potter. “Well, look at that. Two Triwizard champions at one table. I feel terribly underqualified.”
“I’ve heard of you,” Cedric said, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “Pansy won’t stop talking about ADORE.”
Harry tensed, gaze fixed on his drink.
Aurora gave a dismissive wave. “The press inflates things. I’m just a very good matchmaker.”
“Sounds like a gift,” Cedric said. “Or a curse, depending on the day.”
She smirked. “More like depending on the client.”
Harry shifted beside them, clearly uncomfortable.
Cedric looked between them. “Do you ever… get matched yourself?”
“Oh, you know what they say,” Aurora replied, flipping her hair with exaggerated flair, “never mix business with pleasure.”
Harry stood abruptly. “Excuse me,” he muttered, already turning away. Whatever strange current had passed between him and Aurora earlier had dissipated the moment Cedric arrived, leaving Harry wondering if he'd only imagined it.
“Leaving so soon, Potter?” Aurora called after him, clearly enjoying herself.
He paused, glanced over his shoulder. “Er, just giving you space to recruit your next client.”
Later, as the band struck up another jazzy tune and enchanted candles floated overhead, Hermione gushed about the ceremony while Ron snuck off for thirds at the dessert table. Harry sat quietly, adrift in thought.
Ron wandered back over, licking icing from his thumb. “Still brooding?”
Harry gave him a look. “I’m not brooding.”
“Sure,” Ron said, grinning. “You’ve just been staring at your drink for ten minutes.”
“I’m just... tired,” Harry muttered. “You’d get it if you were still in the field.”
Ron raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. Hermione, ever the empathetic one, reached out to touch his arm. “Ginny’s happy, Harry. That’s what matters.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
Silence settled over them, filled soon after by the swell of music, the clink of glassware, and the soft chatter of nearby guests. A familiar carefree laugh rose above the rest, and all three turned toward the center of the reception.
Ginny was dancing with Blaise.
Her head was thrown back, cheeks flushed, eyes lit with something Harry hadn’t seen in a long time. Ease. Blaise twirled her like he’d been born doing it, one hand at her waist, the other guiding her confidently across the floor.
Harry looked away, chest tight with something he refused to name. It wasn’t jealousy. He wanted her to be happy— he really did. But watching her find it so easily with someone else made something in him ache. He let his eyes settle on anything but them: the floating candles flickering overhead, the empty wine glass in front of him, the fine grain of the wooden table.
Hermione’s voice pulled him back. “She’s good at what she does,” she said, eyes tracking someone across the room. “People believe her. That’s rare.”
Ron snorted. “Still a Malfoy, though.”
Hermione shot him a look.
He held up his fork in surrender. “Alright, alright—she’s not awful. I heard she set up Susan and Seamus. And Tracey Davis with Ernie Macmillan. Weird talent for someone who didn’t even take Divination.”
Harry followed their gaze. Malfoy was talking to Cedric, her fingers toying idly with a strand of platinum and laughing like she hadn’t just peeled him open with a few choice words.
Maybe that was her real talent. She always knew how to get under his skin.
“She offered to match me,” Harry said, eyes still on her.
Hermione’s eyes flicked to him. “And?”
He didn’t answer.
She nudged his arm, gentler this time. “You know... maybe it wouldn’t be the worst idea.”
Harry scoffed. “You’re not serious.”
Hermione didn’t answer. She simply looked at him, lips pressed together in that way that meant she was.
“‘Mione's right, mate.” Ron added with a shrug. “Why not? It's been what, three years? You said it yourself, you’re tired. Let someone else do the legwork for once. Worst case, it’s a laugh. Best case... maybe she actually finds someone.”
Harry looked back at Aurora. She looked radiant, laughing with Cedric looking like she was untouchable, and maybe she was. But earlier, she’d told him she’d known him since they were eleven. That she understood him.
No— that she wanted to.
Wanting the relief of fresh air, Aurora let Cedric draw her onto the terrace, where floating lanterns bled into the night and scattered stars glittered above. The sounds of the party faded behind them, replaced by the hush of crickets and the faint clink of his beer bottle as he turned it loosely in his hand.
“Saw you working the room earlier,” Cedric said. “A wedding like this must be a gold mine.”
“There’s plenty of opportunity here for our company,” she agreed. “I assume that’s why Pansy cornered you earlier?”
He chuckled. “Partly. She says ADORE has the kind of reach the Ministry could use—off the record, of course. I think she’s hoping we’ll consult on a behavioral study they’re trying to fund.”
“Hm. Romantic profiling— sanctioned by the Ministry?” Aurora mused. “Sounds like a bureaucratic disaster waiting to happen.”
“Exactly,” he retorted. “You’d be surprised how often love complicates magic.”
She arched a brow, intrigued. “That’s assuming magic was ever simple.”
“Touché.”
“So,” Aurora said, voice light with curiosity, “you’re with the Department of Mysteries?”
He nodded. “Not allowed to talk about it much.”
“Naturally,” she said with a sly smile. “The less you say, the more interesting you seem.”
He laughed, and she reached into her clutch, slipping a card into his hand— thick crimson parchment, gold-pressed ink with her details, and a shimmer charm that made the ADORE logo flicker like a spell mid-cast.
Cedric turned the card over. “Is this your idea of subtle networking or soft invitation?”
“It’s called being efficient,” she replied smoothly. “You should appreciate that, working in Mysteries.”
“And here I thought you were flirting.”
Aurora’s smile curved just enough. “Sorry to disappoint. I’m mostly here to connect.”
“Then perhaps we could….connect. Over dinner.”
She stopped mid-step, caught off guard by his smooth, unexpected delivery. A smile tugged at her lips despite herself. “Tempting. But I don’t date clients.”
“Even prospective ones?” he asked, tilting his head, eyes studying hers.
“Especially them,” she said with a departing smile, already stepping past him toward the thick glow of lanterns lining the path. “But I do think you’d be an excellent match for several of our candidates. Owl me if you’re curious.”
The night had thinned out, guests fading like candle smoke. Harry approached Aurora just as she was preparing to disapparate near the gates.
Without a word, he held out a folded piece of parchment.
She raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”
“My address,” he said. “Next Friday. Seven o'clock.”
She unfolded it, eyes tracing the unmistakable scrawl: Number 12 Grimmauld Place, London. It’s familiar. Intimate, in a way it shouldn’t be. “You’re booking a consultation?”
“No.” His tone was firm. “Not yet.”
Aurora’s smile was slow, deliberate. Controlled. “Then what is this, exactly?”
“You said you wanted to understand.”
“Potter,” she said crisply, “standard protocol requires initial sessions be held in neutral locations. Professional boundaries, I’m afraid.” Gone was the teasing tone she’d used earlier. Her posture had gone rigid, spine straight and chin high.
He didn’t reply. Just stood there, too still—like he knew she wasn’t done yet.
She pressed on, voice cool and clinical. “I don’t visit clients’ homes, especially not ones I’ve never stepped foot in. That’s not... safe.”
It wasn’t really about safety— not in the way he’d take it. It was about control. About knowing where the exits were, how long the waitress took with coffee, and how the soft jazz filled the silence that usually fell between question six and seven. It was about running the room.
At Potter’s house, she would have none of that.
Just him.
“Well,” he retorted, turning to leave, “if you want me to be a client... you’ll have to convince me first.”
He caught the faintest flicker in her eye before disapparating with a soft crack.
Aurora stood frozen in the dark, the rush of blood in her ears loud as she stared at the empty space he’d left behind. The faint scent of his cologne lingered in the air like a dare.
She hated the feeling that bloomed in her chest.
It wasn’t fear. It was worse.
For the first time in years, she didn’t know what came next.