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It was safe to say that Draco Malfoy’s life had taken a turn. One might even say he was embracing a new chapter, settling into a quiet, relatively anonymous Muggle-adjacent neighbourhood in London. Of course, he kept telling himself this was temporary—a bit of an “experiment.” After all, what better way to escape his family’s relentless scrutiny and the residual whispers of the Wizarding World?
His new flat was quaint. It had none of the dark grandeur of the Manor, but he found it… almost acceptable. It helped that he had company—his beloved cat, Arcturus. Purebred, pedigreed, and prone to watching Draco with the same vaguely judgmental look Draco reserved for substandard robes and weak tea. Arcturus was, in all respects, a Malfoy through and through.
Or so he had thought.
The first time Draco noticed something missing, he’d chalked it up to poor memory. A small thing, after all. It was just a cufflink, a single silver cufflink that might have slipped under the bed or gotten lost in the wash. Draco had sighed, murmured something to Arcturus about his unfortunate lack of house-elf staff, and moved on with his day.
But then it happened again. A gleaming serpent-shaped ring from his mother, a pocket watch he kept on his dresser for “aesthetic purposes only,” and—this was unforgivable—a small vial of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion he had saved for emergencies. By the time his green, silk tie had disappeared, Draco was a wreck, convinced that something truly sinister was happening.
After three sleepless nights, Draco decided it was time to take action.
It started with notes. Just casual observations, scribbled in his impeccable handwriting on parchment as he sat at his desk.
Item Missing: Silver Cufflink. Time Uncertain. Suspect unknown.
Item Missing: Serpent Ring. 3:00 pm. Suspect also unknown.
Pattern forming? Items small, often silver, serpentine theme… Symbolic, perhaps?
But by the time the first sock disappeared, his “casual observations” had evolved into something far more intense.
On the wall above his desk, Draco had pinned a sheet of parchment labelled in bold letters: OPERATION: MISSING TREASURES and beneath it, a cork board with a complex web of notes, timelines, and poorly drawn sketches of the missing items all strung together by a network of red yarn.
At the centre of this chaotic masterpiece was a single photograph of his main suspect: Arcturus. The cat’s green eyes glared out of the photo with a look of such disdain that even Draco had to admit it was perfect for his evidence board.
Draco stood in front of the board late one night, eyes narrowed, lips pressed together in intense concentration as he traced one of the red threads from a sketch of his green sock to the image of Arcturus. His fingers tapped rhythmically on his chin as he muttered to himself.
“You’re a clever one, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice taking on the tone of a detective in an old crime drama. “But what’s your endgame, Arcturus? Why the serpent motif, hmm? What do you stand to gain?”
Arcturus, curled up innocently on the nearby armchair, opened one eye, yawned, and went back to sleep.
Draco glared. “Oh, play the innocent all you want!” he snapped, one eye twitching. “I have you exactly where I want you.”
He pointed dramatically at the cork board, where he’d drawn a line connecting the stolen Sleekeazy’s bottle to Arcturus. “It’s all leading somewhere, and tonight—tonight I’m going to get answers.”
He paused, stomach rumbling. He hadn’t eaten in hours, too caught up in his “investigation.” But hunger would have to wait; he was this close to cracking the case.
Then, as if on cue, Arcturus gave a stretch, leapt down from the armchair, and strolled toward the window. Draco’s eyes narrowed, heart racing as he watched his suspect in action.
“Not so fast,” he whispered, pulling on his coat as he kept a close eye on the feline. Arcturus slipped through the cracked window, carrying—of course—one of Draco’s remaining ties in his mouth.
Draco grinned, a thrill of vindication washing over him. “Got you now,” he muttered, slipping out the door and into the night, prepared for whatever revelations his dubious feline accomplice might bring him.
🐾🐾🐾
Harry Potter was no stranger to strays. After all, he had a history of collecting unlikely companions—Hedwig, Kreacher, Dobby, the entire Weasley family. So when a particularly sleek grey cat began lurking around his doorstep every night, Harry’s heart softened immediately.
“Well, hey there, little guy,” he murmured the first time the cat showed up. The cat tilted its head, eyes gleaming in the dark, and Harry felt inexplicably… chosen. He placed a small saucer of milk outside, and Shadow—as he decided to name him—lapped it up with an air of elegance, before disappearing back into the night.
But soon, the saucer of milk wasn’t enough. Every evening, Shadow would arrive with a gift.
At first, Harry thought it was cute—a polished button here, a shiny paperclip there. But then came the sock. A lone, emerald green sock that looked suspiciously like it cost more than Harry’s entire wardrobe.
“Um, thank you?” he said to the cat, holding up the sock as though it might explode. Shadow blinked up at him with an expression that could only be described as cat-smug.
But the gifts kept coming.
The next evening, Shadow presented him with a silver ring, unmistakably magical, engraved with an elaborate serpent. Then a sleek quill with a peacock feather that looked too opulent to belong in a Muggle neighbourhood. And, to top it all off, a small bottle of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion that Harry distinctly remembered Hermione using back in fourth year.
“Alright, Shadow, thanks,” Harry said one night, after the cat had deposited a particularly ornate cufflink on his doorstep. “That’ll go nicely with my non-existent formalwear collection.”
Shadow gave him a deep, very un-stray-like purr in response.
But as Harry looked down at the items accumulating on the side table of his entryway, he couldn’t shake a strange feeling. It wasn’t the fact that Shadow seemed to have access to a wizard’s closet that bothered him. No, it was something… familiar about the items themselves. Each piece seemed to have a distinctly Slytherin flair—dark greens, silver serpents, impossibly luxurious fabrics.
It reminded him, oddly enough, of one particular wizard he’d been seeing a lot of lately.
Harry wasn’t sure what had possessed Draco Malfoy to move into his neighbourhood, but he’d been catching sight of him with an alarming frequency. And, much to Harry’s reluctant amusement, Malfoy had somehow maintained his meticulous, aristocratic style even in Muggle London. Even his coat looked like it had been custom-tailored in some niche Wizarding shop.
And now, thanks to Shadow, Harry couldn’t help but wonder if the two were connected. Could Malfoy actually own this absurdly posh cat?
🐾🐾🐾
It was a particularly chilly evening when Harry, jacket on, was about to head out to dinner. He’d just slipped on his shoes when he heard the familiar scratching at the door. He rolled his eyes, laughing to himself.
“All right, Shadow,” he muttered, opening the door, “what’ve you brought this ti—”
Harry’s words died in his throat.
Standing there, caught mid-step, was Draco Malfoy, looking like he’d just been caught breaking and entering. He was half-hidden behind a potted plant, his cheeks flushed, and he had the frozen expression of a man whose “master plan” had just unravelled.
They stared at each other in stunned silence, the only sound the soft padding of Shadow trotting happily past Harry and into the flat.
Harry stared at Draco, who still looked like a mix between a burglar and an eccentric private eye, and raised an eyebrow. “So, Malfoy… I don’t suppose you’re here to join me for dinner?”
Draco let out a haughty huff, crossing his arms as though the very notion was absurd. “I am here on official business, Potter. I’ve been following the trail of my stolen possessions, which— surprise, surprise —led me straight to your doorstep.”
“Your possessions, huh?” Harry replied, biting back a grin. He gestured down at Shadow, who had made himself quite at home on Harry’s armchair, looking utterly unrepentant. “So, Shadow has been raiding your closet?”
Draco’s lips pressed together in a thin line as he took in the cat, lounging smugly. “His name is Arcturus, ” he said, enunciating each syllable with the exasperation of a man who’s had this conversation with strangers far too many times. “Not… Shadow. ”
Harry blinked, glancing down at the cat, then back up at Draco. “Wait, Arcturus? ”
“Yes, Potter. Arcturus,” Draco replied, crossing his arms with an air of wounded pride. “He’s purebred and pedigreed , with better paperwork than half the Ministry. I’ll thank you not to tarnish his reputation with such plebeian nicknames.”
Harry tried—and failed—to suppress a laugh. “Right. Well, your pedigreed, purebred cat has been dropping off your ‘stolen’ items here for weeks now. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s developed a Robin Hood complex.”
Draco looked aghast. “He is a Malfoy, Potter. Not some Muggle folk hero. ” But his voice had softened just a bit, his haughty exterior cracking.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Malfoy,” Harry replied, smirking.
Draco’s mouth opened, ready with a retort, but at that exact moment, his stomach betrayed him with an embarrassingly loud growl. He froze, his cheeks colouring just slightly as he glared at Harry, daring him to make a comment.
Harry’s grin widened. “Sounds like someone skipped dinner. I was actually about to head out—why don’t you join me?”
Draco bristled, looking scandalised. “I hardly think it’s appropriate for me to accept charity from—”
“Oh, it’s not charity, ” Harry interrupted smoothly, holding up one hand. “Think of it as… negotiation. Join me, and I’ll return every item that Arcturus here has ever dropped on my doorstep.”
Draco’s eyes narrowed, a touch of suspicion mingling with something almost like intrigue. He glanced down at Arcturus—who had the audacity to look smug—then back at Harry. “You’re… using my possessions as ransom for a meal?”
Harry shrugged, his grin downright mischievous now. “Desperate times and all that.”
Draco studied him for a moment longer, torn between offence and amusement, but finally, with an exaggerated sigh, he rolled his eyes. “Fine. If only to make sure you don’t pawn my belongings at the nearest Muggle shop.”
“Excellent,” Harry said, still grinning. “Shall we?”
They stepped out into the cool evening, Arcturus trotting along between them with his usual regal air, as though personally satisfied with his matchmaking success. The streets were quiet, the hum of city life softened under the glow of streetlights, and as they walked side by side, their previous barbs gave way to a surprisingly easy silence.
Just as they reached the corner, Harry glanced over, catching Draco’s eye with a faint smile. “You know, I never took you for the detective type.”
Draco sniffed, affecting a lofty expression as he held his head high. “There are many things you don’t know about me, Potter.”
Harry chuckled, feeling the warm thrill of what felt suspiciously like anticipation. “Guess I’ll just have to find out, then.”
And with that, they continued down the street together, Shadow—no, Arcturus—purring contentedly as he padded alongside them, fully aware that his work here was only just beginning.