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Harry Potter was dressed in rags the first time Draco saw him. Draco engaged in an act of charity by speaking with him. Now, when Draco sees Harry Potter, he’s dressed in Malkin’s finest robes. Now, if Harry Potter spoke with Draco, that’d be considered charity.
“You should reach out,” his father-in-law tells him. “Explain your side.”
“Imagine how much that would help our standing,” his wife begs.
Draco will become an employee before he asks Harry Potter for help. The trial was humiliating enough. The Greengrasses can roll their eyes at him from the comfort of their neutrality. They can tilt their heads together and whisper that he’s stubborn like his father all they want.
Draco is nothing like his father. Draco isn’t stupid.
* * *
When Draco turned ten, his grandfather took him to the continent. He told him about the Great Muggle Wars. He showed him Auschwitz, Normandy, Dresden.
“They kill each other because they are afraid of otherness. They kill their own kind if they look differently, if they love differently, if they think differently.” He paused, then, gaze stuck on one of the Muggles sweeping the marbled floor of the Dresden museum. “What do you think they’d do to us?”
Draco could only imagine. So he did. For years, he imagined how horrible the world would be if Muggles ruled over Wizards. And then the Great Wizarding War came, and Draco was in it, and he got to see a Horrible World for himself. When it was over, Hogwarts reminded him of the photographs hung in the Dresden museum.
And so Draco understood an important fact about life that day.
For once, he understood nothing will change just because one man is dead. Not without help.
It takes years, connections, and too much of his wife’s inheritance, but Draco gets appointed as a prosecutor for the Ministry of Magic two weeks before he turns thirty. He makes a point of not hiding his Mark.
“Let this serve as a reminder that hatred is learnt, and that it can be unlearnt,” he says in his closing statement, hand shot in the air as the cameras flash.
He wins the case, and the public opinion. People love a redemption arc.
Potter is there somewhere, lurking behind the oak-panelled walls of the courtroom where Draco spends his days. He’s wasted a decade fighting criminals one by one, and he’s setting up to waste another signing paperwork as Head of the Auror Division.
As work colleagues, as old acquaintances, etiquette dictates they nod at each other when they cross paths in the marbled corridors.
Draco enjoys knowing they do it for different reasons: Draco does it because it would look bad if he didn’t. Potter does it because he fancies himself the paragon of moral high ground, and can’t stand the thought that he might be small enough, petty enough, to entertain a schoolboy grudge. Yet that is precisely what he does. Draco can tell in the way his fist clenches; in the way his eyes dart away.
When Draco runs for parliament, the old tune recommences.
“You need Harry Potter’s support,” his campaign managers sing in unison.
“You should get over your pride,” his father-in-law advises.
It wouldn’t be unusual for someone in Draco’s position to court Potter. In fact, his opponent has been doing it for months. And still, Draco wins the position without it.
“Congratulations,” Potter tells him the day he’s sworn in. His handshake is firm, his voice warm, but his eyes insincere.
“Thank you,” Draco replies, hot under the heavy dress robes. He tightens his grip like his father taught him, and pulls Potter closer. Taken by surprise, as most men are, Potter stumbles forward.
He steadies himself, then laughs, which is not what most men do.
Potter gets appointed Head of the DMLE one year later and they officially become members of the same political party. At that particular function, their handshake is curt and uneventful, and still the memory of it follows Draco around for days, like an unwanted intern.
* * *
Potter doesn’t knock. He just drops a file on Draco’s desk.
Draco has been expecting some sort of righteous display. His only error was assuming Potter would send someone else to play the part.
“Dementors, Draco? Your father’s in there.”
Draco barks a laugh. “Have you grown fond of him as of late? How touching.”
“You can’t go through with this.”
“You’ll find I can,” Draco says, leaning back on his chair. “If you’re not happy about it, you’re free to lobby the Wizengamot members and skew the vote.”
Potter does just that, and the bill doesn’t pass. It was never meant to. Draco just needed the leverage. His education reform passes, and the papers barely cover it, and by the time everybody catches on to the fine print, it’s too late.
When Potter passes him in the corridor, he doesn’t nod anymore. He stares. If he’s upset that his children won’t be sorted into houses and defined by it for the rest of their lives, then so be it.
* * *
Astoria’s death is the hardest thing, after the war. Dressed in black, hand clasped on the shoulder of his red-eyed son; the photograph will make all the front pages. He could count on the pity vote; he does not want the pity vote.
“My condolences,” Potter says through the wall of pelting rain. His handshake is firm; his eyes hidden by fogged-up glasses.
“Thank you for being here,” Draco says back, and is grateful for his voice. Even on such a day, it does not betray him.
* * *
His elf rights reform earns him the respect of his party, but loses half of his electorate. It doesn’t matter. He’ll get the votes back. He’ll just need to lose a bit of the respect for it. And so it goes.
* * *
Draco owls his campaign manager a respectable 48 hours after his father’s funeral.
Potter approaches him before anybody on his team has had the opportunity to start pestering him about approaching Potter. He strolls into Draco’s office with the confidence of a man for which no door has ever been locked.
“I’ve heard you’re planning on running for Minister of Justice.”
Draco considers him carefully. Denying would make him a liar in front of a man who’s managed to claim ownership of the concept of honesty, but it’s too soon to announce intent—he doesn’t have all the internal votes secured, and how embarrassing would it be to say yes, and then have Simmersons steal the nomination?
“Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Potter says, and picks up a photograph of Scorpius. “He looks just like you.”
Draco allows Potter’s comment to hang in the air for a beat before answering, “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Well, if you are thinking about it,” Potter carries on unbothered, putting the frame back on the desk, “there’s something I’d like to discuss.”
Draco blinks. He stands up. “You make a compelling case, but I’m not taking bribes right at this moment.”
Potter laughs.
Oh, how Draco despises that laugh. Unfortunately, it’s the laugh of a powerful man.
“Let’s hear it, then.”
What Potter wants in exchange for the nomination—not even the post itself—is for Draco to sell his soul.
“I’d much rather kiss a Dementor,” he tells him. “I’d rather watch that racist, classist knob running for the Purists be appointed, than give up ten years of my work and walk back on the banking reform.”
“Your banking reform is not going to pass. Even if we get the majority in the Wizengamot, which we won’t, you won’t convince them to lift sanctions that have been in place for centuries. Be realistic.”
“Why would I do that? Realistically speaking, you should be dead,” Draco says, then catches himself. It’s a testament to how much he cares about the banking reform that he let himself get so emotional. “My answer is no. If that costs me your vote, then so be it.”
Potter crosses his arms. “Draco, I think you’re our best nominee. I’m just worried you won’t beat Petergrad if the papers pick up on this reform.”
“I’ll beat him,” Draco bluffs, while a part of his mind carefully files Potter’s words away to be examined later.
Potter lets out a chuckle, some private expression Draco can’t quite figure out.
“And if you don’t?”
“I will.”
“You won’t. If you don’t back down on this, we’ll have to go with Simmersons.”
They do just that, and Simmersons wins Draco’s seat.
That’s fine. Draco is familiar with both failure and waiting. Four wasted years later—for of course Simmersons accomplishes nothing more than maintaining the status quo—Draco wins the nomination, then the seat. By the end of the year, goblins are allowed to form a party and run for Parliament.
Potter and Draco stand up in unison when the first elected goblin member of Parliament enters the vaulted room. The ripple of applause fills the air, and Draco’s heart swells. Then Potter leans over to Draco and utters the most beautiful three words in the English language.
“You were right.”
Draco turns towards him, body tense with victory.
“Thank you,” he says, and extends a hand. “That’s gracious of you to admit.”
Potter looks down at his outstretched hand, then up at Draco’s eyes. He smiles as their palms touch.
“I’ve never had a problem admitting I was wrong,” he says, fingers still wrapped around Draco’s. “It would be a pity, since it happens so often.”
It’s Draco’s turn to look down at their hands.
“Especially when it concerns you,” Potter carries on, voice down to a whisper, fingers moving up his wrist.
Draco lets out a breathless laugh.
Harry Potter is flirting with him. And all he had to do was change the course of history.
“You’re such a freak,” Draco proclaims ten minutes later, as they stumble into the closest cubicle.
Potter ignores him, much too preoccupied with their many layers of dress robes.
But Draco is not that kind of person. He’s old enough to accept he does not have the capacity to get out of his head in situations like this, and that the only way forward for him is to keep making small talk while Harry Potter prepares them both for sex.
“You’re really doing this. In a public toilet. At work.”
Potter lets out a laugh, and inserts, of all things, a finger into Draco’s mouth.
“Shut up,” he says. “Just shut up for once.”
The for once actually hurts. Then, Draco forgets all about it.
The incident, as Draco refers to it, doesn’t repeat for a fortnight. Which is great, because it takes about a fortnight for Draco to come to terms with it. He wasn’t drunk, that’s the most surprising thing. Every time he’d considered having sex with a man, he thought he’d be drunk for it, and not just high on caffeine at ten in the morning. And “man” has always been vague enough that, really, it could have been a woman. It was only when “man” became “that actual man” that it struck Draco just what a monumental thing about himself he had kept isolated in the dark recesses of his mind. As for the last step of transforming “that man” into “Harry Potter,” he’d probably need another fortnight to process that. And he doesn’t have that, because Potter is once again kneeling on the bathroom floor next to the courtrooms.
“...’ax…, ” Potter mumbles, mouth full.
“What?” Draco says, breathless, the rim of the sink digging into his back.
An indecent sound, then coldness.
“Relax!”
Draco takes a deep breath. Puts some of those old Occlumency skills to use, and runs a hand through Potter’s hair.
“Alright.”
Eventually, it becomes routine. His office, Potter’s office, whatever empty office they happen to be walking by. He’s allowed to talk again, and they’ve even made progress on certain bills while bent over some desk.
As far as Draco’s concerned, this is the most satisfying relationship he’s ever had, sexual or otherwise. Confined to his place of work, devoid of any need or pretense for courting and intimacy, and compatible with the day’s agenda. What more could he ask for?
* * *
“Did you know Scorpius and Albus are friends?”
Draco stops moving. Looks down at Harry, spread all over his sheepskin rug.
“Is this an appropriate conversation for the situation we’re in?”
Potter laughs. Will he ever stop with the grating laughter?
“I don’t understand how you can be so amazing and so annoying at the same time.”
Draco goes back to his previous activity.
“Maybe the four of us could do something over the winter holidays,” Potter says.
This time, Draco stands. He gathers his robes from the armchair Harry flung them to.
“Is that a no?” Harry asks from behind. “It’s fine if it’s a no. I just want an answer.”
That sounds reasonable enough, yet Draco finds it’s impossible to be reasonable back.
He feigns interest in his buttons while Potter puts on his clothes. He thinks—hopes—he’ll leave, or maybe insist they go over the funding for the Auror Office again. Instead, he comes up from behind and his arms close up around Draco. He kisses the base of Draco’s neck where it meets his shoulder.
Draco’s heart flutters briefly, and something vast and unknown overcomes him. He needs to hold on to something, so he holds onto Potter’s arm.
“Draco,” Potter says, hand slipping down his shirt, over his scars. “I really like you. But I won’t be your secret.”
“No,” Draco says, mind empty. “Of course not. I understand.”
Potter’s lips leave a burning mark behind, like a spell.
This is fine. He’s been too unfocused lately.
“I’ll be around if you change your mind.”
This is totally fine.
* * *
The centaurs are difficult. Draco had thought he was good with difficult until he met Bane.
He eventually gets them a seat in parliament, and the whole charade recommences: the vaulted room, the clapping, the Harry Potter next to him. They sit down, shoulders lightly brushing. He turns, and finds Potter looking away, hands fidgeting. Something catches in Draco’s throat. If only he—
Nonsense. He’s emotional because Bane now has the right to vote, and it’s all because of him.
“The Purists are getting cockier and cockier,” Potter says months later, as they walk out of the press room together, steps echoing down the deserted corridor. They’ve walked out of that room dozens of times before, yet it always feels like the first time. “Draco?” Potter asks after some time.
“Sorry,” Draco says, bringing a hand to his eyes. Potter catches it. The gesture is so sudden, the touch so familiar, Draco melts into it.
“You look terrible. Are you sleeping enough?”
Draco’s parents are dead; his wife, too. It’s been years since anybody’s talked to him about his sleep.
Which is great, because he has no patience for sleep.
They see each other every day. Sometimes, they spend long hours side by side, fighting over the placement of a comma, or the footnote of some bill. They’ve been seeing each other every day for years now; more years seeing each other every day than years not seeing each other every day.
Sometimes, they’re alone in Draco’s office, heads tilted over a contract, a bill, some document; the perfect excuse to look up at the wrong moment and steal something that doesn’t belong to him anymore. A glance that lingers; a hand stilling for too long on yesterday’s newspaper.
It’s inevitable. Draco’s hand on Potter’s shoulder, forgotten; Potter grabs it; brings it to his lips.
He looks up. “I miss you.”
Draco swallows past the knot in his throat. Pulls him closer, and then closer still.
“Me too.”
For weeks and then for months, Draco waits for Potter to ask for more, waits for the moment he’ll have to say no to him again, but this time, Potter doesn’t ask.
* * *
A new book about Potter comes out. Like the rest of its kind, it was sent to him by the publisher. It gathers dust on Draco’s nightstand until, stressed about a vote, Draco picks it up with a bottle of elf wine.
It’s terrible. Overwritten by two hundred pages, it oscillates between calling Potter “the orphan,” and “the wonderboy,” all while going into graphic details about—
The more he reads, the heavier the lump in his stomach becomes.
A cupboard.
The sun rises over the forest bordering the grounds, but Draco can’t sleep. His mind skips between memories, rearranges them.
I will not be a secret.
But if they were not, all of Draco’s accomplishments, all the ways in which he tried to right his wrongs—they’ll all be attributed to Potter. And, before anything else, Draco has a duty to right his wrongs. Before anything else.
* * *
“We need to stop.”
A silence like a fist.
“If that’s what you wish.”
* * *
“I think it’s time, Draco.”
Draco nods. He’s ready.
“You’ll need Harry Potter’s support.”
“No, I won’t.” After a pause. “I won’t.”
“I’m sure he’ll be open to it. We could offer some flexibility on the Auror regulations.”
“No.”
* * *
Potter walks into Draco’s office with the confidence of a man who has been wronged.
“I hear you’re running for Minister.”
He doesn’t seem particularly pleased or displeased about it. “You heard correctly.”
“I’m assuming this is news to you, but the party wants me to run as well.”
All the blood is drained from Draco’s face.
“What?” he booms, standing up. “Since when?”
“Since today.”
Draco is one swallow away from bursting into tears, so he turns around and trots to the fake window, stalling. Stalling for what?
“If the party thinks—” he starts.
“I’ll refuse,” Potter cuts him off. “But I’d like a favour.”
Draco waits, but he isn’t sure he’s ready for whatever it is that’s at the end of all the waiting. Does he want more legislative power? More money? He could probably add 20% to their yearly budget, but the public is already so annoyed at how much of the economy goes towards defence that—
“Have dinner with me.”
Draco turns around in one swift move.
“What sort of dinner?”
If this is some ruse to get him to agree to more than 20% of a budget increase, that won’t be happening. He’ll be publicly lynched before they even get his face on posters.
“Just dinner. See you at mine.”
* * *
“So,” Potter starts, sitting down across from him. Between them, a homemade feast. “You do exist outside of the Ministry walls. I was starting to wonder.”
Draco folds the napkin on his knees once, then twice.
“Listen. I’m sorry about my reaction this morning. Of course I think that you should run. You—”
“I’m not running. Actually, I’m doing the opposite.”
The candle flickers between them.
“The opposite?”
“I’m quitting.”
“What?” Draco asks. “Why? Did something happen?”
Potter laughs. “Yes, you could say that.” A pause. A smile. “I’m tired. And also.” He gestures at the space between them. “I can’t work with you anymore.”
Draco swallows past the knot in his throat.
“Harry…”
“It’s fine. I just wanted to be the one to tell you.”
“What will you do?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Potter laughs. “Learn how to do nothing at all, I suppose.”
Draco opens his mouth.
“And of course,” Potter cuts him off, reaching for the bread. “You have my full support for the nomination.”
* * *
The campaign keeps him busy. Busy busy busy. So busy he almost forgets to look for Potter behind every corner, every door; in every newspaper.
Then, one day, he sees him. Crossing the Atrium, hands in pockets like he’s taking a stroll. Draco almost shouts his name; doesn’t. Potter sinks back into the crowd, then disappears. And so it goes.
He dreams of him every night.
* * *
“Did Harry confirm?”
“Yes, Sir. For the fifth time, Harry Potter confirmed his presence.”
“Maybe we should disinvite him.”
His campaign managers roll their eyes, and ignore him. Harry Potter will be present at his nomination with or without his consent, he hears them whispering in the corridors. Over their dead bodies, they laugh, will they let Draco disinvite Harry Potter.
This is fine. There’s still a month to go.
Then, without warning, all the time is swallowed up and the only thing standing between him and Harry is a conference room and a door, and then even that opens.
The cameras turn towards Harry Potter like sunflowers. He smiles and waves a little wave with the casual demeanor of somebody who ended a war at seventeen, then sits down in the front row.
Draco fidgets in his seat. His deputy has started speaking—some speech about Draco—but Harry finally looks at him, and his smile muffles the sounds and brightens the colours, and something that has never been clear before presents itself as perfectly clear.
The day they met; his smile. The day he almost died; his hands, limp. The day he testified on Draco’s behalf, and shook his marked arm. A lifetime to figure it out, forty long years.
Draco stands.
“Mister Malfoy—”
Draco walks off the stage, pulls Harry into a kiss just as the cameras flash.
Harry Potter’s influence sways the votes: ex Death Eater elected Minister; Harry Potter propels Draco Malfoy into the Ministerial office—is it love or manipulation?; Harry Potter steals the election for his newest conquest.
It takes years for the rumours to die. But eventually, they do.