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The wind howled outside the Ministry windows, matching Harry's mood as he stared blankly at the file on his desk. Ten years after the war, and he was still chasing shadows. The latest reports of Dark Magic in Norfolk had led his team on a wild goose chase through abandoned manors and forgotten cellars, turning up nothing but dust and painful memories.
Harry rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses, the familiar ache of exhaustion settling between his shoulders. At thirty-five, he was the youngest Head Auror in Ministry history, a title that brought more paperwork than glory.
A knock on his door made him look up.
"Enter," he called, expecting Ron or perhaps Singh with the forensics report.
Instead, Draco Malfoy walked in, immaculate in tailored charcoal robes that probably cost more than Harry's monthly salary. The years had been kind to Malfoy—his angular features had softened just enough, the pointed chin and sharp cheekbones now giving him a distinguished rather than pinched appearance. His white-blond hair was shorter than he'd worn it at Hogwarts, styled neatly away from his face.
"Potter," Draco greeted with a small nod. "Do you have a moment?"
Harry gestured to the chair opposite his desk, eyeing Malfoy with barely concealed suspicion. Their professional relationship had been cordial but distant since Draco had joined the Department of Mysteries five years ago. They passed each other in hallways, exchanged polite nods at Ministry functions, but rarely spoke directly.
"What can I help you with?" Harry asked, closing the file in front of him.
"I've been reviewing the energy signatures from your Norfolk investigation," Draco said, placing a slim leather folio on Harry's desk. "You're looking in the wrong places."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
"The Dark Magic residue you're tracking isn't coming from abandoned properties," he continued, opening the folio to reveal a series of complex magical diagrams. "It's emanating from something much older. Pre-Roman, by my calculations."
Despite himself, Harry leaned forward to examine the diagrams. Draco’s work was meticulous—it always had been, even back at Hogwarts.
"You're suggesting what, exactly? That we start digging up ancient burial grounds?"
The corner of Draco’s mouth twitched. "Not quite that dramatic, Potter. There's an old stone circle about five miles from where your team has been searching. It's been hidden from Muggles for centuries, but any decent wizard should be able to locate it."
"And you're just sharing this information out of the goodness of your heart?" Harry couldn't keep the skepticism from his voice.
Something flickered in Draco’s gray eyes—hurt, perhaps, though he covered it quickly.
"The Department of Mysteries has an interest in preventing misuse of ancient magical sites," he said stiffly. "Particularly those with connections to death magic."
Harry felt a familiar prickle at the base of his neck—the sensation that had saved his life more than once in the field.
"Death magic? Are we talking necromancy?"
Draco hesitated. "Possibly. The energy signatures are... unusual."
Their eyes met across the desk, and Harry was struck by how weary Draco looked beneath his polished exterior. There were fine lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn't been there the last time Harry had really looked at him.
"I'd like to accompany you," Draco said after a moment, his gaze awkwardly falling down to his hands. "This falls under my department's jurisdiction as much as yours."
Harry should say no. Bringing an Unspeakable—bringing Malfoy—into the field with his Aurors was asking for complications. And yet...
"Tomorrow morning, six o'clock," Harry found himself saying. "Meet me in the Atrium. Dress for the weather—it's miserable out there."
Draco nodded, rising to his feet. "Until tomorrow, then."
As he turned to leave, Harry called after him: "Malfoy."
The blonde paused, looking back.
"Why come directly to me with this? You could have gone through official channels."
Draco’s expression was unreadable. "Some matters are too important for bureaucracy, Potter. I thought you of all people would understand that."
The door closed softly behind him, leaving Harry staring at the space Draco had occupied, wondering why his heart was beating slightly faster than normal.
The stone circle stood silent against the gray dawn sky, twelve megalithic sentinels arranged in a perfect circle on the windswept hillside. Harry felt the magic as soon as they apparated into the clearing—an ancient, pulsing energy that made the hairs on his arms stand on end.
"Do you feel that?" Draco asked quietly beside him.
Harry nodded, drawing his wand. "It's... hungry."
"Death magic often is." Draco moved forward cautiously, his own wand held loosely at his side. "It consumes to create. That's what makes it so dangerous."
They approached the circle together, shoulders nearly touching. Harry was acutely aware of Draco’s presence—the subtle scent of his cologne, the measured rhythm of his breathing. It was strange working so closely with someone who had once been his nemesis.
The rest of Harry's team was scheduled to arrive within the hour, but he'd suggested he and Draco do preliminary reconnaissance. Standard protocol would have required at least four Aurors for an investigation like this, but Harry had never been one for protocol.
"There," Draco whispered, pointing to the center of the circle.
A small object gleamed in the early morning light—a silver pendant lying on a flat stone that served as a natural altar. As they drew closer, Harry could make out the design: a serpent devouring its own tail.
"Ouroboros," Draco murmured. "Symbol of eternity and rebirth."
"And excellent bait for a trap," Harry replied, casting a detection charm over the pendant. The air around it shimmered with malevolent energy. "Don't touch it. It's saturated with dark magic."
Draco shot him an irritated look. "I'm not a first-year, Potter."
"Force of habit," Harry said with a small shrug. "I've seen too many experienced wizards make rookie mistakes."
He began casting a containment field around the pendant, layers of protective spells forming a golden dome over the stone altar. Beside him, Draco was weaving his own complex pattern of silvery detection spells, his face a mask of concentration.
Harry had forgotten what it was like to work with someone who matched him magically. Ron was a brilliant strategist, and Hermione's knowledge was unparalleled, but there was something different about Draco’s magic—something that resonated with Harry's own in a way that was both disturbing and exhilarating.
"The signature is similar to what we found at Norfolk," Draco said, "but much stronger. This is definitely the source."
Harry nodded. "Question is, who put it here and why?"
"I have theories." Malfoy lowered his wand, turning to face Harry. "None of them pleasant."
A sudden gust of wind swept through the circle, carrying with it a whisper that seemed to bypass their ears and speak directly to their minds.
Enemies bound by fate...
Harry stiffened, raising his wand defensively. "Did you hear that?"
Draco’s face had gone pale. "Yes."
Only together can you break the cycle...
The pendant began to glow, a pulsing crimson light that seemed to beat like a heart. The containment field Harry had cast flickered ominously.
"Potter, we need to—"
Before Draco could finish, the pendant exploded in a blinding flash of light. Harry lunged instinctively, tackling Malfoy to the ground as a wave of magical energy burst outward from the center of the circle.
For a moment, there was only chaos—wind and light and the deafening roar of ancient magic unleashed. Harry closed his eyes against the brightness, aware of Draco’s body beneath his, both of them trembling with the force of the magical backlash.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.
Harry opened his eyes to find himself staring directly into Draco’s face, mere inches away. The blond's pupils were dilated, his breathing shallow.
"Are you hurt?" Harry asked, his voice rough.
Draco shook his head slightly. "No. You?"
"I'm fine."
Neither of them moved. Harry knew he should get up, should check the pendant, should call for backup—but he remained frozen, captivated by something in Draco’s expression he'd never seen before. Vulnerability? Fear? Or something else entirely?
"Potter," Draco said quietly, "you're crushing me."
Reality rushed back. Harry scrambled to his feet, extending a hand to help Draco up. After a brief hesitation, the blond accepted, his fingers cool against Harry's palm.
"The pendant's gone," Harry observed as they turned toward the altar.
Where the silver ouroboros had been, there was now only a scorch mark on the stone. The malevolent energy that had permeated the circle had dissipated, leaving behind a strange emptiness.
"Not gone," Draco said grimly. "Activated."
Harry felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. "What do you mean?"
Draco opened his mouth to respond, then suddenly doubled over with a gasp of pain, clutching his left forearm—where the Dark Mark had once branded his skin.
"Malfoy!" Harry reached for him instinctively.
The moment his fingers touched Draco’s arm, pain lanced through Harry's forehead—not from his scar, but everywhere, a blinding agony that brought him to his knees. Beside him, Draco had collapsed as well, both of them caught in the grip of whatever magic had been unleashed.
Through the haze of pain, Harry felt something else—a connection, a thread of consciousness that wasn't his own. Emotions flooded through him: fear, confusion, resignation, and beneath it all, a longing so profound it took his breath away.
Draco’s emotions.
The realization came as the pain began to subside, leaving both men gasping on the cold ground.
"What," Draco managed between breaths, "the fuck was that?"
Harry sat up slowly, his head still spinning. "I think... I think we're linked somehow."
Draco stared at him, horror dawning on his face. "No. That's not possible."
"I felt what you were feeling," Harry said. "You were afraid, but also..." He hesitated, uncertain how to describe the complex tangle of emotions he'd sensed.
"Don't," Draco warned, his voice low. "Don't pretend you understand anything about me, Potter."
He stood shakily, brushing dirt from his robes with trembling hands. Harry rose as well, noting with concern how pale Draco had become.
"We need to report this," Harry said, trying to sound calmer than he felt. "If that pendant was some kind of binding artifact—"
"No." Draco’s voice was sharp. "No reports, no official documentation. Not until we understand what we're dealing with."
Harry frowned. "That's against protocol."
"And you've always been such a stickler for rules, haven't you?" Draco’s laugh was bitter. "Think, Potter. If the Ministry learns we've been magically bound, they'll quarantine us for study. We'll be lab rats for the Department of Mysteries—my department, in case you've forgotten."
He had a point. Magical bindings were rare and poorly understood. The bureaucracy alone would keep them tied up for months, possibly years.
"Fine," Harry conceded. "But we need to figure this out. Fast."
Draco nodded, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "I have resources. Books, contacts."
"My place," Harry said decisively. "Tonight. Seven o'clock." He scribbled his address on a scrap of parchment and handed it to Malfoy. "It's under Fidelius, so memorize it and destroy this."
Draco took the parchment, his fingers brushing Harry's momentarily. A spark of something—not pain this time, but awareness—passed between them.
Their eyes met, and Harry knew Draco had felt it too.
"Seven o'clock," Draco repeated, his voice carefully neutral. "Don't expect me to be late."
Harry's home was nothing like Draco had imagined.
Located in a quiet corner of Hampstead, the modest brick townhouse was nestled between similarly unassuming buildings, its magic so subtly woven into the structure that even knowing it was there, Draco had nearly walked past it twice.
Inside, it was neither the shrine to Gryffindor nor the bachelor disaster he had anticipated. The furniture was simple but well-crafted, the walls lined with bookshelves and framed photographs. It was, Draco had to admit, rather tasteful—comfortable without being shabby, lived-in without being cluttered.
"Tea?" Harry offered, leading him into a small study where research materials were already spread across a wooden desk.
"Something stronger, if you have it," Draco replied, removing his cloak and draping it over the back of a chair.
Harry nodded, retrieving a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky and two tumblers from a cabinet. He poured generous measures for both of them, then settled into the chair behind the desk.
"I've spent the day researching binding spells," he said, pushing a stack of notes toward Draco. "Nothing matches exactly what happened to us."
Draco took a sip of whisky, savoring the burn. "That's because it's not a standard binding spell. It's older, more primal." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, leather-bound book, its pages yellowed with age. "This is from my family's private collection. It discusses ancient rituals involving enemy magic."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Enemy magic?"
"Magic that draws power from opposition," Draco explained. "From conflict and resolution, hatred and..." He hesitated. "It’s opposite."
"Love?" Harry supplied.
Draco’s expression tightened. "I was going to say reconciliation."
Harry's mouth quirked in what might have been amusement. "Of course you were."
They worked in surprisingly companionable silence for the next few hours, poring over texts and comparing notes. Occasionally their hands would brush as they reached for the same book, and each time, that strange awareness would ripple between them—not quite emotion, not quite thought, but a heightened sense of each other's presence.
"Here," Draco said finally, pointing to a passage in the ancient text. "The Vinculum Hostibus ritual. 'To bind enemies in understanding, that they might know peace.'"
Harry leaned closer to read over his shoulder, and Draco fought the urge to pull away. Harry smelled like soap and cinnamon and something uniquely himself, a scent that stirred memories Draco had spent years trying to suppress.
"It says the ritual was used by warring magical tribes," Harry read aloud. "To force their leaders to experience each other's emotions and thoughts, in hopes they would find common ground."
"And it was often fatal," Draco added grimly. "If the enemies couldn't reconcile, the binding would drive them mad. They'd begin to lose the boundaries between themselves and the other person."
Harry sat back, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "Fantastic. So, we either become best friends or we go insane and die."
"That's oversimplifying it," Draco said, though he couldn't entirely disagree with Harry's assessment. "The ritual is about understanding, not friendship. It's about seeing your enemy as human."
"I already see you as human, Malfoy."
The words were simple, but they hit Draco with unexpected force. He looked up to find Harry watching him intently, those impossibly green eyes serious behind his glasses.
"Do you?" Draco asked quietly. "Or do you see the boy who made all the wrong choices? The Death Eater's son?"
Harry held his gaze. "I see someone who's spent fifteen years trying to atone for mistakes he made when he was sixteen. I see someone who became an Unspeakable because he wanted to understand magic, not just use it. I see someone who came to me about the Norfolk case because he cared about doing the right thing."
Draco looked away, uncomfortable with Harry’s perception. It was too close to how he wanted to be seen—how he desperately hoped he might be seen, someday, when the shadow of his past no longer defined him.
"You don't know me, Potter," he said, the words lacking their usual bite.
"Maybe not," Harry agreed. "But I think I'd like to."
Draco's head snapped up, searching Harry’s face for mockery or pity. He found neither—only a sincerity that was almost painful to witness.
Before he could formulate a response, a wave of dizziness washed over him. The room tilted alarmingly, and he gripped the edge of the desk to steady himself.
"Malfoy?" Harry voice seemed to come from very far away. "What's wrong?"
"I don't—" Draco began, but the words died in his throat as a barrage of images flooded his mind.
A young boy huddled in a cupboard, knees drawn to his chest, listening to laughter and normalcy that excluded him entirely...
A teenager standing before a mirror, staring at the Dark Mark on his arm with a mixture of pride and terror...
Harry facing Voldemort in the forest, resigned to his death...
Himself, weeping in a bathroom as his world collapsed around him...
Memories—his and Harry’s, intertwined and overlapping until he couldn't tell which belonged to whom. Emotions followed: grief, loneliness, determination, regret, all of it washing through him in an overwhelming tide.
When the deluge finally subsided, Draco found himself on the floor, Harry kneeling beside him with one hand on his shoulder and naked concern in his eyes.
"It's getting worse," Draco said hoarsely.
Harry nodded, his face grim. "I saw your memories. You saw mine."
"Not all of them, surely."
"Enough." Harry helped him to his feet and guided him to a small sofa against the wall. "The binding is strengthening. We need to find a way to break it before..."
"Before we lose ourselves completely," Draco finished.
They sat side by side in silence, both contemplating the implications. Draco felt oddly calm, considering the circumstances. Perhaps it was the whisky, or perhaps it was the lingering effect of Harry’s memories—the knowledge that the Boy Who Lived had suffered his own private hells, different from Draco's but no less painful.
"There must be a counter-ritual," Harry said finally. "Something to undo the binding."
Draco shook his head. "The text implies the only release is through resolution. We have to resolve whatever conflict the ritual identified between us."
"But that's absurd! The war ended a decade ago. We've both moved on."
"Have we?" Draco asked quietly. "Really?"
Harry stared at him, lips parted slightly as if on the verge of denial. Then his shoulders slumped.
"I don't know," he admitted. "Sometimes I think I have. And then I'll see something—a flash of blonde hair in a crowd, a Slytherin tie, even just a bloody peacock—and I'm thirteen again, wondering what you're plotting."
Despite everything, Draco felt a smile tugging at his lips. "Peacocks, Potter? Really?"
Harry shrugged, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. "They remind me of your family's manor."
"Fair enough. Glasses still make me think of you. Terrible fashion choices, too."
"Hey!" Harry protested, gesturing at his perfectly acceptable charcoal sweater and jeans. "I've improved."
"Marginally," Draco conceded, allowing himself a small smirk. "Someone finally introduced you to clothes that fit, at least."
Their eyes met, and to Draco's surprise, they both laughed—a brief, startled sound that nevertheless eased some of the tension between them.
"We should try to get some rest," Potter said after a moment. "My guest room is made up. We can continue this in the morning."
Draco nodded, suddenly aware of how exhausted he was. "Thank you."
As he stood to follow Harry upstairs, another wave of dizziness hit him—milder this time, but accompanied by a strange pulling sensation, as if his very being was straining toward Harry. From Harry’s sharp intake of breath, he felt it too.
"The binding," Draco murmured. "It doesn't want us to separate."
Harry frowned. "That complicates things."
"Indeed," Draco agreed dryly. "Particularly sleeping arrangements."
In the end, they compromised. Harry transfigured his sofa into a comfortable bed and set it up in his bedroom, allowing them to maintain a respectful distance while remaining in the same room. It was awkward, but less awkward than the alternatives.
As Draco lay in the darkness, listening to Harry’s steady breathing from the bed across the room, he tried to sort through the jumble of emotions the day had left him with. Fear, certainly—fear of losing himself to this strange magic. Confusion about how to resolve a conflict that had roots stretching back to their first meeting as children.
And beneath it all, something he'd been denying for years: a persistent fascination with Harry Potter that had never truly faded, even when they'd stood on opposite sides of a war.
You're the last person I should fall for, he thought bitterly. And yet...
He closed his eyes, willing sleep to come before he could complete that dangerous thought.
Harry woke to sunlight streaming through his bedroom windows and the disorienting awareness of another presence in his mind. Draco’s dreams had been restless, full of shadows and whispered judgments, and Harry had found himself drawn into them more than once during the night.
He turned his head to find the transfigured bed empty, the blankets neatly folded. For a moment, panic seized him—had Draco left? But then he caught the scent of coffee and heard movement from downstairs.
Relief flooded through him, followed by confusion at the intensity of his reaction. He shouldn't care this much about Malfoy’s whereabouts. And yet, the thought of facing this strange magical binding alone sent a cold spike of fear through him.
Harry dressed quickly and made his way downstairs to find Draco in his kitchen, wearing the same clothes as yesterday but with the sleeves rolled up and the top button undone—a surprising concession to informality from the perpetually polished Unspeakable.
"I hope you don't mind," he said, gesturing to the coffee pot. "I needed caffeine."
"No, it's fine," Harry replied, accepting the mug Draco offered him. Their fingers brushed, and that now-familiar awareness sparked between them—less jarring than before, almost comforting in its familiarity. "Did you sleep at all?"
Draco shrugged one elegant shoulder. "Enough. I've been thinking about our situation."
"And?"
"And I believe what we experienced yesterday—the memory sharing—might be the key. The ritual is forcing us to see each other's perspectives. If we lean into that rather than fighting it..."
"You want us to deliberately share memories?" Harry asked, skeptical.
"I want us to understand each other," Draco corrected. "The text said the binding would drive those who resist it mad. I'd rather not test that theory."
Harry studied him over the rim of his coffee mug. Draco looked exhausted, shadows beneath his eyes betraying his claim of sufficient rest, but there was a determination in his posture that Harry recognized. Draco had always been stubborn, even as a child.
"Alright," Harry agreed finally. "But not here. If this goes wrong, I'd rather not destroy my house."
They decided on the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts—neutral ground with built-in magical protections. McGonagall was surprisingly accommodating when Harry fire-called to request access, though her sharp eyes had noted Draco standing just out of view with evident interest.
"The castle has stood for a thousand years, Mr. Potter," she said dryly. "I trust you and Mr. Malfoy can visit without reducing it to rubble."
Four hours later, they stood in the familiar seventh-floor corridor, facing the blank wall where the Room's entrance would appear.
"What exactly should we ask for?" Draco questioned, eyeing the wall dubiously.
Harry considered. "A safe place to explore memories. Somewhere the binding magic can't hurt us or anyone else."
He paced before the wall three times, focusing on their need. A simple wooden door materialized, plain and unadorned.
"After you," Harry said, gesturing for Draco to enter first.
The Room had configured itself as a small, circular chamber with a stone floor and walls draped in midnight blue fabric. In the center stood a shallow stone basin—not quite a Pensieve, but similar—filled with clear water that glowed with a soft, silvery-blue light. Cushions were arranged on either side of the basin, inviting them to sit.
"Of course Hogwarts would know exactly what we need," Harry murmured, approaching the basin cautiously.
"It's a memory pool," Draco explained, kneeling beside it. "More direct than a Pensieve. Instead of viewing memories from the outside, we'll experience them as they were lived."
Harry took a seat on the cushion opposite Draco, their knees nearly touching across the basin. "That sounds... intense."
"It will be," Draco agreed. "We'll need to be careful which memories we choose to share."
They agreed to start small—brief moments rather than extended experiences, building gradually toward more significant memories. Harry went first, selecting a relatively neutral memory of his first trip to Diagon Alley.
As his fingertips touched the water's surface, the memory flowed from him like a silver thread, spreading ripples across the pool. Draco leaned forward, his face reflected in the shimmering water, and then he was gone—drawn into Harry's eleven-year-old perspective.
Harry waited, watching Draco’s expressionless face, knowing he was experiencing Hagrid's kindness, the wonder of Ollivander's shop, the first stirrings of hope that there might be a place where Harry belonged.
When Draco emerged from the memory, there was something softer in his eyes. "You'd never seen magic before that day," he said quietly. "Not consciously, at least."
Harry shook his head. "The Dursleys..." He hesitated. "They weren't fond of anything 'abnormal'."
Draco nodded slowly, as if pieces of a puzzle were falling into place. "My turn, I suppose."
His memory shimmered into the pool: a seven-year-old Draco receiving his first training broom, his father's rare smile of approval, his mother's worried admonitions to be careful. It was a happy memory, but tinged with the pressure of expectations that seemed enormous for such a small child.
They continued this way for hours, trading increasingly significant moments. Harry shared his first Quidditch match, the discovery of the Mirror of Erised, finding Sirius. Draco offered memories of complicated family dynamics, the crushing weight of pureblood expectations, his genuine love of potions and magical theory.
With each memory, the strange connection between them seemed to stabilize, becoming less intrusive and more... companionable. Harry could still sense Draco’s emotions, but they no longer threatened to overwhelm his own.
Finally, as evening approached, Draco sat back on his cushion, looking tired but resolved.
"I think it's time for the difficult memories," he said quietly. "The ones we've been avoiding."
Harry knew he was right. They had circled around the war, around their direct confrontations, offering instead the context of their lives but not the conflict itself.
"The astronomy tower?" Harry suggested.
Draco blanched but nodded. "And the bathroom. Sectumsempra."
"And the Manor," Harry added softly. "When I was brought to you for identification."
"Yes," Draco whispered. "That too."
By mutual, unspoken agreement, they joined hands across the memory pool, anchoring each other as they allowed these painful memories to flow into the water simultaneously. The basin's glow intensified, bathing their faces in ethereal light as the memories merged and pulled them under.
What followed was a kaleidoscope of perspective and pain:
Harry watching Dumbledore's calm acceptance of death, seeing fear and desperation in every line of Malfoy's body as he failed to deliver the killing curse...
Draco experiencing the shock and horror of blood blooming across his chest, Harry’s stricken face as he realized what he had done...
Harry feeling Draco's terror at the Manor, the suffocating pressure of Voldemort's presence in his childhood home, the conscious choice to lie—"I can't be sure"—knowing full well who stood before him...
They emerged gasping, tears streaming down Draco's face and Harry's hands trembling violently. The connection between them throbbed with shared pain and, remarkably, understanding.
"You couldn't kill him," Harry said hoarsely. "Even with everything at stake."
"And you didn't mean to nearly kill me," Draco replied, wiping at his cheeks. "You had no idea what that spell would do."
"You knew it was me at the Manor."
"Of course I did," Draco said with a small, broken laugh. "I'd been watching you for years, Potter. I'd know you anywhere."
Something in his tone made Harry look up sharply. There was resignation in Draco's eyes, as if he'd revealed more than he intended.
"What do you mean, watching me?" Harry asked carefully.
Draco looked away. "Nothing. It doesn't matter now."
"I think it does," Harry insisted, reaching out to turn Draco's face back toward him. "I think it matters very much."
Their eyes met, and Harry felt a surge of emotion through their connection—not his own, but Draco's: longing, shame, a desperate need that had been buried for decades.
"Show me," Harry whispered.
Draco closed his eyes briefly, then nodded. His hand trembled as he touched the water's surface, releasing not one memory but dozens—fragments and moments Harry had never noticed:
Draco watching him from across the Great Hall, envy and fascination warring in his expression...
Draco flying higher during Quidditch practice, hoping to glimpse Harry's training session on the other side of the pitch...
Draco practicing his sneer in the mirror of the Slytherin bathroom, rehearsing cutting remarks that might force Potter to look at him, really look at him...
Draco recognizing the feeling in his chest for what it was in sixth year, hating himself for it, certain it made him even more of a failure...
Draco following Harry's career in the Prophet, carefully clipping articles, telling himself it was only to monitor potential threats to his own position at the Ministry...
And finally, Draco standing outside Harry's office door just days ago, gathering courage to approach him about the Norfolk case, knowing it was an excuse, knowing he'd been inventing reasons to interact with Harry Potter for most of his life.
Harry emerged from these memories stunned, his perception of their shared history fundamentally altered. Across from him, Draco had drawn into himself, shoulders hunched defensively, clearly expecting rejection or disgust.
"Say something, Potter," he said finally, voice tight. "If you're going to hex me, get it over with."
"I'm not going to hex you," Harry replied softly. "Draco."
The use of his first name made Draco look up, surprise evident in his gray eyes.
"I never knew," Harry continued. "I never even suspected."
"That was rather the point," Draco said with a weak attempt at his usual drawl. "Self-preservation is a Slytherin specialty."
Harry shook his head, reaching for Draco's hand across the memory pool. "My turn now."
Before Draco could object, Harry released his own memories into the water—different from Draco's, yet with an underlying current of the same inexplicable fascination:
Harry tracking Draco on the Marauder's Map during sixth year, telling himself it was suspicion but unable to explain the strange disappointment when the dot labeled "Draco Malfoy" disappeared from view...
Harry seeing Draco across the courtyard after the war, noting how thin he'd become, wanting to say something but not knowing where to begin...
Harry following Draco's trial in the Prophet, relief flooding through him at the acquittal...
Harry noticing Draco at Ministry functions over the years, the way he stood apart from others, the quiet dignity with which he endured cold shoulders and whispers...
Harry requesting Draco's files from Unspeakable missions, telling himself it was professional interest while reading them late into the night...
And most recently, Harry's reaction to Draco in his office doorway—the quickening of his pulse, the rush of awareness he'd attributed to old rivalry but now recognized as something else entirely.
When Draco emerged from these memories, his expression was one of wonder and disbelief.
"You..." he began, then stopped, seemingly at a loss for words.
"I didn't understand it either," Harry admitted. "Not until now."
Their joined hands were glowing faintly—not from the memory pool, but from within, the binding magic responding to their newfound clarity.
"The ritual," Draco said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It wasn't random. It chose us because..."
"Because there was something unresolved between us," Harry finished. "Something we'd both been avoiding for years."
The glow from their joined hands intensified, spreading up their arms in delicate tendrils of light. It wasn't painful—quite the opposite. Warmth suffused Harry's body, a sense of rightness that he hadn't experienced since... well, perhaps ever.
"What happens now?" Draco asked, vulnerability evident in his expression.
Harry hesitated only briefly before moving around the memory pool, closing the distance between them. He knelt on the cushion beside Draco, their shoulders touching.
"I think," Harry said carefully, "that depends on what we want to happen."
Their eyes met, and for once, neither looked away. In Draco's gaze, Harry saw a lifetime of guarded longing, of chances not taken, of regrets carefully catalogued and revisited on lonely nights.
"What do you want, Draco?" Harry asked softly.
Draco swallowed, his composure finally cracking. "You're the last person I should fall for," he whispered, the words seeming to be torn from him. "And the only one I want."
The raw honesty in his voice made Harry's breath catch. Without thinking, he reached up to brush a strand of white-blond hair from Draco's forehead—a simple touch that made both of them shiver as the connection between them surged.
"For someone so clever," Harry murmured, "you can be remarkably dense sometimes."
Before Draco could form an indignant response, Harry leaned forward and kissed him.
The moment their lips met, the world around them seemed to recede. The binding magic flared brilliantly, then settled into a gentle hum of connection that twined around their consciousness. Harry could feel Draco's shock giving way to desperate hunger, could sense the exact moment when disbelief transformed into joy.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, the magical glow had faded, leaving behind a subtler connection—present but no longer overwhelming.
"The binding," Draco observed, his lips still tantalizingly close to Harry's. "It's changed."
Harry nodded, trying to focus despite the distraction of Draco's proximity. "Not broken," he said, "but... stabilized."
"Because we stopped fighting it," Draco suggested. "Because we finally acknowledged what was between us."
"I think," Harry said slowly, "we'll need to do a lot more... acknowledgment... to fully understand it."
Draco's lips quirked in a smile that was both sardonic and genuinely amused. "That was terrible, Potter."
"Harry," he corrected. "If we're going to snog regularly, you should probably use my first name."
"Harry," Draco repeated, as if testing the feel of it on his tongue. "And what makes you think we'll be snogging regularly?"
Harry grinned, feeling lighter than he had in years. "Just a hunch."
They left Hogwarts as the sun was setting, the castle's windows blazing with golden light behind them. The binding magic had indeed stabilized, transforming from an intrusive force into something more like a background awareness—a constant but comfortable reminder of each other's presence.
"We should probably tell someone what happened," Harry said as they walked to the apparition point. "Professionally speaking."
Draco raised an eyebrow. "You want to file an official report stating that we triggered an ancient binding ritual and resolved it by snogging in the Room of Requirement?"
When he put it that way... "Maybe not the full details," Harry conceded.
"I suggest we document the artifact and the nature of the ritual for the archives," Draco said thoughtfully. "But perhaps we can be vague about the exact method of resolution."
Harry laughed, the sound echoing across the grounds. "Diplomatic as ever."
They reached the gates in companionable silence, both acutely aware that they were about to leave the sanctuary of Hogwarts and return to their separate lives—or at least, what had once been separate lives.
"Come home with me," Harry said suddenly.
Draco looked startled. "What, now?"
"Yes, now," Harry replied, reaching for Draco's hand. "We have fifteen years of lost time to make up for. I don't want to waste another day."
"That's very Gryffindor of you," Draco observed, but he didn't pull his hand away. "Rushing in without a plan."
"Do you have a better suggestion?"
Draco appeared to consider this seriously. "I suppose we should monitor the binding magic," he said finally. "For research purposes. That would require proximity."
Harry bit back a smile. "For research. Of course."
"And there might be residual effects we need to document."
"Absolutely."
"It would be irresponsible not to thoroughly investigate—"
Harry cut him off with another kiss, briefer than their first but no less potent. When they parted, Draco looked slightly dazed, his usual composure beautifully disheveled.
"You're impossible, Potter," he murmured.
"Harry," he corrected again.
"Harry," Draco agreed, and this time when he said it, there was no hesitation—only possibility, stretching out before them like the path that led from Hogwarts to the rest of their lives.
Three Months Later
Harry woke to the sound of rain against the bedroom window and the warm weight of Draco's arm draped across his chest. Dawn was just breaking, the gray London sky visible through a gap in the curtains.
Beside him, Draco slept peacefully, his features softer in sleep than they ever were awake. After three months together, Harry still found himself marveling at this—at the privilege of seeing Draco Malfoy unguarded, at the trust implied by his steady breathing and relaxed posture.
The binding magic had indeed stabilized, evolving into something subtler and more natural than its initial chaotic form. They could now be separated for days without discomfort, though neither seemed inclined to test that limit unnecessarily. The shared emotions had faded to occasional moments of heightened awareness, usually during times of stress or particular intimacy.
What remained was a connection that felt less like magic and more like the natural evolution of whatever had always existed between them—something that had once manifested as antagonism and now found healthier expression.
"You're thinking too loudly," Draco mumbled, his eyes still closed.
Harry smiled, pressing a kiss to Draco's forehead. "Sorry. Go back to sleep."
Instead, Draco stretched languidly and opened his eyes, fixing Harry with a sleepy but perceptive gaze. "Nightmare?"
"No," Harry assured him. "Just... appreciating the moment."
Draco's expression softened further. "Sentimental Gryffindor."
"Guilty as charged."
They lay together in comfortable silence, listening to the rain. Harry's fingers traced idle patterns on Draco's back—circles, spirals, and occasionally, when he thought Draco wasn't paying attention, the shape of a heart.
"The Norfolk case is officially closed," Draco said after a while. "Robards signed off on the final report yesterday."
Harry nodded. The pendant had been classified as an ancient artifact of unknown origin, its activation deemed accidental. Their subsequent "research" into binding magic had been documented in appropriately vague terms, earning commendations from both their departments for interdepartmental cooperation.
If anyone at the Ministry found it strange that the Head Auror and a senior Unspeakable had suddenly become inseparable, they kept their observations to themselves. Hermione had figured it out within days, of course. Ron had taken slightly longer, but his eventual reaction—a shrug and "Better you than me, mate, but if he makes you happy..."—had been more supportive than Harry had dared hope for.
"We never did find out who placed the pendant there," Harry mused.
Draco shifted, resting his chin on Harry's chest to look at him properly. "Does it matter? The magic chose us specifically. Anyone else who touched it would likely have experienced nothing at all."
"I suppose you're right," Harry conceded. "Still, it's the only case I've never completely solved."
"Perhaps some mysteries are better left unsolved," Draco suggested. "If it hadn't been for that pendant..."
He didn't need to finish the thought. Both of them knew they might have continued their careful dance of distance and longing for years, perhaps forever, without the intervention of ancient magic.
"I've been thinking," Harry said carefully, "about taking some time away from the Ministry."
Draco raised an eyebrow. "A vacation?"
"Something like that. I've been Head Auror for seven years now. Maybe it's time for something new."
"Like what?" Draco asked, curiosity evident in his tone.
Harry shrugged. "Not sure yet. Teaching, maybe. Or private consulting. Something with fewer life-or-death stakes and more regular hours."
"Hmm," Draco hummed noncommittally, but Harry felt the slight surge of hope through their connection. Draco worried about him in the field—not that he'd ever admitted it directly.
"Would that bother you?" Harry asked. "If I wasn't an Auror anymore?"
Draco looked genuinely surprised by the question. "Why would it?"
"I don't know," Harry admitted. "It's been part of my identity for so long. I wasn't sure how you'd feel about me changing."
Draco sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist as he fixed Harry with an intense gaze. "Harry Potter," he said firmly, "I fell in love with you when you were an insufferable eleven-year-old classmate with atrocious glasses and a hero complex. I continued to love you when you were the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the Savior of the Wizarding World, and yes, even the Head Auror. Do you really think your job title has anything to do with how I feel about you?"
Harry blinked, momentarily stunned by the casual confession hidden within Draco's admonishment. "You love me?"
Draco rolled his eyes, though a faint blush colored his cheeks. "Obviously, you idiot. Was that really the part you focused on?"
"It's the most important part," Harry said, pulling Draco back down beside him. "And for the record, I love you too. Have done for longer than I realized."
Draco's expression softened, the vulnerability he rarely showed anyone else visible in his eyes. "Well," he said, his voice slightly unsteady, "that's fortunate, considering we're magically bound for life."
"Is that what we are?" Harry asked, suddenly serious. "Bound by magic?"
Draco considered this, his fingers tracing the line of Harry's jaw. "I think," he said finally, "that the magic only revealed what was already there. The binding might fade entirely someday, but I don't think this—" he gestured between them, "—ever will."
Harry caught Draco's hand and pressed a kiss to his palm. "You're the last person I should have fallen for," he whispered, echoing Draco's words from months ago. "And the only one I've ever really wanted."
Draco's smile—genuine and unguarded—was like sunrise breaking through clouds. "Who would have thought?" he mused. "Potter and Malfoy, domestically content."
"The scandal of it all," Harry agreed solemnly, before breaking into a grin. "Think of the headlines."
"Let them talk," Draco said with a dismissive wave. "We've earned this."
As Draco leaned down to kiss him, Harry reflected that he was right. They had earned this—not just through the ritual or their professional collaboration, but through years of growth and change, through hard-won maturity and the courage to finally see each other clearly.
The rain continued to fall outside, wrapping their world in a comforting cocoon of sound. Within that sanctuary, two people who had once been enemies held each other close.
And neither would have it any other way.