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“I am not working with Draco Malfoy.”

Harry stood up halfway through the sentence and then immediately sat back down, which rather weakened the effect, but the point remained, because sometimes repeating things like a stubborn toddler helped, apparently. “Absolutely not. I’m putting my foot down. Consider it down.”

Across the desk, Kingsley just blinked at him. “Yes, Harry. Draco Malfoy. Despite your…” he waved a calm, neutral hand, “past with him, he’s the only one qualified to help on this.”

Harry stared. He had no idea if his jaw was actually open or just felt like it was open. “You can’t be serious.”

Kingsley gave him a long look. “I’m very serious.”

And honestly, Harry kept wanting to say no before the words even fully formed in his head. He wanted to say no because Ron was his partner, his proper partner! The one who’d been there with him through everything. His mate, his best friend. Ron, not Malfoy. Not Draco.

Harry groaned and dragged his hands down his face. “What even is the case?”

Kingsley didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for a file thicker than Harry liked, and slid it across the desk. Reluctantly, Harry opened it. Inside, muggle couple, handwritten letter, amateur phone footage. Flickering hallway lights. A four-year-old mid-tantrum, eyes glowing faintly.

Harry winced. “That’s not possession, is it?”

“No. Accidental magic. Strong and untrained.”

“Well then why not call in the Muggle Relations Unit?”

Kingsley folded his hands. “Because the family didn’t go through official channels. They reached out through less conventional means.”

“Which means?”

“A Squib aunt with a cousin in Magical Welfare. They’re afraid.”

Harry read on. Notes in the margins, behavior logs, some scattered reports of recent incidents in the area. “We’ve got people for this,” Harry said, though less convinced now.

Kingsley’s voice didn’t change. “Yes. But we don’t have many who can work both sides of it. Muggle understanding and magical instability.”

“You mean me.”

“And Malfoy.”

Harry, who seemed to forget the whole issue, groaned again, louder this time. “Why him?”

“Because in case you’ve not been reading your interdepartmental memos, and let’s be honest, you haven’t. Malfoy’s been working with Magical Child Welfare for the last two years. Specifically with underaged, wandless magical outbursts. He’s helped develop half the new protocols. He’s trained.”

“Malfoy?”

And now, he’s pretending it’s not completely mental that Draco Malfoy is now being assigned to children.

Children!

And Muggles, too, apparently, which felt almost more impossible. He couldn’t even begin to picture it. But that was what Kingsley said, wasn’t it? That Draco Malfoy, Draco Lucius Malfoy—was good at this now. A specialist.

Harry’s mouth felt dry. It had been, what? Years? Years since he’d seen him last. And even then, it wasn’t really seeing him. A glimpse at an event, maybe. Some charity thing Hermione dragged them all to. A nod across a room.

“Yes. And plus, you’re going to help him just as much as he’s helping you.” Kingsley folded his hands on the desk, eyes fixed on Harry “You’re going to help him… navigate the Muggle world.”

Harry blinked, then blinked again, because he couldn’t be sure he’d heard that right. “Wait, what? I’m going to help him around in the Muggle world?”

Kingsley nodded like it was obvious. “Yes. You’re the one with experience working with Muggle families. He’s the expert on magical child welfare but not so much on the Muggle side. So you’ll support him with that.”

“Okay,” he muttered finally, because what else was there to say? “Fine. I’ll do it. But I’m warning you, I’m not responsible if I lose my mind.”

“Right, it’s not like you had much of a choice anyways. You’ll need to assess the situation on both magical and Muggle sides,” Kingsley continued. “That means understanding the child’s magic, yes, but also helping the family navigate what is, frankly, a terrifying unknown for them.”

Harry nodded, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t go away. “So, it’s not just magic. It’s the family’s fear, their confusion. We’re supposed to be the bridge?”

“Exactly. And that’s why Malfoy is on this, too. He’s trained extensively in working with magical children and families, particularly those unfamiliar or afraid. And you have the Muggle-world experience he lacks.”

“Right. So I’m babysitting Draco Malfoy while he babysits the kid. Lovely.”

Kingsley allowed himself the barest hint of a smile. “Something like that. But more importantly, you’re both professionals. You’ll manage.”

“You’re late.”

It came out sharper than intended, but Harry didn’t take it back. Mostly because he didn’t want to. Also because it felt good. A petty, meaningless jab that made absolutely no sense, which was exactly why he said it.

Malfoy blinked at him in surprise. “I’m not,” he said, frowning. “It’s exactly nine.”

Harry looked at the clock behind him. Nine on the dot. “Still late,” he muttered.

Malfoy gave him a confused look. Mildly insulted. Then he just arched a single eyebrow and turned his attention to Kingsley, who was already approaching them with a paper. “Gentlemen,” Kingsley said smoothly. “This should take you an hour.”

Harry stared at him. “An hour?”

“Yes,” Kingsley said.

“An hour,” Harry repeated, because clearly one of them didn’t understand time. “That’s optimistic.”

Kingsley’s face didn’t move. “It’s a straightforward magical instability assessment.”

“With him?” Harry said, jerking a thumb in Malfoy’s direction without looking at him. “It’ll take five weeks.”

Kingsley cleared his throat loudly. “You will go to the address listed. Meet with the parents, assess the child’s magical output, report back. The Muggle liaison has already made contact and briefed the family. It should be simple.”

Harry didn’t move. “Okay,” he said, “but let’s say it’s not simple. Let’s say there’s a delay. What if we need to stay longer than an hour? Shouldn’t there be a safehouse?”

Kingsley blinked at him. “No.”

“No?” Harry echoed. “You’re sending me into Muggle suburbia with Malfoy and you’re not giving us a fallback location?”

“There’s a café across the street,” Kingsley said dryly. “It serves coffee. You’ll survive.”

“That’s a bold assumption,” Harry muttered.

“I have faith in you,” Kingsley said, and then, very pointedly, “Both of you.”

Harry glanced sideways. Malfoy was already looking at the folder. This was going to be a disaster. Or worse, not a disaster. Just annoying. Harry exhaled. “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

“Looking forward to it, Potter.”

They started walking.

Side by side, which was the problem, really. That they were walking next to each other. With no screaming, no insults, just silence. Harry cleared his throat, Malfoy said nothing. Just kept walking, hands in the pockets of his coat, gaze drifting over everything like the concept of everything looks weird.

Harry pulled the little scrap of parchment with the address out of his jacket. No. 12 Maple Crescent. They were nearly there. He glanced up, then glanced sideways, at Malfoy. He wasn’t even looking ahead. He was staring at— well, everything. Like, properly staring. Mouth slightly parted, brow faintly furrowed.

Harry watched him for another second. He looked at a car with such intense examination that Harry had to fight the urge to say that’s called a bumper, calm down. He really did wonder what he was thinking about.

They’d nearly made it to the front step. Which, apparently, was far enough for Malfoy to spot something truly alarming in a nearby window display and come to an abrupt halt, hand raised like they’d encountered something terrifying. “Potter,” he said, voice sharp. “It’s one of those—the thing my father told me about.”

Harry stopped mid-step and blinked at him. “What?”

Across the street, through the wide glass storefront of a dusty electronics shop, a cluster of enormous screens glowed in lurid color. A bold sign hung above them: “50% OFF — WIDE TELEVISION SALE!” On the screens, a man in a blue suit was mid-sentence, waving dramatically at a weather map, his mouth moving with exaggerated cheer.

Harry stared at the TVs. Then at Malfoy, then back again. “No,” Harry said flatly, already feeling the migraine gather behind his eyes. “No, don’t tell me.”

Malfoy didn’t look at him. Still transfixed. Pale hair glinting slightly. “He said the people in there,” he murmured, almost reverently, “are trapped.”

Harry sighed, he absolutely has no time to waste right now.

“Trapped,” Malfoy repeated, gaze intense.

“Right,” Harry said slowly, drawing the word out like it might help. “Okay. So. Firstly, no. They’re not trapped. It’s a telly.”

“You expect me to believe this is normal? Malfoy glanced at him, eyes narrowed. “That they just exist in there? Perpetually gesturing at charts and talking to no one?”

“It’s a weather forecast, Malfoy.”

“And they do this willingly?”

Harry blinked. Then, with a grimace, “Well. It’s a job.”

Malfoy made a faint sound of disbelief, looking back at the TV as the screen changed to show a man holding a steaming pot of something and smiling blankly. “They seem,” Malfoy said, voice laced with suspicion, “oddly cheerful for people stuck in a box.”

Harry sighed and rubbed his face with both hands. “They’re not, there’s a camera, and it records things, and then other people watch the recordings. It’s just, how do I even begin—” He flapped a hand helplessly. “It’s just television, Malfoy.”

But Malfoy didn’t seem to hear him, he stepped closer to the glass, peering in with something like fascination. “Is there a spell keeping them in?” he asked, almost softly, like he might be hoping for it.

“No, there’s not a spell,” Harry said. “It’s an image. A visual projection of pre-recorded information. It’s not, look, they’re not real. Well, they’re real, but not inside the box. They’re not in the telly. It’s just a screen.”

Malfoy turned to him slowly. “You’re telling me Muggles invented moving portraiture. With sound. On their own. Without wands.”

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “…Yes?” He threw up his hands. “I don’t know! Muggles are clever! They get bored and invent things. It’s either this or war.”

Malfoy was still looking at the TVs.

Harry exhaled, long and slow. “We have to go,” he muttered. “They’re expecting us.”

As they turned toward the house again, Harry found himself glancing at Malfoy’s profile, pale, focused, still visibly unsettled, and sighed internally.

It was going to be a long assignment. But at least now he had confirmation, Draco Malfoy vs. modern appliances was absolutely a thing. He tucked that away, somewhere deep in the back of his brain. For later, maybe for Ron.

They reached the end of the road, passed the house number once by accident, doubled back, and ended up standing in front of a modest brick house with lace curtains. He adjusted his stance, glanced at the address again, number 12 Maple Crescent, and then up at the little brass numbers nailed to the door. Definitely 12. “Well,” he muttered. “This is it.”

Harry raised a hand and knocked twice, then they waited. One second, two…

Nine.

Ten.

“Knock again,” Malfoy said, eyes narrowed.

Harry looked at him. “No. That’s rude.”

Malfoy scoffed. “Maybe they didn’t hear.”

“It’s a door. You wait.”

“I am waiting.”

Harry gave him a look and turned back toward the door, where nothing had happened and continued to happen with great conviction, a second later, the door did open, just not the way Harry hoped. An old man, grey-haired, wiry, erked it open and glared at them. “What.” he barked, before Harry could say a word.

“Hi,” Harry said carefully, trying to do his calm-Muggle voice, “we’re here from—”

“Wrong house!” the man shouted over him, jabbing a finger. “Not interested, don’t want it, whatever it is—NO!” And then slammed the door, straight into Harry’s face.

“…Are all Muggles this rude?” Malfoy asked, faintly horrified.

But Harry wasn’t listening. He was already looking down at the papers, flipping through the parchment Kingsley had printed for them, his brow furrowing. No. That was the right number. That was the right name. That was the right street.

He knocked again. This time just one knock. Malfoy made a small noise of protest behind him, possibly scandalized at the rudeness, possibly eager to watch, but before either of them could speak, the door whipped open again. “I said—” the old man snapped, looking exactly the same as before but, somehow, angrier. “You’ve got the wrong house!”

Harry blinked. “Sir, we’re looking for the Cresswells—”

“DO I LOOK LIKE A CRESSWELL TO YOU?”

Malfoy leaned slightly to peer around Harry’s shoulder. “I don’t know. You might.”

“I told you already!” he barked, “you’ve got the wrong house, mate! What is it, some kind of door-to-door prank? You pick people at random and waste their time for fun? You want to see what a proper cold lunch looks like? You want me to throw it at you?!”

Harry blinked. “Sir—”

“You’re lucky I don’t call the council! You and your… your weird clipboard and your face!”

“I don’t even have a clipboard—”

“And you!” the man snapped, eyes swinging to Malfoy. “You just stand there giggling like some schoolboy. What are you, then, twelve?!”

Malfoy, who up until that moment had been smirking behind Harry’s shoulder, blinked. “I beg your pardon?” he said, scandalised.

“You heard me! Pair of idiots! One’s got the brain of a pebble, the other looks like he still gets dropped off at school with a lunch tin and a haircut from his mum!”

Malfoy’s mouth fell open. He took a step forward, “I am thirty-five!” He snapped, eyes wide with disbelief. “I have a mortgage!”

The man squinted. “You look like you still get grounded!”

Harry let out a noise. It might’ve been a laugh or a wheeze.

“Grounded?” Malfoy repeated, appalled. “I’ll have you know I passed my A-level equivalents with distinction!”

“Malfoy,” Harry muttered, stepping between them again, hand on Malfoy’s arm just in case he tried anything stupid. “Don’t.”

The man didn’t blink. “Is that a threat? Is he trying to threaten me?”

“No!” Harry burst out. “No one’s threatening anyone. This is—this is a misunderstanding, we’re very sorry, we’ll just—go now.”

“Oh, now you’re polite, are you?” the man said, still glaring. “You and your posh boyfriend can bugger off back to wherever you came from.”

“We’re not—” Harry started, then stopped. Gave up. “Right. Yes. Good idea. Have a good evening.”

The door slammed shut with seismic force, and they stood there in silence. Harry turned slowly. “Did you just shout ‘I have a mortgage’ at a seventy-year-old man?”

“He said I looked twelve.”

Harry sighed, looked at the paper again, and realized, wonderful, the address Kingsley gave them is wrong.

Malfoy muttered, “I do not have a haircut from my mum.”

“Didn’t say you did.”

“I haven’t even spoken to my mum about my hair in years.”

Harry just patted him on the arm and kept walking. “Okay,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. “So what now? If it’s… wrong. What do we do?”

Malfoy shot him a look, sharp and incredulous. “What do you think, Potter? We’re supposed to just wander around until someone’s eyes start glowing! Maybe ask for directions from every confused person we see?”

Harry bristled. “Well, do you have a better idea?”

“You’re the one who’s supposed to know!” Malfoy’s lip twitched. “Because clearly you’re so experienced with the Muggle world, Potter.”

“Maybe I would know what to do if I wasn’t stuck partnered with you.”

“Ah yes, because working with the Weasel would be so much easier.”

“At least Ron doesn’t act like he’s an idiot like you!”

“Well, maybe if you weren’t so impossible to work with—”

“Impossible? Me? The guy who has to hold your hand through how to talk to normal people?”

Malfoy scoffed. “I don’t need your help navigating anything.”

“Okay! Send something to Kingsley. Say something,” Harry said, voice rising just a little from frustration.

Malfoy crossed his arms tighter. “Why don’t you do it?”

Harry blinked. “Because I told you to do it!”

“No! I’m not doing anything.”

Harry stared at him, incredulous. Of all the moments, this now? He rubbed his temples and reached for his wand. Fine. He’d do it himself.

Malfoy frowned. “Wait, how are you going to tell him?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’m obviously going to—” he paused, hand hovering over his wand. “…Oh. I actually don’t know.”

Malfoy’s mouth twitched. “You absolute tosser.”

“What!” Harry turned on him.

“You said that like you know how to communicate with him!” Malfoy snapped, snorting. “Shut up! Let’s just—Apparate back. We’ll figure it out there.”

Harry took a steadying breath. “Fine.”

They both turned, lifted their wands in tandem, concentrated on the Ministry safe-point, exact Apparition location from the forms, but… the familiar pull didn’t come.

Nothing happened.

Harry’s stomach dropped. “Why isn’t it…”

Malfoy blinked. “Let me try, you idiot.”

He spun in place, wand snapping down with precision. Nothing. Still nothing. No noise. No movement. Malfoy turned slowly, jaw tightening. “No. No, no, no. This is not—”

“Told you,” Harry said grimly, heart pounding.

They stood there in the darkening street, Malfoy’s voice cut the silence like a knife. “You got us stuck here.”

Harry glared. “Me? Well maybe if you hadn’t grown up thinking radios eat souls—”

“I never said radios!” Malfoy snapped, cheeks flushed. “I said televisions. Televisions are suspicious!”

“You’re suspicious!”

Malfoy looked up at the dull grey sky. “I swear to Merlin, if we die in the Muggle suburbs, I’m blaming Kingsley.”

“We’re not gonna die.” The thought of dying here, stuck in the middle of nowhere with Malfoy, was somehow both terrifying and absurd.

“Sure we are,” Malfoy said. “Do you have any money on you, Potter?”

Harry reached into his pocket, feeling the crumpled paper and the jangling coins. “Well—yeah. I got ten dollars.”

Malfoy arched a brow. “Right. And that much is going to help us survive, is it?”

Harry blinked, a little annoyed. Was Malfoy always this annoying? Or was it just his mood today? Because honestly, ten dollars was better than zero, which was what Malfoy had on him. “It’s not like you have any money on you either,” Harry pointed out.

Malfoy scoffed and folded his arms, clearly unimpressed. “Obviously. I’m not here to bribe the kid, Potter.”

Harry wanted to snap back, to say something stupid, but instead he just sighed. Because what was the point? Ten dollars or no, they were stuck in this mess together. He glanced away, catching sight of a stray leaf blowing down the street and forced a smile. “Right. Okay, let’s go find somewhere to sleep.”

“Sleep!?” Malfoy’s voice shot up. “Sleep? Where exactly? Out here? On the streets?”

Harry felt a flicker of embarrassment curl inside him. Because yeah, that was the ugly truth. Sleep wasn’t some cozy bed or a warm room, it was probably a cold, hard spot under a streetlamp or a grimy park bench. The idea made his stomach twist.

He wanted to argue, to say they’d find somewhere better, somewhere safe… and honestly? The thought of not moving, even for a few hours, sounded like a mercy. Harry ran a hand through his hair, forcing a wry smile. “Yeah, well… desperate times, I guess.”

And all Harry could hear as he trudged toward the nearest bench was Malfoy’s obnoxious voice yelling at him, like a broken record stuck on repeat. It was loud, it was annoying, and honestly, Harry had zero patience for it right now.

Harry forced his legs to keep moving, wishing the noise would fade, wishing Malfoy would zip it for just a second. But no such luck. Because tired or not, Malfoy was definitely not going anywhere.

“Okay, there’s this bench right here. It’s the biggest one… and…” Harry slowly turned around to see Malfoy standing there, looking, well, like Malfoy. “What?”

“Nothing.” Malfoy said quickly, but the way he said it made Harry suspicious.

“…Okay?” Harry pressed, not convinced.

Three seconds later, Malfoy practically collapsed onto the ground with a dramatic groan. “Oh, this is helpless!”

Harry blinked, quite amused actually, wondering how Malfoy managed to turn sitting on a bench into the worst thing ever. “Malfoy, shut up! You’re too loud!” He hissed, glancing around like someone might actually hear them and think they were completely insane.

Malfoy shot him a glare, but didn’t actually stop. “Too loud? I’m just stating facts, Potter. Facts about how hopeless this situation is.”

“Yeah, well, maybe if you weren’t yelling every five seconds, I could actually think.”

“Oh, right. Because you’re so calm about sleeping on a park bench.” Malfoy sneered.

“Better than being a drama queen about it!”

“Says the one who just gave up!”

“I didn’t give up, and plus, you’re not helping in any way either.”

Before Harry could even sit fully, a loud, obnoxiously chipper voice rang out from somewhere nearby. “Ohhh look here, guys! We found one! This is perfect.”

Harry turned his head just in time to see a man crossing the street toward them. He looked like an average person, backwards cap, white sneakers too clean, and that grin, wide, smug, and clearly practiced.

In one hand, he was holding a phone, already recording, Harry could see the little red light blinking, and in the other, a fat wad of cash that he was purposefully fanning out with every step, Malfoy, still sitting on the pavement looking deeply traumatized by everything, blinked in alarm as the man practically dropped to a crouch in front of him, phone inches from his face.

“I’m gonna help this homeless guy today,” the man said, smiling into the camera. “Let’s change a life, people. It’s what we do. You know the drill. Smash that like button, spread the love. Hey buddy, pick a number between one and ten.”

Malfoy’s eyes were wide, frozen like he’d just been petrified. “What… excuse me?” he said slowly, like he genuinely wasn’t sure if this was a prank or not. “I’m not homeless, and why would I pick a number?”

“Oh, don’t be shy, man!” the guy laughed, pushing the phone even closer. “You don’t need to be embarrassed. You’re struggling, we get it. Everyone’s struggling. That’s why I’m here. To help you. So pick a number.”

“I’m not—! I’m not homeless!” he said again, louder this time, panic starting to creep into his voice. “I’m not playing anything, get that thing out of my face, whatever it is!”

The guy didn’t flinch. He kept smiling, even while Malfoy’s voice rose. “This guy’s got pride,” he said, turning the phone briefly back to himself for commentary. “You can tell. Real strong spirit. But don’t worry, we’re gonna break through that.”

Harry, who had been standing off to the side, completely frozen up until now, suddenly let out a sharp bark of laughter. He didn’t mean to, it just happened. The image of Malfoy of all people being mistaken for a helpless, tragically misunderstood soul in need of viral redemption, it was too much.

Malfoy whipped his head around. “You’re laughing!?” he hissed. His whole face was flushed. “This lunatic is waving cash at me like I’m a stray dog and you’re laughing?”

“I—I’m sorry,” Harry gasped between breaths, clutching his stomach. “I just—he thinks—you—oh my god—”

Before he could finish the sentence, the guy turned the camera sharply toward him. “Wow,” he said dramatically, aiming the phone at Harry’s face. “Wow. This guy’s literally laughing at a struggling man in the street. That’s disgusting. Cancel him. Right now. I don’t care who he is.”

Harry blinked. “Wait, what?”

“You think it’s funny?” the guy said, in full influencer voice now. “You think this man’s suffering is a joke? Laughing at the homeless? Seriously? Wow. Disgusting. The world sees you now, bro.”

Malfoy was still standing stiffly, mouth half open in horror, eyes darting between the phone and Harry like he couldn’t decide which one was worse. “Suffering?” he spat. “I’m not suffering! I’m just—just—” He looked around wildly. “Temporarily displaced!”

The guy zoomed the camera back in on Malfoy. “He’s in denial. That’s okay. We’re here to support him through it.”

“Support me?!” Malfoy snapped. “You’re trying to turn me into some sad sob story so people will tell you you’re a good person!”

“That’s literally the point,” the guy said with a shrug. “Awareness, man.”

Harry coughed, trying to keep his laughter in check. “Look, mate,” he said finally, “we’re fine. We’re not—he’s not—just put the phone away, yeah?”

Wait. This might actually be an opportunity. Merlin’s pants, he’s about to con a Muggle for clout money, Harry thought, a flush of shame mingling. He crouched beside Malfoy, pretending to fuss over him like a concerned friend. “Play along,” he muttered, lips barely moving. “If he wants a sob story, give him a show. We get the cash, we disappear.”

Malfoy’s silver-grey eyes went huge. Me? Grovel? In front of whatever that is? His whole posture rigid. Pride versus survival, never a fun duel.

The influencer spotted their huddle and recoiled theatrically, phone tilting to frame them both. “Wow, so you’re in on it too? Doing a little act for sympathy bucks?” He zoomed in on Malfoy’s face. “Acting homeless. That’s low, man.”

“I told you I wasn’t—”

“Cancel him too, guys,” the man crowed, swinging the camera to Harry. “And this one? Total enabler. Double cancellation. Smash that dislike.”

Somewhere deep inside, Harry felt a hysterical laugh trying to bubble out again, double cancellation, whatever that meant honestly—but he shoved it down. Not the time. “Look, mate, we’re just down on our luck. Haven’t eaten since yesterday. If you’ve actually got help to spare, we’d appreciate it.”

Malfoy’s head snapped toward Harry, what are you doing? The message was loud in those silvery eyes.

The influencer’s expression wobbled, he fanned the cash again, the bills fluttering temptingly. “You sure about this? ’Cause my followers hate frauds.”

Harry nodded, trying to look as pitiable as possible. “Just…let him pick a number. Please.”

“Fine. Seven.”

The influencer’s grin widened. “Seven it is! Lucky number. Let’s see…” He peeled off seven crisp notes, and tucked the rest back into his pocket. “There you go, my man. Look at that smile,” he cooed to the camera, though Malfoy was definitely not smiling. “Changing lives, one viral vid at a time.”

Malfoy took the bills. Harry felt a pang in his chest, Malfoy had once had vaults of gold. Now he was accepting handouts from a stranger.

The influencer stepped back, still filming. “Alright, internet, mission accomplished. Remember, share the love, call out the haters.” He gave Harry a pointed look. “Especially this guy.”

Harry resisted the urge to salute sarcastically. “Thanks,” he said instead.

When the man finally sauntered off, silence fell. “Potter,” he said softly, voice flat and terrifyingly calm, “if you ever tell me to do that again, I will kill you.”

Harry, slouched on the bench beside him, didn’t flinch. “Well, on the bright side, we’ve got seventeen dollars now.”

“Seventeen,” Malfoy repeated. “Seventeen dollars. Brilliant. We’re practically royalty.” He turned his head slowly, “Right. And what do we do with that, exactly?”

Harry scratched the back of his neck, considering. “Motel?”

Malfoy scoffed. “With seventeen dollars?”

“There are really cheap ones,” Harry offered. “You know, those weird roadside ones.”

Malfoy gave him a long, slow look. “You want me to sleep in a bed where someone definitely died?”

“It’s that or the bench.”

“This is actually the worst day of my life.”

Harry patted his shoulder. “Think of it this way, at least you’re not going viral for being a real homeless. Just a fake one.”

Malfoy groaned into his hands. “I’m going to be sick.”

“Better not. We can’t afford tissues.”

The motel room smelled fintly sour that Harry chose not to investigate. The wallpaper was peeling in one corner, the single lamp gave off a weak orange glow, and the air conditioner in the wall let out a wheeze every few minutes.

Harry kicked the door shut behind them, he turned, took one look at the room again, and said, “Well. Luxury.”

Malfoy stood frozen two steps in, staring at the bed. It was a single queen, covered in a threadbare floral blanket that looked like it hadn’t been washed since before Harry was born. “This is unsanitary,” he muttered, eyes scanning the mattress.

Harry tossed their plastic motel key onto the chipped bedside table and collapsed onto the edge of the bed with a long groan. “Yeah, well, for ten dollars, I think we’re lucky it even has a door. Could be worse.”

Malfoy arched a brow. “How?”

Harry stretched out with a sigh, one arm flopping over his face. “Could be raining.”

There was a pause. Then the soft, unmistakable sound of rain starting to tap against the window. Malfoy looked at the curtain. Then at Harry. Then back to the curtain. “I hate you.”

Harry snorted. “Sure you do.”

A beat passed. Malfoy stood still, arms crossed, clearly debating whether to sit, stand, or just walk directly into traffic.

“You can sit, you know,” Harry said, eyes still covered. “I’m not going to bite. You ever stayed in a place like this?”

Malfoy didn’t look at him. “Potter. I’ve never even seen a place like this.”

“Right. First time for everything.”

Then, quietly, Malfoy said, “The mattress is lumpy.”

Harry smiled. “So are you. Go to sleep.”

Malfoy glared, but he didn’t move. After a moment, he leaned back stiffly against the headboard, arms still crossed. He looked like he was trying to lie down without actually touching anything. Harry didn’t press. Somehow, despite everything, thankfully they were indoors. They had a door. A light. A bed. That’s everything they needed at the moment.

They walked in no real direction, the sidewalk stretching out endlessly ahead, each identical street corner making the last one feel like déjà vu. “Okay, so what now?” he said finally, kicking at a crack in the pavement.

“I don’t know, Potter,” Malfoy muttered beside him, eyes narrowed at a faded street sign. “You’re the one with the plans. I only came here to deal with the kid. Emotionally.”

Harry turned his head, frowning. “Right. And actually—what’s up with that?”

Malfoy didn’t look at him. “What’s up with what?”

“This whole Magical Child Welfare thing. I thought you were—” he paused, adjusting the strap on his shoulder, “—you know, trained. Or training. Whatever. You’re the one who’s supposed to know how to handle these situations. I’m just here because Kingsley apparently thinks I work well under pressure, which is funny, because I don’t. Seriously. Since when do you do this?”

Malfoy sighed. “Since I applied for something no one else wanted.”

That threw Harry for a second. He blinked. “What?”

“Kingsley said they needed more people in post-war outreach,” Malfoy said, his tone clipped, bored on purpose. “I figured ‘Magical Child Welfare’ sounded better than ‘Accidental Magic Cleanup Squad.’” He shrugged. “I talk to kids. I report if they’re unstable, I drink tea with worried relatives, then I write it up.”

“So this wasn’t your first choice,” Harry said, not really a question.

“It wasn’t anyone’s first choice.” Malfoy scuffed the toe of his shoe along the concrete, face still turned forward. “They give us the edge cases, the ones not dangerous enough for Aurors.”

Something twisted in Harry’s chest. “And you still said yes.”

Malfoy huffed. “I needed a job, Potter. And I figured… I don’t know. Maybe if someone had shown up when I was a kid, things would’ve gone differently.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. The idea of a young Malfoy, left alone in that cold manor, made him feel weird, they weren’t so different after all. Just different kinds of abandoned. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “I didn’t realize they stuck you with all the emotional bits.” He looked at him sideways. “You barely do feelings.”

“That’s why I’m perfect for this job.”

…Right. Sure. Makes sense. It all makes sense now.

Of course Malfoy had grown up. Obviously. Harry wasn’t stupid. He knew the war had changed all of them. He’d seen it in people, Malfoy had cracked, but he hadn’t fallen apart. He’d rebuilt, or at least patched himself up enough to pass. Got a job. Did his part. Kept his head down.

It was just hard to picture. Not because the job was beneath him, but because it didn’t fit into the old mental box Harry had kept Malfoy in. The one labeled arrogant.

And Harry hated how that made him feel. A little like a hypocrite. Because for all his talk of second chances and redemption and “everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt,” he’d still mentally filed Malfoy away as that same arrogant boy in the castle. Somewhere deep down, he hadn’t updated the version of him in his head.

“I’m hungry,” Harry said eventually. His stomach had been making quiet groans for the past half hour, but now it was starting to sound serious.

Malfoy scoffed. “Well, we’ve got a couple of dollars left. The rest is still in the motel. Which is, by the way, a steal.”

“A steal?”

Malfoy threw his arms slightly out, incredulous. “Yes, Potter. A steal. As in—they are stealing from us. They’re taking that much money just to let us exist in that… bacteria museum. I think the lamp had mold on it. Potter.”

“It’s five nights for ten dollars! That’s way better than anything!”

“Better than what? Sleeping in a drainpipe?” Malfoy snapped, voice rising. “I don’t think I’ve ever been on a mattress that crunched before.”

“It’s fine,” Harry said, too tired to argue properly. “We’re not there for a honeymoon, Malfoy, we’re there to not die in the street.”

“That’s a very low bar, Potter.”

They turned down another corner, the rows of houses still blurring into one another, their shadows falling long and strange across the sidewalk. Harry’s stomach growled again, louder this time, and he pressed a hand to it, grimacing.

Harry rubbed at his eyes, wishing they were somewhere else—literally anywhere else. His feet hurt. The sky still looked like it might rain again. “If you want, we can go find a café and you can order a croissant and pretend you’re still rich.”

It had been two days.

Or maybe three. They still didn’t have a working plan. They still didn’t know where the kid was. They still hadn’t heard a single word from Kingsley. And somehow, without trying, they were now weirdly recognizable, and not  in a good way. Not in the celebrity Auror, thank you for your service kind of way. Not even in the aren’t you that Malfoy kid from the war? sort of way, that they’re used to back in their world.

No. They were known locally. Around the neighborhood. People had started nodding at them like regulars. Someone on a bike waved. A woman handing out flyers paused to say, “Oh! You two are still around.”

Still around… Harry didn’t know if that was comforting or horrifying. Because apparently, they weren’t just familiar faces. They were suspicious familiar faces. And they couldn’t tell if it was harmless neighborhood gossip, or if it was the kind of suspicion that ended with a police report.

The news had been playing on the little TV behind the counter. Just background noise and then Harry saw it. Not an official report, just a social media clip shoved into a local broadcast segment about “viral online giving.” A jumpy phone camera. A Muggle guy with too much energy and a fistful of cash. Malfoy. On the floor. Looking furious and disoriented. The clip showed the man waving dollar bills and shouting something like, “We’re helping this homeless guy today!” and then cut right to Malfoy’s horrified face.

Harry had choked on his water, and then the shopkeeper behind the counter had recognized them. “Oh, that’s you!” she said brightly. “You were on the news. That poor lad looked like he was gonna cry!”

Malfoy didn’t cry, but he very much seemed like he wanted to. Now, people handed them coins on the street. Loose change. A granola bar once, wrapped with a rubber band. A lot of “stay strong”s and even a couple offers of socks.

And still, no word from the Ministry. Not a letter. Not. Four or five days now. Five? Harry had to count twice and still wasn’t sure. The first day had been aimless. The second, frustrating. Now, it felt like a joke.

Had Kingsley forgotten? Had the mission been so minor, so low-priority, that losing two agents, okay, one agent and one emotions magical social worker, didn’t even ping the system?

It shouldn’t feel like betrayal. But it kind of did. Harry had spent his whole life waiting for people to show up for him. He didn’t expect it anymore, but some part of him had hoped that Kingsley, would’ve sent someone, or something.

And the house. God, the bloody house. They still hadn’t found it. They’d walked enough blocks to map the entire neighborhood from memory.

Harry had started carrying the parchment with him. Folded, re-folded. Blonde hair, brown eyes. Rough age estimate. So, they’d started scanning every playground like lunatics. Every kid with light hair and brown eyes. Every moment Malfoy muttered, “Could be that one,” and Harry squinted like he’d be able to see the magic. Like glowing eyes would suddenly give it away.  And that only left Harry with weirded-out parents and several awkward, deeply uncomfortable confrontations. He’d tried to be discreet. But there were only so many ways you could stare at children without coming off like an absolute creep. Especially when the best reasoning he had was “we’re looking for signs of latent magic.” Even he barely knew what that meant.

And third of all—

“Potter! That kid.”

The urgency in Malfoy’s voice made Harry turn mid-step, eyes snapping to where he was pointing. “Wha—… oh.” His breath caught. “It’s… it’s him.”

It had to be. The boy stood on the edge of the playground, not doing anything particularly unusual. Just standing. Blonde hair catching the light. Brown eyes wide and oddly bright, they practically shimmered.  Everything matched. The parchment. It was him. He was right there.

Harry and Malfoy made eye contact, just a flicker, a split-second agreement, and took off at the same time. And Harry didn’t realize until too late how absolutely terrifying they must’ve looked. Two adult men sprinting across a playground at full speed, dead focused on a child. No wand out. Just running.

The boy’s mother reacted instantly, scooping him up with a sharp gasp. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

The father moved to shield them, stepping between Harry and the kid, already yelling something. And Harry threw his hands up, winded and panting but trying very hard to look non-threatening. “Hello! Hey—hi! I’m Harry Potter,” he said quickly, stumbling over his own name like it was a bad lie. “And we’re here to—um—check—your kid for—”

“Get away from us!” the mother snapped, voice rising sharply. “Leave us alone!”

“…oh,” Harry said, stunned.

Malfoy stood right beside him, breathing hard. “Oh for—we’re not kidnapping him, calm down…”

“Don’t come near my son!”

Harry flinched. It was loud. People were looking now. Heads turning, one woman pulling out her phone, already filming. And suddenly Harry could see it from the outside. Could feel what they must look like, two exhausted men in unwashed clothes, charging a random family in a park. No official badges, and absolutely no proof of anything.

No one believed them. Of course they didn’t. Harry held his hands higher. “I swear, we’re not—! We just—we’re here on assignment. It’s government—uh—there’s been some incidents, and your son—he might be—”

“We’re calling the police.”

Harry turned to Malfoy.

Malfoy turned to Harry.

And they both bolted. It wasn’t a planned thing, just pure shared instinct. They didn’t even stop until they were two streets away, breathless and sweating. Harry leaned against a lamppost, chest heaving. “We found him,” he wheezed. “That was definitely him.”

“Yes,” Malfoy snapped, voice ragged. “And now we’ve traumatized him.”

They were never going to be allowed near that family again.

“Also,” Malfoy snapped, after a moment, “what is a police?”

“What?”

“I only ran because it sounded terrifying.”

Harry laughed, he couldn’t help it. “It is terrifying.”

Malfoy shot him a sharp glare. “I mean, is it a person? A place?”

“It’s like…” Harry waved a hand, still catching his breath. “It’s like us. Aurors. But in Muggle terms.”

“You’re telling me there are Muggles walking around out there with the legal right to arrest people?”

“Yes? I mean, there isn’t much of a difference between us, you know, aurors and the police.”

“Without even a wand?”

Harry couldn’t stop grinning now. “Correct.”

“That’s barbaric,” Malfoy said flatly. “That’s actually—Potter, I think I just saw my life flash before my eyes back there.”

They both sank down onto the edge of the curb, their legs finally giving up. Harry stared at the road ahead. “That was him.”

“Obviously.”

“And now his parents think we’re creeps.”

“Also obviously.”

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face, sighing. “So… what now?”

“Now we either find a way to track them down or we give up and accept our new lives as disgraced celebrities.”

They were just walking again.

No real purpose anymore. The neighborhood was quieter at night, except for the occasional car passing by, to which Malfoy keeps pointing out for some reason, despite Harry explaining what it is over and over again. The air was damp again, or, maybe that was just their clothes.

They’d gotten two more dollars today. Some stranger had passed by, pressed it into Malfoy’s hand like he was doing a good deed, and kept walking. Harry hadn’t even asked where the money went. And anyway, it didn’t matter.

Because today was their last day at the motel. Checkout was in the morning, and the front desk lady had already made it clear that unless they magically grew eight more dollars, she wouldn’t “bend the rules for repeat guests.” Which meant, no room. No roof. Nothing.

So, yeah. Great.

Then they saw it, a playground. Small, half-fenced, no kids, obviously. Just swings, one tilted slide, and those weird springy animal things no one actually plays on, and they probably shouldn’t be anywhere near it.

After today’s incident, they were absolutely on a list. Probably a dozen lists. Harry didn’t even want to look at the news right now. Two grown men running after a child in a playground, great really. But still, his feet slowed, his legs ached, and the swing set just looked like rest.

Harry sat down on one of the swings. The chain squeaked under his weight, and the seat was colder than he expected. He kicked off with his foot a little. The motion was slow, but it helped. Malfoy stopped a few paces away and looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

“What are you doing.”

Harry looked over. “Sitting.”

“On a child’s swing.”

“Yeah?”

Malfoy raised a hand, gesturing vaguely at everything. “We’re being hunted by the Muggle internet, Potter. The last thing we need is to get photographed loitering at a playground.”

Harry swung gently, ignoring him. “It’s empty.”

“That doesn’t change the optics.” Malfoy made a frustrated sound in his throat, looked around like someone might jump out and film them, and then, with the kind of aggravated sigh that sounded physically painful, he sat down on the swing next to Harry’s. “…You’re an idiot,” he muttered.

Harry gave him a tired smile. “Takes one.”

They sat there. The wind picked up a little, stirring Malfoy’s hair. Harry kicked off again, not hard, just enough to move. Malfoy didn’t swing. He sat perfectly still, hands wrapped tightly around the chains like he didn’t trust the structure not to collapse.

Harry glanced sideways. “You look extremely uncomfortable.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “We are two grown men, sitting on children’s equipment, possibly being filmed. So yes, I’m uncomfortable.”

“It’s a swing, Malfoy. You’re allowed to swing.”

“I’m choosing not to.”

“You’re scared.”

And still, Malfoy didn’t move, Harry let himself swing a little higher, listening to the rhythmic creak of the chains, it was stupidly peaceful. “You ever do this when you were a kid?” he asked suddenly.

Malfoy didn’t answer right away, then, “…we didn’t have a swing set.”

“Not allowed?”

“Not interested,” Malfoy said too fast. “Didn’t care.”

Harry looked over again, but Malfoy wasn’t looking at him. He was staring straight ahead. Jaw set, so Harry didn’t push it.

“You’re weirdly bad at this,” Harry said.

“At what.”

“Relaxing.”

“I’m not supposed to relax,” Malfoy muttered. “We’re fugitives.”

“We’re not fugitives.”

“We’re on the news, Potter. That’s basically the same thing.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. He kicked at the gravel, watching it scatter. “I keep thinking,” he said after a while, “that someone should’ve come looking by now.”

Malfoy didn’t answer. But something in his shoulders shifted. Slight.

“Kingsley’s not exactly the forgetful type,” Harry went on, voice quiet. “It’s been what, five days? Six? We were supposed to be in and out. Find the kid, get them registered, do the follow-up paperwork, done.”

“They noticed.”

Harry looked at him. “How would you know?”

“Because that’s what they do,” Malfoy said. “They notice. They make a note. They say they’ll deal with it tomorrow. Then someone files a report and someone else buries it because it’s complicated or embarrassing or not urgent enough.”

“…That’s cynical.”

“It’s exactly what happens,” Malfoy said. “You think I haven’t disappeared before?” He glanced at him, quick, then away. Like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it. He didn’t know what to say to that. Or maybe he did, but it felt too personal. He looked down. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”

“I still want to find him.”

“I know.”

Finally, Malfoy stood, brushing gravel from his coat. “Come on. Let’s go anywhere.”

Harry huffed a smile, he stood too. “Thanks for swinging.”

“I didn’t swing.”

“You sat next to me. It counts.”

“Potter, you have a tragically low bar for meaningful human connection.”

“Yeah,” Harry said softly. “I really do.”

They didn’t even make it halfway down the block before the lights hit them. Blue and red, flashing through the fog, Harry froze. His heart kicked up instantly. Malfoy stopped beside him like he’d walked into a wall. A sharp voice called out behind them. “Hands where we can see them!”

Harry turned, squinting against the brightness of the headlights. Two police cars. Four officers. One of them already stepping forward, hand hovering too close to his belt. “What’s going on?” He said quickly, holding both hands up.

“You’ve been reported for suspicious behavior,” one of the officers barked. “Multiple sightings. Loitering near a playground. Approaching families. You’re going to need to come with us.”

Malfoy made a short, furious noise in his throat. “We didn’t even touch—”

“Sir, I need you to lower your voice and keep your hands where we can see them. All right,” she said, opening the folder. “Names?”

Harry cleared his throat. “Harry. Uh. Just Harry.”

The woman stared at him. “Harry… what?”

“Potter.”

She scribbled something down. Then looked to Malfoy. “And you?”

Malfoy blinked, like it hadn’t occurred to him this moment would ever arrive. “Draco.”

“…Draco what.”

“Just Draco.”

This idiot. Harry kicked him lightly.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.”

The younger officer narrowed his eyes. “All right. Do you two have any identification?”

Harry’s brain stuttered. He looked at Malfoy. Malfoy looked at him. Neither of them said anything for a full three seconds. “Uhhhh—”

“Yes.”

“We do?”

“I did. At some point. I don’t have it on me now.”

“You don’t carry ID?”

“Do I look like I carry ID?” Malfoy snapped.

The officer gave him a flat look, but didn’t say anything, a silent warning. Harry actually wanted to punch him.

The older officer leaned forward. “Let me get this straight. You two were wandering around a neighborhood, approaching families, and hanging around a playground after dark and you don’t have any identification on you?”

“I’ll go check their names,” the younger one said.

Harry glanced at Malfoy, leaning towards him and whispered when they were all busy talking. “This is so bad.”

“You think?” Malfoy snapped. “You gave them your actual name?!”

“What was I supposed to do?! Say John Doe?! They’d definitely arrest me.”

The same officer from before walked towards them again, this time holding a clipboard and a very serious expression. The older woman didn’t look up as she spoke. “All right. Let’s try this again. You’re Harry Potter. And Draco Malfoy.”

Harry nodded, cautiously. “Yes.” He actually can’t believe this is happening, he’s an Auror, getting arrested by a police, which is the same exact thing!

Malfoy tilted his head. “Technically.”

“Do you have any government-issued identification, driver’s license, passport, birth certificate, anything at all?”

Then Harry said, “No,” just as Malfoy said, “Not on me.”

The officer gave a tight smile. “Do you have any proof of residence?”

“We—” Harry started.

“Live out of town,” Malfoy cut in. “We’re not from here.”

“Right,” she said. “So where are you staying?”

“…Sort of a motel,” Harry offered.

“What’s the name of the motel?”

Harry blinked. He had no idea. Malfoy cleared his throat. “The Budget Palms.”

Harry looked over. “Is that real?” How come they don’t even know the name of the motel they’ve been staying at!

“I have no idea.” Malfoy whispered.

The woman sighed. “Do either of you have a phone?”

“No,” Harry said quickly.

“Any bank cards?”

“Nope.”

“Health cards? Student IDs? Bus passes?”

Harry scratched the back of his neck. “No.”

“Do you have anything on your persons at all?”

Malfoy gave a wide, utterly insincere smile. “Two dollars.”

The officer’s lips thinned. The younger one, still standing, stepped forward. “Can you explain why, according to preliminary background checks, neither of you appear to exist in any official database?”

Harry sat up straighter. “Sorry… what?”

“No record of birth. No record of citizenship. No employment, education, insurance— nothing. No trace.”

Harry’s heart began doing that awful thudding thing it did when something went wrong, “oh,” he said. “That’s… weird.”

“That is not,” Malfoy said, “the word I would use.”

The officer dropped the clipboard from her face and onto her side. “Let’s go over the incident again. You were spotted approaching a family with a child. Were you planning to speak with the parents?”

“Yes,” Harry said.

“Why?”

“Because…” He stopped. Looked at Malfoy, while he stared back at him. “…because we were concerned about the child,” Harry finished.

“And what business was that of yours?”

“We’re from… um—Child Services,” Harry tried, instantly regretting it.

“You have no ID.”

“We were doing a sort of wellness check.”

“Without documentation?”

Malfoy folded his arms. “Are you accusing us of something?”

The younger officer stepped forward. “You don’t exist in any known system. You’ve been loitering, approaching minors, and now you’re refusing to answer basic questions.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “We’re not refusing. You’re just asking stupid ones.”

Harry winced. “Malfoy…”

“Honestly, what kind of system are you running here? You’re telling me you believe everything you see online but we’re the threat?”

“Sir,” the officer said sharply. “Calm down.”

“I am calm,” Malfoy snapped.

“No, you’re being uncooperative.”

“No, I’m being annoyed. There’s a difference.”

“Hands behind your back.”

“Oh, for—don’t be ridiculous—”

“Sir. Hands. Behind. Your. Back.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, muttering, “This is honestly the worst-run authority I’ve ever seen, and I’ve met goblins—”

“Goblins…?” The officer grabbed his arm. “That’s enough.”

Harry shot up. “Whoa, okay, we can all calm down—”

“You too,” the older officer said, standing now. “Both of you. You’re being detained until we figure out who you are.”

Harry raised his hands instinctively. “But we haven’t done anything!”

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

“You should’ve let me do the talking,” Harry hissed.

“This is obviously entrapment.”

“Malfoy. They’re the police, that’s literally what they do.”

Harry Potter never expected to end up in a jail cell.

He’d broken into the Ministry. Escaped from dragons. Died, technically. And yet somehow, nothing felt quite as defeated as sitting in this dim, claustrophobic Muggle holding cell, arms folded tight over his chest.

This was worse. Not because it was particularly grim, but because it was pathetic.

The cell door clanged shut behind them. Malfoy was pacing already, like if he didn’t keep moving he’d physically explode. His cuffs had been removed, but Harry could still see the way the red marks sat on his wrists like accusations. Harry sank onto the cold bench and dropped his head into his hands.

“This is your fault.”

Harry looked up slowly. “My fault?” Here we go, he thought.

“Yes,” Malfoy muttered. “Truly, what a brilliant turn of events. We’ve been arrested by Muggles. This is officially the stupidest week of my life.”

Harry didn’t look at him. “Could’ve been worse.”

“Oh?” Malfoy snapped. “How, Potter? Enlighten me. We’re homeless, hunted by social media, completely untraceable to the wizarding world, and now we’ve been jailed for loitering near a slide.”

Harry leaned his head back against the wall. “At least we didn’t get tackled! You really think I wanted this?”

“You could’ve fooled me!” Malfoy snapped. “You stood there giving them your actual name like it was a bloody school roll call!”

“I panicked, all right?!” Harry shouted. “We’ve been eating chips and street hot dogs for five days! Excuse me for not having a fake identity prepared!”

Malfoy threw his hands up. “You’re the Auror! Shouldn’t you be trained for this?!”

Harry’s breath hitched, too fast. That stung more than it should have. “I was trained for magical threats,” he muttered. “Not this.”

Malfoy scoffed. “Oh, brilliant. That really clears it up. Thank you, Potter, for your vital expertise in sitting here uselessly.”

Harry’s hands clenched at his sides. “You know what? Maybe if you hadn’t decided to antagonize every person who asked us a question—”

“Oh, please—”

“—we wouldn’t be in here!”

Malfoy snapped around, eyes flashing. “And maybe if you stopped trying to fix everything by being polite and noble and bleeding-heart idiotic, we wouldn’t have gotten recognized from a pity video, Potter.”

That hit a nerve. It wasn’t even that Malfoy was wrong, he just hated how much of him still wanted to be that person. “You’re so angry all the time,” Harry said tightly. “It’s exhausting.”

Malfoy stepped closer. “And you’re so stupidly hopeful all the time, I don’t know how you breathe.”

This is a cell, he reminded himself. It’s a jail cell. You are not going to have a complete breakdown in here. Malfoy exhaled behind him, sharp through his nose. “…Do you think they’ll let us out?” he asked quietly.

Malfoy didn’t answer right away. Then, dryly, “that depends. Are you planning to tell them we’re wizards?”

Harry let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, that’ll go over well. ‘Hi, we’re from a parallel society and looking for a glowing orphan.’ Real airtight defense.”

“…This is actually the second time I’ve been in a cell.”

Harry looked up. “What?”

Malfoy didn’t meet his eyes. “After the war. For a few hours.”

Something in Harry’s chest went weirdly soft. He didn’t know what to say. So he just said, “Yeah. I figured.”

Malfoy looked at him. “Why?”

“You don’t talk about it.”

Malfoy snorted. “That’s your evidence?”

“No. That’s… your tell.” He hesitated. “You only don’t talk about the worst things.”

“…You’re annoyingly perceptive.”

“Well,” Harry said, rubbing his eyes and leaning back against the cold wall, “on the bright side… at least we have a motel now.”

There was a pause, Harry cracked one eye open and looked across the cell.

Malfoy was staring at him, like he was doing mental calculations for how hard he’d have to hit Harry to knock him unconscious with one swing.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “It was a joke.”

“Oh,” Malfoy said, voice dead flat. “Was it.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah.”

Malfoy nodded too, very slowly. “Funny.”

“Thanks.”

“I hope you choke on your—”

Before Malfoy could even finish his words, and before either of them could spiral any further into round eight of this week-long argument, the cell door clanked and slid open, both of them sat upright instinctively. One of the officers stood in the doorway. Same one from earlier, clipboard under one arm, “you two,” she said. “Come with me.”

Malfoy looked at Harry. Harry looked back. and they stood. She didn’t say anything as she pushed open a door and gestured them in. Harry stepped inside first and stopped. The room was plain. A table. Two chairs on one side. A mother on the other.

And a boy.

Small. Maybe seven. Blonde hair that stuck out in odd directions Eyes that—Harry’s breath caught. Brown, yes. But glowing, softly. The mother’s arms were wrapped protectively around the boy, her face pinched tight with worry. But she didn’t look afraid.

His mind had barely caught up when the woman turned toward the police and gasped, actually relieved. “There! That’s them. Yes, those two—finally.”

The officer blinked. “You… know them?”

She stood quickly, nodding, still holding her son’s shoulder. “Yes. That’s who I was talking about. The ones who were supposed to help.” The woman continued, speaking faster now. “I didn’t realize at the time. When I saw them in the park, I thought—I panicked. And after what happened earlier with my son, I didn’t know what to do. My sister told me people might come if strange things started happening. These two. They’re from… some department.”

Harry coughed lightly. “It’s a very small department.”

“Private,” Malfoy said helpfully, “selective.”

The officer didn’t look convinced, but the mother kept going. “They’ve been trying to help us. I filed a police report after the park incident because I didn’t realize who they were—then I saw them on the news and got scared. But I put it together this morning. And they’re here for him.”

The boy said nothing. Just looked curiously between Harry and Draco, eyes still softly lit, like he was trying to decide whether to trust them. Harry gave the smallest smile he could manage.

The officer took a breath, clearly trying to reorient. “Ma’am, you’re saying these two men have been helping you with a situation?”

“Yes.”

The officer looked between them all one last time, clearly not convinced but also tired. Like she’d used up her daily capacity for strangeness and was now determined to let someone else deal with it. “Right,” she muttered. “I’ll leave you to it. I’ll write up the statement. Try to keep it quiet, yeah?” Without waiting for a reply, she stepped out, the door clicking shut behind her.

Harry barely had time to exhale before Malfoy moved and crouched down, lowering himself until he was at eye level with the boy. His hands braced lightly on his knees. “Hi,” Malfoy said. “Can I ask your name?”

The boy didn’t answer right away. He looked at Malfoy, eyes wide, “Jason.”

“Hi, Jason,” Malfoy said, like he meant it. His tone was gentle, something in it dropped Harry’s heartbeat down a notch without permission. Malfoy didn’t push. He didn’t tell the boy to calm down, didn’t rush into answers. He didn’t even shift closer. He just stayed where he was, his presence less like an adult trying to take control and more like someone giving the boy a reason to breathe slower.

Harry couldn’t believe what he was seeing. This was not the Malfoy he’d shared a jail cell with today that threatened to choke him. This was the one Kingsley had trusted with the job.

Harry didn’t move. He didn’t want to interrupt whatever was happening. He just stood there, heart oddly full, “I know things have been weird,” Malfoy said softly. “And maybe a little scary. But you’re not in trouble.”

Jason blinked at him. His small fingers curled into the edge of his jumper. He didn’t look convinced, but he also wasn’t flinching anymore. Malfoy gave him a moment, then asked, just as gently, “Do you remember when the toy got too hot?”

Jason nodded slowly, but he didn’t speak, so Malfoy kept his voice exactly the same. “You didn’t mean to do it, right?”

The boy shook his head.

“Okay. That’s all right. That happens sometimes when you don’t know how to stop it yet. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Harry swallowed thickly. He didn’t know what he expected from Malfoy when this part of the mission finally showed up. This is the job, Harry thought suddenly.

Malfoy was still speaking. “You’re going to be fine. But we need to help you figure things out, so it doesn’t feel scary anymore. Would that be all right?”

Jason didn’t nod this time, but he didn’t shake his head either. His eyes were still on Malfoy’s, and he hadn’t pulled away. Harry stepped forward, slowly, careful not to break anything.

He crouched next to Malfoy, his voice quiet. “We’re not going to let anything bad happen to you. I promise.”

Jason looked at him. Looked back at Malfoy. Then gave the tiniest, hesitant nod. Barely there. But it was enough. Malfoy stood up carefully. He didn’t say anything, Just rubbed a hand across the back of his neck like he’d been holding his breath the entire time.

Three hours later, they were finally outside again.

The sun had gone down without either of them noticing. His shoulders ached. His feet hurt, but at least they were walking. And not in handcuffs. They walked side by side without talking for a while.

“Do we go back?”

“Hm?” Draco said eventually, not because he hadn’t heard, but because he needed another second.

Harry glanced sideways. “Do we go back,” he repeated, slower. “To the Ministry. Or wherever Kingsley is. Do we just go? I mean, we’re done.

Draco’s mouth twitched. “Do you have a better idea?”

Harry’s mind offered something dumb but he shrugged instead. “Thought you might. You’re the one who actually knows what he’s doing, apparently.”

“I’m trained for this, Potter.” Draco’s ears went pink.

Harry huffed a laugh. His pulse skipped. Merlin. When had talking to Draco Malfoy started making his chest feel weird? They reached a patch of lamplight. Harry stepped into it and turned to face Draco fully. “All right. Let’s try Apparition. We aim for the Atrium, safe arrival zone.”

Draco lifted a brow. “After the day we’ve had, you think magic’s going to cooperate just because you ask nicely?”

“Think positively,” Harry muttered.

“That is me being positive.”

They stood there, the lamp buzzing. Harry swallowed against a throat gone dry. The urge to reach out, steady Draco’s sleeve, maybe, or just touch him rose out of nowhere. Stupid. Inappropriate.

Draco wasn’t looking at him. He was staring straight ahead like this was just another task to get over with, Draco cleared his throat. “All right, then. On three?”

Harry blinked. “On three,” he echoed automatically.

Draco shifted like he might say something else, but didn’t. “One, two… three.”

The pavement disappeared, light sucked inward, and for one dizzying, second Harry thought he might’ve imagined it. But then his feet hit smooth, polished floor.

The Ministry atrium. He stumbled slightly, steadying himself. A second later, another crack echoed out, and Draco landed beside him, swaying once before straightening his coat and glancing around. And now they were here, back in the Ministry. Draco met his gaze, “guess we’re not cursed after all.”

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it again. For a second, he didn’t know how to respond to any of this, Draco’s voice.

Then, mercifully, someone cleared their throat behind them, they both turned. Kingsley stood just ahead, arms folded. His expression was almost entirely neutral, with the faintest twitch of an eyebrow. “Potter. Malfoy. Welcome back. You’re three days overdue. Meet me in my office.” And with that, he left.

Harry straightened. “Right, so.”

Draco was leaning against the wall now. He looked more exhausted than annoyed for once. “So.”

Harry scratched the back of his neck. “Are we ever gonna talk about the past week or are we just… repressing it forever?”

Draco raised an eyebrow, still not looking at him. “Oh, definitely repressing.”

“Cool,” Harry said. “Just checking.”

The door opened behind them. “Alright,” a ministry worker said, not looking all that thrilled, “let’s get this over with.”

Draco pushed off the wall and walked in first, while Harry followed.

And that was that.