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Harry Potter sighed as he stood in front of Malfoy Manor’s impressive gates. He looked around the large grounds, where marble statues stood tall and the gardens looked almost too perfect. The manor itself had high Gothic towers and grand pillars, showing off its old wizarding wealth. However, some modern touches hinted at an attempt to change.
To Harry, none of that mattered.
Malfoy Manor was not just an old family home; it was a reminder of war, suffering, and deep wounds that never really healed. Inside these walls, he had once heard the cries of captives, including his own. Even though the air seemed clean now, it still carried a hint of blood, fear, and dark magic—like smoke that wouldn’t go away, no matter how many windows were opened.
Once again, Harry stood here—Harry Potter. He was a survivor, a hero, and an Auror, facing a place filled with memories he wished he could forget. He focused on the tall black doors, beautifully carved with twisting designs and the Malfoy family crest at the center. He adjusted his cloak and tightened his grip on his wand before taking a slow, calming breath.
“Mister Malfoy,” Harry called out, trying to sound firm. “I’m Harry Pot—”
Before he could finish, the heavy doors opened slowly, revealing a house-elf standing at the entrance. The elf was dressed in a neat uniform—unlike the rags typical for house-elves—and wore a grumpy expression, as if Harry's arrival had disrupted something important. The elf looked well cared for, unusual for the Malfoys, who were known for their cold superiority. This made Harry curious, but he kept his thoughts to himself.
Before he could respond, the elf spoke clearly, with a dry tone.
“Young Master Draco is expecting you.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, not just at the news but also at the elf's habit of interrupting. Some things never change.
He nodded politely and followed the elf inside, his footsteps echoing softly on the shiny marble floor. Walking through the manor felt like walking through painful memories. Each hallway whispered reminders of a dark past, sending chills down his back.
Finally, they reached a large room that made Harry stop and stare.
It looked like a grand library—bookshelves reaching from floor to ceiling filled with old and new books. The walls were painted ivory and decorated with pretty gold designs. In the center were cozy sofas in deep green and navy, neatly arranged around a shiny dark wood table reflecting the soft light from the chandelier.
Harry guessed that just one of those sofas would probably cost more than two years of his salary as an Auror.
Before he could admire the room further, a smooth voice broke the silence.
“Auror Harry Potter.”
Draco Malfoy said the words like a joke, full of amusement. He reclined on the central sofa, one leg over the other, a book in his hands, but now fully focused on Harry.
Harry sighed quietly. Of course, Draco had to sit like that—so full of himself.
Draco’s face was partly hidden by the book, but his smirk was clear, sharp, and confident, as if he always had the upper hand. His eyes sparkled with satisfaction, suggesting he had been waiting for this moment.
“What an honor,” Draco said coolly. “Malfoy Manor, graced by a cherished guest. The Ministry must be thrilled to have their golden boy here in person.”
“I came on orders,” Harry said, his voice cold and steady.
He took off his long, dark coat and folded it neatly over his arm. Underneath, he wore a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing arms built from years of battling and working in the field. His black trousers looked both casual and strong, hinting at the power he held. In his right hand, he held his wand firmly, ready for use, but not raised. Showed he was prepared.
Draco watched from the sofa, lowering his book slowly. He placed it on the polished wooden table with ease, then stood up, his eyes fixed on Harry, studying him with clear interest. He stepped forward carefully, his footfalls nearly silent on the shiny marble floor.
There were no greetings or formalities.
But the intensity in his gaze said it all: he knew why Harry was at his manor today. Harry wore no Auror uniform and had no official papers. There were no witnesses or backup.
This was not a Ministry mission.
It was personal, quiet, and hidden—an investigation cloaked in secrecy.
Draco wasn’t foolish; he had learned to read the signs—stiff posture, eyes filled with suspicion, and the effort to keep control. From Harry’s movements and the weight he carried, Draco saw one clear truth: Harry Potter was investigating him.
More than that, this was an unsanctioned operation—no paperwork had gone through the Auror Office.
It was illegal, a clear violation of Ministry rules.
But would Draco report it?
Of course not.
Watching Harry enter alone, weighed down by his moral struggles and choosing to navigate the tricky path between duty and belief was, frankly, amusing—especially in the dullness that had settled over Malfoy Manor.
Harry’s presence—both annoying and refreshing—offered something the house-elves could never give: fun, interest, a spark.
“You won’t find anything here, Potter,” Draco said, a smirk on his lips.
This wasn’t just mockery; it was a challenge, filled with confidence, urging Harry to prove him wrong.
Slowly, Draco raised one hand. The movement was smooth and intentional. He gently touched Harry’s bottom lip with his thumb—neither rough nor overly flirtatious, but sensual enough to shake up his composure without being loud.
“Besides,” Draco said, lowering his voice, “you always leave empty-handed. So… what are you hoping to find this time?”
Draco was too bold when his fingers touched Harry's lips without asking. Harry struggled to stay calm, keeping his face blank. Years of practicing indifference had prepared him for this moment, and he fought hard not to show any reaction to Draco's challenge, making sure not to give him anything to take advantage of.
Silence surrounded them as Harry held his ground, staring straight ahead with a cold gaze. He focused only on Draco’s grey eyes, which sparkled with a strange, playful brightness. There was no anger in those eyes—just a hint of wicked fun.
“Instead of chasing something impossible,” Draco said softly, his voice teasing as his fingers hovered over Harry's lower lip, “why not stay a bit longer for dinner with me? What do you think?”
Draco moved in closer, closing the gap like a hunter confident his prey wouldn't get away—or maybe couldn't.
That’s when Harry’s control slipped, just for a moment.
“Piss off, you bloody git,” he replied, the words escaping before he realized it. It was instinct—his final act of rebellion.
Draco’s grin grew wider, smug and victorious, like he enjoyed every second of irritating Harry.
“You’re good at cursing me, Potter,” he whispered, his voice close to Harry’s ear, making Harry shiver from the unexpected closeness.
Harry turned his head a bit, glaring at Draco, his irritation clear—a look he had almost perfected.
“And you are a complete arse, Malfoy.”
Draco chuckled softly, clearly pleased.
“Thank you,” he said, his grin getting even bigger. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”