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Chapter Text

At thirty-seven, Harry James Potter was a man encased in laminated beige. His life, once a vibrant tapestry of near-death experiences and world-saving, had faded into a sort of domestic sepia. His marriage to Ginny was a quiet, well-mannered ghost haunting a perfectly decorated house in Godric’s Hollow. They loved each other, in the way one might love a favourite, comfortable armchair that had, over the years, developed several broken springs and a mysterious, lingering smell of disappointment. There were no children. The silence in the house was a physical presence, thick and heavy as a winter cloak.

The catalyst, as it so often is, was a completely mundane Tuesday. He was reading the Daily Prophet over a cup of tea that tasted like lukewarm regret. The headline was innocuous: "Ancient Malfoy Chateau in Provess to be Restored by Sole Heir."

A follow-up article, a society piece, detailed the recent divorce of Draco Malfoy from Astoria Greengrass. It spoke of amicable separation, of differing life paths. But a quote from a ‘close source’ mentioned Astoria’s desire for a large family, a desire that had been… medically complicated. The article tactfully alluded to injuries sustained by Draco during the war, curses with lingering effects that made conception… difficult.

Harry’s spoon clattered against his saucer. A memory, sharp and unwelcome, pierced the fog of his midlife crisis: Draco, pale and trembling in the boys' bathroom, sobbing over the sink. “My father will hear about this!” A boy who was a git, yes, but a boy nonetheless, thrust into a war he didn’t start, bearing a Mark he couldn’t refuse. And now, his chance at a family, a simple, human legacy, had been casualties of that same war. A wave of sympathy, thick and unfamiliar, washed over Harry. It wasn't just sympathy; it was a strange, aching kinship. They were both casualties of a peace that felt, somehow, emptier than the war.

The ache in his chest wasn't just for Draco. It was for all of it. The wasted years. The conversations that had died before they were born. The profound, soul-crushing normality of it all. He stared out the window at his impeccably manicured lawn and thought, with a clarity that was almost violent, I’d rather be facing a Hungarian Horntight.

His heart gave another, more specific throb. France. Draco is moving to France.

And then, as if the universe had finally decided to take pity on its most beleaguered saviour, the world dissolved into a swirl of colour and sound. The last thing Harry heard was his own internal scream of “OH, FOR FU—”

---

He came to with the distinct sensation of having been licked by a giant, frozen slug. The world swam into focus, a blur of worried faces haloed by the gloomy sky. A bushy mass of brown hair. A freckled, panicked nose. A stern pair of spectacles.

“He’s coming round!” squeaked a voice he hadn’t heard in two decades, yet recognised instantly.

“Harry? Are you all right?”

He blinked. Hermione Granger, 24 years younger, her face a mask of genuine, teenage terror. Ron Weasley, ginger and gawky, clutching a blanket. Professor McGonagall, her lips pursed so tightly they’d vanished.

He took a mental inventory. No aching back from years of Auror duty. No subtle paunch from one too many pints. Just the bone-deep chill of a Dementor’s kiss and the thrilling, horrifying realisation that he was lying on the soggy Quidditch pitch of 1993.

A groan escaped him, long and profoundly weary. It was a groan that carried the weight of tax returns, marital silence, and the crushing knowledge of how the next four years were going to play out.

“Here we go… again,” he mumbled, his voice raspy.

The concern on their faces deepened. “What was that, Potter?” McGonagall asked, leaning in.

Harry’s eyes snapped open wide. The groan wasn’t just one of resignation. It was a prelude.

Again.

He had a chance. To save Sirius. To save Fred. To save Remus and Tonks. To save everyone. To get a bloody O in Potions just to spite Snape. And most importantly, a plan so brilliant, so audacious, it made the Horcrux hunt look like a scavenger hunt in Diagon Alley.

Get Draco Malfoy.

A slow, wicked grin spread across his face, completely at odds with his near-death experience. Ron and Hermione exchanged a look of pure panic. They’d seen that look before, usually right before he did something incredibly stupid and/or heroic.

“Merlin’s beard, he’s lost it,” Ron whispered. “The Dementors have sucked out his sense.”

“On the contrary, Ron,” Harry said, his voice suddenly clear and filled with a terrifying, newfound purpose. He sat up, ignoring the protests of his spinning head. “My sense has just arrived. And it’s fabulous.”

---

His first order of business, after being force-fed chocolate by a very concerned-looking Professor Lupin, was to recalibrate his entire personality. The brooding, traumatised hero act was so 1998. This time, he was going to be… charming.

His first test subject was, naturally, the source of all his future frustrations.

He cornered Malfoy in the library two days later. The blond ponce was holding court with Crabbe and Goyle, sneering over a copy of The Pure-Blood Directory as if it were light reading.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, sauntering up with a confidence that made Hermione, who was lurking by the Restricted Section, drop her copy of Hogwarts: A History.

Draco looked up, his signature scowl firmly in place. “What do you want, Potter? Come to borrow a brain? I’m afraid I’m fresh out.”

Crabbe and Goyle grunted their approval.

Harry just smiled, a wide, easy, unnerving smile. “Actually, I was wondering if you’d done the Divination homework. Trelawney’s predicting my death again, and I want to make sure my obituary is grammatically correct. I figure you’re the man to ask about proper presentation.”

Draco’s scowl faltered. This was not in the script. The script called for Potter to scowl back, make a snide remark about his father, and storm off. “My… obituary?”

“Absolutely. ‘Here Lies Harry Potter, He Tried.’ I think it has a certain ring to it, don’t you? Or perhaps, ‘He Defeated You-Know-Who, But Couldn’t Defeat a Bit of Turbulence on a Broomstick.’ Yours would be much more elegant, I’m sure. ‘Draco Malfoy: He Looked Fabulous Doing It.’”

Draco’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked like a particularly confused goldfish. “Are you feeling quite alright, Potter? That Dementor didn’t… rattle something loose?”

“On the contrary, it rattled something into place,” Harry said cheerfully. He leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Between you and me, the future’s a bit of a bore. I’ve decided to spice things up. Starting with you.”

He winked. Actually winked.

Then he turned and walked away, leaving a utterly flabbergasted Draco Malfoy in his wake. Hermione rushed over, her eyes wide.

“Harry! What in the name of Merlin’s saggy left— What was that?”

“That, Hermione,” Harry said, slinging an arm around her shoulders, “was phase one of Operation: Seduce the Dragon.”

Hermione looked like she’d just been told Gilderoy Lockhart was actually a secret genius. “You’re going to seduce Malfoy? With… grammar?”

“And charm, Hermione. And charm. It’s a long game. You’ll see.”

---

The long game was, by all accounts, deranged. Harry Potter had become the most perplexing weapon the Gryffindor common room had ever seen.

During Potions, when Snape loomed over his cauldron and sneered, “Potter, what is this unspeakable sludge?” Harry didn’t flinch.

“It’s a metaphor, Professor,” Harry said brightly. “For the crushing weight of societal expectations on the modern wizard.”

Snape stared. The entire class held its breath. “Ten points from Gryffindor for existential drivel,” Snape finally hissed, sweeping away in a whirl of black robes.

Harry just turned and gave a triumphant thumbs-up to a horrified Ron.

But his main focus was Draco. He took to complimenting him with the subtlety of a Bludger to the face.

“Nice robes, Malfoy. Is that velvet? Very daring. Very ‘tragic Victorian heir.’”

“Your hair looks particularly pointy today. It’s a good look. Commands respect.”

In Defence Against the Dark Arts, when Lupin had them face the Boggart, Harry’s turned into a Dementor, as expected. But instead of producing a Patronus, Harry looked at it, sighed theatrically, and said, “Oh, not you again. We really must stop meeting like this.” The Boggart, confused, shifted into… a filing cabinet. The room erupted in nervous laughter.

Draco’s Boggart, to Harry’s intense interest, turned into Lucius Malfoy, who pointed a disapproving finger and said, “A ‘P’ for Acceptable, Draco? The shame you bring upon our name!”

Before Draco could even raise his wand, Harry shouted from the back, “Don’t listen to him, Draco! You’re more than your grades! You’re a beautiful, complicated snowflake!”

Draco was so startled he fell over, and the Boggart vanished in a puff of smoke. He scrambled to his feet, his face the colour of a Weasley sweater. “SHUT UP, POTTER!” he shrieked, before fleeing the classroom.

Lupin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Harry… while the sentiment is… novel… perhaps less… public… encouragement?”

“Sorry, Professor,” Harry said, not sounding sorry at all. “I just believe in positive reinforcement.”

He left a speechless Draco Malfoy in his wake, a boy whose world had just been tilted entirely on its axis. Harry Potter was insane. Certifiably, dangerously insane. And for the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy wasn’t bored. He smiled. This was going to be fun.

---

Harry’s new approach to Draco Malfoy was less a seduction and more a form of highly targeted, psychological pest control. He had spent seventeen years as an Auror dealing with Dark wizards, entitled pure-bloods, and paperwork devised by demons. A thirteen-year-old bully with the emotional regulation of a concussed pixie was, frankly, a vacation.

Draco, meanwhile, was having the most frustrating year of his life.

His usual tactics had become utterly useless. Trying to shoulder-check first-year Hufflepuffs in the corridors was now a high-risk, low-reward endeavour. The moment he made contact, a firm, unyielding hand would catch the victim, and a cheerful voice would ring out.

“Whoa there, steady on! Malfoy, my man, spatial awareness! We’ve talked about this.” Harry would then right the terrified Hufflepuff, pat them on the head, and send them on their way with a smile, leaving Draco sputtering with impotent rage.

“My father will hear about this!” Draco shrieked after the third such incident.

“I’m sure he will,” Harry said, nodding sagely. “Be sure to tell him I said you need glasses. I’m worried about your depth perception.”

When Draco attempted verbal warfare, it was even worse. He cornered Neville Longbottom by the greenhouses, a classic target.

“Longbottom, if that brain of yours was a Flobberworm, it would die of loneliness.”

Before Neville could even muster a tear, Harry was there, materializing as if from the very air. In one smooth, practiced motion, he clapped a hand over Draco’s mouth.

“Shhh,” Harry said, his face a mask of solemn concern. “Such a pretty mouth, Draco. It’s a shame to fill it with such ugly words. It’s like putting cheap rum in a crystal goblet. A travesty.”

Draco’s eyes bulged. He bit Harry’s hand. Harry didn’t even flinch. “Tsk. And here I thought you were a refined pure-blood. Biting is so… common.” He removed his hand, wiped it on his robes, and gave Neville a wink. Neville, utterly bewildered, offered Harry a toffee.

The physical confrontations were the most humiliating. Draco, in a fit of pique, ordered Crabbe and Goyle to “Teach Potter some manners." The two hulking boys advanced. Harry, who had spent two decades disarming wizards who could cast curses with a twitch of their eyebrow, looked almost bored.

He didn't even draw his wand. He sidestepped Crabbe’s lumbering charge, hooked a foot around his ankle, and sent him crashing into Goyle. The two mountains of muscle collided with a sound like two sacks of potatoes falling down a staircase and lay in a groaning heap.

“Honestly, boys,” Harry sighed, brushing off his robes. “You need a better diet. And a more creative approach. May I suggest yoga? Improves flexibility.”

Draco, left standing alone, could only stare. “You… you…!”

This was usually the point where the tantrum would hit critical mass. Draco’s face would turn a spectacular shade of plum, his hands would clench into fists, and he’d begin to vibrate with incoherent fury.

Harry’s solution was simple, effective, and utterly mortifying for the young Malfoy heir.

He would walk over, completely ignoring the stream of insults (“…filthy, scar-headed, insane…”), bend down, hook one shoulder into Draco’s midsection, and hoist him bodily into the air.

“WHEE! Up we go!” Harry would announce, settling Draco’s squirming form across his shoulders like a particularly angry, designer-clad sack of flour.

“PUT ME DOWN, POTTER! I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL TELL MY FATHER!”

“Yes, yes, he’ll be getting a very detailed owl,” Harry would say, striding purposefully towards the Black Lake as if this were a perfectly normal Tuesday. Students would stop and stare, jaws agape. Ron and Hermione would trail behind, a permanent state of bewildered amusement etched on their faces.

“But how?” Ron would hiss, gesturing at Harry, who was carrying a shrieking Malfoy with the same ease with which he carried his book bag. “He’s not even straining! Malfoy’s gotta weigh something!”

Hermione, ever the pragmatist, had theorized. “It’s not that Harry’s unnaturally strong, Ron. It’s that Malfoy is, apparently, mostly hot air and hair product.”

At the lake’s edge, Harry would deposit a fuming Draco onto a large, flat rock. “There. Sit. Breathe. Look at the water. Count the Grindylows. Find your centre.”

“YOU ARE MY CENTRE, POTTER! THE CENTRE OF MY RAGE!”

“I’m flattered,” Harry would say, sitting down beside him and pulling out a sandwich. “Hungry? You look peaky.”

After one such incident, Draco, breathless and dishevelled, finally asked the question that had been haunting him. “Why? Why are you doing this? Why don’t you just fight me like a normal person?”

Harry took a bite of his corned beef sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. “It’s simple, really. If you’re going to be mean,” he said, swallowing. “I want you to be mean to me only. I’m the only one who can handle your particular brand of dramatic flair.”

Draco stared at him, utterly nonplussed. “You’re insane.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s been said.”

The Hippogriff incident was the final straw for Draco’s pride. During the Care of Magical Creatures lesson, a vengeful glint in his eye, he decided to provoke Buckbeak, just as he had in the original timeline. He stepped forward, full of arrogant disdain.

“This is just a great, ugly bird—”

Before he could finish the insult, Harry’s arm shot out, not to pull Draco back, but to wrap firmly around his waist.

“Nope,” Harry said. “We’re not doing that today.” He lifted Draco clean off his feet.

“POTTER! UNHAND ME! I HAVE A RIGHT TO INSULT THE OVERGROWN CHICKEN!”

“You have a right to a long and un-perforated life,” Harry countered, carrying a kicking and screaming Draco away from the confused Hippogriff. “And I’m exercising my right to ensure it. This is what we in the business call ‘conflict resolution’.”

Ron, watching from a safe distance, turned to Hermione. “I’ve decided I’m not even going to question it anymore. It’s like watching a very specific, very weird nature documentary. ‘Here we see the Auror in its natural habitat, subduing the dramatic blonde.’”

Hermione snorted, trying to hide her laughter behind a textbook.

Draco, in a final, desperate bid for some semblance of power, went to his Head of House. He stormed into Snape’s dungeon office, his voice trembling with outrage.

“Professor! Potter is… he’s… he’s manhandling me! He carries me around like a… a handbag!”

Snape, who had been grading a particularly atrocious essay on the uses of newt spleen, pinched the bridge of his nose. The headaches Potter was causing this year were of a different, more bizarre quality. He found himself almost… nostalgic for the old, sullen defiance.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said, his voice dripping with a profound, soul-deep weariness. “Potter seems immune to both physical threats and verbal insults. Perhaps… you should attempt to bully him in a way he cannot simply… absorb. Target his pride. His embarrassment. Merlin knows, the boy is unnervingly cheerful.”

Draco’s eyes lit up with malicious inspiration.

The next day, in the Great Hall, a charmed paper crane, elegant and silver, flew across the room and landed neatly in Harry’s porridge. Harry picked it up, unfolded it, and read aloud for the entire Gryffindor table to hear.

“‘Potter is stupid. His hair is a bird’s nest. And he falls off his broom like a squib.’ Aww,” Harry said, a wide grin spreading across his face. “He made me a note.”

He pulled out a quill, scribbled on the back of the parchment, and sent the crane flying back to the Slytherin table. It landed squarely in Draco’s pumpkin juice.

Smug, Draco snatched it. He had done it. He had finally gotten under Potter’s skin. He unfolded the soggy note.

His smug expression melted into one of pure, unadulterated fury. Written in Harry’s messy scrawl was:

‘Thanks for worrying about me! I think about you all the time, too. P.S. My hair is wild and free, just like my spirit. <3’

A sound halfway between a teakettle and a dying cat escaped Draco’s lips. He marched across the Great Hall, the note crumpled in his fist, and slammed his hands on the Gryffindor table, making the cutlery jump.

“POTTER! WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?”

Harry looked up, completely unperturbed. He reached out, grabbed Draco by the wrist, and pulled him down onto the bench beside him with surprising gentleness.

“Sit. You’ll crease your robes,” Harry said calmly. Then, from inside his robes, he produced a slightly squashed but perfectly buttery croissant. “Here. Eat. You get cranky when you’re hungry.”

“I am not HUNGRY, I am FURIOUS!” Draco screeched, though his stomach chose that moment to let out a tiny, traitorous rumble.

Harry’s expression shifted. The easy-going amusement faded, replaced by a sudden, startling seriousness. His Auror face. The face that had made hardened criminals confess. He looked directly into Draco’s eyes.

“Draco,” he said, his voice low and firm. “Eat. The. Croissant.”

Draco, for the first time, felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the drafty hall. This wasn’t the mad, cheerful Potter. This was something else. Something… authoritative. Something that brooked no argument.

He blinked, his outrage momentarily short-circuited by sheer confusion. He looked at the croissant. He looked at Harry’s unwavering, green-eyed stare. Slowly, hesitantly, he took the croissant and took a small, nibbling bite.

Ron choked on his sausage. Hermione’s eyebrows had disappeared into her hairline.

At the High Table, Professor McGonagall took a long, slow sip of tea, her lips twitching violently behind her cup. Severus Snape simply put his head in his hands. Albus Dumbledore, however, beamed, his eyes twinkling more than ever.

“You know, Severus,” Dumbledore said cheerfully, selecting a lemon drop. “I haven’t had this much fun since the Weasley twins bewitched the suits of armour to sing a rather rude version of ‘Hoggy Warty Hogwarts’. Young Mr. Potter is a truly innovative peacekeeper.”

Snape’s response was a low, despairing groan that was lost in the wood of the staff table.

Draco Malfoy, chewing a croissant he didn’t want, at a table he despised, surrounded by his enemies, had one clear, terrifying thought: Nothing makes sense anymore. And it’s all Potter’s fault.

Chapter Text

The spectacle of Harry Potter domesticating Draco Malfoy through a combination of psychological warfare, tactical lifting, and baked goods had become the premier entertainment at Hogwarts, surpassing even Peeves’s antics. But for Ron Weasley, the sheer, unadulterated weirdness of it all finally broke his brain.

He cornered Harry in the Gryffindor common room after another incident where Harry had prevented Draco from stealing a first-year’s chocolate frog by simply plucking the frog from Draco’s hand, unwrapping it, and popping it into Draco’s open, protesting mouth.

“Right. That’s it,” Ron said, steering Harry away from a giggling group of fourth-years. “What in the name of Merlin’s mouldy Y-fronts is all this? Since when is Malfoy… important? You act like he’s a cursed artifact that needs constant monitoring!”

Harry, who had been sketching a diagram for a more efficient broomstick polish, looked up. “He is important, Ron. In a way.”

“How? Is his hair a portkey to You-Know-Who’s lair?”

“No, it’s worse,” Harry said, his expression turning uncharacteristically grim. “He’s a catalyst for a series of events that leads to a lifetime of bureaucratic paperwork, soul-crushing suburban ennui, and a profound sense of ‘what if’.”

Ron’s face was a perfect canvas of dumbfounded confusion. “What the fuck are you on about?”

Harry sighed, the weight of a man who had filed too many tax returns evident on his teenage face. “Look. This is my side of the story. A… prophetic vision, let’s call it. I’m handling the Malfoy Situation. All you need to do is be my best mate, and focus on your own crucial mission.”

“My… mission?”

“Yes. It’s twofold and of utmost importance,” Harry said, leaning in conspiratorially. “One: Ensure you kiss Hermione properly by year six. No fumbling. No drama. Two: Under no circumstances are you to date Lavender Brown.”

Ron’s jaw unhinged. He sputtered, his ears turning a vibrant crimson. “I— She— KISS HERMIONE? LAVENDER? WHAT?”

“Just ask her to the Yule Ball next year, and for the love of all that is magical, don’t die,” Harry finished, clapping a stunned Ron on the shoulder before turning back to his broom polish schematic as if he’d just discussed the weather.

Meanwhile, in the Slytherin dungeon, Draco was holding his own crisis summit with Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, and a quietly observant Theo Nott.

“He’s a madman! A barbarian!” Draco seethed, pacing before the fireplace. “He carries me! He feeds me! He… he shushes me!”

Pansy, filing her nails, looked thoughtful. “It’s bizarre, darling, but you have to admit… it does seem like he likes you. In a deeply, deeply disturbed way.”

“He doesn’t like me, he’s trying to break me!” Draco insisted.

Theo Nott, without looking up from his book, murmured, “I think he’s just trying to shut you up. And you have to admit, it’s highly effective.”

“I am a Malfoy! He should fear me! Respect me!”

Blaise Zabini swirled his pumpkin juice, a smirk playing on his lips. “Potter doesn’t seem to fear anything. He has this… aura. Like a very cheerful, very persistent Auror who’s decided you’re his personal rehabilitation project. I’m not sure who I feel more sorry for, you or him.”

“I’ll make him suffer,” Draco vowed, his eyes gleaming with a new, desperate plan. “I’ll humiliate him so thoroughly, he’ll have to transfer to Beauxbatons.”

The next morning at breakfast, Draco put his plan into action. He swaggered up to the Gryffindor table, his voice dripping with condescension.

“Well, if it isn’t Potter. I heard a rumor the Dementors didn’t just knock you off your broom…they sucked out what little intellect you had left. Must be true, given your current company.”

Harry looked up from his kippers, a slow, devastatingly calm smile spreading across his face. “Good morning, Draco. I was hoping you’d stop by.”

Before Draco could launch his next insult, Harry’s arm shot out, hooked around his waist, and pulled him down onto the bench with a gentle but unyielding force. Harry then slid a plate heaped with eggs, bacon, and toast in front of him.

Seamus and Dean snickered into their goblets. Neville hid his convulsing laughter behind a massive copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. Ron and Hermione leaned their heads together, shoulders shaking, using her Transfiguration textbook as a laugh-shield.

Draco stared at the plate as if it were a platter of dragon dung. “What the hell is this, Potter? We are not friends! I am here to torment you!”

“I know,” Harry said soothingly. “And you’re doing a splendid job. But you’ve been so busy missing me that you’ve skipped breakfast for the past three days. I don’t like it. You’re getting rail-thin. It’s not cute, Draco. It’s not healthy.”

“I am not ‘missing’ you, you insane person!” Draco screeched, pushing the plate away. He folded his arms tightly across his chest, his expression one of mulish defiance. “I am not eating that.”

Harry pushed the plate back. “Eat.”

“No.”

Godric, Harry thought, I’d forgotten how stubborn this little brat could be. He leaned in close, so close his lips were almost brushing Draco’s ear. The entire Gryffindor table, and half the Great Hall, was watching, utterly silent.

“New rules,” Harry whispered, his voice a low, intimate threat. “If you don’t start eating in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to kiss you on this cheek.” He tapped Draco’s left cheekbone. “If you reach one minute, I’ll kiss the other one. At two minutes, I’m aiming for your lips. And if you’re still being stubborn after that, I will snog you senseless, right here. We’ll get detention for public indecency, and I will continue to snog you throughout the entire detention.”

Draco froze. A brilliant, furious blush exploded across his pale face, travelling all the way to the tips of his ears. “You… you’re bluffing. You’re insane!”

Harry simply leaned back, shrugged, and began counting silently in his head, his eyes locked on Draco’s.

The silence in the Hall was absolute, broken only by the crackling of the enchanted ceiling. Twenty-five seconds in, Draco was still rigid, his arms folded, a statue of pure spite.

At the thirty-second mark, Harry moved. It was a quick, soft, but unmistakable press of his lips against Draco’s left cheek.

A collective, sharp intake of breath echoed through the Hall. Draco stiffened as if he’d been hit with a Petrificus Totalus. Harry just smiled and resumed his silent counting.

Five seconds later, with a sound of pure, defeated rage, Draco snatched up a fork, stabbed a piece of bacon with enough force to crack the plate, and shoved it into his mouth. He began to eat, muttering curses between chews. “...deranged… scar-headed… menace… foul, Muggle-loving…”

Harry beamed, leaned over, and planted another quick, smacking kiss on his now-greasy cheek. “Good boy.”

Draco groaned, a sound of utter mortification. Harry leaned in again. “If you don’t finish everything on that plate, the lip-kissing clause is still in effect.”

Eyes wide with a mixture of terror and something else he refused to name, Draco ate with the frantic speed of a man trying to disarm a bomb, clearing the plate in record time.

Ron stared, his mouth agape. “I don’t believe it. It worked. Food and the threat of public snogging. It’s… it’s genius.”

After breakfast, Harry stood, took Draco’s now-empty plate, and then took Draco’s hand. “Come on. Walk with me. Good for digestion.”

Too shell-shocked to protest, Draco allowed himself to be led from the Great Hall, a dazed and blushing captive. Harry didn’t stop at the entrance hall. He pulled Draco into a quiet, shadowy alcove, pressed him firmly against the cold stone wall, and before Draco could even form a word of protest, captured his lips in a firm, decisive kiss.

It was over in a few seconds, but to Draco, it felt like time had stopped, spun in a circle, and fallen over. When Harry pulled back, Draco was left wide-eyed, breathless, and utterly, completely dazed.

“What… what was that for?” he stammered, his voice barely a whisper.

Harry grinned, his emerald eyes sparkling with mischief and triumph. “A reward,” he said softly, tracing Draco’s jawline with his thumb. “For being an obedient little Slytherin.”

Then, as if he’d just given Draco a gold star for good penmanship, he took his hand again and pulled him out of the alcove. “Now, let’s get that walk in. Can’t have you getting cramps.”

Draco, his mind a whirling vortex of confusion, outrage, and the lingering sensation of Harry Potter’s lips on his, could do nothing but follow, a thoroughly kissed and conquered ferret on a very confusing leash.

---

While his campaign to civilize Draco Malfoy was his primary source of entertainment, Harry’s Auror-honed mind was working on a much more critical mission: Operation: Free the Godfather, Jail the Rat.

He’d learned the hard way that subtlety with Peter Pettigrew was like bringing a water pistol to a dragon fight. The man was a literal rat, and he needed to be treated with the appropriate level of public spectacle.

He chose his moment during a particularly loud and chaotic breakfast in the Great Hall. Owls were swooping, syrup was flying, and Ron was enthusiastically defending the structural integrity of a ketchup-covered sausage mountain.

“Ron,” Harry said, his voice cutting through the din with an unnatural calm. “Let me see Scabbers.”

Ron, mid-sausage bite, blinked. “What? Why? He’s not feeling well, poor bloke. Shaking in my pocket, he is.”

“I’ll bet he is,” Harry said, reaching out. With the speed of a Seeker catching the Snitch, he plunged his hand into Ron’s robe pocket and pulled out the shivering, greasy rat.

“HEY!” Ron yelped. “Give him back!”

“In a minute,” Harry said, holding Scabbers aloft for the entire Hall to see. He cleared his throat, magically amplifying his voice. “TESTING! Attention, students, staff, and one particularly cowardly animagus!”

The Hall fell silent. Even the ghosts paused their floating to stare.

“Harry, what are you doing?” Hermione hissed, her eyes wide with panic.

“Exposing a traitor, Hermione. The easy way.” He turned his gaze back to the rat, which was now trying desperately to gnaw his fingers off. “Peter Pettigrew! I know it’s you! Show yourself or I’ll give you to Mrs. Norris. She looks peckish.”

The rat let out a terrified squeak. A few people laughed, thinking it was a bizarre prank.

“Harry, mate, you’ve finally lost it!” Ron cried, standing up. “That’s my rat!”

“This,” Harry declared, shaking the rat slightly, “is the man who betrayed my parents to Voldemort, faked his own death, framed my godfather Sirius Black for the murder of twelve Muggles, and has been living in your pocket for the last three years, probably watching you pick your nose.”

Ron’s face went from red to white. “He… what?”

Before anyone could react, Harry simply dropped the rat onto the stone floor. “Last chance, Pettigrew. The cat’s staring.”

With a final, pathetic squeal of terror, the rat began to contort and swell. There were screams as a balding, watery-eyed, short man stood where the rat had been, cowering on the floor.

The silence was deafening.

Professor McGonagall’s tartan biscuit tin slipped from her fingers. Dumbledore’s twinkle had frozen mid-twinkle. Snape looked, for the first time in living memory, genuinely shocked.

“Merlin’s beard… Peter?” whispered Professor Flitwick.

Pettigrew let out a sob. “He made me do it! The Dark Lord! You have no idea the power he possesses!”

“Oh, save it for the Wizengamot,” Harry said, sounding profoundly bored. He turned to a petrified Professor Dumbledore. “Headmaster, I believe this is sufficient evidence to exonerate Sirius Black, who is currently, I’d wager, trying to break into the castle to protect me from the actual murderer, not hunt me down. Could someone please send a polite owl to the Ministry before they send another hundred Dementors after my innocent godfather?”

The resulting uproar was epic. It took the combined efforts of the entire staff to stun a weeping Pettigrew and restore order. Ron was hyperventilating into his pumpkin juice. “He… he was in my bed….”

Harry patted his back. “Man up, Ron. Think of the story you can tell your kids. ‘I once had a mass murderer as a pet.’ It’s a great icebreaker.”

Within a week, Sirius Black was a free, richly compensated man, and Harry was giving a very satisfying two-fingered salute to the Dursleys from the window of a Ministry limousine.

“Enjoy your beige life!” he shouted cheerfully as they gaped from the doorstep. He turned to a beaming, slightly unkempt Sirius. “Right. Godfather. Let’s go get a firewhisky. I need one, and you look like you need twelve.”

Sirius barked a laugh, throwing an arm around Harry. “You’re nothing like James, kid. You’re… scarier. I love it.”

Harry also took a moment to pull a stunned Remus Lupin aside. “Remus,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “I know. About the werewolf thing. It’s fine. It’s not a mark of shame; it’s just a monthly inconvenience. Like a really bad period, but with more fur and howling. Stop resigning. You’re the best DADA teacher we’ve ever had.”

Remus looked like he’d been hit with a Stunner. “Harry, I… how…?”

“I know lots of things,” Harry said mysteriously. “Now, go pad your lesson plans. And for Merlin’s sake, let Sirius buy you a new robe.”

Back at Hogwarts, with his godfather freed and his homelife sorted, Harry could now devote his full, terrifying attention to his favorite project: Draco.

The public exposure of Pettigrew and the subsequent liberation of Sirius Black had added a new, formidable layer to Harry’s reputation. He wasn’t just the Boy Who Lived; he was the Boy Who Had Zero Patience For Anyone’s Nonsense. Draco, who had once viewed Harry as a madman, now viewed him as an unpredictable, all-powerful deity of chaos. He was terrified. And, secretly, a little bit in awe.

His attempts at bullying became half-hearted, pathetic affairs. He’d sidle up to a group of Hufflepuffs, open his mouth to deliver an insult, and then flinch, looking around nervously for a Potter-shaped missile.

He didn’t have to look long.

“Draco, no,” Harry’s voice would sigh from directly behind him. An arm would snake around his waist, and he’d be lifted off his feet. “We do not call people ‘dunderheads.’ It’s unoriginal.”

“POTTER! PUT ME DOWN!”

“Nope. Time for a time-out.”

The student body had begun to treat Harry like a one-man pest control service. They would actually point him in Draco’s direction. “He’s over there, Harry, near the armoury!” Pansy Parkinson had even started leaving Chocolate Frogs on Harry’s desk with little notes that said, “For services to Slytherin sanity.”

Draco hated it. He hated the loss of control. He hated that his threats were now met with indulgent smiles. But most of all, he hated the confusing, fluttering feeling in his stomach every time Harry used that soft, authoritarian tone.

“Your actions are unacceptable, Draco,” Harry would murmur, his breath ghosting over Draco’s ear as he carried him to the lake. And Draco’s traitorous heart would do a little flip.

The bribes of food had become a daily ritual. So had the whispered threats of public affection. But it was the private moments that were truly unravelling Draco Malfoy.

After one such humiliating breakfast where Harry had forced him to eat his entire fruit platter under threat of “escalating snogging,” Harry had pulled him into a disused classroom.

“You are the most infuriating, arrogant, impossible person I have ever met!” Draco spat, his face flushed.

“I know,” Harry said, stepping closer, a small smile on his lips. “And you’re a spoiled, dramatic brat who needs a firm hand.”

“I am a Malfoy! I don’t need anything from you!”

“Don’t you?” Harry closed the final distance, caging Draco against a desk. He didn’t wait for an answer. He just kissed him. It wasn’t a quick peck. It was deep, senseless, and thorough, designed to short-circuit all higher brain function.

When Harry finally pulled back, Draco was a wreck. His lips were red and swollen, his eyes glazed, his breath coming in short pants. His hands, which had come up to Harry’s shoulders, weren’t pushing him away. They were clutching the fabric of his robes, holding him there.

“You’re… insane,” Draco whispered, his voice hoarse.

“So you keep saying,” Harry murmured, leaning in to kiss him again.

This time, Draco didn’t even protest. He melted into it, a soft, defeated sound escaping his throat. When they parted again, Harry brushed a thumb over his kiss-bruised lips.

“Just be a good boy for me, Draco,” Harry said, his voice a low promise. “And I’ll be with you forever.”

Draco didn’t understand what that meant. He didn’t understand any of this. But the feeling those words ignited in his chest—a warm, possessive, terrifyingly safe feeling—was something he liked far more than he would ever admit.

All he could do was stare up at the crazy, powerful, utterly captivating boy who had single-handedly dismantled his life and put it back together in a shape he never knew he wanted.

Chapter Text

The weight of his secret was becoming too much, even for a seasoned Auror. Harry knew he needed his lieutenants fully briefed. He lured Ron and Hermione to the Room of Requirement, which had thoughtfully provided a cozy sitting room, a plate of biscuits, and what looked suspiciously like a therapist's couch.

"Right," Harry began, plopping onto the couch. "I'm from the future. Don't panic."

Hermione, mid-reach for a biscuit, froze. Ron, who had already stuffed two in his mouth, choked.

"Wha…?" Ron spluttered, spraying crumbs.

"Time-Turner?" Hermione gasped, her eyes wide with academic excitement and horror. "But the Ministry's regulations clearly state—"

"This wasn't a Time-Turner," Harry interrupted gently. "This was a 'midlife-crisis-so-bad-the-universe-took-pity' situation. I was thirty-seven. I'd been an Auror for years. We won the war, but... we lost so many people. Fred. Remus. Tonks. Snape. Colin Creevey." His voice grew heavy. "So many."

The excitement drained from Hermione's face, replaced by a sickened understanding. Ron paled, the name of his brother hanging unspoken in the air.

"And after all that," Harry continued, "I married Ginny." He looked directly at Ron, his expression pained. "And it was... awful. Not because she's a bad person. She's brilliant. But we... we were a story that had already been written. We loved each other, but we were distant. It was like living in a very clean, very quiet museum. No kids. Just... silence."

He turned to Ron, his green eyes earnest. "I'm so sorry, Ron. I can't do that again. I can't hurt her like that, and I can't live like that. It's not fair to either of us."

Ron was silent for a long moment, processing. He looked less angry and more... contemplative. "Blimey, Harry... Thirty-seven?" He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Mum always says forcing someone to do something they don't fancy is like making me eat only broccoli for the rest of my life. I'd go mental. I... I get it."

The tension in Harry's shoulders released. "Thanks, mate."

Hermione, ever the strategist, had already pulled out a fresh roll of parchment and a self-inking quill. "Right. So the Horcruxes. We know about the diary, the ring, the locket, the cup, the diadem, Nagini, and... you." She shuddered. "We have to get them all. And we have to save everyone."

"Exactly," Harry said, leaning forward. "But we keep it low-key. Dumbledore's playing the long game, and his plan involves me being a sacrificial lamb until the very end. We're going to subtly change the script. We save everyone, we destroy the Horcruxes on our own timetable, and we do it without the body count."

As the meeting wound down, Ron, now on his fifth biscuit, asked the question that had been nagging him. "So... this thing with Malfoy. In your other life... was it like this back then too?"

Harry sighed, a complicated, weary sound that didn't belong on a thirteen-year-old. "It was so complicated, Ron. I don't even know when it started. After the war, he was just... there. A constant in my head. This... fixation. And looking back at my miserable life, I realized a lot of my resentment was tied up in things left unsaid with him. Unfinished business."

Ron nodded slowly, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. "So you're... what? Re-orienting him?"

"Precisely," Harry said, a glint returning to his eye. "He's a git, and he needs a lot of work. I'm preventing future mistakes. And I've got a plan for the rest of the Malfoys, too. I'm going to use Sirius. He's rich, connected, and holds a grudge against the old pure-blood crowd. We're going to socially and financially isolate Lucius until he's nothing but a bad memory in a tacky hat."

Ron let out a low whistle. "Blimey, Harry. That's... ambitious."

Harry gave a sharp, confident grin. "Ron, I'm a thirty-seven-year-old Head Auror trapped in a teenager's body. I've taken down Dark Lords and navigated Ministry bureaucracy. Orchestrating the downfall of a bigot and the rehabilitation of his son is a Tuesday."

---

Meanwhile, in the Slytherin dungeons, Draco Malfoy was having a full-blown existential crisis. He was sitting on his four-poster bed, staring at a small, growing pile of objects on his bedside table.

It was a bizarre collection. A book on advanced charms that was actually interesting. A set of eagle-feather quills that were absurdly high-quality. A bag of sour candies from Zonko's. There was no malice in these gifts, no condescension. They were just... things Harry thought he might like.

Worse than the gifts were the charmed paper cranes. He had a small box where he kept every single one. 'Your hair looks less pointy today. Progress.' 'Saw you hex a first-year. Detention with me by the lake. Bring a sweater.' 'You have a nice laugh. You should use it more often.'

He was unravelling, and he knew it. Blaise and Theo had started a betting pool. "He'll crack and confess his undying devotion by Christmas," Blaise had drawled. "No, Potter will just show up and move into his bed, and Draco won't even complain," Theo had countered, not looking up from his book.

Draco sighed, flopping back onto his pillows. Every thought of Harry Potter made him want to smile, a reaction so horrifying he'd practiced scowling in the mirror for an hour to counteract it. The Sacred Twenty-Eight? Pure-blood supremacy? It all felt like dusty, boring homework compared to the thrilling, terrifying reality of Harry's attention. The way Harry kissed him, the firm promise of "forever"—it was making him soft. He was no longer a constant bully. Now, when he opened his mouth to deliver a cutting remark, he'd hear Harry's voice in his head: 'Such a pretty mouth. Such a shame.' And the words would die on his tongue.

The change was so noticeable that even the staff had to adjust. Snape and Dumbledore, observing the sudden drop in student complaints about Malfoy, had been forced to scrap their original plans. "It seems," Dumbledore had mused, his eyes twinkling, "that young Mr. Potter has implemented a more effective disciplinary policy than all the detentions in the world. We shall have to find a new role for Mr. Malfoy in our... schemes."

Today, Draco was trying to maintain some semblance of dignity, reading a book at the Slytherin table. He was so engrossed in not thinking about green eyes that he didn't notice the familiar silver crane until it fluttered gracefully down and landed right in the middle of his paragraph.

His heart did a ridiculous little flip. He looked around furtively, then unfolded it.

The message was simple, written in that messy, confident scrawl.

'Have a nice day.'

That was it. No threats, no bribes, no declarations. Just a simple, kind wish.

A slow, unstoppable blush crept up Draco's neck, painting his cheeks a soft pink. He fought the smile tugging at his lips, losing the battle spectacularly. He carefully folded the crane back up and slipped it into his robe pocket, right over his heart.

Blaise, watching from across the table, silently slid a Galleon over to a smirking Theo Nott.

Draco Malfoy was well and truly caught. And for the first time, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to be free.

---

Harry approached his summer at Grimmauld Place with the strategic precision of a general planning a coup. His primary objective: secure the support of his godfather for Operation: Rehabilitate the Malfoys. He knew a direct assault would fail. Sirius’s hatred for the Malfoy branch of the Black family tree was a foundational pillar of his personality, right up there with his love of motorbikes and his disdain for socks.

He bided his time, letting Sirius enjoy the novelty of freedom and godfatherhood. He helped Kreacher (with a combination of firm kindness and threats involving Dobby) clean the place up. He listened to Sirius’s loud, rambling stories about the Marauders, nodding at the appropriate moments. He was the picture of a reasonable, level-headed teenager.

Which, of course, made Sirius deeply suspicious.

“You’re being weirdly calm, pup,” Sirius remarked one evening, as they and Remus lounged in the newly de-doxified drawing-room. “No sneaking out? No plotting? Who are you and what have you done with Harry?”

“Just maturing, Padfoot,” Harry said serenely, sipping his pumpkin juice. “A near-death experience with a Dementor really puts life into perspective.”

Remus, who had been reading a book, peered over the top of it with a knowing look. “He’s planning something.”

“I am,” Harry admitted, putting his glass down. “It’s about the House of Black.”

Sirius groaned, slumping in his armchair. “Oh, not this again. If you’re going to ask me to reconcile with my dear old mum’s portrait, I’ll hex myself.”

“Nothing so dramatic,” Harry assured him. “It’s about… salvaging the legacy. The true legacy. Not the bigoted, inbred one, but the one of power, influence, and, let’s be honest, fabulous hair.”

Sirius looked intrigued despite himself. “Go on.”

“The Malfoys,” Harry began, and Sirius immediately scowled. “Are a lost cause,” Harry finished smoothly. “Lucius is a pompous, prejudice-riddled peacock who will get his comeuppance. I don’t care about him.”

This took the wind out of Sirius’s sails. “Oh. Right. Good.”

“But,” Harry continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “Narcissa and Draco… they are Blacks. Their blood is your blood, Sirius. And they are trapped in that gilded cage of pure-blood nonsense. It’s a tragedy. The noble and most ancient House of Black, brought so low by association with the Malfoys. We can’t just let it wither. We have to redirect them. Bring them back to the right path.”

He painted a picture of a redeemed Black dynasty, powerful but not prejudiced, influential for good. He appealed to Sirius’s buried sense of family pride and his deep-seated desire to spite everything his parents stood for by being a better Black than they ever were.

Sirius was silent, a war playing out on his face. “Narcissa… she’s stuck on Lucius. Thinks the sun shines out of his… perfectly polished cane.”

“I’m not asking you to have tea with her,” Harry said reasonably. “I’m asking you to support me in convincing Draco. He’s the key. He’s young, malleable. If we can show him there’s another way, a better way, we can save the Black line from total corruption. He’s your heir, in a way, isn’t he?”

This was a masterstroke. The idea of Draco Malfoy being his heir was horrifying to Sirius, but the idea of moulding Draco Malfoy into a non-evil heir was a challenge he couldn’t resist.

“I…” Sirius began to protest, but Remus finally closed his book.

“It’s a sound strategy, Padfoot,” Remus said, his voice calm and logical. “If we can pull the Malfoys, or even just Draco and Narcissa, away from Lucius’s influence, it weakens Voldemort’s support base significantly. It would be a huge boon for the Order.”

Harry nodded solemnly, not mentioning that his future-self’s opinion of the Order’s efficiency was roughly on par with his opinion of Gilderoy Lockhart’s duelling skills. Let them believe it was for the war effort for now.

Sirius looked from Harry’s earnest, strategically brilliant face to Remus’s sensible one. He threw his hands up in the air. “FINE! Fine. But I’m not sending him a birthday present. And if he calls me ‘Uncle Padfoot,’ I’m disowning him before we even start.”

“Noted,” Harry said, a triumphant gleam in his eye. Phase one: complete.

---

Meanwhile, at Malfoy Manor, a different kind of operation was underway, one far more subtle and devastating: Operation: Seduce Draco Malfoy Via Postal Service.

Draco’s summer had begun with a sulk, expecting to be bored out of his skull. Instead, it had become a whirlwind of anticipation. Every morning, a different owl would arrive at his window, bearing a letter sealed with a simple ‘P’.

The letters were a revelation. They weren’t love poems—Merlin, no. They were… Harry.

‘Dear Draco,

Saw a peacock today that reminded me of your father. I considered setting its tail on fire, but remembered my promise to be a good influence. Hope you’re having a less flammable day.

-H’

‘The Weasleys have sent another howler. Apparently, I’ve ‘corrupted’ their son by telling him it’s okay to have feelings. The horror. What’s the most dramatic thing you’ve seen this week? I bet you can top it.

-H’

‘P.S. I miss the way you scowl. It’s art.’

Accompanying the letters were gifts. Not expensive, pure-blood approved trinkets, but thoughtful, weird, personal things. A book on advanced broomstick mechanics. A bag of every flavour beans with a note: ‘The earwax ones are a test of character.’ And then, the final straw: a muggle novel, ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray.’ The note attached read: ‘Thought you’d appreciate a story about a man who’s far too pretty for his own good.’

Draco, who had initially sniffed at the “muggle filth,” now hid under his silk sheets with a lumos-lit wand, devouring the book. He was enthralled. He’d even, to his own shock, muttered a “thank you” to a house-elf who brought him tea.

Narcissa Malfoy observed the transformation with growing unease. Her son was… smiling. Softly. At nothing. He was polite. He had stopped complaining about Mudbloods and blood traitors. He was, for all intents and purposes, possessed.

“Draco, darling,” she said one afternoon, watching him carefully re-fold a letter with a soppy expression. “Is everything… quite alright? You seem… different.”

“I’m perfectly fine, Mother,” Draco said, his voice disturbingly pleasant.

Lucius, overhearing from behind his copy of The Prophet, merely shrugged. “He’s still top of his class, isn’t he? Still the Malfoy heir? A few quirks are to be expected in a growing boy. Probably a phase.”

Late at night, curled in his vast, cold bed, Draco would take out the small, charmed box where he kept every single letter and crane. He’d trace Harry’s handwriting, his heart doing a funny little flutter. He was no longer just softening. He was a puddle. A gooey, besotted, utterly conquered puddle.

He was deeply, hopelessly, and completely in love with Harry Potter.

And the most terrifying part was, he didn’t want to be saved. He re-read the final line of Harry’s last letter, the one that made his breath catch every time.

‘Be good. I’ll see you soon. And then I’m never letting you go.’

Draco hugged the letter to his chest, a slow, blissful smile spreading across his face. For the first time in his life, the idea of being caught forever didn’t sound like a threat. It sounded like a promise.

Chapter Text

Harry’s summer correspondence was a masterclass in multi-tasking. He wrote to Ron and Hermione with strategic updates (coded as “broom maintenance tips”), he soothed Sirius’s occasional flare-ups of “Why are we saving the Malfoys again?!” with reminders of their noble Black-family-salvaging mission, and he wrote to Remus.

Remus’s letter had been gracious but firm. He explained that while Harry’s unwavering acceptance meant more than he could say, the post-transformation recovery time was simply incompatible with a teaching schedule. He needed to focus on his health.

Harry wrote back immediately. ‘Professor, I completely understand. Your wellbeing is what matters most. Just know that you have a standing invitation for Sunday roast at Grimmauld Place whenever you’re up for it. Padfoot promises not to howl at the moon, though I can’t speak for his table manners. All the best, Harry.’

It was respectful, supportive, and made Remus smile. It was also a calculated move. By handling Remus’s departure with such grace, he cemented his reputation as the most mature thirteen-year-old on the planet, making his subsequent, more unhinged plans seem oddly credible.

His most dedicated penpal, however, was Draco.

The Malfoy heir’s responses had evolved from sputtering outrage to something resembling a dialogue. It was a thing of beauty, a slow, postal seduction.

Harry’s Letter (Week 1):

‘Dear Draco,

Sirius tried to cook breakfast. The fire department is here. It’s a bit dramatic. Hope your morning is less… flammable.

-H’

Draco’s Response:

‘Do not write to me, Potter.

-Malfoy’

Harry’s Letter (Week 2):

‘Dear Draco,

Found a photo of your mother from her school days. Sirius says she was less stuck-up than her sister. High praise. You have her nose. It’s a good nose.

-H’

Draco’s Response:

‘My mother’s nose is none of your concern. And stop talking about my family’s matters.

-Malfoy’

Harry’s Letter (Week 3):

‘Dear Draco,

Been reading about the properties of moonstone. Fascinating stuff.

P.S. We’re getting a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. A retired Auror named Mad-Eye Moody. He’s a bit… intense. Likes to check for curses in his morning tea.

-H’

This finally broke through Draco’s defences. The response came quicker than usual.

Draco’s Response:

‘Potter,

How could you possibly know who our next professor is? The term hasn’t even been announced. Are you and Dumbledore sharing a secret calendar?

-Malfoy’

Harry grinned, quill flying.

Harry’s Letter:

‘I know everything, Draco. It’s part of my charm. For instance, I know next year there’s going to be a big, flashy, and incredibly dangerous tournament. And against my will, and all known rules of logic and safety, my name is going to come out of the Goblet of Fire, making me the fourth champion. Don’t worry about me too much, though. I’ll probably survive. Maybe. 60/40 chance.

-H’

He sealed it with a smirk. The key to handling Draco, he’d learned, was to mix terrifying truths with absurd nonchalance.

The reply was almost immediate, the owl looking distinctly harassed.

Draco’s Response:

‘Your idea of a joke is in appalling taste, Potter. A tournament? Your name coming out? That’s not funny. It’s statistically improbable and idiotic. Even for you.

-Malfoy’

Harry wrote back straight away.

Harry’s Letter:

‘Thanks for worrying about me. It’s sweet. See you on the train. Try not to miss me too much.

-H’

---

In the opulent silence of Malfoy Manor, Draco scowled at the latest letter, crumpling it in his fist before carefully smoothing it out again. ‘Probably survive. Maybe. 60/40 chance.’ What in Salazar’s name was Potter on about?

His mind, now constantly tuned to the ‘Harry Potter Frequency,’ began connecting disjointed snippets. He thought of his parents’ hushed conversations in the drawing-room, fragments catching on the air like spider silk.

“…the Dark Lord’s plans are compromised…” his father had hissed.

“…without Pettigrew, the path is unclear…” his mother had murmured.

“…the boy… Potter… he is an unpredictable variable…”

He thought of Harry’s unnerving calmness all last year. The way he’d exposed Pettigrew with the theatrical flair of a stage magician. The way he carried himself not like a boy, but like a man who had already seen the ending of the book.

Draco didn’t know which side he was on anymore. The side with his father, the cold, certain world of pure-blood supremacy and a whispering, faceless Dark Lord? Or the side with the insane, green-eyed boy who sent him sour candies, kissed him senseless in alcoves, and wrote letters predicting his own potential demise with a cavalier shrug?

The old Draco would have relished the idea of Harry Potter in mortal peril. This new, softened, correspondance-ruined Draco felt a cold knot of dread in his stomach. He looked at the pile of Harry’s letters, at the charmed paper crane sitting on his desk. He thought of Harry’s lips on his and the whispered promise of ‘forever.’

He scowled again, a feeble attempt to summon his old Malfoy haughtiness. It didn’t work. All he could muster was a quiet, desperate hope that the infuriating, captivating lunatic was, for once, just making a very poorly timed joke.

---

The return to Hogwarts was, for Draco Malfoy, a descent into a terrifying new reality where Harry Potter was not just an annoying crush but a bona fide prophet of doom.

The first blow came during the Start-of-Term Feast. Dumbledore introduced their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. When Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody clunked his way to the staff table, his electric-blue eye whirring independently in its socket, Draco’s fork, laden with shepherd's pie, froze halfway to his mouth. His jaw went slack.

“He was right,” Draco whispered, the words tasting like ash. “He was right about Moody.”

Blaise Zabini, seated beside him, followed his gaze. “What’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen Peeves in a tutu.”

Draco didn’t answer. He just shook his head, a cold dread seeping into his bones. If Harry was right about the paranoid, wooden-legged Auror, then the other thing… the tournament…

As if on cue, Dumbledore’s voice rose again, announcing the return of the Triwizard Tournament.

A high-pitched, entirely undignified yelp escaped Draco’s lips. Every head at the Slytherin table turned to stare. He ignored them, his wide, grey eyes snapping to the Gryffindor table, seeking out a certain bespectacled idiot.

Harry was already looking at him. And he had the audacity to offer a small, soft, infuriatingly calm smile, as if to say, ‘Told you so.’

Draco felt the world tilt. This wasn’t a joke. This was a disaster in the making.

The moment the feast ended, Draco moved with the single-minded focus of a shark that had spotted a particularly juicy, scarred swimmer. He cut through the crowd, ignored Pansy’s call, and marched straight up to the Gryffindor trio.

“Weasley, Granger, move,” he snapped, his voice tight.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look of profound weariness. “Go on, Harry,” Ron sighed. “Your… project is having a meltdown.”

“He’s all yours, Malfoy,” Hermione added, shaking her head. “Try not to break him. We’ve grown fond of him.”

Without another word, Draco grabbed Harry by the wrist and dragged him from the Great Hall, ignoring the stares and whispers. He didn’t stop until he’d shoved Harry into the first abandoned classroom he could find, slamming the door shut with a bang that echoed in the dusty silence.

He rounded on Harry, his chest heaving. “Is it true? All of it? The tournament? Your name coming out?”

“Yes,” Harry said simply.

“Then you have to run away!” Draco’s voice was frantic, edged with panic. “Get on your broom and fly to… to Albania! Anywhere! Potter, participating in this is… it’s a death wish! They don’t let underage wizards compete for a reason!”

Harry looked at him, really looked at him. He saw the genuine fear in Draco’s eyes, the way his usually pale face was flushed with anxiety. It was a far cry from the gleeful malice he’d once shown at Harry’s misfortunes. A warm, fond feeling bloomed in Harry’s chest.

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Draco, pulling the startled Slytherin into a firm, tight hug.

“Thank you for worrying about me,” Harry murmured into his ear.

Draco stiffened, then melted for a fraction of a second before pushing him away, a brilliant blush staining his cheeks. “I’m not— I don’t— I just hate to see people die! And I hate you! But I don’t want you to die, you ridiculous, scar-headed martyr!”

Harry just smiled, a soft, understanding smile that made Draco’s heart stutter. He pulled him back into the hug, holding him tighter this time. “Yes, you hate me. I know. I don’t care. Just… keep talking to me. And hate me. It’s fine.”

Draco’s protest died in his throat. His heart was hammering against his ribs so hard he was sure Harry could feel it. He was trapped. Trapped by strong arms, a calm voice, and his own traitorous, fluttering emotions.

“Fine,” Draco mumbled into Harry’s shoulder, his voice muffled. “But you have to tell me everything. All of it. No more cryptic letters.”

So Harry did. He told him about the Hungarian Horntail, the egg clue, the Black Lake, and the maze. He kept his voice level, factual, as if describing a particularly challenging Quidditch play.

Draco listened, his face growing paler with each detail. “A dragon? You have to face a dragon? And swim in that freezing lake? With the Grindylows?!” He began pacing, a whirlwind of frantic energy. “Right. Okay. We need a plan. A proper plan. I’ll research dragon-repelling charms. And you’ll need gillyweed, obviously. I’ll have a house-elf procure some. And for the maze, we’ll need a way to communicate, a two-way mirror or something—”

While Draco was spiralling into a beautiful, panicked monologue about contingency plans and survival tactics, Harry decided to employ his favourite method of conflict resolution.

He stepped into Draco’s path, cupped his face in his hands, and kissed him.

It was a deep, silencing, thoroughly distracting kiss. When Harry finally pulled back, Draco was left breathless, his frantic planning replaced by a dazed, lip-bruised stupor.

Harry rested his forehead against Draco’s, their breaths mingling in the quiet room. “We need a plan,” Harry said softly, “but not just for me. We need a plan to make sure Cedric Diggory lives. And we need a plan to make sure the Dark Lord doesn’t return.”

Draco’s eyes, which had been glazed, snapped back into focus. He stared at Harry, the truth of it all crashing down on him. This wasn’t just about a tournament. This was about… everything.

“How…” Draco whispered, his voice hoarse. “How could you possibly know all this?”

Harry’s gaze was unwavering, intense. “I’ll make sure you and your mother are unharmed in all of this, Draco. I promise. I just need you on my side.”

“Why?” Draco asked, the word a fragile thing in the space between them. “Why me?”

Harry’s thumb stroked his cheek. “Because I want you to be,” he said, his voice low and certain. “I just need you to be willing to be on my side. To trust me.”

Draco didn’t respond with words. He didn’t pull away. He just stood there, his forehead pressed to Harry’s, his frantic energy spent, replaced by a quiet, terrifying surrender. He didn’t say yes. He didn’t have to.

In the stillness of the abandoned classroom, with the weight of a deadly tournament and a Dark Lord’s return hanging over them, Harry knew. Draco Malfoy was already on his side.

---

The revelations kept coming, each more unbelievable than the last. After the Triwizard bomb had been dropped, Harry decided to arm Draco with the full, unvarnished truth—or at least, a strategic portion of it.

“Also,” Harry said casually as they walked by the lake, “Moody isn’t Moody.”

Draco stumbled over a perfectly flat patch of grass. “What?”

“He’s Barty Crouch Jr. in disguise. Using Polyjuice Potion. Keep an eye on him—he licks his lips a lot. It’s a tell.”

Draco stared at him, his mind reeling. An escaped Death Eater was teaching them Defence Against the Dark Arts. It was so brazen it was almost admirable. “How do you—?”

“And another thing,” Harry plowed on, a glint in his eye. “Don’t be a little shit in front of him. Last time, he got so annoyed he turned you into a ferret and bounced you down a corridor. It was… well, it was fitting, but also highly undignified.”

Draco’s face contorted in horror. “He did WHAT? A FERRET?!” The indignity was worse than the danger. “Potter, I swear, if you are lying to me—”

“I’m not,” Harry said, his tone shifting to something more serious. “I’ll tell you how I know all of this once this is over. It’s… complicated. And heartbreaking. But I will. Right now, all I need is for you to be safe. And if you still want to hate me after I’ve explained, that’s fine.”

Draco looked away, a storm of confusion in his grey eyes. “You’re a fool,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it.

As the Goblet of Fire was placed in the Entrance Hall, the castle thrummed with excitement. Every student of age put their name in with trembling hands and grandiose dreams. Harry, of course, did not. He’d already informed a skeptical Ron, “My name’s going to come out anyway. And you’re going to be the thing I have to save from the bottom of the Black Lake, so maybe practice holding your breath.”

Hermione, taking a more practical approach, had buried herself in the library, emerging with a stack of books on dragons so high it threatened to topple over. Unbeknownst to her, Draco was conducting his own parallel research in the Slytherin dungeon. The competition between them to be Harry’s most prepared survival coach was fierce, if unspoken.

Draco eventually cornered Harry, dragging him into yet another dusty classroom and slamming a heavy tome titled ‘Dragon-Breeding for Pleasure and Profit’ onto a desk.

“Right. Hungarian Horntail,” Draco announced, pointing a pale finger at a terrifying illustration. “Its scales are like iron, its fire can melt rock, and its tail is studded with spikes as long as your arm. We need to focus on agility. The Conjunctivitus Curse is a possibility, but it requires getting dangerously close. Perhaps a diversionary tactic…”

Harry, who had faced this particular dragon in a past life and had zero interest in reliving the academic prep, found a much more appealing use for their time. While Draco was mid-sentence about tail-spike circumference, Harry gently closed the book, took Draco’s face in his hands, and kissed him.

Draco made a muffled sound of protest against his lips, which Harry expertly ignored. He was making up for lost time. Every kiss, every touch, was filling a hollow ache he’d carried for two decades—the ache of not knowing what he wanted, and now knowing with absolute certainty.

After a long, thorough snogging session that left Draco flushed and flustered, he scowled, pushing Harry away half-heartedly. “We were researching, you idiot!”

“I’m researching the structural integrity of your resolve,” Harry quipped, grinning. “It’s delightfully weak.”

“I hate you,” Draco mumbled, not meeting his eyes and very pointedly not re-opening the dragon book.

The night of the champion selection arrived. The Great Hall was electric with anticipation. Draco sat rigid at the Slytherin table, his eyes glued to the Goblet. He prayed for a flux in reality, for Harry to be wrong just this once.

The flames turned red. Cedric Diggory. Cheers.

Fleur Delacour. More cheers.

Viktor Krum. A roar from the Durmstrang section.

A pause.

Then, a fourth piece of parchment shot out.

Dumbledore caught it. The silence was absolute. “Harry Potter.”

Draco’s shoulders slumped. All the air left his lungs in a quiet whoosh. It was real. It was all terrifyingly, horrifyingly real.

As the whispers exploded into an uproar and Dumbledore’s voice boomed, “HARRY POTTER! HARRY! UP HERE, IF YOU PLEASE!” Draco watched Harry stand, his expression grim but accepting. But when Dumbledore’s face began to turn a dangerous shade of purple, ready to drill into Harry, something in Draco snapped.

He stood up so fast his chair screeched back. He marched to the front of the Hall, stepping directly between a bewildered Harry and a furious Dumbledore.

“He didn’t put his name in!” Draco declared, his voice cutting through the noise. “It’s not valid!”

The Hall fell into a stunned silence. A Malfoy, defending Harry Potter?

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Malfoy, this does not concern you. I need to speak with Harry.”

“It concerns me if you’re going to accuse him of cheating!” Draco retorted, his chin held high. “We’re a pair now. If you want to get to him, you have to go through me first.”

It was a magnificent, ridiculous, and utterly brave display. Dumbledore looked utterly flabbergasted. Severus Snape, who had been watching the scene unfold with the pained expression of a man at a bad opera, swept forward.

“Headmaster,” Snape said in a low, silken voice, placing a restraining hand on Dumbledore’s arm. “A word.” He shot a look of pure venom at Draco. “Mr. Malfoy, control yourself.”

Harry, meanwhile, gently pulled Draco back. “Draco, it’s okay. I knew this would happen.”

“But he can’t make you do it!” Draco insisted, his fear making him reckless. “You’re fifteen! You’re a minor! Any contract signed by a minor is void! It’s basic magical law!”

Harry couldn’t help but smile. “That’s a very good point. Logical, even. Unfortunately, this is the wizarding world. Our logic is… flexible. And fucked up. I can’t back out.” He squeezed Draco’s hand. “But I promise you, I am not going to die.”

Taking a deep breath, Harry led a still-fuming Draco over to where Dumbledore and Snape were having a tense, whispered conference.

“Headmaster,” Harry said, his voice calm and firm. “I’ll compete.” He nudged Draco. “Apologize to Professor Dumbledore for your tone.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. He looked from Harry’s steady gaze to Dumbledore’s stormy one. With immense effort, he gritted out, “I apologize for my… fervor, Headmaster.”

Harry then gave Dumbledore a small, knowing smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry, sir. The ‘greater good’ is still achievable. I’ll make sure of it.”

He then turned and led a shell-shocked Draco away, leaving a pale and deeply unsettled Albus Dumbledore and a Severus Snape who looked like he desperately needed a very large bottle of firewhisky.

The Greater Good had just been quoted back at its architect by a fourteen-year-old boy, defended by a Malfoy. The world had officially been turned upside down.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy’s preferred emotional state was a sort of haughty, simmering disdain. Sadness was… inelegant. Unproductive. And yet, as the first task loomed, he found himself mired in a full-blown, world-class sulk. He sat in the Slytherin common room, slumped in the deepest, most expensive armchair, staring into the greenish fire as if it had personally offended him.

“I don’t understand,” Blaise Zabini drawled, examining his own perfectly manicured nails. “Why the long face? So the Gryffindor Golden Boy has to play with a dragon. It’s a public service, really. He’s been far too cheerful lately.”

Theo Nott, peering over the top of a dense-looking arithmancy text, added, “Statistically, his chances, while not optimal, aren’t zero. It’s the hope that kills you, Draco. Best to assume the worst. It’s more efficient.”

Draco let out a groan that was pure melodrama. “You don’t get it.”

Pansy Parkinson, who had been filing her nails into sharp points, sighed with the profound weariness of a girl surrounded by idiots. “Oh, for Salazar’s sake, Draco, pull yourself together. He’s the Boy-Who-Lived. He’s survived a Killing Curse and You-Know-Who multiple times. A overgrown lizard is practically a Tuesday for him. He’ll be fine.” She paused, her voice dropping to a practical, cutting tone. “Besides, he’s not anything to you. I mean, what is he? Your part-time snog? If he dies, it’s just… bad luck. A bit of a shame, but life goes on.”

The words hit Draco with the force of a well-aimed Stinging Jinx. Not anything to you. They were a cold splash of pure-blood logic, the kind he’d been raised on. And it was true, wasn’t it? There were no betrothal contracts, no family alliances. There was just… Harry. Harry’s letters. Harry’s infuriating calm. Harry’s kisses that made his brain shut down.

He wanted to protest, to list all the ways Harry was everything, but the words stuck in his throat. Pansy had a point, and he hated it.

If Draco’s sulk was a quiet, smoldering fire, Harry’s rage at Rita Skeeter was a roaring inferno. The woman was a pestilence with a quill. Her insinuations, her prying, her utter disregard for truth or decency made his Auror-trained skin crawl.

The day of the first task, as the champions were being corralled for pre-tournament photos, Rita descended upon Harry with the glee of a vulture spotting a dying animal. Her Quick-Quotes Quill was already scribbling furiously in the air.

“Harry! Darling! A moment for your public?” she trilled, her jewelled spectacles glinting. Then her beetle-like eyes landed on Draco, who had been hovering nearby with a scowl that could curdle milk. Her expression shifted to one of predatory delight. “And who is this? Don’t tell me the famous Harry Potter has a… special friend? A boy friend?” She said the word ‘boy’ as if it were a contagious disease. “Wizard and wizard? How… modern. How does that even work, dears?”

Draco went rigid, his face turning a blotchy, furious red. “You foul, little— I’ll turn you into the insect you so clearly emulate!”

But before he could even reach for his wand, Harry’s arm shot out, wrapping firmly around Draco’s waist and pulling him close.

“Yes, Rita,” Harry said, his voice calm and clear, cutting through her simpering tone. “We’re dating. And if you dare to bother me or my boyfriend with your toxic little quill again, I’ll do more than just threaten you. I’ll turn you into a beetle and feed you to the first owl I see.”

Rita’s smile vanished, replaced by a mask of outraged fury. “How dare you threaten a member of the press!”

“It’s not a threat, it’s a promise,” Harry said, his gaze cold and flat. “I know you’re an unregistered Animagus. A beetle, isn’t it? I could report you to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures this afternoon. And if you so much as think about writing a single word about Draco,” Harry leaned in, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper, “I’ll have a word with Lucius Malfoy. And I assure you, he will make your life a fate much, much worse than dead. He’s very protective of the family name.”

Rita opened her mouth, a retort doubtless forming on her lips. Harry didn’t give her the chance. In one fluid motion, he pulled his wand and, without even looking, cast a silent, overpowered ‘Gelatinous!’ spell over his shoulder.

The spell missed Rita’s head by a centimeter and hit a sturdy wooden chair behind her. With a sickening squelch, the chair instantly transformed into a giant, wobbling mound of raspberry jelly, which then collapsed into a puddle on the flagstones.

Harry blinked, feigning innocence. “Oops. Wand slipped. They’re so sensitive, aren’t they?”

Rita Skeeter stared at the quivering jelly, then back at Harry’s utterly unrepentant face. The color drained from her own. She saw no bluff in his eyes, only the cool certainty of a boy who had faced down Dark Lords and was not afraid of a journalist. She let out a tiny, terrified squeak, gathered her robes, and fled without another word, her Quick-Quotes Quill falling to the ground and snapping in two.

Draco, who had been ready to unleash a torrent of hexes, simply stood there, gobsmacked. His mouth was slightly agape. He had just witnessed Harry Potter casually blackmail, threaten, and magically vandalize his way through an encounter with the Wizarding World’s most feared journalist. It was the most beautiful, unhinged, and attractive thing he had ever seen.

Harry turned back to him, the dangerous glint in his eye replaced by a soft warmth. He leaned in and pressed a quick, firm kiss to Draco’s stunned cheek.

“I have to go,” Harry said softly. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you after I’m done with the overgrown lizard.”

And with that, he turned and walked calmly towards the champion’s tent, leaving Draco standing alone in the entrance hall, next to a puddle of raspberry jelly, his heart pounding and his entire worldview thoroughly, irrevocably shattered.

Harry Potter was not just something else. He was everything. And Draco Malfoy was, without a shadow of a doubt, completely and utterly his.

The atmosphere in the arena was a potent cocktail of terror, excitement, and roasting meat (courtesy of the Welsh Green). Spectators gasped, screamed, and covered their eyes as champions dodged fire, talons, and irate mother dragons. It was, in a word, chaos.

And then there was Harry Potter.

While Cedric Transfigured a rock into a rather convincing, yapping Labrador and Viktor Krum went for the direct approach with a Conjunctivitus Curse (nearly getting stomped for his trouble), Harry’s strategy was… different.

He’d Summoned his Firebolt immediately, but instead of a daring, high-speed snatch-and-grab, he seemed to be using it for leisurely, low-altitude sightseeing. He’d identified the Hungarian Horntail’s blind spot with an almost casual glance and was now just… hanging out there. He’d drift behind a rock formation, dismount, and peer out occasionally like a tourist waiting for a particularly aggressive pigeon to move.

Ron and Hermione, privy to the master plan, watched with a mixture of pride and secondhand embarrassment.

“He’s really committing to the bit, isn’t he?” Ron muttered, watching Harry duck as the Horntail scorched the exact spot he’d been standing on three minutes prior.

“It’s strategic, Ronald,” Hermione whispered back, though she looked a bit pained. “He said he needs to come in third. Not last, that would be suspicious. But third. ‘Mediocre but Survived’ is the brand he’s going for.”

“He’s milking it for all it’s worth,” Ron observed, a grin spreading across his face. “Look at Malfoy. I think he’s going to combust.”

Draco was, indeed, a symphony of anxiety. He was pale, gripping the Slytherin banner so tightly his knuckles were white. Every time a jet of flame licked near Harry’s general vicinity, he flinched. His eyes were darting, wide and terrified, completely ignoring the other champions.

“I don’t understand,” he hissed to no one in particular. “He has a dozen openings! Why is he just… loitering?!”

Blaise Zabini, looking profoundly bored, slid another Galleon across to Theo Nott. “I can’t believe it. I genuinely thought the ferret would have gotten bored of the spectacle by now. I underestimated his capacity for dramatic worrying.”

Theo pocket the coin without looking up from his book. “Told you. It’s not boredom. It’s a chronic case of Potter-itis. Symptoms include heart palpitations, loss of pure-blood principles, and a bizarre attraction to danger and messy hair.”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity to Draco, both Cedric and Krum had seized their golden eggs. The crowd’s attention, and the Horntail’s remaining eye, swiveled to the last remaining champion.

“Now, Potter! NOW!” Draco shouted, his voice cracking with strain, though Harry couldn’t possibly hear him.

As if on cue, Harry stretched, yawned dramatically, and then swung a leg over his broom. It wasn’t the explosive, heart-stopping dive of the Seeker he was known for. It was a calm, almost lazy swoop. He drifted towards the nest as the Horntail was distracted by the handlers trying to lure it away, plucked the egg from the nest of real ones with the ease of someone picking a grape, and drifted back to the ground, landing with a soft thud.

Third place. Secure. Uninjured. Utterly, bafflingly chill.

A wave of relieved applause swept the stands. Draco’s entire body went limp with a sigh so profound it seemed to deflate him. He slumped in his seat, running a hand over his face.

“See?” Pansy said, patting his arm with condescending sympathy. “All that fuss for nothing. He’s fine.”

Ron elbowed Hermione, a knowing look in his eye. “He totally dragged that out on purpose, didn’t he? Just to make Malfoy sweat. This is a whole new level of scheming from our Harry.”

“It’s not scheming, it’s emotional manipulation for a good cause,” Hermione corrected primly, though she was smiling. “And it’s working.”

Draco didn’t wait for permission. He was out of his seat and pushing through the crowd before the judges had even finished scoring. He found Harry near the champion’s tent, looking irritatingly unruffled, not a hair out of place.

Without a word, Draco grabbed him by the robes and pulled him into a crushing hug, burying his face in Harry’s shoulder.

“You absolute idiot,” Draco’s voice was muffled, trembling slightly. “I can’t handle that. Don’t make me watch that again. You have to drop out. I don’t care about the contract, I’ll get my father’s lawyers—”

Harry hugged him back, a genuine, warm smile on his face. “Thank you for worrying,” he said softly. Then he pulled back, his hands on Draco’s shoulders. “I tell you what. If you really don’t want me to suffer… come to the Yule Ball with me.”

Draco blinked, thrown completely off script. “The… what ball?”

“Oh, right, forgot to mention,” Harry said, as if discussing the weather. “There’s a ball at Christmas. As a champion, I have to open the dancing. And I need a partner.”

The world narrowed for Draco. The roaring crowd, the lingering smell of dragon fire, the terror of the last hour—it all faded away, replaced by the image of himself in dress robes, standing next to Harry Potter at the center of the Great Hall. The scandal. The outrage. The sheer, unadulterated glory of it.

He swallowed. “Fine,” he said, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. “If it will stop you from doing anything else stupid. I suppose I can grace you with my presence.”

“Excellent,” Harry beamed.

Nearby, Ron watched the exchange, a look of dawning horror on his face. He turned to Hermione. “Blimey. The Yule Ball. That’s… that’s a thing that’s happening.” He took a deep, bracing breath. “Hermione. Will you… you know… go with me?”

Hermione looked at his panicked expression and smiled. “I thought you’d never ask, Ronald. Yes.”

Ron let out a huge sigh of relief. “Crisis averted.”

Hermione patted his arm. “For you, maybe. I think the real crisis is about to be the collective aneurysm of the entire Wizarding World when Harry Potter shows up with Draco Malfoy on his arm.”

Ron grinned. “Worth it.”

Chapter Text

Harry Potter’s attitude towards the Triwizard Tournament could be best described as ‘professionally bored.’ After seventeen years of chasing down Dark wizards who could curse you into a teapot with a sneeze, watching teenagers wrestle overgrown lizards and solve aquatic mazes felt less like a prestigious competition and more like a dangerously negligent daycare activity.

He was summoned to Dumbledore’s office after the first task. The usual comforting knick-knacks whirred and clicked, but the atmosphere was tense. Dumbledore wore his ‘grave concern’ face, and Snape lurked in the shadows like a disapproving bat.

“Harry, my boy,” Dumbledore began, his voice oozing grandfatherly worry. “That was a remarkably… restrained performance. Are you quite alright? The pressure, the danger…”

“I’m fine,” Harry interrupted, his tone flat. “And since you’re still so obsessed with the ‘Greater Good,’ can we please, for the love of Merlin, skip to the part where you actually destroy the Horcruxes?”

The silence that followed was so profound you could hear the tiny gears in a silver instrument squeak to a halt.

Snape emerged from the shadows, his face a mask of controlled shock. “What are you babbling about, Potter?”

Harry gave him a look of pure, unimpressed exhaustion. “Don’t. Just don’t. Don’t pretend we’re all dumb. I know what’s behind the twinkly eyes and the lemon drops,” he said, pointing at Dumbledore. “And I know about your tragic, guilt-ridden obsession,” he swiveled to Snape. “I know the plan. Keep the precious Horcrux-boy alive just long enough to walk to his slaughter so the Dark Lord can be finished off. Neat. Tidy. And utterly revolting.”

Both professors were struck dumb. Snape actually gulped, a dry, audible click in his throat.

“Because of this brilliant, full-proof plan of yours,” Harry continued, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “Cedric Diggory is going to die. Pointlessly. And then, voila! The Dark Lord returns. And guess what? No one will believe me. Again. It’s a fantastic system you’ve got here. Very efficient for generating teenage trauma.”

He fixed his gaze on Snape. “Convenient, isn’t it? Being raised as a sacrificial lamb.”

Snape found his voice, a low hiss. “The prophecy—”

“Oh, the prophecy!” Harry laughed, a short, sharp sound with no humor. “‘Either must die at the hand of the other…’ A classic. A real page-turner. What if I don’t want to die? What if I’ve decided I’m not in the mood for a dramatic, fated duel?”

Dumbledore finally spoke, his voice heavy. “Harry, this is not a matter of want. It is your destiny.”

“I knew you’d say that,” Harry said, a small, cold smile playing on his lips. He pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket and slid it across the headmaster’s desk. It was a list: Slytherin’s Locket. Hufflepuff’s Cup. Ravenclaw’s Diadem. Gaunt’s Ring.

“I am a Horcrux. I get it. I will face my… destiny,” Harry said the word like it was a foul taste. “But here are my conditions. You two, and whoever you trust, will hunt these down and destroy them. All of them. Until I am the last one standing. You do your bit, and I’ll do mine.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “And if we refuse?”

Harry’s smile widened, turning predatory. “Then I’ll join the Dark Lord. I’ll tell him everything I know. I’ll help him ‘purify’ this world of the idiots who thought using a child as a weapon was a good long-term strategy. I’m flexible.”

“How?” Snape breathed, his black eyes searching Harry’s face. “How could you possibly know all of this?”

“That’s not important,” Harry said, standing up. “What’s important is that you do as I say. And one more thing.” He leaned on the desk, his expression turning deadly serious. “Not a word of this to Draco. He doesn’t hear a whisper about Horcruxes, prophecies, or my impending scheduled death. Are we clear?”

Dumbledore, looking older than Harry had ever seen him, slowly nodded. “Why, Harry?” he asked softly. “Why young Mr. Malfoy?”

Harry’s gaze softened for a fraction of a second. “It’s the same reason you could never bring yourself to kill Grindelwald, Professor. Love makes fools and heroes of us all.” He straightened up, his expression hardening once more. “But we’re different. He’s my choice. No matter what.”

He turned and left the office, the door closing with a soft, final click.

In the ringing silence, Snape and Dumbledore stared at each other.

“Perhaps,” Snape said slowly, his voice barely a whisper, “the boy is not as… mentally deficient… as we had assumed.”

---

Meanwhile, in the Slytherin dungeons, a crisis of a different magnitude was unfolding.

Draco Malfoy’s wardrobe was under siege. Silks, velvets, and brocades were strewn across his bed and floor as he held up two nearly identical sets of exquisite black dress robes.

“The silver embroidery is more traditional, but the green piping has a certain… rebellious flair,” he mused, holding one against his chest and peering into his full-length mirror.

Pansy Parkinson was lounging on his sofa, looking profoundly bored. “For the last time, Draco, Potter wouldn’t know haute couture if it bit him on his scruffy backside. He’d probably be just as happy if you showed up in a potato sack. Actually, he might prefer it. It’s more ‘authentic.’”

“This is not about what Potter prefers!” Draco lied, his voice a little too high. “This is about representing the Malfoy and Black families with the appropriate level of sophistication!”

“You’re representing the ‘Desperate-for-Potter’s-Attention’ family, and you’re doing a stellar job,” Pansy retorted, examining her own nails. “Just pick the one that makes your eyes look less like a startled vole and let’s go. You’ve been at this for two hours.”

“It has to be perfect,” Draco muttered, ignoring her and holding up a third set, this one with subtle, shimmering scales woven into the fabric. “What about this one? It’s dragon-hide trimmed. Thematic.”

“Oh, yes, remind him of the time he was nearly incinerated. Very romantic.”

Draco scowled but didn’t put the robe down. He was spiraling. This was the Yule Ball. He was going with Harry Potter. The whole world would be watching. It had to be perfect. Every thread, every fold, had to communicate that he, Draco Malfoy, was the only conceivable choice for the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Infuriate-Him.

He was so busy being a prick about plumage that he was completely oblivious to the fact that, miles away, his boyfriend had just blackmailed the two most powerful wizards in Britain into a Horcrux hunt with the threat of going full dark lord.

Pansy sighed, throwing her hands up in defeat. “Fine! Wear the sparkly one. Maybe you’ll blind him into forgetting how utterly insufferable you are.”

Draco, for once, didn’t have a retort. He just stared at his reflection, a slow, nervous, and incredibly excited smile finally breaking through his anxiety. It was going to be perfect.

---

The Great Hall was a vision of frozen enchantment. Icicles glittered like diamond daggers from the ceiling, charmed snow fell gently to vanish before it touched the floor, and fairy lights winked in the enchanted trees. It was, by all accounts, magical. But for Harry Potter, the true magic was standing beside him, radiating a mixture of haughty pride and nervous energy.

Draco Malfoy was, in a word, breathtaking. His robes were not just black; they were a midnight canvas woven with threads of emerald and silver that caught the light, shimmering like a snake's scales. His hair was artfully tousled, not a single strand daring to be out of place, and his grey eyes, usually cold and sharp, were wide and glittering, reflecting the thousand tiny lights around them. He looked like a prince from a storybook, the kind who would have a dragon and a tragic backstory.

Harry, in his perfectly serviceable but decidedly un-sparkly dress robes, felt a surge of possessive awe. If Draco is the prince, he thought, then I'll be the knight who shoves anyone who looks at him wrong into a suit of armour.

His gaze swept the room, noting the pleasant changes from his original timeline. Ron was staring at Hermione with a look of such stunned admiration it was a miracle he hadn't tripped over his own feet yet. Hermione, in her beautiful periwinkle blue robes, was smiling, actually smiling, at Ron's dopey expression. A crisis averted.

Cedric was with Cho Chang, and Harry felt only a distant echo of his former awkward pity. Fleur was with Roger Davies, who looked like he'd been hit with a powerful Confundus Charm. And then there was Viktor Krum, leading a radiant Luna Lovegood to the floor. Luna was wearing robes of what appeared to be spun silver and butterbeer caps, with dirigible plum earrings that bobbed cheerfully. She looked utterly, wonderfully herself, and Krum looked utterly smitten. It was perfect.

But all of it was just background noise. The center of Harry's universe was the blond, pointy-chinned boy whose hand was currently clutching his like a lifeline.

"You're staring, Potter," Draco murmured, his cheeks tinged with pink. "Do I have something on my face? Is my hair imperfect?"

"No," Harry said, his voice low and full of wonder. "You're just... so beautiful. Handsome. Ethereal. Like if a star decided to become a person and also be really, really posh."

Draco rolled his eyes, but the pink in his cheeks deepened. "You always spew such nonsense."

"It's not nonsense," Harry said, turning to face him fully, his expression utterly sincere. He took Draco's other hand. "Every word I say to you is true. Right now, in this entire crowded, noisy room, all I can see is you. Only you."

Draco's breath hitched. The music swelled around them, couples began to move to the dance floor, but they were locked in their own bubble.

"Why?" Draco asked, his voice barely a whisper. The question had clearly been burning in him for months. "From our very first meeting... you hated me. You refused my hand. Why now? Why all of this?"

Harry sighed, a soft, fond sound. "Before, I was just a stupid, angry kid. An eleven-year-old boy who didn't understand anything. But after I fell off my broom this year... I realized something." He leaned closer. "You were the first Hogwarts student I ever met. In Madam Malkin's. You told me about Quidditch. You told me about Hogwarts houses. I should at least give you credit for that. You were my introduction to this world."

"But I was a git!" Draco protested. "And you hated me!"

"I didn't hate you," Harry corrected gently. "That was just the voice of a stupid, angry, traumatized eleven-, twelve-, and thirteen-year-old boy. Now that I'm... more mature... I see things differently. I see you differently."

A dangerous, curious glint entered Draco's eyes. It was a test. "If I asked you to... to join the Dark Lord for me," he whispered, the name causing him to flinch slightly. "Would you do it?"

Without a single moment of hesitation, Harry nodded. "Not only would I join him, if you wanted, I'd become the Dark Lord myself. I'd take over the entire world and hand you the keys. You could redecorate the Ministry in Slytherin green."

Draco stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. He looked utterly scandalized and, Harry noted with satisfaction, deeply thrilled. "Merlin, Potter, I was kidding! I don't want you to join the Dark Lord! I don't want a Dark Lord boyfriend! I want... I want..."

"Just me?" Harry supplied, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"Yes, you ridiculous person! Just you! Alive! And not a megalomaniac!" Draco hissed, swatting his arm.

Harry's smile softened. "Then I won't join the Dark Lord. I promise."

"Good," Draco said, looking relieved. "Just... keep surviving. That's all I ask." He took a nervous breath. "I... may have owled my mother about us. She'll probably have... words for you."

Harry nodded, completely unfazed. "I can handle Narcissa. I have Sirius on my side. We'll have her eating out of our hands by Easter." He squeezed Draco's hands. "As long as you're safe, and you're here with me, I can handle anything."

As the opening chords of the champions' waltz began, Harry led a slightly dazed but radiant Draco onto the dance floor. The world could glare, Lucius Malfoy could plot, and Voldemort could scheme. None of it mattered. In this moment, under the enchanted snow and fairy lights, with Draco Malfoy in his arms, Harry Potter had everything he had ever unknowingly ached for. And he was never, ever letting go.

Chapter Text

The fallout from the Yule Ball was, for Harry, a pleasant blur of Draco-related bliss. For the staff of Hogwarts, it was a whirlwind of shocking revelations, starting with Harry casually informing them over breakfast that their Defence Against the Dark Arts professor was, in fact, a Death Eater in a trench coat.

"By the way," Harry said, spreading marmalade on his toast, "Moody's not Moody. It's Barty Crouch Jr. He's been using Polyjuice. You can tell by the excessive lip-licking. Very unprofessional."

The subsequent ambush and capture of the imposter, and the liberation of the real, traumatized Alastor Moody from a magical trunk, only solidified Harry's new reputation as a terrifyingly well-informed oracle. He was promptly summoned to another emergency meeting in Dumbledore's office.

This time, the atmosphere was less confrontational and more... bewildered. Dumbledore, Snape, and McGonagall watched as Harry entered, looking less like a beleaguered student and more like a junior executive about to deliver a PowerPoint presentation.

"Right," Harry began, bypassing pleasantries. He reached into his robes and pulled out a heavy, tarnished locket, which he dropped onto Dumbledore's desk with a decisive clunk. "Slytherin's locket. One of the Horcruxes. Regulus Black stole it years ago. The house-elf, Kreacher, had it. Sirius retrieved it." He fixed Dumbledore with a steady gaze. "You need to destroy this. No need for a tragic field trip to a cursed cave full of Inferi. A seventeen-year-old reformed Death Eater already did the hard part for you. Puts things in perspective, doesn't it?"

Snape's lip curled. "And we are simply to take your word for this, Potter? This... trinket?"

"You can feel the Dark Magic leaking off it, Severus, don't be obtuse," McGonagall snapped, her eyes wide behind her spectacles as she stared at the locket. She then turned her sharp gaze to Harry. "This is... highly strategic, Potter. Unnervingly so. Forgive me, but the Harry Potter I know is more prone to leaping before he looks, not... orchestrating counter-intelligence operations."

Harry gave her a small, enigmatic smile. "The Harry Potter you knew died once. Then he died again, metaphorically speaking, and lived a life of profound heartache. When you get a second chance like this, you stop leaping and start planning. I'm fighting fate for my own happy ending, Professor. I'm done being a pawn."

Dumbledore, who had been unusually quiet, finally spoke, a familiar twinkle rekindling in his eyes. "And this happy ending... it involves a certain Mr. Malfoy, does it not?"

Harry's smile was answer enough.

"Very well," Dumbledore said, a genuine smile touching his own lips. "Let us discuss the third task. The cup will be a Portkey."

"To the Little Hangleton graveyard, yes," Harry confirmed. "Where a homunculus fashioned from bone, flesh, and blood awaits a bit of mine to complete the ritual. But the plan is already half-fouled. Pettigrew is in Azkaban, and Crouch is captured. Our play now is to lay low. Let them think we're dumb. Let them believe everything is proceeding as they expect."

He turned to the others. "Professor Snape, you might have a chat with Narcissa Malfoy. Not Lucius. She's smarter, more pragmatic, and far more concerned with her son's safety than with the Dark Lord's ideology. She might have insights into how one might access the Lestrange vault at Gringotts, where I believe another Horcrux resides."

Snape looked like he'd swallowed a lemon. "You propose we conspire with Narcissa?"

"I propose we use every tool at our disposal," Harry countered. "Including a mother's love. It's a powerful motivator. Far more reliable than fear."

He laid out the rest of the plan: Dumbledore would discreetly contact the Head of the Auror Office to have teams stationed around the Riddle grave. There would be no grand reveal to the Ministry, no panic. Just a quiet, efficient ambush.

"Thank you, Harry," Dumbledore said, his voice full of a new, profound respect. "We will handle our part."

Satisfied, Harry left the office. He found Ron and Hermione in their "normal habitat"—a corner of the Gryffindor common room, surrounded by books and half-finished essays.

"Right," Harry said, plopping down between them. "New mission. We're going to the Room of Requirement."

Hermione looked up, intrigued. "For what?"

"To find Ravenclaw's Diadem," Harry said. "It's in there, hidden in a place Voldemort thought no one else knew about. The 'Room of Hidden Things.'"

Ron paled. "Blimey, Harry. That place is a death trap. It's where you nearly... you know." He mimed being on fire.

"This time," Harry said, a determined glint in his eye, "it will be different. This time, it won't involve Fiendfyre, or Draco nearly dying, or any other unnecessary drama. We're going to walk in, find a tarnished old tiara, walk out, and have it destroyed before dinner. Simple. Clean."

Hermione beamed, the prospect of a well-executed, low-risk retrieval mission clearly thrilling her. "A systematic search pattern! We can divide the room into sectors!"

Ron groaned. "Can't we just Summon it? 'Accio evil tiara!'"

"It's probably warded against Summoning Charms, Ronald," Hermione said, already pulling out a fresh piece of parchment to draw a map.

Harry leaned back, watching his two best friends bicker over methodology. The weight of his past life, the shadow of the graveyard, the spectre of the Horcruxes—it was all still there. But for the first time, in either of his lives, he felt truly in control. He had a plan, he had allies, and he had a beautiful, prickly, formerly-bullying-now-boyfriend Slytherin waiting for him.

Fighting fate, it turned out, was exhausting. But for a chance at a happy ending with Draco Malfoy? It was absolutely worth it.

---

While Harry was expertly playing the part of a smitten teenager, a quiet war was being waged in the background, orchestrated entirely from his meticulously kept planner.

The Diadem and Locket were now just piles of magically-scoured rubble, thanks to a joint task force of curse-breakers, aurors, and a deeply relieved (and slightly chagrined) Albus Dumbledore. The Gaunt Ring had been a point of contention—Harry had been adamant, his voice taking on a grim, unyielding tone that brooked no argument.

"The ring is not a trinket. No one touches it. No one looks at it with any thought other than immediate annihilation. If anyone so much as thinks about trying it on, I will personally transfigure them into a garden gnome and leave them to the pixies." The sheer, specific menace in his voice had ensured the ring was handled with the same caution as a vial of liquid dragon pox.

He'd even taken a moment to have a quiet, terrifyingly well-informed word with Cornelius Fudge, casually mentioning a certain misplaced investment in a troll-hide umbrella stand company and a secret love child named "Binky." Fudge had gone pale and promptly agreed that the Ministry would be taking a "hands-off, trust-Dumbledore-completely" approach to all Triwizard-related security.

Draco, blissfully unaware that his boyfriend was a one-man shadow government, was preoccupied with his own domestic drama.

"He's being impossible!" Draco complained, flopping dramatically onto a sofa in the Room of Requirement, which had kindly provided a cozy sitting room for their "studying" sessions. "My father. He's sent three howlers. He says I'm to 'cease this unseemly association with the Potter boy' or face 'consequences.' He's paranoid!"

Harry, who was currently using Draco's lap as a pillow, looked up at him with what he hoped was a convincingly lovestruck and concerned expression. Internally, he was already drafting a dozen different ways to politically and financially neuter Lucius Malfoy.

"Don't worry about him," Harry said, reaching up to squeeze Draco's hand. "Just let this stupid tournament pass. Be patient. I promise you, I will make sure your father agrees with me." He didn't specify whether that agreement would be reached through reasoned debate, blackmail, or the strategic application of Sirius's newfound social influence. The details were unimportant.

Draco looked down at him, his grey eyes soft. "You really think you can?"

"I do," Harry said, and he meant it. "I'll handle it." He made a silent vow then and there: no matter what, he would protect this dramatic, brilliant, beautiful boy. Even from his own family.

When the morning of the second task arrived, the Black Lake looked forbiddingly dark and cold. Draco, looking pale but resolute, pressed a small, damp pouch into Harry's hand.

"It's gillyweed," he whispered. "I had our house-elf source it. Don't... don't let the Grindylows get you."

Harry's heart swelled with a fondness so intense it almost hurt. "I'll be fine," he promised. Then, in front of the entire assembled school and visiting dignitaries, he leaned in and kissed Draco soundly. There were gasps, a wolf-whistle from the Weasley twins, and a sound from the Slytherin section that was either outrage or impressed shock.

As he plunged into the icy water, the gillyweed taking effect, Harry's mind shifted into a calm, operational mode. Locate assets. Execute extraction. He found Ron, tethered and grumpy-looking, then Cho, then a serene Luna Lovegood who waved at him as if they'd met for tea, and finally, Fleur's little sister, Gabrielle.

He waited. He saw Cedric arrive and rescue Cho with a bubble-head charm. He saw Krum, in a partial shark transformation, retrieve Luna. Only then did Harry move. He swam with the powerful, efficient strokes of a man who'd had advanced aquatic combat training, cutting Ron and Gabrielle free and towing them both towards the surface. It was taxing, but it was nothing compared to some of the drills the Auror Office had put him through.

On the shore, the scene was one of high drama. Hermione was wringing her hands, her eyes fixed on the spot where Ron had vanished. Fleur was sobbing openly, convinced her sister was lost. When Harry broke the surface, a bedraggled hero with a red-headed boy under one arm and a small French girl under the other, the reaction was explosive.

Fleur let out a cry of relief and rushed to her sister, showering her with kisses and rapid-fire French. Hermione, her face pale, threw a thick, warm towel over Ron and then, in a surprising show of force, pulled both him and Harry into a bone-crushing hug.

"No more heart attacks like this!" she scolded, her voice trembling. "I can't handle it! My nerves are shot!"

Ron, sputtering and shivering, managed a weak, "Blimey, Hermione, you're stronger than you look."

Harry hugged her back, his gillyweed-webbed hand patting her shoulder. "Just one more task, Hermione," he said, his voice raspy. "Then it's over. I promise."

His eyes found Draco in the crowd. The Slytherin was standing perfectly still, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his face a masterclass in forced neutrality. But Harry could see the white-knuckled grip of his hands and the slight, almost imperceptible tremble in his jaw. On the outside, he was the picture of pure-blood composure. On the inside, Harry knew, he was a mess of worry.

Harry gave him a small, reassuring nod. Draco’s shoulders relaxed a fraction.

Harry Potter was not a normal boy. He was a time-tossed Auror with the weight of two lifetimes on his shoulders. But as he stood there, shivering under a towel, with his best friends safe and his boyfriend trying not to look like a worried mother hippogriff, he thought that maybe, just maybe, pretending to be one was the most important mission of all.

Chapter Text

The third task loomed, but Harry had one final piece of chess to move. He’d secured a special pass to Hogsmeade, not for butterbeers, but for a high-stakes meeting at the Three Broomsticks. The participants: Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, Narcissa Malfoy, and one unnervingly calm fourteen-year-old.

Narcissa was, as expected, a vision of icy pure-blood elegance. She sat poised in a private booth, her back ramrod straight, her expression suggesting she’d just smelled something foul. Draco’s resemblance to her was striking—the same pale blonde hair, the same sharp, aristocratic features. He was definitely a mama’s boy.

“Albus, Severus,” she greeted them with a curt nod, her eyes completely skipping over Harry as if he were a stray dog that had wandered in. “This is highly irregular. I fail to see what the Headmaster of Hogwarts and professor need to discuss with me that involves this… person.”

Harry didn’t wait for Dumbledore’s diplomatic preamble. He slid into the booth opposite her, his movement fluid and confident, completely at odds with his age.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” he began, his voice devoid of teenage awkwardness. “If you continue on your current path, Draco’s future is doomed. Your family will live in shame and fear, a permanent stain on the wizarding world.”

The air crackled. Narcissa’s eyes, cold as glacier ice, finally snapped to his. “How dare you,” she hissed. “You know nothing of our future, you insolent boy.”

Harry smiled. But it wasn’t the bright, guileless smile of the Boy-Who-Lived. It was a slow, cold, knowing curve of the lips—the smile of a man who held all the cards and was enjoying the reveal. Narcissa’s eyes widened a fraction. She saw it too. This was not a child.

“I know a great many things,” Harry said, his voice dropping to a conversational, yet terrifying, tone. “I know the Dark Lord, as you call him, is currently a weak, ugly, snakelike homunculus, desperate to be resurrected. I know he entrusted your husband with his diary, a decision that backfired spectacularly. I know Lucius has borne the Dark Mark on his arm for years.” He leaned forward slightly. “And I know that if this continues, the pressure will mount. And one day, probably soon, they will come for Draco. They will force that Mark onto his arm. They will force him to become a killer. To torture. To murder. And he will break.”

“You’re a liar!” Narcissa spat, but her voice trembled. The color had drained from her face.

“Am I?” Harry’s smile didn’t falter. “Do you truly believe he spares a single thought for your family’s wellbeing? For Draco’s? You are pawns. Expendable. The moment you become more trouble than you’re worth, you’ll be discarded. Or worse, made an example of.”

Narcissa was shaking now, her composure shattered. She looked from Harry’s unnerving calm to Dumbledore’s grave silence and Snape’s unreadable mask.

Harry stood up, looming over the table. “You and Lucius are, frankly, incompetent parents. You’re so obsessed with a dead man’s promised glory that you’re blind to the pit you’re digging for your own son.” His voice was soft, but every word was a lash. “But don’t worry. I’ll do what you can’t. I will protect Draco. I will keep him safe, even from you and your idiotic choices.”

He gave her a final, dismissive look. “We’re done here. Gentlemen?” He turned to leave, Snape and Dumbledore following him as if pulled by an invisible string, both wearing expressions of mingled horror and profound awe.

They were almost at the door when her voice, defeated and thin, stopped them.

“Wait.”

Harry paused but didn’t turn.

“The Lestrange vault…” Narcissa whispered, her pride in tatters. “There is… a way. A specific goblet, enchanted by my late aunt. It can… compel a temporary, fleeting loyalty from the guardian dragons. Bellatrix was always so dramatic.”

Now, Harry turned. His expression was no longer cold, but businesslike. “You’ll provide us with the details. In return, I will ensure the safety of you and your son. Lucius’s fate is his own to carve, but I will do what I can to keep him out of Azkaban, for Draco’s sake.”

Narcissa simply nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

Harry gave her a final, small, genuine smile. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Malfoy.”

He then swept out of the Three Broomsticks, the late afternoon sun glinting off his glasses. Dumbledore and Snape followed in his wake, two of the most powerful wizards in Britain rendered silent by the sheer, terrifying competence of the teenager leading them.

“Well,” Snape said finally, his voice dry as dust. “That was… educational.”

Dumbledore’s eyes were twinkling madly. “Thrilling and terrifying in equal measure, Severus. I do believe we have just witnessed a master at work.”

Back in the pub, Narcissa Malfoy remained in the booth, staring at the untouched butterbeer in front of her. The Boy-Who-Lived was a myth. The boy she had just met… he was something else entirely. And for the first time since the Dark Lord’s fall, she felt a flicker of something that wasn’t fear. It was hope. And it was all because of the most cunning fourteen-year-old she had ever encountered.

---

The day of the third task dawned with a tension so thick you could carve it. The towering hedges of the maze seemed to pulse with a malevolent energy. Draco Malfoy was a live wire of anxiety, pacing in front of Harry, his usual composure replaced by a frantic, pale worry.

"Just don't go," he pleaded, his voice tight. "Let's just... run away. Right now. We can go to France. I have a cousin there. We can live in a vineyard and forget any of this ever happened."

Harry's heart gave a powerful, aching throb. The offer was so tempting. To just... leave. To let the Wizarding world sort out its own mess while he lived out his days with this dramatic, beautiful boy. He truly didn't care about any of it anymore. Only Draco.

He reached out, cupping Draco's face. "Let's not be irrational, love," he said softly, his thumb stroking Draco's cheekbone. "I want to marry you one day. Properly. With your parents' blessing—or at least, your mother's. You're a pure-blood prince, Draco. I'll jump through every hoop, fulfill every stupid, archaic requirement. I'll even learn to like peacocks."

Draco's eyes, already shimmering, spilled over. "You ridiculous man," he choked out, pulling Harry into a crushing hug. "Just... don't die. I can't lose you. I can't."

"I promise," Harry whispered into his hair, holding him tight. "I'll be back before you've finished fretting about your hair." He gave him one last, searing kiss, then turned and walked towards the maze entrance with the resigned air of a man heading to a tedious board meeting.

Just before he entered, Snape materialized from the shadows. "The cup has been secured and neutralized by the curse-breakers. The ring is dust. You are the last."

Harry simply nodded. "Good." And then he stepped into the maze.

Outside, Ron, Hermione, and Draco formed a panicked triangle, though for different reasons. Ron and Hermione were engaged in a hissed debate.

"The Horcrux in his scar! What if the spell affects it? What if it destabilizes?" Hermione whispered, wringing her hands.

"Blimey, Hermione, he's Harry! He's got a plan! Probably involves more snogging Malfoy than dark magic, but still!" Ron retorted, though he looked pale.

Draco, meanwhile, was solely focused on one thing. "He promised he'd be back," he muttered to himself, staring at the unmoving hedges. "He promised."

Inside the maze, Harry was having a lovely stroll. His Auror-honed senses mapped the paths with ease; the whispers of the hedges, the subtle shifts in magical pressure—it was all child's play compared to navigating the Department of Mysteries or a nest of Lethifolds. The Blast-Ended Skrewt he encountered received a swift, bored Stunner to the face before it could so much as spark.

He rounded a corner and found Cedric Diggory, looking admirably determined.

"Harry! Thank Merlin! Let's stick together, yeah? Better chances," Cedric said, his face earnest.

Harry looked at him, the memory of this brave boy's lifeless body flashing in his mind. "No," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "We're opponents, Cedric. It's against the rules." Before Cedric could protest, Harry gave him a firm shove into a diverging path. "Go that way. I hear the cup's over there." The hedge wall sealed shut behind him. Crisis averted.

He continued his leisurely pace, disarming a Confunded Viktor Krum with a flick of his wand ("Honestly, did no one teach you to protect your wand? Amateur."), and soon found the plinth where the Triwizard Cup should have been. In its place was a simple, wooden cup—a decoy Portkey, keyed to the same location.

He touched it.

The familiar, hook-behind-the-navel sensation, and he landed gracefully in the graveyard of Little Hangleton. But the scene was different. Instead of Peter Pettigrew, it was Fenrir Greyback who held the ugly, robed bundle that was the homunculus of Lord Voldemort. The werewolf looked even more foul than Harry remembered.

"Ah, Tommy," Harry greeted, brushing dirt off his robes. "Lovely spot you've chosen. A bit dreary, but the ambiance is certainly... mortal."

The homunculus's red eyes narrowed. "Potter. You have ruined everything. My servant, my cup, my ring..."

"Your plans were a bit childish, Tom," Harry said, strolling closer as if examining a disappointing garden display. "A betraying rat? A Death Eater who can't stop licking his lips? It's all a bit... pantomime, don't you think?" He glanced at Greyback, who snarled, dripping saliva. "And really, this is the best you could do for a bodyguard? He looks like he hasn't had a bath since the last century."

"Kill him!" Voldemort shrieked.

Greyback lunged. Harry didn't even move his feet. He raised his wand. "Expelliarmus."

The spell hit Greyback with the force of a freight train, lifting the massive werewolf off his feet and slamming him into a large stone angel, pinning him there by his tattered robes.

Voldemort was now defenseless, a squirming, furious baby-thing in a blanket.

"You cannot kill me, Potter! I am immortal!"

"Oh, I don't want to kill you," Harry said, his smile turning dark and predatory. He began to chant, his voice resonating with an ancient, powerful magic that made the very air hum. It wasn't a spell to kill, but to unmake. A brilliant, sickly green light shot from his wand, not at Voldemort, but at the magical core of the universe around him, targeting the tattered shreds of Tom Riddle's soul.

There was a sound like a thousand panes of glass shattering. The homunculus didn't die. It just... deflated, its red eyes dimming to a dull, muddy brown. The oppressive dark magic that always clung to Voldemort simply vanished.

At that moment, a dozen Aurors, the Minister, and Dumbledore himself Apparated into the graveyard with a series of loud cracks.

Harry pointed his wand at the now-magically-neutered homunculus. "He's all yours. No magic left in him. He can't so much as levitate a feather. But he can't die yet, either. I'd recommend a nice, damp cell in Azkaban. Throw Greyback in there too. They can keep each other company."

He then walked over, picked up the decoy cup, and said, "Well, I've got a tournament to win. Toodle-oo."

He activated the Portkey.

He landed back in the center of the maze to the sound of roaring cheers. He’d won. He was covered in grass stains and looked mildly irritated, but he was alive. Cedric was alive. Everyone was alive.

As he was hoisted onto shoulders, his eyes found Draco in the crowd. The Slytherin was crying, but he was smiling, a brilliant, relieved, beautiful smile.

Harry gave him a small, tired wink. He'd kept his promise.

Chapter Text

Life after the Triwizard Tournament was, for Harry Potter, blissfully mundane. The specter of Voldemort was gone, replaced by a far more irritating nemesis: bureaucratic red tape. Minister Fudge, now permanently terrified of Harry, developed a habit of floo-calling Grimmauld Place for advice on everything from cauldron bottom thickness regulations to the appropriate color of auror dress socks.

"It's the third time this week, Sirius!" Harry groaned, slamming the floo shut after a particularly inane query about regulating the import of Fwooper feathers. "He asked if I thought pink was 'too aggressive' a color for a warning poster!"

"Tell him you'll turn him into a garden gnome if he bothers you again," Sirius suggested cheerfully, feet propped up on the kitchen table. "Worked for me."

In the end, Harry delegated. He officially appointed Dumbledore as his "Magical Political Liaison" and Snape as his "Inter-Departmental Communications Coordinator." The look of profound suffering on Snape's face when he received the charmed memo (which sang his new title in a cheerful, squeaky voice) was worth more than all the gold in Gringotts.

Harry disposed of his tournament winnings with similar finality. He tracked down Fred and George in their dorm room, which smelled thrillingly of gunpowder and burnt sugar, and dropped the heavy bag of gold on George's bed.

"Consider this an investment in future psychological warfare," Harry said.

Fred's eyes widened. "Blimey, Harry... this is... this is startup capital!"

"Just promise me one thing," Harry said, a mischievous glint in his eye. "The first product you develop with this has to be something that makes Umbridge's life a living hell. I want her to break out in hives at the sound of her own voice."

The twins saluted him with manic grins.

The Triwizard Cup itself he presented to a flabbergasted Cedric Diggory in the middle of the Great Hall.

"You were the real Hogwarts champion, Cedric," Harry announced loudly. "I was just a... bureaucratic error. A glitch. A flux in the system. This belongs to you and Hufflepuff."

The resulting uproar from the Badger house was deafening. That year, Hufflepuff won the House Cup by a landslide, their common room party lasting three days. Harry, meanwhile, won something far more valuable: universal, baffled respect. Even the Slytherins, seeing the Malfoy heir not just unharmed but blatantly adored by the savior of the wizarding world, began a quiet, internal reformation. It's hard to maintain bigoted purity when your de facto leader is dating the enemy and looks disgustingly happy about it.

And Draco was happy. They were openly, unapologetically a couple. Harry would carry Draco's books. Draco would sneak treacle tart for Harry from the Slytherin table. They bickered constantly, but it was the bickering of an old married couple, full of fond eyerolls and secret smiles.

The summer before fifth year brought the final, surreal hurdle: The Parental Summit.

Narcissa, with a steely glint in her eye, dragged a pale and twitchy Lucius to the doorstep of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. The meeting was held in the drawing-room, under the gleeful, silent scrutiny of the Black family portraits.

Remus and Harry had to physically restrain a growling Sirius in his chair. "Let me at him! I just want to mess up his hair! ONE HAIR!"

"Padfoot, if you so much as crease his robes, Narcissa will feed your bollocks to her peacocks," Remus reasoned calmly, though his own knuckles were white on Sirius's shoulder.

Lucius, for his part, looked utterly defeated. The man who had once sneered at Harry in a bookshop now looked at him as one might look at a sleeping dragon—with a healthy mix of fear and the desperate hope not to wake it.

Narcissa, ever the pragmatist, cut to the chase. "We understand now, Mr. Potter," she said, her voice cool. "The... scale of your... capabilities. We are here to ensure you will keep your promise regarding our son's safety."

Harry, sipping a cup of tea Kreacher had begrudgingly made (and which Sirius had checked for poison), nodded. "Of course. Draco will be fine. And after we finish Hogwarts, we'll be married."

The silence was absolute.

Sirius choked on air. "MARRIED? Harry, you're fourteen!"

"Fifteen in a month," Harry corrected. "And I decided ages ago. I'm marrying Draco Malfoy. I'm sure."

Lucius looked like he'd been hit with a Confundus Charm. Narcissa's composure finally cracked, a flicker of stunned relief crossing her features. They needed time to process the fact that their sole heir was not only safe but betrothed to the most powerful wizard of their generation, a boy who had neutered the Dark Lord for fun.

Up at Hogwarts, Dumbledore and Snape were engaged in a different kind of battle. The hunt for the final Horcrux—the one in Harry's scar—was underway. It was a delicate, terrifying process, involving ancient runes and complicated arithmancy.

"It's like trying to remove a tattoo from a soap bubble with a flamethrower," Snape grumbled after one particularly long session in the library.

"But we are making progress, Severus!" Dumbledore said cheerfully, examining a complex diagram. "The soul fragment is... receding. I believe young Harry's own overwhelming sense of self, his newfound happiness, is acting as a natural antibody."

Meanwhile, Harry wrote letters. To Ron, detailing the Weasleys' ghoul's surprisingly sophisticated taste in music. To Hermione, sending along fascinating, obscure texts he found in the Black library just to watch her get excited. And to Draco, long, rambling letters full of silly anecdotes, profound declarations, and promises of a future that was, for the first time, shining and certain.

His life had been a rollercoaster of tragedy, heroics, and heartache. Now, it was exponentially, wonderfully, boring. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

---

Years five through seven at Hogwarts were, against all odds, profoundly and blessedly normal. The most significant dark force Harry had to face was the Slytherin Quidditch team's new, highly effective Beater, and even that was settled with good-natured rivalry and a few spectacularly snoggy congratulations from Draco in the stands afterward.

His relationship with Draco was the stuff of legend and mild student-body exasperation. They were disgustingly in sync. Harry, with his decades of lived experience, found the perfect balance of indulging Draco’s dramatics and gently sanding down his sharper, prejudiced edges. Draco, in turn, provided Harry with a focal point for all the affection and obsessive devotion he’d been storing up for a lifetime.

He became an unlikely ally to Professor McGonagall and Hermione in the "Hogwarts Reformation Front." His suggestions, delivered with the weary authority of a man who’d seen the worst of institutional failure, were surprisingly effective.

"Instead of deducting points, maybe have them write reflective essays on the societal impact of their actions," Harry suggested after a prank involving enchanted, singing chamber pots. "A thousand words on the history of plumbing charms really makes a teenager think twice."

Hermione looked at him with stars in her eyes. "That's brilliant, Harry!"

McGonagall simply sighed, muttering, "Where was this pragmatism when you were blowing up your aunt, Potter?"

The summer before his sixth year brought the final, monumental victory. After months of painstaking, non-invasive magical surgery, Dumbledore and Snape successfully excised the fragment of Voldemort's soul from Harry's scar. The process ended not with a bang, but with a soft pop, and the sensation of a persistent, buzzing headache he’d never known he had finally vanishing.

The very next day, a disoriented Sybill Trelawney cornered him in a corridor, her glasses magnifying her wide eyes.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... approached... has approached!" she hiccupped, smelling strongly of cooking sherry. "The Dark Lord has marked him as his equal, but he has... he has outgrown the mark! The anchors are broken! The future is... his own!" She then burped gently and wandered off, leaving Harry with a genuine, weightless smile.

After graduation, he took Draco's surprisingly insightful advice. "Don't become an Auror, you ridiculous hero," Draco had said, packing his own bags for a Potioneer's apprenticeship in Paris. "You've spent one life already cleaning up other people's messes. Do something boring. Something with a nice office and a tea trolley."

So, Harry went to work for the Wizengamot. His job, largely, involved telling elderly wizards why their proposed laws were "constitutionally dubious and morally reprehensible," usually while they napped. It was perfect.

He was in his office, reviewing a proposal to mandate that all Floo powder be lavender-scented, when an owl tapped on his window. The memo was brief: 'The prisoner known as Tom Riddle has expired in his cell. Cause of death: general frailty and lack of will to live.'

Harry read it, nodded, and smiled. He filed the memo away and went back to his report, making a note to argue that mandatory lavender was an olfactory imposition.

In this lifetime, the ledger was clean. Cedric was a successful Magizoologist. Dumbledore enjoyed a sprightly retirement, his only concern the aggressive pruning of his lemon drop tree. Snape, freed from his double life, had unexpectedly opened a niche apothecary that was wildly popular with a certain goth clientele. Remus and Sirius ran a sanctuary for werewolves together, a chaotic but loving enterprise. Fred and George’s empire was thriving, and even Mad-Eye Moody was enjoying a quieter life, his constant vigilance now focused on ensuring his morning tea was never poisoned (it never was). Hedwig, having never been tasked with a fatal flight, was a fat, contented old bird who ruled the owlery with an iron talon.

When Draco returned from France, a fully-fledged Potioneer with a new, infuriatingly chic wardrobe, Harry married him. The wedding was a magnificent, chaotic affair. The Weasleys cried, Sirius sobbed openly, Lucius looked permanently constipated, and Narcissa smiled a small, genuine smile every time she looked at her son, who was radiant. Ron was Harry's best man, and Hermione, of course, was the brilliant organizer who ensured nothing caught fire.

Life settled into a perfect, domestic rhythm. Harry woke up every morning to his beautiful, perpetually-slightly-petulant husband, whom he loved and was healthily obsessed with. Their peace was usually shattered at dawn by a stampede of tiny feet.

"Daddy! Papa! Al and Scorp are trying to turn the cat orange!"

This was the voice of four-year-old James "Jamie" Potter-Malfoy, a whirlwind of black hair and Gryffindor boldness.

The culprits were usually his two-year-old twin brothers, Albus and Scorpius. Albus, quiet and thoughtful, was often the reluctant accomplice, while Scorpius, a miniature blonde replica of Draco, was the mastermind, already showing a terrifying aptitude for potions by attempting to dye everything in sight.

Harry opened one eye to see the three of them piled onto the bed, Jamie holding a squirming, slightly-tangerine-colored cat, Albus looking guilty, and Scorpius proudly holding an empty jar of what smelled like paprika and flobberworm mucus.

Draco groaned beside him, pulling a silk pillow over his head. "Potter, your progeny are attempting experimental transfiguration again. Make it stop."

Harry just laughed, pulling the wriggling, giggling mass of his children into a hug. The cat, now a vibrant shade of sunset orange, purred loudly from within the tangle of limbs.

This was it. This was the life he had fought fate for. A life of peaceful chaos, of love that had healed every old wound, of a future that was entirely, wonderfully his own. He wouldn't have had it any other way.

The End.