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Harry’s bins were knocked over at eleven pm on a Tuesday. 

He had been sprawled out comfortably on his couch, feet kicked up, scrolling aimlessly through the tele while he considered heading up to bed for the night. The clattering of his bins had Harry sitting up sharply, hand already darting to the cushion next to him for his wand, only to come up empty. 

Because, right, he was on suspension. 

He was without his wand. 

The likelihood that it was a stray fox or even his neighbor, an elderly Muggle lady named Mrs. Davies, was high, but Harry needed to check it out anyway. He wouldn’t be able to sleep if he didn’t investigate, and he didn’t fancy lying in bed for hours staring up at the ceiling, all the worst case scenarios running through his mind one after another in an endless queue. Because despite what Harry had been telling Ron and Hermione for a week now, Harry was very much not coping well with the loss of his wand. He felt too exposed and defenseless without it. 

Hence why he had placed a mop near his back door, just in case. The plastic rod was thin and flimsy in his palm as he picked it up, swiping to grab the torch on the counter as well as he slid his feet into the nearest pair of shoes. 

The bins were to the left of his back door, crammed in the space between his home and Mrs. Davies’, though she was unlikely to be out in the dark at this time of night. Harry had dropped by her house once a little after eight and she’d already been fast asleep. Eleven would be far too late. It was more likely to be a fox, then. 

Harry opened the door as quietly as he could, thankful that the hinges didn’t squeak. The summer air was warm as it greeted him, kissing distractedly at his cheeks, but Harry didn’t let it pull at his attention. He didn’t turn the torch on quite yet, shutting the door with utmost care, so as not to disturb whatever was still rummaging through his bins. 

Harry was counting on the fact that he knew his surroundings better than whatever had knocked over his bins, and he let muscle memory lead him into the narrow space between his and Mrs. Davies’ homes. It was uncomfortably dark, the streetlight having burnt out weeks ago and had yet to be replaced. Harry could have cursed the unfortunate fact as he strained his eyes to distinguish the scene. 

Left with little other choice, Harry clicked the torch on, flooding the area with light. Immediately, a head poked up from one of the overturned bins, small and distinctly not human. Before Harry could even react, the creature turned and darted in the opposite direction. It was all white, fur gleaming in the light from the torch, a scrimpy tail swishing behind it as it fled. 

A cat. It was just a cat. 

Harry huffed to himself, leaning the mop against his house. A cat was no threat, really. Certainly nothing to worry about, though investigating had calmed his anxieties. 

It did, however, leave Harry to clean up a mess. His bins had been knocked onto their sides, several trash bags torn open, the contents strewn across the pavement. His trash of the last few days was on display, and the cat had clearly picked through it, and by Harry’s guess, it had decided to feast upon some old noodles Harry had thrown out two days ago. Certainly not the most appetizing, in Harry's opinion, as he’d overcooked them into a mushy mess he hadn’t been able to stomach. 

Most of the garbage was still in the bins, and of what had been dragged out, the majority was easy to sweep back inside. The rest, though, including the mushy noodles, would require Harry to get his hands dirty. 

“Stupid bloody Robards,” Harry grumbled to himself as he shoveled the easy trash back into the garbage bin. “Taking my wand. Making me clean this all up by hand.” He hesitated a moment as he stared at the pile of noodles. He had half a mind to leave them sitting there, but he really didn’t want to attract any other critters, nor give the cat a reason to come back. 

With only another moment of hesitation, Harry scooped the noodles back into the bin, along with the other gross piles of trash. 

It was harder than Harry wanted to admit not to gag as the stale noodles squished between his fingers, which was ridiculous. Harry had seen the most gruesome of scenes on the job without flinching. He had been splattered in blood and even monster guts once and hadn’t even winced. He had dug through the meat of his own arm once to pull out a glass shard without so much as grimacing. How could a couple days old pile of noodles turn his stomach like this? 

“Stupid fucking cat,” Harry griped under his breath, quickly tossing as much of the food as possible into the bin, then struggled to pull it upright again with just one hand. “Knocking over my bins. Leaving me to clean it up.” Though, he wasn’t truly mad at the cat. It was likely just hungry. It wasn’t like the cat had intentionally knocked over the bins to create more work for him. 

When he finally had both bins vertical again, Harry dragged them back over to sit beside his house once more, where it belonged. He noted, distractedly, that Mrs. Davies’ trash bins were exactly where she’d left it, untouched by the cat visitor. 

“Unbelievable,” he muttered to himself, tucking his mop under his arm and turning off the torch, sliding it into his pocket. He kept his noodle-dirty hand held off to the side, where it was less likely to come into contact with anything. 

Satisfied that the night was now quiet, Harry headed back inside, dropping the mop just past the threshold and kicking the door closed with his foot. He made a beeline for the sink, flicking on the tap and sticking his messy fingers under the spray. 

The water rinsed away most of the gunk coating Harry’s fingers, and the rest came off with some soap and light scrubbing. Harry spent far too long watching the suds swirl around the drain before he had the mind to shut off the water. 

Is this what his life boiled down to now? Bored and irrelevant enough that a cat knocking over his bins was the most exciting part of his day? 

Distantly, Harry knew he was being dramatic. 

It had only been a week and two days since Robards had pulled Harry into his office and demanded Harry’s robes, badge, and wand after a severe tongue lashing that had genuinely made him feel cowed. Two weeks—paid at that—on suspension before he could return to work. 

Harry was going to lose his mind before then, he was certain of it. Harry had never been good at sitting around doing nothing, but without his wand, he felt too vulnerable to be out in public. Hermione would likely argue that it wasn’t healthy to feel this way and would steer the conversation back into Harry’s apparently dire need to see a mind Healer again. 

Besides, the last mind Healer he’d seen, right before joining the Aurors, had deemed him okay enough to not be a hazard in the field. So, really, Hermione had no business telling him it wasn’t healthy. 

It didn’t matter that Harry hadn’t been able to calm his nervous system since the war, or, truthfully, since living with the Dursleys. That was a period of his life he’d firmly shoved into a box in his mind and refused to touch. Hermione didn’t need to know about that, though. 

Harry was a perfectly functioning adult as far as he was concerned, and it was completely reasonable to stay up until nearly midnight because he didn’t know what to do with himself otherwise. If he had gone to bed at a decent hour, he would have missed the encounter with the cat, and he’d be faced with a bigger mess in the morning as well as the question of who or what had gotten into it in the first place. 

He would, perhaps, have had less noodles to scoop up, though. 

Because he was, in fact, a responsible adult, Harry went to bed and put the cat out of his mind. It was therefore not his fault that the little white cat followed him into his dreams. 

After another grueling morning spent mostly staring at his own walls and ceilings, Harry had gotten the bright idea to see what his friends were up to. Ron had been his obvious first choice, but Ron had been far too busy picking up Harry’s slack that he couldn’t sit in front of the Floo for more than a minute. Harry felt guilty even though he had not asked to be suspended, but at least Ron had promised to come over the next evening for tea with Hermione. 

Hermione would have been his second choice, but he knew better than to interrupt her before five o’clock on a weekday. So he’d reached out to Luna next, but she’d spent the better part of an hour explaining how the Nargles were out of control that day, and she didn’t think it would be wise to leave her home, though she gave her deepest apologies. 

Even Dean and Thomas were unavailable, as they were having their anniversary dinner that night. Harry seemed to be the only person in the world who didn’t have anything to do. 

In a fit of desperation, Harry had Flooed over to the Burrow. Molly and Arthur were empty nesters, but occasionally George or Ginny could be found hanging around, and Harry thought it sounded rather nice to be surrounded by his family on this quite boring day. At least then he wouldn’t have to be alone. 

But George and Ginny hadn’t been around, nor had Arthur. Molly Weasley was the only one home, and Harry had never been happier to see her. He’d spent the day helping her out around the house, cleaning, de-gnoming the yard, cooking, then helping Molly figure out the new tele they had bought at Arthur’s insistence. By the time he’d headed home, stuffed full of Molly’s cooking and more leftovers than he knew what to do with, he was knackered. 

Although his body ached from the physical work, it was still the best day that he’d had since having to turn over his wand, and he decided to reward himself with turning in early. 

It was only eight when he changed into pajamas, and the sun was only beginning to set, painting the sky outside the window in pinks and oranges. Harry slid his feet into some well-worn slippers, padding over to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Tomorrow he could get some work done around his own house to keep busy before Ron and Hermione came over. Perhaps he’d even head into the bakery in town to pick up some fresh biscuits that they could all share with their tea. 

His mind turning through his upcoming plans, Harry nearly missed the clattering from outside. He stiffened at the familiar sound of plastic hitting the ground and the clang of trash spilling over. 

His bins. 

Harry didn’t think as he tossed aside his toothbrush carelessly into the sink, dashing for the back door. Something was knocking over his bins, and Harry had a feeling he knew exactly what he’d find outside rummaging around in his trash. 

Harry had put the mop away earlier that morning after he’d tripped over it making breakfast, but Harry wasn’t worried too much about protection this time as he tore the door open and dashed towards where he’d left his bins upright the previous night. They were no longer upright currently, both of them once again tipped over onto their sides. Cans and bottles littered the ground from his recycling, and the trash he’d so carefully bagged up the previous night was once again ripped into, spilling out onto the dirt and grass. 

The white cat had been hunched over the pile of noodles that had been dragged out of the hole it had chewed into the bag, but as Harry bustled into the small alley, it lifted its head, back arching warily. 

“You!” Harry hissed, jabbing a finger in the cat’s direction. “Leave my fucking bins alone!” 

The cat didn’t move, its silvery eyes wide and attentive, tail lifted high in the air and ramrod straight. It didn’t look particularly threatened by Harry’s presence, though if cats had complex emotions, Harry could have been certain that it looked surprised to see him. Though that was foolish, as cats didn’t have feelings past hunger and fear, really. 

Still, it didn’t run off despite Harry’s frankly lunatic yelling, and that wouldn’t do. Harry did not want this cat to think it was acceptable to come and knock his bins over whenever it wanted for some food. Without his mop this time, Harry truly had no weapons to chase the creature off with, and Harry wasn’t exactly eager to get any closer on the off chance that the cat would attack him. 

So, logically, the only option was to bend over and tear his slipper from his own foot. 

That, at least, had the cat tensing, ears flattening as Harry lifted the slipper over his shoulder. Despite how upset Harry was with the situation and the cat, Harry didn’t want to actually hurt the creature, and so he aimed for the bag as he chucked the slipper. 

Even if he had been directing it towards the small white cat, it skittered backwards too quickly to have been hit by the slipper, then took off running out of the alley in much the same way it had the previous night. 

Harry watched it go with grim satisfaction, certain that the cat had gotten the memo this time and would not be returning. It still left Harry with the mess of noodles to clean up again, though, and he sighed heavily, glaring down at the sad, picked through pile of mush. He was quite tempted to just leave it so that the cat could finish the food, but that would mean admitting defeat, and Harry certainly couldn’t do that. 

So, with more reluctance than Harry was willing to admit, he trudged back inside to get a new trash bag and rebag the entire thing for a second time. He pulled the other bags out of the bin, placing the noodle bag on the bottom, then stacked the others on top of it. That should hopefully deter the cat from trying to tear it open again, surely. He moved both his bins back into place with a nod of satisfaction, and trudged back into his house. 

So much for going to bed early. 

He was now completely awake, his heart racing with adrenaline, and lying in his bed attempting to close his eyes and sleep sounded unbearable. 

“Stupid cat,” Harry grumbled, plopping himself down on his well worn couch, grabbing the remote to the tele and flipping it on, scowling at the screen. “Coming for my bins. Leaving me to clean up the mess.” 

The same wave of pathetic malaise from yesterday washed over Harry again as he realized he was complaining out loud to himself once more. 

It was a good thing Hermione wasn’t here to hear him doing so, or it would just strengthen her argument about a Mind Healer. And like with the cat, it was not a fight he was willing to lose. 

Waiting for the morning to turn into afternoon, and afternoon into evening, was absolutely torture. Harry had been up with the sun, and he’d thoroughly cleaned his home in anticipation of Ron and Hermione’s visit later that night. He hadn’t felt like dirtying his kitchen all over again to cook for just himself, so instead he’d gone into town to grab some lunch and take a walk. 

He’d stopped to chat with everyone he possibly could, and by the time he was ready to head home, it still was only just a bit after two. On the way home, he made the last minute decision to pop into the local bakery, picking up the danishes that Hermione always seemed to like whenever he managed to drag her into town. They would go well with their tea that afternoon, and Ron was never one to turn down pastries. 

When Harry finally made it back to his home, an owl was waiting for him, hooting indignantly at his windowsill. Harry had no idea how long it had been waiting for him, but he set the bakery box onto his kitchen table and hurried over to retrieve the newspaper it had tied to its leg. 

Harry had never cared about what lies the Daily Prophet had to say, but there were occasional truths tied into all the fiction, and Harry felt incredibly out of the loop without his ability to keep up to date on events at work. The very first night he’d caved and purchased a subscription to the Daily Prophet, and he pored over each paper, trying to decipher what was truth and what was exaggeration. 

He slid a knut into the pouch around the bird’s neck, then tossed the paper onto his table next to the bakery box. Even though he still had at least three hours before his friends would be over, Harry was keen to keep himself busy so he wouldn’t be sitting around doing nothing and being left to his thoughts. 

Perhaps Hermione did have a point after all. 

Harry strode over to the cabinet, rifling through until he could find three matching teacups, trying not to reflect on how much easier this was with the use of his wand. Hermione had gone on many tirades about how dependent wizards were on their wands and magic to do everything for him, but Harry had always believed that he was exempt from that, given the way he grew up. 

But now, without his wand for the last week and a half, he had to admit that Hermione seemed to continue being right about just about everything. It would be more annoying if he wasn’t quite so fond of her and came to expect it from her. Not that he would ever admit it out loud. 

Harry placed a cup in front of his own seat, then Hermione’s. As he went to place Ron’s, his eyes darted to the newspaper he’d cast aside only minutes ago, and the teacup tumbled out of his hand. He scrambled to grab it before it could roll off the table, settling it upright on the surface before his attention came back to the newspaper. 

There, on the front page, was a large headline that read EX-DEATH EATER DRACO MALFOY MISSING followed by a picture of Malfoy at his trial after the war. Harry’s eyes lingered on the moving image of Malfoy in the large courtroom, dressed in the unflattering Azkaban uniform that hung off his thin shoulders, his white-blonde hair messy and unkempt. He looked more terrified than Harry remembered at the time he’d attended the trial, and far more younger than Harry could picture from that time. 

Harry had seen Draco Malfoy a couple times in the years since the war, and he’d bounced back rather nicely, reminiscent of his first few years of Hogwarts. Perfectly put together, carrying himself with dignity, confident in himself. But he’d been gentler, his hair less pristine as before, his tongue sharp but not scathing, his nose not quite held up as high as before. Harry knew that Malfoy worked at an apothecary in Diagon Alley, and Harry had come to do routine inspections to ensure they were functioning up to code. 

Malfoy had been perfectly pleasant, though his quips had been just as sharp as it had been in Hogwarts, and Harry had found that he’d quite liked it, now that it was not born out of hostility and competition. Malfoy had cooperated with Harry’s inspections, though had spent the entire time making remarks about the way Harry had been conducting himself and giving him tips on his unflattering appearance. 

Harry found himself looking forward to conducting the inspections every three months and had been sorely disappointed when Auror Rogers had taken the task the last time, leaving Harry with no excuse to see Malfoy. 

Harry sank slowly into one of the chairs, pulling the newspaper over so he could read the article. 

Ex-Death Eater, Draco Malfoy, has been proclaimed missing as of Thursday morning, June 16th, 2005, as reported by Auror Ronald Weasley. Weasley was reluctant to share any details regarding the case, but after much probing, he admitted that he expects foul play involvement. “Malfoy had scheduled a meeting with me on Monday,” Weasley told us, looking disgusted by the thought, “for Tuesday morning, but he never showed up.” Weasley complained about what a waste of time it had been to hold the meeting spot for Malfoy, only to miss the meeting he’d created himself in, what we think is, a terribly rude fashion. 

“I sent Malfoy a patronus that went unreturned,” Weasley went on, looking more annoyed by the second. “Then sent a letter by owl, as is standard procedure. I received no answer to either.” Very unprofessional behavior, in our opinion. 

Weasley explained that he’d then graciously gone to Malfoy’s home, though neglected to mention what area of town the ex-Death Eater lived in despite much inquiry. “No one was home. There were signs of forced entry, including a broken window, and the back door had been left ajar.” The place had been ransacked, furniture knocked over, items broken, trash everywhere. Weasley had been concerned, as any good person would be, even for someone like Draco Malfoy. 

Malfoy’s place of work, Slug & Jiggers Apothecary, located in Diagon Alley and run by Jacob Mathers, a well respected businessman, was Weasley’s next stop in his search for the potion maker, though that turned out to be a dead end as well. “Malfoy hadn’t been into work since Monday,” Weasley confided, and confirmed by Mathers in a later interview. “And he gave no warning that he would not be showing up.” 

It would be nothing short of a miracle for Malfoy to still have a job if he returns.

Weasley explained that it had not been an easy decision to declare Malfoy missing, and the choice was met with much backlash from the rest of the Auror department, as revealed by reports later. 

“No one cares if a dirty Death Eater is missing,” Auror Conway said candidly. “I say good riddance.”

“It’s a good thing Malfoy went to Weasley for help,” Auror Harkin reported, a sneer on his face. “I can’t say I’d give him much sympathy and entertain the notion of a meeting.” 

“Malfoy showed his true colors during the war. I say we take him at his word. He should have been chucked into Azkaban from the start. He’s a rotten apple, just like his father,” says Auror Leak. 

Weasley had no comment on the mixed feelings for Malfoy from the general public or his colleagues, instead stating that he had a “sense of duty to treat anyone asking for help with respect and an open mind.” It seems that some Aurors hold their morals to a higher standpoint than others, even for those at the bottom of the barrel. 

As of right now, Malfoy’s disappearance is still under investigation, and no leads have been revealed on who could be behind this act. The Daily Prophet vows to continue following this story to put the public’s mind at ease as to where Malfoy is and what he’s up to. We are asking for people to come forward if they have any idea of Malfoy’s whereabouts, so they may be recorded. 

Until then, keep an eye out and stay vigilant. 

Harry read the article a second time before he could set it down, his mind reeling. Draco Malfoy was missing, and Ron was the one in charge of his case. He hadn’t even bothered to tell Harry that Malfoy had set up an appointment with him earlier that week, and Harry had a hard time not feeling hurt by that. Ron knew how Harry was about all things Malfoy related, which now that Harry thought about it, was maybe exactly why Ron hadn’t said anything. 

Still, Ron was his best friend, and he was supposed to tell Harry about things like this. Harry would have liked to know that something was up with Malfoy right away, as he’d have plenty of time to come up with theories on exactly what had happened with Malfoy. 

Harry tucked the paper under the pastry box to bring up once Ron and Hermione had arrived, then set about waiting for the two. It was a long afternoon that seemed to drag by incredibly slowly, leaving Harry with little else to do but think about Draco Malfoy. 

He was almost embarrassed by how his thoughts lingered on the blonde, but he couldn’t stop thinking about what the article had said. Suspected foul play. 

Harry knew that the Malfoys had never recovered completely after the war, but with Lucius in Azkaban and Narcissa and Draco dropping large sums of money into war reparations, Harry had thought that everyone had settled down at least enough to leave them alone. But according to the article and Ron himself, it appeared that not everyone else was content to just let the Malfoys continue integrating into society again. 

For Merlin’s sake, Malfoy was a Potions Brewer in a respected business with steady customers. If he couldn’t be trustworthy, he wouldn’t be working in Diagon Alley, of that Harry was sure. Besides, in the several meetings Harry had conducted with Malfoy, he had yet to hear anything remotely negative about Muggles, Muggleborns, or Half Bloods, and he wasn’t exactly known for keeping those kinds of thoughts to himself. 

Harry almost wished that he hadn’t seen the article this early. It left him with nothing else to do but think about the situation and wonder what had happened to Malfoy and where he was. What if he’d been abducted? Had he known that he was going to be attacked? Why would he have set up a meeting with the Aurors and then not shown up for it? Harry pondered each possibility as he continued cleaning up, though the house was already pretty well kept what with how Harry had little else to do on suspension. 

He was itching for a wand and his robes to take the case on himself, but he still had another day of suspension and the weekend before he could return to work. 

Ron and Hermione showed up five minutes later, stumbling through the Floo already bickering with one another like when they were back in school. Harry sprang out of his chair in the kitchen to hurry through to the living room, wiping his hands on his trousers as he went. Ron had changed out of his Auror uniform into something more relaxed, though Hermione was still looking as elegant as ever in a navy pantsuit, the blazer left behind. Her signature bushy hair had been swept up into a halfhearted bun, making her look effortlessly elegant and completely out of place there in Harry’s home. 

“Hey,” Harry greeted, and the two of them dropped their argument immediately. “Thanks for coming.” He hugged Hermione first, kissing her cheek distractedly, then squeezed Ron, already trying to usher them towards the table in the kitchen. “Come on, I’ve got tea.” 

“Slow down, mate,” Ron huffed with a roll of his eyes. “We’ve got all evening, there’s no need to rush us.” 

Harry, who had spent the entire day in anticipation of this hang out, and the last few hours contemplating Malfoy’s situation, forced himself to calm down. If he acted too eager about getting down to Ron’s case, then he would just be fueling his friends’ theories that he was obsessed with Malfoy. Which he was not. 

He was just curious, that was all. 

“Sorry,” Harry said instead of voicing anything else going through his head. “I’ve just been a bit lonely. I’ve been really excited to see you guys.” That, at least, wasn’t a lie. Harry didn’t see his best friends as much when he wasn’t working. He and Ron saw one another every day at work, and they frequently saw Hermione when magical creatures and their rights were involved in cases, which was becoming a bigger part of their job as the Ministry began putting laws in place to help them and more creatures began coming forward to voice complaints. 

Hermione softened, and she looped her arm through Harry’s as she followed him into the kitchen. “We missed you, too, you know. You’re always welcome to ask us over more frequently, or show up unannounced at our house. We always love seeing you.” 

“I know,” Harry assured, though he still sometimes felt like he was intruding on their lives by asking for anything more than they were willing to give. Yet another reason Hermione would push him to see a Mind Healer if she knew he was still hung up over this. 

“Oh!” Ron cried as they entered the room, pushing around both of them to hurry towards the table. “You went to that bakery in town! Please tell me you got–” Ron didn’t even finish his sentence as he flipped the lid open on the pastry box, groaning at the sight of the fresh danishes inside. “You’re the best person in the entire world.” 

Ron grabbed one of the danishes, cramming half of it into his mouth with another groan that sounded borderline sexual. 

“That’s not something you should say in front of your wife,” Hermione chided, but Harry could see the corners of her mouth lifting upwards in amusement, especially as the pastry left a smear of jelly on the corner of Ron’s mouth. “Oh, honey, you’re hopeless.” Her tone lost all attempts at sternness as she approached him, wiping the mess from Ron’s mouth with a napkin she swiped from the table. 

Harry shifted awkwardly on his feet as Ron’s expression dropped into something soft and sappy, feeling completely like he was trampling on their moment while simultaneously wishing he had someone he could be sappy with like this. Nothing had seemed to work out with Harry’s frankly pitiful attempts to date after he and Ginny had broken up a year after the war. 

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Harry decided out loud, clearing his throat to remind his friends that he was still, indeed, in the room with them. Neither of them paid him any mind as he puttered over to the stove, flicking it on to boil his water. 

He attempted to busy himself with getting the tea gathered and ready, but his many hours of preparation left him completely ready to host his guests and nothing left to focus his nervous attention on. He drummed his fingers on the counter as he heard Ron and Hermione settle down at the table, in the spots that they always sat in despite their ability to sit wherever they wanted to. 

“Harry, are you all right?” Hermione asked, after Harry continued to stand at the stove and simply wait for the water to boil. “You seem on edge.” 

“Me? On edge?” Harry gave a little laugh, but it came out far too high and unnatural, and Harry knew it wasn’t helping his face in the slightest. By the way Ron looked at him unimpressed over top of his second danish, Harry knew that none of them were fooled by his very lame attempt at nonchalance. With a sigh of defeat, Harry trudged over to the table and sank down, running a hand through his hair. “It’s been…tough, being without my wand and not being allowed to go to work.” 

Hermione softened in a way that had Harry shifting a bit uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding her eyes. “Oh, Harry, of course it’s been hard. You’re being forced to slow down and stop moving for the first time in your whole life, of course it’s tough. But really, I think you’ll see that this is a good thing for you, and if you wouldn’t fight it so hard, you’d realize that you–” 

“I just don’t think Robards should have taken my wand on suspension,” Harry interrupted, clearing his throat and still steadily looking away from his friend. “That part was totally unfair!” 

“Robards was completely within his rights to take your wand,” Hermione argued, a defensive edge in her tone in response to Harry cutting her off. “In fact, putting you on suspension instead of outright firing you after you broke the Statute of Secrecy–” 

“It was an emergency!” 

“–For a second time was incredibly generous!” Hermione finished, narrowing her eyes at Harry in a way that had him shrinking a bit in his seat. 

Harry turned to Ron for backup, but he was pointedly staying out of the argument, taking his time licking each individual finger on both hands after finishing his treat. 

Harry huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, struggling for something to say in defense. “He still shouldn’t be able to take my wand,” Harry argued fruitlessly, feeling more like a petulant child than the twenty-five-year-old he actually was. It was, however, the dynamic he typically found himself cornered with when faced with an immoveable force like Hermione. 

“You’re lucky he didn’t break your wand, mate,” Ron piped up, having finished cleaning his fingers and unable to help himself from speaking up. Harry was already scowling as Ron took Hermione’s side. “Robards was pissed after you stormed out last week. You should be careful, Harry. Robards is going to crack down on you ten times harder once you get back, and despite my many complaints, I do actually really like having you as my partner. Robards has me working with Greer, and he’s dumber than a box of rocks.” 

Harry snorted, appeased only slightly to hear that Ron was struggling without him there. And, reluctantly, he had to admit that Ron had a point. Harry had relied a lot on coasting through with his name to make up for his rash and reckless behavior as an Auror, even if he was doing the right things. He just needed to start going by the book instead of skipping steps to get the results he wanted. 

The kettle began screaming, and Harry stood up to grab it, turning the stove off and carrying the pot to the table, pouring each of them a cup. Hermione grabbed the bakery box from the middle of the table and pulled it towards herself to help herself to one of the pastries inside as Harry replaced the kettle on the stove. 

“Ugh, get this out of my face,” Ron complained, and at the wrinkling of paper, Harry whipped his head around, spotting the copy of the newspaper in his best friend’s hands. “I don’t know why you didn’t just toss this in the trash where it belongs.” 

“I thought you weren’t subscribed to The Daily Prophet?” Hermione questioned after she’d swallowed a bite of her danish. “You’re like their biggest hater.” 

“I am their biggest hater,” Harry insisted, hastily rushing forward to snatch the paper out of Ron’s hand and placing it back on the table where they could all see it. The picture of Malfoy was still stuck in an endless loop, the eighteen year old boy being led to the chair in the middle of the courtroom with the chains ready to bind him into it. “But I needed to keep up on the news while I was away from the office.” 

Ron groaned, shaking his head in disgust. “But it’s rubbish, Harry, you know that. You can’t trust a word that wretched woman is saying.” 

“Oh, I do wish Skeeter hadn’t registered,” Hermione sighed, taking another bite of her danish. “Now there’s no way to blackmail her into being a decent person.” 

Harry ignored Hermione as he sat down in his seat, reaching for the sugar to add to his tea and trying not to look overly interested in the subject as he spoke. “So is she lying about Malfoy being missing, then?” 

Hermione rolled her eyes with a shake of her head, and Ron only sighed heavily, pointing an accusing finger at Harry. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you about this!” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry sputtered, though his cheeks were already heating up with embarrassment about his obvious interest in the situation. 

“You always get like this when it comes to anything Malfoy related,” Ron accused without looking up from his cup of tea. 

“Always get like what?” 

“Obsessed, mate,” Ron said without even an ounce of humor, looking up at Harry in a very unimpressed way. 

“What?” Harry scoffed, looking appalled by this information. “Obsessed? Me? With Malfoy? That’s– I would never– Don’t be–” Harry was at a loss for words, and by the droll looks he was receiving from both Ron and Hermione, he was only digging himself into a deeper hole. There was no point in denying it anymore, he’d been no better at it during their Hogwarts years. “Whatever. Is Malfoy missing or not?” 

Ron took his time answering, lifting his teacup to his lips to take a tentative sip before setting it back down gingerly on the table in front of him. “Yes,” he answered simply. 

“Ron,” Hermione warned in disapproval. “You know you shouldn’t be talking to Harry about the case while he’s on suspension.” 

“I think Harry has a right to know,” Ron protested, though had a hard time meeting her eye when he said it. “After all, Malfoy came to the office looking for Harry.” 

Harry had been mid sip when Ron spoke, and he choked immediately on it, his cup jerking in his hand and sloshing over the rim, burning his fingers. He set it down hastily to cough, and Hermione was already handing over a napkin before he could even think to reach for one. Harry dabbed first at his tender fingers, then at his mouth, clearing his throat and looking hurriedly towards Ron. “What do you mean he came looking for me?” 

Hermione was glaring at her husband, but for once, Ron looked unfazed by her unspoken threat, shrugging. “He came into the Ministry on Monday and asked to speak with you. Penelope wasn’t sure that she was allowed to disclose that you were on suspension, but luckily I was just walking by and stepped in to help out. I told him you weren’t going to be in until next week, but that he was welcome to request a meeting with any of the other Aurors.” 

Harry didn’t dare to interrupt, grateful that Ron had been there. Penelope was sweet and tried her best, but the receptionist still struggled to grasp what she was and wasn’t allowed to say. Half the time she shared sensitive information without even realizing she’d done it.

“He seemed very hesitant, but he asked if he could speak with me instead. I didn’t have time on Monday, but we set up a time to meet on Tuesday,” Ron said with a shrug, glancing up at Harry. “He didn’t show up.” 

“So you sent a patronus. And an owl,” Harry prompted, leaning forward in his seat. “And he didn’t answer either of them.” 

“Right,” Ron agreed. “Sent the patronus on Tuesday after he didn’t show up for the meeting. He was acting really weird on Monday, too. Seemed quite jumpy, always looking over his shoulder. I should have asked him if he was all right, or better yet cleared my schedule to talk to him, but Robards was on my arse about a case and I needed to focus on that.” 

They settled into silence once again as Ron took a drink from his tea. Hermione had gone quiet, too, and her disapproving looks had gone away, leaving her just as interested and focused as Harry was. 

“Anyway, I sent him an owl yesterday, Wednesday, as is standard procedure. He still didn’t answer that, which was really unusual for being how urgently he needed to talk to me. Still, Robards had me doing like a million things that Greer fucked up, so I didn’t have time to go out to his house until this morning. I did get his address when he set up the meeting, thank Merlin, but I didn’t think I would need to use it.” 

Harry was burning to know where Malfoy lived, but he kept his mouth shut so Ron wouldn't stop talking. He knew the Manor had been sold shortly after the war, but Harry had never had an excuse to question Malfoy about his home during the investigations he’d done at Malfoy’s work. 

“The papers said it was a wreck,” Harry pressed, a little urgently. 

“Yeah, it was,” Ron agreed. “Looked like a fight had broken out. There wasn’t any blood or signs of a body, so I’m not sure what happened. All I know is that Malfoy wasn’t there, nor whoever had trashed the place. I stopped by his work next, but his boss hadn’t seen or heard anything from Malfoy since he left on Monday. He was rather peeved about it–wouldn’t stop going on and on about some big order they had to fill by the weekend. I didn’t have any other leads, so I returned back to the Ministry, where Skeeter bombarded me. No idea how she caught wind of this story. 

“All the rubbish about me being disgusted by Malfoy was really just me being disgusted by her, honestly,” Ron admitted, shaking his head. “I was already upset by the case, and that nasty woman wouldn’t stop trying to twist my words around. She should have been a snake instead of a beetle, honestly.” 

“So what are your leads, then?” Harry asked, ignoring his tea completely in favor of staring Ron down. “Who do you think would do this? Where is Malfoy?” 

“I don’t think we should be discussing this any further,” Hermione cut in before Ron had a chance to speak. “You’ve already said so much more than you should have already. If Harry wants to know more, then he can wait until Monday when he returns to work.” 

“Oh, come on, Mione,” Harry protested exasperatedly, though Hermione just shook her head in response. 

“You’re not an Auror right now, Harry. Ron shouldn’t be sharing details of a case outside of work.” 

Ron snorted behind his teacup. “Love, I’ve told you all the details about the situation, too, and you’re not an Auror. I didn’t hear any protesting from you then.” 

That had Hermione at a loss for words, her mouth shutting with an audible click. Harry tried not to look too triumphant at that, turning back to his best friend. “So, any leads?” He repeated, still careful not to look too hopeful. 

“Nothing concrete,” Ron said after a glance in Hermione’s direction, looking slightly guilty even though she’d given up her protest of keeping quiet. “I talked to the other Aurors, and apparently he’s come in to make a few complaints in the past few months. Said there were some people wearing mock Death Eater masks painted white following him around. Showing up outside his house, following him out of work to his Apparation point. Said that they had their wands drawn, but they’d never used them.” 

“What?” Harry blinked in shock, mouth parting in surprise. “I haven’t heard anything about this.” 

“Neither had I,” Ron continued, tapping his fingers gently against the side of his teacup. “These Aurors were all laughing it off. Refused to make reports of it. Said he deserved this kind of treatment after everything.” 

Harry’s hands curled into fists at his side, a righteous anger burning in his chest. How dare they? Who were they to judge what was and wasn’t deserved? Who gave them the right to not take Malfoy seriously? 

“It’s their job to make those reports!” He hissed angrily, earning a look from both Ron and Hermione that had him deflating and trying again with a less hostile tone. “It’s not up to them to decide whether they want to take the claims seriously. It’s their job to document these things, especially if they happen more than once.” 

“I know, mate, I know,” Ron agreed quickly. “I already reported them to Robards. The point is, there’s a good chance those people in masks are behind this. But because there’s no paper trail, I can’t even begin to look for them. I can’t even really call it a lead because there’s no real evidence that these incidents happened at all with no reports to back them up. I’m going to go back to his work tomorrow and see if the apothecary owner has seen anything, but I hoped that you’d be able to help next week.” 

“Next week?” Harry echoed incredulously. “And if he’s abducted? If they’re holding him hostage right now? They could be hurting him! He could be dead by next week!” 

Ron looked suddenly weary, and Harry instantly felt guilty for not holding his temper better. He and Ron were on the same side, and it wasn’t something that he should forget. “Most of the Aurors don’t believe he’s missing in the first place, Harry. I barely got the okay from Robards to declare him missing in the first place. I have no evidence that he’s been kidnapped.” 

Harry wanted to protest, to call bullshit on the whole situation, but movement caught his eye. He glanced up towards the window above the sink, and there, sitting on the open windowsill, was the same cat that had been knocking over his bins for the last two nights. It was perched on the sill, head tilted just slightly, bright gray eyes watching them with a strange sort of intensity, skinny tail swishing back and forth behind it. 

Harry was on his feet in an instant, and not even the clang of porcelain and Hermione’s gasp stopped him from dashing towards the sink. “Get out of here!” Harry hollered, uncaring if he sounded like a complete lunatic. “Shoo!” The cat didn’t move even as Harry hurried over, looking thoroughly unimpressed, ears flattening backwards. “Leave!” Harry leaned over the sink to push the cat off the windowsill. 

The cat clearly hadn’t been expecting that, and it hissed as it lost balance and slid backwards, digging its claws into the sill as it went before dropping down to the ground and scampering off. 

“Fucker,” Harry growled, fingers brushing over the long scratches left behind on his wooden windowsill. First the bins, and now his window. 

“Harry!” Hermione huffed from his side, grabbing the towel that was tucked over a cabinet handle. “Why would you do that to a poor cat? You could have hurt it!” 

“You don’t understand,” Harry said quickly, closing the window with perhaps more force than was necessary so the cat couldn’t come back. “This cat has it out for me.” 

Harry doesn’t know what he was expecting from his friends at this news, but laughter was not it. Ron and Hermione glanced at one another briefly before they burst into laughter, trying to hide their amusement behind their hands. Harry scowled at both of them, instantly feeling rather embarrassed at the situation as a whole. 

“No, listen,” Harry went on desperately, despite the way his friends were still laughing at his expense. “This cat is evil, you don’t understand. It’s out for me! It keeps knocking over my bins!” Harry expected a bit of sympathy at this point, but his friends only laughed harder at him, and Harry’s face went bright red. “It’s true! This cat is coming back to me to torment me specifically! It doesn’t mess with my neighbor’s bins, only mine. And now it’s sitting on my windowsill, listening in on my conversations!” 

This only set them into another fit of giggles, and Harry, feeling quite insulted and rather delusional, huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“I’m sorry!” Hermione cried once she was able to speak past her laughter, sounding anything but sorry. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh at you.” 

“Harry, mate, it’s a cat,” Ron pointed out as though Harry wasn’t well aware of the little fiend that was tormenting him. “It’s not doing any of this to you on purpose.” 

“Ron’s right,” Hermione chimed in before Harry could defend himself. “The cat was probably just hungry and smelled something tasty in your trash.” 

“And the windowsill?” Harry persisted, gesturing towards the window. “It was listening to our conversation! That’s really weird behavior!” 

This sent Ron into another fit, and Hermione’s mouth twitched, but she, thankfully, didn’t burst into more laughter. “Harry, don’t you think that’s a little…absurd? Cats don’t listen to conversations. They’re not smart like humans. It probably was just bathing in the sun.” 

“Or maybe it smelled the danishes and wanted one,” Ron snickered, but their lack of true consideration only put Harry more on edge. 

“Whatever,” he snapped with a huff. And, okay, yes, he could see their point. It was just a cat. Perhaps a particularly nasty cat, but it wasn’t like this cat was out to get him specifically or anything. This cat just had an affinity for mushy noodles. And open windows. And it didn’t seem particularly frightened by Harry’s presence, which was totally normal behavior for cats, surely. 

Harry was just on edge from being on suspension without his wand, that was all. 

Harry came back over to the table, where the towel was crumbled up next to Harry’s overturned teacup. “What happened here?” He questioned, glancing between his two friends. 

“You spilled your tea in a mad dash to harass that poor cat,” Hermine explained in a tone that clearly displayed she was disappointed by his actions. “It would have been a bigger mess, but most of the tea got soaked up by the newspaper.” 

“What?” Harry gasped, ripping the wet towel up from the surface of the table. Underneath was his copy of The Daily Prophet, the paper now darkened with tea and the ink smudged a bit, until the words were nearly indecipherable. His heart sank at the state of the newspaper. It was no longer something he could tuck away and pull out to read over the next few days so he could pour over the details. “No, no, no!” 

“Mate, it’s just a newspaper,” Ron insisted, scooping up the sopping mess of the newspaper, already moving towards the trash can. “It’s rubbish anyway, really, might as well put it where it belongs.” 

“It’s recyclable!” Hermione called out, and Ron made a detour to the bucket Harry had in his kitchen to collect his recycling before taking it out to the bin instead. 

Harry could only watch with his mouth parted slightly in horror. How had the situation gotten so out of hand so quickly? How was he supposed to tell his best friends that he wanted to keep the newspaper, in its soaked state and everything, just for a chance to hang onto any scrap of information about Malfoy without admitting that he did, in fact, have an obsession? No, saying something now would only confirm what they’d been saying all along, and especially after their reaction to the cat, Harry didn’t want to make more of a laughing stock of himself today. 

He would just have to dig it out of the recycle bucket, after they had left. 

“Ugh, you just took out your recycling, didn’t you?” Ron mused aloud, peering into the empty bucket. “I can’t leave this in the bottom of the bin or it’s going to dry onto the bucket.” Harry watched as pride shone in Hermione’s eyes for the thoughtfulness of her husband, and Harry almost laughed despite his disappointment of the situation. “I’ll take it all the way out.” 

Harry had never hated Ron’s consideration more. Now he’d look like a complete loon digging it from the bin later that evening. 

Still, Harry said nothing as he watched Ron open the back door and head out towards the side of the home, leaving Harry and Hermione alone in the kitchen. Harry was still holding the wet towel, and with nothing better to do, Harry began to dab up the mess of tea that was still left on the table. 

“It’s only one more day,” Hermione said unexpectedly, startling Harry out of his thoughts. “You can survive one more day, and then you’ll be back to work and back with your wand.” Her features were twisted into sympathy, but Harry had a hard time keeping the scowl off his face. He should have already been at work. Maybe if he had, Draco Malfoy wouldn’t be missing right then. 

Why had he come to see Harry specifically, anyway? What did he think that Harry could do for him over anyone else?

“I know,” Harry sighed in defeat, slumping down into his chair. “I just hate sitting around with nothing to do.” 

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but the door opened again, and Ron entered the kitchen, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Your neighbor is really nice but Merlin, she just tried to keep me trapped in a conversation about her nieces and nephews. Did you know she has twenty-three of them?” Ron asked, shaking his head. “You don’t think that’s going to be me, do you?”

The subject of suspension dropped, much to Harry’s relief, and settled back into the gossip he’d been hoping for when he’d originally invited his friends over. After several more cups of tea and far too many danishes, the sun was slowly inching down the horizon, and their conversation drew to a peaceful close. 

“I don’t know about the two of you, but I have a very important meeting in the morning that I need to prepare for,” Hermione announced as she stood up, picking up her cup to carry to the sink. “We should probably head out, but we can come over again this weekend if you want?” 

“Work never stops with that one,” Ron muttered under his breath, but not quiet enough to not be heard. Hermione smacked him upside the head as she walked by, and Ron huffed in displeasure. “She’s right, though, we should get out of your hair. I’m going to be busy tomorrow, too. Try not to think too much about Malfoy, okay? I’m sure he’s fine out there. He can handle himself.” 

Harry hummed, but knew he couldn’t promise not to think too much about Malfoy and his potential kidnapping. He’d likely be up all night just thinking about it. Perhaps he could convince Ron to share more details on the case if he visited him for a surprise lunch the next day. 

“Sure, right,” Harry agreed hastily, drawing Ron into a hug, then Hermione after. “Thanks for coming over, guys, I had a good time. We should definitely get together this weekend, too.” 

Hermione gave Harry an extra squeeze, and her eyes were soft with concern. “Try to enjoy your last few days of relaxation.” 

“Relaxation,” Harry snorted, as though the past two weeks had been anything short of torture. “Right, I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Neither Ron nor Hermione looked convinced, but they didn’t argue it as Harry gently ushered them to the living room. They said their final farewells before disappearing into the flames of the fireplace, back to the sanctuary of their own home. Harry waited all of ten seconds before he was running for the backdoor, forcing himself to open it calmly in case Mrs. Davies was still out by her bins. 

Looking like a lunatic without an audience was fine, but in his neighbor’s presence was not. Especially since she’d probably tell her sprawling family all about it.

Harry slowed his walk as he rounded the house, intent on snagging the newspaper and heading back inside, but he froze as he turned the corner. His recycling bin had been tipped over again, several bottles scattered around the small space. Harry hadn’t heard it fall over, but that bloody cat had done it again. 

That wasn’t what had caught Harry off guard, though. No, the cat had managed to drag the damp newspaper away from the wreckage of the mess it had created and was perched beside it in much the similar way it had on the windowsill. Its eyes were focused intently on the blurry words on the wet page, moving slowly like it was reading the paper instead of merely looking at it. 

This was not typical cat behavior. 

Cats couldn’t read. 

But yet this cat appeared to be reading the newspaper, and if it could do that, then Harry didn’t think it was unreasonable to assume the cat had been listening to the conversation in the kitchen. What kind of cat was this? 

“Hey!” Harry called out before he could really think it through. The cat did not respond to him, not even glancing up from the newspaper, which only struck Harry as more odd. There was something seriously wrong with this cat. “Hey, cat! What the hell are you doing?” 

Still, Harry was not dignified with more than a twitch of the ear, and Harry had had enough. This cat wasn’t going to get the better of him anymore. Someone had to put the pompous creature in its place again. He stomped forward, only further riled up as the cat did not look up until Harry had reached down and grabbed it, one hand grasping the back of its neck, the other sliding under its stomach to lift it from the ground. 

The cat yowled, limbs squirming as it thrashed in his grasp, but Harry held tight, struggling against the cat’s frantic movements. “You are the weirdest cat I’ve ever met,” Harry grunted, having a hard time avoiding the cat’s claws. He realized that he had absolutely no idea what he was meant to do with it now. He certainly wasn’t going to take it into his house, but what else was he meant to do with it? 

He should have brought a box to put the cat into, that way he could have at least taken it to a shelter or something. Get it as far away from here as he possibly could.

The cat finally managed to twist around enough to sink its teeth into Harry’s palm, and he yelped, dropping the creature immediately. It landed on its feet, sending a look in Harry’s direction that could be nothing other than a glare before it dashed off, not once looking back. Harry was left grumbling to himself next to his overturned bin once again, an event that was quickly becoming all too familiar. 

Harry’s palm was bleeding from where the cat had bit him, two little pricks that bubbled blood into his hand. “Stupid cat,” Harry muttered, shaking his head before halfheartedly shoving the recycling back into the bin and sitting it back up. He snatched up the damp newspaper from the ground and trudged his way back inside. 

Later, after the newspaper had time to dry and Harry had patched up his hand, he carefully tore out the news article about Malfoy’s disappearance and tucked it under his pillow for easy access. 

Perhaps Ron and Hermione were really onto something about this Malfoy obsession thing. 

On Friday morning, Harry had a plan. 

He simply couldn’t let this cat continue to knock over his bins and leaf through his garbage. Odd behavior or not, he was going to put a stop to this. He’d catch the cat, trap it in a box of some sort, and take it to the nearest shelter. That would ensure that it would not be able to come back. 

Harry had had the idea just before falling asleep, thoughts of the cat swirling with Harry’s worries about Malfoy and his unknown whereabouts, leading to an odd dream where the cat had knocked over one of Harry’s bins, only instead of trash spilling out, it was Malfoy himself. Harry had woken up more confused than anything else, vowing that he would not mention that particular dream to any of his friends. 

He wasn’t ready to admit that they were right. 

Harry wasn’t sure the best way to go about capturing the cat, though. He had enough time to sit around all day and simply wait for the cat to show up, but that sounded dreadfully boring. Harry didn’t want this cat to take up the entirety of his last day of suspension. 

So Harry had found a gift tucked away in the back of his closet that Luna had given him many years ago. It was essentially a long tube of fabric that had likely been a sock at one point, filled with little bells that supposedly was meant to keep him safe from Moon Frogs, whatever the hell that was. 

Harry had felt guilty disassembling Luna’s gift, but he was fairly certain he wasn’t likely to run into any Moon Frogs, and he unceremoniously dumped the bells into both his bins. This whole thing would have been made easier if he could use magic and simply set up a ward to alert him of the cat’s presence, but he had to make due with what he had. 

He tested out the effectiveness of the bells by dumping his own bin over, satisfied that he would be able to hear the noise from inside the house, and then there was little else to do but wait. He couldn’t find a box lying around the house, but he did have his empty recycling bucket which would be big enough to at least trap the cat under it, and so he set that by the backdoor, along with his beloved Invisibility Cloak. 

He’d laid the trap, now he just had to be patient. 

Harry considered putting on the television, but he didn’t want to risk the sound of it drowning out the bells in his bins. He had let this cat get away with enough, he wasn’t going to allow it to torment him even a single day more. 

Instead, Harry attempted to read. It was a book that Neville had gifted him, weaving a tale about a heroic Auror that was supposedly based on a real person. Harry wasn’t sure he believed that part, but he had to admit that it was rather intriguing, and he spent several hours being thoroughly distracted by the storyline.

He was so invested in it that he blew right through lunch, and the only thing that could draw him from the pages was the growling of his stomach. He was reluctant to put the book aside, but he couldn’t ignore his hunger. 

Harry decided to make a quick sandwich so that he could get back to the story while he was eating it. He hurried through assembling the sandwich, pulling his mayonnaise out of the fridge and uncapping it when a heavy thump and the tinkle of bells interrupted his preparation. 

Harry froze, the mayonnaise hovering over his bread, caught off guard. He’d completely forgotten that he was meant to be catching the cat, too focused on his book. Quickly, Harry set down the bottle and rushed over to the items he’d laid out for himself in preparation of this. Harry threw the cloak on hastily, having to duck down so that it would cover his feet, too, and grabbed up the bucket. 

With caution, Harry opened the back door incredibly slowly, trying not to make too much noise. The cat hadn’t seemed of the spooking sort from their previous interactions, but Harry wasn’t looking to test that by making a ruckus now. His palm still smarted from being bitten, and he wasn’t eager to have a repeat of that by tipping his hand too quickly. 

The cat was rummaging through the recycling bin, batting at bottles and cans with its paw, and Harry paused as he considered the creature’s actions. Surely it was not searching for the newspaper, was it? 

There was certainly something strange about this cat, and Harry was determined to get to the bottom of it. 

Creeping forward slowly, Harry made his way towards the small creature, who was none the wiser to his presence. It was still pawing through the recycling, and Harry was very careful not to step on any of the trash as he approached, the edges of the cloak trailing along the ground, the bucket at the ready. 

As he got into range, however, he realized he had no idea how to do this. He needed the cat to be under the cloak, but if he did that, the cat would see him, and the risk of it ruining his cloak with its claws was too risky. Tearing the cloak off and then attempting to trap the cat also seemed difficult, and the risk of tripping over the cloak would thwart his whole plan. 

Still, it was his better option. He would just have to be quick about it. 

Harry slipped behind the cat, hoping it would give him the better position, and he carefully removed the cloak from around him, setting it gently onto the ground. Luckily, the cat was far too busy rifling through the bin, getting caught up in the little silver bells that Harry had put inside only hours earlier. It batted at one, curious, then more purposeful, tail swishing as it chased it down, pouncing on the rolling ball. It was, admittedly, very adorable, and Harry nearly forgot the task at hand. 

The cat hit the bell again, sending it crashing into the side of a can, and it chased it again, then spotted Harry standing there. The cat froze, and Harry seized his chance, stepping forward and quickly slamming the bucket over the cat, trapping it inside. 

Immediately, the cat started to meow and hiss, claws scratching against the inside of the bucket before it threw its entire body against the sides of the bucket. Harry was forced to get onto his knees and hug the bucket against his body on the ground in an effort to keep the cat contained, leaning all of his weight onto the top of it. 

The cat continued to thrash about inside before going still and quiet, and Harry realized he still had no idea what he was doing. He didn’t have a lid for the bucket, and he was certain that any attempt to lift the bucket would result in the cat either attacking him or running off, both of which were not going to make the situation better. Could he just scoot the bucket into his house and find some kind of lid for it? Just until he could get it to the shelter? 

Harry didn’t have a chance to further question as the cat began moving under the bucket again, pressing against the top of the bucket. Harry had no idea what it was trying to do, but the bucket wobbled under his weight until it was lifting, unseating Harry and causing him to topple over. Harry landed on some of the recycling spread around them, the bucket rising, rising until there was suddenly a full grown person standing under it, the bucket obscuring their head. 

“What the f–” Harry gasped, scrambling backwards, suddenly realizing he was completely defenseless. To be fair, though, he hadn’t expected the cat to turn into a fucking human. An Animagus.

“What was really necessary, Potter?” The person asked, their snippy tone echoing through the bucket still over their head. A condescending tone that had Harry’s hair prickling on the back of his neck with recognition. 

Draco Malfoy took the bucket off his head. 

“You– You–” Harry squeaked, his mouth hanging open. 

“What’s your problem?” Malfoy continued, tossing the bucket down onto the ground at his feet, the plastic clanging against a metal can. “Couldn’t you see I was busy?” 

Harry’s mind was still reeling over the fact that Malfoy was currently standing in his yard, and that he’d been the menacing cat this whole time. Harry scrambled to his feet, mouth still agape. “I was right!” He called out, far louder than the space called for. “I was right! Ron and Hermione thought I was crazy, but I wasn’t! You were tormenting me on purpose! You were knocking over my bins because you hate me, and you were listening to our conversation yesterday! And you were reading the newspaper!” Harry gasped as he suddenly remembered their last encounter, and he jabbed an accusing finger into Malfoy’s chest, who didn’t look even slightly as hysterical as Harry felt. “You bit me!” 

“Because you grabbed me!” Malfoy shot back, huffing and glaring down at Harry, lips pressed into a firm frown of disapproval. “You wouldn’t let me go, of course I was going to bite you! You deserved it!” 

“I wouldn’t have had to grab you if you hadn’t fucked with my bins! I had to clean that up every time, you prat!” 

“Like it was a hardship!” Malfoy scoffed, rolling his eyes. “And I wasn’t targeting you specifically at first. I was just hungry and my nose led me to your bins, alright? But then I found out it was you and I–” 

“Decided to make things worse for me!” Harry cut in, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Coming here and knocking over my bins. Leaving a mess for me to clean up. Stalking my private conversations with my friends.” 

Malfoy took a step forward, and although he was only an inch or two taller, he seemed to tower over Harry. “You guys were talking about me, and I wanted to know what was going on,” he hissed, voice low in a way that should not warm Harry’s stomach in the way that it was. “I came to your bins because they smelled good and I was hungry. It’s not exactly easy being on the run, but I would have thought you of all people would understand that. When I realized it was your bins, I thought it was the perfect opportunity to gain some information about my situation. It’s not my fault that you and the Weasel were blabbing it all with the window open for anyone to hear.” 

A blush was quickly taking over Harry’s cheeks as he realized he once again was starting to sound crazy. He had no idea how Malfoy always had the ability to turn the situation to make Harry seem like the one overreacting. 

“You scratched up my windowsill,” Harry accused, unable to think of a more coherent complaint. 

“You mean when you pushed me off of it?” Malfoy challenged, an eyebrow raised. 

“Well…” Harry didn’t have an argument against that. He had rather rudely pushed Malfoy-the-cat off his windowsill, which had been unnecessary. Malfoy hadn’t been harming anything just by sitting there, and Harry had gone and forcefully pushed him out. Especially when Malfoy was just trying to hear the details about his own case. “You’re on the run,” Harry repeated, blinking up at the other man. 

“Excellent, your ears are still functioning.” 

Harry scowled, but didn’t rise to the bait. “You’re on the run, which means you aren’t kidnapped.” 

“Stellar detective work, Potter. It’s no wonder they let you into the Aurors with those skills.” 

“Shut up,” Harry spat, giving Malfoy a shove that had him stumbling back only a singular step, more out of surprise than actual force. Harry immediately took advantage of that to step forward, until he was the one crowding Malfoy’s space. “What I mean is that your life isn’t in immediate danger. You aren’t missing, you aren’t being held hostage. I know exactly where you are, so I can spend my time coming up with a plan instead of looking fruitlessly for you.” 

Malfoy, for once, doesn’t seem to have anything to say in response to that, and Harry presses forward. 

“And more importantly, I have you here to fill in all the gaps of information that Ron and I were missing. Like why you didn’t show up for your meeting that you scheduled. And why you were asking to speak with me. And who trashed your home? And why are you on the run?” 

“How am I supposed to answer your questions when you ask me so many at one time?” Malfoy complained, rolling his eyes, and looking entirely nonplussed about the fact that Harry was standing close enough that their chests were nearly touching. 

Harry huffed, his breath hot against Malfoy’s face. “Fine, I suppose we can take them one at a time, then. Why don’t you tell me the story of how you came to rummage through my bins as a bloody cat, then?” 

Malfoy didn’t back down, lifting his nose slightly in the air, as though Harry were inconveniencing him by offering to help him out with his case. “Not even going to offer me a cup of tea? Your hosting etiquette leaves much to be desired.” 

Harry sighed heavily but stepped back, leaning down to sweep the recycling back into the bin and placing it upright again, all the while feeling Malfoy’s eyes on him. He, of course, didn’t offer to help like the respectful thing to do would be, especially considering he had been the one to make the mess. Harry snatched up both the bucket and his cloak, nodding his head in the direction of his backyard. “Come on, I’ll put the kettle on.” 

Malfoy said nothing as he followed Harry to the back door and into the house. He had no trouble making himself at home there at the kitchen table, eyes darting to the box still on the table from the bakery. “Do you have anything to eat? I fear picking through your trash wasn’t nearly as appealing as whatever you could serve me now.” 

“Help yourself,” Harry said. “I’m pretty sure there’s at least a danish or two in there. Or do you need a fork and knife to eat it?” He asked with a derisive snort, filling the kettle and turning the stove on to warm it. 

“I suppose I can make do with just my hands,” Malfoy said gravely, as though he’d truly been considering requesting the knife and fork. By the time that Harry made it back to the table, Malfoy was licking his fingers and reaching for the last pastry in the box. Harry wondered whether Malfoy had eaten more than just the mushy noodles out of his trash bin in his time on the run. 

“So,” Harry said, when it became obvious that Malfoy was not going to start the conversation himself. “Why don’t you start with explaining why you wanted to set up a meeting, and why you were asking for me.” 

Malfoy swallowed a bite of the danish, his pink tongue poking out to clean the crumbs from the corner of his mouth. “Isn’t it obvious? You’re the only Auror who would have taken me seriously.” 

Harry sat up straighter in his seat, a pleased sort of tingling starting in his stomach. “What do you mean?” 

“I’ve been to the Aurors several times. There’s a group of people who won’t stop harassing me, and I wanted to report them. I was naively hoping that the Aurors would take care of the situation and scare some sense into this group, but they wouldn’t even make a report of it. They seemed to think it was fitting and funny. I’m pretty sure one of them specifically told me I would deserve it if they put their hands on me.” 

Harry’s nails bit into his palms with how hard he was clenching his fists. “That wasn’t right of him to say.” 

Malfoy’s gray eyes–the same shade as the cat’s–flicked up to look at Harry. “I quite agree.” His tone was indifferent, but there was a flash of something in Malfoy’s eyes that told Harry he was more grateful for the agreement than he was letting on. “I was getting worried about this group. They used to just follow me around, but then they started showing up at my house, standing at the end of my drive, wandering into my backyard. They never touched my house, but it was quite unnerving. I decided I couldn’t just wait for them to take action against me, I had to make sure someone dealt with the situation.” 

“And you thought I was the person to do it?” 

“Of course,” Malfoy nodded with no hesitation. “You and I have never been friends, but you’re a decent person, Potter. You would take me seriously, I was sure of it. I just hadn’t been anticipating you having taken a vacation.” 

“I’m on suspension,” Harry corrected, as though the distinction truly mattered. 

“Whatever,” Malfoy said dismissively, shaking his head. “You weren’t there, and I wasn’t sure when you were going to be back. Weasley happened to be there, and while I care even less for Weasley than I do you, I figured he would take things seriously, too. Or, at least, he wouldn’t be quite as dismissive as the other Aurors.” 

Harry had to agree with Malfoy there. Ron may not like people like Malfoy, but he treated everyone with the same respect and diligence, regardless of his own feelings. 

Malfoy took another bite of the pastry in his hand, his gaze falling back to Harry. “You should have thrown some of these out into your rubbish, they are delicious.” 

Harry rolled his eyes, struggling not to burst forward with all the questions still rattling around in his head. “So you set up the meeting with Ron, but then you didn’t end up going to it,” Harry pressed, leaning forward in his seat, hovering over the table. 

“No, I didn’t,” Malfoy agreed after he’d swallowed his mouthful. “I had every intention to do so, but those idiots in masks decided that just stalking me wasn’t enough.” 

“They attacked you.” 

“And they wrecked my house in the process,” Malfoy huffed, shaking his head as though that were his biggest problem. “It was quite cowardly of them, honestly. Five against one is completely unfair odds on my part.” Harry had to bite his tongue to keep from pointing out that Malfoy had used the same tactics at Hogwarts. “They waited until I opened the door, then they hexed me behind my back. I should have just Disapparated there on the spot, but I was still under the impression that I could stand my ground and protect my home.” 

“Why didn’t you call for help?” Harry couldn’t help but ask, eyes only on Malfoy and the rather pretty curve of his nose. Harry had never noticed how narrow the bridge of his nose was before. He supposed that sitting on opposite sides of the Great Hall just didn't give him many opportunities to see Malfoy up close. 

Malfoy’s cool gray eyes flicked up to Harry, his mouth pressed in a flat line. “And how would you propose I do that? Not sure anyone would come over at just the sight of sparks in the sky, and I am unable to produce a patronus. Which, to you, must be child’s play at this point.” 

Harry’s cheeks reddened at Malfoy’s honesty, and he regretted opening his mouth at all. He hadn’t meant to shame Malfoy for something he was unable to do, however it did pique his interest on whether it was a skill issue or a memory issue. 

He was also oddly curious to know what form Malfoy’s patronus would take. Harry didn’t know why he cared. 

“Anyway,” Malfoy continued, as though Harry hadn’t interrupted him at all, “I realized very quickly that I did not have the situation under control and made a strategic retreat.” 

“You ran away,” Harry snorted, struggling not to grin at Malfoy’s seeming inability to admit defeat. 

Malfoy huffed, rolling his eyes. “Fine, I suppose you could say I fled. I don’t think the technicalities truly matter, though. I got away and they probably destroyed my home. I don’t think I can go back.” 

The urge to offer up his own home bubbled on Harry’s tongue, and it took more effort than he anticipated to keep from saying it out loud. He was sure that Malfoy would decline instantly, though whether from pride or the fact that he’d be staying with Harry was unclear. Harry wasn’t certain he could stand it if Malfoy said no. 

“Where did you go?” Harry asked once he was confident his offer would not be blurting out of his mouth. “After you left your home, I mean. And why didn’t you contact the Aurors?” 

“What happened to one question at a time?” Malfoy grumbled, cramming the last of his danish into his mouth. Harry did not have time to respond as the kettle finally began to whistle, and Harry practically jumped to his feet to retrieve it. 

The teacups from Ron and Hermione’s visit were still sitting unwashed in the sink. Harry had no desire to clean them while Malfoy was in the room with him, but the fourth teacup in the set had been broken years ago and Harry had the distinct impression that Malfoy would refuse the drink if it was in a different kind of cup. So, reluctantly, Harry rolled up his sleeves to wash up two cups, too aware of Malfoy’s presence behind him. 

Malfoy cleared his throat, but Harry didn’t turn from the sink, scrubbing the brown tea ring left at the bottom of the teacup. “To answer your question, I went to Pansy’s vacation home. She wasn’t there, but it was the first place I could think of that they were unlikely to know. I hadn’t been there since directly after the war.” 

Harry knew that most Pureblood families typically owned more than one property, but it was still a strange concept for Harry to wrap his head around. Harry could barely maintain two homes at once and had ended up turning over Grimmauld place to Andromeda for Teddy to inherit when he became of age. Harry was more than content with just his little Muggle home, especially because there were no portraits of a screaming woman every time he had a visitor. 

Malfoy did not continue, and when Harry spared a glance behind him, the man had his thumb in his mouth, cleaning off the sticky icing from his treat. The sight was both amusing and erotic at the same time, and Harry had to squeeze his thighs together in an effort to remain unaffected. 

He never would have imagined Malfoy would do something as undignified as lick his fingers clean. Surely something like that was far too barbaric for someone of his status. 

But then again, Malfoy had more often than not been sprinkled with remnants of whatever potion he was concocting whenever Harry had done his inspections. His hair had typically been messy and disheveled, as though he’d run his hands through it over and over again. The first few times it had caught Harry completely off guard, but now, Harry was realizing that he was quickly growing used to the sight. And quickly liking it.

“Why didn’t you stay there, then?” Harry asked, clearing his throat as he hastily turned back to his cup, scrubbing it with vigor and hoping Malfoy couldn’t see the blush creeping onto his cheeks. 

“I couldn’t,” Malfoy said without missing a beat, evidently finished with licking his fingers. Harry wanted them in his mouth. “They followed me there somehow. I was standing in the sitting room for all of thirty seconds before they showed up, and we had another duel that I was again outnumbered in. Hopefully Pansy doesn’t plan to vacation there until this whole situation gets resolved, because they made a right mess of it.” 

“They followed you?” Harry echoed, setting the now clean teacups onto the counter to wash his hands. 

“That is indeed what I just said,” Malfoy mused, leaning back in his chair. “Glad to know your ears are still working.” Harry rolled his eyes at the jab, but Malfoy continued anyway. “They followed me to Pansy’s place, and we had another duel there, of which I made another strategic retreat. To a Muggle park not too far from here. I thought they’d be less likely to attack me out in public in front of Muggles, and I’d been planning on coming to the park anyway at some point.” 

Harry’s mind caught on the Muggle park part, knowing the Malfoy from Hogwarts would never have even considered stepping foot in any Muggle area. “Why didn’t you go to the Ministry? You had been attacked twice, they could have at least offered you protection.” 

Malfoy didn’t respond right away, the silence stretching on as Harry used a towel to wipe down the inside of the teacups. Harry glanced over his shoulder again, and this time Malfoy was staring down at the tabletop, his hands clasped in front of him, head bowed slightly. 

“Malfoy?” Harry called, softer than before. 

“They were all wearing Death Eater masks,” Malfoy whispered, quiet enough that Harry almost missed it altogether. “They’d painted them white, but they were Death Eater masks. I recognized my father’s among them ages ago, but I had never thought about how they’d gotten their hands on it. It had been confiscated in one of the many raids of the Manor after the war.” He still hadn’t lifted his eyes from the table, as though it were the most interesting thing in the world. 

“I was firing spells at them, and I managed to knock one of their masks off,” Malfoy went on, just a moment before the silence became too much. “I think the mask had belonged to Greg’s father, but I can’t remember. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. The important part was that I recognized the man wearing it.” 

Ever so slowly, Malfoy lifted his head, until their eyes met. Even in this situation, where Malfoy was detailing a serious issue, Harry couldn’t help but think about how beautiful his eyes were. What was wrong with him? 

“It was Auror Harkin.” 

Harry was so focused on the brilliant hue of Malfoy’s eyes that it took him a heartbeat too long to process what Malfoy had said. 

“Auror Harkin?” Harry echoed uselessly, but Malfoy didn’t tease him for it this time, which Harry was grateful for. His mind was struggling to accept what Malfoy had said. Auror Harkin wasn’t one of Harry’s favorite coworkers, but they had gotten along well. Harry had heard countless stories over coffee in the breakroom about Harkin’s kids, and his plans for vacations, and knew exactly how meticulously he filled out his paperwork. 

How could he put on a mock Death Eater mask to go and torment someone in his free time? How could he attack someone who was trying to move on and make better decisions? But then Harry remembered the quote Harkin had given to The Prophet–about how he wouldn’t entertain the idea of taking a meeting with Malfoy. It was almost like speaking of a completely different person than the coworker that Harry knew. 

“I didn’t know how far it went,” Malfoy whispered, still staring at Harry, but almost like he was staring through him instead. “I didn’t know how many were involved. I wasn’t sure who was safe to talk to.” 

“You were trying to suss me and Ron out yesterday,” Harry concluded, setting the towel down and beginning to prepare the tea to give Malfoy a distraction if he needed it. “When you were listening to our conversation. You were trying to determine which side Ron and I were on. Whether we knew or were involved with Harkin.” 

“Yes.” 

Harry picked up both the teacups, bringing them over to the table and placing one in front of Malfoy. The gentle click of the porcelain against the tabletop snapped Malfoy out of wherever he’d gone in his head, and he blinked back into focus. “Ron and I aren’t involved with Harkin,” Harry told him, plopping down into his vacant chair. “And the two of us are on your side.” 

Malfoy wrapped his long fingers around the warm mug, humming to himself. “Good, because I have no idea what to do about my situation or where to go from here.” 

“I don’t think there’s anything more you can do,” Harry admitted, his mind already working through options. “At least right now. As far as Harkin knows, you’re still missing, and we need to keep it that way for now. Ron was going to check in at your work today, and he’s obviously not going to find any new information there. In order to avoid suspicion, we won’t tell him you’re here until after he gets off work. That gives us all weekend to come up with a game plan until I go back to work on Monday.” 

“What did you do to get suspended, anyway?” Malfoy asked, picking up his teacup and sipping delicately from it. “I thought you were their Golden Boy who could do no wrong.” 

Harry’s face flushed red with embarrassment and a touch of shame. This was not information he so easily wanted to hand over to Malfoy, especially when the corner of his mouth was curling into a smirk behind his cup. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry said hastily, his hackles only rising as Malfoy’s smirk only seemed to grow. How was it that Malfoy still had the infuriating ability to so effortlessly get under Harry’s skin? Harry firmly ignored the fact that he rather liked that about Malfoy. “Not when we haven’t yet discussed the fact that you’re clearly an unregistered Animagus.” 

Malfoy looked infuriatingly calm for being Harry had just pointed out a crime he was committing, and that only irked Harry all the more. 

“It’s quite lucky I am, though,” Malfoy mused, then took a long, slow sip from his tea, likely just to get on Harry’s nerves. “It saved my life.” 

That, at least, piqued Harry’s interest, and he sat up straighter, leaning forward, closer to Malfoy. “What do you mean by that?” 

“What do you think I mean by that, Potter?” Malfoy bit out rather scathingly, a sharp eyebrow raised. “I mean that if I were not an unregistered Animagus, I would be dead right now. The Prophet would have been printing my obituary and not my disappearance. That is, of course, if anyone would have been bothered to write an obituary for me.” 

“I don’t understand,” Harry interrupted, when it looked like Malfoy might be liable to continue rambling about everything and nothing all at the same time. “How did it save your life?” 

Malfoy sighed heavily, like Harry asking for clarification was some big task. “Well, I arrived in the park, like I told you earlier. I was worried they would be able to follow me again, and I was running out of safe places to go. As I feared, they did follow me, but by the time they appeared, looking for Draco Malfoy, I was merely an innocent little cat.” 

“I’m not sure you can be called innocent, cat or not,” Harry grumbled under his breath, but was promptly ignored. 

“So I was just a cute little cat wandering around the park, and those—those hooligans were none the wiser. I wasn’t sure at the time how they were tracking me, but I figured that they were following me through my magic, meaning I was stuck as a cat.” 

Harry tapped his fingers against the tabletop, next to his forgotten teacup. “That’s why you didn’t reveal yourself to me earlier.” 

“Until you rudely trapped me under that bucket,” Malfoy huffed, lifting his nose into the air. Harry decided that arguing for why it had been necessary would just be a waste of breath. “Honestly, it was horribly undignified, Potter, even if I was merely a cat and not a fully functioning member of society.” 

“How did you figure out they weren’t tracing your magic and that it was safe to turn back into a human?” Harry asked, rather than indulge in Malfoy’s dramatics. 

The question seemed to catch Malfoy off guard, and his mouth snapped shut in an instant. “I didn’t,” Malfoy admitted reluctantly. “I decided the risk of revealing myself was worth it. Especially because I had no idea how long you intended to keep me trapped under your bucket. I was fairly confident that between the two of us, we could take them.” 

“Jesus, Malfoy,” Harry gaped, his stomach turning with how badly that could have gone. “I’m on suspension!” 

“And? I didn’t realize they asked you to hand over your dueling skills as well as your robes.” 

“I don’t have my wand!” Harry exploded, more out of nervous energy than anything else. 

“Oh,” Malfoy said quietly, all traces of amusement gone from his expression. “I suppose that explains the bucket. And the slipper you threw at me.” 

Harry exhaled, slumping in his seat. Having Malfoy unexpectedly show up in his life like this was jarring enough, but if several masked figures had shown up immediately after, Harry wasn’t sure he would have been able to handle it, wand or no wand. 

“They must have been tracking my Apparition, not my magic,” Malfoy went on, though his shoulders slumped like this was not, in fact, good news. “Which means I’m stranded here.” 

“Oi, this is a nice area,” Harry defended, miffed. “Besides, I have a Floo you could use if you have somewhere to go.” 

Harry didn’t know why the idea of Malfoy leaving had his stomach turning over unpleasantly. He told himself it was because he wouldn’t be able to ensure Malfoy was safe if he wasn’t in sight. 

Malfoy twisted his teacup around and around, lips pursed in a frown. “I suppose I could go to Blaise’s. I’m sure whatever romp he’s got staying over currently wouldn’t mind me hanging around until this all blows over.” 

A surge of white hot jealousy washed over Harry at the idea of Malfoy staying with another man, even if Malfoy had just said Blaise was seeing someone. He intended to warn Malfoy that he would be risking Blaise’s safety by staying with him, but when Harry opened his mouth, all that came out was, “You should stay with me.” 

Malfoy’s fingers still, and the teacup stops spinning around in its maddening circles. For the first time since emerging from under the bucket, Malfoy looked at a loss and in shock, all evidence of superiority gone from his sharp features. Features that Harry had once described as pointy, now softened with age. “Stay with you? Here?” 

“Why not?” Harry tried to sound casual, shrugging his shoulders like it was no big deal. Like his heart wasn’t pounding nearly out of his chest. “I’ve got room, and I’m on suspension. No one from the Ministry except Ron is going to be bothering me until Monday, but even then, you’ll be safe here. They won’t think you’d be hiding in a Muggle part of town.” 

Malfoy was staring at him with an open mouth, his gray eyes wide. Then, abruptly, he sat up straighter, lifting his chin in a way that was reminiscent of his Hogwarts days, long before he was forced into adult matters and forced to tuck himself away. To make himself smaller and invisible. Harry was nearly grinning before Malfoy even said a word. 

“Fine, I’ll stay with you,” Malfoy agreed haughtily. “Under one condition.” 

“One condition?” Harry echoed, neglecting to point out the fact that Malfoy really didn’t have any power in this situation. Harry could throw Malfoy back out on his arse if he felt like it, though Harry was confident that he wasn’t going to be doing anything like that. 

“Yes,” Malfoy nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. “I want your bed.” 

Harry spluttered at the demand, choking on his own spit. Of all the prissy things he had anticipated that Malfoy would ask for, his bed wasn’t one of them. 

“I want your bed,” Malfoy repeated, as though Harry hadn’t reacted at all. “Being a cat and sleeping out on the streets has been horribly uncomfortable for my back, and I want a nice firm mattress to sleep on.” 

Harry did not argue that Malfoy could easily transfigure the couch into a bed, too busy picturing the way Malfoy would look, sleeping in his bed. Sprawled on his sheets. Would they smell like Malfoy long after he left? 

“Okay,” Harry agreed quickly, his heart thumping harder in his chest as a satisfied smirk crossed Malfoy’s face. “Okay, you can have the bed.” 

Malfoy leaned forward in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself in a way that should be annoying and not endearing. “It’s a deal, then,” Malfoy purred, extending a hand out towards Harry. His fingers were long and slender, and his palm was held aloof, in an echo of their first meeting. The first time that Malfoy had offered his hand in friendship. Harry had turned it down then and still believed it to be the right decision, but things were different now. They were different now. 

Now Harry wanted to be Malfoy’s friend. He wanted to have Malfoy stay in his home for the weekend or the rest of their lives. He wanted to introduce Malfoy to his friends. He wanted to help Malfoy get out of his situation just as soon as he got off suspension. Harry wanted it all. 

Ron and Hermione had been so right about the obsession. 

And now it would only get worse while Malfoy was under his roof. Sleeping in his bed. Eating his food. Forced to interact with Harry on a daily basis. Harry’s obsession was going to grow into a monster, into something completely unbearable. Something that felt a little bit too much like a four letter word that Harry had never thought would apply to Malfoy. 

Despite it all, Harry took Malfoy’s hand. 

After a very tense weekend where Harry catered to more of Malfoy’s needs than he’d intended to, he finally was able to return to work, where he was given his wand and his robes back. With no hesitation, Harry pulled Ron aside and the two of them threw themselves into Malfoy’s case, looking over the thin file of evidence collected. Harry had to get over his initial incense about how little evidence there was in Malfoy’s file, and how it had come solely from Ron. There was none from any of the previous Aurors that Malfoy had attempted to report the gang to. 

As it turned out, though, when the Aurors on the case were actually invested in it, solving the case became a lot easier. 

Malfoy’s attackers had left their magical signatures all over his home during their duel, and after a day or two of carefully picking apart all of the residual magic permeating the place, they’d managed to identify every member who had been involved. From there, finding the idiots was easy. A quickly assembled  raid on a manor in the outskirts of London resulted in the arrest of five extremists who didn’t even try to lie about their involvement in Malfoy's attack, or the attacks on other reformed Death Eaters that had also gone unreported.  

The only one who had put up any kind of defense regarding his involvement was Auror Harkin, but with Malfoy’s memory as evidence of dueling Harkin combined with his magical signature at the scene, there was little he could do to deny his actions. 

Once the dust, what little there was of it, had settled, and Malfoy was able to come out of hiding, Harry began to realize just how much he’d grown accustomed to Malfoy living in his home. It had always been intended as a temporary thing, but Harry had foolishly hoped that Malfoy would have felt the same and asked to move in forever. 

Instead, after he and Ron had officially closed the case with the perpetrators behind bars, Harry came home to find Malfoy with his bags packed and looking uncharacteristically nervous as he lingered in front of Harry’s fireplace, hands wringing together. Harry was barely over the threshold before he  was blurting, certain he sounded far too panicked. “You’re leaving?” 

Malfoy stood a little straighter, but he was having trouble meeting Harry’s eyes. “Yes, well, you cleared me to go home, and someone has to take care of the mess Harkin and his gang left behind. I need to see what all is still salvageable,” Malfoy insisted, though made no move to actually pick up his bags. 

Harry stared at the blonde while Malfoy looked anywhere but at Harry. To Harry’s surprise, a flood of color began to creep onto Malfoy’s cheeks just before he lifted his head. His eyes were unsure and hesitant, betraying the rigid line of his spine and tense jaw. 

“I suppose I ought to thank you for providing me shelter this past week as well as solving the case.” 

The words sounded strange coming from Malfoy, and Harry was struck by the thought that he’d never heard Malfoy thank him for anything before in his life. “Are you really thanking me? I never thought I’d see this day, honestly,” Harry couldn’t help but rib, suppressing a grin. “You would think after all I’ve done for you, you’d show me a little more gratitude.” 

Malfoy huffed and rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest, but that blush was steadily spreading towards the tips of his ears and down his neck. Harry wanted to see how far down it went. “Well, how do you propose for me to ‘show my gratitude’?” Malfoy snapped, his gaze challenging in a way that always had Harry saying or doing something stupid and reckless. 

This time was no different. 

“A date,” Harry blabbered, his pulse rushing in his ears. 

“A date?” Malfoy repeated, visibly startled in a way that only had Harry digging his teeth into the idea, gaining confidence. 

“A date,” Harry said again, lifting his chin. “We go somewhere nice, have a chat about something that isn’t your situation or the way that I fold my socks—”

“It’s simply atrocious the way you were doing it, honestly,” Draco drawled, but Harry ignored the interruption. 

“Or even how much sugar you put in your tea. We can sit down, share a bottle of wine, eat some fancy food I won’t know how to pronounce. I’ll pay, of course. You can meet me here and we could go together, if you wanted,” Harry suggested, his heart hammering against his ribs, desperate for Malfoy to say yes. 

Malfoy appeared to consider it, his eyes sharp and critical as he looked Harry over, lips pressed into a firm line that was impossible to decipher. Then, momentarily, Malfoy softened, and he nodded once. “Fine, but I have another condition.” 

“Anything,” Harry breathed, elated by the acceptance. He would do absolutely anything Malfoy asked of him at that moment, so long as he didn't change his mind. 

A slow, lazy smirk settled onto Malfoy’s face in a way that had Harry’s stomach tying in knots, drawn helplessly towards the other man. “I get to choose the wine,” Malfoy stated, looking entirely too pleased with himself. 

To Harry, Malfoy’s request was nothing, as he’d already planned to have Malfoy pick the wine anyway. “Deal.” 

Jerkily, Harry thrust out his hand for Malfoy to shake and seal the deal, hoping the trembling of his fingers wasn’t visible. Malfoy stared for a moment or two, then bypassed the handshake altogether, leaning forward and pressing the softest of kisses against Harry’s cheek, like a ghost of a kiss. “I’ll come by tomorrow night at seven. Don’t keep me waiting,” he warned, picking up his luggage  from the floor and stepping into the flames of the fireplace. 

Harry stood, dazed, watching the fire go out with Malfoy’s departure, grinning like a fool.