InsaneJournal

The Stories That Never Happened: Misc H/D
I haven't been writing much lately, at least not fanfic. Most of my energy is going into writing original fiction and okay, I admit it, gorging myself on House, M.D. Anyway, it was time to clean out the scraps folder again, and here are some scraps from stories that I'll probably never finish...


"I'm sorry," Draco said slowly, "for a moment there, it sounded like you said you're sending us to the States."

Shacklebolt replied with a serene smile, but Harry was sure he saw a twinkle of malicious glee in the man's eyes.

"Seriously," Harry said in his most matter-of-fact tone.

"Seriously," Shacklebolt replied, clasping his hands on the desk in front of him. "Everyone else is working on that break-in at Gringott's, and since the two of you are still banned from entering the bank in question, I need you on this case."

"What happened to giving us more time off before Japan?" Draco pouted and slouched in his seat. "This isn't fair."

"Life isn't fair, Malfoy," Shacklebolt replied, and politely ignored the way Draco mouthed the words along with him.

"But why can't the Americans do their own investigation?" Harry pressed, telling himself his tone wasn't whiney in the least.

"They're American," Shacklebolt pointed out dryly.

"Fine," Harry conceded with a long-suffering sigh.

Draco shot him a look that clearly dubbed him a traitor before sneering and asking, "So what is it this time? Another pair of underage thieves? Poisoned candy at Honeydukes? Oh, I know, maybe this time we'll get to do something exciting like baby-sit the Ambassador's daughter while she--"

"Vampires," Shacklebolt interrupted with a wry smirk.

Harry and Draco stared.

"And by 'vampires'," Harry put in hesitantly, "I'm guessing you probably meant to say 'lots of afternoon naps'?"

"There have been a series of attacks in a small town in Nevada," Shacklebolt went on, clearly ignoring Harry's attempt to correct him. "Usually we'd let the Americans handle it themselves, but the situation calls for a little more delicacy than rushing in and exterminating the entire coven."

"And clearly, Potter and I are just the right people to handle delicate situations," Draco muttered, rolling his eyes.

"An entire coven?" Harry squeaked.

"Thirteen," Shacklebolt agreed with a nod. "And what makes this case trickier than usual is that the leader, Dorian Leith, used to be one of ours."

Draco, who had been busy huffing impatiently and inspecting his fingernails, sat straight up in his chair. "But that's not possible, is it? I thought wizards were immune?"

"We are," Shacklebolt replied with another humorless twist of his lips. After glancing back and forth between them, he picked up his wand and Harry felt the shockwave from a powerful silencing spell shiver down the length of his spine. Shacklebolt sat back in his chair, steepled his forefingers under his chin, and gave them a calculating look before saying, "Before I tell you about the rest of the case, there are a couple of things you should know, starting with a few of the Ministry's more well-kept secrets..."

Two hours later, Harry and Draco stumbled out of Shacklebolt's office together with wide eyes. Ignoring the inquisitive glances from their co-workers, they made their way into Harry's office and threw themselves down into the matching chairs on one side of Harry's desk. Neither of them spoke for almost fifteen minutes.

"Well," Draco said finally.

"Vampires," Harry muttered, idly scratching at the arm of his chair. "The Ministry's been keeping pet vampires."

"I wouldn't exactly call them pets," Draco replied dryly as he reached over to cover Harry's hand.

"Whatever," Harry huffed but stopped fidgeting and linked their fingers together. "I still-- I mean, why? Why keep vampires if you have a whole division full of trained Aurors? And if you're going to, why keep it a secret?"

"Potter, your naivety can be endearing sometimes, but this isn't one of those times." Draco sighed and gave Harry a scrutinizing look.

"I'm too tired for conspiracy theories," Harry grumbled, tilting his head back against the cushion of his chair.

"Fine," Draco muttered.

The sun was setting behind the glowing lights of London, and they stared out at the darkening horizon together. Draco's hand was warm, and Harry gave it a squeeze as the last of the light faded against the purple sky.

~*~*~

"Maybe it was Memphis!"

"Maybe you could shut up," Harry suggested hopefully.

"Maybe it was Potter's ratty hair!"

"I'm pretty sure those aren't the lyrics." Harry sighed and downshifted to pass a lorry on the narrow desert highway. Not only was their destination fifty miles from the nearest apparation point, they were less than twenty-four hours into a two-week mission, and Draco was already singing; and a singing Draco was never, ever a good thing. Namely, because it usually resulted in a very annoyed Harry, and he was in no mood to have an epic row with his partner while they were trapped in a car together.

"Maybe it was you, maybe it was me," Draco crooned with an overly dramatic flutter of blond eyelashes. "But it sure felt right!"

"That's it, we're fixing the radio at the next stop," Harry decided out loud.

"You're paying for it," Draco declared, and tilted his head back against the seat so his ridiculously oversized cowboy hat covered his eyes.

"I'm not the one who thought it was a good idea to cast amplification charms on the speakers," Harry pointed out grimly.

"If you hadn't kept turning the music down, I wouldn't have had to," Draco shot back.

Harry sighed. "Keep annoying me, Malfoy, and I'll sneak pictures of you in that thing and owl them to your parents."

"You wouldn't!" Draco shot straight up in his seat and ripped the hat off his head.

"I would," Harry promised darkly. "In fact, I'd send a copy to the rest of the division with a note asking them to frame it and put it on the ledge in the front office, so everyone who comes in knows you secretly harbor horrible taste in headwear."

"That's low, even for you," Draco grumbled, but the hat was tossed into the backseat all the same. "Have I mentioned I hate you Potter? I hate you with the force of a thousand hates, all doing a little tap dance to the tune of I'm-going-to-murder-you-while-you-sleep."

"You might have told me that once or twice, yeah," Harry muttered distractedly. "Uhm, how much petrol did you put in the tank at the last stop?"

"Petrol?" Draco repeated, frowning a bit. "I don't know, I gave the money to an older bloke and asked him to do it for me so my hands wouldn't smell like gasoline."

"Gave the money to-- the older bloke wouldn't happen to have been the same man who was sitting on the corner when we pulled in?" Harry asked with something akin to angry fascination.

"Mmhmm," Draco hummed. "Don't look so disgusted, he was really very nice."

"Just to be clear: we're talking about the man who was trying to sell slices of bread to people at the stoplight?" Harry pressed through clenched teeth.

"Yes, you absolute twit," Draco replied, and rolled his eyes. "What are you on about?"

"The fact," Harry growled as the engine spluttered and the car jerked, "that thanks to your philanthropy, we're out of petrol."

~*~*~

"That bit with the car was entirely your fault, just so we understand each another," Harry grumbled around a mouthful of toast.

"I'm sorry, I don't speak famished caveman," Draco replied, wrinkling his nose and picking daintily at his plate of bacon. "Potter, whenever you're finished paying tribute to your simian ancestors, I'd like to leave-- this table is filthy, and our waitress is unsettling."

Harry had to admit, Draco was right. After almost ten miles of urging the ancient Cadillac along using a combination of propulsion and levitation charms, they'd finally reached their destination: a small desert town whose sign announced, "Craggy Springs. Population 406." Despite Draco's protests, Harry had insisted they eat before checking into the motel, and they'd quickly discovered that Shacklebolt hadn't been kidding when he'd called the local residents less than inviting. Every head in the little diner had turned to stare at them, and not many had looked away in the half hour since they'd arrived. Their waitress was the only one who seemed inclined to speak to them, and Harry almost preferred the cold silence of the others.

Right on cue, Bernadine appeared with a carafe of coffee in hand and a wide smile plastered on an even wider face. Bracing her free hand on one generous hip, she offered them a wink and crooned, "More coffee, hon?"

Draco sniffed haughtily and looked away to stare out the grimy window.

"I'm fine, thanks," Harry muttered around a mouthful of toast.

"Well, then I'll just go get your check, sugar," Bernadine drawled.

As soon as she was gone, Harry cast a hasty silencing charm and mumbled, "Tell me again what we did to deserve this case?"

"You blew up half of Gringott's," Draco replied cheerfully, mood obviously improved by the opportunity to be irritating.

"Can we please drop that?" Harry groaned and buried his face in his hands, but his partner apparently wasn't finished.

"Burned a gondola, used unauthorized spells on underage wizards--" Draco ticked the list of offenses off on his fingers "--broke the door of my office, indecent exposure in the training rooms, and there was that bit with me, Mottlefroom and Stile in the men's loo."

"Alright, alright, I get it," Harry grumbled, then paused and narrowed his eyes. "Wait, what bit about you in the loo?"

Draco's eyes sparkled the way they always did when he was being an utter git and he tapped his finger on the table in time with his words: "Gullible, jealous freak."

"I hate you," Harry muttered halfheartedly. "You're supposed to be commiserating with me, you know. What happened to 'you can take my two-week holiday but you can never take my freedom'?"

Draco waved a hand dismissively. "I was caught up in the moment."

Harry diplomatically refrained from pointing out that 'the moment' was actually three days of sulking and temper tantrums, and sighed as he speared a bit of egg with his fork. "Well, at least it's just negotiations. I mean, how hard can that be?"

"Well, aren't we Mister Optimistic," Draco replied dryly. "Yes, I'm sure that convincing a coven of undead blood drinkers to stop killing the local townspeople will be a breeze."

Bernadine returned with the check before Harry could comment on how exhausting Draco's constant mood swings were. There was a bit of fumbling with the odd paper currency, which earned them a little more scrutiny from the other patrons of the diner, and finally the heavyset waitress was bustling away to another table.

"Come on," Harry mumbled as he slid out of the booth and stifled a yawn. "Let's get a nap before sunset, yeah?"

He was all too aware of the eyes that watched them leave.

~*~*~

The motel was old but surprisingly well kept-- though that didn't stop Draco from whining about the abundance of polyester in their room-- and Harry wasted no time in stripping down and flopping sideways across the bed.

"That's disgusting, you don't know who's been rolling around on those blankets," Draco huffed, but that didn't stop him from divesting himself of his clothing and crawling atop Harry.

"Don't care," Harry groaned, stretching his arms above his head before wrapping them around Draco's shoulders. "Besides, I'm pretty sure we'll be doing some rolling around of our own."

"Too tired," Draco complained, though he blushed rather fetchingly and bowed his head for a kiss.

That was a lie of course, since Draco was never too tired for sex, but Harry twined their fingers together and kissed the top of his partner's head as it settled against his chest. The afternoon sun was slanting golden rays through the tattered blinds, and he closed his eyes to listen to the sound of their combined breathing. Draco made a quiet sound of contentment, and Harry felt a familiar tug of want in his stomach that had nothing to do with their naked bodies pressed together.

"Draco," Harry said softly, as he brushed his fingertips over the other man's hair.

"Hmm?" Draco hummed and nuzzled closer.

Harry took a deep breath, then let it out very slowly. Another few seconds passed before he finally gave Draco's hand a quick squeeze and whispered, "Sleep for a little while."

"M'kay," Draco mumbled.

Not a full minute later, Harry felt his partner relax in his arms, and he let out a quiet sigh.

~*~*~

The chirping of a bird at the window roused Harry from sleep, and he blinked groggily at the fading sunlight on the ceiling. Draco was draped over and around him, holding one of his wrists in a loose grip and breathing softly against the side of his neck. For a few moments, he almost managed to convince himself they were at his flat in London and not a dusty old motel in an equally dusty town two hours out from Las Vegas. Unfortunately, the rumble of a truck engine outside brought him face-to-face with reality, and he groaned.

"Shu'up," Draco grumbled, rubbing his face against Harry's shoulder.

"We need to get up," Harry muttered.

"Why?" Draco whined. "So tired-- it feels like the middle of the night."

"Different time zone," Harry reminded his partner as he tried to disentangle his legs. "Come on, we only have half an hour before dark."

"Half an hour, more sleep," Draco protested with a slight pout, and then muttered, "Coffee."

"I'm not giving you coffee until you're sitting up," Harry murmured as he finally succeeded in slipping out from beneath the sheets.

"Fine," Draco relented with a put-upon sigh. "But mark my words, Potter, if I don't get caffeine in the next fifteen minutes, I'm going to make your night miserable."

Harry rolled his eyes, but stumbled his way over to the small in-room kitchenette to make Draco's coveted coffee. There was a muffled thud behind him, followed by an irritated grunt, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep his snickering at bay. Once the coffee was finished and poured, they dressed in silence and spread the files containing their case notes out on the table near the window.

"What's that?" Draco asked, jabbing at a sheaf of parchment that showed a crude sketch of a family tree.

"Blood lines," Harry mumbled distractedly. "Starting with Cain and ending around the European dark ages."

"Ah." Draco nodded sagely. "Who's Cain?"

"He's-- did you pay any attention at all during the briefing?" Harry sighed exasperatedly and glanced up at his partner through his fringe.

"I was distracted," Draco replied with a dismissive wave. "Shacklebolt had cupcakes on his desk--" he frowned "--which, now that I think of it, was obviously a diabolical scheme to make sure I wasn't paying attention so you could act like a know-it-all arse for the next two weeks."

Harry stared.

"They had buttercream frosting," Draco added wistfully before turning a mischievous grin on Harry. "Besides, I tend to lose interest in any conversations with Shacklebolt that don't involve him berating or embarrassing you."

"Thanks for that," Harry grumbled. After one last glance at what little information they'd been provided, he pushed the parchment away with a sigh and glanced out the window. "We should get going."

Harry had to admit that for all of his whining and stubbornness, no one could accuse Draco of not pulling his weight when it came time to get work done. They worked together to clean up the mess of papers and double-check the pack Shacklebolt had given them-- wooden stakes, which earned a snort of amusement from Draco, and a silver cross, which earned an arched eyebrow from Harry-- before slipping out of the room as quietly as possible so as to not call any unneeded attention to themselves. As it turned out, they needn't have worried, because the street outside was nearly deserted.

"Well, this is comforting," Draco remarked under his breath.

"Can't blame them, really," Harry muttered. "Shacklebolt said there've been four deaths in the last two months."

"And only two in the eight months before that?" Draco clarified quietly. "It almost seems like our good friend Dorian is trying to catch someone's attention."

"Yeah, seems that way," Harry mumbled distractedly as he examined the map they'd been given. "There should be an alley around here somewhere that leads to the old warehouse they're using."

They'd made their way to the main street that ran through the center of town, which was little more than two parallel rows of tiny hardware stores and rundown ice cream shoppes. The scene seemed like a dusty, desert parody of what Harry's Aunt Petunia had always disparagingly referred to as Small Town U.S.A.

"There's more of that famous hospitality," Draco murmured as an old woman peered out at them from behind the glass door of the bakery. As they watched, she flipped the sign to 'CLOSED' and drew the shade down, eyeing them suspiciously all the while.

"They're scared," Harry pointed out as he peered at the dark space between the post office and butcher shop.

"Harry?" Draco said, very quietly.

"Well, you saw the way those people in the diner were looking at us," Harry went on, squinting at the shifting shadows on the outer walls of the two buildings.

"Potter," Draco hissed.

Harry's attention was finally drawn away from the alleyway by an insistent tugging on his sleeve. There was an aggravated remark about the interruption on the tip of his tongue, but it died when he saw Draco's pale face and wide eyes in the scant moonlight. Swallowing heavily, he followed his partner's gaze toward the other end of the street, where a shadowy figure was silhouetted by the dark purple sky. A sudden chill made him shiver, and he cursed under his breath as he dropped the map in his haste to find his wand.

Draco's hand was already in his pocket, and he was squinting as the creature moved closer. In a low whisper, he said, "Not human."

"No shit," Harry muttered, and almost sighed with relief as his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his wand.

The map had been caught by the breeze, and it fluttered away from them before being caught by the approaching ghoul. There was a moment of silence that even the wind seemed unwilling to break before the creature took a step forward into the dim light of a streetlamp. If not for the hissing aura of undead magic emanating from him, he almost could have passed for human in his scuffed leather blazer and worn denims. The golden light cast shadows beneath his high cheekbones and glinted off the silver rings on his hand, and he glanced up at them through a tangle of unkempt blond hair to offer a wry smile.

"This is useless," he drawled in a thick southern accent as he held the map up between two fingers. After a moment, as if waiting to ensure he had Harry and Draco's full attention, he released the parchment to be carried away by the desert breeze.

"Let me handle this," Draco murmured, and before Harry could offer a protest, raised his voice to say, "We're looking for Dorian."

The creature arched one perfectly groomed eyebrow.

Harry winced and elbowed Draco in the ribs.

"Stop that," Draco hissed.

"Shut up," Harry muttered before turning his attention to the creature, who was watching them with what seemed to be malicious fascination. "Er-- we--"

"You're here courtesy of the British Ministry for Magic, yes, we know," was the amused sounding reply. "I would have thought that being English, you'd have better manners and introduce yourselves, but I suppose I'll do the honors myself: I'm James."

"Oh," Harry mumbled. "Uhm, so, I'm--"

"I know who you are, Harry Potter," James hummed, feline-green eyes scanning both Harry and Draco from head to toe. "And you must be Lucius Malfoy's son, Draco Malfoy?"

"How do you know my father?" Draco snapped, eyes narrowed and shoulders tensing.

"Everyone knows your father," James replied with a careless twitch of his lips that offered a flash of sharp white teeth.

Harry could tell by the way Draco's wand arm flinched that it was time to intervene. "Look, we're not here to start any trouble, we just want to talk to Dorian. I mean, if you already know who we are and where we're from, then you probably already know what we want."

"I do." James smiled in a way that might have been charming when he was alive, but looked decidedly dangerous given what he was, and slipped his hands into the pockets of his blazer. "Which is why I'm here to deliver a message from Dorian."

There was another long silence, and Harry felt Draco shift anxiously beside him.

"Dorian wanted me to inform you," James said in his unsettlingly calm drawl, "that he doesn't take kindly to interfering wand-wavers who step outside their jurisdiction, and he requests that you leave before sunset tomorrow night, or he will respond to your refusal accordingly."

It took all of Harry's willpower not to take a step backward, but he stubbornly reminded himself that he'd faced Voldemort and should therefore be able to handle a coven of vampires without swallowing his own tongue. So he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, and replied, "Tell Dorian that we have no intention of leaving before we've had a chance to talk to him, and if that means he wants to come hunt us down with the rest of his coven, then he's more than welcome to."

"Potter," Draco hissed. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Something menacing glinted in James' eyes, and his lips curled up in a slow smile. "I'll be sure to relay every word of that, Mister Potter."

Before Harry could open his mouth to amend his reckless declaration of war, the air shifted and James was gone.

"Er," Harry muttered. "That went well, I think."

"Fuck you, Potter," Draco groaned.

~*~*~




"Iie, kekko desu."

"Would you stop that?" Harry hissed. "You don't even know Japanese."

Draco smiled at the confused-looking elderly woman they had just passed, then tossed his hair out of his eyes and gave Harry a dismissive wave.

"I'm serious," Harry emphasized. "You're embarrassing me."

"Potter, if being seen in public looking the way you do doesn't embarrass you, then-- Yasui!" Draco interrupted himself to wave at a group of schoolgirls who were eyeing them warily.

"Oh my god," Harry groaned and shielded his face with one hand while simultaneously trying to drag his partner along with the other. "Please tell me you didn't just tell those underage girls you're cheap."

"I didn't just tell those underage girls I'm cheap," Draco parroted with a smirk.

"Tell me again why I agreed to take this case?" Harry sighed as they offered the doorman of their hotel a perfunctory bow.

"Because you're obviously in love with me and you couldn't stand the thought of being away from me for three months," Draco replied as he brushed past Harry and through the front doors with the air of a regent-- or the absurdly spoiled heir to what was left of the Malfoy fortune.

Despite struggling not to blush, Harry could feel a telltale heat working its way across his cheeks, and he purposely hung back a bit. Shoving his hands in his pockets was his old stand-by solution for uncomfortable situations, but he courageously resisted the urge to shuffle his feet as they crossed the lobby. In less than twenty-four hours, Draco had made three flippant remarks about love-- not that Harry was counting-- and each one had been more nerve-wracking than the others.

Because Harry was in love with Draco; quite helplessly, in fact.

The problem was, of course, actually telling the git.

"Kyukyusha, kudasai," Draco announced to the man behind the registration counter.

"No, no, he's fine," Harry assured the understandably alarmed clerk, and then under his breath added, "I'm going a bit mad, though."

~*~*~




"I am obliged, as your best friend, to inform you that this is a terrible idea."

Draco offered Blaise a withering glance and turned back to the mirror to give his appearance a critical once-over. Dark blue eyes stared back at him and he blew a strand of golden blond hair away from his forehead. The glamour bore more than a passing resemblance to his Great Uncle Perantius, whose portrait had hung in his father's study at Malfoy Manor. Draco had been fascinated with the man for as long as he could remember, and using the likeness of someone he'd stared at for hours as a child meant he was more likely to remember the little details whenever he needed to use the glamour.

"Are you absolutely certain you want to go through with this?" Blaise asked.

Draco gave a put-upon sigh and rolled his eyes. "Honestly, do you think I'd be doing this if there was a better option? And don't you dare suggest to me again that I let you and Pansy take care of me. You're both unbearable enough as it is."

"This is a very, very bad idea," Blaise repeated. "I know Potter has a reputation for being oblivious to a lot of things, but isn't stupid."

"And yet I have so much evidence to the contrary at my disposal." Draco glared at Blaise's reflection. "Now would you please relax, you paranoid bastard? Everything will be fine. Trust me."

Blaise's lips turned up in a wry smirk. "Famous last words, my friend."




The building that housed Potter & Weasley, Defense Consulting was a smart little brownstone in the outskirts of Diagon Alley. A row of calla lilies decorated a strip of dirt that ran along the outer wall of the building, interrupted by the short walk that led from the street to the front steps. Translucent script hovered above the door, announcing that the office was open for business. All in all, it was surprisingly tasteful, given who the proprietors of the establishment were.

Draco paused to check his disguise in the burnished faceplate of the callbox beside the door. He'd been using the same glamour for years, but thankfully, it wasn't likely to be recognized by anyone north of France. After the end of the war, his father had sent him to Spain with a fair few galleons and instructions not to return until the remaining Death Eaters had been killed or captured. As it turned out, Spain had agreed with Draco a bit too well; by the time he found his way back to England five years later, the cost of maintaining a private villa had finally caught up with him, and his parents-- along with the family fortune-- were nowhere to be found. For the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy had not a sickle to his name.

Which was why he'd found himself in Diagon Alley, about to start his first day as Harry Potter's personal assistant. Not only was Potter the only person he'd come across who was gullible enough to hire a wizard with no verifiable background, he was also Draco's best bet for finding his parents. The Boy Who Lived was bound to have useful connections at the Ministry.

Just as Draco lifted a finger to the callbox, the front door opened and he barely managed dodge the person who burst out onto the stairs. Startled, he needlessly dusted off the front of his robes and glared up at his assailant.

"Sorry, I didn't expect anyone to be standing out here." Potter offered a sheepish grin and pushed his wire-rimmed spectacles up his nose. Five years hadn't done much for his appearance; he'd obviously developed better taste in eyewear and his black jumper was clearly not of the Weasley variety, but his hair was still an unholy mess and he hadn't outgrown the awkward proportions of his teenage years. But at the same time, he seemed confident in a way he never had back at Hogwart's; comfortable in his own skin without being cocky.

Draco realized he was staring, so he cleared his throat and said, in a practiced Spanish accent, "I'm Jules Cesario, your new assistant. "

"Oh, is it half ten already?" Potter flicked the edge of his sleeve up to check his Muggle wristwatch. "Damn, damn."

"Late for something?" Draco asked, arching an eyebrow and trying to force himself to relax.

Potter yanked his sleeve back down and raked his fingers through his hair. "Yeah, uhm, I've got this appointment in thirty minutes and I sorta forgot you were coming today. I guess this kinda proves I need an assistant after all, huh?"

The idiot actually had the nerve to blush, and Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I can come back tomorrow, if you're busy."

"No, no," Potter replied, grinning and waving his hands about. "No, I'd probably bollix that up too, somehow. Why don't you come with me and we'll talk on the way? It's just down the street a bit, and then we can come back here and I'll get you settled in."

Draco sighed as Potter bounded down the stairs, apparently expecting him to follow, and tried to remind himself that murdering one's employer on the first day was probably not the best way to ensure a steady paycheck.




Ten minutes later, they were standing in front of a cozy-looking cottage in the Muggle neighborhood outside of Diagon Alley. There were a few elderly couples sunning themselves on the porch, and a group of children were climbing in the broad-limbed willow tree that stood guard over the front lawn. A tidy little sign atop the white picket fence proclaimed the establishment: 'Virginia's Bed and Breakfast.'

Apparently, Potter caught the look of confusion on Draco's face, because he stopped in the middle of explaining his weekly schedule and said, "It's my wife's."

The announcement was delivered in a dry monotone that would have made dear old Severus Snape do a double-take. Draco glanced at Potter from the corner of his eye. Of course he'd heard that the great Harry Potter had finally married his childhood sweetheart, but judging by the look on his face, the relationship wasn't exactly teeming with happily wedded bliss.

"Come inside, this probably won't take long," Potter muttered. The smiling confidence was gone, replaced with a drooping resignation that reminded Draco of the eleven-year-old boy he'd once known and hated. The difference was that this time, it was more pathetic than irritating.

Weasley greeted them at the door with a smile faker than Draco's blue eyes. After giving them both a once-over, she ushered them into the sunlit front hall. They stood in uncomfortable silence for a few moments before she offered them tea, which Draco and Potter both politely declined.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" Weasley asked, crossing her arms and staring pointedly at Draco.

Potter sighed. "Please don't start, Ginny," he muttered. "This is my assistant, Jules Cesario."

"Assistant." Weasley arched one red eyebrow. "Nice to meet you, Jules."

"A pleasure," Draco replied coolly. Apparently, the woman was determined to be an utter bint to him, even when she didn't know who he was. The only explanation he could come up with was that somehow, members of the Weasley clan could sense the presence of their evolutionary superiors.

Even Potter seemed to notice the tension between them, because he cleared his throat and said, "Can we go talk in the kitchen?"

"We don't need to talk, you're just here to pick up the paperwork," Weasley snapped. A light flush tinted her cheeks beneath her freckles, and Draco took that as his cue to excuse himself into the nearby drawing room.

Their voices were audible even after they'd made their way down the hall, and it didn't take much to deduce that they were arguing. Draco suppressed a smile. If it had been anyone else, he might have considered feeling sorry for the poor idiot. Since it was Potter, the most he could muster was satisfaction tinged with the slightest traces of guilt. Said idiot had saved his life, after all.

After a few minutes had passed and Draco had grown tired of studying the chintzy, blue-flowered wallpaper, he stood to peruse the bookshelves lining the far wall. Most of them were trashy paperback novels-- pulp romance and glossy murder mysteries-- but a thin hardback on the bottom shelf caught his eye. Just as he was leaning over to pick it up, the door behind him opened and he froze.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize anyone was in here."

The voice was familiar, oily slick and slightly nasal. Draco slowly straightened and looked over his shoulder to find Theodore Nott standing in the doorway. It took everything he had not to hex the bastard on sight, but cursing Nott's scrawny, cowardly arse wasn't worth exposing himself. Instead, he forced a look of faint surprise and said, "You startled me."

"My apologies." Nott's smile was as crooked as the rest of him. "Are you a guest here? I didn't see you check in."

"No, I'm Harry Potter's assistant," Draco explained, trying to ignore the way his skin crawled in response to Nott's voice.

"Ah. Well, I believe he and Ginny are almost finished so you shouldn't have to wait much longer," Nott replied, taking a step into the room and folding his arms behind his back. Once upon a time, he'd been shorter than Draco. Now, he was at least a full head taller, though he didn't seem to weigh any more than he had when he was a teenager. The jagged angles of his shoulders made his cheap Muggle shirt hang awkwardly on his frame, and his greasy brown hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Something about the beadiness of his eyes and the sharp slope of his nose reminded Draco of Snape, but that's where the similarities ended. Nott was anything but a hero.

Draco turned his attention back to the book he'd been eyeing. The volume in question turned out to be a Muggle play, and he flipped through it, trying to ignore the fact that he could still feel Nott staring at his back. Just as he was considering throwing caution to the wind and cursing the git sideways, Potter's voice drifted down the hall.

"Ginny, please listen," Potter was pleading. The reply was indistinct, but he followed it with a heavy sigh and, "I'll owl you later."

As soon as Potter appeared in the doorway, Draco moved to stand beside him, eager to be as far away from Nott as possible. Potter's face was pale and his eyes were bloodshot, like he'd been trying not to cry. All in all, it was a pitiful sight, and Draco felt his earlier giddiness fade a bit, much to his dismay.

"Shall I see you out?" Nott asked in his drawling, too-smooth voice.

"No, that's okay." Potter sounded tired. "Thanks for helping her out, Theo. It makes me feel better, knowing you're here to keep an eye on the place."

Nott's smile was razor sharp, and Draco felt like screaming in frustration. So much for Blaise's insistence that Potter had some modicum of intelligence; if he couldn't see that Nott was up to something, he was a fool.

"I'm always happy to help," Nott said, rocking back and forth on his heels and casting a quick glance at Draco. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you again, Cesario?"

Draco narrowed his eyes a bit and replied, "I'm almost certain you will."




Being Potter's assistant was quite possibly one of the most horrifying experiences of Draco's life. The man was so scatterbrained it was a wonder he could locate his own trousers in the morning, and his idea of organizing files seemed to be to stack the folders on every available surface and use the drawers in the cabinet to store the most random things he could find. One seemed to serve as a sock drawer, another contained half-empty bags of crisps that had expired four months prior, and the bottom drawer was a jumble of rubber bands and paperclips.

"Why--" Draco pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger "--why do you need this many rubber bands?"

Potter's head emerged from behind the stack of files on his desk and he blinked, first at Draco and then at the drawer. "They come off the newspaper."

"That doesn't-- never mind," Draco replied with a sigh. "Do you use them for anything?"

"Er, no, I don't think so, but it's probably good for an office to have plenty of them, right?" Potter came out from behind his fortress of paperwork and stared down at the drawer.

Draco shot a glance at him from the corner of his eye. "Po-- Mister Potter, no one needs this many rubber bands."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Potter laughed and tugged a hand through his hair. "Okay, I guess we can dump them-- and call me Harry, please. You're gonna make me feel like an old man if you keep calling me that."

"Alright," Draco replied slowly. There was an odd pause between them, and he resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably. Potter was staring at him. When the silence had gone from being awkward to downright agonizing, he asked, "Is there something else you'd rather I be doing?"

The question seemed to startle Potter because he took a step back and shook his head with a nervous-sounding laugh. "No, sorry, I didn't mean to stare. It's just-- er-- you remind me of someone, that's all."

"Oh," Draco murmured. It hadn't been difficult for him to shove aside the indignity of working for his former arch-nemesis once he realized that Potter was content to let him work under his own supervision. Even so, he knew there had been some points throughout the day when he'd let his exasperation get the better of him and polite Jules Cesario had crumbled to let frustrated Draco Malfoy shine through.

"Don't worry, you're not that much like him," Potter said with another quiet laugh.

Not sure whether to be insulted or amused, Draco just nodded and turned his attention back to the drawer. Eventually, Potter seemed to get tired of watching him wrestle with the mound of rubber bands and went back to his desk. They both worked in silence for awhile, and Draco breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. Unfortunately, the relief was short-lived, because not an hour later, Potter was up and pacing.

"Is something wrong?" Draco forced his tone to sound politely concerned.

Potter paused for a second, sighed, then resumed his aimless wandering around the room. "Yeah, I'm fine, just antsy I guess. Women, you know?"

"Hmm," Draco hummed. As a matter of fact, he didn't know, but that was something he was sure Potter didn't need to be privy to.

"It's just-- we used to be so good at talking," Potter continued. "I mean, I've never been brilliant at it, and I'm always saying the wrong thing, but she used to understand me."

"It's a shame," Draco murmured, trying to keep his irritation in check. The last thing he felt like doing was listening to Potter's relationship woes, not when he had so many problems of his own to think about.

Potter stopped at the window beside the filing cabinet and leaned back against the sill with his hands in his pockets. "I was supposed to pick up the divorce paperwork today, and I didn't. I looked at it, but I just-- I couldn't, you know?"

For some reason, it hadn't occurred to Draco that Potter and Weasley's marriage was so far gone that she'd be considering a divorce. The thought jerked him out of his half-attentive state and he glanced up at the other man.

"Sorry, this is probably really unprofessional, huh?" Potter said with an obviously forced smile. "I just had to get some of it off my chest, I guess, and since Ron's out of town, I don't have anyone else to complain to."