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Harry rubbed at his temples as the witness began to cry again, the high-pitched sobs pulling at his heart and making his head throb. They had been questioning her for an hour already, and hadn’t gained anything useful.
Then again, the witness was seven-year-old Greta Hopeston, the niece of Patrick and Thea Hopeston. According to Greta, she had woken up that morning to find herself alone in the Hopeston’s small, semi-detached house on the outskirts of Manchester, in the new wizarding neighbourhood of Pentelon. The adult Hopestons were nowhere to be seen.
“This is our witness?”
Harry turned to see Malfoy climbing through the shattered remains of the front door, frowning as he caught his trousers on a piece of the splintered wood that had once been the doorframe of the Hopeston’s home.
“Yeah. The door was all her, she had a magical outburst when she realised she was alone in a locked house,” Harry shrugged, watching the two coffees floating next to Malfoy with interest. “So far, we don’t know where they are, no signs of a struggle. The niece’s parents are on the way; they were on holiday.”
Malfoy sent one of the coffee cups towards Harry with a flick of his fingers and nodded, his eyes on the stairs leading to the bedrooms. “Anything upstairs?”
“Bedroom undisturbed – but there’s a strong trace of some kind of unknown spellwork, Forensics And Tech team is on it. They say it wasn’t the homeowners, different magical signature.” Harry paused, aware of the small form of Greta Hopeston sat on the sofa with a Junior Auror. He lowered his voice. “Both wands are upstairs.”
Malfoy’s eyebrows raised as he met Harry’s gaze. “Well, what an eventful Sunday morning.”
The information covering Malfoy’s pin board was thorough. Harry closed his eyes as the headache that had been threatening ever since he left Manchester sent a stabbing pain through his head. It didn’t matter, he could see the words as clearly as if his eyes were still open.
Thea and Patrick Hopeston were Hogwarts sweethearts, recently married in early April. Patrick Hopeston was working with his father in their family apothecary, while Thea was due to graduate from Oxford’s wizarding branch in the summer. Thea liked to visit a nearby park to read with her book club, Patrick was part of a local amateur Quidditch team, and they were both missing.
Harry felt the prickling itch of time slipping away. The Hopestons had disappeared sometime after 9pm on the night of Saturday the 14th May. It was now just after 4pm on Monday the 16th, and Harry had yet to go home after being called to the scene Sunday morning. He couldn’t.
The more he looked at it, the worse the feeling of dread in his chest got. The Hopestons had no reason to leave, and by all accounts from the friends and family, would never have left their niece by herself in the house at night. And yet, with no sign of a struggle, and only the unidentified magic lingering in the upstairs bedroom to go off, leads weren’t exactly forthcoming.
Forthcoming. That was definitely Malfoy’s influence.
Harry opened his eyes at the soft creak of the office door opening. Malfoy entered with another duo of floating coffee cups, looking his usual polished self, only faint shadows appearing under his eyes to give away that he had been in the DMLE all night too.
“I definitely owe you coffee, it’s on me tomorrow,” Harry said as he stretched and tried to straighten up in his chair, taking his mug with a sigh.
Malfoy smirked and settled into his chair behind his desk. “You always owe me, Potter.” He took a sip of his own coffee, then took a great big gulp, immediately swiveling to face the evidence board.
Harry took his own slurp of coffee and winced as he burnt his tongue.
“… think a press release could help, but there’s obviously pros and cons and — "
Harry stopped trying to look at the end of his own tongue and sat up, waving aside Malfoy’s words. “Robards wants a press release? Not like him.”
Malfoy shrugged and got back out of his chair, looking twitchy and irritable. He approached the pin board, long fingers reaching for the map of Pentelon that Harry had stuck up some eighteen hours earlier. “Turns out the next-door neighbour is an Unspeakable. A Myra Misenthy, she’s not been seen since she left the Department of Mysteries Thursday afternoon.”
The coffee mug was hot, but not hot enough to stop the sudden chill in Harry’s fingers, curling down his arms. “She’s missing too? What the fu- why are you just dropping this on me now?!” He demanded, the back of his neck heat up with outrage. And possibly sleep deprivation. “Christ Malfoy!”
Malfoy’s shoulders briefly hunched before he whirled on Harry and jabbed a bony finger in his direction. “I’ve just been told myself Potter, Christ,” he drawled, mocking Harry’s voice before switching back to his usual clipped tones. “Mysteries has been keeping it quiet until they were sure she hadn’t gone out to do fieldwork. Robards thinks”, he rolled his eyes, “that the missing people, including Unspeakable Misenthy, are linked to something she’s working on, but Mysteries isn’t letting us into her office.”
Harry matched Malfoy’s eye-roll with one of his own and leaned forward on his desk, feeling the ache in his shoulders pull tight across his back. “Right, typical Mysteries shite. Sorry. Look, I reckon we head back to Pentelon, have a look at the Unspeakable’s house, see if we can figure out where she’s gone – or been taken. Hopefully that’ll lead us to all three of them before – well.”
He watched as Malfoy stuck a new photo into the board next to Harry’s map, a Ministry headshot. Myra Misenthy smiled at him from her photo, looking proud and shy all at once as her photograph was taken for her official Mysteries I.D. She was a red headed witch with short hair, curling wildly around her ears.
Could’ve been a Weasley, Harry thought as he felt tiredness plucking at him like a Dementor.
“You’re going to do the notification to the press, Potter. I’ll go to the house, join me when you’re done.” Malfoy’s hand clapped Harry’s shoulder, a rare display of physicality from his Auror partner. “Your adoring press awaits, after all.”
Malfoy’s smile was gently mocking as Harry groaned and drained the rest of his drink, only realising as he got to the dregs that he could taste the trademark bright tang of Malfoy’s Brain-Ache-Buster, his heavily-patented homebrew potion for headaches. The ache in his temples had gone without him even noticing.
Malfoy had been mocking him when he’d mentioned Harry’s “adoring press”, but Harry grimly conceded that it was mostly true.
“What is the DMLE doing about these missing people?”
“Have the missing people been murdered?”
“Is the DMLE holding back details of the brutal murders that have devastated —”
Mostly.
Harry took a deep breath, then another, as he felt the full weight of the past couple of days come slamming down on his shoulders. The lights from the press cameras were so bright, and Rita Skeeter’s suit was blindingly pink, and he just could not take one more minute.
“Auror Potter, what about the third person to be missing? An Unspeakable, aren’t they?”
The crowd quietened as Rita’s voice rang out above their heads, amplified with a Sonorous charm. Harry felt the snap of his patience go in one clean break, and gripped the podium tight as he leaned forward into the sudden expectant silence.
“Yes, they are. Unfortunately, we are behind in investigating the disappearance of Unspeakable Number 7173, as the Department of Mysteries did not report them missing for some time. However, we will be working our very hardest to ensure they are found as quickly as possible. No delays have been caused by the Auror department at any point.”
Harry risked a glance in Robards direction to find the Head Auror glaring daggers into the side of his head as the crowd of journalists burst out with fresh questions.
“I hope that answers your question, Rita”, Harry said pleasantly as he ducked off the stage at a half run.
Harry followed the sound of Malfoy’s footsteps into the upstairs of Myra Misenthy’s house. The house appeared to be undisturbed, eerily similar to the way the Hopeston’s house next door had been left.
“In here Potter,” Malfoy’s voice rang from behind a closed door.
“Find anything useful? Robards is fuming about the press, I sort of…” his voice trailed off as he stepped through the doorway to join Malfoy in what was clearly Unspeakable Misenthy’s home office. Books were stacked almost to the ceiling in towers, huge, thick tomes that were splitting at the seams with loose pages. Two cauldrons stood against the wall, looking weirdly out of place in the nicely carpeted, mid-sized room. Malfoy was kneeling on the floor next to the sensible Ikea desk, which appeared to be mostly covered with potions ingredients and cutting boards.
Malfoy looked up at him, eyes shadowed in the bright sun streaming through the window above the desk. “I’m beginning to think Unspeakables shouldn’t be allowed to take work home. Misenthy is clearly addicted to her research.”
The carpet muffled Harry’s steps as he approached the cauldrons. “Have you figured out what she’s researching? It doesn’t look like Time, or Memory. No pensieve,” Harry said as he peered into the crusty insides of the larger cauldron, some dark-coloured remnants of a potion stuck to the sides.
“Love.”
Harry turned to see Malfoy pushing himself to his feet, long limbs unfolding elegantly as he pulled out his notebook, a quill already hovering.
“From a quick analysis, it looks like most of these books are on traditional bonding spells – the kind Good Society has used for centuries.” Malfoy continued distractedly, the neat capital letters dropping into place as they always did when he mentioned anything unbearably posh and twattish. Harry shoved his hands in his pockets. There was no stopping Malfoy when he got going with a something like this – a new angle, a new project, a new suspect. Harry deeply suspected that if Malfoy was able to physically take a question by the ankles and shake it upside down for answers, he would.
“— so it looks like she’s researching how love can be used in some kind of —”
Harry flexed his fingers against the fabric of his pockets, feeling a little ball of lint under his nail. Malfoy’s face was alight with discovering a possibility in the case, his dark eyes and expressive mouth moving fast as he dictated to his quill, and all Harry wanted was…
Well. Harry wanted to kiss his face off.
He’d known he was in love with Draco Malfoy after a badly-executed arrest in Brighton three years after the war. He didn’t like to think about the details, not really, and besides, some of it was badly hazy, blood loss making the memories faded and fuzzy. But he remembered very clearly looking up from his position by a shattered piano and an overturned stool, feeling the slow pool of blood under his shoulders, and seeing Malfoy race to stand in front of him, facing off against Antonin Dolohov’s sister. Harry had seen the snarl on Malfoy’s face, the rage obliterating any fear and sending his well-bred features into stark wildness. He’d had to shut his eyes as his heart thumped wildly in his chest, feeling Malfoy’s magic swirling out to protect him and stabilise his wounds.
He'd woken in St Mungo’s to find Malfoy asleep in a chair next to him, covered in dirt with ceiling plaster in his hair. Harry had later found out Malfoy had brought the whole roof down on Alexa Dolohov and singlehandedly disarmed her. Apparently heroism was the way to Harry’s stupid, Gryffindor heart.
And when they’d graduated from Junior Aurors after Dolohov was sentenced, Harry had been asked who he wanted as his partner. He hadn’t hesitated a second, even though he knew seeing Malfoy every day might be torturous. It was worth it.
Malfoy gave no indication he knew, and their tentative friendship, and one-sided crush, had solidified into a brilliant partnership. Harry’s instinctive power and tendency to barge in was tempered by Malfoy’s generational suspicion and clever magic. Harry couldn’t imagine partnering with anyone else, especially as Ron had quit the Aurors only a year in to join George at his shop.
It probably wasn’t the best idea, partnering with a man Harry wanted to —
“Potter?”
Malfoy’s sharp tone brought Harry snapping out of his reverie. “Sorry, I’m with you. Maybe we need to check with Mysteries, they might be more co-operative now that I’ve sicced Skeeter on them,” Harry said, following Malfoy’s gaze to the floor.
Glowing sigils were popping into existence all over the carpet.
Harry met Malfoy’s worried gaze just as the whole world took a lurch upwards, and he fell as the floor neatly disappeared from under them.
Harry tried to apparate as he spun through black nothingness, and felt a sickening pull in two different directions. He landed with a crumpled thump into something shockingly cold, and groaned as he tried to raise his head. His vision swam into focus as snowflakes began drifting onto his glasses, the sky a bleak, solid grey above him. He lifted his head as he began to shiver, seeing the tall spires of pine trees above him. He seemed to have landed in on a snow-covered hill, nothing but trees and blank white fields stretching for miles. His summer Auror robes weren’t much protection against the freezing temperatures, and he pulled himself to his feet, wincing as he felt the ache of nearly being splinched, then dumped on the ground. He slid his wand from his holster, casting a warming charm.
Nothing happened.
Harry swallowed back a sudden rise of bile in his mouth. Tried again, this time a simple Lumos. His wand didn’t even spark.
Malfoy.
“Malfoy!” he shouted, panic making his throat feel tight. His voice disappeared out into the flurry of snow, muffled into the trees. “Malfoy!”
He forced himself to move as the wind began picking up, stumbling towards the cover of the forest. The cold was a living thing, gripping at his fingers and hair, sending snow sliding into his collar. He tried not to think about how long it would take to freeze a human being solid.
Clearly there was a heavy anti-magic ward on the entire area, but he gripped his wand anyway, unable to re-holster it. That was uncomfortably close to admitting he was trapped.
Harry leaned against a broad pine, tucking his fingers into his armpits, and tried to think. His breath panted out in front of him, small clouds puffing into the freezing air. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t do it. He needed Malfoy, he always knew what to do, had the strongest sense of self-preservation between the two of them.
A beam of light flickered then shone in the snow, maybe half a mile away, and Harry remembered the Muggle torches he had insisted both he and Malfoy should carry, that he’d bought and put in Malfoy’s hand. Malfoy had raised it immediately to eye level, clearly pleased with a new object to investigate, his mouth quirking into a smile. Harry had thought about that moment a lot.
Harry fumbled his own torch out of the inner pockets of his robes, his numb fingers struggling to turn it on for a moment. He waved it wildly, watching the beam light up the trees, and saw the moment Malfoy spotted it, a matching beam of light waving through the snow. Harry slumped in relief, unable to think beyond the knowledge that Malfoy would sort it, would find him and make him warm again.
He blinked back into wakefulness after unconsciousness he hadn’t known was coming, feeling himself held in Malfoy’s wiry arms. Malfoy’s face was uncannily beautiful in the harsh snow, his fine hair streaked with ice. Harry blinked, and he was being carried indoors, being laid down on a thin rug, another blink and Malfoy was crouched over a small fire, feeding kindling to the flames. Time seemed hazy and unimportant as Harry watched the flames dance up over Malfoy’s fingers, watched as Malfoy turned to him with his eyes the palest Harry had ever seen them, even in the flickering shadows. Harry shut his eyes as shivers started racing through his body, his heart moving sluggishly in his chest.
“Try not to panic, the shivering is your body trying to warm up.” Malfoy’s crisp voice was a relief, pulling Harry back from the black horror of knowing he probably nearly died in the snow, and he wouldn’t even have known it was coming. Just slow, stupid sleep creeping over him.
“Th-that’s difficult n-not to do,” he gritted out, pulling himself a bit closer to the fire Malfoy had built. He heard Malfoy stand up from somewhere behind him, and raised his head.
They were in a small wooden building – a cabin, not too unlike Hagrid’s hut. It was neat, but economical, two chairs and a small table tucked against the wall, a battered looking sofa beside Harry, next to the fire. A kitchenette, where Malfoy had a pan on the stove. The snow was rapidly filling up the windows, the wind rattling the panes.
Malfoy was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded. He didn’t even look cold. “Well, Potter. We seem to be in a slight pickle,” he said, glancing towards the window. “I can’t use any magic. I assume you can’t either, or you wouldn’t have nearly — ” Malfoy cut himself off, made a low noise of frustration. He started opening cupboards, stopping once he’d found a couple of mugs.
“We need to get out of here and get backup. Whatever that spellwork was in Misenthy’s office, it brought us here,” Harry offered into the silence, wiggling his fingers as feeling began returning to his extremities.
Malfoy scoffed and pushed his damp hair back from his face, an impatient little gesture that Harry usually enjoyed watching. “Stating the bloody obvious, Potter. But,” Malfoy hesitated uncharacteristically, “the Hopestons could be here too. Perhaps the same thing happened to them.”
“And besides, we don’t know where we are, and we can’t apparate,” Harry added. He thought about the unknown spellwork that had lingered in the master bedroom of the Hopeston’s home, right now being analysed by the FAT team. He looked back at Malfoy as the pan on the stove began to steam, wondering if the Hopestons had been in this room. Patrick Hopeston, with his wide grin in their wedding photos, Thea Hopeston looking like she could barely stop laughing long enough to pose. Trapped together, just like this.
The cabin was slightly bigger than it had looked, but not much. Harry worked his way through the three rooms, poking into a tiny bathroom with a deep tin bathtub, and a bedroom mostly taken up with a double bed and a scarred wooden dresser shoved into a corner. The wind howled outside as he went back to the living room, feeling off-balance and irritated. There was nothing to indicate why they’d been dropped here, or anything about the usual inhabitants.
Harry stomped back into the room and drew up short, feeling his mouth go dry. Malfoy was stripping.
“Don’t look at me like that Potter, we need dry clothes. Unless you’d prefer to remain damp and go mouldy instead?” Malfoy snarked, in the middle of unbuttoning his uniform trousers, his robes and shirt already hanging up next to the fire. In spite of practically living in each other’s pockets, as most Auror partners did, it was a rare thing seeing Malfoy even partially undressed. His uniform was always pristine, his robes outside of work both fashionable and conservative, and Harry got the distinct impression that it simply didn’t occur to him to look anything less than Proper, with a capital P. Seeing his bare, pale shoulders flex as he bent to pull off his boots and trousers seemed to have stuck Harry’s tongue to the roof of his mouth.
Malfoy thankfully (or not) seemed to stop undressing once he was down to his vest and boxers, which kicked Harry into action. He began undoing his own robes, fingers fumbling over the fiddly buttons, as Malfoy threw himself onto the sofa and pulled out his notebook again. Harry got the impression Malfoy was trying not to look at him.
“We essentially have two options, as far as I see it,” Malfoy said, sounding horribly calm and composed for a man in his boxers in an unknown cabin in the arse-end of Snowy Hell.
“We can try to leave and travel on foot to get help, but we’re without magic and have no idea where we are,” Harry supplied, shrugging off his robes and shirt.
Malfoy glanced at him and looked away quickly, face carefully impassive. “Or we can stay here, and try to figure out if the Hopestons are nearby. There’s food in the pantry, water and firewood.”
“There’s more of a chance the department can find us if we stay in one place,” Harry added, peeling off his wet trousers and draping the whole lot over a chair near the fire. He sat on the floor, feeling unsettled, feeling as though he couldn’t stand to sit next to Malfoy on the tiny sofa. The fire warmed his back, spreading through him as he sat amongst the hanging clothes, looking up at Malfoy.
And so, they stayed. Harry found dried pasta in the pantry, tins of sauce, and they ate from chipped bowls by the fire, alternately talking through the case, poking holes in each other’s theories, or sitting in silence, listening to the wind howl outside. The night came on fast, the windows reflecting Harry’s face back at him against snow and dark, starless sky. Harry found himself dozing off on the sofa, waking in the night to find Malfoy gone from the living room, then back in the weak morning light, banking up the fire again. He stayed quiet, watching Malfoy’s hands coax the fire back to life. His hands were the only thing moving, the rest of him gone preternaturally still, balanced perfectly on his haunches, dressed in his white shirt and trousers. He didn’t even look like he was breathing.
They spent the morning going over the case from the beginning – the missing couple, the missing Unspeakable, the missing motive. But things started to fall into place.
Unspeakable Myra Misenthy was a rising star of the Department of Mysteries, according to notes on her work Malfoy had found in her home office. Working exclusively in the Love Chamber for the last two years, she had published several papers and was in a good position to be promoted within the next few years.
But something was off. Her work files were full of notes on a project about the different types of love, and some notes about Amortentia and the possibility of tweaking it to influence bonding between family members. But then the notes on that project seemed to stop altogether several months ago.
Harry read through Malfoy’s careful notes as the other man got up to make another round of tea. Notes sporadic, keeps coming back to bonding rituals. Obsessive.
Harry felt the tickle of a theory, and grabbed onto it.
“Malfoy, the Hopeston’s had a traditional bonding ceremony. For their wedding,” Harry said, feeling the idea out as he said it. “Misenthy is obsessed with bonding rituals? Do you think she was at the wedding?”
Malfoy nodded, hands gripping the back of a chair as Harry pushed his notebook back to him across the scuffed table, open at the right page. “She was writing about the rituals constantly, and the books in that office —” Malfoy shrugged, fingers tapping the chair, “— some of them are pretty dark. Old ceremonies, the kind that no one uses now. A lot of them involve a transfer of power, of some magic, from one partner to another.”
“So what if – what if Misenthy has transported the Hopeston’s here, and —”
“— is using some kind of adapted bonding ritual to do something —”
“Dark,” they finished together, Harry feeling his chest constrict as Malfoy looked at him, looking stricken. “Oh fuck.”
Malfoy pushed away from the table, looking ill. “I can think of at least five illegal bonding spells that should never see the light of day again. Never mind what she might have added into them.”
Harry stood, filled with nervous energy. The pan was bubbling on the stove, but he paid it no mind, with Malfoy looking so pale and wan in front of him.
“We’ll find them. FAT will figure out the spell, and then the team will find us. Yeah? And once we’re out from the wards, we’ll be able to hunt her down,” Harry said fiercely, feeling the hot kernel of anger in his chest sitting heavy. Malfoy nodded, looking no better, the implications for the fate of the Hopestons clearly weighing on him. He looked almost ashen.
The afternoon passed in a long stretch, during which neither of them could focus on anything useful, and kept sniping at each other when they got bored. The snow had stopped, but the cold was unforgiving when Harry tried opening the door, and besides, there was nothing as far as the eye could see. No houses, no landmarks.
So Harry found himself indulging in an old hobby. Malfoy-Watch. There was little else to do, and besides, Malfoy was acting… Odd. Odder than usual.
He only picked at his lunch, looking like he kept losing focus. Then there was the way Malfoy was pacing, throwing himself down onto the sofa or chairs, just to pull himself back up a moment later and stalk around the small space. It was unlike Malfoy to be so restless, usually able to remain on stakeouts longer than anyone else in the department. He looked increasingly tattered, dark circles appearing under his eyes again, his fingers twitching constantly towards his useless wand.
Harry did his best to appear unconcerned – the last thing he wanted was to get into a spat with Malfoy while they were trapped in the cabin from hell, but he eventually shoved Malfoy onto the sofa while he prepared dinner.
Prising open another tin of pasta sauce, Harry jumped when a log in the fire fell with a thud. His finger pricked with bright pain, and he looked down to see his finger sliced open on the sharp edge of the tin. Blood welled and dripped onto the wooden counter.
He felt strong hands on his shoulders half a second before he was whirled around, coming face to face with Malfoy. His fingers felt like stone as Harry tried to pull back, his grip completely unmovable. Malfoy’s too-sharp, too-pointy face had shifted somehow, something off about the proportions – something animal hiding under his skin. And his mouth…
His lips, normally almost as pale as the rest of him, were reddened, pulled back in a snarl. Malfoy looked – looked rabid, ready to bite.
His teeth had sharpened, his incisors jutting forward, thin as a hypodermic needle at the tips. They gleamed in the low gas lighting. Harry’s heart was in his throat, the jigsaw slotting together.
He took a deep breath.
“Malfoy. It’s Harry. I need you to let me go.”
A flicker in Malfoy’s eyes, which were – almost glowing, oh god – and maybe a slight relaxing of his iron grip on Harry’s biceps. Harry didn’t look away from Malfoy’s eyes.
“That’s it, come on. You don’t want to do this.” Harry took another deep breath, feeling Malfoy’s fingers slowly loosening, but unwilling to pull away too quickly. “Come on, let’s sit down. I’ve got you. It’s just Harry”
At that, Malfoy’s hands fell to his sides, and all of a sudden he was against the other side of the cabin, putting the table between him and Harry. Harry’s heart was thumping in his chest, feeling dizzy with relief, tense with worry.
“Malfoy, it’s okay. It’s —”
“Shut the fuck up, Potter,” Malfoy snarled, his voice laced with venom, sounding furious, sounding the way he had all those years ago, in a Hogwarts bathroom, trapped not unlike they were right now. He was shaking, shaking like Harry had been when Malfoy had brought him in from the snow.
Harry hesitated, then turned his back slowly, turning back towards the sink. An animal part of his brain was screaming at him, letting him know in no uncertain terms that a predator was in the room, something that could rip his throat out, but he ignored it, ran his cut finger under the cold tap. He watched the blood swirl away, leaving the clean cut behind, and grabbed a tea towel to wrap it in. His hand throbbed.
When he looked up, he could see Malfoy in the reflection of the window, pale-faced and bright eyed. He hadn’t moved, but he also hadn’t fled straight out into the snow like…
Like a bat out of hell.
Harry took a deep breath and picked up the tin of sauce, feeling like he’d last been holding it a lifetime ago. He poured it into the pan, mixing it around to cover the pasta. His fingers were shaking.
“You can’t be serious.”
Harry turned as Malfoy spoke, meeting his gaze as neutrally as he could when his stomach was in knots. “We need to eat, and we need to talk. There’s no point wasting food,” Harry said, watching Malfoy carefully.
Malfoy’s face was stricken, fury ebbing away into something else. Something softer that Harry wasn’t sure he was meant to see.
By the time dinner was ready, Malfoy had crept back to the kitchen, had hovered around a chair at the table until Harry rolled his eyes and told him to sit, thumped a bowl of pasta in front of him. The red sauce glistened wetly under the light, and Harry swallowed back a sudden wave of hysteria. What a fucking day.
They ate in silence for a few long minutes, Harry taking the opportunity to examine the familiar lines of Malfoy’s face. It had changed back to his normal self, and Harry found he was unable to tell what had ever been different.
“It can’t be this easy.” Malfoy sounded frustrated as he let his fork clatter to the table.
“Why can’t it? You’re my partner. You’ve got my back, I’ve —”
“I could’ve killed you!” Malfoy spat, leaning across the table. His long fingers were white where he gripped the edges of the table. “You have no idea how close I was to just...” he trailed off, looking revolted.
“Malfoy, it’s going to be alright,” Harry said, trying to make eye contact with him. “The only reason you even came close is because we’re stuck here, right?” Malfoy nodded after a moment, looking away from Harry towards the dark window. His neck was taut with tension; Harry was filled with a crazy urge to shake him by the shoulders. “Right, so – normally you’re able to hide it, and no one at work knows, things are improving all the time for vamp —”
“Oh, what could you possibly know about it, Potter?” Draco snapped, throwing himself out of his chair and stalking to the window. “It’s none of your business, and believe me, I have no intention of making it the department’s business either.”
“I’m not going to – Jesus Malfoy, I’m not going to tell anyone! You really think I’d, I’d, out you like that?” Harry spluttered, feeling hot outrage begin to climb in his chest. “Why can’t you just trust me, I —” he cut himself off, feeling the words die in his throat as Malfoy turned back to stare at him.
Seconds ticked by, punctuated by the soft thump of snow hitting the windowpane. Malfoy wasn’t breathing, maybe hadn’t been for the whole argument, was as still as if he had been frozen by the bitter weather outside. He wouldn’t need to breathe, would he, when he was – Malfoy was –
“It’s not you I don’t trust, Potter. I, for all your many faults, know damn well you wouldn’t tell a soul.” Malfoy’s voice was careful, measured, the way he got when he didn’t want to say something, or he was trying to speak around it somehow, like that made it easier. Harry swallowed hard, pushing his chair back with a scrape against the floor.
“Malfoy, you would never hurt me. I know,” Harry took a deep breath, then a step forward, watching Malfoy’s hands twitch as he did so, “that you would do anything for me, like I would for you. You might not trust yourself, but I’ve trusted you ever since that night in Bristol.”
Malfoy’s eyes were a perfect, beautiful grey, so pale it should have been unnerving. It was like looking into a cloud with the barest threat of rain. Malfoy must normally use glamours to hide them, Harry realised with a pang. Must’ve done it for years, keeping his secret to himself.
Harry couldn’t read anything in Malfoy’s face at all.
The silence stretched out, settled over the house like a thick quilt. Malfoy turned away, finally, his careful hands picking up the case notes. “Come on. This isn’t going to solve itself.”
If they hadn’t stayed up until the early hours going back over their notes, studiously avoiding any mention of Malfoy’s condition, Harry might have woken up at the creak of a floorboard by the window in the bedroom, might have felt the prick of the injection in his arm. If Malfoy wasn’t exhausted from hunger and keeping himself painfully in check, he might have heard the door opening as he drifted in and out of consciousness on the sofa.
If.
At Dean and Seamus’ Halloween Party in 2001, Harry had attended dressed as a Muggle magician. He’d gone all in, with a fake wand full of a bouquet of flowers, card tricks, and Luna to act as his assistant to be sawn in half. Unspeakable Myra Misenthy didn’t look like much, Harry thought distantly as he began working at the rope tying his hands together, thanking Merlin and maybe God too that he had bothered to learn some basics of escapology for his costume. But not looking like much meant precisely bollocks-all.
His head was throbbing. That had been the first thing he’d noticed as he swam up from blessed sleep. The next had been that his hands were tied together.
Harry had opened his eyes to see Malfoy already in deep discussion with Unspeakable Misenthy, as though they were colleagues on an academic conference, except that she was wearing a long crimson robe, and Malfoy was standing tied up to a column in his wrinkled Auror uniform. Malfoy’s face hadn’t betrayed any knowledge that Harry had woken, but Harry had known Malfoy was providing a cover for Harry to get his bearings, and work on getting them the fuck out of there. They’d always understood each other perfectly under pressure.
They seemed to be underground, in some kind of natural cavern. The columns he and Malfoy were tied to were holding up the ceiling, arranged in a circle with – Harry’s heart had sunk – a stone altar in the middle. Altars were just never good.
And now Malfoy was trying to keep Misenthy talking, asking her questions about her research like she was a PhD student – and it was working, the witch clearly enjoying having this unexpected interest in her horrible, horrible work.
“I’ve never heard of anyone utilizing bonding magic this way, it’s very cutting-edge.” Malfoy said, sounding genuinely interested, but his hands were clasping each other so tight his knuckles looked like they were going pop out.
Misenthy laughed, her pretty face lit up with the praise. Harry wondered how long Malfoy had been at this, trying to talk shop while Harry was unconscious.
“Well, I do think what I’m doing is innovative, but there was some research done back in the Middle Ages… It’s a shame I can’t offer you a book or two to borrow,” Misenthy said, smiling as though she was at a cocktail party.
Malfoy didn’t flinch. “Why don’t you walk me through what you actually did? I mean, you mustn’t have had a chance to really talk to anyone about your process,” he said, voice light. Harry thought he felt a little give in the rope, but not much. The anti-magic wards were weighing on him much more heavily than in the cabin, this room clearly layered in charm work. His hands were sweating.
Misenthy smiled at Malfoy as she turned and picked up a book from the altar, opening at a page towards the end and raising it to head height for Malfoy to read, having to stand on tiptoes to do it. Malfoy’s face was showing polite interest, but Harry saw his hands begin pulling at his own ropes.
“And the Hopestons?”
Misenthy shrugged, sliding her wand from her pocket. Harry tensed, but she just flicked her wand towards the back of the cavern, illuminating it with a soft Lumos.
“I needed that for romantic love, of course,” Misenthy said as she gestured carelessly towards the slumped bodies of the Hopestons, propped up against the rough stone wall. “Love is so important in proper spellwork; don’t you agree? Love will make people do anything,” she added with a smile. Panic swirled in Harry’s belly.
“And the two of you, well, it could have been any Auror partners – you’re just needed for your loyalty, obviously, the DMLE does such a good job programming you boys and girls to never, ever betray your partner. Loyalty is so hard to come by these days; don’t you think? And you can’t be truly loyal to something unless it’s based in love.”
Harry swallowed down the bile rising in his throat, and risked a glance towards Malfoy. He wasn’t watching as the witch turned away and began walking towards the stone altar in the center of the room. His eyes seemed focused instead on the Hopestons, on the way they lay, even now, curled into each other’s bodies, Patrick’s hand around Thea’s head as if to cradle her. Thea had cried, Harry saw, clean tear tracks cutting through the grime on her face.
“Unspeakable Misenthy? I’ve just got one last question, if you don’t mind.” Malfoy voice was so pleasant, Harry thought suddenly. It didn’t seem right, thinking that, as the Hopestons lay dead, and if something didn’t happen soon, Harry and Malfoy would be joining them. But it was true – his voice was like silver bells ringing, like water trickling through a mountain stream, pure and sweet.
Had Malfoy ever sounded pure and sweet?
Harry shot his gaze to Malfoy in time to see his teeth begin to slip over his lip, the glow of the conjured light gleaming off the pinprick points. Misenthy turned, looking dazed, looking like she couldn’t remember where she was. Hope sparked through Harry’s body, even as he felt the side effects of Malfoy's Allure.
Malfoy’s terrible, beautiful eyes were brighter than lamplight, brighter than sunlight on polished silver, and Harry had to shut his eyes as the light kept growing, kept building as Misenthy dreamily walked towards Malfoy, her own eyes half shut. The last thing Harry saw was the way she lifted her arms easily to go around Malfoy’s shoulders, her sleeves falling down her pale, freckled arms, and the tilt of her bare throat.
Then, the darkness behind his eyelids, and a sound, a gasp that sputtered out like an engine dying, and a wild, savage tearing. He risked opening his eyes after a moment, feeling the weight of the anti-magic wards lifting from him slowly, like melting snow in the sun. Malfoy was kneeling over the witch, in a position which could make a casual onlooker think he was trying to administer some kind of aid. The ropes were tattered on the floor, snapped in pieces. Harry took a deep breath, relief filling his whole body, his fingers tingling with it – and with magic, the wards crashing down all at once as Malfoy suddenly sat up, dropping the body as he no doubt felt his own magic unleashed.
Harry cut his bonds wordlessly, dropping to Malfoy’s side immediately. Draco’s face was streaked with blood, his shirt sodden with it, and his eyes were glassy and unfocused. Harry squeezed his shoulder lightly, seeing his own fingers shake with the need to touch him, to know Draco was safe. “You saved our lives. Just – stay there, take a minute Malfoy. Draco.”
He turned towards the bodies of the poor, murdered couple, when Draco caught his wrist tightly, pulled himself to his feet. “I killed her. I killed – I drank —”
Harry heard the panic in Draco’s voice, heard the self-loathing waiting just behind that, and pulled him into his arms. Draco stiffened immediately and tried to pull away, hands pushing at Harry’s chest. “Are you insane, you just saw what I did, what I can do, what I am, this is exactly what I meant —”, Draco’s frantic voice echoing in the chamber as Harry refused to let go. Harry’s heart felt like it was going to burst.
“You saved our lives. That’s what you did, dickhead, you saved us both – and you would never have done it if you had any other choice.” Harry finally pulled back enough to see Draco’s face, his eyes bright not with power but with anguish. He’d stopped trying to run, at least for now, and Harry was determined to make him listen. “You took this thing you hate, and you used it to prevent anyone else getting killed, like the Hopestons, nearly like us. You’re a god damn hero, Draco,” he finished, feeling elated, and hot with embarrassment, and a contrary kind of pride.
Draco met his eyes then, looking helpless, his pointy chin dripping in blood. Harry couldn’t say anymore, trying to communicate without words how he felt as the crack! of apparition rang through the chamber, Aurors appearing as if, well. As if by magic.
The Cannons v Puddlemere United match on the wireless should have been able to keep Harry’s attention, but he was restless. He stretched out on the sofa, feeling the hole in his sock catching against the silk upholstery. No matter how he tried to change things at Grimmauld Place, Kreacher managed to find spindly old replacements in some attic to change it back. Harry couldn’t bring himself to care too much after years of trying to compromise.
Harry hadn’t seen Malfoy since the day after their rescue by the rest of the team. Not that they’d actually done any rescuing – that had all been Malfoy. They’d been poked and prodded, Robards looking grave and stern and worried all at once. Harry had sat by Malfoy’s side as Malfoy’d explained, in a tone which sounded more defeated the longer questioning had gone on, exactly how he managed to subdue Unspeakable Misenthy. Harry hadn’t been asked to stay for that part, but Malfoy hadn’t asked him to leave either.
Robards had suggested they both take some leave time in a tone which brooked no argument, and Malfoy had immediately disappeared. Harry knew he could just turn up at the Manor to find him, but experience told him to wait it out, let Malfoy work through whatever he was feeling first. He smiled wryly, knowing a few years ago he would’ve just barged in, as he did after Malfoy’s heroics in Brighton. He’d got hexed for his trouble.
The doorbell chimed, and Harry quickly repaired the hole in his sock before going to answer it. Malfoy didn’t need ammunition to take the piss.
“I’ve just come from a meeting with Robards,” Malfoy said, his eyes on Harry. They were back to their usual stormy grey, the thrilling, impossible shade of pale silver concealed. It was both familiar and disappointing.
“What did he say? They can’t actually think you did anything wrong.” Harry said, feeling alarmed when Malfoy didn’t immediately answer, just took a sip of his tea.
The kitchen lay quiet, just the soothing hum of a preservation charm coming from the pantry, and a few dishes cleaning themselves in the sink from Harry’s late lunch. Malfoy hadn’t said much when Harry had opened the door, just inviting himself in and making tea, shooing Harry out of the way.
It was against regulations for non-humans to join the Auror branch of the DMLE. Harry knew a werewolf who worked in Prosecutions, and two half-Veela in the PR branch, but the Aurors had never changed their pre-war structure to include anyone who wasn’t human. Hermione brought it up sometimes, especially when she’d had a drink on pub night. Malfoy had never said anything, merely saying that Hermione was far better suited to activism than he was, while raising those pale golden eyebrows.
“It’s not bad, exactly.” Malfoy offered eventually, putting down his tea cup. The fine bone china clinked delicately on the saucer. Grimmauld Place always conjured the best for Malfoy. “But it is… different.”
Harry felt himself pulling a face, but relaxed a little. If Malfoy had been fired, Harry was quitting right alongside him.
“Robards wants me to be the poster boy for a new recruitment drive. Shacklebolt was there too, saying it was time to change the regulations – let anyone who isn’t…” Malfoy paused almost imperceptibly, “human apply. Different training options for non-human trainees, and a new, separate team of non-human only Aurors,” he finished, fiddling with his cup.
Harry blinked. “That’s – bloody hell Malfoy, that’s great! Hermione’s going to throw a party, she’s only been wanting this for years!”
Malfoy nodded, smiling a little, even if he still looked tense. “I know. Only fly in the ointment is… well.” He stopped, looking awkward and out of character.
Harry thought back and balked, feeling his fingers tighten on his own chipped mug. “A separate team. We wouldn’t be partners? They can’t do that, it’s – it’s alienating, and othering, and doesn’t, uh, promote…”
“Integration?” Malfoy finished, looking amused despite himself. Harry had no idea how he was staying so calm. He knew, he knew their partnership was as important to Malfoy as it was to himself, knew how much work it had taken them both to patch things together, work through their bitter past. How many arguments and shitty takeaways and celebratory nights out it had taken to get them to this point. Why the fuck wasn’t Malfoy furious?
“Put it away, Potter,” Malfoy said, pushing away his cup and standing up as Harry’s magic made the cupboards begin to shake. “I was angry, I was. And I insisted that werewolf, and Veela, and – and vampire Aurors shouldn’t be treated differently, Granger would have been very proud to hear me. But I did think… Well.” He shrugged, taking his cup to the sink. “It might be… Nice, maybe. To start up something from the ground up. Robards wants me to lead the team. And there’s another reason, really.”
Harry leaned back in his chair, having to tip his head back to look at Malfoy as he came to stand by Harry’s chair. He looked golden in the warm afternoon sun, and more handsome than Harry ever remembered him being. He’d undone his collar button, the soft skin of his throat peeking through.
“Another reason you’re okay with losing me as a partner?” He said, sounding bitter even to himself.
Malfoy only smiled at him, sliding his hand onto the back of Harry’s chair. “You can’t kiss your Auror partner.”
Malfoy’s lips were soft and cool, and Harry felt a shocked noise escape him, felt the moment Malfoy nearly pulled back as Harry didn't respond immediately. Harry surged up, knocking his chair backwards, and pressed Malfoy to the counter, not wanting him to have any doubt how much Harry wanted this, had longed for this. He kissed Malfoy again, leaning up just slightly to do it, feeling his slim body pressed against Harry’s own, Harry’s heart beating erratically. Malfoy’s mouth opened for him, slightly cooler than anyone else Harry had ever kissed, but just as eager, his hands gone to Harry’s hips, thumbs stroking over the line of Harry’s hipbones.
Long minutes passed before Malfoy pulled back gently to nose at Harry’s temple, his unnecessary breaths slow and sure. “Glad I didn’t misinterpret that, then. Could’ve been awkward.”
Harry shut his eyes, dropping his forehead to Malfoy’s shoulder. “What gave it away?” he said, wondered idly if he should feel embarrassed, not able to care much when all he wanted was to kiss Malfoy again, and maybe drag him upstairs.
“In the chamber. I didn’t realise until I re-watched my Pensieve memory for the meeting, but I was able to feel it, at the time.” Malfoy huffed a quiet laugh into Harry’s hair. “I think the near-death experience made you drop your guard. You must have been automatically Occluding it normally, but I could feel how strongly you felt.” he finished, looking down at Harry. Harry met his gaze, feeling fond, feeling ridiculous.
“I decided I had nothing to lose. We can’t be partners, and that’s,” Malfoy shrugged elegantly, his thumbs still rubbing circles on Harry’s hips, “that’s shitty. But if I’ve lost that, then I wanted to take a risk on this. It was easier, once I knew you felt the same.”
Harry shook his head, grinning. He felt a bit hysterical. “Malfoy. Draco. Only you would do a pros and cons list of shagging your colleague.”
Draco grinned back, his eyes alight. “Shagging, you say?”
The late afternoon sun was pouring across Harry’s back as he arched on the bed, the gap in the curtains sending a streak of warmth across his bedroom.
Harry pressed his face into his quilt, trying to steady his breathing. Draco’s cool fingers were driving him crazy, petting against his hole, slick with lube already but not pressing inside. Draco had meant it, clearly, when he’d dragged Harry upstairs and promised to ruin him for anyone else.
“Draco, Draco please just —”
Draco laughed, kissing Harry’s lower back, his clever fingers pressing and petting but not quite giving Harry what he needed. “You’ve got no patience, Potter. They say it’s a virtue,” he drawled, slipping the tip of his finger into Harry’s hole, pausing before sinking the whole thing into him, setting up a slow, deep pace straight away. “Is that what you need, darling?”
Harry was gasping into the bed, his toes curling every time Draco’s finger almost slid out only to plunge straight back into him, twisting until he found Harry’s prostate.
“O-Oh fuck, fuck, please Draco…” Harry babbled, feeling his orgasm begin to rise from his toes, building up through his legs, threatening to crest.
They’d been at this for an hour, Harry dragging Draco by his lapels upstairs, the house throwing open his bedroom door for them, Harry feeling like he might just die when Draco cast his gaze over him hungrily and said he wanted to savour this. Harry’s whole body had heated, feeling the weight of Draco’s desire, and Harry had mumbled into Draco’s mouth that he could have whatever he wanted, as long as he was touching him. Draco had made good on this, his hands never leaving Harry’s skin the whole time.
Draco’s finger was joined by a second, the stretch of it making Harry shudder, his orgasm holding off a few more moments, the slick burn of two fingers making him whine. Draco’s cool breath was on his spine and his arse as he kissed him, murmuring nonsense little epithets like that’s it darling, and that’s a good boy, and you look so pretty stretched around my fingers, which had Harry flushed hot with arousal and shame, knowing Draco’s clever eyes were watching Harry get fucked and stretched for Draco’s cock.
No one had ever taken him apart so completely before, so thoroughly, and when Draco kissed Harry’s hip, his teeth just grazing him, and slipped his thumb into his arse too, calling him baby, Harry shouted out, feeling his cock shooting come onto the quilt and his own belly, his hole clenching wildly on Draco’s fingers as his orgasm rose and washed over him all at once. He shook through it, Draco’s fingers pressing against his prostate gently and mercilessly until Harry could only whine and pull half-heartedly away, all his nerves on fire and over-sensitive.
Draco rose over him, his cock hard and throbbing against Harry’s arse cheek. “You should try breathing, Potter, I’ve heard it’s helpful,” he said, kissing the nape of Harry’s neck, his thin mouth twisted in amusement. “Do you need a moment?” Draco added after a few seconds where Harry panted into the bed, twisting his head to see Draco’s face. He looked gorgeously ruffled, his hair out of place from Harry’s fingers winding through it as he’d sucked Harry’s cock to hardness, his hands easily holding Harry’s hips down against the bedroom door. His mouth was red and swollen, and his incisors were a little sharper and longer, making his lips pout just a little. It all made Harry’s heart pound.
“I want to see you, I want – fuck,” Harry said as he tried to roll over, finding he had no strength left in his arms from trying to hold himself up on his knees. Draco laughed, helping him turn until he was on his back, Draco between his spread legs and kissing him, his tongue lazily exploring Harry’s mouth like he was trying to memorise every inch of him.
Harry reached between their bodies, feeling Draco jump when his fingers brushed the soft skin above his cock. His hand full of conjured lube, he curled his fingers around Draco’s cock, delighting in the way Draco groaned into Harry’s mouth, his hips stuttering.
“Put it in me, Malfoy,” Harry whispered, amused and intrigued to see how he was able to make Draco shudder, turning the tables for a moment. He’d have to remember that, next time.
Draco batted Harry’s hand away, and Harry spread his legs and tilted his hips up, feeling embarrassed to be so eager, but seeing how clearly Draco liked Harry like this was getting him hard again, his cock rising against his thigh.
He let his head thump back against the bed as the head of Draco’s cock nudged against the rim of Harry’s hole, and forced himself to keep his eyes open to watch Draco’s face as he pressed the head in. The ridge of Draco’s cockhead slid past the natural resistance of Harry’s hole, and Harry clenched down uncontrollably, feeling the burn of pressure already. Draco slowed as Harry gasped, his hands flying to Draco’s chest, Draco pressing kisses to Harry’s shoulder, his teeth grazing but never biting down.
“I’ve got you darling, I’ve got you,” Draco whispered, and Harry felt himself give, let his hips tilt back up to take it, and Draco slid in, his cock sliding past Harry’s prostate, filling him so perfectly, and Harry’s face was wet with tears, feeling on fire, feeling like he was burning up.
Draco set a slow pace, fucking Harry open so sweetly and so inexorably, taking him apart again and again, the slickhotfull feeling making it so he couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, could only gasp for breath. Then Draco’s arm around Harry’s waist, arching him up so Draco keep him in place and pound him, and it was almost too much to bear, with Draco’s mouth on his neck but not biting, not wanting to hurt Harry even as he methodically broke him down, and Harry could only sob Draco’s name and come, again, hot come shooting stickily between them, his hole gripping tight around Draco’s cock, and then Draco was coming too, filling him up, long hot spurts of it inside him. And Harry was sure he’d never cried during a fuck before, but maybe it was alright, because Draco had sounded suspiciously close to a sob himself.
Afterwards they lay in satisfied, sticky silence, Draco curled over Harry like a great big cat, and as the sun started to sink in the sky, they began making quiet plans, for first dates and telling their friends, and Draco started making noises about the quality of breakfast in the morning, so Harry grabbed a pillow and hit him on the back of the head.
The sun went down as they set about thumping each other, pillows flying through the air, the orange light setting Draco’s hair aflame and his eyes glow, his glamour long forgotten.
one year later
“She’s tiny,” Harry repeated, holding the tiny bundle of Rose Granger-Weasley in his arms. Her red, angry little face had settled into sleep as he held her, Hermione propped up in a bed in the maternity ward of St Mungos, Ron beaming beside her and looking like he might burst with pride. Hermione looked exhausted but happy, contentment radiating from her in waves. She’d brought three books to read, long forgotten on the nightstand.
The door flew open as Draco burst in, his Auror robes looking singed and his eyes wild. He was missing half his boot, and Harry could see his own sock through the hole.
“Sorry I’m late, massive hold up at work, some idiot is selling mini dragons as pets in Newcastle,” he said, nodding his head to Ron and Hermione, managing to look dignified even though he was streaked with soot.
“You’re forgiven, but only if you shut up, she’s just fallen asleep,” Hermione whispered, flicking her wand at him, the soot falling off and disappearing as it hit the ground. Ron rolled his eyes, catching sight of Harry’s socks and looking at Harry with amusement.
Harry tilted the baby towards him as Draco came across the room, wide-eyed. She wiggled in her sleep, her little mouth pursed, maybe in a dream.
“Oh, she’s gorgeous. Granger, she looks just like you, well done there.”
“Thanks Malfoy, how kind of you.” Ron deadpanned, grinning when Draco rolled his eyes. Harry, as he always did at times like this, felt his chest pang with how unexpected this all was, his friends, and Draco’s friends, and the two of them, like maybe this is how it should have been all along, only Voldemort and politics had gotten in the way like a bloody great mountain they’d had to get over first.
“You can hold her if you like, Draco,” Hermione said, leaning forward so Ron could move her pillows for her. Harry turned to catch Draco’s eye, seeing him look apprehensive, his gaze never leaving the baby’s face.
Harry knew Draco still struggled, sometimes. Struggled with trusting himself, with a lifelong problem only made worse by his being Turned. His vampire nature was a part of him, and there were days when he hated it. But those days were slowly spacing apart, as Harry showed him that it didn’t matter what he was, Draco would never again allow himself to be anything other than in control of his own choices.
Harry stayed silent, hoping. Draco reached out slowly, taking the baby as though he was scared to move too fast and scare her, despite her tiny sleep sounds. Harry helped prop her against his chest, showing him how the Healer had taught them all to support her head. And there he was, Draco Lucius Malfoy, a vampire, holding Rose Granger-Weasley, the firstborn of his childhood enemies, in the first hour of her life. And he met Harry’s eyes, the same shock and love splashed all over his face that Harry had felt in his own chest, and Harry knew that the proposal he had planned on their trip to Ireland next month was exactly the right choice.
Take that, Voldemort.