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Fall on the Earth

Summary:

Harry Potter hates being separated from Draco Malfoy. Not because he's in love with him, for Merlin's sake! Because they're Auror Partners.

One time is all it takes for Draco to be attacked with an illicit potion.

Until it wears off, Harry's job is taking care of his partner. Harry thinks the effects of the potion can't possibly be as serious as Robards says.

He thinks wrong.

Chapter Text

It would be raining on a day like today.

Harry huddles under an awning across the street from a dingy, suspicious-looking building at the far end of Knockturn Alley. The building is slim, almost skeletal, and wedged between an antique shop that might as well be Borgin and Burkes and an apothecary that looks only slightly more trustworthy. It’s a simple reconnaissance mission. He doesn’t have a problem with Senior Aurors being sent on missions like this, in theory.

In practice, he’s working very hard to keep a scowl off his face, mostly for Williams, the Junior Auror he’s been paired with for today’s exercise.

It’s not Williams’ fault that Harry is in such a foul mood. He’s twenty, wet behind the ears, and desperate to earn his place on the force. Standing next to Harry under the awning, Williams triple-checks their Notice-Me-Not, then stares across the street at the shop they’re watching with far more intensity than is strictly necessary. 

“You can blink, you know,” Harry says, hoping he doesn’t sound like a complete areshole. “That’s why there’s two of us.”

“Yes, sir.” Williams blinks hard, several times in a row.

Harry doesn’t sigh, which is a testament to his maturity, he thinks. “No need to call me sir, Williams. Potter’s fine.”

Williams turns red and continues staring across the street, blinking a bit more often. “Yes, s—Potter. Yes. Thanks.”

Better to watch the shop through the driving rain than look at Williams. He’s skinny, with bright eyes and a fervour that reminds Harry uncomfortably of his younger self. He’d been desperate to succeed after he’d made it through eighteen straight months of gruelling training, too, and even more desperate to put some distance between himself and the past.

Well—some of the past, anyway. Some of it had followed him into Auror training. Harry had been furious about it until the grind of their intense physical training had worn away the sharp edges of his emotions. In the exhausted calm that followed, he’d come to the unfortunate conclusion that there was no separating himself from the past. He will always be Harry Potter, for better or for worse.

Williams clears his throat. “Is it...different? When you’re in the field with your partner?”

“The procedures are still the same.” Harry shrugs. “So, not really.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry can see Williams’ expression get uncomfortable, but he seems to decide it’s worth it to press on.

“I meant—and I hope this isn’t an insubordinate question, s—Potter.” Williams peeks at him. Harry looks resolutely ahead. “I wondered if Auror Malfoy would have...different insights on missions like this. Maybe from personal experience.”

Oh, he would. He would have many opinions about the shop. He’d have arrived at the location with the name of the shop owner—the real owner, not whoever stood behind the counter—and a mental list of all their connections with Pureblood families. By now, Malfoy would be thoroughly tired of Harry’s impatience and probably agreed to go look round the back.

Harry’s not about to say any of that. He wasn’t thrilled when Malfoy was assigned his partner, but in the years since, their unkillable drive to outdo one another has made them into pretty decent Aurors.

The best Aurors on the force, actually.

Anyway, Malfoy’s his partner, which means he’s Harry’s to protect. From Dark wizards and—and hostile magic, that sort of thing. Who does Williams think he is, prying like this?

Harry takes a deep breath, willing away a hot defensiveness in his chest. If he’s overprotective, it’s nobody’s business but his.

“I doubt it,” he offers, finally. “We generally just follow procedure.”

He can feel Williams looking at him. The Junior Auror might just be bold enough to ask Harry if he’s having a laugh.

He’s not. The rain taps loudly at the awning above them. It’s beginning to drive Harry mad. He’d take it down a notch with a spell or two if he could be sure it wouldn’t interfere with their surveillance. 

That is following the proper protocols and procedures, though Harry and Malfoy aren’t particularly well-known for it. Over the last five years, they’ve risen to the top of the force in just about every measurable way—cases solved, arrests made, Dark Wizards sent to Azkaban.

They’ve also got an official reprimand sheet that surpassed Harry’s height during their first year on the job and Malfoy’s height not long after.

People expect Harry to be the troublemaker. They never expect it from Malfoy. But, between the two of them, he’s the first to light the rules and regulations on fire if it means subduing an active threat or protecting Harry. Half their documented infractions have been a direct result of putting them on the same team. They can’t fight each other in any meaningful way in the field, so instead he and Malfoy have entered a vicious, never-ending battle to make sure the other one stays alive.

Most Auror partner pairs are dedicated. Harry considers Malfoy fanatical. In their first two years, they had knock-down, drag-out arguments about who should have been stepping in front of who during a raid. Or, as Malfoy would say, whom. Now, they’ve mainly learned to work alongside each other. That doesn’t mean Harry’s stopped going overboard when some twat casts a nasty hex at Malfoy.

Whatever. They can always get more evidence. Partners aren’t so easily replaced.

Harry sighs, rolling his shoulders.

“You okay?” asks Williams.

“Just fine.”

Harry can see why Robards did this. It’s a good idea to have more experienced Aurors mentor the newer ones. 

It’s a good idea.

But as the rain drums on the awning and Harry overheats in his uniform, getting chilled when the wind sends humid air against the back of his neck, his displeasure at the situation kindles into frustration. He estimates he’s about five minutes away from full-blown hatred.

He hates being separated from Malfoy. They’re good together, even if Malfoy’s basically an automaton. He only shows emotion when Harry does something utterly foolish or when a case drags on too long. Unlike Harry, who’s constantly getting banished to the break room to have a cup of tea and get himself under control, Malfoy’s always under control. Always stoic and precise and beautiful.

Harry shifts under the awning. He does beautiful work. Malfoy himself isn’t beautiful.

He’s beautiful sometimes.

It’s not Malfoy’s pretty face Harry misses now. Feels strange to call being with him comfortable, but Harry can’t think of another word for it. Malfoy’s one of the people who’s been in his life the longest. He’s familiar, even if that familiarity hasn’t always been a good thing. And he’s one of a few people on the planet who treats Harry like a person instead of a saint. 

Malfoy’s the only one at work who feels free to scoff at Harry, though he never really laughs. He’s the only one who flicks notes shaped like paper cranes at him during the all-staff meetings Harry loathes. Several times, he’s stolen Harry’s uniforms and sent them out to be cleaned and repaired by a tailor who isn’t a laughingstock of the profession, thank you. 

So, yeah. The most comfortable thing about being an Auror is Malfoy.

Which is something Harry would rather not dwell on. He’d rather this mentoring session be over with so they can go back to their office. Then they can cast a silencing charm on the door and Harry can complain bitterly about the rain and how Williams was fine, he was just new, and Malfoy can roll his eyes and say get over yourself, Potter, do you still expect to be petted and coddled for killing one Dark Lord? and Harry can tell him to sod off, and then they’ll knock off early and go to the pub.

“Did you see that?” Williams peers harder at the shop, which Harry didn’t think was possible. “Movement. In one of the second-storey windows.”

Harry squints through the rain. The shop sells run-of-the-mill potions ingredients from behind the counter, but they’ve gotten enough tips to warrant a closer look. The owner’s been questioned about smuggling illegal ingredients once before. Earlier this week, evidence came in that linked this shop to a potions distributor. It’s a puddle jump from illegal potions ingredients to illegal potions to illegal potions distribution ring. 

Malfoy and the Junior Auror he’s mentoring are investigating the other half of the equation. 

He waits for more movement in the windows, scanning the lower half of the shop as well. This is usually the part of the mission where Malfoy tells him to relax, Potter in no uncertain terms, sometimes with a hand on his shoulder to keep him from sprinting into the action.

Harry doesn’t want to sprint so much as he wants to rip off his uniform and Apparate out of here. The rain’s too bloody loud. The day can’t decide if it wants to be warm or cold. He wasn’t expecting an early September storm, and he wasn’t expecting to be deprived of his partner for the better part of the morning, and still, after all this time, Harry has the sense that he’s missed his train. He should be at Hogwarts. Or, if he can’t do that, he should be at home. At a place that feels like home, at least.

A shadow moves in the second-storey window. Harry nudges Williams’ elbow. “Saw it that time.”

“A person?”

“Don’t know.”

Williams takes out a Perma-Dry notebook and All-Weather quill and scribbles some notes on it, glancing up every other word lest he miss any more movement.

There is—something fluttering in the window—but bright silver in Harry’s periphery yanks his attention away.

“Merlin’s bollocks.” He takes Williams by the arm and drags him into a nearby alley. The last thing they want is for the people in the shop to witness a Patronus delivering a message to nobody. The squat, silver pug—Robards’ Patronus—follows them into the alley. Harry stops the second they’re out of sight, his chest unpleasantly warm with worry and irritation. Robards had to have a good reason for sending such a bloody obvious message. The pug sits in midair in front of Harry. 

“Auror Potter.” Robards’ voice is slightly broken up by the rain. “Please report to St Mungo’s. Repeat: Leave the field immediately and report to St Mungo’s.”

Harry moves. He doesn’t realise he’s still dragging Williams along with him until the Junior Auror pulls his arm out of Harry’s grip.

“Sir, what about the—”

“I don’t care.” Harry’s too loud. “I’m leaving. Go back to the office and debrief there.”

Forget angry heat. Cold suffuses Harry’s body. He’s a seasoned Auror. Last-minute raids don’t bother him. Summons like this do. He got one last year when Ron got hit in the side with a Slicing Hex. The only person to beat him to St Mungo’s was Pansy, his wife. He’d gotten another when Hermione’s relationship with Theo Nott had gone public and a wizard who’d lost his wife during the war lost his mind. She’d been okay aside from some scrapes and bruises. Harry had nearly lost his mind, too.

And now, of course, Robards didn’t say. He hasn’t said who’s at St Mungo’s, so Harry’s pulse is a frantic beat.

Williams opens his mouth, probably to argue. Harry grabs him by the arm before he can speak. Apparition pinches him. They come out of it at the Apparition point nearest the Ministry.

“Off you go.” Harry pushes Williams in the direction of the building and Apparates again.

He rushes through the window at St Mungo’s, the appearance of the closed-down department store dissolving as he goes through. Harry’s shoes squeak on the tile on his way to the Welcome Witch. He hasn’t bothered to cast an Impervious. Hasn’t bothered to do anything but get here.

“Auror Harry Potter,” he says.

“Third floor,” she answers, a serene expression on her face.

“Thanks.”

Harry heads for the lifts at a run. Third floor—that’s Potion and Plant Poisoning, which is better than Spell Damage, but his heart won’t stop racing. 

He bursts out onto the third floor. 

“Auror Harry Potter,” he shouts in the direction of the mediwixens’ station, straining to listen for his friends’ voices. A mediwix points him down the hall, saying something he can’t hear. Which one of them is it? Which one? It might be really bad, if they’re not talking.

Harry shakes water out of his hair and keeps going.

Finally—a voice.

“That won’t be possible,” Robards says. “It’s observation here or at home. You know the policy as well as I do.” Harry skids around the corner into the room, almost colliding with Head Auror Robards. Robards puts out a hand to steady him. “Ah. Auror Potter. You made it here in record time.”

Harry straightens up, catching his breath.

It’s not Ron or Hermione in the room. 

It’s Malfoy.

Of course, he’s not lying in the bed. He’s sitting in a chair, straight and tall. Despite being on the Potions and Plant Poisoning floor, Harry scans for blood or other injuries.

White-blond hair: perfect.

Once-pointy, now-elegant face and silver-grey eyes: unharmed.

Tall frame: Annoyed to be at St Mungo’s, and annoyingly fit.

No sign of injury.

He can breathe a little deeper now.

“What happened?” Harry sounds far too indignant for a conversation with his boss, but what’s said is said. Anger tightens his throat. Harry doesn’t know whether to direct it at Malfoy for having the bloody nerve to be away from him all morning or at Robards for coming up with this foolish mentoring programme. He takes a second look at Malfoy. His eyes are too bright. Is he...afraid? No, can’t be. “This was supposed to be a low-stakes training mission.”

“An unexpected escalation,” Robards answers. “Auror Malfoy has had contact with an illicit potion.”

“Had contact?” What in the bloody fuck? Why didn’t Malfoy’s Junior Auror step in front of him? Why wasn’t Harry there to step in front of him?

“One of the foot soldiers for the potions ring was at the location when Auror Malfoy and his trainee arrived. He became agitated and threw a phial. Auror Malfoy stepped—”

Harry throws a murderous look in Malfoy’s direction.

“Oh, please, Potter. No need to be jealous. I’d have done the same for you.” Malfoy sounds normal, if a bit strained, but that’s to be expected. He doesn’t like sitting in the hospital.

“I wouldn’t have let it happen in the first place,” counters Harry. “Head Auror Robards—”

His boss holds up a hand. “We can debrief and discuss adjusted procedures for training missions at a later time. Auror Malfoy has asked to be discharged as quickly as possible, and I’m inclined to agree.”

“Okay?” Harry folds his arms over his chest. His heart pounds painfully underneath his ribs. It’s pointless. He wasn’t there. The potions incident is over. His body doesn’t seem to know that. “Is that something you needed me here for?”

Two mediwixens bustle into the room and descend on Malfoy with parchments to sign. Robards waves Harry to the door.

“Malfoy’s off duty until the effects of the potion wear off. You’ll need to stay with him.” Harry doesn’t like Robards’ hushed tone, as if Malfoy’s suffered a mortal injury.

Harry glances at Malfoy, who is signing the mediwixens’ discharge parchments with gritted teeth. “He seems fine.”

Mostly.

“There hasn’t been time to run in-depth diagnostics on the potion. The ingredients we do know about suggest it will cause extreme mood swings.”

“Er...” Harry looks over at Malfoy again. “He doesn’t have moods.”

“Regardless, he’s refused to stay at St Mungo’s for observation.”

“Shouldn’t a mediwix go with him, then?”

Robards sighs. “Auror Malfoy specifically requested—no, demanded your presence. I need a representative from the DMLE to have eyes on the situation until it’s resolved. Do we understand each other?”

“Hang on—are we talking about random mood swings, or—”

“Not quite. The potion shares some ingredients with Wolfsbane and Elixir to Induce Euphoria. Best guess, the mood swings will be connected to the weather.”

A final look at Malfoy. He’s just...sitting there, a slight tilt to his mouth that says he’d rather be elsewhere.

“If that’s euphoria, then I guess it’s going to be a boring...how long did you say this would last?”

Robards looks him in the eye and shakes his head. “Ten hours. Twelve. Difficult to say.”

So, ten or twelve hours alone with Malfoy.

Nothing he hasn’t done before.

“Okay. Fine.”

“Good man.” Robards claps him on the shoulder. “Check in with me in the morning, Auror Potter. Don’t hesitate to Floo him back if the situation becomes unmanageable.”

“Wait, why would it—”

Robards is gone by the time Harry finishes his question. The mediwixens follow after him. One stops and pushes a length of parchment into his hands.

“No pain potions,” she says, as if they’ve been over all of this before. “And—”

“What? Why would he need pain potions?”

The mediwix talks over him. “If you bring him back on pain potions, they’ll interfere with the accuracy of our tests. No pain potions, no Sleeping Draught, no Draught of Peace. Non-pharmaceutical support only. The Healer’s Help Floo Line is open twenty-four hours a day. Someone will be available to answer any questions you may have.”

“Okay, but...” Once again, Harry’s asking empty air.

Malfoy meets him at the door. Harry ignores how good he looks in his Auror robes. There’s no sign of the potion that hit him. What, did it go directly into his mouth?

Harry can’t think about his mouth.

He narrows his eyes at Malfoy instead. “What were you thinking? We were barely apart.”

“I was thinking that a Junior Auror shouldn’t be subjected to a freak potions incident on their first field mission.”

“There shouldn’t have been any incidents.”

“Life is full of surprises,” Malfoy says, unsmiling.

Harry scoffs. “They obviously made a mistake. If they wanted someone who was going to fly off the handle, they should’ve thrown the potion at me.”

Malfoy’s mouth tics. It’s the barest hint at a smile. “I completely agree.”

“You heard Robards. Ready for me to nurse you back to health?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes, the gesture too quick. It’s unlike him. “Get over yourself, Potter. You were the least offensive option.”

It’s true, Harry thinks as they make their way out of St Mungo’s. Malfoy’s always in a terrible rush to get out of the hospital whenever things happen in the line of duty. Malfoy’s father is in Azkaban. His mother is in France. Harry hasn’t heard him mention seeing friends ever in all the time they’ve been partners. Not that Malfoy would say anything about his personal life, if he has one. Harry suspects he doesn’t. So Harry is it.

Malfoy casts an Impervious over both of them. Thunder booms in the distance, adding to the constant slash of rain on pavement.

“Yours or mine?” Harry shouts.

“Yours.”

Harry hadn’t expected that Malfoy would choose his own flat—or house, wherever he lives—but the complete lack of hesitation is a surprise. “You want to go to Grimmauld Place?”

“It’s mine, too, in a manner of speaking.”

He would say that. “Well, I’m not apologising to you for the state of things.”

“You, apologise? I wouldn’t dare to hope.”

“Come on, Malfoy.” Harry loops his arm through Malfoy’s and Apparates them away.

It’s raining buckets at Grimmauld Place. They wait together on the pavement, watching the townhouse unfold from its neighbours. Harry takes down the wards with a wave of his hand, throwing them back up as soon as they’re headed for the door. Malfoy’s Impervious flickers out too early, and the back of Harry’s neck gets soaked, rainwater running in a cold stream down his spine.

He’s in the middle of a string of curses when they toss themselves into the entryway. The house shuts the door for them, and Harry stalks away, swiping ineffectually at the back of his neck. 

“You couldn’t have kept it up for five more seconds? Merlin, Malfoy, I—”

Malfoy laughs.

It’s such a wild, uninhibited sound that Harry whips back around to him.

Malfoy does it again.

It’s like a dam breaking, letting out a torrent, and then Malfoy’s laughing his arse off. He laughs and laughs and laughs, and Harry’s frozen. Stunned.

He’s never heard Malfoy laugh before. Not like this.

It’s good, at first. It makes his chest feel warm and oddly affectionate. 

Then Malfoy sucks in a thin, wheezing breath and doubles over like it hurts.

Like it really hurts.

Harry was wrong.

It’s not going to be a boring twelve hours after all.