Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It’s an unremarkable Thursday afternoon the first time Draco watches him die.

Blood magic really is grisly, awful business. Draco’s seen death before, of course, but at least that old bald fucker had always known the value of efficiency.

The Killing Curse is clean. Quick. Spotless.

Today though, Harry Potter lays prone on the cobblestone of Diagon Alley, no more than 100 metres from Draco’s shop, making the most awful sounds he’s ever heard in his life.

Hot, dark blood is pouring from his ears, his nose, his mouth, his pores. Draco’s trying to hold his head up--but Potter’s gagging on it blind, coughing so hard Draco nearly drops him. Or maybe it’s just that his hands are shaking and slick with red.

“It’s alright. You’re alright, aren’t you, Potter? We’re going to—I’m gonna get you out of here, alright? Just…stop! Keep your fucking eyes open—”

He can barely hear himself over the wailing of the onlookers and the shrill ringing sound in the air. But Potter’s going limp, and his eyes are glassy, and he isn’t coughing anymore. And everyone around him is fucking useless. Potter can’t Side-Along like this, can he? Not to Mungo’s—he wouldn’t make it; he’d die before he hit the ground.

Draco shakes him. And shakes him and shakes him. He thinks he’s shouting, maybe. Absently, it occurs to him that the ringing sound is in his own ears.

—FOUR HOURS EARLIER—

Draco’s late for work. Draco’s never late for work, mind you, but lately sleep’s been a capricious little thing at the best of times. And of course, the bloody fire alarm screeching through the wee hours of the morning hadn’t helped matters.

Though he must admit—however grudgingly—that Muggle London has its charms. Fire alarms not withstanding.

The flat stays warm in the winter, for one. Nobody flinches at his name. Modern plumbing is a dream, and he’s considered formally naming his espresso machine a minor deity.

Most of all, though, he likes the ambient noise of the city. The deadened silence of the Manor had grown nigh unbearable. Draco couldn’t stand it anymore. Too many rooms; too many ghosts. Why on earth Mother insists on staying in that graveyard is an utter mystery.

She favors the peacocks, she says. He never presses her further.

Draco quickly finishes his morning toilette and makes for the door. He hoists his briefcase higher, the leather strap cutting into his shoulder. The city’s alive with Muggles going about their daily commute: car horns, distant chatter, and the promising smell of bread wafting from the bakery down the street cuts through the damp air.

Oh, that’s right. Thursday. They’ll be doing the Chelsea bun special again, then. Draco resolves to swing by during lunch. His mood lifts—if only slightly. His eyes wander over to the bulky man shoving his way out the doors, carrying an equally bulky sack of flour. He gives Draco a curt nod.

Further ahead, a street busker stands over an empty hat. Plucking out some banal tune. Draco couldn’t name it if he tried.

A woman storms past, dragging with her a small fucking banshee that Draco is forced to conclude must be trapped in the body of the Pomeranian at the other end of the sparkly gold leash. The little beast yaps and yowls in sync with the pounding of his head. He mourns, bitterly, his lack of caffeine. He turns to cut his most withering glare—but the obscenities die on his lips. She’s beat him to it. Her eyes are cold enough to freeze a basilisk.

Draco bristles and turns away sharply. Fucking dotty old bint.

He's nearly at Charing Cross Road, mentally ticking through the custom brews he’ll have to finish for the workday, when an electric green scooter nearly bowls him over.

“Watch it, arsehole!” shouts the boy of no more than ten, zipping down the street in a blur.

Draco jerks back, blinking. As a reflex, he opens his mouth to retort—but he stops himself. He’s a grown man, after all.

“Charming,” he mutters, stepping into the Leaky Cauldron and tapping the brick wall with his wand.

At this hour, Diagon Alley is just as busy and bustling as the Muggle city beyond it. Here, though, the throng of people grant him a wide berth.

Buying his potions is one thing—Draco’s that good, and even the most sanctimonious wizard has to admit they’d be daft to shop anywhere else. But even scraping together a hint of goodwill from the Wizarding community had been a slow, grueling task indeed. Even a glowing post-war testimony from the Saviour himself had only taken him so far. As far as business goes, Draco’s brews speak for themselves—but still. Nobody wants to shoulder-check a Death Eater.

He walks through the doors at precisely 9:07. Without that fucking banshee dog and the precocious scooter git, he might’ve been more punctual, but. Nothing for it now.

“Alright there, Mr. Malfoy?” Pucey asks him, looking up from his clipboard. He’s doing inventory on the back stock, and Draco chances a look at the haphazard notes scribbled on the parchment. Unreadable as ever. Sometimes he really does wonder about his choice of apprentice…

“Well enough, Adrian.” Draco sets his briefcase down and makes for the front-of-house.

He stops, though—just for a moment. “…Thank you. For. Readying the shop in my absence.”

Pucey nods brightly, setting down his clipboard and producing a small teacup and saucer. He hands it to Draco. It’s strong and steaming and recently in contact with a Warming Charm. “Thought you might need a little pick-me-up.” He looks expectantly at Draco as he sips, hurriedly adding, “It’s just that I don’t quite trust my Pepper-Up brew yet, and I didn’t know if you’d want—”

Draco waves him off. “No no, it’s quite serviceable.” On second thought, perhaps Pucey deserves a pay raise. Even a promotion. He’d always known the boy was destined for greatness.

Anyway, it’s not his usual morning doppio, but it’ll do.

“Oh, by the way, we’re nearly out of erumpent bile again. Not urgent, but I just thought you should know.”

Draco nods and goes to greet the day’s first patrons.

Soon enough, he settles into the monotony of the workday. Brewing, running the till, packaging, and brewing again. It’s almost one o’clock by the time he even remembers the Chelsea bun special.

He calls back to Pucey, “I’ll be taking my lunch soon. Just finishing up this batch of Developing Solution. Be back around half-past.”

He’s elbow-deep into the reduction phase when the bell above the door jingles. He doesn’t look up. Whoever it is can bloody well wait five minutes.

“Bit occupied at the moment. If you’d like to return—” He breaks off. Hears the sound of heavy boots. Red cloak in his peripheral.

Harry Potter strides through the door like he pays the fucking rent.

Draco doesn’t need to look to know it’s him—Potter has the kind of presence that registers like a minor hex to the nervous system. Still, he glances up anyway, if only to confirm that his afternoon is, in fact, about to be ruined. Draco would wager good money Potter doesn’t even remember the last time somebody asked him to wait five minutes.

Before Potter can manage to string a sentence together—Draco really doesn’t have all day, after all—he stops him.

“Potter. How can I hope to be of service.” It’s flat. Not a question.

Potter stops short in the middle of the shop and gives him a look that says he wasn’t skipping with joy on the way over here, either. Though he seems to marshal his annoyance before giving him a tight, performative nod.

“Malfoy. You’re looking well.” He’s going for politeness. Cute.

Draco doesn’t dignify that with a response—partly because he hasn’t slept and he knows he looks like shit warmed over—instead he scoffs.

Now that he’s really seeing him, actually—Potter isn’t looking very well either. There’s a sheen of sweat beading on his forehead, and he’s clearly trying not to pant. Which means: urgent, and probably annoying.

“If this is about our new Erecto Elixir line, I can assure you it’s all very above-board. The regulations on the Stiffening Solution alone—”

“Save it, Malfoy.” Ah. No more pleasantries, then. “The DMLE needs your help.”

Draco raises a brow, unimpressed. “And they sent you.” He steps out from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a cloth. A gaggle of school-aged witches passing by the shop press themselves to the glass, not even bothering to hide their gawking. “Well,” he drawls, “I can’t imagine what for.”

Potter’s jaw tightens. “What do you know about magical residue?”

Draco tilts his head. He had, in fact, delivered a full lecture on the subject at the Greater English Potioneers Conference last winter. But if he’s here, Potter already knows that.

“A bit.”

Potter exhales through his nose. “There’s something down in Knockturn. Near the old Mulpepper Apothecary.”

“Lovely,” Draco says. “Do let me know when this turns into a crime worth investigating.”

Potter ignores him. “There’s a patch of residue that doesn’t register with any of our known spell signatures. It’s—reactive. We were thinking it might be residue from the effects of a Dark potion, rather than a spell…”

And with that, Draco is now truly and genuinely annoyed. “And why, pray tell, would you come to the conclusion that I would know anything about Dark potion residue?”

“Are you quite done?” Potter closes his eyes and brings two fingers up to the bridge of his nose.

“No, I don’t think I am. I’m of a mind to be offended by your insinuation.”

“You wrote the damn treatise on the unstable properties of Dark potions.” And finally, there’s a little spark behind his eyes. The same one Draco had grown so used to seeing back at school. Now this he knows what to do with.

“Ah, yes. ‘Potioneering Applications of Hemolytic Decay in Curse Residue’. Bit of a mouthful. Always thought the title could use some work—but the logic is naturally flawless.”

Potter scowls. “Malfoy—”

“You didn’t even read it, did you?”

“I got the main idea.” Potter shrugs. “You used about sixteen footnotes to say, ‘don’t touch any strange goo with your bare hands.’”

“And are you quite sure of your eyewitness accounts, then? Aurors on the Knockturn patrol have been known to stumble out of the White Wyvern spinning drunken tales of a Dark wizard on the prowl, you know.”

Potter mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like fucking Crosby and huffs. “Yes, Malfoy, I’m sure. I saw it with my own eyes.”

And then it dawns on him. “And you have the gall to wonder why I wrote sixteen bloody footnotes. Well, go on then. How long did you touch it for? It’s critically important, though I don’t expect you to understand.”

A beat.

Potter hesitates. “…I didn’t touch it. Not exactly.”

Draco barks out a mirthless laugh. “Feel free to let me know if you start growing a second pair of balls, then. Actually—no. Don’t bother. Run along like a good little civil servant. Better yet, find another Potions Master who might actually care. There are hundreds more out there, and my lunch break started ten minutes ago. Good day.”

He moves to turn on his heel, but Potter steps forward and catches him by the sleeve.

“Christ, Malfoy!” Potter always swears like a Muggle when he’s really working himself up to a strop. “This is serious! People could get hurt if we don’t figure this out.”

“I could get seriously hurt if you don’t let. Go. Of. My. Arm,” Draco says through gritted teeth.

Potter relents, but he’s got this look about him—like if he just stares at Draco long enough with his eyebrows drawn together in a vaguely disapproving gaze, he’ll finally see sense. And it fucking incenses him.

“So you really aren’t going to help. You’ve said it yourself—this shit can be lethal, and we can’t even get rid of it, or find out what’s causing it, because we don’t know anything.” Potter’s voice rises in indignation. “We need you. People could die! And you’re more concerned with—”

“Get out,” Draco seethes, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. He’s seen that look before—the wounded hero, that self-righteous stare—and he’s so fucking tired of riding this moral superiority train. He won’t subject himself to it for another minute. Not from the dimwitted little Aurors at the DMLE. And certainly not from Potter.

It’s at this moment Pucey decides to peek his head out from the back-of-house. “Is everything okay up here, Mr. Malfoy? It’s only, I thought I heard shouting—Oh.” His concerned expression drops, and he steps into full view. “It’s Harry Potter. Good afternoon, sir!”

Potter nods at him, mumbling a vague greeting without really meeting Pucey’s eyes just as Draco bites out, “Not. A good time. Please return to your duties at once.”

Mercifully, Pucey seems to sense the tension in the air thick enough to slice through and takes a few slow steps backwards. “Of course….’pologies,” he says, wringing his hands and disappearing through the swinging door. Probably with his ear pressed right up against it.

Potter’s shaking his head in defeat, his wry smirk not quite meeting his eyes. “This is exactly what they told me you’d be like. I thought maybe…” he trails off and shoves his hands in his pockets. “But no. Don’t even know why I bothered.”

He stalks out the door like a kicked puppy, and then he’s gone.

….Right then. Draco lets out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding, slowly exhaling from his nose. Maybe now he can still salvage the Developing Solution. It’s nearly ruined, of course. The reduction phase had slowed to a crawl, parts of it coagulating around the edges. He swears under his breath and flicks his wand to reheat it gently.

Stir clockwise. Three times. Wait ten seconds.

The solution burps sullenly. Draco stares at it, watches a thin curl of steam rising from the surface. The shop feels eerily quiet.

“Don’t even know why I bothered,” Potter’s voice echoes in his head.

Draco scowls. Checks the viscosity. But the stirring stick won’t move, and neither will his hands.

“I thought maybe…but no.”

Draco pushes the unwelcome memory aside. Checks the viscosity again. Still wrong. He sets down the stirrer with unnecessary force.

He could just leave it. Let Pucey bottle the salvageable bits and take his lunch.

Instead, he finds himself tugging on his cloak. He pushes through the front door and into the alleyway. He’ll just call Potter back. Offer a half-hearted compromise or point him to a reputable academic source, whichever gets it off his conscience. He scans the crowd for a mop of dark hair.

And just ahead—he spots a flash of movement. A hooded figure. A swish of robes. And then the unmistakable burnt-ozone stench of a Curse mid-flight. The incantation—Latin, maybe Sanskrit—he can’t tell over the screaming.

And Potter. Staggering like he’s been gutted, eyes wide, mouth open. He collapses.

It’s fast, but not fast enough.

Draco’s feet are already moving, and he breaks into a dead run before his brain even catches up. His eyes fly up, just in time to see the tail of a dark cloak whipping around a corner. Shopgoers scatter in all directions: some Disapparating on the spot with a crack, some sprinting towards the Leaky, and some frozen in place, just staring.

What the fuck? Who’d be stupid enough to Curse the bloody Boy Who Won’t Fucking Die in broad daylight? They must’ve struck him in the back—Potter’s facedown. Only way someone could even hope to get the jump on him these days.

Draco drops to his knees, panting, and rolls him over. And then he nearly vomits.

Fuck. This is bad. This is really, really bad. Potter is barely even conscious, his features hidden by a mask of gore. He’s gurgling and groaning and Draco’s muttering inane nonsense while trying to hold his head up.

Too soon, he falls silent.

It hits Draco like a blow to the chest.

Harry Potter is dying. Draco is watching him die.

He feels like squeezing his eyes shut and erasing reality by sheer force of willpower. And then he does, because this can’t be fucking happening. This isn’t supposed to happen.

And then—

He blinks.

———

Draco’s late for work. Draco’s never late for work, mind you, but the fucking fire alarm screeching through the night had clearly had other plans in store.

He’s about halfway through a wonderfully brisk shower when he can’t help noticing how clean his hands are.

But—no. That’s not right, is it? They were…he was covered. Blood, dripping hot and thick through his fingers. Potter’s blood. The metallic smell, clinging to his nostrils…

He blinks, quickly. Shakes his head once. What a horrifically vivid nightmare. He’s had some particularly dark and twisted ones in the last year, no doubt, but that one had felt so fucking real.

There’s a sickly pang in his abdomen that only sharpens through the morning, and by the time he starts his trek to Diagon Alley he’s fighting back a full-fledged wave of nausea. The scent of the bakery down the street, normally sweet and yeasty and warm, only turns his stomach. He eyes the building warily, his vision catching on the window display.

It’s tiered stack of artfully arranged Chelsea buns. Draco swallows bile.

A large man bustling through the doorway handles a sack of flour with ease, making eye contact with Draco and granting him a nod of acknowledgment.

A few paces ahead—street busker. What had that fucking song been, anyway?

And then it’ll be…

The Pomeranian lady with the ridiculous gold leash. Right on fucking cue. He glares at her again anyway, just because he can.

Draco walks faster. Of course it’s a fucking prophecy. That or he’s developing psychosis.

He thinks, inexplicably, of that nattering hag, Trelawney. Hadn’t she given a lesson about prophetic dreams back in Fourth Year? He can’t recall it now. At the time, he’d been too busy switching out Greg’s dream journal for a fake one—he’d charmed it to fill itself with increasingly bizarre sexual confessions about McGonagall. Anyway, back then he’d dismissed the possibility outright. Who can blame him, honestly? She’d been a laughable excuse for an educator—Divination altogether was a joke.

Now, though, Draco can’t find it quite so funny.

And again—he’s so deep in thought, mulling over whether he’s unwittingly become this generation’s next great Seer overnight, that he forgets the scooter boy entirely.

The green blur whooshes right past him and he stumbles, off-balance.

“Watch it, arsehole!” they both say in unison—Draco a half-second late, dazed and without any venom behind it.

And if he hadn’t thought this shit was getting supremely weird before, he certainly does now. He steps through the brick wall and meanders down the familiar cobblestone as if in a dream.

The back entrance of Elixirs, Etc. comes into view, and he hesitates. A creeping sense of dread crawls up his spine.

He casts a quick Tempus before he can stop himself.

Seven after nine.

Fucking jolly.

Pucey looks up from his inventory, clipboard in hand again. “Alright there, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco breezes past him with clipped steps. “No.”

“But—but I’ve made you a cuppa!” Pucey calls after him, voice trailing as Draco moves further away.

Despite his best efforts, a pang of guilt curls behind his ribs, and he turns back abruptly to pluck the cup and saucer from Pucey’s hands.

“So you have.” Draco takes a perfunctory sip and sets it down on the counter. Too much sugar, not enough cream. Just like his dream. He frowns deeply at his cup.

“Erm…yes.” Pucey looks down, deflating slightly. It occurs to Draco that his demeanor must be more than a little concerning.

“I’m sure your Pepper-Up should be coming along nicely by next week—do take another look at those notes I left you,” Draco says, schooling his features and aiming for a breezy indifference.

It seems to do the job well enough because Pucey brightens, adding, “Yes, certainly! And thank you again for making me that pamphlet—it really does wonders to understand the theory before moving on to practical applications.”

“Yes, well,” Draco waves a hand vaguely, “can’t have you burning through another cauldron. That last one was state-of-the-art, I’ll have you know.”

“No, I s’pose we can’t.” Pucey gives a warm chuckle, returning to the task at hand and scribbling the ingredients down dutifully, and Draco’s nerves are just beginning to settle when Pucey adds, almost as an afterthought:

“Oh, by the way—we’re nearly out of erumpent bile again. Not urgent, but I just thought you should know.”

“….Right,” he says slowly. The world tilts beneath his feet—like missing the last step on a staircase—and Draco has to wrench it back into place. He works his jaw. Forces his voice steady. “I’ll make a note.”

And Draco takes the path of least resistance because, well—he’s never known how to do anything else. He brews the same tonics and bottles the same tinctures and fields the same fucking inane questions with a placid smile.

Has Divination ever been so brutally precise?

He’ll visit the Manor tomorrow, he decides. After all, that dinner date with Mother is shamefully overdue—an assault of concerns and passive-aggressive barbs and “But how are you really, dear?”s are sure to greet him just as soon as the house-elves take his coat. But at least one of the authors in those libraries will surely have written something pertinent. Possibly some obscure footnote in a tome that hasn’t been touched since Merlin was shitting his nappies.

Not that Draco would place any real stock in the ramblings of a five hundred and fuckteen-year-old oracle, anyway, but…well. It can’t hurt to check.

Potter comes into the shop a few hours later—infuriatingly on-schedule.

Draco again speaks before Potter can even open his mouth. Partly because he doesn’t want to hear it. Mostly because there’s a terrible sinking feeling in his gut that he already has.

“Potter,” Draco says flatly, barely looking up from his Developing Solution. “How unfortunate.”

Potter, for his part, stops mid-stride—visibly affronted. “Christ, Malfoy, I haven’t even done anything yet.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” Draco measures out the Developing Solution with surgical precision and ladles a portion of the brew into a clean phial. “You’re here because there’s a mysterious residue down on Knockturn and none of your red-cloaked, gormless, idiot lackeys can even pretend to guess its origin. Am I getting warmer?”

Potter’s brow furrows, suspicion blooming behind his eyes. “Well…alright, yes, but…how could you possibly—?”

Draco finishes capping the phial with a click, steps out from behind the counter, and turns to Potter with slow deliberate steps. His voice is low and sharp. “Don’t touch it. Don’t sniff it. Don’t prod it with your wand or kick it or, god forbid, try to get clever about it.”

Draco stops right in front of him, close enough to count the freckles on his nose. “Also—this is just a spot of advice, really, feel free to take it or leave it—next time, why don’t you read the fucking dossier?”

The door to the back room swings open behind him.

Draco doesn’t turn. “Not now, Pucey.”

There’s a beat, and then the door swings gently shut again. Great. He’s scaring the help.

Potter tears his gaze away to stare blankly over Draco’s shoulder. “Who was that?”

“My apprentice,” Draco says briskly. “Listen. I’ll help you, but the subject matter has—something of a sensitive nature, as I’m sure you’re aware…” he tilts his head meaningfully toward the huddle of schoolgirls pressing their noses to the window. “We’ll discuss it privately.”

Potter doesn’t move, and in the moment between one breath and the next, Draco sees him bleeding out on the ground… slow trickles seeping into the cracks between cobblestones, like a twisted mosaic…

He takes a sharp breath. Blinks. Potter stands before him, alive and well.

Alive and well—and letting his mouth hang just slightly open like a man Confunded. Draco snaps two fingers in Potter’s face, just as his stomach lurches because that’s supposed to happen about ten minutes from now, and Draco hasn’t been wrong this entire day.

Not fucking once.

“I’ve just said I’ll help you, Potter. Time is of the essence in these matters, so we really must be going. Immediately.” Draco grabs him by the (irritatingly broad) shoulders and begins to steer him bodily out of the shop.

“Alright, alright,” he says, dislodging Draco’s grip on his arms with a sharp jerk and putting a hand up. “I’m glad you’re being proactive about this—really, I am. I’d been afraid…well, the things people had said, I mean…” Potter catches his eye and seems to belatedly realize how close his foot had come to his mouth just then. Draco arches a brow. “Nevermind. The point is, I’d rather discuss it here, if it’s all the same to you. We can even head into your storage room if that would make you more comfortable.”

Potter is, ostensibly, being accommodating. Probably fearing Draco will suddenly change his mind about being helpful if he pushes too hard. But Draco sees the placating words for exactly what they are.

“What, you’d like to call upon Pucey as a witness in case I throttle you? No need.” I’m trying to save you before someone else decides to finish the job instead, you idiot.

Potter lets out a heavy sigh. “Malfoy. It’s not like that—”

“Splendid. Then you’re welcome to tell me exactly what it’s like. In your office. At the Ministry. Promptly.” He’s talking fast, and there’s a ticking countdown in his head, but—

He can tell Potter’s about to cave. Good. Just a little more…

“I’ll advise you there or not at all.”

And then, after a beat, Potter nods reluctantly. Bingo.

Ten minutes later, following a particularly awkward Side-Along to the visitor’s entrance and a dead silent ascent on the lift to Level 2, Potter sits across from him with steepled hands. The desk separating them is a dark rich mahogany, and the office is roughly the size of Draco’s kitchen. Seems Potter’s been able to move up the ranks of the DMLE without fuss or formality—color him gobsmacked.

“—so that’s why I’ve asked after you,” Potter is saying. “Believe me, if there were anybody more fit to counsel this investigation, they’d be sitting here instead,” he finishes darkly.

“It’s true. You’re right to have called me. Even you have been known to make a correct assumption from time to time.”

Draco’s eyes catch on a framed photo hanging on the wall, a snapshot of his friends. They’re all in puffer coats, laughing. Granger brushes a bit of snow from Weasley’s hair, and Potter throws an arm around them both. He’d be dead by now. Bleeding out in the street if it weren’t for Draco.

Potter looks like he’s about to turn around and follow his gaze, so Draco clears his throat abruptly. “I’ll of course need to see the site of the residue. If what you say is true—”

“It’s true,” Potter snaps defensively.

“—and there really are no spell signatures in your database that match, then the next logical step is to assume it’s Potion-related. Many poisons, for example, can leave traces if used improperly. Take the Angel’s Trumpet Draught. It can manifest a glittering rose-colored substance—deceptively pretty, and terribly lethal.”

“Yes, well, ‘pretty’ is definitely not a word I’d use to describe what we found. It looked…black. And sort of sludgy.” Potter winces.

The description calls to Draco’s mind a number of possibilities. Of course, if he listed them all just now, Potter would undoubtedly struggle to keep up. He’ll have to explain very slowly. Before now, he would never have dreamt of feeling anything resembling a kinship with Hermione Granger, but—well. He’s dreamed a lot of things in the last twenty-four hours.

“I’ve a few things in mind already, but…it’ll be difficult to narrow anything down until I’ve seen it. I’m very good, you understand, but I’m not a miracle-worker.”

Potter rolls his eyes without much venom and then places his palms flat on the desk, moving to push his chair back. “Alright. I’ll take you.”

Draco stays seated, looking up at him warily. “...I’d rather you didn’t.”

Potter scowls, fully standing now. “What? Now’s not the time to be difficult, Malfoy, you’ve just said you needed to see the residue—”

“I know. But it’s Knockturn Alley.” Draco’s thinking fast, letting some of the acid he’s been keeping at bay creep back into his tone. As if Potter’s missing something tragically obvious. Which, Draco supposes, he is. “Hardly the most secure location. If this residue is as dangerous as it sounds, you’ll forgive my hesitation. I’m not exactly keen to be the one standing right next to you when something hexes your arse six ways to Sunday—can you imagine the Prophet headlines? I’d prefer not to spend tomorrow in custody, thanks.”

Potter narrows his eyes. “I’ve survived worse.”

Draco shoots him a look. “Have you?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Fine,” Potter relents through gritted teeth. “I have photographs. Come with me.”

———

They exit Potter’s office and weave through a sprawl of desks—parchment-strewn workspaces manned by junior officers who barely glance up as they pass.

“You Aurors keep a lot of images on file, then?”

“Only the weird ones.” Potter shrugs. “It’s down in Records. Everything goes through Magical Forensics before it’s processed.”

“Ah. So even the Golden Boy can’t outrun bureaucracy.” If Draco didn’t know better, he’d swear there was a ghost of a wry smile crossing Potter’s features.

He takes a sharp left with Draco keeping pace just behind. A few passersby glance their way, but if anyone finds the sight of them walking together strange, they keep any remarks to themselves. They round a nondescript corner, and Draco has just enough time to register the change in flooring—marble to wood, a faint creak—when Potter’s foot catches. Out of pure instinct, Draco lunges forward to steady him, but his fingers close on air.

One second Potter is there. The next, he’s tumbling down the stairs, arms windmilling—

—and the back of his head cracks sharply against a step.

“Potter!” Draco shouts, but the cry is muffled by a thud. Potter hits the landing in a twisted sprawl, limbs bent at unnatural angles. He’s out cold.

Draco takes the stairs three at a time, but before he can reach him—

———

Draco’s late for work. And that can’t have been a dream. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, or even waking up.

He kicks the umbrella stand by his front door with a hearty, “FUCK!”

It gives a satisfying rattle, and Draco barely feels the stinging in his foot. Then he feels like screaming some more—so he does.

Someone’s taking the piss.

It’s a sick, cosmic joke at Draco’s expense. Has to be. Merlin knows he’s made enough enemies in his lifetime; maybe this is the final reckoning.

He shoves the door open and walks the city with a grim set to his jaw.

Chelsea buns.

Busker.

Blasted Pomeranian.

This time, he dodges the fucking scooter without so much as a glace.

He reaches Elixirs, Etc. in record time, storming past a very alarmed-looking Pucey in a flurry of robes. “No tea! And order the fucking erumpent bile!”

He won’t wait around for Potter to come fetch him. He knows how this goes now—he’s not an idiot.

By this time, Potter and his crimson-cloaked cronies should be poking around the Mulpepper Apothecary on Knockturn. Draco’s suspicions are confirmed when he spots the group of Aurors clustered in the narrow lane behind the abandoned shop, heads bowed and murmuring in low, uncertain voices.

He spots Potter’s shock of black hair immediately, tucked right in the center of the huddle. Draco wastes no time breaking into their little circle, voice raised imperiously as he approaches.

“Potter. You’re coming with me.”

Potter’s head snaps up, clearly startled. “Malfoy? What—?”

And though it does seem to be his default state of being, Draco doesn’t have time for Potter to be confused. He moves to put a hand on his shoulder, but a meaty forearm slams across his chest before he can make contact. Draco looks down at the offending limb and back up at the broad, sandy-haired lump of a man scowling at him with all the brainless ferocity of a mountain troll. Draco’s lip curls into a sneer. He’s just opening his mouth for a cutting remark when Potter calls off his lap dog—“Crosby. Stop. Leave go.”

Crosby obeys, reluctantly, and takes a step back. The suspicious glare stays.

Potter rounds on him with narrowed eyes. “What the hell are you doing here? This is a restricted area—don’t you have a shop to run? It’s gone nine already.”

“I said don’t argue.” Draco’s voice is firm and even. “You’re coming to my flat. Now. No questions.”

A beat of heavy silence follows—long enough for every Auror in the group to exchange raised eyebrows and turn back to stare at him like a particularly nasty spot of gum stuck to their boot.

Actually—speaking of. Now that he’s here, he quickly scans his surroundings for the black and sludgy substance Potter described yesterday. Or—today. Whatever.

It’s an ugly spatter on the ground behind the Aurors, and if he squints through the row of uniformed legs, he can see it’s covering a small portion of the brick wall as well.

He’s loathe to admit it doesn’t look quite like anything he’s ever documented. He tilts his head just so, and a glimmer of something in the sludge catches his eye. Something yellow, maybe? But then it’s gone—just as soon as it came. A trick of the eye?

Then a wiry man in the back snorts, “Oi, who let this one out of the dungeons?”

Draco snaps his gaze up as laughter ripples through the circle. A woman in the front adds with a leery grin, “Didn’t know you liked the dominant types, Harry. You hiding something from us?”

Draco doesn’t even blink. “Is that the best you’ve got?” He says flatly. “I’ve met flobberworms with sharper wit.”

Potter raises a hand, his expression unreadable. “Stand down,” he says to the group, and the laughter dies out.

He sighs and turns back to Draco, searching. “What’s this about, then? What’s so urgent you had to come and trespass into my crime scene?”

Draco steps in, lowering his voice. “It’s—you’re not safe here. I can’t explain just now. Just come with me.”

“…You threatening ‘im?” Crosby grumbles, baring his teeth.

Draco whirls on him, gesturing to his own temple. “Are you actually thick in the head? Did Mummy drop you as an infant? Merlin, if I wanted to threaten him, you lot would be first to know.”

Potter searches his face, holds his gaze for a long moment. Whatever he finds there must be enough, because he lets out a breath. “…Alright. But if this is some sort of prank—or if you even think about drawing your wand—I swear, I’ll have your arse chucked into in a holding cell before you can say ‘Impedimenta.’”

———

Draco Apparates them just outside the Leaky Cauldron.

Tom the barkeep glances up from behind the counter. He beams at Potter, and then catches Draco at his side, letting his smile fall just a hair.

He’s actually an alright bloke, Tom—but Draco knows how this looks.

Once they’ve reached Charing Cross Road, Potter finally blurts, “Okay—when exactly are you planning to tell me what’s going on? My colleagues probably think I’ve gone round the twist, I’m meant to be leading an active investigation, and you’re still dodging my bloody questions—”

Potter’s stomach growls. Loudly. A spot of pink blooms high on his cheeks.

Well, Draco thinks.

He can’t very well let the Saviour drop dead from starvation, can he?

“Do you want to grab a bite?”

Potter stares. “Do I—what?”

“Do you want. Something to eat.”

He stops walking altogether. “Right, so I’m supposed to drop everything for an emergency, and now you’re asking me to brunch? I dunno if it was obvious, but I seriously don’t have time for—for whatever this is,” he says, waving a hand vaguely.

Draco rolls his eyes skyward. “Morgana’s tits, Potter, you can stop the pearl-clutching. I’m not courting you, I’m saving your life.”

“And I suppose you’re just not gonna explain how the fuck this has anything to do with me being in danger?” Potter says, resigned now.

Draco smirks. It’s not a happy one. “You wouldn’t believe me if I tried.”

He lets Potter choose the spot—because Draco is nothing if not a gentleman—and they end up at an Indian food truck just off Tottenham Court. Potter insists it’s good stuff and, well. Draco is too tired to argue. He hasn’t properly slept in two days.

They place an order (Draco chooses the samosa appetizer while Potter orders two combo plates) and the man in the window tells them it’ll be around twelve minutes, so they take their seats on a rickety metal bench nearby. It’s chipped, wildly unsanitary, and there’s a stain by Draco’s leg that looks suspiciously like pigeon shit. Potter, of course, seems perfectly at home.

For a blissful minute, they’re quiet. The idle chatter of nearby Muggles and the occasional scattered birdsong lulls Draco into a sense of calm. Perhaps they’ll be safer here. There’s almost no ambient magic—this place is about as Muggle as it gets. If he can just figure out a way to stall Potter, keep him here…maybe he’ll stand a better chance of surviving. Whatever magic the loop is siphoning from will have to run out eventually. Then the curse will be broken, and Draco can go to bed, and it’ll stop being fucking Thursday.

Potter breaks the silence. “There’s a spot back in Tadworth like this. Couple towns over from where I grew up. My uncle used to take my cousin there after his boxing matches.”

“…And…that’s why you wanted to come here?” Draco says the words as if treading a thin sheet of ice.

Inexplicably, Potter laughs. “God, no. I hated that place. Just had to sit there and watch them inhale everything. If you think I’m a glutton at the table? Those two were fucking biblical.”

Draco’s distantly aware that Potter’s just made a joke; it might’ve been passably funny. What does he mean “sit there and watch them inhale everything”?

“But,” Potter continues, “I dunno. It’s nice. Familiar—in a way.”

Draco blinks at him. For once, he doesn’t know what to say. The sprawling country of Wiltshire has zero similarities to their current environment.

He grasps for familiar territory. “So. Your…investigation. Looks like you’ve a nasty spot of residue on your hands.”

“Oh, yes. You saw it then?” Potter asks. He pushes his glasses farther up his nose, regarding Draco thoughtfully. “You know, we were running all sorts of diagnostics on the site before you interrupted…” he gives a meaningful pause, and Draco cocks an eyebrow because he doesn’t have the grace to feign embarrassment.

“…And anyway, we couldn’t find a match for any spell signature that could’ve caused it. I was actually just about to suggest we should look for a Specialty Consult, and then you showed up,” he finishes, eyebrows drawing together in bemusement.

“Indeed—and what a fortunate thing I did. I could tell with a glance you lot were out of your depth,” Draco says breezily, adjusting his cufflinks and decidedly not making eye contact.

Potter spreads his arms. “Well, if you’re such an expert already—then by all means. Hit me. What’s your working theory?

Draco opens his mouth—and is promptly spared from answering by the bright, tinny sound of a bell. They both look toward the sound as one, and the man in the food truck window waves them over to collect their meals.

The two of them tuck in, mostly silent. Evidently food takes precedence over case details. Draco picks at his samosas half-heartedly while Potter starts demolishing his first plate. He hears an echo of Potter’s voice in his head—

“…just had to sit there and watch them inhale everything..."

—and the urge to make a cutting jab vanishes completely.

It’s not bad, all things considered. Potter starts chewing in slow-motion, and then he stops, making a face—his mouth is still stuffed with food. He gestures from his dish to Draco and back again.

“Hey—this curry taste funny t’you?” he garbles.

He starts groaning, clutching at his stomach, his face contorted in pain, and then—

———

—Draco’s back at his flat. Late for fucking work.

Death by tikka masala?

At this rate, his umbrella stand is going to have a permanent dent on the side.

He spends the morning practically tearing his house apart—half by spellwork for efficiency, and half by hand because fuck if it doesn’t feel good.

He rips the sheets and duvet from his bed. Shakes out each of the pillow shams and comes up empty-handed.

He strips the cupboards completely bare. (Possibly breaking a few dishes in the process, but who’s counting?)

He sets to work on wrenching the drawers from his nightstand, and there are clothes strewn everywhere by the time he’s finished with the walk-in.

It’s not a dream. Not a prophecy. It has to be a Cursed object. Or a broken Time-Turner, repurposed for torture. He hasn’t ruled out a voodoo doll, either.

It’s something tucked away in his house, because he always ends up here. The magical tether pulls him back, every time. It only makes sense. It’s perfectly reasonable.

And whoever the fuck is doing this to him is going to wish they were dead by the time he’s through with them, because it’s not under the bathroom sink, or in the coffee filter, or hidden behind the paintings on his wall—and he’s just about to aim a Blasting Curse at his showerhead when he hears the doorbell chime.

Fuck.

Draco takes a shuddering breath and gingerly stashes his wand in his sleeve. Creeps slowly out of the bathroom, taking care to silence his steps on the tile. He’ll just pretend he’s not home. Sneak a glance through the peephole, and then—

“Malfoy! I know you’re in there!” comes Potter’s muffled voice.

Fuck.

Draco stops walking. “Shove off, Potter,” he yells back.

“Can we talk? ...Please? I’ll make it quick.”

Oh, well, now he’s asked nicely, isn’t that swell? “No!”

Potter mutters something under his breath, the sound too low to carry through the walls. Then, “It’s important! And—oh come on, this is ridiculous. Just open the damn doo—"

He stops shouting mid-word, finishing lamely.

Draco’s cracked the door open just a hair—enough for Potter to see his face but not the carnage that lay beyond. “Yes?”

And Potter actually takes a step back, eyeing him up and down. “Jesus, Malfoy, are you alright?”

“Oh, just peachy.” Draco carefully moves out of the entryway, closing the door behind him with finality. “You wanted to talk? Let’s talk. Walk with me.” Draco knows why he’s here, of course. Needs to press him for information about that blasted spot on Knockturn. And honestly, he couldn’t give less of a fuck about the residue right now. Let Potter poke at it all he wants; Draco’s got bigger fish to fry.

Potter hasn’t started walking. He’s staring at Draco with an unreadable expression.

Here we go, Draco thinks. He’ll start jumping into the questionnaire any second now. Saviour Duties must wait for no man.

“D’you want to get a coffee or something?”

Draco blinks.

”I mean, no offense, but—you sort of look like you could use it.”

“….Yeah,” Draco says at length, rubbing at his eyes. “I know a place.”

They walk in something that might pass for companionable silence for a few minutes. Draco resolutely ignores the Chelsea bun display when they pass the bakery—the street busker’s long gone by now, but that yowling mutt is circling a fire hydrant for a pissing spot a couple paces ahead. He hears the old woman on the other end of the leash cooing words of encouragement and comforts himself with a vivid mental picture of throwing a Zipper-Mouth Jinx at them both.

Potter notices them too and scoffs lightly. “You know, I never understood why people keep dogs like that for a pet.”

“I’d hardly even call it a pet. More like an exceedingly irritating ornament, really.”

Potter looks at him then, stifling a laugh. “Did you actually just agree with me on something? Somewhere, I think a pig must be flying—or Hell’s freezing over.”

“Potter. What on Earth are you on about?” Draco says slowly, as if speaking to a child.

Potter shakes his head. “Almost forgot. You Purebloods could really use a lesson on the art of expression.”

“Well, I can hardly be expected to memorize every daft turn of Muggle phrase. Honestly, the things they come up with.”

“Yeah, but I would think after living in the heart of Muggle London”—Potter waves his hand around to showcase his point—"you might’ve picked up a thing or two.”

And Draco would rather cuddle one of Hagrid’s Blast-Ended Skrewts than admit to Potter’s face that he really doesn’t get out much, so he wisely chooses silence.

Potter obliges his nonanswer for only a few seconds, though. Draco can see the cogs turning in his head. “Come to think of it, why do you live in Muggle London? Sure, your Manor’s no paradise, but I mean—you of all people. Wouldn’t you want to stay close to a magical community?”

“Oh yes, because I’m so terribly popular with Wizarding Britain,” Draco deadpans.

Potter deflates, and to his credit, he actually does look somewhat abashed. But Draco just can’t stop himself. “We can’t all be drowning in fanmail and charity gala invitations, Potter. Do try to keep up.”

“I’m not drowning--God, Malfoy, could you consider not being horribly dramatic for, like, ten seconds?” There’s a defensive edge to his tone now, and Draco feels a strange sense of relief—immediately followed by an even stranger pang of guilt.

“…Fine. Perhaps ‘wading’ would be a more apt term,” Draco mutters, staring at the pavement beneath his feet.

Potter’s gaze is still practically boring a hole into the side of his head. Draco hates it.

“It’s really that bad, though? Even after I…y’know.” It comes out soft—too soft.

There’s nothing Draco despises more than pity. He’d take a screaming row with Potter over this—this weird, concerned hero angle. “Yes, Potter, even after you so graciously gave your ‘Draco-Malfoy’s-Not-Evil’ speech to the entire Wizengamot. I was there, if you’ll recall.”

“Of course I recall,” Potter snaps quickly. He finally looks away. Pretends to be interested in the nondescript block of flats to their left. “I guess I just thought it would…I dunno. Forget it.”

“It’s just as well. ‘Thinking’ has never quite been a touted Gryffindor strong suit, has it?” He pauses. “Consider it forgotten.”

“Um. Okay.” Potter squints and scratches at the back of his head. (Which really doesn’t do his hair any favors.) “So where’s this coffee spot, then?”

Draco comes to a halt, and Potter follows suit a beat later. “We’re here. Look to your right.”

A small oh escapes Potter’s lips.

———

It’s a nice enough place. Draco likes coming here on the rare occasions when his espresso machine’s on the fritz, and they do a decent cortado. He’s completely unsurprised to learn that Potter takes his coffee black.

Draco places his cup back down onto the table and leans back in his chair. “Alright. You may as well come out with it. Lovely though our little chats have been, I know you didn’t come all the way here for a stroll down memory lane.”

Potter shrugs out of his overcoat, draping it over the back of the chair. He’s still in full Auror uniform—he must be boiling in here. “I tried the potions shop first, but your assistant told me you never turned up to work this morning.”

Pucey is a horrible traitor. He’s never contemplating a pay raise for his apprentice ever again. “Maintenance issue at my residence, if you must know. Very pressing. It required my full attention,” Draco lies.

“I’m sure.” Is he being facetious? Draco can’t tell.

“Go on then. Tell me all about your little residue problem.”

Potter blinks. “How’d you—”

Draco waves a dismissive hand. “Ugh, nevermind all that. All you need to know is that whatever left a stain like that must be very old, and very potent.”

Potter leans in, throwing up a thoughtless, wandless Muffliato because of course he can do wandless magic. Prick.

“I’d figured as much. It doesn’t match up with anything in our database.”

“No, it most assuredly wouldn’t. Some forms of magic are so ancient they’re practically baked into the earth. Nameless, but all the more powerful for it.” At that, Potter’s shoulders tighten, and a kind of grim understanding settles across his features.

Maybe he knows a thing or two about ancient magics.

Potter then informs him about a bleeding-edge, state-of-the-art forensics lab tucked away deep in the bowels of the Ministry. “If you wanted to collect a sample of the residue and…I dunno, run some tests yourself? I’m sure I could pull a few strings to get you in there for a couple of days.”

“Days, Potter, honestly. It’s like you’ve never heard of me. A couple of hours are more than sufficient. I’d be done before teatime.” At that, Potter scoffs. There’s a hint of amusement in it.

Draco stirs his drink idly for a few moments, contemplating which diagnostic methods would be most appropriate. He thinks he really would like to poke around the inside of that laboratory. He’d be like a kid in a candy store—if the candy were volatile, unstable, and likely to cause severe injury.

He’s thinking if only he could figure out how to put an end to this godforsaken Thursday that maybe he’ll actually get to see it one day, and then the sunny window to Potter’s right explodes.

A cascade of glass shards washes over them both, and Draco feels the sting of a cut opening just under his eyebrow. He throws up an arm to shield his face, peppering his hands and wrists with tiny lacerations. There’s blood weeping into his eye, and he blinks erratically, squinting through his fingers—only to see that Potter’s toppled from his chair in the force of the blast. Draco shoves the table and chairs out of the way, cursing, reaching for him, but—

———

—Draco’s late for work. Again.

And again, and again, and again.

After a while, he starts losing count.

Every Thursday comes and goes, one after the other, like an ever-rotating wheel painstakingly crafted for his own personal torture. Every day Draco watches it happen—and every day he’s no closer to a finding a solution than before.

He does learn other things, though.

He learns Potter has a habit of biting the inside of his cheek when he’s thinking hard. Sometimes, Draco catches himself waiting for it.

He also twirls his wand between his fingers when he’s distracted.

Of course, that was right before he was promptly dive-bombed by a flock of murderous pigeons. Draco swears he can still taste the feathers in his mouth.

He learns Potter lets his mouth hang just slightly open, even when he’s not speaking, because nobody ever taught him to close it. He chokes on a bug before Draco can point it out.

He learns that Potter owns exactly three jumpers—two of them knit for him by Molly Weasley, the other made for him by Granger back in their fifth year. Draco supposes it might’ve been charming, in a quaint sort of way, if one of them hadn’t taken on a life of its own and begun strangling Potter with its sleeves.

He knows Potter runs hot because he always starts shedding layers as soon as they’re indoors.

He likes treacle tart, but he hates cucumbers. Prefers ink pens to quills. Whistles Muggle pop songs occasionally when he’s poring through case files. Presses his lips together when he’s lying. Bites his nails when he gets impatient—and then surreptitiously shoves his hands in his pockets if he catches Draco noticing.

And sometimes, if he stretches his arms up high enough for a yawn, (or to grab something off a heavy shelf before it falls directly top of him) there’s a thin patch of tanned skin that peeks out from his undershirt.

About a month in, Potter gets flattened by a trolley bus. Typical.

The next day, he Splinches himself clean in half. Draco had come to in his flat and immediately vomited.

On a particularly memorable afternoon, he slips on a banana peel in the middle of the street. Somewhere, Draco thinks the universe is having a roaring laugh at his expense.

No matter where they go, what they do, or when they do it—it always ends the same. The bakery always smells like yeast and cinnamon. Potter always smells like ozone and sandalwood. The little mutt never stops its incessant yapping. If Draco leaves his flat late enough, he can avoid the speeding child, but Pucey’s tea is still too sweet.

And he tries everything. Once, he even spends the entire day locked in his flat, unmoving from his four-poster, absently listening to the Wireless with his eyes trained on the ceiling.

If he can’t win, he thinks, he’ll just refuse to play. He’ll not go along with this sick cosmic game any longer.

His distant hopes of confounding the loop are dashed, though, when a breaking announcement from the Wireless parts through the overcast of his thoughts.

’Harry Potter, aged twenty, Saviour of the Wizarding World…’ a man is saying gravely.

’…been found dead in his Grimmauld Place residence earlier this afternoon…’

Draco turns on his side, morosely shoving a pillow over his face.

’It appears, to the naked eye, as though an accident tragically befell him in the shower—‘

Another voice chimes in. ’But honestly, Jim, does anyone expect us to believe him felled by an errant bar of soap on the floor? We’re right to suspect foul play is afoot…’

Draco shuts his eyes tight and waits for the morning.

———

He’s taken to splashing ice-cold water on his face after every reset. Or sometimes he charms it boiling hot, just to feel something new.

Today, he grips the edge of the sink, bowing his head as a few stray droplets trail slowly down his jaw. One traces the corner of his mouth, pauses on his chin—suspends for a moment, then falls drip-drip onto the countertop.

He really has tried everything, he thinks. Every possible combination and deviation. Even complete and total inaction, lying motionless for hours, had done fuck-all to break the cycle.

Not everything, a piddling voice in the back of his head reminds him.

He snaps his head up. “That’s completely out of the question,” he bites.

Arguing with yourself, are we? the voice needles back.

He lets his hands tighten on the porcelain until the skin of his knuckles stretches white and taught. Wonders if he could crack the basin straight down the middle. After all, it’d be perfectly whole next go-around anyway.

Instead, he groans fiercely, grabs the tea towel from its hook and scrubs it hard over his face. Then catches himself in the mirror and pauses—really pauses. The reflection staring wide-eyed back at him is very nearly a stranger. Dark crescents ring his eyes; his cheeks are greyish and drawn. The sight reminds him sharply of Sixth Year, and he has to turn his back on himself, running a hand through his hair and quickly replacing the towel on its hook.

There really is only one thing left to do.

The thought sits heavy in his chest, and he huffs a dry laugh. It’s easier said than done, after all.

He deserves to know, says that horrible voice.

Draco swallows. Checks his watch. It’s a bit too early to open up shop—and he doesn’t want to go back there, anyway. If he has to brew one more Developing Solution, well. He might just mistakenly grab one of the explosive agents and tip it into the cauldron with a slip of his hand.

He takes a deep breath.

At best, it’ll earn him a slug to the jaw. At worst, an express trip to the Janus Thickey Ward—a minor inconvenience for the next twelve hours.

He shuts the bathroom door with a click. And then, as an afterthought, casts a Cushioning Charm on the lower half of his face—just in case.

———

Draco makes himself climb the well-worn steps of 12 Grimmauld Place one by one, each footfall right in time with his heart.

The knocker affixed to the battered front door glares at him, the silver serpent’s eyes seeming to narrow as it twists. He could still turn back. Spend the day at the shop and pretend he’d never come here in the first place.

He braces his hand against the dark panelling, willing himself to calm down and stop being ridiculous, for Merlin’s sake—

—and the door creaks open for him, pulling his weight forward. He lurches and just manages to catch himself with his front foot. Jerks his head around quickly, then straightens when he doesn’t see Potter. Rolls his shoulders a few times. Pulls at his collar. Small blessings, he supposes.

The house still smells the same, after all. Semi-sweet rot and stale polish—strangely calming in its distant familiarity. How long had it been since he last stepped inside?

A very old, very brittle-looking house-elf toddles into the foyer. His gaze settles on Draco. Drooping eyes light up with recognition, and his hunched demeanor changes entirely. Draco blinks, trying to remember… Krafter? Klaus? Or is it—

“Kreacher is most pleased to welcome Young Master Draco,” comes the gravelly croak, low and approving. He graces Draco with a deep, obsequious bow, his thin shoulders bending with exaggerated deference. “A Black returning to His Most Ancient and Noble House. It is being a most auspicious day. Do come and sit, if it is pleasing Young Master so.”

Oh. So that’s why the door had fallen open under his hand.

Before he can summon a reply, Kreacher’s ushering him to the dining room on the left, spindly hands surprisingly firm on his arm. They cross through the doorframe and Draco shrugs off his overcoat—halfway through handing it over before he even realizes what he’s doing. Old habits die hard, he thinks darkly.

Kreacher takes it, though, folding it neatly over his little arm and standing at attention. After a moment’s hesitation, Draco selects a stiff-backed chair of dark wood at the head of the table—also dark wood. Everything in this house is dark. He perches uneasily, weight pitched to the balls of his feet. Drums his fingers on tabletop, then makes himself stop.

The elf clears his throat, still stationed at the edge of the dining room. “If there is nothing more Young Master Draco requires…?”

“No, no,” Draco answers, his voice thick. “It’s quite alright. Go on.”

Kreacher vanishes with a crack. A moment later, his voice echoes down the stairwell as he bellows, “Harry Potter! The Young Master has come to call!”

Draco lifts his chin. Now or never. Preferably never.

Potter shouts something back, too far away for Draco to parse his words.

He busies himself with studying the Black family tree painted on the opposite wall—stopping on the proud image of his mother. Guilt curdles his stomach. He really ought to go and visit. If she’d just taken his bloody advice and stayed at the townhouse in Saint Tropez instead of insisting upon shuttering herself inside the Manor, their standing weekly dinners wouldn’t feel so much like a trial by fire.

Draco’s never said it, at least not aloud—but he hates that fucking place. Hates the idea of her living there, completely alone. It can’t be good for her. Searching for traces of Father around every corner, straining for echoes of his voice. She’s never admitted as much, mind you; any Pureblood worth their salt knows well the sacred value of silence. But he sees it. In the way she lingers too long by Father’s study when she passes. Once, in the dead of night, he’d overheard her choked sobs through the walls.

Somewhere above him, a floorboard groans. Then another. It takes a moment for Draco to register Potter’s footsteps drawing closer.

His voice carries into the foyer, careless and familiar. “Sorry, Ron! Thought you weren’t supposed to come round till tomorrow. I’ve gotta pop over to Knockturn here in a few, but—”

The words cut off sharply as Potter rounds the staircase, clad in those standard red slacks with a towel slung around his neck. The ends of his hair are still dripping wet, and his white undershirt is sticking damply to his chest. He’s doing that thing with his mouth again—leaving it half-open like he’s forever caught between words. This time, though, it’s blatant surprise.

Draco abruptly remembers he’s supposed to be speaking. “Ah, not Weasley after all,” he mocks, crossing one leg over the other. “Though—if I do begin to sprout freckles or a horrid ginger crown, please, remind me to self-flagellate immediately.”

Potter blinks at him, dropping the towel where he’d been dragging it through his hair. “Why are—what are you doing in my house?”

Draco stands. The chair squeaks jarringly against the floorboards in the heavy silence.

“Actually—how’d you even get through the protective charms? The wards are only set for Ron and Hermione, unless I deactivate them myself, or unless—oh.”

“Oh?” Draco echoes, edging closer to the bottom of the stairwell.

“Right. Of course. You’re a Black,” Potter tuts, shaking his head.

“Astounding deduction, Potter. The wonders never cease.” He’s stalling. He knows it.

Potter glances upstairs, muttering under his breath, “Should’ve known. Kreacher was practically jumping for joy.” He turns back to Draco, brisk and harried. “Listen, if you’re trying to fast-track some kind of permit for one of your potions, you’ll have to file a request like everyone else. Dunno why you thought breaking into my house would do the trick—”

“I didn’t break in, Potter, for Merlin’s sake—"

But Potter steamrolls over him. “And anyway, I’ve just had an urgent summons from Robards, so I really haven’t got the time to stand here and argue with you.”

Draco suppresses a growl of frustration. “Potter—”

“No. I’m not doing this.” He’s shaking his head. “Kreacher! Please escort Malfoy off the premises—”

“Potter.”

Potter Vanishes the towel round his neck and Summons his Auror jacket, which promptly zips across the hallway and down the stairwell in a red blur. Shrugging it on, he glares at Draco. Shoulders his way past him and makes for the door. “Seriously. I’m leaving, and so are you.”

“Harry! You’re going to die today!”

They both freeze. Draco’s mouth goes dry around the words.

For a beat, there is only the house: the ticking of the old grandfather clock, the soft sounds of Kreacher padding through the kitchen at the end of the hall. Draco can feel his heartbeat in his throat. He should’ve been cleverer. He should have rehearsed this, anticipated Potter’s reaction. Maybe he should never have come at all.

“I’m—what?” Potter splutters at last. Water beads on his eyelashes.

“You’re going to die today,” Draco repeats, the words flat and stripped of melodrama. “I know, because I’ve seen it happen.”

Potter turns around slowly, as if approaching a cornered animal. “…A fair few people have seen me die, Malfoy. The Battle was almost three years ago.”

Draco feels another urge to growl, not bothering to suppress it this time. “You’re not listening to me, Potter,” he spits. “I’ve lived this day. Over and over and over again. Every Thursday, I watch you die. And it never stops. I can never do anything to keep it from happening.”

A short, automatic laugh escapes Potter at first—too sharp, too loud—but it doesn’t last. He takes another step forward, scanning Draco like he can see right through him. Draco fucking hates that look—being on the receiving end of Harry Potter’s undivided attention is like staring into the sun, and his eyes are burning with the weight of it.

He’s searching for a patented Malfoy smirk, maybe. A sign this is some contrivance, or a manipulation tactic, or a sick sort of joke. But there is none. There is only the set of Draco’s jaw, the hollowness in his cheeks, and some raw, desperate thing that tells him not to look away.

“Right. Very funny,” Potter says. He’s unreadable.

And Draco has never been more deadly serious in his life. “Do I look,” he says acidly, clenching a white-knuckled fist, “like I’m bloody laughing?”

He continues, emboldened by Potter’s silence. “You’ve got five Aurors working under you—tell Crosby to take it easy on the Ogden’s Old, by the way?” Draco lets his lip curl. “He fucking reeks.”

“There’s a picture of Weasley and Granger hanging in your office. You’ve a terrible habit of chewing your quills--and your fingernails. Weasley’s mother still makes your Christmas jumpers. You take your coffee black. You favor your right arm when you duel—horrid oversight, I should remind you. Becomes rather inconvenient when you end up taking a Curse to the stomach—”

“Alright, Malfoy, Jesus…”

Potter finally breaks eye contact, cutting his gaze around Grimmauld Place as if begging for the house to bear witness. Sighs a deep breath. “Okay,” he nods. “Okay. Suppose I believe you.”

“Yes, I rather think that would save time,” Draco breathes out.

“If I thought you might be telling the truth, first thing I’d think to ask is…well—how many times?” Potter asks, running his fingers through dripping curls.

“…You’re asking me how many times I’ve lived through this day?”

“Um, yes?” The hand in his hair stills.

“Gee, Potter, let me think. I stopped keeping count after forty—could be a hundred. Or two hundred. Who’s to say?”

Potter’s eyes widen comically. “A hundred Thursdays? And I die in every single one?”

“Ten points to Gryffindor.” Draco smiles grimly.

“What do I usually do, then? When you tell me about it? Have I tried to avoid it before?” Potter presses. He’s in Auror-mode, dropping the hand from his hair and using it to gesticulate. He almost looks like he wants to grab a notepad and start jotting down Draco’s answers.

But Draco doesn’t have an answer to that.

Potter’s face falls. “…You’re kidding.”

Draco winces. “I’m not.”

“You mean you’ve never tried to tell me about it till just now?” he asks, half scolding, half a bewildered laugh. “Decided to finally turn up at my doorstep like a lunatic? Fucking Slytherins. Honestly. You’re unbelievable.”

“What, you think I’d want to have this conversation over and over again?” Draco interjects, clasping his hands together in a mock show of desperation. “‘Oh, Potter, please believe me. Please help me, save me, Chosen One—’” He throws his hands in a parody of anguish. “‘Before I go mad with grief!’”

Potter grits his teeth. “Stop it, Malfoy—"

But Draco’s on a roll now. “No, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? It’s too good—a Malfoy, of all people. Begging for your charity. Bet you’re just itching to put that saviour complex to good use after all these years—”

Potter surges forward, shoving him bodily against a banister. Suddenly he’s right there—close enough that Draco can feel the damp heat rolling off his skin, the sharp puff of his breath ghosting his cheek. He’s only distantly aware of the hardwood digging between his shoulder blades.

“Why does everything have to be so fucking difficult with you, Malfoy?”

He’s doing it again. That thing with his mouth. Leaving it half-open. Draco can see the press of his tongue against the bottom row of his teeth.

Draco gives a sharp push to the center of Potter’s chest, hissing, “Get off me.”

He stumbles back just enough, hands raised slightly, eyes narrowing. “What would you have me do, then? You suddenly appear in my dining room, tell me something impossible, and then lose your shit when I try and offer a solution?”

Draco scoffs. “Solution? That’s rich. As I recall, you called me an unbelievable lunatic before I could get another word in.”

“Right. Because claiming you’re stuck in a time loop is the picture of sanity.”

“I am stuck in a time loop!” Draco bursts out. “I’ve just told you that you could die any second, and nothing ever changes in this place! Would it kill you to show a little fucking concern?”

The line of Potter’s brow smooths out, though, and his eyes glaze over in thought. Typical. The mention of his own imminent mortality gives him a sense of normalcy.

“So you’ve really never told me? Not once? In any of these loops?”

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose. “No, Potter, we’ve been over this. Keep up.”

That earns him a glare. “Listen for a second, I’m trying to get at something here.”

“Don’t strain yourself on my account.”

“I’m just saying! Now that I actually know about it…I mean, now that you’ve changed something important…maybe this is a step in the right direction.”

Draco himself had reached a similar conclusion. It’s why he’d swallowed the lump of pride lodged permanently in his throat and turned up here in the first place. Somehow, though, the suggestion still rings hollow. Maybe it’s the string of fantastic failures he’s racked up lately in the Keep-Harry-Potter-Breathing department.

“Could be,” he says blankly.

Potter squares his shoulders like he’s collecting himself. “Right. Okay—sit down.” He nods at the dining room. “Tell me everything, start to finish.”

They sit, and Draco does. He starts small—mentions the residue spot, the Chelsea buns, the Pomeranian. He tells Potter the exact time each morning resets, and then launches into a comprehensive litany of every other absurd and bizarre way Potter ends up dead, omitting only the Blood Curse from that first day. His sentences stay clipped and precise.

Potter listens. To his credit, he interrupts only twice—once to ask what the residue spot looked like, and once to ask what sort of strategies Draco’s come up with already. Each time his voice is steadier than before. When Draco grudgingly admits to tailing him throughout the day, or barricading his door and trashing his own flat, Potter’s face tightens—but mercifully, he declines to comment.

When he finishes, Potter leans back in his chair. He’s quiet for a moment, but then he sucks his teeth. “Wow. All that trouble just to keep me alive? Careful, Malfoy—people might start to think you actually like me.”

The reply is automatic. “Clearly I haven’t been trying too hard—haven’t managed to save your life yet. Wouldn’t want people getting the wrong idea, after all.”

“That’s touching, Draco.” Potter brings a hand to his heart, all false sincerity. “I’m touched, really.”

His mouth works around Draco’s given name like a foreign language. First time for everything, Draco thinks. And then he nearly laughs aloud at his own absurdity, because there are no “first times” on Thursday.

Unless, of course…there are.

Potter tips his head. Considers him. “So, imminent death on the horizon. Sounds like a two-drink minimum to me.”

Draco splutters. “Are you—have you genuinely lost your head? Is this your idea of taking me seriously? We need to generate solutions, and you’re fancying yourself a night at the pub?”

Potter laughs. “No, no, no—you’ve got it all wrong. I thought the implication was clear.” Draco’s just about to let out a small sigh of relief when Potter continues. “If I’m really about to die, you’re covering the tab.”

Draco shakes his head, pushing back in his chair. “Of course. Fashion yourself a martyr and then expect me to foot the bill for your last supper. Brilliant plan.”

“Listen—I’ll do some field work, check out this residue you mentioned. Gotta be something to do with that, hasn’t it? It’s the only thing really out of the ordinary—minus the dying part, obviously.” Potter pushes his chair back as well, rolling his shoulders, shrugging off the tension.

Draco crosses his arms. “Yes. Small matter, that.”

“And while I’m on the job, you can do your own research. Come to think of it—Hermione’s probably got some old book stashed away about time magic. Could be worth a visit.” Potter fastens his coat, glancing at Draco as he moves.

Draco darkens, jabbing a finger toward him. “I am not having a fucking tea time with Granger. Paying you a house call has been torturous enough.”

Potter raises both hands, palms outward. “Okay, fine! Whatever. But if we’re going to figure this out together, we’ll need all the angles covered.”

Draco watches him, tight-lipped, as Potter strides to the doorway. “I’ll handle my part. You handle yours. Meet me for drinks at The Three Sheets—say, nine o’clock?” Potter pauses in the foyer, glancing over his shoulder with a half-smile. “We’ll compare notes. Have a pint. Go from there.”

Draco stiffens. It’s not a good idea—but he nods anyway. “Alright.”

A beat.

“And, Potter…?”

Potter freezes halfway out the door, an odd expression on his face.

“…Do try not to die before then.”