Potter needed him. What tosh. There were plenty of his old Hogwarts lackeys hanging around - it seemed that despite the events after the war, remarkably few of their year managed to get out of the country (except Pansy, but Draco didn’t like reminding himself that she wasn’t around anymore). To illustrate how little he thought of this notion, Draco sniffed disparagingly and pretended to investigate his cuticles.
It was Potter’s next words that made him freeze.
Draco was used to that sentence. When those laughable Ministry trials rolled out after the war, thugs like Potter and his ilk enjoyed dropping by the Manor unannounced. On Ministry orders, they’d say, chewing Droobles like cows, we’ve to search the premises. Time and again, the same image: Draco and Narcissa, standing stiffly in the entrance hall, angled toward each other; Lucius, nearly comatose in anger, staring in mute fury at the enormous painting of his own father, Abraxas, who peered down his long nose at the half-bloods and muggleborns traipsing across the authentic Persian rug, lugging heirlooms and artefacts, dropping the silver on the flagstones, tripping on the stairs. It was on Ministry orders that had Draco rounded up ever few years and brought into the black tiled interrogation rooms of the Department of Mysteries or even the Auror Office, sitting straight-backed as various Ministry dregs tried to pry non-existent “information” out of him. The first few times he fed the funny stories about Pansy in France; as the years wore on, he allowed silence to descend gravely upon him like a shroud.
Ministry orders. Draco should have that tattooed somewhere. Maybe on his arse.
“How typical of an Auror to resort to threats,” Draco remarked, the words so crisp and icy they snapped on his tongue. “It is indeed reassuring that the DMLE has not changed under your management. How revolutionary of you.”
He turned on his heel and went behind his desk, gathering his traveling cloak and sweeping it around his shoulders in a single motion. Draco’s hands did not tremble on the fastenings. He only felt the cold, dull anger pound in his jugular, his chest. The world was distant. He felt himself slip behind that opaque wall that had protected him in those tender, frightening months of 1998. Staring blankly at walls as Nagini slithered heavily across the floor. The Dark Lord’s patronising laugh. Ministry orders.
Draco pulled out his wand and extinguished the candles, plunging the office into semi-darkness. Twilight pressed against the windows: a sliver of moon was glimpsed behind slow-moving clouds. And below that, curling out of the Forest like tentacles from the deep, the endless fog.
He did not look at Potter. “Follow me.”
The words make Draco bristle, as Harry assumed they would. This isn’t the first time his family has been under Ministry eye like this - it’s not even the first time Harry himself had done the orders. It’s the truth, after all. Hermione had told him to come here herself - and she’s the Minister of Magic. The biggest title there was in this world, from a political stance. Harry might’ve come on his own anyway... but he now could claim Ministry orders without lying.
Malfoy, however, doesn’t seem thrilled with the notion. No surprise there. He’s icy in his reply, which might’ve phased Harry a long time ago. Caused anger to rise in him because this is Draco Malfoy. Now, however, he hardly blinks. Most people aren’t exactly nice to Aurors whenever they come around questioning - Harry’s grown used to the tone Draco’s using with him. Not to mention, despite everything, Malfoy has kept out of the public eye for years. There have been such few call-ins about dark magic or suspicious activity surrounding Malfoy Manor lately that Harry is hardly worried about the former Death Eater.
He’s got bigger dark wizards to chase.
“It’s not a threat when it’s the truth,” Harry tells Draco breezily. In fact, Harry does want Draco, specifically. If there are dark magic remnants down by the forest, Harry needs someone who wouldn’t go running scared.
For a moment, Harry thinks that maybe Draco is denying him and that this will be harder than it seemed. However, the other man just grabs his cloak and Harry does what’s asked of him - he follows. One step behind Draco, though nearly next to him, they walk in near silence. Very few students are out this late - one of the reasons Harry had chosen this time - but the couple that notice him stare. At the scar - or the Auror robes - Harry isn’t sure. They might not even know who he is. It’s better that way, in fact. A world where the war is so far away from the world that these children weren’t even born yet. If he weren’t working, Harry might’ve smiled at the thought.
When he and Draco reach the Entrance Hall, Harry gives the other a glance. “What do you know about the fog?” he asks him. “Is it littered with magic? Dark?
