Chapter Text
The sound of the phone alarm yanked Draco out of unconsciousness, felt like a hex to her skull. She groaned, barely cracked open an eye before slamming it shut again. Fuck, too bright.
Her head throbbed, her mouth felt foul and her stomach churned in warning.
She didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to think. And definitely didn’t want to go to work.
Work.
The thought hit her like a bucket of ice water.
My audition at 9 am.
She bolted upright—too fast. A sharp spike of pain shot through her brain. A warm body shifted beside her, a low murmur lost in the pillow.
Draco froze.
There was a man in her bed. A naked man in her bed.
For a second, she stared blankly at his bare back, then reached for her phone off the nightstand.
8:43.
“Oh, fuck,” she rasped, voice hoarse.
Scrambling, she threw back the covers and practically fell out of bed. Her dress from last night was tangled around one ankle; she kicked it off and tore through the disaster zone of clothes littering the floor.
Jeans, jeans—where the hell were her jeans? She flung open her wardrobe, yanked out the first semi-clean top she saw, and grabbed the jeans draped over the sofa.
Her bag. Where was her bag? Had she even brought it home last night? Merlin, why was this happening again?
She found it slumped against the bedside table and frantically shoved things inside—phone, keys, script, lipstick, a packet of mints—before stumbling toward the door. She found her shoes half-kicked under the bed and nearly broke her ankle trying to shove them on. Finally, she made it to the door, threw it open—
The key.
Cursing, she turned back, stomach twisting as she scanned the mess for it. She found it wedged between books and a mostly empty bottle of wine and snatched it up. Turning to leave again—
Her gaze accidentally landed on the naked man in her bed.
Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
Dark hair, strong jaw, broad shoulders. Face pressed into her pillow, breathing deep and slow. Even with his face half-buried, he looked so much like Saint Potter.
Memories from last night flickered back, blurry at the edges. The bar. The drinks. His mouth on hers, warm hands against her waist, her own voice, laughing, teasing—You look a bit like Potter, you know that?
Her stomach twisted, but she didn’t have time for this. Merlin, she really needed to start shagging blonde.
Running a hand over her face, she let out a tired sigh. Then she dug into her bag, pulled out a few crumpled bills, and tossed them onto the pillow beside him. She glanced at him again. He was fit, at least. Well-built. With a sigh, she fished out another bill and dropped it beside him.
She didn’t look back as she bolted out the door.
Harry woke up slowly, his head thick with sleep, his body heavy and warm beneath unfamiliar sheets. For a long moment, he lay there, eyes still closed, drifting in that hazy space between dreaming and wakefulness. The air smelled faintly of Muggle wine and strange perfume, the sheets too soft to be his own. Something was off.
His eyes snapped open.
Not my bed.
Sunlight streamed through half-closed curtains, too bright, stabbing at his skull. Harry groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face as he tried to piece together the night before. The hidden bar in Muggle London. The drinks. The woman—blonde, sharp-tongued, laughing against his mouth. Fuck, what was her name?
Small flat. Clothes everywhere. A desk piled high with books and scripts. He sat up too fast and immediately regretted it. The world tilted. His stomach lurched. His body protested.
"Ugh—"
He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing hard. Then, very slowly, he forced himself to think.
His eyes landed on something beside him.
A few crumpled banknotes.
Harry stared. Then stared harder.
The realization hit like a Bludger to the face.
"Oh, fuck me."
A laugh escaped him, short and sharp. He ran a hand over his face, shaking his head.
Harry bloody Potter, the Youngest Head Auror in the Ministry's history, the Chosen One, had just been paid for sex. By a Muggle.
Harry groaned and flopped back onto the pillow, scrubbing his hands down his face. "Merlin’s beard," he muttered to the ceiling.
This was fine. Totally fine. He’d just—just leave. Do the walk of shame like a normal adult and never think about this again. Right.
Then his gaze drifted up to a wand sitting on top of the bookshelf, covered in dust. It looked so familiar, but he couldn’t remember where he had seen it.
A strange, uneasy feeling crept up his spine. His instincts, the same ones that had kept him alive through many missions, prickled at the edges of his mind.
This wasn’t a Muggle’s flat.
Who the hell had he just slept with?
Draco shoved open the door to her flat, juggling a paper bag of groceries in one arm and muttering curses under her breath.
"Open casting call, my arse," she hissed, kicking the door shut behind her. "They already knew who had the bloody role."
She had known, of course. Everyone had. The main part had been promised to the director’s mistress before auditions had even started. The whole casting process was just a formality, a thinly veiled attempt at pretending they weren’t handing out roles like party favors.
Still. It stung.
She dumped the groceries onto the counter, shoving her sunglasses onto her head. Her temples throbbed—half from the cheap wine last night, half from the sheer fucking audacity of this world.
"But you were so good," she mimicked in a nasal voice, rolling her eyes. "We’d love to have you in a smaller part.’ Smaller part, my arse. The only way the audience can see me is to pause the film."
Draco shoved the bedroom door open, rain dripping onto the floorboards. She already planned to strip out of her wet clothes and crawl under a blanket. Maybe drink some of that overpriced red wine she’d bought last week. Maybe—
She stepped into her bedroom and stopped dead.
Harry Potter was sitting on her bed.
Shirtless. Hair was a mess. And—
—counting the money she’d left for him.
Draco stared. Her soul left her body. Was she dreaming? Surely not. This was too wild even for a fever dream.
Harry stared back. The color drained from his face so fast she thought he might actually pass out.
Thunder rumbled outside. The rain pounded harder against the window.
Finally, he croaked, "Malfoy?"
Her heart lunged against her ribs—but years of pureblood raising kicked in, smoothed out her expression before he could see the absolute horror screaming in her mind.
She exhaled, tilted her chin up, and said, breezily—
"You can keep it all, Potter."
Harry blinked. "What? No—"
"Is it too much?" Draco interrupted, set her bag down. "Just keep it, honestly." She gestured vaguely at the banknotes in his hands. "I insist."
"What—no—Malfoy—" Harry looked between her and the money. "You paid me."
Draco arched a brow. "Obviously."
"Obviously? I—what is happening right now?"
Draco sighed dramatically, peeling off her wet coat. "Look, Potter, if you’re going to be picky about the amount, we can negotiate next time—"
"Next time?!"
He sounded so appalled that Draco couldn’t help it—her mouth twitched.
It was completely the wrong moment, but she really wanted to laugh. Fucking hell. Not just at him—at herself. At the absolute joke that was her miserable life.
She had built this life carefully, brick by brick, shutting every door behind her. She had learned to disappear, to live among Muggles, to let her old name fade into something distant.
And then Potter appeared—the fate had finally caught up. No matter how far she ran, her past always found her.
She really needed a drink.
Ron was howling.
Clutching his stomach, doubled over in his chair, nearly choking on his own amusement.
"She paid you?!" he gasped, slamming a fist against the desk. "Oh—oh my bloody—Harry—"
"Ron," Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. "Please, breathe."
Ron ignored her, too busy fighting for air. "You—the great Harry Potter, Head Auror, Chosen One—got paid for a one-night stand?!" He tilted his head back, "That’s it—that’s the best thing I’ve ever heard—"
Neville couldn’t decide if he was horrified or impressed, let out a stunned breath. "You got paid? Like—like she actually—?"
Harry sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "That’s not even the worst part."
Ron, wiping at his teary eyes, gasped, "What—what could be worse than that?"
"When she came back," Harry said, failed to keep his voice flat, "she saw me counting it."
Hermione—tried. Really tried. She had her arms crossed, lips pressed together, fighting desperately to keep her composure.
But then she made a sound—one of those little, accidental snorts.
And that was it.
Her face crumpled. Her whole body shook. And then—she started laughing.
"I hate you all," Harry muttered. "then she told me to keep it all!" Harry said, throwing up his hands.
Ron shrieked. "OH MERLIN, MATE, YOU TOOK THE MONEY?"
"What was I supposed to do? I was panicked!" Harry groaned.
"Okay, okay, phew," Hermione said, fanning herself as she tried to regain control. "But—Harry. Did she recognize you?"
Harry hesitated. "Er—"He exhaled sharply. "She knew who I was."
Ron actually rolled off his chair. "Oh my fucking—Harry, you absolute legend. Wait until my team hears this."
"NO!" Harry shot up so fast his chair nearly toppled over. "NO ONE HEARS ABOUT THIS—"
Hermione, still breathless, wiped at her eyes. "Okay," she gasped, "but—who was this diva?"
Silence.
"Wait." Neville blinked. "Did we know her?"
Harry’s stomach sank.
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. "Harry," she said slowly, "who was it?"
"No one important," Harry blurted.
"HARRY," Ron shouted, eyes blazing. "WHO WAS SHE?!"
Harry bolted.
"Harry James Potter."
"GET BACK HERE!"
Harry couldn’t sleep.
He had tried. He had shut his eyes, turned over, buried his face into the pillow—tried to will away the memory of Draco Malfoy’s face when she realized who he is.
It didn’t work.
He groaned, flipping onto his back, staring at the ceiling. His house was quiet, dark except for the dim glow of streetlights seeping through the curtains.
Malfoy lived like a Muggle.
The thought wouldn’t leave him. The Draco Malfoy he had known—the one with the finest robes, a sneer, a name that could open doors—was gone. This Malfoy had a dusty old wand, which was clearly not in use for a long time, a phone, and a flat barely big enough to turn around in.
She probably thought he was some random Muggle she had dragged home—some desperate, nameless bloke who’d actually accepted her money.
Harry groaned, dragging a hand over his face. Fucking hell.
The next morning, he walked into the Auror Office running on three hours of sleep and too much caffeine. His mind was still a mess—split between the absolute disaster of last night and the fact that Draco Malfoy was apparently living like a Muggle.
Which was why, instead of working, he found himself standing in Ron’s office, arms crossed.
"You got any Muggle-born Aurors you can trust?"
Ron looked up from his paperwork, eyes narrowing. "That’s a weird way to start a conversation."
Harry exhaled through his nose. "Just answer the question."
Ron leaned back in his chair, twirling a quill between his fingers. "Why?"
Harry gave him a flat look. "Because I asked."
Ron snorted. "Yeah, see, that doesn’t really work on me." He tilted his head, studied Harry carefully. "You’re up to something."
"I’m not."
"You are."
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay, Ron—I just need someone who knows their way around Muggle life. I’m working on this case."
Ron leaned back in his chair, eyeing him. "Yeah, alright. Talk to Clarke. His parents are Muggle police, so he grew up around all that. Knows their laws, how things work, all of it."
Perfect. Harry nodded. "Good. Thanks, mate." He turned to leave.
"Uh-huh." Ron folded his arms, watching him like a kneazle watching a mouse. "Just saying, if you are up to something, I’ll find out real quick."
Harry grimaced and walked out.