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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.

Chapter Text

Danny Clarke was nervous as hell.

He had been a Junior Auror for less than a year, still fresh enough that people called him “the rookie” and made him fetch the tea. And now—somehow—he had been summoned by Harry Potter himself.

The Head Auror. The youngest in history. The man who could make the hardest criminals crack with just a look.

Danny swallowed hard as he stepped into Potter’s office. He had been warned about the man’s temper—how he could go from calm to furious in a blink, how he hated incompetence, how he didn’t have time for hesitation.

And yet, when Head Auror Potter finally looked up from his paperwork, all he said was—

"Clarke, sit."

Danny sat so fast he nearly missed the chair.

He didn’t even have the guts to look Potter in the face.

This was him. The Savior who had killed the Dark Lord at seventeen. The hero half the wizarding world still whispered about, he was some kind of mythical figure instead of a real, breathing person sitting behind a desk.

Danny kept his eyes firmly on the edge of the desk. His palms were sweating.

"So," Potter said, voice even. "You grew up around Muggle police?"

Danny nodded quickly. "Y-yes, sir. Both my parents were officers."

"Good," Potter said. "That’s what I need."

Danny swallowed. He should say something else, something more intelligent, but his brain had shut down.

Potter let out a breath. "Relax, Clarke. I’m not going to hex you."

Danny forced himself to nod again.

He took the assignment like his life depended on it. The last thing he wanted was to be the junior who screwed up a direct order from Head Auror.

But it wasn’t easy. Draco Malfoy had practically vanished from the wizarding world after the war, and there wasn’t much left to find. But Danny had been raised by Muggle cops—he knew how to track people down. He worked the way his parents had taught him: start small, follow the patterns, don’t give up when the trail goes cold.

Eventually, the pieces started falling into place.

She lived in a cramped little flat in London, just far enough outside the city center to be forgotten, the kind of place where no one asked questions and no one cared who you were. Ministry records showed her wand permit had expired years ago, and she’d never bothered to renew it. In fact, there wasn’t a single traceable bit of magical activity around her at all. Instead, she scraped by as a Muggle actress—though even then, her name rarely appeared on any news. 

Danny had expected—what, exactly? Some shadowy figure moving gold through hidden vaults? A name whispered in dark corners? Certainly not this. Not a pale slip of a woman in a cramped London flat, she lived as a forgettable actress in Muggle movies. No wand. No ties to the world she’d been born into. It—it was sad. All he found was someone who had been too broken by a war. For a moment, Danny almost felt cheated, like he’d been chasing ghosts, but he thought that maybe the Head Auror hadn’t been paranoid for nothing—that Potter must’ve seen something suspect in Malfoy.

When Danny handed over the file, Potter glanced at it before asking, "You sure this is everything?"

"Yes, sir." Danny cleared his throat. "She’s—she’s really living like a Muggle. Completely. It’s like she doesn’t want to be found."

Potter stared at the file for a long moment, jaw tight.

Danny didn’t dare say more. Then Potter exhaled, flipped the file shut.

"Good work, Clarke."

Danny nearly sagged in relief.

"One more thing," he said, tapping the file. "I need a way to watch all the films she’s been in."

Danny blinked. "All of them?"

"Every scene she’s in," Potter clarified.

Danny swallowed. Right. Of course.

Yet here he was, sitting in the Head Auror’s office, hunched over a Muggle laptop, the machine that had cost him endless paperwork and Ministry approvals just to be allowed past the wards, watching low-budget films while Harry bloody Potter sat next to him, arms crossed, watching intensely.

Danny cleared his throat. "Alright, Sir, so this one’s called London Shadows. Crime thriller. She’s only in, like, two scenes."

Danny clicked play. The film opened with dramatic music and a bloke running through an alley. Then—a dimly lit pub, full of suspicious-looking extras.

Danny pointed. "There—she’s the bartender. The one wiping the glass."

Potter leaned in. "That’s her?"

"Yes. Wait for it."

Draco—well, her character—turned to the camera and delivered her one line in a tired, unimpressed voice. “Another whiskey? Haven’t you had enough?”

Then the camera immediately cut away to the main actors.

Potter stared at the screen. "That’s it?"

Danny shrugged. "It was a small role."

Potter exhaled sharply. "Next one."

Danny sighed and clicked on the next file. "Dark Streets. A bit more action in this one. She plays a rich socialite who gets kidnapped in the first ten minutes."

They watched as Draco appeared in a stunning red dress, sipping champagne at a party. Five minutes later, she was dramatically shoved into a car by masked men.

"She screams really convincing, Sir" Danny noted.

Potter shot him a look.

Danny cleared his throat. "Er—right. Next one?"

By the time they got through four films, Danny was exhausted.

Harry, on the other hand, looked even more focused.

"Alright," Danny muttered, clicking on the next film. "High Society. Romantic drama. And let me guess—"

"She’s rich," Potter finished flatly.

"Yep. Very rich." Danny pointed at the screen as the film started. "Okay, here’s the first party scene—look at all that champagne—and there she is. By the piano."

Harry leaned in. "She’s not even facing the camera. Is she going to speak?"

Danny checked the notes he’d scribbled down. "Ehh… no."

Harry stared at the screen as Draco—wearing an elegant silk gown—sipped wine and nodded thoughtfully while the main actors had an emotional conversation in the foreground. 

Potter waved a hand. "Next one."

Danny clicked. "The Diamond Affair. Crime thriller. She plays a rich woman who—"

"Attends a party?"

"Yep. And later she shops for expensive jewelry in a fancy boutique while the main characters plot a heist in the background."

Potter let out a slow breath. "Merlin’s beard."

Another ballroom. More chandeliers. More rich people in expensive clothes, dramatically sipping champagne. The main actress was having a heartfelt conversation about forbidden love.

And then—

Draco Malfoy.

She was standing just behind the main actress, draped in some ridiculous, glittering gown, her hair swept up like a goddess. And for no reason—no reason at all—she turned to the camera, locked eyes with the audience, and smiled. She looked expensive. Sophisticated. She looked like a Malfoy, honestly.

Potter froze.

Danny did not miss the way the man’s mouth twitched—just slightly—into a smile. His stomach screamed at him to stay silent. Do not say one more word. Do not get yourself killed today.

Potter blinked, visibly startled, then cleared his throat. "Replay it."

Danny almost let his head fall back with a groan. I hate my job.

He just clicked back and let it play again.

He absolutely did not think about how the Head Auror leaned in just a little closer this time.

"So, uh… sir." Danny cleared his throat. "Are we suspecting Malfoy of something here? Like, I dunno—organized crime? Money laundering? Terrorism?"

Potter, who had been staring very intently at the screen, stiffened, he hadn’t expected the question. He scowled and turned back to the laptop. "Just do what I asked, Clarke. I’ll explain later."

Danny nodded slowly. "Right. Of course. I'm not questioning your methods at all, sir."

Internally, he was already planning how fast he could report this to his mentor Auror Weasley.

The rain poured relentlessly, cold and punishing, drenching Draco to the bone as she stumbled down the street. Her heels clacked unevenly against the pavement, and her breath was hitching between sharp, angry sobs. She wasn’t even sure if she was crying from frustration, humiliation, or the weight of exhaustion, which was pressing down on her ribs.

She should be happy. Should be. This role—small, but it was the biggest she’d ever offered, she was finally noticed by someone. It was an actual character, not just some nameless party guest or an elegantly dressed blur in the background. But the price of it—the way the director’s hand had lingered on her waist, the way his filthy breath had curled against her ear as he implied exactly how she could secure such a big opportunity.

Draco squeezed her eyes shut. Her stomach rolled, and she swallowed back the urge to throw up rising in her throat.

When she finally reached her flat, shivering, soaked, and furious, she nearly walked straight into the figure standing by her door.

Harry Potter.

Of course.

Of course the universe hated her.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, arms crossed, watching as she swayed slightly on her feet.

Draco let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "What, Potter? You here to make my life worse?"

She pushed past him before he could say something, fumbling with the lock, her fingers numb and clumsy. The door finally swung open, and she staggered inside, heading straight for the bathroom.

She didn’t make it to the toilet before she dropped to her knees and threw up.

It was awful. Humiliating. Her whole body heaved, and her head pounded so viciously she thought she might actually die right there, face-first in her own bloody bathroom.

Harry pulled her hair back, holding it away from her face as she gasped and retched again.

"Merlin," he muttered. "What the hell did you drink?"

Draco let out something between a laugh and a sob. Her wet clothes clung to her skin, making her shiver harder.

"Finally got a part. Biggest one yet. But I ruined it."

Harry exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "Right. And you decided the best way to celebrate was to drink yourself into a puddle and walk home in the rain?"

Draco hiccupped. "Better than sleeping with the director."

Harry froze.

Draco sniffed, rubbing at her eyes with clumsy fingers. "Bastard thinks he owns me just ’cause he gave me lines this time." Her voice cracked. "They’ll never let me be more than a pretty decoration in the background." She hiccupped again, curling in on herself. "I hate it, Potter. I hate it so much."

Draco let herself be pulled up, too tired to argue. He guided her into her bedroom, muttered another spell that swapped her rain-soaked dress for an oversized sleep shirt.

"Potter," she slurred, blinking sluggishly at him. "You undressed me."

A pause. "Magic undressed you."

"Mmm. No—No magic. I hate magic." Her eyes fluttered shut as she was eased onto the mattress, a pillow tucked beneath her head.

Draco’s fingers curled into the front of his sleeve. "Stay," she mumbled. Harry hesitated. He should tell her no. Should step back, let her sleep this off, let them both wake up tomorrow and pretend this never happened.

But he let out a quiet sigh, then took off his shoes and slid in beside her.

Draco didn’t move, just let out a slow, unsteady breath as he settled next to her. Close, but not touching. The space between them felt fragile, like a thread stretched too thin. The rain kept falling outside, a steady, endless rhythm against the window.

After a while, her breathing evened out.

Harry didn’t move. He stared at the ceiling, listened to the rain. Her breath was slow and light, her face softer than he had remembered. The usual sharpness, the fire in her eyes, the ever-present bite of her words—gone.

They weren’t friends. They barely even knew each other anymore.

He swallowed, his gaze drifting to the strands of pale hair clinging to her cheek.

Danny had told him everything about her life in the Muggle world. The struggle, the endless rejections, she played nameless, faceless roles—a background piece in other people’s stories.

Something twisting deep inside him. Hadn’t he felt the same thing?

He had made it. He had won. The Boy Who Lived Twice. He had done everything he was supposed to.

And yet.

At what cost?

A ruined childhood. A lifetime of running. Buried friends, a war-torn world, and a name that didn’t even feel like his anymore. Every time he closed his eyes, he still saw fire. Screams. He still heard the crack of spells and smelled the damp, blood-soaked earth beneath his feet. And in his dreams, he still ran through forests, through battlefields, through corridors filled with green light.

The nightmares had stopped scaring him years ago. Now, they were just part of him.

Maybe they weren’t so different, after all.

Harry exhaled, long and slow. Draco stirred slightly, pressing closer to him in her sleep. He could feel the weight of her against him, the warmth of her breath against his shoulder. It gonna be a another long night.

Chapter Text

Draco woke to the sound of rain tapping against the window.

It was the window that had made her take this flat in the first place. Too expensive for what it was, really, the glass stretched wide, swallowed half the wall, enough for her to wedge a secondhand couch beneath it. From there, the whole city unfolded like a film reel. She’d watch people hurry past, shoulders hunched against the drizzle: office workers rushing home with takeaway bags, teenagers laughing too loudly, lovers pausing mid-step to steal a kiss beneath a flickering traffic light. On rainy nights, the glass blurred with reflections, the amber glow of streetlamps stretching into ribbons, neon signs blinking in and out of focus like restless heartbeats. She watched strangers stumble and get back up. She saw tons of dreams were burned out right there on the pavement. The longer she watched, the more it struck her: her own story wasn’t rare at all. That ache of lost things, of trying to rebuild, of wanting to be someone else, was just another thread in the crowded tapestry outside the window. 

It had been raining all week, the sound filled the room—soft, steady, almost like company. 

Her bed was warm. Too warm for a rainy day.

She shifted slightly, oh.

Heat, solid and steady body against her back. A slow, even breath near her ear. The weight of an arm resting loosely over her waist.

Draco tensed as she felt him shift behind her. Her eyes snapped open.

Carefully, she tilted her head, just enough to glance over her shoulder. Potter again, so all the thing she remembered from last night was not a dream, though.

"Go back to sleep, Malfoy," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. "You kept me up too late."

She should say something sharp, something cutting—but instead, she just lay there, listening to the rain. The weight of him against her was so warm, so steady. She had spent so long running, so long alone, and now there was this.

Safety felt dangerous in its own way.

But she let herself sink into it anyway, just for a little longer.

"You stayed," she whispered, closing her eyes again.

When her eyes snapped open again. The rain was softer now, just a drizzle tapping against the window. It's noon already.

Potter shifted behind her, stretching with a tired groan.

She turned her head slightly. "I owed you," she muttered, her voice rough from sleep. "How much?"

"We didn't do anything last night," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. He hesitated, glanced at her. "And for the record—I’m not a sex worker. I’m an Auror. They said I'm the Youngest Head Auror in history."

Draco blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh. "Another title? Why do they love giving you so many titles?"

"Not my fault, I’m good at things," he muttered.

Draco hummed, stretching lazily, a smirk curling at the edges of her lips. "Then it must be more expensive, Mr. Head Auror."

He groaned, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I should’ve let you sleep in your wet clothes."

"Alright, Mr Head Auror, why are you really here?"

Harry sat up properly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the bills. "To give this back."

Draco snorted. "Absolutely not."

"What—"

"No," she repeated, pushing his hand away as she slid off the bed. "You earned it."

"I really didn’t," he muttered, exasperated.

Draco ignored him, yawning as she tied her hair up. "I’m starving. I was going to cook something, but I’m out of food. Need to run to the shop."

Harry frowned, standing up too. "I’ll go with you."

"Suit yourself," she said, already reaching for her coat.

"And I’ll pay."

Draco turned to squint at him. "You really don't know how to give up, do you?"

Draco scowled at a block of cheese. "This is absurd. Five quid for this? I could make it myself."

Harry snorted. "Never thought I’d live long enough to hear you complain about something being too expensive."

"I have to budget, Potter," she said, tossing the cheese back onto the shelf. "Unlike some people, I don’t have the Ministry paying for my three meals a day."

Harry laughed, shaking his head. "Just take whatever you need. I’m paying."

Draco hesitated for a second, then, with an exaggerated sigh, grabbed the cheese back and dropped it in the basket. "Fine. If you’re so insistent." She wandered further down the aisle, scanning the shelves. "I was thinking spaghetti and meatballs?

Harry smirked. "You enjoy meatballs a lot, don’t you?"

She shot him a glare. "Potter—"

"Big ones. I guess"

Draco shoved a pack of ground beef into his chest. "Shut up and carry this."

Harry just grinned.

Draco’s eyes lingered on the wine rack, considering.

Harry noticed and shrugged. "I’ve got an entire stash in the dungeons. Junior Aurors keep sending me wine at Christmas."

Without thinking, she muttered, "Next time, bring the best one."

Harry raised an eyebrow, "Next time?"

Draco blinked, horrified. "I mean— you’re never coming here again. I’m avoiding magic."

Harry couldn't help but giggle. "You really do remind me of my aunt."

Harry plucked a box of condoms off the shelf, examining it with great interest. "What flavor do you like?"

Draco barely had time to process the question before she heard someone snicker nearby. Her face went up in flames.

"Potter—" she hissed.

"Strawberry? Mint? Oh, chocolate? "

"Put. That. Back."

"What? I thought you liked the Muggle way. No magic. So… strawberry?"

Draco’s face burned. "Potter—"

He looked at her expectantly, holding up the box.

She scowled, refusing to meet his eyes. "…Fine."

Harry smirked and tossed it into the basket, looking so smug. "Knew it."

Draco snatched the basket from him and stomped ahead. "I hate you."

"Sure you do," Harry called after her, grinning.

Draco walked up to the checkout counter, setting their groceries down with practiced ease. Harry lingered behind, watching as she shifted in her oversized sweater, her hair slightly damp from the rain. Harry’s mind flickered back to the scenes he’d watched again and again earlier—the way she blended into the background of some fancy party, dressed in elegant gowns, always just out of focus. And now here she was, counting discount coupons at a Muggle grocery store.

Harry had never seen her like this.

Before she could start counting out the vouchers, Harry stepped forward and handed the cashier his cash. "I’ve got this."

Draco turned, startled. "Potter—" She stared at him for a long second, then huffed, stuffing the vouchers back into her bag. "Annoying."

Harry just smiled.

As they finally stepped out of the store, the rain poured down in heavy sheets, drumming against the pavement, and the air smelled like wet stone. Harry carried the bags with ease, while Draco walked beside him, holding up an umbrella barely big enough for the both of them.

"Tilt it this way," Harry muttered as a drop of rain slid down his neck.

"Then my shoulder gets wet," Draco shot back, adjusting it only slightly in her favor.

Harry huffed, shifting the bags. "Unbelievable. You’d let me drown."

"You know," Harry said, shifting the bags in his arms, "you could just let me cast a charm, or just apparate us home."

Draco scoffed. "No magic, remember?"

"Right, right." A raindrop slid down Harry’s neck, and he shivered. "Then at least hold it properly—I'm getting soaked over here."

"Sounds like a you problem, big guy," she said smugly, making absolutely no effort to adjust it.

Harry glanced at her. She was laughing like a child, the glow of the streetlights catching in her pale hair, her sweater hanging loose on her frame, her nose pink from the cold.

He realized he didn’t mind the rain so much.

Draco hadn’t cooked for someone else in a long time.

She moved through the tiny kitchen, setting ingredients on the counter, heating the pan, reaching for the knife. But there was an unfamiliar weight to the moment—awareness creeping in, settling beneath her skin. It was one thing to cook for herself, to go through the motions simply because she had to eat. But this? This felt different.

In the other room, she could hear the muffled rush of water as Harry took a shower. The knife moved rhythmically under her hand, the scent of garlic and herbs filling the air.

Draco sniffed, blinking rapidly as her eyes burned. Bloody onions. She turned her face away, trying to will the sting away, but it was useless—tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, spilling down her cheeks before she could stop them.

Draco furiously wiped at her eyes, but the stupid onions weren’t letting up. Her vision blurred, her nose stung, and no matter how much she sniffed, the burning wouldn’t stop.

Which was exactly when Harry walked in.

Perfect. Now she was crying in front of him.

Fresh from the shower, hair still damp and sticking up in every direction, towel slung over his shoulder. His eyes widened. "Are you—are you crying?"

Draco cursed under her breath and turned away. "It’s the onions," she snapped, voice stuffy. "Don’t make a thing of it, Potter."

Harry didn’t say anything at first. She could feel him watching her, which somehow made it worse. She focused on the pan, stirring aggressively as if that would somehow erase the last few seconds.

Then, he tried to lighten up the air—"Okay, so Mr. Onion, you are under arrest."

Draco let out a watery laugh, despite herself. "Shut up and set the table."

Harry took another bite and let out an exaggerated hum of satisfaction. "Mmm—this is divine."

Draco rolled her eyes as she twirled her own fork through the pasta. "Slow down, you’ll choke."

"Worth it," Harry mumbled around another mouthful, already reaching for more. "Didn’t know you could cook like this, Malfoy."

Draco huffed, but there was a flicker of something pleased in her expression. "I had to learn. Turns out house-elves don’t come with the flat."

Harry smirked. "Tragic."

Draco pointed her fork at him. "Keep stuffing your face like that and I’ll make sure this is the last meal you ever get from me."

Harry just grinned and took another bite.

Harry set his fork down, exhaling as he leaned back in his chair. "Alright," he said, voice quieter now. "Why here, Malfoy? Why live like this?"

Draco twirled her fork through the remnants of her pasta, not looking at him. "Like what?"

"Like... you're trying to disappear."

She scoffed. "Maybe I am."

Harry didn’t laugh this time. He studied her, waiting. The rain was still tapping softly against the window, filling the silence between them.

Draco finally sighed. "I just—” She gestured vaguely around her flat. "I like it here. No expectations, no one waiting for me to fail. No 'Malfoy heir' nonsense. Just me, just... normal."

"But, you hate normal," Harry said, tilting his head. "I remember you in school—prancing around, showing off—"

"Maybe I don't want to be that person anymore," Draco cut in, sharper than she meant.

Harry went quiet. They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the past pressing between them.

Harry leaned forward, voice softer. "Don’t you miss the magic world?"

Draco didn’t answer. She just picked up their empty plates and stood, carrying them to the sink without a word.

Harry watched her go, but didn’t push. He got up and stepped beside her, rolling up his sleeves. "Let me."

He took the plate from her hands and started washing.

They stood in silence, the sound of running water and rain filling the space between them. Without a word, Draco tipped onto her toes and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

Harry barely had a second to react before Draco’s fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, slow but certain, neither of them wanted to acknowledge what was happening.

His hands found her waist, warm against the fabric of her shirt, and when she pressed against him, he felt her shiver.

They moved without thinking, without speaking. Shirts slipped off, buttons fumbled undone. The rain kept falling, steady against the window, as they lost themselves in each other.