Archive of Our Own

Prologue

Teddy Lupin was only the beginning.

After the Battle, bodies needed to be identified, buried, and mourned. Bones regrown and curse wounds healed. The number of injured far outstripped the capacity of St. Mungo’s. Even the International Confederation of Wizards’ magical catastrophe relief corps was overwhelmed. The work seemed to stretch without end, and when the needs of right now were so great, there was hardly time to consider what might come. Or whether an oozing gash that had sliced across a torso or cheek came from fist or teeth or fingernails. If the attacker had been wix or werewolf.

It was only months and years later, when the dead had all been buried and the worst of the wounds had scarred over, that some wix noticed a penchant for raw meat, or an uncanny sense of smell. Those who had survived the Second War thirsted to live, and they proved prolific in their efforts to repopulate the wizarding world. In the early years of the post-war baby boom, Healers and Mediwix took notice of a few whose keen eyes locked on the picture window looking into the nursery long minutes before their parents appeared.

Teddy may have been the only known wizard sired by a werewolf, but by his third year at Hogwarts, he was one of many with lycanthrope blood running through his veins.

Rare venison and rabbit became staples in the Great Hall. Acquisitors, as wix with were-traits became known, with their sharp instincts and wider field of view, were coveted as seekers and voraciously recruited by every House team. And each year on the first of September, Platform 9 ¾ was crowded with sticker-covered trunks that proudly declared their owners #wolfy and members of Generation Were.

March 30, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 213

Harry banged both fists against the ivy-covered entrance to Tonks House. Heavy footfalls echoed from somewhere inside, getting louder as they moved steadily closer, but Harry didn’t let up.

“I mean it, Malfoy. Let me the fuck in or I’ll–”

When the door swung open, Harry caught himself on the frame before he pitched forward into the entrance way.

Straightening, he averted his eyes from Malfoy’s gaze, focusing instead on his slightly rumpled appearance. At least, rumpled by Malfoy standards. His suit was perfectly pressed and spotless as usual, and his black boots gleamed in the afternoon sun, but even through the Bubble-Head Charm, Harry could see that his hair was lank and the thin skin beneath his eyes was puffy and gently bruised.

“Or you’ll what, Potter?” Malfoy asked, crossing his arms to spread his body wider across the doorway, one mocking eyebrow raised in challenge. Harry’s own eyebrow twitched reflexively, wanting to mirror the familiar gesture, but he willed his face to keep still. “Blast down Andromeda’s door?”

Harry breathed deeply through his nose, ignoring the way Malfoy’s eyebrow hitched even higher. He released the breath in a controlled, steady stream of air.

“If it comes to that.”

Malfoy sighed, and all at once Harry noticed how every inch of him radiated exhaustion. An unwelcome flush of shame crawled up Harry’s neck. Draco stepped onto the doorstep, closing the door behind him but leaving the Bubble-Head Charm in place.

“Come off it, Potter. We both know you won’t do that. What’s more, you are fully aware that you can’t come in, and that Teddy can’t come out. Most importantly, I know you know why.” Draco’s eyes closed briefly as he rubbed the back of his neck, and Harry’s stomach clenched at the uncharacteristic show of weariness. But when he met Harry's eyes again there was steel in his expression. “It isn’t safe.”

Harry deflated, and as he accepted defeat, the panicked energy of moments earlier drained from him like an emptying balloon. He hadn’t planned to show up at Andy’s house today. He’d received her owls, and Teddy’s. Not to mention Malfoy’s emphatic addendums to both, warning him off. He’d promised them he wouldn’t come. Hell, he’d promised himself he would stay away. But like a Niffler chasing after a Galleon, he couldn’t let go of the nagging worry that had lodged in his chest and robbed him of sleep for the last three nights.

Panic reared up again and he made one last desperate bid.

“I get it, Malfoy. I do. But I don’t have any symptoms, and I’ll put up the charm–”

Malfoy’s face pinched before he spit out, “That’s not good enough, Potter. Not with Teddy this sick.”

A strangled growl of frustration escaped Harry’s throat. “Five minutes, Malfoy. Just to see him with my own eyes. Andy would–”

“Andromeda would, nothing,” Malfoy said sharply.

Harry was familiar with that tone, and he knew he was reaching the limit of Malfoy’s patience.

But then Draco’s face softened unexpectedly as he looked Harry up and down, seeming to register his unwashed hair and wrinkled clothing. When he spoke again, he sounded almost sympathetic. “She’s terrified, Harry.”

Harry squeezed his eyes against an almost overwhelming rush of emotion.

“I know,” he said, his voice breaking in the middle. He cleared his throat, giving himself a shake.

“I know,” Harry repeated, stronger this time. “I’ll go. Just take care of him, please. Tell him– Tell him I was here.”

Malfoy paused for a long moment, his eyes locked on Harry’s before he nodded once and slipped back through the door.

March 13, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 16

A thin haze of smoke curled above the crowd gathered before the Fountain of Remembrance.

The cameras hadn’t stopped shuttering since Kingsley stepped onto the dais, and the steady click click click together with the spill of water into the base of the fountain were the only interruptions to the taut silence that filled the Atrium.

From his place on stage, Harry’s eyes drifted over the fountain’s familiar images. In the center, a large, glinting gold orb hovered nearly twenty feet off the ground. Water flowed up and over the sphere before trickling into a shallow basin that floated a few feet below, water continuously spilling from the sides to bathe the dozen figures circling the fountain base.

From where he stood, Harry could see the witch and wizard, giant and goblin, werewolf and house-elf. Each statue bowed toward the centre, united in humility, responsibility. Equality.

He reluctantly pulled his gaze away, taking a steadying breath as the solemnity of the moment settled around him.

Next to him, his identical dress uniform clean and neatly pressed, Ron shifted; from the corner of his eye Harry caught the firm set of his jaw, grim determination settling into the shadows of his face. Further down the dais, on Kingsley’s other side, Hermione’s riotous curls framed a matching expression, the deep plum of her Chief Witch robes serious and austere under the Atrium lights.

As he settled behind the podium, Kingsley nodded once to Earl, the WWN broadcaster situated a few feet from the dais. He was a fixture at Ministry press conferences, a stocky, stoic Scot with a full head of auburn hair who took his duty as a public broadcaster to heart. Earl muttered an incantation under his breath before tapping his wand against the transmitter set up on a small table beside him. The unwieldy-looking machine wobbled and groaned, emitting a soft puff of smoke before Earl looked up at Kingsley with an answering nod.

Kingsley cast a Sonorus with practiced ease and his booming voice filled the Atrium.

“My fellow members of magical Great Britain, I come before you today with information about a new threat facing our community. One that we will need to confront with fortitude and flexibility, but above all, with unity. We will be tested, and the only way we can defeat this newest adversary is together.”

The photographers quickened their pace. Click click click click click.

Kingsley’s eyes scanned the crowd. He looked sombre but assured, although Harry could detect some tension in the set of his shoulders.

“As many of you are aware, in recent weeks a novel virus has been identified among certain members of the magical public. The virus, now known as the Versipellis virus, is respiratory in nature. However, in rare cases it can result in permanent damage to the magical core. While we continue to gather data about the mechanism of transmission, it is believed the virus can be transmitted through respiratory droplets, including through contact with contaminated surfaces. To date, twenty-two confirmed cases have been identified. Based on the available information, it appears that only Werewolves and Acquisitors are susceptible to infection.”

Click click click click click click click.

Harry tightened his fists. Less than a week had passed since St. Mungo’s infectious disease team had shared demographic information about the infected, but hearing it again felt like a fresh blow. An image of Teddy swam before his eyes. Then Bill. Victoire. Dominique. Louis.

He widened his stance and forced his attention back on Kingsley, whose grip tightened on the podium as he barrelled on.

“Although every additional piece of information about the Versipellis virus brings us one step closer to finding its cure, this news is troubling. Our Were community has grown exponentially since the Second War, and our Acquisitor population is even larger and more varied, with most of its members under 40 years of age. While most acquisitors are well aware of their status, it is feared that there exists a small but significant number who have never presented were-traits and so remain ignorant of their status and therefore their susceptibility. This will make the planning and execution of appropriate precautions all the more difficult. To minimize the risk of transmission, effective immediately, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is closed until further notice.”

The strained hush of the audience finally gave way, a loud murmur rippling through the Atrium.

“With the exception of apothecaries and grocers, all businesses in the wizarding districts of London and Hogsmeade are ordered to cease operations effective by close of business today. All Ministry personnel not directly involved in national security or public safety are ordered to stay home until further notice.”

By this point, Kingsley was practically shouting, the shrieks and exclamations of the crowd drowning out his voice even over the Sonorous.

“St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries will remain open for serious medical needs only, including any suspected infection of the Versipellis virus. All members of the magical community are encouraged to stay home and to minimize contact with others to reduce the risk of spread.

“Thank you for your patience and cooperation in the coming days and weeks ahead. We will continue to brief you on the virus and additional public health measures as information becomes available. Above all, our priority is the health and safety of the magical public. May peace and safety be with us all.”

Kingsley’s eyes cut sharply to Earl, who appeared wide-eyed and dazed as he fumbled for his wand, tapping it once to the transmitter, before Kingsley walked off the stage.

March 15, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 28

“I never thought I’d be so miserable to have the house quiet,” Hermione sighed.

On any other day, the soft sound would have been swallowed by the clatter of silverware or scrape of a kitchen chair, or by one of Hugo and Rose’s spirited games of ‘dragon rider’ or ‘catch the crup.’ But today, it was loud in the empty kitchen of the noiseless Granger-Weasley cottage, surrounded by an equally desolate Ottery St. Catchpole.

Ron settled a hand over her free one, the other clutched around a cooling cup of tea. He squeezed gently before brushing his fingers across the high point of her cheek. Tucking a stray curl behind her ear, he lifted his own cup laced with Firewhiskey to his lips.

Harry blinked down at the smooth, honeyed wood of Hermione and Ron’s kitchen table, tamping down a rush of feeling. This open affection between his best friends was nothing new. In fact, Ron was the target of his brothers’ good-natured teasing as the unexpected but uncontested winner of Most Romantic Weasley, a title Ron bore with good humour and more than a little honour.

In the early years after the war, Harry had spent longer than he cared to admit sorting through a strange mixture of pride and embarrassment and envy at the man Ron had slowly grown into. It had morphed into admiration long ago, but today it seemed to open up a different kind of ache.

Harry felt it sharp and pulsing in the centre of his chest. Not just for himself, but for Ron and Hermione, for everyone he loved. For how much they all stood to lose now, and just when – somewhere along the way – they’d finally felt safe again, it felt almost cruel.

“On the upside,” Harry said once he trusted himself to speak, “having the kids will be good for Molly. She’d go out of her skull if she was stuck at home with no one to fuss over.”

As soon as the lockdown order was announced, Ron and Hermione – both essential workers – had packed up Rose, Hugo, and a week’s worth of clothes, and whisked them off to their grandparents’ house, where they could be coddled full-time. Ron and Hermione would be crawling out of their skin with worry, but the kids would be safe at the Burrow, and the three of them would have more than enough work to do keeping a pared-down Ministry running as smoothly as possible.

Ron snorted. “True. It will be good for Mum, but even better for Dad.”

“The unsung hero of the family,” Hermione said dryly as she leaned forward to snag the bottle of Firewhiskey from the centre of the table. She topped off each of their cups before raising hers.

“To the essential workforce,” she said with a grim smile.

Harry and Ron clinked their cups to hers before Harry drained his in a single swallow, the bracing burn of the Firewhiskey a balm to the raw, exposed feeling clawing at his breastbone. He pushed back from the table, sending his cup sailing to the sink as he stood.

“On that note, I’ll see you both tomorrow,” he said, clapping Ron on the shoulder as he pressed a kiss to the top of Hermione’s head. He pushed away the pang he felt when his eyes landed on Hugo’s train set, throwing a pinch of powder in the Floo and calling out for Grimmauld Place.

*

By the second week of lockdown, Harry realized that his expectations about how Versipellis would affect his job, let alone the Wizarding public, were woefully mistaken.

Most departments of the Ministry had been completely gutted, with only their heads remaining in active service. Chief among them was Clint Spencer of the Department for the Rights of Magical Creatures (formerly Regulation and Control), who was working at Time-Turner speed to ensure the Were and Acquisitor communities could still access public services.

If the rumours were true, Spencer wasn’t above using his Veela heritage in the name of civil rights.

Then there was Omar Wazir of International Magical Cooperation, who’d aged at least five years while negotiating restrictions on foreign travel in and out of Wizarding Britain. But in Harry’s opinion, Eddy Webb of Magical Transportation had it worst of all. When he closed Floo travel at the end of the first week, his Hogsmeade home had been pelted with Doxy eggs.

Naturally, no one knew whether the Department of Mysteries was essential or not, so as far as Harry was aware, the Unspeakables continued on as usual, secretive and unseen and hopefully, working toward a cure.

Although Harry wouldn't have thought it was possible, Hermione was busier than ever. She, Kingsley and Gawain Robards had formed an executive task force of sorts, devising and passing an ever-growing list of emergency orders to help control spread, increase funds to St. Mungo’s, and continue vital public services. According to Ron, on most days she was gone before he woke up and returned only after he was asleep.

On paper, Harry’s role as Head Auror shouldn’t have changed much. The entire corps was deemed essential, so he and Ron continued to manage the force, responding to allegations of illegal activity and running down intel on any reports of Dark magic.

But the reality was very different.

With so many wix at home, and high-density wizarding areas like Diagon Alley all but deserted, street crime was way down. But the corps was still working around the clock. Domestic calls were up three hundred percent. Overnight, magical households had become a lot more cramped, and with so much fear about the virus, not to mention the impact on the average family’s Gringotts vault, panic and uncertainty spilled over into violence.

Morale in the department had plummeted. A handful of Aurors had Acquisitors in their families and were living apart from their loved ones, which made an already tough job even more difficult. Then there were the calls themselves. In standard-issue Auror work, he kept the magical population safe from a few bad apples. But now Harry spent most days talking down regular wix who were desperate and afraid and who had simply reached the end of their ropes.

Still, they carried on. Harry didn’t know how long the lockdown would last, or how much higher the infected count would rise, but the corps was resilient; they’d adapt.

And then Teddy got sick.

March 27, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 218

The kettle began to rumble and spit as the soft ping of the Floo chimed from the sitting room. Draco forced himself to wait until the water was ready to pour, watching the tea bag fight to the milky surface, the scent of Bergamot instantly calming. For a brief second, he allowed himself to imagine this was just another day instead of the beginning of something, or the end of something else.

He’d received more than twenty calls since the Floo alert had startled him out of bed at half six. It was nearly midnight now.

The number of calls grew by the day, each more frantic and pleading than the last. St. Mungo’s was first. To his surprise, over the past year Draco had become a valued adviser, weighing in on especially challenging cases involving magic-compromising diseases.

After Penelope Clearwater was promoted to Head Healer the tide had turned in his favour. Like Draco, she was a work-obsessed perfectionist, and nothing – not even the lingering vestiges of Draco’s dubious reputation in Magical Britain – would stop her from elevating St. Mungo’s to a world-class magical medical centre.

The day before the Minster’s press conference she’d called him frantic and pale-faced, seeking his advice on isolation best practices and long-term use of the Bubble-Head Charm for St. Mungo’s staff. This morning, she looked nearly grey. If Draco hadn’t suspected she’d use what little energy she had left to tell him off, he’d have demanded to know when she’d last slept.

After Penelope, it was Pansy, who Floo’d him daily to bemoan the miseries of being locked away in a six-bedroom semi-detached in Carlyle Square with nothing to do but steadily drink through her wine cellar. For Pansy, this amounted to a personal tragedy. After airing her usual complaints, she’d interrogate him about whether he was eating and drinking and otherwise performing the necessary functions to stay alive. The rest of the calls came from a mix of colleagues from around the Continent speculating about whether Versipellis would hit their communities, and how hard, and a smattering of British wix with sick loved ones who had tracked down his Floo after learning he specialized in magical core maladies.

The Floo pinged again and Draco reluctantly made his way to the sitting room. He lowered carefully into the armchair in front of the fireplace, taking a small sip from his over-full mug.

Then he sprayed the entire mouthful across the Persian rug before his arse had even hit the cushion.

Potter’s concerned-looking face flickered in the flames.

“Malfoy? Are you alright?”

Draco dragged his wrist across his mouth before vanishing the stray droplets that landed on his lap, buying time before he had to meet Potter’s blazing visage.

“I’m fine, Potter,” he finally managed. “You weren’t expected.”

Potter didn’t seem the least bit remorseful. But even through the Floo, Draco could tell something was off. Potter was missing his usual air of entitlement and guilelessness – a singular combination that Draco had yet to encounter in another living being.

“It’s Teddy.”

Draco’s head snapped up.

“What do you mean?” he asked sharply, although he already knew the answer. He could feel it in the cold sweat that gathered at the base of his spine and the erratic staccato of his heart against his breastbone. He knew, but he still couldn’t allow himself to believe it.

“I just spoke with Andy,” Potter said, his face creased with anxiety. “He slept half the day but she didn’t think anything of it. She always says Teddy only has two modes, flying or napping. But he was listless at dinner and the cough started less than an hour ago. She sent him to bed with at least three of Molly’s jumpers on and a pile of quilts, and he’s still shivering. It’s just – Fuck, Malfoy. It’s Teddy.”

Potter’s voice broke and for one terrifying moment, Draco thought he might cry. It had been an unrelenting day in an unrelenting week of uncertainty and stress, of existential and professional dread – but it was Harry Potter’s fiery, worried face over Teddy, of all people, that might finally bring Draco to his knees.

Teddy, who had given Draco family and a future after the war.

Suddenly, it all felt unbearable.

But then Draco’s professional training kicked in, and the next moment he was on his hands and knees in front of the hearth, getting as close to the flames as he possibly could.

“Listen to me, Potter. This is terrible news, I know it is. I know you’re scared, and I know you’re worried about Teddy and about Andy, too. But we need to focus on what we can do now. We still don’t know exactly how Versipellis is transmitted. Every precaution must be taken. I sent Andy an Owl with instructions two weeks ago just in case. Is–”

“She’s been wearing the Bubble-Head,” Potter cut in. “They both have, ever since Teddy got back from Hogwarts.”

Draco let his head fall between his shoulders, his back bowing in relief. “Thank Merlin.”

“Will you come?”

Draco considered cutting the call under the guise of Floo trouble and then spending the night on the rug. His head was too heavy to be lifted even one more time, and right now, his bed felt very far away. But despite every instinct screaming at him to run, his eyes found Potter’s in the flames.

“I’m in Paris, Potter.” He said it slowly, to make sure Potter understood him. Because the only reason Potter would suggest something so ridiculous was if he’d forgotten.

Harry’s eyes narrowed. When he spoke, his voice was a low growl, a dangerous sound Draco imagined made more than a few criminals balk.

“I’m well aware of where you are.”

A lesser man would have shrunk at Potter’s tone, but Draco had never been sane where Potter was concerned.

“Then you know why that’s an absurd question, and what my answer will be.”

Draco watched as the flames licked against Potter’s flexed jaw.

“As I’m sure you know, Mungo’s isn’t accepting anyone but the very sickest. Luckily, that’s not Teddy. Yet. But he’s already too ill for Andy to take care of on her own, and worse, she’s terrified. Even if she manages to avoid Versipellis, she’ll make herself sick before he’s better and then end up in Mungo’s herself. She needs help, and you know she won't trust just anyone.”

Draco did know. He’d made up for a lot of lost time after the war. Too lonely and afraid to spare a worry for his pride or his family’s ill-conceived grudges, he’d worked up the courage to turn up on Andromeda’s front step the week Lucius was sentenced. When she welcomed him in, he’d fallen straight to his knees.

She’d fed him biscuits and tea and let him cry and wail until he was gulping for air. A month later he’d moved into the small guest room. She and Teddy had become the safe harbour he’d needed but didn’t deserve. They were his only refuge after his mother, sick with her own grief and regret, had left Wiltshire for the small cottage she’d let in Berwick-on-Tweed to be close to Azkaban, knowing Draco wouldn't follow.

Although Andy was the opposite of his mother in many ways, they weren’t without their similarities. Like Narcissa, Andy was mistrustful of outsiders. Of course, the Malfoys’ definition of an outsider was born of prejudice and a false sense of superiority. But Andromeda had known betrayal of the acutest kind. Her wariness helped protect her from emotional injuries she could no longer afford. Not to mention Teddy, who she guarded with a fierceness that would make a mother dragon proud.

Yes, Teddy falling sick with a serious and ill-understood virus would threaten everything Andromeda held dear.

Draco exhaled hard, every single cell in his body pulsating with resistance and disapproval, his magic bunching up in his fingers and making his pulse jump.

“Fine,” he whispered harshly, the words punched out of him as if by force. “I’ll come.”

March 27, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 218

As soon as the connection was cut, Harry fell back on the floor of the drawing room. He braced his elbows against his knees, pushing his hands into his hair. Three fingers of Firewhiskey sat just out of reach on the coffee table but he found he simply couldn’t move.

The past twelve days had been some of the most hellish Harry had experienced since the war. With each new confirmed case – reported in real-time around the clock by the WWN – panic grew tenfold. Despite the stay-at-home order Kingsley had extended to the whole of the wizarding public, the queues at grocers and apothecaries never seemed to thin. Wares were depleted quicker than they could be replaced and fear over food and medication shortages bred a desperate sort of viciousness. Wand fights broke out in the middle of Diagon Alley over two vials of Dreamless Sleep. A small city of tents had grown up around St. Mungo’s visitor’s entrance, where sick wix tried to con or cajole their way into the hospital. Just yesterday, a middle-aged wizard lost a finger battling for the final courgette from the Village General in Hogsmeade.

Worse was the heaps of misinformation being spread by MFN. The Magic First Network was a WWN competitor that had grown from a small-time, self-funded fringe project to a full-blown force in Magical British media over the last few years. They were the first to suggest that Muggles may be the source of the Versipellis virus. The rumour was utterly baseless, of course, but since then hordes of wix had stopped patronizing stores in Muggle areas, putting even more pressure on wizarding establishments. What was more, people had become sceptical of basic Muggle remedies like paracetamol, which could offer relief to those with milder cases of the virus who had been advised to quarantine at home rather than take up resources at an over-stretched St. Mungo’s. But instead, people were scared and suffering. Not sure where to turn, they clung to any source that seemed to offer answers, however cruel and unsubstantiated.

Things had been bad enough before Teddy got sick. But now Harry was just one more wizard half-mad with worry over a loved one, and with more questions than answers. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about storming Nettle’s Apothecary at wandpoint and grabbing anything he thought might help.

And then there was Draco.

They’d addressed one another by surnames, the old habit resuming by unspoken mutual agreement. But Harry could never manage it in the privacy of his own mind.

He stretched an arm to grab his whiskey off the table. Coaxing the glass into his fingers, he brought it to his lips and drank deeply. Since the day of the press conference, he’d sought the solace of a drink or five on more nights than not.

“Kreacher!”

With a pop, Kreacher appeared in the sitting room. His ears flapped as his narrowed eyes moved between Harry’s face and the glass, but he said nothing.

“Did Master want something?” Kreacher asked.

Harry sighed, throwing back the rest of his drink before handing the empty glass to Kreacher.

“No, Kreacher,” he said. “I just–” Harry scrubbed a hand over his face. “I just wanted to talk to someone.”

Harry couldn’t bear to meet his eye after the appalling confession, one Harry didn’t realize he was going to make until it was already over. The silence grew and Harry wondered if Kreacher had interpreted his pitiful entreaty as an order. Immediately, he felt sick to his stomach.

He forced himself to turn to where Kreacher had appeared in the room from thin air.

But instead of disdain, or worse, pity, Kreacher’s face displayed a mixture of curiosity and understanding.

“All will be well, Master Harry,” Kreacher said finally. The cryptic reassurance delivered in Kreacher’s ancient wheeze was more comforting than Harry could have imagined.

He opened his mouth to reply, unsure exactly what to say, when Kreacher popped out of existence.

Instead, Harry muttered to the empty room. “I certainly fucking hope so.”

March 28, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 254

Draco would have given anything for a cup of tea.

International Portkeys always did his head in, which was what he’d told Andromeda after she’d taken one look at him that morning and immediately began to fuss. But the truth, the one he wouldn’t admit even to her, was that being back in England was terrifying. He felt eight years old again, mounting a broom after his first serious fall. The one that had knocked the wind out of him and sent his mother running.

But the Bubble-Head Charm meant he needed to wait until he was back at the large, spare flat he’d let in Muggle London. There he would find some solace in Earl Grey and the custard creams he could never find in Paris and pretend the only thing he had to worry about was Teddy.

He shifted from his spot on one of the overstuffed chintz sofas flanking the fireplace in Andromeda’s sitting room. Across from him Andromeda raised a hand to brush away the tears spilling from the corners of her eyes, only to let out a frustrated sound when her fingers met with the bouncy resistance of the charm.

“Oh, this infernal virus,” she huffed. “A woman can’t even cry in peace.”

Draco smiled despite himself. This past Christmas he’d skipped his visit home to attend a Healers’ conference in Prague. The Christmas before it had been a research trip to Singapore. When Andy had shown up at his door on New Year’s Day, a shrunken holdall dangling from her arm, she’d resorted to everything short of an Unbreakable Vow to secure his promise to be in England for the holidays this year.

He had missed her.

“Be that as it may,” Draco said, “the charm stays. Teddy’s symptoms are moderate but slightly worsened from the initial presentation you described. There’s been no damage to his magical core and based on the reports I’ve received from St. Mungo’s, that’s reassuring. In the most serious cases, symptom onset is rapid, but damage can be detected even before symptoms reach their peak. There’s still much we don’t understand about the virus, but the usual course suggests Teddy will get worse before he gets better. Right now, I’m just as concerned with keeping you healthy.”

Andy sniffed and nodded but she didn’t look especially convinced. She was pale and drawn, her mouth pinched at the corners. Draco suspected she hadn’t slept, and he had had to cajole her into eating something when he arrived.

The ache that had taken up residence in his chest ever since Potter’s Floo call lurched painfully against his sternum. Reassurance and comfort had been among the most difficult skills Draco’d had to cultivate as a Healer. He completed his residency and then a fellowship in advanced neuromagical diseases, followed by a second fellowship focused on magical medical research. He’d joked with Pansy that he took the research position in Germany just for the break from patient care. But there was more truth to the jest than he’d like to admit. Even now, faced with one of the dearest people in his life, Draco struggled with what to say.

“At least he has age on his side,” Draco deflected. He chuckled at Andromeda’s arch look, an echo of one he’d seen cross his mother’s delicate features dozens of times before. “Not to mention an indomitable spirit.”

Andromeda couldn’t help but laugh at that, softly shaking her head. Unsurprisingly, Teddy had taken his diagnosis in stride. Particularly after Andy had agreed to relocate the Muggle television from the lounge to Teddy’s bedroom.

“Both blessings,” she admitted. “Still, it’s difficult to stay positive right now.”

Draco hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Uncertainty makes things more challenging. But promise me you’ll keep the charm in place.” He raised an eyebrow. “And whatever you do, don’t turn on the MFN.”

Andromeda bolted upright, her ancient tabby Brumelda leaping from where she’d been curled on the sofa with an aggrieved cry before disappearing into the kitchen. The thing was so tiny, Draco had completely forgotten she was there.

Andromeda didn’t spare the wizened cat a second glance, a look of pure affront fixed on Draco. But as formidable as Andy could be at times, the effect was greatly undermined by the large, clear bubble faintly wobbling around her head.

“Draco Malfoy, how dare you insinuate that I would ever listen to such drivel,” she chided. “Kevin O’Cannon is a blight on wizarding kind, and if I ever have the misfortune to encounter him in person, he’ll be very sorry indeed. That, I will promise you.”

Draco smothered a smirk but said nothing. During The Year of Failed Experiments, as he liked to refer to it, when Draco had moved back to England after over a decade away from home, O’Cannon had been instrumental in the implosion of Draco’s personal and professional lives. Andy had threatened to storm the MFN’s offices herself on more than one occasion.

Draco bobbed his chin in exaggerated deference. “Well, at least some things can still be counted on.”

March 31, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 261

Versipellis time felt different.

Each day saw an influx of news that ratcheted up the fear and uncertainty so much that sometimes a single hour carried the emotional toll of an entire month. Plus, lockdown interrupted the rhythms of daily life, the relationships and rituals that helped mark the passage of time. Newly home and unsure what to do with themselves, many wix spent all their waking hours listening to round-the-clock wireless coverage on the latest number of confirmed cases, compulsively Scourgify-ing clothing and shoes and surfaces, and drinking and eating and drinking and eating until it was time to sleep again.

It was no wonder people were coming apart at the seams. The latest prevention protocols required Ministry essential workers to always wear the Bubble-Head Charm when inside Ministry-owned buildings. At first, the charm had only been mandatory inside St. Mungo’s and encouraged for all known or suspected Acquisitors, at home or in public. But there was increasing evidence that although non-Acquisitors couldn’t get sick, they could still carry and transmit the virus. So, although not everyone would become infected, anyone could spread the virus.

The new policy had not been met with universal acceptance at the Ministry. That morning Robards had broken the news that half the Hit Wizard force had walked out rather than don the charm indoors. Following the daily DMLE briefing, Head Hit Wizard Ned Park trailed Harry all the way to his office on the second floor, muttering an endless string of apologies for all the slack the Aurors would need to pick up, especially now that the DMLE had been ordered to report for duty seven days a week.

But the Aurors weren’t without their own detractors, and Ron’s office had been a revolving door straight through the afternoon. A few of the seasoned Aurors, who had come of age in the department when Werewolves were still considered dangerous creatures best registered and monitored in the name of public safety, couldn’t understand why the entire Ministry needed to be turned upside down to protect “a few queer fish.”

Harry flopped down into his chair. Sometime during the briefing his glasses had slipped down his nose, and he’d spent the entire second half of the meeting trying to inch them back into place by wiggling his nose. At one point, Robards had paused his update on the week’s apothecary coverage to shoot Harry a pointed glare until Harry offered a mumbled apology and forced himself to stop fidgeting.

He raised his right hand, readying a locking charm so he could take down the Bubble-Head and push his glasses back into place, when Ron barged in. Harry let his arm fall back to the desk with a thunk, sighing as he slumped lower in his chair.

Ron winced, his eyes darting to Harry’s glasses. “Sorry, mate. You want me to come back in a minute?”

Harry waved him off. “No, don’t worry about it. I might as well get used to it.”

Ron’s mouth twisted sympathetically as he threw himself into his favourite of the two guest chairs. They were notoriously uncomfortable, which according to office legend was by design. But Harry suspected that Ron had cast an invisible extension charm on one of them to accommodate his extra height.

“So,” Ron began, lacing his fingers against his stomach as he slouched in the seat. “How’d the visit to Andy’s go?”

Harry scowled before he could rein in his reaction, immediately realizing his mistake. Ignoring Ron’s raised eyebrows, he tipped his head back in an effort to dislodge his glasses before he gave up and tried to cast a Wingardium Leviosa through the Bubble-Head instead.

“I said I’d come back,” Ron intoned, his voice heavy with amusement. “But something tells me you’re just stalling for time.”

Harry sighed, raising a hand to his face before letting it flop back down on the desk. He never realized how often he scrubbed his hand over his face until he could no longer do it.

“There’s nothing to tell,” he said finally. “I went to the house. He wouldn’t let me in. End of story.”

Ron’s eyebrows inched higher up his face, the corners of his lips flirting with a disbelieving smile. “Sounds pretty eventful for nothing to tell.”

“Oh sod off, will you?” Harry grumbled, and Ron had the audacity to outright laugh. “Glad my life is so entertaining.”

“Hey,” Ron grinned. “You gotta take the laughs where you can get them these days. Besides, I just wanted to make sure you two didn’t come to blows. Or, I don’t know, have a productive, adult conversation.”

Harry narrowed his eyes, scanning his desk for a small object he could hurl at Ron’s charm-protected head. Sadly, he found nothing but stacks of Versipellis reports.

“You know,” he said coolly. “Being married to Hermione doesn’t actually give you maturity by proxy. You’re still just as much a pillock as I am. Maybe more.”

“Beg to differ,” Ron smirked. “I married Hermione. So, while I may be a pillock, I’m a bloody smart pillock.”

A small smile fought its way across Harry’s lips. “True. Not sure how Hermione can explain herself though.”

Ron shook his head. “Rare lapse of judgment, but one for which I’ll always be grateful.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but he was grinning by the time they both stood and headed for the door. “Let’s hope that luck extends to today’s Versipellis briefing, yeah?”

*

Ron’s luck had not, in fact, held out. At least not for Harry.

The daily all-department briefing began as usual with updated confirmed case numbers and the current Mungo’s census, apothecary shortages and public safety coverage, and renewal of the Minister’s stay-at-home orders.

Harry’s mind was drifting to his anticipated lunch order from the canteen when at the head of the table Robards straightened and cleared his throat.

“As you may be aware,” Robards said, in a tone Harry recognized as his forced-professionalism voice. “MFN host Kevin O’Cannon’s recent coverage has been attracting increased attention.”

Ron snorted, eyes cutting quickly to Harry and then back to Robards. “Coverage? That makes him sound like an actual journo instead of a grade-A nutter.”

Robards grunted and then quickly covered it with a cough.

“Be that as it may, MFN viewership is up. O’Cannon’s Versipellis reporting has a distinctly anti-Muggle slant and now he’s set his sights on the Ministry’s Bubble-Head Charm protocols. He’s suggested the charm is ineffective at preventing transmission of the virus, and now he’s claiming that long-term use could result in everything from Dragon Pox to magical core depletion. His theories are gaining traction and we’re already feeling the impact.”

Across from Harry, Ned Park became intensely focused on trying to fix a bend in his quill with his fingernail.

Harry’s forced professionalism had never been as good as Robards’, and suddenly he couldn't keep his temper a moment longer.

“Revoke his Ministry press pass,” he bit out. “He’s a risk to public safety. Like Ron said, he’s not a real journo. Let’s not treat him like one.”

The room went silent so swiftly that Ned looked up, glancing around to confirm he was no longer in the spotlight. Harry dropped his gaze to the table, but he could practically feel the speaking glances being exchanged over his head.

“Well,” Beth Lin said finally, elongating the word in a way that set Harry’s teeth on edge.

For the past five years Beth had served as Ministry Liaison to the Wizengamot. Depending on the week, she was either Hermione’s favourite person or first on her hit list. Ron had teasingly referred to her as Hermione's work wife until an ill-conceived spousal swap joke one pub night got him banished to the couch for a week.

“Official Ministry action that has the appearance of retaliation in an effort to quash opposition could be viewed as–”

“Fascism?” Ron suggested cheerily, grinning wider when Harry pinned him with a death glare.

“It’s not fascism,” Harry managed between gritted teeth. “We should resist normalizing O’Cannon’s perspective as a legitimate voice in the public discourse.”

Beth tilted her head with a look that was part mocking, part pitying and Harry felt his hackles rising when Robards cut in.

“While I happen to agree,” Robards said, “we can’t make a move that might be viewed as divisive and risk further instability. Particularly one that might be seen as pretextual.”

Ned squeaked as the tip of his quill burst into flames just as Robards stood to end the meeting, followed quickly by the rest of the table. Ron doused the fire before anyone noticed except for Beth, who shot Harry a frown accompanied by a disappointed head shake.

Only Hogwarts-aged Hermione rivalled Beth for sanctimoniousness; it was no wonder they were sometimes-friends.

Ron rounded the table and clapped Harry on the shoulder. “Come on, mate. Let’s get you some lunch.”

April 4, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 228

Draco cast the diagnostic spell and a net of yellow dots shimmered in the air, still and suspended for a long moment before a swirl of bright white, strong and sure, pulsed into life at the centre. Quietly, he released a long breath before casting again, the low murmur of the spell falling automatically from his lips, until pricks of red and green began to blink into existence around the periphery.

“So, will I live?” Teddy smirked as Draco ended the spell with a barely suppressed eyeroll. Teddy was sitting up in bed, a veritable mass of pillows stacked so high the headboard was no longer visible.

“Edward,” Draco drawled. “As I informed you after the first half dozen times, that joke is decidedly unamusing,"

Teddy’s grin was unabashed.

“Maybe, but that pinched face you make gets me every time. Plus, Molly knitted me a pillow that says, ‘Laughter is the best medicine’ so I am pretty much doing your job.”

Against his will, Draco’s eyes were drawn to the offending item in question, which had been tossed at the foot of Teddy’s bed. It was an overstuffed block of mustard yellow, especially ghastly against the maroon thread Molly had used to stitch the message. Although Draco was well accustomed to the strange and varied things people did to ward off helplessness when a loved one was sick, he thought this was a pillow best left un-sewed.

He should have expected it as soon as Teddy mentioned the damnable pillow, but Draco was still caught off guard by the sudden flood of memories.

It was two summers ago that he’d been cajoled into attending Harry’s birthday celebration at the Burrow for the first time. At least, that was the story he told himself. In truth, there was very little cajoling involved. He’d acquiesced almost immediately. Not because he’d wanted to go. He was terrified and ashamed, and he would have happily gone the rest of his life without confronting either of those emotions as they pertained to Molly and Arthur Weasley.

But he’d been floored to have been asked, caught up in the high of a new relationship, and the surreal impossibility of it all. He simply couldn’t refuse.

It was there in Ron Weasley’s childhood home, hours after he’d stepped through the Floo to find Harry waiting with his hand already outstretched, once the three-tier cake baked by Ginny had been cut and devoured, and Harry had finally stopped hiccupping purple bubbles from one of George’s latest concoctions, that Molly had caught him alone in the kitchen and pressed something into his hands.

For your birthday, dear. And all the ones we’ve missed before.

Here in Teddy’s room, his mind flashed to his empty apartment in Paris. At the bottom of the heavy mahogany armoire in his guest room he’d tucked away the soft, grey blanket with his initials knitted in one corner. DLM. When he’d packed up to leave England yet again, for a brief moment Draco had considered leaving it. But in the end he couldn’t stomach it, so he’d stored the blanket where it couldn’t be seen, and he wouldn’t be forced to remember.

Draco cleared his throat. “Yes, well, in that case I suppose you’ve been a diligent apprentice.”

When he lifted his eyes, Teddy’s gaze was thoughtful. As light-hearted and fun-loving as Teddy had always been, there was a side to him Draco privately thought of as pure Lupin. Pensive and quietly astute and wise beyond his years. Like his father, Teddy’s life had been shaped by losses and burdens most would never know. But instead of hardening him, they kept his heart soft.

“Have you seen him?”

Draco inwardly groaned. As much as he admired Teddy’s intuitive nature, he had no interest in having it directed at him.

“You already know the answer to that,” Draco said, keeping his tone light. “The entire neighbourhood heard him trying to scream his way in to see you.”

“And since then?”

Draco sighed. “Edward, you do realize that I am not here for social reasons? That there is an unprecedented pandemic affecting a discrete population that is now far-ranging and in some cases undetectable? That I was summoned here from Paris to provide you with personal, around-the-clock care, and that every other spare moment has been spent brewing the potion that has reduced your symptoms with astonishing speed, but which you had the gall to tell me tastes like ‘total arse’?”

He pinned Teddy with a glare. “Any of this ringing a bell?”

Teddy laughed unrepentantly. “Draco, you know I am Hufflepuff to my core and therefore cannot tell a lie. Brilliant as it is, your potion does taste like total arse.”

“I still say you’re an ingrate.”

Teddy’s smile faltered. “I just thought, with you back home….”

The look on his face was so guileless, so yearning and sincere, that Draco had to turn away, busying himself with tucking the empty vials back into his leather satchel.

In many ways, the talk he’d had with Teddy before he left for France had been more difficult than his conversation with Harry. With Harry he could cover up the hurt and humiliation with hurled accusations and raised voices. But with Teddy there had been only hollow words and quiet tears and nowhere to hide from the heartbreak.

Draco snapped his satchel shut and hoisted the strap onto his shoulder.

“As usual, you may feel groggy and sleepy for the next thirty minutes. If you experience any new or unusual symptoms, you're to send your Patronus immediately.” He stopped with his hand on the door, unable to walk out on Teddy’s look of quiet resignation. “And I fully expect a recap of the next episode of TOWIE the next time I’m here.”

To Draco’s utter relief, Teddy cracked a smile. “Deal.”

April 7, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 184

Good morning, wizards and witches of Great Britain!

It’s me, Kevin O’Cannon, and this is O’Cannon Encounter. I’m coming to you live this Tuesday from MFN, the Magic First Network. Where wizards will always be number one.

Well, it’s been twenty-six days since Kinglsey Shacklebolt's act-first-think-later government announced the so-called Versipellis virus and shut down wizarding life as we know it. Kids are out of school, people are out of work, but the Ministry continues to insist that a few bad colds are enough to justify a complete economic shutdown. I mean, did you see the latest numbers in today’s Prophet? We’re talking about a few dozen people. Who knows if they even have the same virus! We can’t test for the thing, so you can bet your arse the geniuses at Mungo’s are treating every runny nose like it’s Versipellis. You know what I think? This is one big money grab. The more confirmed cases Mungo’s can tout, the more Galleons they can squeeze from the Ministry to combat the so-called crisis.

But the bigger issue, and you devoted Encounter fans have heard me say this before, is that the virus is a complete hoax! Seriously, the Ministry wants us to believe that part of what makes this virus so dangerous is that some Acquisitors – and I can barely repeat that ridiculous name with a straight face – don’t even know they have Werewolf blood.

Do you see where I’m going with this? Getting the virus is what proves they’re an Acquisitor! You can’t make this up.

Once this whole thing blows over, we will have even more people waving the Were flag and begging for accommodations and special privileges and everything else our guardianista government is only too eager to throw at every allegedly disenfranchised population. When all along, the virus had nothing to do with Werewolves or Acquisitors, or whatever the fuck we’re calling them. I mean, I know what we would have called them back in my day, but I promised MFN no more fines this year! Let’s go with Ick-quisitors, shall we? Fits the bill quite nicely, if you ask me.

But if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times, all signs point back to the Muggles. Our pro-integration Ministry pushes and pushes for wizards to live and work in the Muggle world and then, big surprise, people start to get sick. This is simple history, people! Introduce a previously isolated population to the unclean masses and, boom! Disease and destruction. Look it up.

Meanwhile, we’re expected either to stay home or walk around wearing a Bubble-Head Charm all day like characters out of some crap dystopian novel. Forget the fact that extended use of the Bubble-Head can have serious consequences like oxygen deprivation, skin breakdown, lung injury, not to mention magical exhaustion from sustained charm work – all worse than a runny nose, by the way! – you also look like a complete tool. Seriously, I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing one in public.

Not to mention that if you show your face on Diagon without one, because you don’t want lung damage, or to look like a complete prat, a crazed member of the self-appointed Versipellis brigade will chase you right out of the apothecary.

And will Harry Potter and his Auror incompetents do anything about it? Of course not!

Okay, before I get into the incompetence of the Auror corps, it’s time to hear from our amazing sponsors at Heritage Foods. Heritage Foods, keeping wizarding foodways alive since 2002.

O’Cannon Encounter will be right back, so stay with me folks.

*

Even by the decidedly lower standards of the last few weeks, Harry was having a shit day.

Since the moment he arrived at the Ministry, every person he crossed paths with had asked if he’d caught that morning’s episode of “O’Cannon Encounter.” He had half a mind to ban the corps from listening to the show ever again. That dickbag certainly didn’t need more listeners.

After the sixth or seventh person, Harry decided to hear it for himself, and now he was in a fouler mood than ever.

Which was absolutely the wrong mindset for the discussion he was about to have.

Harry pressed the buzzer for flat four and then jogged down the steps to the sidewalk. Since it was Muggle London, he’d forgone the Bubble-Head Charm, but they’d agreed to stay outside and maintain a distance of six feet.

He started down the sidewalk, unable to resist the temptation to pace, when the door to the building creaked open. He spun around just as Draco stepped onto the landing.

Harry hadn’t laid eyes on him since that day at Andy’s after Teddy had fallen sick. He’d been too crazed with worry to fully process that Draco was here, in England, let alone take the measure of him. But now he could see Draco clearly, looking tired but handsome and otherworldly in the wan, grey afternoon light. His bright, touch-soft hair was worn chin-length and pushed back off his face. He wore the familiar uniform of a sleek navy suit over a crisp white shirt worn open at the collar, his long, lithe frame set off by strong shoulders.

He looked like Draco, his Draco, and he looked good, even with the dark circles under his eyes and the careworn smirk that couldn’t hide the tense set of his jaw.

“Hi,” Harry said, embarrassed by how soft his voice sounded to his own ears, but Draco only nodded in response, his face impassive.

Straight to business then.

Harry cleared his throat. “Thanks for agreeing to meet. I know you’re busy.”

He waited for a beat, hoping Draco would at least step off the stoop, but Draco gave no reaction.

“Andy told me you brewed a potion for Teddy.”

Draco’s expression turned wary, as if Harry were someone to fear. And just like that, all the good intentions Harry’d had when he wrote to Draco and asked him to meet – to thank him, to ask whether he’d been in touch with Penelope – felt very far away. Confronted with this cagey stranger who looked every inch like his Draco but was acting like the proud, prickly coward who’d left him, Harry was done being the bigger person.

He narrowed his eyes. “Has it been tested before now?”

Draco straightened, and Harry watched as he slipped into Healer mode, and even farther from Harry.

“This is a novel virus, so the formula is original. But it’s a blended, modified version of well-established potions used to counter magical core depletion. It also possesses the capability to identify the virus and prevent it from replicating and spreading further in the body.”

By the end of his explanation, Draco was slightly breathless, and his eager tone only made Harry more furious.

“So, what? You mixed up a bunch of potions and decided to use Teddy as your test subject? What if it had made him worse, Draco? What if there had been serious side effects?”

Before he’d even finished his speech, Draco had cleared the steps and rounded on Harry, although Harry noticed that he still managed to stay at least six feet away.

“How dare you,” Draco seethed. “You know I’d never do anything to put Teddy in jeopardy. I stayed to monitor him for a full twenty-four hours after each of the first three doses. Not to mention I explained the potion to Teddy and Andy and they both agreed to try it, fully understanding the risks.”

Just then, a middle-age Muggle walking a tall, elegant dog with a silky reddish coat moved around them on the sidewalk. He eyed them cautiously before tugging the dog into a trot down the street, and Harry wondered what he made of the scene. A lover’s quarrel, maybe. Exes about to come to blows, more accurately.

But neither the man nor the dog caused Draco to so much as pause in his tirade.

“If you had bothered to check on Teddy instead of tracking me down at my flat and hurling accusations, you’d have noticed that it worked,” Draco hissed, practically yelling now. “Teddy’s better, Potter. His symptom duration and severity are significantly improved compared to what St. Mungo’s has been seeing.”

Harry balled his hands at his sides. He wished he hadn’t come. He wished he’d never listened to O’Cannon’s show. But more than anything, he wished Draco wasn’t six feet away, treating Harry like an older version of himself, one that Draco had never cared for. Never loved.

“But you didn’t know that’s what would happen, Malfoy. And if something had happened to Teddy, where would you be? Back in Paris avoiding the fallout, as usual.”

As the words left his mouth, Harry knew they’d hit their target. He also knew that he’d gone too far. Draco’s care of Teddy was about Teddy, not the two of them. And Draco was right – he’d never do anything to hurt Teddy, which Harry knew full well.

Even if Harry hadn’t already realized he’d crossed a line, the woundedness that flashed in Draco’s eyes before they iced over made it more than apparent.

“Fuck off, Potter,” Draco said in a furious whisper before turning on his heel and climbing the stairs back into his building, where the door slammed shut behind him.

April 12, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 252

Harry shifted on the dais. The distancing and charm requirements meant that the number of journalists had been capped at a dozen, the long line of them stretched out in front of the fountain, each standing six feet apart. Earl was set up in his usual spot, finishing his final equipment checks before broadcast, and the sight of him was a small, familiar comfort amid so much strangeness.

The moment Harry had stepped onto the stage his nose began to itch inside his Bubble-Head. He’d been twitching to no avail, and whenever he scrunched up his face, his legs followed suit in an odd, involuntary sort of dance. He was so wrapped up in this routine that he only realized what he was doing after Ron leaned across the greater-than-usual distance between them to give him a pointed look. Which is when Harry remembered he was on a dais in a room full of camera-toting journalists gathered for an update from the Minister of Magic about the cataclysmic pandemic that had upended their lives only a month ago. Whoops.

Thankfully, O’Cannon wasn’t there. He’d announced that morning that he was boycotting the press conference because of the mandatory Bubble-Head Charm policy. The only downside was he’d organized a protest outside the visitors’ entrance instead, and he was currently blaring his crockpot theories across a Sonorous to a larger-than-expected crowd.

Harry had assembled a team of six Aurors to keep the peace but that was its own cause for concern. Anti-Charmers had been openly haggling Aurors and Hit Wizards patrolling Diagon and Hogsmeade, and on two occasions the Aurors had had to take someone into custody. None of which helped to combat the O'Cannon-fueled message that the Ministry was out to harm people, not keep them safe from the virus – and sometimes from each other.

But Harry’s immediate priority was the itch. He was on the verge of breaking through the Ministry wards so he could take down the charm in an alleyway, scratch his nose, and then Apparate back onto the stage, when Kingsley finally stepped onto the dais.

On Kingsley’s other side Penelope stood tall and serious, with Hermione next to her in line. She caught Harry’s eye and her expression was strained, almost apologetic. She’d been in closed-door meetings all day and even Ron hadn’t managed to see her before now.

Kingsley nodded to Earl and cast a Sonorous, his voice clear and booming even through the Bubble-Head.

“My fellow members of magical Great Britain, it has been thirty days since I last addressed you from this podium. To keep Ministry officials and members of the media safe, we have relied on daily communiques to our media partners at the Daily Prophet and the WWN to communicate critical information about the Versipellis virus, including case totals, updated criteria for St. Mungo’s admissions, and public safety measures like the stay-at-home order and Bubble-Head mandate.

“Data has shown these measures to be effective at reducing spread of the virus, and we believed we were nearing a plateau in new infections. However, recent backlash against use of the Bubble-Head Charm and social distancing guidelines has led to a new spike in cases. Perhaps even more concerning, a slate of violent episodes has erupted over anti-Charm sentiment and misinformation regarding the Versipellis virus, including incidents targeting Muggles and members of the Were and Acquisitor communities.”

Harry bit down so hard he was sure he felt a crack break open right down the centre of one of his molars. He’d been beside himself after an unhinged O’Cannon devotee had used a modified Flagrate charm to write “Werewolves Are The Real Infection” in fiery script on his Were neighbour’s lawn, terrified that Teddy would be targeted next.

Although Andy had responded with steely resolve to his panicked Owl begging her to move with Teddy into Grimmauld Place, he’d patrolled her house all night before falling asleep under a concealment charm near one of the rhododendrons.

On stage, Kingsley was acknowledging Penelope and her leadership at St. Mungo’s, calling for “the disinformation crusade being waged in certain corners of the alternative media to be countered with a public awareness campaign based on evidenced-based solutions.”

“And that’s why,” Kingsley continued, “I am appointing a Special Adviser to coordinate our response to the Versipellis virus and to oversee the administration of a new treatment regimen that will be distributed pursuant to an emergency authorization in close collaboration with Healer Clearwater. It is our hope that this novel formulation will reduce the duration and severity of Versipellis symptoms and improve outcomes, particularly among the very young and those of advanced age.”

Midway through Kingsley’s speech a cold sweat began to form beneath Harry’s collar. By the end, he could feel each individual rivulet snake down his spine before seeping into the waistband of his trousers. More than once, he tried to catch Hermione’s eye, but she was staring resolutely into the sparse crowd with her lips pursed into a tight line. Even in profile, Harry could tell she wasn’t hearing the news for the first time.

But before he could try to break her unblinking stare again, Kingsley stepped aside and all the oxygen seemed to drain from Harry’s Bubble-Head. Ordinarily, he wasn’t claustrophobic, but he could feel panic start to set in. It began in his hands, tingles traveling slowly up his arms and spidering across his chest, until he felt like the charm was slowly tightening around his throat.

Because less than fifteen feet away, nodding solemnly as he shook Kingsley’s outstretched hand, was the Minister’s new Special Adviser, Healer Draco Malfoy.

*

“Are you fucking kidding me, Hermione?”

Seated in Harry’s less-comfortable office guest chair, Hermione wrung her hands in her lap, her expression flickering between guilt-wracked remorse and stubborn defiance. Ron stood beside Harry’s desk, putting himself between the two of them, his gaze bouncing from Hermione to Harry and back.

“I can see you’re upset, Harry,” Hermione ventured cautiously. “But I only found out yesterday and the taskforce is under the strictest confidentiality.” She paused, knowing Harry would have no choice but to concede, which he did by way of a small, begrudging nod.

“Besides,” she continued, her voice strengthening as she regained the upper hand. “Would you have marched into Kingsley’s office and demanded he not hire Draco, who just so happens to be a renowned expert in this particular medical subspeciality, who created and successfully administered a potion set to cut the life of the pandemic in half?”

Harry scowled, his mind tripping over the memory of his last conversation with Draco. The look on his face before he’d stormed away.

He cut his eyes towards Ron. “Did you know?”

Ron put up his hands. “Fuck no, mate.”

Harry let out a breath.

“But for what it’s worth,” Ron went on. “I agree with Hermione. You know she can’t say shit to us and there’s nothing you could have done anyway. Never mind that Malfoy or not, this isn’t something you should want to stop.”

Harry sighed, sinking into his chair. “I know that.”

Across from him, Hermione’s shoulders dropped slightly and she gave him a tentative smile.

Harry reached for a quill, absently running his fingers through the delicate feather. Ducking his chin, he tried to keep his voice disinterested.

“Have you spoken to him?”

Hermione shook her head. “No, the meetings were just with Kingsley and Penelope.”

Harry nodded, unsure why he felt disappointed when five minutes ago he’d been livid at the idea that Hermione had kept Draco’s appointment secret, let alone had a conversation with him.

Reaching across the desk, Hermione set her hand over his, stilling the fingers still twisting in the quill.

Her smile was warm but knowing. “Will it help if I promise to hide the Earl Grey and bin all the custard creams before any meetings where I know he’ll be present?”

Ron snorted and Harry was glad for the laugh that startled out of him when a memory seized in his chest: Draco’s eyes closed over a bite of custard cream, a happy hum sounding from his lips as he cradled a mug of tea. The scent of sweet orange and jasmine. The thin morning light streaming from the window into Grimmauld’s kitchen, dappling Draco’s hair.

“Yeah.” Harry swallowed. “That will help.”

April 15, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 112

Technically, Harry shouldn’t be here.

One of the first acts of Kingsley’s new Special Adviser was to institute daily press briefings on the virus, beginning today. The plan was for Draco and Penelope to provide five to ten minutes of updates followed by ten to fifteen minutes of question-and-answer. All other Ministry personnel were excluded to avoid overcrowding and maintaining distancing requirements.

But Harry didn’t care. Because O’Cannon had eaten crow on that morning’s episode of “O’Cannon Encounter,” announcing that – for the sake of preserving the health and integrity of wizarding kind – he’d attend this afternoon’s press briefing, even in a Bubble-Head.

“For all you ‘Encounter’ devotees out there,” he’d pledged, “I will gladly look like a tool. Because if we don’t demand answers, we’re accepting lies.”

Which explained why Harry was now skirting the edges of the Atrium, staying out the way but still close enough to hear. And, if need be, to intervene.

From his position, Harry watched Draco in profile as he stepped up to the podium, Penelope standing tall and tight-lipped beside him.

“Good afternoon, members of the press. Thank you for joining myself and Healer Clearwater for the first of our daily briefings on the Versipellis virus. To begin, Healer Clearwater will provide the latest confirmed case numbers and information about St. Mungo’s current census and staffing shortages.”

Draco stepped aside as Penelope took his place behind the podium, rattling off a series of stats about virus numbers, average patient length of stay, downtrends in case severity, and the current number of hospitalizations. Since Harry had received all of this information that morning, he let himself tune her out and focused his attention on Draco. He was dressed as usual in a navy suit, although today he’d paired it with a baby blue tie, the colour of a robin’s egg. A flash of metal glinted at his wrists as he linked his hands behind his back, and Harry’s mind conjured a perfect image of two square platinum cufflinks.

He remembered the first time he’d seen them, standing next to Draco in a too-crowded Muggle cocktail bar. They’d finished dinner at a small bistro down the street where they’d drank good wine and Draco had ordered everything in French. Neither of them had wanted to call it a night, unwilling to break the fragile, feverish sense of possibility that had hung heavily between them all evening.

When Draco’d reached to pluck his gin martini off the bar, the wink of platinum had caught Harry’s eye. Before he could think better of it he reached out, his finger slowly tracing the engraving.

“What is it?” he’d murmured, his breath catching when Draco held his gaze, his grey eyes molten and unyielding.

“A broken wand,” Draco replied, taking a sip of his drink. Harry raised his brows in question. “I had them made after I left Andromeda’s and moved to France to finish my N.E.W.T.s by correspondence once I’d decided I wanted to be a Healer.”

Sensing Draco’s hesitation, Harry nodded, encouraging him to go on.

“The ones I’d been gifted as a boy featured the Malfoy crest.”

“Naturally,” Harry smiled easily, relieved when Draco smirked softly in response. They were both being so careful, tentative. Hopeful.

“Naturally,” Draco agreed. “But I needed something new. A reminder of who I wanted to become, not who I was, or who I was born to be. A reminder that magic is only as good as how it’s yielded. That a wizard is only as good as how he yields it. Strength comes not from the power of a wand, but from the choices of a person.”

He tipped back his head and drained the rest of his drink. When his gaze dropped again to Harry’s face, Draco’s expression was slightly bashful, almost unsure. For his part Harry wasn’t able to speak past the lump in his throat, or the slowly expanding warmth in his chest.

So, his eyes never leaving Draco, the soft smile he felt tug at his mouth entirely beyond his control, Harry reached out to run his thumb over the broken wand, tracing the cold metal before tangling his fingers with Draco’s and pulling him down into a sweet, slow kiss.

It was Draco’s voice that cut through the memory, bringing Harry back to the present.

His tone was brisk and professional as he described the first phase of the potion treatment protocol, which would target the most severe and highest risk cases at St. Mungo’s, and would include around-the-clock monitoring for potential side effects. Despite his outburst two weeks before, Harry knew the potion was safe. But it was one thing for Draco to test a potion on Teddy, who loved and trusted him. It was entirely another to provide a Ministry-backed experimental potion to members of the general public. This protocol was as much for Draco’s safety as for the patients’.

Soon Draco was opening the floor for questions, and a jolt of alertness shot through Harry’s body. He scanned the row of journalists and immediately landed on O’Cannon.

Of course, Draco called on him first.

“Kevin O’Cannon, MFM,” O’Cannon introduced himself. “Welcome back to the U.K., Healer Malfoy.”

Draco nodded placidly, refusing to take the bait.

“Quite a high position you’ve found yourself in yet again, isn’t it?” O’Cannon quipped and Harry’s pulse quickened, his hand reaching reflexively for the wand holstered at his thigh.

Still, Draco waited.

“Aren’t you concerned about the impact on actual wizards of prolonged charm usage, and now a completely untested potion, all to protect a handful of maybe-Werewolves from the common cold?”

O’Cannon’s smile was smug and he seemed entirely immune to the eyerolls and looks of disbelief being shot in his direction from the rest of the press corps.

Draco’s smile spread slowly. If you didn’t know him well, it appeared almost genuine.

“First, let me remark how glad I am that you didn’t drop dead, Mr. O’Cannon,” Draco answered. “I know you had entertained it as a possibility in the event you had to appear in public in a Bubble-Head Charm.”

O’Cannon chuckled good naturedly as laughter rippled through the corps.

“But as to your question,” he continued, his eyes sharpening. “There is nothing common about the Versipellis virus or its effects. At this time, we firmly believe the potential benefits of the potion, which is admittedly novel, albeit a modification of safe and well-established formulas, outweigh the unlikely risk of adverse side effects. This is particularly the case given increased morbidity amongst the most vulnerable members of the two susceptible populations. All magical beings deserve to keep their magic, Mr. O’Cannon.”

Harry wanted to peek at O’Cannon to gauge his reaction, but he couldn’t look away from Draco, who was as calm and formidable as Harry had ever seen him. Certainly, far more civil than Harry could have managed if he’d had to face off with O’Cannon today.

Draco, in fact, remained steady, as if trying not to give O’Cannon even a second to interject.

“As for your claims about the Bubble-Head Charm, they’re baseless. We both know how quickly prejudice can fuel misinformation,” he finished smoothly. A slightly cocked eyebrow was the only outward sign of the challenge he’d just issued.

Draco’s speech was a confession and an indictment, and Harry wished he was close enough to see his face.

He was sure they were turning over the same memory: the morning they woke to the first Prophet headline, which shouted “Former Death Eater Hired To Oversee St. Mungo’s Special Unit!” And underneath, in only slightly smaller type: “Head Auror Potter Calls in Favor to Secure Job for Hogwarts Rival Turned Boy Toy.” The article only got worse from there, including a slew of quotations from O’Cannon about Ministry corruption, Draco's criminal past, and Harry’s failure as a moral leader.

But then Draco called on the Prophet’s Ministry correspondent, and O’Cannon went silent, and the moment passed.

April 16, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 97

“Thank you for agreeing to this,” Harry repeated for the third time. He knew he hadn’t exactly been patient.

Andromeda smiled. “I’ve missed you too, dear. We both have.”

Harry’s heart clenched. Teddy was better, nearly fully recovered now, but however desperate Harry was to see him, he hadn’t wanted to press. He was just glad for the chance to see Andromeda and assure himself they were both doing well.

As they strolled along River Windrush, Harry pulled his coat tighter against the chill. The Bubble-Head Charm created a gap at the collar where the wind kept sneaking under the neck of his jumper. Even worse, the wind fogged up his glasses, and there was nothing he could do but bear it and hope eventually it would clear. Although there was little to be grateful for where the pandemic was concerned, at least it had waited until the thaw of spring.

“Did you read the Prophet this morning?” Andromeda asked, her steady gaze brushing the side of his face.

“The article was good,” he replied neutrally, although he was sure Andy could see right through him.

“Good” was putting it mildly. The write up about Draco’s first press conference had been nothing short of enthusiastic, especially when compared to the Prophet’s typical coverage of anything Malfoy-related. But Harry wasn’t about to admit that he’d been so nervous he’d woken up at dawn, pacing in front of the kitchen window as he waited for the owl to deliver the morning edition.

Andromeda gave a low laugh but mercifully kept her thoughts to herself. A woman walked past them headed in the opposite direction, her hand clasped with a small boy no older than seven or eight, pulling with all his might in the direction of the river. Andromeda bobbed her head in greeting and the woman smiled in reply. Harry wondered whether the pair were Muggles, or if like them, they were wix out for a walk under concealed Bubble-Heads, trying to find a few moments of peace away from the worry and stir-craziness of home.

“You have a knack for understatement, my dear boy,” Andy said finally, and Harry smiled ruefully as he tugged uselessly at his collar.

He opened his mouth to steer the conversation to safer ground when she spoke first.

“It’s okay to root for him, you know.”

Harry shot her a startled glance but then quickly ducked his chin, afraid he might give himself away.

Though it was probably too late. Sometimes Andy just knew – the same went for Molly. And for the most part, it secretly pleased him. These not-quite-mothers who knew him so well and loved him no matter what. But when it came to Draco, Andromeda was especially astute. She’d had a front row seat to those six blissful months, and she had spent the last year and a half helping Harry put himself back to rights in her own quiet way.

But they had barely spoken since Teddy’s diagnosis, save for a few Floo calls and a handful of hastily scribbled notes delivered by owl. Andromeda’s singular focus had been Teddy’s care, and Harry could see it had taken a toll. His own worry was so intense he feared that he was more likely to cause Andromeda undue stress than offer genuine support, and so he’d forced himself not to add to her burden. But somehow, she knew. About the strange churn of anger and resentment that couldn’t drown out the small but irrepressible desire for Draco to succeed, to survive this latest thrust into the spotlight unscathed. Not to mention put Kevin O’Cannon in his place.

Likely seeing more than he wanted, Andromeda let the comment go unanswered.

As they came upon Mill Bridge, her lips tipped into a grin, and Harry knew she was remembering how a younger Teddy would dart off for the bridge any chance he got, determined to cross it on foot. More often than not she had to cast a discreet child-minding spell to prevent him from straying more than a few feet. At least once, he’d outrun her before the spell could take, and he’d almost made it to the foot of the bridge before she caught him.

“I’d love to have you and Teddy for dinner in the garden,” Harry ventured, cautious but hopeful. He didn’t want to rush her, but he wanted her to know the invitation was there. “When he’s ready. Whenever you feel comfortable.”

“How about tomorrow?” Andromeda suggested, laughing at the shocked look that flashed across his face. “He’s better, Harry. Cleared to resume charm-protected contact by none other than the Special Adviser to the Minister himself.”

Harry laughed, feeling ten times lighter. It felt good to be able to joke, especially about Draco.

“Tomorrow is perfect.”

When she didn’t say more, he turned to find her eyes on him. He raised a brow and saw a hint of challenge glinting beneath her teasing smile.

“Invite Draco.”

*

Two years before, it had been Andromeda who first told him that Draco was back on British soil. She and Teddy had been the only reliable sources of Draco-related information since he all but disappeared after the trials.

Around the anniversary of Dumbledore’s death or the Battle of Hogwarts, some article or another inevitably dredged up his name. Or the MFN would run a special featuring pundits who strongly implied that Death Eater ideology wasn’t wrong exactly, just that their means had been flawed. That essentially the Malfoys had ruined it for everyone else by ushering in the era of so-called “snowflake government.”

But these were always fleeting mentions rooted in the past, not updates on what a real-life Draco Malfoy was doing now. Most people had no idea where he even lived, other than the fact that he was no longer in England. But he and Andy kept up a regular correspondence, and Harry knew that Draco visited for Christmases and birthdays, although he never stayed long. Except apparently now he was here to stay.

“He’s done exceptionally well abroad,” Andromeda had told him, not for the first time. Harry knew about the highly selective Swedish medical school, the residency in France, the two prestigious fellowships. The endless schooling and training that had apparently made Draco Malfoy an emerging leader in his field, the details about which went way over Harry’s head.

“St. Mungo’s recruited him to lead a new unit dedicated to neuromagical diseases,” she continued with bright eyes and cheeks flushed with pride. “He could go anywhere really, but this has always been his dream. To come back.”

She’d turned to stare out the window. They were having tea in the parlour in Grimmauld Place, a standing quasi-weekly ritual that Harry was determined to keep, even now that he’d been promoted to Head Auror. He studied the faraway look on Andy’s face, and he could hear her unspoken words. That Draco’s dream wasn’t just to come back, but to be welcomed back. To be wanted.

Harry cleared his throat. “It’s Easter hols next week, right? Do you and Teddy want to come for dinner? Kreacher has all but threatened me if I don’t start bringing more people round for meals. Apparently, he’s tired of cooking for one.”

Andromeda had turned to face him, all traces of wistfulness gone.

“Of course, dear. Teddy’s anxious to see you. Something about the Quidditch season, I can never keep up.”

She took a sip of her tea. There was a curious glint in her eyes, but she kept her voice deceptively casual.

“Invite Draco.”

April 17, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 81

Harry’s kneejerk reaction was to staunchly refuse. If he was completely honest, he’d felt more than a little angry reliving her words from two years ago, and the chain of events they’d set off, even though none of it was Andy’s fault.

There was a time when he’d thanked her endlessly for those two words. For six months of getting to re-learn Draco Malfoy. Six months of fucking and bickering and laughing and fucking some more. Painful conversations about the past that had somehow stitched together the loose seams of Harry’s heart more securely than years of Mind Healing ever could. There was no hiding between them. He and Draco knew the best and worst of each other, and to be that bare before another person and still be able to forgive and accept, to still be able to love – there was a power that Harry'd never experienced before.

Of course, all that discovery – the elusive happiness Harry had never believed possible for him – had blown up rather spectacularly, and the months and years that followed were some of his unhappiest in recent memory.

But in the end, he’d agreed to invite Draco to dinner, much to Andromeda’s barely concealed delight. It had been . . . surprising.

Afterward, Harry set the pile of dirty dishes in the sink and cast a washing charm, smiling to himself as Teddy’s excited chatter filtered in from the garden.

He heard footfalls behind him and Harry turned to find Draco clearing the steps, holding a glass in each hand with two more bobbing in the air behind him. His Charm was up and so Harry quickly cast a Bubble-Head, which they’d dispensed with during dinner following a short debate and an eventual agreement to extend the table to allow for better distancing as they ate.

“Hey,” Harry said, stepping aside so Draco could place the glasses next to the sink.

Draco’s smile was small and cautious. But it was there. “Hello.”

He looked better. The dark smudges had faded, and his skin was bright and flush from the cool weather. Arguably, Draco was under more stress now that he’d taken on a public-facing role in the pandemic, not to mention the barrage of bad press coming from the MFN. But Harry knew his own defences were nearly impenetrable now that Teddy had recovered. He was sure the same was true for Draco.

Draco crossed his arms as he leaned back against the counter, resting one ankle against the other. He was wearing what Harry privately thought of as his off-duty uniform, tailored charcoal wool trousers and a soft-looking cream jumper that was probably made of cashmere or yak wool or something equally luxurious and expensive. The type of thing Harry never paid attention to when it came to clothing unless said clothing was being worn by Draco Malfoy.

“Thank you for dinner,” said Draco after the silence grew too long.

They had been careful with each other all evening, but something about Draco’s polite tone set off a small explosion in Harry’s chest. Harry wanted to be angry with Draco, and deep down he was sure his anger was still there. But he couldn’t bring it to the surface. He was too fucking happy that Draco was here, that Teddy was healthy, that they were all okay.

“Course,” Harry replied easily. “Pretty sure we made Teddy’s year.”

He tensed before the words even cleared his lips. It was the first time someone had referenced “them” all night – the Harry and Draco who’d been together. Although it was no secret that Teddy’s greatest wish was for them to reunite. Andromeda had slipped that Harry wasn’t the only one subjected to Teddy’s not-so-subtle hints and invasive questions.

Harry needed somewhere to look that wasn’t Draco, so he grabbed the hem of his t-shirt, planning to buy time by cleaning his glasses, only to bump against the Charm when he reached for them. Embarrassed, he chanced a look at Draco and caught him stealing a glance at the strip of exposed skin above the waist of Harry’s jeans, before quickly looking away.

Draco’s expression remained impassive, his long body still stretched out lazily against the counter. But even in the low light Harry could make out the faint wash of pink that filled his cheeks.

“It seems like things are going really well,” Harry said dumbly, desperate to fill the silence. He couldn’t let himself linger on Draco’s blush or the colony of Doxies that had suddenly taken up residence in his stomach.

Better than last time. The unspoken words hung in the air between them and for a long moment they seemed to drift off, lost in separate but interlocking thoughts.

“As well as can be hoped for,” Draco said, and Harry wondered how much of the understatement was borne of caution. They were both well aware how quickly the tide could turn.

“I’m glad you’re here,” said Harry without thinking. He felt as surprised by the words as Draco looked, his mouth hanging faintly open as he stared at Harry from across the kitchen.

The words were ambiguous enough, but there were a host of possible meanings, each more dangerous than the last.

In England. In my kitchen. In my life.

Draco swallowed, and the intensity of his eyes as they roved over Harry’s face burned into his skin.

“Me too.”

April 18, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 73

Unsurprisingly, Pansy refused to wear a Bubble-Head Charm.

“We’re outside, for fuck’s sake,” she moaned, topping off Draco’s flute of champagne. “The wind will carry off any germs.”

Draco’s brow arched. “To other people, you mean?”

Pansy waved away his objections as she tucked the thick wool blanket draped over her lap tighter around her.

“Oh enough, Draco. I’ve been cooped up all alone for what feels like ages. I reorganized my closet three times, and last week I baked five loaves of sourdough bread. Five! You know how rarely I consume carbohydrates.”

“At least of the non-liquid variety,” Draco smirked. He took a sip of his champagne, relishing the rich, toasty notes as the bubbles rushed against his tongue. Despite himself he was amused by Pansy’s definition of hardship. She was devastatingly out of touch, but it was part of her particular brand of charm.

Pansy tsked, as if offended by the reminder that wine did in fact contain calories.

“Yesterday, I finished a puzzle. A puzzle, Draco. On a Saturday.” She sighed, leaning back in her chair to sip her drink. “So, tell me about your life. I need to live vicariously through someone who actually goes outside.”

“I’m not sure it will be any more thrilling than wine and puzzles,” Draco said. “It’s mostly an endless loop of my flat, Andromeda’s, St. Mungo’s and the Ministry.”

He paused as he snatched the bottle off the small table set between their chairs to refill their glasses. “Although I did go to Potter’s last night.”

Pansy’s glass paused halfway to her mouth. “Excuse me? Did you just say you went to Potter’s house?”

Draco swallowed a sigh. He’d strongly considered not telling her but Pansy was a bit like a tea kettle. The longer you left it, the louder and more demanding it became.

“Correct,” he replied.

Pansy blinked. “Harry Potter? As in, your childhood rival turned scorching love interest turned scorned lover?”

Draco rolled his eyes. The woman had a way with words.

“Yes, and before you get carried away, you should know that Andromeda and Teddy went as well. I’m sure that if not for Andromeda’s usual meddling, no invitation would have been forthcoming.”

“And?” Pansy demanded. She was nearly out of her seat, kneeling on the chair cushion as she leaned in Draco’s direction. If she wasn’t careful, she might knock over the champagne with one of her tits.

“And nothing,” Draco shrugged.

Although he wasn’t convinced that was true. Harry hadn’t acted polite merely to appease Andromeda or placate Teddy, like Draco had expected. He’d been warm, and kinder than Draco likely deserved.

“Oh don’t you dare try to pull that bullshit with me, Draco Malfoy,” Pansy protested.

Draco fiddled idly with the corner of his lap blanket. “Truly, there’s nothing to tell. He was . . . kind. Surprisingly so, considering.”

Before last night, his interactions with Harry had centred on Teddy and the virus. There had been no opportunity to examine the year and a half’s worth of unspoken words between them.

“Kind is good,” Pansy said carefully. Or, at least what counted as careful where Pansy was concerned. She usually had the tact of a charging hippogriff. But he knew where she was headed and he couldn’t allow her the head start.

“Nothing has changed, Pansy,” he said. “If anything, things are worse. O’Cannon has every reason to keep my name in his mouth and to give people fresh new reasons to loathe me.”

He couldn’t disguise the bitterness in his tone.

Just this week there’d been a patient with advanced magical core damage. He’d become severely ill at home but had refused to go to St. Mungo’s for treatment, insisting the virus was a hoax intended to give magical creatures more power over wizards. Once he could no longer cast, his family was able to drag him to hospital kicking and screaming, but by that point the damage was extensive.

Draco was asked to evaluate his level of neuromagical function, and even in his weakened state the man had managed to call Draco everything from a poof to a blood traitor to a Ministry shill. If it weren’t for Penelope’s support, he was sure the staff would happily kick him out on his arse for being more trouble than he was worth.

A high wall surrounded Pansy’s garden and Draco watched as a sparrow landed close by, pecking at the brick for any scraps of food. For a long moment he followed it with his eyes as it hopped along the wall, oblivious to the busy sounds of London humming all around them. It wasn’t quiet here like in the wizarding-only districts, but it still felt different, knowing so many wix were hiding in plain sight, even right here in Chelsea.

“Maybe it’s you that needs to be different then,” Pansy said finally.

When he turned to face her, Pansy's expression was intent and serious, and he knew she was preparing to tell him something he didn’t want to hear. He also knew it was probably something he should. Even so, he didn’t have the energy for one of her lectures.

As usual, she didn’t give a whit what he wanted.

“If you decide you can only have Potter, or come home for good, when there’s no one left to write a nasty article about you, or bad-mouth you for the past, you’re going to be waiting a very, very long time, Draco.” Her voice was firm but not unkind.

“You know that’s not what I’m waiting for,” he said quietly, turning away from her too-bright stare. “But there’s a difference between subjecting myself to all that and forcing someone else to bear it. Especially when that someone can’t help but throw himself in the way like some human shield.”

Draco tipped his head back and drained his glass, although the champagne now tasted stale and sour on his tongue.

“I won’t be rescued again,” he said with an air of finality. He felt Pansy’s eyes boring into the side of his face but he refused to look.

“Well,” Pansy said after a long moment, standing as she plucked the empty bottle from the table. “Since the love of your life turns out to be your pride, by all means, carry on.”

She headed into the house without looking back, the door closing behind her with a loud click.

April 21, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 64

Annnnd, we’re back! Thanks again for tuning into The Jordan Hour on WWN. I’m your host, Lee Jordan, and we’ve been speaking with our very distinguished guest today, Healer Draco Malfoy, an expert in neuromagical diseases and newly appointed Special Adviser to Minister Shacklebolt on the Versipellis virus.

Before the break, Healer Malfoy walked us through the nuts and bolts of what we know now about the virus, its mechanism of transmission, and how charm use and social distancing have helped St. Mungo’s keep ahead of the virus’ bell curve.

Healer Malfoy, let’s talk about the potion protocol that’s recently been instituted at St. Mungo’s.

Absolutely, Lee. The potion works on three different fronts. First, it helps repair magical core damage from the virus. Second, it has a protective effect to prevent further destruction. Finally, it prevents the virus from replicating, which reduces overall morbidity time.

Wow, incredible. How is the protocol currently being administered?

Initially we began with only the most serious cases, where the degree of magical core damage and risk of permanent magical loss outweighed any potential risk of the potion itself. Like the virus, the potion is novel and we didn’t have any long-term data to support its safety or to rule out side effects. But given the extraordinary circumstances we’re facing, and the seriousness of magical depletion, we felt the risk was justified, and our patients agreed. We saw tremendous improvement in hospital, and we’ve continued to monitor these patients following discharge. We’ve now broadened the criteria to include moderate cases, and we’ve seen the same results.

Which is nothing short of impressive, Healer Malfoy. I’ve looked at the data, and the outcomes speak for themselves. Have you identified any notable side effects since the start of the protocol?

After the initial dose, some patients report mild gastrointestinal distress that resolves quickly. Otherwise, none. However, I have it on good authority that the potion’s taste leaves something to be desired.

Ha, well, you can’t win them all, can you? Nothing a little pumpkin juice can’t fix.

Alright folks, that’s all for today’s episode of The Jordan Hour. Thank you again to our esteemed guest, Healer Draco Malfoy. Until next time, I’m Lee Jordan, signing off.

*

Draco had headed straight from Jordan’s studio to the Ministry. After three hours of meetings, during which Granger and Robards had nearly come to blows over whether to extend the stay-at-home order another thirty days, he’d dragged himself to the canteen for tea and a cheese toastie, which was one of only four edible food items available at the Ministry canteen.

As he tried to sweet talk Eileen, the septuagenarian dinner lady, into slipping a bit of extra bacon into his toastie, Potter spotted him, approaching right away to congratulate him on Jordan’s show. Oblivious to the twin scowls aimed in his direction, he had asked – in a manner Draco might have described as shyly if it’d been anyone but Harry Potter – whether Draco wanted to join him and Teddy at Andromeda’s that evening.

Which was how Draco found himself covered in a thin layer of white flour in Andromeda’s brightly lit kitchen, trying his hand for the first time at banana bread.

“What are you two gawking at?” Draco demanded.

Harry and Teddy were watching him with matching expressions of wary interest, and Draco was trying his best to appear stern. It was an uphill battle considering he was currently sporting an emerald green apron that proclaimed “Cunning in the Kitchen” in loopy, silver script.

Harry tried to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand, but instead his fingers bumped against the smooth surface of the Bubble-Head Charm and sent a small white cloud of flour cascading to the floor.

“It’s just,” Harry paused, frowning. “Why would someone even need a spell like that? For what possible reason was it invented to begin with?”

Draco smiled slyly as he aimed his wand at another banana. A moment later the firm, spotless yellow peel turned soft and brown.

“For precisely this reason, Potter.”

Harry gave him a decidedly unimpressed look. “For banana bread?”

Draco nodded. “The natural sugars are released with age, which adds sweetness to the recipe.”

Harry huffed. “No, I get that part but–” He cut himself off with a shake of his head. “You know what, never mind.”

“More importantly,” Teddy piped up, his gangly, teenage form half-draped over the counter as he plunged his fingers into a bowl of sticky batter. Draco made a mental note to avoid Teddy’s finished product. “What would happen if I cast that spell on Brumelda? She’s already brown and wrinkly.” His gaze bounced around the kitchen as if unconsciously hunting for his unwitting test subject. “Maybe it would have the opposite effect, and she’d turn back into a kitten.”

As if on cue, Brumelda materialized near the refrigerator and let out a plaintive cry, arching her back to rub up against the bottom edge of the door. Draco swore her eyes slitted in Teddy’s direction, as if she knew he was plotting to experiment on her with a fruit-ripening charm.

“I’d advise against any Brumelda-related research if I were you, Edward,” he warned. “She and Andromeda may be getting on in years, but they both still have claws, I can assure you.”

Teddy looked chastised for a brief moment before his face split into a wicked smile.

“I’m telling Gran you called her old,” he practically crooned.

Draco raised a brow. “Try it and I’ll wither you like an ancient banana.”

“Okay, okay,” Harry chuckled, putting his hands up between them. “Moratorium on all fruit-related threats. I don’t want to have to arrest either of you today.”

Harry’s laughing eyes found Draco’s and held them for a beat too long, the shared moment of mirth morphing into a frisson of heat. His smile quickly turned electric, his gaze flickering hotly over Draco’s mouth to the base of his throat and back, mouth twisted in tantalizing promise.

Draco wrenched his eyes away, arranging his halved banana slices on top of his batter-filled pan before turning to slide it in the oven. He dawdled with the settings, giving himself time to let his blood cool. A month ago, he wouldn’t have believed Harry would willingly be in the same room with him, let alone make suggestive eyes over baked goods. He needed to remind himself they were as much a danger to each other as ever.

The oven beeped loudly, giving away Draco’s needless hovering. Before he could turn to face the rest of the kitchen, a large, warm hand smoothed over his lower back.

“Room for mine?” Harry murmured.

Draco peered over his shoulder to where Harry was holding his filled loaf pan aloft. Wordlessly he opened the oven door, and Harry slotted his banana bread next to Draco’s, never easing the warm pressure against the base of Draco’s spine.

“What are you doing, Potter?” Draco whispered, trying to keep his voice low so only Harry could hear.

“Baking,” Harry said glibly. Draco’s mouth opened, preparing to tell him – quietly but decisively – to fuck right off when Teddy’s voice cut in.

“Please don’t argue.”

As if in sync, Draco and Harry turned to where Teddy stood at the kitchen island. Beneath the Bubble-Head Charm, his hair flickered from black to blue to sandy blond, his metamorph control still slightly weakened from the virus. His features were bunched in an expression that was part pleading and part frustrated, but Draco could make out the sadness tugging at the corners of his eyes.

Quickly Teddy lowered his gaze to the countertop, a wave of embarrassment seeming to take hold at his earnest display. His fingers idly pushed a thin layer of flour into a small hill.

“Just nice to be together again,” he mumbled finally, shrugging in feigned nonchalance.

Draco wasn’t sure what hurt worse, the way Teddy’s words slammed into his chest, or the cold, hollow feeling that crawled up his belly as Harry’s hand slid away.

“You’re right, it is nice,” Harry said, but his voice didn’t seem to reflect the anguish throbbing inside Draco’s chest cavity.

Harry reached across the island for Teddy’s pan, sliding it across the marble and then tucking it in a neat row beside the already baking breads.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Draco said. He tried to aim a reassuring smile in Teddy’s direction, but Teddy’s uncertain nod suggested it was closer to a grimace.

Draco slid open the back door and stepped out into Andromeda’s garden, dropping his charm and taking in large, gulping lungfuls of cool evening air.

He knew he needed to pull himself together and go back inside, to smile and joke and prove to Teddy that, despite his disappearing act of late, he hadn’t lost him. He needed to shake off the taunting voice spinning through his head that told him, no matter what he did, he’d always be a disappointment to the people he loved.

Behind him the glass door slid open, and Draco knew it was too much to hope it was Teddy who had come to check on him.

“Go away, Potter.”

Footsteps drew nearer until a sudden warmth stole over Draco, Harry’s broad form blocking out the wind.

“If you insist on running, Draco,” Harry said, his voice surprisingly gentle, “I’ll have no choice but to keep coming after you.”

Startled, Draco turned around. Harry was closer than he expected, less than an arm's length away, his hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans. It was the closest they’d been without a charm between them since his return to England, and Draco swore he could feel the heat coming off Harry’s body like a physical force.

“I tried it the other way,” Harry continued, taking a step closer. “But I can’t bank on another pandemic, and I’m not willing to wait you out any longer.” He smiled ruefully. “Not with how fucking stubborn you are.”

Draco blinked, finding himself at a rare loss for words, but before he could organize his thoughts into anything resembling a coherent reply, Harry was in front of him. His hands slipped into Draco’s hair, thumbs brushing over his jaw and the sides of his throat before he pulled Draco’s head down and pressed soft, warm lips against Draco’s mouth.

Draco’s hands automatically clutched at Harry’s sides, fisting the thin, black jumper as if it was the only thing tethering him to Earth. He pressed closer until he could feel Harry everywhere, his head turning fuzzy as muscle memory took over and their bodies thrust tightly together.

But when Draco tried to deepen the kiss, Harry pulled away, leaving Draco cold and shivering. Evening had shrouded the garden in quiet and their panting echoed loudly in the stillness.

“We should probably get back to it,” Harry said with effort, tilting his head in the direction of the house. His eyes looked glassy but there was an unmistakable flicker of satisfaction in them that Draco chose to ignore.

Peering behind Harry, Draco groaned when he spotted Teddy on the other side of the glass doors, his hands wrapped around his throat and his body heaving in an exaggerated pantomime of retching. But there was a brilliant smile on his face that Draco feared matched his own.

“Come on then,” Draco said with as much dignity as he could muster in his current condition. This time he offered no resistance when Harry’s hand found its way to the small of his back. “But neither of you are getting any of my banana bread.”

April 24, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 46

The lunch crowd was in full swing as Harry wound his way to a small table near the back. Circling around, he pulled out one of the mismatched chairs and took a seat, his eyes intent on Draco as he settled next to him. Ron sat down last, already signalling to the waitress for three pints.

“Ron,” Harry said flatly.

“Save it.” Ron said. “It’s Friday and I haven’t seen the inside of a pub for over a month. We just survived a three-hour Versipellis briefing where it was decided the stay-at-home order wouldn’t be renewed, and no one was AK’d. I intend to celebrate.”

In a bit of good timing, the buxom, middle-aged waitress set down their drinks right as he finished his speech, shooting Ron a friendly wink when he took a deep drink of his pint and unleashed a grateful moan.

In addition to lifting the stay-at-home order, the Bubble-Head Charm guidelines had been modified to allow charm-free indoor contact with anyone who’d recently tested negative for the virus. The detection spell was the combined brainchild of Draco and Penelope, and its accuracy had been tested at St. Mungo’s over the last week. Yesterday, Draco had shared the incantation and wand movement with the press during his daily briefing, and the Ministry was now encouraging wide public use.

“What you mean is that your wife didn’t AK anyone,” Draco drawled. “Although it was a near thing.”

Ron licked foam from his lips with a satisfied hum.

“Very true,” he grinned, slouching in his chair with a contented sigh. “You of all people know just how formidable my wife can be, ferret face.”

Draco raised an eyebrow but said nothing as he scanned his menu.

Two years prior, Ron and Hermione had been nonplussed when Harry broke the news that he was dating Draco. Even after the initial surprise wore off, Harry had had to lobby long and hard to get the four of them in a room together. But he’d persisted. Unbelievable as it seemed to everyone else, Harry had plans for Draco, ones that required his chosen family to be in the same room with him for sustained periods of time without anyone getting hurt. But Harry wasn’t above laying on a bit of orphan guilt to get his way, which is precisely what he did.

The first meeting was . . . not great, to put it mildly. Hermione had singed a hole through the arm of one of Draco’s fancy sweaters with a Stinging hex within the first ten minutes, and Ron had spent the next twenty-four hours barking like a dog whenever he tried to speak.

In the end, the three of them had struck a bargain. Restitution, Hermione called it. Draco had had to meet with Hermione weekly to help her prepare amendments for a St. Mungo’s funding bill headed for the report stage, and Ron got to call Draco ferret face with impunity for the remainder of his life. In exchange, Draco received understanding verging on forgiveness, and the blessing of the dearest people in Harry’s life.

Now sitting across from Ron and Draco, Harry felt a squeeze at the base of his throat. For a long time he’d worried that Draco had put an end to his plans for good.

Their food arrived before he had the chance to become too maudlin, and Harry gave himself over to the siren sound of treacle-cured bacon. Filled with tentative hope about the virus, and his skin practically tingling to have Draco within arm’s reach, he didn’t even blink when Ron ordered a second round.

“Careful,” Draco said, his eyes slanting in Harry’s direction. “Three is his limit. There’d be quite the scandal if an unsuspecting Ministry lift attendant were accosted by a handsy Harry Potter.”

Harry grinned at him lazily, his body warm and loose. “As I recall, you like it when I get handsy.”

Harry noticed Draco stiffen in his chair, although it wouldn’t have been obvious to anyone else. When his eyes locked with Harry’s there was something tightly leashed in his gaze, and it took Harry a full thirty seconds to register what he’d said.

“Merlin’s soggy balls.” Harry and Draco’s heads whipped in his direction as Ron slammed his palm down on the tabletop. “I owe Hermione ten Galleons and a week’s worth of foot rubs,” he groused unhappily before shovelling the last of his steak and kidney pie into his mouth.

Draco and Harry stared at him dumbly.

“What in Merlin’s name are you talking about, Weasley?” Draco demanded.

“Hermione and I bet on how long it’d take you two to get together again,” Ron said.

Harry glanced nervously at Draco. It was one thing to snog him in Andromeda’s garden and promise to chase him wherever he ran – a promise Harry fully intended to keep. But it was quite another for Ron to declare them back together. Not to mention that Ron and Hermione apparently deemed it an inevitability when it felt to Harry like anything but.

Draco’s shoulders relaxed infinitesimally and he returned to his grilled prawns without a word. Harry let out a long breath, hiding his small smile behind the rim of his glass.

*

Harry was restless by the end of the day.

He’d spent the afternoon working on overtime coverage for Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. Now that the Ministry had relaxed restrictions, he had to plan for an overcorrection. Droves of wix were eager to get out of their homes after being cooped for so long, but still anxious to be close to others after so much time apart. It was a potentially volatile combination.

But the bulk of his energy went into dodging Ron. His increasingly smug, pun-filled ribbing about Draco made Harry feel more hopeful than was good for him.

So that’s why, instead of heading home to enjoy the fact that he didn’t have to wake up tomorrow and go to the Ministry, Harry found himself back in Muggle London.

He jogged up to the door of the building, which felt almost familiar. He’d seen it only once but had imagined visiting more times than he could count. As he stretched out his hand to press the intercom button, the door swung open and a man stepped out. Harry didn’t recognize him until the tall, sleek dog trotted out behind him, gliding down the steps in time with his owner.

He was so busy staring after the odd-seeming pair, he barely caught the door before it clicked shut again.

There was no elevator in the building, and as he climbed the stairs, Harry had time to wonder if showing up at Draco’s door unannounced was a bit much. Creepy, even. But before he could talk himself out of it he was staring at a plain black door with a shiny brass 4 affixed above the peep hole.

Heart hammering in his chest, Harry knocked twice. After a few minutes of shuffling, Draco’s voice preceded him into the hallway.

“I’ll give you points for speed, but if you forgot the duck sauce again—”

Draco froze with one hand on the doorknob, the other holding the ends of a blanket gathered at the centre of his chest, which was draped over his back like a cape. He had on heather grey sweats, his long feet bare against the wide-planked wood floor. The outfit was still more expensive than half of Harry’s formal wear, but he looked soft and casual and private. A version of Draco few got to see.

Draco appeared lost for words, giving Harry time to run his eyes over how the thin material of his joggers hugged his strong thighs. With a jolt Harry remembered how they’d felt locked tightly around him and he shifted, trying not to get too caught up in the memory before–

“Is that Molly’s blanket?” Harry asked, dumbstruck. He could just make out Draco’s initials peeking out from between his knuckles.

Draco’s eyes narrowed, the look on his face one Harry instantly recognized as his caught-out expression.

“I left it in Paris, but I had to go back for it. It’s been unseasonably cold,” he said almost accusingly, as if the explanation was self-evident and Harry was unreasonable to ask.

“It has been,” Harry agreed faintly as he stepped halfway through the door and into Draco’s space, cupping his face with both hands before taking his mouth in a rough kiss.

April 25, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 29

They snogged in Draco’s doorway until the neighbour across the landing arrived home with three people in tow and reluctantly, they pulled apart, leaning against one another for balance as they caught their breath.

After stowing his takeaway in the fridge, Harry coaxed Draco into going for a drink nearby. Draco was surprisingly agreeable, even if Harry’s plea for him to wear his sweats had fallen on deaf ears. Quicker than Harry believed him capable, Draco dressed in his off-duty uniform and pushed Harry out the door, tossing Molly’s blanket on the sofa from where it had puddled at their feet by the door.

There was a posh bar with an outdoor garden not far from Draco’s flat. They sat close on a tufted banquet beneath a canopy of flowers and the electric glow of an outdoor heater, where Draco let Harry kiss him again and again. They even managed to crack the practiced boredom of their server who rolled her eyes at them with an amused smile.

By the end of the evening, Harry was drunk on whiskey and Draco’s drugging kisses, his limbs heavy and languid, nearly causing him to stumble as he Apparated home after they said goodnight.

The next morning, he treated himself to a lie-in followed by a proper fry up, whistling as the eggs and bacon sizzled on the stove. His good mood seemed contagious because even Kreacher appeared to be in high spirits, moving stealthily around the kitchen with his lips pursed in a happy little pucker as he hummed tunelessly along with Harry. He even generously forgot to chastise Harry after he set the dishwashing charm.

However, the owl arrival of the Saturday edition of the Prophet brought his happy morning to a crashing halt.

The headline was lurid.

Take Two! Ex-Death Eater Takes Second Shot at Restoring Malfoy Family Political Power

Head Auror Potter up close and personal with Minister’s Special Adviser

Below was a picture of Harry and Draco cozied up at the cocktail bar, Harry’s arm tucked possessively under Draco’s thigh as he practically pulled him onto his lap. As the image moved, he watched himself lean forward, murmuring something that made Draco’s eyes smoulder before he kissed him slow and filthy. Harry’s gut clenched in involuntary pleasure even as the rest of him revolted.

The paparazzi’s usual shenanigans had ground to a halt when the virus broke out. The major media outlets’ limited staff had been reassigned to full-time Versipellis coverage. Harry hadn’t even considered that someone might have followed him into Muggle London as he and Draco slipped into their seats, the rest of the bar fading into the background.

He dropped his head to the table with a guttural groan. Some fucking Auror he was.

*

Gooooood morning, wizards and witches of Great Britain!

This is Kevin O’Cannon and you’re listening to O’Cannon Encounter. I’m coming to you live this Saturday from MFN, the Magic First Network. Where wizards will always be number one.

Let me just say we’ve got a juicy show for you today.

As most of you know, although the Prophet has veered a bit left for my tastes in recent years, I like to keep an eye on what’s being reported in the British Wizarding press. And boy was I glad for my weekend subscription this week!

By now you may have heard that Boy Who Lived turned Ministry lackey, Head Auror Harry Potter, was caught cavorting with none other than the Minister’s new Special Adviser on the Versipellis virus, former Death Eater, and would-be political scion, Healer Draco Malfoy.

This is a relationship redux for the pair, once Hogwarts rivals who found themselves on opposite sides of the war. Potter’s always had a soft spot for the son of convicted war criminal and Dark Lord inner circle member Lucius Malfoy, who is now serving a life sentence in Azkaban. Potter testified on behalf of Malfoy the younger and his mother in the Second War trials, all but ensuring the two would walk away scot-free.

Still, the public was shocked when two years ago Healer Malfoy washed up on British soil after more than a decade abroad with a slew of healing credentials under his robes and a prominent post at St. Mungo’s, despite his checkered past.

His ascension back into wizarding society made a whole lot more sense when the Prophet uncovered a secret romance between Malfoy and England’s golden boy, none other than Harry Potter himself. And it was yours truly who first asked whether it was high time to knock Potter off the moral pedestal we’ve been keeping him on all these years.

Unsurprisingly, since Potter was clearly the one pulling strings behind the scenes, Malfoy couldn’t cut it at Mungo’s and he disappeared less than six months later.

So, when Shacklebolt announced Malfoy as Special Adviser a few weeks ago, I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. But the kneazle has finally revealed its spots, and the Prophet has exposed the whole affair as another Malfoy power grab orchestrated by his erstwhile turned current lover, Head Auror Potter.

Malfoy’s been preaching to the public for weeks at his daily briefings, and he is the chief architect of the much-lauded detection spell that every establishment seems eager to impose on every wizard who crosses its threshold. But is Malfoy even qualified to dole out this kind of medical advice? Are we really going to douse our families in Malfoy-brewed potions and subject them to Malfoy-created spells, when clearly, he only got the job after hopping into bed – yet again – with the Head Auror? A man who, let’s be honest, is not afraid to mix business with pleasure.

Let me be the first to call for the immediate dismissal of Malfoy as Special Adviser, and a full Wizengamot investigation into Head Auror Potter’s abuse of power and violations of the public trust on the part of Shacklebolt’s government.

Encounter fans, are you with me?

April 27, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 23

The sky was pissing rain as Harry made his way to the Ministry on Monday morning, which suited his mood perfectly.

After the Daily Prophet and Kevin O’Cannon shot his weekend to hell, he’d spent most of the next forty-eight hours holed up with Ministry spokespeople and crisis managers and solicitors, pre-emptively preparing a defence to O’Cannon’s charges of corruption. What little time he had left was spent hiding out at Ron and Hermione’s house feeling sorry for himself. They plied him with good booze and home cooked food while his godchildren crawled all over him, requesting trick charms on demand. All of which helped to soothe his aching heart and cool the simmering rage that felt like it might boil over at any moment.

When Andy Fire-called to check on him, she admitted that she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Draco since before the article broke, looking more than a little concerned. Despite the all-out threats he’d received from the Ministry’s public relations team, Harry had Floo called him a half dozen times and popped by the flat twice more. He’d gone so far as to Fire-call Pansy, who tried her best to conceal her worry, even as she threatened his bollocks if he made any public statements without Draco’s permission.

“You fucked it up last time, Potter,” she said unyieldingly. “If he leaves again, it’s on your head.” Then she asked to register “an official request” to have O’Cannon drawn and quartered for crimes against the public good.

As he headed towards his office through the bullpen, Harry was surprised to find faces smiling at him from every direction. He’d been prepared for pity or even a bit of embarrassment. For the most part, the corps had shown him nothing but loyalty since he came out as a junior Auror. But he had to admit it was awkward to see your boss feel up another man on the front page of the paper.

Ron, who was chatting with a group of senior Aurors outside his door, greeted Harry with the biggest grin yet. Before Harry could ask him what the hell was going on, Ron split open his robes, revealing a t-shirt printed with “TEAM DRARRY” across the front.

Harry stared at the shirt, unsure if he truly understood its meaning. Dumbfounded, he looked up at Ron for an explanation, only to find the remaining Aurors standing with him – and a handful of others scattered throughout the bullpen – wearing t-shirts with an identical message. One of them had even charmed the words to blink.

“Just a way for the corps to show some support,” Ron said, his voice dripping with satisfaction as he tossed something in Harry’s direction. Harry caught it reflexively, belatedly recognizing it as a copy of Witch Weekly. Printed on the cover was the photo that had run in the Prophet with the t-shirt slogan blazoned across the bottom: “Team Drarry.” He scanned the coverline, which declared “England’s favourite star-crossed lovers’ second chance at love.”

Ron’s eyes glittered with barely suppressed glee.

“What in the ever-loving fuck?” Harry asked dazedly, and a round of raucous laughter spilled through the bullpen.

Ron shrugged happily. “Beats the hell out of me, but I reckon it’s a good thing. This time, O’Cannon and the Prophet aren’t going to get the only say.”

Hamish Brown piped up beside Ron. He was a burly Scot from Aberdeen who looked like he had more than a little ogre ancestry in his blood. But in truth he was as soft-hearted as they came, wrapped around the fingers of his twin girls, both Ravenclaws in Teddy’s year at Hogwarts. On more than one occasion he’d been known to don tights and a tutu in the name of daughterly encouragement.

“Me girls think it’s downright romantic,” Brown said earnestly. “They’d swear up and down the corruption angle’s all for show. Called O’Cannon a right homophobe.”

He smiled as Harry swallowed roughly around the growing lump in his throat.

“Sometimes it’s the bairns who see things clearest.”

*

A half hour after a surprisingly emotional Harry ordered everyone back to work, the office flooded with Patronuses from the Diagon street team.

O’Cannon giving impromptu speech on Gringotts steps. Crowd growing by the minute. Backup needed.

Harry and Ron seamlessly fell into step, the light-hearted atmosphere from earlier now focused and serious. Ten minutes later, three teams arrived at the apparition point outside the Leaky, Harry, Ron and Brown at the head of each contingent.

The teams fanned out in a modified kettling formation, Harry covering from the west while Ron’s team set up behind the crowd and Brown and his team circled behind Gringotts to cover the east side of the street. The crowd was at least fifty deep and growing, more and more people streaming from the direction of the apparition point. The Aurors weren’t preventing anyone from coming or going, but they were positioned to move quickly if things got out of hand and the crowd needed to be contained.

O’Cannon’s voice carried from the steps with help of a Sonorous. Gesturing dramatically, he appeared to be in his element as shouts of agreement and encouragement lifted from the crowd.

“We need to send a message to Shacklebolt and his snowflake government,” O’Cannon bellowed as he pumped his fist. “We need to demand the Minister stop worrying about the Ick-quisitor community over a few cases of the sniffles, and worry instead about exposing decent, hard-working wizards and witches to experimental charm work created by a former Death Eater who’s in bed with the Head Auror – literally!”

The crowd cheered wildly as O’Cannon clapped and urged them on. Harry locked eyes with Ron from the other side of the street, a grim moment of understanding passing between them. This wasn’t the first time a segment of the wizarding population had turned on Harry, and it wouldn’t be the last. But the situation was anything but typical. Fear and uncertainty over the virus and isolation from the lockdown had exacerbated existing biases and cross-being tensions, which meant the crowd was more likely to act unpredictably.

Harry was conducting a visual scan of the perimeter when his attention jerked back to O’Cannon, who was now pointing right at him.

“Look at this, ladies and gentlemen,” O’Cannon announced gleefully. “We’ve been graced by the Golden Boy himself.”

Dozens of heads swiveled in Harry’s direction, and he adjusted his grip on his wand. Behind him he felt his team shift, limbs settling into a ready position, prepared to shield or strike as needed.

O’Cannon continued, the crowd completely in his thrall. “We already know Shacklebolt and his corrupt Ministry won’t hold Auror Potter responsible. But what about you, good people of Wizarding Britain? Are you finally going to hold Harry Potter to account?”

The next moment the crowd erupted.

April 27, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 23

The Patronus found Draco in the exact spot he’d occupied for almost two days.

Blaise lazed on the matching Chesterfield opposite him. The air was thick with the smell of booze and at least two packs of Dunhills. Draco had protested half-heartedly in the name of Healing before giving himself over to the pleasant haze of tobacco and aged whiskey, and the comfortingly mocking support of his oldest friend.

“I must say,” Blaise mused languidly, ashing his cigarette on the onyx ashtray set on the floor between them before carefully sipping the cup of coffee balanced on his chest. “As regrettable as this whole media hubbub may be, at least it’s forced you from your relentless workaday lifestyle. I was starting to believe you might return to Paris without paying me a visit.”

Draco pierced him with a derisive stare.

“You do realize we’ve been weathering an unprecedented pandemic, yes? Targeting a relatively new subset of the population to devastating effect, and in the process managing to completely overwhelm our medical and law enforcement infrastructures?”

Blaise waved a hand through the air as two perfect rings of smoke spouted from his lips.

“That’s London. This is Berlin.”

Draco rolled his eyes before sipping his own espresso, which had been prepared with a sliver of lemon peel, exactly as he liked it.

“As usual, your compassion is humbling,” he drawled.

Blaise snorted lightly. “Be grateful, you great prig. Not only have I sheltered you in wake of yet another sex scandal, I’ve lied about it to Pansy, which has the potential to shorten my life by at least a decade.”

Draco smiled despite the churn of guilt that roiled in his gut. He adored Pansy, but he couldn’t take any high-handed meddling at the moment.

They lapsed into a contented silence, broken only by soft slurps and the electric sizzle of Blaise’s cigarette, until a sleek dolphin streaked through the living room in a slash of silver and white.

Draco sat up immediately, his empty espresso cup tumbling onto the rug-clad floor.

Penelope’s steady voice filled the room. “O’Cannon protest in Diagon. We expect injuries. Need you at Mungo’s right away.”

*

Draco’s breathing was laboured before his feet even touched the ground.

He pushed through the crowd streaming from the apparition point in the direction of Gringotts until a wall of people prevented him from moving any closer to the steps. Draco halted, his mind racing as his eyes scanned the mass of bodies. Only then did he realize the crowd was being contained by a kettling spell, Aurors with drawn wands stationed every few feet around the perimeter.

A few metres away, movement forced his attention. A group of Aurors standing shoulder to shoulder broke through the spell-contained crowd and started to move in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron.

An injury, Draco realized alertly. Likely a bad one, if the Aurors were opting to levitate the person to the Floo rather than transporting to St. Mungo’s via apparition.

Draco stepped in the direction of the Aurors, ready to help stabilize the victim, when the formation shifted and the head of the person floating between them came into view.

One covered in thick, unruly locks of midnight black.

April 28, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 15

When he woke the first thing Harry noticed was the smell.

No matter how strong the freshening charms or antiseptic potions, the scent of St. Mungo’s was pungent. A mix of sweat and illness and hospital food that hung in the air and clung to the bedsheets.

He hated it.

The second was Teddy, whose Bubble-Head-clad face came into view as soon as he opened his eyes.

“He’s up,” Teddy said excitedly, his face looming inches from Harry’s. Teddy’s hair was bright magenta today, a pulse of life in the bleak, sanitized room.

Harry recognized Andromeda’s voice next. “Give him some room, love.”

Her tone was gentle but threaded with relief, and Harry closed his eyes against a pang of regret, wishing he could have spared her a visit to St. Mungo’s.

“Told ya he’d be okay,” said Ron from somewhere to his left before clapping Teddy on the shoulder. He drew his wand and Harry recognized the non-verbal tempus before a clockface shimmered into view and then dissolved.

He grinned down at Harry. “Only twenty-one hours. Your recovery time is improving.”

“Prick,” Harry said, smiling up at him.

“Language.” Hermione’s lips twitched as she came into view from the other side of his bed. Her mass of curls crowded her face inside the Bubble-Head Charm, reminding Harry of when they were first years and Hermione seemed to have more frizz than head.

Harry wasn’t sure what he’d been hit with outside of Gringotts. The moment O’Cannon pointed him out he’d felt a swell of hostility ripple through the crowd. Within seconds, he’d thrown up a shield, but not before a single spell managed to strike him in the chest.

He shifted against the mattress. A quick scan told him the injury was localized, and he could feel freshly repaired skin throb near his shoulder. Given the crowd composition and total downtime, he’d guess a Level II hex cast inexpertly. Which explained Ron’s easy reassurance of Teddy and Hermione’s bout of good humour.

“My apologies, Chief Witch Granger-Weasley,” Harry teased.

“Should I go get him?” Teddy asked over his shoulder. Harry caught his uncertain expression before something on Teddy’s chest distracted him.

“For Merlin’s sake, Ron,” Harry groaned.

Beneath Teddy’s black-and-white check shirt was a light grey t-shirt with “Team Drarry” spelled out in bright green.

Teddy pinched the t-shirt between his fingers and stretched the fabric taut as he pulled it away from his body, as if to give Harry a better look. As though Harry couldn’t see it clearly in all its neon glory.

“Brilliant, right?” Teddy enthused and Harry groaned again, fumbling for the edge of his bedsheets before he pulled them over his head.

“I think we should let Harry rest now,” Andromeda cut in, her tone amused. Harry felt a squeeze of his ankle before he heard Teddy huff and some shuffling followed by the snick of the door.

“It’s safe now,” Hermione said, her voice far too pleased for Harry’s liking.

He lowered the sheet. Ignoring the heat he could feel colouring his cheeks, he got straight to business.

“Suspect apprehended?”

“Perp more like it,” Ron snorted. “Given the several dozen witnesses. But yeah, in custody.”

“O’Cannon?” Harry asked next, glancing at Hermione whose face pinched.

“He was brought in for questioning,” Ron said. “Inciting a riot is on the table.”

Hermione pressed her lips together and Harry raised his brows.

“You’re worried?” he asked. Harry had long appreciated that while he and Ron faced their fair share of ethical dilemmas, Auror work was much more straightforward than what Hermione dealt with on an average day at the Wizengamot.

She shook her head, her curls swishing inside the Bubble-Head Charm. “It’s the right move. But I expect some backlash given the current climate.”

Harry nodded tiredly. He would deal with it when he was back at the office. Right now, he was ready to get home to his own bed.

“Wait,” he said suddenly. He tried to sit up but the tightness in his chest made him think better of it and he lowered back against the pillows. “What did Teddy mean when he asked if he should get him?”

Hermione and Ron exchanged a look and Harry’s heart started to thud wildly against his sternum.

“He’s here?”

Hermione smiled wryly. “He made quite the scene yesterday when they suggested he leave after visiting hours.”

“I am a Special Adviser to Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt,” Ron shrilled indignantly in an atrocious imitation of Draco’s crisp consonants. He gave an exaggerated shudder and Hermione turned away, trying to hold back her laughter. “Downright Lucius-esque, mate. Terrifying, really.”

Harry rolled his eyes, secretly pleased.

“We’ll send him in,” Hermione said. She puckered her lips as she touched two fingers to the clear curve of her Bubble-Head Charm before leaning to press them to Harry’s cheek.

“Rest up,” Ron said as they moved toward the door. “Because work is going to be a goddamn nightmare.”

“You better get that shirt back from Teddy and burn it!” he called after them. Ron’s laughter drifted through the crack of the door before it snapped shut.

A bleary-eyed Draco slipped in a minute later, his eyes roving over Harry with the incisive gaze of a Healer. But there was something else too. Something that felt a lot like the palpable worry of a lover.

Harry swallowed around the gratitude and yearning and relief that threatened to overwhelm him.

“Hi.”

Draco finished his inspection and met his eyes. “Hello.”

Carefully Harry shifted to the far side of the bed, breaking their gaze to stare pointedly at the newly created space beside him. Draco hesitated, and for a moment Harry thought he might refuse before he crossed the room and lowered himself to the bed.

They sat together for a long moment before Harry spoke first. “Take down the charm.”

Draco’s eyes were roaming over him again like he was searching for untreated wounds.

“Draco.”

“I can’t,” Draco said distractedly. “The policy.”

St. Mungo’s still required the Bubble-Head Charm for staff and visitors, but patients were spared if their detection spell came back clean.

Draco’s hand twitched near his thigh and Harry knew he was holding himself back from running his own diagnostics.

“Take it down, Draco,” he repeated, firmer this time.

Pausing his thorough survey, Draco’s penetrating stare met his and a moment later the Bubble-Head disappeared.

Harry let out a breath, his chest loosening for the first time since he’d opened his eyes. His hand searched in the bedclothes, and Draco watched wordlessly as Harry’s fingers closed over his, linking their hands.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Harry said finally.

Draco averted his gaze, but he adjusted himself on the bed until his side was pressed fully against Harry’s.

“And I’m sorry.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Draco said as he sat up, attempting to pull his hand away until Harry gently tugged him back to the bed.

Draco sighed irritably, burrowing into the pillows. “It’s so very like you to swoop in and steal my apology from your sick bed.”

Harry laughed softly, lifting their linked hands to press a kiss to the back of Draco’s knuckles.

“It is, isn’t it?” he said before his smile turned wistful. “I’ve missed you so fucking much.”

Harry’s heart clenched as Draco turned away. But he stayed quiet and waited. He’d learned the hard way that he’d never known patience until the day Draco had told him he was moving back to France.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut but then he looked right at Harry, their faces so close now, his expression as intent as Harry had ever seen it.

“O’Cannon’s mindless sheep aside, the press has been mostly fair. The Ministry, St. Mungo’s, they’re on my side.” His lips tipped up in a small, almost disbelieving smile. “Our side,” he murmured. His hand tightened around Harry’s, although Harry wasn’t sure if he realized it.

Draco’s gaze sharpened. “But it won’t always be like this, Harry. It can all turn.”

Again.

Harry was prepared to argue. He wouldn’t let go without a fight this time. He’d meant what he told him — he was prepared to chase Draco as far as he might go.

But Draco then squeezed his hand painfully hard, effectively shutting him up. That one had definitely been on purpose.

“I can’t have you meddling again,” Draco continued. “Throwing yourself in the line of fire whenever things turn sour.”

Draco paused, sucking in a deep breath. Harry could feel his heartbeat everywhere, like there was too much blood in his body, his palm slick where it was caught in Draco’s grip. Slowly, Draco released the air in a soft whoosh.

“But I won’t run again when you do.”

Something buzzed in Harry’s ears, and it took a moment to realize it was the sound of his own breathing. Draco’s eyes were locked on his, his gaze cautious and searching. But Harry saw the hope shivering at the edges.

Harry turned toward him on the bed, ignoring the jolt of pain that sliced through his chest. He used their joined hands to upset Draco’s balance until he fell against Harry’s body. But Harry was on him before he could object, pressing their mouths together hard enough that Draco’s teeth scraped against his lips.

But then Harry gentled, sliding a hand into Draco’s hair as he coaxed his mouth open with his tongue. Draco’s tongue slid against his eagerly, his fingers breaking free of their joined hands to skate over the newly healed skin on his chest. He rested his palm there, hot and steady.

Harry was rock hard beneath the covers, naked except for his flimsy gown. He wondered what it would take to convince Draco to let Harry suck him off, and he was prepared to beg when a Mediwitch opened the door and shrieked, an armful of towels tumbling to the floor as she fled the room.

A moment later she stormed back in, angry and red-faced, and disinclined to entertain the excuses of Minister Shaklebolt’s clearly aroused Special Adviser. After giving them “five minutes to lower your sails and set yourselves to rights,” she left muttering something about government officials unable to keep it in their pants. It was perhaps the most mortifying moment of Harry’s life, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

He tipped his forehead until it touched Draco’s, the air between them still sparking with need.

“Let me take you home.”

May 1, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 8

For two days Draco appointed himself as Harry’s personal Healer, and he’d proved more than willing to follow through on his threat to keep Harry in bed with a Body-Bind, if necessary.

Of course, Harry was not above playing dirty himself. He insisted he couldn’t stay in bed unless Draco lay down with him. He’d let Harry get away with snogging him senseless and relented to one very memorable hand job, but he put his foot down when Harry tried to suck him off.

But that morning, Draco had declared him healed – with a promise finally to let him off the leash.

Which was why Harry was pacing the drawing room as he waited for Draco to return from the Ministry. He’d dressed properly in jeans and a thin black jumper pushed up his forearms, his hair still slightly damp from the shower. But he was still in his socked feet because Kreacher detested shoes in the house.

Although he was sure he’d catch hell for it, Harry had poured himself two fingers of Firewhiskey. Tomorrow, he needed to be at the DMLE to debrief the O’Cannon protest. Ron had overseen processing the arrestees and taking victim and witness statements, but Harry still needed to provide his own account. He’d been recused from any discussions about charges against O’Cannon, but he needed to get a handle on the rest of the investigation. After he was hit, a number of smaller skirmishes had broken out in the crowd. A few wix had even turned their wands on the Aurors in an attempt to break through the kettling formation.

Harry sipped his drink. It was bizarre that recovering from a hex seemed like a vacation by comparison.

When the Floo roared to life every hair on Harry’s body tensed, anticipation pumping thickly through his veins. Draco stepped from the hearth and the whiskey-warm feeling in Harry’s belly spread to his chest, heating his cheeks and making his blood rush.

Draco’s eyes glanced at the tumbler dangling loosely between Harry’s fingers and raised his brows.

Harry shrugged, his mouth quirking up at the corners. “My Healer gave me a clean bill of health this morning.”

Draco removed his coat and tossed it on the leather armchair.

“Is he reliable?” he asked. He thumbed off his cufflinks, tossing them on a side table before rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. His tone was teasing but Harry could detect the thread of sincerity beneath.

Harry set his glass on the coffee table and crossed to him in three steps, sliding an arm around his waist. He brushed his nose against the line of Draco’s jaw, breathing him in. Jasmine and sweet orange and a hint of sweat.

“Yeah,” Harry murmured as he slowly dragged his bottom lip across Draco’s throat. “He is.”

Beneath his mouth, he felt Draco swallow. After that, there were no more words. Articles of clothing fell to the floor, willing mouths licking and kissing each strip of newly revealed skin until there was nothing left but flesh and want.

“I know it’s been a particularly . . . emotional few days, Potter,” Draco gasped as Harry bit down on the soft skin between his neck and shoulder. “But anytime you’d like to fuck, I’m more than ready.”

Harry laughed against his skin, skimming a hand across one of his nipples and tweaking it hard, smiling when Draco jumped slightly.

“It’s Harry, you fucking prick.”

“Harry,” Draco breathed as Harry sank his teeth into Draco’s other nipple before laving it with his tongue.

“Good,” Harry praised before he wrapped both arms around Draco’s back and pulled him into a twist.

They landed in his bedroom and Harry steered him backward.

“Get on the bed,” he ordered softly, pushing on Draco’s chest until he fell back with a small bounce. He crawled slowly over Draco’s prone form. Light from a streetlamp sliced through a gap in the curtains, leaving bright stripes on his chest and illuminating his scars. Harry skimmed his fingers along the hard, ropey strands before bending to let his lips follow in their path.

Draco’s chest rose beneath his lips in an inaudible laugh. “Like I said, emotional.”

“Fuck off,” Harry smiled. “I’ll give you what you want.”

“What I want?” Draco asked slyly, reaching between them to cup Harry’s hard cock.

Harry groaned, thrusting into Draco’s grip. “Fuck, what I want.”

Under different circumstances, the magnitude of the understatement might’ve made him laugh.

Harry opened Draco up slowly, his slick fingers pressing smoothly inside him, the tight squeeze of Draco’s body sending sparks down his spine.

Draco released a deep, guttural sound as he tilted his hips to force Harry deeper. “Missed this.”

“Just this?” Harry teased, twisting his fingers until Draco writhed beneath him. He pulled his fingers free to press Draco’s knees apart, lining himself up before sinking inside him inch by inch.

They both moaned when he bottomed out. Harry kept still for as long as he could until the need to move became too great to ignore. He stroked into him leisurely at first, Draco urging him on until his thrusts grew short and rough, pushing Draco farther across the mattress with each drive of his hips.

Too soon Harry felt his orgasm building at the base of his spine, and he reached between them to wrap his fingers around Draco’s hard cock. Harry squeezed tightly, exactly the way he knew Draco liked it, and Draco jerked wetly beneath his palm. In two pumps Draco was coming hot and slick across Harry’s knuckles and Harry followed a moment later, grinding his hips against the back of Draco’s thighs until Draco had milked the last tremors from his body.

Once their breathing evened, Draco wrapped his fingers around Harry’s skull and pulled him into a deep kiss.

“No,” Draco said, pressing his lips to the corner of Harry’s mouth. “Not just this.”

Epilogue

December 25, 2015

Daily confirmed case count: 0

This year Draco kept his promise.

Christmas was spent at the Burrow with Andromeda and Teddy and the Weasley’s extended brood. Even Pansy was persuaded to make a brief appearance (albeit under duress) although Blaise, the toff, had sent his regrets.

The toasts started early, with the mead and wine and whiskey flowing freely.

First, they toasted to Draco and Penelope, and to the Healers and Mediwix at St. Mungo’s who’d pulled them through the worst pandemic in the history of Magical Britain.

Then to Hermione, who’d ushered hate speech legislation through the Wizengamot that enhanced the penalty for any crime motivated by prejudicial malice. Fittingly, the first person prosecuted under the new law was none other than Kevin O’Cannon. The Ministry’s decision to strip the MFN of its press pass was the cherry on top of his conviction.

Lastly, and always, to love and to family.

Presents came next. Much to Teddy’s delight, Harry and Draco gifted him with a t-shift that read “BEWERE.” Rose and Hugo and the rest of the assorted younger cousins received training brooms, although the planned instruction was postponed when it was determined the adults were far too pissed to supervise flying children.

But Molly still managed to outdo them all, having knit more than a dozen jumpers with “Team Drarry” stitched across the front in a familiar lurid green.

But the best part of the day came when Harry and Draco said their goodbyes before tumbling together into the drawing room at Grimmauld Place.

Finally, home.