Author's note

Hello everyone! It's been a long time since I've visited this site.

I've decided to rewrite one of my more popular stories, Pottersitting.

I hope that those of you who have read the original will find this just as enjoyable, if not more so.

Disclaimer - I own nothing ._.

April.

It was a still night. A breeze drifted through the air occasionally, causing leaves to sigh gently amongst themselves in a peaceful susurrus. Outside a modest-looking house in the heart of Wizarding London, a man appeared with a quiet pop, a suitcase trailing behind him. Adjusting his cloak, he stretched languidly, fishing around his pockets for the keys to his home. Finding them, he passed through the wards on his front porch and unlocked his door. Once inside, a quick check of the wards granted him satisfaction that no one had been snooping around his home. Taking out his wand, a flick of his wrist sent his suitcase upstairs, where it began unpacking itself and sorting out its contents accordingly.

The man stretched again, this time wincing as various bones cracked. He moved towards the table in the hallway, where his mail had been spelled to arrive during his vacation. It was already sorted into piles – he immediately disposed of brochures and catalogues, and then sent his bills and personal letters up to his study. A huge pile of newspapers sat on the table as well, and he picked up the one on top of the stack, one slender eyebrow arching in curiosity. The headline had not caught his eye – some dribble about the potions market – but a smaller line about Harry Potter had, advertising a story about him on the second page. He flipped over to it, and read on.

Harry Potter: Missing or Dead?

Three years after the defeat of the Dark Lord, the wizarding community has restored buildings and land devastated by the Great Wizarding War. Voldemort's key followers, executed or jailed for several lifetime sentences, no longer walk among us. Those who were found not at fault have assimilated into their lives as members of our community, working to rebuild their lives as well. Hogwarts, the key building involved in The War, has been restored to its previous glory, thanks to many volunteers and magical creatures willing to put amazing amounts of time and effort into such a noble cause. Older students have welcomed new students with pride, and several ex-students involved in the war have taken up positions as teachers, although many have chosen to make a career deep in the heart of the Ministry.

However, many years after his spectacular victory, Harry Potter, still touted as the saviour of the wizarding world, has yet to respond to the community's insistence upon his position of Minister for Magic. Although he has not been seen for over three years, reliable sources from within the Ministry, and indeed, his inner circle, have stated that Mr. Potter had been working as an Auror before his mysterious disappearance. Contact with Mr. Potter dwindled rapidly after the decline of the Dark Lord during the Great Wizarding War. After throwing himself into the task of rebuilding what was destroyed by magical fissures during the war, the promising Head Auror candidate vanishing from the public eye…

Draco Malfoy snorted to himself, turning the pages of the Daily Prophet with enough force that several pages ripped under his hand. Those who had actively fought – no doubt this Skeeter woman had spent the war hiding under a rock – remembered it as nothing less than a gory, nightmarish stand-off between psychopathic dark wizards and those brave enough – or foolish enough – to face them, most of whom had been a handful of inexperienced students. Most of those students had died, too. Those not at fault had mostly gone into hiding, still hated by those in the community that could not come to terms that some families had been forced to cooperate with their insane former master. Pureblood families had been torn apart.

Draco sighed, trying to calm himself down. He had just returned from a two-week vacation in Sweden, where his mother now resided – she was safe and happy. Potter himself had testified for the release of Draco and Narcissa using his Auror skills to investigate exactly which families were to blame. They had been unwilling participants, he had insisted, even allowing the use of a Pensieve to show his research into the matter. He had helped clear the name of several other Pureblood families as well, but could do nothing for Lucius, who was about as innocent as Millicent Bulstrode was light-footed and delicate.

Still...

Draco headed upstairs and sat down at his desk, were he tapped his chin with the end of a quill thoughtfully. Where had the famous Harry Potter disappeared to? Come Voldemort's return, he had been forced to reveal his disdain for the Dark Lord, much to the chagrin of his dearest father. It wasn't just a moral stance. It wasn't just the repellent idea of a disgusting tattoo which would forever mark him as Voldemort's bitch. It was that his father was so ridiculously bent on world domination that he had put his wife's life in danger, and that was the last straw for Draco. Mama's boy or not, there was no way he was going to help a cause that could potentially end in her death.

Of course, it helped that, demented as Voldemort's followers were, the Dark Lord himself was crazier than the lot of them combined. When the truth had emerged about his use of 'Horcruxes', well. Draco was more than happy to turn himself over to the Order of the Phoenix at the advice of Severus, the only teacher he had ever liked at Hogwarts, and his godfather to boot. He had not appreciated being played as a pawn in Severus' and Dumbledore's stint at the tower, but even that had been preferable to the months he had spent being tortured by Harry and his stupid friends, who, at times, seemed more concerned about his involvement with Voldemort than getting over it and actually dealing with the problem at hand.

Harry.

The name left a bitter taste on Draco's tongue. He had first laid eyes upon him at Madam Malkin's, and, having already developed an interest in him, had attempted to relate to him the only way he knew how – insulting those beneath him. He soon regretted this, catching on quickly that however Potter had been raised was evidently insanely different from his own. Attempting to reconcile in the presence of a Weasley had simply landed him in the 'Enemy' book.

Granted, the years to follow hadn't exactly seen willingness to compromise on his behalf, but being rejected had never been something Draco had taken very well. Having said that, his strange obsession with making Potter regret having ever rejected him had turned more into an even stranger obsession with making Potter riled up around him. There was something about Potter, when he had a face flushed with anger, muscles tense – almost like on the Quidditch pitch, Draco thought with a smirk – that...

Enough of that.

Draco stared out the window of his study. The Malfoy family Manor had been destroyed in the war, and afterwards he'd had half of it – the only parts of the Manor he ever used – moved into to London, rebuilt to his liking. He'd hated the old place anyway, much preferring his modern home to the cold, creepy interior of his childhood house.

He picked up a letter-opener and began working through the small pile of bills and letters. Most of the bills involved credit card debt accrued during his time overseas. A few letters were from the few friends he had stayed in contact with – Pansy, Blaise and Theo. He wrote replies to each of them, and almost called out to his owl before he remembered he had left Arden at a boarder. Sitting back, he continued his musing.

It had been two years since Draco had exchanged words with Potter. They had, along with Potter's friends, reached a very tense truce, and had even worked together on occasion before Potter finally confronted Voldemort. Since then, Draco had caught glimpses of him that eventually winked out of existence. The last time he'd seen Potter had been at a conference at the Ministry – his involvement with the good side had apparently granted him a pardon, though he suspected it had more to do with the lack of skull with a protruding snake on his forearm. Potter had been half-hidden in the shadows, flanked by Granger – or was it Weasley now? - and the Weasel. He had been ushered out rather quickly after the main points of the meeting had been made and Draco, not thinking, had followed them. He'd caught a glimpse of Potter's face and immediately regretted his decision to pursue them. Potter had looked close to death. He'd wondered why Granger – Weasley – had been accompanying them – as the new Minister of Magic, she could hardly have time to be escorting old friends around conferences, regardless of who they were. As it was, she was having a hard enough time dealing with those who felt she was not qualified for the job – mostly by being more than qualified and extremely efficient. Annoying as she was, Draco had to agree that she definitely got things well and truly done.

Draco shivered, remembering that face again. He did not wish to think about what he'd seen any more than he had to, although at the time he had feigned ignorance and tried a semi-friendly attempt at a greeting. Potter's voice, strained and quiet, had replied meekly, and GrangerWeasley and the Weasel had given him twin looks that were both scathing and grateful. Draco had been quite taken aback, considering he was used to seeing a Golden Boy who was both lively and irritatingly cheerful.

And gorgeous, but that was something that would remain unspoken. Years of being someone's arch rival gave you insights into their life, mostly because you ended up paying much more attention to them than you realised.

Draco snapped his quill in half. From your deepest hate springs your greatest love, isn't that the way it goes?

Not that Draco would ever admit to love. Intense fondness, perhaps. Desire. Never love.

His thoughts were interrupted by a light tapping at the window, and he recognised the small owl that belonged to the Weasel. As he pondered ignoring it, the thought crossed his mind that, at some point, he might need to start referring to them by their first names, as there were quite a few Weasley family members still alive that he knew about. He shook this thought off. He could barely distinguish between them. The owl tapped at the window again, and he begrudgingly stood and allowed it inside. It dropped the letter on his desk and hooted at him. Resisting the urge to swat it out the window, he rummaged through his drawers for an owl treat and sat down again to read the letter. It bore the official Minister of Magic seal, and he paused in his act of opening it. There was no way…

Malfoy,

You're the only one we can think of now that could help us. As mortifying as the thought of lending us a hand may be to you, right now you're the only option left. Please send a letter back with Pigwidgeon with a date and time that you can arrange to meet us. I cannot explain any further in this letter. I'm truly sorry to bother you in this fashion.

Sincerely,

Hermione Weasley.

Draco stared at the letter as though it had grown horns and started tap-dancing. A frown spread across his features. What could they possibly want from him? Did it have anything to do with this hubbub over Potter? Draco recoiled at the thought of having to assist in some sort of crazy search for Potter – or Potter's body. Draco mulled it over for a while before making a decision.

The owl, stick pecking at a treat that was, frankly, almost half its size, hooted in a surprised fashion when it was lifted up and a letter tied to its foot. It hooted forlornly at the proportionally gigantic piece of food, but took flight and disappeared into the night.