AN: This is my first attempt at a Drarry fic. I do not own Harry Potter.
Chapter One
Harry Potter was bored. Not in the bored-because-my-wife-and-I-have-been-married-for-fifteen-years-and-we-don't-have-sex-any-more type of way, but in the my-life-has-had-no-purpose-for-the-past-ten-years-and-I'm-kinda-stuck-in-a-life-that-I-hate way. It was quite ironic, if Harry had to be honest with himself. For about thirteen years, he had the addicting thrill of looming danger; of life and death decisions that determined the fate of the world. The adrenaline, the blood pounding in his head, the increase of heart rate, he hated it all at the time, but now? Sitting in his chair behind his large oak desk in a beige Ministry office?
It was dull. It was vanilla. It was safe. And it wasn't him.
But it had to be. The boy who lived had to grow up and not to be the chosen one that led the armies in battle (though he did try for a bit), but the figurehead. He had to be the one to show up at a couple of press conferences, make a couple of speeches, and smile at the right people. Although he hated it, and damn well refused to do it in the beginning, with a family he couldn't think about himself and his own selfish pride. Now all of his actions affected Ginny, James, Albus, and Lily. And he didn't want his family to be hurt because he made some hot-headed decision.
So tuck him away. Bring him out when he's needed. Keep him silent. It's worth it in the end.
Isn't it?
"Mr. Potter?" Naomi Hawkins, Harry's secretary, poked her head in, wielding a cup of tea. "Montgomery was wondering if you had a chance to select a team for the Steele raid?"
Her eyes glanced over to the neat stack of papers that she had left on the corner of his desk earlier this morning. The still… blank documents. Harry ran his hands through his hair, messing up Ginny's daily toil of making him look the part of Head of the Auror Department. "Sorry," he mumbled. He closed the file labeled Steele, Josiah to open his other file containing a brief synopsis of each of his Aurors and their capabilities.
Naomi shot him an apologetic smile and set the tea down. "Don't worry, sir. I'll just tell Montgomery that you're finalizing the details." Harry couldn't help but feel a rush of gratitude towards his young secretary as she ducked out.
Sipping a cup of tea, he started to leaf through the Steele file, once again. It wasn't an unusual case; Harry had seen similar ones in the years following Voldemort's defeat. Lost without a leader, some of the Death Eaters took it upon themselves to continue their master's act of torturing Muggles and Mudbloods. Over the past ten years, reports have become fewer and fewer, but there were still a couple of stragglers.
But Steele was something different. Born in 1930 and graduating from Hogwarts in 1947, Steele became a prominent entrepreneur. There were dozens of reports of Mudbloods and Muggles entering his castle up in the highlands of Scotland, only to return deranged and muttering of an underground lake. Some wouldn't return at all; all that would remain would be a mangled body turning up in the river near the castle. Aurors spent years trying to scrounge up enough evidence to get a warrant to search the castle, but he always fooled them—witnesses suddenly backing out, evidence lacking purpose, it all fell apart. Until the newspaper ad.
In a Muggle newspaper from one of the large towns nearby Steele's home was a help wanted sign for wait staff for a little gathering. A gathering that, Harry noticed under closer inspection, included names of "converted" Death Eaters, such as Yaxley and Rowle, who plead Imperius after their arrest. However, according to Harry's informers, the "gathering" is planned to be much more extravagant than friends having a reunion.
Harry let out a frustrated sigh. This party was the perfect chance to search the castle, unnoticed, to possibly finally find some dirt on Steele. Also, given Steele's Death Eater reported tendencies, this could really be a chance for them to find the remaining Death Eaters that somehow managed to escape them the first time. The problem, however, was trying to choose a team to go undercover. Sure, Harry had an excellent selection of Aurors, but none of them had proven their worth to lead a mission as risky as this. Christopher Montgomery would be the obvious choice; he had led Death Eater related missions in the past, but Harry couldn't ignore his impatience or negligence when it came to some of the details. Elena Ivanava, who transferred from Moscow five years ago, would be solid choice. Or even Harry's own classmate, Anthony Goldstein. All fantastic choices. But just not… the right ones.
And when it came to something like this, Harry needed the right one.
I need a break, Harry thought. He grabbed his cloak off of the hook, leaving the office for some much-needed fresh air. Naomi gave him a peculiar look, while Montgomery stood up to tell Harry that he needed to let the Aurors know who was going to lead the raid. But Harry didn't want to deal with them. Frankly, he didn't want to deal with anything that involved the word "Auror."
The lift doors opened and Harry stepped inside. His fingers lingered over the level three button, debating whether or not he should bother Hermione in the Obliviator Department with his problems. He, however, refrained, knowing fully well the response he would get. "Just make a decision." Perhaps a cup of tea at that Muggle café would do him well.
Just as the doors began to close, Harry heard someone yell, "Hold the lift!" He pressed the button and the doors reopened to admit a rather disheveled Draco Malfoy.
He couldn't help but stare. This was the first time he had seen the Slytherin since his trial after the war. Sure, he'd seen him at various social events or in Diagon Alley or recently at the Hogwart's Express, but he hadn't actually seen him. Malfoy aged gracefully, as Harry knew he would. His hair was still the same shade of white-blonde and his eyes a cool grey; his body, however, grew lean as the years went on. Harry could see a peak of his muscular forearm beneath his rolled grey button up. "Malfoy," Harry acknowledged.
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Potter," he replied with a smirk.
"What brings you to the Ministry? Thought I heard you were working at St. Mungo's."
"Well, you heard right. Just because I'm a Healer doesn't mean I still can't grace the Ministry with my presence every so often." He looked at Harry, eyes lingering over his face. "You got old."
Harry couldn't help but snort. "Thanks. It comes with the job."
"Blaise Zabini told me that you're running the Auror Department now. Never thought I'd see you willing to sit back while others go risk their lives. Though, I guess the She-Weasel probably doesn't want you to lose any limbs."
He tensed at Malfoy's old nickname for Ginny. Though there wasn't as much malice in his tone as there had been when they were young, it brought back some memories of Hogwarts that Harry would rather keep buried. So he tried to shrug it off. "You fall off a broom so many times and it gives the wife reason to worry."
Malfoy couldn't help but laugh at that—a proper full body, head thrown back type of laugh. It was one that Harry couldn't help but laugh along with. "God, I was a prat back then, wasn't I?"
"If I respond to that, I feel like I will be a hypocrite."
The door chimed and opened. They proceeded to get out and stand awkwardly, unsure of how to proceed with this encounter. "Listen, Potter, I might be over-stepping this little unspoken agreement we have. But would you like to grab a bite to eat one of these nights? Just to clear the air between us?" Malfoy asked.
Part of Harry wanted to revert back to his inner-fifteen year old and tell Malfoy "when hell freezes over," but he found himself saying, "Just drop me an owl whenever."
With that Malfoy gave him a quick nod and sauntered out towards the door of the Ministry, leaving Harry watching. Something inside of himself began to awaken; something that he hadn't felt for a long time—his craving of adventure. Unknown waters arose before him, tempting and calling. Danger was guaranteed, but still he wanted it. He longed to feel the rush. And here was Malfoy, the unanswered question. Although Harry never put weight into Divination, he couldn't help but feel like Malfoy's reoccurrence was telling him something.
His eyes drifted over to the scars on the back of his hand, the I will not tell lies faint, but still present. He knew what he wanted to do.
"I'm going to lead the raid," he announced when he returned to the office.