Somewhere in muggle London, Harry Potter was getting impossibly drunk, to the point that he couldn't remember being seduced by a man he didn't know and – at the time – didn't care to know beyond having sex with once. At the same time, Draco Malfoy was pacing his flat in nothing but his undershirt and trousers, his usually-immaculate hair a complete and utter mess, as he attempted to keep his emotions in check. For perhaps the thirtieth time in the past two minutes, he buried his fingers in what remained of his braid and tugged at it to keep himself from falling apart. This method was becoming less and less effective, and eventually, he began to cry, but he continued to pace, trying to keep it from getting worse; this proved ineffective when he simply collapsed to the floor from the force of a sob. Harry Potter had, in a few short seconds, destroyed five years' worth of hard work.
From his place on the floor, Draco tried to find something to grab onto for comfort, something to squeeze, to make the hurt go away. All of that work, for nothing…and of course, his father would hear about this disaster and would write to gloat about it, telling Draco that he was a failure, as he had always been. But that wouldn't happen until the morning edition of the Prophet came out. For the time being, all that Draco had was time to mourn what he had accomplished. He wanted to hide away forever, he wanted to no longer exist, but he knew that couldn't happen. He had to keep his chin up, at least in public. However, these thoughts were not the predominant ones; what was predominant was a memory.
The shop had just opened. Draco had finally been able to find a suitable property to open up his shop in, and had made all the necessary preparations. He had even taken the time to place protective spells that would keep vandals and bigots from destroying the shop while still allowing customers to enter. The Daily Prophet, of course, thought it ludicrous that a Death Eater would be a respectable businessman, and so ran a spread on the absurdity of the idea which, counter to their intentions and expectations, attracted customers to the shop, people who wanted to see for themselves what all the hubbub was about. Among those attracted by the article was Lucius Malfoy himself.
"How foolish can you be, Draco? Our family is above such petty occupations!" the elder Malfoy hissed, sneering down his nose at his son, who instead of cowering, had retained his composure. "Are you so keen on besmirching our name?"
"To the contrary, Father," Draco replied, looking his father in the eye. "It is you who has besmirched the name of Malfoy, you who sullied our family by dealing with the Dark Lord. I'm only trying to clean the name up again, make it respectable again."
"Of course, because not only would it reflect well on the family, it would reflect well on you. I see." Lucius's sneer turned into a demeaning smirk, but still Draco stood firm.
"Do you want to be labeled a traitor to the entire wizarding world for the rest of your life?" Draco hissed. "Do you want Mother to be labeled as a traitor, simply for being your wife? Or don't you care about her? She risked her life to keep us both safe. She risked her life by standing by you when You Know Who rose to power again and you chose to continue to follow him, and she risked her life by lying to him just to know that I was alive. Do you want her to be hated forever because of your mistakes?"
That had been the last conversation the two had had face-to-face, and Draco was more than happy to be rid of the man. Over the years that had followed, Draco had, bit by bit, balanced out a significant chunk of the bad reputation his father had brought upon their family, and in just a few seconds at a charity ball, it had all been unbalanced again. By the time he had calmed himself enough to get up from the floor, it was time to get ready for another day. He had been up the whole night trying to get ahold of himself. After a few potions to wake himself up, Draco went to his bathroom and tidied his hair with slow, steady motions. He didn't have the energy to braid it again, so instead, he simply tied it back into a ponytail. He dressed in a simple white button-down shirt and black trousers, and sat down with the Daily Prophet that had been delivered. As expected, the front page was dominated by a photograph of Harry Potter and himself, just after the Auror had punched him in the face. Draco winced, and was glad that he had healed the injury with a spell as soon as he had gotten back to his flat. A few minutes later, an owl flew in through the window holding a letter that Draco assumed to be from his father. Upon further inspection, however, the letter was not addressed in Lucius Malfoy's handwriting, and bore the crest of the Ministry. Carefully, cautiously, Draco opened it and read it.
Dear Mr. Malfoy, It is with hesitance that I write this letter to you, as I am not sure how well-received both it and you will be, but we at the Auror Department require your assistance in a most urgent case involving a serial murderer. It is believed that the ingredients he uses in his deadly potions are purchased from your shop. If you would kindly report to our offices in the Ministry, more details will be provided as to the Aurors with whom you will be working and the precise nature of the case. Sincerely, Bilius Hacksby, Head of the Auror Department.
Draco even reread it, and still couldn't fully comprehend what he had read. After a few more times rereading the letter, Draco found a bit of parchment and penned a reply telling Bilius Hacksby, Head of the Auror Department, that he would have to wait to come in until he closed up shop for the day. After all, he had no one else to tend the shop when he was away, something he supposed he should fix someday soon, and he couldn't rightly have an unscheduled closing. He received a reply rather quickly, begrudgingly acknowledging the truth of what Draco had said, and agreeing upon a time. To his surprise, when he opened for the day, there were already customers waiting to come inside. He usually had customers waiting at opening time, but he had suspected that there would be fewer because of the article. Throughout the day, the number of customers remained consistent with his recent numbers, and eventually, he stopped questioning it.
Much later in the day, Draco Malfoy found himself sitting in the office of Bilius Hacksby, a short, stout man with a bald spot in the middle of his mousey brown hair and a strangely crooked mouth. The blond shifted uncomfortably in his chair even though he had done nothing wrong.
"Thank you for coming, Mr. Malfoy," the Head of the Auror Department said, his voice a nasal tenor which held no grace whatsoever. "I must inform you that I do have my reservations regarding the necessity of your assistance, but it appears that we can ask no one else."
"I'm happy to provide whatever assistance necessary, sir," Draco replied, knowing from where the reservations stemmed.
"I have even more reservations about your working with the aurors I've assigned to the case, in light of recent events," Hacksby said, making Draco truly nervous for the first time since he'd gotten to the office. "You'll be working with Aurors Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. They will need your full cooperation, and they will need to stake out your shop in order to identify their man. Here is a copy of all the details you will need presently in order to assist them. They are to report to your shop an hour before opening tomorrow. Good evening, Mr. Malfoy." Draco took the file he was handed and nodded numbly, leaving Hacksby's office and the Ministry itself without noticing the change of scenery.
He was to be working with Harry Potter. Closely. For an undetermined amount of time. He knew, before anything even happened, that whatever followed would be a special level of hell.