Potter approached him a little sheepishly the next morning while he was sipping his second cup of tea at his desk,

"Sorry about yesterday afternoon." He gave a clipped nod behind his cup in acknowledgment of his colleague,

"Accepted." He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then asked against his better judgement, "What was all that about anyway?"

"Hermione."

"Granger? I thought she worked here somewhere, so why is your wife looking for her by asking you instead of just going to her office?"

"Hermione does work at the Ministry, but well, she spent about eighteen months in Creatures, then came here to the DMLE to do research, but she was loaned out to the Department of Mysteries about a year ago, and we haven't seen her in a while. She had been checking in with Kingsley sort of monthly, and she'd come for dinner, but it's been some time now. Ginny's worried for nothing, and Hermione doesn't like interruptions, like having a social life, when she's working on something big." Potter paused, as if he were considering sharing his next opinion,

"And frankly, when Hermione says to leave her be for a while, I'm inclined to listen. She can be vicious when she feels disrespected or betrayed. Going against something she said to do, or not to do, can earn a dose of wrath I'm not interested in getting thrown my way."

Draco gave an amused snort, that sounded just like something Granger would do, and the Potter-wife, for that matter. He knew that the newly-minted Mrs. Potter could be intrusive and bullheaded to the point of desperation—he'd watched her play Quidditch for years, she hunted the Quaffle or an adversary like a persistence hunter—until her quarry laid down and accepted their inevitable defeat. He also remembered Marietta Edgecombe's unfortunate forehead from fifth year, and while he didn't know how it came to be, he'd heard Granger was the one responsible. One of his eyebrows rose as he pondered it before mentioning,

"I ended up down in Mysteries the other day, trying to get to the Registrar's office, and I noticed that no one was there. I know they're the Department of Mysteries, but the creepily empty work stations is a bit on the bloody nose."

Potter chuckled, and then supplied more troubling information,

"The entire department emptied when they borrowed Hermione, they're all working from remote locations on the same thing, not that anyone but them and Kingsley knows what that is..."

"That does not sound encouraging, Potter," who had the audacity to smirk, but said nothing else about it.

The rest of the day progressed, blended into weeks, a month, he just kept getting up for work.

After stitching Potter up a few times, he and the Potter-wife eventually hit an accord, mostly gossiping and judging strangers' outfits over lunch whilst sipping tea. Sometimes she was out of town for matches, and while eating lunch those days were slightly more uncomfortable, he would not have said that they were friends, and he did not even admit to himself that it might be possible that he missed those conversations on 'alone-days'.

The Weasel came in every now and again to collect Potter for lunch, sneering at Draco before grinning at his friend. For the most part, they both seemed content to pretend the other didn't exist beyond a silent battle of disgusted facial expressions. Draco acknowledged to himself that this was a new level of restraint for Weasley, and he was nearly impressed. Nearly. From what he gleaned from conversations with Ginny, her brother was now co-owner of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and was currently enjoying being a tom-cat-about-town. That had surprised him, as he'd thought that Weasley and Granger would be an item, if not wed by now. Curiosity be damned, but it had taken Draco six weeks to nudge Ginny into admitting that Hermione had broken up with the bloke just a few months after the war, and apparently not amicably.

Potter kept inviting him over for dinner, which he found himself begrudgingly thankful for, but never said anything to Potter. It was how they worked: magnitudes were understood and accepted at a glance, but nothing was ever said aloud. They had more in common than they'd ever admit to, either, so it didn't come as that much of a stretch once they'd put aside their childhood animosity. He always politely declined the dinner invitations because he didn't think they were anything more than social obligation and he never brought up their mutual past. Potter seemed fine with it, best leave well enough alone.

Theo would drop in to see him at lunch occasionally, wanting to pester Draco about some legality, or mine him for information about wealthy families with daughters. Theo was land-rich and cash-poor, regardless of inheriting the Nott estates. His father hadn't managed them, more accurately Thadius Nott had handed whatever income they had over to the Dark Lord, and he hadn't planned for continuing or sustaining said income. Things had floundered, and Theo was rebuilding. It was his friend's catharsis—to snark, gossip, and flirt overtly—while slowly clawing back prestige, cash, and powerful acquaintances. Theo was on the hunt for a bride, and as his mother had died when he was young, he'd had to navigate high teas and galas solo. Draco had suggested Theo seek his mother's help for three reasons: it got Narcissa off Draco's back, it gave his mother a reason to attend those events that made her happy as they let her pretend nothing had changed, and it helped his friend.

Blaise came over to the Manor occasionally to visit when he was back and forth from Italy and couldn't be bothered to book a hotel room or go to any of the properties he'd inherited from various former stepfathers. He'd convinced his mother to turn the warehouses of goods inherited from past husbands into a flourishing antiques and import/export business. It suited Blaise—he could travel at will, he made mountains of money, he kept mother happy between spouses—and while Blaise had contrition now, little else had changed. Blaise had never been vehement about blood politics, but had used the lingo to his advantage whilst in Slytherin. If Blaise cared past convenience, he'd never said as much to Draco, he seemed happier making money, living, eating, and shagging whatever most appealed to him at the moment. They spent their evenings as they always had, drinking Ogdens, discussing politics, the society daughters their mothers were attempting to throw at them this month—sometimes they even discussed their unconventional romantic relationship—but not often. They'd always known that despite whatever they'd had between them, that they'd be required to marry someday. They'd both been with witches before, but those relationships had been impermanent, and they always seemed to drift back to one another.

Draco was becoming comfortable again, he laughed easier, cracked more jokes. It was like he was crawling back inside a better version of his old skin. Improved through adversity, but having been prodded repeatedly, approaching comfortable. That was, anyway, until one morning in April, when Potter strode up to his desk with a glare that could kill-it was even the right color-and growled at him,

"Kinsgley wants to see us. Now. I just got his Patronus."

"The Minister? What for?" He had the presence of mind to stand while asking, hastily pulling on his Trainee Auror robes as he tucked his chair back in.

"Haven't the slightest, but we've got to go." Potter was crooking an elbow as if offering to escort a woman, and that's when it hit Draco that they were Apparating.

"Just tell me where we're going Potter, and I'll meet you there. I'm not taking your arm like a schoolgirl."

"I can't tell you where we're going, so just take my fucking arm, Malfoy, I'm not in the mood to argue." Potter may generally not have had the cleanest of vocabularies, but his use of that particular expletive made Draco's eyebrows jump, something was seriously awry, and Potter wasn't being tight-lipped about it to be coy. His mind leapt to the next most likely scenario:

"Fidelius?" Potter nodded shortly, and Draco scowled, but held on to his arm as a loud 'pop' sounded, and they were pulled like taffy out of the DMLE and off to whatever secret place they were going.