The corridors of the Ministry of Magic stretched before Draco like the twisted paths of a nightmare, each one longer and more oppressive than the last. The torchlight cast sickly shadows across the dark marble walls, and the portraits watched him with barely concealed hostility, their painted faces hardening as he passed. His footsteps echoed in the emptiness, every sound a reminder of how far he had fallen.
For five years, these same halls had witnessed his humiliation. Five years of being marched through like a common criminal, with Aurors' wands trained on his back, ready to strike him down at the slightest provocation. The memories rose up like spectres: standing before the Wizengamot as they pronounced his sentence, their faces as cold and unforgiving as stone. Reporting his every movement to watchful Aurors who seemed to take pleasure in his degradation. Enduring endless interrogations about his potion-making, defending himself against whispered accusations of dark magic. Watching as they picked through the Malfoy fortune like vultures, questioning every Galleon as though it were stained with blood. And just last year, more testimony about the Death Eaters, reopening wounds that had barely begun to heal.
The clerk at the security desk stared at him with unconcealed shock, no doubt wondering what dark circumstance could have driven a former Death Eater to willingly enter the Aurors' domain. The visitor's badge felt like a brand against his chest, its golden surface gleaming with cruel irony. Here he was, Draco Malfoy, wearing a badge that marked him as an outsider in a place where his family had once wielded considerable influence.
He came to a halt before a door that seemed to mock him with its very existence. The nameplate caught the dim light: "Harry Potter, Head Auror." A bitter smile twisted his lips, more grimace than expression. He'd once sworn on his honor that he would rather die than seek help from the Chosen One. But honor, like so many other things, had proven to be a luxury he could no longer afford.
"Time to pay the price," he whispered into the shadows, his fingers closing around the cold brass handle.
The real question wasn't whether he was ready to pay it, but whether all the blue blood in his veins would be enough to settle his father's debts. Some sins, after all, stained generations.
Draco stared at his reflection in the office window, scarcely recognising the man who gazed back. His once-immaculate hair had become a silver disarray, dark shadows lingering beneath eyes that had witnessed too much. The past weeks had transformed his life into a waking nightmare: sleepless nights bent over ancient tomes, desperate attempts to decipher runes whose meanings slipped through his fingers like morning mist, the crushing awareness that time was running inexorably out. The words "Blood demands blood" pounded against his temples with merciless persistence.
"Ten victims in two months," Potter's voice hung hollow in the oppressive silence. He stood before the evidence board, studying it with that same intensity that had once made him such an infuriating opponent. "The last one is Alan Avery. Same signature—strangled by Incarcerous. Runes carved post-mortem."
"Runes of Vengeance," Draco didn't turn from the window, his eyes fixed on the darkness beyond. "Ancient blood magic. Each victim forms part of a ritual."
"You seem rather well-informed..."
"I was raised in this, Potter," Draco whirled to face the Auror, his eyes blazing with dangerous light. "Or did you imagine Malfoy Manor housed nothing but harmless family heirlooms? The Dark Lord chose our home for good reason."
Harry slowly laid the file on his desk, the sound unnaturally loud in the tension-filled room.
"Why keep silent until now?"
"So you could arrest me for knowledge of dark magic?" Draco's laugh was brittle as splintered glass. "Or perhaps you'd have assumed I was behind the killings? Oh, wait..." his voice dripped with venom, "that's precisely what you think, isn't it?"
"I think you're holding something back," Harry countered. "Every victim is a former Death Eater or their relative. You know more than you're saying."
Draco ran a hand across his face, allowing his mask of arrogance to slip for just a moment.
"I know the ritual. I know it requires thirteen sacrifices. I know the killer is choosing those who, in their mind, escaped justice after the war," he rolled up his sleeve, revealing the faded Dark Mark. "And I know I'm on the list. Along with my mother."
"Why didn't you seek protection sooner?"
Another laugh, this one devoid of even bitter humour.
"From whom, Potter? The Ministry that confiscated half our fortune? The Aurors who still look at me as though I'm about to cast an Unforgivable? Or perhaps you? Don't be absurd. All you see when you look at me is the Dark Mark."
"I see a man who's cornered," Harry said quietly. "And too proud to admit he needs help."
Draco went rigid, his hand instinctively twitching toward his wand.
"Don't pretend to understand me," he spat. "You haven't the faintest idea what it's like to live with the consequences of the wrong choice. Being marked. Seeing fear and revulsion in people's eyes."
"But I do know what it's like to be powerless while people die around you," Harry replied evenly. "The war scars all."
"Only if you win it," Draco's voice grew quiet, dangerous. "A lost war doesn't leave scars—it burns your soul to ash." Something like regret flickered across his features, gone almost before it appeared.
Harry studied his former enemy for a long moment. The years had indeed changed Malfoy—gone was the old arrogance, replaced by a bone-deep weariness and something... broken. As if the weight of the past still pressed upon his shoulders with unrelenting force.
Draco felt Potter's gaze and internally winced. Salazar only knew how he hated it—someone noticing his weakness, his exhaustion, his... defeat. Especially Potter. He turned sharply to the window, staring out at nighttime London where Muggle streetlights blurred in the misty haze. His reflection seemed almost ghostlike—a pale shadow of the boy he'd once been.
"I need access to the Malfoy library," Harry finally said. "And your knowledge of dark magic."
"And I need protection," Draco replied quietly. "Not for myself. For my mother."
"Then it seems we have no choice," Harry concluded. "But there are conditions."
Draco smirked at his reflection in the window. Of course there are.
Harry continued, withdrawing a magical contract from his drawer and placing it deliberately on the edge of the desk: "First, you work solely with me. No contact with other Aurors. Second, I want to know everything you know—without omission. And third," he gestured to the parchment, "you'll sign this. Insurance that you won't use information about the investigation to cause harm."
Draco lifted the parchment, scanning it briefly before letting out a derisive snort as he recognised the initials written in small print at the bottom of the page.
"Granger's work?"
"She assists the department with the legal side of certain cases," Harry replied stiffly.
"The world's turned properly mad, hasn't it? Potter and Malfoy working together, and the Mud—Granger writing laws," Draco caught himself at Harry's sharp look. "Sorry. Old habits die rather hard."
He drew his wand and touched the parchment, binding the contract with his magical signature.
"Satisfied?"
Harry rose silently from behind his desk and took several measured steps toward Draco. His extended hand hung in the air between them—a gesture so unexpected Malfoy nearly recoiled. He stood frozen, staring at the Head Auror's palm as if it were some ancient artefact capable of either salvation or destruction. Time suspended between them until finally, accepting the inevitable, he returned the handshake. His fingers were cold as midwinter frost—as if all warmth had fled during his years of exile.
"Don't think this changes anything, Potter."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Malfoy."
They both knew they were lying, because in that moment something had irrevocably shifted between them. An unspoken understanding hung in the air—there was no going back now. Draco slowly lowered his gaze to the desk where photographs of the victims lay spread out. The runes carved into Avery's flesh seemed to pulse in the dim candlelight. Three victims remaining. Three lives that would weigh upon their consciences if they failed.
Somewhere in the depths of the Ministry, a clock struck four. The sound spread through empty corridors, reverberating through the office like a funeral toll for those they might yet save.
Malfoy turned toward the door, his silhouette stark against the harsh light from the hallway. He paused for a moment, as if wanting to add something, but thought better of it. Only his shadow, long and distorted, stretched across the floor, nearly touching Potter's boots—as if trying to bridge the chasm of years of mutual hatred.
"Midnight tomorrow, the manor's library," he said without turning.
The door closed behind him almost silently, but the echo of his words seemed to linger in the Head Auror's office. Harry remained standing alone by his desk, staring at the evidence board. Shadows from the photographs danced on the walls, forming bizarre patterns in the dying candlelight. Somewhere in those shadows lay the answer. And to find it, two old enemies would have to learn to trust each other.
For the first time in many years, fate had brought them together not as adversaries. And both understood—the price of failure would be measured not in Galleons or reputation, but human lives.