Harry Potter tries hard to repress a scowl when he sees who he'd been partnered with. The ferret, Ron's voice sneers in his mind but at the same time, Ginny mentally chides him to be the bigger person, Harry, c'mon, you're not eleven anymore, you know…
He rolls his eyes at both of them but listens to his wife. "Malfoy," he says through gritted teeth. There's a moment where the blonde's eyes flick to the ground, a flinch, maybe, but then it's gone and Malfoy greets him similarly: an incline of the head, a recognition but nothing more. Not friends. Not enemies. Simply… coworkers.
"Potter," he drawls.
Harry turns away. It's been a long time since the sight of Malfoy's pointed face has made his blood boil and he's gotten to the point where he's begun to feel what is almost pity toward the man—he'd never admit it, of course, as Malfoy would hate it as much as he does—but even nineteen years aren't enough to heal all wounds and the pureblood had done his best to make his time at Hogwarts… difficult.
Not to mention that he is—was—a Death Eater.
There's a part of him that wants to ask how Scorpius is doing, to break the silence, to extend an olive branch, but the words congeal on his tongue and he just can't see it going anywhere good.
"Why are we working with the Department of Mysteries?" he asks the Minister. He's been an Auror for a while now and, aside from occasionally seeing them in the halls of the Ministry, he's never really interacted with Unspeakables. Which, seeing as Malfoy is one of them, has suited him just fine. Unease curls in his stomach.
"The Dark wizard we've been after, Blackvale, has been messing with some dangerous magic," Kingsley says, giving Malfoy a look of distaste. "The kind of magic your… friend… here works with."
Again, that flinch, so slight that Harry could almost tell himself he's seeing things. Almost.
"Well," he says slowly, trying not to let on his growing unease. "Let's get to it, I suppose…"
"We've found him," Kingsley informs them, and Harry's eyebrows raise. He'd known they were getting close, of course, but… "Last night. It seems he's doing some sort of experiment in the basement of Borgin and Burkes. We're sending in a team of Aurors, but we need you—" He turns to Malfoy here, still with a hint of that look that he's smelled something sour— "to figure out whatever the bloody hell he's doing and stop it. Our intelligence says he shouldn't be too hard to subdue, though, you should be able to do it on your own… the others are really just back up…"
"Right," Harry says, a bit more cheerfully now, some of the knots in his stomach untying. Fighting is something he's comfortable with, at least, and Malfoy can figure out the rest. Whatever 'the rest' is. He eyes the blonde, realizing he doesn't know what Malfoy does. He hadn't really thought to wonder, and debates now whether to ask, but he supposes they aren't called Unspeakable for no reason…
Nocturne Alley is just as he remembers it: dark, dirty, and very sketchy. He eyes a toothless witch selling poisons and thinks that he could probably have half the people here arrested if he took the time to do so, but he's here for a reason and it's not to bring in petty criminals.
The man walking beside him is making it bloody hard to forget.
Malfoy is like a time capsule of bad memories. Just one glance at him and Harry remembers. Him calling Hermione mudblood in their second year; his cold anger in fifth year after Harry had gotten Lucius arrested; seventh year on the run, trapped in Malfoy Manor, how desperately scared Malfoy's eyes had been as he'd been asked to identify them—
Harry jerks his eyes away, gooseflesh rising on his arms. For a moment, he could have sworn he felt the dampness of the basement, heard Hermione scream from upstairs…
"Potter? Are you ill?" Malfoy asks and Harry shoots him a glare.
"I'm fine," he bites out and Malfoy rolls his eyes with a long-suffering air but doesn't press the matter.
He wonders what Albus and James and Lily are doing right now. His sons should be at Hogwarts by now, he saw them off to the train just this morning. Maybe they're even being sorted right at this moment, although he isn't quite sure the timing is right. Lily… is probably at home, whining to Ginny and making a mess of the kitchen. He feels a fierce stab of affection for all of them and hopes with a sudden, almost desperate fervor that he's home in time for dinner.
Malfoy's wand jabs his side and on reflex Harry's wand is out and at the Unspeakable's throat. Malfoy sneers but looks a bit wary. "Stop daydreaming, Potter," he says, almost going cross eyed trying to see the wand. "We're here."
Harry blinks and lowers his wand. Malfoy was right—Borgin and Burkes looms before them and Harry has the sudden, vivid impression of a crooked, mossy tooth badly in need of dental care. It makes him think of Hermione. He turns to the three Aurors behind him and undoes the Disillusionment on the group. "Alright, you lot…" he begins, looking at the other Aurors. They're so young, probably fresh out of Hogwarts, and it makes a little bit of him crack.
War, he thinks bitterly, should be for adults.
Maybe that's why he hesitates, then says, "Blackvale shouldn't be hard to take down… he's not really a fighter, you know, just messes with some seriously Dark stuff… I can handle him. Back me up—if he manages to escape, you'll need to be here to catch him."
One of them gives him an incredulous, annoyed look. "This is your way of keeping us from seeing any action, isn't it."
"No," he says firmly. "There will be no action. This is me covering our arses."
The young Auror scoffs but doesn't argue. The other two just shrug and take out their wands, looking like they expect not to use them. Harry sighs.
"I reckon we ought to go in now… Malfoy…" he adds pointedly as the Unspeakable didn't seem to be listening.
"Yes, Potter," Malfoy mimics. "We should have been in ten minutes ago, has anyone ever told you that you Aurors are snails?"
Harry rolls his eyes and bites back a retort. "Well, c'mon then." He takes out his badge, not that he really needs it but he's going to do this thing proper—in no small part because he doesn't quite trust Malfoy not to cite him—and opens the door. Burke's head jerks up at the sound, his eyes widening at the sight of Harry's robes and badge.
"What—" he sputters. "You have no right—"
"We're not here for you," Malfoy says disdainfully, and Burke visibly relaxes, though he still looks wary.
"We need access to your basement," Harry says briskly. "We have good reason to believe the criminal Blackvale is hiding there."
"He couldn't have gotten in, not with my protective spells," the man tells them, his lip curling, and Harry lets out a breath.
"Our sources tell us that he is a very good ward breaker. I don't think you could hold him back," Harry shoots back. He's never liked the oily man. Burke looks offended but Harry couldn't care less and the man doesn't have enough spine to—or has enough sense not to—say anything. He seems unhappy but obliges, sweeping his wand to dispel the wards, and Harry picks his way down to the basement. He notices the opal necklace back on display and screams ring in his ears and he decides that when he next has free time, he'll come down here and confiscate it. He won't let that cursed thing do any more harm.
The steps to the basement are narrow and steep, creaking beneath their feet. The air grows colder as they descend, thick with the scent of must and mildew, the kind that clings to old stone and forgotten things. Harry feels a shiver run up his spine, though he tries to tell himself it's just the draft. His thoughts flicker briefly to the last time he was in a basement like this—when he and his friends had been chained in the depths of Malfoy Manor, the claustrophobic dark pressing in from all sides. His fingers tighten around his wand as he pushes the memory aside.
At the bottom, they reach a heavy door made of thick oak, an intricate pattern carved into its surface. Magic crackles faintly around it, a complex ward likely designed to keep intruders out. Not Burkes', unless the man was just pretending to remove the wards, but Harry doesn't think he was.
Blackvale, then.
"Muffliato," he whispers.
He places a hand on the door and mutters a spell under his breath. The wards vibrate as his magic interlaces with it, feeling it out, testing its strength.
"It's him, alright," Harry says softly. He's felt this magic before in other places they'd tried to catch the Dark wizard, but unlike those places, this power is fresh, active. Good thing he'd practiced undoing those old wards for weeks—it's practically second nature now, and with Malfoy's help, he makes quick work of them.
Blackvale, he's realized, is a lot better at breaking wards than casting them.
The door gives a low groan, the wards trembling under Harry and Malfoy's combined power before finally flickering away. He pushes it open cautiously, the hinges protesting with a metallic squeal. The basement beyond is a dimly lit maze of old shelves, crates, and tables covered with a clutter of magical implements. The space is large, far larger than Harry had expected, stretching deep into the ground like some sort of cavern beneath Borgin and Burkes. Dust hangs thick in the air, the scent of old paper and rusted metal heavy in his lungs.
Blackvale's presence is unmistakable. Harry feels the magic the moment he steps inside—its sharpness in the air, like static before a storm. But it's not just the raw power that sends a chill down his spine. There's something twisted about it, something off, as if time itself is being bent and distorted. The very air around them seems to vibrate with a strange hum.
"Stay alert," Harry mutters, his eyes scanning the shadows, the small cracks of light from the overhead fixtures doing little to illuminate the deeper corners of the room.
"What, do you think I'm an amateur?" Malfoy hisses, annoyed, but Harry hardly hears him. His attention is drawn forward, to the far side of the room where a large, arcane-looking device hums ominously. It's a strange contraption, like a cross between a grandfather clock and an astrological device, with gears and strange symbols etched into its surfaces. Pulsing lines of light dance across its frame, casting erratic shadows against the walls.
"Right, Malfoy, this is you," he says, eyeing it, and the pureblood gives him a curt nod.
"Homenum revelio," Harry casts softly. The spell ripples through the room, a soft, silvery light flaring for a moment before fading. The results are immediate and unmistakable. Harry's gaze flicks to the far corner, where a shadow shifts unnaturally. He can feel it before he sees him: Blackvale.
"Dammit," Harry mutters, drawing his wand tighter in his grip. He takes a step forward, and in the half-light, the shape of Blackvale comes into sharper view—a man hunched over the strange device, his back turned. "Malfoy," he warns in a low hiss, eyes narrowing.
The blonde Unspeakable is already moving, his steps light, his face drawn into something of a sneer as he takes in the scene. It's clear he knows exactly who Blackvale is—the kind of wizard who dabbles in magic no one should, playing with forces beyond his control. The trouble, though, is that this is the kind of situation where a wand won't be enough. Harry can tell by the way Blackvale is hunched over, absorbed in his work, that he's manipulating more than just the ordinary Dark arts.
"Why do they always have to go and make things complicated?" Malfoy mutters with a shudder, but he's already raising his own wand, ready to act.
Blackvale's head jerks up suddenly, his expression half-mad with feverish energy. He's not young, but his wild eyes betray an unnerving desperation. He's muttering something to himself, something that feels wrong, a chant or a series of incantations interwoven with the rhythm of the device's pulsing lights.
Harry's instincts kick in, and before he can stop himself, his hand shoots out. "Expelliarmus!"
Blackvale is thrown backwards, his wand spiraling from his grip and skittering across the floor, but the device on the table just hums louder, its pulsations intensifying. The faint light that had been dancing across it flares into jagged bolts of energy, a violent crackling sound filling the room.
"It's too late!" Blackvale wheezes from the floor, his face alight with a manic glee. "This whole godforsaken world will—"
"Harry!" Malfoy shouts, his voice sharp with alarm, and Harry doesn't need any further prompting. He knows this can't end well if Blackvale's contraption is allowed to complete whatever twisted experiment he's trying to carry out. It's not just a magic-warping device; it's a ticking bloody bomb.
He's already casting a series of spells, slashing his wand through the air. "Reducto!" A bolt of blue-white energy erupts, slamming into the device. But the magic recoils off the surface, bouncing erratically, like a stone thrown into a calm lake. The whole room shakes as a distorted, screeching noise fills the air, the device warping in response to Harry's spell, but not breaking.
"Dammit!" Harry snarls, more viciously this time, a sinking feeling churning in his gut. His eyes dart to Malfoy. "This is your bloody expertise, not mine! What do we do?"
Malfoy's sharp gaze flicks between Harry and the unstable device, a mixture of apprehension and professional calculation flashing across his face. The air crackles with charged energy, the hum of the machine growing louder, more insistent. He narrows his eyes… It's like the device is feeding off their magic… growing stronger with each spell cast against it…
"Bombarda!" Harry shouts desperately and Malfoy snarls.
"Don't keep casting, Potter," he snaps, his usual sneer replaced with an urgent edge. "You're only making it worse! It's absorbing the magic, can't you see?"
Harry's mind races, adrenaline sharpening his senses. The device is absorbing the magic—no spell will work unless they can disrupt its core, but he has no bloody idea how. All he can hear is the whine of the machine, the rhythm of Blackvale's muttered incantations growing faster, more frenzied.
"Focus!" Malfoy hisses, stepping forward and raising his wand. "We need to sever the connection between him and the machine. Stop him from channeling his power into it. Get Blackvale, that's your bloody job, isn't it?"
"Right," Harry mutters, adjusting his stance and flicking his wand. "Stupefy!" he cries. The red jet of light shoots toward Blackvale, but the man ducks and the spell hits the machine behind him instead.
"No!" Malfoy screams, his voice panicked. "No, no, oh God what have you done—"
And then the world falls apart.
A burst of energy, raw and uncontained, erupts from the device in a blinding explosion of light. Harry raises his arm to shield his face, but it's no use. The energy engulfs them both—the entire room is suffused with a blinding light, and the shriek of the device is drowned out by the sudden deafening roar that seems to come from every direction at once. His vision goes white, the last thing he hears before everything goes silent is Malfoy's voice, sharp and terrified:
"Potter, get down!"
And then—