Chapter Text
There are some days when Harry’s in the kitchen cooking, he will make a little mess, and then suddenly can hear Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice berating him, the phantom sting of a hand towel thwacking against his head. His friends have often teased him about his almost obsessive quirk of ensuring the kitchen is always clean, regardless of Harry’s making.
It’s just easier not to hear that voice, high and scolding and horrible, the one that reduced Harry to being ten again, forced to help make dinner and being berated when he’d burned himself because he was fucking ten with no guidance other than, “Hurry up, boy! My Dudley is hungry!’
In those days, it was simply better not to be in the kitchen at all.
This is why Harry’s doing the unprofessional thing, popping into the bakery on this street and buying himself some breakfast-slash-dinner before going to the shop that the case file folded haphazardly in his robes needs him to. The pastry is soft and flaky against his tongue, the meat filling so hot that Harry has to open his full mouth and breathe past through the chewed-up food to cool it enough for him to swallow.
Harry took his time wandering down the quiet streets of Diagon Alley. Despite how exhausted he was and how much he longed for dreamless-induced sleep, the chilly morning air was refreshing. It was rather nice to go out and stretch his legs for once; being stuck inside his office or in battles had firmly put nice, refreshing walks on the back burner. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to exercise without the threat of death or major career-altering injury hanging over his head. It’s early enough that the only people here are either shop owners, who have responsibilities and thus cannot gawk at him, and three very old witches, who stared at him in a vaguely-threatening manner as he passed by. Even their magic-fuelled knitting needles paused their work, angling towards Harry, who could not help but quicken his pace. How quickly could those needles reach him, he wondered, as unease prickled the back of his neck. Harry decided he’d prefer not to know.
The shop he was actually here for, The Bottled Cauldron, was an unassuming little two-story building with wide, clear windows tucked away in the corner of Diagon Alley. It smelled faintly of mahogany, apples and smoky potion fumes, a scent bizarrely so familiar to Harry, yet he could not place it. However, one thing is unfortunately familiar: it has just seen Harry Potter in rumbled Auror robes, staring into the windows and cramming food into his mouth. Draco Malfoy was clearly not impressed if the scorn on his face meant anything. With an irritated flick of his wand, the doors to The Bottled Cauldron eased open with a groan, as if the bloody shop didn’t want Harry to enter it as much as its owner did. A little chime welcomed Harry begrudgingly as he stepped over the threshold.
“If you’re the hotshot of the Auror department they’ve deigned to help send, I should just cut my losses,” Malfoy said bitterly, tapping his fingers against the worn wood of the desk.
“Shah-up,” Harry replied cheerily through the last bite of his pastry. He swallowed, relishing in the disgusted look Malfoy was wearing, and continued, “You’re lucky they sent anyone at all.”
Malfoy’s pale face went cold. The tap, tap, tap of his fingers halted abruptly. His expression hadn’t exactly been warm before, but the almost-deadness of it made Harry feel a bit… Well, shit, honestly.
“Of course.”
Harry winced a little. “Er, not like that. The department is horribly understaffed, you know. A few hundred stolen gallons that got returned a day after isn’t really that high on the list. You’ve technically not even got any losses to cut.”
(And maybe a little like that. The only reason an Auror was handling this case at all was that Harry was here voluntarily after his night shift finished. Merlin, he’s actually here trying to help Malfoy unpaid. The lack of sleep was surely getting to him ).
“I suppose I must accept the gracious help from Aurors that my tax-paying galleons supply, even if it is you .” Malfoy sighed as if Harry was a great burden and not literally one of the best in the department (tedious paperwork notwithstanding). Harry scowled. He ought to have just gone home and taken a risk with his kitchen. No pastry was worth dealing with this wanker.
“I suppose I must let whoever’s breaking into your bloody potion shop continue with their little tricks,” Harry replied crossly, “Because, unfortunately , your tax-paying galleons aren’t paying for my time right now.”
Malfoy blinked in surprise. “Are you suggesting to me right now that Harry Potter isn’t being paid? What, you’re too saint-like to have a salary? Pro-bono work only for the Chosen One?”
“God, I’ve forgotten how annoying you are,” Harry groaned. “What I’m suggesting is that I’m here to help your ungrateful arse off the clock because, as I said, your request is not very high on the to-do list.”
“Ah, I’m the pro-bono work. How lucky.”
“You’re about to be no work,” Harry muttered. He was tired, still hungry, and had an empty, cold bed waiting for him in a house he didn’t particularly like to be in, and yet that was preferable to having to deal with this arsehole any longer. Frankly, Harry wasn’t sure why he’d bothered. It wasn’t like he actually liked Malfoy. Hell, he hadn’t even spoken to the guy in three years. To think he’d even thought of coming here for free and had actually done it. Harry was off his bloody head; Ron could never find out. He would never hear the end of it. “Right, I’m leaving. Good luck with your friendly thief, Malfoy.”
He would’ve disapparated on the spot if not for the faintly guilty expression on Malfoy’s face and the pale fingers that had attached themselves to the arm of his Auror robes.
“I am… sorry,” Malfoy said slowly as if the apology had to be forcibly wrenched from behind his teeth. “I would appreciate your help. I’ll even pay your hourly rate if you truly are doing this unpaid, even though that's clearly not my fault; one would think that Harry Potter would - No need to give me that look, Potter - because this little issue must be sorted. I live above the shop most nights. If there’s someone breaking in, I’ll be forced to sleep at the Manor - Ah, regardless, isn’t it your job to protect wizard folk?”
Harry half-listened to Malfoy’s tirade and half-watched the fingers gripping his robe tighten into a fist, almost shaking. Malfoy was afraid, Harry realised belatedly. Really, he ought to have figured that out sooner since Malfoy had sent a request to the Auror department, the very same one with whom he clearly didn’t have the most spectacular past. (Maybe he didn’t deserve the spot of one of the best Aurors, tedious paperwork included).
“Yeah, it is,” Harry swallowed thickly. Afraid of being helpless… Maybe even afraid of going home. Like Harry was. “I’ll help you.”
Malfoy stilled, realising he was still attached to Harry and then let him go with a haughty sniff. “I would appreciate that.” An awkward silence rose between them as they both pointedly ignored each other. The almost pleasantness of that interaction was too much to bear.
“Right, uh, it can’t be right now, though. I only came because I was already out, but I really do need to sleep. I’ve actually been awake for almost forty-eight hours, and I’m dead on my feet. I’ll swing by later. Is that alright with you?”
“You do look ridiculous,” Malfoy said, but his tone was almost… softer? Which it had clearly not been. No way. Harry had definitely imagined that because he was delirious from lack of sleep and malnutrition. Bloody hell. A clear sign that he needed to go to sleep right now. “I suppose that’s alright. You’re no good to me half-dead, Auror Potter. Go on, then. I’ve got to open the shop, anyhow.”
“Er, will you be alright?”
Malfoy stared at him. Harry shifted his weight from foot to foot, barely fighting the urge to run his fingers through his hair to combat the awkwardness. “You do have someone breaking in.”
“Merlin, Potter, it’s a wonder you ever progressed in your career as far as you did. A thief isn’t going to have a heist here in the daylight with bored but beady-eyed shoppers strolling about. Now, go home before your colleagues come to arrest me because I’ve got bloody Potter unconscious on my doorstep . It’ll be fine.”
“Okay. If you’re sure… See you later, Malfoy.”
“I close at six,” Malfoy said firmly. His fingers resumed their tapping. (An anxious habit, Harry could see now). “Don’t be late.”
I know, Harry almost replied, but even severely sleep-deprived, he knew that was a very bad thing to voice. He’d never patronised this shop before; he shouldn’t know the exact time when Draco Malfoy flips the sign from open to close. (He’d been curious the day it had opened its doors eighteen months ago. It had been a great hit, he’d been told, from the Auror department’s assistant, who had visited the opening and who’d been very happy to chatter about both the shop and its infamous owner to an inquisitive Harry Potter).
“I won't,” he says instead, rubbing a hand over his face, and disapparated.
At least tomorrow night will be paid, on-the-clock Auror work. He’ll just have to do some paperwork before his shift tonight to make that happen. Ugh.