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It was entirely Potter’s fault that Draco’s wand was broken. It was a routine bust, but it went to shit almost immediately. While Draco was distracted covering their arses, Potter went barreling into danger before they even had a chance to call for backup, as he was wont to do. Draco maintained that it wasn’t really his fault he didn’t see that Reducto flying toward him. And although Potter managed to throw up a shield charm just in the nick, Potter wielded magic with all the delicacy of a rogue Bludger. So when Potter’s shield slammed into Draco with a veritable force, it sent Draco flying into a wall, snapping his wand in the process.
The repair would take at least a week, and Draco was not pleased.
“We’ve got a call,” Potter said, looming over Draco’s desk, his arms crossed over his chest.
Draco slammed down his quill with more force than necessary. “One would almost think that it was you who was tossed headfirst into a brick wall, because clearly your memory has been affected. I don’t have a wand, Potter. What exactly do you expect me to do? Shout the perpetrator into submission?”
“Usually works on me,” Potter said with a shrug.
“It does not,” Draco scoffed.
“What difference does it make? I have a wand.”
“Shall I just cower behind you then? Is it that you need someone to witness your greatness in order to feel properly vindicated? Oh, no, it must be that you completely forgot, in your endless arrogance, that not everyone can just wave their hands about and conjure tea and biscuits simply because they fancied them,” Draco snapped. “I would be of absolutely no assistance to you wandless, Potter. Ask someone else to go with you.”
Potter huffed. “And miss out on your charming company? No chance. It’s a stakeout, Malfoy. You won’t even need a wand. Just sit there making those pinched faces you’re so good at and we’ll be done before you know it. And if things get hairy, I promise to protect you,” he said with a wink. “We leave at six.”
Draco glared at Potter’s retreating back. It was absolutely abhorrent how Potter seemed to have grown immune to Draco’s cutting words and nasty looks over the years they’d been partners. What once would have thrown Potter into a flustered strop, now seemed to have no effect at all. More often than not, Potter would laugh and muss his ridiculous raven hair, then totter off to sit at his desk, grinning like a loon. Other times, he winked and smirked, as if to prove he wasn’t offended in the least. But Potter really was very odd and often did things that didn’t make any sense at all.
***
Draco hated stakeouts with Potter. For one, it involved them sitting in close quarters for long periods of time. The first few they suffered through as partners were painfully awkward while they sat in silence, each minute stretching longer than the last. Over time, they became more bearable, if no less terrible. Potter was quite chatty once you got him started, and Draco was subsequently subjected to hours of inane prattling about Potter’s new broomstick, his godson Teddy, Granger’s latest bout of academic brilliance, the previous nights’ Quidditch scores, or the newest nonsense from the Weasel’s joke shop.
But Potter’s talking was the least of it. Draco preferred the nighttime stakeouts because then he didn’t have to see Potter. Even Draco could admit Potter was… rather good looking, if you were into that sort of thing. If you liked them with wiry muscles and too-long hair and a perpetual shadow of stubble across their jaw. He supposed there were those who appreciated Potter’s scruffiness, his lack of poise and decorum—mostly because he made up for it with a sufficient amount of unselfconscious swagger.
Luckily for Draco, the sun had just set over the carpark they were monitoring. Potter transfigured a discarded bin and a bit of an old log into a couple of chairs, and cloaked them in his usual fortress of notice-me-not charms. Once settled, Potter propped his boots on a nearby stump and fished a hastily wrapped carton from his satchel, which he uncovered and ate with his dirty fingers.
“Eurgh, what is that?” Draco asked, his nose wrinkling as the rich scent of roast chicken and buttered bread reached his nose.
“Dinner,” Potter said through a mouthful.
“And why is it here?”
“I usually go to the Burrow on Sundays. But since I’m doing this, Molly sent dinner along with me.” Potter held out the container. “Want some?”
“I’d rather eat dirt, thank you.”
“More for me then,” Potter said with a shrug, and resumed eating.
“Could you do that more quietly?” Draco snapped. Potter really wasn’t eating very loudly, but Draco found the silence between them grating.
Potter stilled, his jaw working slowly, dramatically, around the food, a dry look on his face. He swallowed. “Better?”
“You’re disgusting.”
Potter grinned crookedly, and Draco averted his eyes.
Potter finished his food eventually and tipped back on the legs of his chair, whistling.
“I swear to Merlin, if I had my wand right now, I would hex you,” Draco sneered.
“I know,” Potter said and began tapping his fingers to the tune he whistled.
Draco was seconds away from kicking the chair out from under Potter when there was a flurry of movement across the carpark. Potter frowned and let the legs of the chair drop back to the ground. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
It happened quickly. There was a scuffle at the edge of the asphalt and suddenly, the perp was sprinting across the carpark with three others in pursuit, curses flying between them in blinding flashes of light.
Potter was on his feet before Draco could stop him.
“Potter, no!” he shouted, but Potter was already tearing across the street. “Fuck! You idiot!”
Draco ran after Potter, not even sure what he expected to do without a wand. All he knew was that couldn’t let Potter run headfirst into it alone.
Potter glanced back at Draco in surprise as he ran. Draco wanted to shout at him to fucking pay attention, but before the words could form in his mouth, the attackers caught sight of him and hit Potter with a series of body-binds. He shook off the first two like rain, but the third and fourth were formidable, and he went down hard.
Draco panicked. His wandless magic was shit. He’d practiced it a bit because Potter insisted on it, but Potter was like a bloody magical hurricane, and training wandlessly with him made Draco feel like a fumbling child. He did, however, manage a few minor spells, some of Potter’s greatest hits that he practiced just to spite him.
“Expelliarmus!” Draco shouted, pressing his will behind the spell and aiming it directly at Potter. And low and behold, Potter’s wand— a legendary thing of rare Phoenix feather and holly wood—came sailing through the air to land neatly in Draco’s outstretched hand.
Draco didn’t have time to gauge Potter’s reaction before he was flinging a shield charm at him, followed by a series of Stupefies and Incarcerous spells at the scattering attackers.
Casting with Potter’s wand was… extraordinary. Draco’s own wand was a thing of precision—a sharp, hot blade through butter. Wielding Potter’s wand was like trying to hold back wildfire with his bare hands, and Draco’s magic absolutely roared through it with devastating ferocity. His first counter-curse went wide, blasting from the tip of the wand and sending Draco stumbling backwards. But Draco refocused and tried again, and instead of aiming for his usual knifepoint precision, he let the spell span out, wide and wild. The attackers crumpled to the ground like rag dolls.
The magic snapped back sharply and Draco was reeling, gasping and clutching his chest. It felt as though he’d been punched in the gut, as if the blood in his veins had turned to fire and burned him to embers. Draco sunk to his knees, his hands flat against the pavement as he caught his breath and convinced his stuttering heart to carry on beating.
As soon as the perps went down, Potter was on his feet and rushing toward Draco. He dropped into a crouch next to Draco and collected his wand from where it had fallen from to the ground, and tucked it into the holster at his thigh.
“Are you alright?” Potter asked, his hands hot as brands where they gripped Draco’s shoulders.
“Sweet Merlin, Potter, that thing nearly bloody killed me,” Draco gasped and nodded at the wand.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Potter said gruffly.
“Oh, excuse me, shall I have let them murder us and then get away?” Draco snarled.
Potter stood and held out a hand, which Draco took reluctantly, and let Potter pull him to his feet. Potter clasped a hand on Draco’s arm to steady him. He was frowning, studying Draco with narrowed eyes.
Potter shook his head, and a bit of wavy dark hair fell across his forehead. “That was stupid and dangerous, Malfoy.”
“Well, how was I supposed to know you were carrying around a bloody war hammer strapped to your leg?” Draco snapped as he attempted to regain his composure, to right his hair and smooth the wrinkles and dirt from his uniform.
Potter’s stormy expression cleared, and one eyebrow ticked up.
Draco held up one finger. “Don’t. Don’t you dare make some tasteless innuendo right now, Potter. Not when I feel as if I’ve been dragged five miles behind a rabid Hippogriff.”
Potter’s face cracked. “I would have thought you’d heard the rumours.”
Draco sighed and scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
Potter shrugged. “Not when you set it up so well.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Then thank goodness I’ve got this war hammer, or I’d never get a date,” he said with a smirk. “C’mon. Let’s get back.”
***
Back in their office at the DMLE, Draco found he could hardly focus on their incident reports because Potter was shooting him strange, loaded looks from across the room. Draco did his best to ignore him, as he always did, but it was proving difficult.
Sharing an office with Potter was a massive inconvenience and a source of endless distraction for Draco, mainly because Potter was a complete slob. There were paper cups of half-drunk tea scattered across his desk, and he left books open and piled atop one another. He had no identifiable filing system and had taken to charming the teetering stacks of parchment to keep them from tipping onto the floor. He had a myriad of unpleasant habits, such as propping his boots on the edge of the desk and giving Draco an unfortunate view of their dirty soles, while he read through papers with a crease between his brows. Potter sucked on the end of his quill when he was thinking and had a tendency to chew his bottom lip when annoyed about something.
But Potter was preoccupied, and Draco could feel the heat of his gaze like sunlight on his face.
“What, Potter?”
Potter just shook his head and muttered, “Nothing.”
“You’re glowering at me. I can feel it. It’s distracting. And since you’re shit at filling out paperwork, that leaves it to me. So if either of us expects to see our beds tonight, you best spit it out so I can focus.”
“You used my wand,” he said.
Draco set down his quill and looked at Potter, exasperated. “And?”
“No one’s ever been able to do that before.”
Draco frowned. “Do you often lend out your wand?”
“No. But Hermione tried to use it once, as a part of one of her experiments. She had Ron give it a go too.”
Granger’s essays on magical theory were widely read and included a significant amount of first-hand research. And it was no secret that Potter was one of her favourite test subjects.
“And what happened?” Draco asked.
Potter shrugged. “Nothing. Wouldn’t do a thing.”
“Perhaps it is situational?”
Potter wobbled his head. “Hermione considered that too, but it didn’t stick.”
Draco narrowed his eyes. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying it’s weird, is all.”
“You’ve used my wand before,” Draco grumbled.
Surprise flickered across Potter’s face. “That’s true.”
Potter stood and approached Draco’s desk, setting his hip against the corner. He pulled his wand from its holster and held it out to Draco. “Try it again.”
Draco tried not to recoil visibly. “I’d really rather not.”
But Potter just stood there, holding out his wand, and Draco heaved a sigh. He took it gingerly in his hand.
The reaction was instantaneous. The moment Draco’s fingers closed around the holly wood, it was like a shock of lightning, a tingling jolt from his fingertips to his shoulder. It was almost too much to bear—forceful and persistent, tearing away at something in Draco’s chest as he struggled to gain control of it. Draco scrunched his eyes shut and took a steadying breath. When he opened his eyes again, Potter was looking at him darkly.
“Cast something,” he said. “Something small.”
Draco shuddered and tightened his grip. “Lumos.”
The room lit up like the bloody sun. It was blinding, too much, completely out of control, and Draco opened his fist immediately. The wand clattered to his desk and the light went out abruptly as Draco blinked away the spots that danced across his vision.
Draco’s hand felt hot and he turned his palm up to examine it. He expected to see burns or blisters, but the skin was clear—pale and smooth as always. Potter reached out and took Draco’s hand in both his own, turning it over, his mouth a thin line and his eyes sharp.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
Draco swallowed drily and shook his head. Potter’s hands were warm and strong, and Draco was certain Potter had never touched him before that moment.
“No,” Draco said, his voice hoarse. “Tingles, like a static shock. Like electricity, but hot.”
Potter hummed, gave Draco’s hand a final squeeze, then released him. He retreated to his side of the office, where he returned to his teetering stacks of parchment with the quill-end between his lips.
Draco wrapped things up as quickly as he could manage. He felt inordinately drained and Potter was acting strange and quiet, still shooting Draco looks over the tops of his dark-rimmed glasses.
***
Three days later, Draco received notice that the repairs on his wand were complete. Relieved and near giddy, Draco went to pick it up before work, only to be told that Potter had already collected it. It was no matter that it was his bloody wand, all Potter had to do was ask and they handed it right over.
Incensed, Draco stormed into the DMLE to find Potter sitting at his desk, boots on the blotter, twirling Draco’s wand between his fingers. Draco attempted it to snatch it from him, but Potter avoided him easily.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Draco snapped. “You know it’s considered exceedingly rude to fondle someone else’s wand like that, don’t you?”
Potter’s lips twitched. “Do you do that on purpose or does it happen organically?”
Draco scowled.
Potter dropped his boots from the desk and stood, straightening to stand eye to eye with Draco. Draco absolutely hated that Potter had grown so bloody tall.
“Hermione has a theory,” he said. “About the wands.”
“I’ll not be Granger’s test subject, Potter. Don’t even ask.”
“You aren’t curious at all? You don’t want to know why you can use my wand when no one else can?”
“Not in the slightest,” Draco said.
But that wasn’t quite true. Draco was curious—but more than curious, he was afraid. He was fucking terrified. It wasn’t that the research on wand cores and compatibility hadn’t been conducted. It had. There were recorded instances of wizards using each other’s wands on occasion, usually resulting in weakened spells or reduced control. Draco had used his mother’s wand once or twice after the war, after his was taken from him. It was an unpleasant thing to experience, as though his magic was being funneled, cramped and filtered as he forced it through too-small an opening. It was nothing like the blast of heat and pure power he experienced that night in the carpark. Draco had never felt a thing like that in his entire bloody life.
The problem was that each recorded case of successful wand sharing was between bonded pairs—couples who could channel their magic through one another culminating in a startling increase in casting power. He and Potter certainly weren’t bonded. Hell, they weren’t even friends. And yet there was no arguing with the fact that Potter’s wand responded beautifully, enthusiastically, in Draco’s hand.
That was reason enough for Draco to avoid entertaining any of Granger’s little theories. The woman was exceedingly clever and opening himself up to Granger’s scrutiny would no doubt result in embarrassment for Draco. If Potter found out about the implications of wand compatibility, Draco was sure it would horrify him—or even disgust him. He would likely request a new partner. Although Draco found Potter obnoxious, arrogant, and endlessly difficult, he was also an excellent man to have at his back and as much as he hated to admit it, Draco would miss him if he were gone.
“Please,” Potter said.
Draco sighed. He hated when Potter asked nicely. “Fine. When?”
“Tonight. After work.”
Draco wanted to demure, to tell Potter he was simply too busy. It would be a lie, but they rarely spent time together after hours. Sure, there was the occasional lager with the other Aurors after work—something Draco only did to endear himself to their colleagues, not because he enjoyed it, and certainly not because Potter always asked and looked rather put out when Draco declined.
“Where?” Draco asked. “Training room?”
Potter shook his head. “No. I don’t want witnesses.”
Draco frowned. “That’s ominous and rather threatening, Potter.”
“My house,” Potter said.
“Fine,” Draco agreed through gritted teeth.
Potter nodded. He handed Draco back his wand, the tips of his fingers dragging against Draco’s palm.
***
Draco was out of sorts the rest of the day. Potter seemed no better, with his constant shifting and unsettling staring. It was still thirty minutes until quitting time when Potter pushed away from his desk.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“I have work to do,” Draco said, training his eyes on the parchment in front of him.
“You haven’t finished a report in the last three hours.”
“How do you know?” Draco snapped.
“Because neither have I.”
Draco narrowed his eyes and appraised Potter. “Why are you so eager?”
Potter didn’t answer, just chewed his cheek.
Draco sighed. “Fine. Floo?”
Potter shook his head and held out a hand. “The wards won’t admit you without me.”
Draco took Potter’s hand hesitantly. He had only a moment to notice that it was warm, just as before, and then there was a familiar tug behind Draco’s navel and the dizzying disorientation of apparition. Potter managed the it deftly, and Draco landed without stumbling even a little.
Draco had never been inside Grimmauld Place, though he’d heard rumours about it. It was just as dark and dreary as Draco imagined and he suffered a pang of sadness for Potter. It seemed so out of place for a person who burned as brightly as he to live amongst the dust and doxies that way.
Potter beckoned him toward the sitting room with a tilt of his head.
Potter’s strange shift in demeanor over the past few days unnerved Draco. Potter was unusually quiet and cagey when he was normally all fire and crackling magic, wry jokes and warm smiles. Something wasn’t right.
Potter went to stand next to the hearth, his arms crossed over his chest as he continued to regard Draco with that same dark look that made Draco feel flayed.
“When will Granger be arriving?” Draco asked, hovering near the door.
“Hermione’s not coming.”
Draco froze. “What do you mean?”
“I asked her not to. I needed to talk to you first. Alone.”
Draco fell back a step, suddenly on guard. “What’s going on?”
“I felt it,” Potter said.
“What?” Draco asked slowly, cautiously.
Potter inhaled deeply, then released a shuddering exhale. “When you used my wand. I felt it.”
“What did you feel?”
“You.” The word hissed out of Potter through his teeth and he squeezed his eyes shut tight.
Draco suffered a horrible swooping sensation, as if the floor had dropped out from beneath him. Part of him wanted badly to flee, to turn around and walk right the fuck out the front door before Potter said another word. But what came next wasn’t the humiliating dismissal Draco expected.
“I’ve tried, you know, to be respectful. To keep my distance,” Potter continued. His voice was pitched low and strained. “I thought I could ignore it, that it would go away with time. Or that maybe I would get used to it and it wouldn’t be so fucking distracting. I was doing fine. I was managing. But then you—“ Potter raked his fingers through his hair and turned away. He placed one hand on the cold hearth and leaned against it, his head hanging.
“I don’t understand,” Draco admitted.
Potter laughed, but there was no humour in it. It was too dry, too ragged, too bloody pained. He shook his head, eyes still downcast. “I can’t stop thinking about it. About you.” He looked up then, and straight at Draco, his eyes bright and his mouth twisted into something between a grimace and a sad smile. “I’m fucked up, Malfoy.”
Draco’s heart stuttered in his chest and he took a hesitant step toward Potter. There was no way he’d heard that correctly. He must have misunderstood.
“It’s never like this for me,” Potter said, despondent. “When you used my wand it felt like… like a punch in the stomach, like you’d cracked my skull open and poked around inside. Do you know what that feels like?”
He did. Draco knew exactly what it felt like. He’d experienced it the moment Potter’s wand landed in his palm. But he couldn’t force the words from his mouth, completely in shock as he was. Draco had assumed it was one-sided, that only he was torn open in that moment.
“I get it if you want to put in for a new partner or a transfer, but I can’t do this anymore. I can’t just sit in that office with you after seeing that, after feeling that. I tried and I just… I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”
It wasn’t possible. He couldn’t believe it. What Potter was saying couldn’t be true. And yet…
There was always something. It wasn’t as though the shift happened all at once, that one day Draco had woken and found that he no longer hated Potter. And it wasn’t simply because Potter was handsome, though he was, so much so that Draco found it irksome that he couldn’t control the way his eyes followed Potter’s every move. He’d not bothered to consider anything more than their fickle camaraderie, because why would he? This was Harry Potter— the saviour of the bloody world, the Ministry darling, one of the most famous wizards alive. He had legions of simpering fans and devoted friends. He was beloved, adored, desired. And here he stood in front of Draco, looking both wretched and deflated. Because of him.
Draco wasn’t sure how long he stood there, frozen, turning over one thousand different scenarios, past interactions, snippets of conversation in his head, unpacking them all until he came to the startling conclusion that there just wasn’t anyone else. Friends, lovers—they passed through Draco’s life with little consequence, but Potter? He was a constant. A driving force, be it jealousy or madness, or dare he even think it… affection? Longing?
Potter shifted on the opposite side of the room and Draco’s attention snapped back to him. Potter dropped his hands from the hearth and slumped against the wall behind him. He looked ragged and worn, but still so bloody handsome in that strangled and startling vulnerability.
“Say something, please?” Potter said.
Draco cleared his throat. He crossed the room to stand in front of Potter, who stilled, watching Draco warily. Draco reached out one hand and eased Potter’s wand from the holster at his hip, careful to only let the tips of his fingers graze Potter’s body. He twirled it once in his hand, the tingle of electricity zapping over his skin, and watched as Potter’s gaze grew heavy.
“Incendio,” Draco said, pointing the wand at the empty grate in the hearth, his attention never leaving Potter’s face. A fire burst to life and Potter’s jaw tightened, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “You can feel that?”
Potter studied Draco for a moment, his eyes flicking between Draco’s own. Then he nodded once, slowly.
“What does it feel like?” Draco asked.
“Like you said. Like electricity. Like heat.”
“And you like it?” Draco asked.
Potter dipped his chin to his chest, his eyelids fluttering shut. “Yes.”
Draco placed the tip of Potter’s wand beneath his chin, pressing gently into the tender skin, tilting back his head so Draco could look directly into his eyes.
“Tell me what you want, Potter.”
“More,” he said.
Draco felt Potter’s body go rigid as he replaced the wand tip with his hand, fingers splayed across his jaw, holding him in place.
Draco would have felt the lick of magic against his skin even if he weren’t holding Potter’s wand, but the thing only seemed to intensify the sensation tenfold.
Potter’s lips parted around a breath, and Draco was transfixed. His fingers tightened on Potter’s jaw and suddenly Draco was crushing their mouths together. Potter responded with a groan and melted against him. Draco let Potter’s wand clatter to the floor in favour of burying his hands in his hair. He tugged the thick strands in his fists, yanking Potter’s head to the side so Draco could easily plunge his tongue between Potter’s yielding lips.
Potter kissed beautifully. He was fiery and skilled and tasted deliciously of sweet mint and warm tea. And when Draco dragged his hands from where he held Potter behind his ears to circle his throat loosely, he made the loveliest little whimper that sent heat flickering through Draco’s gut. Draco had one thumb on either side of Potter’s Adam’s apple and his fingers spread wide, manipulating the angle of their kiss, all the better to devour him.
Draco pulled back slightly to gasp in a breath and Potter chased after him, biting Draco’s bottom lip between his teeth. Potter’s hands were fisted at the front of Draco’s uniform and when he tugged, Draco stumbled closer, aligning their bodies from hip to head.
Draco didn’t stop him when Potter clawed at the buttons of his uniform, biting kisses into Draco’s jawline, tearing the seams without a care. Draco was equally desperate to feel skin against skin, to know if all of Potter was as warm as his hands. Draco didn’t release his hold on Potter even as Potter parted the plackets of his robes, thrusting seeking hands beneath fabric. Instead, Draco crowded him further against the wall, using his body as a cage to hold Potter against him, to feel the burning heat of him everywhere. Potter growled and his lips were once again pressed against Draco’s own, desperate and hungry—a battle of tongues and teeth and shuddering breaths.
Kissing Harry Potter was like dueling. Each of them clambered for the upper hand while also relishing in their own defeat, as it only fueled the fight. Even without his wand in hand, Draco could feel his magic rise to meet Potter’s. It swelled within him, intertwining them together inextricably, binding them–quicksilver and Phoenix fire—a perfect foil.