Chapter 3: The Minister's Daughter
The lift doors slid open with a soft chime, and Harry stepped into the corridor of the Auror Office with his shoulders already braced for chaos. Three memos zipped past his ear before he made it ten feet. A paper aeroplane collided with his forehead and unfolded itself into a memo from Robards demanding updated reports on the Rosier case. He crumpled it without reading and kept walking.
His desk was buried under a mountain of parchment.
Someone had left a cold cup of tea on his chair. The enchanted window behind his desk was showing a dreary Manchester drizzle, which meant whatever intern had set the charm had a sense of humour. Harry dropped into his seat, shoved the tea aside, and stared at the pile of paperwork like it might spontaneously combust if he glared hard enough.
It didn't.
He'd been back at work for four days. Four days of pretending he hadn't spent every spare moment thinking about platinum hair and gray eyes and the way she looked in his jersey. Four days of dodging Ron's increasingly suspicious questions and Hermione's knowing glances. Four days of Apparating to her flat every night, falling into her bed, waking up tangled in her sheets, and sneaking out before dawn like a thief.
He wasn't sneaking.
He was being discreet.
There was a difference.
The door to his office burst open, and Harry's hand was halfway to his wand before he registered the familiar silhouette. Draco stood in the doorway, two paper bags in her arms and a smirk on her face that meant trouble.
"You look like shit," she said.
"Good morning to you too."
She closed the door behind her with her hip and crossed the room, depositing the bags on his desk with a flourish. The smell of something warm and savoury filled the air—lamb pasties, maybe, or steak and kidney pie. Harry's stomach growled in response.
"Did you bring lunch?"
"I brought salvation." She perched on the edge of his desk, crossing her legs at the knee. "You forgot to eat dinner last night. And breakfast this morning. I'm not going to let you starve yourself into an early grave when I've only just acquired you."
"Acquired me?"
"Semantics."
Harry reached for the bag, but Draco caught his wrist. Her fingers were warm against his skin, and he felt the familiar spark of want curl in his gut.
"I have a proposition for you," she said.
"Why does that sound ominous?"
"Because you're paranoid." She released his wrist and leaned back, her palms braced on the desk. The position pulled her blouse taut across her chest, and Harry caught a flash of crimson and gold underneath. His jersey. She was wearing his jersey under her work robes.
Christ.
"My mother," Draco continued, apparently oblivious to the way his brain had short-circuited, "has been sending me owls. Daily. Sometimes twice daily. She's very concerned about my marital prospects."
Harry blinked. "Marital prospects?"
"I'm twenty-two. Unmarried. No suitors." She ticked the points off on her fingers. "In pureblood society, that's practically a death sentence. She's convinced I'm going to die alone and childless, and she's made it her personal mission to find me a husband before the year is out."
"And you're telling me this why?"
Draco's smirk widened. "Because I need a date. There's a gala next weekend—the annual Sacred Twenty-Eight benefit. All the old families will be there, all the eligible bachelors my mother has been trying to shove at me since I was seventeen. I need someone to accompany me. Someone who will make it very clear that I'm not available."
Harry leaned back in his chair. "You want me to be your beard."
"I want you to be my partner." She uncrossed and recrossed her legs. "Official. Public. There will be photographs. There will be gossip. My mother will have an aneurysm."
"Sounds like fun."
"I thought you'd appreciate the chaos."
Harry considered the proposal. The Sacred Twenty-Eight gala was a pureblood institution—old money, old names, old prejudices. He'd never been invited, obviously. The Boy Who Lived might be a war hero, but he was still a half-blood raised by Muggles. The Sacred Twenty-Eight didn't know what to do with him.
Except now Draco Malfoy was asking him to be her date.
"I'll need dress robes," he said.
"I'll take you shopping."
"You'll torture me, you mean."
"Same thing."
He reached for the paper bag again, and this time she let him. The pasty was still warm, the crust flaky and golden. Harry took a bite and nearly moaned.
"Good?" Draco asked.
"Marry me."
She laughed. The sound filled the office, bright and genuine, and Harry felt something warm unfurl in his chest.
"Careful, Potter. Say things like that and I might actually do it."
"Is that a threat?"
"A promise."
Harry was about to respond—something witty, something charming, something that would make her laugh again—when the door slammed open.
"You're shagging Malfoy?"
Ron stood in the doorway, red-faced and wild-eyed, his wand already out. His gaze shot from Harry to Draco, then back again, taking in the scene with mounting horror: Draco perched on Harry's desk, her legs crossed, her lips still curved in a smile. The jersey visible at the collar of her robes. The paper bags. The intimacy of it all.
Harry's magic surged.
"Ron—"
"Don't 'Ron' me!" He jabbed his wand at Draco. "You're dating a Death Eater's daughter? The same Malfoy who spent six years trying to make our lives hell? The one whose family tried to kill us? That Malfoy?"
Draco's expression had gone cold. The smile had vanished, replaced by a mask of pureblood indifference that Harry recognized from their school days. But he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers had curled into fists against her thighs.
"Ron," Harry said again, his voice dangerously quiet. "Put your wand down."
"Have you lost your mind? She's—"
"She's my girlfriend."
The words fell into the silence like stones into still water. Ron froze. Draco went very, very still.
"You're actually..." Ron's voice dropped to a whisper. "You're actually dating her? You're slumming it with a Death Eater's daughter?"
The world went red.
Harry didn't remember standing. He didn't remember drawing his wand. He didn't remember the incantation, or the flick of his wrist, or the way his magic crackled through the air like a thunderstorm about to break.
He did remember Ron's face. The way his eyes went wide. The way his legs buckled beneath him.
The Jelly-Legs Jinx hit Ron square in the chest and sent him sprawling. He hit the floor hard, limbs flailing, and let out a string of curses that would have made a sailor blush.
"What the fuck, Harry?"
Harry walked around his desk. Slow. Deliberate. His magic was still crackling, still singing in his veins, and he didn't bother to rein it in. Let Ron feel it. Let him understand.
"You want to say that again?" Harry asked.
"Say what? It's true, isn't it? She's—"
"She's my girlfriend." Harry crouched down until he was eye level with Ron. "And if you ever speak about her like that again, I'll make sure you can't walk for a week."
Ron's mouth opened and closed. He looked like a fish. A very confused, very betrayed fish.
"Harry—"
"I mean it, Ron. She's not her parents. She's not her family name. She's Draco. And she's mine."
The words hung in the air. Ron stared at him, and Harry saw the moment the reality of the situation finally sank in. His face crumpled—part hurt, part confusion, part something that might have been fear.
"You cursed me."
"You insulted my girlfriend."
"I was—"
"Being a twat." Harry stood. "I know. I've known you for fifteen years, Ron. I know when you're being a twat."
He flicked his wand. Ron's legs popped back to normal, and he scrambled to his feet, face flushed with humiliation.
"Just... just think about it, mate." Ron backed toward the door. "Think about what you're doing. Who you're doing it with. This isn't... this isn't you."
Harry's magic flared again. "Get out."
Ron got.
The door slammed shut behind him, and the office fell silent. The enchanted window was still showing Manchester, but the rains had stopped, leaving the city drenched and gray. Harry stood in the middle of the room, chest heaving, magic still thrumming through his veins like he'd just run a mile.
Draco hadn't moved.
She was still perched on the edge of his desk, still watching him with those sharp gray eyes. But something had shifted in her expression. The mask had cracked. He could see it underneath—the vulnerability, the fear, the fragile hope she usually hid so well.
"You called me your girlfriend," she said.
"You are."
"I didn't think you'd..." She trailed off. Swallowed. "I didn't think you'd say it. Not like that. Not to someone like Weasley."
"He deserved it."
"He's your best friend."
"He's a git." Harry crossed the room and stopped in front of her. "And if he can't accept you, then he's not my friend."
Draco looked up at him. Those gray eyes were bright, almost glassy, and Harry realized with a start that she was trying not to cry.
"Harry—"
He leaned down and kissed her.
It was a claiming kiss. Hot and fierce and possessive, his hands fisting in her hair, his tongue pushing past her lips. She moaned against his mouth and pulled him closer, her fingers curling into the fabric of his robes.
When he pulled back, her cheeks were flushed. Her lips were swollen. She looked thoroughly debauched, and Harry hadn't even gotten her clothes off yet.
"You meant it," she said.
"Every word."
She reached up and touched his face. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, gentle and reverent.
"I've been waiting years to hear you say that."
"Which part?"
"All of it." She pushed at his chest, and he stepped back, confused. Then she slid off the desk and her hands found his shoulders, shoving him backward until his knees hit the chair.
He sat.
Draco smirked.
The mask was back—but it was a different mask now. Not the cold pureblood indifference. This was something else. Something predatory. Something that made his cock twitch in his trousers.
"I've been waiting years," she repeated, "to hear you say you're mine."
"Draco—"
"Shut up."
She hiked up her robes and straddled him.
Harry grabbed her hips on instinct. She fit perfectly in his lap, her thighs bracketing his, her chest pressed against his. The jersey was still visible at her collar, a flash of crimson and gold against her pale skin.
"What are you—"
She kissed him. Hard. Her teeth caught his lower lip and bit down, and he groaned into her mouth.
"I'm going to fuck you," she said against his lips. "Right here. Right now. In your office. Where anyone could walk in."
"They won't—"
She grabbed his hand and guided it to the door. He fumbled for his wand, for his magic, and a moment later he heard the lock click.
"Such a good boy," she purred.
Harry's brain short-circuited.
She reached between them and found his belt. Her fingers worked quickly, efficiently, and Harry watched with something between awe and dread as she pulled his cock free.
He was already hard. Already aching. Already desperate for her.
"Ready?" she asked.
Before he could answer, she sank down onto him.
The sensation hit him like a curse to the chest. Hot. Wet. Perfect. She was so fucking tight, her cunt gripping him like a fist, and he had to grip the armrests to keep from coming right then and there.
"Fuck," he gasped.
"Language, Potter."
She started to move.
Slow at first. Deliberate. She rode him like it was a fucking art form, her hips rolling in a rhythm that made his eyes roll back in his head. The chair creaked beneath them. The enchanted window flickered, the Manchester drizzle giving way to a sunset that couldn't possibly be real—orange and gold and pink, painting the office in warm light.
"Look at me," she demanded.
He looked.
She was beautiful. Hair wild, cheeks flushed, lips parted. The jersey had fallen open at the collar, revealing the curve of her breasts. She looked like a goddess. A demon. Something in between.
"You said I was yours," she said, voice breathless. "Say it again."
"You're mine."
"Again."
"You're mine."
She picked up the pace. Harder now. Faster. The chair slammed against the wall behind him, and Harry grabbed her hips, driving up into her with every downward stroke.
"Whose are you?" she demanded.
"Yours."
"Damn right."
She leaned down and kissed him, messy and desperate, her tongue sliding against his. Harry tangled his fingers in her hair and pulled her closer, deeper, until he couldn't tell where he ended and she began.
"I've wanted this for years," she gasped against his mouth. "Years, Harry. Since I was thirteen. Since I first saw you on that broom. Since I first realized I wanted you, the same way I wanted to fly—consuming, absolute, fucking terrifying."
"You never said anything."
"I was a coward." She riding him harder now, her cunt gripping his cock, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "I was scared. I thought you'd hate me. I thought you did hate me."
"I didn't."
"I know that now."
She kissed him again, fast and fierce, then pulled back. Her eyes were wild, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"I'm going to come," she said. "And you're going to watch."
"Draco—"
"Watch."
He watched.
Her face contorted. Her body arched. She let out a sound that was half-moan, half-scream, and Harry felt her cunt clench around his cock in a rhythm that drove him insane.
She shuddered through her orgasm, riding it out on his cock, and Harry followed a heartbeat later. His release hit him like a bus. He spilled inside her with a groan, filling her up, and she collapsed against his chest with a satisfied sigh.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
The enchanted window was still showing its fake sunset. The chair was still creaking slightly beneath them. The scent of sex hung heavy in the air, mixing with the lingering smell of lamb pasties and cedarwood.
"So," Draco said, voice muffled against his robes. "About that gala."
Harry laughed. He couldn't help it. The sound bubbled up from somewhere deep in his chest, warm and genuine and utterly unexpected.
"I'll go," he said.
"You will?"
"I'll need dress robes."
"I'll take you shopping."
"You'll torture me."
"Same thing."
She lifted her head and looked at him. Her hair was a disaster, her lips were swollen, and there was a red mark on her neck where his stubble had rubbed. She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"Why?" she asked.
"Why what?"
"Why are you doing this? The gala. The confrontation with Weasley. All of it. You could have just... kept me secret. Kept this casual."
Harry considered the question. He thought about the past four days—the stolen nights, the whispered confessions, the way she made him feel alive for the first time in years. He thought about Ron's face, the shock and confusion and betrayal. He thought about the jersey, still visible at her collar, a symbol of everything they'd been hiding.
"I don't want casual," he said. "I don't want secret. I want you. And I don't care who knows it."
Draco's breath caught. Her eyes went bright again, and this time she didn't bother to hide it. A tear slipped down her cheek, and Harry reached up to brush it away.
"Harry—"
"I love you."
"I know."
He raised an eyebrow.
"I mean—I love you too." She laughed, a wet, broken sound. "I've loved you for so long I don't know how to do anything else."
"Good thing you don't have to."
She kissed him. Soft this time. Sweet. The kind of kiss that promised more than just a good shag. The kind of kiss that meant something.
When they broke apart, she was smiling.
"So," she said. "Dress robes."
"Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow." She climbed off his lap and adjusted her robes. The jersey disappeared beneath the fabric, a secret only he knew about. "I'll pick you up at ten. Wear something decent."
"I always wear something decent."
"No, you don't."
"Fair point."
She crossed to the door and unlocked it with a flick of her wand. Then she paused, hand on the handle, and looked back at him.
"Harry."
"Yeah?"
"I meant what I said." Her gray eyes were serious, steady. "I'm not going to pretend I'm not in love with you anymore. I'm going to make sure everyone knows. Including your stupid friend."
"Ron's not stupid."
"He's an idiot."
"He's my idiot."
She smirked. "You're too forgiving."
"I know."
She left.
The door clicked shut behind her, and Harry was alone in his office. The fake sunset was fading, replaced by a starry night sky that glittered through the enchanted glass. The paper bags were still on his desk, the pasties now cold. He'd have to reheat them later.
He sat in his chair for a long time, staring at nothing.
She'd said she loved him.
He'd said it back.
And tomorrow, he was going shopping for dress robes with Draco Malfoy.
His life had gone utterly, completely, irreversibly mad. But he didn't care.
He'd fallen in love with the enemy. And he wasn't sorry at all.
His Floo flared at eight o'clock that evening. Harry looked up from the report he'd been staring at for the past hour, expecting Draco, or maybe Hermione with a lecture.
It was Ron.
His best friend stood in the green flames, expression sheepish, hat in hand. Literally. He was holding his old Chudley Cannons hat like it might protect him.
"Can we talk?" Ron asked.
Harry leaned back in his chair. "Depends. Are you going to apologize?"
"Coming here, aren't I?"
"That's not an answer."
Ron sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm going to apologize. Can I come through?"
Harry considered. Part of him wanted to hex Ron again. Part of him wanted to slam the Floo connection shut and pretend this day had never happened. But another part—the part that had known Ron since they were eleven, the part that had shared a dorm with him for seven years, the part that had fought beside him in a war—that part wanted to hear him out.
"Fine," Harry said. "Come through."
Ron stepped out of the fireplace, dusting ash from his robes. He looked uncomfortable, out of place, and Harry felt a flash of petty satisfaction.
"I was out of line," Ron said. "What I said about her. It was... it was shite. I'm sorry."
"Apology accepted."
"That easy?"
"Would you prefer I hex you again?"
"No." Ron held up his hands. "No hexing. Please."
Harry smirked.
"I just... I don't get it, Harry. She's Malfoy. She was horrible to us for years. Her family—"
"Her family isn't her."
"I know that. I know." Ron ran a hand through his hair. "But it's hard to forget. The things she said. The things her parents did. The way she treated Hermione, treated you. It's hard to just... let it go."
"Then don't let it go." Harry stood, crossing to the window. The fake stars were still glittering, cold and distant. "You don't have to be her friend, Ron. You don't have to like her. But you do have to respect her. Because she's mine, and I'm not going to let anyone—not even you—disrespect her."
Ron was quiet for a long moment.
"You really love her?"
"Yeah." Harry turned. "I really do."
"Since when?"
"Since eighth year, maybe. Since that changing room, definitely." He shook his head. "I don't know, Ron. It's complicated. It's messy. It doesn't make sense. But it's real."
Ron stared at him. Then he sighed and dropped onto the couch.
"You're mental. You know that, right?"
"I've been told."
"She's going to make your life hell."
"She already does."
"And you're okay with that?"
Harry grinned. "More than okay."
Ron shook his head, but there was something like acceptance in his expression. Something like understanding.
"Fine," he said. "I'll try. I can't promise I'll like her, but I'll try. For you."
"That's all I ask."
Ron stood, clapping Harry on the shoulder. "You're still mental, though."
"I know."
"And I'm telling Hermione."
"She already knows."
Ron groaned. "Of course she does. She always knows."
Harry laughed.
Ron left a few minutes later, Flooing back to his flat with a promise to "try not to be a git" the next time he saw Draco. Harry watched him go, and felt something loosen in his chest. It wasn't forgiveness. Not quite. But it was a start.
His Floo flared again an hour later.
Draco stepped through, still wearing her work robes, her hair a mess from the wind. She looked tired. She looked beautiful.
"You're still here," she said.
"I'm always here."
She crossed the room and dropped into his lap, curling against his chest like she belonged there.
"Weasley came by," she said. Not a question.
"He apologized."
"I know. I saw him in the Atrium. He looked like a kicked puppy."
"That's Ron."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she looked up at him, gray eyes searching his face.
"He's never going to like me."
"Probably not."
"And that doesn't bother you?"
Harry considered. "Not as much as the alternative bothers me."
"Which is?"
"Losing you."
She kissed him. Soft and sweet and full of promise.
"You're not going to lose me, Potter."
"Good."
"Now take me home. I'm tired and my feet hurt and I want to sleep in your jersey."
"You already are."
"I want to sleep in it without my robes."
"Ah."
He stood, lifting her with him, and she laughed.
"Show-off."
"Auror strength. It's a perk."
"Uh-huh."
He carried her to the Floo, and together they stepped into the flames, disappearing into the green light. The office was empty behind them, the stars still glittering through the enchanted window.
The fake sunset had long since faded.
But Harry didn't need it.
He had the real thing.