Harry thought it would be.

“I didn’t let them,” Malfoy says pleasantly, “and if you try to fix it again, you can have a matching one. Won’t that be nice?”

This seems to win a low laugh from Zabini, who says, with obvious affection, “I’m glad you’ve lived through this ordeal to be stark raving mad another day, Draco.”

“Did you actuallye by for something,” says Malfoy, voice equally warm, “or are you just here to call me names and ensure I’m still capable of fogging mirrors?”

“The latter,” Zabini says, so quietly Harry almost doesn’t hear it. Then, louder: “Though of course I will never admit to having done so, and will shout you down with great prejudice should you ever attempt to slander me by telling anyone I did.”

“How touching,” Malfoy says. It’s viciously sarcastic, but Harry thinks that Malfoy maybe is touched, and that’s why.

“Hmm,” Zabini says. There’s a pause, and then he adds, “How are you doing with—all of it? And be honest, since we’re already having a conversation that shortly won’t have ever happened. I have a few hours now, if you need someone to stay with you, and I already talked to Pans and she can Floo in if—”

“Oh, for god’s sake, spare me the mother hens of Slytherin,” Malfoy says. “I’m fine, really.”

“You’re a rotten liar, Draco.”

“You’re a good friend, Blaise.” Another pause—long enough this time that Harry wonders if he shouldn’t start making his way back to the little sitting room at speed—and then Malfoy sighs and says, “You honestly should go. I’ve got Potter upstairs. ”

“What, as your captive?” Zabini demands, sounding alarmed.

Malfoy’s voice is properly cross as he snaps, “What? No, of course not as my captive. Are you out of your mind?”

“Well, you can hardly blame me,” Zabini says. He sounds utterly unfazed by Malfoy’s tone. “You remember what you were like about him in school,pletely obsessive and round the twist, it was honestly terrifying. Professor Snape called me and Pansy into his office once and told us to, I believe the exact phrasing was, ‘Keep an eye on Mr. Malfoy, lest he ruin his promising future by murdering Harry Potter in one of his deranged fits of passion.’ Then he gave us each a Cockroach Cluster and told us to get out. It was awful.”

“He did not.” Malfoy sounds appalled.

“Yes,” says Zabini, “he absolutely did. I know, because the whole hideous experience is seared into my memory for the balance of eternity.”

“Oh my god,” Malfoy says faintly. Harry thinks of Ron and Hermione last night, their horrible pitying tones and that haunting story about Mr. and Mrs. Weasley discussing the appropriateness or lack thereof of childhood nemeses, and is hit with a strangebination of emotion. Satisfaction—that he wasn’t the only one, that Malfoy is having to suffer this conversation with someone in his life too. Andmiseration, this odd, intense understanding of just exactly what Malfoy must be feeling right now.

But then Malfoy says, drawling and bored, “Potter’s here of his own free will, Blaise, god. He’s the Auror assigned to this case, and as obnoxious as ever, I might add. You’d think it wouldn’t be so much to ask to have a moment’s peace, the courtesy of a day to get my house in order, but no. Precious Potter’s questions are all so very pressing, it couldn’t possibly wait. It’s his way or nothing, as always.” Then Harry mostly feels cold.

He creeps back to the sitting room without waiting to hear Zabini’s reply, chest aching for reasons he can’t explain. What does he even—why would he care —it doesn’t matter to him, whether Malfoy likes him or not. Which, Harry reminds himself, he obviously doesn’t, and never has, and Harry’s never wanted him to, and certainly doesn’t now.

So this is just—work, then. A citizen in crisis, who Harry needs to give some space. He’ll leave, that’s what he’ll do, ande back in a few days. Do Malfoy the courtesy of allowing him to get his house in order, or whatever. Harry’d rather thought he was doing him the courtesy of attempting to catch the criminals, but, obviously, that’s not what’s important.

He packs up his things, pulls the memory of what questioning they did get through out of his mind in a long, silvery thread and puts it into the vial Malfoy gave him, corks it, tucks it away. He’s at the door of the study, reaching for the handle, when it opens, and he stares at Malfoy, who stares back in obvious surprise.

“Oh,” he says, at the same moment Harry snaps, “I’m going.”

“You…are?” Malfoy says, slow, brow furrowing. If Harry didn’t know better he’d say Malfoy looked almost disappointed—but he does know better, he reminds himself firmly, and doesn’t allow his resolve to break. “I thought you had—more questions. Things to look at.”

“Called back to the office,” Harry lies, “urgent matter, you know how it is. I’ll just have toe back in a few days—after the weekend, maybe. After this…new matter…is wrapped up.”

Malfoy’s mouth, which had been slightly parted, sets into a thin line. “Oh. Well. Fine.”

“Fine,” Harry repeats, and sweeps past him out of the room, down the stairs and out the front door, stopping only long enough to snatch his coat and scarf from the hands of Kreacher, who looks after him mournfully.

He stops on the lawn to put them on and runs into a woman who must be Malfoy’s next appointment. She looks vaguely familiar, but Harry can’t put his finger on it and doesn’t much care to just at this moment. He nods, hoping that’ll be the end of it, but the woman says, “Jumping juniper, it’s Harry Potter,” so, no, apparently not.

Harry sighs and nods. “Yeah, well. I’m on-duty and working this case, so it’s Auror Potter right now,” he says, just because he’s irritable and rankled and really doesn’t want to be asked to sign any fucking autographs right now.

“Pretty crazy, isn’t it?” the woman says, nodding towards the house.

“Awful,” Harry agrees. “Why anyone would want to tear apart a history museum is beyond me, and to terrorize a group of schoolchildren—well. I could drawparisons, but I probably shouldn’t. I doubt I have to, anyway.”

He pushes past the woman, and is almost to the gate when he hears her call, “Don’t you think that might be what it was about, though, Auror Potter? Mr. Malfoy’s—let’s say spotty past—with thatparison you don’t want to draw?”

Harry stops, fury bleeding into him all at once, and turns on his heel. He might be annoyed with Malfoy—when isn’t he annoyed with Malfoy?—but he has no truck at all for this sort of thing, for people who can’t just let the goddamned war be over. Coldly, he says, “I hardly see how that’s relevant. Anyone who would do this has more inmon with Voldemort than Draco Malfoy—who was acquitted of all war crimes nearly ten years ago, by the way—ever did. Good day.”

He stalks out of the gate, slams it shut, and Apparates away. Distantly—oddly—he thinks he hears the woman call, “Hey, thanks, Auror Potter!” as he goes.

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