ve back what’s owed to me. That’s all.”

“Yep,” Harry says, nodding grimly to himself. “There it is.”

Draco shoots him a confused look, but then turns back to Slughorn. “Oh, is that all? You are mental. Grimmauld Place can’t do that, nothing can do that, I don’t even know where the core is—”

“Please,” Slughorn says, laughing. “You know exactly where it is, but honestly, don’t bother. All I really needed to do was get the house to make a Call to someone other than dear Harry here. I thought waiting the customary seven years would nullify that particular clause, but obviously I underestimated the depth of your, ah,” he smirks, a little, at Harry and Draco, “passion for one another. If the new owner can’t let go, the House won’t, either. Bloody irritating, especially when you wouldn’t do me the favor of simply going mad with stress, though as you can see I worked it out in the end. I had to try several alternative options.”

“What good does the Call do you!” Draco’s voice is higher than usual, heavy now with real panic. “Surely the house will just call—Malfoy Manor, of course, or Zabini Grange, or the Parkinson Estates—even the Weasley place—”

“The house will call Slug Hall!” Slughorn cries. Really, Harry thinks, the Slytherin- sorts-for-dramatics theory holds some weight. “I knew what this house was years ago, Malfoy, I planned and planned to get my hands on it—I came! When Walburga Black was dying! When her sons were dead or imprisoned, and it seemed that soon the house would stand alone! I befriended her—I alone! I wrote the offer myself, and she took it, and carried it with her through the halls of the house until her dying days. The House of Black, in peril, calls Slug Hall!”

“Oh my god,” Draco says. His hand falls at last from Harry’s shoulder—he looks almost as panicked as he did up in the kitchen, when Harry was dying.

Well. Harry is probably still dying, just a lot more slowly.

“What?” he says, low, to Draco; he doesn’t care if Slughorn hears or mocks the concern in his voice. Fuck Slughorn. “What does it matter if the house calls him? He’s already here!”

“Harry,” Draco says, and swallows. “If a House calls another House—if a Master is in such peril that the House itself has to make the call—it’s. It’s forfeit. To the Master of the other house, I mean. If they want to take it over, it’s forfeit to them. The theory was that if a Master ever got themselves in such trouble that they couldn’t even send for help themselves, they weren’t fit to be guardian over one of these places.”

“But it’s just me that’s hurt!” Harry cries. “You’re the real Master of this house, anyway, and you’re fine, you just don’t have your wand. That can’t count! The House can’t just be forfeit if there’s still a Master who can watch over it!”

“Yes, Harry,” Draco says, and his voice is almost kind. He smiles, small and tremulous and utterly without any happiness at all. “But you said it yourself: he’s going to kill me.”

Slughorn lets out a big, satisfied sigh, even as Harry looks at Draco in horror. “You know, I do feel so much better now that it’s all clear,” he says, and cracks his knuckles. “Now, boys, this has been fun, but I really am looking forward to finding that core, and Mr. Malfoy, regrettably, your time hase. Last words? Would you perhaps like a cigarette? We’ve got plenty of time, you see; no one else ising.”

There’s movement out of the corner of Harry’s eye; Kreacher is waving his arms over his head. When Harry looks over at him, Kreacher darts a nervous glance at Slughorn to make sure he’s not paying attention, and then starts pointedly looking from Harry’s eyes to Harry’s pocket and back again, over and over.

It reminds Harry of Draco that very first day, silently and swiftly guiding Harry’s attention where it needed to go. Slowly, carefully, he reaches into his pocket.

All that’s in there is his wallet. He pulls it out behind the cover of his leg; Draco can see what he’s doing, is looking at him quizzically even as he rambles to Slughorn about the dangers of smoking in what is clearly a stalling tactic, but Slughorn can’t. Harry rifles through it, curious, under Kreacher’s sharp, nodding gaze. There’s not much in it—he uses a pouch for his Wizarding money, so it’s just the stuff he keeps on him in case he gets stranded somewhere Muggle, a couple of pounds and an ID, and a few old receipts he’s never bothered to clean out. And then, in the back, he finds it: something he’spletely otten ever receiving until right now.

“Hey, Slughorn,” Harry says, interrupting Draco’s rant mid-stream. “What’d you say those rules were? A Master has to take an offer of help and—what did you say? Carry it through the house with them? Get it in writing and walk the halls?”

“That is how it works, yes,” Slughorn says, and shakes his head. “This is a very transparent attempt to stall, Harry, even for you. I’m going to kill him no matter what, you know.”

“Oh, sure,” Harry says, ignoring Draco’s outraged little glare at his casual tone. “Just, real quick, before you do—d’you think this counts?”

He holds up the piece of paper he found in the back of his wallet, the blue strokes of its original penmanship almost hidden beneath the way every line is glowing gold.

Potter—

You are very drunk right now, but please, when you find this, do not hesitate to call if Draco needs anything at all. And, what the hell, if you do, too; for an Auror (and a Gryffindor!) you are a laugh riot, though you really can’t hold your drink, and are a sincere tragedy vis-a-vis Draco’s taste. It’s Zabini Grange, 10 Rosethorple Lane, Pangbourne.

Cheers!

Blaise Zabini

“No,” Slughorn breathes.

“Let me see that,” Draco says, snatching the paper out of his hand, as from upstairs they hear the sound of the door crashing open.

“Harry!” calls a voice so familiar that Harry could cry with relief. “Malfoy! Where the hell are you?”

“Ron!” Harry calls back, and then doubles over a little, because it turns out shouting hurts something awful, even through the Stasis Charm.

Draco slaps a hand over his mouth, glaring from Harry to the knife in his back, even as he yells, “We’re down here, Weasley! Move, he’s wounded, we’re—oh, don’t you fucking dare, you treacherous worm!”

This last is directed at Slughorn, who is diving towards one of the small windows that are set into the top half of the storeroom walls. It’s not necessary, though, because as Harry watches in amazement, two massive, spike-coated green tentacles crash through the glass from the outside and wrap Slughorn in their clutches, spewing seedpods wildly.

“Vicky,” Harry says, shaking his head, an incredulous grin spreading over his face.

“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Draco says, blinking at the writhing mass of man and plant. “She does love me.”

Rones thundering down the stairs then, Trent, Seamus and Blaise hot on his heels. Harry is pleased to note that Trent looks only a little bit like he’s about to wet himself; it’s a big improvement, though his face does go slack with horror when he gets a look at Harry on the floor.

Ron’s face does too, though, so. Maybe they’ll make an Auror out of the kid after all.

“Merlin, Harry,” Ron says, eyes wide, and then, “Holy shit, is that Professor Slughorn?”

“Don’t ask him questions, take him to St. Mungo’s,” Draco snaps. “Honestly, you’re allpletely ipetent—except for Blaise, who apparently knew this whole time what was going on and didn’t see fit to mention—”

“I did not!” Blaise says, sounding shocked. “I don’t even know what’s going on now, my whole bloody house went mad, and then Blinky started screaming that the call was sounding from Grimmauld Place and we must attend—”

“The note, Blaise,” Draco says. He sounds exasperated, but he’s not looking at Blaise anymore, even though he’s talking to him; he’s looking at Harry, gaze steady and warm. “That you gave Potter here, oh, I’d guess that night you ‘pretended’ to run into him at the pub?”

Blaise shrugs one shoulder, still lookingpletely bemused. “I was just a little afraid you might try to kill him or something, Draco. Or, I don’t know, fill the whole house with water again—”

“That was one time,” Draco says to Harry, the edges of his mouth quirking up. “And I had a very good reason, you know.”

And Harry—Harry laughs, and leans forward, and lets his head rest against Draco’s shoulder. He’s so tired, and it’s sorted now, isn’t it? Draco is safe, and Harry can let go for a minute. Harry can let someone else figure the rest out.

Slowly, Draco’s fingers creep into Harry’s hair, stroking in little hesitant swipes at the nape of his neck. Harry closes his eyes, lets out a breath. They’re fine. It’s all going to be fine.

“I’m sure you did,” he tells Draco’s collarbone, and falls asleep to the faint sensation of Draco’s huff of laughter hitting the side of his throat.

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