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hp_goldenageTitle: the frenemies' guide to beekeeping
Author:![[archiveofourown.org profile]](https://p.dreamwidth.org/b164c54b26e4/-/archiveofourown.org/favicon.ico)
porcelainheart3
Characters/Pairings: Draco/Harry
Rating: M
Word Count: 5693
Content/Warning(s): No Archive Warnings Apply;
Inspired by Sherlock Holmes, Case Fic, Beekeeping, Honey, Smitten Harry Potter, Older Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy in Glasses, Older Draco Malfoy
Summary/Prompt: Harry gaped, speechless. Then he gave it two seconds of thought and pulled himself together. "Oh. Andromeda told you."
"On the contrary, Potter." Malfoy wiped his hands with a tea towel from over his shoulder. He nudged his glasses up his nose with one long finger. "I have spent the past thirty years in the study of human nature, psychology, and criminal investigation. Not to mention Muggle methods of fingerprinting, forensics, even 19th century physiognomy." He paused, and the lines at the corners of his mouth creased sharply. His eyes glittered. "...And also, yes, Andromeda told me."
--
An ode to Sherlock Holmes featuring one recently retired Magipathologist, one sharp-tongued beekeeper, and purloined case files from the DMLE that are absolutely none of their beeswax.
A/N: Prompt #41 envisioned H/D growing old a la Sherlock and Watson. "Retired, and now keeping bees, they get their grandchild to steal cold case files to solve from their rocking chairs." Teddy plays the role of case file courier in this fic. Features many nods to short stories from the Sherlock Holmes oeuvre. Any spoilers for those stories are heavily disguised in HP clothes. I hope you enjoy it, prompter!
Thanks a trillion to E. for the britpick/beta.
Read on AO3 or below:
When Andromeda offered him a welcome home party and a place to land, Harry didn't fuss over the details. He was running on fumes after the whole "career and life in California going to shit" business and it was simply easier to agree.
Under Andromeda's care, Grimmauld Place was light and airy, with late autumn light spilling through the gauzy curtains. Her landscapes and floral paintings had replaced most of the portraits of sneering Pureblood ancestors. The delicious smell of food wafted from the kitchen: buttery pastry, simmering sauce, caramelised onions. To Harry, who had walked directly from the international Apparition station in the rain, it was like landing in heaven.
He shook off most of the rain and gave Andromeda a damp hug. Her hair had faded from silver to white since Harry saw her last.
"Andromeda."
"Darling Harry." There were tears in Andromeda's eyes when she drew back, but Harry pretended not to notice. She Levitated his trunks inside with a brisk flick of her wand.
Andromeda noticed Harry's supermarket flower bouquet with a cluck of appreciation. She took it from under his arm and padded down the hallway towards the kitchen. "You ought to have Floo'd," she said over her shoulder.
Harry opened his mouth to explain, but a sharp voice cut in first.
"He's likely lost the habit, Aunt. The lack of fireplaces in American homes, especially those built after the 1970s, means that the Floo system is rather obsolete in the States. There's a vogue for rideshares in self-driving cars, isn't there, Potter?"
Harry froze in the doorway.
Draco Malfoy glanced up from the baking dish with a lopsided smile that creased his angular cheeks. "Welcome home."
Harry had remained peripherally aware of Malfoy over the years. Sometime in the past three decades, 'Malfoy' had become 'Draco' in Hermione and Ron's letters. Ginny and Neville mentioned him more often, too. It was unclear what Malfoy did for work. Teddy and Andromeda said something about consulting... But then Malfoy appeared in Wixen Worldwide winning an award from the Magical Entomology Society. Harry had no fucking clue what entomology was. Still (even though Harry had been in a long-term relationship with a guy from the poisons ward at the time), his gaze had lingered on Malfoy's photograph a little longer than necessary.
Now, faced with Malfoy in the flesh, Harry's jetlagged brain desperately attempted to catch up with his eyes.
Three and a half decades had whittled down his already slender figure, which with the silver wire spectacles gave him the appearance of a sleep-deprived professor. He had the same hairstyle from Eighth Year, short at the back and longer on top, with what Harry smugly noted was a rapidly receding hairline. A navy blue blazer was folded neatly over the back of a kitchen stool, and Malfoy had rolled the crisp sleeves of his pinstriped shirt to the elbow. He was drizzling honey and dried herbs over a tiny wheel of brie.
Malfoy. Grimmauld. Honey.
Harry licked his lips. "Er, hi."
Before he could take evasive manoeuvres (i.e. diving out the window), Andromeda steered him further into the kitchen. "Oh Draco, that looks lovely. Harry, I hate to put you to work at your own party, but would you take the vol-au-vents out of the oven when the timer goes off? I'll set the table." She whisked out of the room.
Malfoy's unsettlingly grey gaze flitted over him. "So. You've just returned from... Los Angeles? No, San Francisco. Due to the Dark wound in your right shoulder, you were forced to step down from Healing, and deskwork wasn't going to do it for you. You have therefore returned to London to find your bearings, or at the very least, indulge in maudlin recollections of your schooldays with our former classmates while consuming mediocre wine."
Harry gaped, speechless. Then he gave it two seconds of thought and pulled himself together. "Oh. Andromeda told you."
"On the contrary, Potter." Malfoy wiped his hands with a tea towel from over his shoulder. He nudged his glasses up his nose with one long finger. "I have spent the past thirty years in the study of human nature, psychology, and criminal investigation. Not to mention Muggle methods of fingerprinting, forensics, even 19th century physiognomy." He paused, and the lines at the corners of his mouth creased sharply. His eyes glittered. "...And also, yes, Andromeda told me."
Harry rolled his eyes but couldn't help smiling. He was feeling rather warm. Perhaps he needed to sit down. Andromeda called him from the other room, and he gestured awkwardly over his shoulder. "Excuse me, I'll just-- gotta--" He hurried out of the kitchen before he could make himself look like even more of a gaping imbecile.
Things got better when the other guests began to trickle in. Ron and Hermione with their kids, whom Harry hadn't seen since he hosted the whole family for a summer holiday a few years ago. Luna with Ginny, Oliver Wood with Percy, George with Angelina... It was practically a DA reunion.
Harry had forgotten how Ginny's impersonations could crack him up, and how affectionate Neville got when he was drunk. But he also heard a lot of names he didn't know, and the apparent repetitions of stories that were old news to the others. His time abroad stretched between him and his old classmates, a yawning chasm of unfamiliarity.
They asked him politely about California: how was the weather, did he make many friends, tell us about the food. They carefully skirted around the subject of work. Once, Percy almost asked about Harry's coworkers, but Oliver made a little motion with his hand and he changed the subject.
All throughout, Malfoy flitted around the edges of the room, telling jokes and operating the gramophone and handing round platters of snacks. "Ron, Ron! Draco made his honey cheese thing!" Hermione said excitedly. Ron bounced out of the sofa and Harry finished his second glass of wine. It really was mediocre.
A few hours into the party, Teddy burst out of the Floo and launched himself at Harry in a back-breaking hug. "Been too long. You got old," he said, muffled, against Harry's shoulder.
"I should say the same for you!" replied Harry, laughing. He pulled back to observe Teddy at arm's length. His mouse-brown hair darkened and curled in an instant. It was a mirror image of Harry's own, down to the wiry gray hairs at his temples.
Teddy's fierce grin was familiar, although the shadows under his eyes were new. He undid the top button of his Auror uniform with one hand; the other held a thick file folder. And his smile only brightened when Malfoy sauntered over. "All right, Draco? He promised Gran he'd be on his best behaviour around you," Teddy added in a stage whisper.
What was that supposed to mean? "But-- we're not friends," he blurted.
"Potter, you wound me." Malfoy clapped a hand to his breast. Was it the cocktails, or had his cheeks gone a little pink? "See if I ever make you honey-baked brie for a homecoming party ever again. Will you never lay aside your sword, o loathsome adversary? Shall we be nemeses until the bitter end?"
"Whatever." Harry squirmed, rolling his bad shoulder to stretch it out. "We can be frenemies. Do people still say 'frenemies'?"
"Only if you want to sound about a thousand years old." Malfoy's eyes glittered.
Harry took it back; definitely sworn rivals forever and always. It was probably safer that way.
Malfoy turned his attention to the file in Teddy's hand. "Bringing work home again. And to your grandmother's, of all places?"
"Shhh!" Teddy hissed. Andromeda waved at them from across the parlour, where she was in conversation with Cho.
Malfoy gave a long-suffering sigh. It sounded like an argument they'd had many times before. At Harry's stormy expression, he said, "Not a word from our brainwashed prodigal hero, please. American hustle culture has no place in English society."
Harry, determined to be contrary, said to Teddy, "You're Head Auror, of course you work outside of office hours. They must have you on the toughest and most dangerous cases."
But Teddy shook his head. "I was just about to crack this smuggling case when the new head of Level Two instituted his new policy. Crimes of violence get top priority. Don't get me wrong, it's good to solve murders... But since we're shorthanded, all the burglary, forgery, drugs, and fraud cases that have been swept under the carpet. I work the cold cases in my spare time."
"On your own?" Harry asked.
Teddy squirmed.
"Now you've done it, Potter." Malfoy swanned off, presumably to offer the other guests more honey-drizzled confections. Harry scowled at the man's retreating back.
"Don't worry about it, Uncle Harry." Teddy bumped his shoulder and headed for the drinks cart.
But the more the night went on, the more Harry did worry about it. He stuffed himself silly with little quiches and kebabs, chewing furiously and brooding. He tried to strike up a conversation about Level Two with Hermione, who said archly, Oh, so we're talking about work now, are we? Harry wisely backed off.
Many hours after Harry would've usually gone to bed, George set up the prototype Wheezes karaoke system. Teddy was so exhausted that he fell asleep in an armchair in the middle of the party, which fairly broke Harry's heart. While Ginny butchered the melody of 'Don't Stop Believing' at the top of her lungs, Harry yelled, "It doesn't make any sense!"
Ron chuckled. "You're telling me, mate. Good thing you didn't end up Head Auror, or you'd be running yourself ragged after counterfeit ingredient smugglers day and night."
He didn't mean anything by it, Harry knew, but he still bit out an excuse and stalked out of the room. It was late and he'd eaten too much and his shoulder was stiff. He grumbled under his breath.
The kitchen island was heaped with dirty utensils and sticky spilled drinks. Andromeda had turned in for the night and Harry figured he could tidy before he did the same. He cast a Silencing Charm on the doorway to muffle the sounds of singing. Then he started in on the island. He cleared away crumpled cocktail napkins... wilted parsley sprigs...
...and there, under a box of Jelly Slugs, was Teddy's file folder with the DMLE emblem.
Harry stared. His bad shoulder gave a twinge.
Really, he shouldn't. He was on holiday. He was meant to be patching his life back together, not taking on the Ministry's cold cases out of a sense of habitual Gryffindor save-the-worldishness.
Still.
Raucous laughter rang out from the direction of the sitting room. He remembered Teddy, too overworked to keep his eyes open at a party. Harry squared his jaw and reached for the file.
"What are you doing?"
He sprang back. Malfoy stood in the doorway, hip cocked, with a handful of dirty dishes. He must've slid through Harry's Silencing Charm while his focus was diverted. His grey eyes studied Harry over the tops of his wire spectacles with deep, calculating suspicion.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
"Honestly." Malfoy set the dishes down and flicked his wand. The sink filled with hot, soapy water and the plates began to wash themselves. Then Malfoy swatted Harry's hand away from the file. "Fingerprints, Potter. And more importantly, magical signature. Which is why I would suggest something like... this."
Baffled, Harry could only watch as Malfoy grabbed a clean fork and flipped open the folder with the tips of the tines. Then they both leaned in to read.
The report was dry and short on details. A gang of potions smugglers had imported a supply of unlicensed Veritaserum from South America. Aurors tracked the gang to their safehouse in Upper Norwood, but upon entering the building with a warrant, had been unable to find the potions even with Revelio and other searching spells. In the pocket of the file were invoices from shops in Diagon and Knockturn with the safehouse as the delivery address, but the items were mundane: candles, ink, carpets.
"What do you think?" asked Malfoy conversationally, as if they were deciding what to order on a pizza. He used the fork to flip through the next several pages.
Harry breathed in deeply. He caught the cool, dark floral of Malfoy's cologne... and honey, too. His pulse thudded in his ears. He pulled away to organise his thoughts.
He had spent thirty years building a career in magical injury diagnostics. He'd become one of the most sought-after Magipathologists in California. And despite the circumstances which had recently forced him back to England, his brain was flying along those familiar paths of how? and why?
He studied a floorplan of the safehouse, sketched after the raid. It showed a modest two-bedroom house with a small kitchen, sitting room, and bathroom. Harry frowned. He held out his hand for the fork, and Malfoy handed it over wordlessly.
Harry shifted around the shop receipts until he could read the one from Upper Norwood Homewares. Lampshade, 5 g. Mirror, 13 g 2 s.. Twelve carpets... Twelve carpets...?
"Twelve carpets," he and Malfoy read aloud at the same time.
Harry's pulse sped up. "But only two bedrooms. Seems excessive."
Malfoy flipped back to the preliminary report. "Look. They cast detection spells to seek out potions specifically, because that's what the warrant allowed. The search team didn't look for disillusioned spaces or anything under Fidelius."
"Can they go back for a second search?" Harry wondered aloud, and was surprised when Malfoy answered.
"Not with the same warrant. And Level Two won't issue a second one for the same case. But coming from another department..."
Malfoy produced a mobile phone and shot off a text. After a moment, it pinged with a reply. Malfoy slid the phone into his jacket pocket with a triumphant grin. Harry, whose heart was still thundering away from their rapid-fire exchange, swallowed hard. "Who was that?"
"My contact at the Department of Structural Regulations. She'll draw up an urgent plan to check the Floo connections or the weatherisation on the windows, and an Auror can go with her undercover."
Harry sagged back against the countertop. He felt like he'd just landed abruptly from a great height, but he couldn't help smiling. "Brilliant."
Malfoy flicked the file folder closed and tossed the fork into the sink. Harry's eyes lingered on his rosy cheeks and the long lines of his lithe body. He said slowly, "You never mentioned what you did for work."
"No. I didn't." Malfoy dimpled. "Shall we head home?"
"Er. 'We'? 'Home'?" Harry echoed. His head spun.
"You didn't think you were staying here, did you? Andromeda closed the north wing when Teddy left for Hogwarts." Malfoy marched out of the room and Harry, dazed, followed him.
After saying goodbye to the few guests that were still present, somewhat sober, and awake, Harry floated his trunks towards the Floo where Malfoy waited. The green flames cast an eerie glow over his flushed, exhilarated face. Harry drew up close beside him and breathed in: soot from the fire and the unmistakable aroma of honey.
Malfoy tossed a handful of powder into the Floo and called, "221B Breaker Street."
***
Two months later...
221B Breaker Street was a narrow building in the heart of Wizarding Marylebone, surrounded by Muggle-repelling wards to make the neighborhood look like a noisy construction site. 221B had a faded blue front door and a rather spacious garden. Malfoy would never give a straight answer as to whether he'd used an Enlargement Charm on the plot.
The inside of the house was absolute chaos. Harry was constantly tripping over the teetering stacks of books that lined the hallways. Intermediate Icelandic Incantations, Rare Bats of Southwestern Indonesia, Danske Statsbaner Køreplan 2028-2029...
The bathroom cabinets were stuffed with dozens of hair potions, all of which Malfoy assured Harry were necessary to use on a daily basis. He never emptied his ashtrays, re-rolled his enormous scroll maps, or returned library books on time.
But Malfoy was sharp and -- Harry had to admit -- extremely interesting to be around. He picked up on details and inconsistencies with alarming rapidity, spoke nineteen languages, and was a rather excellent cook. His sense of humour was acerbic but had shed its teenage mean streak. And no matter the weather or occasion, he dressed in trim shirts and tailored trousers and waistcoats and cufflinks. Harry wasn't sure why this mattered, but it did.
This morning, a fluffy brown owl with a heart-shaped face pecked at the window with the post. "Morning, Dorcas." Harry tossed her two treats from the mantel and gave her an appreciative scratch at the back of her neck. Then he grabbed the Prophet and jogged downstairs to find Malfoy.
There was no sign of him in the library or the dining room. On the kitchen counter, a cup of coffee waited under Stasis. It was exactly the way Harry liked it: strong, two sugars, no cream. He savoured a sip before heading into the garden.
"Paper's here!" he called.
From behind the stacks of wooden trays that comprised his homemade beehive, Malfoy stood slowly. His back troubled him, he told Harry, who had begun to wonder how soon was too soon to offer his Healing expertise to his ex-nemesis-turned-housemate.
Hand to heart, he'd thought that Malfoy's puffy white beekeeper suit was a Muggle astronaut costume at first, and had nearly pissed himself laughing. It was worse when Malfoy wore his superior little frown beneath the veil under his flat white hat. He adjusted the hat with one huge gloved hand now, and a small cloud of softly buzzing insects followed his movements.
"Well?" Malfoy called, nodding at the newspaper. Harry unfurled it obediently and read aloud:
"Pah," said Malfoy. "Attributing our work to one individual. Typical shoddy Prophet presumptuousness."
"Nothing new." Harry chucked the paper onto the compost heap. He cradled his coffee in both hands and turned his face up towards the sun. Solar exposure was a decent treatment for his residual Dark spell damage. He envisioned the sunshine pouring into his veins, circling around the damaged tissue in his shoulder and chipping away at its hold on his body.
He hummed and sipped his coffee, thinking about what to cook. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Teddy came to tea. It was Harry's job to make dinner and Malfoy's job to Geminio the latest case file while Teddy was distracted. He scratched absently at a spot on his belly under the hem of his t-shirt. "Grilled prawns and angel hair tonight?"
"Uh, yes. Rather."
Harry peeled one eyelid open. Malfoy bustled around his hives, face flushed. Probably hot under his silly white jumpsuit. He raised his wand, renewing the temperature charms that kept them at a steady temperature regardless of the weather. His heated knife and scraping tool lay on a table near the hand-crank honey extractor. It was a lengthy, sticky process, and Harry had Summoned a glass of water the first time he'd watched Malfoy at work.
"You'll throw out your back one of these days. You should use a spell."
"Don't mind him, darlings," whispered Malfoy to the eight or nine bees sitting on his shoulders. "I know you appreciate a gentleman's touch."
Harry's heart squeezed in his chest. He really ought to get it checked out. Cardiac inflictions were not something to be taken lightly.
***
After the hidden attic of the smugglers' safehouse, there was the adventure of the six identical busts of Cornelius Fudge. Harry and Malfoy took turns smashing them before anonymously summoning the Aurors to clean up.
Then there was the batty old wizard who'd trained a snake to creep into his lodger's bedrooms and steal their gold. Harry discovered he could still speak Parseltongue after all.
Then there was the mystery of Golden Blaze, the famous racing hippogriff who went missing days before the National Championship. Malfoy cracked the abductors' plot and they flew Golden Blaze home as the sun came up over Dartmoor. Malfoy clung to Harry's jacket and whinged WE'RE TOO OLD FOR THIS, POTTER all the way back to London.
It was the polar opposite of grueling sixteen-hour days behind a desk at St. Zelda's hospital. They often stayed up late into the night talking over Malfoy's port and Harry's cheese toasties. They'd trade theories, study the files, reference Malfoy's obscure texts, and discover connections that shed light on the mystery.
With each case they solved, Harry thought less and less of the life he had left behind. And he dreamed more and more of sharp grey eyes and a lopsided smile.
Over two plates of angel hair pasta, Teddy told them about his latest side investigation. "So there's this shop owner on Diagon, Lavender Brown--"
Malfoy cut in, "Our classmate, Weasley's erstwhile paramour, and chairwoman of the Werewolf Rights Association on Diagon."
"--yeah, her." Teddy held out his plate for another piece of Harry's garlic bread. A folder labelled L.B. was tucked under his placemat. "She was visited out of nowhere by an American woman named... wait for it... Fuchsia Greene. And this Ms. Greene had a newspaper clipping. It said if they could find a third person with a first and last name that were both colours, this anonymous benefactor would get them tickets to London Wizarding Fashion Week."
Harry let out a shout of laughter. "That's one of the worst scams I've ever heard."
"Wait... Brown didn't believe this woman, did she?" asked Malfoy, nudging his thin spectacles up his nose.
"She did!" groaned Teddy. "I thought she came into the Ministry to file a report. But no, she wanted to search our records for witches with colour names! As if she really thinks she'll find a... I dunno, 'Tangerine Black' and get this prize. Not even Nicolas Flamel can afford tickets to LWFW."
"Don't you have a great-great-aunt named Tangerine Black?" Harry asked. Malfoy flipped him off.
"Why, though?" he asked, staring into the middle distance. "What would be the point of such a scheme?"
Teddy shrugged and popped the last of the garlic bread in his mouth. "Beats me. Harry, fancy a stroll around the garden? I'd like to see the bees."
Malfoy lingered at the table as Harry and Teddy went out through the French doors. It was a balmy evening, and the garden was fragrant with the plants that Malfoy's bees loved best. Nasturtiums from the Manor; snowdrops and marigolds from the Burrow; a herb garden with sage, thyme, lavender, and mint that served double duty for Harry's culinary pursuits. A few ambitious bees dotted around amongst the flowers, but the rest of the colony were fast asleep.
Teddy nudged him with an elbow. "You doing okay?"
Harry felt a dopey smile around the edges of his mouth and was grateful for the darkness. "Good. Really good. I'm helping Malfoy more with the side business. There's a witch down the lane who makes beeswax balm, and a shop in Hogsmeade that does candles. The honey supply looks good this year. If we're lucky, we can harvest once more before it gets too cold."
He looked up from the flowerbeds at Teddy, whose shoulders were shaking with mirth. His hair went candyfloss-pink. "Oh my god, Harry. I was asking about your shoulder, your old job, having to come back to England. And then I was going to ask how you and Draco were getting on. But now I have an answer to both."
Harry blushed so hard that the temperature in the garden soared approximately a million degrees. "Am I that obvious?"
"Almost as bad as Draco," snickered Teddy, which made Harry's insides squirm. Probably another malady of middle age. Teddy continued, "I think your amateur detective thing is adorable. It's healthy for old people to have hobbies."
"You know about--? Amateur--!!"
"Harry. You flew a bloody Hippogriff through the sky with a shoddy Grade II concealment charm. Even if I weren't an Auror, you're not exactly subtle." Teddy grinned. "Anyway, you're a fantastic cook. And I trust you two more than anybody, except Gran, and she prefers crimes on the telly to real ones. Oh! Before I forget..."
Harry scrubbed his hands over his face, vying for control of his emotions before he went back in the house. When he opened his eyes, Teddy was holding out a glowing photograph. Phantom shapes moved above the surface, their movements syrupy-slow.
"Is this one of those... memographs?"
"Mnemograms. We had a brief interview with Fuchsia Greene and this image kept coming up. Could be useful."
Right. It was a somewhat recent invention, suspending a memory inside a photo you could view without a Pensieve. It was one of those things Harry had considered himself too old to comprehend, like Cauldron Crush and WixTok.
Teddy nudged him, looking more youthful than he had in weeks. "Do I need to give you and Draco a talk about the birds and the bees? Seed-swapping? Safe pollination?"
"Don't be disrespectful to your elders," said Harry, pocketing the mnemogram. Teddy howled with laughter.
***
"It's about those Fashion Week tickets."
"It's nothing to do with Fashion Week!"
"Then it's a random scam."
"Potter. You do us both a disservice." Malfoy shot him a moue of annoyance. Their after-dinner port stained Malfoy's mouth dark purple, like a soft bruise. Distantly, the clock struck two. "They're after something that Brown has."
"Like what? You checked your files for heirlooms and artefacts." Harry flipped absently through the file. Lavender, it transpired, had travelled to Bournemouth for the weekend, where a witch named Amber Carnelian supposedly ran a tattoo parlour. It sounded like total dragon dung to Harry. "What about gold?"
"I don't recall the Browns being particularly wealthy. But gold..."
Merlin, they'd been at this for ages. Harry, too warm from the fire and his own port, sat up on the sofa to take off his jumper. It was from several Christmases ago and was a little tight around the shoulders and belly. He yanked it off in a hurry, but only succeeded in dragging his t-shirt with it. Harry swore and struggled back into his t-shirt, smoothing it back down over his front. "What'd you say about gold?" he asked.
"I-- I'm terribly sorry, I lost my train of thought," said Malfoy faintly. When Harry glanced up, Malfoy was half turned away, staring hard at the mnemogram. The flickering flames cast the lines on his face into mesmerising relief.
They'd viewed the mnemogram several times already. The ghostly image of the memory replayed once more: a hand flipped a calendar to the month of September. Although the numbers were blurry, one date was circled in red: the first day of the second week. And today was Saturday, September 5th. Whatever Fuchsia Greene was planning, it was to happen in less than forty-eight hours.
But the conversation with Teddy and the several hours he and Malfoy had already spent on this case had left Harry drained. Much as he wanted to chase that high of figuring out a mystery, his body found it hard to keep up. He excused himself to take a shower. Malfoy barely acknowledged him, turning the mnemogram over and over in his hands.
Harry stepped out of his clothes and into the steamy shower cabinet, careful not to disarrange Malfoy's many hair potions. He groaned as the hot water hit his stiff shoulder and neck. Lathering his hands with soap, his touch lingered below his hips. Despite the ungodly hour, his traitorous cock had apparently decided now was the perfect time to misbehave.
He pictured Malfoy's port-stained mouth... Malfoy unzipping the front of his ridiculous beekeeper suit and wearing nothing underneath... Accidentally spilling a jar of honey down Malfoy's bare chest. Smearing it downward with both hands until Malfoy was painted with it, and then Harry licking him clean. Sucking the hollow of Malfoy's collarbone, running his tongue along Malfoy's jaw. Tasting, claiming him with his teeth until Malfoy begged for mercy and pulled him down into a desperate, hot kiss.
And then Harry would scoop Malfoy up in his arms -- in this fantasy, he obviously had terrific upper body strength and two fully functional shoulders -- and carry him through the kitchen, past the wall calendar beside the fridge--
--and wasn't it funny how Harry had never wrapped his mind around American calendars, which started the week on Sunday instead of Monday?--
--and Harry's eyes flew open. He didn't bother rinsing the soap from his thighs, although he did grab a towel to drape over his now very confused cock. He padded down the hallway, avoiding stacks of books and dripping water in great big puddles on the carpet behind him.
"Malfoy!" he called. "Malfoy! American calendars start the week on Sunday! If this Fuchsia Greene is really American, that means... er... it means..."
He trailed off.
Because Malfoy was leaned back against the wall. And he had Harry's jumper in his hands. Or, rather, hand. Held close to his face, like he'd been smelling it. Rubbing his cheek against the wool, even. And with his other hand, he was palming himself through the front of his trousers. As Harry stared, the unmistakable rigidity beneath Malfoy's zipper gave a needful pulse.
Malfoy smiled, slow and golden as all the honey in the world. "What does it mean, Potter?"
Harry drip-drip-dripped shower water onto the carpet, turning the sage-coloured tufts a dark emerald green. Slytherin green. Malfoy squeezed his erection through the fabric, jumpstarting Harry's dribbling brain.
"It means she's planning for Sunday, the 6th. That's tomorrow. Or, well, today." It was now half past two, but all thought of sleep had bled out of Harry's body.
"And...?" Malfoy prompted. Whatever he saw in Harry's face must have spurred him on, because he let Harry's jumper slither from his grasp. And long fingers drifted to the brass fastenings of his trousers.
"And we should call the Aurors to take over. Because," Harry swallowed, so loud Malfoy must've heard it from across the room. "I'm not in any state to chase scammers down Diagon."
"Thieves," Malfoy corrected him. Hoarsely. Breathlessly. His throat worked. He hadn't looked away from Harry, not even for a second. "I figured it out. An excuse to get Brown out of London. The Werewolf Rights Association headquarters are right across the road from Gringotts. Underground tunnel, I figured. Vault robbery."
"Right." Harry crossed the room in several slow, careful steps. When the damp towel around his waist worked its way loose, he didn't bother snatching for it. It slid to the floor. A desperate, punched-out sound escaped from Malfoy's pursed lips.
Harry planted a hand on either side of the wall, bracketing Malfoy between his arms. He breathed in the wine on Malfoy's breath, the aroma of honey that had invaded Harry's waking dreams.
"What do you want?" Malfoy asked.
"I want you to send a message to the DMLE. Tell them what we know about Fuchsia Greene and have them ready to make an arrest. And use your connections, get Lavender backstage at Fashion Week."
Malfoy hummed. "I'm sure Blaise would be happy to oblige."
Harry didn't want to talk about Blaise, or Fuchsia Greene. He didn't want to talk much at all, really. He angled his hips forward, closing the distance between them. "What do you want, Malfoy?"
Malfoy wound one hand around the back of Harry's neck. "I want you to call me Draco when you fuck me."
"Yes," breathed Harry.
And he did.
***
The creak of the bedroom door roused Harry from sleep. He buried his face in the unfamiliar but heavenly pillow, which bore the smell of fussy hair products. Was it this pillowcase, or the other one, that Draco had torn with his teeth last night?
Is that the best you can do, Potter? Getting frail in your old age? I won't break, fucking give it to me-- oh god, oh my god--
"Morning," came the slightly hoarse voice of Draco in the here and now.
Harry peeled open one eyelid as Draco floated a breakfast tray into the room. He spied toast with butter and honey, a pot of earl grey tea, and a mug of coffee: strong, two sugars, no cream. Under one arm was a folded newspaper with the headline BANK ROBBERY FOILED! Harry's heart threatened to burst out of his exquisitely sore body.
"Is this the part where you say, 'Get up, Potter, you lazy oaf, we can't stay in the flat having sex all day, the game is afoot'?"
The corner of Draco's mouth lifted. He was wearing Harry's jumper and only Harry's jumper. Harry never wanted him to wear anything else.
"Far from it. I was about to magnanimously offer you the choice of a blowjob in the shower, or a slow and soapy fuck in the bath. But if you're so keen on solving mysteries, we could owl Teddy and ask for another file--"
Harry Banished the breakfast tray back to the kitchen. With another wave of his hand, he twisted the hot water tap on the bathtub. Good thing he'd mastered wandless, wordless magic years ago. He had better things to do with his mouth, like sliding his tongue against Draco's until he went boneless and sank into Harry's lap.
The mysteries could wait. Harry and Draco had waited long enough.
Author:
Characters/Pairings: Draco/Harry
Rating: M
Word Count: 5693
Content/Warning(s): No Archive Warnings Apply;
Inspired by Sherlock Holmes, Case Fic, Beekeeping, Honey, Smitten Harry Potter, Older Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy in Glasses, Older Draco Malfoy
Summary/Prompt: Harry gaped, speechless. Then he gave it two seconds of thought and pulled himself together. "Oh. Andromeda told you."
"On the contrary, Potter." Malfoy wiped his hands with a tea towel from over his shoulder. He nudged his glasses up his nose with one long finger. "I have spent the past thirty years in the study of human nature, psychology, and criminal investigation. Not to mention Muggle methods of fingerprinting, forensics, even 19th century physiognomy." He paused, and the lines at the corners of his mouth creased sharply. His eyes glittered. "...And also, yes, Andromeda told me."
--
An ode to Sherlock Holmes featuring one recently retired Magipathologist, one sharp-tongued beekeeper, and purloined case files from the DMLE that are absolutely none of their beeswax.
A/N: Prompt #41 envisioned H/D growing old a la Sherlock and Watson. "Retired, and now keeping bees, they get their grandchild to steal cold case files to solve from their rocking chairs." Teddy plays the role of case file courier in this fic. Features many nods to short stories from the Sherlock Holmes oeuvre. Any spoilers for those stories are heavily disguised in HP clothes. I hope you enjoy it, prompter!
Thanks a trillion to E. for the britpick/beta.
Read on AO3 or below:
When Andromeda offered him a welcome home party and a place to land, Harry didn't fuss over the details. He was running on fumes after the whole "career and life in California going to shit" business and it was simply easier to agree.
Under Andromeda's care, Grimmauld Place was light and airy, with late autumn light spilling through the gauzy curtains. Her landscapes and floral paintings had replaced most of the portraits of sneering Pureblood ancestors. The delicious smell of food wafted from the kitchen: buttery pastry, simmering sauce, caramelised onions. To Harry, who had walked directly from the international Apparition station in the rain, it was like landing in heaven.
He shook off most of the rain and gave Andromeda a damp hug. Her hair had faded from silver to white since Harry saw her last.
"Andromeda."
"Darling Harry." There were tears in Andromeda's eyes when she drew back, but Harry pretended not to notice. She Levitated his trunks inside with a brisk flick of her wand.
Andromeda noticed Harry's supermarket flower bouquet with a cluck of appreciation. She took it from under his arm and padded down the hallway towards the kitchen. "You ought to have Floo'd," she said over her shoulder.
Harry opened his mouth to explain, but a sharp voice cut in first.
"He's likely lost the habit, Aunt. The lack of fireplaces in American homes, especially those built after the 1970s, means that the Floo system is rather obsolete in the States. There's a vogue for rideshares in self-driving cars, isn't there, Potter?"
Harry froze in the doorway.
Draco Malfoy glanced up from the baking dish with a lopsided smile that creased his angular cheeks. "Welcome home."
Harry had remained peripherally aware of Malfoy over the years. Sometime in the past three decades, 'Malfoy' had become 'Draco' in Hermione and Ron's letters. Ginny and Neville mentioned him more often, too. It was unclear what Malfoy did for work. Teddy and Andromeda said something about consulting... But then Malfoy appeared in Wixen Worldwide winning an award from the Magical Entomology Society. Harry had no fucking clue what entomology was. Still (even though Harry had been in a long-term relationship with a guy from the poisons ward at the time), his gaze had lingered on Malfoy's photograph a little longer than necessary.
Now, faced with Malfoy in the flesh, Harry's jetlagged brain desperately attempted to catch up with his eyes.
Three and a half decades had whittled down his already slender figure, which with the silver wire spectacles gave him the appearance of a sleep-deprived professor. He had the same hairstyle from Eighth Year, short at the back and longer on top, with what Harry smugly noted was a rapidly receding hairline. A navy blue blazer was folded neatly over the back of a kitchen stool, and Malfoy had rolled the crisp sleeves of his pinstriped shirt to the elbow. He was drizzling honey and dried herbs over a tiny wheel of brie.
Malfoy. Grimmauld. Honey.
Harry licked his lips. "Er, hi."
Before he could take evasive manoeuvres (i.e. diving out the window), Andromeda steered him further into the kitchen. "Oh Draco, that looks lovely. Harry, I hate to put you to work at your own party, but would you take the vol-au-vents out of the oven when the timer goes off? I'll set the table." She whisked out of the room.
Malfoy's unsettlingly grey gaze flitted over him. "So. You've just returned from... Los Angeles? No, San Francisco. Due to the Dark wound in your right shoulder, you were forced to step down from Healing, and deskwork wasn't going to do it for you. You have therefore returned to London to find your bearings, or at the very least, indulge in maudlin recollections of your schooldays with our former classmates while consuming mediocre wine."
Harry gaped, speechless. Then he gave it two seconds of thought and pulled himself together. "Oh. Andromeda told you."
"On the contrary, Potter." Malfoy wiped his hands with a tea towel from over his shoulder. He nudged his glasses up his nose with one long finger. "I have spent the past thirty years in the study of human nature, psychology, and criminal investigation. Not to mention Muggle methods of fingerprinting, forensics, even 19th century physiognomy." He paused, and the lines at the corners of his mouth creased sharply. His eyes glittered. "...And also, yes, Andromeda told me."
Harry rolled his eyes but couldn't help smiling. He was feeling rather warm. Perhaps he needed to sit down. Andromeda called him from the other room, and he gestured awkwardly over his shoulder. "Excuse me, I'll just-- gotta--" He hurried out of the kitchen before he could make himself look like even more of a gaping imbecile.
Things got better when the other guests began to trickle in. Ron and Hermione with their kids, whom Harry hadn't seen since he hosted the whole family for a summer holiday a few years ago. Luna with Ginny, Oliver Wood with Percy, George with Angelina... It was practically a DA reunion.
Harry had forgotten how Ginny's impersonations could crack him up, and how affectionate Neville got when he was drunk. But he also heard a lot of names he didn't know, and the apparent repetitions of stories that were old news to the others. His time abroad stretched between him and his old classmates, a yawning chasm of unfamiliarity.
They asked him politely about California: how was the weather, did he make many friends, tell us about the food. They carefully skirted around the subject of work. Once, Percy almost asked about Harry's coworkers, but Oliver made a little motion with his hand and he changed the subject.
All throughout, Malfoy flitted around the edges of the room, telling jokes and operating the gramophone and handing round platters of snacks. "Ron, Ron! Draco made his honey cheese thing!" Hermione said excitedly. Ron bounced out of the sofa and Harry finished his second glass of wine. It really was mediocre.
A few hours into the party, Teddy burst out of the Floo and launched himself at Harry in a back-breaking hug. "Been too long. You got old," he said, muffled, against Harry's shoulder.
"I should say the same for you!" replied Harry, laughing. He pulled back to observe Teddy at arm's length. His mouse-brown hair darkened and curled in an instant. It was a mirror image of Harry's own, down to the wiry gray hairs at his temples.
Teddy's fierce grin was familiar, although the shadows under his eyes were new. He undid the top button of his Auror uniform with one hand; the other held a thick file folder. And his smile only brightened when Malfoy sauntered over. "All right, Draco? He promised Gran he'd be on his best behaviour around you," Teddy added in a stage whisper.
What was that supposed to mean? "But-- we're not friends," he blurted.
"Potter, you wound me." Malfoy clapped a hand to his breast. Was it the cocktails, or had his cheeks gone a little pink? "See if I ever make you honey-baked brie for a homecoming party ever again. Will you never lay aside your sword, o loathsome adversary? Shall we be nemeses until the bitter end?"
"Whatever." Harry squirmed, rolling his bad shoulder to stretch it out. "We can be frenemies. Do people still say 'frenemies'?"
"Only if you want to sound about a thousand years old." Malfoy's eyes glittered.
Harry took it back; definitely sworn rivals forever and always. It was probably safer that way.
Malfoy turned his attention to the file in Teddy's hand. "Bringing work home again. And to your grandmother's, of all places?"
"Shhh!" Teddy hissed. Andromeda waved at them from across the parlour, where she was in conversation with Cho.
Malfoy gave a long-suffering sigh. It sounded like an argument they'd had many times before. At Harry's stormy expression, he said, "Not a word from our brainwashed prodigal hero, please. American hustle culture has no place in English society."
Harry, determined to be contrary, said to Teddy, "You're Head Auror, of course you work outside of office hours. They must have you on the toughest and most dangerous cases."
But Teddy shook his head. "I was just about to crack this smuggling case when the new head of Level Two instituted his new policy. Crimes of violence get top priority. Don't get me wrong, it's good to solve murders... But since we're shorthanded, all the burglary, forgery, drugs, and fraud cases that have been swept under the carpet. I work the cold cases in my spare time."
"On your own?" Harry asked.
Teddy squirmed.
"Now you've done it, Potter." Malfoy swanned off, presumably to offer the other guests more honey-drizzled confections. Harry scowled at the man's retreating back.
"Don't worry about it, Uncle Harry." Teddy bumped his shoulder and headed for the drinks cart.
But the more the night went on, the more Harry did worry about it. He stuffed himself silly with little quiches and kebabs, chewing furiously and brooding. He tried to strike up a conversation about Level Two with Hermione, who said archly, Oh, so we're talking about work now, are we? Harry wisely backed off.
Many hours after Harry would've usually gone to bed, George set up the prototype Wheezes karaoke system. Teddy was so exhausted that he fell asleep in an armchair in the middle of the party, which fairly broke Harry's heart. While Ginny butchered the melody of 'Don't Stop Believing' at the top of her lungs, Harry yelled, "It doesn't make any sense!"
Ron chuckled. "You're telling me, mate. Good thing you didn't end up Head Auror, or you'd be running yourself ragged after counterfeit ingredient smugglers day and night."
He didn't mean anything by it, Harry knew, but he still bit out an excuse and stalked out of the room. It was late and he'd eaten too much and his shoulder was stiff. He grumbled under his breath.
The kitchen island was heaped with dirty utensils and sticky spilled drinks. Andromeda had turned in for the night and Harry figured he could tidy before he did the same. He cast a Silencing Charm on the doorway to muffle the sounds of singing. Then he started in on the island. He cleared away crumpled cocktail napkins... wilted parsley sprigs...
...and there, under a box of Jelly Slugs, was Teddy's file folder with the DMLE emblem.
Harry stared. His bad shoulder gave a twinge.
Really, he shouldn't. He was on holiday. He was meant to be patching his life back together, not taking on the Ministry's cold cases out of a sense of habitual Gryffindor save-the-worldishness.
Still.
Raucous laughter rang out from the direction of the sitting room. He remembered Teddy, too overworked to keep his eyes open at a party. Harry squared his jaw and reached for the file.
"What are you doing?"
He sprang back. Malfoy stood in the doorway, hip cocked, with a handful of dirty dishes. He must've slid through Harry's Silencing Charm while his focus was diverted. His grey eyes studied Harry over the tops of his wire spectacles with deep, calculating suspicion.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
"Honestly." Malfoy set the dishes down and flicked his wand. The sink filled with hot, soapy water and the plates began to wash themselves. Then Malfoy swatted Harry's hand away from the file. "Fingerprints, Potter. And more importantly, magical signature. Which is why I would suggest something like... this."
Baffled, Harry could only watch as Malfoy grabbed a clean fork and flipped open the folder with the tips of the tines. Then they both leaned in to read.
The report was dry and short on details. A gang of potions smugglers had imported a supply of unlicensed Veritaserum from South America. Aurors tracked the gang to their safehouse in Upper Norwood, but upon entering the building with a warrant, had been unable to find the potions even with Revelio and other searching spells. In the pocket of the file were invoices from shops in Diagon and Knockturn with the safehouse as the delivery address, but the items were mundane: candles, ink, carpets.
"What do you think?" asked Malfoy conversationally, as if they were deciding what to order on a pizza. He used the fork to flip through the next several pages.
Harry breathed in deeply. He caught the cool, dark floral of Malfoy's cologne... and honey, too. His pulse thudded in his ears. He pulled away to organise his thoughts.
He had spent thirty years building a career in magical injury diagnostics. He'd become one of the most sought-after Magipathologists in California. And despite the circumstances which had recently forced him back to England, his brain was flying along those familiar paths of how? and why?
He studied a floorplan of the safehouse, sketched after the raid. It showed a modest two-bedroom house with a small kitchen, sitting room, and bathroom. Harry frowned. He held out his hand for the fork, and Malfoy handed it over wordlessly.
Harry shifted around the shop receipts until he could read the one from Upper Norwood Homewares. Lampshade, 5 g. Mirror, 13 g 2 s.. Twelve carpets... Twelve carpets...?
"Twelve carpets," he and Malfoy read aloud at the same time.
Harry's pulse sped up. "But only two bedrooms. Seems excessive."
Malfoy flipped back to the preliminary report. "Look. They cast detection spells to seek out potions specifically, because that's what the warrant allowed. The search team didn't look for disillusioned spaces or anything under Fidelius."
"Can they go back for a second search?" Harry wondered aloud, and was surprised when Malfoy answered.
"Not with the same warrant. And Level Two won't issue a second one for the same case. But coming from another department..."
Malfoy produced a mobile phone and shot off a text. After a moment, it pinged with a reply. Malfoy slid the phone into his jacket pocket with a triumphant grin. Harry, whose heart was still thundering away from their rapid-fire exchange, swallowed hard. "Who was that?"
"My contact at the Department of Structural Regulations. She'll draw up an urgent plan to check the Floo connections or the weatherisation on the windows, and an Auror can go with her undercover."
Harry sagged back against the countertop. He felt like he'd just landed abruptly from a great height, but he couldn't help smiling. "Brilliant."
Malfoy flicked the file folder closed and tossed the fork into the sink. Harry's eyes lingered on his rosy cheeks and the long lines of his lithe body. He said slowly, "You never mentioned what you did for work."
"No. I didn't." Malfoy dimpled. "Shall we head home?"
"Er. 'We'? 'Home'?" Harry echoed. His head spun.
"You didn't think you were staying here, did you? Andromeda closed the north wing when Teddy left for Hogwarts." Malfoy marched out of the room and Harry, dazed, followed him.
After saying goodbye to the few guests that were still present, somewhat sober, and awake, Harry floated his trunks towards the Floo where Malfoy waited. The green flames cast an eerie glow over his flushed, exhilarated face. Harry drew up close beside him and breathed in: soot from the fire and the unmistakable aroma of honey.
Malfoy tossed a handful of powder into the Floo and called, "221B Breaker Street."
***
Two months later...
221B Breaker Street was a narrow building in the heart of Wizarding Marylebone, surrounded by Muggle-repelling wards to make the neighborhood look like a noisy construction site. 221B had a faded blue front door and a rather spacious garden. Malfoy would never give a straight answer as to whether he'd used an Enlargement Charm on the plot.
The inside of the house was absolute chaos. Harry was constantly tripping over the teetering stacks of books that lined the hallways. Intermediate Icelandic Incantations, Rare Bats of Southwestern Indonesia, Danske Statsbaner Køreplan 2028-2029...
The bathroom cabinets were stuffed with dozens of hair potions, all of which Malfoy assured Harry were necessary to use on a daily basis. He never emptied his ashtrays, re-rolled his enormous scroll maps, or returned library books on time.
But Malfoy was sharp and -- Harry had to admit -- extremely interesting to be around. He picked up on details and inconsistencies with alarming rapidity, spoke nineteen languages, and was a rather excellent cook. His sense of humour was acerbic but had shed its teenage mean streak. And no matter the weather or occasion, he dressed in trim shirts and tailored trousers and waistcoats and cufflinks. Harry wasn't sure why this mattered, but it did.
This morning, a fluffy brown owl with a heart-shaped face pecked at the window with the post. "Morning, Dorcas." Harry tossed her two treats from the mantel and gave her an appreciative scratch at the back of her neck. Then he grabbed the Prophet and jogged downstairs to find Malfoy.
There was no sign of him in the library or the dining room. On the kitchen counter, a cup of coffee waited under Stasis. It was exactly the way Harry liked it: strong, two sugars, no cream. He savoured a sip before heading into the garden.
"Paper's here!" he called.
From behind the stacks of wooden trays that comprised his homemade beehive, Malfoy stood slowly. His back troubled him, he told Harry, who had begun to wonder how soon was too soon to offer his Healing expertise to his ex-nemesis-turned-housemate.
Hand to heart, he'd thought that Malfoy's puffy white beekeeper suit was a Muggle astronaut costume at first, and had nearly pissed himself laughing. It was worse when Malfoy wore his superior little frown beneath the veil under his flat white hat. He adjusted the hat with one huge gloved hand now, and a small cloud of softly buzzing insects followed his movements.
"Well?" Malfoy called, nodding at the newspaper. Harry unfurled it obediently and read aloud:
AURORS' ANONYMOUS AIDE ASSISTS AGAIN
Aurors have apprehended Walter Valentine, 43, who is charged with stealing blueprints for the Ministry of Magic's prototype underwater Knight Bus, or "bus-marine."
The tip-off came once again from an anonymous investigative source, who claimed to crack encoded messages between Valentine and his prospective buyer in the "lonely hearts" column of Witch Weekly. A spokesperson for the Aurors declined to state whether this individual was known to the DMLE, or whether their identity was a mystery to the Ministry as well.
Bruce Paddington, inventor of the vehicle, says the Ministry will prosecute Valentine to the fullest extent of the law. (continued on page 5...)
"Pah," said Malfoy. "Attributing our work to one individual. Typical shoddy Prophet presumptuousness."
"Nothing new." Harry chucked the paper onto the compost heap. He cradled his coffee in both hands and turned his face up towards the sun. Solar exposure was a decent treatment for his residual Dark spell damage. He envisioned the sunshine pouring into his veins, circling around the damaged tissue in his shoulder and chipping away at its hold on his body.
He hummed and sipped his coffee, thinking about what to cook. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Teddy came to tea. It was Harry's job to make dinner and Malfoy's job to Geminio the latest case file while Teddy was distracted. He scratched absently at a spot on his belly under the hem of his t-shirt. "Grilled prawns and angel hair tonight?"
"Uh, yes. Rather."
Harry peeled one eyelid open. Malfoy bustled around his hives, face flushed. Probably hot under his silly white jumpsuit. He raised his wand, renewing the temperature charms that kept them at a steady temperature regardless of the weather. His heated knife and scraping tool lay on a table near the hand-crank honey extractor. It was a lengthy, sticky process, and Harry had Summoned a glass of water the first time he'd watched Malfoy at work.
"You'll throw out your back one of these days. You should use a spell."
"Don't mind him, darlings," whispered Malfoy to the eight or nine bees sitting on his shoulders. "I know you appreciate a gentleman's touch."
Harry's heart squeezed in his chest. He really ought to get it checked out. Cardiac inflictions were not something to be taken lightly.
After the hidden attic of the smugglers' safehouse, there was the adventure of the six identical busts of Cornelius Fudge. Harry and Malfoy took turns smashing them before anonymously summoning the Aurors to clean up.
Then there was the batty old wizard who'd trained a snake to creep into his lodger's bedrooms and steal their gold. Harry discovered he could still speak Parseltongue after all.
Then there was the mystery of Golden Blaze, the famous racing hippogriff who went missing days before the National Championship. Malfoy cracked the abductors' plot and they flew Golden Blaze home as the sun came up over Dartmoor. Malfoy clung to Harry's jacket and whinged WE'RE TOO OLD FOR THIS, POTTER all the way back to London.
It was the polar opposite of grueling sixteen-hour days behind a desk at St. Zelda's hospital. They often stayed up late into the night talking over Malfoy's port and Harry's cheese toasties. They'd trade theories, study the files, reference Malfoy's obscure texts, and discover connections that shed light on the mystery.
With each case they solved, Harry thought less and less of the life he had left behind. And he dreamed more and more of sharp grey eyes and a lopsided smile.
Over two plates of angel hair pasta, Teddy told them about his latest side investigation. "So there's this shop owner on Diagon, Lavender Brown--"
Malfoy cut in, "Our classmate, Weasley's erstwhile paramour, and chairwoman of the Werewolf Rights Association on Diagon."
"--yeah, her." Teddy held out his plate for another piece of Harry's garlic bread. A folder labelled L.B. was tucked under his placemat. "She was visited out of nowhere by an American woman named... wait for it... Fuchsia Greene. And this Ms. Greene had a newspaper clipping. It said if they could find a third person with a first and last name that were both colours, this anonymous benefactor would get them tickets to London Wizarding Fashion Week."
Harry let out a shout of laughter. "That's one of the worst scams I've ever heard."
"Wait... Brown didn't believe this woman, did she?" asked Malfoy, nudging his thin spectacles up his nose.
"She did!" groaned Teddy. "I thought she came into the Ministry to file a report. But no, she wanted to search our records for witches with colour names! As if she really thinks she'll find a... I dunno, 'Tangerine Black' and get this prize. Not even Nicolas Flamel can afford tickets to LWFW."
"Don't you have a great-great-aunt named Tangerine Black?" Harry asked. Malfoy flipped him off.
"Why, though?" he asked, staring into the middle distance. "What would be the point of such a scheme?"
Teddy shrugged and popped the last of the garlic bread in his mouth. "Beats me. Harry, fancy a stroll around the garden? I'd like to see the bees."
Malfoy lingered at the table as Harry and Teddy went out through the French doors. It was a balmy evening, and the garden was fragrant with the plants that Malfoy's bees loved best. Nasturtiums from the Manor; snowdrops and marigolds from the Burrow; a herb garden with sage, thyme, lavender, and mint that served double duty for Harry's culinary pursuits. A few ambitious bees dotted around amongst the flowers, but the rest of the colony were fast asleep.
Teddy nudged him with an elbow. "You doing okay?"
Harry felt a dopey smile around the edges of his mouth and was grateful for the darkness. "Good. Really good. I'm helping Malfoy more with the side business. There's a witch down the lane who makes beeswax balm, and a shop in Hogsmeade that does candles. The honey supply looks good this year. If we're lucky, we can harvest once more before it gets too cold."
He looked up from the flowerbeds at Teddy, whose shoulders were shaking with mirth. His hair went candyfloss-pink. "Oh my god, Harry. I was asking about your shoulder, your old job, having to come back to England. And then I was going to ask how you and Draco were getting on. But now I have an answer to both."
Harry blushed so hard that the temperature in the garden soared approximately a million degrees. "Am I that obvious?"
"Almost as bad as Draco," snickered Teddy, which made Harry's insides squirm. Probably another malady of middle age. Teddy continued, "I think your amateur detective thing is adorable. It's healthy for old people to have hobbies."
"You know about--? Amateur--!!"
"Harry. You flew a bloody Hippogriff through the sky with a shoddy Grade II concealment charm. Even if I weren't an Auror, you're not exactly subtle." Teddy grinned. "Anyway, you're a fantastic cook. And I trust you two more than anybody, except Gran, and she prefers crimes on the telly to real ones. Oh! Before I forget..."
Harry scrubbed his hands over his face, vying for control of his emotions before he went back in the house. When he opened his eyes, Teddy was holding out a glowing photograph. Phantom shapes moved above the surface, their movements syrupy-slow.
"Is this one of those... memographs?"
"Mnemograms. We had a brief interview with Fuchsia Greene and this image kept coming up. Could be useful."
Right. It was a somewhat recent invention, suspending a memory inside a photo you could view without a Pensieve. It was one of those things Harry had considered himself too old to comprehend, like Cauldron Crush and WixTok.
Teddy nudged him, looking more youthful than he had in weeks. "Do I need to give you and Draco a talk about the birds and the bees? Seed-swapping? Safe pollination?"
"Don't be disrespectful to your elders," said Harry, pocketing the mnemogram. Teddy howled with laughter.
"It's about those Fashion Week tickets."
"It's nothing to do with Fashion Week!"
"Then it's a random scam."
"Potter. You do us both a disservice." Malfoy shot him a moue of annoyance. Their after-dinner port stained Malfoy's mouth dark purple, like a soft bruise. Distantly, the clock struck two. "They're after something that Brown has."
"Like what? You checked your files for heirlooms and artefacts." Harry flipped absently through the file. Lavender, it transpired, had travelled to Bournemouth for the weekend, where a witch named Amber Carnelian supposedly ran a tattoo parlour. It sounded like total dragon dung to Harry. "What about gold?"
"I don't recall the Browns being particularly wealthy. But gold..."
Merlin, they'd been at this for ages. Harry, too warm from the fire and his own port, sat up on the sofa to take off his jumper. It was from several Christmases ago and was a little tight around the shoulders and belly. He yanked it off in a hurry, but only succeeded in dragging his t-shirt with it. Harry swore and struggled back into his t-shirt, smoothing it back down over his front. "What'd you say about gold?" he asked.
"I-- I'm terribly sorry, I lost my train of thought," said Malfoy faintly. When Harry glanced up, Malfoy was half turned away, staring hard at the mnemogram. The flickering flames cast the lines on his face into mesmerising relief.
They'd viewed the mnemogram several times already. The ghostly image of the memory replayed once more: a hand flipped a calendar to the month of September. Although the numbers were blurry, one date was circled in red: the first day of the second week. And today was Saturday, September 5th. Whatever Fuchsia Greene was planning, it was to happen in less than forty-eight hours.
But the conversation with Teddy and the several hours he and Malfoy had already spent on this case had left Harry drained. Much as he wanted to chase that high of figuring out a mystery, his body found it hard to keep up. He excused himself to take a shower. Malfoy barely acknowledged him, turning the mnemogram over and over in his hands.
Harry stepped out of his clothes and into the steamy shower cabinet, careful not to disarrange Malfoy's many hair potions. He groaned as the hot water hit his stiff shoulder and neck. Lathering his hands with soap, his touch lingered below his hips. Despite the ungodly hour, his traitorous cock had apparently decided now was the perfect time to misbehave.
He pictured Malfoy's port-stained mouth... Malfoy unzipping the front of his ridiculous beekeeper suit and wearing nothing underneath... Accidentally spilling a jar of honey down Malfoy's bare chest. Smearing it downward with both hands until Malfoy was painted with it, and then Harry licking him clean. Sucking the hollow of Malfoy's collarbone, running his tongue along Malfoy's jaw. Tasting, claiming him with his teeth until Malfoy begged for mercy and pulled him down into a desperate, hot kiss.
And then Harry would scoop Malfoy up in his arms -- in this fantasy, he obviously had terrific upper body strength and two fully functional shoulders -- and carry him through the kitchen, past the wall calendar beside the fridge--
--and wasn't it funny how Harry had never wrapped his mind around American calendars, which started the week on Sunday instead of Monday?--
--and Harry's eyes flew open. He didn't bother rinsing the soap from his thighs, although he did grab a towel to drape over his now very confused cock. He padded down the hallway, avoiding stacks of books and dripping water in great big puddles on the carpet behind him.
"Malfoy!" he called. "Malfoy! American calendars start the week on Sunday! If this Fuchsia Greene is really American, that means... er... it means..."
He trailed off.
Because Malfoy was leaned back against the wall. And he had Harry's jumper in his hands. Or, rather, hand. Held close to his face, like he'd been smelling it. Rubbing his cheek against the wool, even. And with his other hand, he was palming himself through the front of his trousers. As Harry stared, the unmistakable rigidity beneath Malfoy's zipper gave a needful pulse.
Malfoy smiled, slow and golden as all the honey in the world. "What does it mean, Potter?"
Harry drip-drip-dripped shower water onto the carpet, turning the sage-coloured tufts a dark emerald green. Slytherin green. Malfoy squeezed his erection through the fabric, jumpstarting Harry's dribbling brain.
"It means she's planning for Sunday, the 6th. That's tomorrow. Or, well, today." It was now half past two, but all thought of sleep had bled out of Harry's body.
"And...?" Malfoy prompted. Whatever he saw in Harry's face must have spurred him on, because he let Harry's jumper slither from his grasp. And long fingers drifted to the brass fastenings of his trousers.
"And we should call the Aurors to take over. Because," Harry swallowed, so loud Malfoy must've heard it from across the room. "I'm not in any state to chase scammers down Diagon."
"Thieves," Malfoy corrected him. Hoarsely. Breathlessly. His throat worked. He hadn't looked away from Harry, not even for a second. "I figured it out. An excuse to get Brown out of London. The Werewolf Rights Association headquarters are right across the road from Gringotts. Underground tunnel, I figured. Vault robbery."
"Right." Harry crossed the room in several slow, careful steps. When the damp towel around his waist worked its way loose, he didn't bother snatching for it. It slid to the floor. A desperate, punched-out sound escaped from Malfoy's pursed lips.
Harry planted a hand on either side of the wall, bracketing Malfoy between his arms. He breathed in the wine on Malfoy's breath, the aroma of honey that had invaded Harry's waking dreams.
"What do you want?" Malfoy asked.
"I want you to send a message to the DMLE. Tell them what we know about Fuchsia Greene and have them ready to make an arrest. And use your connections, get Lavender backstage at Fashion Week."
Malfoy hummed. "I'm sure Blaise would be happy to oblige."
Harry didn't want to talk about Blaise, or Fuchsia Greene. He didn't want to talk much at all, really. He angled his hips forward, closing the distance between them. "What do you want, Malfoy?"
Malfoy wound one hand around the back of Harry's neck. "I want you to call me Draco when you fuck me."
"Yes," breathed Harry.
And he did.
The creak of the bedroom door roused Harry from sleep. He buried his face in the unfamiliar but heavenly pillow, which bore the smell of fussy hair products. Was it this pillowcase, or the other one, that Draco had torn with his teeth last night?
Is that the best you can do, Potter? Getting frail in your old age? I won't break, fucking give it to me-- oh god, oh my god--
"Morning," came the slightly hoarse voice of Draco in the here and now.
Harry peeled open one eyelid as Draco floated a breakfast tray into the room. He spied toast with butter and honey, a pot of earl grey tea, and a mug of coffee: strong, two sugars, no cream. Under one arm was a folded newspaper with the headline BANK ROBBERY FOILED! Harry's heart threatened to burst out of his exquisitely sore body.
"Is this the part where you say, 'Get up, Potter, you lazy oaf, we can't stay in the flat having sex all day, the game is afoot'?"
The corner of Draco's mouth lifted. He was wearing Harry's jumper and only Harry's jumper. Harry never wanted him to wear anything else.
"Far from it. I was about to magnanimously offer you the choice of a blowjob in the shower, or a slow and soapy fuck in the bath. But if you're so keen on solving mysteries, we could owl Teddy and ask for another file--"
Harry Banished the breakfast tray back to the kitchen. With another wave of his hand, he twisted the hot water tap on the bathtub. Good thing he'd mastered wandless, wordless magic years ago. He had better things to do with his mouth, like sliding his tongue against Draco's until he went boneless and sank into Harry's lap.
The mysteries could wait. Harry and Draco had waited long enough.