Chapter Text
The drawing room at Malfoy Manor had somehow become even more unbearable after the war.
Draco had not previously thought that possible.
The room had always been dramatic in the way all old pureblood rooms were dramatic. Dark wood panelling climbed the walls from floor to ceiling, polished to such a shine that candlelight danced across the surface in restless golden streaks. Silver fixtures gleamed from every corner, catching the light from the enormous fireplace and reflecting it back in cold flashes. The furniture was beautiful in the way expensive things often were, clearly designed by someone who valued appearance far more than comfort. Every chair seemed to regard its occupants with quiet disapproval, as though sitting improperly upon it constituted a personal insult.
As a child, Draco had thought the room impressive. As a teenager, he had thought it dignified. Now, at twenty three years old and several catastrophes older than he had ever intended to become, he mostly thought it looked exhausted.
The war had ended some years ago, but traces of it lingered stubbornly in the Manor. Not the obvious signs. The drawing room no longer bore scorch marks from stray curses. The broken windows had been replaced. The damaged furnishings had been restored or discarded. The Dark Lord's followers no longer gathered beneath the crystal chandeliers, speaking in low voices that had once made Draco's stomach knot with dread.
No, the damage left behind was harder to remove.
It lived in the silences.
The Malfoys had escaped Azkaban.
That fact still felt strange sometimes.
There had been weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts when Draco had been certain prison was inevitable. Not just for his father. For all of them. The Ministry had wanted names, the public had wanted someone to blame, and there had been no shortage of people willing to point at Malfoy Manor and demand consequences.
Yet, somehow, they had remained free.
His mother's lies to Voldemort in the Forest had mattered. Their cooperation after the battle had mattered. And, perhaps most infuriatingly of all, Harry Potter's testimony had mattered.
Enough to keep them out of Azkaban, but not enough to make people trust them.
The Manor had once been filled with visitors. Politicians, ministry officials, socialites, business associates and distant relatives eager to benefit from the Malfoy name.
But most of them had vanished now. Some out of fear, some out of self-preservation and some because they had spent the war loudly supporting the wrong side and now preferred to pretend they had never known the Malfoys at all.
Entire days could pass without a single visitor crossing the estate's boundaries, and the grand rooms echoed differently when they were empty, even the portraits seemed quieter.
It should have been enough though...
They were free.
They still had their home. Their fortune had survived largely intact. They were together. Compared to what could have happened, compared to what Draco had expected during those dreadful final months of the war, that should have been enough.
And yet none of them seemed entirely convinced they were safe.
Public opinion remained fickle, the Ministry remained unpredictable and the Malfoy name still carried enough baggage to sink a ship.
Draco had spent the last years learning that surviving something and moving on from it were not remotely the same thing.
A tension had settled into the walls themselves, pressing against every room no matter how many expensive candles Narcissa purchased or how many fresh flowers appeared throughout the Manor. It lingered beneath every conversation and every meal.
Waiting and watching.
As though all three of them were expecting someone to arrive one day and announce that a mistake had been made.
That the Malfoys had escaped punishment for years and now it was finally time to correct the oversight.
Unfortunately, his father had decided to address this problem in the most ridiculous way imaginable.
Which was how Draco found himself sitting in the drawing room on a rainy Thursday evening, watching his father pace before the fireplace with the focused determination of a man about to unveil either a brilliant solution or a complete disaster.
Given recent history, Draco was strongly leaning toward disaster.
Lucius had been pacing for nearly ten minutes, while his mother appeared serene, which was never a reassuring sign, as in Draco's experience, Narcissa Malfoy became calmest immediately before witnessing something spectacularly foolish.
There were only three people in the room.
Draco.
His mother.
His father.
And, apparently, insanity.
"You want to do what?"
Lucius Malfoy continued pacing in front of the fireplace with all the solemn gravity of a man discussing wartime strategy instead of whatever fresh horror this was.
He had his hands clasped neatly behind his back, his expression carefully composed, and his robes were immaculate as always. To an outside observer, he might have looked every inch the respected patriarch of an ancient pureblood family.
The fact that most of wizarding Britain still regarded him somewhere between a former Death Eater and a criminal who had simply managed to avoid prison appeared to have done remarkably little to diminish his confidence.
Or his ability to lecture.
"Our position remains precarious," Lucius said smoothly. "Public opinion has softened, certainly, but our reputation remains vulnerable."
Draco raised an eyebrow.
Public opinion had softened?
That was certainly one way of describing it.
The Daily Prophet had finally stopped publishing opinion pieces demanding further investigations into former Death Eaters every other week, which Draco supposed counted as progress.
People no longer crossed the street quite as often when they saw a Malfoy approaching.
...Most of them, anyway.
And the occasional public argument about whether Lucius Malfoy belonged in Azkaban usually only lasted twenty minutes instead of an entire afternoon.
A remarkable improvement.
"Our reputation," Lucius continued, oblivious or perhaps simply unwilling to acknowledge Draco's scepticism, "remains severely compromised."
That, at least, was true.
The Malfoy name still opened doors in certain circles, but far fewer than before. In many places it did precisely the opposite.
People smiled less readily, conversations stalled when they entered a room and old acquaintances suddenly remembered urgent appointments elsewhere. Even those willing to accept that the war was over often seemed uncertain what to do with the people who had survived on the losing side.
Draco couldn't entirely blame them.
Trust, Draco had learned, was considerably harder to rebuild than a drawing room.
"Our social standing is weakened. Our political influence diminished. Business relationships remain unstable." Lucius paused before adding grimly, "There are still members of the Wizengamot who would happily reopen our case if given sufficient cause."
A brief silence settled over the room.
That was the thing none of them said very often.
They were free.
But freedom and security were not the same thing.
Draco had understood that the first time he'd overheard two Ministry officials discussing his father in Diagon Alley as though he wasn't standing five feet away.
One of them had referred to Lucius as the one who got away with it.
The other had agreed.
"Our future remains uncertain. Which is why I have spent the last several months considering potential solutions." Lucius continued.
Draco immediately disliked where this was going.
The last time Lucius had spent several months considering a solution to a problem, it had involved a cursed diary and a basilisk.
Draco closed his eyes briefly.
Breathe.
Remain civil.
Years of upbringing, etiquette lessons and his mother's endless insistence on maintaining one's composure in public had to be worth something.
Unfortunately, those skills became significantly harder to maintain whenever Harry Potter was introduced into a conversation.
"Father," Draco began, in the tone of a man attempting very hard to remain respectful, "I am certain you have devoted considerable thought to whatever solution you are about to propose."
Lucius inclined his head, appearing pleased by this acknowledgment.
"I have."
"Right." Draco folded his hands together in his lap. "And while I respect the effort involved, I feel compelled to point out that our reputation cannot possibly be improved by any plan that requires me to interact extensively with Harry Potter."
"The Ministry remains divided regarding former affiliations."
Draco inhaled slowly through his nose.
Remain calm.
Remain respectful.
There was no reason to make this conversation more difficult than it already was.
"That is certainly one way of describing the situation," he said carefully.
Lucius nodded as though Draco had agreed with him.
"We were fortunate that cooler heads prevailed."
Fortunate. An interesting choice of wording for narrowly avoiding Azkaban.
Draco felt something twitch behind his left eye.
"I suppose that depends on one's definition of fortunate."
"Draco."
The warning was mild, but unmistakable, making Draco straightened slightly in his chair on instinct.
"Merely an observation, Father."
Lucius regarded him for a moment before continuing.
"Our position remains unstable."
There was a brief pause, followed by another, and Draco was beginning to suspect that whatever solution his father had devised during the last several months was significantly worse than he had originally assumed.
Which was impressive, as he had originally assumed the solution involved blackmail.
Across the room, Narcissa sat elegantly upon the sofa, one hand curled around a teacup as though this conversation was entirely ordinary. As though Lucius discussing the future of the Malfoy name with the solemn gravity of a man drafting legislation was not at all concerning. As though Draco was not currently watching his father build toward what was increasingly sounding like a catastrophic idea.
Frankly, her composure was starting to become offensive.
"As I've already explained, it has become clear to me," Lucius announced, with the confidence of a man unveiling a particularly elegant solution, "that our best chance at full social rehabilitation lies with Harry Potter."
Draco stared at him.
He had, of course, heard the words the first time.
The problem was that some small, hopeful part of him had assumed his father would eventually arrive at a different conclusion.
Perhaps one involving political alliances, charitable donations or strategic investments.
Literally anything else.
Instead, Lucius appeared to have examined every available option and somehow determined that Harry Potter was the most sensible path forward.
Draco found this deeply concerning.
He stared a bit harder.
The truly alarming thing was not the statement itself.
The truly alarming thing was that Lucius appeared to have spent months thinking about it.
This was not a spontaneous lapse in judgment. This was a carefully considered conclusion. A researched conclusion and potentially...a documented conclusion.
"...you cannot possibly be serious."
"Potter's testimony at our trial significantly influenced the Wizengamot's decision."
Draco resisted the urge to sigh.
He was well aware.
It was rather difficult to forget the moment Harry Potter had stood before a room full of witches and wizards and argued that the Malfoys deserved a chance to move on from the war.
Not because Draco was ungrateful.
Quite the opposite.
The entire situation remained so profoundly uncomfortable that he preferred not to think about it at all.
"Yes," he said, striving for patience. "I recall the occasion."
Lucius inclined his head, seemingly satisfied.
"And public favour follows him almost blindly."
That, unfortunately, was also true.
Harry Potter had somehow emerged from the war with enough goodwill to influence everything from Ministry policy to newspaper headlines. People trusted him, and more importantly, they wanted to trust him.
If Potter praised someone, public opinion softened.
If Potter condemned someone, public opinion hardened.
It was a level of influence that would have made most politicians weep with envy.
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose.
The conversation was becoming steadily more concerning. Because there was a difference between acknowledging Potter's influence and whatever conclusion Lucius appeared to be drawing from it. A very large difference. One that Draco was increasingly afraid his father had failed to notice.
He lowered his hand and sat a little straighter.
Years of etiquette lessons urged him to remain composed, however, years of knowing Lucius Malfoy suggested that composure might soon become a challenge.
"So your plan," Draco said carefully, choosing each word with deliberate precision, "is to what, exactly?"
Lucius looked pleased.
A terrible sign.
Draco pressed on before his father could answer.
"Surely you're not suggesting that we simply attempt to improve relations with Potter?"
"Improve relations?" Lucius repeated.
"Yes." Draco clasped his hands together in his lap. "A cordial acquaintance. Professional cooperation. The occasional civil conversation."
He paused.
Then, despite his best efforts, added:
"Friendship?"
The word sounded more ridiculous the moment it left his mouth.
Lucius looked faintly insulted.
And Draco, quite suddenly, became very concerned about what answer was coming next.
"Don't be absurd."
Draco exhaled quietly as relief washed over him.
There it was at last.
A sensible response.
Perhaps he had misjudged the situation. Perhaps his father had not, in fact, spent several months devising an elaborate plan centred around Harry Potter.
"Oh, good," Draco said, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. "For a moment, I was beginning to worry about the direction this discussion was taking."
Across the room, Narcissa lowered her teacup slightly and there was something in her expression that Draco didn't particularly like. It didn’t look like concern or confusion, but something closer to...amusement?
That was never a reassuring sign.
Lucius folded his hands behind his back and the gesture was familiar. It was the posture he adopted before delivering what he considered an important conclusion.
Draco's brief sense of relief immediately began to evaporate.
"You are going to seduce him."
Silence followed in the wake of Lucius words.
Absolute, echoing silence.
And somewhere beyond the Manor windows, thunder rolled across the grounds.
Draco blinked at his father, as his mind helpfully supplied several possible explanations.
He must have misheard, that seemed the most likely. Or the fireplace had crackled at an unfortunate moment, and his father had said introduce yourself to him, or work alongside him, or even be civil to him.
All deeply unpleasant possibilities, but still preferable.
Unfortunately, Lucius continued looking entirely serious.
Draco waited.
Surely there would be clarification, a correction, or some indication that the sentence which had just left his father's mouth had not, in fact, been exactly what it sounded like.
Yet, none arrived.
Narcissa took another sip of tea.
Twenty three years of careful parenting, and this was the moment she chose not to intervene.
Traitor.
Draco slowly set both feet flat on the floor.
"Father," he said carefully, because the amount of etiquette training he had gone through were the only thing preventing him from groaning and burying his face in his hands, "would you mind repeating that?"
Lucius looked faintly impatient.
"You are going to seduce Harry Potter."
The thunder outside chose that precise moment to crack loudly overhead.
Draco considered, briefly and not for the first time that evening, the possibility that the universe simply hated him.
Draco stared at him, resisting the entirely un-Malfoy impulse to allow his mouth to fall open in disbelief.
The words themselves were bad enough, but the fact that his father had apparently delivered them with complete sincerity elevated the situation into entirely new territory.
"Father," he said carefully, as years of strict upbringing worked overtime to prevent a far less diplomatic response, "please tell me this is not the plan."
Lucius looked faintly puzzled.
"It is an excellent plan."
Draco pressed two fingers against his temple. The headache that had been threatening since the beginning of this conversation was becoming increasingly ambitious.
Across the room, Narcissa remained infuriatingly silent.
"Let us assume, purely for the sake of argument, that we have somehow arrived at the conclusion that Harry Potter is the solution to our problems."
Lucius nodded. "We have."
“Wonderful.” Draco closed his eyes briefly. “A troubling development, but let us continue. How exactly could this plan of yours even work in any practical sense?”
When he opened them again, his father was looking far too smug.
A warning sign if ever there was one.
"You possess a unique advantage in this situation."
"What advantage?"
Lucius paused briefly.
"The Veela heritage."
Silence followed as Draco took a moment to process what his father was saying. Then very deliberately placed his teacup on the table before he dropped it.
Of course.
Of course this was about that.
Several months ago, discovering that one branch of the Malfoy family tree contained Veela ancestry had been surprising enough.
Discovering that said ancestry had apparently chosen to manifest itself in Draco after the war had been significantly less enjoyable.
The healers had spent weeks explaining it, telling them how some dormant magical traits occasionally emerged under extraordinary circumstances, such as extreme emotional distress, life-threatening situations, or significant magical upheaval.
Apparently surviving a war, nearly dying several times and living through a year of sustained terror had fulfilled the necessary requirements.
Lucky him.
"Father," Draco said slowly.
But Lucius continued as though he hadn't spoken.
"Given your recent manifestation, it seems only logical to make use of the opportunities it presents."
Draco felt something inside him begin to unravel slowly as he tried to keep his wits about him.
"...Make use of."
"Precisely."
"As in, actively employ."
"Yes."
Draco stared at him. Then toward the ceiling. Then briefly considered whether throwing himself from the nearest window would be interpreted as an overreaction.
"You cannot seriously be suggesting that I attempt to seduce Harry Potter because I happen to be half Veela."
"Our situation requires decisive action."
"That is not an answer."
"It is our best option."
Draco let out a single disbelieving laugh. "No."
Lucius frowned. "No?"
"No," Draco repeated, more firmly this time. "Absolutely not."
He sat forward in his chair. "Have you actually met Potter?"
"Of course I have."
"Then you understand why this plan is impossible."
Lucius looked unconvinced, and Draco found this extremely alarming.
"Father, Harry Potter once followed a trail of butterflies into the Forbidden Forest because he thought they looked suspicious."
Lucius blinked. "What?"
"The point," Draco said, with all the patience of a man approaching the limits of his endurance, "is that Potter does not behave like a normal person."
Lucius waved a dismissive hand, as though Draco had raised a minor logistical concern rather than what was, in Draco’s opinion, an immediate and catastrophic flaw in the entire premise.
“That has no bearing on the matter.”
“It has every bearing on the matter,” Draco said at once, far too quickly for someone attempting to remain composed. He forced himself to slow down, to reassemble his tone into something approaching reason. “Potter is also suspicious by nature. He would assume I was attempting to poison him or something like that.”
Lucius looked faintly unimpressed, as though this were not a particularly imaginative objection.
“Well,” he said coolly, “don’t offer him poison.”
“That was not the point!”
“It appears to be precisely the point you are making.”
Draco pressed his fingertips briefly against his temple, drawing in a measured breath through his nose.
Remain calm and reasonable.
Do not, under any circumstances, lose composure in front of your father.
“Potter,” he said carefully, “does not interpret situations in a normal fashion. If I were to so much as stand too close to him, he would assume I was up to something.”
Lucius looked faintly unconvinced by the concept of anyone interpreting Draco Malfoy incorrectly.
“That seems unlikely.”
“It is not unlikely,” Draco said, a little more firmly now. “It is consistent with his entire personality.”
Across the room, Narcissa delicately set down her teacup, and the porcelain made a soft, precise sound against its saucer.
Both men paused instinctively, as though the room itself had briefly shifted into a different register of importance.
“I do think,” she said thoughtfully, “that beginning with poison would send mixed messages.”
“...Mother.”
Narcissa’s lips curved faintly as she picked up her tea again, entirely unbothered by the direction of the conversation and took a small, unhurried sip.
Lucius folded his hands behind his back again, unconcerned. “If Potter is as suspicious as you claim, then subtlety will be required.”
“That is exactly what I am worried about.”
“Why?”
Draco stared at him. He genuinely did not know where to begin.
“Because,” he said slowly, as though speaking to someone dangerously unfamiliar with basic social reasoning, “he will assume that any subtlety is evidence of intent.”
Lucius considered this. “Then be obvious.”
Draco blinked. “…what.”
“Be obvious,” Lucius repeated, as though this were self-evident. “If subtlety creates suspicion, eliminate it.”
“That is not how this work.”
“It is how politics works.”
“That is deeply concerning.”
Narcissa took another sip of tea, staying entirely serene, and with that also entirely unhelpful.
Draco looked between them again, a very specific kind of despair beginning to settle in.
This was not a discussion. This was his parents confidently discarding every known rule of social interaction while he, alone, appeared to be concerned about it.
Traitors.
Both of them.
Lucius crossed the room toward a side table stacked neatly with parchment, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to have prepared documentation for whatever conversation this was rapidly becoming.
Draco narrowed his eyes immediately.
He had privately entertained the possibility that somewhere within the Manor existed written documentation relating to this increasingly unhinged plan, but at the time, he had assumed it was paranoia, or sarcasm, or perhaps wishful thinking on the part of a mind desperately attempting to make the situation seem less real by exaggerating it.
Unfortunately, the stack of parchment sitting beside his father suggested otherwise.
The problem was not that the paperwork existed. The problem was that Draco had reached a point where discovering its existence no longer surprised him.
Somehow, that was significantly more unsettling.
“Why,” he asked slowly, carefully enunciating each word as though precision might somehow prevent disaster, “is there paperwork?”
Lucius paused just long enough to suggest that he considered the question slightly beneath him, then picked up the stack with the ease of someone presenting evidence in his own favour.
“I have compiled observations.”
A cold feeling settled in Draco’s stomach.
It was never a good sign when his father said things like that.
“…observations,” Draco repeated.
“Yes.”
Lucius turned a page as though demonstrating its contents might be obvious. “Regarding Potter’s habits, routines, preferences, social tendencies-”
“Wait,” Draco said quickly.
Lucius stopped, though he did not look particularly inclined to do so.
Draco stared at the parchment, then at his father, then back at the parchment.
“You made research notes.”
“A strategy portfolio,” Lucius corrected smoothly, as though the distinction mattered greatly.
Draco’s voice dropped slightly. “You made research notes on Harry Potter.”
Lucius looked faintly offended by the phrasing, as though Draco had mischaracterised an important academic pursuit rather than whatever this was.
Draco turned toward his mother in open betrayal.
The motion was sharp enough to feel undignified, but he was past the point of salvaging dignity if this conversation continued in its current direction.
“You allowed this?”
Narcissa considered him for a moment, as though weighing the question carefully against several unseen criteria. The firelight caught the edge of her teacup as she lifted it again with unhurried grace.
“Your father hasn’t enjoyed a project this much in years.”
Silence followed as Draco stared at her, openly horrified, as though if he maintained eye contact long enough, she might eventually revise her answer into something sane.
“This,” he said at last, carefully controlling his voice, “is a project!?”
“Draco,” Lucius said patiently, as though explaining basic arithmetic to a particularly slow child, “you are Veela.”
“Half,” Draco corrected at once, because if there was one thing he could still salvage from this conversation, it was accuracy.
“Which is more than sufficient.”
Draco let out a short, disbelieving breath through his nose. He could feel his composure beginning to fracture in very specific, very controlled increments. It wasn’t enough to be visible yet, but it was certainly becoming a concern.
“You cannot honestly believe Potter will just-...what?” he asked carefully, choosing each word with increasing effort. “Collapse at my feet?”
Lucius frowned slightly, as though Draco had misunderstood something self-evident. “Not at your feet,” he said. “That would be inelegant.”
Draco took a slow breath, carefully reining in his expression before it could betray him.
That was not the issue.
“That’s not-...Father, that is not the point.”
Lucius continued, as though he had spent a considerable amount of time reviewing this particular subject. “The point is that Veela influence is known to produce increased emotional receptivity in surrounding individuals. It encourages fixation. Heightens attentiveness. Strengthens perceived attractiveness.”
He glanced down at the parchment in his hand, as though confirming a detail.
“In more extreme cases,” he added, “it can lead to what certain sources classify as obsessional attachment behaviours.”
Draco lifted a hand.
“Stop,” he said quickly. “Please stop describing it as though it is a sales pitch.”
He hesitated, then glanced at the parchment again, expression tightening slightly.
“And more importantly, if Potter were actually susceptible to any of that, it would not lead to simple admiration. Potter does not do ‘mild’ reactions.”
Lucius fully ignored his concerns with dignity, the way only a Malfoy could make selective listening look like a principled stance.
“In combination with your upbringing and social standing, there is no logical reason for resistance.”
Draco stared at him.
The silence that followed was not empty. It was full of all the things he did not trust himself to say aloud in front of his parents.
“Right,” Draco said slowly. “So just to clarify, your position is that Harry Potter will overlook his own judgment, personal history, and general sense of self-preservation because I am half Veela and was raised correctly.”
Lucius considered this for a moment, as though Draco had offered a slightly imprecise summary rather than a fundamental ethical concern.
“In essence,” he allowed.
“In fact,” Lucius added after a brief pause, “a stronger response would not be undesirable.”
Draco went still.
“…stronger.”
Lucius nodded once, as though this were obvious.
“Obsession, for example, would ensure sustained interest. Continued proximity. Resistance from external influence would become significantly less relevant if Potter were inclined to remain focused on you regardless of outside opinion.”
A beat passed as Draco took in the utterly insane information being thrown at him.
“I am going to pretend,” he said carefully, “that I did not just hear you describe Harry Potter developing an obsession with me as a benefit.”
Lucius tilted his head slightly. “It would be a stabilising factor.”
“That is not-!”
“It would ensure he remains present,” Lucius continued evenly, “regardless of Ministry sentiment, public speculation, or any attempts to interfere.”
Draco pressed his lips into a thin line.
“Father,” he said, voice tight with restraint, “You are speaking about Harry Potter, as though he is a predictable variable in a controlled experiment.”
Lucius considered this for a moment before saying, “I suppose that is accurate in sorts.”
“It is deeply inaccurate,” Draco said, a little too sharply before forcing his voice back into something more controlled. “When, exactly, has Potter ever behaved in a predictable manner?”
Lucius did not hesitate this time.
“The Wizengamot hearing.”
“That was one occasion.”
“A significant one.”
“It was Harry Potter deciding he did not want my entire family sent to Azkaban,” Draco said flatly. “That is not predictability. That is… Potter.”
Lucius looked mildly inconvenienced by this logic.
Draco exhaled again, slower this time.
“I am trying,” he said carefully, “to understand how you have arrived at the conclusion that the solution to our public image involves me attempting to manipulate the one person who already successfully prevented our imprisonment.”
Lucius regarded him with the calm patience of someone who believed the answer was right there and Draco was simply refusing to see it.
“It is precisely because he influenced the Wizengamot in your favour that he is relevant.”
“That is not how any of this works,” Draco said at once.
“It is how opportunity works.”
“It is how delusion works.”
Lucius ignored that entirely.
“The Potter boy is trusted,” he continued. “He is listened to. He is, unfortunately, respected by individuals whose opinions matter.”
Draco made a faint, strangled sound.
“Unfortunate,” he repeated. “Yes. That is certainly one word for it.”
Lucius continued as though Draco had not spoken. “If such a person were to form a positive attachment to you, it would necessarily alter the perception others hold of you.”
“And you arrived at seduction,” Draco said slowly, “by what logical pathway, exactly?”
Lucius paused, as though genuinely considering the question.
“Efficiency,” he said at last.
Draco paused. Then, with obvious effort, attempted to locate a version of this conversation that made sense, but none appeared.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It is more direct than conventional reputation management,” Lucius explained. “Charitable contributions require time. Political lobbying requires cooperation. This,” he gestured vaguely, “requires only the correct application of influence.”
Draco sighed, “Stop using the word ‘influence’ like it absolves you of what you are suggesting.”
Across the room, Narcissa made a small, indistinct sound into her teacup that might have been laughter.
Draco immediately regretted noticing it.
Lucius, however, remained undeterred.
“You are overcomplicating matters,” he said.
“I am underreacting,” Draco corrected sharply. “If anything, I am being remarkably restrained.”
Lucius inclined his head slightly, the gesture indicating quiet disagreement without the need for words.
“If Potter were to develop an attachment,” he continued instead, almost thoughtfully, “it would also reduce the likelihood of future interference from him.”
Draco hesitated, brows furrowing.
“…future interference?”
“With respect to ongoing scrutiny,” Lucius clarified. “Public, institutional, social.”
Draco slowly sank further into the armchair, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment, as though it might offer alternative explanations for reality.
Then he let out a very small, very controlled breath, which sounded suspiciously like surrender.
“I am going to regret asking this,” he said, “but have you considered that Harry Potter might object to being strategically emotionally compromised?”
Lucius looked faintly puzzled by the question.
“Only if he notices,” he said.
Draco went very still.
Then, with increasing theatricality and absolutely no regard for decorum, he threw himself backward into the armchair in a manner so dramatically defeated that any normal mother would have intervened immediately.
Narcissa merely adjusted the sleeve of her gown, took another calm sip of tea and did not look up.
Draco stared at the ceiling.
“This,” Draco informed the ceiling, “is humiliating,”
“This is survival,” Lucius corrected.
Narcissa finally intervened, her voice smooth and calm, cutting through the conversation with the kind of quiet authority that made it feel less like interruption and more like the natural end of whatever argument had preceded it.
“Draco.”
He looked toward her immediately.
The reaction was instinctive, almost reflexive.
Unlike Lucius, Narcissa rarely spoke unless she actually intended to be listened to. And unlike Lucius, she had never once been wrong about the difference.
“The situation is not ideal,” she said carefully. “But your father is correct about one thing.”
Draco waited warily.
He did not like the direction this was taking. He liked even less that it involved the words your father is correct in any capacity whatsoever.
“Mr. Potter’s opinion carries extraordinary influence.”
Ah.
There it was.
Not manipulation for ambition’s sake. Not another one of Lucius’ elaborate attempts to bend the world back into something resembling its former shape.
Fear.
The Manor had been quiet for months because all three of them were waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for public mercy to expire. Waiting for someone, somewhere, to decide that surviving the war had not been the same thing as deserving to.
Draco hated that he understood it. Hated it with a clarity that made it worse, not better. Because understanding meant it wasn’t ridiculous. It was plausible. Which, somehow, was far more inconvenient.
“I still think this is insane,” he muttered.
It came out more tired than defiant this time, as though the argument itself had begun to lose structural integrity.
“Most effective plans sound insane initially,” Lucius said, with the calm assurance of a man who had never once been deterred by other people’s definitions of sanity.
“No effective plan has ever involved me flirting with Potter.”
“You underestimate yourself.”
“I absolutely do not,” Draco said immediately, with the kind of firmness that suggested this was not a negotiable point in his worldview.
Lucius regarded him for a moment, then moved past the argument as though it were a minor administrative detail.
“You will find,” he said, approaching the side table once more, “that most objections diminish once one is presented with sufficient information.”
“That does not address the point,” Draco replied, but the edge in his voice had begun to dull.
Lucius did not respond. Instead, he selected a single sheet from the neatly arranged stack and held it out with the composed air of someone presenting a perfectly reasonable contract.
Draco eyed it suspiciously. It was, unfortunately, exactly the kind of parchment that suggested forethought, and planning, and far too much time.
“…what is that,” Draco said cautiously.
“An overview,” Lucius replied.
Draco took the parchment, because refusing at this point felt less like defiance and more like delaying the inevitable.
The moment his fingers touched the edge, he already disliked it.
He glanced down.
Then froze.
“Father,” he said slowly, careful to keep his voice level, “why have you documented Potter’s preferred tea.”
“It seemed relevant.”
Draco lowered his gaze to the parchment again, as though distance might somehow make it less real. Unfortunately, it did not improve. His eyes caught a neatly underlined section in Lucius’ precise handwriting.
“You wrote,” Draco said flatly, “‘visibly more agreeable after two cups.’”
“Yes.”
There was no hesitation, no shame, just quiet certainty, as though this were an entirely reasonable datapoint.
Draco looked up, then back down again.
“What does that even mean?” he asked, with the exhausted patience of someone attempting to translate madness into logic.
“It means,” Lucius said, as though explaining something obvious, “hydration improves his temperament.”
Draco closed his eyes for a brief moment. Behind his eyelids, the universe made significantly more sense than it did in this room.
When he opened them again, nothing had improved.
Draco looked physically pained, enough so to suggest that his soul had briefly considered leaving the conversation altogether and had not yet ruled it out.
“Merlin,” he muttered, without much conviction, as though invoking any higher power at this point was more habit than hope.
“There are also notes regarding conversational openings.”
“There are what?” Draco did not raise his voice so much as allow it to sharpen into something dangerously precise.
Lucius, however, appeared entirely unaffected. He straightened slightly, as though preparing to present the most logical section of a carefully structured argument.
“I strongly advise against discussing Quidditch initially. Witness accounts suggest he becomes argumentative.”
“You have witness accounts?” Draco asked incredulously.
“Yes.”
“Of Harry Potter’s conversational tendencies?”
“Yes.”
Draco exhaled through his nose, the sound strained in a way that suggested long-term damage.
“And you thought,” he said carefully, each word measured with increasing effort, “that this was a necessary addition to your… strategy.”
“It improves predictive accuracy.”
“That’s-” Draco cut himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That is not a thing people say about social interaction.”
Lucius regarded him for a moment, faintly puzzled, as though Draco was being needlessly sentimental about terminology.
Draco reached for the parchment again, scanned it once more, and then let it slip from his fingers. It fluttered to the floor with infuriating innocence.
“I cannot believe this is my life,” he said quietly.
Narcissa pressed her lips together, very clearly hiding amusement now, the faintest tremor at the corner of her mouth betraying her composure.
Draco noticed with irritation.
“You’re laughing at me,” he said flatly.
“Only a little,” she admitted, as though this were a reasonable concession in a delicate negotiation.
Draco let out a slow huff. “This is cruel.”
“Mm,” she agreed softly, which was somehow worse than denial.
A pause lingered, longer this time, before Narcissa added with casual composure, “I do think Mr Potter has improved with time.”
Draco stilled. It was a practiced kind of stillness, the sort that had once served him well in formal settings, Ministry hearings and encounters with people who could ruin his family’s future with a single sentence.
This did not feel like one of those occasions.
“…I beg your pardon?” he said carefully.
Narcissa tilted her head slightly, considering him over the rim of her teacup.
“He was rather unrefined at school,” she continued. “But war has a way of reshaping people. In his case, it appears to have softened some of the more… abrasive qualities.”
Draco stared at her for a long moment, as though prolonged observation might reveal this to be a temporary lapse in judgment rather than a firmly held opinion.
“I would not describe Potter,” he said at last, very carefully, “as having benefited from what I would call refinement.”
Narcissa hummed faintly, unconvinced.
“He was not unpleasant at the trial,” she said.
“That is because he was testifying on our behalf.”
“Yes,” she agreed pleasantly. “That does tend to improve a person’s impression.”
Draco exhaled again, a little more tightly this time. He chose his next words with care, the kind of care usually reserved for negotiating volatile diplomatic outcomes.
“Might I gently suggest,” he said, voice controlled but strained at the edges, “that extraordinary circumstances are not a reliable indicator of character development.”
Narcissa regarded him for a moment, then took another sip of tea.
“Mm,” she said again.
Draco closed his eyes briefly.
Because apparently even caution, diplomacy and years of etiquette training were not sufficient protection against his mother deciding Harry Potter was acceptable company.
Lucius, entirely undisturbed by the familial collapse occurring around him, resumed pacing as though the conversation was still on track.
“The Veela allure should make initial attachment relatively simple.”
Draco groaned loudly into his hands. It was not a dignified sound. It was not meant to be.
“I hate that phrase,” he muttered into his fingers.
“It is accurate terminology.”
“It sounds like something a fraudulent perfume advert would say.”
Lucius continued without pause. “Physical proximity will assist in reinforcing the effect.”
Draco lifted his head just enough to meet his father’s eyes.
The look he gave him was as close to open defiance as Malfoy etiquette permitted.
“I’m going to be sick.”
“You should also maintain direct eye contact during conversation,” he added, as though consulting a checklist.
Draco made a strangled sound of despair. “I’m begging you,” he said, voice muffled again as he dropped his face back into his hands, “to stop speaking.”
“Subtle touches may also be beneficial-”
“FATHER.”
The word cracked through the room with enough force that even Lucius paused.
He finally looked up, expression faintly irritated, as though Draco was the unreasonable party in a carefully constructed plan.
“Well,” he said coolly, “if you insist on being dramatic about it.”
Silence followed as Draco stared at him in utter disbelief.
He was being dramatic.
Unbelievable.
“There is another issue,” Narcissa said gently.
Draco immediately dreaded whatever sentence was about to follow. It was never the tone itself that signalled disaster with his mother, but the precision of it, the careful selection of words that suggested she had already considered several worse versions and discarded them for politeness.
“The Veela instincts may respond unpredictably.”
Lucius nodded once, as though this was a logistical detail rather than an escalating collapse of Draco’s entire evening.
“Particularly,” he added, “if emotional attachment develops.”
Draco looked between them.
Then he let out a laugh that startled even himself.
“Oh, that’s not a concern,” he said, still lightly amused in a way that suggested denial had reached its final, polished form. “I would rather swallow my own wand than develop feelings for Harry Potter.”
Neither of his parents spoke.
Which, in hindsight, should have worried him more.
Outside, thunder rolled again across the Manor grounds.
Lucius finally stopped pacing entirely and fixed Draco with the sort of grave expression usually reserved for funerals and Ministry hearings.
It was the expression of a man who had decided something, committed to it and already accounted for every possible objection.
“You will begin tomorrow.”
Draco blinked.
“…tomorrow?”
“I’ve arranged circumstances that should encourage interaction.”
Draco sat upright slowly, the movement was controlled, but noticeably more rigid than before.
“What circumstances?”
Lucius adjusted his cuffs with unhurried precision, the gesture oddly at odds with the content of what he was about to say.
“I may have leveraged some Ministry contacts.”
Draco’s expression went still.
“…you may have what?”
Lucius did not react to the tone. He rarely did anymore.
“There are fewer of them inclined to respond to me directly these days,” he admitted mildly, as though discussing weather conditions rather than political reality, “but enough remain… receptive. Provided the request is framed correctly.”
Draco stared at him.
“And you framed this correctly,” Draco said slowly.
“I did.”
A short pause hung in the air between them, before Lucius continued, matter-of-factly, “There is now a high probability that you and Potter will be assigned adjacent offices.”
Draco’s face shifted in increments, as though his mind was attempting to reject the information before it fully arrived.
“You- what?” he managed, the words catching awkwardly as genuine disbelief broke through his composure.
“It avoids unnecessary delays in establishing contact.”
Draco stood so quickly the chair behind him gave a faint protest. “You cannot orchestrate my proximity to Harry Potter through bureaucratic manipulation!”
Lucius looked at him as though Draco’s concern lay in sentiment rather than strategy.
“Of course I can,” he said calmly. “I know bureaucrats.”
Draco made a short, disbelieving sound. It wasn’t quite a laugh anymore, but something closer to him trying to find an outlet for his shocked state.
Draco’s composure cracked just slightly at the edges. “And you think,” he said, each syllable increasingly precise, “that putting me in proximity to people whose job description is literally ‘deal with threats’ is a sound plan?”
His voice tightened before he could fully smooth it out again. “You cannot just place me in the Auror Department,” he continued, sharper now, “as if that is some quiet administrative corridor where nothing happens.”
Lucius tilted his head slightly. “It is, however, a controlled environment,” he replied.
Draco stared at him before carefully repeating his words, “Controlled.”
“Yes.”
Draco gave a slow nod, as though testing the word for structural integrity. “And by ‘controlled,’ you mean surrounded by trained Aurors whose job is literally combat magic.”
Lucius did not respond to that immediately. Instead, he reached for another sheet of parchment, as though the conversation had merely paused for administrative clarification.
Draco’s eyes followed it immediately.
“Furthermore,” Lucius continued, “your role will not require significant visibility.”
Draco frowned.
“…my role.”
“Yes.”
Lucius placed the parchment down with careful precision. “A minor administrative liaison position. Documentation oversight. Filing adjustments. You will not be positioned within direct operational structure.”
Draco blinked once, then again.
“So I am,” he said slowly, “being sent into the Auror Department.”
“In proximity to it,” Lucius corrected.
“Near Harry Potter.”
“Yes.”
“Near Weasley,” Draco added immediately, tone sharpening.
Lucius paused for a fraction of a second at the name, before continuing as if nothing was amiss. “Yes.”
Draco ran a hand down his face, the motion carefully restrained but increasingly strained in execution, then he exhaled through his nose. “I see,” he said, very quietly.
A beat passed as he tried to gather himself and failed.
Then, with increasing precision, “And your argument is that because it is ‘controlled,’ none of them will...what?...accidentally decide they dislike me enough to attack me?”
Lucius regarded him for a moment.
“They would not act unprofessionally,” he said.
Draco’s expression tightened.
Because that was not reassurance, but theory.
“You are really going to rely on Aurors behaving professionally around me,” he said slowly, “when half of them already consider me a walking legal technicality…and the other half think I only avoided Azkaban on a loophole and good luck.”
A beat passed before his voice tightened further.
“I will be standing in a department whose entire purpose is enforcing the law, surrounded by people who are very aware I was one signature away from being treated as a criminal case rather than a person.”
Lucius did not react to the phrasing.
“The environment limits escalation,” he said simply.
Draco let out a short laugh again, sharper this time.
“Limits escalation,” he repeated. “Father, they do not need to escalate. They can make my life unbearable without ever drawing a wand.”
A pause followed as Lucius considered this.
Then, evenly he said, “That is still within acceptable risk parameters.”
Draco went very still.
“…acceptable risk parameters,” he echoed.
“Yes.”
Draco looked at him like he was trying to determine whether this was real or a very elaborate joke.
“So, your plan,” he said slowly, “is to bet my wellbeing on the assumption that Harry Potter’s colleagues will behave like perfectly rational Ministry employees.”
Lucius inclined his head.
“Yes.”
Draco exhaled, long and controlled, as though restraining several strongly worded hexes.
“That,” he said quietly, “is not a plan. That is wagering my continued existence on Auror professionalism.”
“To a degree,” Lucius conceded, before adding, “The situation becomes significantly less problematic once Potter develops a personal interest in you.”
A dreadful feeling settled in Draco's stomach.
“Father.”
“People are considerably less willing to express hostile opinions when those opinions risk alienating Harry Potter.”
Unfortunately, that was true, and Draco hated that he knew it was true.
“If Potter takes your side,” Lucius continued, “his colleagues will take notice. The Ministry will take notice. Society will take notice.”
“Or,” Draco said, with mounting strain, “they will conclude I have finally resorted to mind control.”
Lucius pressed onward regardless.
“Once Potter's attention is secured, most of your current concerns become largely irrelevant.”
Draco stared at the carpet for a long moment. Not because it was particularly interesting, but simply because looking at his father felt unlikely to improve the conversation.
The truly alarming part was that Lucius did not appear to view any of this as speculative.
He spoke about Ministry placements, Potter's influence, and future outcomes with the calm certainty of a man discussing renovations to the Manor.
As though Draco's success were merely a matter of logistics and as though the impossible part had already been accounted for.
Draco was beginning to suspect that somewhere in the stack of parchment was a projected timeline for his eventual marriage.
The fact that he could no longer dismiss that possibility outright was deeply troubling.
Narcissa sighed softly into her tea.
“Lucius.”
“What?”
“You're frightening him.”
“I assure you, Mother, I am not frightened.” Draco said with dignity.
Lucius made a quiet, sceptical noise.
Draco looked between them.
“…I am experiencing a perfectly reasonable amount of horror.”
Lucius, naturally, seemed to interpret Draco's horror as confirmation that the plan was progressing normally. “That’s natural before major undertakings.”
“This is not a major undertaking,” Draco said wildly. “This is social suicide.”
Lucius looked thoughtful.
“No,” he said after a moment. “I believe social suicide was taking the Dark Mark. This is recovery.”
Silence followed.
Not because Draco lacked arguments. He had several, but unfortunately, all of them collided headfirst with the fact that Lucius was not entirely wrong.
Draco opened his mouth, then closed it again.
The room fell quiet for a moment, the argument finally exhausting itself.
Firelight flickered across the silver and green drawing room, casting shifting reflections over polished glass, dark wood and generations of expensive Malfoy history. The old portraits lining the walls watched with varying degrees of interest, though Draco suspected even they were struggling to follow the logic of the evening.
Outside, rain continued to tap softly against the Manor windows.
Inside, his father remained convinced he could engineer Harry Potter's affection through careful planning, Ministry placements and what appeared to be an alarming amount of independent research.
Somehow, that was reality now.
Finally, Draco dragged a hand down his face, and the gesture lacked its usual elegance. At this point, elegance seemed an unreasonable expectation.
“I cannot believe,” he said tiredly, “that I survived the war only to be forced into some deranged courtship operation.”
The words lingered in the room.
When he had imagined surviving the war, he had expected many things.
Awkward Ministry hearings, public scrutiny, years spent repairing the damage left behind by choices he wished he could take back. Perhaps even a lifetime of being viewed with suspicion and hatred.
All of those had seemed entirely plausible.
None of them had involved his father assembling what appeared to be a strategic campaign centred around Harry Potter.
Nevertheless, that now seemed to be the family's official recovery plan.