The hardest part ‘bout leaving,
The hard part’s not going away
It’s the life you have to take with you
And how little you really want to stay
- Beaujolais Nouveau, The Humpff Family
~*~
A great many people were confused, after the end of Voldemort’s War, by the life choices made by Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, The Hero of Hogwarts and icon of the wizarding world. He could have entered the Ministry, could have become an Auror, could have taken the position of Headmaster of Hogwarts, could have stepped into the shoes of Gregory Patterson, the Minister of Magic at the time, indeed, could probably have stepped into the shoes of Voldemort himself, without a single soul batting an eyelash.
But he didn’t. Harry Potter appeared at the Wasps’ training camp near the end of September of 1998 with a group of other hopeful Quidditch players, went through tryouts and secured the position of Seeker. A year later, a small notice was printed in the Daily Prophet, announcing the wedding of Harry James Potter and Virginia Anne Weasley, which had occurred over the weekend, attended only by family and close friends, conducted quietly and without fuss. There was much disgruntled grumbling amongst the press core about this lack of publicity, but the grumbling was done in private and nowhere near the airwaves or front pages.
Harry did not talk about the War. Not to his friends, not to his family, and certainly not to the press. Any reporter foolish enough to even mention it in his presence found themselves swiftly and totally frozen out, not just for a single interview, but from any chance of speaking to The Boy Who Lived ever again. If a reporter tried to ask Harry Potter about He Who Must Not Be Named, that reporter could give up on getting so much as a sound bite from him.
Harry did not talk about the War. That didn’t stop everyone else from talking about the war and his involvement in it, of course; Voldemort’s defeat and death, and the capture and trials of his Death Eaters took up much of the next five or six years, with everything from small newspaper blurbs to ten-volume theses being written about the events of 1998. The press had a journalistic field day, as everyone, it seemed had a story or five to tell about the War. Stories about Harry were particularly popular, of course; Ernie McMillan made a small fortune with his tell-all book Living with Harry: The Hogwarts Years.
Harry did not talk about the war; neither would Ron, or Hermione, or many of the Hogwarts teachers or students involved speak of it publicly. Neville would, if it were very late and he were well on the way to getting very drunk, point out that his near-death at the hands of a small group of Death Eaters just before Voldemort was killed was what finally spurred him to the realization that life really is too short to be afraid of one’s own shadow. He signed up for Auror training not long after the end of the war, worked incredibly hard at it, and surprised everyone, including himself, by graduating at the top of his class. Ron had secretly proposed to Hermione the Christmas before graduation, and they surprised no one when they were married a year later, in December of 1998. Ginny went away to travel Europe for 3 months after the war ended, in part to escape having to talk about the war, and when she came back she found that absence made Harry’s heart, at least, grow fonder. They started dating soon after, much to the delight of the entire Weasley family.
The war was not without its casualties. Seamus Finnegan, he of the ready smile and boisterous laugh, was silenced forever on the Hogwarts Quidditch field that day in June of 1998. Bill Weasley, Cedric Diggory, Hannah Abbott, Stewart Ackerley, Laura Madley, Graham Pritchard, Professor Flitwick, Professor Snape: only some of the names of people who died during the War. Every death left a hole in the fabric of the wizarding world, and none wider than that caused by the death of Albus Dumbledore. He outlived the war, and saw Ron and Hermione married, but the dawn of 1999 saw the death of one of the greatest wizards who ever lived.
Dumbledore’s death was a great blow to the wizarding community, one that was hard to recover from. But life went on, as it tended to; other figures stepped into the gaps he left behind. Minerva McGonagall took over as Headmistress of Hogwarts, and Arthur, Ron and Percy were just a few of the wizards who were called on to take positions in the Ministry.
Rooting out the surviving Death Eaters and supporters of Voldemort took up much of the next few years. Many, of course, had died in the attack on Hogwarts that ended up being Voldemort’s downfall, not least of whom were Crabbe, Goyle and their sons, the Lestranges, Nott, the elder Parkinsons, and Lucius Malfoy. Pansy Parkinson gave herself up to the authorities soon after the war’s end, and plea-bargained her way out of an Azkaban sentence by giving a long list of Death Eater names, including one Peter Pettigrew. His capture led to the celebrated clearing of the name of Sirius Black, which was one of the few bright spots to be found in the bleak early days of 1999.
Draco Malfoy had vanished without a trace. Every so often, the Ministry would make a concentrated effort to find him, since the son of one of the most pre-eminent Dark wizards would be a prize to whoever managed to bring him in. He was even listed,briefly, on the roll of wizards considered "highly dangerous", until Harry Potter surprised everyone in the wizarding world by insisting Malfoy be removed from it. Harry never told anyone why.
It was the only time Harry ever spoke, even indirectly, of what actually happened on the day that he killed both Voldemort and Draco’s father, and ended Voldemort’s war.
~*~
March, 2010
"Longbottom! My office!" Cecil Dobbins barked, poking his head through Neville’s door.
Neville permitted himself a small sigh of exasperation for his short-tempered, oft-harried supervisor before setting down his sheaf of reports and stepping out of his tiny office. He headed down the long, low room that housed the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It was as large as the Hogwarts great hall, filled with a mishmash of desks, tables and chairs where the department clerks and junior Aurors worked, and was surrounded on all four walls by small offices. The big main room was affectionately referred to as "the Owlpen", and Neville smiled as he stopped at Debbie’s desk, outside Cecil’s office. Although he was more than happy to have his own office space, he sometimes missed the noise, camaraderie and excitement of the pen. He nodded to the elderly secretary, who jerked her head toward the door and said, "Well, go on then."
He pushed the door open and stepped into his supervisor’s office, a small, moldy room scarcely bigger than Neville’s own. Cecil was glaring out the grimy window at the wet March morning, and he grunted as Neville came in and shut the door behind him.
"What’s up, boss?" Neville asked as he took the two steps necessary to reach the rickety visitor’s chair and lean one hip against it.
"I’m pulling you off the Zimmer and Barston cases, we’ve got a new assignment, and I need you on it," Cecil said, turning from the window to glare at Neville.
"You’re pulling me off my cases? What for?" Neville didn’t bother to hide his outrage. "I’ve got some great leads on Zimmer now, and I’m nearly at a breakthrough with Barston - "
"Well you can pass ‘em over to Bell and McDougall, because I need you on this new case." Cecil said, chewing on his moustache. "The Minister’s asked me to pick someone to work with Scotland Yard, and you’re the one I want for this job. You’re gonna be a liaison between the Department and the Muggles for this thing they’re working on."
"Since when do we help the Muggle police with their cases?"
Cecil huffed and shuffled over to his chair, sitting heavily. "They’ve come across a couple of entrepreneurs, and they need help. Some young dropout from one of the American wizarding schools decided to make a name for himself by hooking up with a Muggle hood, crossing the pond and robbing banks with Dark Arts spells and memory charms." He snorted in disgust. "These kids are violating who knows how many laws, and using Dark magic in the Muggle world. The Yard has someone on the case already, apparently on loan from the Canadian Muggle police - can’t remember what they’re called, but their national force - this guy’s been on the trail of the Muggle suspect for several years. He came over when the Muggle hooked up with this failed wizard and came to England, working with Scotland Yard with what he knows from tracking the Muggle in Canada. The Yard wants someone from the department to work with this guy, to put a stop to those two. Sit."
"And you pick me. I suppose I should be flattered," Neville groused, as he perched himself on the edge of the chair, not quite trusting his full weight to the groaning wood. "How are you going to explain to this Canadian bloke that he’s going to
be working with a wizard?"
"Well, that’s the thing," Cecil said, chewing on his moustace. "It was he who suggested it, talked to his supervisors at the Yard and got them to talk to the Minister to have us brought in. He’s not actually from Canada himself, you see, just did his police training there," Cecil paused, then said, with the twinkle in his eye that Neville knew meant he was about to say something Neville wasn’t going to like, "This bloke’s a wizard, believe it or not, from here in England. Even went to Hogwarts...you’ve probably heard of him. Name of Draco Malfoy."
Neville stopped breathing for a moment. "Draco Malfoy? I thought he was dead!"
Cecil grinned, a gleeful bearer of bad news. "Nope. Apparently he’s alive and well and in London as we speak. Dunno how he ended up in Canada, but he’s the man you’ll be working with. I’m gonna have you head over to the Yard this aft - "
"NO!"
Cecil blinked at Neville, as close to startlement as he ever got.
"Absolutely not. If this is some kind of sick joke, I don’t find it funny in the least! I will not, I will not work with Draco Malfoy. Period." Neville had shot to his feet and was glaring across the desk at his supervisor, hands clenched in fists at his sides. "I won’t. No. Find someone else. No."
"Longbottom..."
"NO!"
Cecil’s temper finally kicked in and he surged to his feet, shouting. "God dammit, you don’t get a choice! I want you on this case, you’re the best man for the job, and I don’t give a damn what you think of Malfoy, you are working with him and that’s
final! Whatever petty little grudge you have against him - "
"Petty? He was a Death Eater! Harry killed his father while the man stood at Voldemort’s right hand! He tried to harm Harry, and Ron, and Hermione, and just about everyone else in Gryffindor at some point or other! His father was one of the people responsible for what happened to my parents! He’s a smug, evil bastard and I will not work with him!" Neville was shaking with rage, his nails digging small crescents into the palms of his hands.
Cecil shouted right back. "And who should I put on this case instead of you? Bell, who’s got all the subtlety of a sledgehammer? Watkins, who’s still green behind the ears? Kerry, who wouldn’t know a Muggle if one bit him? Findlay, who wouldn’t know a Dark Magic spell if it danced a tango with her? You are the best Auror I have, dammit, and I want you on this case! We’ve a rogue wizard loose and targeting Muggles, if word of this gets out, all of our asses are on the line and I need you here! That is an order, Longbottom!"
Neville opened his mouth and then closed it again. Finally, in an awed voice, he said, "I’m the best Auror you’ve got?"
"May the Founders help us all, eh?" Cecil snorted, his anger evaporating as suddenly as it had appeared. "Look, Longbottom, be reasonable. We did a thorough background check on him, and came up with no substantial evidence that he was involved with the Death Eaters; it was the first thing I demanded. And he came through clean, no Dark Mark, no involvement, nothing." He sighed heavily. "I know you don’t like it, I don’t like it either. You should have been a fly on the wall for the conversation I had with the Minister about this. But these two need to be stopped, and stopped fast, and having you on this file is the best way to do that. And you are a damn good Auror, Longbottom, one of the best. And I will order you if I have to. But I’d rather not."
Neville sighed, his own anger fading. He raised his hands helplessly. "I just...God. I can’t work with him. Draco Malfoy made my life a living hell my entire 7 years at Hogwarts. And not just me, but Harry and Ron and ‘Mione, and most of the rest of Gryffindor. Hell, the rest of the school. He was a despicable bastard, and I hated him. You have any idea how happy I was when I thought he was dead?"
"You can do it, man. Just try not to kill him ‘til after you solve this thing," Cecil grunted. "Put up with him ‘til we get these bastards in Azkaban, then you can torture Draco Malfoy to your heart’s content."
"Why do I let you talk me into these things?" Neville asked in defeat
"Because you’re terrible at telling people no. Now get the hell out of my office."
~*~
"How did I get myself into this?" Neville sighed as he stood on the front steps of Scotland yard, glaring up at the large, ugly building in front of him, the tag of his
brand-new Muggle shirt rubbing against the back of his neck. Setting his shoulders determinedly, he made his way into the edifice of New Scotland Yard and over to the officer sitting behind the front desk.
"’Ow can I help ye?" the man grunted, looking as uncomfortable in his confining black uniform as Neville did in his suit.
"I’m here to see Detective Malfoy," said Neville. "I have an appointment. Name’s Longbottom."
"ID?" The officer nodded at the card Neville showed him (a Muggle driver’s license, which Neville had got a few years ago at Cecil’s insistence, on the grounds that it would be ‘bloody useful’. Which it was, actually.). He checked the name on Neville’s
card against a list on his desk, and handed Neville a small plastic key fob. "Yer expected. Malfoy’s in room 316, elevator’s down the hall, wave that in front o’ the wee gray box on the wall, door’ll open."
Neville nodded his thanks and made his way into the bowels of the great glass building. He’d spent time in the Muggle world before, either undercover with the Department or just for the experience of walking among non-wizards. He wasn’t as comfortable with it as Ginny or Colin or some of the other younger wizards, who seemed to live half in the wizarding world and half in the Muggle and traveled at ease between the two, but he made do, and didn’t seem to stand out too much. It was considered fashionable these days to ape Muggle culture to a degree, copying some of their fashions and expressions - Hermione claimed it was a reactionary response to the war with Voldemort, whicht tried to wipe out Muggle-born wizards
Neville found the elevator and stepped inside gingerly, pushing the button and waiting as the creaky machinery lifted him up three stories. He stepped out and waved the plastic fob in front of the small box on the wall as directed, and watched in bemusement as the door slid open, revealing a long, sterile hallway with truly hideous green carpeting and lit by harsh fluorescent lights.
It didn’t take him long to find room 316, which turned out to be a surprisingly spacious office, albeit with an uninspiring view of the building across the street out of the large window and the same bilious green carpeting as the hall. Neville stood in the hall a moment, uneasily staring at the empty office, and the equally empty hallway. He checked his watch; it was 2:30, so he was right on time. Tentatively, Neville stepped inside and looked around nervously. "Well, what now, then?" he muttered waspishly. Typical of Malfoy to be late; making Neville wait around to put him on edge, most likely. He sat down on the visitor’s chair in front of the desk, fidgeting nervously, then stood up again after a minute. He poked his head back out into the hall...no sign of anyone.
Neville let out his breath in a huff and glared at the office. It was quite large, easily twice the size of his own office back at the Ministry, which was barely more than a broom closet. Besides the L-shaped oak desk, which was currently covered with a computer and a frightening amount of paper, there were a couple of large metal filing cabinets against one wall and an oak bookshelf crammed with official-looking binders and books with sterile titles like Community Policing: A Guide for Police Officers and Citizens and Reputable Conduct: Ethical Issues in Policing and Corrections.Neville stared at the books moodily, noting that someone - Malfoy, he guessed - had carefully arranged all of the books to line up by size, creating neat slopes from left to right on each shelf. There were several pictures on the second
shelf, in unpolished wooden frames.
Intrigued, Neville bent over slightly to look at the photos. They were Muggle pictures, the subjects in each standing perfectly still and not waving or mugging for the camera like the two photos on Neville’s desk at the MoM. (One of Ron, Harry, Ginny and Hermione at Ron and ‘Mione’s wedding, giggling playfully and pushing one another, and one of Neville’s graduation from Auror training; in that one, picture-Neville tended to strut around looking both smug and proud, adjusting his wizarding hat and thrusting out his chest.) He could see the wisdom of having non-moving pictures in the middle of a Muggle police station, though - it probably saved a lot of questions. Neville picked up one of the frames and examined it closely. It showed a group of eight men in dusty jeans, plaid shirts and cowboy hats leaning and sitting along a fence rail, the land behind them rising up in green and gold hills to the foot of snow-covered mountains in the distance, under an impossibly blue sky. It didn’t look like anywhere in Britain or even Europe. All of the men were grinning, a couple of them with arms draped around each other’s shoulders. Neville flipped the picture over, and on the back of the photo, which was pinned in the frame without matting, were the words Lazy D, Roundup, Fall, 2005. "Lazy D?" he asked aloud, frowning. What the heck was a lazy D? Neville shrugged and put the picture back, moving on to the next one.
This one showed what looked like a river in flood, roaring over huge rocks in great crashing waves of white foam, sheer cliffs rising out of the river on the far side. In the middle of the picture, teetering on the crest of a wave, was a large yellow raft, filled with a group of unrecognizable people in white helmets and lifejackets, looking like they were holding on for dear life. At the back of the raft, on a higher seat, wearing a garish purple helmet and life vest, was a dark-haired young man wrestling with two long oars. Neville peered closer at the picture; while the rest of the people in the boat looked scared witless, the young man was clearly grinning ear-to-ear and looked to be having the time of his life. Neville flipped it over, to read John, Kicking Horse, Summer 1999. That didn’t make any sense to him either. The last picture was of two people, a criminally handsome man and a petite blonde woman who looked like a china doll, sitting on an outcropping of rock, in profile to the camera. The man was dressed in hiking boots, black pants and a dark blue fleece pullover, long light-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail at his neck, and the woman was wearing a green cotton sweatshirt and khaki shorts, leaning back against his chest. He had his arms around her and his chin on the top of her head, and they were both gazing at something in the distance. A range of pine-covered mountains rose up behind them, tinged with gold from the sun. The back of the photo read Draco and Laura, Whistler, Spring 2001.
Neville blinked and flipped the picture back over in disbelief. That was Draco? He looked so...so...gorgeous! He didn’t look anything like the Draco Neville remembered. He stared at the photo for a long minute, trying to reconcile his memory of Malfoy in seventh year - skinny, sullen and scowling, with the adolescent awkwardness that came of growing too tall too fast - to the chiseled man in the photo. At long last, Neville grudgingly admitted to himself that he recognized the nose. And the hair...he didn’t imagine there were that many people in the world with Draco’s peculiar white-blonde hair. Neville wondered idly who the woman was. He placed the photo back on the shelf and returned to the other two pictures thoughtfully.
After another few moments of searching the first picture, he finally realized that the man sitting on the top post of the fence on the left-hand side, leaning on the shoulder of a burly older man standing beside him was also Draco, in a blue plaid shirt, jeans so filthy they appeared brown instead of blue, a dusty brown cowboy hat, and alarmingly pointy boots. And Draco was grinning, looking relaxed and cheerful and happy; that must have been why Neville hadn’t recognized him straight off. For he still had the same sharp nose, and Neville could see even under the hat that Draco’s hair was the same shade of silvery blonde it had always been. He shook his head and set the picture back down again.
Neville was just about to pick up the middle picture again, when a voice from the doorway said, "Oh, hell. Am I late?" Neville turned.
A surprisingly attractive Draco Malfoy in a still photo was quite a different matter from a surprisingly attractive Draco Malfoy in the flesh. A surprisingly, stunningly, terribly attractive Draco Malfoy, in a ridiculously attractive white silk shirt that clung to his shoulders and chest, and pale khaki trousers covering long, lean legs. His long blonde hair was tied in a neat ponytail at the nape of his neck, and his skin had a faint gold glow, as if he’d spent some time in the sun recently. Neville felt his mouth go dry. Draco shifted the pile of folders he was carrying into his left arm and strode forward, hand extended. Neville took it weakly, and tried desperately not to notice that Draco had tiny little laugh lines around his silver-gray eyes, or that his hair escaped from its ponytail just under his ears into little silvery curls. "Draco Malfoy. Sorry if I’m late, could have sworn I said 3. I’m guessing the Ministry sent you over...have a seat."
Draco waved one hand at the visitor’s chair and came around the edge of his desk, surveying the hurricane of paper strewn all over. He shrugged one shoulder and dropped the stack of folders in a pile near one edge, then sat down in the chair. Neville sat down nervously as Draco shuffled reports around, and cleared his throat. "Yes, I’ve been assigned to work with you."
Draco looked up. "And you are...?"
Neville paused a moment, astonished. Draco didn’t recognize him? Well...granted, Neville hadn’t recognized him at first either. "Neville Longbottom," he said finally.
Draco cocked his head and looked at Neville for a long moment, shoulders tensing imperceptibly. "Hello, Longbottom," he said finally. "How’ve you been?" Then he bent his head to the folder in front of him, making notes in the margin of one of the sheets of paper.
"I...um, well enough." Neville wasn’t sure how to react. Here he was, in a Muggle police station, sitting across from one of his worst enemies from his school years, and the man was being almost nice to him. Maybe Draco had suffered a head wound. Or undergone a personality transplant. He surreptitiously rubbed his hands against his trousers, was about to say something when Draco looked up again. He picked up the folder he was looking at and handed it across the desk to Neville. "That’s a summary of what I know so far on the wizard in our little duo. I don’t know how much your supervisors have told you about this case, but I was thinking it might be a good idea for you to concentrate on the wizard while I keep tabs on the other one."
"Alright...is this all the information we have?" Neville asked, flipping through the slim file, grateful to have something to hold onto.
"So far," Draco said coolly. "The Canadian Ministry of Magic wouldn’t let me have access to their files on him, so that’s all I’ve been able to come up with. You might want to try asking, however. They might release the information to you."
"Why wouldn’t they give it to you?" Neville asked without thinking, still reading the sheets contained in the folder. He looked up in surprise when Draco didn’t answer. The other man was regarding him with hooded gray eyes.
"Actually," Draco said after a long moment, "I didn’t ask. But they wouldn’t have, even had I bothered."
Neville frowned. It had been a long time since Draco had been seen in England, and granted, neither he nor his father, Lucius Malfoy had been the considered the most pleasant men in the world, but there wouldn’t have been any reason for the Canadian MoM to withhold information, would it?
His confusion must have shown, for Draco smiled slightly. "As far as anyone overseas knows, I am just another Muggle cop dealing with something he doesn’t quite understand. Unlike here in Britain, the wizarding community in North America isn’t so closely connected to the Muggle world that they would willingly exchange information like this freely."
"A Mug...you...what...?" Neville caught himself and took a deep breath. " ‘Just another Muggle cop’? What’s that supposed to mean?"
"It means, Mr. Longbottom, that 12 years ago I left the wizarding world for good, and if this stupid little prick I’ve been chasing hadn’t decided to get himself mixed up with a failed wizard and forced me to come back here, I would have stayed gone from the wizarding world." He sounded surprisingly bitter.
"You’ve been living as a Muggle?" Neville said in disbelief.
"I don’t know if I should be flattered or offended by your tone. Yes, I’ve been living as a Muggle."
"You?"
"Yes, me. I think we’ve established this. Can we move on?"
"I just...I’m just a little surprised, is all." Neville snorted inwardly. Surprised was hardly the word. Draco Malfoy, racist little git, living with Muggles and Mudbloods for over a decade years, shunning the magical community? "It seems a little...out of character."
"And, of course, you know so much about my character," Draco said icily. And suddenly, there was the Draco Malfoy Neville knew, glaring at him now with frigid gray eyes, a sort of coiled menace in the set of his shoulders. "Since we’re taking a little trip down memory lane, however did you manage to become an Auror? Did they let you bring your Remembrall into your exam?"
Neville bristled. "You - " he said, then clamped his mouth shut. You haven’t changed a bit, he’d been about to say, but he wondered if it were true. The Draco Malfoy he’d known wouldn’t have been caught dead anywhere near a Muggle, much less live as one. Of course, the Draco Malfoy he’d known would have happily lied through his teeth if he thought it’d put Neville on edge.
Draco took a deep breath, visibly forcing himself to relax. "Look, if you want to go back to your little Ministry and tell them you don’t want to work with me, that’s fine. All I need is someone who can look after the wizarding side of things, so I don’t have to. It doesn’t have to be you."
Neville slumped slightly in his chair. "No’allowed," he muttered.
"What?"
"I’m not allowed to give up the case. I already tried." Neville said rebelliously.
Draco stared at Neville for a long moment, then started to laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Well, now I know how he got the laugh lines, Neville thought to himself. He realized suddenly that he’d never seen Draco genuinely laugh at Hogwarts. Smirk, yes, snicker, yes, but not actually laugh, freely and without holding back, like he was doing now. "Already way ahead of me, are you, Longbottom?"
"I’m glad you find it so amusing, Malfoy," Neville replied, but without rancor.
Draco suppressed another chuckle. "Sorry," he said cheerfully. "I can just imagine what your first reaction to working with me was."
Neville looked at the other man a little wildly. Had Draco just apologized to him? He looked down at the folder in his hands in confusion. Finally he looked up, into Draco’s clear grey eyes. "I was a little shocked, to be honest. Did you know that everyone thinks you’re dead?"
Draco snorted. "Had no idea. Doesn’t surprise me...who started that particular rumour?"
Neville shrugged. "Dunno. Came about after you vanished without a trace, after the war. The Ministry was looking for you, you know. Had Aurors all over Britain, and after they didn’t find you, it was just assumed."
"Well, as Mark Twain once said, the rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I didn’t die, I just...left."
"Why?" The question slipped out before Neville could help himself. 10 years as an Auror meant he spent a lot of time asking questions, and it was the obvious one.
Draco tensed, his jaw tightening. "Because I wanted to."
"None of my business?"
"Good guess." Draco nodded at the file Neville held. "Like I said, if you can get in touch with the Canadian Ministry about that guy, I’ll see what I can find here on the other one. Let’s hope we can catch these bastards before it drags on for too long."
Neville stood up, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. "I’ll see what I can do." He hesitated. "Um...how should I get hold of you? When I find anything?"
"Heh, good question." Draco looked around at his desk for a moment, then grabbed a pen and a slip of paper. "Know how to use a telephone?"
"Of course!" Neville replied indignantly.
"Just checking. Many wizards don’t," Draco said soothingly, and handed him the paper. "This is my cell number; call me on that and we can find a time to meet."
"Alright," said Neville. "I’ll be in touch, then." He moved toward the door, then stopped to look back at Draco suddenly. Draco’s head was already bent to his work, sunlight glinting off his silver hair. "Where did you go?" he asked suddenly, the words escaping before he could stop himself.
Draco looked up and smiled slightly, cocking his head to one side. "I went to Canada. Thought you knew that. Didn’t the Ministry tell you?"
Neville just shook his head. "Yes, but..." he shrugged finally, giving up the attempt to put his surprise and curiosity into words. "Where in Canada?"
"Few different places. Toronto, Winnipeg, every damned pathetic little town on the Trans Canada Highway between Manitoba and BC, or so it felt at the time...spent most of the last 10 or so years in Calgary, though. In Alberta," he added, at the look of confusion on Neville’s face. "Western prairies, near the Rocky Mountains. You can look it up on a map, if you’re that curious."
"Oh," Neville said intelligently.
"Longbottom?"
"Yes?"
"Delightful as it is discussing my personal history with you, I have work to do." Draco waved a hand at him. "Shoo."
Neville huffed, insulted at the flippant dismissal, but Draco already had his head bent over his paperwork and didn’t look up. Neville threw up his hands and left.
~*~
Over the next few months, they settled into a strange mix of animosity, professional rivalry and companionship. Neville discovered that Draco had a wry, cynical sense of humour, an extremely jaded view of human nature and the irritating habit of humming the most hokey country songs in existence at the most inappropriate of times. He had a surprisingly good singing voice although he rarely showed it, was a decent cook, refused to use magic under any circumstances, and hated to get wet.
He was also, Neville found, extremely perceptive. They’d only been working together three weeks or so when out of the blue, Draco tilted his head, gave Neville an inscrutable look from across his desk and asked, "So how come you don’t have a boyfriend?"
Neville had opened and shut his mouth several times, before finally settling on saying "What?" in a shocked tone.
Draco shrugged one shoulder. "Just curious."
"What makes you think I’m...that I...I’m..."
"Gay? Just a hunch," Draco replied calmly.
Neville glowered. "What do you mean, a hunch?"
"A hunch. A feeling. An educated guess." Draco smirked at him. Neville had already figured out that Draco’s "hunches" were the most reliable he’d ever encountered, but it was a bit disconcerting to know that Draco was using them on him. He hadn't willingly told anyone but Ginny about his sexuality - the wizarding world wasn't nearly as open-minded about such things as the Muggle world, and homosexuality was intensely frowned upon. No one he knew, not even Hermione, had deduced that the reason Neville never dated women was because he preferred men, and Neville fully intended to keep it that way. He’d long ago made it a rule not to discuss his sex life (or lack thereof) with anyone, and he wasn't about to start with Draco Malfoy. Especially not with Draco Malfoy. Neville cleared his throat warily, trying to formulate a decent reply, but Draco cut him off. "Oh, stop looking like you're about to be lynched. If I haven't run shrieking by now, I'm not about to, am I?" Draco leaned back in his chair and regarded Neville frankly. "I should hope you realize by now that I don't care."
Neville shut his mouth and nodded. "I don't tell people."
"I gathered. Still, why don't you have a Muggle boyfriend? Lots of wizards do. Or used to," Draco said. "Though that may have changed. Everyone did it, no one talked about it."
"They still don't talk about it. I wouldn't even know where to start," Neville blurted honestly, then winced. "I mean, I'm not - that is, I - dammit. I hardly see how it's any of your business, my private life."
"I was just asking." Draco shrugged idly and started examining his fingernails.
"So where's your girlfriend, then?" Neville demanded. "Since we're on the topic."
Draco's face went utterly blank, as though a switch had been thrown somewhere in his head. "I don't have one," he said, in a tone that flatly discouraged questions. "And it's none of your business."
Neville raised an eyebrow at him, but Draco ignored it. "Fine then," Neville said sharply, and they didn't speak of it again.
~*~
The hard part’s not going away
It’s the life you have to take with you
And how little you really want to stay
- Beaujolais Nouveau, The Humpff Family
~*~
A great many people were confused, after the end of Voldemort’s War, by the life choices made by Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, The Hero of Hogwarts and icon of the wizarding world. He could have entered the Ministry, could have become an Auror, could have taken the position of Headmaster of Hogwarts, could have stepped into the shoes of Gregory Patterson, the Minister of Magic at the time, indeed, could probably have stepped into the shoes of Voldemort himself, without a single soul batting an eyelash.
But he didn’t. Harry Potter appeared at the Wasps’ training camp near the end of September of 1998 with a group of other hopeful Quidditch players, went through tryouts and secured the position of Seeker. A year later, a small notice was printed in the Daily Prophet, announcing the wedding of Harry James Potter and Virginia Anne Weasley, which had occurred over the weekend, attended only by family and close friends, conducted quietly and without fuss. There was much disgruntled grumbling amongst the press core about this lack of publicity, but the grumbling was done in private and nowhere near the airwaves or front pages.
Harry did not talk about the War. Not to his friends, not to his family, and certainly not to the press. Any reporter foolish enough to even mention it in his presence found themselves swiftly and totally frozen out, not just for a single interview, but from any chance of speaking to The Boy Who Lived ever again. If a reporter tried to ask Harry Potter about He Who Must Not Be Named, that reporter could give up on getting so much as a sound bite from him.
Harry did not talk about the War. That didn’t stop everyone else from talking about the war and his involvement in it, of course; Voldemort’s defeat and death, and the capture and trials of his Death Eaters took up much of the next five or six years, with everything from small newspaper blurbs to ten-volume theses being written about the events of 1998. The press had a journalistic field day, as everyone, it seemed had a story or five to tell about the War. Stories about Harry were particularly popular, of course; Ernie McMillan made a small fortune with his tell-all book Living with Harry: The Hogwarts Years.
Harry did not talk about the war; neither would Ron, or Hermione, or many of the Hogwarts teachers or students involved speak of it publicly. Neville would, if it were very late and he were well on the way to getting very drunk, point out that his near-death at the hands of a small group of Death Eaters just before Voldemort was killed was what finally spurred him to the realization that life really is too short to be afraid of one’s own shadow. He signed up for Auror training not long after the end of the war, worked incredibly hard at it, and surprised everyone, including himself, by graduating at the top of his class. Ron had secretly proposed to Hermione the Christmas before graduation, and they surprised no one when they were married a year later, in December of 1998. Ginny went away to travel Europe for 3 months after the war ended, in part to escape having to talk about the war, and when she came back she found that absence made Harry’s heart, at least, grow fonder. They started dating soon after, much to the delight of the entire Weasley family.
The war was not without its casualties. Seamus Finnegan, he of the ready smile and boisterous laugh, was silenced forever on the Hogwarts Quidditch field that day in June of 1998. Bill Weasley, Cedric Diggory, Hannah Abbott, Stewart Ackerley, Laura Madley, Graham Pritchard, Professor Flitwick, Professor Snape: only some of the names of people who died during the War. Every death left a hole in the fabric of the wizarding world, and none wider than that caused by the death of Albus Dumbledore. He outlived the war, and saw Ron and Hermione married, but the dawn of 1999 saw the death of one of the greatest wizards who ever lived.
Dumbledore’s death was a great blow to the wizarding community, one that was hard to recover from. But life went on, as it tended to; other figures stepped into the gaps he left behind. Minerva McGonagall took over as Headmistress of Hogwarts, and Arthur, Ron and Percy were just a few of the wizards who were called on to take positions in the Ministry.
Rooting out the surviving Death Eaters and supporters of Voldemort took up much of the next few years. Many, of course, had died in the attack on Hogwarts that ended up being Voldemort’s downfall, not least of whom were Crabbe, Goyle and their sons, the Lestranges, Nott, the elder Parkinsons, and Lucius Malfoy. Pansy Parkinson gave herself up to the authorities soon after the war’s end, and plea-bargained her way out of an Azkaban sentence by giving a long list of Death Eater names, including one Peter Pettigrew. His capture led to the celebrated clearing of the name of Sirius Black, which was one of the few bright spots to be found in the bleak early days of 1999.
Draco Malfoy had vanished without a trace. Every so often, the Ministry would make a concentrated effort to find him, since the son of one of the most pre-eminent Dark wizards would be a prize to whoever managed to bring him in. He was even listed,briefly, on the roll of wizards considered "highly dangerous", until Harry Potter surprised everyone in the wizarding world by insisting Malfoy be removed from it. Harry never told anyone why.
It was the only time Harry ever spoke, even indirectly, of what actually happened on the day that he killed both Voldemort and Draco’s father, and ended Voldemort’s war.
~*~
March, 2010
"Longbottom! My office!" Cecil Dobbins barked, poking his head through Neville’s door.
Neville permitted himself a small sigh of exasperation for his short-tempered, oft-harried supervisor before setting down his sheaf of reports and stepping out of his tiny office. He headed down the long, low room that housed the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It was as large as the Hogwarts great hall, filled with a mishmash of desks, tables and chairs where the department clerks and junior Aurors worked, and was surrounded on all four walls by small offices. The big main room was affectionately referred to as "the Owlpen", and Neville smiled as he stopped at Debbie’s desk, outside Cecil’s office. Although he was more than happy to have his own office space, he sometimes missed the noise, camaraderie and excitement of the pen. He nodded to the elderly secretary, who jerked her head toward the door and said, "Well, go on then."
He pushed the door open and stepped into his supervisor’s office, a small, moldy room scarcely bigger than Neville’s own. Cecil was glaring out the grimy window at the wet March morning, and he grunted as Neville came in and shut the door behind him.
"What’s up, boss?" Neville asked as he took the two steps necessary to reach the rickety visitor’s chair and lean one hip against it.
"I’m pulling you off the Zimmer and Barston cases, we’ve got a new assignment, and I need you on it," Cecil said, turning from the window to glare at Neville.
"You’re pulling me off my cases? What for?" Neville didn’t bother to hide his outrage. "I’ve got some great leads on Zimmer now, and I’m nearly at a breakthrough with Barston - "
"Well you can pass ‘em over to Bell and McDougall, because I need you on this new case." Cecil said, chewing on his moustache. "The Minister’s asked me to pick someone to work with Scotland Yard, and you’re the one I want for this job. You’re gonna be a liaison between the Department and the Muggles for this thing they’re working on."
"Since when do we help the Muggle police with their cases?"
Cecil huffed and shuffled over to his chair, sitting heavily. "They’ve come across a couple of entrepreneurs, and they need help. Some young dropout from one of the American wizarding schools decided to make a name for himself by hooking up with a Muggle hood, crossing the pond and robbing banks with Dark Arts spells and memory charms." He snorted in disgust. "These kids are violating who knows how many laws, and using Dark magic in the Muggle world. The Yard has someone on the case already, apparently on loan from the Canadian Muggle police - can’t remember what they’re called, but their national force - this guy’s been on the trail of the Muggle suspect for several years. He came over when the Muggle hooked up with this failed wizard and came to England, working with Scotland Yard with what he knows from tracking the Muggle in Canada. The Yard wants someone from the department to work with this guy, to put a stop to those two. Sit."
"And you pick me. I suppose I should be flattered," Neville groused, as he perched himself on the edge of the chair, not quite trusting his full weight to the groaning wood. "How are you going to explain to this Canadian bloke that he’s going to
be working with a wizard?"
"Well, that’s the thing," Cecil said, chewing on his moustace. "It was he who suggested it, talked to his supervisors at the Yard and got them to talk to the Minister to have us brought in. He’s not actually from Canada himself, you see, just did his police training there," Cecil paused, then said, with the twinkle in his eye that Neville knew meant he was about to say something Neville wasn’t going to like, "This bloke’s a wizard, believe it or not, from here in England. Even went to Hogwarts...you’ve probably heard of him. Name of Draco Malfoy."
Neville stopped breathing for a moment. "Draco Malfoy? I thought he was dead!"
Cecil grinned, a gleeful bearer of bad news. "Nope. Apparently he’s alive and well and in London as we speak. Dunno how he ended up in Canada, but he’s the man you’ll be working with. I’m gonna have you head over to the Yard this aft - "
"NO!"
Cecil blinked at Neville, as close to startlement as he ever got.
"Absolutely not. If this is some kind of sick joke, I don’t find it funny in the least! I will not, I will not work with Draco Malfoy. Period." Neville had shot to his feet and was glaring across the desk at his supervisor, hands clenched in fists at his sides. "I won’t. No. Find someone else. No."
"Longbottom..."
"NO!"
Cecil’s temper finally kicked in and he surged to his feet, shouting. "God dammit, you don’t get a choice! I want you on this case, you’re the best man for the job, and I don’t give a damn what you think of Malfoy, you are working with him and that’s
final! Whatever petty little grudge you have against him - "
"Petty? He was a Death Eater! Harry killed his father while the man stood at Voldemort’s right hand! He tried to harm Harry, and Ron, and Hermione, and just about everyone else in Gryffindor at some point or other! His father was one of the people responsible for what happened to my parents! He’s a smug, evil bastard and I will not work with him!" Neville was shaking with rage, his nails digging small crescents into the palms of his hands.
Cecil shouted right back. "And who should I put on this case instead of you? Bell, who’s got all the subtlety of a sledgehammer? Watkins, who’s still green behind the ears? Kerry, who wouldn’t know a Muggle if one bit him? Findlay, who wouldn’t know a Dark Magic spell if it danced a tango with her? You are the best Auror I have, dammit, and I want you on this case! We’ve a rogue wizard loose and targeting Muggles, if word of this gets out, all of our asses are on the line and I need you here! That is an order, Longbottom!"
Neville opened his mouth and then closed it again. Finally, in an awed voice, he said, "I’m the best Auror you’ve got?"
"May the Founders help us all, eh?" Cecil snorted, his anger evaporating as suddenly as it had appeared. "Look, Longbottom, be reasonable. We did a thorough background check on him, and came up with no substantial evidence that he was involved with the Death Eaters; it was the first thing I demanded. And he came through clean, no Dark Mark, no involvement, nothing." He sighed heavily. "I know you don’t like it, I don’t like it either. You should have been a fly on the wall for the conversation I had with the Minister about this. But these two need to be stopped, and stopped fast, and having you on this file is the best way to do that. And you are a damn good Auror, Longbottom, one of the best. And I will order you if I have to. But I’d rather not."
Neville sighed, his own anger fading. He raised his hands helplessly. "I just...God. I can’t work with him. Draco Malfoy made my life a living hell my entire 7 years at Hogwarts. And not just me, but Harry and Ron and ‘Mione, and most of the rest of Gryffindor. Hell, the rest of the school. He was a despicable bastard, and I hated him. You have any idea how happy I was when I thought he was dead?"
"You can do it, man. Just try not to kill him ‘til after you solve this thing," Cecil grunted. "Put up with him ‘til we get these bastards in Azkaban, then you can torture Draco Malfoy to your heart’s content."
"Why do I let you talk me into these things?" Neville asked in defeat
"Because you’re terrible at telling people no. Now get the hell out of my office."
~*~
"How did I get myself into this?" Neville sighed as he stood on the front steps of Scotland yard, glaring up at the large, ugly building in front of him, the tag of his
brand-new Muggle shirt rubbing against the back of his neck. Setting his shoulders determinedly, he made his way into the edifice of New Scotland Yard and over to the officer sitting behind the front desk.
"’Ow can I help ye?" the man grunted, looking as uncomfortable in his confining black uniform as Neville did in his suit.
"I’m here to see Detective Malfoy," said Neville. "I have an appointment. Name’s Longbottom."
"ID?" The officer nodded at the card Neville showed him (a Muggle driver’s license, which Neville had got a few years ago at Cecil’s insistence, on the grounds that it would be ‘bloody useful’. Which it was, actually.). He checked the name on Neville’s
card against a list on his desk, and handed Neville a small plastic key fob. "Yer expected. Malfoy’s in room 316, elevator’s down the hall, wave that in front o’ the wee gray box on the wall, door’ll open."
Neville nodded his thanks and made his way into the bowels of the great glass building. He’d spent time in the Muggle world before, either undercover with the Department or just for the experience of walking among non-wizards. He wasn’t as comfortable with it as Ginny or Colin or some of the other younger wizards, who seemed to live half in the wizarding world and half in the Muggle and traveled at ease between the two, but he made do, and didn’t seem to stand out too much. It was considered fashionable these days to ape Muggle culture to a degree, copying some of their fashions and expressions - Hermione claimed it was a reactionary response to the war with Voldemort, whicht tried to wipe out Muggle-born wizards
Neville found the elevator and stepped inside gingerly, pushing the button and waiting as the creaky machinery lifted him up three stories. He stepped out and waved the plastic fob in front of the small box on the wall as directed, and watched in bemusement as the door slid open, revealing a long, sterile hallway with truly hideous green carpeting and lit by harsh fluorescent lights.
It didn’t take him long to find room 316, which turned out to be a surprisingly spacious office, albeit with an uninspiring view of the building across the street out of the large window and the same bilious green carpeting as the hall. Neville stood in the hall a moment, uneasily staring at the empty office, and the equally empty hallway. He checked his watch; it was 2:30, so he was right on time. Tentatively, Neville stepped inside and looked around nervously. "Well, what now, then?" he muttered waspishly. Typical of Malfoy to be late; making Neville wait around to put him on edge, most likely. He sat down on the visitor’s chair in front of the desk, fidgeting nervously, then stood up again after a minute. He poked his head back out into the hall...no sign of anyone.
Neville let out his breath in a huff and glared at the office. It was quite large, easily twice the size of his own office back at the Ministry, which was barely more than a broom closet. Besides the L-shaped oak desk, which was currently covered with a computer and a frightening amount of paper, there were a couple of large metal filing cabinets against one wall and an oak bookshelf crammed with official-looking binders and books with sterile titles like Community Policing: A Guide for Police Officers and Citizens and Reputable Conduct: Ethical Issues in Policing and Corrections.Neville stared at the books moodily, noting that someone - Malfoy, he guessed - had carefully arranged all of the books to line up by size, creating neat slopes from left to right on each shelf. There were several pictures on the second
shelf, in unpolished wooden frames.
Intrigued, Neville bent over slightly to look at the photos. They were Muggle pictures, the subjects in each standing perfectly still and not waving or mugging for the camera like the two photos on Neville’s desk at the MoM. (One of Ron, Harry, Ginny and Hermione at Ron and ‘Mione’s wedding, giggling playfully and pushing one another, and one of Neville’s graduation from Auror training; in that one, picture-Neville tended to strut around looking both smug and proud, adjusting his wizarding hat and thrusting out his chest.) He could see the wisdom of having non-moving pictures in the middle of a Muggle police station, though - it probably saved a lot of questions. Neville picked up one of the frames and examined it closely. It showed a group of eight men in dusty jeans, plaid shirts and cowboy hats leaning and sitting along a fence rail, the land behind them rising up in green and gold hills to the foot of snow-covered mountains in the distance, under an impossibly blue sky. It didn’t look like anywhere in Britain or even Europe. All of the men were grinning, a couple of them with arms draped around each other’s shoulders. Neville flipped the picture over, and on the back of the photo, which was pinned in the frame without matting, were the words Lazy D, Roundup, Fall, 2005. "Lazy D?" he asked aloud, frowning. What the heck was a lazy D? Neville shrugged and put the picture back, moving on to the next one.
This one showed what looked like a river in flood, roaring over huge rocks in great crashing waves of white foam, sheer cliffs rising out of the river on the far side. In the middle of the picture, teetering on the crest of a wave, was a large yellow raft, filled with a group of unrecognizable people in white helmets and lifejackets, looking like they were holding on for dear life. At the back of the raft, on a higher seat, wearing a garish purple helmet and life vest, was a dark-haired young man wrestling with two long oars. Neville peered closer at the picture; while the rest of the people in the boat looked scared witless, the young man was clearly grinning ear-to-ear and looked to be having the time of his life. Neville flipped it over, to read John, Kicking Horse, Summer 1999. That didn’t make any sense to him either. The last picture was of two people, a criminally handsome man and a petite blonde woman who looked like a china doll, sitting on an outcropping of rock, in profile to the camera. The man was dressed in hiking boots, black pants and a dark blue fleece pullover, long light-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail at his neck, and the woman was wearing a green cotton sweatshirt and khaki shorts, leaning back against his chest. He had his arms around her and his chin on the top of her head, and they were both gazing at something in the distance. A range of pine-covered mountains rose up behind them, tinged with gold from the sun. The back of the photo read Draco and Laura, Whistler, Spring 2001.
Neville blinked and flipped the picture back over in disbelief. That was Draco? He looked so...so...gorgeous! He didn’t look anything like the Draco Neville remembered. He stared at the photo for a long minute, trying to reconcile his memory of Malfoy in seventh year - skinny, sullen and scowling, with the adolescent awkwardness that came of growing too tall too fast - to the chiseled man in the photo. At long last, Neville grudgingly admitted to himself that he recognized the nose. And the hair...he didn’t imagine there were that many people in the world with Draco’s peculiar white-blonde hair. Neville wondered idly who the woman was. He placed the photo back on the shelf and returned to the other two pictures thoughtfully.
After another few moments of searching the first picture, he finally realized that the man sitting on the top post of the fence on the left-hand side, leaning on the shoulder of a burly older man standing beside him was also Draco, in a blue plaid shirt, jeans so filthy they appeared brown instead of blue, a dusty brown cowboy hat, and alarmingly pointy boots. And Draco was grinning, looking relaxed and cheerful and happy; that must have been why Neville hadn’t recognized him straight off. For he still had the same sharp nose, and Neville could see even under the hat that Draco’s hair was the same shade of silvery blonde it had always been. He shook his head and set the picture back down again.
Neville was just about to pick up the middle picture again, when a voice from the doorway said, "Oh, hell. Am I late?" Neville turned.
A surprisingly attractive Draco Malfoy in a still photo was quite a different matter from a surprisingly attractive Draco Malfoy in the flesh. A surprisingly, stunningly, terribly attractive Draco Malfoy, in a ridiculously attractive white silk shirt that clung to his shoulders and chest, and pale khaki trousers covering long, lean legs. His long blonde hair was tied in a neat ponytail at the nape of his neck, and his skin had a faint gold glow, as if he’d spent some time in the sun recently. Neville felt his mouth go dry. Draco shifted the pile of folders he was carrying into his left arm and strode forward, hand extended. Neville took it weakly, and tried desperately not to notice that Draco had tiny little laugh lines around his silver-gray eyes, or that his hair escaped from its ponytail just under his ears into little silvery curls. "Draco Malfoy. Sorry if I’m late, could have sworn I said 3. I’m guessing the Ministry sent you over...have a seat."
Draco waved one hand at the visitor’s chair and came around the edge of his desk, surveying the hurricane of paper strewn all over. He shrugged one shoulder and dropped the stack of folders in a pile near one edge, then sat down in the chair. Neville sat down nervously as Draco shuffled reports around, and cleared his throat. "Yes, I’ve been assigned to work with you."
Draco looked up. "And you are...?"
Neville paused a moment, astonished. Draco didn’t recognize him? Well...granted, Neville hadn’t recognized him at first either. "Neville Longbottom," he said finally.
Draco cocked his head and looked at Neville for a long moment, shoulders tensing imperceptibly. "Hello, Longbottom," he said finally. "How’ve you been?" Then he bent his head to the folder in front of him, making notes in the margin of one of the sheets of paper.
"I...um, well enough." Neville wasn’t sure how to react. Here he was, in a Muggle police station, sitting across from one of his worst enemies from his school years, and the man was being almost nice to him. Maybe Draco had suffered a head wound. Or undergone a personality transplant. He surreptitiously rubbed his hands against his trousers, was about to say something when Draco looked up again. He picked up the folder he was looking at and handed it across the desk to Neville. "That’s a summary of what I know so far on the wizard in our little duo. I don’t know how much your supervisors have told you about this case, but I was thinking it might be a good idea for you to concentrate on the wizard while I keep tabs on the other one."
"Alright...is this all the information we have?" Neville asked, flipping through the slim file, grateful to have something to hold onto.
"So far," Draco said coolly. "The Canadian Ministry of Magic wouldn’t let me have access to their files on him, so that’s all I’ve been able to come up with. You might want to try asking, however. They might release the information to you."
"Why wouldn’t they give it to you?" Neville asked without thinking, still reading the sheets contained in the folder. He looked up in surprise when Draco didn’t answer. The other man was regarding him with hooded gray eyes.
"Actually," Draco said after a long moment, "I didn’t ask. But they wouldn’t have, even had I bothered."
Neville frowned. It had been a long time since Draco had been seen in England, and granted, neither he nor his father, Lucius Malfoy had been the considered the most pleasant men in the world, but there wouldn’t have been any reason for the Canadian MoM to withhold information, would it?
His confusion must have shown, for Draco smiled slightly. "As far as anyone overseas knows, I am just another Muggle cop dealing with something he doesn’t quite understand. Unlike here in Britain, the wizarding community in North America isn’t so closely connected to the Muggle world that they would willingly exchange information like this freely."
"A Mug...you...what...?" Neville caught himself and took a deep breath. " ‘Just another Muggle cop’? What’s that supposed to mean?"
"It means, Mr. Longbottom, that 12 years ago I left the wizarding world for good, and if this stupid little prick I’ve been chasing hadn’t decided to get himself mixed up with a failed wizard and forced me to come back here, I would have stayed gone from the wizarding world." He sounded surprisingly bitter.
"You’ve been living as a Muggle?" Neville said in disbelief.
"I don’t know if I should be flattered or offended by your tone. Yes, I’ve been living as a Muggle."
"You?"
"Yes, me. I think we’ve established this. Can we move on?"
"I just...I’m just a little surprised, is all." Neville snorted inwardly. Surprised was hardly the word. Draco Malfoy, racist little git, living with Muggles and Mudbloods for over a decade years, shunning the magical community? "It seems a little...out of character."
"And, of course, you know so much about my character," Draco said icily. And suddenly, there was the Draco Malfoy Neville knew, glaring at him now with frigid gray eyes, a sort of coiled menace in the set of his shoulders. "Since we’re taking a little trip down memory lane, however did you manage to become an Auror? Did they let you bring your Remembrall into your exam?"
Neville bristled. "You - " he said, then clamped his mouth shut. You haven’t changed a bit, he’d been about to say, but he wondered if it were true. The Draco Malfoy he’d known wouldn’t have been caught dead anywhere near a Muggle, much less live as one. Of course, the Draco Malfoy he’d known would have happily lied through his teeth if he thought it’d put Neville on edge.
Draco took a deep breath, visibly forcing himself to relax. "Look, if you want to go back to your little Ministry and tell them you don’t want to work with me, that’s fine. All I need is someone who can look after the wizarding side of things, so I don’t have to. It doesn’t have to be you."
Neville slumped slightly in his chair. "No’allowed," he muttered.
"What?"
"I’m not allowed to give up the case. I already tried." Neville said rebelliously.
Draco stared at Neville for a long moment, then started to laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Well, now I know how he got the laugh lines, Neville thought to himself. He realized suddenly that he’d never seen Draco genuinely laugh at Hogwarts. Smirk, yes, snicker, yes, but not actually laugh, freely and without holding back, like he was doing now. "Already way ahead of me, are you, Longbottom?"
"I’m glad you find it so amusing, Malfoy," Neville replied, but without rancor.
Draco suppressed another chuckle. "Sorry," he said cheerfully. "I can just imagine what your first reaction to working with me was."
Neville looked at the other man a little wildly. Had Draco just apologized to him? He looked down at the folder in his hands in confusion. Finally he looked up, into Draco’s clear grey eyes. "I was a little shocked, to be honest. Did you know that everyone thinks you’re dead?"
Draco snorted. "Had no idea. Doesn’t surprise me...who started that particular rumour?"
Neville shrugged. "Dunno. Came about after you vanished without a trace, after the war. The Ministry was looking for you, you know. Had Aurors all over Britain, and after they didn’t find you, it was just assumed."
"Well, as Mark Twain once said, the rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I didn’t die, I just...left."
"Why?" The question slipped out before Neville could help himself. 10 years as an Auror meant he spent a lot of time asking questions, and it was the obvious one.
Draco tensed, his jaw tightening. "Because I wanted to."
"None of my business?"
"Good guess." Draco nodded at the file Neville held. "Like I said, if you can get in touch with the Canadian Ministry about that guy, I’ll see what I can find here on the other one. Let’s hope we can catch these bastards before it drags on for too long."
Neville stood up, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. "I’ll see what I can do." He hesitated. "Um...how should I get hold of you? When I find anything?"
"Heh, good question." Draco looked around at his desk for a moment, then grabbed a pen and a slip of paper. "Know how to use a telephone?"
"Of course!" Neville replied indignantly.
"Just checking. Many wizards don’t," Draco said soothingly, and handed him the paper. "This is my cell number; call me on that and we can find a time to meet."
"Alright," said Neville. "I’ll be in touch, then." He moved toward the door, then stopped to look back at Draco suddenly. Draco’s head was already bent to his work, sunlight glinting off his silver hair. "Where did you go?" he asked suddenly, the words escaping before he could stop himself.
Draco looked up and smiled slightly, cocking his head to one side. "I went to Canada. Thought you knew that. Didn’t the Ministry tell you?"
Neville just shook his head. "Yes, but..." he shrugged finally, giving up the attempt to put his surprise and curiosity into words. "Where in Canada?"
"Few different places. Toronto, Winnipeg, every damned pathetic little town on the Trans Canada Highway between Manitoba and BC, or so it felt at the time...spent most of the last 10 or so years in Calgary, though. In Alberta," he added, at the look of confusion on Neville’s face. "Western prairies, near the Rocky Mountains. You can look it up on a map, if you’re that curious."
"Oh," Neville said intelligently.
"Longbottom?"
"Yes?"
"Delightful as it is discussing my personal history with you, I have work to do." Draco waved a hand at him. "Shoo."
Neville huffed, insulted at the flippant dismissal, but Draco already had his head bent over his paperwork and didn’t look up. Neville threw up his hands and left.
~*~
Over the next few months, they settled into a strange mix of animosity, professional rivalry and companionship. Neville discovered that Draco had a wry, cynical sense of humour, an extremely jaded view of human nature and the irritating habit of humming the most hokey country songs in existence at the most inappropriate of times. He had a surprisingly good singing voice although he rarely showed it, was a decent cook, refused to use magic under any circumstances, and hated to get wet.
He was also, Neville found, extremely perceptive. They’d only been working together three weeks or so when out of the blue, Draco tilted his head, gave Neville an inscrutable look from across his desk and asked, "So how come you don’t have a boyfriend?"
Neville had opened and shut his mouth several times, before finally settling on saying "What?" in a shocked tone.
Draco shrugged one shoulder. "Just curious."
"What makes you think I’m...that I...I’m..."
"Gay? Just a hunch," Draco replied calmly.
Neville glowered. "What do you mean, a hunch?"
"A hunch. A feeling. An educated guess." Draco smirked at him. Neville had already figured out that Draco’s "hunches" were the most reliable he’d ever encountered, but it was a bit disconcerting to know that Draco was using them on him. He hadn't willingly told anyone but Ginny about his sexuality - the wizarding world wasn't nearly as open-minded about such things as the Muggle world, and homosexuality was intensely frowned upon. No one he knew, not even Hermione, had deduced that the reason Neville never dated women was because he preferred men, and Neville fully intended to keep it that way. He’d long ago made it a rule not to discuss his sex life (or lack thereof) with anyone, and he wasn't about to start with Draco Malfoy. Especially not with Draco Malfoy. Neville cleared his throat warily, trying to formulate a decent reply, but Draco cut him off. "Oh, stop looking like you're about to be lynched. If I haven't run shrieking by now, I'm not about to, am I?" Draco leaned back in his chair and regarded Neville frankly. "I should hope you realize by now that I don't care."
Neville shut his mouth and nodded. "I don't tell people."
"I gathered. Still, why don't you have a Muggle boyfriend? Lots of wizards do. Or used to," Draco said. "Though that may have changed. Everyone did it, no one talked about it."
"They still don't talk about it. I wouldn't even know where to start," Neville blurted honestly, then winced. "I mean, I'm not - that is, I - dammit. I hardly see how it's any of your business, my private life."
"I was just asking." Draco shrugged idly and started examining his fingernails.
"So where's your girlfriend, then?" Neville demanded. "Since we're on the topic."
Draco's face went utterly blank, as though a switch had been thrown somewhere in his head. "I don't have one," he said, in a tone that flatly discouraged questions. "And it's none of your business."
Neville raised an eyebrow at him, but Draco ignored it. "Fine then," Neville said sharply, and they didn't speak of it again.
~*~
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