In retrospect, he was surprised it had taken him this long to realise he was falling in love with Potter; he had only ever been a hair's breadth away from it in the first place.

Still, it was horribly annoying to discover that he was becoming less distracted by Potter's uniquely wild form of attractiveness, and more distracted by... well... him, just him. It was disgusting, and Draco tried to push it from his mind.

The decorations had been out for weeks in Diagon Alley, but now that the first of December was behind them, the feverish excitement of the place seemed to have exploded all around them. The tinsel that lined the lampposts was lit with tiny lights that sparkled against the falling snow, and enchanted snowballs could be seen bobbing along behind children as they darted through the crowd after unsuspecting friends.

Draco wasn't even bothered by the sound of carolling in the distance, though he had grown up in a household that found street choirs awfully pedestrian. As a child, he had secretly loved the carollers that went from door to door, and he used to find any excuse to linger by them when they came to Diagon Alley. Looking back and remembering the fond smile his mother would give him as he stopped to tie his shoelace or point into a conveniently-placed shop window, he had a feeling he possibly hadn't been as discrete as he'd attempted.

Even the knowledge that he was doing something so stupid and irreversible as pining after the impossible wasn't enough to completely ruin his mood, though it was making him more introspective than normal. He wondered if, had he been able to avoid this curse business and live his life with a continued distance from Potter, would he have been able to avoid this realisation? Or was it simply one of those things that had a sinking inevitability to it? Perhaps he had only ever been living on borrowed ignorance, and now his stash had run out.

Or, perhaps being surrounded by laughter and love was turning him into a sentimental twat, and as soon as they parted ways he would fall back into his blissful life of bachelorhood.

Even he snorted at the blatant lie in that one, startling a resting owl on the sign beside him into taking flight and showering him with cold droplets of snow that he probably deserved. His life was a mess. But then, he'd been given the chance to study an area in his field that no witch or wizard had been given for hundreds of years, and in return, he just had to take the teensy tiny problem of developing a crush on the least available wizard of his generation. Surely, it was worth it.

He turned into Flourish and Blotts and began to peruse the shelves for a gift for his mother. She was becoming increasingly difficult to buy for, as her hobbies turned more and more eclectic. Ever since Lucius had passed away, every year had been a step further down the path of mindless distraction. Last year had been her obsession with pottery. He lost track of the number of sculpture books and materials she had acquired, although he had to admit she had produced some lovely clay peacocks.

This year, he was fairly certain her obsession had turned to bee-keeping, which Draco was at least seventy percent sure she had chosen mostly for shock value. Not that he'd tell her that, of course.

As he browsed the shelves, he heard some children burst into the shop, bringing icy wind whirling in with them for a split second before it hit the shop's warming charm and fell away.

"Did you see the squid slippers?" The young girl burst out, lowering her voice quickly as the door closed and muffled the sound of the bustling alley. "They puff out black smoke so no one can see you if you need to run away quickly!"

"No one's running anywhere fast in those slippers." The boy laughed. "They've got tentacles for Merlin's sake."

The girl rolled her eyes. "Duh, that's because the tentacles have a hovering charm, like on a baby broom, so you can get away faster."

"Oh, no way!" The boy's eyes widened. "We have to get them! Filch'll never catch us now!"

Draco smirked to himself, hiding it behind the cover of a book titled Buzy Bees, which he wanted to purchase simply to watch his mother twitch. They had to be talking about Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. He couldn't imagine any other place that was cashing in on the idea of the Giant Squid as a marketing ploy.

He remembered suddenly that he still hadn't bought anything for Millicent's boys, so he quickly made his purchases—including Buzy Bees —and left the shop, intending to head straight for the Weasley store. He barely made it five paces before the ground shook with a force so strong he had to hold onto the lamp post beside him lest he fall straight back onto his arse. When the smoke had cleared, his eyes fell straight on the source of the explosion, and before he knew it he was already running, shoving his way through the crowd until he fell through the door of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes with his wand outstretched.

It was as if he had crossed into another dimension. The inside of the shop was caught in some kind of time spell, full of gently floating debris that drifted ever so slowly upwards, like it was still in the process of exploding at a very, very slow pace. Through the haze of smoke that curled out of the workroom door, Draco caught sight of George Weasley, suspended in mid-air and surrounded by gently floating pieces of scorched paper and cardboard.

He shoved his way into the room, and it was like walking through quicksand. Every step caught in the air, and he felt the overwhelming urge to just forget it all, fall over, and sleep. With a massive effort, he pushed forward and stumbled slowly to the back of the room.

He must have grunted or something, because Morgan stuck her head around the doorway—moving at a speed that seemed, comparatively, lightning fast—and made a noise of comprehension. She waved her hand at him, and suddenly he could move again.

"What was that spell?" he asked her, trying to catch his breath as he practically fell into the room. "I've never seen such a time delay!"

"Oh, just a bubble charm," she muttered, running a hand through her hair and spinning around to examine all four corners of the shop. There was a faint note of hysteria in her eyes, but she was remaining calm on the outside. Draco was impressed. "I think I've removed everyone from the path of danger. Can you help me bring George out of the explosion?"

"Bring George out of the—" Draco repeated weakly, before he shook his head and just decided to go with it.

Together, they reached up and tugged George down, out of the air, until he was lying passively on the ground. His eyes were shut, and Draco decided the force of the explosion must have already knocked him unconscious. While Morgan checked the rest of the shop, Draco ran his fingers across George's neck and chest where the explosion had torn his shirt, searching for a tiny bump of metal. After a moment, he found it buried in the skin above his collar bone. He plucked it free and stood aside.

When they were certain no one was in any danger, Morgan waved her hands again, and the store exploded once more into sound and motion, the echo of the explosion ringing in their ears.

"Where's the package?" Draco asked, just as several Aurors Apparated into the building, followed immediately by Potter.

His stomach gave a little jolt at the sight of him, but he ignored it in favour of the undoubtedly more important issues at hand. Besides, the entire endeavour was futile; the two of them had nothing in common.

While Potter was busy giving orders and securing the area, Draco wrapped the package in several layers of charms and vanished it to his workroom where he knew it would be safe. He didn't need to unwrap it this time; the explosion had taken care of that. The box was exactly the same as the first one, right down to the faint design of leaves along the border. It didn't make sense. Why send the recipient to sleep before they could open the box?

He looked up, and his eyes met Potter's. They were just as blood shot as last night, still rimmed with black, and Draco wondered if, rather than get a good night's rest, Potter had even slept at all.

"Meet me at mine," Potter said, his expression blanker than Draco had ever seen them.

"Right," Draco said, the word masked by the sound of Potter Apparating away.

Taking a deep breath, Draco followed.

*

Draco knew for a fact that Potter had Muggle electricity installed in his flat, and yet when he arrived in the fading twilight, the place was completely dark. He hammered on the door for several minutes, a rising sense of panic demanding that he locate Potter immediately and put an end to this curse business once and for all. Just before he could become truly worried, Potter opened the door and glared at him.

"The wards are down for you, Malfoy. You could have just Apparated straight in."

"Oh," Draco murmured, too relieved to see with his own eyes that Potter wasn't in the middle of doing something rash and stupid. Probably. "Forgive me for attempting a little courtesy. Potter, do you really live like this?"

The first night he had come here, he'd been in too much of a state to take it in, but now he was seeing everything for the second time, and it was just as bleak as he'd thought. There was hardly any furniture, and what was there was old and worn. It was as if Potter never entertained at all, and he'd filled the flat with the least amount of furniture he could possibly get by with.

The curtains were pulled shut, and even with the faint light Draco could now see coming from what must be Potter's study, the place felt gloomy and uninhabited. It felt haunted, but not in the wizarding sense, where you could talk and laugh with the ghosts—it felt Muggle haunted, where your every step was shadowed by an unknown creature, sapping your strength and sanity when you least expected it. Draco had a brief, delirious thought that it was haunted by Potter.

"Is now really the time?" Potter snapped, leading the way into the study.

"Is there ever a good time to admit you're failing at life?" Draco retorted. "I thought I had demons, Potter, but at least they live in a dust-free environment."

Potter rounded on him so quickly he took a step backward. There was a fire in his eyes that Draco had never seen before. It wasn't like the righteous fury of his teenage years; it was bitter and angry and achingly familiar.

"My family is in danger, Malfoy," he spat. "And you're still spewing petty bullshit. I thought you'd changed. I thought you might have—" he broke off, turning away to run a hand through his hair before speaking again to the wall. "It takes years to become an Unspeakable, you know. And you get to see a lot of shit along the way. My work— My work touches on curses a lot."

Draco felt his blood run cold, a sense of foreboding creeping up his spine.

"You know, I genuinely thought—" he broke off again and turned back. "It doesn't matter what I thought. Can we do this, Malfoy? Can we finish this without resorting to stupid little fights and insults?"

The way Potter was reacting didn't make sense. He was so highly strung, so quick to anger. It was like there was something Draco didn't know, something that was making Potter feel let down or frustrated, but he couldn't begin to fathom what it might be. And what was all that crap Potter was saying about knowing things, knowing about curses?

"You're being awfully obtuse, Potter," he drawled, apprehension still crawling icy fingers along his back. "Why don't you just come out with whatever it is you're hiding, and we'll be done with it."

"I'm not hiding anything."

"Bullshit. You're acting like this is the first time you've ever met me. For all that you're a sanctimonious twat, Potter, you've never let me get under your skin like this before. What has you so worked up that you can't even be in the same room as me?"

"You cried when you fixed the cabinet," Potter snapped, and Draco suddenly felt like he couldn't breathe. "You walked through, spoke to Borgin, then came back and cried. I read it all in your journal and for once I really, truly understood what you went through with Voldemort. I thought you'd changed, but you're still the same little git you've always been, aren't you?"

For long moments, Draco didn't speak. Potter's face was white, and Draco thought he saw a twinge of regret pass across his features, but he didn't care. All his secrets—somehow, Potter had read them. How had he got his hands on his journal?

Then, he remembered: of course, the Ministry had seized everything—but he had never thought someone he knew would read it. Potter knew what Draco had done, what had been done to him. It felt like everything inside Draco had been stirred up, scraped out, and laid down for everyone to see. He was hollow, and all because Potter couldn't differentiate between brutal honesty and genuine evil.

Well, if he wasn't going to bother to look closely, Draco wasn't going to help him. He swallowed down the bitter rage rising inside him and turned away.

"Are you done?" he asked, his voice chillingly cold.

Potter's breath was ragged. "You're not going to defend yourself?" The words sounded almost like a plea.

"Why bother? The judgement has been passed." Draco moved into the room, eying the pile of books on the desk. "Is that why I'm here? I presume they contain information on the inhibitor."

He could still hear Potter breathing behind him, and he distantly acknowledged that, for the first time, he had truly unnerved him.

"Malfoy," he began.

"Don't!" Draco whirled around and glared at him. "You've said your part, now do as you like to so eloquently put it—shove a sock in it. What am I looking at?"

After a moment, Potter pointed silently at the top most page of the open book, where a diagram of the metal inhibitor took up one corner of the page. Draco read it quickly, sucking in a breath as he did so.

"They discovered these at Stonehenge?" he breathed. "What in Merlin's name does that overblown, sorry excuse for a mystery have to do with anything? It was just some drunk wizards out for a joke on the Muggles, I guarantee it."

"They still don't know what the inhibitor is," Potter admitted, his voice oddly subdued. "What it did to Ron is the most information we have on it."

"Is everyone from the shop today safe?"

"Yeah, no one's hurt."

Draco thought carefully before responding. "I don't think it wise for us to work on the curse tonight or tomorrow. As much it would appear the danger is increasing, I fear we have let ourselves grow too volatile tonight to be of any use."

"Malfoy, you don't need to go all stilted and formal," Potter tried. "Look, I'm sorry how that came out. It's not the whole story. I can tell you what—"

"Don't presume to tell me how I may or may not act around you," Draco spat, his words becoming more clearly enunciated the angrier he got. "We are work colleagues, and we will remain in a civil arrangement until this endeavour is over." He turned to leave, and then paused. "And for what it's worth, Potter. I genuinely thought you might have changed too—I thought it possible we could have ended up friends after this."

Or more, he admitted to himself for the first time.

Potter made a small sound in the back of his throat, and Draco was absurdly proud his own voice had remained steady.

Before Potter could say anything more, Draco Disapparated, the room fading out of sight like a ghost.

*

Wrapping Christmas presents was always a sober affair for Draco. He tried to mask it by inviting Pansy into the whole saga, drowning them out in the most hideous wrapping paper he could find, and consuming goblet after goblet of mulled wine. This year, however, Pansy was unavailable, and there was nothing to distract him from the painful reminder that each carefully selected gift was a farce.

"Cufflinks for Blaise," Draco muttered, picking the tissue-paper-clad parcel up from the corner and eyeing it with distaste. "Made from genuine meteorite."

He glared at the offending item for several moments more before knocking back his glass of mulled wine and summoning the bottle of Firewhiskey to replace it.

"I may as well just hand him a bloody mirror and be done with it, for all he's going to care about these," he snarled, tossing the parcel onto the pre-cut piece of wrapping paper he'd selected—lime green with tiny cherubs fluttering across every square of space. He affected a preposterous tone, pushing aside the growing realisation that he was far drunker than he meant to be. "Why, thank you, Draco. I don't believe you've ever bought me a meaningless accessory before. How very kind and thoughtful of you. You must think so highly of my intelligence."

It wasn't just the whole Pureblood tendency to show affection with distance—or express love with a stern frown—that bothered him. It wasn't even the heightened importance placed upon handcrafted and fragile items, which Draco had quietly abhorred ever since the days of being gifted glass sculptures when all he wanted was a set of bludgers and a good, hard stick.

It was the way that, with every year that passed, he felt like he knew his friends less and less. It was the way that he couldn't quite remember if Pansy was following Parisian fashion or if she was still fascinated with a more Moroccan-inspired colour palette these days—not because she hadn't told him, but because he saw her so infrequently he could no longer keep up. It was the way Blaise would include little tidbits about his latest conquests in his letters, but by the time Draco saw him he was always at least three stories behind.

He flicked his wand so that the edges of the paper sprung up around the package, sealing themselves in place. Without Pansy here, he wasn't even in the mood to do it by hand, jokingly complaining about paper cuts and sticking pieces of festive tape to each other when they turned the other way. He stared down at the pile of unwrapped gifts spread out on the coffee table for several long moments. Then, he took a long, bitter pull from the Firewhiskey bottle and sent the whole lot into a wrapping frenzy with a swish of his wand.

"Bloody waste of time."

He fell back against the couch and closed his eyes. Unbidden, his thoughts turned to Potter and what it would be like if he was here with him. He imagined Potter staring at him from across the pile of presents, eyes bright and cheeks flushed from the wine. He pictured sending tiny pieces of tape flying across the room, sticking themselves to Potter while he spun in a circle trying to pull them off.

It made him laugh, and then his imagination had Potter turn to him, eyes dark and heated just like the memory of that one night when he had seen behind the walls to the broken man beneath, when he had seen what it might be like to know him in a different way. Before he knew it, his cock was hard and his thoughts were running wild with images of Potter bent over the couch, shirt unbuttoned and half caught up in Draco's grip as he thrust inside him, slow and hard.

His eyes snapped open, and with the careful, deliberate grace of the utterly smashed, he set the Firewhiskey down on the coffee table, out of reach. Even in his imagination, he ought to know better. That wasn't how this scene with Potter would go. No, because Potter was convinced that Draco was an arsehole. He was certain that despite all the painful lessons of Draco's youth, the fact that he was blunt and snide meant that Draco hadn't learned a goddamn thing, that he was still the idiotic sixteen-year-old eager for his Father's approval. And yes, all right, perhaps his sense of humor was a little sharp, and maybe he sometimes took a joke too far, but that was just him, and he wasn't going to change that just because certain Gryffindors had unreasonable expectations about the way that people should act in public.

Draco had tried to change. And along with that attempt had come the realisation that, while his false approval and simpering smiles might make the people around him comfortable, concealing an entire part of himself just made him fucking miserable. If Potter had even the slightest capacity to look beyond his own nose, he would have realised that Draco was putting in every effort to work together. He was a professional, and, personal feelings towards Potter aside, he intended to act as such. But it was unreasonable to expect his entire personality to change.

Draco sighed and began the slow process of packing up the paper and tape. He tucked the festive present toppers of tinsel and ribbon back into their box, and then stacked the whole thing inside the embroidered footstool by the fire. It was one of the few things he had taken from the Manor when he had moved out. His mother had always hated it, having a particular distaste for tapestry-style artwork that depicted bustling, hectic scenes, but Draco loved it.

Stitched lovingly by some kooky, ancient relative who had shunned the unwritten Malfoy code that said one must not enjoy anything, ever, it was the brightest piece of furniture he could recall seeing in his childhood home, and every time he looked at it, he found some new detail hidden in the artwork. Today, his eyes were drawn to the children playing by the town Christmas tree. They were crowded around a small, wooden chest, as someone dressed as Santa Claus reached inside to select their gifts.

It made Draco smile, though the feeling was bittersweet. He couldn't imagine any of those gifts contained a meteorite cufflink or a poor compromise in the form of a bright orange silk scarf from Paris. In the end, the children probably wouldn't even care about the gifts—they had each other, and they would spend the day sharing whatever toys they had been given and enjoying each other's company.

He ran his fingers across the tiny, embroidered chest. It was satiny smooth, even after all these years. He frowned; something was bothering him. It was something about the chest and gifts inside it—he felt if he could just lay his finger on it, everything would fall into place.

He closed his eyes and thought, but all he could see were strange flashes of clockwork and one very clear, very intense image of Potter staring at him like he had that night, but in a different space entirely. The light was gentle, softening Potter's features and making his lips look full and dark, but Draco had no memory of this and it was giving him a headache just trying to hold onto the picture.

Massaging his temple, he tried to think once more of the box and the carefully wrapped gifts inside. He felt a surge of curiosity, but even as the box morphed into the cursed package, his curiosity remained warm and safe.

His eyes snapped open as his thoughts clicked into place. The explosion that had caught Ron was only designed to draw attention, and the inhibitor had already been dispensed. While there could certainly be more inhibitors, it was nothing that a shield charm couldn't protect them from, which meant that every aspect of the curse that they had so far identified was no longer a threat.

And the nature of the item made it very clear what the curse's purpose was: something was inside the box, and unlike obligatory gifts and misguided festive cheer, this something was likely the main event. Draco had no way of knowing how much longer they would have to spend in the dream-state, identifying all the constituents of the curse. With any luck, they were close, but he didn't know that for sure, and whoever was sending these items wasn't showing any signs of stopping. They could keep going at a snail's pace and hope that no one else got hurt, or they could ward the chest and open the box.

The only problem was that by opening the box, they would alter the state of the curse. The carefully maintained and isolated environment that the identification spell relied on would be ruined, and it would be too dangerous for them to re-enter the Ether and conclude their study. They would no longer be able to complete the identification spell and unravel the curse, which meant that the wards around the Pensieve wouldn't deactivate.

Their memories would be lost.

But the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became. This curse had never made sense, not from the start. A secret box that compelled the victim to open it but exploded before they could? A simple somnolence inhibitor that was easily removed with no lasting damage?

And it had been sent to a joke shop, of all places.

The more Draco thought about it, the more he had the strongest sensation that it wasn't a curse at all; what if it was a fan gift gone wrong? What if it was someone who admired Weasley's Wizard Wheezes and wanted to gain the approval and interest of its proprietors? If one looked at it as a show of skill, rather than a malicious attack, it began to make a whole lot more sense. Which meant that the inside of the box would likely hold the sender's calling card. They probably hadn't even known that the spell had gone off so poorly; Ron's hospitalisation had been kept as quiet as possible. The sender had probably re-sent the package simply because they'd never heard back.

But intention aside, time was of the essence, because it was clear their sender was only getting more invested. And with such unpredictable, amateur magic, who knew what the next parcel would do? It was probably some pimple-faced fifteen-year-old wanting the attention of the Saviour and his friends, and the longer he was ignored the more desperate he could become.

He leapt to his feet, steadying himself against the wall, and hunted for a piece of parchment. He had to tell Potter. There was no guarantee that he would approve of Draco's plan, but since it involved leaping headfirst into danger on the slim chance that it would save them time, Draco had a sneaking suspicion he wouldn't object too strongly.

It would mean both he and Potter had to give up the chance to re-engage with their lost memories, passing up the opportunity to recall an experience that few wizards had the opportunity to see, but—much as he hated to admit it—there were more important things at stake.

And then, he and Potter could go their separate ways, and he could put this whole, sodding mess behind him.

He found a blank piece of parchment, penned a swift note, and sent it immediately. Then, feeling the effects of all that he had tried to pretend he hadn't drunk, he went straight to bed.

*

The sound of violent hammering on his door the next morning sent him stumbling to answer before he could even think about a hangover potion. For the third time in as many days, he opened the door to Potter with the smell of alcohol wafting between them.

"We have to stop meeting like this," he muttered, before he woke up a little more and remembered that he hated Potter.

He turned swiftly away, lest Potter think he wasn't still furious with him, and walked into the kitchen in search of coffee and potions.

"I got your owl," Potter said, still in that same tentative voice he had used last time they met. "Are you sure about this? It seems a bit... rushed."

When Draco could no longer hear the sound of his own blood pumping through his skull, he turned back to face him. "It is rushed," he agreed. "Because we are running out of time. I'm nearly completely certain that the box presents no great danger to us, but the prospect of further packages, with even more non-Ministry-approved magic therein, does."

"Nearly completely certain?" Potter repeated drily.

"Seventy percent."

"Well then, I'm convinced."

"Bite me." Draco groaned and rubbed his temple. "Fine. Look. Would it make you feel better if we agreed to one more session, just to alleviate any doubts, and then we opened it straight after? If you promise you're not going to resort to name calling, I'll even let us do it now."

Potter snorted, though his face turned quickly sombre once again. "Look, Malfoy, I really am sorry about yesterday. I don't know how to explain it except things are kind of complicated right now, and I'm not expressing myself well, and I didn't mean to lash out at you."

"Noted," Draco drawled. "May I shower first, or does the scent of old booze calm you?"

When he received only an eye roll in response, he walked off and engaged in the quickest shower known to man. He told himself that Potter would think his speed was because he was keen to get started. In reality, it was because every second he spent soaping up his naked body while Potter stood doing Merlin knows what in his living room was a second closer to him opening the door and asking Potter to join him, and that thought was sending him quietly and swiftly insane.

He realised his error, of course, the moment he finished and noticed that he hadn't allowed himself time to bring clothing with him into the bathroom. Maintaining a dignified tilt of his chin, he wrapped a towel around his waist and opened the door. Through a cloud of dissipating steam, he saw Potter turn to him reflexively before freezing. If he had been holding something, Draco was quite certain he would have dropped it.

Potter's eyes fell to Draco's waist, where Draco could feel droplets of water sliding down his rapidly cooling torso, and he visibly swallowed. Draco allowed himself one small moment to imagine striding across the room, gripping Potter by the back of the neck and kissing him stupid. He could imagine the sounds Potter would make—the shocked gasp, the moan when Draco's towel fell to the ground, the eager slide of their tongues together as they panted into each other's mouths.

And then he turned away, because far more than Draco's living room stood between them, and if Potter could hurt Draco this much without them even being together, he didn't want to imagine what he could do if they were.

He thought he heard a sound behind him, a noise halfway between Potter clearing his throat and a quiet groan of undisguised want, but he steeled himself and disappeared to dress.

If he took a little bit longer than necessary so that his inconvenient erection had faded, it was no one's business but his own.

When they were finally in front of the parcel again, potion in hand, Draco began to feel the first twinges of doubt. Last night he had been... not in the most coherent frame of mind. What if it truly was a dangerous curse? What if he had doomed the two of them with his hairbrained, wannabe-Gryffindor plan?

"Let's just see how it goes this time," Potter said, sounding as hesitant as Draco felt. "And we'll make a decision when we come back."

"Right," Draco said, and then, before he could change his mind, he drank the potions.

It was pure coincidence that he looked at Potter just before the room faded away. There was no noise to alert him, no sensation of being watched, just a chance turn of the head for no reason at all. As their eyes met, Draco was thrown by the depth of longing he saw there, the way that Potter's eyes seemed to hold sadness and fear and want with the same fierceness that they used to hold nerve and fortitude.

Draco had a single moment to think that he could look into those eyes forever before they disappeared and the world went black.

*

"Draco."

He heard his name, but he didn't recognise the voice that said it. It sounded like Potter, but all the roughness and grit were gone from his tone, and besides, Potter didn't call him Draco.

Then, the memories began to filter in: the horcrux; Potter becoming an Unspeakable; Potter spinning him around and around while the two of them laughed in delight before pulling him closer, his eyes dark with heat.

His journal.

Draco's eyes snapped open and he sat up to regard Potter, who was sitting several feet away from him and looking as breathless as if he'd just run a marathon. Neither of them spoke.

"We've really fucked this up," Potter said finally, and Draco laughed, though it sounded more like a sob.

"I don't care about my bloody journal," Draco said in a rush, before clutching his head in confusion. "How is this even possible? Not even twenty-four hours ago, I remember feeling such complete and utter betrayal at what you revealed to me, and yet, only a day before that I was—" he hesitated. "Moved, I suppose. A little betrayed, sure, but mostly touched and horrified that you had to go through that and—" he broke off and turned sharply to Potter. "You are terrible at communication. How do you even function?"

"Me?" Potter asked, incredulous. "You won't even let me try to explain what I meant! I had one moment of weakness where I lashed out, which is hardly unusual for us, and—"

"One?" Draco barked a laugh. "You've been nothing but moments of weakness since this whole thing started. I'm beginning to think you're just one big limp noodle."

"It's hardly my fault."

"Whose is it, then? Your cat's?"

"I don't have a cat, Draco."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Clearly, I'm being facetious. And why are you calling me 'Draco' all of a sudden? Have you had an aneurysm?"

Potter made a noise similar to a dying chicken and tried to explain himself using several words simultaneously.

Finally, he cleared his throat and slowed down. "I am calling you 'Draco'," he said with affected care, "because it seems ridiculous, after everything that has happened, to keep calling you 'Malfoy', don't you think?"

After everything that has happened. Was Potter acknowledging that there was something between the two of them? Or did he have some kind of warped sense of work-place bonding?

The room suddenly lurched, and Potter's hand jumped to his chest where he kept the anchor amulet. Draco held his breath as Potter closed his eyes and repeated a quiet incantation under his breath. Slowly, the ground grew steady again.

"We can't keep on like this," Draco said slowly. "Not out there, but certainly not in here—we're going to get ourselves killed."

The amulet twirled in Potter's fingers, catching the light. It was such a gentle illumination here, in this room, and Draco realise with a sudden startled clarity that he had remembered bits of it last night; namely, the way that Potter's eyes looked when they watched him.

"Let's get to work, then. Get it over with."

Draco nodded, removing his toolkit from his front pocket. He selected a pot of blue dust and took it over to wall he had been working on.

"We're not far from the end," he said. "I'd say there are only one or two more mechanisms left. No need to open the box after all, thank Merlin, because I was having second thoughts."

He blew the dust into the wall and watched as a complex line of gears lit up with a gently pulsating blue light. With a wave of his wand, the echo of the mechanisms they'd already discovered began to glow softly, so that the light reflected back on them was a curious mix of blue, purple, green, and pink, shimmering softly like sunlight bouncing off water.

"That's most of the wall," Potter breathed, a faint smile on his lips.

While Draco cast the diagnostics, Potter grabbed a pot of white, iridescent dust and brought it over to one of the remaining cogs that weren't illuminated. The last of the mechanism around them began to glow, eclipsing the other colours in a light that seemed to make the very air around them shimmer.

Draco drew in a breath, awed not just by the fact that they were about to find out exactly what the curse did, but by the simple beauty of the sight before him.

"And to think, you were suggesting we just charge ahead without any more research," Potter said with a faint grin. "How disgustingly Gryffindor of you."

Draco smiled weakly, too caught up on how easily he might have lost this, and he didn't just mean identifying the curse. In fact, he wasn't sure he meant the curse at all. He thought that the way Potter wouldn't look directly at him might show he wasn't alone in his thoughts.

"Let's find out what it does," Draco said, waving his wand.

Instantly, he knew something was wrong. The room began to shudder, and Potter's alarmed look of confusion told him it had nothing to do with the anchor.

"What's happening?" Potter asked, trying to steady the room with his amulet; it didn't work.

"I don't know," Draco snapped.

He closed his eyes and focused on the spell. The final two mechanisms appeared to be linked, but they weren't from any branch of curse magic Draco knew. It didn't make sense, and not just because it was unknown. The simplest of Draco's diagnostic spells searched for purpose and intent. The spell returned different colours according to the nature of the curse's will—blue for pain, pink for control, orange for destruction—but he just kept getting green.

Green didn't identify intent; it meant the curse's will was done. It was as if they were in the throes of the curse itself, which was impossible because they were inside the curse, and the cursed item was perfectly untouched under all Draco's wards—how could they possibly be affected by it?

One thing Draco did know was that their time was running out, and if the curse managed to properly identify them as intruders, it would all be over.

"It knows we're here," he said. "We have to get out."

Potter stared at him, his mouth gaping. "You have to write a message," he said finally. "If we wake up and there's no record of what's happened here, we're going to open the box."

Draco felt sick. He scrambled for the notebook.

"I'll tell us not to do anything," he said. "I think— I don't know— I think I can dismantle its defences at least. Then maybe we can see what the hell is going on that's making it think it's currently exploding."

He fumbled in his pockets, unable to find his pen.

"It thinks it's exploding?" Potter asked, incredulous.

"Yes, no, I don't know," Draco snapped, dropping his hands to his trouser pockets. "Where the fuck is my fucking pen?!"

His hands stilled and he felt the blood drain from his face. He turned to Potter and watched as understanding crossed his features.

In a deathly calm voice, Potter asked, "You didn't bring a pen, did you?"

Draco shook his head. "It would seem I was in a rush and forgot." The world seemed to slow around them, his voice sounding distant and faint.

"There's an escape button," Potter said ruefully, looking at the amulet. "I can wake us up."

"But we won't know what happened in here."

The ground began to shake, the wooden floor cracking and tearing beneath them.

"Surely, we're smart enough to figure out that leaving no notes at all is a bit strange," Potter gave a bitter smile. "And I mean, I'll have activated the amulet. Surely we'll realise you forgot a pen and something bad has happened."

"Surely," Draco echoed, thinking of all the petty arguments they had had, how volatile they both were, and all the ways that they refused to listen to the most reasonable of conversations.

Their eyes met, and Draco felt the cold, icy fingers of dread creeping up his chest as he realised there was a good possibility that, even if they survived whatever the curse did, he and Potter would never remember this.

Potter gave a weak laugh. "How likely is it, do you think, that we might be as willing to actually listen to each other out there as we were in here?"

Draco didn't answer.

Potter made a strangled sound at the back of his throat, and then in two steps he crossed the distance between them and kissed him.

The rumbling was growing louder, but Draco shoved it aside as he pulled Potter closer, desperate to taste and feel as much of him as he possibly could in this moment, before everything fell apart. He had thought Potter would feel rough against him—all the roughness of motorbike leather and the gravel of his voice had given him the impression of someone who was all harsh edges, like he wouldn't be able to hold onto him too long without getting cut. But apart from his stubble, Potter was smooth, so smooth, and he moulded instantly to Draco like he couldn't get enough of him.

Draco ran his hands through Potter's hair, moaning helplessly against his lips as their kiss deepened, each frantically trying to leave their mark on the other, knowing with horrible certainty that this was it, all they'd ever get. It wasn't fair. The last few days felt like weeks, and Draco had wasted them all. He'd wanted to know more about this strange, bitter version of the boy he'd known, but he hadn't listened when Potter was practically screaming it to him. His empty flat, his stilted friendships, and the mystery that had drawn Draco back into his life what felt like a lifetime ago—Draco was only now beginning to understand what it all meant, and he was just going to walk away without any clue what he was losing.

The room gave a violent lurch and they broke apart.

"We have to go," Draco said quietly.

Potter nodded, clasping the amulet and muttering a quiet incantation.

Just as the room began to fade, Potter leaned back in, their lips meeting in a gentle kiss that lingered a moment after everything else disappeared. Draco tried with everything in him to hang onto the memory, but after a few moments more, it faded too.

*

This time, when Draco woke up on the floor of his workroom, he felt hollow and wrung out.

"What time is it?" he asked, his mouth dry as paper.

Potter checked his watch. "We were in there less than twenty minutes," he said, confused. "I must have pulled us out early. Check your notes—what happened?"

Draco pulled out his notebook and opened it up, but the only notes he'd made were from last time.

"There's nothing here." He held up the book, rifling through the pages in case he'd written elsewhere.

They both looked over at the box, but none of the wards had broken, and none of the diagnostics indicated anything had changed.

"I guess it must have been too much to finish in one sitting?" Potter suggested, looking unconvinced.

"I would have left a note," Draco said, shaking his head slowly.

"Could something have gone wrong?"

Draco grimaced. "Surely, I would have left a note then too. Why would I just leave it for us to guess?"

As he glanced up at Potter, he was struck with an overwhelming surge of longing. Potter looked different somehow. Draco's eyes were drawn to the smooth planes of his face, and he thought he almost knew how they would feel under his fingertips.

"Something isn't right," he said, feeling it deep in his bones.

"Maybe you forgot a pen?" Potter suggested.

Draco stared at him, open-mouthed. "You really don't think very highly of me, do you?"

"I forget pens all the time." Potter held up his hands in defence. "It's not a bad thing."

"You think I broke us out of an important trance, two hours early, because I forgot a pen." Draco couldn't believe it.

Potter raised one eyebrow. "So, you can insult the way I live, but I can't ask a simple question?"

"You're as rich as I am, yet you live like a pauper," Draco snapped. "Forgive me for questioning your sanity."

Potter's lips pressed tight with rage. "You're a such a spoiled brat—why am I even surprised that your go-to assumption is that I must be insane?" He drew finger quotes in the air as he said the word, glaring at Draco like he was scum. "Have you ever thought to ask?"

Draco scoffed. "I've asked twice now! You're refusing to answer because if you actually told me then you wouldn't get to brood and claim the moral high ground."

They were interrupted by a knocking at the door.

"That'll be George and Morgan," Potter said, leaving the workroom to go open the front door, as if he owned the place. "I asked them here so that if something went wrong when we opened the box, they could get help."

After an uncomfortable greeting where Draco tried his best to look as though he hadn't been five minutes away from strangling their honorary brother, the four of them went back into the workroom.

"So, are we opening it or not?" George asked, looking back and forth between them with no small amount of apprehension.

"Well, I think the likelihood of us holding a stable trance is slim to none at this time," Draco said stiffly. "And since time is of the essence, I fail to see that we have another choice."

Potter hesitated, but finally nodded. "I'd like to go back in and work out what happened, but we can't," he agreed reluctantly.

"Finally acknowledging your dangerous volatility, then? Shall I sign you up for Alcoholics Anonymous next?" Draco smirked.

Potter ignored him. "We went in to make sure we hadn't missed anything. Then, we came out early, and didn't leave any important notes to ourselves. Logically, it was probably fine."

"Well there's a resounding show of conviction," Draco muttered. "I'm perfectly happy to risk my life now."

Nonetheless, he was forced to agree. They had to do something, and the available options seemed fewer each time.

"Right," Draco said, louder this time. "Potter, shield the civilians and protect the innocent, or whatever it is you do. I'm opening the box."

"No."

"Excuse me?" Draco paused, halfway across the room, and stared at him.

"You're the Curse Breaker," Potter said slowly, as if he were talking to a young child. "If something happens to you and this gets out of hand, we might not be able to solve it. I'll do it."

For a moment, Draco was flattered. Then, the rest of Potter's words sank in.

"Absolutely not, you complete pillock. We need access to your stupid archives in case this thing is worse than we thought. If you go and die on us, I'll have to put in an application, and then you'll be wasting my time even in death—I don't think I could stand the gall."

"Is this a game to you, Malfoy?" Potter snarled, and Draco found himself sneering straight back, all professionalism thrown to the wind.

"If it is, you're losing," he spat, distantly acknowledging that it didn't make a whole lot of sense and just going with it anyway.

"I'll open it." George's voice was firm and a little irritated. "Honestly, I'm amazed you two didn't blow yourselves up inside that thing. It's a miracle it's even still here."

"George, I can't let you—" Potter began, voice quiet and apologetic.

"It was addressed to me, and I'm opening it. Now, do what you do best, Harry, and make sure no one dies."

An expression crossed Potter's face very fast, full of guilt, sorrow, anger, and regret. Draco could do nothing about it—not that he knew what he would have done anyway—because George had crossed the room and lifted the lid of the box.

Draco slammed shields down around the four of them while Potter sent a flurry of unknown charms settling around George. For a moment, the room shimmered with an iridescent white light. It was beautiful, filling Draco with a sense of peace and longing. Without knowing why, he began to walk towards the box. He could feel Potter beside him, moving as if in a trance, while a distant part of him noticed that Morgan had frozen very still.

Then there was a loud crack, like Apparition mixed with a car crash, and both George and the box disappeared.

The sensation of peace disappeared, and Draco was filled with the cold horror of knowing he had made an irreversible mistake.

"George!" Potter yelled, running to the centre of the red circle and falling to his knees, scrabbling around across the floorboards as if he would find George hidden in the wood.

His voice was broken, catching on the syllables like a sob, and out of nowhere Draco was bombarded with long-repressed memories of the Battle of Hogwarts where—he found out later—Potter had chosen to die, and had then come back only to find it still hadn't been enough to save everyone. He felt a tearing sort of pain in his chest, and he staggered forward to cast spells over the circle, trying to figure out what had happened, where they'd gone wrong.

He heard a noise behind him and turned on reflex, but Morgan was still standing exactly where she had before, a strange expression—equal parts fear and determination—on her face. For a single, passing moment, her features seemed to transform in front of him. The graceful lines of her face grew sharper, stranger, more ethereal. Her eyes, when they turned to Draco, were darker than before, and they seemed to reflect an awful sort of knowledge within them, like they were older than the earth itself.

"I have to go," she said, and it was like listening to an icy stream pouring down the side of a mountain.

"Holy hell," Draco breathed, and then his body kicked into action, flinging out his wand towards Morgan so that jet-black ropes suddenly bound her where she stood without him having to even think it.

Potter turned to him in horror, but then his eyes fell on Morgan and Draco knew he'd seen it too. He staggered to his feet but seemed to lose all momentum as he stood there, just staring at her.

"What are you?" Draco asked, hearing clearly both the awe and fear in his voice, unable to mask it.

She smiled sadly. "Sorry, Harry, Draco. I have to go. I know where they've taken him, and only I can get him back."

And then, she disappeared.