Lace and Lies

The morning post arrived with the usual chaos—owls swooping through windows, parchment skidding across desks—but Harry barely noticed. He was drowning in incident reports. Three hours straight, his tea cold and forgotten, glasses fogged up from the steam. The Head Auror office was a circus: junior Aurors sprinting past, memos zipping around his head like angry hornets, typewriters clacking in the next room.

A soft knock at the door. He didn't look up. "Come in."

The door clicked open. Footsteps—light, deliberate. Fabric rustling, but not standard Ministry robes. Then a voice, smooth and familiar, dripping with that old drawl that sent a shiver down his spine.

"Good morning, Potter. Don't get up. I know how busy you are."

Harry's quill stopped mid-stroke. He looked up, and the world tilted.

Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway. Not the sneering boy from Hogwarts. Not the haunted wreck from the trials. Not even the tight-lipped man he glimpsed at Ministry functions. This was something else.

He wore a dress. Black lace, clinging like a second skin. Translucent in places, showing the pale curve of his collarbone, the delicate lines of his ribs, the soft shadow between his thighs. Hem just above his knees, legs bare and long, ending in black high heels that made his calves look impossibly elegant. Blond hair swept back, grey eyes lined with dark kohl, lips glossed. He looked like a sin.

"Sir," Draco said, a ghost of a smirk. "Your new assistant. Kingsley thought I'd be a good fit. Rehabilitation program, you know. Giving reformed Death Eaters a chance."

Harry's mouth opened, but nothing came out. He stared, transfixed, as Draco sauntered in—hips swaying, heels clicking against stone. Each step echoed in the sudden silence.

"What are you wearing?" Harry's voice came out hoarse.

Draco's smirk widened. He set a stack of folders on the corner of the desk, leaning forward just enough to give Harry a view down the neckline. "A statement. You got a problem with that, Potter? Ministry dress code doesn't specify gender. And I thought you of all people would appreciate a bit of rule-breaking."

Harry swallowed hard. His throat felt like sandpaper.

"Draco," the blond corrected softly, voice dropping. "We're colleagues now. Equal footing." He straightened, smoothing the dress over his hips. "I'll fetch you some fresh tea. That cup looks like it's been sitting there since last Tuesday."

He turned and walked out, leaving a cloud of expensive cologne and tension behind. Harry slumped back in his chair, ran a hand through his already messy hair. Heart hammering. Mind a mess of memories—the war, the trials, the grudging respect that grew between them during reconstruction. But this… this was something else entirely.

---

The affair started two weeks later, in a private room at the Leaky Cauldron after a late meeting. Harry insisted on going over files until midnight. Draco stayed, perched on the edge of his desk in that damn dress, taking dictation with mocking efficiency. When the last file closed, the silence thickened.

"Thanks for your help," Harry said, not meeting his eyes.

"You're welcome, Potter." Draco didn't move. Just sat there, legs crossed, watching Harry with an intensity that made the hairs on his arm stand up.

Harry should have left. Wife at home. Two kids asleep. A stable, good life. But something in Draco's grey eyes held him—a darkness, a hunger, a vulnerability that called to the part of Harry that always wanted to save people.

"I should go," Harry said, but his feet stayed.

"No, you shouldn't."

That night, in a cramped room above the pub, Harry kissed Draco Malfoy for the first time. The taste was bitter and sweet—absinthe and regret. Draco's hands tangled in his hair, nails scraping his scalp. When they finally pulled apart, both breathing hard, Draco whispered, "Don't make this complicated. I just want to be used."

Harry's heart broke a little. But he didn't stop.

---

The secret apartment was a two-bedroom flat in a Muggle district, hidden behind a Fidelius only Harry knew. He'd bought it as a safe house for witnesses, but it became something else—a place to shed his public skin and be raw with the man he couldn't stop thinking about.

Draco came three, sometimes four times a week. Arrived in a trench coat, left it at the door, revealing outfits that got more daring: sheer nightgowns, corsets, skirts so short they were almost belts. Each time, Harry felt a surge of desire tangled with guilt he pushed aside.

They'd make love for hours, tangled in the sheets. Afterward, Draco curled up against Harry's chest, tracing patterns on his skin. He talked about his childhood, his mother, his father's expectations. The horrors of the war, the mark on his arm he'd tried to remove with every spell he knew. The nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if he'd ever be more than his mistakes.

Harry listened. Held him. Whispered reassurances that felt hollow even to him.

"I love you," Draco said one night, three months in. His voice small, fragile—like a child confessing a secret.

Harry's chest tightened. He kissed the top of Draco's head, breathed in jasmine and sandalwood. "I know."

"That's not the same," Draco whispered.

Harry didn't answer.

---

Months passed. Harry lived his double life—father, husband, Head Auror by day; lover, confidant, secret keeper by night. He told himself he'd end it. That he was being selfish. That Draco deserved better. That Ginny deserved the truth. But every time he tried to pull away, Draco showed up at the apartment in something new—leather harness, garter belt, a dress of red silk that fell off his shoulders like water—and Harry's resolve crumbled.

Draco grew quieter. His sharp wit dulled into weary irony. He stopped wearing makeup. Started drinking—firewhisky, straight, in the afternoons. Showed up at the apartment already drunk, eyes red-rimmed, voice slurred.

"You're using me," he said one evening, slumped against the kitchen counter, half-empty bottle dangling from his fingers. "I'm your little slut, aren't I? Your dirty secret. The Death Eater you fuck in the dark."

Harry flinched. "That's not true."

"Then why won't you tell her? Why won't you leave her?" Draco's voice cracked. He set the bottle down, hands shaking. "I'm in love with you, Harry. And you just keep me here, in this cage, waiting for you to call. I'm a whore. A cheap, pathetic whore."

"You're not." The words felt weak.

Draco laughed—hollow, broken. "Then prove it. Leave her. Take me out to dinner. Hold my hand in public. Let the world know Harry Potter loves a Malfoy." He stepped closer, reeking of alcohol, desperation in his eyes. "Love me, Harry. Really love me. Or let me go."

Harry's throat tightened. He wanted to say yes. Promise. But Ginny's face, James's laugh, Lily's tiny fingers wrapped around his thumb—they held him back like iron chains.

"I can't," he whispered. "Not yet."

Draco's face crumpled. He turned away, shoulders shaking, and walked into the bedroom. The door locked.

---

The slide into darkness was gradual, then sudden. Draco stopped coming to the apartment on days Harry wasn't there. Stopped answering his Patronus messages. At work, he was a ghost—efficient, polite, unreachable. The lacy dresses replaced by plain Ministry robes. No makeup. His eyes hollow, the light behind them dimming.

Harry noticed. Worried. But he was too caught up—Ginny asking why he was always tired, the Minister praising his work, the children growing up fast—to truly intervene.

Until the night he found Draco at the apartment, waiting.

Two weeks since their last meeting. Harry had almost convinced himself it was over. That Draco had moved on. That he could go back to being a good husband and father. Then a golden Patronus—a sleek ferret—appeared in his office at midnight. Draco's voice trembling: "Please. I need you."

Harry Apparated without a second thought.

The apartment was dark. Only light came from the gas fireplace, casting long shadows. Draco sat on the floor in front of it, naked, knees drawn up, back to Harry. His skin pale in the firelight, shoulder blades sharp like wings, spine a ridge of knobs. He was shivering.

"Draco?" Harry's voice barely a whisper.

Draco didn't turn. "I've been thinking," he said, eerily calm. "Every night, I think about what I am. What you've made me. What I've let myself become."

Harry moved forward, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. "You're not—"

"Don't." Sharp. "Don't lie to me, Harry. Not tonight."

Harry sank to his knees beside him. Up close, he saw it—dark circles under his eyes, cracked lips, thinness of his frame. A skeleton draped in skin. A ghost of the beautiful creature Harry had fallen for.

"Look at me," Harry said softly. "Please."

Draco turned. His grey eyes were red from crying, but dry now. Empty. He stared at the floor.

"I feel like I'm drowning," Draco said. "Every day I wake up and can't breathe. I see your face, and I hate it, and I love it, and I can't—" He stopped, pressed a hand to his mouth. "I can't live like this."

Harry reached out, fingers brushing his arm. "Let me help you."

"How?" Draco's voice barely audible. "You can't. You won't. You have your perfect family, your perfect life. I'm just the stain you try to scrub off in the shower."

"That's not true."

But Draco wasn't listening. He reached behind him and produced a small blade from the shadows—a silver dagger, curved, the kind for ritual spells. Harry's breath caught.

"Will you end my pain?" Draco asked, voice breaking. "Will you take my life? Will you bleed me out?"

Harry snatched the blade, threw it across the room. It clattered against the far wall. He grabbed Draco's shoulders, forced him to meet his eyes.

"No," Harry said, his own voice shaking. "I won't. I can't. Do you understand? I love you. I love you, Draco. I'm going to leave Ginny. Divorce her. I'll—"

"Liar," Draco spat, but his voice cracked. "You'll say anything to keep me here. Promise everything, deliver nothing. I know your kind, Potter. I'm a Malfoy. Raised on empty promises."

"It's not empty. I swear it."

But Draco shook his head, tears streaming. "I can't believe you anymore. I can't—I can't—"

He pulled away, scrambled across the floor. Harry followed, trying to catch him, but Draco was faster. He dove for the discarded blade, snatched it up.

"Draco, no—"

"Let me go!" Draco screamed. His hand shaking, blade pressed against his wrist. "Let me die, Harry. It's the only way out."

Harry's heart pounded. He raised his hands, palms out. "Drop the knife. Please. We can talk. We can—"

"I don't want to talk! I want it to stop!" Draco sobbed. He pressed the blade in—a thin line of red bloomed across his wrist.

"No!" Harry lunged, but too slow. Draco slashed deep, brutal. Blood sprayed across the floor.

Harry caught him as he collapsed, cradled him in his arms. Blood everywhere—on Harry's hands, robes, pooling dark on the hardwood. Draco's face white, eyes fluttering closed.

"Help me," he whispered. "Please… help me."

Harry's mind went blank, then snapped into focus. He pressed his hand hard against the wound, felt hot blood gush through his fingers. "Stabilis!" he shouted, wand waving. "Episkey! Vulnera Sanentur!"

Incantations poured out—a desperate litany of healing spells. The gashes began to knit, but blood loss was severe. Draco's skin ice-cold, pulse fragile under Harry's fingers.

No. No. No.

Harry clutched him tighter, his own tears falling onto Draco's face. "Don't leave me," he choked out. "Don't you dare leave me. I love you. I love you. I'll do anything—anything—just stay."

He poured his magic into Draco, willing him to live. Golden light flickered and flared, mending flesh, replenishing blood. Minutes passed like hours. Harry's arm ached, wand hand trembling with exhaustion.

Finally, Draco's chest rose in a deep, shuddering breath. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy.

"Harry?" His voice a rasp.

"I'm here. I'm here." Harry pressed his forehead against Draco's, breathing his scent, trembling with relief. "Don't ever do that again. Please. I can't live without you."

Draco's weak hand rose to touch Harry's cheek. "You mean it? You'll really leave her?"

"Yes." No hesitation. "I'll leave her tonight. Tell her everything. I don't care about the scandal, the Ministry, the Prophet. I don't care about anything except you."

Draco's lips curved into a fragile smile. "Prove it."

---

Harry did.

He left the Ministry on personal leave. Went home to Grimmauld Place—the house he'd bought with Ginny after the war—and told her everything. She screamed. Cried. Threw things. But in the end, she looked at him with something like pity.

"I've known for months," she said quietly. "You think I didn't notice? The late nights, the distant eyes. You never looked at me like you look at him."

"Ginny—"

"Go." She turned away, shoulders rigid. "Go to him. But don't expect me to forgive you."

Harry packed a bag. Kissed James and Lily goodbye with a heavy heart, promised to see them on weekends, promised he still loved them. Then he Apparated to the flat, where Draco waited—bandaged and pale, but alive.

The next morning, the Prophet ran the headline: "Potter Leaves Weasley for Malfoy." The wizarding world exploded. Harry didn't care.

He pulled Draco into his arms, felt the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his skin. "I love you," he said. "And I'm never going to hide it again."

Draco looked up, tears glistening in his grey eyes. "I love you too, Harry. Please… don't ever let me go."

Harry kissed him—soft, gentle, a promise. "Never."

And for the first time in months, Draco smiled.