Roots of Wreckage

The October rain hammered the Wiltshire countryside, turning the gravel drive of Malfoy Manor into slick, muddy soup. Harry pulled his Auror-issued cloak tighter, muttering under his breath about the Ministry’s obsession with wool that soaked through in minutes. Beside him, Ron squelched through puddles with a grimace, his wand hand twitching near his pocket.

“Remind me again why we’re stuck with this?” Ron’s breath fogged in the cold air. “There’s a dozen junior Aurors who could’ve taken a dead priest case.”

“Because it’s Malfoy Manor,” Harry said, eyes fixed on the wrought-iron gates ahead. “And because the priest was found on the estate’s border. Internal Affairs wanted someone senior to handle it.”

Ron snorted. “Senior. Right. They just didn’t want to deal with Malfoy themselves.”

Harry didn’t argue. The case had landed on their desks that morning—a body found at dawn by a groundskeeper. Father Aldric Thorn, traveling clergyman, known for helping squibs and outcasts. No obvious cause of death, no magical residue. A priest, dead at the edge of the most infamous manor in wizarding Britain. Of course it had to be them.

The gates swung open silent as a whisper. Harry felt the wards prickle over his skin—old magic, layered so thick you could choke on it. The Manor loomed ahead, gray stone slick with rain, windows dark and unwelcoming. A house-elf met them at the door, eyes huge and watery.

“Master Malfoy is expecting you,” it squeaked, leading them through a cavernous entry hall lined with portraits that watched them with cold painted stares.

They were shown to a drawing room that smelled of woodsmoke and old parchment. The fire crackled in a marble hearth, shadows flickering across the room. And there, standing by the window with his back to them, was Draco Malfoy.

When he turned, Harry’s breath caught.

Draco was wearing a deep green silk robe—open, revealing a thin white undershirt and trousers that clung to his hips. The silk clung to him like water, the color stark against his pale skin. His hair was longer than Harry remembered, pushed back from his face. Shadows under his grey eyes—not tiredness, but something sharper, more deliberate.

“Aurors Potter and Weasley,” Draco said, his voice silky. “How quaint. I was wondering when the Ministry would darken my door.”

Harry forced his gaze away from that plunging neckline, from the way the green brought out the silver in Draco’s eyes. “We need to ask you some questions about the body found on your property.”

“Of course you do.” Draco waved a hand lazily toward a set of armchairs. “Sit. I’ll have Tilly bring tea.”

Ron stayed standing, arms crossed. “We’re not here for tea. Where were you last night between midnight and four in the morning?”

Draco’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Here. In my room.” He paused, letting the silence stretch. “I was… occupied.”

“Occupied how?” Harry asked, pulling out his notepad—more to have something to do with his hands than because he needed it.

Draco’s gaze slid to him, slow and deliberate. He took a step closer, and Harry caught the faint scent of sandalwood and something sweeter underneath. “I was pleasuring myself, Potter. Is that explicit enough for your report?”

Ron made a choking sound. Harry’s pen stilled.

“You were masturbating,” Harry said flatly.

“At the time of the murder?” Ron added, voice cracking.

“I assume so. I didn’t exactly check the clock.” Draco’s smile widened, but there was a brittleness to it, a sharp edge. “I do it quite often. The manor is lonely, and I have… particular needs.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and charged. Harry felt heat creep up his neck. He should be taking notes. Instead, he was watching the firelight play across Draco’s collarbone, the way his fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh.

“We’ll need to verify your alibi,” Ron said, gruffer now. “Anyone who can confirm you were here?”

“The house-elves, but they don’t watch me while I’m…” Draco trailed off. “You could search my room, if you like. But I assure you, I was very much alone.”

Harry closed his notepad. “We’ll need to take a statement. Properly.”

“By all means.” Draco gestured to the sofa. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

What followed wasn’t really an interrogation. Draco answered with a bored, almost eager transparency, describing his nightly habits in way too much detail. He leaned forward as he spoke, the robe gaping, and Harry found himself leaning forward too, caught in the gravity of the man.

Ron’s questions got shorter, his breathing heavier. The tension between them was electric, arcing across the room.

“—and I prefer it rough,” Draco was saying, voice dropping to a low murmur. “Hair-pulling. Bruises. The kind of marks that last for days.” He looked at them both, grey eyes dark. “No one’s been able to give me that in a long time.”

The silence afterward was deafening. Harry’s heart hammered. Ron shifted beside him, and Harry could feel his partner’s heat, the familiar presence now charged with something new.

It was Ron who broke first. “Harry,” he said, voice rough. “We should… search the premises. For evidence.”

Harry nodded, but neither of them moved.

“I could show you to my room,” Draco said softly. “If you need to confirm my alibi.”

The kiss—when it happened—was desperate and clumsy. Harry’s hands found Draco’s waist, the silk impossibly smooth under his fingers. Ron’s mouth was on Draco’s neck, hands sliding up under the robe. They moved together in a tangle of limbs and breath, stumbling toward a nearby chaise lounge.

Draco moaned, arching into their touch. “Harder,” he gasped. “Please—I need—”

Harry pulled his hair, and Draco’s head snapped back, a shudder running through him. Yes, he breathed, and Ron’s fingers dug into his hips.

But it wasn’t enough. Draco tensed under their hands, seeking something they weren’t giving. He wanted rough. Cruel. They held back—gentle where he needed pain, careful where he needed recklessness. Harry pulled his hair, but not hard enough. Ron bit his shoulder, but not deep enough.

Draco’s climax came with a broken cry. Something flickered in his eyes afterward—a shadow of disappointment.

They lay tangled together, breathing hard, the fire sputtering in the hearth. For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then Ron sat up, fumbling for his trousers. “Right,” he said, voice awkward. “We should, uh… pay you.”

Harry froze. “Ron?”

“For the… you know.” Ron was already reaching for his money pouch, ears bright red. “It’s only fair.”

Draco went rigid beneath them. His grey eyes widened, and the vulnerability that had been creeping in during the sex vanished—replaced by something raw and wounded.

“Pay me?” His voice was barely a whisper.

Harry’s stomach dropped. “No, that’s not—Ron didn’t mean—”

But Ron had already pressed a handful of galleons into Draco’s palm. “No hard feelings, Malfoy. We just—we should be going.”

Draco looked down at the gold in his hand. His face drained of color. Then, with a sound that was half-sob, half-snarl, he hurled the coins across the room. They clattered against the marble floor, scattering into the shadows.

“Get out.” Draco’s voice shook. “Get out of my house.”

He scrambled off the chaise, pulling the green robe around himself like armor, and fled. They heard his footsteps pounding up the stairs, then a door slamming.

Harry and Ron sat in stunned silence among the scattered galleons. The warmth of the fire did nothing to chase away the cold that had settled in Harry’s chest.

“What did we just do?” Harry whispered.

Ron buried his face in his hands. “I don’t know. I thought—I thought he was—because of the way he dressed, the way he talked about—”

“We made him feel like a whore,” Harry said, words tasting like ash. “We just—we didn’t even ask him. We didn’t—”

Guilt hit him like a physical blow. Draco’s face, pale and shattered, the way he ran. Harry had seen Draco proud before, but never like this. Never this brittle.

They dressed in silence, picking up the galleons with trembling hands. Neither spoke as they left the manor, rain still falling, sky a dull grey.

---

The next morning, Harry sent the first apology gift. A bouquet of white roses—simple, elegant, with a note that said only: I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. —H.

It came back unopened.

Ron tried next: a bottle of expensive firewhisky, left on the manor’s doorstep. It sat there three days, unclaimed.

Desperation set in. Harry wrote a letter—not a formal apology, but a confession: I thought I knew who you were. I was wrong. I never asked what you needed. I took what I wanted and left you with nothing. That can’t be fixed with a note, but I’ll spend as long as it takes trying.

He included his personal floo address.

A week passed. Then a response came, short and clipped: You don’t know me, Potter. Stop pretending.

But it was a response. Harry held the parchment like it was gold.

---

The courtship began in fits and starts. Harry and Ron sent gifts—tailored robes in deep greens and silvers, a first-edition of a rare wizarding poetry collection, a box of handcrafted chocolates from Paris. Each gift came with a letter, carefully worded, never demanding a reply.

After three weeks: The chocolates were acceptable. The poems are pretentious.

Harry laughed until his sides ached. He wrote back: What kind of poems do you like?

Two days later: Ones that don’t rhyme love with above.

So Harry sent a collection of modern Muggle poetry—Bukowski, Plath, Neruda. With a note: I don’t know much about poetry, but I know you deserve better than clichés.

No reply. But the gift wasn’t returned.

Ron worked his own angle. He sent a pair of silk lingerie—deep emerald, delicate—with a note: I’m sorry for the galleons. I was an idiot. —R.

Draco’s reply was scathing: I’m not some tart you can buy off with frilly knickers, Weasley. But the silk is nice.

Ron grinned. “He’s got a mouth on him, hasn’t he?”

“Always did,” Harry said, and they shared a look that was equal parts hope and trepidation.

---

Two months. That’s how long it took to earn back even a fraction of trust. They visited Malfoy Manor at Draco’s invitation, sat stiff in the drawing room, talked about nothing and everything. Harry found out Draco had been studying ancient runes in his isolation, that he still loved flying but hadn’t done it since the war, that the Manor still gave him nightmares about the Dark Lord’s occupation.

Ron discovered Draco’s dark sense of humor, his ability to quote Shakespeare, his secret obsession with Muggle punk music—a holdover from sixth year.

Harry learned that Draco cried when he got overwhelmed, and hated being seen doing it.

They learned to be gentle—not the soft hesitant touch from before, but the real kind. They listened. They stayed. They didn’t leave galleons on the nightstand.

The kiss, when it came again, was slow and deliberate. Draco initiated it, hand on Harry’s jaw, eyes searching. “No more assumptions,” he said. “No more transactions.”

“No more,” Harry promised.

Ron kissed his forehead. “We’re idiots,” he said. “But we’re learning.”

This time, when they made love, it was different. Harry pulled Draco’s hair until he gasped, and when Draco asked for more, Harry gave it—harder, deeper, leaving bruises that bloomed like flowers under his skin. Ron held him down, kept him steady, whispered you’re beautiful into his ear while Draco shook apart.

Afterward, they lay tangled in Draco’s bed, silk sheets wrapped around their legs. Harry pressed a kiss to Draco’s shoulder, where a mark was already forming.

“We should have done this right the first time,” Ron muttered.

Draco laughed—a sound so rare and precious that Harry felt his heart crack open. “You should have,” he agreed. “But you’re making up for it.”

---

The pregnancy was discovered by accident. Draco had been feeling ill for weeks—nausea, fatigue, the kind of exhaustion that sank into his bones. He went to St. Mungo’s alone, expecting a lingering potion side effect, and came home with a healer’s note and a stunned expression.

Harry was at the manor when he arrived, sitting in the drawing room with that Muggle poetry book. He looked up the moment Draco walked in, saw the white-knuckled grip on the parchment.

“What’s wrong?”

Draco didn’t answer. He crossed the room, dropped the note into Harry’s lap, and sat down heavily on the sofa.

Harry read it once. Then again. His hands started shaking.

“Ron,” he called, voice hoarse. “Ron, get in here.”

Ron appeared from the library, book still in hand. “What’s—Harry? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Harry held up the note. Ron took it, read it, went pale.

“You’re pregnant,” Ron said, flat with shock.

Draco nodded, face unreadable. “I saw a healer. It’s confirmed. About six weeks.”

Six weeks. Harry did the math. That first time—the disaster, the galleons, the tears. Something had taken root in the wreckage.

“Draco,” Harry began, his voice breaking. He took Draco’