---

The lights in the Auror Headquarters remained bright at midnight. Harry Potter rubbed his tired eyes and downed his seventh cup of coffee. Five years—the war had ended five years ago, yet the shadow of Dark Magic never truly left the British wizarding world.

"Another disappearance case, sir." Hermione placed a file on his already cluttered desk, her brow furrowed. "Borgin and Burkes this time. Like the previous six, only specific Dark artifacts were taken."

Harry opened the file, and a photograph slipped out—graffiti on the shop's back wall, a twisted serpentine symbol with two intersecting scars deliberately carved through the snake's eyes.

His fingers unconsciously traced his forehead scar. "This mark again."

"Third one this month." Hermione sat opposite him. "All evidence points to the same person, but..."

"But it's impossible." Harry cut her off, his green eyes fixed on the photo. "Draco Malfoy's been missing for four years. The Ministry declared him likely dead."

Hermione sighed. "The wand analysis is conclusive, Harry. The magical signature at the scene matches his hawthorn wand. And..." She hesitated. "Witnesses described a blond man with the Dark Mark on his left forearm."

Harry stood and walked to the window. London's night sky drizzled like that rainy evening in his sixth-year memory when Draco had wept in the downpour.

"I'll investigate," he said abruptly.

"Harry, this could be a trap. You and Malfoy have... history."

"That's exactly why I must go." Harry turned, his face set in the stubborn expression Hermione knew so well. "If he's truly alive, if he's returned to his old ways..."

Hermione knew she couldn't dissuade him. "Fine, but take backup. Ron could—"

"No, I go alone." Harry already had his coat. "Where's the latest lead?"

"Norway. A northern town called Tromsø."

Three days later, Harry stood outside an ice-covered village in northern Norway. Muggles called this place "the end of the world"; the wizarding world knew it as a key transit point for smuggling Dark artifacts.

Cloaked in his Invisibility Cloak, wand ready, Harry slipped silently into the village. According to intelligence, the man resembling Draco lived in a cabin at the village's edge—one surrounded by powerful protective spells.

As the Northern Lights danced across the sky, Harry waited patiently until the cabin's lights went out. Whispering counter-charms, he dismantled the outermost protections—Draco had used Hogwarts-era spell combinations, which Harry knew intimately.

The wooden door slid open silently. Holding his breath, Harry stepped into the darkness.

"Shall I say welcome, Potter?" A familiar voice emerged from the shadows, carrying that trademark lazy drawl but rougher, deeper now.

A wand tip illuminated the speaker's face. Harry's heart skipped a beat.

Draco Malfoy sat in an armchair, as pale as ever, his blond hair longer and tied back casually. He looked much thinner than Harry remembered, with dark circles under his grey eyes. Most striking was the scar on his left cheek—a vicious mark running from cheekbone to jaw.

"Four years apart, and you're still skilled at illegal trespassing." Draco said leisurely, his wand steady at Harry's heart.

Harry didn't lower his weapon. "You've been stealing Dark artifacts. Why?"

Draco's lips curled into a bitter smile. "Straight to business? No small talk? Not going to ask how I survived?"

"I read the reports." Harry's voice was colder than intended. "The Ministry thought you died in a Knockturn Alley explosion. You faked your death."

"Brilliant as ever, Potter." Draco stood, his movements still graceful, though Harry noticed a limp in his right leg. "But you're wrong. I didn't steal those items."

"Wand analysis doesn't lie."

"Wands can be borrowed. Or taken by force." Draco suddenly rolled up his left sleeve—the Dark Mark remained but was crisscrossed with countless knife scars. "I'm not collecting Dark artifacts, Potter. I'm destroying them."

Harry froze. "Prove it."

With a sigh, Draco waved his wand. The walls shimmered away, revealing hidden shelves—covered with Dark objects, each bound by peculiar silver threads.

"Restraining Charms," Harry recognized the magic. "You're containing them?"

"More thoroughly than your Auror colleagues." Draco sneered. "I've developed a method to permanently neutralize cursed objects. Over two hundred purified in four years."

Harry examined them closely—each item's dark aura was suppressed to near nothing. "Why not tell the Ministry? Why fake your death?"

Pain flickered in Draco's grey eyes. "You thought the war's end meant peace? The Dark Lord's followers just went underground. If I operated openly, I'd be dead within months—or worse, they'd use my parents against me."

Harry remembered Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy, sentenced to life in Azkaban after the war. Draco had avoided prosecution due to being underage and insufficient evidence, but the Malfoy name was already in ruins.

"The graffiti? The snake and scar?"

Draco's expression turned complicated. "That was... a warning. For those still hunting me."

"What warning?"

"To tell them Harry Potter was investigating." Draco met Harry's gaze. "Only your name makes remaining Death Eaters think twice."

Harry felt dizzy. Draco had been using his name for protection? This was...

"You used me?"

"I survived." Draco said simply. "Like during the war. By any means necessary."

The air between them solidified. Harry didn't know what to believe. Draco seemed to be doing good, but his methods... were so Malfoy.

"I need proof," Harry finally said. "Evidence you're destroying, not collecting these."

Nodding, Draco approached an ancient chest. He input an intricate spell sequence; the lock clicked open, revealing a thick logbook.

"Four years of records. Each item's origin, purification method, and..." He flipped to a specific page. "Three instances where I stopped Dark wizards attacking Muggle towns."

Harry read carefully, his pulse quickening. Far from returning to old habits, Draco had been single-handedly combating Dark magic—and excelling at it.

"Why?" Harry looked up. "Why do this?"

Draco's expression softened momentarily, and Harry glimpsed the lost boy from sixth year. "Redemption, I suppose. For my family's crimes. For... my own."

Harry suddenly understood the origins of Draco's facial scar and limp. This work demanded its price.

"You could've come to me," Harry blurted. "I'd have helped."

Draco laughed genuinely—a sound Harry hadn't heard in years. "You, the Golden Boy, helping a Malfoy? The Daily Prophet would feast on that."

"To hell with the Daily Prophet." Harry smiled too. "I mean it, Draco. You didn't have to do this alone."

At hearing his first name, Draco visibly startled. Something unspoken shifted between them.

"I've grown accustomed to solitude," Draco murmured. "And it's dangerous."

"I handle danger rather well, remember?"

They locked eyes, some silent understanding passing between them. Finally, Draco nodded.

"Very well, Potter. Since you insist... I'll show you our next target. A group planning to attack Durmstrang with stolen cursed dolls."

Before Harry could respond, a silver Patronus burst in—Hermione's otter.

无题