A/N: I almost forgot to publish this! I was halfway out the door—quite literally—when I remember it's Monday!

This guy is based on a prompt from D.E.W.P. and is die-hard Drarry all the way. I'm going to start this off as a T, but the rating will shoot up in a couple chapters. There's drinking and language for now, sexytimes later on.

Enjoy!

Chapter One

Finding the Ferret

1

Harry was wandering through the streets of Tottenham in Muggle clothes, hand on his wand. It wasn't likely he'd be taken by surprise, but the concussion he'd gotten a few months ago proved it was far from impossible. Tonight in particular he knew he wasn't paying as much attention as he should be; he was too annoyed with one Kingsley Shacklebolt, and the British Prime Minister. At first this assignment had seemed honorable, and he had been pleased to spend his nights wandering the most dangerous streets of London. He hadn't, however, anticipated on homeless duty for more than a month or two—surely the Ministry wouldn't permanently assign him off proper Auror duty forever, would they? With each passing day it seemed more and more likely.

It wasn't that the program was bad, because it certainly wasn't. Wizard and Muggle Ministers had joined together to cut down on London's homeless population, which was an entirely noble task. Several wizards from each department—except the Department of Mysteries, of course—had been assigned to patrol the streets at night, looking for homeless Muggles. They'd perform healing charms, give them a sip of Felix Felicis, then Obliviate all memories of magic. It resulted in happy, healthy, lucky Muggles who, more often than not, found themselves in a well-paying job and new apartment within a week.

Harry was very pleased this program existed. At first they had worked with partners, and he and Ron had enjoyed spending nights together helping people. Then, as the wizards had grown used to their jobs, they had been split up to cover more ground. Slowly, as the homeless population decreased, the wizards had gone back to their regular departments.

Except Harry. The longer he was kept away from the Auror department the more frustrated and annoyed he got, which made him feel guiltier with each passing night, which served to annoy him further. It continued on and on until tonight, stalking through the streets of Tottenham, kicking empty cans and startling several stray cats out of their hiding places. Not only did he want to get back to his real job, and get rid of the persistent guilt, but there were hardly any Muggles left to help. The program had been a remarkable success; not only were the Muggles they helped leading better lives but they inspired others to a better life as well. The Muggle papers were filled with percentages and statistics and some measure of confusion. There was hardly anything left to do.

That was where the real resentment came from. He didn't mind helping Muggles—in fact he liked it—but he did not enjoy spending hours traipsing through the same streets over and over again looking for people who weren't there. And, well, there was a rather unpleasant part of himself that wondered what he had done to piss off whoever had stuck him with this. Of course it looked good to have the Golden Boy helping Muggles but really, after a certain point, he'd be more useful in the Auror office, wouldn't he? How was it that he was one of the few remaining wizards on homeless duty?

So when he saw someone slumped against the wall of a particularly nasty alley, he was excited. It was wrong, of course, to be happy to run into someone this down on their luck, but he had something useful and productive to do again. So really, his motives were nothing but pure.

"Hey there," Harry called out, approaching the person. His eyes were adjusted to the darkness with a spell they had all been taught when the program had begun, but he still couldn't see the person's face, only the bottle of—was that Firewhiskey?

"Go away," the person who seemed an awful lot like a wizard slurred. Well, that was all right. It had happened before, helping magical folk.

Harry approached cautiously. That concussion he'd had a few months ago had come from a particularly well-thrown whiskey bottle, and he wasn't eager to repeat the process. "Need some help?"

"No!" the person yelled. The voice almost seemed familiar, but Harry was sure he was wrong. At least he could tell it was male, and definitely Firewhiskey. That made this easier. "'M fine! Better than I've ever been!"

Harry performed a quick cleaning spell on the ground and sat opposite the wizard. He still couldn't see his face; he must have cast a Disillusionment spell on himself. Not uncommon for homeless wizards—nobody wanted to be known as that guy who couldn't hold his life together anymore.

"Wanna talk about it?" Harry asked.

"No," the wizard slurred. "Got kicked out. 'Mbarrassmen—barrassthing—pathetic. Not telling 'nyone."

That would explain why the wizard was dressed impeccably, despite wallowing in an alley. "There's a hotel that'll give you a place to sleep for a few nights, to help you get your bearings," Harry said. "Why don't I take you there?"

"No, I'd be recogmizeded," he said. "Pictrue'll be in the paper. Laying low, that's th' way t'go." He took a swig from his Firewhiskey.

"The hotel is very discrete," Harry said. "I'd tell you some of the big names who've spent a night or two there, only that would defeat the purpose. Rest assured, nobody will know."

"No money," the wizard said. "'Storia took it all. Locked me out've Gringotts."

Harry stared. Was—did he just say Astoria? As in Astoria Greengrass or, more accurately, Astoria Greengrass Malfoy? Was this Draco Malfoy?

"Goblins're pricks," he muttered. "'Nyway, go 'way. Don't wanna say somethin' stupid."

"It's fine," Harry said distractedly, then gathered himself. Whoever it was needed help. Even if it was Malfoy. "I'm here to help, not to spread your secrets around. Just one night in the hotel, would you? I'll sign you in under my name, pay for a few nights, and set you up with a supply of Polyjuice Potion so no one will recognize you."

"No," he said. "No, gonna stay here, with m' whiskey."

Harry rested his hand on his wand inconspicuously and whispered, "Finite Incantatem." The Disillusionment charm fell away and yes, against all odds, Draco Malfoy was sprawled before him, drunk as all get-out, having been kicked out of his house. "How about I stay with you, then?" Harry asked. This was standard protocol, especially with those who looked like they'd had enough to drink they'd pass out soon enough they could be brought to the hotel. "You haven't got to talk to me, I'll just sit here with you. Getting kicked out is rough. You've got to be lonely."

Malfoy considered. ""ve been alone fer a while," he said. "Suppose you could stay there. No questiotions, though," he added, pointing the whiskey at Harry.

"Nope, no questions," he said. "Just company."

"What day's it?" Malfoy asked.

"Thursday," Harry replied. "Er, Friday morning, I guess."

He heaved a great sigh. "Three days 've been gone," he said, which seemed wrong, because how could his clothing still be so perfect after three days on the streets? "Spent the first night 'n France, then Swizt—Swizter—Alps, kept getting kicked out 'f those, too." He threw the bottle at the wall just to the right of Harry, who flinched as it shattered. "My insestral manners, loss' t' vidnicvite cunt." Malfoy eyed him through watery, red eyes. "Know 'f 'ny barrsitrees?"

"Yeah, ," Harry said, handing him the card for a wizard barrister. "He'll take you on pro bono, as long as you can prove you don't have any assets hidden away."

Malfoy remained silent for a moment. "Secret vault," he conceded. "Shhh. Don't tell 'nyone."

"No, of course not," Harry said. "Would you like to go to Gringotts, then, and get some money?"

"No," Malfoy said firmly. "Golbins, they've got m' name, m' face, call 'Storia if I show up."

"If you give me your key, I'll go in for you," Harry offered. Also protocol.

He shook his head. "Y'need m' fignerprints. An' m' wand. Can't show m' fignerprints without m' face."

That was true. "You're sure you won't let me take you to that hotel?" Harry tried again. "They'll let you stay for free for three days; the Ministry subsidizes them in exchange for hospitality."

"No hotels!" Malfoy yelled, leaning forward, then slumping back against the wall. He looked around. "Where'd m' whiskey go?"

"You finished it," Harry said.

"More, then," he said, trying to stand and unable to. "Get me some? 'll pay y'back, 'm good fer it."

"It's the middle of the night," Harry said gently. "All the liquor stores are closed."

Malfoy's eyes widened in panic. "No whiskey?"

Harry shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

"Bloody fucking Merlin balls!" he yelled, remarkably clearly. ""ve been drunk fer days, don' wanna b' sober. 'd have t'think."

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather ride out your hangover in a hotel?" Harry asked. "If you've really been drunk for three days, it's not going to be pleasant."

Suddenly Malfoy was tearing up, and Harry was eerily reminded of their sixth year. "'Storia cleans up after me," he said mournfully. "'Course, 'd only drink when she w's diffiluct, so it'd take a while, and, really, the house 'lves did it, but she sent 'em." He paused. "I think. Hard to rebember."

"The hotel has specific wizards on staff to help with exactly that," Harry said. "They won't hold your hair back or anything, but room cleanings are five times a day, and the bathroom has a spell on it to avoid any vomit-splatter."

Malfoy snorted. "She never held m'hair back," he said. "She stopped touching m' yeeeeeaars ago."

Harry did some quick calculations. He had read about their marriage in the papers when it happened, which was—two years ago? Three? If Malfoy was accurate, which was a pretty big if, given how drunk he was, that'd mean they hardly had any good time with her. That was a shame.

"Maybe I sh'd hire a protistute t' take care 'f me," Malfoy mused.

Harry closed his eyes in frustration. If he had ever thought this was going to be easy, that dashed any hopes. "No, don't do that," Harry said. "If you don't want to go to a hotel, I could take you to St. Mungo's. They'll treat you very well, but make you go through an addiction program afterwards, though."

Malfoy waved a hand dismissively. "Nooo," he groaned. "Haven't got 'n addi—dick—shun. Jus' tryin' t' ferget th' little bitch-cunt."

"What are your plans, then?" Harry asked. "Staying drunk for the rest of your life?" That, getting angry with those he was trying to help, was most certainly not protocol, but neither was finding Malfoy in the gutter.

"Tha'ss—tha'ss brilliant," he said, eyes lighting up. "Where's m' whiskey?"

"You finished it, remember?"

Malfoy slumped back. "Oh, yeah." His eyes were starting to get heavy, and Harry thought he might be nearing passing out. Then he started to cry legitimately, big, blubbery tears sliding down his pale face. "Don' wanna b' sober," he said. "'M gonna cry if 'm sober."

Harry sighed. "It's okay," he said. "It's going to be fine. We'll get you to the hotel where you can sleep this off, get you in touch with that barrister and get your properties back, and then you can move back home."

"No," Malfoy said. "Emmmtee houses. Don' wanna b' 'lone. 'Storia's awful, but at leasss she's there, even if it's juss yellin'."

Harry pitied Malfoy. How long had he been this miserable? How could he live with a woman who made him miserable just for the sake of not being alone? "Come home with me, then," he said, which was absolutely, one hundred percent not protocol. "I'll get you back on your feet. You won't be alone." He flinched and sighed a little. "I'll hold your hair back, All right? I can't just leave you out here."

Malfoy eyed him again. "Y'look f'milyar," he said. "What'd y'say yer name's?"

"Harry," he replied, grateful for the rule that stated he was never allowed to give out his last name, regardless of how many other rules he had broken. "I've got a spare room with its own bathroom, hangover potions, strong tea and, most importantly, a roof over your head. Besides, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one willing to nurse you back to health on your own terms."

Malfoy sighed. "Juss for t'night," he said. "Bed's better than th' ground, esspeshully when there's no whiskey. Tomorrow I'll get more whiskey an' go."

"That's fine," Harry said, knowing he wouldn't be going anywhere except the bathroom for at least a day.

"Alrigh' then. 'Parrite—appria—"

"Apparate," Harry supplied. He got up and walked over to Malfoy, taking him firmly by the arm. "Ready?"

"Yeah, sure," Malfoy said. "T's good t'be touchin' someone 'gin."

The admission that he was so lonely just a hand on an arm was enough to make him feel better was so wretchedly pathetic that Harry felt better about taking him home. He needed someone to care for him, which the hotel wouldn't provide, and would be all too clinical at St. Mungo's. "Okay, here we go."

"Whee," Malfoy said dolefully.

And they were off.