Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy runs an antique shop.
The same Malfoy who used to be wealthy, well known and loved, and influential. The same Malfoy who used to be haughty, uptight, and sharp tongued, he still is, just more controlled.
When the war ended, he basically lost his place in the wizarding world. He was shunned everywhere. Just because of some mark on his arm that apparently told everyone who he was.
The Wizengamot obviously wasn't going to put effort into defending his case, considering he was the child of a death eater who was part of the Inner Circle.
They took all his fortune, his manor, and basically drained him of all power anywhere.
So here he was. Running an old, abandoned shop that he magically fixed up. Sure, there were still spiders, they killed the other bugs, so they weren't all bad, and a bit of dust here and there. But what is an antique store without a bit of age? He was able to salvage some items from the old Manor, a vase there, a lamp over there, perhaps a candle or two. Nothing of true value, all of that was taken when the establishment was. So now he sells what he could find. In an old dinky shop, in the corner of Knockturn Alley, where even the outcasts that walk by glare at him.
Not that he cared of course, he was used to it, the cold looks.
Back to the shop itself, upstairs was an old apartment like room, no dividing walls, just one big space. He did the best with it as he could, stole a few things, placed them where no one could find, transfigured a bed frame and a mattress, got the water to work, found a place to get food, and that was all he needed at the moment. He took some of the lamps from the shop, potted a few plants, grabbed a bit of furniture and cushioned them, and all the rest was bought somewhere in knockturn that was randomly stranded about the room. He’d get to organizing it all soon, or not. It was basically home at that point.
Him being so adjusted to a pristine room, pressed clothes, managed surfaces, it was like a bit of freedom to just rest. To not have to worry about constantly keeping up appearances. Perhaps that's why the place is such a mess, to others it might be, but to him, he knew his way around. It was his mess, his scrambled mess that only he knew his way around. If anyone in the Wizengamot knew he worked here, well they didn't care as long as he wasn't causing even more trouble, they'd know if he was, in knockturn anyone would snitch for a buck. He would sit at the front desk all day and wait for customers, when someone did waltz in they'd scowl at him but place down their item, or glance around anyway. Just to see if there was something they could steal from him or use against him. They never found anything of course; he wasn't really attached to anything he sold. All of that was hidden. He also fixed things, he would fix old things, take them into the back, tinker it a bit, then return it in a week or so. Nothing too complex.
His life was stable at this point, nothing too big to buzz around, nothing too small to fret over.
That was before he found out his shop was haunted.
He was used to the feeling of being watched while inside his shop, there was a normal amount of that, being inside this shop meant you'd get that feeling. Then he started to hear voices too, well, a voice. Not a familiar one, but one that he felt he should've recognized. Like the person was someone he’d seen or heard of before but never actually knew.
It was not the best time to have a wandering spirit in his shop. He could've dealt with a man-eating plant, maybe a flood here and there, not a ghost, not something he couldn't get rid of. Now he had a big problem to deal with. The ghost didn’t disturb customers or anything, it doesn’t even come out during the day. It’s the night that puts Draco on edge. He’s used to feeling watched, but the voice, the voice that seemingly comes from nowhere and everywhere all at once. It’s like it’s in the walls. And perhaps it is, he hasn’t been getting sleep due to it. He’s too paranoid. Living in a house full of death eaters and the Dark Lord himself would do that to a person. Anyway, his affected sleep schedule was bad for business. He’d mess up orders if it kept up. So, he finally submitted. He’d have to call it in.
One would normally call the police for a case like this, not in the wizarding world of course, they had professions for ghost hunters, mystery solvers, terminal illness, down to the nitty gritty.
He would have to call the Spirit Department. Which he really didn’t want to do.
When Harry Potter had graduated from Hogwarts, he was expected to go into the Auror Department, continue fighting for the wizarding world. He had studied for it, trained for it, and made it of course. He and his buddy Ron had worked together for a year and a half straight. Just making the most of it, chasing criminals, solving cold cases, and filing paperwork. Of course he’d get tired of it one day, it was a repetitive cycle that almost no Auror could escape from, but he did. And he would make the most of it by doing something he actually enjoyed. Ever since he got the Resurrection Stone, Invisibility Cloak, and the Elder Wand he’d be declared Master of Death. He didn’t do much with the title but given he had the chance. He wanted to work with death, of course he did.
That’s how Draco found out that Harry Potter was employed in the Spirit Department.
Draco looked through the papers, old ones. It was an antique store, where he found a mention of ‘Spirit Catchers’ a dumb name if you ask him. But it was exactly what he needed at a strangely convenient time. Behind him a lampshade fell from its position where it was hanging from a wardrobe. Draco didn’t even turn to look. He knew it was either a change of wind or the ghost. He really needed a change of wind actually, again, that’s what drew him here in the first place. To this cluttered abode that he was just tagging along on the ride with. Sometimes the roof leaked, sometimes the floorboards creaked, the place had its quirks for sure. He felt like the three-story building had a mind of its own, that the place itself called him here, offered him a place to stay, so he stayed. Perhaps it was the house itself that was haunting him, or maybe it was a ghost from his past that followed him here, he wouldn’t know until it decided to show itself.
The room on the second story had a letter holder, right next to the window. Owls could come in, drop off their letter, and take a treat from the feeder next to it. The holder is where the newspapers stayed. Draco organized them sometimes, he would take all the mail out, put them into sorted piles, put them in designated places, and leave them there. He wouldn’t get back to them no matter if he said he would, which he did a lot. But whenever he did, he find something that was strangely convenient at the time. So, he figured this stack would be his best bet at getting rid of a ghost.
And it was.
When he found that horrendous advertisement for the Spirit Catchers with a floo and dial address right under it he couldn't help his laughter. He laughed for a good five minutes straight, then his face dropped impassively again, because right on the front page was Harry Potter, smiling ear to ear with Thomas and Finnigan at his sides.