Exquisite Distraction

The silence of Grimmauld Place was a living thing. It breathed dust and shadows, settling into the corners of rooms that had been scrubbed clean but could never be truly purified. For Harry, it was a mausoleum disguised as a home, a monument to a war he was supposed to have won. Winning, it turned out, felt a lot like being hollowed out and left to gather dust along with the cursed artifacts and portraits of long-dead bigots.

He was The Saviour. The-Boy-Who-Lived-Twice. The Chosen One. The titles were like heavy, ill-fitting robes he couldn't take off. Every time he caught his reflection—in a polished shield in the hall, the dark glass of a window at night, or the tarnished silver of the bathroom mirror—he saw a stranger. A tired, haunted-looking boy with a famous scar and the weight of the wizarding world in the slump of his shoulders. He hated that boy. Hated the expectation in his own green eyes.

The change began subtly, a quiet rebellion against the ghost in the mirror. It started in a Muggle charity shop in Islington, a place of comforting anonymity. He’d been drawn to a rack of clothes, his fingers brushing against fabrics that felt nothing like the rough denim and scratchy wool of his usual wardrobe. He’d bought a silk blouse, the colour of clotted cream, and a slim-fitting pair of black trousers that tapered at the ankle. He’d smuggled them back to Grimmauld Place like contraband.

Now, standing before the full-length mirror in Sirius’s old room, the transformation was no longer subtle. The silk felt like a cool whisper against his skin, a stark contrast to the coarse cotton of the shirts he’d worn his whole life. It clung to his wiry frame, hinting at the lean muscle beneath but softening the hard lines. The trousers were snug, molding to his hips and the length of his legs, making him feel elegant and sharp.

His curiosity had quickly expanded. A kohl pencil, bought from a chemist’s, was next. His hand had trembled the first time he’d tried to line his eyes, the motion unfamiliar and strange. But as he got the hang of it, tracing a thin, dark line along his upper and lower lashes, he saw his eyes change. They became piercing, luminous, the green impossibly vibrant. They were still his eyes, but they were weaponized with beauty instead of burdened by fate.

Tonight, he was bolder. He’d found a pot of sheer, shimmering lip gloss and a hint of pearlescent powder that he dusted along his high cheekbones. He turned his head from side to side, watching the light catch the shimmer. The face staring back at him was finally starting to look like his own. The sharp jaw, the slender neck, the sweep of his messy black hair falling over a brow that was no longer just a billboard for his scar. The scar was still there, of course, a pale lightning bolt against his skin, but now it was just one feature among many. It was an accent, not the entire story.

A slow, unfamiliar heat uncoiled in his stomach. It wasn't just satisfaction; it was a flicker of genuine arousal. He looked… beautiful. Not handsome, not pretty, but a captivating fusion of both. The androgynous figure in the mirror was graceful and sharp, delicate and dangerous. He ran a hand down his front, over the sinfully smooth silk, feeling the shape of his own ribs, the dip of his waist. For the first time since the war, he felt a sense of ownership over his own body. It wasn't a weapon, or a symbol, or a sacrifice anymore. It was his, and he could adorn it, shape it, and find pleasure in it however he saw fit. This secret version of himself, hidden away in the silence of Grimmauld Place, was the only thing that felt real.

The reverie was shattered by a sharp, insistent tapping against the windowpane. Harry’s head snapped up, his heart giving a nervous jolt. Outside, a stern-looking Ministry owl was perched on the sill, its amber eyes glaring as if personally offended by the delay. A thick scroll, sealed with the imposing wax crest of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, was tied to its leg.

The sight of it felt like a splash of icy water. The outside world, the world of duty and expectation, had found him.

He let the owl in, his movements suddenly stiff and awkward. The silk blouse felt flimsy now, like inadequate armour. After untying the scroll, he gave the bird a treat and watched it fly off into the deepening twilight, a messenger from a life he was no longer sure he wanted. His fingers, one of which still had a faint smudge of kohl under the nail, trembled slightly as he broke the seal.

The parchment was heavy, the words inscribed in a severe, official script.

Dear Mr. Potter,

Following your application and the unanimous recommendation of the Wizengamot review board, we are pleased to offer you a position in the accelerated Auror training program, commencing…

Harry’s eyes scanned the rest of the text without truly reading it. He already knew what it would say. Dates, times, lists of required equipment. It was the path everyone had laid out for him, the one he had dutifully agreed to walk. Kingsley had called it a formality. “You’re the best candidate we’ve ever had, Harry. A natural.”

A natural. He looked from the rigid, formal letter in his hand to his reflection in the mirror. The figure that looked back was anything but a ‘natural’ Auror candidate. The image of a typical Auror was one of rugged masculinity, of grim-faced men like Moody or stoic protectors like Shacklebolt. They were all hard angles and battle scars, their magic a blunt instrument of justice.

And here he was. Slender and graceful in borrowed silks, his eyes artfully smudged with black, his lips gleaming. A wave of cold dread washed over him, so potent it made him feel sick. Going back into the public eye was one thing; he had braced himself for the stares, the whispers, the endless gratitude, and the thinly veiled pity. But that was when he planned on playing the part of Harry Potter, The Saviour.

How could he possibly walk into the Ministry of Magic, into the heart of the Auror department, looking like this? The thought was terrifying. They would see him not as a hero, but as a freak. The whispers would turn from awe to mockery. He could just imagine it—the sneers, the crude jokes behind his back. The pressure to conform, to cut his hair, to scrub his face clean, to bury this delicate, thrilling part of himself back in the dusty silence of Grimmauld Place.

The idea of doing that, of locking this person away, felt like a suffocation. It would be a betrayal of the only true peace he’d found since the war. He couldn't go back to being that hollowed-out boy in the mirror. He wouldn’t.

A strange, defiant fire began to burn through the dread. It was the same stubborn flame that had carried him through the Forbidden Forest to face Voldemort. A refusal to be what others demanded him to be. He had fought for their world, for their freedom. He had earned the right to his own.

He would go. He would become an Auror, because he still believed in protecting people. He knew what it was like when no one was there to help. But he wouldn't do it as the person they expected. He wouldn't hide. He would walk into that training hall as himself—this new, evolving, complicated self. Let them stare. Let them whisper. Their judgment was a paltry thing compared to the war he had already survived. He met his own gaze in the mirror again, and this time, the reflection was not just beautiful. It was defiant. And for the first time, the prospect of returning to the world held not just dread, but a sharp, dangerous thrill.

The atrium of the Ministry of Magic was as cavernous and impersonal as he remembered, a grand hall of polished black marble that swallowed sound and spat back echoes. The press of bodies was gone, replaced by the purposeful stride of post-war bureaucrats, but the weight of the place remained. Harry felt it settle on his shoulders, a familiar pressure. He tugged at the collar of his robes, the fabric a soft, dark charcoal wool, cut in a way that was neither strictly masculine nor feminine. It draped over his shoulders, nipped in slightly at his waist, and fell open to reveal tailored, high-waisted black trousers and a simple, dark green silk shirt.

He had spent an hour on his appearance. The kohl was there, a subtle, smoky line that made his eyes seem impossibly green under the enchanted sky of the Ministry ceiling. A touch of gloss made his lips look fuller, almost bruised. It wasn't the bold statement he made in the privacy of his room, but it was enough. It was a declaration. Every witch or wizard who passed him did a double-take. He saw their eyes flick from his scar to his face, a flicker of confusion in their expressions before they hurried on their way. Each stare was a small victory that bolstered his fraying nerve.

He followed the signs to the Auror training levels in the Ministry’s lower depths. The air grew cooler, the corridors narrower and more functional. He finally reached a heavy oak door marked ‘Training Room 7’. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

The room was large and stark, with high ceilings and stone walls bare of any decoration save for racks of training equipment. About twenty other trainees were already there, milling about in small groups. They were almost uniformly male, broad-shouldered and solid, their standard-issue training robes doing little to hide the powerful builds beneath. The air hummed with nervous energy and testosterone.

As Harry stepped fully into the room, the low chatter faltered. A dozen pairs of eyes fixed on him. He felt the gazes like physical things, crawling over his slender frame, his carefully chosen clothes, his face. He saw the confusion, the whispers that started behind cupped hands, the outright sneers on a few faces. He lifted his chin, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He had expected this. He was ready for it. He let his own gaze sweep coolly over the room, cataloguing the faces of his new colleagues, his new antagonists.

And then he saw him.

Leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, was Draco Malfoy.

The sight hit Harry with the force of a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs. He hadn't even considered the possibility. Malfoy was a pariah, a Death Eater’s son. Surely they wouldn't let him train to be an Auror. And yet, there he was. He looked different. The war had stripped him of his boyish petulance, replacing it with something harder and more severe. He was taller, broader in the shoulders than Harry remembered, his white-blond hair cut shorter, styled with a casual severity. He wore the same standard robes as the others, but on him, they looked impossibly sharp and aristocratic. He looked dangerous.

As if feeling Harry’s stare, Malfoy’s head lifted. His grey eyes, cool and dismissive, swept over Harry before they were meant to move on. But they didn't. They stopped. They snagged. Harry watched the entire sequence of emotions play out on that pale, sharp face. A flicker of automatic recognition, the ingrained sneer starting to form at the corner of his mouth. Then, confusion. His eyes narrowed, taking in the silk shirt, the defined line of kohl, the sheen on Harry’s lips. The sneer dissolved, replaced by a raw, unvarnished intensity that was utterly unreadable. It wasn't just disgust. It wasn't mockery. It was something else entirely—a sharp, analytical focus, as if he were trying to solve a puzzle he hadn't known existed. His gaze was so penetrating it felt like a violation, like his eyes were stripping away the robes, the silk, the makeup, trying to find the Potter he knew underneath.

The room and its other occupants faded into a dull roar in Harry's ears. There was only the charged space between them, a sudden, suffocating vacuum. The old hatred was there, a familiar ember, but it was now laced with something new and terrifying. Malfoy’s eyes dropped for a fraction of a second, tracing the line of Harry's body before snapping back to his face. A strange heat bloomed low in Harry’s stomach, a confusing mix of indignation and a shameful, thrilling flutter. The way Malfoy was looking at him… it wasn’t how one rival looked at another. It was how a predator looked at something new and fascinating in its territory.

The spell was broken by a sharp clap of hands that echoed off the stone. "Alright, settle down, you lot! Find a line!"

The voice was rough, gravelly, and held an unmistakable note of command. A man strode into the center of the room, short and powerfully built, with a grizzled beard and a face that looked like it had been used to stop a few too many Bludgers. This was Gawain Robards, Head of the Auror Office. His eyes, small and sharp, swept over the trainees with an expression of profound disappointment.

"My name is Robards. For the next six months, your miserable lives belong to me. I don't care who your father is, I don't care how many Dark Lords you've personally vanquished. In here, you are nothing. You are trainees. Less than trainees. You are the raw, pathetic clay from which I might, if I'm feeling generous, sculpt a junior Auror. Are we clear?"

A ragged chorus of "Yes, sir," answered him. Harry’s own voice was lost in the murmur. He could still feel the burn of Malfoy’s stare on his skin, even though he was now looking straight ahead at Robards.

"We'll start with names," Robards grunted, pointing to the man at the end of the line. "State your name, loud and clear. Don't want any of you dying because your partner couldn't remember what to bloody well call you."

The introductions began, a series of clipped, nervous names. Williamson. Davies. Corner. When it was Harry’s turn, he felt a fresh wave of eyes fall upon him. He stood a little straighter, lifted his chin, and met Robards's gaze directly.

"Harry Potter," he said, his voice clearer and steadier than he expected.

A ripple went through the room. Robards just grunted, unimpressed. But Harry wasn't looking at Robards. His senses were screamingly aware of Malfoy, three people down the line. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Draco hadn't moved a muscle. His head was still angled slightly, his silver eyes fixed on Harry with that same unnerving, dissecting intensity. It was a gaze that stripped him bare. It felt like Malfoy could see the frantic pulse at the base of his throat, the way his nipples had hardened under the silk of his shirt from the cold stone and the colder stares. The look was invasive, a violation that was somehow also a validation. It acknowledged every choice Harry had made that morning—the kohl, the gloss, the carefully androgynous cut of his robes—and held it up for intense, private scrutiny. A hot, coiling knot of something dark and exciting tightened in his gut. He hated it. He craved it.

The introductions continued. Finally, it was Malfoy's turn.

"Draco Malfoy," he said. His voice was a low, arrogant drawl, but it cut through the room with practiced ease. He didn't look at Robards. His eyes were still locked on Harry's. The corner of his mouth tilted up in the barest hint of a smirk, a shadow of the old sneer but now twisted into something infinitely more complex and dangerous. It was a look that held a world of unspoken things: contempt, yes, but also a grudging, possessive curiosity. I see you, Potter, it said. I see this new game you're playing. And I'm going to figure it out.

The last few trainees mumbled their names, and then Robards began to pace before them, launching into a long, brutal speech about the realities of Auror work. He spoke of death, dismemberment, and the psychological toll of the job. He promised them pain, exhaustion, and a high probability of failure.

Harry heard the words, but they were a distant drone. His entire being was focused on the man standing less than ten feet away. The air between them was a taut wire, humming with a new and volatile energy. This wasn't the simple, childish hatred of their school days. That had been loud and obvious. This was silent, watchful, and deeply personal. It was a rivalry reborn not on the Quidditch pitch or in the corridors of Hogwarts, but here, in this cold stone room, ignited by a glance that felt more intimate than a touch. Malfoy wasn't just looking at the Boy Who Lived anymore. He was looking at Harry, at this new, strange, beautiful creature he'd become, and the raw, unmasked hunger in that look promised a conflict far more thrilling, and far more perilous, than any they had ever known.