Warnings: D/H slash with a side of R/Hr, epilogue non-compliant, mild language and eventual implied sex

Notes: This fic will be updated every Friday. Enjoy!

Harry found the letter sitting on his stoop when he got home from work. He almost mistook it for a piece of litter until he noticed his name on the address. The handwriting didn't belong to anyone he knew, and certainly, none of his friends addressed him as "Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived." He was about to toss it and re-check the wards that kept out fan mail when he noticed something else about the handwriting.

It belonged to a child. Harry wondered if he should be embarrassed that a child's handwriting was neater than his own— Robards had spent a good thirty minutes ridiculing him earlier that week after a coworker had misread a spell he'd sent in a memo and had ended up with donkey ears and a terrible bray for the rest of the day.

The stationary was first rate, or had been before its color had faded and its edges wrinkled. The date on the inside confirmed his suspicions. January 11th, 1987. This letter was almost fifteen years old.

Dear Harry Potter,

There is a monster living under my bed. My parents tell me I have an "overactive imagination," but I know it's there. It gives me bad dreams at night and makes bad things happen. All of my storybooks say that you are the one to consult. If you can get rid of the monster, I will give you a handsome reward of your choosing. Even my teddy Orion, who's my best friend in the whole wide world.

Harry chuckled at the last bit. Although the most prized possessions he'd had at that age were a pair of dust bunnies, he'd had plenty of "best friends in the whole wide world." Perhaps he shouldn't be smiling. After all, the statement implied this was a lonely child.

He choked as he read the last line. Only after cleaning his glasses and pinching himself hard enough to create two spotty bruises did he believe his eyes weren't playing tricks on him, that the letter actually said what he thought it did.


Draco Malfoy

The next line was even more heart-stopping.

P.S. Please hurry.


Instead of filing paperwork like he was pretending to do, Harry found himself staring at the letter throughout the next day. Where had it come from? Surely Malfoy hadn't sent it himself. Somehow, Harry doubted Malfoy wanted his nemesis to know about his best friend Orion the teddy bear.

Maybe someone had sent it as a prank. But George's pranks were usually much more flashy. Besides, if you were going to send a fake letter from Draco Malfoy, there were much better ways to humiliate him than the plea of a frightened little boy. Like a steamy love letter.

Shaking away his thoughts, Harry shoved the letter into his pocket and pushed his chair back.

"New lead?" Ron asked. They shared an office in the Ministry—or rather, when the Ministry had insisted on giving them private offices in honor of their service and dedication, they'd fused the rooms together and stacked the nameplates on the door.

Harry shook his head. The caseload was slow this week. Or at least, that was how he was justifying his fixation on the mystery of the fifteen-year-old letter. "I got a letter from Malfoy yesterday."

Ron wrinkled his nose. "What did he want?"

"For me to vanish the monster under his bed."

Ron made a sound that was something between a choke and a chuckle. "Have the Dementors made him mental?"

"He didn't go to Azkaban, remember?"

"And whose fault is that?" His tone lost its light-hearted edge at the mention of Malfoy's trial. He still vehemently disagreed with Harry's decision to testify and made a point of bringing it up whenever possible. Harry never bothered arguing; a part of him knew it was because he was afraid Ron might have had a point. "Now what was that about Malfoy's bed?"

"Apparently there's a monster under it."

"You're sure there's not a monster on it?"

Harry shot his friend a scolding smile. "He was seven when he sent it, so I doubt it."

"Speak for yourself. I knew him when he was seven, and he was a right prat." Ron frowned. "But what was he doing writing to you?"

"What, you never wrote any letters to Harry Potter when you were seven?"

Ron scowled. "I asked you to sign my poster. Which, by the way, I never got back."

"You want my signature? Here." Harry tossed him the stack of the paperwork he was working on. "I'm heading out."

"Before you go, could you make sure there aren't any monsters burrowing in my desk drawer?" Ron asked with a smirk.

Harry cuffed his friend on the way out. It was probably a good thing he hadn't gotten around to mentioning Malfoy's best friend in the whole wide world. Best friends could be a pain in the arse.


Twelve hours later, Harry was staring at the doorknob to his office with tired eyes. The doorknob stared back, its engravings twisting into a devious smile embellished with some very shiny, very sharp teeth. Did my doorknob really just bite me?

Considering it was five in the morning, Harry had reason to believe he may be dreaming after all. Especially when he heard a familiar voice from behind him.

"You have to kiss it."

"Excuse me?" He whirled around to find, of all people, a soaking wet Draco Malfoy staring at him. The Slytherin had lost his You're So Far Beneath Me, You're in the Marianas Trench glare and replaced it with a variation that just looked bored.

"You have to kiss it for it to let you through," Malfoy repeated. "They've been popping up all over the place this week. At least yours hasn't learned how to talk yet."

It wasn't the only one who was having problems talking. "What are you doing here?" Harry finally managed.

Malfoy seemed insulted—or maybe that was just his natural expression. "I work here." He pointed to his badge as he had his Slytherin crest, which made the badge's lettering even more shocking. "Magical Maintenance."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "At five in the morning?"

"For your information, I volunteered to work the nightshift," Malfoy snapped. He immediately clammed up. "Your finger's bleeding."

Eyeing the doorknob's fangs warily, Harry stuck the finger in his mouth. The doorknob's eyes followed the motion carefully, as if taking notes. "And you want me to kiss the thing?"

Rolling his eyes, Malfoy knelt in front of the door, cupped the doorknob with his hands, and pressed his lips against the cold metal. Harry didn't know which would be worse, Malfoy mocking him for looking away or Malfoy suggesting that he'd secretly enjoyed watching. In the end, it didn't matter because he found he couldn't look away. It was just too bizarre seeing the same lips that had called Hermione a Mudblood locked in an embrace with a talking doorknob.

Harry braced himself for a scathing insult of some sort, but to his surprise, Malfoy merely raised his eyebrows when he noticed Harry staring. "There you go, Potter."

He was going to walk away, Harry realized. What happened to the Malfoy who had lived to get a rise out of Harry? Not that he hadn't succeeded, Harry noted, ignoring a tightening in his pants.

He noticed the face on the doorknob was still there. "Hey!" he called after Malfoy. "How do I get rid of it?"

In response, Malfoy threw him a doorstop.


"You're late," the doorknob informed Harry smugly a week later as he entered his office. Harry swallowed a retort. He'd learned the hard way that this particular doorknob could rival Walburga Black when it felt slighted.

"Is Maintenance any closer to getting rid of them?" he asked Ron, who shook his head.

"Mysteries shut the operation down. Apparently, they set the knobs loose as part of an observational study to help develop a new alarm system. Mental, if you ask me."

"No one ever does," the doorknob said.

"Oh, shut up."

"I'm filing a workplace discrimination complaint," the doorknob informed him.

In response, Ron chucked a paperweight at it, which it promptly caught with its mouth and swallowed. "Hey! That was a present from Percy!"

"You hated that paper weight," Harry reminded him.

"It had sentimental value!"

"You hate Percy," Harry pointed out.

Ron responded by throwing his shoe at the door and let out a surprised squawk when the knob began devouring that too. Harry sighed as his best friend engaged in a rather embarrassing game of tug-of-war with the sentient doorknob. This was what happened when the most serious case to cross their desk all week was a runaway Pygmy Puff that ended up being used as a Quaffle.

Leaving Ron to his folly, he reached in his pocket and pulled out the letter. He'd memorized it long ago, but there was more to learn from the letter than what just the words told him. He knew, for instance, that Malfoy had enjoyed pumpkin juice as a child and that he'd forgotten to dot his i's on the first time around.

Would he have been friends with this Malfoy? Was this where their rivalry had really started, when he'd neglected to answer the letter, then refused to shake Malfoy's hand? Could their lives have been different, if he'd only…

His thoughts were interrupted the sound of a fist slamming down a desk. At first, he worried that he'd have to intervene with Ron but quickly realized he'd wandered into a different department. "…incompetence! Do you know how hard is it to work when it's snowing from the ceiling?"

Harry felt a little sorry for the clerk wearing the stupid orange hat until he saw who the man was yelling at.

"I'm sorry, sir," Malfoy said, probably for the third or fourth time. "My shift ended an hour ago. Perhaps you could contact my replacement?"

"There's this thing called 'overtime' for those of us who can't do their job properly," the clerk sneered. "You Malfoys. Never seen an honest day of work."

Something flashed in Malfoy's eyes, smothering that grey glaze of boredom. "No, sir. You see, I work nights."

The clerk's eyes narrowed. "Not anymore, you won't."

"Is there a problem?" Harry asked loudly, intruding on the scene.

"Mr. Potter!" the clerk squeaked. He cleared his throat and jabbed his finger at Malfoy, which was admittedly less effective in the pair of woolen mittens he was wearing. "This man insists on disrespecting his superiors. I'm just about to have a word with his boss. Perhaps you'd like to back me up?"

"His boss?" Harry asked. "You mean he doesn't work for you?"

The clerk nodded, looking pleased. "We don't hire Death Eaters."

"Then you're not his superior."

"Excuse me?"

"He doesn't work for you. You're not his superior, and he's not a Death Eater. I know, because it's my job to know. Not yours." Harry glanced down at the clerk's name card. "I notice you also mentioned overtime, Mr. Dobson. Make sure Mr. Malfoy gets paid double for his efforts." Then, he walked off, leaving Dobson twitching behind him.

Malfoy followed. Harry was hardly surprised to find the blond glaring at him as soon as they were out of sight. "So this is what the Savior of the World does now? Rescues Death Eaters from angry Eskimo clerks? What next, are you going to check for monsters under my bed?"

Harry halted abruptly. Where had the letter gone? Had Malfoy seen it? He shoved his hand in his pocket, letting out an internal sigh of relief when his fingers closed around it. Malfoy didn't seem to recognize the importance of his words. "What?"

"I know how you Slytherins work," Harry said. "I want a favor."

Malfoy looked briefly surprised. It wasn't common knowledge that Harry had almost been sorted into Slytherin, although he sometimes wondered if he should leek it himself in order to bring men like Dobson down a notch. "What do you want?"

"The doorknob keeps eating our—well, Ron's stuff." Malfoy seemed to find that funny. "I've been using it as a waste basket, but I think it's catching on. Do you think you could sort it out?"

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. "That's not a real favor. That's my job."

"You're going to teach me how to tame it," Harry replied. "That's the favor."

"You really don't know how Slytherins work, Potter."

They turned the corner to find Ron missing both shoes, swearing loudly as the spell he sent at the doorknob rebounded and hit him in the face.

"Maybe we'll do it during your shift tonight," Harry suggested as a thick beard sprung from Ron's chin.

Malfoy merely smirked as the doorknob started chewing on Ron's newly grown facial hair.


Harry found Malfoy tickling the doorknob that night. "How come it doesn't bite your fingers off?"

"There's a reason I got this job, Potter," Malfoy shot back. "Besides, I've been feeding it dog biscuits. And teaching it French swear words. I even gave it a name."

"Orion?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.

Malfoy froze mid-tickle, leaving his finger perilously close to an unexpected amputation. "No," he said finally. "Why would you guess that?"

"Uh…" Now was the perfect time to tell him about the letter. "Because it's a constellation, isn't it? Like Draco?" Malfoy shuddered "What?"

Whatever it was, Malfoy covered it up with a smirk. "I didn't know you knew how to pronounce my first name."

Harry frowned. "Why shouldn't we call each other by our real names? It'll get confusing after a while if we don't." When Malfoy sent him a questioning glance, Harry clarified, "Because there'll be more than one Malfoy eventually."

Malfoy scoffed. "There's not going to be a Malfoy Jr."

Harry's heart skipped a beat. No way. Was Malfoy…?

"I'm a janitor, Potter," Malfoy continued, petting the doorknob until it purred. "Tell me what respectable pureblood would let their daughter marry a janitor who was too pathetic to even land himself in Azkaban."

"Does it have to be a pureblood?" Or a daughter?

"Missing the point, Potter." Malfoy laid back against the wall. "It doesn't matter. It's not like I'd want… What about you, how come there isn't a tribe of freckle-faced Potters?"

"Ginny's engaged to Dean Thomas," Harry replied tersely. Even the tabloids had gotten tired of that question ages ago.

Malfoy smirked. "Jealous?"

"Not really," Harry replied. "Dean's not my type."

The look on Malfoy's face was priceless. "You mean you're… you're…" He shook his head, as if to knock the stunned expression off his face. "You're going to get a lot of interesting letters when that comes out."

Harry shrugged. "I thought it was common knowledge by now. Speaking of interesting letters…" When you were seven, did you try to bribe me with your teddy bear to check for monsters under your bed? "Do you ever get any?" he finished lamely.

Malfoy's mouth dropped open. "Is that why you asked me here? So you could interrogate me? Am I a suspect in one of your cases?"

"What? No. Although it would be confidential if you were."

Malfoy folded his arms. "Well, you didn't come here in the middle of the night to talk about a doorknob. So tell me, or I'll teach Scorpius here about cannibalism."

"Scorpius? Is that even a name?"

"Of course it's a name," Malfoy scoffed. "It's been in the family for ages."

Harry said nothing but internally thanked the gods that the name had skipped a generation. Then, he forced himself not to ponder the implications of Malfoy choosing a boy's name for a doorknob he had to regularly make out with. Instead, he answered Malfoy's question. "I've been thinking…" Harry stopped, making him the perfect target for one of Malfoy's jeers about how he'd thought Harry was incapable of thinking. But the blond said nothing. "You offered your hand to me once," Harry continued, "and I've just been thinking, maybe I shouldn't have been so quick to refuse it. I mean, you were an arse, but I didn't really know you, and maybe I shouldn't have been so… blunt about it."

"Yeah, I cried into my pillow for weeks. Honestly, Potter, you think you can save everyone. You could've kissed my arse, and it still would have turned out the way it did. You didn't have the Dark Lord living in your house. You didn't have a family to worry about."

"I had friends," Harry shot back.

Malfoy laughed dryly. "That's the difference between us, then." He stood up. "Dog biscuits, I tell you. That's the trick."

Harry watched him go, desperately wanting to call him back but unable to think of a reason why or a reason why he wanted that in the first place. He still couldn't figure out if Malfoy had changed beyond recognition or if he hadn't changed at all. One thing was for sure, he was still impossible as hell to figure out.

"Nice arse," the doorknob commented as Malfoy walked away.

Harry told himself that he had not been thinking the same thing.

Yes, Scorpius is a flirtatious talking doorknob. I told you this story was epilogue non-compliant. This fic will be updated weekly, although I'm open to suggestions as to which day that is. If you have any questions, comments, or criticisms, feel free to shoot me a PM (or review). I appreciate your feedback!