Archive of Our Own ^beta

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. 

Chapter Text

Except the spirit wasn’t really evil. 

“For Merlin’s sake…” Draco muttered under his breath with every step he took towards the attic. He despised going into the attic, but he had to this time, a customer asked for something that he knew he would only find up there. So here he is. Climbing the winding staircases all the way to the top, brushes away spider webs that had things in them he didn’t even wish to name. Pushing open the attic door, coughing at the dust it brought up, and finally flicking on the light. 

A loud clang  from somewhere behind him startled him, the noise that slipped out was out of his control, something between a scream and a groan, causing him to quickly turn around and face whatever made the sound. Not that he would really do anything about it, unless it was something small; he’s not a Gryffindor.
Expecting an animal of some sort he wasn’t prepared for what he did see. 

Standing in the corner of his attic was Luna Lovegood, carrying a box full of what seemed like old clock parts, her hair braided back with an assortment of flowers and…weeds? Throughout it. She was smiling softly at Draco as though she hadn’t just made his heart drop twenty feet out of his chest. 

“Oh, Luna, how lovely to see you here.” He meant it, despite the fact that his heart was still racing and he was slightly irritated that she had just come from nowhere.

“I could say the same. Are you looking for something?” Was her voice always that soft? Or is he just going insane from being in the attic? Probably both. 

“Yes, do you remember the stained glass vase? The one with pink lilies on it. I believe the last time I saw it it was up here.” 

“The same one we agreed was haunted?”
“Yes, that one.” 

“We probably shouldn’t sell that then. Is someone asking for it?”
“No, they’re asking for an example like it though, so I figured I’d take a few photos of it.” 

“Well, it’s over in that box. The grey one.” 

That might have been the longest conversation he’s had with her since he started working here. He spoke with her before his employment but it only got kind of awkward being in the same vicinity all the time. Draco hopes that they’ll get close again, he didn’t mind her company as much as the others. But despite that, he strategically walked over to the large grey box near the back wall of the attic. There were open boxes scattered along the wooden floor, the only source of light being the singular window made it harder to actually see them but he got there eventually.
When he opened the box and lifted up the vase, the last thing he expected was a shrill scream and a blur of something pale flashing by. Draco is 90 percent sure that the wind of it messed up his hair, but a quick look around the room to try and find what flew past him revealed nothing. Even Luna had mysteriously disappeared. She had the tendency to do that though. 

In his scare, he had dropped the vase. It smashed against the floor and completely shattered by his feet. He was sure that at least one shard had buried itself in his boot by the time he backed up. Well there goes the vase he needed. The customer would not be happy. 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

 Like he said, the customer was displeased. Immensely. Though since it was rare that any customers came in at all it wasn’t that big of a deal. That one person would go and tell all of their friends what a shame it had been, then the sales would go down ever further. 

Draco decided to dedicate his time to other things for the moment.  His small, tiny, microscopic, ghost problem. 

He’d known this shop was haunted when he bought it, that's why it was so cheap in the first place besides the fact he pawned it off some sketchy dude.  He could do some investigating of his own, any reason to not have to call for help. Help just made it seem like he couldn’t do it himself, which he totally could. He had to at least try before calling it in. So instead of reorganizing the stock, like he should be doing, he grabbed a flashlight and headed back up to the attic. He probably wouldn’t need the flashlight considering the sun was just going down, but you could never be too cautious.

It felt like the stairs creaked even more than before, that’s probably just his nerves though, or the silence of the shop finally catching up to him. You never really know around here.

When Draco pushed open the attic door he expected something to pop out at him, maybe the ghost again, or another loud noise from some intruding animal. He got nothing. No sound. No wind. Nothing. That was worse than if something did happen. 

Creeping into the attic with light steps, as though he was breaking into his own attic, flashlight on only illuminating the few feet in front of him. Yes, it was that dark in the attic. 

Draco took another step forward, then another, the beam of the flashlight trembling ever so slightly in his hand. He told himself it was because the batteries were old. It definitely had nothing to do with the prickling sensation crawling up the back of his neck.

“Hello?” he called out, instantly regretting it. His voice seemed to sink into the shadows, swallowed whole by the attic. “If you’re here to break anything else, I’d appreciate a warning this time.” The light from the flashlight ran over overturned boxes, the shattered remains of the vase still glittering faintly on the floor, perhaps if he looked hard enough he could see the fiber-glass. He crouched and nudged one of the shards with his boot. Nothing. No eerie glow, no cursed humming. Just broken glass.  

A soft clink echoed behind him.

Draco stiffened. Slowly—very slowly—he turned.
At the far end of the attic, near the single window, something pale shimmered into view. It wasn’t the violent, shrieking kind he’d expected. No chains. No hollow eyes. No dramatic moaning. Instead, it hovered uncertainly, like it wasn’t quite sure it was allowed to be there.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Draco breathed. “Of course.” The ghost looked vaguely human, though its edges blurred, he couldn’t make out exactly, it was more of a shadow than a person but-

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” the ghost said, voice echoing faintly.

Draco blinked. “You screamed. And flew through my head.”

“Yes, well,” the ghost replied, translucent hands folding together, “you dropped the vase. That usually upsets people.”

“That upset me,” Draco snapped, then paused. The ghost was staring at him with wide eyes. He sighed, rubbing his temple. “Right. Sorry. I’m… not great with hauntings.”

The ghost tilted its head. “You’re not screaming anymore.”

“I scream internally,” Draco said dryly. “It’s a coping mechanism.”

For a moment, they simply stared at one another. The ghost drifted a little lower, its form flickering as if uncertain whether to sit or float. 

“You’re new,” it said at last.

“And you’re… not,” Draco replied. “You’ve been smashing things?”

The ghost winced. “Only accidentally. The shop gets lonely when no one visits. Sometimes I forget how solid things are.”

Draco glanced around the attic, then back at the ghost. “You wouldn’t happen to know why Luna Lovegood keeps appearing and disappearing up here, would you?”

The ghost’s expression softened, something like fondness flickering across its features. “She visits sometimes. She’s very good at noticing things people prefer not to.”

Draco frowned. “That doesn’t explain how she vanished. One second she was standing there, the next—nothing.”

The ghost hesitated, drifting a little higher, as though trying to put physical distance between itself and the question. “She knows the shop listens,” it said finally. “If you know where to step, where to look, it lets you pass unnoticed.”

“That’s not an answer,” Draco said flatly.

The ghost winced. “It’s the only one I have.”

Draco dragged a hand through his hair, the beam of the flashlight wobbling wildly before he shut it off entirely. He didn’t need it anymore; the ghost gave off a faint glow of its own, just enough to outline the boxes and beams of the attic.

“So she comes up here,” he said slowly, “talks to a ghost, disappears through the walls, and doesn’t think to mention any of this to me?”

“She didn’t think you’d mind,” the ghost replied. “You pretend not to believe in most things.”

“I run a shop full of cursed and haunted objects,” Draco snapped. “Belief isn’t optional.”

The ghost smiled apologetically. “Yes, but you don’t like to acknowledge them.”

Draco opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. Annoyingly, it was correct.

“And the vase?” he asked instead. “Was that you too?”

The ghost’s glow dimmed. “I was trying to move it somewhere safer. It was getting restless.”

“Restless,” Draco repeated. “Fantastic.”

“I didn’t know you were holding it,” the ghost said quickly. “I would’ve waited.”

Draco looked down at the scattered glass on the floor, then back up at the hovering figure. It didn’t feel malicious. If anything, it looked… embarrassed.

“Right,” he said after a moment. “New rule. If you’re going to interfere with my inventory, you let me know first.”

The ghost nodded eagerly. “I can do that.”

“And no more screaming.”

“Consider it done.”

Draco sighed, exhaustion settling into his bones. “Brilliant. I’ve got a vanishing witch, a clumsy ghost, and a ruined sale.”

The ghost tilted its head. “Do you want help cleaning up?”

Draco paused, then gave a reluctant nod. “You know what? Fine. Might as well make yourself useful.” 

After a couple of minutes sweeping, including the time it took to find the broom,

“You know,” he said at last, “you keep giving opinions and breaking things, but you haven’t actually told me who you are.”

The ghost blinked, clearly startled by the question. He drifted back a few inches, as though the name itself carried weight.

“I didn’t think you’d ask,” he admitted.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “I’m standing alone in my attic with a ghost. Asking your name feels like the bare minimum of politeness.”

The ghost let out a quiet, almost embarrassed huff of laughter. “Most people don’t get that far.”

“Well, most people don’t buy haunted shops either,” Draco replied. “I’m full of bad decisions.”

There was a pause. The attic creaked around them, wood settling as the sun dipped lower outside the single window. The ghost glanced toward it, then back to Draco.

“My name is Regulus,” he said softly.

Draco tilted his head. “Regulus…?”

Regulus hesitated, then squared his shoulders—an old habit, Draco realized, one that death hadn’t quite erased. “Regulus Black.”

Draco scoffed before he could stop himself. “You’re joking.”

“I assure you, I never was very good at that,” Regulus said dryly.

Draco stared at him, really stared. The resemblance he hadn’t consciously noticed before suddenly snapped into place—the sharp lines, the posture, the unmistakable air of old, inescapable descent.

“You’re Sirius Black’s brother,” Draco said slowly.

Regulus nodded once. “You’ve heard of him, then.”

“Unfortunately,” Draco muttered. He scrubbed a hand down his face. “So let me get this straight. I buy a failing, haunted shop from a man who smelled like cursed gin, and it turns out the resident ghost is a Black.”

Regulus’s lips twitched. “If it helps, I didn’t choose to stay.”

Draco exhaled sharply, then gave a short, humorless laugh. “Merlin, help me. Mother is going to lose her mind if she ever finds out.”

“I’d prefer she didn’t,” Regulus said politely.

Draco glanced back at the broken vase, then at Regulus hovering beside it, expression careful and strangely earnest.

“Well,” Draco said after a moment, “Regulus Black or not, you’re stuck with me.”

Regulus met his gaze, something like relief flickering across his face. “I think,” he said quietly, “I could do far worse.” 

Regulus lingered in the air between them, that faint glow steady now, as though the words had anchored him in place. Draco went back to sweeping, the bristles rasping softly against the floorboards, anything to give his hands something to do.

“So,” Draco said, breaking the silence, “how long have you been… here?”

Regulus followed the motion of the broom with his eyes. “In the shop? A few decades. In the attic specifically—” he hesitated, “—time gets blurry.”

“Convenient,” Draco muttered. He nudged the last of the glass into a neat pile. “And before that?”

Regulus’s gaze drifted again, this time lingering on the window. Outside, the sky had deepened to a bruised violet. “I didn’t mean to stay,” he said. “I thought I’d move on. I was quite certain I’d earned that much.”

Draco paused, broom resting against his shoulder. He knew enough about the Black family to read between those lines, and more than enough to know better than to push.

“Well,” he said instead, “if you’re going to haunt something, you could do worse than an antiques shop. Plenty of cursed nonsense to keep you occupied.”

Regulus smiled faintly. “That’s what I thought.”

There was another quiet stretch, not awkward so much as careful. The attic no longer felt hostile—just old, and full of things that remembered being used.

“You don’t have to stay up here, you know,” Draco said at last. “The rest of the shop exists. Ground floor even has windows. Less dust.”

Regulus looked surprised. “You don’t mind?”

“I mind plenty,” Draco replied. “But if I’m stuck with a ghost, I’d rather know where you are than have you flying through my head unannounced.”

“That seems reasonable,” Regulus said. Then, more softly, “Thank you.”

Draco pretended to be very invested in leaning the broom against a crate. “Don’t get sentimental. I’ll start charging rent.”

Regulus chuckled, the sound barely there. “I’m afraid I’m dreadfully short on galleons.”

“We’ll work something out,” Draco said. He glanced at him sidelong. “Just—no more meddling with inventory unless it’s about to explode, curse me, or summon something with too many teeth.”

Regulus considered this. “I can promise two out of three.”

Draco snorted. “Typical Black.”

Instead of bristling, Regulus seemed… pleased. “You sound like my brother.”

Draco stilled. “Which one.”

Regulus’s smile faded into something quieter. “The one who argued like that. Before everything else.”

Draco swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Right. Well. If you’re staying, we should probably establish boundaries.”

“Such as?”

“No appearing behind me,” Draco said promptly. “No screaming. And absolutely no family drama in my attic.”

Regulus inclined his head. “Agreed.”

Draco headed for the stairs, pausing with one foot on the top step. He looked back at the attic—at the boxes, the dust, and the ghost hovering calmly among it all.

“Oh,” he added. “And Regulus?”

“Yes?”

“If my mother asks—this place is not haunted.”

Regulus’s smile turned sly. “Of course not.”

Draco shook his head and started down the stairs, already wondering—against his better judgment—how long it had been since anyone had said Regulus Black’s name out loud.

The stairs creaked under Draco’s weight as he descended, each step echoing just a little too loudly in the quiet shop. He told himself he was done for the night—attic investigated, ghost identified, crisis managed as well as one could manage a Black.

He reached the bottom step.

“…Draco?”

He froze.

Slowly, he turned his head toward the staircase.

Regulus hovered a few steps above the floor, keeping a careful distance, as though unsure whether he’d overstepped something simply by following.

“I thought we agreed,” Draco said tightly, “no appearing behind me.”

“I wasn’t behind you,” Regulus pointed out. “I was above you.”

Draco closed his eyes. “This is not an improvement.”

“I just—” Regulus stopped, his form flickering. “You said boundaries. I realized I don’t know what they are.”

That gave Draco pause. He opened his eyes and studied him properly. Regulus wasn’t looming or ominous or even particularly ghostlike at the moment. He looked… hesitant. Like someone waiting to be told where they were allowed to stand.

“Fine,” Draco said at last. “Rule amendment. You can follow. Just announce yourself.”

Regulus inclined his head. “Understood.”

Draco gestured toward the shop floor. “Welcome to your new haunting grounds. Try not to terrify the nonexistent customers.”

The main room was dim, lit only by the last remnants of evening light through the front windows. Shelves lined the walls, crowded with objects that hummed faintly with magic—rings that whispered, mirrors that refused to reflect properly, books that liked to snap shut on fingers. Regulus drifted slowly among them, awe softening his features. “You keep dangerous things very casually.”

“You should see my family,” Draco said.

Regulus huffed a quiet laugh. Then he stopped in front of a cabinet near the counter, gaze fixed.

“That one,” he said.

Draco followed his line of sight. “The music box?”

“Yes,” Regulus said. “It’s bound. Not malicious. Just… lonely.”

Draco frowned. “You can tell?”

“I can feel it,” Regulus replied. “Some things cling to places. Others cling to people. That one’s doing its best not to be forgotten.”

Draco’s fingers curled briefly around the edge of the counter. “You’re going to be very inconvenient if you keep noticing things like that.”

“I could also be helpful,” Regulus offered carefully.

Draco studied him, weighing irritation against practicality. Merlin knew the shop could use the help.

“…We’ll discuss a trial period,” he said.

Regulus smiled, something unguarded and grateful. “I’d like that.”

A silence settled between them, easier than before. Outside, the streetlamps flickered one by one.

“Regulus,” Draco said, quieter now.

“Yes?”

“You don’t have to stay invisible,” he added. “Not all the time. Just—warn me first.”

Regulus’s glow steadied, as if the permission itself had substance. “Thank you, Draco.”

Draco scoffed lightly, turning away to lock the front door. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Behind him, the shop felt warmer. Not alive—but no longer empty.