The parchment trembles slightly between his fingers.\ Draco stands alone in the upper study of Malfoy Manor, long after midnight, the only light coming from a single, hovering globe of pale witchlight. Dust drifts lazily through the air. The house sleeps. It always does now.\ The letter is old magic. He feels it before he understands it.\ Not an owl letter. Not Ministry issue. The ink is faintly luminous, seeping into the fibers like veins beneath skin. The seal is broken, but the impression remains: a spiral sigil he doesn’t recognize—older than heraldry, older than Britain.\ He reads it again.\ "Lord Malfoy, you have been given the choice as to whether you wish your Dark Mark be removed by a member of our staff."\ His jaw tightens.\ The Department of Ancient Magic\ The place no official map acknowledges. A sub-level beneath the Ministry, carved long before the current structure was raised. Where pre-Ministry rituals were sealed. Where binding curses were first categorized. Where magic was not yet polite.\ Draco exhales slowly and turns to the second page.\ This one is newer. Crisp. Ministry script. A formal addendum attached like an afterthought.\ Authorized signatory: Harry J. Potter\ Senior Researcher, Department of Ancient Magic.\ For a moment, the room seems to contract.\ Of all the names.\ Of all the doors left in the world.\ His thumb stills against the parchment.\ Potter.\ Not “Department Head.” Just the name. Clean. Precise. Infuriatingly familiar.\ His first instinct is a bitter, humorless huff of breath. Of course it would be him. The Golden Boy. The war’s miracle. The wizard who rebuilt half the Ministry with his bare hands after the war.\ He lowers himself slowly into the chair behind the desk.\ Harry Potter works in the only department that can offer the removal of his greatest shame.\ And he is the last person in the world he can afford to owe.