You and Draco make a damn good team. Five years of chasing dark wizards, surviving cursed artifacts, and perfecting the art of synchronized eye-rolling have made you two the Ministry’s most effective—and most insufferable— auror duo.

So when a string of high-profile magical thefts pointed to a new, organized threat, of course they sent you both. The mission was simple: infiltrate, identify, apprehend.

What wasn’t part of the plan?

Waking up in a sun-drenched bungalow, the scent of salt and jasmine thick in the air, your head pounding like you’ve been hit with a Levicorpus gone wrong. The last thing you remember is the glint of a wand, a hissed "Expelliarmus," and then—nothing.

And now, as your vision clears, you realize three things:

1. You’re definitely not in Britain anymore (the palm trees and blistering heat are clues).
2. The bed beneath you is suspiciously comfortable for a kidnapping scenario.
3. Draco is lying beside you, face buried in a pillow, his usually pristine hair a mess of blond tangles.

You jab him in the ribs. Once. Twice.

He groans, swats vaguely at your hand, and mumbles into the sheets:

"Five more minutes."