Narcissa Malfoy, Fairy Godmother

by duchessdulce

Summary:

Narcissa was a pureblood supremacist.
Narcissa had a Muggle friend.
These things were both true.

Also:

It’s fifth year for Harry Potter, and Malfoy’s eleven-year-old cousin has just started at Hogwarts. When Harry begins to suspect that the girl is actually Muggleborn, he can’t rest until he finds out what Malfoy is really up to.

***

Draco turns out to be a surprisingly good “big brother” and Harry can’t look away. This is a Hogwarts era slow burn with a spotlight on the complicated Malfoy family. Featuring joint detentions, tea parties, one detention tea party, and several very flawed Malfoys who still really love each other. The fic begins with childhood, but most of the story takes place at Hogwarts during Harry and Draco’s fifth and sixth years.

Chapter 1

“Look at her, Draco, isn’t she lovely?”

Narcissa was sitting at a round table in a small, cheerful bakery. Her four-year-old son, standing at her side, peered dubiously at the newborn in his mother’s arms.

“She looks like she could be yours,” the baby’s mother said. Bitsy, who ran the bakery along with her husband, had her light brown hair up in a bun and a floral printed apron over her clothes. She was sitting across from Narcissa, watching her admire Bitsy’s child. Her eyebrows suddenly knit together as she second-guessed her words. “No offense meant, marm.”

“She does, doesn’t she?” Narcissa smiled, unconcerned. “What do you think, Draco? Is this your new little sister?” She held the baby up to her son. Four-year-old Draco had fine, white blond hair and grey eyes that narrowed, unsure at his mother’s words.

The baby squirmed and made a small mewling sound as she opened her eyes, blinking at the light. Her eyes were darker than Draco’s, and she hardly had any hair. But the wisps on the top of her head were the same white blond as Draco’s.

“Pricilla,” Narcissa murmured, tucking the baby securely against her body to calm her. “Welcome to Larkhill.”

Larkhill was the tiny Muggle village near Malfoy Manor, in Wiltshire County. The far off ancestors who built the manor had chosen the spot for its proximity to Stonehenge, a magically powerful location. The Malfoys owned most of the village, and many of the residents were their tenants. Bitsy’s bakery was one of the Malfoy properties. Narcissa had discovered it, and Bitsy, shortly after her marriage to Lucius.

Yes, Narcissa had a house elf at home to cook for her. And yes, the manor was connected to the Floo Network, and Narcissa could apparate to anywhere in Great Britain (international apparition was restricted, not to mention dangerous for longer distances). But sometimes Narcissa just wanted to walk down to the village, sit in a cozy bakery, and have a chat with Bitsy over tea and fruit tart. Bitsy made delectable fruit tarts, filled with a smooth yellow custard and topped with a tempting array of raspberries, blackberries, and strawberries.  

Narcissa was a pureblood supremacist. 

Narcissa had a Muggle friend.

These things were both true.  

 

***

 

Narcissa was at the bakery again, sitting at her usual table with a cup of tea and a scone. It was a quiet mid-morning, and Bitsy was in the back. Five-year-old Draco was at home with his tutor, learning how to read. Narcissa was alone in the front of the bakery, aside from one-year-old  Pricilla, who was climbing a chair.

Narcissa sipped her tea and watched the tiny girl while she waited for Bitsy to come back and entertain her with village gossip. Pricilla had slightly more hair now. It was still short, but it covered her whole head, and it was still the exact same white blond as Draco’s.

Pricilla had scrambled up onto the chair she was climbing. Holding onto the back of the chair, she pulled herself into a standing position. Pleased with herself, she bounced up and down and babbled. 

The chair tipped.

It happened so quickly, Narcissa had no chance of stopping it. She winced, bracing herself for the crash and the following wail. 

But nothing happened.

Pricilla giggled. She was on all fours, still holding on to the back of the tipped chair, which was now hovering a couple inches off the ground. The toddler crawled off the chair onto the tile, and without her weight, the chair clattered gently to the floor.

Narcissa sipped her tea and watched the small blonde child.

 

***

 

“Lucius,” Narcissa said. She was seated at her dressing table with her wand out, watching herself in the mirror as she dropped her make-up glamours. They had to be removed at night and reapplied in the morning, or they made one’s features go blurry.

“Yes, love?” Lucius’ voice came slightly muffled from his closet, where he was changing into his night clothes.

“You’ll never guess what happened today.”

“Do tell.”

“Do you want to know?”

“I’m on the absolute edge of my seat, dearest.”

Narcissa picked up a brush and began brushing her long, yellow hair.  

“You remember Bitsy’s little girl, Cilla?”

“Who?”

“Down at the village. Bitsy, at the bakery?”

“Ah, with the tarts. Yes.”

“She had a baby about a year ago. Pricilla. I told you, she looks just like Draco when he was a baby.”

“Right. Pricilla.” Lucius emerged from his closet wearing dark blue night robes. He was always handsome, tall and broad-shouldered, with his shocking white blond hair that was longer than Narcissa’s. But his night robes made him look softer. Narcissa thought he looked cuddly. She was one of very few people in the world who had ever had this thought about the usually imposing Lucius Malfoy.

“Cilla nearly had a bad fall today, off a chair,” Narcissa said. “But she caught herself. With accidental magic.”

“Are you sure?” Lucius raised his eyebrows.

“Quite sure. The chair was hovering.”

“Did the Muggles see?”

“No, I was alone with her.”

“Well.” Lucius shrugged off his surprise. “It might not be enough to get her to Hogwarts. Could be a one-off.”

“I don’t think so, it was an obvious use of magic. I could clearly see the child has power.”

“Hmm,” Lucius said.

“Louie, darling, I wish you would come with me to see her.”

“Why’s that?”

“She’s the loveliest baby, with blond hair just like Draco. She could easily be his little sister. Honestly, no one would ever guess that she wasn’t ours.”

“Cissy.” Lucius had come to stand behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. “If you want another baby, we can make it happen. There might be new potions we can try. I could ask Sev —”

“Oh no,” Narcissa waved him off. “Who knows how many years it would take. And I hated being pregnant. The perfect little girl is already right there, and she has magic! It would be so easy, Lucius…”

“Didn’t you say she’s already a year old? People know you didn’t have a baby a year ago.”

“We could go to the continent for a few years. Stay away long enough to muddle the timeline for anyone who’s paying attention.”

“You’d have to find new tutors for Draco. His current ones may not care for the French.” Lucius assumed that she would go to France, because if it were him, he would go to France.

“Just think how much Draco’s French would improve, though,” Narcissa said.

“What about the Muggle parents? And the village? Everyone who knows of the girl’s existence?”

“We could obliviate them easily enough. Muggle minds are weak,” Narcissa said dismissively.

“That’s a lot of people.”

“Not so many. The village is small. And you and I are powerful enough.” She met his gaze in the mirror and smiled. He squeezed her shoulder affectionately, but she saw an uncertain look in his eyes. He was not quite sure if she was serious or not.

“I suppose if we raised her, she would turn out all right,” Lucius said slowly. Not like all those other mudbloods. The words went unsaid, but were understood by both.

“Exactly. We would bring her up properly,” Narcissa said. 

“You know if the Ministry found out, we could go to Azkaban,” Lucius said.

“You could think of some explanation. Perhaps her parents abused her because they were afraid of her magic.”

“We could actually come out of it with our reputations improved,” Lucius said, surprised. “Look at the Malfoys, rescuing the poor little mudblood.”

“See, darling, we could make it work!” Narcissa gushed.

 

***

 

Perhaps “friend” is too strong a word to use to describe Narcissa’s relationship with Bitsy. People do not usually make plans (even idly) to steal their friends’ babies. But Narcissa had never been good at making friends. She was close with her family: her husband, her sisters. She still thought of herself as having a close relationship with her sisters, despite not having spoken to either of them in years. That was due to external factors, not to anything personal between them.

Narcissa saw Bitsy more often than she did any other woman. And in the end, she did not kidnap Bitsy’s baby. Instead, the week after Cilla’s display of accidental magic, Narcissa brought her a green dress embroidered with white daisies. It was spelled to resist stains, but Narcissa didn’t tell Bitsy that. 

The next week, Narcissa dressed Draco in a modern robe set that came with matching trousers. The outer robe was shorter than traditional robes, ending at Draco’s knees, and the front split open at the waist to allow Draco to run freely. Narcissa herself wore a set of robes in a style similar to a long Muggle dress. She knew their clothes did not exactly match current Muggle fashion, but she also knew the villagers would ascribe their appearance to the eccentricities and the fashions of the very rich. 

After they were dressed, Narcissa brought Draco with her to visit Bitsy. Draco brought his wagon, and he pulled Cilla in it along the sidewalk outside the bakery. Narcissa watched Cilla, and waited for more signs of magic.

When Cilla was two, six-year-old Draco begged Bitsy to let them take Cilla to their house to feed the white peacocks. Bitsy was busy at the bakery, and did not need much convincing. Cilla was delighted with the peacocks, and spent the afternoon chasing after them through the Malfoys’ extensive grounds. A few weeks later, Narcissa gave Cilla one of her childhood dolls. She showed Cilla how to change the doll’s eye color by pressing her finger to the doll’s eyes.

When Cilla was three, seven-year-old Draco took her through the Muggle-repelling wards to the Quidditch pitch behind the manor. He showed her the new child-sized broom his father had bought him, and she watched in delight as Draco flew about, a few feet over the grass.

“This is magic,” Draco told her, matter-of-fact. “We aren’t supposed to show Muggles, but Mother says you’re ok.” Then Draco got out his old broom, an even smaller model that hovered only a foot off the ground.

“Is this one for me?” Cilla bounced on her toes in excitement.

“Well… ok,” said Draco, who hadn’t actually planned on giving it to her. “But it has to stay here at the manor. You can use it whenever you come over.”

Cilla eagerly clambered onto the broom and took off across the pitch. Draco followed at her side, ready to catch her if she started to fall.   

“He’s such a good big brother,” Narcissa gushed to Lucius that night. 

“Good thing you found him a little sister,” Lucius said.

Narcissa smiled, feeling gratified.

 

***

 

If one of Lucius’ friends had allowed their son to play with a Muggleborn, Lucius would have turned his nose up at them and called them a blood traitor. But Cissy could not be a blood traitor. She was a Black. The Blacks were, by definition, not blood traitors (Lucius conveniently did not count Andromeda as a Black, because she had been disowned). 

Lucius had firm, inflexible beliefs. He believed that Muggleborns were inferior. He believed that Muggles were less than human. And he believed that Cissy could do no wrong.

So if Cissy wanted to keep a Muggleborn pet, Lucius was not going to argue with her about it. The Blacks had always had their peculiarities. Lucius had thought that Cissy was the sweet, docile, and, well, normal one, compared to her sisters. He’d thought she’d been spared the infamous Black Madness. But of course, such… eccentricities could arise at any time.

No matter. Cissy could do no wrong. Therefore, whatever she did must be right. It would be fine. Lucius would manage things. Everything would be fine.

 

***

 

By the time Cilla was four, she had a standing playdate at Malfoy Manor once a week. Narcissa would come to the bakery during the mid-morning lull to chat with Bitsy over a cup of tea. Then, when the lunch crowd began to arrive, Narcissa would take Cilla with her to the manor. There, they would find Draco with his tutor, send the tutor away, and sit down to lunch, just the three of them. The food was always lovely, and Cilla wondered where it came from, because she had never seen food quite like it in the village.

Some weeks, Narcissa would tell Cilla to bring her dolls, and they would have a tea party. Narcissa had given Cilla several more of her childhood dolls by this point. Each one had some small but interesting talent. One had a dress that could alternate between blue and pink. Another had hair that got either longer or shorter each time you tugged on it. 

At home, Bitsy would stop to watch Cilla playing with the dolls every now and then, and she would frown in confusion.

“What will they think of next?” she would exclaim, shaking her head to clear it of the pestering doubts that she could not quite place her finger on.

But at the Malfoy Manor tea parties, Narcissa would bring out more dolls with even more fantastic abilities. One had a dress that could not only change colors, but also styles. Another had wings that actually worked, and when asked, she would fly after Cilla as she rode on her broom. A third had a brush that could be used to change the color of any doll’s hair. Cilla had only to say what color she wanted as she used the brush.

These were dolls that had to stay at the manor.  

After lunch, Draco would play with Cilla. If the weather was nice, they would often fly on their broomsticks on the Quidditch pitch. If the weather was not nice, Narcissa would let them fly in the ballroom. When they tired of that, they would rummage through the wardrobes in the spare rooms upstairs, trying on the fur coats, the feathered hats, and the heeled boots of Draco’s ancestors. 

Draco was eight years old. Most eight-year-old boys would not be willing to play with a four-year-old girl, but Draco did not go to school. He had tutors who came to his home, so he did not have school friends. He also did not seem interested in any of the other children in the village. Cilla had seen him walk right past the village boys as if he did not even notice them. This made Cilla feel very special. Of all the children in the village, she was the only one that Draco even acknowledged.

When Cilla was five, she started primary school. Her days suddenly became much busier, but she still visited Malfoy Manor one afternoon each week. Narcissa was very interested in Cilla’s schooling, and she quizzed her each week on what she was learning. Cilla got the impression that Narcissa was pleasantly surprised to hear that Cilla’s school would attempt to teach her how to read, but that Narcissa was not at all confident in the school’s ability to do so successfully.

Narcissa took Cilla to Malfoy Manor’s library, which was a section of the house larger than Cilla’s home. It had one central room, grand with vaulted ceilings and skylights, and then many smaller rooms shooting off from the main one, all filled with towering shelves and rolling ladders. 

Narcissa showed her the section that housed Draco’s books from when he was younger. Each week Narcissa would tell Cilla to pick out a book, and Narcissa would read it to her. The stories felt somewhat familiar, like the fairytales that Bitsy read to her, but they were different. In Bitsy’s fairytales, the heroine might meet a witch who could either help her or hurt her. But in Narcissa’s fairytales, the heroine was the witch. And she was not always old and covered in warts either. The witch could be young, could be a girl. A girl just like Cilla. It was interesting to think about.

One story was about the wizard, Rumplestiltskin, who struck a fantastical bargain with a Muggle king and queen, all so that he could adopt their magical baby boy. Another story was about a Muggle couple who lived next-door to a witch. When they discovered that their little baby daughter, Rapunzel, possessed magical abilities, they traded her to the witch for some lettuce. The witch raised the girl as her own, teaching her everything she knew about magic, until Rapunzel was even more powerful than her adopted mother. 

Narcissa put a possessive arm around Cilla when she read these stories, and Cilla would snuggle close. 

Summer holidays came, and Cilla suddenly had much more time again, only now she wasn’t used to it. She was bored. She had met other children at school, but since the village was so small, the children at the school came from families spread out all over the countryside. None of them lived close enough for Cilla to walk to, and Cilla’s parents were too busy with the bakery to be constantly driving her to and from playdates. 

But there was one house that Cilla did live close enough to walk to, and she knew the way well. She had been walking there once a week for years.

Cilla had only ever visited Malfoy Manor when she was invited. And she had never walked there alone. Narcissa always came to walk with her. But after having completed her first full school year, Cilla was feeling very grown up and independent. She was six years old now. And she was feeling very bored. So one summer day, when there was absolutely nothing to do, Cilla decided to walk to Malfoy Manor. She was not nervous. She thought she would surprise Narcissa and Draco. She was sure they would be happy to see her.

When she got to the manor gates, she opened them as she had seen Narcissa do dozens of times, and then closed them behind her to keep the peacocks in. Then she began the long walk through the front garden up to the great house.

As Cilla walked, she brushed her hand over the tops of the purple bushes, and a harmonized humming emanated from the leaves. Nearby, several large, white flowers turned as if to look at her as she passed. Cilla was not concerned; Draco had assured her that his mother would never allow anything dangerous in her garden. She was far too protective of Draco for that.

Cilla reached the large, cobblestone clearing at the foot of the grand entrance to the manor. She was about to start up the many front steps to knock on the double front doors, when she heard the echo of voices. Was Draco outside? Maybe he was at the Quidditch pitch.

Cilla abandoned the front door and made her way around the house instead. As she neared the Quidditch pitch, she slowed down, taking in the scene.

Draco was playing Quidditch, but he wasn’t alone. Two other boys, both larger than him, were also on brooms, and the three of them were zooming around, shouting occasionally and tossing the red ball that Draco called a Quaffle back and forth.

Cilla stopped behind a low growing tree and peered out, watching them. She had never seen Draco play with other children, and it made her feel a little jealous and a little mournful, that Draco would rather be with them than with her.

The Quaffle streaked through the air in Cilla’s direction, slowed, and began drifting lazily towards the ground. One of the larger boys came flying after it, but he forgot the ball when he saw Cilla. 

“Hey!” the boy shouted, a sneer on his face. He dismounted, dropping his broom on the ground, and strode menacingly towards Cilla, who backed away involuntarily into the brush behind her.

“You spying on us, you dirty little Muggle?”

Cilla had heard Draco use the word “Muggle” before. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but she knew that Draco used it for the people in the village. She hadn’t thought it applied to her. It had an ugly sound, the way the boy said it, and she didn’t like it.

“What is it, Vince?” The second large boy had landed behind the first, and he growled when he saw Cilla. A big, meaty hand reached out and grabbed a handful of Cilla’s hair, and Cilla shrieked as she was dragged out from the cover of the tree. 

“How’d a little rat like you get through the wards?” the first boy, Vince, demanded, as Cilla fought to free her hair from the hand of the second boy.

“You know what we’ve been missing today, Vince?” the second boy said, sounding thoughtful.

“What, Greg?” 

“Bludger practice.” Greg grinned, and Cilla stopped squirming, her insides going cold with panic. Draco had told her about Bludgers, but Narcissa said they were too dangerous…

“What’s this, lads?” Draco had finally arrived, hopping off his broom and running towards them. For one second, Cilla thought she saw fear flicker across his face, but then his eyes narrowed, and his expression turned ugly.

“What are you doing here, Muggle?” Draco spat. Before Cilla could think of anything to say, Draco smacked Greg’s arm that was holding Cilla fast. “Don’t touch that, Greg, you don’t know where it’s been.”

Greg released Cilla’s hair, and Cilla backed quickly out of reach of the boys.

“That’s right, get out of here, Muggle! Go!” Draco shouted at her. Bewildered, Cilla turned and ran, the jeering of the three boys ringing in her ears.

 

***

 

Several days later, when Narcissa came for her, Cilla pretended to be sick. Narcissa came back later with chicken soup made with homemade noodles, and a ridiculous flat round lollipop the size of Cilla’s head. And a little dog stuffy that wagged its tail when Cilla scratched behind its ears. Cilla felt guilty all week for the undeserved gifts, and the next time Narcissa called for her, Cilla pushed aside her fear and went.

The two larger boys had been scary, but it was Draco who had upset Cilla the most. She was afraid to see him again, afraid to see that ugly look directed at her.

At lunch, Draco sat down with them, the three of them grouped together at one end of the great, long table. The food, sandwiches and fruit with tiny cakes for dessert, was already laid out for them, as it always was. The Malfoys were certainly rich enough to have help, but Cilla never saw a cook or a maid at the manor.

Draco took several small sandwich triangles from a platter, which he then offered to Cilla. Cilla took a sandwich, and then nervously looked up at Draco. He looked back, expressionless, and then turned his attention to his food. Cilla nibbled her way half-heartedly through the lunch. She thought she would stay with Narcissa when she was done eating. That would be safest. She could ask to play with Narcissa’s dolls again.

But when Draco finished eating, he turned to Cilla.

“Want to go out to the pitch? It’s a good day for flying. Not too much wind.”

Cilla turned her wide, brown eyes up at Draco, uncertain.

“I’ll move the goals down lower so you can practice scoring,” Draco offered.

“You’ll be Keeper?” Cilla asked.

“Yes,” Draco said. “And then we’ll switch.”

Draco never apologized. He did not explain who the other boys were, or why the three of them had said what they did. He acted as though nothing had ever happened between them. And Cilla wanted to love Draco, so she forgave him. He was kind to her again, so it was easy to do. But never again did she go to the manor uninvited. 

Notes:

Larkhill is a town in Wiltshire, but I only chose it for its name and its location. The Larkhill in this fic is not supposed to resemble the real Larkhill.

Also: Harry is in this fic, I swear!

*

I'm planning to update once a week. The fic is finished; I'm just working on some editing.

Many thanks to my kind and encouraging betas, my sisters and my brother-in-law.

Chapter 2

Cilla was seven when Draco burst into the bakery, waving a small bundle of papers in one hand.

“It came! It came!” Draco shouted.

“Let me see! Let me see!” Cilla bounded over from behind the counter. She did not know what Draco was so excited about, but she was happy to match his enthusiasm. 

Draco dropped his papers on a nearby table and smoothed them flat. Cilla leaned over them to look. She had finished Year 2 at her primary school, and she could read a bit, but the paper in front of her was covered in words, and she was too impatient to take her time with them. 

“What’s it say?” she demanded.

“I’m going to Hogwarts!” Draco announced.

“Draco…” Narcissa warned. She had entered the bakery at a more sedate pace, and was seating herself at the table next to them.

“I mean… my school,” Draco amended. “I’m going to go to my school!”

“The boarding school?” Cilla’s excitement faded.

“Yes! It says I’m going September 1st!” Draco beamed.

Cilla didn’t say anything.

“I’ll come back for holidays,” Draco said, seeing Cilla’s face. “And there’s summer break.”

“What about weekends?” Cilla asked.

“Well, maybe some weekends. Depends on what the other boys in my dorm do. I can’t be the only one running home all the time.”

Cilla was not comforted by this answer, and Draco looked down at her, wanting to bask in his own good news, but wanting her to bask with him.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” Draco said. “And when you’re eleven, you’ll come to my school with me!”

“I will?” Cilla’s eyes lit up.

“Mother said you will,” Draco said. Cilla gasped in delight, bouncing on her toes. She ran over to Bitsy, who was coming around the counter with a teapot for Narcissa.

“Mummy, Draco says I can go to his school when I’m eleven!” Cilla cried.

“Oh, honey…” Bitsy’s brow furrowed. “I’m sure Draco’s going to a very nice school, but…” 

“I think Draco’s school would be a good place for Cilla,” Narcissa said calmly.

“Oh, I’m sure but —” Bitsy was getting flustered. “I mean, I don’t think we can afford —”

“When the time comes, I will make sure she is considered,” Narcissa said. “If she is accepted, I will ensure that her fees are paid and that she has the supplies she needs.” (Hogwarts did not charge tuition, but Narcissa knew that Bitsy expected Draco to go to an expensive school, and she did not think it was necessary to explain all the details at that moment.)

“Oh! Well,” Bitsy did not seem to know what to say to this. She finally settled on, “That’s very kind of you.”

“Of course,” Narcissa said. “We’re very fond of dear little Cilla.”

Bitsy remembered the teapot in her hand, and she busied herself with Narcissa’s tea, looking relieved to find something to do with herself.

A much more cheerful Cilla, in the meantime, went back to Draco and his letter. Bitsy eventually sat down with Narcissa and chatted about normal things, and if she heard snippets of Cilla and Draco’s conversations about owls or potion ingredients, she put it down to children and their endless imaginations. 

 

***

 

“Cilla’s so excited to go to Hogwarts,” Draco announced over dinner that night.

“Cilla?” Lucius Malfoy paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. 

“Yes, I showed her my Hogwarts letter.” Draco happily waved the paper that he was still carrying around.

“You’re talking about the little mudblood in the village?” Lucius clarified. “The baker’s daughter? Do you mean to say you told her she was going to Hogwarts?”

“Mother said she would.” Draco was beginning to wilt under his father’s sharp stare.

“Cissy.” Lucius’ gaze snapped over to his wife, who continued eating serenely. “You don’t know that that girl’s going to Hogwarts. She might not have enough magic for it. You can’t just tell her about Hogwarts before she’s been accepted.”

“I don’t see why not,” Narcissa said, taking a sip from her crystal glass.

“You’ve only seen one instance of accidental magic, have you not?” Lucius frowned. “When the girl was only a baby? You haven’t seen anything in all the years since?”

“Cilla is safe and happy when she is here with us. She has no need for accidental magic when I am with her,” Narcissa said placidly. She ate a green bean.

“When you are with her,” Lucius echoed. “That’s another thing! The one instance that you thought you saw. Well, you were there, were you not? Mightn’t it have been your instinctive magic rather than hers? Honestly, what’s more likely? We know you’re a powerful witch. You could have seen the little girl falling and reached out to catch her with your magic without thinking about it. The girl, on the other hand, a girl of no lineage, no history of power, no background…”

“She can use Hildegard’s Hairbrush,” Narcissa said.

“Hildegard?” Lucius said, bewildered. “Who is Hildegard?”

“One of my dolls. Father bought her for me when I was younger than Cilla. She was custom-made, very expensive. I was told to take care of her hairbrush in particular.” Narcissa paused to take another bite.

“Is that so?” Lucius raised an eyebrow.

“Hildegard’s Hairbrush functions as a simplified wand,” Narcissa said. “It can only perform one spell — changing the hair color of a doll — but it requires magic and intent to work. The child must say the color they want while holding the hairbrush, and they must focus their own magic through the hairbrush to get their desired result. It is a developmentally appropriate way to prepare a child for future wand work. Draco used to play with Hildegard’s Hairbrush when he was younger.”

“Did he?” Lucius said, surprised. “They don’t have… something else for boys?”

“I wouldn’t know; I don’t have any brothers. Father only ever bought the dolls and the  hairbrushes. My sister…” Narcissa stopped herself from saying “sisters.” She wasn’t supposed to mention… 

“We each had dolls,” she finished.

“I suppose it’s never too early for a boy to learn proper hair care,” Lucius allowed. Narcissa’s eyes strayed fondly to Lucius’ sheet of long, white blond hair that gleamed in the cold light of the candles from the large candelabra over their heads. The candles burned with a strange blue fire, and they did not melt, nor did they drip onto the table below.

“Is it possible that the hairbrush is actually being powered by your magic, or Draco’s, when the baker’s daughter tries to use it?” Lucius asked hopefully.

“I don’t think it works that way,” Narcissa said.

“I taught her to call her broom,” Draco volunteered. 

“She has a broom already?” Lucius said, horrified.

“Well, my last broom that I grew out of, I didn’t really need it anymore, so I gave it to her,” Draco confessed.

“That was very generous of you, dearest,” Narcissa said fondly.

“You can’t just go giving brooms to possible, not even confirmed, mudbloods!” Lucius sputtered. “Her parents are Muggles ! What if she goes and flies it through the Muggle village?!”

“Oh, the brooms stay here,” Draco said. “She only uses her broom when she comes to see us.”

“Wait, can she actually fly it?” Lucius was struck by another disturbing thought. “Doesn’t it take…”

“Yes, the use of magic is required to control a broom in flight,” Narcissa confirmed. “Muggles cannot control a broom. And yes, Cilla can fly. Draco is an excellent teacher. He is so patient with her.”

“I taught her to call her broom!” Draco said again. “I showed her how to put her hand over her broom and say ‘Up!’ She’s getting better at it. She usually has to try a few times, but she can get the broom to jump into her hand now!”

“That’s wonderful, darling. She must be so pleased,” Narcissa said.

“She is,” Draco agreed.

Lucius, in the meantime, despaired of trying to reason with his wife and son, and turned his attention back to his green beans and potatoes. No meat tonight, but the green beans were good, fresh from the manor’s garden and sauteed in butter. Narcissa had recently decided to become a vegetarian, and Lucius had selflessly announced that he would eat what she ate.

Narcissa was a Black, after all. The Blacks must be allowed their eccentricities.

 

***

 

Over the next few weeks, Draco’s room filled with a variety of new school supplies. He modeled his new uniform for Cilla and let her page through his textbooks. They had too many words to hold her interest for reading, but they did have some interesting illustrations. She went back several times to the transfiguration book to look at the curious picture of the fuzzy teacup with ears and whiskers that twitched. 

The most exciting, though, was the large eagle owl that now lived in Draco’s room. Cilla was allowed to stroke his soft feathers, and sometimes Draco gave her an owl treat to feed him. Once, Draco gave Cilla an oversized leather glove that went all the way up to her elbow. Then he put his owl on her arm. The owl was so heavy, Cilla immediately had to put her arm down on Draco’s bed.

But all too soon, the summer came to an end. Cilla saw Draco one last time. He shook her hand solemnly when she said goodbye, and Cilla felt very grown up. Then she went home, closed herself in her bedroom, and sobbed on her pillow.

While Draco was starting his first year at Hogwarts, Cilla started Year 3 at the local primary school. Her first week back, several girls from her class cornered her in the school yard.

“Why do you always wear those dresses?” one of the girls asked. Her name was Gloria, and she had hard eyes and a large pink scrunchy in her high ponytail. “Do you think they make you look rich?”

Cilla looked down at the dress she was wearing. She hadn’t given it much thought before she put it on that morning. Narcissa gave her so many dresses, they were nearly the only thing Cilla wore. Narcissa liked buying them, and Cilla liked wearing them. The one she was wearing today was particularly flouncy, the lace-trimmed skirt poofing out away from her body like an upside-down rose bloom. For the first time, it occurred to Cilla that none of the other girls wore fancy dresses like hers.

“You’re nothing special,” Gloria said, her hands aggressively on her hips. “Your parents are only bakers, everyone knows that.”

Cilla didn’t say anything because she didn’t know what to say. After snickering a bit, the other girls lost interest and wandered away.

At home, Cilla asked her mother to buy her some skirts and shirts like the ones many of the girls at her school wore. 

“Much more practical,” her father said when he saw her in her new clothes. “You can run around without worrying about getting dirty now!”

Cilla had never worried about getting dirty in her dresses. Clothes from Narcissa rarely stained or tore. On the rare occasion that they did, Cilla could bring them to Narcissa, who would either fix them, or, more often, replace them with new dresses. Narcissa always wanted to buy more clothes for Cilla. The physical limitations of the closet in Cilla’s room (which Bitsy reminded her of periodically) were a source of great vexation to Narcissa.

Cilla did not tell Narcissa that she had stopped wearing her dresses to school. She still wore the dresses at home — she changed when she got home from school. And once a week, after changing, she walked to Malfoy Manor to see Narcissa.

Malfoy Manor was different now. Since Draco was not there to play with Cilla, Narcissa had started to take a greater interest in Cilla’s education. She showed Cilla how to write with a quill and ink, since she said that no one at Hogwarts used pens or pencils. Cilla thought the quills looked fancy, so she liked using them, even if it made writing more laborious. Most weeks she penned a very short letter to Draco (she was still only seven), such things as:

 

To Draco

How are you?

Love Cilla 

 

and

 

To Draco,

I miss you.

Love Cilla

 

Sometimes she would just draw him a picture of a Snitch or a broom and sign her name.

Draco did not write back often, but he did tell her she could read his weekly letter to his parents, so that was alright. The first letter he wrote was mostly about an ill-mannered boy named Harry Potter who had refused to shake his hand.

“Why wouldn’t he shake Draco’s hand?” Cilla asked indignantly.

“It’s hardly surprising if he proves to be ill-bred, considering his upbringing,” Narcissa said.

“What is his upbringing?” Cilla asked.

“He’s been raised by Muggles,” Narcissa said. “A complete outrage. His parents died, but our people would have been queuing out the door to raise him if they’d been given a chance. There was no call to do something so ridiculous as to send him off to be raised by Muggles .”

“I was raised by Muggles,” Cilla said after thinking this over.

“That’s not at all the same, poppet. You have us,” Narcissa said fondly. Then she took Cilla up to Draco’s room and showed her the books on Harry Potter that Draco had in his bookshelf.

Narcissa still set out the dolls and hosted elaborate tea parties for Cilla, but now each doll held a picture of a different person whose name and history Cilla was expected to commit to memory. Cilla didn’t mind, though, because with the names and the faces came the stories that Narcissa told her over tea. The first faces that appeared in the photos turned out to be people who were related to Narcissa and Draco, so Cilla was happy to listen to stories about them. She looked at the photos and listened to Narcissa and ate tiny sandwiches and fresh strawberries. The manor’s gardens had fresh strawberries even in the winter.

“This one is Bellatrix.” Narcissa placed a doll with dark curly hair on the table in front of Cilla. The picture in the doll’s lap was of a young woman with similar dark curly hair and a proud tilt to her chin. As Cilla watched, the woman’s eyes narrowed the way Draco’s sometimes did, and she tossed her curls over her shoulder. 

“She’s my oldest sister,” Narcissa continued. “She always looked out for me when we were children. That’s her dress you’re wearing now.”

Cilla smoothed her hand down the silky skirt of her lilac-colored dress in surprise.

“Doesn’t she want it for her children?” Cilla asked nervously. Narcissa had never told her that she needed to return or take special care of any of her dresses.

“She doesn’t have children, and she’s not likely to in the future. She’s in Azkaban.”

“Where is that?”

“It’s a prison on an island. Bellatrix killed some people. Are you ready for a biscuit, poppet? These ones are ginger.”

Cilla took a biscuit and chewed while she processed this information. Narcissa, for her part, got out a book with photographs of Azkaban and dementors for Cilla to peruse. The dementors sounded so horrible that Cilla felt rather sorry for Bellatrix. 

Of course, she was shocked to learn that Narcissa’s sister had killed people. Cilla had never met anyone who was related to a murderer. But surely no one deserved to be housed with dementors for the rest of their life?

“I had to tell Draco about his aunt,” Narcissa said. “He will meet people at Hogwarts who know about her. I couldn’t let him hear it for the first time from someone else.”

Cilla understood. Narcissa had to tell Draco. And she was telling Cilla now for the same reason.  

“Why did she kill people?” Cilla asked.

“She killed people she didn’t like,” Narcissa said.

“How did she kill them?”

“She used her wand.”

“Wands can kill people?” This was news to Cilla. She knew Narcissa had a wand. She had seen her use it many times, and she accepted it as part of the magic of Malfoy Manor. When she was younger, she had told her mother about it. Bitsy thought it was lovely of Narcissa to play make-believe with Cilla.

“It’s against the law to use a wand to kill people,” Narcissa said. “That’s why Bellatrix is in Azkaban.”

When she was done eating, Cilla took the doll with Bellatrix’s picture down from the table, and she included her in her games for the rest of the afternoon.

“If you would like, you can borrow that doll, but you must return it next week,” Narcissa told her.  “That was Bella’s doll, and I would like it back. My father had it made to look like her when she was perhaps a little younger than you. She gave it to me when she got too old for dolls.”

“Too old for dolls?” Cilla exclaimed in horror. “How frightful! I’ll never be too old for dolls.”

“Neither shall I, poppet.” Narcissa ran her manicured hand down Cilla’s white blond hair with an indulgent smile.

The next day after school, Cilla took all her dolls downstairs to the floor of the bakery so she could play near her parents. She had a great deal of doll furniture, and she set out a long row of miniature chairs, and then set a doll in each chair. The dolls were all interested in meeting the new arrival — Bellatrix, as Cilla was calling her, since she did look very much like her namesake, though her child face was rounder than the face in the photo.

Cilla was sitting on the floor in front of her dolls, completely lost in her own thoughts (the other dolls were whispering to each other, as one of them had revealed Bella’s wickedness to the others), when a voice startled her into awareness.

“What are you doing?”

Cilla looked up. She was displeased to see Gloria, the girl from school with the scrunchy and the high ponytail, looming over her. A woman who was presumably Gloria’s mother was at the counter picking out bread, and Gloria had come around the counter to intrude on Cilla’s space.

“Why don’t you ever say anything? Can’t you talk?” Gloria said. “Are you stuck up or something?”

“I’m not stuck up,” Cilla said, frowning. This had been Gloria’s favorite phrase lately. Cilla had heard her going around telling the other girls in the class that Cilla was stuck up. Cilla did not know what to do about this. Unfortunately, her silence only seemed to confirm to the other girls that she was, indeed, stuck up.

“Why do you have so many of those dolls?” Gloria said, ignoring her. “They’re so creepy. Don’t you think they’re creepy? Do you keep them in your bedroom? That would give me nightmares, having all those creepy dolls staring at me in the dark.”

To Cilla’s alarm, Gloria bent forward with one finger extended. She was going for Bellatrix. She was going to poke Bellatrix in the face! What if she broke her? Narcissa would be so upset! Cilla had not given Gloria permission to touch Bellatrix!

Gloria’s finger zoomed towards Bellatrix’s face. Bellatrix opened her mouth and bit Gloria’s finger. Gloria screamed. She yanked her finger away and ran crying to her mother.

Gloria’s confused mother looked at the solid face of the porcelain doll that Gloria pointed out from a safe distance. Cilla was no help in explaining what had happened, so Gloria’s mother paid for her bread, and the two of them left. 

Unfortunately, the seven-year-olds at school were perfectly willing to believe Gloria when she told them that Cilla made her creepy doll bite her, so this incident did not win Cilla any friends.

 

***

 

Draco came home for the Christmas holidays, which was lovely, but Cilla didn’t get to see him nearly as much as she had hoped, between the Malfoys' many family and social engagements. The visits that she was able to make to the manor were not on the usual schedule, so she ran the risk of running into Mr. Malfoy, sometimes literally. 

Once, when she was playing hide-and-seek with Draco (the only rule from Narcissa was that they were not to open anything that was locked — Cilla did not understand why Narcissa thought they would be able to in the first place, but she didn’t argue), Cilla ran full tilt into Mr. Malfoy as he was exiting a room. Catching her balance, she looked up at him, wide-eyed and startled. He didn’t say anything, but one glance at his face was enough to send Cilla scampering away again as quickly as she could, forgetting to even apologize. She found Narcissa in the drawing room, and she shadowed her until a grumpy Draco emerged, wanting to know why Cilla had begged to play hide-and-seek if she wasn’t even going to look for him. 

Cilla did not know why Mr. Malfoy did not like her, but she was sure he did not. He had never done anything in particular to make Cilla fear him, but fear him she did.

 

***

 

Summer was a dream. Draco was home for weeks on end, and it was like he had never left. Cilla saw him often. Rather than tell her which days she was allowed to come to the manor, Narcissa or Draco told her when she was not allowed to come. Otherwise, she was welcome to come as she pleased. 

Draco did spend some of his time with his friends from school, but he had grown up mostly on his own, with his mother and Cilla, and he fell easily back into old habits. Occasionally, he invited his friends to fly on his pitch with him, but more often, it seemed easier to wait for Cilla to show up and fly with her instead.

One late summer day, Cilla had barely touched the doorbell when one of the large, double doors flew open.

“There you are,” Draco said, holding the open door. “Do you want to see something disgusting? It only just came this morning.”

“What is it?” Cilla asked, following him into the manor.

“Come see.” Draco beckoned her into the dining room, where he picked up a newspaper from off the long, grand dining table. “Take a look at that!”

Cilla frowned at the front page that Draco was brandishing at her. She was eight years old, and she never read the newspaper because she thought it looked boring.

“What is it?” she asked again.

“Look,” Draco said impatiently, pointing to the large moving image on the newspaper. “It’s Harry Potter. With Gilderoy Lockhart.” The second name didn’t mean anything to Cilla, but she recognized the first.

“That’s Harry Potter?” she said, interested. “I read your books about him. And your letters, of course.” Harry Potter made frequent appearances in Draco’s letters home.

“I was at the bookstore when they took this picture.” Draco sneered down at the photo. “Look at him. He thinks everyone just loves him.” 

“He looks like he’s trying to get out of the picture,” Cilla said. Only part of Harry Potter was visible in the frame. He seemed to be trying his level best to escape from Lockhart, who had a vice-like grip on his arm and was attempting to pull him back into view.

“He’s so pleased with himself, up there with Lockhart, getting all that attention. He makes me sick.” Draco picked up a pair of scissors from off the table and began slicing them aggressively through the newspaper.

“What are you going to do with the picture?” Cilla asked after a moment.

“What?” Draco looked up at her.

“The picture you’re cutting out. What are you going to do with it?”

Draco looked down guiltily at the newspaper photo of Harry and Lockhart that he had indeed just finished cutting out.

“My parents don’t keep the newspapers. They would just throw it out,” he said.

“Oh.” This didn’t really explain anything, but Cilla knew by now that sometimes the Malfoys did not like to explain things, and they got irritable if pressed. She would probably figure out what Draco was doing if she just kept quiet about it and kept watching him.

 

***

 

Draco went back to Hogwarts with a new broom that he was extremely pleased with, because he said it was better than Harry Potter’s broom. Before he left, he presented Cilla with another of his old brooms, giving her an upgrade as well.

Cilla went back to her primary school. She wrote letters to Draco, and he wrote back to ask for pastries from her parents’ bakery. Narcissa began placing regular orders for care packages, which Cilla delivered to her door. 

For Christmas, Draco asked for and received a camera (apparently he’d seen a new first year at Hogwarts who had one). After that, he would sometimes send photos back from school, which Narcissa would frame and put on display. The images in the photos moved, like all the photos in the Malfoy home. Cilla often lingered over the photos when she visited the manor, watching Draco waving with his friends, or zooming around a Quidditch pitch, a looming castle at his back. She would be there with him in a few more years. He had promised. 

Cilla turned nine, and then ten. And then, finally, she turned eleven.

Notes:

Since writing this chapter, I have read that 79% of primary schools in the U.K. have uniforms. I thought about changing the section with Cilla wearing her dresses to school, but in the end, I wanted to keep it the way it was. Cilla’s primary school will just have to be one of the 21% that don’t require a uniform.

***

I had this chapter ready and the first chapter seemed kind of short, so I decided to go ahead and post this early. I will probably post on Sundays from now on.

Thank you for the kudos and thank you to everyone who subscribed!

Chapter 3

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me tonight.” Pomona meant it. It was always a relief when parents allowed her into their home without any… intervention. Of course, delivering her carefully crafted message was only the first step. If the parents proved difficult after this, she would have to get Severus involved. 

“We’re happy to have you,” the mother said. Bitsy, Pomona reminded herself. A woman with brown hair tied up in a bun and a nervous air about her. But that wasn’t unusual. Parents often seemed to know subconsciously that she was the harbinger of some sort of doom. 

“Can we offer you some tea?” the father, Jonathan, asked. 

“Thank you,” Pomona said, and as Jonathan poured her a cup, her eyes wandered about. They were in a small but comfortable sitting room, with a print of Van Gogh’s sunflowers hanging on the wall. Seated on the couch next to her mother was a small girl with white blond hair that hung wispily about her shoulders. She seemed to have dressed up for the occasion, as she was wearing a frilly pink dress with a full skirt and puffed sleeves. Her large, honey brown eyes were fixed expectantly on Pomona. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax,” Pomona began formally, taking the cup of tea in her hands. “I am here on behalf of a very special school for children of specific abilities and talents. We have found that your daughter, Pricilla, meets the qualifications we look for in our students.”

“And which school is this?” Jonathan asked. 

“The school is called Hogwarts,” Pomona said. 

“Is that Draco’s school?” Bitsy turned uncertainly to her daughter, who nodded. 

“Draco?” Pomona was thrown. “Draco Malfoy?”

“Oh, do you know him?” Bitsy said, brightening. “But of course you do, I’m sure the Malfoys are very influential.”

“Are they relations of yours?” Pomona asked. The committee was usually quite thorough in researching the family trees of incoming Muggleborn students. It was so much easier to deliver a Hogwarts letter to a family that already knew about magic because of a cousin or a great-aunt. But perhaps they had missed a connection in this case? The Malfoys would not be forthcoming about any Muggle relatives. 

“Oh no, they’re neighbors,” Bitsy said. 

“That’s right, Malfoy Manor is in Wiltshire, isn’t it,” Pomona said, remembering. 

“They’re up the road from here, just outside the village,” Bitsy said. 

“And they told you about Hogwarts?” Pomona said doubtfully. 

“We know Mrs. Malfoy’s got it in her head that Cilla should go to your school,” Jonathan said (which didn’t clear up anything for Pomona), “but my concern is the cost. Just how much is tuition at this school?”

“Tuition is covered, for all students. Pricilla can attend at no cost to you, aside from supplies. You will need to pay for her books, uniforms, things like that,” Pomona said.

“It’s free? Well, that would make a difference, wouldn’t it?” Jonathan turned to his wife. “We wouldn’t have to ask her to pay for it.”

“But isn’t it a boarding school?” Bitsy frowned. “With meals and lodgings and everything? And it’s all free?”

“Our school has a special fund held in trust for this purpose because, when we find a child with abilities such as yours, we feel it is a matter of utmost import that they attend our school, regardless of their parents’ ability to pay for it.” 

It was time to find out just how much these people knew. 

“Have you ever noticed anything unusual about your daughter?” Pomona began. “Things that you can’t explain that happen around her? Perhaps she had an accident where she should have gotten hurt, but she was uninjured. Perhaps things have a tendency to break when she gets upset. If she’s angry at someone, or scared of them, something bad might happen to them. Maybe they get clumsy around her, and they trip and fall. Or maybe a tree branch just happens to fall on them. Perhaps she was a handful as a toddler, because she always managed to get into the things that you were sure you put out of reach. Does any of this sound familiar to you?”

Both parents stared at her, Bitsy’s eyes anxious while Jonathan looked almost angry. 

“What exactly are you trying to say?” Jonathan frowned.

Here we go, Pomona thought. 

“This is for you, Pricilla.”

Pomona produced a thick, cream-colored envelope and held it out to the small blond girl, who sat up straight and received it with eager fingers. She broke the seal and took out the papers inside, smoothing them open. Pomona watched a smile light up the girl’s face as she read the first line, addressed with her name and granting her acceptance to Hogwarts School of —

“Witchcraft?” Jonathan said sharply. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

Pomona sighed inwardly. They didn’t know.

“Pricilla has magical abilities. She is a witch. She needs to come to Hogwarts to learn how to use and control her power.” There it was. 

“That — that’s not — there must be some sort of a mistake,” Bitsy stammered. “You said Draco went to your school. That can’t be right. Cissy would never —”

“Actually, Narcissa would, because she is a witch.” Pomona would wait until later to allow herself to think about the fact that this Muggle woman had just used a nickname to refer to Lucius Malfoy’s wife and Cygnus Black’s daughter. “And Draco is a wizard.”

“Alright, I’ve heard enough.” Jonathan stood abruptly. “Thank you for your time, but I’m afraid we’re not interested.”

“How about a demonstration?” Pomona tried to take her wand out slowly, in a non-threatening manner. “This is a wand. I’m going to make your coffee table float.” 

She set her teacup, still mostly full, on the table. 

“Wingardium leviosa.” The table rose slowly several feet, and then hovered. The Muggle couple watched mutely. No one moved for several long seconds. Then Jonathan reached out and swiped an arm over and then under the table. The table remained where it was. 

“Bitsy…” he said faintly. 

“Not good enough?” Pomona brought the table down with a gentle bump. “Pricilla, what’s your favorite animal?”

“A cat,” the girl said, speaking up for the first time. 

“A cat. Very well.” Pomona nodded decisively and gave her tea cup a tap with her wand. It wiggled a bit, and then moved. A small amount of tea did slosh on to the table — transfiguration was not Pomona’s specialty — but the cup with the tea in it changed into a sleek porcelain cat, sitting with its tail curled around its feet. After another moment of silence, Bitsy picked the cat up, turned it over in her hand, and then placed it back on the table. 

“I would like to go to Hogwarts,” Cilla said. 

 

***

 

Pomona bustled down the Muggle street in the warm night air. She thought she would take a walk before finding a discrete spot to apparate. All in all, the meeting had been a success. She would not need to involve Severus. 

The Heads of Houses at Hogwarts were jointly responsible for delivering acceptance letters to Muggleborn students and their parents. However, all of them (including Severus) agreed that Severus did not have the bedside manner requisite for delivering such delicate news. So the other three Heads split the letters between them. If the Muggle parents could not be persuaded to send their children to Hogwarts after the initial visit, then they were referred to Severus for more aggressive… persuading. 

But that would not be necessary in this case, which was a relief. Perhaps she had the Malfoys to thank for that. 

What a strange thought! 

Well. If Narcissa had found it in her heart to show some sort of kindness to these Muggles and their Muggleborn daughter, good for her. It seemed unlikely but… people could be complicated. Perhaps there was more to Narcissa than met the eye. 

Turning her thoughts back to her greenhouses and her plants, Pomona turned into an alleyway and disapperated. 

 

***

 

Narcissa took Cilla on a day trip to Paris to celebrate the arrival of her Hogwarts letter. They would have to go to Madame Malkin’s for Cilla’s uniforms, and Narcissa said she would place an owl order for Cilla’s textbooks and potions supplies, along with Draco’s. But Paris had a wand maker, and Narcissa assured Cilla that she would want new dresses to wear on the weekends, and so to Paris they went. 

Narcissa side-apparated Cilla to the Ministry of Magic where they took an international Portkey to Paris. The whole travel experience came as a shock to Cilla, who was used to experiencing magic in a more subtle way at Malfoy Manor. She hadn’t realized just how much magic could do. 

They spent the day shopping together. Narcissa had given Cilla many presents over the years, but she had never taken her anywhere with her before. Cilla trotted along at her side, a feeling of excitement and pride bubbling in her chest as Narcissa strode confidently from shop to shop in the big city. Most of the shopkeepers seemed to know who she was, and they rushed to attend her, speaking to her in French that Cilla did not understand, but that Narcissa replied in without hesitation. 

Their first stop was the wand shop, La Baguette Magique, where Cilla was matched with her very own wand. Next was clothes shopping. Narcissa had Cilla look at many dresses at multiple shops, but in the end she let Cilla pick which ones she wanted, which was another first. 

Dresses from the magical world were similar to dresses in the Muggle world, but they tended to be fancier than the dresses most Muggles wore, and they could be anything from a few decades to a few centuries out of date by Muggle standards. 

At the end of the day, they sat at a restaurant with their parcels stacked on the table, and their last purchase, a barn owl the color of a toasted marshmallow, in a cage next to Cilla. Narcissa was eating a seafood dish which she was trying to encourage Cilla to share with her, but Cilla was mostly eating croissants. 

Cilla looked at Narcissa as she chewed. She was so elegant, sitting there as self-assured as a queen. The smart blue robes she was wearing with the lacing down the sleeves were more elaborate than the understated dress-like robes she usually wore when she came into Larkhill. Her long yellow hair fell straight and smooth down her back, so bright it almost seemed to shine. She was so effortlessly fantastic, so full of magic. And amazingly, she seemed to be here just to give Cilla everything she ever wanted…

“Are you my fairy godmother?” Cilla blurted out. She expected Narcissa to laugh, but she only gazed placidly at Cilla. 

“What do you think that would involve?” she said. 

“Well, fairy godmothers have wands, and they can do magic. And… if you have a fairy godmother, she gives you fancy dresses and things.”

“Is that all there is to it?” Narcissa sounded surprised now. 

“Um, I think so,” Cilla said. 

“Well.” Narcissa seemed to think for a moment. “Would you like me to be your fairy godmother?”

“Oh, yes!” Cilla lit up. 

“Then your fairy godmother I shall be.” Narcissa smiled, and Cilla grinned happily back at her. 

 

***

 

It was dusk by the time they got back to Cilla’s home, laden down with packages and one owl in a cage. They knocked at the back door, since the bakery was closed for the day. Cilla’s father opened the door, and she wished it had been her mother instead. Jonathan Fairfax was uncomfortable with the amount of presents that Narcissa showered on Cilla, and Cilla had hoped to squirrel away their latest purchases before her father could see them. She had especially hoped that he wouldn’t see —

“Is that an owl?” Jonathan said abruptly. He was a short man, shorter than Narcissa, with thinning sandy blond hair. 

“Yes, a barn owl,” Narcissa said pleasantly.

“Why do you have a barn owl?” Jonathan was starting to frown. 

“Cilla will be glad to have him when she’s at Hogwarts,” Narcissa said. 

“The owl is for Cilla?” Jonathan was definitely frowning now. 

“Yes, she picked him out today in Paris.”

“Paris?!”

Oh dear, Cilla thought. 

“You didn’t say you were taking her to Paris!”

“Bitsy agreed that a day trip would be fun for Cilla.”

“She thought you meant London! We didn’t give you permission to take our daughter out of the country!”

“Paris isn’t far. I did not realize you would object.”

“Look, Mrs. Malfoy —” Jonathan paused to take a deep breath. He seemed to be trying to calm himself. “We appreciate everything you’ve done for Cilla. You’ve been more than generous. But you need to consult us over larger decisions. A pet is a large decision. You need to ask us before you buy Cilla a pet. And you need to ask us before you take her out of the country!” 

“I understand,” Narcissa said. “In the future I shall endeavor to better inform you of my plans. I’d best be on my way now, it’s getting late. Goodnight, Cilla.”

Narcissa pressed the packages she held into Jonathan’s arms. He took them, but he stopped Cilla when she tried to enter the house with the owl in its cage. 

“Give the owl back,” he said. “We can’t care for an owl.”

“They’re no trouble,” Narcissa said. “She only needs to let him out at night to hunt. He’ll find his own food.”

“No owls,” Jonathan said firmly. “We didn’t agree to this. A pet isn’t something you can just surprise someone with.”

Narcissa’s face barely flickered. Someone who had spent less time around her would not have noticed, but Cilla knew she was annoyed. Cilla had watched her breeze her way through Paris, with everyone they encountered eager to meet her needs. She was not used to not getting her way. 

Narcissa had her wand out before Cilla realized what was happening. 

“Obliviate,” she said. Jonathan’s forehead smoothed and his eyes went distant. 

“The owl will be no trouble,” Narcissa repeated. “He will stay in Cilla’s room during the day and she will let him out her window at night.”

“My window has a screen,” Cilla said automatically. 

“You were thinking about removing the screen in Cilla’s window so the owl can come and go,” Narcissa said smoothly. 

“I should probably do something about that screen,” Jonathan mumbled. 

“And while you’re doing that, you’ll remember that you knew Cilla was going to Paris with me, and you thought it was an excellent opportunity for her.”

“An excellent opportunity,” Jonathan mumbled, as he turned and shuffled back into the house carrying Cilla’s packages. 

“Let your owl out the window as soon as your father has the screen off,” Narcissa said to Cilla. “Don’t worry about him, he’ll find his way back in the morning.”

“What did you do to my father?” Cilla was just beginning to process what she had seen. 

“It’s difficult for Muggles to understand us, love,” Narcissa said. “I was only trying to help him understand.”

“What was the spell you did?”

“Memory modification. Don’t worry, dearest, it’s completely harmless.”

“Oh,” Cilla said, and she didn’t know what else to say, so she said thank you and goodnight to Narcissa, and then she went inside and took her new owl up to her bedroom, where the screenless window was already open for them. 

 

***

 

“Things will be different at Hogwarts. It won’t be like here,” Draco said.

“I know that,” Cilla said defensively. The two of them were lying on their backs in the grass of the Quidditch pitch, tired after an afternoon of flying. Cilla still had her broom in her hand, and she was running her thumb back and forth along the smooth handle. A Snitch was fluttering gently in a small, golden cage near Draco’s head.

“You can’t talk to me at Hogwarts,” Draco said.

Cilla frowned.

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll be a first year, and I’ll be a fifth year. Fifth years don’t talk to first years. It would be weird.”

“What about just sometimes?”

“We can talk when we’re home, but not at Hogwarts. That’s not the place for it. Besides, we won’t even be in the same House.”

“Why not? I want to be in your House! The snake House — what’s it called again?” Cilla adjusted her head in the grass so she could look at Draco, but he was staring steadfastly at the clouds.

“It’s called Slytherin, and you won’t go there. You’ll probably be in Hufflepuff.”

“Why? What’s Hufflepuff?”

“They’ll accept anyone there. It’d be a good place for you, since you won’t know anyone at Hogwarts.”

“I know you.”

“Not at Hogwarts you don’t.”

Cilla stared intently at Draco, feeling frustrated, but he did not look back at her. Cilla had been looking forward to Hogwarts for years. Looking forward to going to Hogwarts with Draco. And now Draco was saying these things that were giving her a pit in her stomach.

“The other options are Ravenclaw or Gryffindor,” Draco continued, ignoring Cilla’s distress. “They say Ravenclaws are smart. They have to really love learning, anyway. The Gryffindors are a bunch of loudmouth idiots. If you go there, I won’t talk to you even at home.”

“I won’t go to Gryffindor.” Cilla prayed that she would not. “I’ll go to Slytherin, with you.”

“No, you can’t go to Slytherin.” Draco was starting to sound annoyed.

“Why not?”

“They won’t put you there. Slytherin doesn’t take mudbloods.”

“Why not?” Cilla had heard this term before at Malfoy Manor, and had eventually figured out that it referred to witches and wizards with Muggle parents.

“It’s mostly pureblood. Some halfbloods, but absolutely no mudbloods.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Just go to Hufflepuff, Cill, you’ll like it there. Their mascot’s a badger, and their common room is close to the kitchens.”

Cilla didn’t say anything. She stared up at the clouds and gripped her broom handle tightly.

Notes:

Up next: Hogwarts and Harry!

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Chapter 4

Draco followed his mother through the crowd at the train station, his father following behind them, levitating his trunk. He caught a glimpse of a small girl with white blond hair — Cilla — standing with her parents, and he felt a pang of regret as his mother quickly led them in the opposite direction, to the far side of the train platform. 

It would have been nice to have a sort of little sister at Hogwarts. He had always felt a bit envious of the students with older siblings, who could look out for them and give them tips about classes and such. Now that he was older, he thought it might be fun to play the older sibling role, to have someone at Hogwarts who looked up to him and asked for his advice and listened to what he told them. And Cilla had always been excellent at listening to him with the appropriate amount of awe (which was probably why he had tolerated her presence for so long). 

But his mother had the right idea. No matter how friendly they were at home, they were in public now, and things were different. He and his mother had said their goodbyes to Cilla yesterday, at home. They had not told her that Draco would be looking out for her. They had not told her that she could go to Draco if she had any problems. Draco said goodbye exactly as his mother did, as if he also were not going to see her until Christmas holidays. 

Draco gave his head a shake as the doors to the train opened and he went to board. Cilla was on her own now. 

 

***

 

The cavernous Great Hall echoed with the excited shouts of students, but they quieted quickly when Professor McGonagall entered leading the new first years. Draco craned his head discreetly to watch Cilla as she walked in line with the other first years and took a seat. 

Not only was Draco without siblings at Hogwarts, but he didn’t even have any cousins. It wasn’t like he wanted to be a Weasley or anything, but it would be nice to at least pretend he had something like a family member at Hogwarts. It would be fun to follow Cilla’s progress from a safe distance, and he was looking forward to seeing her sorting. 

Professor McGonagall brought out the Sorting Hat and began calling names. One by one, the first years got up to try on the hat before joining one of the four long student tables, until finally…

“Fairfax, Pricilla!”

She looked very small from where Draco sat, smaller than the other first years. The Hat completely covered her face when she sat down on the stool and put it on. 

Draco waited in the ensuing silence with a sense of anticipation. Of course she would be a Hufflepuff, he was almost certain, but it was still exciting, an important milestone in a young — 

“SLYTHERIN!” 

Wait, what?

The Slytherins sitting around him were all clapping politely. Draco looked around, confused, sure he must have heard wrong. But then he saw Cilla walking towards the Slytherin table, and a sense of panic gripped his chest. No, this… this couldn’t be happening. Wasn’t someone going to stop this?

Draco glanced desperately up at the professors’ table, but they were all clapping calmly as though nothing was wrong. And all the while Cilla was getting closer, and was clearly looking for him…

There wasn’t time to give into panic. He had to act quickly. He would have to wait until later to have a proper freak out. 

Draco took a calming breath to school his features, swung his legs over the long bench, and stood up. Cilla saw him, and she broke out into a little run. As she got nearer, Draco gave her a smirk infused with a confidence he did not feel. She responded with a radiant smile that lit up her whole face. 

Draco wanted to smack her. 

Instead he held his hand out. 

“Welcome to Slytherin,” he said, loud enough for the people nearest them to hear. 

Cilla gave him her hand, looking a bit bashful now that she had reached him, and aware of all the nearby eyes trained her way. 

Draco used her hand to pull her in close, and he leaned down to touch his cheek to hers as if he were giving her an air kiss the way his French relatives did. 

“You’re my cousin,” he whispered in her ear. “Follow my lead. Don’t speak if you can help it.”

When he straightened, Cilla’s smile had faltered, and she looked up at him with anxiety spiking behind her eyes. Draco looked away.

“Budge up, Pans,” he said, as the Ravenclaw table burst into applause for another first year sent their way. Pansy raised a thin, shaped eyebrow, but she gave Daphne a little shove, and the Slytherin fifth years slowly rearranged themselves to make room for Cilla. 

Draco sat back down next to Pansy, placing Cilla on his right next to Greg, who he could count on to not ask Cilla any questions. Pansy, on the other hand, immediately leaned in close to Draco. 

“Who’s the blondie?” she whispered. 

“Cousin,” Draco whispered back. He could tell this only made Pansy more curious, so he added, “After the sorting,” and turned his attention back to the Sorting Hat, which another first year had just placed on her head. 

He watched the rest of the sorting without really seeing it. His mind was racing, and he was having a hard time thinking clearly, but he had to have his story ready by the time the sorting ended. He knew Pansy was not the only one waiting to quiz him on the little person he’d welcomed into their midst. 

The problem was that the wizarding world in Great Britain was small, and even smaller for the purebloods. With their obsession with ancestry, every pureblood was familiar with the family tree of every other pureblood. This was mainly so they could advise their children on where to look for a suitable partner. Within Great Britain, they all knew who was related to who. 

Thank Merlin Draco had relatives outside of Great Britain. 

At the end of the sorting, the headmaster announced the beginning of the feast, which appeared on cue, spreading lavishly over the tables. As Draco expected, Pansy immediately turned to him. 

“So, Draco, who’s this?”

The eyes of all the other fifth year Slytherins were also on him, as were the eyes of several Slytherins from other years who were sitting nearby. 

“This is my cousin, Cilla Fairfax, from Australia,” Draco said to the table at large. He was careful not to look at Cilla to see how she took this news. 

“Australia?” Pansy’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t know you had an Aussie cousin.”

“We’re not first cousins, obviously,” Draco said. Everyone at this table knew for a fact that Cilla was not his first cousin. “The connection’s a bit distant, but her mother is one of the French Malfoys. She married an Australian, so Cilla’s been living in Australia, but very recently, her family moved back to France. France has Beauxbatons, of course —” Draco paused to serve himself a scoop of mashed potatoes — “but Cilla’s French isn’t that great —”

Here, he couldn’t help glancing at Cilla. She responded with a dirty look. 

“It’s better than yours,” she said. 

“That’s a lie, and you know it,” Draco said. “My French is excellent. Anyway, her parents decided on Hogwarts since it’s nearby and also English-speaking.”

Attempting to appear casual, he poured gravy over his potatoes before he looked up at his classmates. They were no longer looking at him. Instead, they were all looking at Cilla with interest. 

“Hi Cilla, I’m Pansy.” Pansy reached past Draco to shake Cilla’s hand. “What’s it like in Australia?” 

“Um, we have kangaroos?” Cilla said vaguely. 

“Do you want the potatoes?” Draco said, and Cilla nodded. To Draco’s relief, the rest of the Slytherins began filling up their plates as well, murmuring to each other as they did so, and the scrutiny on Cilla lifted. He knew it was a temporary reprieve, but he would talk to Cilla privately after dinner, and they would sort their story out. 

No one had accused him of lying yet. That was a good sign. 

Draco took a roll from a platter, and as he did so, he glanced instinctively towards the Gryffindor table. And then he froze. 

Harry Potter was looking right at him. Right at him… and Cilla. 

Usually, Draco spent a fair amount of time and effort trying to get Potter to look at him. Back in third year, he had performed dramatic re-enactments of Potter fainting after his first dementor encounter. He’d even gone so far as to dress up as a dementor for one of Potter’s Quidditch games. That hadn’t gone so well. Potter had barely glanced at him (too busy catching the Snitch) and McGonagall had given him detention. 

Last year, he had recruited all the Slytherins in his year (minus Blaise who was too cool for such things) to help him make “Potter Stinks” buttons for the Triwizard Tournament. It had taken them an entire weekend, but all the hours of both manual labour and charm work were worth it for the look on Potter’s face when he saw them. 

It just figured that the one time Draco didn’t want Potter’s attention, he had it for free. Potter was irritating like that. 

Potter was still watching him. Now was not the time to make him any more suspicious than he already was. Draco could not allow Potter to see how nervous he felt. 

Draco gave Potter a slow, mocking smirk. Potter glowered and looked away. 

 

***

 

Draco slammed the door of the cell, shutting himself and Cilla inside. Then he turned around and looked at her. She was still wearing her new Hogwarts robes, and the black fabric made her look somewhat faded and ghostly, with her pale skin and her almost equally pale hair. 

“What is this place?” she asked. The walls of the small, windowless room were made of stone. The light from Draco’s wand revealed a stack of untidy boxes against the far wall, but aside from that, the room was empty. 

“Our common room is in the dungeons. This is a prison cell.”

Cilla stared. 

“Really?”

“Really.”

Draco fell silent, considering Cilla. Now that he finally had her alone, he didn’t know where to start. There was so much…

“Draco, you’re not mad at me?” Cilla said. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” Draco spat out. “Why didn’t you listen to me?”

“I didn’t do anything, it was the Hat!” Cilla protested. 

“Oh, right, the Hat decided, all on its own, to put a —” Draco paused and looked over his shoulder at the closed door, as if worried about eavesdroppers. 

“To put you in Slytherin!” he ended in a fierce whisper. 

“It did, you saw it.” Cilla folded her arms crossly. “I don’t know why you think I could do anything about it. The Hat puts you where you belong. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Oh you didn’t, did you?” Draco snarled. “Is that what you believe? I suppose you also believe that every Weasley ever born is a true Gryffindor as well.”

“What’s a Weasley?”

“Well, I’ll have you know —” Draco was working himself up to a good rant — “the Head Boy Weasley is a classic Slytherin. He’s ambitious, he’s smart, he’s focused on his goals, and he’s rigidly convinced that his way is the right way. And he’s a pureblood to boot. The Weasley prankster twins, on the other hand, are clearly Hufflepuffs. They love having a good time, and they’re willing to work hard to do so. They’re also so loyal to their family that they, as well as Head Boy, asked the Hat to put them in Gryffindor just because their parents and their older brothers were in that house.”

“Who are these people?” Cilla said, confused. 

“It’s not important, I hardly know them,” Draco said, waving a hand dismissively. “The point is, the Hat absolutely listens to what you want. I know. I asked for Slytherin.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed as he looked down at Cilla. 

“And I think you did too.”

“Well, but…” Cilla fidgeted. “Everyone on the train said —”

“The train.” Draco’s eyes widened in horror. “What did you say about yourself to people on the train?”

“Not much, really,” Cilla shrugged. “I sat with some older kids, and they weren’t really interested in me.”

“That’s another problem. I should have sat with you on the train if you’re my cousin.” Draco ran his fingers distractedly through his hair. “We’ll just have to say we arrived separately with our parents and didn’t manage to find each other before the train left. Who were the kids you sat with?”

“I don’t know, it was three girls. Probably second years, maybe third. They didn’t tell me their names. Didn’t ask mine either.”

“That’s incredibly lucky,” Draco said. “Didn’t they ask you anything about yourself?”

“They asked what year I was, and if I knew about the sorting. I said no, so they told me all about that, but after a while they seemed to be talking more to each other than to me, so I got out a book. They didn’t really say anything else to me. One of them said ‘good luck’ when we got off the train. I said ‘thanks.’”

“Sounds like Ravenclaws,” Draco said. He turned away from Cilla and attempted to pace, but the room was too small, and he met the wall almost immediately. 

“Dammit, Cilla, why didn’t you listen to me?” he burst out.

“You don’t have to pretend to be my cousin,” Cilla said. “I’ll be okay.”

Draco snorted.

“What, you think I can just show up at breakfast tomorrow and tell everyone you’re not my cousin after all, I was just having a laugh? And you would not be okay.”

“Why not?”

Draco whirled around to face her, feeling his fury rising again. He’d thought his mother would have explained things to her. She should have explained things! This shouldn’t be his job. And Cilla should have listened! If she had just listened to him, like he had expected her to do, then they wouldn’t have had any problems.

“If the other Slytherins knew who you really are, they would never accept you. They would tell you that you don’t belong in our house. You would be ostracized. Bullied. Picked on. You wouldn’t be able to cross the common room without getting jinxed. You wouldn’t be safe in your own dormroom. You’d be scared to go to sleep at night. They’d make your life a living hell.”

Cilla stared at him, her honey brown eyes uncertain.

“Just because I’m a mudblood?” she said in a small voice.

“Don’t say that!” Draco hissed, glancing at the door again. Then he took a deep breath, smoothed his hair back, and fixed Cilla with a firm look. “From now on, you are a pureblood. You are a Malfoy. Do you understand?”

Cilla gave him a small nod.

“If you run into any problems, if someone notices that there’s something you should have known as a pureblood, but that you don’t, you blame it on Australia. You shrug it off and say things are different in Australia. Got that?”

“I guess they do things differently in Australia.” Cilla shrugged, affecting a careless air.

“Exactly,” Draco said. “And whenever you talk to anyone, pretend you’re my mother.”

“I thought I was supposed to be your cousin?”

“No, I mean…” Draco rolled his eyes. “Act like Narcissa. Think of what she would say, what she would do, and do that.”

“I don’t know how to act like Aunt Cissy,” Cilla said.

That made Draco pause, but not because of Cilla’s protestation. He paused because the words “Aunt Cissy” flowed so easily and naturally from Cilla’s mouth. She was able to speak comfortably and familiarly about his mother. And Draco realized that this charade might actually work for more than one evening.

“You know how to act like your Aunt Cissy,” Draco said. “You’ve been practicing your whole life.”

Notes:

Let's just say I'll update once a week, sometime during the weekend...

So I'm trying really hard to be done editing each chapter before I post, but... I added a paragraph to the first chapter last week. My sister wanted to know what Narcissa and Draco were wearing in the muggle village, and I thought she had a good point. If you started reading before last Sunday, here's the paragraph I added:

***

Narcissa dressed Draco in a modern robe set that came with matching trousers. The outer robe was shorter than traditional robes, ending at Draco’s knees, and the front split open at the waist to allow Draco to run freely. Narcissa herself wore a set of robes in a style similar to a long Muggle dress. She knew their clothes did not exactly match current Muggle fashion, but she also knew the villagers would ascribe their appearance to the eccentricities and the fashions of the very rich.

***

Being weird or crazy is for poor people. If you're rich, you're eccentric.

Anyway, thanks for the kudos, thanks for the comments, and thanks for reading!

Chapter 5

“Consistency is good, color is correct, scent is to be expected,” Snape said, leaning over Draco’s cauldron. “Excellent work, Mr. Malfoy. See me after class.”

After class? What was that about? Draco told himself he had no reason to feel nervous. Snape had just said his potion was excellent. And Draco always did well in Potions. Perhaps Snape wanted to discuss something related to his prefect duties? Yes, that was probably it. 

Draco packed up his cauldron and then waited while the rest of the students filed out. Potter hung back for a bit behind the others, pretending to take a long time to pack up his things. He was so nosy this year… 

Draco eventually caught his eye and gave him his best sneer. Potter scowled and finally left the room. Then Draco walked up to the front of the class where Snape was sitting at his desk. 

The Potions Master was marking papers with red ink, and he did not look up when Draco approached. Draco tried not to fidget. He knew Snape was making him wait on purpose, but he didn’t know why. Snape scared most students, but Draco liked him, and he thought Snape had a soft spot for him as well.

“So, Mr. Malfoy,” Snape drawled. “How is your cousin settling in?” He slashed the paper in front of him with a long red mark as he said the word “cousin,” and then he finally looked up at Draco.

“Very well, sir,” Draco replied. So this was about Cilla. He should have seen this coming.

“Is that so?” Snape quirked an eyebrow.

“Well, to be honest, sir, she is struggling a bit. The girls in her dorm all knew each other before Hogwarts, and Cilla didn’t know anyone besides me, since she’s been living in Australia until recently.”

“Australia,” Snape repeated.

“Yes sir,” Draco said.

“Remind me, how are you related to her?”

“She’s my cousin, sir.”

“Yes, that’s been established, Mr. Malfoy. On your mother or your father’s side?”

“My father’s, but she’s a distant cousin, sir, not a first cousin. Her mother is one of the French Malfoys. She is, in fact, living in France at this very moment, along with Cilla’s father, but since Cilla has spent so much of her life abroad, her French is unfortunately not the best, so her parents opted to send her to Hogwarts rather than Beauxbatons.”

Draco stopped talking. Snape did not respond. Draco focused on breathing naturally, and composed his expression into one of mild curiosity, waiting to see why Snape was asking questions about Cilla.

“You lie well, Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said, “but I know your parents as well as I know anyone, and I feel certain they would have informed me were a relation of yours to start at Hogwarts. Especially one that I was not acquainted with. They would have introduced me to her before the term started.”

“Her father started at his new position in France fairly recently —” Draco began. 

“What’s more,” Snape raised his voice to speak over Draco. “I am the Slytherin Head of House, and I have access to the records of all my students.”

Draco was silent.

“Also, Professor Sprout did a home visit to Pricilla and her parents. All Muggleborns have their acceptance letter delivered in person by a professor.”

“Oh,” Draco said.

Silence again. So Snape knew. Now what was he going to do about it? Surely he wouldn’t tell anyone? He wouldn’t put a first year member of his own house in danger, right?

“Mr. Malfoy, may I ask why you felt it necessary to pretend to be the cousin of a first-year Muggleborn?”

“She was sorted into Slytherin. She wouldn’t survive living in our dorms as a Muggleborn.”

“And why is that your problem?”

“I’m a prefect.”

Snape raised his eyebrows incredulously.

“It’s my job to protect the members of my House,” Draco elaborated.

“You pretended a Muggleborn was your cousin because, as a prefect, you felt it was your duty to protect the members of your house?” Snape repeated.

“It’s my fault she’s in Slytherin,” Draco blurted. This interrogation was making him lose his composure.

“How is it your fault the Sorting Hat put a Muggleborn in Slytherin?”

“I told her she couldn’t be in Slytherin, so of course she went and asked the Hat to put her in Slytherin! Actually, it’s the stupid Hat’s fault, really. Why did it have to go and listen to her? An eleven-year-old who doesn’t know the first thing about anything!”

Snape paused as he digested this information.

“Mr. Malfoy, you are aware that Hogwarts is not an isolated island, no matter how it may feel at times. Children talk to their parents. Parents talk with each other. How is your father going to respond when he finds out that you’ve been pretending to be related to a Muggleborn?”

“Well, I suppose I should write to him before he finds out from someone else. That could be awkward.”

“Indeed,” Snape said sarcastically.

“But my mother will convince him to go along with it.”

At this, Snape’s eyebrows nearly met his hairline.

“Narcissa Malfoy, of the infamous pureblood House of Black, will convince Lucius Malfoy to pretend to be related to a Muggleborn?”

“She will,” Draco said. “She already took Cilla shopping for her Hogwarts supplies. This is all her fault anyway, so she better!”

“This is Narcissa’s fault? Wait, she took Pricilla shopping ? Narcissa? Took a Muggleborn? Wait, was this a charity stunt or something?”

“No, she wanted to do it. She took her to Paris so no one would see them together. They owl-ordered Cilla’s textbooks from Diagon, and floo’d directly to Madame Malkin’s for a private fitting for the uniform. I think they got everything else in Paris.”

“Why? Why would Narcissa do that for a Muggleborn?”

“Dunno,” Draco shrugged. “Cilla’s from our village. I’ve known her all my life. My mother is friends with her mother.”

“…The Malfoys do not associate with Muggles. Everyone knows that.”

“And they would appreciate it if you did not spread this around. But this is our village. Our Muggles.”

“Your Muggles,” Snape repeated.

“So, since you already know, can Cilla switch Houses now?”

“After you’ve gone to all the trouble of making Pricilla your cousin and inventing elaborate lies, now you ask if she can switch Houses?”

Draco winced. “Ok, I’m sorry for not coming to you right away. But is it possible?”

“Students do not change Houses unless there is a serious problem. The Hat knows best.”

“But if anyone finds out what she is, she will have a serious problem in Slytherin!”

“If she can’t make it in Slytherin, then she doesn’t deserve to be there,” Snape said.

Draco fumed. Usually, he found Snape’s difficult personality funny, but it had never been directed at him before.

 

***

 

“Lucius!”

Lucius paused on his way to the Wizengamut chambers as Adorabella Greengrass hurried to catch up with him. The middle-aged witch was clutching her dark green hat to her head, a showy affair adorned with berries and entwined branches. 

“Adora,” he nodded politely. “Are you attending the session today?”

“Yes, I’ll walk with you,” she said, falling into step at his side. 

“May I inquire after the health of your parents?”

“Yes, yes, they’re fine.” Adora waved the inquiry away. “My daughters tell me there’s a new little Malfoy cousin at Hogwarts this year!”

“Is that so?” Lucius said. He smiled blandly, still polite, but his mind was instantly whirring. Malfoy cousin? What Malfoy cousin? All the Malfoy cousins he knew of lived in France and went to Beauxbatons. 

“Of course, Daphne says she knew the moment she saw her! She says the little girl has the exact same hair color as Draco. Who else could she be but a Malfoy?”

“Who else?” Lucius echoed. 

“Daphne says the girl brings out a completely different side of your Draco! He’s so protective, the ideal older brother. I declare! I’m quite dying to see the two of them together! What a lovely picture they must cut!”

“It does Draco credit to have Miss Greengrass speak well of him,” Lucius said, intentionally noncommittal. 

“And imagine! From Australia! ” Adora pulled a humorously scandalized face, widening her eyes and pursing her lips. 

What? Lucius thought blankly. 

“Well! Daphne says she has a proper accent, at least. One would never guess she hadn’t been raised in England! She must have had English tutors.”

Lucius did not even consider coming right out and asking Adora what the hell she was talking about. The only thing worse than revealing his ignorance about his own relative would be to reveal his ignorance about his own son. Because Draco, the little traitor, apparently knew all about this girl, and hadn’t told him a thing!

“She’s rooming with my little Iggy, did you know?” Adora continued blithely. “They’re sure to be the best of friends. Did you know my Iggy started Hogwarts this year? I’m an empty nester now, can you believe it?”

Somehow, Lucius survived the small talk with Adora until he could politely escape to his seat in the Wizengamot chambers. There, he took out a folder full of papers and pretended to be very busy preparing for the upcoming session. 

Who on earth was Adora talking about? A new girl, so presumably a first year. Blond hair like Draco’s. And Draco… what? Spent time with her? Liked her? Draco was fifteen. Why would he be spending time with a little… blond…

Lucius’ stomach dropped. How old was the baker’s daughter? Not old enough for Hogwarts, surely? He had had the misfortune of running into her over the summer. In his own house. 

His own house! It wasn’t enough that the mudbloods were taking over Hogwarts, were taking over Diagon Alley and the Ministry. Now they were showing up in his own house, disturbing his rest and his safe haven!

Anyway, the baker’s daughter, what’s her name. Little Bitsy, or something. She was much too small for Hogwarts, surely. She couldn’t possibly…

And then, with another lurch to his stomach, Lucius remembered. A few weeks ago, perhaps, Narcissa had gone out for the day. She had said she was going to Paris. To go shopping with the little girl. For school. 

And now Draco was traipsing around Hogwarts with a pretend first-year cousin. 

What had Draco done?

Lucius…

Lucius needed to talk to Narcissa. 

 

***

 

Draco spent the first few weeks of school in a constant state of anxiety. On top of his prefect duties and the stress of preparing for his upcoming OWLs, he was always thinking of things that Cilla ought to know as his pureblood cousin. Even the slightest slip-up could make someone suspicious, make them wonder about her upbringing and her ancestry. And they couldn’t afford suspicions, because a suspicious person might look more closely into Cilla’s ancestry and discover the truth. So Draco pulled Cilla aside whenever he got the chance to whisper urgent instructions and random facts about wizard culture in her ear. 

“If you drop a spoon or a glass on the floor at mealtimes, don’t pick it up! Even if the glass breaks, don’t apologize, don’t even say anything about it!” Draco said. “The house elves will clean it up and replace it for you. If you pick it up yourself, people will think you didn’t grow up around house elves! Are you listening?”

“Yes, yes,” Cilla said.

“And never bring a cat to supper!” Draco said. “Dogs and owls are fine, but never cats!”

“I don’t even have a cat!” Cilla said. 

“And toads should never be allowed to free roam. Someone could step on them!”

“Draco, I have to get to class!”

Draco wrote to his mother. She wrote back promptly with an updated family tree that included Cilla, Bitsy, and Jonathan. Bitsy (or Elisabet) was now the fourth daughter of Abraxas Malfoy’s French cousin, Bastien Malfoy. Narcissa thought people were less likely to notice an extra daughter if there were already several to begin with. The first chance he got, Draco gave the family tree to Cilla and told her to memorize it. 

Draco also paid a visit to Professor Sprout. He followed her around a greenhouse during her office hours, telling her about his cousin Cilla who was most definitely a pureblood from Australia. Professor Sprout patted him on the shoulder with a grubby hand (Draco tried not to wince), told him he was a good boy to be so concerned about his cousin, and promised him that she would look out for the girl. 

Which Draco took to mean that she agreed not to dispute his story about Cilla. 

Draco was so preoccupied with everything going on in his life that he scarcely had any mental energy left to write a song detailing the shortcomings, both personal and Quidditch, of Harry Potter’s best friend, Ron Weasley, who was the new Keeper for the Gryffindor team. Luckily, he had Cilla to help him. 

“‘ He always lets the Quaffle in, his mother has a double-chin’ ?” Draco sat in the common room with a draft of lyrics on his lap. He was procrastinating writing a paper for History of Magic. 

“How about ‘ He always lets the Quaffle in, Weasley will make sure we win’ ?” suggested Cilla, who was curled up on the couch beside him, peering over his shoulder. 

“This is going to be hilarious,” Draco chuckled, writing down the line.  

Cilla was much better at this than Pansy, who enjoyed tormenting Gryffindors but got bored easily with Draco’s more time-intensive plots. Crabbe and Goyle would have been no help at all; they were more interested in physical violence. Blaise thought that writing songs for a Quidditch match was lame and said as much, but he had no House pride and never got excited about anything, so Draco tried not to take it personally. 

Cilla, on the other hand… Draco had been bouncing ideas off of Cilla for as long as he could remember. She was always an attentive and eager brainstorming partner, which in turn energized Draco. She didn’t criticize like Blaise or lose interest like Pansy. They understood each other, they were on the same brainwave, and they rarely had disagreements. 

Which was why he was so shocked that she didn’t listen to him when he told her to go to Hufflepuff! 

But he had to admit, it was kind of nice to have her in Slytherin with him. 

When Draco finished writing the song, titled “Weasley is our King,” Cilla faithfully attended every Slytherin Spirit Practice Session, as Draco called them, and sang loudly to help everyone else learn the tune. 

Draco tried to tell everyone that the Practice Sessions, held in the Slytherin common room, were mandatory, and that it was required to memorize the song if they wanted to attend the Slytherin-Gryffindor Quidditch game, but Montague (the new Slytherin Quidditch captain) told him that wasn’t allowed. 

So Draco promised a “Weasley is our King” badge to every Slytherin who attended at least one practice, and he bullied his year mates into helping him with the badges again. 

The day of the Slytherin-Gryffindor match, everything went exactly as Draco had planned. All the Slytherins wore the badges. They sang loudly and clearly enough that Draco could hear every word from the pitch. He was so pleased with how everything was turning out that he joined in for a verse or two as he circled on his broom, looking for the Snitch. 

Potter looked both worried and furious. Weasley played horribly as the new Keeper. Everything was perfect. 

Except that Gryffindor won. Potter reached the Snitch a mere fraction before Draco. And then… well, Draco threw a little bit of a fit and ran his mouth. And then Potter pummeled him. 

Draco felt a bit bad about that afterwards, because Cilla, sitting in the stands with Pansy, saw it happen and got scared. But it was worth it, because Potter got a lifetime ban from Quidditch because of it. 

When Draco got on the Hogwarts Express for the first time as an eleven-year-old, he had expected that Harry Potter would want to be his friend. The possibility that Potter would not want that had never occurred to him. So when Potter very rudely rebuffed his proffered handshake, Draco was upset, to say the least. When Potter went on to pick Weasley and Granger over Draco, Draco was offended. Four years later, the very sight of Weasley and Granger irritated him, reminding him that Potter had picked them and not him.

He tried whenever he could to make Potter see reason by pointing out all of Weasley and Granger’s many flaws and failings as human beings, but Potter stubbornly stuck with them and only got angry at Draco. Which in turn made Draco angry, which inevitably ended in him lashing out. At Potter, at Weasley, at Granger. But especially at Potter. 

 

***

 

The week after the Quidditch game, Draco was walking down a corridor with a group of Slytherins on their way to lunch. They came to the foyer leading to the Great Hall at the same time as a group of Gryffindors, and Draco’s eyes immediately zeroed in on a dark head of messy hair. Harry Potter, with his perennially tanned skin and his bright green eyes, flanked as always by his two bodyguards, Weasley and Granger. 

“Potter,” Draco drawled. “Heard you’ve been seeing a lot of Umbridge lately.”

Potter’s fierce gaze narrowed in on Draco.

“Sod off, Malfoy,” he said.

Draco had long ago given up on making Potter his friend. Maybe if he had been more patient in first year, and lashed out less… But it was far too late for that. Now, Draco settled for not being ignored.

Potter ignored most people at the school. His friend group was very small. The only people he really interacted with were Weasley, Weasley’s siblings, and Granger. But he knew Draco Malfoy’s name. And Draco could make him look at him. 

That was the main point in making him mad. When Draco made him mad, he looked at Draco like he was looking at him now, all furious and focused and most definitely aware that Draco existed. It thrilled Draco to think that Potter never looked at anyone else the way he looked at Draco. 

And so, filled with the elation of having Potter’s undivided attention, Draco kept talking.

“That’s right. I hear you’ve been having an awful lot of detentions with Umbridge,” Draco said smoothly. “Night after night. Week after week. Enjoying yourself, are you?”

Draco had barely a second to register the rising fury in Potter’s green eyes before Potter hauled off and punched him in the eye. Draco stumbled back, surprised. Baiting Potter always came easily to him, but it usually took more to drive Potter to physical violence. He must have hit a sensitive spot with the detentions. 

Draco bumped up against Goyle, who was standing behind him, caught his balance, and hurled himself at Potter. If Potter was going to hit him, Draco’s pride required him to fight back. He tried to hit Potter, but Potter grabbed his arm. Draco kicked out with one foot, and the two of them went down in a flurry of flailing limbs.

People around them screamed and shouted, encircling them as they grappled together. 

“Harry!” he heard Granger wail. Draco managed to get one punch in, but it was left-handed and fairly weak. Potter was still holding on to his right wrist. Draco attempted to wrench it free, but then Potter grabbed his left wrist as well. Draco tried to kick him again. 

“Enough!” 

There was a sharp crack, and Draco rolled on the stone floor as a magical pressure forced him away from Potter. 

“Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy. My office, now.” McGonagall’s voice was as sharp as the crack from her wand. Draco got up gingerly from the ground and followed her. He could see Potter doing the same from the corner of his eye. 

Nothing more was said until the three of them were in McGonagall’s office and the door was shut. Then she turned on them with an expression that made Draco wince involuntarily. 

“I’ve had enough of this!” she said. “Year after year, it’s always the same with you two! The House rivalries exist to foster friendly competition. Friendly! But the two of you always take it too far, you turn it into something ugly. And you drag everyone in your Houses down with you! Whatever bad feelings were already there, the two of you escalate it! Every time! And I’ve had enough!”

She paused to breathe indignantly. 

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Potter mumbled. 

“I’m giving you detention,” Professor McGonagall said. “One evening a week, you will do your homework together. Writing or reading only, no practical work. You will keep your wands out of sight. This detention will continue, once a week, indefinitely, until I see improvement.”

“Indefinitely?” Draco couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Although, maybe he should have expected something like this, after what he had pulled the Saturday before: getting McGonagall’s star Seeker banned from Quidditch while escaping punishment himself. He pushed those thoughts back and protested anyway. “You can’t do that!”

“I assure you, I can,” McGonagall said. “If you want it to end sooner rather than later, prove to me that you can be civil to each other. I’m not asking for you to be best friends. But you are not each other’s enemies. Remember what the Hat said at the sorting feast. This is the time for unity, not division.”

“But —” Draco glanced at Potter, expecting him to be just as indignant as Draco. But the expression on Potter’s face was more complicated than that, and it made Draco pause. 

“Couldn’t I do my detentions with Ron instead?” Potter asked. “Or at least by myself?”

“No, Mr. Potter, you are actually being punished, and for a reason.” McGonagall folded her arms sternly. “Now, out. Both of you. Lunch has already started.”

Draco allowed himself to be shooed out into the corridor because he was too confused to argue further. Potter immediately took off for the Great Hall at a brisk pace, while Draco followed more sedately behind, watching his quickly retreating back. 

On the one hand, indefinite detentions were unheard of. Ridiculous! But on the other hand, detentions typically involved unpleasant manual labor. Not homework you were going to do anyway. If he looked at it that way, he’d gotten off scot-free. The only downside was Potter. He’d have to spend time alone with Potter.

 

***

 

“I hope you both brought something to work on?” Professor McGonagall raised her eyebrows as she peered up at them over her thin glasses. 

Both boys nodded. 

“Good. You will work here.” She tapped the single table set in the middle of the empty classroom with her wand. “Mr. Malfoy, you may leave after one hour. I will be stopping by to check on you. I expect you both to stay here for that hour, and to be civil to one another. Is that clear?”

Both boys nodded again, but Draco was once again confused. McGonagall had said he could leave after an hour, but what about Potter? Was Potter not allowed to leave? 

Potter was already sitting down and taking out his books, and McGonagall was closing the door behind her as she left the room. Apparently Potter was not going to ask for clarification.

“I can’t believe McGonagall is actually using your presence to punish me,” Draco drawled, slinging his bookbag off his shoulder and onto the table.

“She’s using your presence to punish me too,” Potter growled.

“This is such a farce.” Draco sat down across from Potter and began taking out his own books and parchment. “Indefinite detention? Really? Wait ‘til my father hears about this. I imagine he’ll have something to —”

“You know, we don’t have to talk,” Potter interrupted Draco’s prattling. “We could just sit here, do our homework, and then leave. Have you thought about that?”

“Well, I can leave after an hour.” Draco cocked his head thoughtfully at Potter. “But she didn’t say that you could. Why is that, Potter?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure she meant to include me too.” Potter rolled his eyes. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an essay to write.”

The smart thing to do would be to use this time to do homework. Potter wasn’t the only one who had an essay to write; he wasn’t special. Draco picked up his quill and opened his History of Magic textbook. 

“I am so enjoying Care of Magical Creatures this year, aren’t you?” Draco said airily five minutes later. “I really feel like I’m learning a lot.”

Potter grunted. 

“I do hope they keep Grubbly-Plank in the position permanently. It’s amazing what a difference it makes having a teacher who is actually qualified as opposed to some half-breed who didn’t even graduate from Hogwarts.”

“Malfoy!” Potter’s fist hit the table with a loud thunk . His green eyes pinned Draco with a fierce glare. Draco blinked back, letting his own eyes go wide and innocent. They stared at each other for a few seconds. Then Potter dropped his gaze back to his parchment. 

“We’re already in detention,” he said. “I don’t want to get in any more trouble with McGonagall.”

Draco watched Potter scribble furiously on his parchment for a while. Then he tried to read a few paragraphs from his book, looking for something to put in his own essay. 

He wrote one sentence. He put his quill down and looked at Potter again. 

“But don’t you think it’s odd that McGonagall has us doing homework for detention?” Draco demanded. 

“Would you prefer to clean cauldrons?” Potter said without looking up from his parchment. 

“Is she doing this for you, Potter? Because you’re her Gryffindor golden boy?”

“I assure you, Malfoy, I am being punished.”

“I don’t even know why they still call your House ‘Gryffindor.’ They should just call it the House of Blood Traitors and Mu —”

“Malfoy! Shut up!” Potter had finally looked up at him again. “Just shut up!”

“Make me,” Draco said. It was not his best comeback, but at least it had the desired effect of making Potter even angrier.

By the time McGonagall came back to tell Draco he could leave, Draco had not finished his essay. On the bright side, neither had Potter. He scribbled away as Draco packed up his bag. 

Before leaving the room, Draco paused to glance back at Potter. He had made no move to leave, and was still writing. 

“Come along, Mr. Malfoy, I don’t have all night,” McGonagall said impatiently. 

So Draco, still confused, went back to his common room, leaving Potter by himself in the classroom. 

 

********

 

-Bonus scene from Draco’s first year-

 

Neville was walking down a corridor of the castle, scanning every nook and cranny as he went, when he saw Draco Malfoy coming towards him clutching a small something close to his body with both hands. 

“Draco! You found Trevor!” Neville said happily, running towards him. He scooped the toad out of Draco’s hands and held him up for inspection. Trevor blinked at him with dour eyes. 

“You can’t keep letting him escape like this,” Draco scolded. “He’s going to get hurt! What if an owl eats him?”

“I know, I know,” Neville said. “But he doesn’t want to stay put. He’s a free spirit!”

“And you have to call me ‘Malfoy,’” Draco said. “We’re at Hogwarts now; we’re doing last names. Crabbe and Goyle both agreed.”

“I know, you told me already,” Neville said. “It just feels weird trying to be formal after we’ve been stuck in the kiddie room together at every Wizengamot function since we were out of nappies.”

“Which took you a lot longer than it took me,” Draco said. “I think you might have been four years old before your gran would trust you to stay in the kiddie room without wetting yourself. It was embarrassing.”

“I don’t believe you really remember how old I was when I toilet trained,” Neville sniffed. 

“Oh, I remember. I wish I didn’t,” Draco said. “Thank Merlin our kiddie room days are over. Now that we’re at Hogwarts, we’ll be in the big kids’ room for the next Wizengamot ball! We’ll have ballroom dancing and everything, you know, just like the grown-ups.”

“Goodie,” Neville said sarcastically. “Well, it’s been a joy catching up with you and all…”

“Not so fast, Longbottom,” Draco said. “I’ve been looking for someone to try out my Leg-Locker Curse on.”

“Draco, no…” Neville whined, slipping Trevor into his pocket and backing away. 

“It’s your punishment for losing your toad again. Now hold still,” Draco said cheerfully. 

“If you hex me, I won’t be your fourth for the quadrille with Pansy and Daphne!” Neville said. 

“Locomotor Mortis!” Draco incanted, pointing his wand at Neville. Neville squeaked as his legs snapped together, and his hand flew out to the wall to stop himself from pitching over. 

“That’s it! I’m not dancing with you!” Neville said. 

“The next ball’s months away. You’ll have forgotten by then,” Draco said. 

“No, I won’t! I’ll remember this, Draco!” Neville said as he turned and awkwardly hopped away. “I have a Remembrall!”

“It’s ‘Malfoy’!” Draco shouted after him. 

Notes:

Thanks for the kudos, thanks for the comments, thanks for reading!

Chapter 6

Harry opened the classroom door and peered inside. It was empty. Malfoy wasn’t there yet. Neither was McGonagall. She still checked on them occasionally to make sure they were actually there, but her oversight had gotten more and more sporadic over the weeks.  

Almost as if she didn’t care if they were still doing detention or not. 

Harry knew he should be grateful for McGonagall’s intervention. Because of her, he was guaranteed at least one night a week that he didn’t have to spend slicing his own hand open while Umbridge watched. But if he had been given the choice between that and sitting in a room alone with Malfoy, which would he choose?

Well, he supposed he would pick Malfoy, but it was really only marginally better than Umbridge’s torture. 

Just ignore him, he could hear Hermione reminding him. Just ignore him and do your homework. 

Harry sighed. He walked into the room, letting the door shut behind him, and sat down at the single table. He took his Herbology textbook out of his book bag and flipped to the assigned chapter. 

He had been reading for several minutes when the door opened. Harry didn’t look up. He would ignore Malfoy. 

The door closed. Books thumped onto the table, and the chair scraped on the floor. 

Harry lost his resolve and looked up. And blinked. 

A pair of large brown eyes were looking right at him. In the chair where Malfoy usually sat, there was a small girl with light blond hair. Malfoy was there as well, but he was pulling up a second chair to sit beside her. 

Malfoy took out a textbook of his own and began reading. He did not acknowledge Harry or the girl. Harry sat there staring at the two of them in silence and surprise for several moments. 

The girl stared back. Her pale hair and skin were the exact same shade as Malfoy’s, and they were both equally thin, almost delicate in their bone structure. Sitting next to each other, they looked like two consumptive Victorian children from a novel. Something from Charles Dickens, perhaps. 

Harry wondered if they were actually siblings. The eyes that were looking right at him were different than Malfoy’s, though. A light honey brown, where Malfoy’s were grey. 

Harry had asked Ron at the welcome feast, when he saw this girl go running to Malfoy after being sorted. Ron had said Malfoy didn’t have any siblings, and he didn’t know who the little first year was. 

In the common room that evening, Harry found Parvati and Lavender. They didn’t know who the girl was either, but they promised Harry that they would ask around. At dinner the next day, they reported back that Susan from Hufflepuff had spoken to Marigold from Ravenclaw, who was the cousin of Pansy from Slytherin, and she said that Pansy said that the girl, Pricilla Fairfax, was Malfoy’s cousin. 

Malfoy’s cousin leaned over now and whispered to Malfoy, but the room was silent and Harry was only on the other side of the table, so he heard her clearly. 

“Draco, you didn’t tell me you were friends with Harry Potter,” she said. 

“Don’t you have any homework to do?” Malfoy sounded annoyed. 

“I finished it,” she said. 

Malfoy grunted and marked something in his textbook. 

More silence. 

Harry looked back down at his own textbook. He tried to start reading again, but as often happened during his detentions with Malfoy, he couldn’t concentrate. 

“Draco. Will you introduce me?” Malfoy’s cousin was whispering again. 

“He can hear you,” Malfoy said. “One does not request an introduction right in front of the person one wants to be introduced to.”

“Well, too late now.” The girl grinned at Harry, and Harry smiled back. 

Malfoy didn’t look up from his textbook. 

“Please, Draco?” the girl prompted after another silence. 

“I told you it would be boring here,” Malfoy said. “If you want to be entertained, you should go find the other first years.”

Harry did not like Boy-Who-Lived fans, the people who made a fuss about him just because he was famous. Generally, he avoided star-struck first years in particular. But he decided to make an exception for Malfoy’s cousin, because he knew it would annoy Malfoy. 

“You really don’t need an introduction to talk to me,” Harry said with a reassuring smile. “I’m not that formal. My name’s Harry. What’s yours?”

Harry held out his hand. 

“I’m Cilla,” the girl said. She didn’t so much shake hands as offer Harry the tips of her fingers with her wrist arching up primly. Harry held her fingers briefly while wondering if she meant for him to kiss her hand. 

Malfoy, meanwhile, looked outraged. Harry chuckled inwardly. Usually, Malfoy was the one who always knew exactly what to say to push Harry’s buttons. It felt good to turn the tables on him for once. 

“How are you liking Hogwarts?” Harry asked, dropping Cilla’s fingers. 

“It’s good,” Cilla said. 

“Made any friends yet?”

Cilla shrugged and glanced at Malfoy, who frowned. Harry realized that he may have inadvertently hit a sensitive spot. 

“Sometimes it takes time to make friends,” he said kindly. “Don’t worry about it. There are loads of great people here. I’m sure you’ll find friends when you get to know your classmates better.”

“I’m okay for now. I have Draco,” Cilla said, which seemed like an incongruous statement to Harry. He couldn’t imagine Malfoy’s presence being helpful to anyone, even to his cousin. 

Malfoy’s eyes were currently darting back and forth between Harry and Cilla. He looked almost anxious, Harry noted with amusement. 

“Do you like fruit tarts?” Cilla asked. She pulled a pink bakery box out of a bag on her lap. The box was larger than the bag by the time she had it on the table. 

“He can’t have those,” Malfoy said sharply. 

“I’m not giving him yours.” Cilla rolled her eyes at him. “I have an extra.”

“I like treacle tarts,” Harry said, ignoring Malfoy. “I’ve never had a fruit tart.”

Cilla’s eyes widened. She leaned in close to Malfoy again. 

“Draco, he’s never had a fruit tart!” she said in a distressed whisper. 

“His limited life experience is hardly our responsibility,” Malfoy hissed back. 

Cilla gave him a look, and Malfoy gave her a different sort of look, and Harry watched in bemusement as the two seemed to have a heated if silent exchange. Then Cilla turned back to Harry. 

“You simply must try one,” she said. “They’re our favorite.”

“How could I refuse?” Harry smiled serenely at Malfoy, who scowled back. 

Cilla opened her bag again and rummaged around for longer than seemed necessary for such a small bag. To Harry’s surprise, she produced three small blue and white china plates, which she placed on the table. Then she opened the pink bakery box, took out a tart, and slid it on a plate across the table to Harry. 

The delicate pastry was filled with yellow custard and topped with an array of raspberries, blueberries, strawberries, and peaches. Harry wanted very badly to take a bite. 

There was no way he would ever eat anything that Malfoy gave him. A year ago, he would have thought that he would never take anything from any family member of Malfoy’s either. But since then, he’d met Tonks, a cousin of Malfoy’s who he liked quite a lot. So he knew that not all of Malfoy’s relatives wished for his early demise. 

Of course, Tonks did not spend her free time with Malfoy the way Cilla did. In fact, it was possible that Tonks had never even met Malfoy, since her mother had been disowned from the family. 

But the tart looked very good, and Harry had a weakness for tarts. He decided that Cilla seemed ok. Also, Malfoy very clearly did not want Harry to have a tart, which was the best argument for the tart being good. Harry took a bite. 

The crust broke off in his mouth, crumbly and flakey. The sweetness of the smooth custard balanced with the slightly sour tang of a raspberry. 

“What do you think?” Cilla asked. She had passed another tart on a china plate to Malfoy, and was nibbling on her own. 

“Wow, it’s —” Harry swallowed. “It’s really good!”

Cilla smiled, pleased. 

“My mother made them.”

“She made these?” Harry was impressed. 

“It’s an eccentricity of hers, to be sure,” Malfoy interjected. “But she does it as a hobby. Of course, she didn’t have to. She has access to all the best bakeries, living in Paris as she is.”

“Malfoy, Cilla’s mum making her own pastries isn’t something to be ashamed of,” Harry said, annoyed. He turned to Cilla. “Don’t listen to Malfoy. He’s a prat. These tarts are brilliant. And I cook all the time when I’m not at Hogwarts.”

“You do not,” Malfoy said indignantly. 

“Yes, I do,” Harry glared. 

“Why would you do that? I know you’re not as poor as Weasley. If your family can’t afford help, there’s prepared food you can buy. Even Muggles have that.”

“They do eat out sometimes, but usually my aunt and I cook.” That sounded strangely cozy, as if cooking were some loving bonding activity between Harry and Aunt Petunia. But Harry wasn’t about to clarify anything for Malfoy. 

“You cook?” Malfoy said incredulously.

Harry had not attempted to have anything close to a civil conversation with Malfoy since the time he first met him in Madam Malkin’s robe shop. It was an exhausting experience, both of them defensive and cagey, reluctant to reveal too much. 

“I need to finish this reading for tomorrow,” Harry said abruptly. “Thanks for the tart, Cilla.”

He bent his head over his open book. Back to Herbology.  

 

***

 

The next week at detention, Malfoy was unusually quiet, and Harry thought he might get some homework done for once. But ten minutes in, the door opened. 

Cilla slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind her. 

“Draco, can you help me?” she said. 

“It’s really not normal to attend other people’s detentions,” Malfoy said. 

“I can’t get the transfiguration assignment. Will you help?” She pulled up a chair, dropping her book bag on the floor, and placed a small, round stone on the table. 

“What are you going for?” Malfoy sighed. 

“It’s supposed to be a wooden button.”

“Okay, show me what you’ve got.”

Cilla sat up very straight with her wand held over the stone. She took a deep breath, and cast. 

The stone wobbled a bit, and flattened into a round disk. Malfoy picked it up. 

“Still stone, and no holes,” he commented. “Let me see your wand grip.”

He adjusted her hand.

“Like this?”

“Yes. Now watch me do it.”

Malfoy turned the stone to a wooden button and back again several times, with slow, exaggerated wand movements. 

“Now you try.”

Harry watched them covertly while he pretended to read. He felt a little uncomfortable, like he was intruding on a private moment. Malfoy was a surprisingly patient and gentle teacher. Harry had the brief, ludicrous thought that Malfoy would be helpful to have in the D.A.

Yeah right, he thought, almost snorting out loud at the idea. As if Malfoy wouldn’t run straight to Umbridge if he ever found out about Harry’s secret, forbidden defense club. 

Cilla let out a delighted squeal. 

“Hey, look at that!” Malfoy held up a round wooden button. “You did it!”

Cilla preened. 

Malfoy went back to his homework. Cilla practiced the transfiguration again. The room fell silent for some time. Harry had actually managed to read more than a few pages when he was startled by a hiss from Malfoy. 

“What are you doing with that? Where’s your quill?”

“In my bag.”

Harry looked up. Cilla had been writing something on a piece of parchment. It took Harry a moment to figure out what Malfoy was making a fuss about. The realization hit him suddenly. 

Cilla was writing with a Muggle pen. 

“Give that to me,” Malfoy was demanding quietly, his hand outstretched. 

“Draco,” Cilla pleaded, giving him a wide, doe-eyed look. “It’s so much faster.”

“Now,” Malfoy said. 

“No one else is even here, they won’t know,” Cilla said. 

Malfoy’s eyes darted involuntarily to Harry, who was watching with shameless curiosity. 

“Harry doesn’t mind,” Cilla said. “One of his best friends is a mudblood.”

“Don’t call her that,” Harry interjected sharply. 

“What, a mudblood?” Cilla turned bewildered brown eyes on Harry. 

“I said don’t say that word,” Harry snapped. 

“Why not?” Cilla looked back and forth between the two boys. “Draco?”

Malfoy didn’t say anything. His pale face had gone tight. 

“That’s a terrible thing to call someone. What, are you saying you didn’t know that?” Harry said in disbelief. 

“It’s bad?” Cilla said in a small voice. 

“Yes, it’s bad!” Harry was starting to raise his voice. “It’s the worst insult I know of in the wizarding world!”

“Oh dear.” Cilla’s voice trembled. “I — I do apologize. Please excuse me.”

She got up abruptly, stuffed her things in her bag, and nearly ran out of the room. As the door shut behind her, Malfoy whirled on Harry. 

“Now look what you’ve done!” he snarled. Then, in a near identical imitation of Cilla, he also grabbed his things and fled from the room. 

Harry sat there for a moment. Then he impulsively dug down to the bottom of his bag and pulled out his Invisibility Cloak. He threw it over his head, cast a muffling charm on his feet, and took off after Malfoy. 

He found him a ways down the corridor, standing a few feet away from Cilla. Cilla was standing in an alcove, facing a large window that showed snow falling in the darkness outside. Her arms were straight and stiff at her sides, her hands clenched into fists. She wasn’t looking at Malfoy. 

“You’re a Slytherin,” he was saying. “You needed to be able to hear that word without flinching.”

“Draco, I — I’ve said that word to other people! What must they think of me?” Her shoulders hunched slightly. 

“They’ll think you’re a Malfoy,” he said roughly. 

They didn’t say anything for several moments. Then, in a wavering voice, Cilla spoke again. 

“Draco? You — Do you…”

“Potter’s a git,” Malfoy said harshly. “He doesn’t know you, he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t understand us at all.”

Cilla gave a small, shuddering gasp. Malfoy took two quick steps toward her and pulled her against his chest. He held her there while she shook silently with suppressed sobs. 

Harry began to feel like he was intruding again, so he decided it was time to sneak back to the classroom before Malfoy returned and found him gone. 

Once he was back at the table with his Cloak stowed safely away, Harry busied himself with his homework and tried to make it look as if he had never left. But his efforts were unnecessary, because Malfoy never returned. 

 

***

 

“Don’t look at Malfoy,” Harry said to Ron and Hermione over the breakfast table. 

“Why?” said Hermione, glancing over at the Slytherin table. 

“No, Hermione, I said don’t look,” Harry said. “I’m trying to tell you something.”

“Can I have the sausages?” Ron asked. 

“Here,” said Hermione, passing the platter to him. 

“Just don’t look at Malfoy,” Harry said. “I don’t want him to know we’re talking about him.”

“What are we talking about?” Hermione said. She was pouring herself a glass of milk. 

“You know how Malfoy has a cousin? Cilla Fairfax?”

“How could we forget? It was all you would talk about for the first three weeks of school,” Ron said around a mouthful of sausage and egg. 

“It… wasn’t that long,” Harry said. 

Ron grunted. 

“I just wanted to know who she was,” Harry said. 

“Right, so what did you want to tell us?” Hermione prompted. 

“Well,” Harry said, getting back on topic, “so, she came to see Malfoy again last night when we were in detention.”

“Again?” Hermione said, frowning. “She’s done that before? What does she want?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Harry said. “She asks Malfoy for help with her homework.”

“She’s not supposed to do that,” Hermione said. “It’s detention. You should tell McGonagall.”

“I don’t mind,” Harry said. 

“You don’t?” Ron’s eyebrows rose. “You want to get chummy with Malfoy’s relatives?”

“Tonks is Malfoy’s relative,” Harry pointed out. “Sirius is Malfoy’s relative. Anyway, I want to figure this out.”

“Figure what out?” Hermione said. 

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Harry said. “Cilla was there last night, and she used the ‘M’ word.”

“Little twit,” Ron said. 

“That’s not exactly surprising, though, since she’s related to Malfoy,” Hermione said. 

“Yeah, but the thing is, I don’t think she knew it was a bad word,” Harry said. “I told her off, and she seemed very surprised. She even apologized.”

“She knew the word, but she didn’t know it was bad?” Ron sounded doubtful. 

“She was pretty upset about it,” Harry said. “I really don’t think she knew.”

“What, did she think it was a compliment?” Ron wrinkled his nose. 

“Well, I don’t know,” Harry said. 

“Maybe, being raised in a prejudiced household, she just never thought about it, or maybe she didn’t realize how bad it was,” Hermione said. “She is from Australia, isn’t she?”

“What does that have to do with it?” Harry asked.

“Oh, you know what people are always saying about Australians,” Hermione said.

Harry did not know.

“Well, swearing is different there, isn’t it? For Muggles, at least, it’s much more socially acceptable to use even the worst words in a casual sort of way. I wonder if it’s the same for Australian wizards? I should find a book; I really haven’t read much about wizarding culture in Australia…” Hermione got a pensive look on her face, and Harry knew she was contemplating ditching them for the library that very moment.

“It’s weird, though,” Ron said. “I mean, it could be different in Australia. But here at Hogwarts, the only kids who don’t know about that word are Muggleborn. Or Muggle-raised, like Harry.”

“You don’t think… Cilla…” Harry turned to look at Hermione. 

“Is that even possible?” Hermione frowned. 

“She can’t be Muggleborn if she’s related to Malfoy,” Ron said. “She has to have some magical blood if she’s part of his family, and that would be enough to make her not Muggleborn.”

“But she could be a halfer, like me,” Harry said. 

“Oh, definitely,” Ron said. “The old pureblood families are rarely as pure as they pretend to be. They might not marry Muggles, but every now and then, one of their kids will rebel and marry the grandchild of a Muggleborn or something.”

Harry chewed his toast thoughtfully. 

 

***

 

The next week, Malfoy arrived at detention alone. He didn’t even look at Harry as he spread his homework over the table. He seemed to be trying to ignore him. 

Malfoy never ignored Harry. 

Which led Harry to believe that Malfoy was hiding something from him. 

“Is Cilla Muggleborn?” Harry asked abruptly. 

“What?” Malfoy’s head snapped up. A pink flush rose on his pale cheeks. He seemed to realize he had reacted too strongly, and Harry watched him attempt to pretend it hadn’t happened. He dropped his tightened shoulders and rolled his eyes. “Don’t be daft, Potter.”

Up to that moment, Harry had suspected Cilla was not a pureblood, but he wasn’t sure about anything more than that. But Malfoy had always been bad at hiding his emotions wherever Harry was concerned. And now Harry was all but certain. 

“She is, isn’t she,” Harry said. 

“You shut up about my family,” Malfoy said tightly. 

“It’s so stupid, pretending you're better than everyone else just because of some stupid blood status requirements that your family doesn’t even meet anyway.”

“Shut up!”

“So, what’s the deal with Cilla?” Harry pressed on. He’d started, and he felt like he couldn’t stop until he’d said everything on his mind. “Did you tell her she has to pretend to be something she’s not, or you’ll disown her like your family disowned Andromeda?”

“What my family and I do is none of your business, so shove off.”

“I can’t believe you had me fooled. For a minute there, I actually thought you cared about Cilla.”

“You don’t know anything about us.” Malfoy’s face was getting red with anger. 

“What don’t I know? That you would treat your own cousin like dirt, like you treat Hermione, if she didn’t pretend to be —”

“She’s not my cousin, you addlepated numpty, and I’m not the only one in Slytherin!” The words burst out of Malfoy’s mouth. 

“What?” Harry said blankly. 

“The stupid Hat put her in Slytherin! What exactly do you think would happen to her if the other Slytherins knew? I can’t follow her to all her classes. I can’t stay in her dorm room to make sure her roommates don’t cut up all her clothes or hex her bald in her sleep. She’s in Slytherin! She’s not pretending for my sake! She’s pretending for her own safety!”

Malfoy was getting agitated, gesturing erratically. Harry, on the other hand, was still stuck on the first thing Malfoy had said. 

“Wait, Cilla’s not your cousin?”

“Are you always this dense, Potter? It takes two Muggles to make a mudblood. I don’t have Muggles in my family.”

“Don’t call her that. What is wrong with you?” Harry’s irritation flared, overriding his confusion. “She looks up to you, and you teach her to say that word!”

“She knows I don’t mean anything by it,” Malfoy said defensively. 

“Oh, and I suppose you don’t mean anything when you say it to Hermione either!”

“No, for her I mean it. I don’t like her.” Malfoy smiled tightly. “But Cilla’s different. She’s not like the rest of that lot.”

“I don’t know why I’m even talking to you,” Harry glared. “You’re impossible.”

“What do you want, Potter?”

“What?”

“I would appreciate your discretion in this matter.” Malfoy was suddenly sitting up straight and speaking formally. “I am in a position to offer you recompense.”

“What?” Harry said again. 

“I’m offering to pay you for your silence.”

“…You’re so ashamed of her, you’re trying to bribe me —”

“It’s not about me, you twat! Haven’t you been listening? There are other people besides me in Slytherin! People who would make her life hell if they knew. So I’m asking you, what do you want?”

Malfoy was panting slightly when he finished. 

“I’m not going to hurt your — your not-cousin, Malfoy,” Harry said. He felt annoyed that Malfoy thought he would. That was exactly the sort of thing Malfoy would do, not Harry.

“You’re not?” Malfoy sounded suspicious. 

“No! I’m not some kind of a monster.”

Malfoy regarded him with a small frown. Harry glared back instinctively. 

“Do you promise?” Malfoy said. 

Harry huffed. 

“Fine. I promise not to tell anyone that Cilla is Muggleborn, or that she’s not your cousin. But who is she, then, if she’s not your cousin?”

“She’s… just a kid,” Draco said slowly. 

“But, you already knew each other. Before Hogwarts,” Harry said, thinking. “After her sorting, she went right to you. And you… you kissed her! On the cheek. Why would you do that if she’s not your cousin?”

“She’s from my village.” Malfoy gave a shifty glance towards the door, as if he were hoping McGonagall would choose this moment to come check on them. Or maybe he was thinking about bolting. “We… played together as children.”

“You… what?” Harry was gobsmacked. Draco Malfoy had played with a Muggleborn as a child? Then why are you such a colossal arsehole? he wanted to ask, but didn’t. 

“But… aren’t her parents Muggles?” is what he said instead. 

“That is the definition of Muggleborn, yes,” Draco said testily. 

“But you hate Muggles!” Harry said. 

“Oh, like you don’t,” Draco snapped. 

“What?” Harry was taken aback. “I don’t hate Muggles.”

“Please. Everyone knows you despise those Muggles you live with. You never go home for the holidays. You don’t invite them to Diagon Alley with you. You never bring them through the barrier to the Hogwarts Express. You clearly don’t want to be seen with them.”

“That — that’s not...” Harry sputtered, aghast. 

“You don’t hate them?” Malfoy said, cocking his head curiously. He was calming down now that he had managed to take control of the conversation. 

“I do, but not because they’re Muggles!” Harry said. 

“It’s alright, Potter,” said Malfoy, his voice both soothing and mocking. “It’s perfectly natural to hate Muggles.”

“No, you don’t — I hate them because they’re horrible, not because they’re Muggles.”

“They’re horrible because they’re Muggles,” Draco said. 

“No, listen.” Harry was suddenly seized with the need to make Malfoy understand. “The summer after first year, the Dursleys locked me in my room. They gave me a tin of cold soup to eat once a day. That was it. For the whole day. I thought I was going to die before I could get back to Hogwarts. Luckily, Ron came and pulled the bars off my window so I could escape. I guess I’ll never know if my relatives would have actually let me starve to death that summer, but I do know that is not normal behavior for Muggles. I assume you don’t know much about Muggles, but most Muggles feed their kids!”

Harry was the one panting now. He was going to regret telling so much to Malfoy, of all people, but he wasn’t going to think about it right now, because right now it felt good. It felt good to say all those things he’d kept hidden for so long. It felt good to see the shock blossoming on Malfoy’s face. Harry had actually shocked him into silence. And it felt good. 

They stared at each other across the table, their forgotten textbooks strewn between them. Harry watched Malfoy’s wide grey eyes with grim satisfaction. 

“Your Muggles… abuse you?” Malfoy said finally. 

“Well…” Harry hadn’t ever gone so far as to put a word to what the Dursleys did. A part of him wanted to hedge even now, to say it wasn’t that bad, really. There was only that one summer where things had gotten really dire. But then, the summers after that, he had brought his own stash of food home with him, and it had been supplemented by Mrs. Weasley and Hermione over owl post. Maybe, if he hadn’t had that…

“Those Muggles dare to abuse Harry Potter?” Malfoy’s horrified voice interrupted Harry’s thoughts. 

“Um.” Harry was caught off guard by the way Malfoy said his name. As if Harry were a person who should never have been abused, rather than a boy that Malfoy attempted to abuse at every opportunity. 

“My father says that sending you off to the Muggles was the worst thing Dumbledore ever did,” Malfoy said. 

“He says that?” Harry said, bemused. 

“Of course, the law said you were to go to your closest living relatives, which were the Muggles. But a lot of people thought you should stay in the wizarding world. If it hadn’t been for Dumbledore, they would have made an exception to the law and placed you with a wizarding family.”

“They would have?” Harry wasn’t sure if he should believe Malfoy about this, but the “what ifs” were already whirling through his mind. 

“For sure. It’s a travesty you had to go to those lousy Muggles when any wizarding family would have been honored to take you in.”

“Even yours?” Harry meant it as a joke, because he didn’t know how else to respond to this information. But Malfoy’s response was completely serious. 

“Especially mine. My parents would have been first in line.”

“But they supported Voldemort!” Harry blurted out. 

“It would be awkward at this point, yes,” Malfoy said, which Harry thought was an understatement, considering Lucius Malfoy had shot deadly curses at him in a graveyard less than a year earlier. 

“But at the time, the Dark Lord was presumed dead, and everyone thought you must be extraordinarily powerful to have defeated him as a baby. Yes, my parents were sorry not to get their hands on you. My mother thought she would have had a chance, since she’s one of the few living relatives of your godfather, who was actually listed in your parents’ will as your guardian. He wasn’t able to take you, though, because —”

“He was in Azkaban,” Harry interrupted. “Yes, I know that part.”

“Well, if it had come down to that, they probably would have picked Andromeda over my mother,” Malfoy said. 

Harry felt a sudden pang of sorrow as he was confronted with the lost possibility of growing up as Tonk’s little brother, with a wizard and a witch for parents, people who would be proud of him for who he was, who would welcome him home for Christmas…

“Well,” said Malfoy. He seemed suddenly flustered, as if he had only just realized how much he had been talking. Talking to Harry. “I haven’t done the reading for Potions tomorrow, so.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said. “I won’t tell anyone about Cilla as long as you don’t tell anyone about… about what I said about my relatives.”

Malfoy nodded. 

“That… that’s a fair deal. I accept.”

 

***

 

Draco left detention that night thrumming with adrenaline. As he walked briskly down the torch-lit stone corridors, his mind whirled, replaying the evening. 

First of all, he had talked to Harry Potter. Really talked! And they had had a long conversation! Yes, a lot of it had been tense, on both sides. But it had somehow not ended in a fight? Things had ended… actually okay. 

More than okay. Potter had voluntarily handed Draco the leverage he needed to protect Cilla. Potter had sensitive information about Cilla and Draco. And now Draco had sensitive information about Potter to balance things out. 

Draco had no idea why Potter had given him that leverage. 

And then there were the facts of this sensitive information. 

It made Draco’s blood boil to hear of any Muggle hurting a magical person. Draco’s own great-great-something aunt had been killed by Muggles after she healed a young Muggle with a broken leg. Word had got out, and the frightened villagers had turned on her. She’d been a teenager at the time, home from Hogwarts for the holidays. 

This cautionary tale had been told to Draco repeatedly as a child. Muggles outnumber us. They are ungrateful, and dangerous in large numbers. Never, ever let a Muggle see you doing magic. Muggles will hurt wizards if they get the chance. 

But Draco had never imagined that Harry Potter could be hurt by Muggles. That he would be hurt by Muggles in his own home. Draco had assumed that Potter was loved and adored and spoiled at home, just as he was at Hogwarts, where Draco saw him get special treatment left and right. 

The things Potter had told him about his home life… it made Draco feel angry. Those stupid Muggles! They shouldn’t be allowed to treat a wizard like that. Draco would… he would tell his father!

No, that wouldn’t…

Draco stepped into the Slytherin common room. A group of students were chatting in front of the fire, and others were spread out in various nooks with their spellbooks open. 

Draco found a small, dark green couch set off from the main gathering area, and he took out his Potions book to finish his reading. A few minutes later, Cilla slipped into the spot beside him. 

“What happened tonight? Did Harry say anything about me?” she whispered. 

Draco rolled his eyes a bit at her use of Potter’s first name. It still rankled that Potter had taken one look at Draco and rejected his offer of friendship. And then he took one look at Cilla, and gave her permission to call him by his first name! Why would he accept Cilla, but not Draco? They were practically the same. 

“It’s okay,” Draco said quietly. “He knows, but he won’t tell. He promised.”

“Oh,” Cilla said. 

Draco gave her a reassuring nod. Then he turned back to his Potions book. 

“I’m busy now,” he said. 

“Can I come to your detention next week?” Cilla asked. 

“It’s weird to go to other people’s detentions,” Draco said. “No one does that.”

“But you said these detentions are already weird,” Cilla said. 

“Yes, they are,” Draco agreed. 

“Can we have a tea party?”

“What, now?”

“No, at your detention. Please, Draco, we haven’t had a tea party since we left home,” Cilla wheedled. 

“You want to have a tea party with Potter,” Draco said, accusing. 

“We should do it to say thank you,” Cilla said. “Please please please?”

“I’ll write to Mother for supplies,” Draco sighed, giving in. 

“And I’ll write to Mum!” Cilla said happily. 

Notes:

I’m posting early this week because I’m going out of town tomorrow for the eclipse.

Thanks for the kudos! If you're enjoying this, I would love to hear what you liked in the comments!

I’m duchessdulce on tumblr as well.

Chapter 7

“Where’s the sugar bowl?” Draco fussed with the flowers in the centerpiece, freshening up a few slightly wilted petals with his wand. 

“I’ve got it, it’s right here.” Cilla placed the lid on the delicate china bowl. “Did you get the water boiling yet?”

Draco tapped the kettle with his wand. 

“Done.”

The door opened, and Draco looked up. Potter was standing there, gaping in the doorway, his thick black hair standing out every which way as it always did. 

“Harry!” Cilla hurried over to him. “We’re so glad you could make it! Do come in!”

Potter stepped forward automatically as Cilla closed the door behind him, but then he stopped again. 

“Is that real grass?” Potter said, bewildered, looking down at his feet. 

“It’s just a rug,” Draco said, gesturing carelessly at the green, manicured lawn that now carpeted their usual detention classroom floor. “I’ll roll it up when we’re done.”

This was Draco’s first time entertaining on his own, but he knew his mother’s method. The first step was to spare no expense in impressing your guest. The second step was to act as if you’d barely given a thought to the whole affair. 

“There’s a tree,” Potter said blankly. Several bright yellow birds twittered from the tree sprouting out of the grass next to the table. 

“It’s an attachment for the rug,” Draco said. “Only temporary.”

“Won’t you sit down?” Cilla said, gesturing to the table, which was set for an elaborate tea. China plates and tea cups were set out for each of them. In the middle of the table, in addition to the teapot, the cream, and the sugar bowl, there were various tiered platters with an array of tiny sandwiches, finely cut fruit, and miniature cakes.

“Was I supposed to wear dress robes?” Potter said faintly as he sat, looking from Draco in his light blue tailored robes to Cilla in her pink ruffled dress. Potter was wearing his school uniform, as he always did. 

“Draco, pass Harry the cream,” Cilla said as she poured Potter’s tea.  

“We’re not wearing dress robes,” Draco said, aghast. “We’re dressed for tea. I know it’s a bit late for it, but Cilla wanted to do it, and this was the most convenient time. You did get our invitation, didn’t you?”

“I did, yes. Is that a rabbit?” Potter stared at the small grey rabbit that had hopped up to the tree and was nibbling at the grass. 

“Isn’t he darling? Try the sandwiches.” Cilla nudged the tower of crustless white sandwich triangles in Potter’s direction. 

“We weren’t sure if you were coming,” Draco said. “It is customary to respond to an invitation.”

“You knew I was going to be here. We have detention.” Potter picked out a cucumber sandwich and took a bite. 

“I’ll overlook your poor manners this once, since you were raised by horrible Muggles,” Draco said. 

“He means that my Muggle relatives are horrible, not that all Muggles are horrible,” Potter said to Cilla. 

“Right, only most,” Cilla agreed. 

“What?” Potter said. 

“Most Muggles are horrible, but not all of them are,” Cilla said. 

Draco watched a series of emotions flit across Potter’s face. First, he threw an indignant look at Draco, ready to blame him for what Cilla had said. But then he faltered, and his face went uncertain, and then apprehensive as he turned back to Cilla. 

“Do you not get on with your parents, then?” he said gently. 

And Draco thought, Oh. He thinks her parents might be like his relatives. 

“My parents are alright,” Cilla said. “But I went to a Muggle primary school. The kids there… they didn’t like me much. And I didn’t like them. I like Draco better.”

She popped a pink, bite-sized cake into her mouth and chewed contentedly. 

“Well, sure, some individual Muggles can be… not great,” Potter said. “But that doesn’t mean that all, or even most Muggles are bad.”

“Did you go to a Muggle primary school?” Cilla asked curiously.  

“Er, yes.” Potter frowned. 

“And I suppose you had loads and loads of Muggle friends,” Draco said. 

“Er,” Potter said. “That’s not important.” He was avoiding eye contact now, and Draco picked up on his discomfort like a shark scenting blood. 

“No, Potter, of course it’s important,” Draco said sweetly. “Tell us about all your Muggle friends.”

“Oh yes, please do,” said Cilla, oblivious and innocent. 

“Er,” Potter said again, and then fell silent. Draco and Cilla both watched him expectantly. 

“Can’t you think of even one Muggle that you like?” Draco was enjoying making Potter squirm, but he was also curious. 

Potter did not say anything. 

“Potter?” Draco prompted. 

“I’m thinking!” Potter burst out. Draco blinked in surprise. Potter returned to silent scowling for several long seconds before he finally spoke up again. 

“There was — an ice cream lady. At the zoo,” he said haltingly. “She asked me what I wanted. My aunt and uncle got ice creams for my cousin and his friend, but they weren’t going to get me anything. But since she asked, they got me a lemon ice lolly.

“Anyway, I liked her,” Potter finished defensively, as if he’d suddenly realized that he’d said too much. 

“That… that’s it? That’s the only Muggle you can think of?” Draco had suspected that Potter did not love Muggles as much as he pretended to, but this news still surprised him. 

“Even I can do better than that,” Draco said. “My favorite Muggle is Bitsy Fairfax, Cilla’s mother. She owns a bakery and she makes the best cakes in the whole world.”

“Ta,” Cilla said, lifting a tiny chocolate cake in a sort of toast in Draco’s direction. She had gone a bit pink and was grinning in a pleased sort of way. Draco lifted a chocolate cake of his own to mirror her, and then took a luxuriating bite. 

Meanwhile, Potter was looking disconcerted. He had clearly expected that he would be the one to console Cilla about her Muggle heritage. Draco was feeling a little uncomfortable himself, but it was worth it to beat Potter at something. 

“Cake, Harry?” Cilla said. Harry seemed glad of an excuse to stop talking, and he put a red, cream-filled cake square into his mouth. His eyes widened as he chewed. 

“These are... these are really good,” he said. 

“You should try all the flavours,” Cilla said. 

And Harry did. Once he got going, he began tucking in like… well, like a child who knew what it was like to starve. That also made Draco uncomfortable to think about. 

The three of them ate for a while without saying much, until a movement from the tree drew their attention. Several butterflies fluttered out of the branches and began drifting over the table and about the room. Cilla held out a finger to one of the butterflies, and it lighted there, wings stilling. Potter leaned forward to inspect what Draco already knew was the last delicacy of the evening. 

The butterfly’s wings were made of colored sugar glass, each of them like a tiny stained glass window outlined in chocolate. The insect’s body was a thin biscuit, with more chocolate drawn in flexible lines to serve as its legs and antennae. 

“Aren’t they pretty?” Cilla asked. “My mum made all the cakes, but Draco’s mum got these from a wizarding confectionery, obviously.”

“They’re beautiful,” Potter said. 

Cilla brought the butterfly to her mouth, and took a bite. The sugar wing made a small cracking noise as it broke, and Harry winced and laughed ruefully. 

“Almost too beautiful to eat,” he said. 

“You only say that because you haven’t tried one yet,” Cilla said, grinning. 

Another multi-colored butterfly drifted lazily near Potter. He held out a finger like Cilla had done, and the butterfly landed. Potter stared at the butterfly, admiring it. 

Draco and Cilla were staring too, but not at the butterfly. 

“Harry, what happened to your hand?” Cilla said, alarmed. 

Potter withdrew his hand hastily, hiding it under the table. The butterfly drifted off again. 

“Oh, I just — it got scratched up a bit in Herbology,” Potter said. 

“A plant cut words into your skin?” Draco said, his eyebrows rising. 

Potter didn’t say anything, but Draco could see him swallow. 

“Have you gone to Madam Pomfrey?” Cilla asked. 

“Er, I haven’t yet,” Potter said. 

“I’m sure she could heal that,” Cilla said. 

Potter mumbled something to the lace tablecloth. 

“Did those Muggles do that to you?” Draco said sharply. 

Potter’s head jerked up. 

“What?”

“Your Muggle relatives. Did they —”

“No! It wasn’t a Muggle at all. It was Umbridge!”

Potter was glaring now, somehow angry at Draco for suspecting the Muggle relatives that Potter had already admitted were abusive. It seemed that Draco was getting good at irritating Potter into giving up information. Who would have guessed. 

“Umbridge?” Draco repeated.

“Detention,” Potter spat. 

“She carves up your hand for detention?” Draco said, skeptical. 

“She… she makes me write lines with her quill. When I write with it, it… cuts my hand.” Potter was losing steam as he talked, trailing off at the end. 

“She’s torturing you with a blood quill?” Draco was horrified. He had never seen a blood quill before, but he had heard of them. They had been used sparingly as punishment… back in the Middle Ages. 

Potter mumbled something. 

“But… but you’ve been having loads of detentions with her!” Draco sputtered. He remembered, belatedly, that the whole reason he was in detention with Potter was because he’d mocked Potter for his detentions with Umbridge. 

Potter was glaring at him. 

“She doesn’t… she doesn’t make you use it every time, surely?” Draco said, a bit desperately. 

“Every time,” Potter said grimly. 

Potter was keeping his hand hidden now, but Draco could remember the angry red marks more clearly than he would like. He was feeling uncomfortable again (it seemed to be a side effect of spending time with Potter). 

Part of the reason Draco was mean to Potter was because he thought everyone else was nice to him. Now that it was beginning to seem as if everyone was actually mean to Potter, Draco was feeling unoriginal. 

“Does McGonagall know?” Draco asked. 

“She does,” Potter said. 

“I knew there was something off about this,” Draco said. “Indefinite weekly detentions? But it’s just free study time? And you always stay late? McGonagall’s blocked off an evening for you so you have at least one day a week that Umbridge can’t give you detention.”

“If you tell anyone —” Potter growled, but Draco cut him off. 

“I won’t,” he said. “You’re protecting Cilla, right? You haven’t told anyone?”

“I haven’t told anyone, and I’m not going to,” Potter said. He was still growling, as if he were arguing with Draco, even though he had just said what Draco wanted him to say. 

“I won’t tell anyone either,” Draco said. “About any of it.”

Cilla quietly put a sugar butterfly on Potter’s plate. He glared at her before remembering that she hadn’t done anything wrong. So he picked up the butterfly and ate it. 

 

***

 

“Do you think your mum could do something about Harry’s detentions?” Cilla asked Draco as they walked back to their common room. Draco had the grass and the tree from their tea party rolled up in a bag slung over his shoulder. The birds and the rabbit were in there as well (they were fine in there — they weren’t real). Draco would send them back to his mother by owl post in the morning. 

“She’s not going to do a favour for Potter,” Draco said. 

“Why not?” Narcissa usually gave Cilla anything she asked for. Cilla had sat through many lectures from her parents, about not being greedy, about not asking for too much. 

“Oh, politics,” Draco said breezily. 

“Politics?”

“Potter is allied with our family’s political opponents.”

“Oh.” Cilla didn’t know enough to comment on that. 

“But… didn’t you see his hand?” Cilla cringed, remembering. 

“I saw,” Draco said shortly. 

“Do you… do you think she’ll give him detention again?” Cilla asked. 

“Yes,” Draco said. 

“But… isn’t there anything we can do?”

“I told him I wouldn’t tell,” Draco said. “It’s his business, not ours.” He sounded relieved as he came to this conclusion. 

But Harry hadn’t asked Cilla not to tell. An oversight a Slytherin would not have made, Cilla thought. 

The next day she wrote to Narcissa. She thanked her for sending the decorations and the food for the tea party, and for ordering the cakes from Cilla’s mother. 

She thought that her first tea party as a hostess had been a success. (Neither she nor Draco had mentioned that the only person they invited to the party was Harry Potter.) She wished she could have had at least a couple dolls at the party, but Draco had put his foot down. 

“You’re too old to let people see you playing with dolls,” he had said. 

“But your mum always invites some of the dolls to our tea parties.”

“My mother is a Black. The Blacks are eccentric. You are not a Black. You are a Malfoy.”

“And a Fairfax,” Cilla had said. She knew Draco would have changed her last name if he could have, but McGonagall had shouted her last name at the sorting, so it was too late for that. 

At the end of her letter, Cilla brought up Umbridge’s blood quill. She said she was worried for a student who had gotten a lot of detentions. 

Cilla received a reply from Narcissa the next day at breakfast. She assured Cilla that she would never get a detention; she was too well-behaved. And if she ever did get a detention, then it would certainly not be her fault, because Cilla was such a good child, and would never do anything wrong. 

As for the child who was getting detentions, Narcissa said the child should tell their parents. 

Draco also received a letter. Narcissa wanted assurance that neither he nor Cilla had had a detention with Umbridge. 

“I told you she wouldn’t do anything,” Draco murmured under the cover of breakfast chatter. “If someone’s parent asked for help, and if they were from a family she cared about — people who might be helpful to us later — then she would do something. But she’s not going to do anything on her own unless it affects you or me.”

 

***

 

Cilla stepped into the greenhouse for her Herbology lesson and scanned the room. The other Slytherin first year girls were at a table together. Pearl Pucey with the long dark hair was sitting next to Livia Flint, the tall, athletic girl who wore Quidditch jerseys on the weekends. On the other side of the table was Tessa Macmillan, pretty, plump, and rosy-cheeked, and Iggy Greengrass, with the short, curly red hair. 

They were leaning over the table towards each other, giggling about something. Cilla could have joined them. They might explain what they were laughing about, and then Cilla would pretend to understand and she would laugh too. Or they might not say anything to her, and she would sit there and smile and try to act like everything was fine. 

Until today, Cilla had always sat with them, for lack of other options, but it made her anxious to be around them. She was constantly worried about saying the wrong thing, about giving away her secret, so she didn’t speak much around them. 

When the Sorting Hat had placed her in Slytherin, Cilla had thought for a brief, exhilarating moment that she had solved all her problems. She’d proven Draco wrong! She’d gotten into Slytherin, and now she could be with Draco at Hogwarts just like at home! Draco himself had seemed to confirm this when he stood up to welcome her to his table. 

Then later he got so angry… but in the end, things had worked out, really. Draco was still talking to her, and that was all she had wanted. But at the same time… she hadn’t realized that being in Slytherin would mean she’d have to pretend to be someone else. 

She had imagined that Hogwarts would be different. She’d assumed, for one thing, that everyone would arrive on an equal footing, with an equal chance for making friends. But the friend groups among the first years had formed startlingly fast, had been established while Cilla was still standing around blinking. 

She discovered that everyone who was not a Muggleborn already knew at least some of the other kids. Wizarding parents went out of their way to make sure their children spent time with other wizarding children, even if they attended Muggle primary schools. Many of the pureblood children had been homeschooled (or taught at home by tutors, like Draco) before coming to Hogwarts, and they had grown up playing exclusively with other magical children. 

Cilla was feeling left out in the place where she had expected to finally fit in. 

But today she was on a mission. 

The Slytherin first years had Herbology with the Hufflepuffs. Most of the Hufflepuffs were sitting in groups at the tables. But one Hufflepuff boy was not with a group. He was not at a table either. He was standing, poking at some bright blue plants growing near the tables. 

Cilla sat down at the table closest to him as Professor Sprout called the class to attention. 

“Park,” Cilla hissed. He looked up. “Class is starting.” Cilla beckoned him to the chair next to hers. She was pleased when, after a moment, he obediently sat down. So far, her plan was working. 

Winston Park was an Asian boy with straight, black hair that was just a bit shaggy. The reason he was not with a group was not because anyone disliked him. Cilla thought the other Hufflepuffs would be happy to let him join them. Probably the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws would also welcome him, though not the Slytherins, since he was Muggleborn. 

But Winston didn’t seem to realize that he should be with one group in particular, or even with any group at all. Cilla had seen him with other kids, but he seemed to lose interest quickly, moving on to a different group, or leaving on his own to inspect some interesting magical detail of the castle. 

The other thing Cilla had noticed about Winston was that he got in trouble a lot. Often it was for not paying attention in class. Sometimes he would actually get up and wander around the classroom during lectures, much to the professors’ consternation. 

Other times, Winston caused more deliberate trouble, setting off fireworks in the hallways or throwing fanged frisbees during class. 

Cilla hoped he would stay at her table long enough for her to consult him. 

Professor Sprout had them filling small pots with dirt and planting fly-by-night seeds. The nice thing about Herbology was that they were often working with their hands, so there was plenty of time to talk. 

“I’m Cilla,” Cilla said as they dug into a fresh bag of dirt. 

“Hi, I’m Winston,” Winston said automatically. 

“Have you ever had a detention?” Cilla asked. “Here at Hogwarts, I mean.” There was probably a more delicate way to get to the point, but making small talk was not one of Cilla’s strengths. Anyway, Winston might get bored and leave. 

“Oh yeah, I have lots of detentions,” Winston said cheerfully. 

“I’ve never had a detention,” Cilla said. “But I want to get one.”

“You do?” Winston was actually looking at her now, as if he had only just noticed her. 

“Yes,” Cilla said. “And I want it to be with a specific teacher. Do you have any suggestions?”

“A specific teacher.” Winston put his hand to his chin thoughtfully. “You should do it during that teacher’s class.”

“What should I do?”

“It can’t be something small. If it’s too small, they’ll just take points. Unless you do the small thing over and over, that could annoy them into giving you detention.”

“I’m not used to getting in trouble,” Cilla said. She was feeling nervous just thinking about it. “I think it would be better to just do one big thing and be done with it.”

“If you want the detention, you can’t be sneaky,” Winston said. “They have to know it’s you. Otherwise they’ll blame one of the troublemakers. You’re going to have to make it really obvious, since you’re such a goody two shoes.”

“I am not a goody two shoes!” Cilla said indignantly. 

“Oh yeah?” Winston gave her a devious grin. “Prove it.”

Notes:

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Chapter 8

Before learning about the blood quill, Cilla had thought that Professor Umbridge was okay. Sure, she had a lot of rules, but Cilla’s primary school had rules too, and Umbridge’s rules didn’t actually affect her that much. 

Plus Umbridge liked cats, so Cilla had thought that was a good sign. She’d seen all of Umbridge’s cat plates on the walls of her office the first week of school, when she and Draco had gone to introduce themselves and present a small cake from Cilla’s mother as a Welcome to Hogwarts gift. (It was Narcissa’s idea — she ordered the cake and sent it to Draco through owl post.)

Umbridge had received the cake graciously and had smiled and asked them a bit about themselves. Cilla had thought she was nice, really. 

Umbridge didn’t really do much in the way of teaching, but her class wasn’t particularly bad either. It was more or less like having a free study period. They just read on their own during class, which was fine by Cilla. She liked reading by herself. 

So, even knowing about the blood quill, Cilla felt bad for acting out in Umbridge’s class. But she had seen Harry’s hand, and Draco believed Harry about the blood quill. Cilla believed him too. And if it wasn’t true, well, she would find out soon, wouldn’t she?

Cilla slipped her wand and a firecracker (courtesy of Winston) from her book bag. She held them on her lap under the table and looked at them. Umbridge was sitting at her desk, looking at some papers. The other students all had their defense textbooks open, and were reading and taking notes. 

Cilla felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff. She just had to take one step, and she would pitch forward. 

She had never really gotten in trouble at school. She hoped Umbridge would not shout at her. She would certainly be angry, though; that was the whole point. 

The blood quill had seemed so terrible earlier, but in that moment, staring at the firecracker in her lap, Cilla thought she was most scared of the part where Umbridge would look at her, her expression furious. 

Just do it! Cilla told herself. She had already made up her mind. She knew what she wanted to do. She just had to do it. 

Now!

Cilla stared at her lap. 

She lifted her wand and lit the firecracker. 

Several heads turned her way as the fuse on the firecracker began to sizzle. Cilla stood up, still holding the firecracker, and more students looked up in surprise. 

“Professor,” Cilla said. 

Umbridge looked up. 

“Catch.” Cilla tossed the sparking firecracker to Umbridge. Her eyes widened and her hand came up defensively. The firecracker exploded. 

Sparks flew. A cloud of shining artificial pixies burst out of the firecracker. Most of them swarmed around Umbridge, but several began zooming around the room, shooting sparks at the students, who immediately erupted into screams and shouts. 

It was some time before the firework pixies burnt themselves out and Umbridge was able to restore the students to some semblance of order, but the moment both things were done, Umbridge rounded on Cilla, her face splotchy and furious. 

“Miss Fairfax! What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m so sorry, miss,” Cilla said, because she truly was. 

“You’re sorry?” Umbridge repeated incredulously. “What on earth were you thinking? This is not appropriate behavior for Hogwarts! Not remotely acceptable!”

Cilla cringed. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said again. “It was a dare.” She had decided beforehand to say that part, because she didn't want her classmates to think she was completely insane. 

“A dare,” Umbridge repeated. 

Cilla looked down at her hands clasping her wand to avoid looking at Umbridge’s angry face. 

“I expected better from you, Miss Fairfax. Detention.”

Cilla’s plan had worked. 

She felt horrible. 

 

***

 

Only a few hours later, Cilla stepped into the common room. Pansy, Draco’s stylish friend with the black bobbed hair, was sitting with some other fifth year Slytherin girls, and she looked up as Cilla approached. 

“There she is!” Pansy said in a sing-song voice. “Someone’s in trouble…” 

“What?” said Cilla. 

Pansy raised her eyebrows and gave a little pointing gesture with her chin. Cilla turned to see what Pansy was pointing at, and saw Draco marching purposefully towards her. 

“What happened?” he demanded. “They’re saying you threw a firecracker at Umbridge!”

Cilla’s mouth made a little “oh” shape. She had hoped to keep this from Draco until after her detention, but it seemed news traveled quickly among the Slytherins. 

She glanced over at the fifth year girls, and Draco followed her look. Pansy smiled innocently, and the other girls looked on with interest. Draco took hold of Cilla’s arm and pulled her into a more private nook of the common room. He threw up a muffling charm. 

“So?” he said. “What happened?”

“Well,” Cilla said, swallowing. “You know how you said your mother wouldn’t do anything about the blood quill unless you or I were hurt?”

Draco frowned. 

“I decided to volunteer,” Cilla said. 

“What do you mean volunteer?”

“I got a detention with Umbridge.”

“You… Cilla! What on earth…” Draco sputtered. 

Cilla shrugged. Draco stared at her. He seemed to be struggling to respond. 

“You’re doing this to help Potter,” he finally said. 

“Yes.”

“It’s not your job to save Potter.”

Cilla nodded. 

“Your mum said, if someone’s getting hurt, they should tell their parents. But Harry doesn’t have parents, does he?”

“He has friends,” Draco snapped. “He has loads of friends who absolutely adore him. They can help him.”

“But they haven’t, have they?” Cilla said. “If there was anyone inside this castle who could help him, wouldn’t they have done so by now?”

“It’s not your responsibility,” Draco said. “It’s not even your business. He didn’t ask for your help.”

“If you see someone getting hurt, and you can help them, but you don’t do anything… that makes you a bad person,” Cilla said. 

“You’re such a Hufflepuff,” Draco said. “You know, just because he went to your tea party, it doesn’t mean he’s your friend. He said himself, he only came because he had to. If he didn’t have detention, he wouldn’t have come.”

“I don’t think that’s exactly what he said,” Cilla said. “But it’s not important. He’s getting hurt. I might be able to help.”

“By getting yourself hurt.”

Cilla shrugged. Draco folded his arms and glared at her. 

“My mother won’t like this,” he said. 

“That’s the point.”

“I don’t like this.”

“I know.” Cilla patted his arm in a comforting sort of way. Draco huffed, but he didn’t stop her. 

 

***

 

“You will write ‘I must not disrupt.’ You will keep writing until the message sinks in.”

Umbridge sat down at her desk. Cilla, sitting at a table in the now empty classroom, looked down at the quill in her hand. The quill Umbridge had given her to use. It looked ordinary. But Umbridge had given her no ink. 

Cilla scratched an experimental line on the parchment in front of her. Then she gave a small gasp as an identical line cut into the back of her left hand. It came as a shock, even though she was expecting it. 

Cilla glanced up to see Umbridge watching her. She quickly looked back down, took a breath to steel herself, and began writing, quickly and confidently. 

I must not disrupt. 

I must not disrupt. 

I must not disrupt. 

She didn’t think. She grit her teeth, ignored the pain in her hand, and wrote. She wrote, and wrote, until suddenly she realized she was trembling, and she couldn’t take it anymore. 

Cilla dropped the quill and burst into tears. She thought about Harry being here, night after night, all alone, with no parents to rescue him, and she sobbed harder. 

After several moments, Umbridge got up and walked over to Cilla. She picked up Cilla’s left wrist and inspected her bleeding hand.  

“I’m so, so sorry,” Cilla gasped through her tears. 

“I don’t think you’ll be doing anything like that again, will you?” Umbridge said. The tone of her voice was sweet and understanding. 

“No, miss,” Cilla said. 

“You may go,” Umbridge said, releasing her wrist. 

Cilla wiped her tears away and fled from the room. 

Draco was waiting for her in the common room. He left his friends when he saw her, and quickly pulled her into an alcove when he saw her red eyes. 

“What did she do?” he demanded. 

Cilla held out the back of her hand, the blood still smeared across it. Draco’s eyes widened in horror. 

“She… she actually… I didn’t think she would really do it. She knows you’re a Malfoy! Did you remind her you’re a Malfoy?”

“You know I did this on purpose,” Cilla grumbled.

“I didn’t think she would really use it on you.” Draco was looking agitated. “She… that… that bitch!”

Draco’s wand shot out, and a potted tree next to Cilla went up in sudden but brief flame. The flare left it smoking, with its leaves singed. Cilla edged away. Draco ran his fingers through his hair in a distressed sort of way. 

“Can I use your camera?” Cilla asked. 

Draco's chest rose as he took a deep breath. He let it out in a frustrated huff. Then he gave her a curt nod. 

“Right,” he said. “You take pictures. I’ll write to Mother.” 

 

***

 

The next morning, Cilla woke to Professor Snape’s voice and the face of a strange, glowing… deer?… poking through her bed curtains. 

“Miss Fairfax,” the deer said in Snape’s voice. “Please report to my office. Miss Fairfax, please report to my office. Miss Fairfax —”

“Alright, alright, I’m coming!” Cilla said, and the deer dissipated as Cilla threw open her curtains. 

“What did you do now?” asked Pearl, who had the bed next to Cilla’s. She was already up, and was curling her hair around her wand. 

“Nothing!” Cilla said. She hastily pulled off her pajamas and threw on her robes. Then she dashed out the room to get to the loo. 

When she got to Snape’s office some fifteen minutes later, she found that Snape was not alone. Draco was already there, as was Narcissa, who stood up, tall and regal, when she saw Cilla. 

“Oh my darling, let me see,” she said, reaching for Cilla’s hand. Cilla gave it to her, and she gasped. “That horrible, horrible woman.”

She put a comforting arm around Cilla’s shoulders, pressing her to her side while still holding her hand lightly. Cilla breathed in her delicate perfume, and even though she had planned her injury, she felt comforted. 

“Dearest, I want you to know this was in no way your fault,” Narcissa said. “You are always such a good girl. I know you would never do anything wrong.”

“She threw a firework at a teacher’s face,” Snape observed, but Cilla didn’t think he sounded angry. 

“It was a magical firework,” Cilla said. “The sparks didn’t burn anyone.”

“Of course they didn’t,” Narcissa said. “Does that wretched woman have no appreciation for childlike wonder? Does she even have a sense of humour?”

“You know, I don’t think she does,” Snape said. 

“I will speak to her,” Narcissa said. “Don’t fret, dearest, I will make sure this never happens again.”

“Mother,” said Draco, who had been standing silently beside Snape. “Umbridge already knows that Cilla is one of ours. I introduced her at the beginning of term. It seems she does not… respect the Malfoy name.”

“Oh?” Narcissa looked up at Draco, blond eyebrows raised. 

“As long as she still has the blood quill, I don’t think a simple talking to can guarantee that she won’t use it again.”

Narcissa looked back and forth between Draco and Cilla. Then she looked up at Snape. 

“What do you think, Severus?”

Snape looked at Cilla. It was hard to tell, because he was almost always grumpy, but she thought he liked her. At least, he liked Draco, and she thought she might have some spillover of that goodwill. He’d never said anything overtly rude to her in class, anyway. With him, that had to mean something. 

“As I know you are aware, Professor Umbridge is very close to the Minister,” Snape said. “She is here on his business. If one wished to oppose her while staying in the Minister’s good graces, it would behoove one to do so discreetly.”

“That is a very good point,” Narcissa said with a sigh. “I need to think. And make some fire calls.”

She hugged Cilla, dropping a kiss on her forehead, and then did the same for Draco. 

“Don’t worry, children. I will take care of everything. Severus, they haven’t missed breakfast, have they?”

“They have time to eat if they leave now,” Snape said. 

Narcissa nodded. 

“Off with you, then,” she said kindly. “Get something to eat before your classes.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Draco said, moving towards the door. 

“Thank you, Aunt… um.” Cilla paused to gauge Narcissa’s reaction to this new name.

“Aunt Cissy,” Narcissa prompted. Snape’s eyebrows rose. Cilla beamed. 

“Thank you, Aunt Cissy!”

She ran out the door after Draco as Narcissa disappeared through the flames of Snape’s fireplace. 

 

***

 

Cilla was in one of the greenhouses for her Herbology class, kneeling on the dirt floor and harvesting fluxweed seeds. She rubbed the tiny seed pods between two fingers, catching the falling black seeds in a paper envelope. 

“Hey.” Winston had wandered over to her. He knelt down at her side, holding his own envelope out beneath the plants. “Did you get your detention?”

“Yes,” Cilla said. 

“Yeah?” Winston peered at her curiously. “Did you really throw the firework at her?”

“Yes,” Cilla said again. 

“Really?” Winston had dropped his envelope in his lap, forgetting about the seeds they were supposed to be collecting. “I wish I could have been there to see it.”

Cilla didn’t say anything. She hadn’t really expected Winston to come talk to her again, and she wasn’t sure what she was going to do about it. 

“What did Umbridge make you do for detention? Maybe I’ll throw a firework at her too. It would make her class more interesting.”

“No!” Cilla said quickly. Then she stopped and took a breath before continuing more calmly. “No. Don’t do that.”

“Was the detention so bad?” Winston was looking at her intently. 

“Yes,” Cilla said. 

“What was it?”

“It… I’ll tell you later.”

Winston clearly didn’t like that answer, but he pressed on. 

“Why did you want detention with her?”

“Winston, I would really appreciate it if you could try to forget about this for now. I will tell you, but not yet.”

Winston looked at her while Cilla waited for him to respond with bated breath. She didn’t know him very well at all, and she didn’t like not knowing what he was going to do. 

“Time’s up!” Professor Sprout’s voice rang out. “Please seal your envelopes and turn them in!”

The students began shuffling about, standing up to collect their belongings and make their way to Professor Sprout. Cilla went to the table where she had left her bag. She picked it up and put the strap over her shoulder. When she turned around, she realized Winston had followed her. 

“Is this your last class today?” Winston asked. 

“Yes,” Cilla said, a bit uncertain. Where was he going with this?

“Do you want to go see the baby unicorns?”

“…Baby unicorns?”

“Hagrid has some unicorn foals. Have you met Hagrid?”

“Well, I know who he is.” Hagrid was difficult to miss, but Cilla had never spoken to him. 

“He’s really cool for a professor. He likes it when kids come to see his magical creatures, even if they’re not in one of his classes. I told him I’m going to take his class, though, as soon as I’m in third year. I wish I could take his class right now. So are you going to come meet Hagrid and see the unicorn foals?”

Cilla considered him for a moment. 

“Yes,” she said. 

 

***

 

Narcissa floo’d into Snape’s office again Friday after classes. She took Draco and Cilla back home with her, and then Cilla got to go to her own home to eat dinner and to spend the night in her own bed. Home lacked all the magic of Hogwarts, but it was comforting to be back in a familiar place with her parents. 

On Saturday, Cilla went back to the manor before lunch, so she was safely installed in a sitting room armchair, wearing a new dress from Narcissa, when Rita Skeeter arrived through the manor floo. 

“I’ve already told your mother,” the reporter said to Draco, “I’m not writing about Harry Potter these days.”

“This has nothing to do with Potter,” Draco lied. “Would you be interested in a story about a Hogwarts professor using a cursed object on students?”

“A school scandal?” Skeeter’s mouth curved in a predatory smile. “Tell me more.”

“We can offer proof,” Narcissa said. “But only on the condition of anonymity. I do not want this story traced back to my family.”

“I’m sure we can work out something agreeable to both of us, if the story is worth publishing,” Skeeter said, taking out her quill. 

She interviewed each of them in turn. They showed her Cilla’s scabbed hand, and the photos of her fresh wound. 

When the article came out, it was not on the front page. Skeeter would have liked to have it on the front, but the Daily Prophet was under Ministry scrutiny, and the article (though it named no names) was directed at the Ministry-appointed High Inquisitor at Hogwarts. So Skeeter, who resented the Ministry for breathing down her neck, snuck the article in the middle of the paper, next to the magical house cleaning tips. 

Narcissa made several well-placed social calls and wrote shocked letters to pureblood parents she knew with children at Hogwarts, asking if they’d seen the article and deftly directing their ire towards the Ministry. The result was that Fudge, the Minister for Magic, was inundated with owls and Howlers from angry parents. 

He made a quiet floo visit to Umbridge and released a statement to the Daily Prophet, assuring the public that the situation had not been nearly as bad as some people had made it out to be, but that the blood quill had been removed permanently from the school. 

 

***

 

When Draco walked in the door for his weekly detention, Potter looked at him strangely. Draco ignored him and got situated at the table, taking out books and parchment. He settled himself in his chair. 

Potter was still staring, not even pretending to read his spell book. 

Draco had some reading to do as well as a short essay. Should he start with Herbology or —

“What, Potter?” Draco said, unable to take it any longer. 

“Do you — did you have anything to do with this?” Potter slid a folded page from the Daily Prophet across the table to Draco. Draco knew instantly what it was, but he pretended to take a moment to read it over. 

“What makes you think I did this?” Draco said. 

“I’ve told a few people about my detentions with Umbridge, but that was a while ago, and no one could do anything about it. But then you found out, and first this article shows up, and next Umbridge has me doing detentions with Filch instead of her? I mean, cleaning with Filch isn’t great, but I’ll take it over Umbridge and her quill.”

Draco grunted noncommittally.

“The only other person I know of who had to use the blood quill was Lee Jordan,” Potter continued. “But that happened a while ago too, and his friends were upset, but nothing came of that either.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Draco said. “Jordan wasn’t the only one.”

“He wasn’t?” Potter looked surprised. 

“And I want you to know that I blame you for what happened to Cilla,” Draco said bitterly. 

“Cilla?” Potter’s eyes widened in horror. “She didn’t use the quill on a first year! On your cousin!”

“She did,” Draco said grimly. “Cilla provoked her on purpose.”

“On purpose? Why would she —” Potter looked confused about this, even though he himself, as far as Draco could tell, purposefully provoked Umbridge on a regular basis. 

“Why?” Draco made a face at Potter to let him know how stupid he was, and then he gestured at the newspaper as if to say, obviously. 

Potter stared at the paper. 

“Cilla’s the anonymous student in the article?” he said. “But — I still don’t — why?”

“Because she’s a Hufflepuff,” Draco bit out. 

“I thought she was in Slytherin?” Potter said, bewildered. 

“No, I mean she couldn’t stomach seeing your injuries. Do keep up, Potter. She saw your hand and immediately threw herself into detention so she could cut her own hand up and run off to the papers. Which is why I blame you!”

“Oh,” Potter said faintly. He went silent while Draco stewed, trying and failing to not think about the way Cilla’s hand had looked after Umbridge’s detention. 

“I — should have been — more careful,” Potter said haltingly. “I shouldn’t have let her see my hand.” He looked miserable. 

Draco frowned. Potter was practically apologizing. Draco had been angry about what happened to Cilla, so he had blamed Potter. He had expected Potter to get angry in turn and to defend himself. Instead, Potter was actually feeling guilty, apologizing for not doing a better job at hiding his abuse…

Draco wished he had never learned about Potter’s terrible home life. It complicated everything. 

“It’s not entirely your fault,” Draco said abruptly. “It’s not even completely Cilla’s fault, although she is a numpty. The only one who is really to blame is Umbridge. She’s the only one who did anything wrong.”

“Yeah, but if I hadn’t —” Potter started. 

“No, Potter, I thought this would be obvious, but apparently it isn’t. Umbridge deliberately hurt students. She’s the only one who should feel bad. Not you, or anyone else. Get that through your thick brain.” Draco glared. 

Potter blinked stupidly. 

“Um, ok,” he said. 

“Ok.” Draco gave a decisive nod and turned back to his homework. He would start with Herbology. 

“I just…” Potter started again. “I can’t believe you got Rita Skeeter to write an article that helped me. And without even mentioning me in the article! Why didn’t Cilla just ask me to be the anonymous source? I could have done that!”

“Oh, are you upset that you weren’t in the article?” Draco sneered. “Want to keep it all about you, do you?”

“No, of course not,” Potter said. “I hate being in the papers. I hate having everyone talk about me, and knowing things about me that I never meant to share.”

“Right,” Draco said. “Like I said, this wasn’t my idea. But we took care of it without you. So sorry you lost your chance to prove your story to Skeeter by showing her your hand.”

Draco watched Potter’s face as he took in this information, and he was fairly confident that his guess was correct. Potter did not want anyone to see the signs of his abuse. He instinctively hid any such signs, and it would have been difficult if not impossible for him to show them to Skeeter , of all people. A woman he hated. It would be like being victimized all over again. 

Had Cilla realized all this? Draco didn’t think she had. She had simply taken matters into her own hands, because she thought it was the easiest way. She wasn’t close enough to Potter to persuade him to do anything he didn’t want to do. 

“It’s not like Skeeter’s the only reporter in all of Great Britain,” Potter said, sounding grumpy at having his weakness pointed out. 

“Oh, got a slew of other reporters you’re dying to confide in, have you?” Draco said snidely. “Anyway, Skeeter was the only one with enough guts to slip the article in the Ministry-controlled newspaper. And you probably noticed, even she wasn’t brave enough to call out Umbridge by name. Plausible deniability, and all that.”

“Oh,” Potter said. And then, “Tell her thanks. Cilla, I mean.”

Draco nodded. 

“I can do that.”

 

***

 

Less than twenty-four hours later, Draco found himself in Umbridge’s office, along with the five other Slytherin prefects. 

“I’ve already notified the authorities,” Umbridge said gleefully, which made no sense to Draco. Why did the authorities need to get involved in a school matter?

“We just need to go up to this ‘Room of Requirement,’ catch Potter red-handed, and take him to the headmaster’s office,” Umbridge continued. “Wands out, all of you. Be prepared for him to resist.”

Draco had never heard of this "Room," but he fell in line behind the other prefects, following Umbridge out her office and up a moving staircase. 

Apparently Potter had a secret study group. This sounded very boring to Draco, but a month ago, he would have been more than happy to go after Potter, no matter the excuse. Now, though…

He hated Umbridge. She hurt Cilla. It was an affront against his family, and he would never forgive her. 

Also, she hurt Potter. Which, again, maybe this would not have bothered him earlier, but now… The whole thing made Draco uncomfortable. 

A growing commotion ahead of them broke Draco out of his thoughts. A sort of rumbling sound began to grow, and Draco looked about in confusion, not understanding what was happening. Then Umbridge began to squeal. 

“They’re getting away! Spread out! Get Potter! Forget the rest, get Potter!”

Draco saw Umbridge backing into a window alcove before he himself took off at a sprint, the sudden excitement throwing him into a sense of urgency. He ran down the corridor, turned a corner… and then stopped abruptly. A stampede of students was headed directly towards him. 

Draco pressed himself sideways against the wall so he wouldn’t get trampled. The pack of students barely spared him a glance in their haste to get away. 

Draco inched along the wall as they ran past, until he reached an alcove with an impressive dragon-shaped vase set on a small table. He dropped to the ground and ducked under the table. Then, turning back towards the rush, he began scanning faces for Potter. 

The crowd thinned as quickly as it had come, and Draco could see where they were coming from now. It was a door he had never seen before, but the castle was big, and some things moved around, so that wasn’t saying much. 

A Ravenclaw boy ran past, and then a Hufflepuff girl. Maybe Potter had gone the opposite way, or maybe Draco had already missed him, and he wouldn’t have to decide what to do… 

But no. Potter came out of the door just then, and of course he had waited until everyone else got out first. Draco held his breath as Potter’s head jerked right and then left as he took in the situation. And then Potter made up his mind, turned… and ran straight towards Draco. 

Draco’s wand shot out automatically as Potter ran past him. Potter went sprawling across the floor, foot caught on Draco’s tripping jinx. Draco sprang out from under the table and straightened, standing over the fallen boy, who twisted on the ground and looked up at him. 

For one long second, their eyes met, as both of them waited to see what Draco would do. 

But there was nothing for it. Umbridge was right around the corner, and if Draco let Potter go, he would just run into her. And anyway, Potter had broken the rules. There was nothing Draco could do. He was a prefect. It was his job to enforce the rules. 

Also, there was a small, illogical part of himself that resented Potter for not inviting him to the secret study group. 

“Professor — PROFESSOR!” Draco shouted.

And then Umbridge was there, and Potter was glaring at him, and Draco turned away and didn’t watch as Umbridge dragged Potter off to the headmaster’s office. 

At least Potter wasn’t going to get blood quill detentions. Draco had done what he could.

 

***

 

Somehow, Potter’s forced visit to the headmaster's office resulted in Dumbledore fleeing the school and going into hiding, and Umbridge taking over as headmistress. Potter had gone back to glaring at Draco whenever he saw him, as though he held Draco personally responsible. Their strange and uneasy truce, or whatever it was, was now over. 

McGonagall sent Draco an owl one morning to tell him that he had completed his indefinite detentions. Now that the blood quill was gone, Potter didn’t need to hide in detention with Draco. 

Of course, McGonagall didn’t come out and say that part. She merely said that she hoped he had learned something about cooperation and getting along with others. 

Umbridge appointed Draco to her newly formed Inquisitorial Squad, and Draco accepted because he wasn’t stupid. 

Notes:

I give you Cilla Fairfax, possibly the first MC to look at canon Umbridge and think, she seems nice!

Also: For the purposes of this fic, The Quibbler still published an article announcing the truth about Voldemort’s return. However, it was published under Harry’s name, and it was heavily ghostwritten by Hermione. They did not ask Rita Skeeter for help because Harry and Hermione both hate her. Also, Harry was plenty famous on his own. He didn’t need Rita’s name on the article to get people to read it.

In general, you can assume canon events are chugging along as usual in the background unless otherwise stated.

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Thank you for the kudos and the comments! I always love hearing your thoughts if you're inclined to share!

Chapter 9

It was late afternoon on a Thursday, and Cilla was headed to the dungeons for Snape’s office hours. She didn’t have anything she wanted to ask Snape, but she knew Draco would be there. 

Snape’s office hours were an open lab of sorts held in the Potions classroom. Theoretically, any student could come and ask for help if they were having trouble in class, but in practice, it was mostly fifth and seventh year Slytherins and Ravenclaws practicing for their OWLs and NEWTs. 

The biggest advantage to Snape’s office hours was the smattering of sixth year students who attended. These were students who had a special interest in Potions and were considering a Potions-related career. They hung around to see what the seventh years were up to, but since they did not have a major exam of their own to prepare for, they were available to give pointers to the younger students. 

In short, the biggest advantage to Snape’s office hours was that you could get help from someone who was not Snape. 

The door to the Potions classroom was propped open when Cilla got there, and several students were already inside, chatting and chopping ingredients. Draco was sitting at the front with his cauldron on the table, grinding dried flowers with a small mortar and pestle. Cilla plopped down beside him. 

“What are you making?” she asked. 

“Befuddlement draught,” he muttered. “Didn’t get it quite right in class. You doing anything today?”

“No.”

“Grind this for me, will you?” Draco handed her the pestle. 

“What is it?”

“Aconite.”

“Wait, isn’t that one toxic even to touch?” Cilla drew back, the pestle still in her hand. 

“Just the leaves. I’m only working with the flowers here, they’re fine.”

Draco moved on to fiddling with his cauldron temperature and preparing the dittany. Cilla pressed the pestle into the mortar, grinding the dried flowers back and forth, back and forth. 

“I just had Defense,” Cilla commented. 

“Oh?” Draco said. 

“Draco.”

“What?”

“She keeps looking at me. I look up and she’s watching me. It keeps happening. I think…” Cilla dropped her voice to a whisper. “I think she knows. That I… the article —”

“She’s probably just watching to see if you’re going to throw another firework in her face,” Draco cut her off.

“Maybe.” Cilla couldn’t help shuddering a bit, remembering Umbridge’s piggy little eyes boring into her. 

“Potter’s the one she’ll suspect,” Draco murmured. “She already has it out for him. Just… act calm. Act normal. It’ll be fine.”

“Hey Draco, Cilla, mind if we join you?” It was Daphne Greengrass with Tracy Davis in tow, so Cilla had to shelve the Umbridge conversation. 

She half-listened as Daphne and Tracy got out their cauldrons and chatted to Draco about fifth year potions. She thought it might be helpful for when she had to take her OWLs. 

Draco took the ground aconite out of the mortar and replaced it with more flowers. Cilla ground some more. Then she looked up as Snape swept over to them, pausing in front of her. 

“You had some questions on your last essay, Miss Fairfax,” he said. “If you’ll join me in my office, we can discuss them.” Then he swept out the door at the front of the classroom, into his office. 

Cilla had not had any questions on her last essay. But she had spent enough time around Narcissa and Draco that she could catch a hint without making a fuss, so she put down the pestle and followed Snape. 

“Have a seat,” Snape said inside his office. He sat down behind a large desk, and Cilla took the chair in front of it. Snape slid a paper across the desk to her. 

“The essay was titled ‘The Twelve uses of Dragon’s Blood,’” Snape said. “You’ve listed ten.”

“I could only find ten in the reading,” Cilla said. 

“You missed ‘spot cleaner.’”

“I said ‘spot cleaner,’ though.”

“You wrote down one ‘spot cleaner.’ There were three of them.”

“How does ‘spot cleaner’ count as three different items? It’s all the same thing!”

“If you had done the reading, you would know,” Snape said, reproving. 

“I did do the reading!” Cilla said indignantly. 

“Hmm,” Snape said. He sounded skeptical. 

Cilla folded her arms and sulked. 

“How do you find the Malfoys?” Snape asked. 

“They are very kind,” Cilla said, unfolding her arms. “Aunt Cissy is very generous.”

“She hasn’t done you any favors,” Snape said harshly. 

Cilla didn’t say anything. She didn’t know what he meant, but she knew he would explain if she waited. 

Snape clasped and unclasped his hands on top of his desk. He glowered at the corner of the room for a while as if it were a misbehaving student. Then, finally, he started speaking again. 

“I am not in the habit of speaking openly with my students, Miss Fairfax,” he began. “But I believe you keep your own secrets well, and you keep the Malfoys’ secrets. What I am about to share, I share in the strictest confidence. If you wish to discuss anything I tell you with anyone else, you will leave me out of it. You will not reveal that you got this information from me. You will not reveal any personal information that relates to me. Do you understand?”

“Er, yes,” Cilla said nervously. 

Snape nodded. He swallowed, took a breath as if steeling himself, and then began, hesitantly at first. 

“I feel a sort of… obligation to speak to you, because I was Lucius and Narcissa’s first charity case. Adopting the less fortunate is something of a pastime with them. It makes them feel important. It makes them feel good about themselves. 

“They… adopted me, in a manner of speaking, shortly after they began dating.

“We were all at Hogwarts at the time. They seemed to live a charmed life. It was a brilliant match for both of them. Their parents were thrilled. Each family could appropriately satisfy the other with their exhibitions of wealth and pureblood lineage. And on top of everything, Lucius and Narcissa were head over heels in love. 

“Once they were together, they wanted a project. It was like they were playing house.  They wanted to take care of something together. So they picked me. 

“I was a poor, halfblood first year with a pathetic background. They were fifth years, and Lucius was a prefect, like Draco. He and Narcissa took it upon themselves to buy me things now and then, and to protect me from bullies when it was convenient to them. And they talked to me sometimes. Asked me about my classes, made me feel as if someone cared. 

“I was happy to let them. I didn’t have many friends, and they were popular, rich, and beautiful. I was a bit dazzled by these two older students who were willing to give me attention, and I would have done anything they asked of me.  

“And that was the problem. I did do anything Lucius asked of me. I didn’t question his judgment, because I didn’t want to question it. I wanted to be able to trust him. I wanted him to be right, just because he was kind to me when other people weren’t.”

Snape paused here, his dark eyes boring into Cilla’s. Cilla swallowed. 

“Um, Mr. Malfoy is not kind to me,” she said in the silence. “He’s not unkind. But I’m a bit scared of him. I try to stay out of his way.”

“Keep it that way,” Snape said, to Cilla’s surprise. “But that’s not how you feel about Narcissa and Draco.”

“No,” Cilla said. 

“They’ve showered you with attention, presents, even love,” Snape said. “But they haven’t done you any favors.”

Cilla was silent, uncomprehending. 

“You’re in an even worse position than I was. I was a halfblood, but you are a Muggleborn in Slytherin. You cannot allow yourself to be drawn into the Malfoys’ social circle. Your very existence is what they oppose.”

“We’ve kept my blood status a secret so far,” Cilla protested. 

“Do you know what Death Eaters are?” Snape asked. 

“No…”

“That is what they call the Dark Lord’s followers. You have heard of the Dark Lord?”

Cilla shrugged. 

“The one that Harry Potter defeated a long time ago?”

Snape gave her a pitying look that made her squirm. 

“He is back. And the Malfoys belong to him.”

 

***

 

Cilla sat on the couch next to Draco in the common room that evening. Draco had a spell book open and was taking notes. Cilla had a book as well, but she wasn’t reading. Instead, she was running over Snape’s words in her mind for the hundredth time. 

She’d felt upset at first. She’d felt like Snape was saying that Narcissa and Draco didn’t actually like her. She didn’t really believe that, but it was still a hurtful thing to hear. 

But as she reviewed the conversation again and again, she realized that Snape hadn’t actually said that. Rather, he’d been warning her. He’d said it was the Malfoys’ fault that he had gotten involved with some bad people, with the Death Eaters. 

Had the Malfoys befriended her just so they could persuade her to join the Dark Lord? Narcissa and Draco had never really talked to her about the shadowy figure. Cilla had thought he was something that had happened in the past. 

But if he was back, he wouldn’t want Cilla to follow him, because she was Muggleborn. Narcissa and Draco would know that. Except… they’d been helping her pretend to be a pureblood this year. Did that mean they were planning for her to join the Dark Lord after all?

Beside her, Draco yawned and stretched, raising one arm. Then his arm dropped, and his elbow came to rest on top of Cilla’s head. 

Cilla stayed still for longer than she should have, letting the reassuring weight of Draco’s arm ground her before she finally moved to bat him away. 

Snape had been talking about Lucius. Everything he had said… Cilla could believe it of Lucius. But not Draco. Snape didn’t know Draco. Not like Cilla did. Snape couldn’t know. 

 

***

 

Montague, the Slytherin Quidditch captain, had been missing for several days. When Draco, Greg, and Vince discovered him in the boys’ bathroom, disoriented, confused, and clearly unwell, Draco left his friends to stand guard while he ran to Professor Snape’s office. 

“Professor! Montague! In the bathroom!” Draco shouted as he threw open the office door in his anxiety and excitement. Then he stopped short. 

Professor Snape was there. But standing next to him was… Potter? What were they… Why were they both just standing there?

“Potter is here for remedial Potions,” Snape said smoothly. Because that made sense, that they’d be practicing a messy subject like Potions in Snape’s office instead of in the lab, and with no cauldron or ingredients. The look of indignation on Potter’s face would have been enough on its own to make Draco suspicious. 

But there was no time. Snape was already out the door, and Montague needed them, and… Wait, Snape was just leaving Potter in his office? Alone and unattended? Didn’t he know how nosy Potter was? And he was just going to trust him in his private office with all his private possessions?

Draco ran automatically ahead of Snape, and then held doors open as Snape levitated poor Montague to the hospital wing. All the while, his thoughts kept turning. 

If Potter actually needed ‘Remedial Potions,’ why didn’t Snape just tell him to attend open lab? Why didn’t Granger tell him to attend open lab? Granger showed up now and then, to practice on her own or to pepper the Ravenclaw sixth years with questions. 

Draco left the hospital wing with lots of questions of his own and no way to find out the answers, now that Potter wasn’t speaking to him. Not that he’d ever spoken to him, outside of detention. 

 

***

 

The air was cool and moist inside the greenhouse. Cilla waved a small, blue moth away from the textbook she had open. She was sitting at one of the tables that was used for Herbology classes, but at the moment, all the rest of the tables were empty. Winston Park’s homework was spread out next to hers, but Winston himself was not at the table. Currently, he was crouched over a potted plant, trying to feed it a beetle. 

“Listen to this,” Cilla said. “You remember Emeric the Evil?”

“Yeah?” Winston said, poking at a magenta-colored flower. 

“He was defeated by a bloke called Egbert the Egregious.”

“Ha! Egregious,” Winston laughed. 

Not everyone was allowed to do their homework in the greenhouses, but Professor Sprout had given Winston permission because he studied better there. At first, Cilla had trouble believing this, because Winston never sat down for long. But Winston said that taking breaks to check on the plants helped him get his homework done. 

Since their visit to the baby unicorns, Cilla had learned that Winston was the first student at Hogwarts to be granted ADHD accommodations. This was something that Dumbledore had approved, but it had not been his idea. When Professor Flitwick arrived at the Park residence with Winston’s Hogwarts acceptance letter, Mrs. Park had scarcely absorbed the news before she was pulling out paperwork documenting Winston’s ADHD and asking how Hogwarts would be able to support him (Mrs. Park was not completely surprised to learn that Winston was a wizard, since his older brother Eugene was already at Hogwarts). 

The Hogwarts professors varied in their reaction to being required to grant accommodations. 

Professor McGonagall sniffed and said they had never coddled students like this before, and how would this prepare him to hold a job in the real world? 

Professor Binns, the oldest professor, took it surprisingly well, but then, he probably wasn’t listening at the staff meeting where they discussed everything, and he didn’t care about Winston wandering during class or not completing assignments because he didn’t notice. 

Professor Snape gave Winston detention when he left class early (if Winston finished his potion before class ended, he sometimes got bored and left). But Potions was a practical class where students spent their time actively brewing, and Snape did not care if his students talked or moved around the room, so he tolerated Winston better than his colleagues had anticipated. 

Professor Sprout was Winston’s Head of House, and she had a soft spot for him, which was why Winston had free access to several of the greenhouses. 

“Want one? My mum sent me a package this morning.” Winston had ambled back to the table where Cilla was sitting, and he pulled two green Aero bars out of his bag. 

“Oh, but…” Cilla hesitated. “That’s a Muggle chocolate.”

“Yeah?” Winston shrugged. “My parents are Muggles.” Winston, who was getting tired of holding out the small chocolate bar, dropped it onto Cilla’s open textbook. 

“Well… I suppose it’s just us here,” Cilla said, reaching slowly to pick up the candy. 

“What, you don’t want anyone to see you eating Aero bars?” Winston said around a mouthful of his own chocolate. 

“It’s just that… I’m in Slytherin,” Cilla said. 

“They don’t eat chocolate in Slytherin?”

“They don’t eat Muggle chocolate.”

“Huh,” Winston said. “Well, I eat Muggle chocolate.”

Cilla unwrapped her Aero bar, took a bite, and chewed slowly. 

“You’re not worried what people will think?” she said. “If they see you with something Muggle.”

“I’m Muggleborn,” Winston said, taking another bite. “Everyone already knows that. Why are you worried about it?”

“Oh, well… Draco will get after me if he sees,” Cilla mumbled. 

“My brother says Draco Malfoy is a pureblood prat,” Winston said cheerfully. “My brother was kind of worried when you started talking to me. But I don’t think you’re like Malfoy. Malfoy would never hang out with a mudblood.”

“Winston!” Cilla gasped. “You can’t say that word!”

“You can’t say that word,” Winston said. “But I can, because I’m a mudblood.”

“What?” Cilla blinked. 

“We’re taking it back,” Winston explained. 

“Taking it back from who?” Cilla said, bewildered. 

“From the pureblood supremacists. We’re taking it back and making it ours, so they can’t hurt us with it anymore.”

“Oh,” Cilla said. 

“My brother thought Malfoy might challenge me to a duel for talking to you,” Winston continued blithely. “I thought that would be cool. He hasn’t yet, though.” 

“He won’t,” Cilla assured him. “He doesn’t mind.”

“Doesn’t he?” Winston said curiously. 

“No, really, he doesn’t,” Cilla said. In reality, she did not know if Draco realized she had made friends with a Muggleborn. She certainly wasn’t flaunting it. If Draco had noticed, he was turning a blind eye. 

“But everyone says he hates mudbloods,” Winston said. “He doesn’t care if his cousin is friends with one?”

“He doesn’t tell me what to do,” Cilla lied. She put her nose in the air the way Draco and Narcissa sometimes did. 

“So eat your Muggle chocolate!” Winston grinned. 

“I am!” Cilla laughed. 

Winston and Cilla both ate their Muggle chocolate. 

 

***

 

The fifth years fell into a frenzy of last minute studying, and then exams were upon them. Draco got off to a rocky start with his Charms exam. He was doing alright, until Potter walked in the room for his own practical, and Draco got distracted and dropped the wine glass he was levitating.* 

Things improved, though, as Draco’s nerves subsided. He felt confident about his Transfiguration exam, and he had high hopes for an outstanding in Potions. 

Finally, the end of the week arrived, and the fifth years sat down for their final exam: History of Magic. It was not Draco’s strongest subject, and he was exhausted by that point, ready to be done with exams altogether. But he comforted himself with the fact that History of Magic was not anyone’s strongest subject, thanks to their less than lively teacher, and he began writing. 

The minutes passed fairly quickly as Draco tried to transfer everything he knew about goblin rebellions from his head to his paper, worrying all the while that he would run out of time before he could get everything down. 

With ten minutes to go, Draco’s spirits were beginning to lift. He was almost done. The end was in sight. He just had to keep focused until —

At that moment, a scream ripped through the near-silent exam hall, making everyone jump. Draco’s head snapped up, searching wildly for the source of the noise, until he saw Potter convulsing on the ground, yelling and holding his hands to his forehead. 

Draco wanted badly to do something, to make it stop. But he couldn’t do anything with everyone watching, and Potter didn’t want his help anyway. And what would he even do, if it came to that?

The sight of Potter in such clear distress filled Draco with a sort of urgent anxiety. Why wasn’t anyone doing anything? Maybe he could go slap Potter — wait, no, one of the examiners was coming over. He touched Potter, who jerked, and, thankfully, stopped screaming. 

From where Draco was sitting, he could see Potter’s face now, panting and wild-eyed. He exchanged a few harried words with the examiner, and then left the room at a near run.

The examiner gave everyone five extra minutes to make up for the disturbance, but Draco wasn’t able to concentrate enough to make use of them. Luckily, his essay was close enough to being finished at that point. 

Draco left the hall with Pansy, Greg, and Vince. He could hear people around him chattering about Potter. Draco kept an eye out, but Potter himself was long gone. 

In the Slytherin common room, Draco and the other fifth years collapsed on the couches, weary and relieved to be done with the stress of O.W.L.s. 

“Now we just have to wait for our results,” Theo said, and the others booed and threw pillows at him, because no one wanted to think about that at that moment. 

Draco lay back and put his head on Pansy’s lap. She ran her fingers through his hair. 

Some people thought the way they acted with each other meant that they were dating. They were not. They had simply known each other all their lives and were very comfortable in each other’s space. 

“Are you moping?” Pansy said. 

“I’m not moping!” Draco protested. 

“You look like you’re moping,” Pansy said. “What are you upset about now? Exams are over. Cheer up.”

“I was just wondering what happened to Potter,” Draco grumbled. 

“Potter.” Pansy rolled her eyes. “I suppose he had to do something to get himself in the hospital wing at the end of term. It’s practically tradition at this point, isn’t it? School’s over! Pack your bags, say goodbye to your friends, and send Potter his get well soon sweets!”

Draco snorted. Then, “You think he’s in the hospital wing?”

Pansy rolled her eyes again. It was getting to be a bad habit with her, Draco thought. 

“I’m sure he’s fine,” she said. “Making a big fuss over nothing, like he always does.”

But just then, a shining white light in the form of a cat raced into the common room and stopped in front of them. 

“Inquisitorial Squad,” the cat said in Umbridge’s voice. “Report to my office immediately. If anyone tries to stop you, bring them to me. Quickly!”

Pansy and Draco glanced at each other, and Draco sat up. Greg and Vince were already on their way out of the common room, and Draco and Pansy ran after them, wands drawn. 

A few of Potter’s friends were guarding the corridor outside Umbridge’s office, but they didn’t put up much of a fight. They spent their efforts trying to convince the Slytherins that the corridor was full of Garroting Gas, but then Umbridge arrived, waved aside their protests, and had the Slytherins take their wands and drag them into her office. 

When the group burst through the door, Draco was surprised to see Granger already in the office. Granger was clearly just as surprised to see them. Her hand went to her mouth, and her eyes went to the fireplace, where…

There was a student kneeling at the fireplace, with their head in the flames. 

Umbridge marched up to the crouched figure, grabbed a pinch of floo powder from a pot on the mantle, and thrust her hand into the fire. Then she heaved and brought it back. She was pulling the student out of the flames by his hair. 

It was Potter. Of course it was Potter. 

Umbridge, her hand still fisted roughly in Potter’s messy black hair, dragged his head backwards so his neck was exposed and he was looking at the ceiling. The scene made Draco freeze. What — what was Umbridge doing?

“Take his wand,”** Umbridge barked, and Draco automatically stepped forward, since he was the closest. He slipped his hand into the chest pocket of Potter’s robes and took the boy’s wand while he was still being held in place by Umbridge. 

“I want to know why you are in my office,” Umbridge said to Potter. She shook him with the fist that was still clutching his hair, and Potter, still on his knees, staggered.

Potter tried to tell her that he was there to look for his confiscated broom, which was not a good lie because they had all seen him using the floo. 

“You had your head in my fire,” Umbridge said. “With whom have you been communicating?”

“No one,” Potter said. He was trying to get his head away from her fingers. 

“Liar!” shouted Umbridge, and she shoved him. Hard. He slammed into the side of her desk. Draco’s breath caught in his throat. 

This was… this was wrong. Teachers were not supposed to treat students like this. 

Draco had thought that he believed Cilla and Potter about the blood quill. But a tiny part of him had stayed skeptical. He didn’t want to believe that any teacher, much less the Minister’s hand-picked High Inquisitor, would hurt a Hogwarts student. 

But now the violence was happening right in front of his eyes. And Potter’s face did not reflect the shock that Draco felt over it. Draco, whose parents had never touched him harshly his entire life. 

Was this the way that Potter’s Muggles treated him? Was Potter used to this?

“Draco!” Professor Umbridge was speaking to him again. “Fetch Professor Snape.”

Draco left the room, feeling numb. Snape. He found him almost immediately. He wondered if Snape had heard what had happened and was lurking nearby on purpose. 

Back inside Umbridge’s office, Draco listened with increasing incredulity as Snape responded to Umbridge’s demands for Veritaserum with unhelpful and almost insulting comments. All the while, Potter stood there staring at Snape with a strangely intense expression. Why was Potter looking at him like that? Did he expect Snape to help him? 

But Snape was turning to leave, and then Potter was shouting. 

“He’s got Padfoot! He’s got Padfoot in the place where it’s hidden!”

What? What was Potter saying? It sounded like… Was he trying to talk to Snape in code?

Draco suddenly remembered the night he found Potter alone with Snape in his office. Did Potter have a reason to think Snape would help? Would Snape help?

But no, Snape was still leaving. Perhaps he had done all he could by telling Umbridge he was out of Veritaserum. And anyway, Potter’s shout hadn’t been a plea for himself, Draco realized. Padfoot. Potter was worried about something, or someone else. It wasn’t his own safety that he was so agitated about. 

He should have been worried about his own safety. Umbridge wanted answers, and she was running out of ways to get them. Draco watched with trepidation as the expression on her wide, pasty face grew resolute. She was murmuring to herself, coming to a decision. And then she turned on Potter.

“The Cruciatus Curse ought to loosen your tongue,” Umbridge said. 

Draco felt as though a block of ice had just dropped down his middle. Harry’s Gryffindor friends were trying to surge forward, but the Slytherins held them fast. Granger was shouting, protesting. 

“No! Professor, that’s illegal! You can’t!”

But Umbridge wasn’t listening to her, and the look on her face made Draco feel ill. He wanted to tell himself that she wouldn’t really do it, but it was no good. He knew it was a lie. 

She was lifting her wand now, pointing it at Potter. Potter, who was defenseless, because Draco had taken his wand. 

Perhaps Potter would speak up? Give her what she wanted before she could torture him again? But Potter didn’t say anything. He didn’t have an ounce of self-preservation in his body, Draco thought with a sort of desperate frustration. Potter could be counted on to save anyone but himself. 

Umbridge was focusing now, the hungry look in her small eyes unsettling. She held her wand high and took a full breath. Draco couldn’t see Potter’s face now, because he was standing behind Potter, but he could see his thin frame tensing. 

“Crucio!” 

 

***

 

Harry flinched involuntarily as Umbridge shouted out the curse. 

“No!” Hermione screamed, but it was too late. Umbridge had already cast. 

Except. Nothing had happened. Harry’s heart was racing, adrenaline coursing through his veins… but he was fine. There was no pain. 

Umbridge was looking furious, her eyes bulging in her head… but she was no longer looking at Harry. She was looking beyond him…

Harry turned his head. There was a wand at his shoulder, pointed at Umbridge. Harry followed the wand with his eyes to the trembling hand that held it, and then up the arm to the white face of the terrified boy. 

Draco Malfoy had shielded him from the Cruciatus Curse. 

“Mr. Malfoy — ” Umbridge hissed. 

“Please, Professor,” Malfoy babbled. “I don’t want you to go to Azkaban! You can’t risk your career, your everything, for him!”

“No one needs to know,” Umbridge said tightly. 

“Professor, it’s Harry Potter,” Malfoy said. “He’s famous. People care about him. If you torture him, people will find out. This isn’t something that can be kept quiet. Please, Professor, he’s not worth it.”

Harry had been so angry at Malfoy after he handed him over to Umbridge when she launched her assault on the D.A. He wasn’t so much angry about the fact that Malfoy handed him over. That was the sort of thing Malfoy did. No, he was angry because, for one moment, he had thought that Malfoy might not hand him over. 

He’d been scolding himself for that ever since. Just because Malfoy might’ve played some small part in an anonymously sourced article, that didn’t mean that he would stand up for Harry in person. 

Only, here he was, at Harry’s back, stopping Umbridge from hurting him. 

 

***

 

Draco didn’t know how persuasive his arguments were to Umbridge, but luckily Granger chose that moment to break. She began sobbing, and she said she would show Umbridge some secret weapon they’d been working on for Dumbledore in the Forbidden Forest. Umbridge decided that she alone would go to see it, taking Potter and Granger with her. Draco did not like the idea of leaving Potter practically alone with Umbridge again (Granger was wandless, so she didn’t really count). But Umbridge flatly refused to allow Draco to come along. 

The moment the office door closed behind Umbridge, Draco stepped to the window to watch for Potter. 

“So, what’s the big weapon, Weasley?” Cassius Warrington asked, giving his captive a jab. 

Warrington was the only sixth year from the Inquisitorial Squad who was in the room. The other sixth years had arrived later, and had been dismissed, as Umbridge already had enough help. None of the seventh years had shown up, since they were all busy with their final N.E.W.T exam. 

“There they are,” Draco murmured, as Potter, Granger, and Umbridge emerged from the castle. Everyone else in the room turned to watch as well as the three distant figures crossed the wide clearing and finally entered the forest. 

After Warrington, there were four fifth-year Slytherins. Draco could count on Pansy. She would always have his back. Millicent would probably go along with whatever Draco did, as long as Pansy went along with it first. That left Greg and Vince. 

Greg and Vince had always been big, and they valued brute force above all else. The only reason they put up with Draco, who had always been smaller and slighter than them, was because Draco had proven to them time and time again that his way would be the most fun. It was always a fragile line that he walked with them. But Greg and Vince were not creative. It was Draco who had the ideas, who kept them entertained. He thought that, after fifteen years of this uneasy friendship, they would allow him at least one pass. 

And so it was at Warrington that Draco sent his stunner. 

Weasley’s reflexes were good, Draco had to give him that. He didn’t stand around looking shocked or asking questions. Instead, the second Warrington went down, Weasley shot forward and grabbed his wand from Warrington’s chest pocket. Then, crouching behind Warrington’s prone body, he sent two stunners in quick succession, one at Greg and one at Vince. (Potter’s secret study group had been effective, it seemed.) Vince had enough time to fumble his wand out of his pocket, but he had always been better with his fists than with his magic, and he went down next to Greg. 

Just as well, Draco thought. He hadn’t really wanted to put their loyalty to the test. 

Longbottom and the Weasley girl, who Vince and Greg had been guarding, dived for their own wands, and then jumped up, pointing them at Pansy and Millicent. 

But by that point, Draco had stepped over to Pansy, and the three Slytherins raised a triple shield to meet the hexes hurled their way. 

“I think Draco stunned Cassius,” Lovegood observed from behind Pansy. “At least, I don’t think I did it. Pansy has my wand.” 

The three Gryffindors had stopped casting, but they were closing in on the Slytherins in a disturbingly predatory way. Both sides still had their wands up. 

“Well, Malfoy?” Weasley said. “You going to give us Luna?”

“Pansy,” Draco said, his tone conversational. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. How do you feel about Umbridge these days?”

Pansy gave Draco a look that said they would have words later, but for now she would cooperate. 

“I saw Cilla’s hand. Umbridge can rot.” The message for the Gryffindors was that the Slytherins were doing this because Umbridge had hurt one of their own. Not because one particular Slytherin couldn’t handle Umbridge hurting one particular Gryffindor. It might have been too late to make this argument, but Draco and Pansy were going to try, and this was the story they were going to stick to when Cassius, Greg, and Vince woke up. 

Draco plucked Lovegood’s wand from Pansy’s pocket, since Pansy made no move to do so herself. He handed it to the Ravenclaw, who had somehow gotten sucked into Potter’s group (Draco wasn’t sure when that had happened — she wasn’t even a fifth year), and Millicent gave her a little shove to get her moving. Lovegood, looking vaguely surprised, wandered over to the Weasley girl. 

“So, what are you going to do now?” Draco asked Weasley. Weasley gave him a wary once over, but he answered. 

“I’m going after Harry. He might need help.”

“I suppose you’d better have this, then,” Draco said, holding out Potter’s wand and trying to sound bored, like a person who didn’t care if Potter was defenseless in the woods with a woman who wanted to torture him. 

“And this,” Millicent added, holding out Granger’s wand. 

Weasley again did not stop to ask questions, but simply stepped up and grabbed Potter’s wand while his sister grabbed Granger’s, both of them moving as if they expected the Slytherins to snatch the wands away before they could reach them. Then they stepped back again, and the two groups considered each other, all of them still wary (aside from Lovegood, who had started humming).

“Thanks, mate,” Longbottom said, looking as awkward saying it as Draco felt hearing it. And then Weasley’s sister opened the office door, and the Gryffindors plus Ravenclaw made a hasty exit. 

Draco thought the time was now ripe for him to collapse on the floor and hyperventilate, which is what he did. 

“I defied a teacher!” he gasped. “Not just a teacher. The High Inquisitor! The Minister’s right hand! She’s going to be so angry! Father’s going to be so angry! What if Umbridge tells the Minister about it? Then he’ll be angry with me too!”

“There, there,” Pansy said, patting his back. “Umbridge has Potter to distract her. Yes, you betrayed your friends, and the Inquisitorial Squad, and Slytherin House in general. But I’m sure nothing will come of it.”

By the next morning, Lucius Malfoy was in Azkaban and Sirius Black was dead.

Notes:

*In case you’ve forgotten, this did actually happen in canon. Draco got so distracted when Harry walked in the room that he dropped the glass he was levitating and messed up his exam.

**Various aspects of this scene including some dialogue are taken from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

Also, if you were wondering why Cilla didn't know Voldemort was back before now, it's because at this point it's just a rumor, not common knowledge. The only proof is Harry Potter's word, and the wizarding world is in denial. Also, Cilla doesn't read the papers and she doesn't talk to that many people...

I'm duchessdulce on tumblr if you want to follow me! I mostly post about Drarry fics and other Drarry things.

Traveling for spring break got me off schedule with posting, but I think I'm back to posting on the weekend.

Thanks for reading! As always, I would love to hear from you in the comments!

Chapter 10

The moon was high in the sky as Narcissa paced along the border of the village of Larkhill. Distant streetlights broke up the black of the night, but not enough to keep Narcissa from stumbling over unexpected rocks and dips in the terrain. She didn’t dare light her wand, though, lest she attract attention. 

She chanted under her breath as she walked. The words were barely audible, but the power poured out of her in rolling waves. A small, silver knife glinted in her hand. She paused every now and then to cut the thin, barely visible lines of a rune into a tree or a fence post.

Her throat was running raw. She took a bottle of water out of the pouch hanging from her shoulder, took a quick swallow, and then continued her pacing and chanting. 

This was what came of caring for people outside of her family. She had enough to worry about with her two boys, Lucius and Draco. What had she been thinking, letting herself get attached to a mere child she wasn’t even related to? Look what it had led to! Now here she was trying to hide an entire village from the Dark Lord!

It would not have been so difficult to keep one small girl safe, a girl that the Dark Lord was not even aware of. But the girl was a tender-hearted little thing, who wouldn’t be happy with her own safety if her parents were in danger. And she would probably object to her parents being dosed with a draught of living death and confined to their beds, which had been Narcissa’s first thought. So instead, here she was, walking a protective circle around Muggles while the Dark Lord slept in the manor only a short walk from the bakery. 

This was all Lucius’ fault! She should have adopted Cilla while she still could, when Cilla was young enough that Narcissa could have convinced everyone that she was actually theirs. Everything would have already been in place, and she would have been able to keep Cilla safe. If only Lucius had agreed!

He never told her she couldn’t take what she wanted, but she knew the idea of claiming a mudblood child as his own made Lucius’ skin crawl. She brought up the idea once, saw from the look on his face how badly he took it, and never mentioned it again. 

She wished now that she had listened to her own inclinations more and to her husband’s less. 

Narcissa lifted her silver knife and embedded it in the bark of a nearby tree. She paused briefly to catch the thrum of magic vibrating from the last rune she had carved, connecting it to this new rune. 

Narcissa was a talented witch, but the power humming through her runes, like a dot-to-dot drawn around the village, was not her own. She had started the night at the ancient stone circle, the reason her husband’s ancestors had chosen Wiltshire for their home. She had made her first rune in the ground in the middle of Stonehenge. Then she had flown back to the village, pulling the power from that intensely magical place back with her. 

It would have been better if the moon had been full, but Narcissa didn’t have the luxury of time at this point. It would have been better if Narcissa had a team of wizards and witches, rather than working on her own. But she didn’t have anyone she could trust, besides Draco and Cilla, and she would not risk them in this. 

Some people would have been surprised to learn that Narcissa was caught so unprepared for the Dark Lord’s arrival. Yes, the Ministry had been in denial for the first year after the Dark Lord’s return, but Lucius knew the truth. He had been there, in the graveyard, and if Lucius knew, then Narcissa knew. 

However, Narcissa had not lived in fear of the Dark Lord during his first reign of terror. Her sister and her husband were Marked. Her family was safe. And so, naively, Narcissa had assumed that things would be the same now. That what was hers would be safe, would be spared. That the Dark Lord would respect her wishes. 

It wasn’t until Walden McNair and Alfred Crabbe arrived at the Manor boasting about the Muggle they’d encountered nearby that Narcissa realized her mistake. 

During the First Reign, Lucius had not been the Dark Lord’s right hand man any more than Sirius had been. The Dark Lord’s actual right hand man had been Abraxas Malfoy, Lucius’ father, and the reason Lucius was drawn into the Death Eaters. It was Abraxas who lived at Malfoy Manor during the First Reign (Lucius and Narcissa resided at the Malfoy family townhouse in London). Yes, Lucius was a Death Eater and he answered the Dark Lord’s summons… but the First Reign had not affected Narcissa very much. She stayed in the townhouse and decorated the nursery and, eventually, when she became pregnant, was fussed over excessively by her husband. 

But in the aftermath of Voldemort’s fall, Abraxas was killed while resisting arrest. Exact details were not forthcoming, but Order of the Phoenix member Septimus Weasley had been part of the raiding party that arrived at Malfoy Manor, and at some point in the onslaught of hurled curses, the ceiling came down, killing both Septimus and Abraxas. Lucius and Arthur Weasley each blamed the other’s father for their own father’s death, and their two families had been feuding ever since. 

With the Dark Lord’s disappearance, Lucius had found himself in a tight spot. He had a Mark on his arm that he could not get rid of (he and Narcissa both tried). When Abraxas died, Lucius was very sorry, of course, but he thought his father would never forgive him if he failed to take advantage of the situation over some overrated idea of sentimentality. 

And so it was that, shortly after Abraxas’ death, Lucius arrived at the Ministry to announce that he’d been under his own father’s Imperius Curse throughout the Reign of Terror, and therefore he was responsible for nothing, beginning with the horrible Mark on his arm. Abraxas’ death had broken the curse, and Lucius was finally free. 

Even if Lucius had been completely blameless (which he decidedly wasn’t), he would have been tainted by association with his Death Eater father. The Imperius Curse explanation absolved Lucius not only of his own wrongdoing, but of his father’s as well. He was merely the victim in this situation, an unwilling participant. 

Of course, it took more than his word to convince the Wizengamot that he’d been under the Imperius Curse. But Narcissa was a Black, and between the two of them, they made the situation convincing enough. Once Lucius was in the clear, they congratulated themselves on their cleverness, and proceeded to spend the next thirteen years proving themselves respectable members of society. 

Then the Dark Lord unexpectedly returned. With Abraxas gone, Lucius was now the richest Death Eater by far, and Reigns of Terror didn’t come cheap, so the Dark Lord gave him a promotion whether he wanted it or not. 

As it happened, Lucius did not want it. At this point in life, Lucius was very happy with the position of respect and influence he’d built up for himself in the wizarding world, and he was not interested in throwing all of that away for his father’s dictatorial former schoolmate. But the Dark Lord did not ask Lucius what he wanted. 

Lucius’ promotion was followed by a demotion after the Dark Lord discovered that Lucius had lost the schoolboy journal that the Dark Lord had left in Abraxas’ care. In Lucius’ defense, Abraxas hadn’t exactly explained everything about the book, because Abraxas hadn’t planned on dying.

Narcissa still thought everything would be alright. Everything always turned out alright, if you had enough money and influence. And if she and Lucius didn’t have enough money and influence, who did?

Narcissa kept thinking this until the moment she found out that Lucius had been booked into Azkaban to await sentencing, with no possibility of bail. 

She spent the following day in a hazy state of shock, punctuated by bouts of uncontrollable sobbing. She thought she deserved at least a week to wallow properly in her misery, but she was rudely roused by McNair and Crabbe and their talk of that Muggle, and Narcissa was struck with the horrifying thought that it could have been Bitsy. The following hours were pure agony, until Narcissa could safely sneak away to the bakery to see for herself that Bitsy was safe. 

But she wasn’t safe, was she, as long as the Dark Lord was ensconced in Malfoy Manor, holding court with a steady stream of Death Eaters?

And Cilla. Narcissa’s darling girl was coming home from Hogwarts, and Narcissa was finally forced to remember that Cilla was Muggleborn. 

A branch caught at Narcissa’s hair, and she pulled free with a shudder. She’d been jittery ever since she had made her plan, waiting silently in that cavernous house, waiting for all the intruders to leave or go to sleep. It had been so dark when she finally dared to go into the garden. She had to get a broom from the shed before she could apparate to the stone circle. She kept looking over her shoulder as she crept through the garden, but she was reasonably certain no one had seen her go. 

She was almost done now (she stuck her knife in a wooden post, the paint flaking). The rune circle around the village was almost complete. She was nearly —

Narcissa froze. 

A pale woman in a long white dress was standing on the grassy slope among the trees, watching her. She almost looked like a ghost, standing so still in the dark.

Except, Narcissa had met ghosts before, and none of them had filled her heart with the icy dread that she felt now. 

“Bella.” Narcissa did not move, because her sister was not in the direction she needed to go to complete her circle. Bellatrix began to walk towards her, and as she got closer, Narcissa saw that she was wearing a nightgown with long sleeves and trimmed with lace, her thick, dark hair falling in loose curls over her shoulders. 

“Cissy,” Bellatrix said. “What are you doing out here so early?”

Early? Was it almost morning, then? Narcissa had to get back to the manor before the Dark Lord — Except it was too late, Bella was already here, she already knew…

“Bella, you’re in your nightgown,” Narcissa said. 

“I went to look for you, and you were gone,” Bellatrix said. “I was worried. What are you doing out here, Cissy?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I was — I kept thinking — thinking of Lucius.” Narcissa’s voice trembled with distress that she did not have to fake. 

“Lucius,” Bellatrix repeated. “Was that rune for him, then?”

“Rune?” Narcissa’s mind went blank. 

“I assume that was a rune you just marked in that post. With that knife you’re holding?”

Narcissa didn’t say anything. Her heart was beating too fast. It was getting difficult to breathe.

“Fine. Keep your secrets.” Bellatrix’s eyes drifted lazily away from Narcissa. Somewhere, in the dark, an owl hooted. 

“There’s a house just over there,” Bellatrix observed. “Muggle?”

Narcissa didn’t say anything. 

“It’s a bit early for games, but I suppose I could bring one back to the manor for later,” Bellatrix mused. “A bit of fun might be just what we need after that… unpleasant business at the Ministry.”

“They’re my Muggles,” Narcissa said suddenly. 

“What?” Bellatrix said, surprised. 

“This village belongs to the manor. These Muggles are mine. Go find your own.” Narcissa spoke as petulantly as if they were still children, arguing over toys. 

“It’s not like I was going to decimate all of them.” Bellatrix sounded miffed. “You have to leave enough so they can repopulate, just like with nogtail hunting. I know that.”

Bellatrix used to speak like this before she went to Azkaban too. Narcissa hadn’t given it much thought back then. She hadn’t known that Bellatrix was speaking about Bitsy, for one thing. 

“You’re in your nightgown, Bella,” Narcissa said again. “Why don’t you go back to bed? I’ll come home soon.”

“I can’t sleep either,” Bellatrix said. “I don’t like being alone in the dark.” She sounded like a child now too, and she hugged herself, thin white fingers gripping her too thin frame. Azkaban was still clouding her mind, Narcissa knew. 

“Why don’t you go to my room and start the fire,” Narcissa said, more gently now. “You can sit in my chair, and I’ll bring you some tea when I get back.”

“I can walk with you until you’re ready to come home,” Bellatrix said. “I don’t mind.”

“Thank you, dearest, but I need some time to think. You go on. I’ll be there soon.”

Bellatrix took a long look at the Muggle house. 

Then, “Alright,” she said. “Don’t be too long, or I’ll have to come after you again.” She disapparated with a crack. 

Narcissa stood looking at the spot where her sister had been for several seconds. Then her shoulders slowly drooped with relief and she took several deliberate breaths, in and out. She made a fist and mentally tugged on the magic stringing out from the last rune she had carved. 

She began walking, chanting under her breath as she went. The circle was almost complete. When it was done, the village would be surrounded by powerful anti-wizard wards. Any wizard or witch who got close would realize they actually wanted to take a different route, would find their eyes slipping past the village without remembering it. 

Narcissa would have to get Cilla inside herself. The wards wouldn’t affect Narcissa, since she had created them that way, and they wouldn’t affect Cilla once she was inside, but she wouldn’t be able to find her way in on her own. 

The wards would not stop the Muggles inside from leaving. If they left the village, they were on their own. However, Narcissa had dabbled in a small amount of Imperius to make sure Bitsy and Johnathan would not leave the village. (She had a lot of experience with the Imperius from the time they’d faked Lucius’ Imperius defense.) She’d been far too distressed to explain the whole situation to Cilla’s parents, and she needed to be sure that they would follow her instructions. It was for their own safety. 

Narcissa stepped over a log. There it was! The first tree she had marked. Her broom was leaning against it, the broom she had used to fly from Stonehenge to the village, since the magical link would have been broken if she’d apparated. 

She was back at the beginning. 

Narcissa placed her hand over the rune she had carved hours earlier, finding it easily by the hum of magic that was calling to her. It thrummed warmly against her fingers when she touched the bark. 

She spoke, and the rush of magic ran through her whole body as the circle fused shut and the wards she had been chanting for all night rose up into place, ensconcing the little village in an invisible, protective dome. 

Narcissa would get Cilla in. Cilla would be safe that summer. Bitsy and Johnathan would be safe. 

Narcissa was glad she didn’t have to worry about Draco. Draco would be fine. He would be safe at home, with her. 

It wasn’t until the end of the summer, when Narcissa saw the Dark Mark, black on her son’s pale forearm, that she realized how wrong she had been. 

 

***

 

“You don’t need to be here, Mother, I can shop on my own.” Draco was standing on a stool in Madam Malkin’s shop, looking at himself in the mirror while Madam Malkin stood in front of him, her wand held aloft as she conducted her orchestra of pins, needles, scissors, and thread that wound, busy as bees, around the sleeves and hemline of the new dark green robe he had on. 

“It’s no trouble, darling, I want to be here with you,” his mother said. 

She’d been hovering lately. Of course, she knew about his assignment, but… he just didn’t want to get her involved. Father didn’t like to get her involved, and now Father wasn’t here, so it was his job to protect her. 

Besides, what could she do? The Dark Lord said that Draco had to do it. And he would! He had plans. He would do this, and restore the Dark Lord’s good will towards his family, and then the Dark Lord would free Father from Azkaban, and everything would be good again. He could do this. 

A bell tinkled as the shop door opened and several customers shuffled in. Draco glanced over, and then stiffened. 

Potter, Weasley, and Granger were standing there, looking at him. The last time he’d spoken to them had been in Umbridge’s office, after their last O.W.L. The school year had essentially been over by that point, and they had all gone home soon after. Draco had spent his last hours at Hogwarts bumbling around in shock over the news that his father was in Azkaban. 

“Have a seat, I’ll be with you in a moment,” Madam Malkin said, still working away at Draco’s robe. 

“Hey Malfoy,” Potter said. 

“Good morning,” Draco said, frowning. 

“Malfoy.”

“Hello.”

Weasley and Granger both nodded at him solemnly. Draco would have found it amusing if he hadn’t felt so discomfited. 

Narcissa took an anxious step towards him, reminding him of her presence. 

“I don’t know if you’ve met my mother, Narcissa Malfoy, formerly of the House of Black,” Draco said, falling back on his protocol, since he didn’t know what else to do. Did Potter’s trio suddenly want to play nice?

“Good morning, Mrs. Malfoy,” Granger said. Harry was frowning now, but Weasley echoed the greeting. 

“Good morning,” Narcissa said coolly. 

And then Madam Malkin put a little too much power into a swish of her wand, and one of Draco’s sleeves jerked upward. Draco jumped (his forearm was still a bit tender), and had to pretend she had stuck him with a pin. There were several other robes he had wanted to try on, but he was so flustered with everything that he hurried out of the shop not long after, with his mother trailing anxiously behind him. 

“Fancy running into Harry Potter,” Narcissa said, a little breathless from trotting in her heels to keep up with him. 

“I see him at school all the time,” Draco grumbled. 

“Oh?”

Draco didn’t reply. 

What was that about back there? That was what his mother really wanted to ask. But she would never be so direct, even if they weren’t in public. 

“Darling, are you well?”

“Of course,” Draco said, exasperated. “I just want to go to Twilfitt and Tattings.”

“Oh. We can do that, of course,” Narcissa said. “But we will need to go back to Madam Malkin’s. I was going to use her floo to bring Cilla through. Cilla will need new robes as well.”

Narcissa had managed to get Cilla’s house connected to the floo network. The Ministry wouldn’t grant them a permanent connection, since neither of the adults in the house were magical. But Narcissa had gotten them floo access for three dates that summer: the day Cilla came home from school, the day she would leave for school, and one more day, for Diagon Alley school shopping. 

Draco tried on robes at Twilfitt and Tattings. He gave Potter and his friends ample time to complete their own robe purchases before he and his mother returned to Madam Malkin’s. 

Their reunion with Cilla involved lots of excitement and hugs. What with their guests at the manor, they hadn’t been able to see Cilla all summer. 

Once Narcissa was suitably distracted with Cilla’s robe fitting, Draco announced that he was going out, and would meet them at Flourish and Blotts. He fled before his mother could object. 

He felt a little bad for running out on Cilla. She’d been so happy to see him, poor kid. But he would spend the rest of the day with her. He just had to complete this one errand. 

Twenty minutes later, Draco stepped out of Borgin and Burkes feeling optimistic about the future. Step 1 of The Plan: check. 

Then he stopped in his tracks, the smile fading from his face, because standing right there, in the middle of the morally questionable Knockturn Alley, was Potter with his two friends. 

“Oh, hey Malfoy,” Potter said, his green eyes innocent and surprised, as if their meeting was purely coincidental. “Doing some shopping?”

“Are you following me?” Draco said in disbelief. 

“We’re just shopping for school,” Potter said. “Why would we be following you?”

Draco wanted to point out the sketchy nature of Knockturn Alley, but he couldn’t do so without drawing attention to his own presence in this unsavory locale. Luckily, Weasley and Granger had the decency to look abashed. 

“Look, Malfoy,” Weasley said, running a sheepish hand through his bright red hair. “We never thanked you for what you did for Harry... It was right decent of you. So, er, thanks.”

“Yes, thank you, Malfoy,” Granger said, looking up at him, her face earnest. 

Draco was speechless. He’d never envisioned a situation where Potter’s two best friends would thank him for anything, and he was unprepared. 

They must be thanking him in the hopes that, should the opportunity arise, Draco would choose once again to protect Potter. That must be what was happening. Apparently the lengths they would go to to keep Harry safe were more considerable than Draco had realized.

“So, find anything interesting in there?” Potter nodded at the shop behind Draco, affecting nonchalance. 

“What is this, an interrogation?” Draco said, Potter’s annoying nosiness helping him find his voice. 

“Just wondered,” Potter shrugged. 

“Yes, well, it’s been lovely chatting and all,” Draco said sarcastically, “but I’m afraid I must be off. My mother and my cousin will be waiting for me.”

“Cilla? She’s with your mother?” Potter said, his expression curious. 

“Yes, and I told them I’d meet them, so… Good day, Potter, Weasley, Granger.” Draco nodded curtly, then turned and left at a brisk pace before Potter could ask anything awkward about Cilla. 

Notes:

I was looking at Wiltshire on Google Maps, which is the county where the Malfoys canonically live, and I was so excited when I realized that Stonehenge is in Wiltshire! I had to include it in this fic.

Also: what did it take to fake Lucius’ Imperius defense? It involved Narcissa putting Lucius under the Imperius Curse repeatedly for extended periods of time. She got very good at it.

Thank you for the kudos and the comments! I always love hearing your thoughts and your reactions to the story.

I'm duchessdulce on tumblr if you want to follow me! I mostly post about Drarry fics and other Drarry things.

Chapter 11

Cilla’s summer had started out badly with Narcissa informing her that she was absolutely under no circumstances to go anywhere near the manor. She wasn’t even allowed to leave the village, for fear she might run into the guests that were staying indefinitely with the Malfoys. 

Narcissa didn’t come right out and say it, but Cilla inferred that these guests were the Death Eaters that Professor Snape had warned her about. 

Cilla behaved and stayed in the village. She spent much of the summer sitting alone in her room with Macaron (Mac for short), her barn owl who was the color of a toasted marshmallow. In the solitude, cut off from Narcissa and Draco, Cilla began to brood over the things Professor Snape had said to her before school ended. 

Had Narcissa and Draco gotten tired of her? Had they realized that she was no use to them, as a Muggleborn? Narcissa had told her they were doing this for Cilla’s own safety, but as the lonely days stretched on, Cilla’s doubts grew and grew. 

Then, at the end of the summer, Narcissa’s owl came to tell her about the planned trip to Diagon Alley. Cilla went through her family’s fireplace on the appointed day, and Narcissa was waiting on the other side with open arms. All of Cilla’s doubts and fears dissipated under the bright sun of Narcissa’s affection. 

The beginning of September found Cilla, at long last, on the train back to Hogwarts. Unlike the year before, this year Cilla arrived at the platform with Draco and was allowed into his train compartment without question. Draco and his friends spent the train ride chatting, bickering, and swapping snacks. The now sixth year Slytherins didn’t talk much to Cilla, but she was happy to sit and listen. 

By the time they were nearing Hogwarts, Draco had sprawled across the train seats, his head in Pansy’s lap. His knees were drawn up, and Cilla was sort of sitting on his toes while leaning against his shins, when Blaise opened the compartment door. 

Blaise had been with them at the beginning of the ride, but he’d left when he received an invitation to lunch with a new professor in a different compartment. That had put Draco in a mood for a while, because he hated being left out. 

Now Blaise was back, and he was trying to close the compartment door behind him, but it wouldn’t shut all the way. Instead of stopping to see what was wrong, Blaise was slamming the door again and again and getting more and more angry. Cilla wondered if anyone would do something before Blaise broke the door, but just then the door flew forcefully open. Blaise, who had been holding on to the door, was thrown into Greg’s lap, which resulted in much snarling on both sides. 

Cilla stared at the door. Had anyone else seen what she had just seen? Was there a poltergeist on the train? She looked at Draco, but he was looking intently at the luggage rack. She glanced at the luggage rack as well, but she didn’t see anything unusual. 

No one else said anything about the door, not even Blaise, who was settling sulkily in the empty seat between Greg and Vince. Perhaps kids who grew up in the magical world were used to inanimate objects turning against them, Cilla thought. 

Then Blaise had to be quizzed about the new professor and the other invitees, and then the train stopped and they were at Hogwarts. 

Draco stayed behind as his friends filed out, waving Pansy on when she tried to wait for him. He didn’t make Cilla leave, though. Instead, when they were alone, he closed the compartment door and beckoned to her. 

“Come look at this,” he said quietly, leaning over to unlock his trunk. Cilla stepped forward. Draco started to open his trunk, but then he abruptly whipped out his wand and pointed it at the luggage rack. 

“Petrificus totalus!”

A loud thump hit the floor. Cilla looked down and saw… a white trainer?

Draco bent down and appeared to grab a fistful of air. Then he yanked, and a crouched, frozen Harry Potter appeared on the floor. 

“I’ve got your Cloak, Potter,” Draco smirked. “You are not subtle.”

“Oh, it was Harry who opened the door?” Cilla said. 

“Mm,” Draco assented. “Now the question is, what do we do with him? Leave him and keep his Cloak? Or I could step on his face and put his Cloak back on. How long do you think it would take for someone to find him?”

“Oh, Draco, let him up,” Cilla protested. 

Draco just looked at Harry for a moment. But then he lifted his wand again. 

“Finite incantatem,” he said. Harry gave a small gasp as his frozen muscles relaxed. His arms dropped to the floor, and he scrambled to stand up. 

“So Potter,” Draco said. “Why are you spying on us?”

“I, er,” Harry said, brushing himself off gingerly. Cilla was worried he had hurt himself when he fell from the luggage rack. 

“I just wanted to say hi to you and Cilla, but I didn’t know if your friends would be happy to see me,” Harry said. 

“So you thought you’d force your way in here with Blaise and hide on the luggage rack while wearing your Invisibility Cloak?” Draco did not sound impressed. 

“Well…” Harry said. 

“You are so nosy,” Draco said when Harry didn’t say anything else. “You know that’s how I knew where to aim, right? You are so predictable.”

“I’m not nosy,” Harry said. 

“Right.” Draco rolled his eyes. “Come on, Potter. You’re going to make us miss the carriages. You’re not even in uniform yet.” 

“Oh…” Harry looked down at his Muggle clothes, which were shapeless and much too wide for his thin frame. “My trunk…”

He took off at a run, snatching his silvery Cloak from Draco’s hands as he pushed past him. Draco let it go without any show of resistance. 

“He is such a mess,” Draco said. He cast a featherlight charm on both his and Cilla’s trunks, and he started after Harry at a more measured pace. Cilla trotted after him with one hand on her trunk to guide it. They didn’t see any other students as they walked. It seemed that everyone else had already left. 

They caught up to Harry further down the train, standing blankly in the aisle. 

“Er… my trunk’s gone,” he said. “Ron and Hermione must have taken it already.”

Draco sighed. 

“Alright, look,” he said. He opened his trunk again, pulled out a set of robes, and thrust them at a surprised Harry. “You can borrow these. Cilla and I will go hold a carriage for you.”

“But…” Harry bit his lip. “I need a tie. I can’t use yours; it’s the wrong colors.”

“I’ll charm one of mine for you. Circe, Potter,” Draco rolled his eyes. “Hurry and change.”

Harry closed himself with Draco’s robes in the nearest apartment, while Draco and Cilla ran out to the carriages. 

Most of the carriages had already set out, but Draco and Cilla ran to the ones that were still stationary, and Draco opened the door of the last one in line. Three Ravenclaw fifth year girls looked out at them in surprise. Cilla recognized one of them, a girl with wavy brown hair, as Pansy’s cousin, Marigold. She and Pansy seemed to be quite close, and were always visiting each other’s tables in the Great Hall. 

“We’re waiting on someone,” Draco said. “He’s still changing on the train.”

The girls shuffled around so they were all on the same side of the carriage while Draco got the trunks inside. Then Cilla sat down opposite the Ravenclaw girls while Draco stood outside. 

Through the open carriage door, Cilla saw an Auror walking towards them. There had been Aurors on Platform 9 ¾ as well, guarding the station. As the Auror got closer, Cilla saw she was a young woman with short, mousy brown hair. 

“In the carriage, please, let’s keep moving,” the Auror said. 

“We’re waiting on someone,” Draco said again. “He’s changing on the train.”

Cilla looked at Draco when he spoke. He was standing strangely, as if he were trying to look casual but had forgotten how. 

“I’m here!” Harry said, bursting out of the train, his black hair sticking out wildly from his head. He had his Muggle clothes bundled under one arm, and his other hand was holding up the robes he was wearing so he wouldn’t trip on them. 

“Wotcher, Harry!”* the Auror said, turning to him with a grin. 

“Tonks! What are you doing here?” Harry said, lighting up with a matching smile. 

Cilla glanced at Draco, and saw that he was looking back and forth between Harry and the Auror with something like consternation. 

Wait, did Harry call her Tonks? Cilla realized suddenly who the Auror was. Narcissa had shown her the young woman’s picture in a Hogwarts’ yearbook for graduating students. Could this be Nymphadora Tonks, daughter of Narcissa’s disowned sister, Andromeda? That would explain why Draco was acting oddly. Cilla wondered if this was the first time Draco had spoken to his cousin. 

She felt oddly self-conscious. Faced with the legitimate cousin of the Malfoys, she felt like an imposter. This was the girl Draco should have gone to Hogwarts with, the girl he should have spent his summers with. 

The irony, that this girl had been cut off from Draco because of her Muggleborn father, only to be replaced by Cilla, who was herself Muggleborn. 

“You’d better get going, Harry,” Tonks was saying. “You don’t want to miss the feast!”

“Just a moment,” Draco said. He stepped in front of Harry and muttered something while tapping Harry’s robes with his wand. The robes shortened and shrunk, fitting themselves to Harry, who looked down in surprise. 

“What did you do?” he said. 

“Come on, Potter,” Draco said, turning away from him to climb into the carriage. 

“What did you do?” Harry said again as he followed Draco inside. The two of them sat down on the same carriage bench, with Cilla in the middle. Cilla noted that the Ravenclaw girls had all perked up when Harry entered their carriage. 

“I fitted the robes for you,” Draco was saying to Harry. “What, did you want to trip on them all evening?”

“You know how to do that?” Harry said, still sounding surprised. 

“It’s not hard.” Draco’s tone was dismissive, but Cilla could tell he was preening. “It will wear off by midnight, of course. These sorts of things don’t last very long, which is why people buy clothes rather than just transfiguring the ones they already have. Anyway…” 

Draco reached over Cilla to drop a tie in Harry’s lap. Harry held it up for inspection. 

“Red? But it’s supposed to have gold stripes.”

“Stripes are hard. If you must have stripes, I can take the charm off, and you can have green and silver,” Draco said. 

“What happened to your tie, Harry?” Marigold asked. She adjusted her feet as she spoke, and Cilla saw she was wearing bright red pumps. Shoes were the only article of clothing not dictated by the Hogwarts uniform, and it seemed Marigold was taking full advantage. 

“Oh, I… er, misplaced my trunk.” Harry looked both startled and abashed, as if he hadn’t noticed the Ravenclaws until that moment. 

“We could help you look for it,” Marigold offered. 

“Oh, er, I think my friends probably have it,” Harry said. 

“Ok. Well, we’d be happy to ask around if your friends don’t have it.”

“Thanks,” Harry said awkwardly, and then looked out the window. 

They were getting close to the castle now, and the carriage soon came to a stop. After climbing down the steps of the carriage, they joined the line of students filing through the castle’s grand entryway. The chatter of the students grew louder and louder until they reached the Great Hall, where cheerful, excited students were shouting to each other and spreading out over the four long House tables. 

“Harry, where have you been?!” Ron Weasley was waving energetically from the Gryffindor table. 

“Well, see you around?” Harry said. 

“Bye, Harry,” Cilla said. 

Harry went to join his friends. Draco and Cilla turned to go to the Slytherin table, but before they were out of earshot, they heard second year Russell Creevey’s piercing voice ring out at the Gryffindor table. 

“Hi Harry! Why are you wearing a Slytherin tie?”

Cilla quirked an eyebrow at Draco as they walked away. 

“Oops,” Draco smirked. “I guess the charm wore off early.”

 

***

 

That evening, stomachs heavy from the feast, Cilla and Draco sat near one of the fires in the Slytherin common room. Cilla was leaning against Draco, wanting to be near him all the time after a summer apart. 

“What’s the most important thing?” Draco said, staring into the flickering flames. 

“The most important… like in the whole world?” Cilla said. 

“Yes. What’s the most important thing for a person? For us?”

“Magic?” Cilla guessed. 

“It’s family,” Draco said. “Family is the most important. More important than anything else. Do you agree?”

“Oh. Yes,” Cilla said. She should have thought of that. 

“Good,” Draco said. “I need your help with something.”

 

***

 

If Draco had got Potter petrified on the floor of a train compartment before their joint fifth year detentions, he would not have hesitated to stomp on Potter’s infuriating little face. But since that time, Draco had gone to some trouble to keep Harry from getting hurt, and stomping on him, while tempting, seemed counterproductive. 

Potter was even more nosy this year than usual, and with Potter, that was saying something. 

Draco was flattered. 

For the first time, Potter was seeking him out, trying to talk to him after class, stopping him in corridors, asking him where he was going, what he was going to do next. It was the kind of attention from Potter that Draco had always craved, that he would have eaten up when he was younger. 

And yes, Draco knew that part of it was that Potter thought (rightly) that he was up to something. That was flattering too, that Potter thought he was doing something interesting enough to be worth spying on with his Invisibility Cloak. But Potter wasn’t just spying from afar. The thing was, Potter was acting as if… as if he might want to be… friends. 

It was just Draco’s luck that this was happening now, when it was too late. Potter would not want to be friends with Draco once he knew… But Draco didn’t really want to think about that. 

The day Draco’s father had gone to Azkaban had been the worst day of Draco’s life. It had marked the end of Draco’s childhood; the end of his sense of safety in the world. The end of his belief in his parents’ infallibility. 

Draco knew now that his parents could make mistakes, could make unthinkably colossal mistakes resulting in incarceration. But his parents were still the most important thing in his world. If there was anything he could do for them to fix their mistakes, to try to make his world safe again, he would do it. 

So when the Dark Lord gave him an important assignment, Draco took it gladly. The Dark Lord could get people out of Azkaban; he’d done it before. If Draco could fulfill this one assignment, he would have the Dark Lord’s favour. The Dark Lord would be pleased with the Malfoys again, and he would free Lucius from Azkaban. 

Draco focused on these facts, and tried not to think about the other consequences of fulfilling his assignment. His family was the most important thing. Nothing else mattered. 

 

***

 

Harry lay on his bed with the curtains closed, his head propped up by his elbow and the Map open at his side. He was fairly certain that Malfoy was avoiding him. 

Harry had been allowed to go to the Burrow for most of the summer, to his surprise and relief. But the first two weeks of the holidays he had spent like the summer before: alone at the Dursleys, and grieving. 

This summer, the Dursleys had left him alone as long as he stayed in his room. So he stayed in his room, lying on his bed, and sleeping or staring out the window at the sky. Aunt Petunia didn’t bring him food if he didn’t come down for meals, so he didn’t eat much. Most days he only crept downstairs to sneak food at night, after the Dursleys had gone to bed. 

Late at night, when Harry couldn’t sleep because he’d already been sleeping all day, he would lie on his bed and think about Sirius, and how he would never live with him, would never have a family. 

And then, when he couldn’t take the overwhelming grief any longer, he would remember the feeling of standing in Umbridge’s office, behind Malfoy’s shield. The last time he had felt safe before Sirius died. 

Harry had learned from experience that the only person he could rely upon was himself. Perhaps this was unfair to Hermione and the Weasleys, but Harry had too many experiences of asking for help only to be misunderstood or disbelieved. At some point, he stopped asking. Or maybe he would ask if Hermione insisted, but he wouldn’t expect anything to come of it. He had long ago given up hope that someone would come along and save him. 

And then Malfoy stepped up behind him, threw up a shield, and saved Harry from torture.  

Harry tried not to think too hard about why he kept coming back to that memory. Surely part of it was just surprise. It was unexpected that Malfoy would stick his wand out for Harry. But also… it was just nice. It was nice feeling protected. It was nice to find out that Malfoy would protect him. 

Of course, any of Harry’s friends would have protected him if they could. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, Luna… But they’d all been disarmed at the time. The only person in Umbridge’s office who was willing and able to protect Harry was Malfoy. 

Because he was a sneaky Slytherin, Harry thought ruefully. If Harry had been in Malfoy’s place, he would have turned down the position on the Inquisitorial Squad in a blaze of righteous anger after finding out about the blood quill. Harry thought that most Gryffindors would have done the same. But Malfoy hadn’t. He had toed the line and stayed in Umbridge’s good books, even though Harry was sure he must hate her after what she did to Cilla. 

Harry had been less than impressed with Malfoy for sticking with Umbridge in public, but because he’d done that… Malfoy had been right where he needed to be to protect Harry. 

By the end of the summer, Harry had spent so much time thinking about Malfoy that he was weirdly anxious and, well, eager to see him again. To see what would happen. 

Diagon Alley had been disappointing. They’d run into Malfoy at Madam Malkin’s, but he’d left before they could really talk. So of course Harry had followed Malfoy to Knockturn Alley when he got the chance, but Malfoy had made some excuse and run off again. Harry thought maybe it was because he had Ron and Hermione with him, even though they had played nice and had been, honestly, shockingly polite to Malfoy, considering. 

“Maybe he’s finally growing up,” Hermione had said, when they’d discussed Malfoy over the summer. “Developing a conscience, or something.”

“I still hate him, and I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him,” Ron had replied. “But I guess it’s good to find out that Malfoy’s not a total and complete arsehole.”

Things had gone better when Harry went alone to look for Malfoy on the train. In fact, things went so well that Malfoy actually gave Harry a full set of his clothes, and so far, he hadn’t asked Harry to return them. Harry had taken to wearing them once a week. He asked Hermione to find the clothes fitting charm Malfoy had used, telling her that Madam Malkin had made a mistake with the measurements of one of his uniforms. The charm took some practice, and he always felt that the clothes did not fit him as perfectly as they had when Malfoy had done it, but at least they were wearable for a day, and he wasn’t tripping over them. 

He wore Malfoy’s clothes because he thought they were softer than his own. Malfoy’s uniforms came from the same shop as Harry’s, but Harry assumed that Malfoy must have bought a more expensive version. 

He wasn’t able to wear Malfoy’s tie, because it turned out Malfoy was right: stripes were hard. 

Unfortunately, once they were at Hogwarts, Malfoy became aloof and distant, brushing Harry off any time Harry tried to talk to him. This bothered Harry because Malfoy had never ignored him before. He’d been rude, he’d been antagonistic, but he always paid attention to Harry. Harry didn’t realize how much he relied on that attention until he no longer had it. 

With Malfoy avoiding him, Harry’s thoughts turned dark and brooding. Malfoy had shouted when Madam Malkin touched his arm, and he had shown something to Borgin at the shop in Knockturn Alley. Did Malfoy have a Dark Mark? It bothered Harry to think of that ugly black Mark marring the pale skin of Malfoy’s forearm. 

And then poor Katie was cursed by that necklace, a necklace Harry was sure had come from Borgin and Burkes. Had Malfoy given her the necklace? Katie was not the intended victim; she was trying to deliver the necklace to someone. But who? Who was Malfoy trying to hurt?

When Harry’s thoughts grew particularly black, he remembered that Malfoy’s parents had helped lure him to the Ministry, where Sirius was killed. He wondered if Malfoy had known what his parents were doing. Had Malfoy really stepped in at Umbridge’s office for Harry’s sake? Or was he just trying to get Harry away from Umbridge so that Harry could fall into his parents’ trap?

Harry took to checking the Marauders’ Map from time to time. He told himself he just wanted to make sure Malfoy was okay.

 

***

 

Harry and Ron were striding through the castle after Quidditch practice one day, when they turned a corner and nearly collided with a small blonde girl standing in the corridor. 

“Oi! Out of the way!”* Ron bellowed. The girl jumped and dropped a bottle of toadspawn, which clattered loudly when it hit the stone floor. As the girl looked around in some alarm, Harry realized that he knew her.

“Oh, hey Cilla,” Harry said. “Er, sorry about that. Is your bottle broken?”

“I think it’s… oh, it’s cracked.” Cilla had picked up the bottle and was turning it in her hands.

“Here, let me.” Harry took out his wand. “Reparo.”

“Thanks,” Cilla said. 

“No, it was our fault. Er, how’s second year going for you?”

“It’s good,” Cilla said. “How’s sixth year?”

“Also good, I guess.”

“Why were you talking to the tiny Slytherin?” Ron asked after they left Cilla behind with her toadspawn.

“That’s Cilla. Don’t you remember? She’s Malfoy’s cousin.”

“Oh, right.” Ron rolled his eyes. “The Malfoy cousin. You wouldn’t shut up about that last year.”

 

***

 

The day for the Slytherin-Gryffindor Quidditch match came, and the unthinkable happened. Draco did not show up. A substitute Seeker played in his place. That was when Harry knew that something was very, very wrong with Draco. 

Draco loved Quidditch. The Slytherin-Gryffindor match was the most important event of the whole year for Harry, and he felt certain that Draco felt the same. How could he miss this?

It was a full day before Harry was able to find Draco to confront him. He finally cornered him in the Great Hall on his way to dinner. 

“Where were you yesterday?” Harry demanded. 

Draco blinked stupidly at him. 

“I was ill,” he said. 

“Seriously?!” Harry said. 

“Yes. Excuse me, Potter,” Draco said, his voice neutral. He moved around Harry and went to the Slytherin table, where he sat down and began to fill his plate. 

Harry stared at him, frozen in outrage and disbelief. He didn’t know what to do with this Draco, a Draco who wouldn’t snark back at him, who wouldn’t rise to meet Harry’s anger. 

Harry almost missed the old Draco, the pre-detention Draco. At least then, Harry knew where he stood. 

Notes:

*Quotes from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Ron can be such a jerk sometimes… I'm trying to mark direct quotes from canon with an asterisk, but I may have missed some.

Thoughts about their school uniforms: I want them in wizarding robes, but I also want them to wear ties. Because I have a serious weakness for them accidentally wearing each other's ties. I'm imagining their robe sets having multiple layers, since it's cold and damp in Scotland and the castle is drafty. The outer layer is black and fastens down the front. It can be removed if it's hot. The under layer has a collar and a tie and is worn with trousers. It's not exactly a muggle collared shirt. It could be similar but maybe more old fashioned and longer or something. They also have an optional third layer, their cloak, for going outside in the winter.

I'm duchessdulce on tumblr.

Thank you for the kudos and the comments! I always love hearing from you!

Chapter 12

Draco thought it was very unfair. His sixth year was already shaping up to be horrible enough on its own. He did not need, on top of everything, to witness every single girl at Hogwarts swooning over Harry Potter. 

The Gryffindor Quidditch team tryouts at the beginning of the term had turned into a school-wide event, since it offered the chance to see Harry Potter in action as the new team captain. By the sounds of it, every girl from Gryffindor had tried out for the team, and every girl from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff was in the stands. 

Most of the girls from Slytherin had too much pride to drool so openly over Potter, but Pansy and Millicent went. Pansy said she had to be there to experience the gossip first hand. Millicent said she had to be there to see Potter’s arse on a broomstick, but Draco thought she might have been messing with him. 

The situation over Potter did not improve as the year progressed. Things reached a fever pitch after word got out that Potter had agreed to attend the Slug Club Christmas Party, an event where he was expected to bring a date. 

“Why doesn’t he just ask someone already and put everyone out of their misery?” Draco groused to Pansy as they pushed past yet another group of giggling girls in the corridor talking about Potter’s potential date. 

“If he doesn’t choose soon, someone’s going to choose for him,” Pansy replied. 

Draco looked down at her sharply (since his last growth spurt, she only came up to his shoulder). 

“What do you mean?”

Pansy glanced up at him through her black eyelashes heavy with mascara, a small, conspiratorial smile playing on her purple lips. She was wearing purple lipstick that stood out starkly against her pallid skin. Draco thought it made her look dead. 

“You know my cousin, Marigold?” Pansy said. 

Of course Draco knew Marigold the Ravenclaw, source of all Pansy’s Ravenclaw gossip. 

“Well,” Pansy said smugly. “She was talking to Padma Patil, and Padma told her that Parvati said that Romilda Vane — Do you know Vane?”

“No,” Draco said. 

“Gryffindor. Fourth year, I think,” Pansy said. “Anyhow, the Patil twins say Vane is absolutely mad about Harry Potter.”

“Aren’t we all,” Draco said crossly. 

“Hush, darling, we’re in public.” Pansy patted his arm sympathetically and Draco scowled. She was a horrible friend. 

“Is that all?” Draco said. “Some fourth year fancies Potter?”

“No,” Pansy said calmly. “Vane says she has a love potion.”

Draco stopped walking. Then he shook his head and caught up to Pansy. 

“You mean she has one of those joke potions, from the Weasley Twins’ shop,” Draco said. “The ones that make heart-shaped bubbles come out of your mouth when you speak, or something stupid like that.”

“That’s not what she says,” Pansy said. She was smiling. She enjoyed getting a rise out of Draco, because she lived for gossip and because she was a horrible friend. 

“She can’t have amortentia; that’s a highly controlled substance,” Draco argued. 

“Mm,” Pansy hummed. 

“It’s illegal to give it to someone without their consent,” Draco said. “Without consent, it’s basically a rape drug. Until very recently, it was only legal for use between married partners.”

“Is that so,” Pansy said. Draco frowned. 

He didn’t have to rush to Potter’s rescue. Potter had lots of friends. He shouldn’t need Draco’s help. But unfortunately, since Draco had learned how ineffectual Potter’s support system was, he didn’t trust them to keep Potter safe. 

Draco and Pansy had Charms next, but Draco snuck a few moments during class to pen a short note to his mother, which he rushed to the owlery as soon as class was over. Two days later, he received a small package at breakfast. 

Draco waited until after Potions class to talk to Potter. He packed up his cauldron quickly, and then went to stand casually next to Potter, his bag slung over his shoulder and his hands in his pockets, as if he did this every day. 

Potter, who was still packing up his things, looked surprised to see him. Probably because Draco had been avoiding him for the past several months. 

“Hey,” Draco said. He was cool. This was no big deal. 

“Hey Malfoy,” Potter said. He looked around at Weasley, who was also waiting for him. “Hey Ron, I’ll catch up to you later, ok?”

Weasley raised his eyebrows, but he left without them.

“So, um, how have you been?” Potter said as he threw his Potions book into his bag. 

“I am well, thank you. And yourself?” Draco said. 

Potter looked at him and let out a short, incredulous laugh as they left the classroom together. 

“I’m… I’m also well, thanks. Er, so, what have you been up to lately?”

Ah. Potter was hoping Draco had come to confess all, over his… extracurricular activities. That was why he had sent Weasley away. Potter was going to be disappointed in that regard. 

“Oh, classes, homework,” Draco said breezily, in answer to Potter’s question. “How about you? I hear you’ve amassed quite the female fan following this year.”

Potter frowned. 

“I guess.”

“You’ve got all of Hogwarts on tenterhooks, waiting to see which girl, if any, you deem worthy to be your plus one at the Slug Club Christmas Party.”

Potter’s frown deepened. He thought Draco was making fun of him, which, Draco thought, fair. He needed to get to the point before he ran his smart mouth and Potter punched him. 

“Pansy says that Romilda Vane is saying she’s going to slip you a love potion,” Draco said. 

Potter winced and looked away. 

“Yeah, Hermione told me,” he said. 

“So what are you doing?” Draco asked. 

“Doing?” Potter said. 

“You’re not doing anything to protect yourself?”

“I’m definitely not eating anything from random girls,” Potter said. 

“Potter,” Draco said sternly. He drew his hand out of his pocket. 

“What?”

“Hold out your hand.”

Potter did, and Draco had to pause for a moment to marvel. He had given Potter an order and Potter had obeyed. 

Draco lifted his own hand and dropped a small brass figurine into Potter’s waiting palm. 

“What’s this?” Potter held it up for closer inspection. The figurine resembled a jack russell terrier, except for its tail, which was forked. It wagged the double tail and looked up at Potter as Potter looked down at it. 

“It’s called a crup-bearer,” Draco said. “You set it down on the table before you eat or drink anything, and it will walk around and smell everything. If it barks, that means it's scented something that’s been added to your food. It can detect potions and most poisons. It’ll definitely alert you to love potions.”

Potter’s eyes had gone wide. They were very green. Very striking. They were always the first thing anyone noticed about him. 

“It can do that?” he said. 

“Make sure you let it check your drinks in particular,” Draco said. “It’s easiest to add a love potion to a drink. You can just pour it right in. If you poured love potion on someone’s bacon or something, it would be noticeable. You have to actually cook it into food for it to look normal, and that’s a lot more work.”

“Should I be concerned that you’ve thought about this?” Potter said. He was shaking his head, but he was also smiling. 

“It’s common sense.” Draco lifted his chin. “It’s not my fault you don’t have any. Potter…” 

Draco took a step back and looked Potter up and down. Potter’s cheeks went faintly pink beneath his tanned skin.

“What?”

“Have you been practicing the clothes fitting charm?”

“Well… yes,” Potter admitted, going even redder. “How did you know?”

“Your sleeves are uneven,” Draco said. He took out his wand and tapped Potter’s wrist where the sleeve was just a tad too short, and the sleeve lengthened to match its pair.

“Why do you even know that charm?” Potter asked. “Don’t you get all your clothes tailored to you when you buy them?”

“I learned it so Pansy and I could try on each other’s clothes,” Draco said casually. 

“What?” Potter said, beginning to laugh. “You’re not serious?”

“I am.” Draco had always loved being the center of attention, and he couldn't resist adding a bit more. “What, do you think I’m giving you blackmail material? I’m not. Pansy and I already printed our own personal fashion magazine last summer and passed out copies to all our friends.”

“You what?” Potter’s eyes were bugging out of his head. “With… with pictures of you…?”

“Honestly, Potter, it’s not that big of a deal in the wizarding world,” Draco said, rolling his eyes, pretending he wasn’t reveling in Potter’s shock. “Wizards already wear robes. Anyway, I’ve got another class now…” 

Draco turned to go. He’d made it halfway down the corridor when Potter called out to him.

“Malfoy?”

“Yes?” Draco looked back at him over his shoulder. 

“Thanks.”

Draco couldn’t help it. He smiled. 

 

***

 

Draco was sitting at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, picking at his mashed potatoes. He could see Potter over at the Gryffindor table, and a glint of bronze from where the crup-holder was trotting around in front of Potter’s plate. 

“Draco!” Pansy plopped herself down on the bench beside him. She’d come hurrying over from the Ravenclaw table, where she’d been huddled with her cousin Marigold and Marigold’s friends. “Have you heard? Potter finally asked someone to the Christmas party!”

“Do I look like I care?” Draco said. 

Pansy blinked at him. Her black, charmed eyeliner made her eyes look unnaturally large, like a bug. 

“Is this a trick question?” Pansy said. 

“Shut up and tell me,” Draco grumbled. 

“Guess who he asked. Guess guess guess!” Pansy smacked his arm in time to her demand. 

“Stop that,” Draco scowled. 

“You’ll never guess,” Pansy said. “He asked Loony Lovegood!”

“What!” Draco’s eyes scanned automatically over the Ravenclaw table. 

“She’s sitting with the Gryffindors!” Pansy announced. She was in a very good mood. Nothing cheered her up like having news, especially if the news was likely to upset a lot of people. 

Draco looked back at the Gryffindor table. Lovegood was indeed sitting there, but she wasn’t sitting by Potter. She was sitting further down, between Longbottom and Ginny Weasley. They were both sitting close to her, looking protective, and not without reason. They were being accosted by a group of aggressive-looking girls who were saying something to Lovegood from across the table. It seemed that the odd little Ravenclaw had drawn the ire of Potter’s fan club. 

Did Potter fancy her? She’d been with Potter’s gang at the end of the last year. Had she been there as Potter’s girlfriend? 

She was a lot different than the last girl Potter had dated. Cho Chang was popular, beautiful, and athletic. Draco had watched with glee as that relationship had burned out before it even started. 

It had been easy to see why Potter would go for Chang, but Lovegood? She wasn’t ugly, but she wasn’t particularly pretty either. Her figure was adequate, Draco supposed. She wasn’t fat, but he wouldn’t call her thin either. Her hair was neither true blonde nor was it a firm brown; rather, it was something in between. 

She would have been wholly unremarkable had it not been for her clothes, and her accessories. Those made her weird. But then, Potter’s clothes were also weird. Draco guessed that most people didn’t notice, because at Hogwarts, Potter wore his uniform all the time, even on weekends. But Potter’s Muggle clothes were weird. Even by Muggle standards, Draco was pretty sure they were weird. 

Did Potter like Lovegood because she was weird? Life was so unfair. 

Draco was still contemplating how unfair his life was that evening when he was walking through the castle with Cilla. 

“Are you feeling okay?” Cilla asked. “Only you look a bit… peaky.”

“I’m fine,” Draco said. “Did you hear that Potter asked Lovegood to the Christmas party?”

“Who is Lovegood?” Cilla asked. 

“Ravenclaw fifth year.”

“Oh. Who are you going to ask to the party?”

Draco’s mouth went tight. 

“It’s a Slug Club party. I wasn’t invited.”

“Oh, right.” Cilla cast him a sorry, commiserating look. “It’s so stupid that Slughorn hasn’t invited you yet. If he’s going to be inviting anyone, he should be inviting you!”

“He hasn’t invited anyone with connections to the Death Eaters,” Draco said, but he felt a little better, hearing Cilla’s validating indignation. 

“We should have our own party!” Cilla said. “We haven’t had a tea party in so long. We could invite Aunt Andi and Aunt Bella!”

“What!” Draco started, his heart suddenly racing. 

“Do you think Aunt Cissy could spare them for a day? We could send them right back after the party.”

Draco realized that Cilla was talking about the dolls. He remembered that Cilla had not met the real Bella, did not know that Bella was at the manor. He took a deep breath and willed his heart rate to calm. 

“We’re not doing that,” he said. 

“But we don’t want them to think we don’t care!”

“Cilla…” Draco scrubbed his knuckles against his forehead. “Someone might see.”

“We could be careful.”

“We’re not having a tea party with dolls. Other people wouldn’t understand Mother’s need to provide physical substitutes for absent family members. That’s something that’s only for home. Not here. Now go check and see if anyone is watching.”

They’d reached the seventh floor, and their destination was around the next bend. Cilla dutifully stepped forward and looked around the corner. 

“There’s no one here,” she said. “They’re all at dinner.”

Draco felt a pang of guilt at that. Cilla was missing dinner for him. 

“Did you remember to save something from lunch?” he asked. 

“I have some stuffed bread,” Cilla said. “And an apple, and some pecans. Do you need some?”

“You keep it. I’ll eat later,” Draco said, pacing back and forth along the corridor. “Remember the sign?”

“I brought these.” Cilla pulled a heavy set of brass scales out of her bag. 

“Good.” Draco opened the door that had suddenly appeared. 

“Draco.” Cilla put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “You need to come out before curfew. I can’t stay out here…”

“I know. I’ll be back before curfew.” 

Draco stepped through the doorway and shut the door behind him. 

 

***

 

Harry was standing around in the middle of the Slug Club Christmas party, wondering when he could leave, when a commotion at the door drew his attention. He moved closer, and saw Filch dragging an unhappy Malfoy towards Professor Slughorn. 

“Found this one skulking outside your party,” Filch was saying. 

“I invited him,” Harry said quickly, stepping forward. “He’s a friend of mine. You don’t mind, do you, Professor?” Harry turned to Slughorn. 

“Ah, well, Harry Potter can be allowed two guests for Christmas,” Slughorn chuckled indulgently. 

Snape had also come forward out of the crowd. 

“Mr. Malfoy. A word,” he said flatly. 

“Oh, let the boy alone, Severus. It’s Christmas!” Slughorn said. 

Harry took ahold of Malfoy’s upper arm and steered him away before Snape could protest further. 

“Glad you could make it,” Harry said, grinning. “Want something to eat? These little puffed things are pretty good. They’ve got a green filling on the inside.” Harry pointed out a platter of pastries on a nearby table. 

“What happened to your date?” Malfoy asked. 

“Luna? Oh, she’s around here somewhere. Punch?” Harry handed Malfoy a cup. 

“Around here somewhere?” Malfoy echoed in disbelief. “Quite the gentleman, aren’t you, Potter?”

“What?” Harry said. He could tell Malfoy was having a dig at him, but he wasn’t sure why. 

“Is this becoming a pattern with you?” Malfoy said. “You ask a girl out, only to ignore her on the actual date?”

“Oh, Luna came as my friend,” Harry said, feeling weirdly relieved that he could explain this. “She knows that. She was happy to come as friends. She was talking to Trelawney, last I saw. She’s having a good time.”

“Oh, and I suppose Patil also had a good time back in fourth year?” Malfoy said. 

“What, the Yule Ball?” Harry said. “Yeah, I think she had a good time. A lot of blokes wanted to dance with her, and she spent a lot of time dancing with them. She was so busy having fun, I hardly saw her.”

Malfoy laughed at this, which annoyed Harry a little, but on the other hand, Malfoy’s laugh didn’t seem as mean-spirited as it had in the past. In fact, his laughter lit up his whole face, and made it look rather… nice. 

As Harry contemplated how nice Malfoy looked in that moment, he realized that Malfoy hadn’t been looking well at all lately. He’d always been thin and pale, but lately he looked gaunt, and his skin looked almost grey. It was… something was wrong. Something was very wrong, Harry was sure of it. 

“Mr. Malfoy.” Snape had followed them. “A word, if you can spare the time.” His tone was sarcastic. 

“Slughorn said he could stay,” Harry said. “He’s here as my friend.”

“It may come as a surprise to you, Potter, but even your friends must answer to their Head of House.” Snape’s voice was sneering, but the look he passed over Harry was tinged with incredulity. He was thrown by Harry standing up for Malfoy, even if he was trying not to show it. 

“But —” Harry tried again. 

“Mr. Malfoy!” Snape barked. It seemed he had run out of patience. “Come with me. Now.”

Malfoy set his cup of punch down on a table, and he followed as Snape led him to the door and out of the party. Harry watched for a moment, feeling helpless and angry. And then he too left the party, throwing his Invisibility Cloak over himself as soon as he was alone in the corridor. What did Snape want with Malfoy? Harry would find out. 

 

***

 

After the Christmas party, Harry was more anxious than ever to talk to Malfoy. And he was more dismayed than ever when he realized Malfoy was still avoiding him. Malfoy appeared at the two classes they shared at the very last minute, and he was out the door the second they were dismissed. Sometimes he didn’t even come to Snape’s Defense class. 

Meals weren’t a sure thing either. Malfoy might run in at a random moment to grab something and dash off again. Or he might not show up at all, which worried Harry. With how sickly Malfoy was looking lately, Harry didn’t think Malfoy was getting enough to eat. 

Harry’s Map use had reached a point of obsession. If he didn’t have Malfoy in his sight, he was looking for a chance to run to the loo or to his dorm room so he could check the Map. By this point, Harry had Malfoy’s schedule memorized. If Malfoy was where he was “supposed” to be — in class, or in the Slytherin common room — then Harry could relax for a while and put the Map away. 

The problem was, Harry had discovered that there were periods of time when Malfoy could not be found on the Map. If that happened, then Harry could not relax. Instead, he would sit there, staring at the Map for far too long, feeling the anxiety creep over his skin and willing Malfoy to reappear. 

“Harry, you gotta put that thing away, mate,” Ron said, peering around Harry’s half-closed bed curtains as he buttoned up his pajama shirt. 

“I can’t find Malfoy,” Harry mumbled. 

“Go to bed,” Ron said. “We’ve got early Quidditch practice in the morning.”

“I know, I know!” He pulled his blankets over his legs in a show of compliance. Harry, however, had never been less interested in Quidditch; he was rapidly becoming obsessed with Draco Malfoy.*

 

***

 

Ron’s run-in with Romilda Vane’s love potion provided a brief distraction that was at once hilarious and terrifying, considering it had been meant for Harry. Harry brought Ron to Professor Slughorn for a cure, and the whole event could have ended in tragedy when Slughorn subsequently offered them what turned out to be poisoned mead. Luckily, Harry pulled out his crup-bearer before they drank the mead. Ron had just barely eaten spiked cauldron cakes. Harry wasn’t about to let either of them take a drink even from a professor without letting the crup-bearer check it first.

As it happened, Harry got to hear the crup-bearer bark for the first time. Slughorn was very impressed with Harry’s foresight in having a crup-bearer on his person. And he was both grateful and alarmed later, when he informed them that Professor Snape had discovered a deadly poison in the mead.

Notes:

I wasn't planning on including this in the fic, but I feel like someone is going to want to know if Harry told Draco about what happened with the crup-bearer. I'll just tell you now that, yes, he did, and here's how that went:

***

Harry: Guess what? That crup-bearer you gave me actually found something. Slughorn had this bottle of mead in his office, and the crup-bearer started barking, and it turned out the mead was poisoned!

Draco (sweating nervously): Neat...

Then Draco said he had to be somewhere and ran off, and Harry sulked because Draco didn't want to talk about it more.

***

In other news, I was so inordinately pleased with myself for thinking up the crup-bearer. I feel compelled to explain the pun to make sure everyone understands how brilliant this is.

A cup-bearer is a person who serves the drinks in a royal court and makes sure they're not poisoned, sometimes taking a sip of the wine before giving it to the king. A crup is a wizard breed of dog in the Harry Potter universe. So a crup-bearer is a device in the shape of a dog that checks for poison.

Another note: This fic was originally inspired by various fan posts about a friendship between Luna and Draco. In the end, the story I wanted to write required too many changes to Luna, to the point where the only similarity between Luna and Cilla is that they’re both blond, and not even that is the same, since Luna’s hair is dirty blond. But I still love the idea of a Luna & Draco friendship, and I am very sorry for how rude Draco was about Luna in this chapter, even if he didn’t say any of it out loud. Jealousy brings out the worst in Draco.

Also: I really hate the idea that the Weasley twins are selling rape drug love potions at their shop. So I clarified here that what they actually sell are joke love potions.

And if it wasn't obvious, when Draco gave Harry the crup-bearer and he noticed Harry's robes, Harry was partly blushing because he was standing there wearing Draco's robes and he was hoping Draco wouldn't notice. (The other part was just because Draco was looking at him.)

*"Rapidly becoming obsessed with Draco Malfoy" -- this sentence is an actual quote from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. It might be my favorite line from all of canon, so I couldn't resist sticking it in.

I'm duchessdulce on tumblr.

Thank you for the kudos and the comments! They are all very much appreciated!

Chapter 13

Cilla was eating dinner in the Great Hall with the Slytherin second year girls because she’d arrived too late to get a seat next to Draco. She had taken a bite of shepherd’s pie when she felt her bench wobble as someone sat down next to her.

“Hey,” Winston said. 

Cilla frowned slightly as she looked at him and chewed. She and Winston sat together in Herbology, and they were still meeting up regularly to study, but Winston had never come to the Slytherin table before. 

It wasn’t that you weren’t allowed to sit at a table that wasn’t your own. The older students did it more often than the younger ones, since they’d had more time to make friends outside their Houses. But there was one line that was never crossed: Muggleborn students didn’t sit at the Slytherin table. 

“So are you going to support Hufflepuff at the game tomorrow? Hufflepuff vs. Gryffindor?” Winston asked, unbothered. 

“Um, sure,” Cilla said quietly. She was very aware of the other Slytherin second years, who had paused their conversations and were turning to look at Winston. 

“Don’t eat breakfast here tomorrow,” Winston said. “Hufflepuff always has a brilliant spread for Quidditch matches. You can sleep in and come straight to the stands. Hey —”

Winston looked around, realizing he had the attention of all the Slytherin second years. 

“You can all come too,” he told them. “Anyone who wants to cheer for Hufflepuff is welcome in the Hufflepuff section. We always have more than enough food.”

A silence greeted his invitation. Cilla felt her cheeks heating up. 

“You’re too kind,” Pearl Pucey said, her tone polite but cool. 

“You bet,” Winston said. He turned back to Cilla. “See you tomorrow. Wear yellow!” He got up and walked back toward the Hufflepuff table, raising his fist in the air and shouting “Go Hufflepuff!” to no one in particular. 

Pearl tossed her long, dark hair over her shoulder and fixed Cilla with a look. Cilla tried not to flinch. 

“Did you know he’s Muggleborn?” Pearl asked her. 

“Well… yes,” Cilla said. 

“Are you friends with him?” Iggy Greengrass asked. 

“I… suppose so,” Cilla said. 

“You’re not really thinking of watching the game with him and the Hufflepuffs, are you?” Pearl said. 

“Oi!” said Tessa Macmillan with a good-natured grin. “What’s wrong with Hufflepuffs?”

“There’s nothing wrong with Ernie, of course,” Pearl said, referring to Tessa’s Hufflepuff brother. “He’s a pureblood. But —” she turned back to Cilla — “Park isn’t the sort of person your family would want you getting friendly with.”

Cilla must have been making an unhappy face, because Tessa spoke up again. 

“Pearl’s only trying to help, since you didn’t grow up here and you’re not familiar with all the wizarding families.”

“Of course,” Cilla said. “Thank you.”

 

***

 

Cilla arrived in the second year girls’ dorm bathroom that night as her four roommates were finishing up. She brushed her teeth at one of the sinks as the other girls called out to each other and laughed and chatted, and eventually left in a whirlwind of giggles. 

Cilla rinsed her toothbrush, the water from the sink the only sound in the suddenly quiet bathroom. Then she looked up and realized she wasn’t alone after all.

Iggy Greengrass was standing at the next sink over with a towel in her hands, looking down at Cilla (she was several inches taller). Her short red curls stood out like a halo around her head. 

“Are you going to watch the game with Park and the Hufflepuffs tomorrow?” Iggy asked. 

Cilla had not made any progress on figuring out how she was going to navigate this issue. On the one hand, she knew she had no business refusing to speak to Muggleborns when she herself was Muggleborn. On the other hand, Draco wanted her to stay away from anything or anyone Muggle-related to avoid drawing attention to the fact that she was much more comfortable with the Muggle world than she should have been, if she were really a pureblood Malfoy. 

She was also reluctant to prove Draco right. He had told her she should be in Hufflepuff. Already, her only friend in her year was a Hufflepuff. What if she went to the game with the Hufflepuffs and found out that she fit in there, that she was happy there? That Draco had been right, and that it was a mistake for her to be in Slytherin?

“Yes or no?” Iggy asked. 

Cilla, looking up at her dormmate’s insistent face, felt a flash of annoyance at Iggy for cornering her like this, for demanding a response when Cilla clearly didn’t want to give it. It was Winston who was Cilla’s friend, not the Slytherin girls. Why did she care so much what they thought? They didn’t even like her. 

“Yes,” Cilla said, lifting her chin defiantly. “I’m going to the game with Winston Park.”

“Brill,” Iggy said. “Can I come too?”

“What?” Cilla said after a beat of silence. 

“Well, Park invited all of us, so… would you mind if I came too?”

“Oh,” Cilla said, feeling a bit dazed. “Alright, then. Yes, you can come.”

 

***

 

It was the morning of Gryffindor’s Quidditch match against Hufflepuff that Harry — running through the corridors, broom in hand — turned a corner and suddenly found himself face to face with Malfoy. Malfoy and… two girls. 

“Hey,” Harry said, startled. “What are you doing?”

“What’s it to you?” Malfoy frowned. 

“Wait — who… who are they?” Harry looked back and forth between the two unhappy-looking girls flanking Malfoy. 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be, Potter?” Malfoy made as if to move around Harry, but Harry stepped in front of him. 

“Is she your girlfriend?” Harry jerked his head towards the nearest girl. A girl that, he realized, he didn’t remember having seen before. 

“What?” Malfoy looked taken aback. “No! She’s — they’re friends of mine. Now if you would excuse us…”

“Friends? Since when? I’ve never seen you with them before.”

“Oh, you know all about me, do you? You know all my friends?” 

Malfoy was moving very close. Harry could see his pale, blond lashes lining his narrowed grey eyes. His lips (also pale, and faintly pink) were tense. Before Harry could think of a response, Malfoy shoved past him, and the two girls followed without giving Harry a second glance. 

“Where’re you going?” Harry demanded,* but none of them stopped or looked back at him.

 

***

 

Cilla held up the silky skirt of her pale yellow dress as she climbed the many stairs set beneath the Quidditch stands. Her dress was not Hufflepuff yellow, but Cilla had thought it was close enough, and she had not allowed Iggy to change it. 

Iggy, it turned out, was a decent hand at temporary color changing charms, and she had spelled her and Cilla’s scarves and hats the appropriately bright yellow of Hufflepuff House. 

Cilla looked up at Iggy’s back on the stairs in front of her. The redhead was wearing a yellow and black striped jersey that would have looked like it had been made specifically for Hufflepuff fans, were it not for fact that it had the words “Wimborne Wasps” running across it in bold letters. 

Ignatia Greengrass, known as Iggy, was one of the three Greengrass sisters, the Slytherin children of a rich, influential, pureblood family. The three girls had almost identical faces: the same blue eyes, the same straight nose, the same large mouth. Iggy’s face was just a little rounder and more childish than her sisters’. 

It might have been difficult to tell the sisters apart, had it not been for their hair. Their hair made Cilla think of the pictures she’d seen of the Black girls: another set of three sisters with similar faces, but different hair. 

Daphne, the oldest Greengrass sister, had long, straight, yellow hair like Narcissa. Astoria, the middle Greengrass child, had brown hair, long, warm, and wavy like Andromeda’s. 

That would make Iggy, the youngest, Bellatrix. They did both have curly hair. However, Iggy’s short red curls were nothing like Bellatrix’s loose, long black ones. 

“Here we are!” Iggy shouted as they emerged from the darkened staircase into the bright daylight of the Hufflepuff stands. They stood there awkwardly, squinting up at all the yellow-clad students shouting and milling about in the stands looming above them. 

“Cilla!” 

Cilla turned towards the sound of her name. Winston was pushing past the other Hufflepuffs, making his way towards them with something clutched in his arms. When he came to a stop in front of them, Cilla saw what it was. 

Winston was holding a large badger against his stomach. It was facing them, its top half folded over Winston’s arms like a fluffy pancake.

“This is Puff!” Winston said. “He’s our mascot! You can pet him if you want.”

“Does he bite?” Cilla eyed the grumpy-looking badger dubiously. 

“Not much,” Winston said cheerfully. “But don’t put your fingers near his mouth, just in case. Hey Greengrass!”

“Hey Park,” Iggy said. She brushed her fingertips across Puff’s stomach, and he growled at her. 

“Are you hungry? Let’s get breakfast!” Winston deposited Puff in the lap of an unsuspecting first year and began pushing through the crowd again. Cilla hurried to follow him, sticking close to his back to let him clear the way. When she glanced behind her, she saw Iggy following right behind her. 

The stairs going up the sides of the stands were lined with tables set at an angle along the line where the handrails should have been. The tables must have been charmed, because all the food on top of them — the towers of muffins, the mounds of fresh fruit — were sitting tilted at an angle as well, but none of the precarious looking displays were toppling over or sliding off the tilted tables. 

“This is so not fair,” Iggy said fervently, gazing at the breakfast feast. “Why is Hufflepuff the only House that gets this?”

“Because we asked, I guess,” Winston said. “Our seventh year prefects put in the order with the kitchen elves a week in advance. I helped plan the order. And I helped the elves with some of the cooking last night. Then a bunch of us carried the food up here this morning. Eugene used a levitating spell, but he wouldn’t let me use one, because he said I would drop it.”

Winston passed plates to Cilla and Iggy as he talked, and Cilla filled her plate with strips of French toast dusted with powdered sugar and topped with strawberries. She also picked up a small cup of maple syrup for dipping and a pumpkin chocolate chip muffin. 

“The other Houses probably don’t do this because it’s a lot of work to carry all this food up here,” Winston mused as he inspected a selection of quiches. “But Hufflepuffs are supposed to be hard-working.”

They found a spot to sit down with their plates just as the game began, to much cheering from the Hufflepuffs. Cilla enjoyed her food while watching the Quidditch players fly through the air. She wished Draco were playing, but it was fun to watch Harry, pulling dazzling loop de loops high above the other players. 

For all Winston’s enthusiasm for Quidditch, he didn’t seem to spend much time watching the actual game. He kept getting up to go back to the food tables (often just to move things around) or to find his brother or Puff the Badger. Cilla might have felt a bit abandoned, but she had Iggy sitting next to her, so it was alright. She didn’t really know what to say to Iggy, but they had food to eat and a game to watch, so that was alright too. And Winston always came back, even if he couldn’t stay in his seat for long. 

At one point when Winston returned to plop down in the spot on the bench next to Cilla, Iggy took a brightly colored plastic tube out of her pocket. The top of the tube was shaped like the head of a cartoon dog. Iggy reached across Cilla, holding out the tube to Winston. She pulled back the dog’s head, and a small, pink pellet slotted out of the dog’s neck. 

“Pez?” Iggy said, her voice deliberately casual. 

“Ooh, thanks!” Winston pulled out the pellet and popped it in his mouth. Iggy watched him with a look of restrained delight on her face. Then she let the dog’s head drop and pulled it back again, offering it to Cilla. 

“Want one?”

Cilla couldn’t help the look of surprise on her face, and Iggy’s face broke out into a conspiratorial grin. 

“I got it from a Muggle shop over the summer. I used Muggle money and everything. I haven’t had a chance to use it until now.”

“Oh!” Cilla said, too surprised to say anything else. She took the proffered pellet and put it in her mouth. 

“You don’t mind, do you?” Iggy asked. “Only, you’re friends with Park, so…”

“No, I don’t mind,” Cilla said quickly. “Thank you.”

“Oh good.” Iggy held out the dispenser to Winston again. “Want another?”

“Thanks!” Winston said. 

After they emptied Iggy’s pez dispenser, Winston dragged the girls to the front of the stands with him so he could try to convince the Hufflepuffs to do the wave. Iggy joined in with enthusiasm once Winston explained to her that this was a Muggle tradition at sporting events. Hufflepuff had enough Muggleborns and halfbloods that the students caught on to what Winston was trying to do after several tries, and so Winston, Cilla, and Iggy started the wave over and over again until they were interrupted by a collective gasp from the crowd. 

Cilla’s hands flew to her mouth. Harry Potter was falling, falling, leaving his broom behind in the air as he hurtled toward the ground. 

Professor Flitwick, on the sidelines, waved his wand and cast it towards Harry as if he were going to throw it. A great, shimmering gold net flew out from his wand, spreading out on the ground beneath Harry’s limp body. Harry’s fall began to slow until he finally landed with a gentle bump on the ground. 

“What happened?” Cilla asked. 

“Bludger. Looked like it got him in the head,” Iggy said. 

“Is he… do you think he’s going to be okay?” Cilla said anxiously. 

“Eh… probably,” Iggy said, with what Cilla thought was a shocking lack of concern. “Kids don’t usually die playing Quidditch at school. See, here comes Madam Pomfrey now.”

Cilla held her breath while the school nurse knelt over Harry and performed a series of spells with her wand. Then she looked up and made a hand motion to Madam Hooch. The referee blew her whistle, and the Quidditch game recommenced without Harry. 

“There, see?” Iggy said. “They’re playing again. Potter’s fine.”

“Why isn’t Gryffindor sending in a reserve Seeker?” Winston said, frowning out at the pitch. “Haven’t they got one?”

“I’m sure they do,” Iggy answered. “But a reserve can only play if they’re put in from the start. Whoever you start with, that’s who you’ve got for the whole game.”

“That’s so stupid!” Winston wailed, raising his fists to his head in frustration. 

“Why are you complaining?” Iggy said. “It benefits your team in this case. You’re sure to win now that your team has the only seeker.”

“But that takes all the fun out of it! What’s the point in even watching?” Winston stood up and stomped up the nearby stairs to make his point. However, he soon came back with hot chocolate for all of them, which they sipped until the game ended sometime later (Hufflepuff won, to the surprise of no one). 

As they were waiting for the crowd to file down the narrow stairways, Winston turned to Iggy. 

“On Monday we’re meeting at the greenhouses after class to do homework. Can you come?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Iggy said. 

 

***

 

Harry had almost been late for his own Quidditch game, but the game was such a disaster, he hardly thought it mattered. He got distracted shouting at McLaggen, and got taken out by a Bludger. He later woke up in the hospital wing only to learn that the game had ended (in Hufflepuff’s favor) without him. 

“What a waste,” Harry said, lying in his hospital bed and staring at the ceiling. “I should have skipped the game and followed Malfoy.”

“Harry,” Ron said. “Don’t be stupid. You couldn’t have missed a Quidditch match just to follow Malfoy. Honestly, you’re getting a bit obsessed…”*

When Harry left the hospital wing with Ron and Hermione, they managed to startle Cilla again in the seventh floor corridor. She dropped a heavy set of brass scales, and they clanked loudly against the stone floor. 

“Hey, Cilla?” Harry said, thinking, while Hermione fussed over Cilla and repaired the dented scales.

“Yes?”

“Have you seen Malfoy lately?”

She frowned slightly. 

“No.”

“Well… do you know if he’s been… leaving the castle lately?”

“Like for Hogsmeade weekends?” Cilla tilted her head, looking up at him with her wide, innocent honey brown eyes. 

“No, I mean at other times. During the week. In the evenings. Has he been going somewhere?”

“Going… out of the castle?” Cilla looked confused. 

“Yes?” Harry said. 

“Like to the greenhouses?”

“No, I mean… somewhere off of school grounds.”

“He hasn’t left school grounds outside of Hogsmeade,” Cilla said. 

“Oh,” Harry said. “I just wondered. Don’t worry about it.”

She did look worried, though. 

“What was that about?” Ron murmured as soon as they had left Cilla behind them. 

“I told you, Malfoy keeps disappearing on the Map,” Harry said. 

“If Malfoy really is up to something, you’ve just tipped your hand,” Ron said. “She’s going to tell him what you asked.”

“Good,” Harry said. “Maybe he’ll come talk to me about it, for once.”

 

***

 

A Quidditch match was one thing, but Cilla wasn’t sure if Iggy would really come to the greenhouses just to study with her and Winston. But on Monday, after their last class, Iggy left the other Slytherin girls and came right up to Cilla. 

“So, you going to the greenhouses now?” she asked casually. 

“Yes,” Cilla said, and that was that. 

Iggy soon became a permanent member of the Greenhouse Gang, as she called them. After a couple weeks, she even produced a set of three matching rings, one for each of them, to mark their friendship. 

“They’re called mood rings,” she said proudly as she passed them out under the canopy of a bright blue greenhouse tree where the three of them were huddled around a table. “They’re Muggle-made. And I don’t really understand how they work. The gem on the top is supposed to change color based on your mood. That sounds like magic, but Muggles don’t have magic, do they?”

“Is it working yet? What am I feeling?” Winston held out his hand with the ring on his ring finger. 

“Don’t you know how it works?” Iggy said. “I thought you would know.”

“Here’s the chart,” Cilla said, unfolding the tiny paper that had come with her ring. “Let’s see… Winston is feeling… um, lovable, maybe?”

“Brill,” Winston said. 

“Does your family know you go to Muggle shops?” Cilla asked. 

“Oh, yes,” Iggy said. “Mum thinks it’s vulgar, but she keeps giving me pocket money anyway. And she doesn’t stop me when I exchange it for Muggle money when we’re in Diagon Alley. Winston, you must have gone to a Muggle primary school, right?”

“Yes,” Winston said, taking the ring chart from Cilla so he could inspect it for himself. 

“I’m so jealous,” Iggy said. “I used to beg my mum to let me go to Muggle school. She wouldn’t let me. She did let me take Muggle horseback riding lessons, though. That’s how I met my Muggle friends. What am I feeling, Win?” She held out her hand with the ring. 

“Hmm.” Winston’s brow furrowed studiously. “Relaxed, I think. Happy.”

“That’s true,” Iggy said thoughtfully. “However did the Muggles manage it?”

“You have Muggle friends?” Cilla said, surprised. 

“They think I’m a shockingly sheltered homeschooler,” Iggy said. “They teased me for ages for not knowing how Muggle money worked. But it’s all in good fun. They’re dears, really. They also explained Muggle money to me, and they let me watch the telly with them. They’ve showed me all the best programmes. Do you have Muggle friends, Cilla?”

“Not really,” Cilla said. This conversation was bringing up some uncomfortable thoughts that had been lurking in the background of Cilla’s mind ever since she had made friends with Winston and Iggy. The fact was, she hadn’t really tried to make friends in primary school. It had been easier to believe what Draco and Narcissa said about Muggles, and to tell herself that she would have friends at Hogwarts. But then she had finally started Hogwarts, and she had learned that it took time and effort to make friends. 

Of course, some of the kids in her primary school had not been nice at all, like Gloria and her friends. But Cilla had dismissed all the kids in her class just because a few of them were mean. It was too late to do anything about it now, of course, but she was realizing that she may have made a mistake. 

“Cilla is feeling introspective,” Winston said. Cilla started, and then laughed when she realized Winston was holding the ring chart up to her hand. 

“Say, have either of you ridden on the London Underground?” Iggy asked, leaning back in her chair, her long legs stretched out with her ankles crossed. 

“Oh, sure,” Winston said. “Loads of times.”

“I really want to try it, but Mum won’t let me go by myself, and Daphne and Astoria won’t go with me,” Iggy said. “Maybe we could all go together next summer?”

“Definitely,” Winston said. “We could meet up in Diagon Alley. There’s a tube stop nearby.”

“What do you think, Cilla?” Iggy asked. “Would your parents let you use Muggle transport?”

Cilla wiggled her ring back and forth on her finger. 

“I think they would,” she said. 

 

*******

 

Bonus scene from back in fifth year:

 

“Draco, are you gay?”

Draco’s head snapped up. Greg Goyle, large and solid as a pile of boulders, was sitting on the bed next to his, looking at him. Draco had been sitting on his own bed, leafing through a pile of library books, but he let the book in his hands drop now as he quickly scanned the dormitory. He and Greg were alone. 

“What?” Draco said.

“I asked if you’re gay,” Greg said. 

“What do you think?” Draco said, his tone tetchy. This was a forbidden topic of conversation. It was an unspoken rule. Draco had thought Greg would know this without being told. 

“I think you’re kinda gay,” Greg said. 

“That was a rhetorical question,” Draco said. “That means I didn’t really want you to answer.”

“Are you attracted to me?” Greg asked. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Draco snapped. “You’re not that attractive.”

There was a silence, and Draco winced. 

“That’s not — You’re asking upsetting questions. You can’t expect me not to —”

Greg just sat there looking at him, solid and impassive as always. 

Draco took a deep breath and started again. 

“You’re a good looking young man, Goyle. You’ve got a sort of rugged, mountain man thing going on. I think you should grow a beard when we get older.”

“Yeah?” Greg said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. 

“You’re just not my type,” Draco finished. 

“You want someone scrawny like you,” Greg said knowingly. 

“Well, maybe,” Draco said. Then, indignant, “Hey! Did you just call me scrawny?”

“I get it,” Goyle said. “I like scrawny girls.”

“I am not scrawny,” Draco said. “I know you kept the copy of our fashion magazine that Pansy and I gave you.”

“I kept that for Pansy’s legs, not yours,” Greg said. 

“How dare you, Goyle. I have excellent legs. Some people would say they’re my best asset. And those people…” Draco added as an afterthought, “have forgotten to look at my face. And my hair.”

“You do spend a lot of time on your hair. And it looks pretty okay, I guess. Any bloke who also likes other blokes would be lucky to get you,” Greg added generously. 

“Thank you, Goyle,” Draco said stiffly. 

Notes:

*Quotes from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Ron canonically tells Harry he's obsessed with Draco. Also, it cracks me up every time I read the scene where Harry sees Draco with two girls he doesn't know and immediately "demands" to know where he's going, like he thinks he has the right to know. So possessive, Harry!

If you click on this link and scroll down to the bottom of the article, there is an actual photograph of Winston holding Puff the Badger. (Just kidding. But this boy is holding a badger the way I was imagining Winston holding Puff.)

I'm duchessdulce on tumblr!

Thank you for the kudos and the comments! I always love hearing your thoughts!

Chapter 14

Cilla was standing in the seventh floor corridor holding her heavy brass scales, when Winston came around the corner tossing something into the air and catching it. Cilla pretended to be startled and dropped the scales, which bounced and clanked loudly on the stone floor. 

“Hey,” Winston said as Cilla picked up the scales. “What are you doing?”

“Um, not much,” Cilla said. “What are you doing?”

“I’m exploring,” Winston said. “This is the seventh floor.”

“I know,” Cilla said. “What’s that?” She pointed to the object in his hand: a translucent ball orbited by twisting, turning wire that shifted and changed when Winston lifted it for her to see.  

“It’s a gnome alarm,” Winston said. “I got it from Professor Sprout. It’s supposed to tell you if there are gnomes in your garden, but she said it’s not very useful, so she let me have it for a fidget toy. The greenhouses are warded against gnomes, anyway.”

“A fidget toy?” Cilla said, taking the gnome alarm that Winston was holding out to her and turning the wires in her hands. 

“Yeah, Professor Sprout told me I can bring a fidget toy to class if I use it under my desk so it’s not distracting to everyone else. I brought a bunch of them from home. They’re supposed to help me pay attention. But I get tired of using the same ones. What are you doing with those scales?”

“Oh, nothing,” Cilla said. “I just had Potions earlier.”

“When did you have Potions?” Winston asked. Winston would not get along well with Narcissa and Draco, Cilla thought. If they didn’t want to talk about something, they expected you to know that, and to drop the subject and not ask questions. Winston would never be able to do that. He was constantly asking questions, and he didn’t seem to notice when they weren’t wanted. 

“I had Potions this morning,” Cilla said reluctantly. 

“But it’s afternoon now,” Winston said. “Why didn’t you put them away?”

“I just… didn’t,” Cilla said. “I’ll do it later.”

“Oh,” Winston said. “Once, I was playing with one of my fidget toys in Potions, and Professor Snape got annoyed, so he took it and tossed it in my cauldron. It melted. And it ruined my potion.”

“Oh dear,” Cilla said. “So you’re not allowed to use the fidget toys in Potions?”

“No, I am,” Winston said. “At least, Professor Sprout says I’m allowed. The next time I had Potions, I brought another fidget toy and I asked Professor Snape if we could try dropping it in a different potion. He said no.”

“I don’t think fidget toys are an ingredient in any potion,” Cilla said. 

“Probably not,” Winston said. “What are you going to do now?”

“I was just… going to hang out here and think,” Cilla said. She was starting to worry that she wouldn’t be able to get Winston to leave, and then Draco wouldn’t be able to get out…

“You’re just going to stand in the middle of the hallway, thinking?” Winston said. 

“Well… yes.”

“There aren’t any classes on this floor.”

“I know. It’s just… It’s usually quiet on this floor. I can be by myself,” Cilla hinted. 

“There’s a window seat around the corner,” Winston said. “You could sit down and look out the window instead of standing in the middle of the hallway.”

“Maybe next time,” Cilla said. 

Winston gave her a puzzled look, but then he shrugged. 

“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to keep exploring. There was a room I found once that I’ve never been able to find again. I’m going to see if I can find it. If I can’t find it, I’ll probably go visit some of the portraits.”

“Okay,” Cilla said, trying to keep her face from reacting. “Have fun.”

 

***

 

It took Dobby tailing Malfoy for Harry to figure out that Malfoy was disappearing into the Room of Requirement, and that Cilla (and Crabbe and Goyle, Polyjuiced as the older girls) had been standing guard. 

That evening, Harry made his way back to the seventh floor corridor. Cilla was standing there again. When she saw him, she started and dropped her scales. Harry didn’t apologize, and he didn’t move forward to fix the scales. He just stood in front of Cilla and folded his arms. 

“Isn’t this routine getting a little old?” Harry said. 

“Routine?” Cilla said. She really did have the wide-eyed, innocent look down pat. 

“What’s he doing in there?” Harry said. 

“What’s who doing?”

“I know you’re guarding Draco in the Room,” Harry said. “What’s he doing?”

“Are you looking for Draco?” Cilla said. “I haven’t seen him recently. He’s probably in the common room.”

This conversation wasn’t going anywhere, and Harry was getting impatient. He began to pace back and forth. Cilla didn’t move, but he could feel her eyes following him. 

Harry stopped pacing and looked expectantly for the door to the Room, but it hadn’t appeared. Harry tried again. 

“What are you doing?” Cilla asked after several more of Harry’s attempts failed to reveal the door. 

“You know perfectly well what I’m doing,” Harry said through gritted teeth. 

Harry paced. Cilla watched him and didn’t say anything. The door did not appear. 

 

***

 

Draco watched the clock he had found among the piles of forgotten junk in the Room. He had propped it up next to the broken Vanishing Cabinet that he’d been working on all these months. 

The clock showed curfew. Cilla hadn’t given the signal for “all clear.” She would have gone back to the common room by now. At least, he hoped she had. She didn’t need to be caught out after curfew for his sake. 

Draco was going to be stuck in the Room of Hidden Things all night. Ah well, more time to work on the Cabinet, Draco supposed. He would work until he couldn’t stay awake any longer, and then he would curl up with that old, orange cloak he could see stuffed into the corner of one the shelves. He knew he would be exhausted enough to fall asleep right there on the floor, even without a proper bed. Then he would have to wake up promptly so he could escape the Room the second curfew lifted. He would run to the Slytherin dungeons to clean up a bit and change his clothes before breakfast. 

Or maybe he would be too tired to care. He would skip breakfast, just in case Potter was out there waiting for him, and he wouldn’t come out until it was time for class, when Potter would be forced to leave the seventh floor corridor. 

Potter. Draco was sure that Potter was the reason Cilla had given the alarm signal, warning him not to leave the room. Was he out there now, even though it was after curfew? He probably had his Invisibility Cloak with him, Draco realized. Potter wouldn’t be worried about breaking curfew if he had his Cloak. But surely he wouldn’t stay there in the corridor all night, even if he did have his fancy Cloak? He wouldn’t want to sleep out there, on the stone floor, would he? Surely not…

Draco was deeply annoyed with Potter for trapping him in the Room. As if Draco didn’t have enough to deal with this year…!

But at the same time, Draco felt… well. Gratified. Flattered, even. Potter could have been hanging out with his friends in Gryffindor Tower. He could be using his Cloak to go sneak off with Lovegood, or some other girl. But no, he was standing, alone and invisible, in an empty corridor, just because Draco was on the other side of the wall. 

The whole thing left Draco feeling rather strange. 

 

***

 

It was Cilla’s turn to stand guard again two days later. She was sitting on the stone floor in the seventh floor corridor when she heard footsteps approaching. She hastily got to her feet just as Winston came around the corner. 

“Hey,” he said. “I didn’t see you at dinner.”

Winston so far had never tried to eat at the Slytherin table. He did, however, spend much of his mealtimes walking around the Great Hall to see if the other tables had anything different from what the Hufflepuffs were eating. (They did not, but Winston kept checking anyway.)

Also, Cilla had learned that despite how distracted Winston often seemed, he was very observant. He would notice if she didn’t come to dinner even if he didn’t do his rounds around the Great Hall. 

“Oh, I saved a roll from lunch,” Cilla said vaguely. 

“That’s all you ate for dinner?” Winston said. 

“I had an apple too,” Cilla said. 

“But why didn’t you just come to dinner?” Winston asked. 

“I… didn’t feel like it,” Cilla said. 

“Why not?”

“I just wanted to be alone for a while,” Cilla said. 

“Hmm,” Winston said. “So you’re not sick?”

“No,” Cilla said. Then she remembered that she was supposed to be standing guard, and that Winston would have even more awkward questions if Draco emerged from the currently doorless hallway at this moment. 

Cilla dropped the heavy brass scales she was holding. Winston looked down at them. 

“Oops,” Cilla said, and picked up the scales. 

“Why did you do that?” Winston asked. 

“It was an accident.”

“It looked like you dropped them on purpose.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“Hmm,” Winston hummed. “Why are you standing here holding scales again?”

“I just… wanted some quiet.”

“It’s quiet in the library,” Winston said. “And there’s places to sit down.”

“I just want to stay here for now.”

“Why?”

“Just… because.”

Winston considered her like a puzzle he was trying to figure out. 

“Do you think you’ll be here for a while longer?” he asked. 

“Probably,” Cilla said. 

“Okay. I’ll be back.” And with that, Winston took off again. Cilla watched him until he was gone, still feeling uneasy. Then she dropped her scales twice in a row. That was the signal: all clear. 

She had to drop the scales again fifteen minutes later when Winston returned holding a large bowl with steam rising from it. Winston gave her a strange look. 

“I really think you dropped those on purpose that time,” he said. 

“They slipped,” Cilla said. 

“You could just put them down on the floor,” Winston suggested, sitting down himself with his back to the wall. “Are you hungry?” He held up the bowl, and Cilla sat down next to him. 

“It’s beef stew,” Winston said. “I got it from the kitchens.”

“It smells really good,” Cilla said as she took the spoon Winston offered her. “The bowl is huge, though. I can’t eat all of that.”

“Don’t worry. I came prepared.” Winston held up a second spoon. Cilla grinned and dipped her spoon into the bowl. Draco wouldn’t be out for at least another hour, maybe two. She had time for dinner with Winston. 

“So good,” Cilla said after she swallowed her first spoonful. 

“It is good,” Winston said, chewing. “I wish they’d have rice every now and then, though. Maybe a curry.”

“Is that what you eat at home?” Cilla asked. 

“Yeah. We eat so much rice. Hogwarts doesn’t even have a rice cooker in the kitchens. I looked.” Winston picked out a carrot from the stew and ate it. “I mean, I know Hogwarts doesn’t have electrical outlets either, but I thought maybe they’d have a magical version of a rice cooker.”

“Do you have to have a rice cooker to make rice?”

“I guess not, but it’s so much better. Also, I don’t know how to make rice without one,” Winston admitted. “Have you had Korean food before?”

“I don’t think so,” Cilla said. 

“You should come over to my house this summer!” Winston said. “I’ll ask my mum to make bibimbap for you. And mandu! That’s dumplings. They’re so good.”

“That sounds fun,” Cilla said, looking down at her lap. She didn’t know how she would get to Winston’s house. She couldn’t ask her parents to take her, because if Winston met them, he would realize that they were Muggles. She couldn’t ask Narcissa or Draco to take her, because they didn’t associate with Muggleborn people. Which didn’t make sense, because Cilla was Muggleborn. But on the other hand they were pretending she wasn’t, so…

Cilla applied herself to the stew to hide her confusion and anxiety. Perhaps Winston would forget that he had invited her to visit over the summer. She could only hope. 

 

***

 

Draco wouldn’t tell Cilla what he was doing in the Hidden Room. But whatever he was doing in there, he needed to post a sentry to do it. He’d asked Cilla to take sentry duties in shifts, alternating with Vince and Greg. 

Vince and Greg still made Cilla nervous. She’d worried at first that they would recognize her from that day, years earlier, when they’d caught her watching them on the Malfoys’ Quidditch pitch. Luckily, so far they’d seemed totally disinterested in her, but she tried to keep her distance just in case. 

Draco had not asked Pansy to stand guard, which surprised Cilla at first, because Draco and Pansy seemed to be very close. Cilla guessed that Draco had doubts about Pansy’s ability to keep a secret. 

Earlier in the year, Cilla had been able to get away with unobtrusively standing in the seventh floor corridor for a couple hours a week. But things were apparently not going well, because Draco started asking her to stand guard more often, and for longer periods of time. And then Cilla started getting noticed, first by Winston and then by Harry Potter. 

Harry Potter was very interested in what Draco was doing. Cilla knew he thought Draco was doing something he shouldn’t. As she stood standing guard for the umpteenth time, Cilla began to wonder. 

Was this the first step? Was Draco slowly but surely dragging her into the Dark Lord’s service, as his father had done to Snape?

She felt a pang of guilt every time Winston brought her food while she was standing guard. She wasn’t exactly lying to him about what she was doing, since she herself did not know for sure. 

But if Draco was helping the Dark Lord, and Cilla was helping Draco, and Winston was helping Cilla, then… Cilla was basically letting Winston help the Dark Lord, which was terribly unfair to Winston. 

But there was also Draco to consider. Draco, who she knew was struggling, suffering, even if he wouldn’t tell her why. There was only one thing that she knew to do for him, and that was to keep standing guard like he’d asked. He couldn’t do this alone. He needed her help.

Harry Potter came around the corner, slowing when he saw her. Cilla stiffened. 

She didn’t know about any dark lord, but she knew Draco. Draco was in the room behind her, counting on her to keep him safe, and Harry Potter… Harry Potter was here, threatening him. 

Cilla narrowed her eyes, lifted her chin, and looked Harry square in the face. 

 

***

 

Harry was walking towards Cilla on the seventh floor corridor. Cilla looked right at him, and dropped the brass scales. 

Harry was reminded of one of Mrs. Figg’s cats, who would make eye contact with you before knocking a cup off the table. 

 

***

 

Cilla had been keeping watch on the seventh floor corridor for several hours when Draco finally emerged from the hidden room shortly before curfew. Harry Potter had mercifully left some time ago, after pacing uselessly for the better part of an hour. 

“Hey,” Draco said wearily, leaning against the wall next to where she was sitting, writing in a notebook with black pages. 

“Hey,” Cilla said, looking up with a smile. But Draco wasn’t looking at her. He was frowning down at her notebook. 

“What is that?” he said. 

“What?”

“That —” Draco made a grab for her pen, but Cilla clutched it to her chest and covered it with her open notebook. 

“That —” Draco said again, but then he looked around the empty corridor, self-conscious. He pulled out his wand and cast a murmured muffling charm. 

“That’s a Muggle quill,” Draco said to Cilla, his tone accusatory. “You’re using a Muggle quill again. And why is your parchment black? Is that a Muggle notebook too?”

“The quill is called a gel pen, and it shows up on black paper. It’s shiny. And the book and the pen are both from Iggy, so it’s okay!” Cilla added quickly. “If anyone asks, I’ll just tell them I got them from Iggy! She’s a pureblood, so…”

Draco was shaking his head. 

“Iggy Greengrass is just going through a rebellious phase,” he said. 

“Then why can’t I go through a rebellious phase too?” Cilla asked. 

“Because…” Draco looked around the empty corridor even though his muffling charm was still up. “Because you don’t have the luxury. Iggy Greengrass really is a pureblood. She has nothing to hide. But you can’t afford to draw attention to yourself like that. We can’t give anyone a reason to question you.”

“But I think you might be wrong about some things,” Cilla said. 

“What?” Draco looked at her sharply, his brow furrowing. Cilla took a breath and pressed on. 

“You said that purebloods aren’t friends with Muggleborns. But the Macmillans are purebloods, and Tessa Macmillan’s brother Ernie is friends with a boy named Justin, who is Muggleborn.”

“They’re Hufflepuffs,” Draco said dismissively. “Slytherins are different.”

“Yes, you said,” Cilla said. “But Iggy Greengrass is in Slytherin, and she’s a pureblood, and she loves everything Muggle. And she’s friends with Winston Park, who is Muggleborn. So I was thinking maybe… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if people found out I was Muggleborn.”

“Don’t say that,” Draco said. “Being a bleeding heart pureblood in Slytherin is oceans away from being a Muggleborn in Slytherin.”

“But what I meant was, I don’t think Iggy would mind if she knew about me. And maybe other people wouldn’t either.”

“People like Iggy are in the minority in Slytherin.”

“But —”

“Cilla. I’m trying to protect you. I know I’m not doing a very good job, but —” Draco stopped talking and swallowed, and Cilla realized with some shock that he looked like he might cry. 

“Draco,” she said slowly. “What are you doing in there? In the… in the hidden room?”

She knew Draco didn’t want to talk about this. She must be spending too much time around Winston, to be asking this question that she knew was unwanted. 

Draco took an unsteady breath. 

“I need you to trust me on this one,” he said. “I’m doing this… I have to do this for my parents. To keep us all safe. I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

Cilla got to her feet. She looked at Draco. He did not look at all well. She stepped solemnly up to him and put her arms around his waist. He’d gotten so tall, her head didn’t even come close to his shoulder. 

She didn’t ask if he was okay. She didn’t want to listen to him lie to her. 

Draco put a hand on her shoulder blade, and she could feel his fingers tremble. 

 

***

 

Some days, Draco couldn’t get into the Room at all, because Potter got to the seventh floor corridor first. It was one of those days, when Draco was feeling particularly put upon and pathetic, that he first took refuge in a nearby bathroom to have a good cry. 

He’d meant to cry privately, to preserve what dignity he had left, but the ghost of a girl showed up, and, well, ghosts didn’t really count, did they? And Draco had always relied heavily on the sympathetic women in his life (his mother, Cilla, and Pansy). So when the ghost (whose name was Myrtle) showed an eagerness to sympathize with him, it was easy to give into temptation and allow her to fuss over him. 

 

***

 

Harry was back for one more evening of pacing in the corridor outside the Room of Requirement. He’d already scared off a Polyjuiced Goyle (or Crabbe?), who was not as loyal as Cilla. 

Show me the place where Draco Malfoy is hiding, Harry thought. I need to see what Draco Malfoy is doing. 

But it didn’t seem to matter how he worded it. The door never appeared if Draco was inside. If Draco wasn’t inside, then Harry could get in, but he could never find anything inside to indicate what Draco had been doing in there all this time. 

Harry kept pacing anyway. 

 

***

 

Draco was pacing, back inside the Room of Hidden Things for yet another evening of misery. He felt like a caged nundu, trapped by Potter’s presence in the corridor. He should be using this time to work on the Cabinet, but he was stuck, and he didn’t know what to do next. 

His stomach hurt. He felt light-headed, maybe because he hadn’t eaten in a while. But he didn’t feel like eating, because his stomach hurt. He didn’t have any food with him anyway. 

He was going to die. Not now, but soon. The Dark Lord would kill him when Draco couldn’t kill Dumbledore. And Draco couldn’t kill Dumbledore. Even if he managed to get back-up, if he managed to smuggle Death Eaters into Hogwarts through the Vanishing Cabinet, it wouldn’t matter, because Draco couldn’t kill Dumbledore. He couldn’t kill anyone. He was useless. 

And even if he weren’t completely useless, Dumbledore wouldn’t die! He was too powerful. If Draco attacked him directly, Dumbledore would kill him. 

Of course, the whole thing was moot, because Draco couldn’t get the Vanishing Cabinet to work! He wasn’t attacking Dumbledore unless he could bring in Death Eaters through the Cabinet to help him. And if he couldn’t get the Vanishing Cabinet to work, then he couldn’t even try to kill Dumbledore, and the Dark Lord would kill him!

Draco would die. His father would die in Azkaban. His mother… oh, Circe, his mother!

Draco’s heart began pounding in alarm. There was no way his mother would stand aside and allow the Dark Lord to kill him. She would try to protect him, and she would die. 

Perhaps the Dark Lord would kill him when his mother wasn’t there to make a fuss. What then? Draco had spent the summer living in the same house as his Aunt Bellatrix. He knew what could happen to his mother. People thought Bellatrix and Narcissa were so different, but they were still sisters. With her husband in Azkaban and her son murdered, Narcissa would snap. She would go after the Dark Lord, seeking revenge… and she would die. She was a powerful witch, but the Dark Lord was more powerful. So much more…

They were going to die. They were going to die. 

Draco was having trouble breathing. The room was too stuffy, his chest felt constricted. He had to get out of here!

He couldn’t leave. Potter would catch him. 

He couldn’t stay here all night! He couldn’t do that one more time. He couldn’t!

He had to get out. 

He had to get out. 

He couldn’t breathe in here. His heart was beating too fast. He needed to escape. He couldn’t escape. 

He couldn’t stay here. 

He had to get out. 

Draco lay flat on the hard floor and stared at the ceiling in the darkening room as his thoughts raced round and round his head, a whirlwind of repeating terror and panic. 

 

***

 

After dinner the next day, Harry stopped in an empty classroom to inspect the Map, as he so often did. It took him a while to find Malfoy, because Malfoy wasn’t in his usual haunts. Harry thought at first that Malfoy must be in the Room, but then he saw him. Malfoy’s name, next to Moaning Myrtle’s, in a boys’ bathroom not far from the Room of Requirement. 

This could be Harry’s chance to catch Malfoy alone. Well, basically alone. Malfoy probably wouldn’t be there for long… Harry took off at a jog. 

He slowed when the bathroom door came in sight, feeling suddenly nervous. He pushed the door open slowly. 

Malfoy was standing, head bent over a sink, holding on to it with both hands. Myrtle was hovering, moving around him in an agitated sort of way, wringing her hands. 

“Shhh,” she was murmuring. “It’ll come out all right.”

“It won’t,” Malfoy said, and his voice sounded strange. Harry realized suddenly what it was. Malfoy was… Malfoy was crying. Harry could see his face in the mirror, red and puffy around the eyes. 

Harry stood hesitating in the doorway, caught in indecision. Maybe he should just leave…

But before he could make up his mind, Malfoy looked up and caught sight of him in the mirror. He whirled around, whipping out his wand. It snapped out, pointing straight at Harry. 

“Hey,” Harry said, feeling embarrassed to be caught standing there. Slowly, he raised both his empty hands and stepped forward so the door closed behind him. “It’s just me.”

Malfoy stared at him. Harry could see the tear marks running down his cheeks. Malfoy had been crying, alone in a bathroom with Moaning Myrtle. 

Harry let his hands drop as he kept moving forward, placing one foot slowly, deliberately, in front of the other. Malfoy still had his wand outstretched, but then Harry stepped right up to him, inside the length of his arm, and then Malfoy’s wand was aimed only at the air. 

Malfoy was staring down at Harry. He was taller than him, and it was more obvious now that they were standing so close. The difference wasn’t that big, though. Maybe a few inches. 

Harry wasn’t thinking terribly hard. He’d always had good instincts, and he trusted them. He reached up with one hand and cupped the side of Malfoy’s face. His thumb brushed across Malfoy’s tear-streaked cheek. 

“Draco,” Harry said. 

Wide, grey eyes looked back at him. For a moment, they were all Harry could see. 

Then Harry kissed him. 

Draco was standing so still. He didn’t seem to be breathing. Harry began to think that he was going to have to back away and apologize, his whole body warming with embarrassment… but then Draco’s hands came up, tentative and soft against Harry’s back. And then Draco slowly and hesitantly began to return the kiss. 

Harry reached up and touched Draco’s hair. Draco had stopped slicking it back at some point this year, and the white blond strands were delicate and silky between Harry’s fingers, much finer than his own hair. 

Then Draco’s hand moved up to touch Harry’s hair, and Harry wondered if Draco had wanted to touch his hair the way he had always wanted to touch Draco’s. 

Harry’s mouth moved against Draco’s, and he marveled at the feel of Draco’s skin, at his scent filling Harry’s nose. Harry wound one arm around Draco’s neck, his other hand still tangled in Draco’s hair. Draco’s hand dropped from Harry’s head and his arms wrapped around Harry’s back, pulling him closer. 

The bathroom door banged open and Harry and Draco sprang apart. Harry spun around to see little Russell Creevey, the youngest of the three Creevey brothers, standing in the doorway, gawking at them. 

“Go away, Russell,” Harry snapped. 

“But Harry, I really gotta go!” Russell whined, bouncing on his toes a little for emphasis. 

“I said, get out, Russell!” Harry shouted. 

Russell ran back out. 

Harry turned back to Draco, but Draco stepped away from him. 

“I — um. I need to blow my nose,” Draco said. He produced a white handkerchief from his pocket and proceeded to blow his nose several times. Harry noticed the corner of the handkerchief was embroidered with his initials: DLM. 

When he was finished, Draco vanished the handkerchief. Then he stood there looking awkward and miserable, his eyes skirting away from Harry’s. 

“Do you always vanish your handkerchiefs?” Harry said. 

“It was used,” Draco said. 

“Yeah, but… that was a monogrammed, cloth handkerchief. Isn’t it kind of a waste to just vanish it?”

“It was used,” Draco said again, looking at Harry like he was an idiot. 

“Yeah, but you could wash it. Or scourgify it.”

“I’m not carrying a used handkerchief around in my pocket, Potter. That’s disgusting.”

“Harry,” Harry said. “You can call me Harry.”

“That’s disgusting, Harry,” Draco said. 

Harry smiled. Draco’s hair was hanging lank, and it looked a little greasy, like he hadn’t washed it recently. His pale skin still had that unhealthy grey tinge to it, but his face had gone a bit splotchy and red. It was still clear from his eyes that he’d been crying recently. 

He was so pretty. 

“Will you stop grinning at me like an idiot,” Draco said. “You haven’t actually solved any of my problems. Contrary to what you may think, I wasn’t actually standing here crying because I’d never been snogged.”

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” Harry said. 

“I — No, I don’t. It’s none of your business.” Draco folded his arms and looked away, frowning. 

“Myrtle!” Harry yelped suddenly. “Quit spying on us!”

Myrtle poked her head out of one of the stalls where she had been lurking. 

“I wasn’t spying,” she said sulkily. “You saw me when you came in. It’s not my fault you forgot about me just because I’m… dead. ” Her voice wobbled on the last word. 

“Want to go somewhere that’s… not a bathroom?” Harry muttered to Draco. 

“Um,” Draco said. He looked alarmed, but when Harry took his hand, Draco let him. 

They found an empty classroom nearby, and Harry lit the torches and spelled the door locked. Then he put his arms around Draco’s waist and kissed him again, partly because he could, and because he wanted to, and partly because Draco looked like he might bolt. 

“I — Actually, I should probably go,” Draco said after a while (Harry wasn’t sure how long they had been standing there, lips touching, breathing in each other’s air). 

“Draco, come on…” Harry said, taking a step away from him and tugging on his sleeve. It was like a magic word, using Draco’s own name to get him to do what Harry wanted. Draco let Harry pull him towards a table next to one of the large, arched windows. Harry hopped up on the table facing the window, and Draco perched stiffly next to him. 

They were high up in the castle, and it was dark out. Harry could see stars glittering in the sky over the silent forest far below. 

“Are you going to tell me what you’ve been up to?” Harry said. He’d taken hold of Draco’s hand so Draco couldn’t immediately run off. 

“If you only brought me here to insult me with baseless accusations, then I will leave,” Draco said. 

“Maybe it will be easier if I start with what I think I know,” Harry said. “I think you have a Dark Mark on your left arm.”

Draco blanched. He pulled his hand (it was his left hand) away from Harry’s very quickly. 

“How did you know that?”

“You admit it?” Harry knew this was bad, but he couldn’t help feeling a rush of triumph, after Ron and Hermione had doubted him for so long. 

Draco swallowed. 

“I can’t prove I don’t have it,” he said. He had his hands pressed tightly together in his lap. 

“I know you’ve been hiding out in the Room of Requirement all year,” Harry went on. 

“The Room of Hidden Things,” Draco said. He already knew that Harry knew about that one. 

“I think you’re working on something for Voldemort there.”

Draco didn’t respond to this. 

“I know Snape swore an Unbreakable Vow to help you, but you won’t let him help.”

“You’ve been eavesdropping,” Draco frowned.

“I think you gave Katie that cursed necklace.”

Again, Draco was silent. He wouldn’t look at Harry, so Harry watched his long, slender fingers in his lap. They were trembling. 

“I want to help you,” Harry said. “I need you to tell me what’s going on.”

Draco didn’t say anything. 

“Draco, tell me —”

“I can’t.” Draco’s voice sounded strained. “You’ll go straight to Dumbledore.”

“I won’t tell anyone without your permission. I swear it.”

“You won’t keep that promise.”

“I will. I’m done talking to adults. They don’t trust me, they don’t tell me anything if they don’t have to. And they don’t listen. They never listen. I’ve already told Dumbledore everything about you.”

“What?!” Draco’s head shot up at that. 

“Everything that I’ve just told you that I know about you? I’ve told it all to Dumbledore. And do you know what he said?”

Draco stared at him with wide, grey eyes. 

“He said it’s ‘not of great importance*,’” Harry fumed. It made him angry all over again just remembering how dismissive Dumbledore had been. 

“He knows?” Draco said weakly. “Dumbledore knows?”

“Yeah, he knows, but he doesn’t care,” Harry explained. 

“He — I don’t — I don’t feel well.” Draco slid limply from the table to the floor, where he proceeded to lay down flat on his back. Harry looked down at him, surprised. He would have thought Draco cared too much about cleanliness to lie on the floor. But then, he didn’t seem to be caring for his appearance as much this year as he had in the past. 

Harry stood up and dug around in his pocket until he found his scarf, magically shrunken so it could be easily stowed away. 

“Finite,” he said, tapping it with his wand and removing the shrinking spell. Then, “Engorgio.” He made the scarf grow a bit larger before he folded it up. Then he sat down on the floor next to Draco and tucked the folded scarf under Draco’s head. 

Draco allowed this without comment. He probably expected people to fuss over him, Harry thought, feeling a bit exasperated but also a bit fond. 

“I also told Mr. Weasley about your Dark Mark,” Harry added. 

“What!” Draco tensed, and it looked like he was about to sit up, but then he apparently decided it wasn’t worth the trouble, because he went limp on the floor again. “So it’s your fault the Ministry raided our house again. I can’t believe you sicced your Weasley on my mother!”

“Well, it didn’t do any good,” Harry said. “They didn’t find anything. And that’s the point. Adults are never helpful, and I’m done trying to make them help. I’m done trying to rely on them. I’m going to make my own decisions in the future, and I’m starting with you. So tell me what’s going on.”

“You think I should trust you… because you’ve already told everyone everything you know about me?” Draco was starting to sound hysterical. 

“You should trust me because I’m being completely honest with you,” Harry said. “Whatever you tell me, I won’t tell anyone. Listen to me, Draco. I promise. I won’t tell.”

Harry waited for Draco to respond. In the quiet room, all he could hear was Draco’s breathing. Which was… sounding a little odd. 

“Draco?” Harry said. 

“I can’t breathe,” Draco gasped. 

“What? Are you choking?” Harry leaned over him, alarmed. “Open your mouth!”

“There’s nothing in my mouth!” Draco snapped. 

“Wait, you can still talk so… that’s good, right?” Harry’s eyes roved anxiously over Draco’s body as he tried to think. He couldn’t see anything wrong with him in particular. “Do you have asthma?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s… well, I think you would know if you had it. I mean, I don’t know much about wizard healthcare, but I hope you would know… You are actually still breathing, right? Draco…” Harry put a hand on his arm. “Breathe. Deep breath, come on. Breathe in.”

Draco gasped in and out a bit, and Harry was relieved to see he was still getting air even if he was clearly in distress. 

“I can get you to Madam Pomfrey,” Harry said. 

“No!” Draco yelped. “It’s… it’s fine. It… last time it went away.”

“This has happened before?” Harry considered him with a frown. “Draco… are you having a panic attack?”

“Is that a curse?” Draco had thrown an arm over his eyes. “Am I dying?”

“It’s not a curse. I think… I don’t think there’s anything… er, physically wrong with you. A panic attack is your body reacting to a lot of stress, or fear. Hermione told me about it. I had them a few times after fourth year.”

“Oh. That makes sense, actually,” Draco said faintly. 

“Um, ok,” Harry said, trying to remember what Hermione had said. “So the important thing is to remember that this will go away soon. Try to just… focus on your breathing. Can you try to breathe with me?”

Harry tried to take deep, loud breaths so Draco could hear him. He breathed slowly, in and out, in and out, sitting there on the ground at Draco’s side. 

Eventually, Draco’s breathing also calmed. He moved his hand to rub at his forehead. 

“He’s going to kill me,” he said, his voice less strained but still miserable. He was staring straight up at the ceiling, not looking at Harry. 

“Who is?” Harry asked. 

“The Dark Lord wants me to get Death Eaters into Hogwarts. I’m trying to get a… passage. In the Room of Hidden Things. But it’s not working. I can’t make it work. And if I can’t do it, then he’ll kill me.”

“Why don’t you let Snape help?” Harry asked. 

“What?” Draco looked at Harry then. 

“Snape offered to help. Why haven’t you let him?”

“Because if he helped, then we’d have a bunch of Death Eaters in Hogwarts!” Draco gave Harry an incredulous look. Harry smiled. 

“You don’t want to let Death Eaters into Hogwarts.”

“You promised you wouldn’t tell!” Draco struggled into a sitting position. 

“That’s what you’re worried about me telling?” Harry’s eyebrows rose. 

“I don’t think you understand, Potter. He’s actually going to kill me. I’ve been dragging my feet for too long. He’s getting impatient!” Draco ran distressed fingers through his lank hair. 

“If you told Dumbledore —”

“You promised you wouldn’t tell Dumbledore!”

“I know! And I won’t!” Harry said. “But if you told him, I think he would help you. He could hide you somewhere, or keep you safe here at Hogwarts.”

Draco was shaking his head. 

“It’s too late. I’m Marked. He could find me anywhere. And he would find me. They don’t tolerate deserters. You remember Karkaroff, from Durmstrang? He managed to hide for a whole year, but they got him in the end. It wasn’t a nice death either.”

“He didn’t have Dumbledore helping him,” Harry tried. 

“There’s also my mother,” Draco said. “The Dark Lord is basically holding her captive. He’s using me to punish my father, but if I run, he’ll use my mother to punish both of us. I… I don’t want to think about what he would do to her.”

Harry had always been annoyed by Draco’s self-assured arrogance, by the way he strutted about as if he could do no wrong. But now, seeing Draco so dejected, so full of fear… Harry couldn’t stand it. He moved in close, right next to Draco, sitting so their sides were pressed together. He imitated Draco’s position, drawing up his knees. 

“Let me see it?” Harry said, putting a hand on Draco’s left arm. 

“What?”

“Your Mark. Let me see?”

Draco’s blond eyebrows knit together. 

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just want to… see if it’s really there?”

“It is.” Draco’s frown deepened. 

“So let me see.”

Draco just looked at him. 

“Does it hurt?”

“Not right now,” Draco said. Harry held out his hand. Slowly, Draco lifted his left arm and placed his wrist, palm up, in Harry’s hand. Harry used his other hand to draw up Draco’s sleeve, feeling a strange nervous thrill as he did so. 

There it was, stark and black against Draco’s white skin. The image of the skull with the snake emerging from its mouth. Voldemort’s Mark. 

“I guess you’re regretting kissing me now,” Draco said, when Harry didn’t say anything. He was trying to sound casual, but Harry could hear the anxiety in his voice. 

“I knew you had it before I kissed you,” Harry said. He brushed his fingers over the Mark, and Draco drew in his breath sharply. 

“Sorry, did that hurt?” Harry pulled his fingers away. 

“No, I just… What are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” Harry shrugged. “Just wanted to see what it felt like.”

“I… try not to touch it. I’m scared I might accidentally summon him,” Draco confessed. 

“Is that a possibility?”

“Well, yes. If you have the Mark, you can use it to do that. I would probably need a wand, though. I mean, I hope it won’t happen accidentally with just my fingers, but I worry about it… Look, Potter —”

“Harry.”

Draco swallowed. 

“Harry. He didn’t give me a choice. My mother tried to talk him out of it, but he’d made up his mind. He gave me the Mark to punish my father. I wasn’t allowed to say no.”

“Okay,” Harry said. He watched Draco’s grey eyes searching his face. They were so close, he could see different gradations of grey in his eyes: a darker ring around the outside, a lighter shade around the pupil.

“I thought you’d be so angry,” Draco whispered. His lips were so close, thin and pale pink. Harry kissed them, closing his eyes to relish the feeling. 

“I’m not angry with you,” Harry murmured against Draco’s skin. 

He’d been angry the year before when the Order left him alone and uninformed after Voldemort’s resurrection. He’d been angry over everything Umbridge had done. He’d been so angry at Dumbledore after Sirius had died.

But now he didn’t feel angry. He felt calm, and optimistic. Cheerful, even. Kissing Draco felt like taking Felix Felicis. Draco was here, and he was talking to him. Harry was sure they could figure everything else out. 

“You know,” Harry said, “when I was little, I always wanted to be a spy.”

Notes:

They finally kissed! Thank you for your patience with this slow burn, lol. I've been so excited to share this chapter with you. I hope you enjoyed it!

The first kissing scene I ever wrote was when I was about 11. Incidentally, that one also involved Draco (some things never change). I made my cousin read it while I literally hid in the closet. I was so embarrassed that it’s taken me years (not going to tell you how many, lol) to write another kissing scene (this one). I’m still kind of embarrassed, tbh.

I’ve lost that first fic that I wrote, but I remember basically what happened:

Draco and Hermione are in an empty classroom, kissing.
Harry and Ron walk in on them. *shocked pikachu faces*
The end.

Also: Surprise, btw! Cilla is not entirely an OC! She appears multiple times (sort of) in canon, even though she’s never named (she's the little girl guarding the seventh floor corridor who drops things when Harry walks by). Although in this fic, if you couldn’t tell, it’s actually her, and not Crabbe or Goyle Polyjuiced as her.

*Quote from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

I'm duchessdulce on tumblr too.

Thank you for the kudos and the comments! I always love hearing your thoughts in the comments!

Chapter 15

Harry bounded down the stairs from the dormitories, zeroed in on Ron and Hermione, and plopped himself on the couch between them. 

“Have you been upstairs all this time?” Ron said. “I didn’t think you’d come back yet.”

“No, I just got back,” Harry said. “I was taking off the Cloak upstairs.”

“Two points from Gryffindor,” Hermione said. 

“Hermione!” Harry and Ron both groaned. 

“What? You were out after curfew!” Hermione said defensively. “You know Ron and I are prefects! And I could have taken more than two points, you know.”

“Fine. Never mind that just now,” Harry said, casting a muffliato. “I need to get the D.A. together for a meeting. Can you help get the word out?”

“What for?” Ron asked. 

“There’s good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

“Bad,” Hermione said. 

“Uh, actually I wanna start with good.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. 

“You’re in an awfully good mood.” Ron said, his tone accusatory. “You’re smiling.”

“What’s wrong with smiling?” Harry asked. 

“Nothing. It’s just that you don’t usually do it,” Ron said. 

“Did something happen, Harry?” Hermione asked. 

Harry felt his face heat up as the memory of Draco’s mouth against his rose unbidden in his mind. His lips were still sore, as if Draco had left himself imprinted there…

After Harry had kissed Cho — his first kiss — he had immediately gone and told Ron and Hermione. He didn’t even think about it. He wanted to tell them, and so he did. 

A part of him really wanted to tell them about Draco too. But the situation wasn’t the same. He didn’t know how they would react to… to any of it. To Draco being a boy. To Draco being Draco. 

Harry didn’t know how they would react, but he guessed that it wouldn’t be good. While his friends had acknowledged that Draco had helped Harry at the end of fifth year, that didn’t mean they were ready to forget everything Draco had done earlier. 

And Harry hadn’t forgotten either. It was just that…

Harry didn’t have time for this right now. He didn’t have time for personal problems, for personal drama. Things were happening, and Harry had to get everyone ready for it. He would tell Ron and Hermione about kissing Draco… later. After he’d had time to think about it himself. 

Harry cleared his throat, aware that he’d been staring off at nothing and that his friends were watching him suspiciously. 

“Well, the good news is, I now have a spy,” Harry said. “A Death Eater spy.”

“What! Who?” Hermione and Ron both leaned in closer. 

“Malfoy. Only, I promised him I wouldn’t tell anyone, so… this is strictly private information.”

“Malfoy?” Ron repeated. He and Hermione shared a look. 

“Yeah, so the bad news: Malfoy’s got an assignment from Voldemort. He’s supposed to let a bunch of Death Eaters into Hogwarts. He hasn’t figured out how to do it yet, but I told him to ask Snape for help, so I’m guessing things will go faster now. But back to the good news: he’s going to keep me looped in on everything he’s doing, so I’ll know exactly what’s happening, and when.”

“Wait, back up.” Ron put a hand to his freckled forehead. “It sounded like you said you told Malfoy to get Snape to help him get Death Eaters into Hogwarts, but that can’t be right. That would be mad.”

“He’s going to be my spy,” Harry said. “He has to make Voldemort think he’s on his side.”

“Harry… have you thought this through?” Hermione said. “Why do you need a spy?”

“Dumbledore has a spy,” Harry said. “If Dumbledore has one, I should have one too.”

“But… have you talked to Dumbledore about this?”

“No, and I’m not going to. Malfoy doesn’t want to involve him.”

“Harry…” Ron and Hermione exchanged another glance. 

“Have you considered what Malfoy could do to you as a spy?” Hermione said. “He could give you information to lead you into another trap, like last year.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Harry said. “Draco’s not going to hurt me.”

“Oh, he’s Draco now?” Ron said, his ginger eyebrows rising. 

“Do you think — don’t get mad, Harry,” Hermione said anxiously. “But do you think you might be seeing what you want to see in Malfoy, rather than what’s actually there?”

“He’s protected me more than once now,” Harry said, trying not to think about the blush spreading over his cheeks. “He’s protected you too, Ron! You might’ve drunk some of that poisoned mead if I hadn’t had Malfoy’s crup-bearer.”

“I’ll admit he hasn’t been as much of a prat this year as he has been in the past,” Ron said reluctantly. “I suppose… it couldn’t hurt to see what information he can get you. But letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts? You’ll tell Dumbledore about that, at least, right?”

“Dumbledore has his own spy: Snape,” Harry said. “And Malfoy’s going to ask Snape for help, so Snape will know what’s going on. Dumbledore always tells me he trusts Snape. If Snape really is on Dumbledore’s side, I shouldn’t have to say anything.”

“But you’ve never trusted Snape,” Hermione said, eyeing him doubtfully. 

“Dumbledore has made his choices,” Harry said. 

“…Really, Harry?” Hermione gaped. 

“Dumbledore is constantly keeping secrets from me!” Harry burst out. “He says he’s trying to make up for that this year, but I know he’s still holding things back. He brings me to his office to talk, but only about what he wants. I can ask questions, but only about things he wants to answer. It’s too little, too late. If he’d told me what he knew last year, Sirius might still be alive!”

Harry was panting. He was getting upset, and the feelings he’d had when he’d tried to destroy Dumbledore’s office after Sirius’ death were coming back. 

“Oh Harry,” Hermione said, and she put a sympathetic hand on his arm. Ron was looking at him, his blue eyes worried. Harry took a deep breath. 

“I want to get the D.A. together so we can be prepared for when the Death Eaters come. But we’re not going to involve any adults. We’re not telling the teachers. Dumbledore and his spy can be responsible for them. I’m looking after the students.”

“But shouldn’t Dumbledore know that you’re going to look after the students?” Hermione tried again. 

“Dumbledore has his own plans, and he doesn’t share them with anyone. I have my plan, and… Merlin, Hermione, he doesn’t tell me everything, and I’m not going to tell him everything. Are you going to help me or not?”

Ron and Hermione looked at each other, and then they both looked at Harry and nodded. 

“We’ll help,” Ron said. “What do you want us to do?”

 

***

 

Severus Snape was ensconced in his favorite overstuffed armchair with a blanket around his shoulders, a book in his lap, and cup of tea in his hand, when a knock sounded at the door of his private quarters. He put his cup down on the side table with a growl. 

The worst thing about working at a boarding school was that you could never bloody leave work! It was hours after dinner, he was already in his pajamas, and they still couldn’t leave him alone!

If there was one thing that Severus hated — and there wasn’t one thing; he hated lots and lots of things — but if he had to choose one thing that he hated most, it was loss of control. He hated feeling out of control. 

There had been a period of time — years, even — where things had not been so bad. He hadn’t been happy, exactly, but after so many bad years, he’d finally felt that he had some measure of control over his life. Yes, he hated his students, but at least they were afraid of him, so they showed him some respect. And yes, Dumbledore held his leash, but with the Order dormant, Dumbledore didn’t ask him to do anything outside of his teaching duties. Severus knew what to expect, and he was master of his own domain. 

That all changed when the Dark Lord returned. It had started the night Severus stood in the harsh light of his bathroom, staring at the Dark Mark on his arm with a sinking feeling in his gut, finally forced to admit that the brand was indeed growing darker and clearer. 

Ever since that moment, things had been spiraling further and further out of Severus’ control. He was no longer his own person. He was a chess piece for both sides of the game, having to answer to and satisfy two masters at once, two masters who knew about the other, and who knew exactly what he was doing…

He had more than enough to handle, playing double agent between two of the most powerful wizards in the world, while still keeping up a full teaching load, attempting to pour some knowledge into the brains of twelve classes worth of obnoxious, whiny teenagers. 

Merlin knew he already had enough on his plate. But then Narcissa had come knocking on his door last summer. 

When Severus was alone, he could remember that Lucius and Narcissa had ruined his life. His trust in them, his desire to please and impress them as a schoolboy — that was how he had ended up with the Mark on his forearm. 

But every time he actually came face to face with either of them, he felt exactly as he had in first year: awed by the two confident, popular older students who somehow seemed to think that he was worth something. He’d wanted so badly to prove them right. 

Narcissa had stood on his doorstep last summer, tragic and beautiful with her blonde hair loose on her shoulders, and Severus had hated that, after all this time, he still wanted to please her. Still wanted to impress her. Wanted her to know that she’d been right to believe in him, in his potential, all those years ago. 

She’d begged. The proud Narcissa Black Malfoy had fallen at his feet and begged him to save her only son. She’d said that he was the only one who could help her. Severus couldn’t deny that he had enjoyed that. 

As a child at Hogwarts, Severus had been Lucius and Narcissa’s charity case, grateful for any crumb they would throw him. But now the roles were reversed. Lucius was in Azkaban, and Narcissa needed him. It had felt good, to hold that power over them.  

And that was how he had ended up taking an Unbreakable Vow to protect Draco. A stupid, ostentatious decision. The only saving grace was that the wording had been vague. He only had to protect Draco “to the best of his ability.” He only had to complete Draco’s task himself if it seemed that Draco would fail. 

Still, it was a rash decision and a heavy burden, and it grated on him that Draco had been uncooperative and ungrateful about it the entire school year. 

Now, sitting in his private quarters at Hogwarts, Severus heard a second knock at the door. Grumbling, he stood up and shuffled over to answer it, pulling the brown, crocheted throw tighter around his shoulders. 

He opened the door to find Draco standing there, staring at him in the hallway. 

Draco had none of his parents’ charm and charisma. That was what Severus told himself, anyway. Else how could he live with himself for being taken in by this? 

“I’m ready to let you help me now,” Draco said. 

Severus shut the door in his face. 

 

***

 

Harry stood in front of the gathered D.A. students with his arms folded. The Room had given him tiered seating facing an open area at the front where Harry was now standing. It looked like everyone from the D.A. had shown up, aside from the students who had graduated the year before, and Cho Chang and Marietta Edgecombe. Cho wasn’t speaking to him after what happened to Marietta the year before, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to care about that at the moment. 

“What’s this about, Harry?” Ernie Macmillan said. “Study group for exams?”

“Er, no,” Harry said. “But I think everyone’s here now, so I’ll get started. 

“Thanks for coming, everyone. I know you’re all busy getting ready for exams, so I’ll try to make this quick. I have some confidential information I would like to share with you. It could save your life. But if you want to hear it, you have to sign this contract first.” Harry pointed to a piece of parchment that Hermione held up. 

A few people groaned. 

“Is this the same as the thing we signed last year?” Susan Bones said. “Because that was really not cool of Hermione to attach that hex to it without telling us.”

“Um, yes, Hermione made this one too. If you tell anyone who hasn’t signed about what I’m going to tell you tonight, then you get boils on your face so we all know who snitched.”

“Seriously, Harry?” Seamus complained. 

“Look, it’s me! Do you trust me or not? I’m telling you this information could save your life! So do you want to hear it? Anyone who doesn’t want to sign can leave right now.”

Harry folded his arms and glared at the group. Everyone stayed seated. 

“I’ll sign, Harry,” Ginny said. “I trust you.”

“Me too, Harry!” Colin Creevey said. 

“And me,” said Neville. 

“And me,” Luna chimed in. 

Hermione passed the contract to Ron, sitting next to her. He signed, and soon the contract was making its way around the room as everyone signed it. They either trusted Harry or were too curious to leave. 

“Okay,” Harry said, when the signed contract was back in Hermione’s hands. “So here’s what’s happening. I’ve learned from a reliable source that Death Eaters are going to try to get into Hogwarts.”

An alarmed murmur greeted this announcement. 

“I want to set up a way to get the word out in case this happens,” Harry continued. “If Death Eaters invade, I need your help to get all the students into the common rooms as quickly as possible. As long as the common room doors are closed before the Death Eaters get there, we should be safe inside until Dumbledore and the teachers can get rid of the Death Eaters. 

“If everyone can return their D.A. galleons that we used last year, Hermione wants to adjust the charm so we can use the galleons to alert you when or if it’s time.”

“So you’re relying on us to alert all the students? What if first year students are out in the greenhouses and none of us are there?” Parvati asked. 

“None of the first, second, or third years are in the D.A., and Dennis is the only fourth year,” Lavender added. “It would be really easy for us to miss… well, any number of students.”

“Does Hogwarts have a fire alarm?” Colin asked. “Hey, how come we never do fire drills here? We did them all the time at my Muggle primary school.”

“I don’t think Hogwarts has a fire alarm,” Hermione said, sounding surprised that she had never thought about it. “But there must be a magical way to make a speaker system. Ludo Bagman used a sonorus for the Quidditch World Cup, but a single amplifying charm wouldn’t have been powerful enough to reach everyone in that huge stadium.”

“That’s right, there is a magical equivalent for a speaker system,” Anthony Goldstein, a sixth year Ravenclaw, spoke up. “And the nice thing about it is, you can use anything for the speakers. You just have to be able to scratch the right runes into it, and then you use your wand to set the enchantment, I believe. The runes hold it in place so it doesn’t wear off as quickly.”

“Is this something you and Hermione can figure out and set up fairly quickly?” Harry asked. 

“What do you think?” Anthony looked around at his fellow Ravenclaws. 

“With all of us working together, definitely,” Su Li said. “I bet we could get the whole castle covered by tomorrow night, including greenhouses and the outdoor areas for Care of Magical Creatures classes.”

“For the speakers, we should pick objects that are already in place,” Terry Boot added. “Things that aren’t likely to be moved. Maybe tables? We could scratch the runes on the undersides so no one would notice them.”

“But why is this a secret?” Hannah Abbott asked. “Shouldn’t everyone know about this?”

“It needs to be a secret to protect my informer,” Harry said. “I don’t want it to get out that we were prepared for this. If we want more information in the future, we need to keep my informer safe.”

“Won’t it be obvious we knew when we play an alarm over the speakers?” Lavender asked. 

“We could tell everyone it actually is a fire drill,” Hermione suggested. 

“A Fiendfyre drill,” Ernie corrected. 

“But Harry, Dumbledore knows about this, right?” Hannah asked. 

“I expect so,” Harry said.

“What does that mean?” Hannah frowned. 

“Well, he has his own informer, and I know for a fact that this person knows what’s going on, so Dumbledore should know too,” Harry said. 

“Oh,” Hannah said. She and a few other people were looking surprised and uncertain.

“We could help fight the Death Eaters, after we get the younger kids safe,” Ernie said. “Isn’t this what we’ve been training for?”

Harry shook his head emphatically. 

“No. Absolutely not. Look… I’m really proud of you all for how hard you worked last year. Everyone made so much progress, and I’m really happy about that. But… we trained for less than a year. I wasn’t training you to… to be Aurors or fighters or anything. There wasn’t enough time. I was training you to survive, so that if you’re attacked, you hopefully won’t die.”

“But you took your friends to the Ministry last year, we know you all fought Death Eaters!” Ernie protested. 

“My godfather died there,” Harry said. “Ron almost died. Any of them could have died. I still have nightmares over that. I want you all in your common rooms, where you can defend the younger students.”

“I know it’s dangerous, but what if Dumbledore needs our help?” Justin asked. 

“You haven’t seen Dumbledore fight,” Harry said. “I have. The moment Dumbledore showed up at the Ministry, the fight was over. Honestly, I went and hid once he was there. He didn’t need my help. There’s a reason everyone says Voldemort’s afraid of him. He won’t have a problem taking care of the Death Eaters. We’d only get in his way.”

Everyone seemed suitably impressed at this, so Harry decided to press forward. 

“I think speakers are a fantastic idea. Let’s go with that, then. Thanks for your help, Ravenclaws. Now, do we have prefects here from every house?”

“Every house but Slytherin,” Ernie said. 

“I’ll worry about Slytherin,” Harry said. “We’ll need all of you prefects to make the announcement about the possible upcoming Fiendfyre drill. Announce it in your common room, away from the teachers, and make sure everyone in your house knows they are to go straight to their common room when they hear the alarm.”

“Would that make sense for Fiendfyre, though?” Colin asked. “Wouldn’t it be better to go outside in that case?”

“I suppose we could call it an emergency drill,” Harry said. 

“Fiendfyre drill sounds so much cooler though,” Seamus said. 

“Ok, let’s put it to a vote,” Harry said. 

In the end, the D.A. voted to ignore logic and call it the Fiendfyre drill, because that sounded cooler. 

 

***

 

Draco sat on the floor of the Room of Hidden Things, watching Snape poke at the Vanishing Cabinet with his wand. The Potions professor had been in a foul mood all evening. 

Draco didn’t understand Snape at all. Snape had spent the whole school year hounding Draco to let him help with this horrible assignment. But the moment Draco finally gave in and told him he could help, Snape got all prickly and offended. Draco had had to stand in the hallway knocking on Snape’s door for at least ten minutes before Snape finally opened it a second time and agreed to help him. 

Abruptly, the Vanishing Cabinet spat out a flurry of red sparks, and Snape swore under his breath. 

It made Draco feel a bit better to see that Snape was also having a hard time with the Cabinet. After all the time Draco had spent working on it, he would have been pretty embarrassed if Snape had swooped in and instantly mended it with a single swish of his wand. 

“Magical artifacts are not exactly my specialty,” Snape grumbled. 

“You know where Dumbledore is,” Draco said. “You could just go right up to his office, take him out when he’s not expecting it.”

“Attack one of the most powerful wizards in the world on his own turf?” Severus sneered. “I think not. Dumbledore may not appear as paranoid as Moody, but he is not unprepared or unprotected. In any case, your master ordered you to do the deed. I only vowed to do it for you if, when the time came, you could not do it yourself.”

“But I can’t do it!” Draco whined. “And I was just wondering if you could think of something better than this stupid Cabinet. I’m so sick of looking at it…”

“No, we’ll stick with this,” Snape said. “We need the reinforcements. If we’re lucky, once the curses start flying, Bellatrix will get excited and kill him for us.”

This was a surprising comment. Draco wondered if Bellatrix was right about Snape’s loyalties. Perhaps Snape really didn’t want to kill Dumbledore. Or perhaps he was just scared to attack a more powerful wizard. 

Draco had told Potter that he hadn’t asked Snape for help earlier because he didn’t want to succeed. This was true, but there was a second reason as well. Bellatrix had told him not to trust Snape. Draco had been, and still was, worried that Snape would tell Dumbledore what Draco was doing. It had taken Potter telling him to do it for Draco to finally take the risk of accepting Snape’s help. 

Potter. 

If Draco succeeded in getting Dumbledore killed, Potter was going to kill him. 

Stupid, nosy Potter, always interfering and making things worse…

Everything was so unfair. Potter had kissed him. Harry Potter had kissed him! Harry Potter. The boy he’d fantasized about since before he even met him. They’d snogged, and Draco got to touch Potter’s terrible, stubborn hair that stuck straight out at odd angles and would never lie flat. Draco should have been over the moon right now!

Instead he was sitting on the floor with Snape, thinking about how much Harry was going to hate him. 

He couldn’t even brag to Pansy about having kissed Potter. He and Potter had agreed to keep their distance from each other, so it wouldn’t be completely obvious that Draco had told Potter about the upcoming Death Eater invasion. 

There was the small matter of little Russell Creevey, who had barged in on them in the bathroom. Potter had sent him a school owl to say that he had talked to Russell. He had told him that he and Draco had been fighting, and to please not tell anyone, because Harry didn’t want to get in trouble again. Draco had still been uneasy, but anything about Potter would be prime gossip that Pansy would scent from a mile away. As the day passed and Pansy failed to come hounding him for more information, Draco began to relax (about this one particular issue, anyway). Perhaps Potter had convinced Russell after all. Gryffindors were gullible, and the Creevey brothers all worshiped Harry. 

But even as Draco began to feel relieved that word had not got out about him and Harry, he also began to sink into a cloud of gloom as he thought about everything that he couldn’t do. He couldn’t sit next to Harry at mealtimes. He couldn’t talk to him if anyone else was around. He couldn’t casually put an arm around him, or bury his nose in his stupid hair, kiss him whenever he liked…

Not that Potter would have gone skipping down the halls holding hands with him even without the whole spy thing, Draco reminded himself sternly. They hadn’t discussed a relationship or anything. Draco had no idea where he stood with Potter. Probably better to assume the snogging had been a one-off thing. A crazy, impulsive, Gryffindor thing that would not be repeated. 

Of course it wouldn’t be repeated. Draco was going to get Dumbledore killed to save himself and his mother. Potter wouldn’t even look at him after that, except to murder him. 

Potter had been so distracted by the idea of Death Eaters in Hogwarts that he hadn’t even thought to ask what they were coming for. Draco hadn’t volunteered the information because he was a coward. He liked indulging in the fiction that Potter was going to help him, no matter how hopeless it was. He wasn’t brave enough to ruin it by telling Potter the whole truth… Potter had been shockingly okay with everything he had learned, but the line would be drawn at Dumbledore’s life. Draco was sure of it. 

“Hold this door open for me,” Snape ordered, gesturing at one of the Cabinet doors. 

Everything was terrible. 

 

***

 

Harry was hurrying down the corridor towards Dumbledore’s office, the urgent note summoning him in his pocket. This was it, something was happening. Dumbledore had found the location of another Horcrux, and he was taking Harry with him to retrieve it. 

“Potter!”

Harry turned, annoyed at the distraction. But then he saw it was Draco running after him, so he stopped and waited for him to catch up. 

“Hey, I’m kind of in a hurry,” Harry said. He hadn’t really been able to see Draco alone since they’d first kissed. They’d met up briefly so that Harry could explain the Fiendfyre alarm to him, but Draco had run off shortly after to meet with Snape. Harry was sorry for that, and he wished he had time now, but he really didn’t…

“I need to tell you something,” Draco said, sounding a bit breathless after his run. 

“Can it wait?” Harry said. “Only I’ve got to be somewhere.”

“The Death Eaters,” Draco said, and Harry glanced around instinctively, but they were alone in the corridor. 

“They’re coming to kill Dumbledore,” Draco blurted out. 

“Oh. Okay,” Harry said. “Anything else?”

Draco goggled at him. 

“That — that’s it? You’re okay with that?”

“How are they planning to kill him?”

“Um, wands, I guess. Killing curse or something.”

“That’s fine then. He can handle that. He’s more powerful than all of them put together. Look, if that’s all, I gotta go now, but… I’ll find you later, yeah?”

“Um. Okay,” Draco said. He looked a bit dazed. Harry reached out and squeezed his upper arm briefly, giving him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Then he turned and ran the rest of the way to Dumbledore’s office. 

By the time the Fiendfyre alarm went off, Harry and Dumbledore were long gone. 

 

***

 

Draco waited twenty minutes after setting off the Fiendfyre alarm before he let the Death Eaters through the Vanishing Cabinet. He had already made sure that Cilla was in her dormitory, with strict instructions to stay there until at least the next morning. He himself had told the rest of the Slytherins the night before about the upcoming “emergency drill.” He later learned that, when the alarm went off, the professors all followed the students to the common rooms, as Dumbledore had instructed them to stay with the students in the event of an emergency. The students were all so sure about what was going on that each professor thought they were the only one who had missed the memo. 

Draco brought the Death Eaters to meet up with Snape outside of Dumbledore’s office, which was when they learned that Dumbledore was… not in the castle. So Bellatrix set the Dark Mark over the astronomy tower to lure Dumbledore to them, and they settled down to wait for his return. 

 

***

 

Harry realized he’d made a grave error in judgment when he side apparated a severely weakened Dumbledore back to Hogsmeade, only to see the Dark Mark hanging in the air, green and eerie over Hogwarts. Dumbledore insisted they had to get back right away, despite his condition. Harry agreed, his mind roiling with anxiety for Draco and his friends. Had Draco set off the alarm in time? Had everyone made it to their common rooms before the Death Eaters arrived?

They borrowed brooms from Madam Rosmerta and then flew straight to the Astronomy tower, where Dumbledore promptly sent a petrificus totalus Harry’s way. Harry was paralyzed under his Invisibility Cloak, and he was forced to watch in horror as the Death Eaters came running up the stairs. 

Draco disarmed Dumbledore, but then stood frozen with his wand pointed at Dumbledore’s chest, still caught in indecision. 

Don’t do it, Draco. Please don’t do it. Harry willed Draco to listen to him, to hear his mental plea.

And in the end, Draco did not kill Dumbledore. But Snape did. 

Harry had never trusted Snape. He had never believed that Snape was really on Dumbledore’s side. He’d had the thought that, if Snape didn’t tell Dumbledore about the Death Eaters’ plan to invade Hogwarts, then Harry could tell Dumbledore afterwards that Snape had known about it. Then Dumbledore would finally have to stop trusting Snape. 

As the killing curse left Snape’s lips and the green bolt of light hit Dumbledore square in the chest, Harry realized just how badly he had miscalculated. 

Notes:

The problem with having a spy is that it's hard to act on your spy's information without giving away the fact that you have a spy. Luckily for Draco, the Death Eaters were really focused on Dumbledore, and it was late in the evening when they arrived, so they didn't think to question the fact that they didn't run into any students or faculty on their way to Dumbledore's office and the astronomy tower.

The whole spy thing was mostly Harry's way of letting Draco do what he was going to do anyway. They were short on time, Voldemort was going to kill Draco if he didn't complete his mission, and Harry couldn't think of a better solution. This way, at least Harry knew what was going on and he could keep the students safe.

Thanks for the kudos and the comments! If you're enjoying this fic, I would love to hear from you!

Chapter 16

When the Minister for Magic was assassinated and the Ministry fell under the control of the Dark Lord, Narcissa thought that Cilla would still be alright. The wards were still up around the village, and Narcissa was renewing them once a month, so Cilla would be safe over the summer. And then she would return to Hogwarts as a pureblood, so she would be fine there too. 

But then the Ministry began tracking down Muggleborns, ordering them to appear at hearings to prove they had a magical ancestor and had not stolen their magic. And then the announcement came that Hogwarts attendance was now mandatory for children of the proper age. 

Narcissa began to worry. In the past, no one would have ever questioned the Malfoys in public. They would not have dared! But recently, things had changed. 

Lucius was home. Narcissa had been telling herself for months that everything would be better once Lucius was home from that dreadful place (she didn’t like to even think the name of it — she hated to acknowledge that her husband had been in Azkaban). But now Lucius was home, and things were still… not ideal. 

Lucius was different now. He slept a lot, and he’d lost the self-assured air he’d always had. Sometimes, when the Dark Lord arrived at their home, Lucius emerged from their bedchamber to greet him unshaven and wrapped in a dressing gown. To appear in such a state before anyone would have been unthinkable for Lucius in the past. But now it seemed as if he couldn’t be bothered. 

Narcissa knew that Lucius was recovering from the effects of long-term dementor exposure, but that wasn’t the only thing. By going to Azkaban, Lucius had lost his standing in the wizarding world. He was no longer the confidant of the Minister for Magic (his friend Cornelius Fudge had been replaced ages ago). The Dark Lord did not respect him. Lucius was bereft of the status he had always had. He was no longer important to anyone outside of his own small family. 

It didn’t help that Lucius had no wand. The Dark Lord had taken it, saying he needed a wand for an experiment. Who did that?! Narcissa was appalled. The Dark Lord could have sent someone to Ollivander’s to collect any number of wands. Ollivander himself was not at his shop at the moment (he was, in fact, at Malfoy Manor, in the dungeons), but all the wands were still there. The Dark Lord could have disguised himself and gone in person to find a wand that suited him. But no, he had to take Lucius’ wand, an item so personal to a wizard that any civilized person would avoid even touching one that belonged to someone else. 

And all because he couldn’t forgive Lucius for losing that dark little book! Honestly, if he’d enchanted it as a teenager, surely they could buy a new, nicer book for him and he could enchant it much better now! 

Narcissa took to brushing Lucius’ long, white blond hair every morning (or whenever he got out of bed), because self-care seemed to take a lot of effort for him these days. She placed a charm on his hair every night to keep it from tangling while he slept. 

Dumbledore was dead. Draco hadn’t done it himself, but he’d done everything to lead up to that point. He’d been so brave and clever in the face of such adversity. Narcissa thought he had gone above and beyond what should have been expected of him. 

Unfortunately, the Dark Lord did not see it this way. Draco had done enough that Lucius was allowed to come home (by this point, the Dark Lord controlled Azkaban from the shadows just as he did the Ministry, so Lucius had been released on parole even though he had initially been handed a long sentence). But Draco had not done enough to earn forgiveness for his father. Probably he could never have done enough to earn the Dark Lord’s forgiveness. 

The result of all this was that Narcissa began to worry that her name and her status might not be sufficient to protect her little girl. In this new climate, with the Ministry growing more and more aggressive, and with the Malfoys unable to rely on the Dark Lord’s goodwill, Narcissa realized with dawning horror that her Cilla was in very real danger. 

What would happen if the Ministry called in Cilla to prove her magical heritage? Narcissa could acquire forged documents for her. That shouldn’t be too hard. But would that be enough? How far would the Ministry dig? What proof would they require? People were saying the Ministry was putting Muggleborns in Azkaban for stealing their magic. They wouldn’t put a thirteen-year-old girl in Azkaban, surely. Would they?

Narcissa wrote to Ilvermorny in a panic. She posted the letter to the American school with her owl in the middle of the night, hoping it would go unnoticed. 

The Dark Lord was using their manor as his headquarters. Her home was not her own. The Dark Lord kept himself busy, and he was not always there. But he could appear at any moment. Death Eaters were constantly coming in and out, coming and going. And Bellatrix was always there. 

Bellatrix was the oldest sister, and Narcissa was the youngest. Bella had always looked after Narcissa when they were younger, had always mothered her and indulged her. 

Now the roles were reversed. Bella was not well after her many years in Azkaban. She hated being alone, and she got scared of the dark, like a little child. Now it was Narcissa’s turn to fuss over her, to care for her, to bring her tea and make sure she ate her meals. But she did so with her heart in her mouth. She was always walking on glass around Bella, waiting for an explosion of violence, for Bella to lash out. 

So far, she had never hurt Narcissa. She would never hurt Narcissa. Narcissa was almost sure of it. But what would she do to Cilla, if she found out about her?

She would not find out. Narcissa would not let her find out. 

Ilvermorny wrote back, and Narcissa filled out Cilla’s registration forms. She hated to send Cilla to America, so far away. But Hogwarts was the only English-speaking school in Europe, and Cilla’s French wasn’t nearly good enough for Beauxbatons. She should have kept Draco’s French tutor for Cilla. What had she been thinking?

 

***

 

Narcissa opened the bedroom door with one hand, balancing a teacup and saucer with the other. The room was dimly lit. Lucius was sitting in an armchair in front of the empty fire grate, wrapped in a green dressing gown and holding an open book. He watched her approach with anxiety written clearly on his face. 

“Is the Dark Lord calling for me?”

“No, he hasn’t returned yet, thank Morgan,” Narcissa said. 

“Don’t say that out loud!” Lucius hissed, looking around nervously even though they were alone in the room. 

Narcissa placed the cup of tea on the small table at Lucius’ side, and then went to the window to open the heavy curtains with a wave of her wand. The summer daylight streamed in, painting the room with a bright gold. 

“Louie, darling,” Narcissa said, sitting in the armchair next to her husband. “Don’t you think it’s time we got you a new wand?”

“I’m not sure that’s… wise,” Lucius said, frowning at his book. “The Dark Lord…”

“Did he forbid you from getting a wand?” Narcissa pressed. 

“Not as such,” Lucius said slowly. “But he did say he did not see any reason for me to have a wand anymore.”

“It’s not safe for you to go about wandless,” Narcissa said. “You know Fenrir Greyback was here the other day?”

“Greyback?” Lucius stirred at this, meeting her eyes again. “That werewolf was in my house?”

“He came to speak to the Dark Lord. You see? You must have a wand! You can keep it hidden around the Dark Lord, but you must have one.”

“Ollivander’s is closed,” Lucius said. 

“We could go to the shop after dark.”

“Do you have any idea how many wands there are in that shop? It would take forever to find a good fit without Ollivander there,” Lucius said dismissively. “Not to mention, the shop is surely warded to alert the Aurors if anyone breaks in.”

“We have Ollivander himself downstairs,” Narcissa said. “We could bring him the same materials your last wand was made of.”

“I’m not using a wand made under duress. In fact, I’m never buying a wand from Ollivander ever again. I couldn’t trust it after this…”

Narcissa was quiet for a moment. She knew what she was going to say, but she felt a pause would be appropriate before she said it. 

“We could retrieve your father’s wand,” she said. 

Some families kept wands from their deceased relatives and passed them on to the younger generation. This was rarely helpful to the inheriting children, as wands were tailored specifically to the individual, and the wand that was best for the great-grandmother could be a complete flop for the great-granddaughter. 

People kept used wands due to sentimentality or lack of money. The Malfoys suffered from neither. They buried their dead with their wands. 

“I’m not going to desecrate my father’s grave,” Lucius said. “I’m not —” He stopped speaking abruptly. I’m not the Dark Lord, is what Narcissa knew he had been about to say. Peter Pettigrew, one of their perennial houseguests, had told them about the ritual that had cost him his hand, the ritual in which the Dark Lord had disturbed his own father’s grave. 

“My father’s wand wouldn’t suit me, at any rate,” Lucius muttered. 

“That settles it then,” Narcissa said briskly. “We’ll go to La Baguette Magique. Your cousins rave about Madame Julie’s wands every time one of their children starts at Beauxbatons. I bought Cilla’s wand there, did I tell you?”

“La Baguette… What, in Paris?” Lucius said faintly. 

“We can see your cousins while we’re there,” Narcissa said. 

“I’m not sure we should,” Lucius said. “He might think we’re trying to flee…”

“We visit your cousins every summer,” Narcissa said. “We already missed last summer. We’re overdue a visit. And Cilla will come, of course. She will want to see her parents.”

“Her… parents?” Lucius said. 

“Yes, your cousin Bitsy and her husband, the Australian. They live in Paris now.”

“Cissy…” Lucius said, frowning. He looked apprehensive for a moment, thinking, no doubt, of the infamous Black madness. But then it clicked, and he understood she was playing the part she had set for herself. They were not safe in their own house, after all. 

“This is about that girl,” Lucius said. 

“Well. You do need a wand,” Narcissa replied. 

“You know I have never complained about your… charity work,” Lucius said. 

This was an outright lie, but Narcissa wasn’t interested in an argument at the moment. 

“But there is a limit,” Lucius continued. “You cannot put yourself or your family at risk for the sake of that girl.”

“We can be there and back so quickly with a Portkey,” Narcissa said. “We’d only be gone an hour or two.”

“No, Cissy. I said no. It’s not worth the risk. I don’t want to hear any more on this subject.”

Lucius picked up his cup of tea, which had surely gone cold by now. Narcissa tapped it with her wand and cast a heating spell, since Lucius did not have a wand to do it for himself. 

 

***

 

The whirlwind of apparition came to a stop, and Draco paused to clear his head and get his bearings. He emerged from the alleyway where he had landed and looked up and down the street, making sure he’d come to the right spot. It was the farthest he’d ever apparated, and the skill was still new to him. 

Two women emerged from the stairs of some underground loos, chatting amiably together. They were wearing cloaks, and were clearly both witches. He was in the right place: the entrance to the Ministry of Magic. 

A pop sounded behind him. Another wizard had just apparated into the same alley that Draco had used. He marched past Draco, clearly more used to apparating and sure of where he was going. 

Time to stop standing around. Draco began to stride forward after the older wizard. 

Suddenly, he felt his foot catch, and he tripped, hitting the pavement with his hands and knees. He swore quietly as he lifted one palm to see blood. One of his knees was starting to sting as well. He took out his wand to perform a quick healing spell. He wasn’t skilled enough to heal anything serious, but he could handle small scrapes. 

“Draco,” a voice whispered close to his ear. 

Draco started and turned his head toward the sound, but nothing was there. Had he imagined it? He wouldn’t be surprised if he had. Not a day had gone by since he’d left Hogwarts that he didn’t think about the owner of that voice, soft memories of Harry’s mouth mixing with his last memory of Harry, chasing after him and Snape, furious and howling and desperate. He’d tried to crucio Snape. Or maybe he’d been trying to crucio Draco. Draco certainly deserved it. He’d been shocked all the same, hearing the unforgivable curse in Harry’s mouth. 

Draco had fled Hogwarts certain that he would be a fugitive from the law, wanted for his complicity in murder. Instead, with the Dark Lord’s faction gaining power, it was Harry who had had to go into hiding, his face on wanted posters. 

“Draco,” Harry’s voice said again. “Don’t look at me. Look down at your hand.”

Draco did. Slowly, he began healing the scrape. Another wizard, an Auror in crimson robes, emerged from the loos and walked briskly past with only a brief glance at the boy crouching on the pavement. 

“It’s not safe to talk here,” Harry said quietly. “Can you find somewhere else? I’ll follow you.”

Draco cast a healing charm on each of his knees. Then he stood and walked away from the loos. He didn’t look around to see if anyone was watching. He tried to walk away as if this was what he meant to do all along. As he walked, he tried to listen for Harry following him, but the sounds of Muggle traffic drowned out any sounds of footsteps. 

Draco walked for two blocks until he found a red Muggle telephone box. He opened the door, stepped inside, and then waited. 

“Okay, close the door.” He heard Harry’s voice coming from close by. Draco closed the door. 

“Harry?” Draco said. His voice sounded unused and rusty. 

“Pick up the phone,” Harry said. “Pretend you’re making a call.”

“Pick up what?” Draco said, looking around. He could feel his heart beating, responding to the knowledge that Harry was so close. 

“That black thing with the cord hanging on the wall. You can pick it up. Put the top part to your ear and the bottom part to your mouth.”

“Oh, right,” Draco said uncertainly. “I’ve seen these before.” He picked up the black phone and put it to his ear. A noise was coming out of it, a single held out tone. Draco adjusted the phone farther from his ear so the tone would not be so loud. 

“Pretend to push the buttons. The ones with the numbers,” Harry prompted. 

After some searching, Draco saw a set of buttons with numbers on them, and he touched several of them with his fingers without pressing them. Then he dropped his hand, eyes searching the empty space in the phone box where Harry’s voice had come from. 

“Harry?” he said into the phone. “Are you okay?” He could feel his face crumpling with worry, and his voice caught on the words. 

“Yeah, I’m — I’m okay,” Harry said. “What about you? Are you okay?” He sounded a little breathless. 

“I’m not the one on the run from the Dark Lord and the Ministry,” Draco said.

“Yeah, but you have Voldemort living in your house,” Harry said. 

“Please don’t say that name,” Draco said. 

“Why? I thought you liked him.”

Draco made a small pained noise. 

“I hate him.”

Harry gave a short, dark chuckle. 

“I know. I just needed to hear you say it.”

“Wait, how did you know the Dark Lord is living at my house?”

“Oh. Well…” Harry began slowly. 

“No! Don’t tell me,” Draco interrupted. “Don’t tell me anything. I don’t want to know. Except — I do want to know if you’re safe. You’re not alone, are you? You have people helping you?”

“I have a safe place where I am staying with people who are helping me,” Harry confirmed. “And what about you? How are you doing?”

“Don’t worry about me. I can manage,” Draco said. “I stay in my room as much as I can. And I’m going back to Hogwarts soon, so I’ll get away from him.”

“Good,” Harry said. 

“Harry, I’m so sorry!” Draco burst out. “I never thought Dumbledore would actually die! I always thought he would kill me, or at least send me to Azkaban…”

“It’s my fault,” Harry said. 

“What? No it’s not,” Draco said, momentarily thrown. 

“I told you to go ahead and do it. I didn’t think he could be killed either. I… I really messed up.” Harry’s voice was catching now. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Draco said forcefully. “You’re not the one who killed him.”

Harry didn’t say anything, and Draco couldn’t tell what he was doing, or even if he was still there. 

“I wish I could see your face,” Draco said, and he was embarrassed to hear the longing in his own voice. 

But then he felt two tentative hands on his waist, slowly coming to rest on either side of him. He reached out blindly with the hand that wasn’t holding the phone, and he felt a thrill as his hand touched something solid and warm. He pulled Harry in close against him. 

“You need to put your arm down,” Harry murmured, very close to his ear now. “It’ll look strange to anyone watching.”

“Is anyone watching?” Draco asked.

“I don’t think so. But it’s London. People keep walking by.”

Draco dropped his arm reluctantly, but then he felt both of Harry’s arms wrap firmly around his waist, and everything was okay. He was completely encircled; Harry was all around him, cocooning him in his Cloak…

Draco looked down. 

“Um, Harry? I can’t see my legs.”

“Oh! Sorry…” Harry brought his hands back to Draco’s waist, pulling his Invisibility Cloak back with them. Draco’s legs reappeared. 

“I’d put you under the Cloak with me, but we’re too tall. Our feet would show if I tried to cover both of us,” Harry said ruefully. But then he leaned in close again, and Draco could feel him pressed up against his chest. Harry tucked his head into the crook of Draco’s neck, and Draco turned towards him with a minuscule movement, rubbing his chin back and forth against Harry’s head. The Invisibility Cloak felt soft and slippery, caught between them, a thin, fine curtain keeping them apart. 

“Am I making you late for something?” Harry asked. 

“No, I don’t have an appointment. I was going to apply for an International Portkey. To Paris. We’re…” Draco paused and cast a muffling charm. “I should have cast that earlier…” he muttered. 

“You’re going to Paris?” Harry asked. 

“Just to get Cilla out of the country. Then we’re coming back. We have family in France. It’s not too far, and we usually go there in the summer, so we thought it would be less suspicious. Once we’re there, we’ll get Cilla a Portkey to America. My mother already has her registered at Ilvermorny.”

“That’s the wizarding school in the United States?”

“Yes. Harry —” Draco said suddenly. “You could come with us. Take the Portkey with us with your Cloak on. Then go with Cilla to America. Ilvermorny would take you, I’m sure.”

“Death Eaters can take Portkeys too,” Harry said ruefully. “They’d just follow me there.”

“Not if you used a different name and changed your appearance. I’m sure the headmistress at Ilvermorny would help you with that.”

“I — it’s a nice thought. Thanks, Draco. But there are things I need to do here. I couldn’t just abandon everyone to Voldemort, even if he was willing to leave me alone.”

“It’s not your job to save everyone all the time,” Draco said. 

“I appreciate it. Really.” Draco felt Harry’s hand smoothing over his chest. “There is, actually, something I wanted to ask you, though. You don’t have to say yes. I don’t want to put you in danger. We have another plan that we’re working on. But then I saw you outside the Ministry, and I thought…”

“I’ll do it. What do you need?”

“I need to get inside the Ministry. To scout around. If you have a reason for going in, maybe I could go in with you? I have Polyjuice Potion.”

“You do? That makes things easier.”

“Yeah. I’ve, uh. Used it before.”

“Okay, let me think. Um. You can come with us for our Portkey appointment? That will give me enough time to get some hair from one of my friends. We can say you’re there to… help carry luggage? Or maybe you’re just going to check Portkey schedules and report back to your mother, who wants to take a trip but is feeling indecisive about where she wants to go.”

“Er, okay, we can go with that.”

“Okay.”

Neither of them said anything. Harry was still running his hand back and forth over Draco’s chest. Draco moved his head so that his cheek pressed against Harry’s head. He was glad the Invisibility Cloak didn’t have its own smell. It just smelled like Harry. 

“You should… probably go apply for that Portkey,” Harry said. 

“Yeah,” Draco said. Neither of them moved. 

“Draco, I — I wish I could tell you to come with me. I wish I could keep you safe from Voldemort. But you’re probably safer where you are than you would be with me.”

“Hogwarts starts soon. I can make it until then. I didn’t think I’d be able to go back after… but Snape is the new headmaster, even after everything, and… well, with the Dark Lord basically running the Ministry, I didn’t get in trouble. So I’ll go to Hogwarts, and I’ll be far away from the Dark Lord.”

“Good.” Harry wrapped his arms around Draco again, and Draco threw caution to the wind. He hung up the phone he had still been holding limply at his shoulder, and he put both his arms around Harry’s invisible form, holding him tight for one all too brief moment. 

 

***

 

Draco stepped out of the fake loo holding a small scrap of parchment in his hand as he left the Ministry. He strode casually into the nearby alleyway, then paused, as if he were preparing to apparate. 

He felt a small tug on his fingers as the parchment slipped out of his grasp and disappeared. The parchment held the date and time of his family’s International Portkey appointment, but Draco didn’t look to see where it had gone. He had a copy in his pocket. 

“See you soon,” Harry’s voice whispered in his ear. 

Draco disapparated. 

When he got home, he wrote a letter to Goyle and posted it with Ulysses, his eagle owl. He received a response the next day: several of Goyle’s hairs, one set of Goyle’s robes, and a letter in which Goyle said he’d given it a lot of thought over the summer, and he didn’t want to Polyjuice into a girl anymore. Draco pocketed the hairs, packed the set of robes away, and ignored the letter. He had too much going on to deal with Goyle’s histrionics. 

 

***

 

Cilla was packing her trunk when her mother came and stood in her bedroom doorway, leaning against the door frame with her arms folded, watching Cilla. Her brown hair was bound up in a bun, as it often was. She’d taken off her apron, but she still had a dusting of flour on her sleeves. 

“Are you sure you want to do this foreign exchange program?” Bitsy asked.  

“Yes,” Cilla said. She picked up a pink, lace-trimmed dress from the pile on her bed and began to fold it. 

“It’s just that I was thinking,” Bitsy said. “You’ve only been at Hogwarts two years. If you leave now, you’ll have to start all over, not knowing anyone. And this time Draco won’t be there for you if you need help.”

Cilla didn’t say anything. She placed the dress in her trunk and picked up another. 

“You don’t have to go just because Cissy says you should,” Bitsy said. 

“I want to go,” Cilla said. 

“It’s just that it’s so sudden,” Bitsy said. “You could always go another year, when you’re older and when you’ve had more time to think about it.”

Cilla looked at her mother and willed her face into a calm, relaxed smile. Everything was fine. 

“I want to go to America,” she said. “I think it will be exciting.”

Narcissa had come to tell Cilla what had happened, and what Cilla had to do to stay safe. She had told Cilla everything. But when she spoke to Cilla’s parents, she told them only that a foreign exchange spot had opened up, and that Cilla had been lucky enough to have it offered to her. 

Perhaps Narcissa thought her Muggle parents weren’t strong enough to handle the news that the British magical world had started persecuting people like Cilla. Or perhaps Narcissa couldn’t be bothered to explain it all to them. Cilla already knew about Death Eaters and prejudice against Muggleborns, so Narcissa didn’t have to explain as much to her. 

Cilla could have told her parents the real reason she was transferring schools. But she hadn’t. Partly because she didn’t want them to worry. And partly because she was embarrassed. 

Her parents hadn’t been enthusiastic about her attending Hogwarts. 

“Even if she does have this… talent,” Cilla had overheard her father say to her mother. “Shouldn’t she still go to a regular school so she can get some useful skills? What good is magic going to do her in the real world?”

But the magical world was the only real world for Cilla. Only… now it had rejected her. It didn’t want her, but it also wouldn’t let her slink back into her old life. She had to be punished, for daring to think she could be a witch. For daring to think she belonged in that world. 

She didn’t want her parents to know all of that. 

“Did something happen at Hogwarts?” Bitsy asked now. “I thought you were having such a good time there with Winston.”

“Nothing happened,” Cilla said. “Everything is fine.”

She sincerely hoped that everything was fine with Winston and his brother. She’d asked Narcissa if they could come with her to Ilvermorny, but Narcissa said they would be taken into custody the moment they appeared at the Ministry (unlike Cilla, they were openly known to be Muggleborn). 

“If they’re smart, they’ll be in hiding already,” Narcissa had said. 

Cilla desperately wanted to write to Winston to find out if he was okay, but Narcissa told her not to write. If he was hiding, an owl could give away his hiding spot. 

Cilla felt like a coward, fleeing England so easily under the pretense that she was a pureblood, while leaving Winston behind to suffer. She still hadn’t told him the truth: that she was Muggleborn just like him. 

Narcissa had told her there was no point in being a martyr. That wouldn’t do any good for anyone. 

Cilla began emptying her sock drawer into her magically expanded trunk. She had to be ready to leave the next morning. 

Notes:

I was disappointed that the name “Beauxbatons” had already been used for the name of the school, because I thought it would be the perfect name for a wand shop. But then I discovered that the French word for wand is “baguette magique”! Apparently “baguette” actually means “rod” or “stick,” and not bread. Thus, “La Baguette Magique” is a very boring and obvious name for a wand shop if you speak French, but if you don’t, then it’s a charming and fanciful name (if I do say so myself)!

Also: I firmly believe that the Malfoys in canon hated Voldemort by at least the beginning of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, if not sooner. I think Narcissa hated him from the beginning of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, from the moment Voldemort gave Draco the task meant to kill him. I’m sure their reasons for hating him were purely selfish, but I think they hated him nonetheless. He treated them very badly, which was very stupid of him.

And: Harry uses Voldemort's name in this chapter, and the taboo doesn't get triggered. I'm just going with... the Snatchers weren't following up on the taboo near the Ministry because there were too many witches and wizards there.

Thank you for the kudos and the comments! As always, if you're enjoying this fic, I would love to hear from you!

Chapter 17

The morning of their Portkey appointment, Bellatrix and Lucius got into a fight over the breakfast table. Draco didn’t know what had started it; he hadn’t been paying attention. He’d been too busy worrying. What if the Dark Lord came back before they could leave? What if he came back before they came back? Would Harry be there on time? Was he still safe? Maybe they shouldn’t be taking Cilla right into the Ministry. Would she be okay in Paris by herself until she could get a Portkey to America? They were planning on bringing her to stay with some of their cousins, but of course they hadn’t been able to tell the cousins about it. They couldn’t risk sending an owl that might get intercepted. What if none of the cousins were home?

A teacup went hurtling across the table and crashed into the wall, flinging hot tea as it went. 

“You were never good enough for Cissy!” Bellatrix shouted, standing up from the table. “You weren’t before and you certainly aren’t now!”

“I won’t be insulted in my own house!” Lucius shouted back, also rising from his seat. “You sit here, eating from my table, living off of my generosity —”

Another crash cut him off as Bellatrix hurled the teapot at the wall beside Lucius. 

“Oh Bella, not the teapot,” Narcissa groaned softly.

“You think you’re so wonderful just because you’ve got money?” Bellatrix shouted, ignoring her sister. “Cissy and I are daughters of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black! We’re not about to be impressed by some French upstart whose family hasn’t even been in England for a hundred years!”

“Bella, please sit down,” said Rodolphus, Bellatrix’ husband, who was eating sausage with a pained expression on his face. 

“Oh, and I’m supposed to be impressed by the Blacks just because they’re not familiar with the concept of travel?” Lucius threw up his hands in exasperation. “A family of —”

“Lucius!” Narcissa interrupted him before he could say anything more insulting about her family. “Do you know, I think I could use a walk this morning. Yes, I think that would be just the thing. We could all use a little space now and then. In fact, let’s go now, Lucius. Draco? Come with us?”

Draco looked at his mother in surprise. She wanted to go for a walk now? But they had to go get Cilla and then…

Oh, Draco realized, feeling stupid. This was it. This was a diversion. They were leaving now. 

“Of course, Mother,” Draco said. “I’ll meet you in the front garden."

He felt an urgent need to get out of the house, to escape the watching eyes of Bellatrix, the Lestrange brothers, and Pettigrew. But he forced himself to walk casually out of the room and up the stairs to his bedroom where he retrieved a small shoulder bag. Then he walked, calm and unconcerned, back downstairs and out the front doors to the garden. 

His parents were standing next to a large, flowering shrub, looking regal and statuesque in a way that Draco hadn’t seen since the Dark Lord took up residence in their home. He realized his father was fully and formally dressed for once, with a cream-colored button-up shirt underneath a waistcoat, and a long, fitted, burgundy outer robe on top. Lucius was dressed for going out in public. 

The three of them set off for the village without any discussion. Draco was a little surprised that his father was actually there with them. He knew Lucius did not want to have anything to do with Cilla, especially with the current political climate. But here he was. Either his love for his wife or his desire for a wand had won out, Draco didn’t know which. 

They were halfway to the village when Draco said, “I’ll go on ahead and wait for you outside the Ministry. Don’t want to attract too much attention with all of us showing up at the bakery.”

“Good thinking. I’ll go with you,” Lucius said. 

That was not what Draco had wanted, but he couldn’t think of any way to refuse his father, so he merely nodded and disapparated. 

Once he was in the alleyway outside the Ministry (his father appearing a second later), Draco looked around for signs of Harry, but of course he didn’t see anything. He and his father walked out to the street, where they stood waiting, Lucius looking aggressively cool and disinterested. 

A wizard apparated in behind them, and he did a double take when he saw them standing there as he passed them on his way to the Ministry loos. Lucius had always been well-known, but he was infamous now after his year in Azkaban, and he hadn’t made any public appearances since he’d been released. 

Draco removed his shoulder bag from off his shoulder. He glanced at his father to see if he was looking at him, but he wasn’t. Draco held the small bag behind his back and pointed at it with one finger. He tapped the finger against the bag several times. Then he waited anxiously. Was Harry even here? What if something happened and he was running late? What if he’d been caught?

He felt a pull on the bag, and he let it go. He didn’t turn around to watch it disappear. Now Harry just had to change into Goyle’s robes, add the hair to the Polyjuice Potion that he said he would have, and take the potion. 

What if Draco’s mother arrived with Cilla before Harry was ready? Draco would have to stall. What would he say? Draco’s mind went completely blank. He could not think of a single excuse. 

Draco was still standing there, mind blank with rising panic, when Goyle strolled up to him, large and hulking with his short-cropped hair and his taciturn disposition. 

“Draco.” Goyle’s usually stoic face broke into a grin. Draco blinked. It was a little disturbing to see Goyle looking at him all soppily like that. 

“Good morning, Gregory,” Lucius said, turning towards the newcomer. “What brings you here today?”

Lucius called Goyle by his first name more often than Draco did. Draco had decided when they started school that they would sound more grown up if they called each other by their last names. 

Goyle/Harry looked at Lucius, his face suddenly blank. Draco fervently hoped that Harry would not start hexing his father. What had he been thinking, purposefully bringing Harry around a Death Eater (who was not himself)? This was probably the first time Harry had seen Lucius since the incident at the Ministry at the end of fifth year, when Lucius, Voldemort, and various Death Eaters had tried to murder Harry and his friends. And now Draco had brought both Harry and Lucius back to that very same Ministry? He hadn’t thought this through at all. 

“My mum asked me to check some Portkey schedules for her,” Goyle/Harry said. 

“Ah,” Lucius said. “Going on holiday?” 

“Thinking about it,” Harry said. 

Luckily for Draco’s nerves, the conversation was interrupted as Narcissa popped into view in the alleyway behind them with one arm around Cilla, who was holding onto her waist. Cilla had only her extendable purse with her — they would send her trunk directly to America later, since they were worried it might attract suspicion at the Ministry for a single person in their party to be bringing so much out of the country. 

“Ah, there you are.” Narcissa strode towards them with Cilla in her wake. “Oh — Gregory! How are you, dear?”

“Greg’s checking the Portkey schedules for his mother,” Draco said. “I suppose he can come up with us. Oh — we’re going there too.” Draco said this last part to Harry, remembering suddenly that, as far as his parents were concerned, Goyle did not yet know where they were headed. 

“Ok,” Harry said. He sounded just like Goyle. It was eerie. 

Their little group descended the stairs to the Ministry loos, which looked like very ordinary, grimy public loos. Narcissa and Cilla went to the women’s side, and Draco, Harry, and Lucius went to the men’s. 

Draco saw Harry take out the gold Ministry token that Draco had included in his bag along with Goyle’s hair and robes. Then Draco took his own token from his pocket and stepped into a stall. 

Draco really hated this part. The Ministry was just disgusting these days, in more ways than one. 

With a grimace, Draco stepped up, into the toilet. His feet stayed dry, but they were still apparently standing in a toilet, and who knew how clean these toilets had been when the Ministry took them over and enchanted them? It certainly didn’t look as though they’d bought new toilets for the occasion. 

Draco pulled the chain hanging to his side, and down he went. He emerged from one of many fireplaces in a large hall. As he went to join the others, he saw Cilla staring up at the large, black statue that had replaced the one Draco had known all his life. Cilla was looking a bit queasy. 

Draco hadn’t paid much attention to the statue when he had come to apply for the Portkey. He’d been too busy scougifying his shoes. But he looked now, and saw the wizard and witch, larger than life, sitting on a throne made of writhing, grotesque Muggles. He saw it now as Cilla saw it, and began to feel sick as well. 

The new Ministry was dirty, and not just because of the toilets. Draco had known that, and yet what had he done? He had brought Cilla and Harry here, to the place that was hunting both of them down. 

“Come along, Draco,” Lucius said impatiently. Goyle/Harry gave Draco a small smile and then followed after Draco’s family. Draco wanted nothing more than to grab Harry and Cilla and run back to the fireplaces, but it was too late now. They were already in the Ministry. They couldn’t just turn around without causing suspicion, and he would have to convince his parents, who were both sweeping through the crowd, heading for the lifts at the end of the hall. 

Draco, feeling trapped, hurried after them. 

Their group of five got into an empty lift. It was nearly full with all of them there, and Draco thought they might at least have the reprieve of a lift to themselves, but just before the doors closed, a tall wizard stepped in, making Draco take a reluctant step back. 

“Ah, Malfoy,” the wizard said, greeting Lucius. “Good to see you back.”

“Runcorn,” Lucius nodded curtly. Draco didn’t know the man, but he appeared to be friendly with his father. Which was not a good thing for Harry and Cilla. 

“Got the whole family with you today, have you?” Runcorn’s eyes glided right over Harry, and Draco was glad he’d chosen Goyle for the Polyjuice. People knew the Goyles, knew they were (mostly) purebloods and that Greg belonged to them. Goyle was safe in the Ministry. But also, he was uninteresting. Runcorn had nothing to say to or about him. 

The same could not be said for Cilla. 

“And this must be the French niece I’ve heard so much about,” Runcorn said. 

“Yes, this is our niece, Pricilla,” Narcissa said, wisely (in Draco’s opinion) speaking up before Lucius was forced to. Draco didn’t know if his father would find himself capable of saying, out loud, that Cilla was related to him. 

“And how do you find Hogwarts, Pricilla?” Runcorn asked. 

“It’s very nice,” Cilla said, her voice barely audible. 

“What house are you in?”

“Slytherin.”

“Ah! The best house. Did either of your parents attend Hogwarts?”

“No.”

“Her mother went to Beauxbatons. Her father is Australian,” Narcissa interjected.

“She’s from the Malfoy side, yes? I didn’t know you had any siblings, Lucius.”

“I don’t,” Lucius said stiffly. 

“She’s the child of a cousin, but we’re her closest relatives in England,” Narcissa said. “When her parents decided to send her to Hogwarts, we of course stepped in.”

It was too hot in the lift. Draco was afraid he was overheating with his outer robe on. Why was the lift taking so long? Was it even moving?

After several more agonizing seconds of Runcorn’s interrogation of Cilla, the lift doors finally opened, and Runcorn got out. Then the doors closed, and the group rode in silence until the doors opened again, and they stepped out onto the international floor. 

The hallways of the international floor were muted compared to the bustle of the entrance hall below. Draco heard the murmur of voices coming from one open door, but other doors they passed were closed and silent. 

It was with relief that Draco finally spotted the door for the Office of International Portkeys. They were almost there. As soon as Cilla touched their Portkey, she would be safe. 

He didn’t like leaving Harry behind, though, all by himself. But Harry had only needed Draco to get him in the Ministry with a different face. After Harry followed through with his pretense of checking Portkey schedules, then he would go off to… do whatever it was he was here to do. Draco didn’t even know what that was. It was safer not to know. All the same, Draco wished he could stay behind to keep Harry safe. 

Lucius opened the door to the office, and they all filed in behind him. 

The office had a front desk and a waiting area, with various chairs and side tables displaying travel brochures. The walls were plastered with Portkey schedules, with destinations all over the world. Past the reception area was another door that Draco knew led to another hallway with many doors, each leading to a small room with a Portkey of some kind. 

Several Ministry guards were standing about this door. That was usual, Draco told himself. Of course they needed guards at border crossings. Draco avoided looking at them. He stepped casually between them and Cilla, blocking her from their view. 

Two of the guards began to walk towards them anyway. 

“We have a Portkey reserved under the name of Malfoy,” Lucius was saying to the witch at the front desk. 

“Excuse me,” one of the guards said. He was fresh-faced and young in a blue Ministry uniform. “Is this Miss Pricilla Fairfax?”

“Yes,” Narcissa said coldly. 

“We’ve been asked to escort her downstairs.”

“Whatever for?” Narcissa sounded irritated now. 

“She’s been requested for questioning.”

An icy chill passed over Draco’s heart. They’d messed up. They’d really messed up. Could they make a run for it? The Ministry was too big. The lifts took too long. They would never make it out in time. 

“Questioning about what?” Narcissa demanded. 

“Well…” The guard looked apprehensively between her and Lucius. “You may be aware that the Ministry has recently requested proof of ancestry from… certain members of the population…”

“Young man.” Narcissa drew herself up with all the haughty fury of her Black ancestors. “Do you know who I am?”

“Y-yes, Mrs. Malfoy,” the guard stuttered. 

“I am of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. My husband is Lucius Malfoy, lord of his own most worthy and well-known pureblood house. Our blood runs purer than anyone’s in this Ministry, and this girl belongs to our household.”

“That’s very good, madam,” said the second guard, who looked older than the first. “In that case, I’m sure she will have no trouble at all answering the questions put to her.”

Narcissa stared at him. 

“This is an insult,” she began, but the guards were done arguing. 

“Come along, miss,” the second guard said to Cilla as he opened the door that would lead them back to the lifts. “Let’s not have any trouble.”

“We have an appointment,” Lucius said. “We’re going to miss our Portkey.”

“You can go, sir, we only need the girl,” the guard said. 

Lucius looked like he would very much like to go, but Narcissa spoke up in a voice that brooked no argument. 

“We will all go.” She took Cilla by the hand as if she were a little girl again, and swept out of the room after the guards with her nose in the air. Lucius, Draco, and Harry followed her. Draco didn’t know if his mother had meant to include Goyle/Harry in her pronouncement, but he was glad Harry was still with them. 

The guards escorted them back into the lifts, where they pressed a button, and the lift began to descend. 

The ride felt even longer and hotter this time. No one spoke. Draco stood, staring at the metallic closed doors trapping them in that tight space. Sweat prickled uncomfortably on his back. It was too hot, and too stuffy, and he couldn’t breathe…

The doors opened, and Draco stumbled out after the younger guard. They were in a new hallway that looked similar to the last one they had been in, in the way that all Ministry hallways looked similar. 

Then Draco saw the sign: Courtrooms. They were on the courtroom floor. The guards had brought Cilla here to put her on trial. 

They turned a corner, and Draco slowed as he first felt and then saw the dementors floating up ahead of them. The hallway was lined with benches, and several witches and wizards were sitting on them, huddled against the cold and angled away from the dementors. One of them, a man wearing a pointy red hat and a dejected expression, looked up at them for a moment before dropping his gaze again morosely. 

“You can have a seat,” the younger guard said, gesturing to the benches. 

The Malfoys stared at him, and he looked away and fiddled with the brass buttons on his uniform. 

Narcissa took out her wand. 

“Expecto patronum!”

A silvery fox shot out of her wand, charging at the dementors, who backed away. 

“Madam,” the older guard said sharply. “You can’t attack the dementors. If you can’t keep your Patronus by your side, you’ll have to get rid of it.”

Narcissa frowned, but her fox turned away from the dementors and trotted back towards them until it came to a stop at Lucius’ feet. Draco’s father was looking grey, his face suddenly more lined as it had been when he first came back from Azkaban. 

None of them moved to sit on the benches, closer to where the dementors were. Cilla pressed in close to Narcissa, who put an arm around her with a steely expression on her face. None of the witches or wizards on the benches had a Patronus out, but perhaps none of them were able to perform the difficult charm. Draco himself had yet to master it. 

The two guards moved to the end of the hall, farthest away from the dementors, but blocking their exit so they couldn’t just turn around and leave with Cilla. 

“Muffliato,” Harry murmured at his side. Draco raised an eyebrow at him. His parents might not have heard Harry cast, but they would certainly notice them conversing silently. 

“I could stun the guards and we could make a run for it,” Harry said. “Your mum’s already got her Patronus out, so that’ll slow down the dementors.”

“Even if we managed to get her out of the Ministry, and that’s a big ‘if’ if you start attacking people, Cilla still wouldn’t be safe. She’d be a fugitive.”

“Yeah, but the alternative is Azkaban.”

“We don’t know that yet.”

“Don’t we?” It was Harry’s turn to raise his eyebrows. 

Draco glanced at his parents. His father looked lost in his own melancholy thoughts, but his mother was watching him shrewdly over Cilla’s head. 

“We’re not going to rush into anything like a bunch of Gryffindors,” Draco said. “My family is Slytherin. We’ll wait, and… see what openings we can find. Perhaps the judge will be someone friendly to us. My parents still have influence at the Ministry.”

“Are you sure about that?” Harry asked, and Draco resented the doubt in his voice even though he recognized the cause for it. Lucius’ standing wasn’t what it once was, with either side. If he was found harboring a Muggleborn, what would the Dark Lord or the other Death Eaters do to him? Lucius was surely considering the danger at this very moment. 

Draco wished his father had stayed at home. He could only be a liability at Cilla’s trial. What were the chances he would simply rat Cilla out the second they got before the judge?

“An excellent turnout this morning,” said a smug voice. It was a voice that Draco had hoped he would never hear again. He looked up as a squat, toad-faced witch dressed in an offensively pink skirt suit walked past him. 

Dolores Umbridge. Draco felt sick to his stomach. 

“So glad you could join us, Miss Fairfax.” Umbridge paused to smile at Cilla in a self-satisfied way. It was a horrible sight to see. 

“Madam Umbridge,” Narcissa began. 

“Presently!” Umbridge interrupted. “You will all have your turn! Please wait in the hall until your name is called.” She stumped off as she spoke and disappeared into one of the courtrooms, leaving a fuming and offended Narcissa behind her. 

“She’s wearing it,” Harry whispered hoarsely, and Draco turned back to him in surprise. 

“What?”

“She’s wearing it!” Harry whispered again. 

“What, that horrible pink suit?”

Harry swallowed. He wasn’t looking at Draco. He was staring at the door that Umbridge had gone through. 

“I changed my mind,” Harry said. “I want to go to Cilla’s trial.”

“I don’t want to anymore,” Draco said. The fervent, focused look that Harry was putting on Goyle’s face was making him nervous. 

The courtroom door opened. A witch holding a clipboard stepped out. 

“Pricilla Fairfax,” she called. 

Draco looked at Harry, sudden panic flooding his lungs. Harry gave him a feral grin. 

“Time’s up,” he said. 

“Don’t do anything rash,” Draco said. 

“Who, me?” Harry pushed off from the wall where he had been leaning, popping the muffling spell they’d been conversing under. He followed after Cilla and Draco’s parents, who were already walking towards the courtroom. Draco, who could think of nothing else to do, followed Harry. 

 

***

 

Cilla walked into the courtroom, her hand clasped firmly in Narcissa’s. She had a strange hollow feeling in her stomach. Everything felt surreal; she couldn’t believe this was actually happening. 

The courtroom was not large, but the ceiling was very high up, giving Cilla the feeling that she was under the lens of a microscope. A platform was set up at the front of the room, with Umbridge seated in the center behind a long desk. On one side of her sat a burly wizard Cilla didn’t know, and on the other side was a woman with a stack of parchment and a quill that was already making notes on its own. A glowing cat Patronus was patrolling the edge of the platform, protecting the Ministry officials from the dementors that Cilla had to pass as she entered the room. 

A single chair, iron and severe, was placed in the center of the room facing the platform. Several more chairs were set in a row further back. 

“Have a seat, Miss Fairfax.” Umbridge gestured at the single chair. 

Cilla took a breath and let go of Narcissa’s hand. Then she walked to the chair, trying to keep her legs from wobbling, and sat down. 

The moment she was seated, chains shot out from the chair, making her jump. They grabbed at her arms, pulling them to the chair’s armrests and pinning them down. 

Narcissa was at her side, saying something sharp and angry, but Cilla only heard it as if from far away. She was too distracted staring at the chains on her arms. 

“Mrs. Malfoy, please have a seat,” Umbridge was saying now. “If you cannot respect these proceedings, I will have to ask the guards to remove you from the premises.”

Cilla heard Narcissa breathe in and out heavily. She didn’t look up to try to see her face, but she could see Narcissa’s hand clench around her wand. 

It wouldn’t help Cilla for Narcissa to attack Umbridge. Narcissa knew this. She sat down on one of the chairs behind Cilla. 

“Miss Fairfax,” Umbridge said, and Cilla looked up. Umbridge was smiling down at her, her smile wide as a frog’s. And Cilla was certain of one thing. 

Umbridge knew that Cilla was responsible for the newspaper article that had cost Umbridge her blood quill. She knew that Cilla was the one responsible for impeding her attack on Harry Potter. Umbridge had known all this time, and she did not forgive or forget. She had merely waited, like a toad in the mud, until Cilla, the unwary bug, wandered into her grasp. 

 

***

 

Narcissa gripped her wand in her lap with both hands in an effort to stop her fingers from trembling. They were not trembling from fear. They were trembling from anger. How dare this horrible nothing of a woman order her around as if she were any common witch! How dare she threaten her! Narcissa was a Black! A mere Ministry employee couldn’t treat her this way!

“Miss Fairfax,” the horrible toad woman said. “State your full name for the record, please.”

“Pricilla Fairfax,” Cilla said. 

“Pricilla Fairfax, you have been called here today to prove lawful possession of your magical ability.”

Narcissa had known this was why they were here, but it made her even angrier to hear it spoken. Did these Ministry idiots honestly believe magic could be stolen? If it were possible, the purebloods would be stealing it from the Muggleborns, not the other way around. 

“What is your father’s name?” Umbridge asked. 

A pause. 

“Jonathan Fairfax.”

“His magical status?”

“He’s… he’s a wizard.”

“And your mother’s name?”

Another pause. 

“Bitsy Fairfax.”

“Magical status?”

“Witch.”

“Who is your mother’s father?”

“Bastien Malfoy.”

“And he is a wizard residing in…?”

“France.”

“How many siblings does your mother have?”

“She has three older sisters.”

Umbridge’s smile grew impossibly wider. Narcissa wanted to hex it off her face. 

“That is very interesting, Miss Fairfax,” Umbridge said. Her fingers came up to caress the large golden locket hanging from her throat. It had the letter “S” on the front inlaid with sparkling green gems. Narcissa thought it was garish and gaudy. 

“I happen to have a friend who is acquainted with Bastien Malfoy,” Umbridge continued, “and he says that Bastien Malfoy does not have four daughters. He has only three."

Oh yes, she has a friend, Narcissa thought with a snort. More likely she’d sent her underlings to sniff about. 

“I have sent out inquiries to confirm the information,” Umbridge continued, still smiling. “Imagine my surprise when I learned that, not only are none of Bastien Malfoy’s three daughters called ‘Bitsy,’ but also, none of them are married to a Jonathan Fairfax.”

The courtroom was silent. Narcissa had not prepared Cilla for a situation like this. She had not thought that anyone would have the effrontery to not only question, but to disprove her lies right in front of her. That Umbridge would resort to research, and to then throw it in her face so publicly…! This was not the way things were done. This was an insult not to be borne. 

But Narcissa could wait for her revenge. For now, she had to save her child from this monster. 

“Very well,” Narcissa said. “It is true that her mother is not Bastien Malfoy’s daughter. We have hidden her parentage because she is illegitimate. However, her mother is a witch living in France, and we were on our way this morning to take Cilla to visit her. Let us take Cilla to our Portkey, and we can bring Cilla’s mother back with us to prove her wizarding heritage.”

Umbridge laughed a high, tinkling laugh that skittered down Narcissa’s spine like nails on a chalkboard. 

“Oh, I don’t think so, Mrs. Malfoy,” Umbridge said, shaking her head. “Miss Fairfax has already been caught in a lie. You can go fetch whatever ‘proof’ you think you can find, but until then, Miss Fairfax will stay in our custody. And… yes, I think I’ve heard quite enough for the present. Guards, take her away!”

Two dementors at the back of the room began gliding towards Cilla, who hunched in on herself, her blond head drooping. 

“Wait!” Narcissa cried, jumping to her feet, desperation suddenly gripping her heart. They couldn’t take her little girl. She wouldn’t let it happen. Her fox Patronus, which had been sitting at Lucius’ feet, sprang up and dashed towards the dementors. 

“Mrs. Malfoy, dispel your Patronus immediately,” Umbridge said calmly. Her smug tranquility made Narcissa see red. She couldn’t take this anymore. She simply couldn’t. She was not going to sit back and watch the dementors drag her little girl off to Azkaban. 

Narcissa had never been on Dumbledore’s side, but she had also never been on Voldemort’s side. There was only one group that she was truly loyal to, and that was her family. There was nothing that she would not do for her family. 

“I am her mother,” Narcissa said. 

“I… beg your pardon?” Umbridge said. 

“I confess. I am Pricilla’s birth mother.”

Beside her, Lucius made a noise. He covered his eyes with a hand, then let his hand drop to cover his mouth. 

“You are her mother? And what of her father?” Umbridge glanced at Lucius. 

“That information is not necessary. I am a witch. Pricilla is my daughter. She inherited her magical ability from me.” 

Narcissa could not claim that Cilla belonged to both her and Lucius. If she had been the daughter of both of them, there would have been no reason to hide her all these years. The only scenario in which Narcissa could have a secret child… was if the child were illegitimate. A fact which had not escaped either Lucius or Umbridge. 

“You are saying, then, that this girl is the product of an affair?” Umbridge goggled at her. 

Yaxley, the Ministry official (and, coincidentally, Death Eater) sitting next to Umbridge, was staring at Narcissa in open-mouthed astonishment, as was the court recorder, whose pen was still scribbling away on its own, no doubt immortalizing Narcissa’s confession for generations to come. 

“I request that you release my daughter,” Narcissa said. 

Umbridge looked at her. Narcissa watched the woman’s beady eyes, and she could almost see the cogs turning in her mind. 

Narcissa’s confession made sense. In fact, it explained a lot. The Malfoys had a reputation. Lucius and Narcissa both came from long lines of pureblood wizards, and everyone knew their families’ opinions on blood status. Why would the Malfoys go to such lengths to protect a Muggleborn? Why would they even be here if Cilla was Muggleborn? The fact was, they would not. 

But they would be here if Cilla was Narcissa’s daughter. 

To sweeten the deal, Narcissa had just handed Umbridge an astonishingly juicy piece of gossip. Umbridge had surely discovered by now that Narcissa had been responsible for the newspaper article about the blood quill. Now Umbridge had the chance to use this gossip against her — to take the high and mighty Narcissa Malfoy down a few notches. This was an opportunity a spiteful woman like Umbridge could not resist. 

“You are confessing infidelity?” Umbridge’s shocked tones were turning gleeful. “You are willing to swear to this, in court? I remind you that these proceedings are a matter of public record.”

“I am her mother,” Narcissa repeated. “I swear it before this court. I request that you release my daughter.”

Umbridge sat back in her chair with an unpleasant smile, settling like a deflated soufflé. She took a moment before speaking, making the Malfoys wait for her verdict. She was clearly relishing the feel of having them at her mercy. 

“I am satisfied as far as Miss Fairfax is concerned,” Umbridge said. “But your family is still under suspicion for lying to the Ministry. Your International Portkey privileges are suspended for the time being.”

The woman couldn’t resist one last power trip, to show Narcissa who was in charge. But Narcissa didn’t argue, because the chains on Cilla’s chair had gone slack, and Cilla was jumping up. She ran to Narcissa, who welcomed her with open arms. Narcissa allowed herself a quick hug, feeling Cilla’s arms, thin and trembling, around her waist. Then she took Cilla’s hand in hers and marched them quickly out of the courtroom before Umbridge could change her mind. 

 

***

 

Narcissa and Cilla kept walking briskly down the hall until they got past the dementors and had turned the corner to the lifts. Then Narcissa turned around to confirm that the others were still with them. Lucius was looking unwell, but he was still right behind her. Draco was following his father, and … Gregory? Why was he still here?

“I have to go,” Gregory was saying to Draco. Then he leaned forward and kissed Draco on the cheek. This was surprising, but Narcissa chalked up Gregory’s unexpected effusiveness to his relief at Cilla’s escape. She hadn’t known he cared. It warmed her heart. 

Draco blinked rapidly. 

“I think I’m going to be sick,” he said. 

“Get them out of here as quickly as you can, okay?” Gregory said, and Narcissa drew herself up, affronted. Now Gregory thought he could give them orders? But then the lift opened and her family got in, so Narcissa followed, while shooting one last reproving look at Gregory. 

He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking back the way they’d come, in the direction of the dementor-infested hallway, with an oddly eager gleam in his eye. 

What a strange boy. She’d never noticed before. 

The lift brought them back to the main floor. They passed under the golden arches and through the large hall until they reached the long row of fireplaces. More people were entering the Ministry than were leaving, since it was still morning, so they got through the floos quickly and were soon back out in the Muggle street. 

They had reached the alleyway and were preparing to apparate, Narcissa with her arm around Cilla’s shoulders, when they heard a commotion coming from the Ministry loos they had just exited. 

The Malfoys peered from the alleyway down the street to see a group of people coming up from the underground loos, all of them looking bewildered and speaking over one another. Leading the group was… Gregory?

“This way, this way, quickly!” he shouted, running towards the alleyway where the Malfoys were standing. The group followed him, and the Malfoys were soon surrounded by the newcomers. Narcissa saw among them the man with the pointy red hat. The Muggleborn from the courtroom hallway… 

“If you don’t have a wand, raise your hand!” Gregory shouted. “If you have a wand, grab someone who doesn’t!”

There was some scuffling and shuffling around. 

“Anyone without a wand still need a partner?” Gregory looked around as the bemused Malfoys looked on in silence. “Good! Now go home and don’t come back! Get out of the country if you can! Now go!”

Various pops began to sound as the wizards and witches disapparated. Gregory turned to Draco with a grin. In the midst of her bewilderment, Narcissa noticed something large and gold hanging from Gregory’s neck. Was he… was he wearing Umbridge’s locket?

“What happened?” Draco asked. 

“I stunned Umbridge and the other two, locked them in the courtroom. Got what I came for. No time now, they’ll be after us as soon as they find the bodies! Get out of here, okay?” Gregory reached out to clap Draco on the side of his arm. 

“Stay safe,” Draco said. 

“You too,” Gregory said, and he disapparated. 

This was a lot to take in, but Narcissa thought she would prefer to do so from the comfort of her own home, so she held Cilla close and disapparated. 

 

______________________

 

Author's Note 1:

By the time the Ministry wizards found the stunned Umbridge, Yaxley, and court recorder, revived them, and came after the Muggleborn witches and wizards, they and Harry had already left. Umbridge and Yaxley never knew who had attacked them, as Harry had been wearing the Invisibility Cloak. 

Since Harry was not followed back to Grimmauld Place, the trio was able to complete the Horcrux hunt from the comfort of the Black family home. Later, when it was all over, Hermione cleaned out her bag and took out the tent she had stashed away “just in case.”

“Thank Merlin we never had to resort to using that,” Ron said. “I would have left.”

 

Author's Note 2:

I had to figure this out just so Bellatrix could toss a throwaway insult at Lucius, so you may as well know it too. For the purposes of this fic, Lucius’ grandfather, Lucien, was the first Malfoy to come to England from France. He came over as a young man in the 1920s. Once there, he met and married a young English lady, Victoria Lark, the eldest child of a wealthy couple who had no sons. After the marriage, he moved into his wife’s ancestral home, called, at the time, Lark Manor. Lucien himself was a third son, which was why he had left his own ancestral home in France — his parents had no property for him to inherit. 

Upon his father-in-law’s eventual death, Lucien Malfoy took over his wife’s family estate as lord of the manor. The manor itself he renamed “Malfoy Manor,” an act for which his mother-in-law resented him until the day she died. 

Thus, Bellatrix was correct in saying that the Malfoy family line had been in England for less than 100 years (it was, in fact, less than 80 years at the time she made that statement). However, Lucius’ family line on his grandmother’s side had been in England for much longer — as long, even, as the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. 

As mentioned in the fic, Lucius and Narcissa were still in the habit of visiting the French side of the family every summer. Some people might be surprised to hear that they were still close to second (for Lucius) and third cousins (for Draco). There are several reasons for this. 

First, pureblood wizarding families consider family ties of the highest importance. 

Second, Lucius was an only child, as was Draco, and Draco had no first cousins, since Andromeda’s daughter had been disowned with her mother. The lack of family in England led the Malfoys to keep up their ties in France. 

Third, France is really not very far from England, and the French and English magical governments made it easy for the Malfoys to travel there. 

Fourth, Lucius’ grandfather passed on a love for the home country to his son and grandson. Perhaps if the Malfoys had not hailed from a country that was quite so fashionable, the Malfoys would have let their family visits lapse. As it was, trips to Paris were something all three Malfoys looked forward to. 

Notes:

I'm wrapping this up next week with the epilogue! Thanks for the kudos and the comments! I love hearing from you!

Chapter 18

September first arrived soon after, and Draco returned to Hogwarts with Cilla in tow. They sat together at the Slytherin table and listened to the new Headmaster Snape give a terse welcoming speech. Then the feast appeared on the tables, and the students began loading their plates. Draco couldn’t help glancing at the Gryffindor table. Harry was not there, of course. The table looked empty without him. 

A folded piece of parchment fluttered up to Draco as he ate. It hovered over his plate until he plucked it from the air and opened it up. 

Bring Pricilla to the headmaster’s office after the feast. The password is asphodel. 

When the other Slytherins began leaving the Great Hall and heading for the dungeons, Draco and Cilla went in the opposite direction, up several flights of stairs, until they reached the headmaster’s office. 

Snape was waiting inside, pacing in front of a large oak desk. 

“Miss Fairfax,” he said as they entered the room. “I confess I had hoped not to see you here this year. I will be blunt. I cannot promise that Hogwarts can protect you, should the Ministry choose to take a closer look at your background.”

“Ah,” Draco said, “I see you haven’t heard the news.”

“What news?” Snape looked at him, a crease forming between his dark brows. 

“Headmaster,” Draco said, drawing himself up, tall and formal. “May I present to you Pricilla Fairfax: my sister.”

 

***

 

When people asked, Narcissa confirmed that, yes, the rumours were true. Pricilla Fairfax was her daughter. She wouldn’t say anything else, though. This left the rumour wheels spinning wildly. The biggest question, of course, was who was Cilla’s father?

A story began to spread (no one seemed to know who had started it) of a poor halfblood boyfriend from Hogwarts days, a romance forced underground by Narcissa’s disapproving family. 

Someone who had seen Cilla (not many had outside of Hogwarts) commented that Cilla’s shade of blond was closer to Lucius’ hair color than Narcissa’s, and soon people were speculating that Cilla was actually Lucius’ illegitimate child. 

Other people insisted that Cilla was in fact the child of both Lucius and Narcissa. They said the Malfoys had hidden Cilla as a baby, mistakenly believing her to be a squib after a faulty diagnosis from some dark ritual. However, once she had received her Hogwarts letter, she had been welcomed back to the family. 

Lucius, who before had avoided saying anything about Cilla, now insisted that she was a distant (very distant) relation of the French Malfoys. He found the whole situation a bit awkward, of course, but he had more pressing problems (his Dark Lord houseguest, for one). At the end of the day, he still believed that Narcissa could do no wrong. Therefore, whatever she did must be right. 

Later, after Voldemort was gone and Narcissa allowed the anti-wizard wards around the village to lapse, Rita Skeeter found her way to the Fairfax’s bakery. Witch Weekly subsequently published a very scandalous article purporting to reveal that Narcissa’s paramour was in fact a Muggle named Jonathan Fairfax. The article strongly suggested that Narcissa had confunded Jonathan’s Muggle wife into thinking that baby Pricilla was hers. 

Cilla was glad her parents were not subscribed to Witch Weekly. 

 

***

 

Narcissa Malfoy had never loved Voldemort. Her husband, during the first conflict, had been fascinated with him. Her sister, Bellatrix, loved him still, even though he mocked and belittled her. But Narcissa had never loved him. 

And that was even before Voldemort landed her husband in Azkaban, leaving him there to suffer for a whole year. Before Voldemort took her husband’s wand and destroyed it, leaving him defenseless. 

Voldemort’s offenses had not stopped with her husband. He had given her son, her only son, a suicide mission. He’d sent him, careless, to his death. He’d branded her beautiful boy against her will, marred his skin and made him his servant. 

He’d taken over her house, dirtied it with his Death Eaters, with murder and torture. He’d stolen her family’s peace, made them fearful every hour in their own home. 

And last of all, he’d ruled the Ministry from the shadows, creating the Muggleborn Registration Commission that had threatened to put her little girl in Azkaban. 

Narcissa was loyal only to her family. To her husband. To her son. And to her unofficially adopted daughter. When she had the opportunity to betray the Dark Lord, she didn’t hesitate. 

“Are my children alive?” she murmured, leaning over the prone body of Harry Potter. 

“Yes.” The boy released the word with the lightest of breaths, barely audible. 

Narcissa stood and turned towards Voldemort and the gathered Death Eaters across the clearing. 

“Harry Potter is dead, my lord,” she announced. 

***

 

Lucius had never managed to get a new wand. He didn’t try very hard to get one after their one attempt to go to Paris. He didn’t think Voldemort wanted him to have a wand, for one thing. And for another… Well. If Lucius didn’t have a wand, then there wasn’t much the Dark Lord could ask him to do. 

Narcissa had given her wand to Draco after he’d lost his to Harry Potter. He’d put up a very brief pretense of a struggle for it, since Bellatrix was in the room, before letting it pass into Harry’s hands, saving Harry’s life. 

When Voldemort brought his Death Eaters past the gates of Hogwarts, leading an attack on the castle, Narcissa and Lucius ran reckless, heedless, and wandless through the battle to find their children. 

 

***

 

As it turned out, Harry did not have to figure out how to tell Ron and Hermione about Draco. They figured it out for themselves after Harry pulled Draco out of the Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement. Draco sat on the floor of the corridor in shock, reeling in the aftermath of Vince’s death. He had followed Greg and Vince, trying to stop them from going after Harry, but he had been unable to keep Vince from casting the deadly spell. Ron and Hermione watched Harry comfort him, holding him and murmuring to him and kissing his forehead. With everything going on that day, Ron and Hermione didn’t have time to confront Harry about it until the Battle of Hogwarts was over. By then, Harry had laid down his life to save them, and had dueled and defeated Voldemort. It seemed petty by that point to complain about his dating choices.

 

***

 

After Voldemort finally died, Draco couldn’t stop crying. He cried for everything that he and his family had suffered in the last two years. He was still crying with grief for the time — so recent — when he had thought Harry was dead. And he cried with relief that Harry was alive and that he had won. But Harry was surrounded by friends and admirers, and Draco didn’t know if he was allowed to go to him, so he sat down in a corner to sob with his back against the stone wall. His parents huddled nervously next to him, his mother with her arm around his shoulders (Cilla was not there — she was sheltering in Hogsmeade with the other underage students). 

And then Harry pushed through the crowd, exhausted and swaying on his feet. He was coming right towards Draco, and Draco stood up quickly and put his arms around him to support him, to hold him up. 

They slipped away from the crowds. Draco didn’t even look at them to see how they were responding to him and Harry together, but he supposed that he and Harry only got away as easily as they did because everyone was too shocked to stop them. 

Harry led him up to Gryffindor tower. He took Draco into one of the dormitories, and they lay down on one of the four poster beds, still clutching at each other. They didn’t say anything. Draco was too emotionally wrung out to speak, too exhausted. He lay on the bed staring at Harry, drinking in every bit of him, alive, and here, and well. They fell asleep like that, faces close, Draco’s hand on Harry’s wrist, Harry’s hand fisted in Draco’s robes. 

 

***

 

Harry spoke for both Draco and Narcissa when the war was over. In the end, charges against them were dropped, and neither of their cases resulted in a trial. 

Harry did not speak for Lucius, but Draco and Narcissa did. Lucius also had the best barrister available in the country. His barrister was able to negotiate a plea deal, which included probation but no prison time, in exchange for Lucius’ testimony against other Death Eaters. This plea deal was considered acceptable because, as it turned out, Lucius’ only crime since his last prison sentence had been harboring Voldemort and his Death Eaters against his will. 

The topic was broached that Lucius may have been released prematurely from his last Azkaban sentence, but trust in the Ministry was at an all-time low, and the subject was quickly dropped after Lucius’ barrister began to rant about double jeopardy. 

Slippery Lucius, as Voldemort had called him, emerged from the war a little worse for wear, but with his life, his freedom (more or less), his wife, his son, his property, and his money (somewhat diminished but still there). He counted himself lucky, and he fervently hoped that his dealings with Dark Lords were finally at an end. 

 

***

 

End of summer, about two months later:

Harry and Draco walked up the steps to the front door of a brick terraced house set in a long row of identical joined houses. Harry rang the doorbell, and they waited. After a few moments, the door was opened by an Asian boy who Draco didn’t recognize, but who he knew had been in the year below his at Hogwarts. 

“Hey, it’s Eugene, right?” Harry said with a smile. They had agreed beforehand that it would be better if Harry did the talking, considering what this family had gone through recently, and how Draco was connected to the people who had done it to them. 

“Yeah,” the boy said. He was wearing Muggle clothes and holding a half-eaten bowl of cereal. A small button was pinned to his shirt with the words “Mudblood Pride.”

“I’m Harry,” Harry said unnecessarily. 

“Yeah,” the boy agreed. Draco rolled his eyes. 

“Er, is Winston here?” Harry asked, when Eugene didn’t say anything else. 

“Winston!” Eugene shouted without breaking eye contact with Harry. “Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are here!”

Eventually, Eugene was replaced with a smaller version of himself: a younger Asian boy with slightly shaggy black hair, dressed in a t-shirt and cargo shorts. 

“Hi, are you Winston?” Harry said. 

“Yes,” Winston said, his head swiveling back and forth as he peered, wide-eyed, from Harry to Draco and back again. 

“I’m Harry and this is Draco,” Harry said. 

“Hi,” Winston said. 

“So. Are you ready to go?” Harry said. 

“Yeah. Want to come in?” Winston opened the door wider and stood to one side, and Harry and Draco stepped in, out of sight of any Muggles who might be passing by. 

“Have you side-alonged before?” Harry asked. 

“No,” Winston said, perking up. “Eugene said it’s like being sucked down a straw.”

“Something like that. You’ll probably get a little dizzy. It takes some getting used to, but it’s not hard. Just hold on tight, okay?” Harry offered his arm, and Winston took hold of it enthusiastically with both hands. 

“Ready?” 

Winston nodded, and Harry lifted his wand and disapparated. Draco followed a second later. 

They emerged outside the backdoor of a bakery. Draco took the lead here, stepping up to knock on the door. It opened seconds later to reveal a blond girl in a light green dress with a blossoming tulle skirt. She looked more like she was expecting to receive the Minister for Magic rather than the scruffy fourteen-year-old standing on her doorstep. 

“Hey Cilla,” Draco said. “Look who we found.”

“Hi Winston,” Cilla said. She was twisting a piece of her hair between her fingers in a nervous gesture. “Want to come in and meet my parents?”

“Your Muggle parents?” Winston looked past her into the bakery kitchen with interest. 

“Yes.” Cilla smiled, and it lit up her face. “My Muggle parents.”

 

***

 

Cilla led them all inside and introduced them to her parents. Draco watched on in amusement as Harry, who never made an effort with people he didn’t know, stumbled through a conversation with first Jonathan and then Bitsy Fairfax, asking them about their bakery and telling them about what Cilla would be doing at Hogwarts in what would be her fourth year. 

Draco assumed Harry was trying to prove that he didn’t hate Muggles. As if he needed to prove anything to Draco, of all people…

“Any friend of Draco’s is always welcome in our bakery,” Bitsy said to Harry, clasping his hand warmly in both of hers before excusing herself to help a customer. Draco had told Harry beforehand that he was on good terms with Cilla’s mother, but Harry still turned a wide-eyed, disbelieving look on Draco as soon as Bitsy turned away. Draco smirked back at him. 

Winston, in the meantime, had already made a thorough inspection of the large kitchen, poking his head into mixers while Cilla followed him around acting as tour guide. He was currently bobbing about in front of a display case, looking at all the different cakes and pastries. 

“Have you told Iggy yet? About your parents?” Winston asked Cilla. 

“No… but I will,” she said. 

“Iggy’s gonna be chuffed. She’ll want to come visit too, you know,” Winston said before dancing around another customer to get to the second display case. 

 

***

 

Draco left the bakery with a pink bakery box in his arms and Harry Potter by his side. They walked out of the village and down a country lane, past grazing sheep and underneath green trees, with the summer sunlight streaming cheerfully through the leaves. They climbed over two different stiles, makeshift wooden rungs arranged like stairs to allow them to climb over the fences separating one sheep-grazing area from the next. 

They stopped at a hill next to some Roman ruins; nothing big enough to be a tourist destination or to even have a sign, but there all the same, crumbling ancient stonework rising out of the ground like the teeth of an enormous beast. 

“So, what’s in the box?” Harry asked, plopping himself down on the grass. Draco sat down at his side, and Harry leaned in to him to look as Draco lifted the lid. He loved indulging Harry’s enthusiasm for food, but it simultaneously made him want to kill the Dursleys for all the years Harry had been deprived. 

“Here we have bread from the bakery, of course. Note the excellent crust,” Draco narrated with mock formality as if he were doing a brunch spotlight for Witch Weekly. “This here is our deli-sliced honey-baked ham, along with our vegetables, freshly picked this morning: lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers. We also have an assortment of English cheeses. Now this one, the Wiltshire loaf, is made here in our very own beautiful county of Wiltshire. We also have some Wensleydale, some Red Leicester, and some very nice Stilton.”

“Impressive,” Harry said solemnly, the corners of his mouth twitching. 

“Yes. And for afters…” Draco lifted a smaller pink box out of the larger one. “Fruit tart.” He opened the lid a fraction to let Harry see, and then quickly closed it again and tucked the box away when Harry tried to make a grab for it. 

“Sandwiches first,” Draco scolded. Harry sighed and picked up a slice of bread, but his expression changed a minute later after he took his first bite. 

“This bread is amazing!” 

“Told you,” Draco said smugly as he selected a slice of cheese for himself. Then they were quiet for a while as they gave their attention to the food, enjoying the flavors and the sunshine. 

“My Auror training starts in a couple weeks,” Harry finally said as he began assembling a second sandwich. “But if you wanted to go flat-hunting in Italy before that, I could go with you.”

Draco didn’t say anything. He sat, chewing and looking out over the nearest field. 

“I don’t have to come,” Harry said. “It was just a thought.”

“I might not accept the placement in Italy,” Draco said. 

“Oh… did you hear back from Paris? I thought you missed the deadline…” N.E.W.T. exams had been postponed that year, leaving less time to complete applications for mastery programs, and on top of that, Draco had been preoccupied with his family’s legal troubles. 

“I… haven’t heard back,” Draco said slowly, resting his arm on his drawn up knee. “But I was thinking of staying in England.”

“But you said none of the programs in the U.K. would take you,” Harry said, frowning. 

“Yes, but,” Draco shook a strand of blond hair out of his eyes impatiently. “You’re here.”

“We said we’d Portkey, though,” Harry said. “We’ll see each other every weekend.”

“But I want to be here for you every day, not just on weekends. Look, I’ve seen the way you have to act around people. They treat you like you’re their saviour. They come up to you and tell you about who they lost in the conflict, or how they suffered, and you have to stand there and be strong for them while they try to hand you all their burdens. 

“And the Weasleys, who are supposed to be your support system, your family, basically, well, they can’t help you right now because they’re too busy grieving Fred. And Granger is busy supporting them, and supporting Ron, and when you’re with them — look, I’m not criticizing them for it. Obviously they’ve suffered a tragedy. But they’re not in the right place to offer you support right now. They need your support.”

“Draco, I don’t know what support you think I need, but —” Harry began, looking bemused. 

“I’m not finished,” Draco interrupted. “What I wanted to say was, I’m the one person you don’t have to pretend for right now. When you’re around me, you can feel whatever you want to feel, and it’s fine. I hope you know that. You’ve seen me at my very lowest, and you didn’t run away. You stayed with me. And now I want to be here for you."

“That’s really sweet,” Harry said, bumping his nose against Draco’s cheek affectionately. Rather like a cat, Draco thought.

“But you can’t sacrifice your future career for me,” Harry added. 

“First of all, of course I can sacrifice for you,” Draco said indignantly. “You’re more important.”

“But I don’t want you to!” Harry protested. 

“Hush, I’m still not finished. Second, it’s not as if my future is at an end if I don’t start a mastery program this fall. I could take a year off, and start next year. For now, I could help my mother with the manor. There’s been some damage… and she wants to redecorate a lot of the rooms. Probably remodel too. I think she’s hoping she can throw out the memories with the carpets. It’ll be a big job, take a lot of time.”

Harry popped the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth and chewed. He was frowning a little, looking off into the distance. 

“Unless…” Draco had been so sure about this, but he was suddenly filled with misgivings. He’d thought Harry would be happier about his decision. But maybe he’d misjudged Harry’s response again, just as he had on the train their first year. Maybe Harry had been looking forward to getting some space from Draco. Maybe he didn’t want Draco around all the time. That would make sense. Harry had defeated the Dark Lord. Draco had said Dark Lord’s Mark on his arm. He couldn’t even invite Harry over to his house, because of all the traumatizing things Harry had experienced there. He definitely couldn’t introduce Harry to his father. 

Perhaps Harry had been waiting for Draco to move to Italy so he could break up with him over owl post and avoid making a fuss. 

“Unless you don’t want me here,” Draco said, and he tried to be stoic about it, but honestly, he was always making a fuss. Especially now, after everything that had happened, he felt raw. The tears came so easily these days, as if they were just waiting under the surface for the slightest excuse to materialize. There was no chance that Draco would not make a fuss if Harry broke up with him, no matter how much he knew he deserved it. 

“Of course I want you here,” Harry said, slipping an arm around Draco’s waist (Draco had to take a rather shuddery breath to keep himself from bursting into tears anyway). 

“I just feel selfish letting you do this just for me,” Harry said. 

“You deserve to be selfish sometimes after what you did. Sacrificing yourself for everyone.”

“Maybe, but I don’t want to be selfish where you’re concerned.”

“If it makes you feel better, I want to stay for my own sake as well,” Draco said. “I want to see you every day. I would be miserable in Italy without you.”

Harry’s hand came up, fingers combing gently through Draco’s hair. 

“I know you don’t want me to, but I could still talk to people,” Harry said. “Find you a placement here in the U.K.”

“No, I don’t want you to have to do that. Especially not now. Everything’s too fresh.”

“Well, alright. If you don’t want me to. But I would, you know.”

“I know.”

Draco watched Harry sitting at his side, legs sprawled on the grass. His thick, dark hair was longer than it had ever been at school, and it didn’t stick straight up anymore. Gravity had done what a comb never could. 

Unbidden, the image arose in Draco’s mind of Harry’s limp body, being carried by Hagrid. That heart-stopping moment when Draco had seen him, had thought he was dead. 

“What’s wrong?” Harry’s shoulder nudged against his own. 

Draco shook his head, trying to dispel the dark thoughts. 

“Nothing, I just… You know I didn’t expect to live this long.”

“I didn’t either,” Harry said, and he took Draco's hand in his, entwining his light brown fingers with Draco’s pale ones. Draco had pushed his sleeves up during their walk, and the Dark Mark was visible on his forearm above the hand that Harry was holding so affectionately. 

Harry’s other hand moved, coming to rest on top of their clasped ones. It was his left hand, which carried the scarred words from the blood quill. 

Harry’s hand, with pale pink scarring on tanned skin, next to Draco’s forearm, pale white imprinted with the stark, black image. The two of them, a study of contrasts.  

Neither had emerged from the war unscathed, and Draco knew they still had plenty of challenges waiting for them in their future. But here, sitting in the sunshine, holding on to each other, they were whole. 

“Since we’re still alive, do you want some tart?” Draco said. 

Harry smiled, and it came as a shock all over again, to see that smile directed at him. 

Draco leaned in. It was easy to do. Harry was sitting so close, and he was already looking at him. Draco kissed him. Harry pulled back briefly to take off his glasses, and then Draco kissed him again. He let go of Harry’s hand so he could move his own hand to the back of Harry’s neck, and he held on to him, kissing him hard until the tightness in his chest eased, until he had assured himself that Harry was real, that he was alive, that he was here. 

Harry’s hand was in his hair again, his fingers so gentle that Draco thought he might cry. But he didn’t; he only kissed Harry more, running his hand up and down Harry’s back, feeling Harry press closer and closer at his side. They kissed until their kisses fell soft and slow and languid.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Harry confessed, murmuring the words against Draco’s skin. “I want you to stay.”

“I’m here,” Draco promised, holding him tight. “I’m not going anywhere.”

It was another half hour before they remembered about the tart. 

 

THE END

 

_________________

 

Author's Note:

I realize some readers may have thought that Cilla was Lucius’ illegitimate daughter because of her hair. The signature white blond hair was, in fact, originally a Fairfax trait. While many of the French Malfoys did have blond hair, theirs was what has been termed “dirty dishwater blond.” The Fairfaxes, on the other hand, had been producing children with white blond hair since before the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black was even founded. 

Cilla was not the first Muggleborn to appear in the Fairfax line. One Edmund Fairfax, a Muggle who was born in 1775, had two sons. The first was William Fairfax, also a Muggle, and from whom Cilla was directly descended. The second was Geoffrey Fairfax, who was a Muggleborn wizard. His granddaughter, Eliza, married into the respectable MacMillan wizarding family. Her daughter, Lucy MacMillan, married Frederick Lark, only son and heir of the magical and well-to-do Larks of Larkhill. Lucy and Frederick had no sons, only daughters, and it was their eldest daughter, Victoria Lark, who married the handsome Frenchman, Lucien Malfoy. Their son, Abraxas Malfoy (Lucius’ father), inherited his mother’s vaults, her lands, her family manor, and also her shining white blond hair. 

Thus, Lucius, Draco, and Cilla shared a common Muggle ancestor (though they never knew it, because the Malfoys did not track their Muggle family lines). Draco and Cilla were in fact sixth cousins, which is not a very close connection at all, but the connection was there all the same. 

Notes:

Thank you for joining me for this fic! I appreciate all the kudos and comments. If you enjoyed reading this fic, I would love to hear from you in the comments! Let me know what you liked!

Also, check out my other fics:

The Malfoys vs. Family Counseling: Harry is the Malfoy family's mind healer. This is a light, fluffy, getting together Drarry fic (not a heavy therapy fic). Featuring Dramatic Draco.

His Favourite Horcrux: Voldemort realizes Harry is his Horcrux and it changes everything. A Dadmort fic, with a parent-child relationship for Voldemort and Harry, and a romantic relationship for Harry and Draco.

I will also post on tumblr when I start posting a new fic, so you can follow me there for updates if you want. I'm duchessdulce on tumblr too.

If you enjoyed the platonic non-biological brother-sister relationship between Draco and Cilla, I highly recommend the traditionally published book Vicious by V.E. Schwab. I wasn't thinking about it when I wrote this fic, but it occurred to me the other day that Victor and Sydney from this book look like Draco and Cilla. Their characters are not that similar, but I adore their platonic relationship, and they both have that distinctive blond hair. They look like siblings even though they're not, just like Draco and Cilla. And most importantly, Sydney absolutely adores her "big brother," just like Cilla adores Draco.