Chapter Text
August 1995
All was quiet in the countryside surrounding the village of Ditchling. The sun was slowly sinking over the horizon, taking with it the unbearable scorch of the heatwave that had plagued all of England that summer.
The chirping song that filled the air was dwindling as birds hid away for the night. Houses in the distance were lighting up as Muggles turned their lamps and televisions on, and tucked away in a rickety old attic, Draco Malfoy grit his teeth in anticipation.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” he asked, his eyes darting back to the single flickering candle burning nearby. Sweat prickled unpleasantly at his skin, a combination of the sticky summer heat and his nerves.
His cousin, Nymphadora Tonks, snickered slightly as she tilted the sharp metal needle she held over the flame. “You bet,” she said. “I’ve done this so many times now, I’m practically a pro.”
Draco nodded tersely, balling his fists against his knees. “And you’re certain it’s the right one?”
“Yep,” said Dora, popping the p. “I have Muggle friends who can assure you.”
Draco snorted. “What, you? Friends?”
Dora shot him a warning look. “I can make this very painful for you, you know.”
“You wouldn’t, you’re too Hufflepuff for that,” Draco retorted. Dora only huffed out a laugh, blowing some of her bubblegum pink hair out of her face.
Draco scrunched his eyes shut tight as his cousin shuffled over to him on her knees with a red hot needle. "Do it," he managed to blurt out, waiting with bated breath for the burst of pain to greet him…
But it never did.
“Are you doing it?” he asked after a long moment had passed. “Why haven’t you done it yet?”
Draco cracked one eye open, glaring at Dora, who promptly burst into snorting giggles.
“Why are you laughing?!” Draco snapped, affronted. “Just do it already!”
After another moment of giggling, Dora managed to calm down, flapping a hand at him as she wheezed out, “I already have, you numpty!”
Draco's fingers flew to his right ear. Sure enough, there was a cold, metal stud embedded in the lobe. “Oh,” he said simply.
“Oh, Circe, your face!” Dora snorted. In the next moment she’d taken on Draco’s likeness – wavy white-blond hair and all – his face scrunched up impossibly tight, as though he’d sucked on an acid pop.
“Oh, shut up,” Draco grumbled, half-heartedly nudging her with his foot. “And get my face off your face!”
Dora obliged, still snickering as she reverted to her normal form. “Numbing spells, remember? Now, with the help of the healing enchantments on the stud, it’ll only take about a week til you can wear whatever earring you want.”
Draco pulled a face. “But that's such a long time to have such a plain old boring stud in my ear.”
“You’re better off than Muggles,” said Dora with a shrug. “They have to wait six to eight weeks.”
“Merlin,” Draco said with a grimace. Then, he looked at Dora. “I can't believe you persuaded me into this.”
Dora snorted in disbelief. “You begged me to do it, mister. And it makes you look cool. Which is great, considering how much of a swot you are.’
Draco scoffed. “I am not a swot,” he insisted. “Hermione Granger is a swot. I am simply academic. I keep up with my studies, because I'm sensible –”
Dora pretended to yawn, patting her mouth with her hand. “You're talking but all I hear is ‘blah, blah, blah, books, swot, nerd.’”
“Why, you little –” Draco said, grabbing a pillow and chucking it at her.
She fell back on the floor with a startled laugh, batting the pillow away. “You just assaulted an Auror!” she gasped, grabbing her wand. “It's Azkaban for you! Rictusempra!”
Draco collapsed on his bed, laughing as what felt like a dozen feathers tickled him all over. “Stop –!” Draco managed to squeeze out between bouts of giggles. “Stop, Dora! I'm gonna piss myself!”
Dora ended the spell, but they were still both laughing, half-heartedly tossing pillows back and forth. Eventually their mirth died, and they were left sprawled out on the bed.
Draco was still hiccuping out light chuckles, his face sore and his stomach slightly strained from laughter.
“Right!” said Dora suddenly, slapping her thighs and jumping to her feet. “I’m gonna go help dad with tea.”
Draco fondly rolled his eyes as his cousin began climbing down the ladder. Then, he caught his reflection in the mirror and crossed the room, sitting at his vanity table. He grinned wolfishly at his reflection; at the silver stud glittering in his bright red earlobe.
As Dora neared the end of the ladder, Draco suddenly remembered what'd happened last time and gasped, calling out, “Watch out for the –”
But he was too late, as there came a sudden yelp followed by a thud from below.
“ – bottom rung,” Draco finished lamely, wincing. He turned in his seat, a concerned question on the tip of his tongue.
“I’m okay!” Dora called up before he could ask, her padding footsteps disappearing down the hall.
Huffing a sigh, Draco shook his head and looked around at the attic that had become his bedroom over the past year.
Upon coming home from school at the beginning of the summer holidays, Draco had discovered that his mother, uncle, and aunt had given the room a makeover. Gone was the creaky, dusty old thing Draco had spent three weeks in last summer. In its place was a room that, while quite to the manor’s standards, was certainly an improvement over sleeping among boxes of antiques and decorations.
An extension charm had been worked into the structure, lengthening the room both sideways and upwards, and the walls had been painted a tasteful magnolia that soaked up the sunlight. The wooden beams were now strung with fairy lights, and Draco’s Herbology homework grew in a pot on the windowsill; a flailing Flitterbloom with a rather alarming hunger for meat. Draco suspected Professor Sprout had accidentally given him a Devil's Snare seed.
His new bed was perhaps his favourite thing. No longer was it an uncomfortable single rickety old mattress. Instead, an enormous, ridiculously comfortable king size bed with a mountain of squashy pillows and sheer canopy took its place. The white gossamer curtains were a vast contrast from the thick, dark velvet ones he’d always had at the manor and Hogwarts.
His Nimbus 2001 was propped up by the rounded window, its dark, polished wood glistening invitingly in the setting sun. Draco let out a wistful sigh. What he wouldn’t give to take to the sky, to chase his practice Snitch along the patchwork quilt of grassy fields that surrounded the Tonks’ house and escape everything for a fleeting moment.
He walked across the room to the corkboard above his writing desk, feeling a familiar anger bubbling up in him as his eyes fell on the cutting of an article from The Daily Prophet pinned to the wall entitled ‘Hogwarts Hogwash.’
The Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, remained adamant Tom Riddle had not returned. The Prophet claimed Albus Dumbledore was an inane kook, Harry Potter a gullible fool, and Draco’s beautiful creation, the Golden Snidget, nothing more than a silly gossip rag – and that was with Rita Skeeter out of commission!
‘When facing the third task of the Triwizard Tournament, Potter must’ve inhaled too much of the Befuddling Compound that the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, Ludo Bagman, admitted had been used in the hedge maze along with several other magical creatures and spells. As we all well know, Potter's past itself is a maze of trauma and tragedy, it's no wonder it came back to haunt him…’
With an indignant huff, Draco tore his eyes from the scrap of parchment, focusing instead on the familiar head of scruffy black hair in a photo beside it. His frustration quickly faded as a smile tugged at his lips. The array of pictures pinned to the corkboard were unmoving. Muggle photographs, courtesy of Colin Creevey.
Draco’s eyes roved over the smiling faces he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of for almost three long, scorchingly hot weeks. There was one of himself laughing animatedly at something Pansy Parkinson had said, the Slytherin witch smirking slyly. His wonderfully loyal boys, Greg and Vince, guffawing over a crude drawing. Hermione Granger looking determined and frantic at the blackboard, Pansy’s eyes caught mid-roll behind her.
Draco certainly wasn’t a soppy sap, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t miss them all terribly.
He even missed Ronald bloody Weasley, for Merlin’s sake!
And of course, then there was Harry. His Stupid Scarhead; with his stupidly beautiful green eyes, and stupidly charming crooked grin. Harry Potter, the apple of Draco’s eye…
And the bane of his existence.
The blight upon his poor, tortured heart, who had once again not responded to any of his damned owls! Not one! Not even a confirmation of his safety! Not even a ruddy Floo number!
Yes, Draco realised it was most likely risky for Harry to get letters out, now. But Riddle wasn’t exactly making the front page, was he? In fact, the dark wizard was strangely silent. He had yet to make a single move, which only made Fudge and the Ministry raise their hammy fists and yell louder about the fact that he had not returned, and to not believe the fear-mongering…
But Draco knew he had.
There was no way around it, really. The Journal of Dreadful Things said it was so, and despite Draco’s best efforts to stop it, his own father had been the one to bring Riddle back in the end…
With a tut, Draco shook himself back to the present. He was not going to open that can of flobberworms, thank you very much. Instead, he turned back to his reflection, admiring his newly pierced ear as a sinister smirk twisted his lips.
Take that, Father.
***
An hour later, as Draco worked in a very sensibly academic and not-at-all swottish fashion on his summer Charms homework, the smell of buttery boiled potatoes and chicken wafted through the open attic hatch. His stomach growled hungrily, and he sighed as he placed his blue biro pen down.
Knowing dinner would be served soon, Draco realised he wouldn't be able to focus on writing up his conclusion. His essay on the benefits of the summoning and banishing charms would have to wait.
Stretching and smirking once more at his newly-pierced reflection, he descended the ladder – making sure to avoid the last rung – before making his way down the hall.
The murmuring of voices and the commentary of a BBC radio host drifted up the stairs from the kitchen, where the Tonks were busy cooking.
Seeing that the door to the guest bedroom was ajar, Draco peered inside, finding his mother sorting through a large pile of her robes and jewellery. She seemed uncharacteristically ruffled, her blonde hair errant and hassled as she huffed and held up a shimmering sapphire cloak. A scruffy brown mongrel of a dog lay on the rug, chomping at a bone. He wagged his tail as Draco walked in, crouching to scratch at his ears.
His mother noticed him, a warm smile tweaking her lips. “Hello, darling.”
“Mama, what’s all this?” Draco asked, rising to his feet and picking up a discarded velvet robe embroidered with sparkling silver swirls.
His mother stepped back and placed her hands on her hips, joining him in surveying the heap of expensive wixen couture.
"Well,” she said, “as you know, your auntie has been educating me on the importance of feng shui.” She picked up a piece of clothing Draco immediately recognised, tossing it into a cardboard box that said ‘Charity.’ “I am currently in the act of decluttering.”
"You can’t give away the feather robe!" Draco exclaimed, taking the light material back out of the box, running his fingers through the delicate, translucent pink chiffon and puffy Fwooper feather trim.
Draco had fond memories of both his mother and his father swishing about in the extravagant nightwear, cradling him against the soft plumage after a bad dream…
His mother tittered lightly. "You may keep it if you wish, darling. In fact, you may help yourself to anything here.”
Draco eyed the set of chandelier earrings sparkling on the chest of drawers. He knew they were priceless diamonds; an heirloom. “What about these?” he asked, picking them up.
“Well, I had intended to pawn the jewellery. Why would you need…” she trailed off as her eyes darted to his right ear lobe.
Her icy blue eyes flashed dangerously. Draco felt about five years old as he held his breath, the fear of receiving The Look rising in him. His mother pursed her lips, and before Draco could stutter out an excuse, she turned and picked up an antique jewellery box. Inside was an assortment of quality earrings; delicate gold and silver, encrusted with rubies, pearls, emeralds, sapphires, and other precious stones in a variety of different cuts and sizes.
“Mother?” Draco prompted.
She smiled. “You may take whichever ones you desire.”
Draco lit up with delight. They grabbed a cardboard box, filling it almost immediately. Draco found that he didn’t even care that it was hand-me-downs. His mother had exquisite taste, and there were even some sentimental items; like the midnight blue star embroidered dress robes she’d worn for his naming ritual.
Eventually there came an exclamation from the kitchen announcing that tea was ready. Monty barked with excitement and bounded out of the door, clattering down the stairs.
Draco and his mother laughed, following the mongrel down to the kitchen with much more grace.
“I am looking!” Dora was protesting as she slammed a water pitcher down on the table with more force than necessary. “I really think I've found somewhere this time. Don't worry, mum, I'll be out of your hair soon enough.”
Andromeda tutted, busy levitating the plates and cutlery in a neat, single-file line. “Nymphadora, you know I only meant –”
Dora’s hair flashed a brilliant shade of fiery red before fading back to pink. “And you know I hate being called that,” she muttered, slumping into her seat.
“Did I hear you've found another promising listing, Dora, dear?” Draco’s mother asked, sitting primly in the chair opposite.
Dora brightened, smiling. “You bet, Aunt Cissa! Nice little flat above Diagon. Affordable and convenient. I could walk to work.” She took a large bite of chicken, speaking through her mouthful, “I’ll be out of here soon enough!”
“The sooner the better,” Draco drawled, forking a pile of buttery boiled potatoes onto his plate. Dora poked her tongue out and stretched her arm to an unnatural length to snatch the potato bowl from him.
“Dora, please,” said Andromeda. “No Morphing at the dinner table.”
Dora groaned. “Mum, please! Don't treat me like a bloody kid! I'm twenty-two! I have a job! An actual, grown-up job with responsibilities!”
Andromeda pursed her lips in a way that reminded Draco so very much of his own mother. “If you don't want to be treated like a child, then perhaps stop acting like one.”
Dora opened her mouth, but Ted raised a large, placating hand.
“Alright, alright, that's enough. Dora, you know your mum only meant she wants you to be happy, and you're fed up with staying here in the nest.” He placed a hand on Dora's shoulder, looking at her earnestly. “You're stir-crazy, yeah?”
Dora sighed deeply. “Yeah…” she mumbled. Then, “Sorry, mum.”
Draco’s mother politely cleared her throat. “And I suspect this heat certainly isn't helping.”
“Oh, yes, it's unbearable,” Andromeda groaned, and they fell into an easy conversation about the weather – Ted saying the forecast promised the heatwave would let up by the start of September.
Draco said nothing, poking at his potatoes with disinterest. As dinner dwindled on, his mind wandered back – like it always eventually did – to green eyes and messy black hair.
He wondered if he’d ever hear from Harry again, or if he’d have to wait until the start of the school year, another four long weeks away.
His life was positively Shakesperian at this point. Worse than that. Even Julius Caesar didn’t have it this bad, and he was stabbed in the back twenty-three times. The waiting and the silence was simply torture.
Draco frowned as he was suddenly pulled back to the present. The table was suspiciously quiet and everyone was looking at him. Even Monty had looked up from his bowl of kibble.
Flushing in embarrassment, Draco said, “Pardon? Sorry?”
Andromeda’s dark eyes softened as she smiled and said, “I said, I know that sort of sigh all too well.”
“Oh,” said Draco. He hadn't even realised he'd sighed.
“Still no word from Harry, I take it?”
Draco almost dropped his cutlery, entirely thrown off by his mother’s straightforwardness. He glanced at Andromeda and Ted, who gave him sympathetic smiles, then Dora, who did the same, before stuffing her face with a forkful of leaves and tomatoes.
“No,” Draco said awkwardly, once more casting his gaze down to his chicken salad. “Nothing.”
***
Draco enjoyed Muggle-watching.
He lounged, dangling his feet from the branches of an oak tree at the bottom of a hill. It was late morning, and it was already shaping up to be another blisteringly hot day. He’d spent the better part of the dawn swooping about on his Nimbus, catching the Snitch as it darted over the fields, tumbling into dewy grass.
Now, sequestered in his favourite tree with only an apple and a copy of Julius Caesar to keep himself company, Draco basked in the dappling sunshine that soaked through the green leaves.
A duo of hiking Muggles had just marched their way past beneath him, one of them holding a big blue map made of waxy looking paper. They'd been nattering on about ‘needing more suncream,’ and ‘really fancying a Ninety-nine with a flake…’ whatever that meant.
It was funny to think that, for most of his formative years, Draco had been taught that Wixenkind were simply better than non magic folk. That Muggles were filthy heathens who would kill magic if they got the chance.
He knew better now.
He absently tossed his apple into the air and caught it one last time before crunching into it, his eyes skimming over the words on the page. ‘...Not that I loved Caesar less, but I loved Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living and die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live all free–?’
A fluttering of large wings overhead quickly pulled his attention away, and he almost choked on his mouthful as he gasped, snapping his book shut at once. A beautiful snowy owl was swooping towards the house – specifically towards Draco’s window. A familiar snowy owl!
Draco grabbed his broomstick, stuffing his book, apple, and Snitch into his satchel bag before scrambling from his branch. Once on the ground, he looked fleetingly at his Nimbus. It was against house rules to ride his broom from nine o’clock onwards in case a Muggle saw him, but if he were to stay low to the ground…
Throwing caution to the wind, Draco mounted his broom and took off, speeding up the hill to the Victorian house at the top.
His mother and aunt were relaxing in the front garden, soaking up the sun over some chilled lemonade. Draco quickly jumped off before they could see him, running the rest of the way towards the white picket fence. He discarded his broom on the lawn, mentally promising to polish it later as he darted up the path and to the front steps.
“Why the rush, darling?” his mother called out from her seat.
“Owl!” Draco exclaimed, wildly miming wings with his arms as he rushed by. “I've an owl! A letter! Post! For me!”
He ignored the sound of the two witches' laughter in favour of rushing up the front steps, through the door and up the stairs, finally pulling himself up his ladder and crossing his room to the window.
Hedwig startled as he flung the pane wide open, a few stray feathers flying from her snowy wings as she hooted in shock.
“You beautiful, beautiful girl!” Draco exclaimed breathlessly. Hedwig calmed, then, preening and batting her big yellow eyes at him as Draco carefully took the envelope from her waiting claw.
Harry’s snowy owl proceeded to strut onto his window ledge, looking extremely pleased with herself. Draco absent-mindedly shoved a bowl of treats in her direction before hungrily tearing open Harry’s letter.
Or, well… Harry’s note. Harry’s very brief note.
Draco,
It's dangerous to send letters, so I'll keep this short.
020 7555 0531
Harry.
To any other witch or wizard, it’d seem like a random jumble of numbers or an arithmetic code to decipher, but Draco took Muggle Studies, and he’d had experience in this particular field.
It was a phone number.
Startling Hedwig yet again and almost tripping in his haste, Draco raced back across his room and back down the ladder.
He rushed past a surprised Dora, who had just emerged from the bathroom with a towel on her head. “Oi! Watch it!” she exclaimed. Draco garbled an apology over his shoulder as he rushed back down the stairs.
He cleared his throat and took a composing breath as he reached the empty living room, stepping calmly towards the telephone in the corner. Smoothing his hair, he took another grounding breath before he grabbed the receiver and quickly dialled the number on the letter.
It only rang once before someone picked up.
“Hello?”
Draco bit his lip to stifle his stupidly helpless grin. It was Harry.
“Hello, Scarhead,” Draco replied, carefully calm. He hadn't realised how much he'd missed his stupidly lovely voice.
“Draco! You got my letter!”
“I did indeed. He finally writes back after three weeks,” Draco snorted, absently curling the telephone cord around his finger. “I was starting to think you'd dropped dead, you know.”
Harry chuckled weakly. “Not yet. It's just too dangerous to send too many owls out, apparently. And Floo calls are quite risky, too, so we bought a phone, and we just managed to get it working yesterday, so –”
“ – BLASPHEMOUS DEVICE! DRAGGING FILTH INTO MY NOBLE HOUSEHOLD! – TRAITORS! STAINS OF DISHONOUR – !”
Draco frowned at the oddly familiar banshee-like screams. “Who’s that?”
“Will someone shut her up?!” Harry yelled, sounding far away.
“What on earth is going on?” Draco asked, scoffing out an uncertain laugh.
“Er, sorry!” said Harry, close again. “It's a bit crazy over here. There's a meeting today – but she probably hasn’t told you, has she – ?” he broke off again, whispering suddenly, “ – No, stop it! Go away, Ron!”
Draco rolled his eyes. Of course Ronald bloody Weasley was with him. And Hermione, too, no doubt. It was only natural that Draco was the last one to know anything, as always…
“HI, DRACO!”
He winced, holding the receiver away from him as Ronald's shout assaulted his ear.
“Sweet Merlin!” he exclaimed. “Hello, Ronald, thank you for deafening me. And a meeting for what, exactly, Harry?”
Who was ‘she’? What did this ‘she’ have to do with it? And why wasn't Draco invited?
But Harry didn't reply. Instead there was a fuzzy buzzing, and Draco wondered for a split second if he truly had gone deaf.
“Hello?” he asked. “Harry?”
Evidently Harry had either ‘hung up,’ or the connection was bad. Floo tended to be the same, except the connection depended on the cleanliness of your chimney.
Draco didn't know what the connection of a Muggle telephone depended on. Electricity? Radio waves? Radiation? All things he'd learned about in Muggle Studies… He sighed, putting the receiver down again.
“Bad line?”
Draco turned to see Dora standing in the middle of the room, rocking back and forth on her heels with an impish grin. She was in her Weird Sisters tee-shirt and a pair of distressed denim trousers.
Draco scoffed, placing his hands on his hips. “Eavesdropping, much?”
Dora didn’t acknowledge his affrontement, instead jabbed a finger at him and said, “You need to get dressed, mister. We're going on a trip.”
Draco groaned, and gestured out the window. “Are we truly going to Diagon in this heat? The booklists haven’t even arrived yet!”
“Nah, it’s not that kind of trip,” said Dora, smirking and leaning in conspiratorially. “We’re going out, but we’re not going out-out.”
“I’m afraid I'm not following,” Draco said, confused.
“I can’t exactly disclose where we’re going, but I was specifically asked if I could ‘bring you along next time.’” Dora said, smirking as she air-quoted.
Draco blinked. “Well, that's ominous.”
Dora just chuckled. “Oh, also, you'll need your pyjamas.”
***
Both his mother and his aunt had seemed perfectly compliant in letting Dora cart Draco off to who knows where. In fact they’d both encouraged it, which only made Draco all the more curious. At precisely three o’clock in the afternoon, Dora held out her arm to Draco, and they Apparated away.
They appeared with a crack! in an alleyway, startling a stray cat who yowled and scrambled up a wall, glaring down at them reproachfully. Dora poked her head out the end of the alley, looking both ways before gesturing for Draco to follow her out.
Rolling his eyes, Draco did so and promptly frowned. The street they’d just stepped onto was a row of unassuming townhouses, and yet something about it struck a familiar chord within him.
“Alright,” said Dora, stopping in front of a house numbered with a gold-plated ‘11.’ “Now keep your eyes peeled, and don’t read this aloud.”
“Don’t read what aloud?” Draco asked as Dora stuck her hand in her pocket. She rummaged a bit, pulling out her wand, her Auror badge, and a pack of Jelly Slugs, before finally prizing a scrap of parchment with a gleeful ‘aha!’
Draco blinked as Dora shoved the parchment in his face, taking it and skimming over familiar, looping handwriting.
The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.
No sooner had he read the words did the sound of stone grinding meet his ears. He looked up as a house began to quite literally grow between numbers eleven and thirteen. He blinked in surprise, taking in the dirty, blackened brick, crooked windows, and higgledy-piggledy roof tiles shifting into place before him.
Grimmauld Place…
Suddenly it all made sense.
This was the meeting Harry had mentioned, and Dora was the she!
This was Harry’s house!
Suddenly feeling much more enthusiastic, Draco followed after Dora up the steps.
The house read as number ‘12’ in lopsided gold-plated figures, and the door itself had been painted a shade of red that Draco could only describe as Gryffindor. The paint was, however, flaking to reveal the scuffed ebony black wood beneath.
He looked to Dora, who grinned and nodded to the rusted brass doorbell to the side. Draco nodded and eagerly pressed the button.
The door groaned on its hinges as it opened seemingly by itself. Nobody was waiting to greet them on the other side. Dora gave him a slight nudge, and they shuffled into a brightly lit entrance hall, sunlight filtering through the dusty windows.
What hit Draco first was the tingling sensation of the magic that emanated from the walls. A true wixen family home, imbued with generations of ancient, deep rooted runic magic.
Then, a musty dusty smell crept into his nostrils, mixed with fresh paint, and something undeniably familiar; a warm woodsy musk that Draco embarrassingly wanted to cocoon himself in. Eau de Scarhead, his brain supplied oh-so helpfully.
The house itself looked as though it were in the middle of renovations. While the wooden floorboards were worn, they gleamed as though they’d been recently polished. White sheets blanketed drawers and other pieces of unidentifiable furniture, and cans of paint and decorating equipment were piled up in one corner. The decayed floral wallpaper had mostly been torn away, but what remained of it was greyed and peeling, with stains of crooked square silhouettes where picture frames used to hang.
The twisting staircase was stripped of any carpet, a few loose nails scattered on the steps, as well as a few questionable stains in the wood. Near the door, there was a Muggle telephone sitting atop a clothed table, along with an arrangement of cushions on the ground, a couple of books, and the odd discarded Droobles Bubblegum wrapper.
Draco had the strangest sense that he’d been here before; when he was much, much younger. He seemed to recall that there used to be a sparkling crystal chandelier that hung from the high ceiling, and that he’d been entranced by how it'd been shaped like a slithering serpent.
“Order of the Phoenix, hm?" Draco drawled. "Why couldn’t you tell me anything, exactly?”
“Fidelius Charm,” said Dora. “So, you've worked out what this is then, clever clogs?”
Draco knew what the Order of the Phoenix was. Well, not specifically, but the Journal did mention it. And making an educated guess, Draco could only assume the Order was the resistance against Riddle. A secret organisation fighting the good fight.
He said as much to Dora, who grinned and said, “Got it in one.”
Footsteps came from down the hall, and a familiar face appeared, breaking into a wide smile.
It was Draco’s other cousin, Sirius Black, with his long black hair tied up in a bun. He spread his tattooed arms out wide. “Dora! Draco! Welcome! Mi casa es su casa,” he barked out a sardonic laugh. “And I mean that quite literally. Welcome to Grimmauld Place, the Black family house.”
Draco hummed lightly, looking around the entrance hall again. “I like what you’ve… ah… done with the place.”
Sirius let out a huff halfway between amused and annoyed. “Trust me, it’s been no picnic. Considering the state it was in when I first unlocked the door last year, I think we’ve done rather well. The third floor still has a bit of a Doxy problem, though. There's a nest lurking somewhere, so beware of that.”
“Why not just buy a new house?” Draco asked, frowning.
“When I realised Harry was coming to stay with me, I realised we’d obviously need a place to crash,” Sirius explained. “And I inherited this manky old place. It’s been a fixer-upper, but it just seemed the most convenient after a twelve year stint in Azkaban followed by a year on the run.”
Draco hummed. “Touché.”
“And it’s actually been very therapeutic to demolish the perfectly awful legacy my mother left behind,” Sirius added, nudging a grotesque trolls-foot umbrella stand with his foot.
“Oh, that’s clearly an antique. Why have you kept it?” Draco asked, nose scrunching.
“Believe me, we’ve tried to get rid of it,” Sirius muttered darkly. “Some things won’t budge, like the elf heads.”
Draco grimaced. He knew that was a gruesome tradition some pureblood families were proud to shoulder, but his father had never deemed any Malfoy house-elf worthy of having their head mounted on the wall. Nor seen the appeal in the gory decor. The degore.
“Anyway, Harry’s upstairs,” Sirius said with a wink, “Fourth door to the left, at the end of the corridor.”
Following Sirius’ directions, Draco padded up the stairs and turned left. As he journeyed further down the hall, hushed voices met his ears. Reaching the fourth door, the voices became much clearer.
“ – meeting’s not for another hour,” said Hermione’s voice. So, Draco had been right. All his Lions were there.
“Yeah, exactly. So I think we should go back downstairs now,” came Harry’s voice, causing Draco’s stomach to do a little flip-flop.
There was a pained groan. “Mate, all you wanna do down there is wait by the fellytone,” said Ronald's voice.
“Telephone,” Hermione's voice corrected him.
“The house is weird about the Muggle stuff though,” Harry said, sounding slightly agitated. “It cut me off. What if he calls back and we don't hear it ringing up here because the house – I don’t know – magically muffles it or something?”
“Alright, Harry, we’ll go back down,” Hermione said placatingly.
“I still don't get it,” another familiar voice sighed. Draco couldn't quite place it, but he found it immediately irksome. “But, if that's what Harry wants, then I'm not judging.”
There came a snickering snort from Ronald. “That's what Harry wants, alright.”
There came a tut from Hermione, followed by a thump and an ‘oof!’
Draco shot back from the door as footsteps padded near, hiding behind the scrubbed panel of wood as it swung open. He peered around it as his three Lions proceeded to filter out, followed by another head of long ginger hair.
The fourth voice had been the Girl-Weasley. Ginevra.
Draco scowled reflexively.
Hermione looked as bright eyed and bushy haired as ever, Ronald looked just as lanky as ever, and Harry looked…
Well there was no other way to put it, really. He looked as horribly attractive as ever, and Draco hated the pathetically familiar little swoop his heart did at the sight of him. He had to force down the dreamy sigh that was threatening to bubble up his throat.
The four Gryffindors hadn't even noticed Draco, too busy bickering between themselves as they made their way back down the corridor. Draco proceeded to lean against the wall as the door swung shut, casually folding his arms.
"And remember, we mustn't bring his father up. Unless he wants to talk about it – " Hermione was saying very matter-of-factly.
Were they talking about him?
“I’m not stupid, Hermione,” Harry bit out through gritted teeth. “I wouldn’t do that after last year.”
“I know, Harry, but it’s clearly a source of discomfit for him, so –”
Oh, they were talking about him!
Clearing his throat, Draco raised an eyebrow and drawled coolly, “While your concern is flattering, I can assure you I'll cope.”