InsaneJournal

3.

Draco was a child again. He had to be, because it was years since his mother had hugged him like this. He buried his face in her shoulder, in hair that smelt like flowers, and let the tears come, because he if was a child, dignity no longer mattered.

She stroked his hair and murmured soothing words into his ear. “It’s all right, Draco. Everything is going to be all right.” And yet something was wrong. Her voice… “You’re going to free me and I’m going to make everything better.” He pulled back, and looked into eyes that were grey rather than blue, and at a face that was even more beautiful than Narcissa Malfoy‘s. “I will destroy the Half-blood and his minions, and that pathetic ’Ministry’ will have no choice but to bow before me.” Draco tried to pull away, but those warm, comforting arms changed to cold, unyielding stone. He was trapped in the embrace of Lady Evadne’s statue. “We will make our family great again. Together.”

“No -” The word turned into a whimper as the embrace tightened until it hurt. He started to struggle. He couldn’t breathe…

“Together.”

Darkness descended.

Since when had darkness looked like red velvet? Draco blinked. There was a cushion over his head, and he was trying to breathe through a soggy mouthful of its velvet covering. His arms and legs were tangled up in fabric. A sheet, his brain helpfully noted. The cushions beneath him had shifted while he slept, and too much of his bare skin was touching the cold stone floor.

His heartbeat slowed, his limbs relaxed. Just a dream. He was safe, or at least in Professor Snape’s quarters, which was as safe as he could get in this fucking castle.

He moved the cushion so he could breathe easier - then virtually dived back under it as he heard the voices.

“I am merely taking a little pleasure.” Snape. But, of course, these were his rooms. “I am not Bellatrix, my lord, wishing only to sit at your feet until it is time to kill. I would be no use to you if I was.”

“I value your services, but sometimes you go too far.” The Dark Lord. Suddenly that stone floor seemed very inviting - Draco could burrow underneath all those cushions and hide. What the fuck was he doing in Snape’s rooms? He never came to his underlings - they were summoned to him. “You are not my equal, and you’d do well to remember that.”

“I do, my lord. Always.” Draco would have given anything to have been able to see Snape’s face at that moment. There was something in his voice that certainly didn’t suggest subservience.

“And you, Lucius, do you remember that?”

“I could never forget.” Screw hiding - now Draco wished he could just fall through the floor, or perhaps just drop dead. From the sound of it, they were all through in the other room, but the thought of his father coming through into the bedroom and seeing him curled up on the floor at the bottom of Snape’s bed, like a dog or worse, a servant…he didn’t think he could bear it.

“And what do you think of Severus’ ’arrangement’ with your son?”

“I have no son, my lord. You killed him.” Draco couldn’t breathe again, and this time it was because his throat seemed to have closed up. His chest hurt. So Snape had told Lucius about the bite, and, apparently, the circumstances of it.

In years past, anyone infected, or even possibly infected, would be killed by their own family, to save them from becoming a monster. It was the kind and socially responsible thing to do. In these more liberal times people made noises about pitying lycanthropes (the do-gooders always used the words lycanthropy and lycanthrope - as if taking away the real words removed the very real danger) while still not wanting to live near them.

The Malfoys had never been a particularly liberal family.

“Of course. But you can be assured that his ‘death‘ will be useful.” The Dark Lord’s voice was gloating, and Draco felt a surge of emotion, stronger than anything he had ever felt about anyone - real black, total hate. It went counter to all his survival instincts, but he let himself be filled with it, pushing out every flicker of fear or shame until his head was pounding and his body felt like it was actually on fire.

I hate you. You’re going to fall. I’m going to make sure of it. I’m going to watch you ground to dust. I swear on my ancestors’ bones, I will see you die.

The hate was still there as he heard the Dark Lord’s voice again, closer now. “I know you’re awake and listening, boy. Get up.” It was there as he untangled himself from the sheet and stood up, facing the men in the doorway. It made his fingers itch to do something, to reach for his wand or just try to claw out those red eyes as their gaze flicked over his naked body, filled with curiosity rather than lust.

“Do you care about him, Severus?” It came out as an idle question, but Draco knew what was coming next. The Dark Lord would make Snape Crucio him, or worse, to prove he didn’t have any feelings that might be revolting and inconvenient in his second-in-command. And Snape would do it. Of course he would. And Draco didn’t care if he did. He could feel the hate, his magic rising in response to it.

Snape raised a eyebrow. “I don’t understand, my lord.”

The two men looked at each other.

“I’m sure you don’t.” The Dark Lord actually smiled, and the moment was broken. “One of the patrols has failed to return. I want you, Lucius, to take some guards and walk the wards. If they have been breached by something, or someone, I want to know about it. As soon as possible.”

Lucius nodded. “My lord.”

“And you, Severus, I leave you to your pursuit of ‘pleasure’ - while you can.”

The Dark Lord swept out of the room with the skill of one who knows the power of a good exit. The door slammed behind him.

“I hate him.” The words forced themselves out from between Draco’s lips. He managed not to shout, but the snarl that came out instead was a sound that could never be made by a human throat. Lucius flinched, and a sliver of shame managed to force itself through the hate -

- beneath his feet, the cushions burnt and shrivelled, the stone cracked, then the anger was gone, and Draco stood there, shaking from the release of all that built-up magic, feeling like a complete idiot. Snape gave him the sort of look he might give a puppy that had just relieved itself on the carpet - to be honest, the exact same look his mother had given him when, at seven years old, he’d blasted apart a Ming vase during a tantrum.

“Not wise words,” Snape said, his tone deceptively mild. “Not in this place, at this time. I could have sworn we’d spoken - at length - about picking your words wisely. Though, Lucius, you’re not much better. ‘My son is dead. You killed him.’”

“He wanted to hurt me. He’ll only be happy if he knows he’s succeeded.”

Not one glance in my direction. I really am dead to him. Draco sat on the edge of the bed and gathered the fur coverlet around himself. Despite the logs burning in the fireplace, the room was very cold. And despite his sleep, he felt so, so tired.

“The experiment with Greyback was intended to hurt me too,” Snape said. “The Dark Lord only feels secure in our loyalty when he knows our weaknesses.”

“Nice for you that you’ve managed to feed him a false weakness, then.” Draco spoke without really intending to; he was cold and tired and his mouth seemed to be controlled by someone else. “It keeps his attention away from your real weak points.” And it was true. Oh, Snape had plucked him from the aftermath of the attack on Hogwarts and taken him under his wing, seemingly happy to continue the teacher/student relationship (even if the lessons now were more about survival tactics than spells and potions). He’d transfigured some unlucky rats into cushions for Draco when it became clear he was terrified of going back to his own room to sleep, without a single comment on his cowardice, and when the rumours had started to spread about their relationship, not only did Snape not deny them, but he had actually added some of his own. When Draco had turned up tonight, barefoot and dishevelled, Snape had just looked up from his cauldron, said calmly, “you were here all night, I take it?” and nodded towards the bedroom, all without breaking the rhythm of his stirring. But Draco wouldn’t fool himself that any of it was because Snape cared.

He’d lose all respect for the man if he did.

He got a half smile from Snape for his impudence. The puppy might have soiled the carpet, but it’s learnt an interesting trick. “I have no real weak points, and I think that did worry the Dark Lord somewhat. Hence, you.”

“And I’m just one big weak point.” Hardly the right time to be matching brains with Snape - Draco didn’t have the energy for sarcasm, and the words just came out as, well, weak.

Snape looked at him. “Young,” he said. Draco tried not to meet his gaze, scared of what he might see there, but Snape’s eyes had their own gravity. “Naïve.” No pity there, or contempt. “Frequently reckless.” Snape’s expression was serious and thoughtful. “Vulnerable, but not, I would say, weak. Not at all.”

“It’ll take hours to walk the full extent of the wards.” Lucius spoke to Snape, not Draco. “I should get started. Explain to Draco what we need him to do.”

Explain it to me yourself! But shouting at his father - causing a scene - in front of Snape, would be like voluntarily throwing away his last shreds of dignity. Draco watched the door shut behind Lucius and pulled the furs closer around him, careful to keep his face impassive.

“So,” he said, “what do you need me to do? Nothing too death-defying or treacherous, I hope? Although I am open to a little treachery at the moment.”

Snape sighed. “You made that all too clear. Lucius won’t find a breach in the wards, will he?”

“No.” And because there was never any point in lying to Snape - “Flint’s dead. I don’t know about the other one. Perhaps the castle’s eaten him.”

“Was it self-defence?”

“Probably. You know the castle doesn’t like interlopers -”

“Flint.”

Draco gave him a bright smile - bright, brittle, and totally fake. “My ancestors were defending my honour - well, right up until the moment they started calling me a half-breed and a blood traitor.” Snape raised an eyebrow; Draco shrugged. “I didn’t kill Flint.”

He looked around. Ancestral stronghold or not, the place was wrong. Cold and hard and intimidating and wrong. There were great halls and magnificent corridors, huge storage rooms with their walls filled with racks for potions, tiny cubicles with symbols cut into the floor and atmospheres thick with dread, rooms of astronomical devices, countless rooms seemingly designed for every purpose except one - actually living in. Living in comfort, because Draco couldn’t imagine a Malfoy, even one living a thousand years ago, not wanting comfort.

Draco knew castles - the Goyles still lived in one, and, hell, Hogwarts was one. Stone walls should be painted and covered in paintings and tapestries, windows should be filled with pretty leaded glass rather than open to the elements or blocked by heavy wooden shutters, open fires should be there for show rather than actually needed…ditto for fur throws on the furniture. And, most important of all, the building itself shouldn’t regard its inhabitants as vermin to be squashed.

“I hate this place.”

“I hope you don’t feel the same way about the Manor. Your father wants you to go back there and retrieve something for him.”

That stopped dead all his thoughts on castles. “But -” The Ministry requisitioned the Manor for the duration of the war. Mother actually offered them it, because she was sick of the raids and needed to prove her loyalty. Snape knew that, of course - he’d been the one to talk the Dark Lord into thinking it had been his own brilliant idea - and he hated people telling him things he already knew. “Mother said the Manor was being used as an Auror training school.”

“Yes. I did read her letter.”

“So that means there will be Aurors there. Lots of them.”

The cruel curve of Snape’s lips could, if you squinted, be considered a smile. “And how, exactly, is that a problem?”

*

The girl vaulted easily over the wall. Plait whipping around behind her, she spun and stunned the two men creeping up behind her. The wall changed, bricks shifting and breaking free. In complete silence, she flicked her wand back and forth, blasting the bricks out of the air as they flew like homing missiles towards her. Then, red brick dust settling in her air and on her skin, she settled into fighting posture, waiting for the next attack. It wasn’t long in coming. The air was suddenly filled with the air of rotting flesh. The girl called up fire and the Inferi approaching her fell back.

“You know,” she drawled, “I can keep this up for hours, but it’ll be boring for our guest. How about calling them off, Sam?”

Beside Harry, Sam Prachett chuckled indulgently. “In real life they won’t get called off.”

“In real life I could destroy them, but here - well, you don’t like your boggarts damaged, do you, Sam?”

“Is that a threat, Flavia?” But Prachett pulled out his wand. “Riddikulus! Ridikkulus!” The rotting corpses suddenly sported frilly pink dress robes. Perfume bottles appeared in the air around them, squirting sickly-sweet scent. Flavia applauded as the boggarts retreated in panic to the safety of their trunk.

“Nice. You really are the best boggart-wrangler I’ve ever met.”

“Huh. Is that an insult I detect?”

“Would I?” Flavia flicked brick-dust off her robe and beamed at Harry. “Well, did you enjoy the demonstration?”

“Very much. Um, thanks.”

“Harry, this is Flavia Hamilton, our most mouthy student. Flavia, this is Harry Potter.”

“I know that, silly.” Harry held out his hand, but instead of taking it, she put her wand hand to her chest and bowed, still smiling. “Auror Hamilton reporting for duty. Ready to defend you to the death, sir.”

Harry flushed. She was joking with him, she had to be. “Er, thanks - I think.” She glanced up at him through long lashes, eyes sparkling and lips set in a smirk. The heat in his cheeks seemed to rise another hundred degrees. Was she flirting with him? He’d never been comfortable around pretty girls who knew they were pretty, and this one was a good few years older than him, which made it worse.

“Flavia was a curse-breaker before she joined us,” Prachett said. “She started out at a higher level than many of the others, and that makes her cocky.”

“I prefer to think of myself as confident.”

“I’m sure you do. Remember though, while you’re strutting around all ‘confident’, that there’s always someone better than you.”

“Nah.” Flavia smiled at her instructor. The look could have melted a glacier, and made the smirk Harry had been treated to look positively tame. Harry relaxed a bit. “So, do I get the honour of showing the Chosen One around?”

“And get out of training for half an hour?” Prachett frowned; Flavia continued to smile at him, completely unabashed. “Yes, you do. If that’s all right with you, Harry? Flavia’s harmless, you know - all talk.”

“Hey!”

“Sure. I appreciate everyone taking the time to look after me.” Especially when what I really need is to have a wander around the house - alone. Despite what Hermione had told Tonks to get to arrange this visit, Harry wasn’t here to see what Auror training was like. He envied the trainees and their skills, and he knew the Ministry would certainly like to have him here, easily monitored and with a neat place in the line of command - but months of combat training would be of no use to him if he faced a Voldemort with all his Horcruxes intact.

“It‘s a pleasure. We don’t get many visitors here - certainly not celebrities, anyway.”

“Why would you want to become an Auror, anyway?” Flavia said as they walked away from the assault course. “From what I’ve heard, you’re all super-powered and special. Why lower yourself to fight alongside the plebs? Can‘t you defeat You-Know-Who all on your lonesome?”

Harry stopped walking and somehow managed to hold back from shouting a response. “No,” he said, with what he thought of as heroic calm, “I thought I’d let you do it for me. You seem sure you’re better than me.”

She turned and looked at him, eyebrow raised and smirk in place. “No offence, kid, but I just don’t believe in heroes.”

“Neither do I.”

“Mmm.” Flavia looked at him with interest. Then she shrugged and grinned. “This was a family home until recently, so everything’s a bit jury-rigged at the moment. For example, the potions workshops are in the stable block, and we’ve been doing transfiguration in the Great Parlour.” Harry followed her across neatly manicured lawns and around box-hedges cut into representations of fabulous beasts, and tried to tell if he’d offended her. He’d rather she was offended than amused.

“Of course, the instructors like to say how this place is much too grand for a training school, and how we should all be living out in tents in the wilderness somewhere. As if sleeping in a nice house somehow makes us all soft - never mind that we’re up from dawn till dusk clambering over assault courses and pouring over books and stirring potions -” Flavia glanced at Harry and laughed. “Am I boring you, hero?”

“It’s a nice house,” Harry said quickly, and she grinned. It was a nice house. Harry had been expecting some creepy Gothic pile, a kind of composite of all the haunted mansions he’d seen on film. But Malfoy Manor was beautiful. As they walked up to the rear of the house, into a courtyard where the air was fragrant with the scent of flowers and cool from the spray of a splashing fountain, he was wondering if it even had dungeons. It had to, didn’t it?

“It reminds me of home. Of course, I used to come here as a kid, to play with Cass -” She must have caught his expression, because she went on, her voice mischievous. “And I was in Slytherin back at school.” She laughed. “And you’d be in Gryffindor, right? Even if I didn’t know already, I could’ve guessed from your reaction. A Ravenclaw would sniff and withhold judgement, and a Hufflepuff would be more fearful. Cheer up, Harry. Perhaps I’m not on the side of light and honour - perhaps my brother’s a Death Eater, and my family are just hedging their bets. After all, that’s what everyone’s been saying about the Malfoys, isn’t it?” Harry didn’t know what to say. Was it so obvious what he was thinking? Flavia’s bright smile remained firmly in place. “Ah, I just love the sweet smell of prejudice in the morning!” She looked at Harry’s face and sighed. “Look at me, insulting the Chosen One. What a good start to the day!”

“Look - you think I’m prejudiced, I think you’re arrogant - maybe it’d be better if I just looked around by myself?” She looked doubtful. “I’m sure you’ve got better things you could be doing with your free time than babysitting me.”

“That’s true. And, you know, I’m getting the strangest feeling here - that perhaps you actually want to be on your own?”

Harry looked up at the half-timbered wings of the house, pretending to be interested in the architecture. A flock of magpies watched him from the gables. Their chattering call reminded him of Flavia. If she didn’t go for this, he was just going to have to lose her somehow.

“If you get lost, injured, or disturb anyone’s lessons, you tell them you deliberately wandered off on your own. I’d rather my tutors thought I was careless than lazy. If you’re not back here in half an hour, I‘ll set everybody looking for you.” She smiled. “Deal?”

*

Hermione’s parents had apparently taken her to all kinds of stately homes as a kid; needless to say, the Dursleys hadn’t done the same with Harry. He felt strange just wandering into someone’s home, however grand. It felt like trespassing.

He tried thinking of this as a raid. But that didn’t help. Then he felt like he was trespassing and stealing. Or he would be if he found what he was looking for.

A mahogany cabinet in the Long Gallery, Hermione had said. This room was certainly long. Light streamed in through the windows that filled one wall, making it seem to be made entirely of intricate traceries of glass and lead. The other walls were covered in what could be portraits, hidden behind heavy velvet drapes. He could hear whispering voices and the odd snore from behind them.

There was a carved wooden cupboard in the corner.

The report that had sent Harry on this possible wild-goose chase had been thirteen years old. The officials involved had looked in this cabinet and been unable to identify any of the items within as Dark artefacts, but had listed them, with quite detailed descriptions, for future reference. Everything on that list might have been moved by now, or taken with Narcissa when she had left the house, but, as Hermione’s new, incredibly irritating, catchphrase seemed to be, we have few enough leads - we have to follow them all up.

The cabinet door wasn’t locked. When Harry peered inside, he saw why - it was full of rubbish. Trinkets - nothing which looked of any value. Certainly no Hufflepuff’s cup -

Something glinted gold in the shadows at the back.

It wasn’t a cup, though. When Harry pulled it out, he found himself looking at a portrait of a little girl. The painting was only the size of his palm, but the brushstrokes were so fine it was like looking at a photograph. What he’d seen in the cupboard had been the light reflecting off its ornate gold frame, which was confusing. Why put a picture in such a fancy frame, then stuff it away at the back of a cupboard?

The girl flicked her long blond hair over her shoulder and looked around. “Who’s there?” She looked down at the hand holding her frame, the only part of Harry not covered by the invisibility cloak, and frowned. “Reveal yourself!”

She couldn’t have been any older than ten or eleven, but the command in her voice was well practiced. Harry had never been good at obeying orders. The cloak stayed on. “Who are you?”

“If you’re going to be so rude as to stay invisible while you’re talking to me, I can be rude too.” She lifted her chin and looked down her nose in a way that was very familiar. “If you don’t know who I am, then you’re not a friend of the family and I really don’t think you should be allowed to wander about our house all invisible. Are you a burglar?”

“No! Of course not!”

“Then why are you invisible? I’ll raise the alarm. I’ll do it, you know.” She raised her voice. “I’ll scream!”

Harry looked at the drapes. The room had suddenly gone quiet. The portraits had stopped whispering amongst themselves, and even the snores had stopped. He had the sudden impression of a hundred painted ears listening carefully to their conversation, prepared to raise the alarm.

“Ok, fine.” He pulled the hood off. “Satisfied?”

“Oh.” The girl peered at him. “You’re younger than I thought.” She sniffed. “Just as scruffy, though.” There was a piece of faded pink ribbon tied to the frame; Harry examined it and tried not feel uncomfortable under her continued scrutiny. “Have you got a girlfriend?”

He dropped the picture, frame and ribbon and all. God - and I thought Myrtle was bad! When he picked it back up, he was ready to stuff everything back in the cupboard and give it up as a bad job, but the piping voice from the picture stopped him. “Don’t put me back in there! No one comes to talk to me anymore - it’s not fair! Draco’s supposed to be with me, but he’s always leaving me to go to his other portraits, even if they are older and tell him to ‘sod off’. But I haven’t got any other portraits and I don’t know why! Leave me out,” she swallowed hard, then spat out the word as if it offended her, “please.”

She seemed on the verge of tears. Harry reminded himself that wizard portraits, however alive they seemed, were just paint and canvas - they didn’t feel. But he put the picture on top of the cabinet, propped up so she could see around the room.

“You can stay there if you want. Now - I’ve helped you, can you help me? That cabinet you were in - was there once a golden goblet in there with you? About so -” he gestured “- big, with badgers on it?”

The little girl turned from grateful to belligerent in a second. “What do you want with my cup?”

“Yours?”

“Mother used to take if off me, but I always got it back. It had badgers on it. None of my other stuff had badgers - only snakes, and I hate snakes.” She pouted. “It was one of my favourite things in the whole world, and Father gave it to that dreadful, grumpy man. I‘m never going to forgive him!”

Harry found himself staring at her, and forced himself to blink. His heart was racing in time with the words flying around in his head. We’re on the right trail. We’re on the right trail. We can do this. We can find the Horcruxes. Part of him hadn’t believed it possible until that moment.

The click of the door latch seemed to come from far, far away. Harry’s body had reflexes that were quite independent of his brain; even before he realised that yes, the door was opening and someone was coming into the room, his hands were fumbling with the cloak’s hood, dragging it over his head.

Not that Flavia would have noticed if he’d been standing there completely naked. She walked through the gallery in a perfect straight line, looking at nothing, not even the open cabinet. Eyes blank and face expressionless, she was barely recognisable as the laughing, flirtatious girl Harry had met.

He wanted to ask the little girl’s portrait more questions, especially about this ’grumpy man’, but Flavia’s appearance was setting off all his alarm bells. She was carrying something under her arm - some kind of metal box…

“I’ll be back,” he told the girl, and even the sound of his voice in the empty room didn’t make Flavia pause. In fact, she gave no sign of even hearing him. “Please, think if there’s anything else you can tell me. This man your father gave the cup to - did you know him? Had he been to the house before?” The door at the other end of the gallery clicked shut behind Flavia, and Harry shouted his last words over his shoulder as he ran after her. “Please - think!” As he pulled open the door, he saw her pass quickly across the corridor - and disappear into the wall.

“What the -”

The wall Flavia had disappeared into appeared totally solid, and the dark oak panelling on it looked exactly the same as that covering the walls around it. If Dudley’s horror films had taught Harry anything, it was that old mansions were just as riddled with secret passages as Hogwarts, but he hadn’t seen her open any hidden doorway, just pass the wall like a ghost. And Flavia was as real and flesh-and-blood as Harry. He reached out to touch the panelling - and his fingertips felt nothing but cool air.

He shook his arm free of the invisibility cloak and stepped closer to the wall, watching with horrified fascination as his hand was apparently swallowed by the wood.

So the panelling there was an illusion. And behind the illusion? Harry took a deep breath and stepped forward to find out.

He found himself in a bedroom. The four-poster with its thick velvet hangings was more of a Emperor-size bed than a King-size, and the whole room was thick with dust, which was odd, because a little illusion like that would hardly stop the House-elves from getting in to clean, but it was still just a bedroom. There was a little pile of books on the window seat, some open, as if someone came here regularly to read. They had dust on them too, Harry noticed as he moved over to look.

Shakespeare, Shelley, Forester, Rimbaud, Burroughs, Perella, Sartre…the books were a mad mixture of novels, poems, plays and pure ideas, and an impressive mixture of languages, but Harry was almost certain - almost, since he knew he wasn’t as well read as he could be - that they had one thing in common. The authors were all Muggles.

He ran his fingers over the dusty covers and wondered who at Malfoy Manor would keep a stash of Muggle books in a secret room. Narcissa, perhaps? He couldn’t see Lucius or Draco sitting down to read Le Avventure di Pinnocchio. But then, he couldn’t really see Narcissa pouring over Captain Hornblower R.N..

It was only a little mystery, however. The larger one was what happened to Flavia.

She’d been in there; there were footsteps in the dust, too small to be Harry’s. They led to a door, camouflaged by the panelling but at least not invisible this time

Harry made sure he was completely covered by his cloak. Then, wand in hand and ready for whatever might be through there, he flung open the door. And was promptly attacked by branches.

It took a moment of fighting free before he released this was no evil relative of the whomping willow, just a lilac bush that had grown up around the door. He was standing in a tiny walled garden. A glance back showed him that, yes, the bedroom window overlooked the steep gabled roof of the west wing, and the Long Gallery had been on the ground floor. But this was no time to be wondering about the oddness of that, because Flavia was in the garden, and she wasn’t alone.

Draco Malfoy was standing next to her, wand in hand. Harry froze, his eyes slowly adjusting to the bright sunlight. The light seemed to catch in Malfoy’s hair, bound up in it as if it belonged there. He stood surrounded by a colourful chaos of flowers, beside a fountain that sent spray sparkling up in the air around him, and looked so perfectly in place, even with his black robes and those hard grey eyes…that were staring straight back at Harry.

No, not actually at him, Harry realised as he fought the impulse to just hex the other boy down on the spot. Through him - Malfoy was looking at the door swinging shut behind him. Not necessarily anything to be relieved about - Malfoy knew about the invisibility cloak, and had caught Harry out once before.

Malfoy frowned. Harry moved away from the door, careful where he put his feet, equally careful not to brush up against any more of the overhanging branches. The subtle crunch of bone-dry grass beneath his feet was barely noticeable - no louder than the humming of the bees darting between flowers, or the splashing of the little fountain, or the breeze that rustled the leaves and caught at Malfoy’s hair, sending bright strands flicking into his face. Another step and Harry would be able to reach out and touch him. He was already close enough to see the furrow between pale brows smooth out, the hard line of Malfoy’s mouth relax and his lips curl into a smile.

Malfoy shook his head, still smiling - probably amused at his own jumpiness, Harry decided - and turned back to Flavia.

She held out the metal box, face expressionless. Harry took the opportunity to get a closer look at it. It didn’t look very impressive - tarnished metal, bound shut with leather so old it was actually decaying - but as he stared at it, he felt a twist of nausea in his stomach. His skin itched and he felt suddenly dirty.

Malfoy gingerly took the box. The only contact he allowed himself to make with it was to hook a couple of fingers under one of the leather straps. “Thank you, Flavia - I think.” The expression on his face told Harry everything he needed to know - Malfoy could feel the effects of the box too, and he didn’t like it. More and more, it seemed that Slytherin’s golden boy wasn’t as blasé about Dark magic as he liked to appear.

An unwanted memory slipped into Harry’s head - Malfoy gloating over that grotesque Hand of Glory in Borgin and Burkes - the one he’d later bought and used. ‘Not blasé’ didn’t mean ‘completely disgusted by’, not by a long stretch of the imagination.

As if as a coda to that thought, Malfoy casually flicked his wand in Flavia’s direction.

Life and awareness flashed back into her face. A smile of recognition - god, of course, she knows the Malfoys, doesn’t she? - turned into a look of startled horror as she went for her wand. But Malfoy‘s was already in his hand.

“Stupefy.” The red light hadn’t even faded before he span in Harry’s direction. “Petrificus Totalus.”

Harry hit the ground only a couple of seconds after Flavia.

Staring up into the blue sky, he couldn’t even shiver as he felt those long fingers touch his body. Of course, Harry told himself, he was invisible and Malfoy was just trying to get a grip on the cloak - he couldn’t possibly know where he was putting his hands, and would probably be horrified if he did.

Harry didn’t believe he could feel any more helpless and humiliated. Then Malfoy dragged the cloak free and his hateful voice rang out.

“Are you feeling the déjà vu, Potter? I certainly am.”

*

The Wisdom of Severus Snape, lesson fourteen: “There’s no shame in a little paranoia, especially when there are people actually out to get you.”

Draco watched the door swing shut, and the branches of the lilac bush thrash about, and thought about invisibility cloaks and dematerialisation potions. It was a heavy door - it wouldn’t just swing open by itself. No - someone or something had just come through it.

He thought about sending a hex in that general direction, just on principle, but whoever or whatever it was had probably moved away from the door by now, and he didn’t want them to be provoked into retaliation - not while he couldn’t be sure where exactly they were. He looked down - perhaps it was his imagination, or the aforementioned paranoia, but the grass was long and springy, and there were two flattened patches in it, just the right size and shape to be footprints…

Invisibility cloak, then. Draco smiled and turned away from the footprints. Calm and unconcerned, that was the ticket - they were obviously here to spy, not to fight - he had to let them think they’d got away with it, for now. Invisibility cloak, though - he only knew one person with one of those, and he couldn’t be here - it would be a sick joke by the universe if he was.

Relax. If it was Harry Potter he would have tried to murder me by now - it’s his way.

The Hamilton girl held out the box. Draco had been surprised to find her here, amongst the Aurors. He’d always presumed the Hamiltons would have been on the Dark Lord’s side from the start. On his side, or exterminated. High-born Purebloods who refused to stand with their own kind were even more hated than Mudbloods. It was a stroke of luck as well as a surprise.

When he’d Apparated into the garden, he’d been expecting to have to go sneaking into the house. After all, that was what his great-great-grandfather had intended when he had manipulated the wards so that this one small spot was open for Apparation. Back in his day, it had been his lover who sneaked into the house, into the unplottable and regularly moving room that served as their refuge against both society and that Malfoy patriarch’s very formidable wife. Later generations had left the hole in the wards as it was, as an escape route in times of trouble. Draco could have got into the house through the secret room, but he didn’t know how many Aurors were inside and he - unlike some lucky person who was standing just a few feet away from him, creating a person-sized gap in the fountain’s spray - didn’t have an invisibility cloak. Finding Flavia here alone had been perfect. Not only was she an Auror, and able to wander where she pleased, she also knew the Manor well enough that, even Imperiused, she hadn’t needed many directions.

And, so, without any major effort on his part, he had what he’d come for. It didn’t look like it was worth even that much effort. It was only a small box, probably silver under all that black tarnish, and it was dented in several places. Draco felt that if he was going to risk his life for a mysterious box, and not even be told what was in it, then the box itself should be made of gold and decorated with precious gems. It should certainly not make him feel uncomfortable and not want to touch it.

He reached out to take it; his fingers slipped on the metal, and he could feel the thick layer of grease on it even if he couldn’t see it. So he hooked his fingers under the leather binding. That at least didn’t require much touching of the actual box.

“Thank you, Flavia - I think.”

What his father and Snape were planning to do with the contents of the box, Draco didn’t know, but they were welcome to it. In fact, I’ll just get it back to them, as quickly as possible… There were just a couple of things he had to do first.

Because Flavia had been a family friend, he took the Imperius curse off her before stunning her. It was only polite. Then he sent a hex in the direction of his watcher.

The sense of déjà vu that swept over him as he finally managed to get the cloak off the immobilised body was powerful and almost painful. It had been a little under a year since that compartment on the Hogwarts Express, but here they were again - Draco standing over a supine Harry Potter, wanting to curse him into oblivion.

A lot had changed since - Draco couldn’t even think about his younger self’s idealism and blind loyalty to the Dark Lord without flinching - but too much was the same. Potter was clearly still the same clumsy, reckless, nosy, stupid, interfering git - and it’s the reckless, stupid and clumsy bits that really make me mad. He’s supposed to defeat the Dark Lord and put everything back to normal - how the fuck is he going to do that when he’s so damn useless?

Draco stared down at Potter and felt none of the old hatred - his hate now had so much more worthy targets. Instead he felt intense dislike, frustration that the fate of the world was apparently in the hands of this creature, and irritation. Lots of irritation.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you get some kind of perverted kick out of snooping around, watching me without me knowing?” There was no answer from Potter, just a glare - obviously - but Draco was on a roll. “I’m not even going to ask what you’re doing here, in my home, or how you knew I was here, but there must be something seriously fucking wrong with your life, if you have keep sticking your nose into mine. It’s fucking creepy, and stalkerish, and…is it about gloating? Well, enjoy it while you can, Potter, because you might be hailed as a hero all across the Wizarding World, and I might be so deep into the shit I’m almost drowning, but that won‘t last. The Dark Lord doesn’t just want you dead - he wants to do it himself, up close and personal. You’re already dead meat.”

Dead meat. Potter’s glasses had been knocked askew by the fall, and he had grass caught in his hair. His face was frozen in an expression of frankly comical surprise. He must know that, surely? He’s crazy, but he’s not entirely thick. He can’t really think he stands a chance against the Dark Lord?

It’s a nice thought, though - I can see why everyone’s clinging to it.

Draco sat down on the grass beside Potter, and picked up the invisibility cloak. Such a useful garment - and not just for snooping round like Potter used it. To be invisible was to be free. You could become like a ghost - hide in plain sight - escape everything.

He sighed. Such a sweet thought. Shame it could never happen.

“So,” he said to Potter, “what do we do now? We could pay a visit to the Dark Lord. He’d be happy to see you - so happy he might not even ask me what I was doing here. Not that I can be certain about that. It seems like nothing’s certain when it comes to -”

The sharp crack of Apparation cut off both his words and that train of thought. Draco looked up through the fountain’s curtain of water at the woman who had appeared beyond it - and threw the invisibility cloak back over Potter and the box.

*

A surge of black robes and pale hair, and Malfoy was on his feet, fending off a curse that seemed to Harry to come out of nowhere.

His first thought when Malfoy tossed the cloak over him was Rescued. His second was how embarrassing it was to need rescuing. His third was that Prachett and others had been very firm on the fact that Apparating, whether in the house or out on the grounds, was impossible. The only place where the wards allowed Apparation was outside the front doors. And that had definitely been the sound of Apparation…

Malfoy stood over him in fighting stance, but no second attack came.

“Draco? What are you doing here?” Harry recognised the voice, and silently cursed the creator of the Body-Bind jinx.

“I could ask you the same, Aunt.”

The air was broken by more cracks, and black figures appeared in Harry’s peripheral vision. The angle of his glasses made them blurred, but they were unmistakable. Death Eaters.

Bellatrix loomed over him, a bright, wild smile on her face as she faced her nephew. “It begins, Draco. Finally.”

In comparison with her fierce joy, Malfoy was showing all the emotion of a statue. “What begins?”

“Victory.” Malfoy’s face didn’t even twitch, but Harry saw his fingers tighten on his wand. “Through the door!” she snarled at her forces. “Over there, fools. Quickly - the room often changes location within the house - I don’t want you unnecessarily split up.” Malfoy frowned; Bellatrix laughed. “Oh - you thought your great grand-daddy’s little love nest was a family secret? Well, little boy, I’m family, and I chose to tell the secret.” As the Death Eaters obediently moved towards the door, she called after them. “Remember - no prisoners required.”

Harry wanted to scream. He tried to force movement out of his hand through will power alone. He was still holding his wand - he was hopeless at non-verbal magic, but maybe, just maybe, if he could just move his fingers…

More Death Eaters were Apparating into the garden; Harry had been lucky so far, no one had landed on him, but his luck couldn’t hold out. He also didn’t know what Malfoy was going to do. Why had he hidden Harry?

He could just want the glory of catching me all to himself.

With that comforting thought, Harry redoubled his efforts. Then Malfoy cursed and spun around, standing on Harry’s ankle and stumbling as he tried to get some distance away from the man who’d just apparated in behind him.

Harry could have recognised Fenrir Greyback from the stench alone, which was a good job since his face was covered in a twisted network of new scars. When he smiled, they moved into strange patterns. “Surprised to see me, pup?” He stepped closer. Malfoy, already half-standing on Harry, had nowhere left to go. Greyback caught hold of a handful of his hair and, with a swift yank on it, dragged him closer. “We heal fast,” he rumbled, “and there are other advantages.”

Harry watched fine hair flow like liquid platinum through brutish fingers, and felt sick. Don’t touch him. Don’t you fucking dare touch him… He was surprised by the depth of his relief as Malfoy’s wand-tip was jabbed into Greyback’s throat.

“Want to try healing from Avada Kedavra?”

Greyback roared with laughter, then calmly and deliberately brought the handful of hair up to his nose and inhaled its scent. “Talk as big as you like, little one. Later in the month you’ll howl for me.”

Malfoy’s reaction was instant. “Crucio.” The word was snarled. The Unforgivable curses required both focused intent and power, and from the way Greyback went straight to the floor, screaming, Malfoy had both. He really wanted to cause pain, and if Harry was shocked by the malevolence in Malfoy’s eyes and twisted smile, he was also shocked at his own reaction.

He deserves to hurt.

Bellatrix looked on, smiling, idly twisting her wand between long fingers. “Draco,” she said eventually, “while I approve of your aggression, please let Fenrir get up. I need him.”

Malfoy ignored her for long, drawn out, noisy seconds, then he grinned and put up his wand. “You howl so much better than I ever could,” he informed the panting werewolf.

“You little -” Whatever Greyback was going to say was bitten back as he found Malfoy’s wand pointed back his way.

“I should have killed you. If you touch me again, I swear on the bones of my ancestors, I’ll do it.”

Harry thought about the memory Malfoy had shown him. That had been Greyback, he was sure of it, and he was certainly alive. Harry didn’t know quite what to make of that. So the memory Malfoy had chosen to show Harry that he was a killer hadn’t in fact ended in a death - did that mean he had never killed?

“This isn’t quite so aggressive, though.” Bellatrix stood over Flavia’s crumpled form and looked askance at Malfoy. “Auror?” He nodded. She sighed. “Avada Kedavra.”

Malfoy shut his eyes against the green light; Harry wasn’t as lucky.

*

“No prisoners,” Bellatrix said, with that bright smile that always meant someone, somewhere, was dead or maimed. Draco thought of Potter, hidden away beneath the cloak, and realised that particular decision had already been made for him. Potter could stay alive for at least one more day. “You can come with us, Draco. Fight for the glory of your master.”

Draco nodded. Only when all hell freezes over. He waited while the remaining Death Eaters filed through the door, trying his best to look eager for the fight. Greyback glowered at him; Draco stared calmly back. I know something you don’t know.

And when we get back, I’ll tell the Dark Lord that Harry Potter was here, and you were too busy maiming and killing to even notice him, much less capture him. That should go down well.

Of course, I’ll have to think of some reason I didn’t capture him myself. But I’ll come up with something. The Dark Lord already thinks I’m incompetent. Never thought that could actually be a good thing…

He swept the cloak off Potter and picked up the box. One foot on his wand hand, just to make sure, he released Potter from his frozen state and finally wiped that irritating expression from his face. One swipe of the wand turned the look of surprise into one of anger and confusion.

“You can go.”

“You’re not giving me up?”

“I’m feeling charitable.” Draco eased his foot away, but kept his own wand levelled. “Just be grateful and piss off. You can Disapparate from here.”

Potter scrambled to his feet. Even the grass in his hair was starting to irritate Draco now; he kept wanting to pick it out. “What the fuck are you playing at?”

The quiet of the garden was broken by sounds drifting over the walls and out from the open bedroom door - shouts and screams and explosions. Draco had to smile at that - once again he was standing talking to Potter while the real fight went on without them. And that suits me just fine. “Seems the Aurors weren’t caught off guard, then,” he said.

Potter adjusted his glasses and peered at him through them. “Greyback’s screaming might have had something to do with that,” he said mildly. There was a question in there, in his tone, in the way he looked at Draco - a question that had very little to do with the actual words spoken.

Draco shrugged. “It might.” And that was as close to an answer as he felt like giving. It’s not as if I deliberately tipped the Aurors off. I just didn’t care if I did. Two different things, and if Potter is going to confuse them, things could get messy. “This isn’t your fight. Get out while you can.”

“Not my fight? Of course it‘s my fight!”

“Look - try breaking the habit of a lifetime and actually thinking for a change. My aunt said it was beginning. She talked about victory. Do you really think that a stupid little raid on a training school would get her so excited? Bellatrix Lestrange, nee Black, who lives to bathe in the blood of her enemies? But, sorry, I forgot, you don’t think, do you, Potter?”

Potter stared at him as if he was mad. “The Ministry?”

“It’s about time he made a move, don’t you think?” Draco said, as carefully casual as if he was discussing Quidditch tactics.

The war is starting in earnest - and all I want is for it to stop.

“Look - just fuck off, Potter. Run as far as you can -”

Potter hit him. To say it was the last thing he expected was a little bit of an understatement. As pain flared, his head snapped back, and he tasted blood in his mouth, and Potter was diving forward, grabbing his wand hand, all he could think was: but I was doing you a favour. The impact drove all the air from his body as he hit the floor, trapped between the hard ground and Potter’s surprisingly heavy body.

“Ok, I’m going. But you’re coming with me.”

Draco’s first impulse was to thrash about and shout, and that, he guessed, would be what Potter’s actions would be if their positions were reversed. So he spat blood and glared at Potter, because that would be expected, and pointedly didn’t thrash about. Instead he wriggled, testing Potter’s grip on his wrists.

Potter’s face was much too close, his breath warm on Draco’s skin, and this whole situation was really uncomfortable, in ways that went beyond Potter’s weight and bony body and hard fingers. His expression as he looked down at him was…strange. Partially open mouth and flushed cheeks and the famous green of his eyes almost swallowed up by the size of his pupils…and he must have another wand or something in his pocket, because it was digging painfully into his belly even through three layers of fabric…Shit!

Bugger getting enough leverage - Draco shoved his body upwards, all his strength behind the effort, twisted his hips - and Potter must have been taken off guard, because he was suddenly free, fingers reaching for his fallen wand…

Then Potter was back on top of him, and this time he did thrash around. Because the bastard was getting off on this, and maybe he was just enjoying getting his own back too much…but while I might have had him helpless a couple of times, and enjoyed it, I never chucked myself on top of him - this is going too far.

“What the fuck do you want from me, Potter? So, you think you’ve caught me out - I’m not loyal to the Dark Lord. Shouldn’t you be killing the bastard and fulfilling your destiny and giving me my life back?”

Potter blinked. His fingers tightened around Draco‘s wrists. “It’s not that simple.”

Draco curled his bust lip as best he could. It hurt spectacularly, but the answering expression from Potter as he drawled, “I’m sure it isn‘t,” was more than worth it. No more weirdness or inappropriate enjoyment - Potter was angry.

It seemed getting Harry Potter angry was still what he was best at.

“They came in through here - there must be another way out -” The bedroom door slammed open again. Potter twisted round, wand pointed - and Draco managed to stop his opportunistic punch just in time. Because they were looking at the wand points of a group of rather dishevelled young Aurors.

“Harry!” An older man pushed through the group. “Thank Merlin you’re ok.” His eyes went to Draco and narrowed. “Who’s this?”

Draco tried to look as innocent and harmless as possible. Potter’s hand was covering his Dark Mark, but it was probably clear that they’d been fighting. And they were sharing the garden with a dead body…at that thought he felt sick. He hadn’t wanted that.

Yes, if I was the Auror, I know what conclusions I’d be jumping to around now.

One of the young Aurors was on her knees beside Flavia, sobbing. Potter got to his feet and faced the older man. “He saved my life.” Draco hastily pulled the sleeve down over his arm. Potter looked down at him, eyes hard. “And now I’m saving his.”