Chapter Text
“Draco, are you sweating?” Pansy said, holding out her trunk for Greg to take and shelve on the rack above them. “You look even worse than yesterday. Are you ill? I will not forgive you if you’ve infected me right before Mummy and I leave for Majorca.”
“Your fathomless empathy is touching, Pans,” said Draco. He aimed another surreptitious, very-recently-wordless cushioning charm at the rigid seat back, and tested leaning against it again, swallowing down a wince as the now familiar, nauseating pain lanced through him.
Sweating was the least of his worries.
Blaise dropped onto the bench beside him as the train lurched into motion. “Still not sleeping? How long has it been since Pomfrey cut your Dreamless off?”
Draco shrugged and immediately regretted it as his shoulder blades protested viciously. “I managed a couple of hours last night. I’m fine.”
“So you’ve slept less than ten hours total over the last five days,” Theo said, shelving his own and Daphne’s trunks. “If you’re not ill now, you will be soon.”
“I said I’m fine,” Draco hissed. “If you want to worry about someone, go find a weepy Hufflepuff’s shoulder to pat.
Greg finally sat silently across from him beside Vince, his expression fleetingly stoic and altogether too knowing for Draco’s liking before it smoothed back into vague complacency.
Vince, of course, said nothing.
“As rewarding as benevolent shoulder patting sounds, I do believe the Gryffindor-do-gooders have comforting the afflicted covered,” Theo said.
“Speaking of,” Pansy said, and Draco knew what was coming, the shrew. “Did any of you see the way the Chosen Lackeys dragged Potter onto the train? You’d think he really had offed Diggory himself with his face the way it was. Murderous.”
Potter. Of course. The recurring nightmare Draco had been having flashed through his mind again. He mentally shook himself, banishing Potter’s echoing screams for what had to be the hundredth time. The rumor made sense - practically started itself, what with Potter’s outlandish claims - but Draco knew. He had known the instant they reappeared in that maze.
Grandstanding arsehole or not, Potter was not lying. Not with screams like that.
Draco, however, had no intention of being the idiot who publicly validated Crazy Potter, and his back was distracting enough that conversation moved on before he gathered his thoughts.
“The way everyone’s carrying on, you’d think it was the first death we’ve ever had during a Triwizard Tournament,” Blaise said. “Everyone who signs up knows the risks. They signed waivers for Circe’s sake.”
I have a feeling that waiver doesn't cover being murdered by a previously-believed-to-be-dead Dark Lord.
Draco rested his overheated cheek against the cool window and tried to listen through his fatigue.
“The last of the Diggorys, though…,” Theo said. “You have to admit, we can’t really afford to lose more Pureblood lines. Especially ones with so few inter-marriage issues.”
The magic doesn’t seem to care about blood though.
“Says the boy betrothed to his conveniently not problematic childhood sweetheart,” Pansy groused.
“Oh, yes,” Daphne said, “it’s our fault that you are every English wizard’s second cousin.”
“English, Scottish, Irish, French-” Blaise said.
“Not Afro-Italian, though,” Pansy sing-songed. She had visibly settled in for a long parental-annoyance-commiseration session and began charming her sharp nails varying shades of glossy red. “Mummy has floated the idea, you know. She tried to sell me on it by insisting that our children would be just so beautiful, Pansy, darling. As if that’s a completely normal thing to say. Regardless, I suppose it is a pity that you and I would maul each other to death before producing the world’s most beautiful child.”
“Here, here,” said Blaise, raising a cauldron cake in a mock toast.
“We all know it can’t go on like this forever,” Theo said. “Not with birth rates as they are. You’ve all heard Father’s rants ever since we lost Mum. He may be off his nut, but he’s right just going by numbers alone.”
Pureblood numbers in isolation, maybe, but using data like that is irresponsible. We're not losing overall population.
Daphne grimaced. “Did he believe the two of them were going to personally repopulate Wizarding Britain? Even if they’d given you fifteen siblings, they’d all be equally as related to everyone as you are.”
“I’m not saying he’s logical about it,” Theo said, “just that there really aren’t many of us left. A firstie actually asked me what Yule is when the ball was announced. I had to convince them that not only was Santa Claus real and a wizard, but also a Muggle-baiting criminal who endangered his entire community for a lark and had to be imprisoned a dozen times.”
Eleven years went by during which that firstie could have been sufficiently educated, but here we are leaving that entire span to Muggles and blood traitors, and for what?
“History of Magic really is wasted on them,” said Blaise. “Who cares about the Goblin Wars when they still need to be taught the basics of magical existence?”
“Next thing you know, there won’t be enough of us to keep the keystone wards maintained,” Theo said.
“Well, now you’re just fear mongering,” said Draco, unable to stay quiet any longer.
“Am I? Which of your parents works in WAMD?”
Draco’s head was beginning to ache as badly as his back. “Saying your father works in WAMD is like saying mine is a politician.”
Theo leveled a flat glare at him. “My point stands. The Pureblood way of life will end if we don’t do something, and now we’re down another entire family.”
Fat lot of good any of that bollocks did for Diggory.
Draco stood to leave. “You know, I think I might actually be ill. Don’t follow me.”
The corridor was cooler than the compartment if nothing else, which lessened his nausea but did nothing for his clamminess or disorientation. The unidentifiable pain was only ramping up as the days passed even though Madam Pomfrey had repeatedly assured him that she detected nothing out of the ordinary. Phantom pain, she’d called it, even recommending a mind healer, of all the ridiculous things. He made up his mind that he would simply pace the corridors for the remainder of the journey back to London. He’d much prefer to sleep the entire way but the nightmares wouldn't let him even if he could find a position that took the pressure off his back - which would almost certainly be impossible anyway.
Eight hours. He could handle eight hours, and then Tinksy could steal more Dreamless from Father’s stash. She would almost certainly cut him off even more quickly than Madam Pomfrey did, though, and she would tell Mother. Still, one full night of mediocre sleep was better than a sixth night of almost none at all. He slowed his steps, realizing defeatedly that this would be the first of dozens of identical passes, and focused his impaired attention on the rushing Scottish countryside.
On his ninth pass - tenth? - he stopped in his tracks at the sound of conversation just beyond a curtained compartment door which hadn’t fully latched closed.
“Haz, surely he didn’t mean it like that! I know you’re angry, so am I, but he has to have a reason for it!”
Granger. Of course. Draco wondered if eavesdropping would be worth a hex to the face. Or a punch. He disillusioned himself as best he could and listened.
“‘Mione, he basically just told me to shut up about it! The longer we wait, the worse things are gonna get! People need to know!”
“And then what? What will everyday people do, Harry? Assuming they believe you at all.”
“It’s Voldemort, ‘Mione. Fully alive. People are going to die. Just like Cedric. Just like I almost did.”
“I reckon it’s the article, mate,” Weasley said. “Hard to get everybody to believe you when they think you’re a loony.”
The air around the compartment crackled with Potter’s wild magic.
“Then we do another article. Blackmail Malfoy into taking back all the rubbish he told Skeeter.”
Granger sighed. “Blackmail him with what?”
“His sodding father was in the graveyard. I saw the bastard in the crowd. Voldemort named him.”
A chill settled over Draco and his nausea returned with force.
If they're talking about it in private, it’s most likely true.
“Harry,” Granger said, stern, frustrated, “you know we believe you and agree with you, but that would just be your word against Malfoy’s again. Even if you provided a memory, they’re easy to dismiss, and Lucius Malfoy’s shiny reputation has been bought and paid for, whereas yours has been very publicly and very recently dragged through the mud.”
Father watched Cedric Diggory die.
“So what then? I’m just supposed to go back to the bloody Dursleys and act like nothing happened!?”
“For now, yes! Everything is suddenly upside down and Dumbledore just wants you to be safe while they figure things out!”
Potter scoffed. “Safe? Like we always have been at Hogwarts?”
“We’ve still got a few hours,” said Weasley, placatingly. “We could find Malfoy and hex him if you want. I just learned a good one that makes you hear a mosquito by your ear every few seconds for a week.”
I' ve got a custom slug-vomiting curse just for you, dung-for-brains.
There was a thunk as if someone fell into a seat. Potter must have been pacing.
“I bet he thinks it’ll be a grand old time since his dad’s in on it,” he said.
Something about that statement sent Draco stalking down the corridor again, slamming the car door behind himself as he went.
His parents weren’t on the platform, which was just as well since he wouldn’t have been able to avoid his mother’s questioning glare if she saw him before he coerced Tinksy into bringing him a Pepper-Up.
He dumped his tiny satchel of Floo powder into the platform’s private grate, calling out, “Malfoy Manor, Second Guest Study,” and barely caught himself on the smooth stone when he stepped out, nearly pitching forward with vertigo.
“Tinksy,” he hissed, waving her off when she appeared and immediately scowled at the state he was in. “I’ll explain, jus- where are Father and Mother?”
Her scowl remained, but she answered, “Master Malfoy is out on business and Mistress is in the West Garden. Master Draco is late, coming through the most sneakiest Floo, and looking very unwell.”
Draco pushed his stupid, too-long hair out of his eyes. He was beginning to think it and his back pain were connected somehow.
“Yes, I’m aware, but Madam Pomfrey said I’m fine. She only detected fatigue. Does Father have any extra Pepper-Up? I don’t want Mother to fret for nothing.”
The furrow in her brow deepened and she straightened her frilly, mint green pillowcase dress. “Tinksy will be keeping Master Draco’s secret for one week only, after which she is telling Mistress if Master Draco is not getting better. Mistress is always ordering Tinksy to ensure Master Draco’s health and safety.”
“Someday my orders will be equal to hers, you know.”
She finally relented and patted his knee fondly. “That day is not being today, Young Master. Tinksy is also bringing a headache potion. Master Draco is squinting.”
She popped away and Draco thought fleetingly that he shouldn’t let her get away with that amount of cheek, but who really cared? After all, she had been all but a third parent to him for as long as he could remember.
Something in him recoiled at the veiled excuse that Tinksy wasn’t like other elves, but he didn’t currently have the energy to chase down the source of that discomfort. He thanked her when she brought the potions and took his trunk, promised her that he would find his mother expeditiously, and downed both potions.
The relief was immediate. Though they did nothing for his back and shoulders, his vision was no longer blurry with fatigue, and he no longer felt as though he might lose his balance at any moment. Therefore, he wound his way through the manor toward the west garden, ignoring his portrait-ancestors’ complaints about his hair - which, loose and wavy as it was, was now apparently inappropriate for a Malfoy heir - and wondered vacantly when he had stopped caring about that.
He pushed the garden’s gilt glass doors open and ran his fingertips through the dense foliage as he walked. This was his mother’s favorite garden, the one she never allowed the house elves to touch, the one she tended herself by hand and by wand, and he could practically feel her magic - soothing, sweet, and familiar - seeping out of each perfect, waxy frond. He rounded another corner crowded with deep blue roses the size of grapefruits and finally found his mother, perfectly poised as usual, in delicate lilac robes at her favorite wrought iron table, alone, but with tea set for two.
“Oh, Draco, ma fleur, you’re home,” she said, a flash of a question in her eyes as she studied his appearance. “Come! Sit.“
She called an elf to replace the setting across from her with a new one and a fresh pot of tea. Draco sat, trying not to look overly suspicious as he pointedly avoided even lightly brushing against the seat’s back.
“Did your guest just leave?” he asked.
“Guest?”
“There… was another teacup here,” he said, now questioning his own memory.
“Ah, yes. A very old friend. She only had time for a quick chat though. No time to stay for a proper introduction. Now, tell me all about your classes and about Pansy and the others. Your father has told me that this term has been rather eventful.”
Even with the Pepper-Up, Draco was much too exhausted to temper his words.
“Eventful? Mother, Cedric Diggory is dead.”
Her head tilted almost imperceptibly and she was quiet for a moment. “I was informed, of course. A tragedy for the community, to be sure, and the alleged circumstances have been much debated.”
Draco could feel himself overheating again.
“I need you to tell me Potter is lying. Tell me Father wasn’t there.”
Her features smoothed over and he knew he had lost her.
And that he was right about Potter.
“You needn’t concern yourself with such things, my love. Your father will return soon, and he is so looking forward to seeing you.”
Draco took that statement for the dismissal it was, leaving his tea untouched and escaping the way he had come.
Before he turned the corner, though, his mother called out.
“Draco.”
He turned and waited.
“Do you trust me?” she asked, hands clenched tight in her lap.
The unusual candor scared him more than any avoidance could.
“Of course,” he said.
She seemed to relax a fraction. “Then you will leave it all to me. Tinksy will fetch you for dinner.”
He knew what she had meant.
Everything is fine.
Act normal.
But things were not fine. Lucius Malfoy was not fine.
He never said anything explicitly, likely to maintain plausible deniability, but he muttered, which was unnervingly new.
“Mudblood sympathizers-”
“Finally setting things to rights-”
“Finish what was started-”
Draco began to develop an aversion to the sound of his father’s manic footsteps, to the clack of a cane against tile and wood. Every encounter became an almost frantic lecture on duty, morality, purity, truth. Father was in and out of the floo on business, leaving late in the evening and only returning for lunch the following day and somehow seeming not to sleep at all, nor to need it.
Or maybe that alone was the source of his bizarre restlessness.
If only.
By day four, Draco had sequestered himself in his chambers, only leaving for moments at a time for meals, lying about studying early for O.W.L.s, and mainly trying to sleep as much as possible - shirtless, on his stomach, with no pain relief potions since they interacted badly with Dreamless, and the Dreamless only barely suppressing his nightmares.
Tinksy fixed him with a stern glare on the morning of day five. Clearly, she had expected Draco to address his condition with his mother before her one-week improvement deadline.
And he was certainly not improving.
In fact, the pain in his back and shoulders had only intensified, his hair had lengthened even more, and his sleep was undeniably worsening, even with a steady potion supply. It was a wonder he was able to stay conscious for any length of time, really. He examined himself in the full-length mirror next to his wardrobe and tried to convince himself, not for the first time, that it was just a very uncomfortable growth spurt, that he was finally gaining a bit of muscle to widen his slim frame.
Doubtful.
He scowled at his reflection. No one in his family was particularly broad, and he had always taken more after his willowy mother anyway. If he accepted that it wasn’t a growth spurt, though, he supposed it was about time to start being truly concerned. The soreness was now accompanied by distinct swelling in two thick raised lines mirrored from the top of each shoulder blade near his spine, drawing out a few inches toward his arms, and then curving sharply down his back to end just below his ribs. They were wretchedly tender to the touch, but, if he gritted his teeth, he was able to push the ends of the ridges back and forth over his ribs.
It felt eerily similar to manipulating his kneecaps under the skin of his knees. He fought back a shiver.
Time to tell Mother.
He had put it off as long as he could. He dragged the lightest, loosest tunic he could find over his tense shoulders and called Tinksy, who appeared with a smug grin.
“Yes, I’m going to tell her now, you menace,” Draco said. “Is Father home?”
Tinksy shook her head. “Hockle is telling Tinksy that Master Malfoy is being gone until dinner, sir.”
Draco tried not to be too obvious about his relief. He didn’t think he could endure another game of avoid the footsteps. Somehow, despite the size of the manor, his father was frighteningly difficult to avoid, and every unexpected glimpse of him sent Draco into unwanted flashbacks of Potter’s screams in the dark.
“Of course,” he said. “Why would he feel the need to communicate with his family? Is Mother in her garden again?”
She nodded once. “In the west garden entertaining her guest, sir.”
“Guest?”
“She is coming more and more often, but Tinksy is not being told her name.”
Draco’s mind jumped to the empty teacup at his mother’s table. “Ah, alright. I shall have to introduce myself then. Thank you, Tinksy.”
She bowed low and disappeared with a soft pop.
The portraits between his room and the west garden still didn’t know how to keep their opinions to themselves and muttered incessantly to each other as he walked, complaining openly about his state of undress and wild hair - which he knew was decidedly not wild. Besides, if Harry Potter could get away with perpetual bedhead, Draco was certainly allowed a bit of leeway when he was unable to lift his arms at the shoulder.
Moreover, Draco was beginning like it.
And they could stuff the complaints about his lack of a traditional robe. He probably wouldn’t care if he was caught dancing naked through the Ministry Atrium if it meant he could get the damned pressure of clothing off his back. They should be grateful he was clothed at all.
He took his time in the garden, breathing deep and vaguely dreading whatever was to come. The garden was a pleasant place to feel poorly, at least. The massive roses that had been blue were now a shocking magenta and a soft, magical breeze sent their falling petals floating through the air. The tunic had also been the correct choice. It allowed the breeze to cool the angry skin over his back as he walked and distracted him a bit from the pain. He could hear his mother speaking softly to another woman and rounded the corner to find them at her table as expected, but he stopped abruptly and barely contained an audible gasp.
The stranger looked uncannily like his mother.
She smiled at him gently as his mother stood.
“Draco,” his mother said, approaching slowly and offering her hand, linking their arms when he took it. “The day you returned home, you said you trust me. Do you still?”
He looked at the stranger again, unsure. “I want to.”
She squeezed his hand reassuringly. “This may shake your faith in me, but I do hope you will see that I am offering you the truth, however painful it may be.” She gestured toward the other woman. “This is Aster. She is my mother. Your grandmother.”
“Grandmother? What are you-”
“I apologize for my sudden intrusion,” the other woman said, smoothing her odd, iridescent robes over her knees. “I have hoped for the chance to meet you for a very long time.”
Draco felt his headache returning. He turned back to his mother. “What about Grandmére Druella?”
She led him to the small table and released his arm, motioning to the third chair that was evidently meant for him. “I think it would be best for you to have a seat, ma fleur. We three have much to discuss, including the reason your back is so uncomfortable as to force you into your current attire.”
His heart dropped. “Did Tinksy tell you?”
“No, dear,” his mother said. “I know because I endured it too. Right after my fifteenth birthday. I did not wish to tell anyone either, and I had hoped that you would be spared.”
Resigning himself to his now permanent state of alarm, Draco sat gingerly in the iron chair, again stiffly avoiding the rigid back. He made himself a cup of tea in the hope that having something to occupy his mouth would prevent it from simply hanging open, and looked expectantly between the two women.
“Little flower,” Aster finally said, her voice gentle, flowing, odd, like water over stones, “there is very little I could say that would make this less strange, but what your mother says is true. Cygnus and Druella both believed her to be theirs from the day she was born because I made it so. I was actually unaware that Cygnus was married, let alone that he already had two daughters. I became suspicious and, unfortunately, my fears were confirmed. After Narcissa was born, I made sure Cygnus had no memory of me at all, and made the decision to allow Narcissa to be raised with her sisters. Though, had I known what I know now, I may have taken a different path. Nonetheless, this all allowed you to be born, and that is of no little significance.”
Significance? What?
“B-… but the Black family inheritance magic. How did you get around it? It should have been nearly impossible to convince the tapestry you weren’t… well-”
“A bastard?” his mother smiled unexpectedly, mischievously. “Nearly impossible for wix, yes.”
“Difficult, but not impossible for someone like me. Like us,” said Aster.
Draco had to set his teacup down to avoid crushing it. “You can’t mean that.”
His mother took his hand again. “I’m afraid the remainder of this conversation will require a significantly more open mind, my love.”
“No. I won’t accept it. I-“
Aster - Grandmother - rose from her seat. “Your acceptance is irrelevant. It has already begun and cannot be stopped now.”
She pulled her curtain of pin-straight, platinum hair forward over her shoulder, and Draco’s mother seemed to recognize the gesture.
“Mother,” she said, “perhaps we should wait a bit longer for such a-“
“Nonsense. The boy has a week at most before his own fully come in. We are lucky they haven’t already.” As she spoke, the air behind her shimmered and she turned back to Draco. “This may alarm you, but I’m afraid we’ve waited too long for a gentler introduction.”
The shimmer faded, and a pair of velvety, silver-white moth wings emerged, fanned out, and folded silently against her back, false eyes, rippling silver stripes, and all.
They were beautiful.
Draco had never been so angry in his life.
“Mother, this joke isn’t funny anymore.”
“Darling-“
“NO!” Draco stood, pushing his chair back violently. “I’m not a bloody creature!”
Aster sighed and turned her own chair sideways, ignoring Draco’s outburst and turning to sit with her wings hanging down behind her. “I see his lovely father has been hard at work. How much of this is your doing, daughter?”
“We have discussed this. It was your decision to leave me where you did, Mother. I will not apologize for falling in love with Lucius. Regardless, you and I agreed to wait until Draco exhibited signs of inheritance before burdening him with useless knowledge.”
Aster nodded. “So we did, dear one, and true enough.” She turned back to Draco, the first signs of emotion showing in the pink tinge of indignation across her delicate, high cheekbones. “You are correct, grandson. You are no mere creature, and neither am I. You would do well to remember that. We are High Fae. Quarter, half, or full-blooded makes no difference to the magic. You are as much Fae as I am.”
Draco laughed.
“You want me to believe I’m part of a Muggle myth?”
“You only believe we’re a myth because we made it so. We left this realm behind many hundreds of years ago, intentionally creating the myth as a failsafe in case some remembered who shouldn’t.”
“So you come back just to find a wizard to shag? This is ABSURD.”
“Draco!” His mother’s tone was scandalized, as if Draco was the one being unreasonable.
“Seriously, Mother?” he said, beginning to pace compulsively, “First I come back and you ask how term was, as if things were just a little bit more interesting than usual, and now this? This must be another nightmare.”
“Another?” she said.
Draco ignored her. He faced Aster. “Hundreds of years?” he spat. “Really? Just to come back now? Are Mother and I the only ones?”
Aster’s jaw was tight and the flush on her cheeks had not abated, but after a moment, she sighed and began braiding the hair that still hung heavy over her shoulder. “You are impertinent, but your concerns are reasonable. There is one other, though I have not met them. To my knowledge, they do not know of their heritage. They should be around your age. Perhaps a bit younger.”
Any chance Draco had had of maintaining his composure was long gone. He dropped his face into his hands and rubbed at the growing sore spot right above his temples. He had a fleeting, vapid thought that he was very glad that this bizarre meeting was happening outside in the gardens with Father likely halfway across the continent.
“So what now, Mother?” he said. “Are we half breeds? Will we have to register with The Ministry? What about Father? He clearly doesn’t know! How am I supposed to hide this from him? How will I hide it in the bloody dormitory? What about the Dark Lord? He’ll have us killed like Diggory! How- Why haven’t you ever said anything?! What are we-“
“Draco,” his mother said gently, interrupting his spiraling.
He knew he was descending into hysterics, but this was all too much. It would end everything - his entire future, any hope he had of a normal life, success, fulfilling his father’s wishes for him.… His father who watched Cedric Diggory die.
Is that actually what I want?
Cedric’s lifeless, open eyes flashed before him for the thousandth time, Potter’s screams ringing in his ears. He ran his fingers through his now disheveled hair again and looked back at Aster, who was calmly waiting for him to come back to the newly-rearranged Earth.
It suddenly struck him that she appeared exceptionally young to be his mother’s mother. He would much sooner assume they were sisters, which, he realized, implied Fae must live quite long lives. He supposed that was a benefit, at least. But…
“Mother, I don’t understand,” he said, his rage bottoming out and settling into despair. “You let me be like I was… am… encouraged it, even, since the day I was born! I’ve made so many enemies. Anyone who would help us hates us. Father will cut us off…. How will we live?”
His mothers sorrowful expression was unexpected, but it only served to rile him further.
How dare she look openly remorseful after decades of deception?
She nodded toward his empty seat at the table, encouraging him to sit again. He righted the chair forcefully and threw himself down into it, but gasped in pain as his ill-chosen, rebellious slouch pressed his back into the iron behind him.
“My dear,” Aster said. She placed a tentative hand on his arm, but he didn’t look up. “This may be an overstep, but would you allow me to check your back? It has been a great while since my own wings came in, and I will have to see them to help, unfortunately, but I remember ways to ease the pain if you’ll allow me.”
He did look up at that, willing to do just about anything for relief, and nodded. He turned his back toward her and pulled the back of the loose tunic over his head to let it hang on his arms. Soft touches over the angry ridges of his skin gave way to a rush of gentle, numbing magic.
He nearly sobbed.
“They’re coming along nicely,” she said as she worked. “I believe they’ll be larger than mine, though likely a similar colouring considering your hair and eyes. They do tend to match, after all. Your mother’s are pure white with a lovely blue shimmer, but I don’t know if she remembers how to bring them out. I haven’t seen them since before you were born.”
He glanced up at his mother’s impassive face as she stared at Aster over his shoulder. The slightly-too-tight grip she held on her teacup was the only hint of her irritation.
“You know very well why I never bring them out. It’s not safe. Incompetence has nothing to do with it,” she said.
“Then show him, daughter. Teach him that shame has no place among us.”
His mother continued her not-glare for a few more seconds, but then stood and, as Aster had before, pulled her bright hair over her shoulder. The wings that unfurled from her back were as beautiful as she was - pure white with thick fluff just over the crest of her shoulders and blue iridescence that shimmered in the sunlight, perfectly matching the sapphire blue of her eyes.
She startled him yet again by looking fiercely into his eyes, kneeling on the ground before him in her pristine, silver robes, and taking his hands gently in her own, her delicate wings fanning out and trailing on the ground.
Draco couldn’t look away.
“My beautiful, capable, wonderful son,” she said, “I will never be able to apologize enough for keeping this from you for as long as I did. This is an eventuality that I had hoped would never come. There is so much yet to tell you, and I know you will overcome it all exactly as you were raised to do. Above all else, know that there is nothing that could ever change my devotion to you. You know that I have also loved your father these many long years. That has never been a lie, but our love was a convenience that will soon matter little to Lucius. You have seen his renewed zealotry. I know it terrifies you exactly as it does me. You know the world he intends to bring about and that it will not happen quietly. I am a selfish woman. I have loved the comfort my marriage afforded me, the security it brought you, the status, the wealth… but none of those things matter in the face of that inevitable chaos. You and I, my darling… we will be right in the center of it. Your father has ensured that. For now, please be satisfied in knowing that your grandmother and I are working toward a solution. You and I must only continue playing our parts until then. The spell on your back should allow you to dress as usual for dinner and avoid any undue attention from your father. He will be away again tomorrow and Mother will return so that we may speak further. If you have ever trusted me, ma fleur, please trust me now. Just as I have always done, I will do everything in my power to protect you.”
She released one of his hands to trail a soft caress down his cheek. He couldn’t help but to lean into it before she pulled her hand away.
Draco was at a loss. Narcissa Malfoy had always been a loving mother, but an emotional wellspring she was not.
“I… what other option do I have? I’ve been waiting to wake up since I walked in here, but I haven’t.” He laughed hollowly. “So this is all real. Everything really is falling apart.”
Aster must have finished with his back, because she patted his shoulder. “I believe that, eventually, you will see this for the gift that it is. We will teach you. It is the unteaching that will be difficult.”
He pulled his shirt back over his head and turned to face her again. “So you’re actually my grandmother?”
She smiled sadly. “Yes, but I understand if you’d rather not call me that.”
“I have manners. Thank you for your help, Grandmother Aster.”
Her smile twisted into a smirk that made him think rather uncomfortably of his own face. “We might make a Lord of you yet, young one.”
He excused himself to his chambers, not sure he could take much more unwanted information today and choosing to ignore whatever cryptic nonsense she had meant, but he turned before reaching the bend in the path.
“Grandmother,” he said.
“Yes, little flower?”
“You said there was one other and that they were around my age. Do you know their name? Is there a chance I know them?”
“I’m not entirely sure, dear. It’s been a bit of a mystery for many years. Their mother was a changeling, you see, and she was raised without any knowledge of our ways. She died quite young and the child vanished into the human world. But, if their name wasn’t changed, I’m fairly certain they were called Harry.”
Harry hadn’t even been back at Privet Drive for a week and already he didn’t know how much longer he could stand it. He was quite sure that he had never been this bored and exhausted in his entire life. Upon reflection, though, he supposed that, in reality, he probably had been - what with a history of being locked in a cupboard for days on end with nothing but a couple of broken toys and spiders to entertain himself. Maybe it was just that now he had another life to compare to his current situation. Not being allowed to use or even just witness magic after being constantly surrounded by it for the better part of a year was torture. It was only made worse by his inability to escape memories of the graveyard.
They came at the most inopportune times - Dudley and his gang shouting at unsuspecting children, Vernon dropping the remote too hard on the table in front of the telly, Petunia putting pots away in the kitchen cupboards, simply trying to sleep. He was surprised that Vernon hadn’t shouted at him more for all the times he had woken up screaming in the last few days. Hermione had mentioned on the train that there was a word for it and that it was completely normal and he had no reason to be ashamed. Ashamed or not, though, Harry just wanted it to stop. He wasn’t fragile or broken, no matter how obviously everyone seemed determined to treat him as if he was. What he was, was tired. He had tried to distract himself with the small stack of books hidden away in his school trunk, but one could only read Quidditch Through the Ages so many times before feeling the distinct need to incinerate it. Ron and Hermione’s solitary letters had been entirely devoid of useful information, but were, of course, sent with the same owl. He was near to giving up hope that they would even send any more at all before the next time they met at King’s Cross.
Seems like they're finally getting the alone-time that they so clearly need without me, the sods.
Eavesdropping on Vernon’s radio programs and nightly news provided short-term relief if only in their lack of Voldemort-related developments.
He scrubbed a hand over his face under his glasses to rub at the now constant ache between his eyes. There was nothing for it. He slid his tatty trainers on over socks that had a few too many holes. Time for a walk. At least the Dursleys’ hadn’t locked him in again this year. He had considered catching the Knight Bus to Diagon Alley a few times to convert some galleons to Muggle money at Gringotts, but he hadn’t quite convinced himself that it was worth dealing with the masses. Maybe today was the day. It might be nice to have some things to wear that actually fit, other than his school robes, and maybe shopping would be a decent distraction from… well, from everything.
And, if he was lucky, he could get his hands on a recent copy of the Prophet.
Now set on his mission, he pulled a vaguely dark, worn hoodie over his t-shirt, knowing full well that he would soon melt in the summer heat, but deciding it was worth it for the anonymity. He stuffed his wand into the back pocket of his too-large jeans and headed down the stairs and out the front door without so much as a glance toward his relatives. Privet Drive was exactly as it had always been, neat hedge rows, flowering window boxes, and nosy neighbors galore. Harry didn’t even bother fighting his scowl, hidden as it was under his hood. He knew Mrs. Next Door would have something to say about his skulking about, but there was nothing anyone could do to make the Dursleys hate him more than they already did. He walked to the end of the street, somewhat regretting his heavy choice of clothing, and ducked behind one of the taller hedges there to hold out his wand hand and call the bus. It careened into view with a screech, its violent purple and unreasonable height looking even more out of place in daylight than Harry remembered. He pulled his hood down further to cover his forehead, hoping that the driver this time was not Stan but was similarly oblivious, and climbed aboard when the conductor opened the doors.
“Good mornin’, sir!” The driver said, tipping his extremely purple conductor’s hat with, thankfully, no trace of recognition. “Name’s Eustace. What can I call ya an’ where can I take ya?”
Harry tried not to flounder. “Hi, Eustace. My name’s Neville. I’m just going to Diagon Alley, so, the Leaky, if you don’t mind. Thanks.”
“Happy to, happy to! Sit wherever ya like an’ we’ll be there in no time.” Eustace closed the folding doors and Harry made his way up to the third deck, dodging three or four other passengers as he went. The third deck was deserted, thankfully, so he sat near a window to watch the world funnel past, pulling his hood down for a moment to cool himself off, but putting it right back up just in case of prying eyes. The cooling charms in the bus were more than adequate, to his relief.
No time turned out to be more literal than Harry remembered. The bus slowed to a halt what felt like mere seconds later and Charing Cross bustled below. Harry watched the passengers he’d passed before disembark, and he headed out onto the street behind them with a short wave of thanks to Eustace before the door closed and the bus was on its way once more. Harry pulled at his hood again, confident it covered at least his most famous identifying features, and pushed his way through the doors of The Leaky Cauldron. He avoided eye contact with Tom, who was sure to recognize him, shouldering quickly past the bustling patrons to the enchanted brick wall behind the pub.
So far so good.
He had never seen Diagon before Hogwarts letters were distributed for fall term, and he was relieved to see that it was less than half as crowded as he was used to. The glances he noticed turned his way were very clearly just confusion regarding his ratty Muggle attire. Not even one seemed to be anything remotely like recognition. He breathed a little easier and walked a bit faster. The imposing marble of Gringotts loomed over the alley in the distance and he had no intention of spending any longer than he had to in Wizarding London, no matter how relieved he was to see the easy use of magic over every inch of the place.
He finally climbed the marble steps into the bank’s echoing hall, passing a stream of harried wix who were all clearly in the middle of very important business and didn’t give him a second glance. He approached the first open kiosk and was greeted by an equally impatient-looking goblin.
“Name and business?”
“Er, I was hoping I could speak with someone in private. Griphook helped me with my vault last time and I’d prefer him if he’s available. Uh, please.”
“As you wish. I will return with Griphook momentarily.” The goblin gave a curt bow and disappeared behind the row of kiosks.
Suddenly fidgety and uncomfortable after being abandoned by the unknown Goblin, Harry was picking at the sleeves of his hoodie and continuing to try to avoid eye contact with everyone in the room when he saw an unfortunately familiar head of white-blonde hair through the small crowd. Of course, the exact day and time he chose to visit Diagon Alley would be the exact day and time that Draco-bloody-Malfoy also had to visit.
Or maybe he just visits every day because he' s a disgustingly wealthy ponce and can’t go a day without spending exorbitant amounts of gold.
Everything had been going so well. He turned away to face the inside of his kiosk once again, hoping that Malfoy didn’t have quite the same acute sense for identifying Harry across rooms that Harry had developed for Malfoy.
Moments later, the soft touch he felt on his elbow told him that his hopes were in vain. Though, the realization made him feel oddly warm.
“Don’t turn around, Potter. When you finish here, meet me in the alley beside Fortescue’s. I’ll wait however long.” He heard Malfoy say. It sounded like he wasn’t facing Harry directly, as if he was trying to play it off as them simply standing next to each other. “I have to speak with you. It’s important. I’m not going to hex you or anything stupid like that. It won’t take long. Nod if you understand.”
Malfoy sounded oddly desperate, and his voice held none of its usual vitriol. Harry found himself nodding in spite of himself, and when he turned to look, Malfoy was already gone. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Griphook suddenly appeared beside him.
“This way,” Griphook said, motioning to a door fitted with a cloudy window behind the kiosks. Harry followed and lowered his hood when he heard the door click closed behind him. The room was sparsely, though lavishly furnished with two severe gilded chairs facing an ornately carved dark wood desk upon which was only a quill, ink, and parchment and a large set of golden scales. Griphook settled in the Goblin-sized rolling leather chair behind the desk. “What business do you need to discuss, Mr. Potter?” he asked.
“Do I have your guarantee that no word of me being here today will be leaked anywhere? Especially to the press?”
“Goblins have no use for the politics of wizardkind, Mr. Potter. You are here as a client of Gringotts, not a celebrity.” The last word came out with no small amount of disdain. This was exactly what Harry had been hoping for. Goblins tended to be harsh, but they also didn’t give a whit about his name.
“Perfect,” he said. “I really just need to make a withdrawal and convert a bit of gold to pounds without anyone identifying me. Do I need to go physically to my vault to do that?”
“That will be unnecessary. We can perform the transaction here and subtract the total from your vaults from a distance. Your first visit was only to have the vaults recognize your magical signature.” Griphook pulled what looked like a receipt book from one of the drawers in the desk and wrote Harry’s name on the first available entry. “How much would you like to withdraw and from which vault?”
Harry was sure he had heard wrong. “Sorry, did you say which vault? As in more than one?”
“You were unaware of the remaining Potter vaults?” Griphook narrowed his eyes at Harry as if he were a particularly petulant toddler. “Did you think the Potter fortune could be contained in only one traditional inheritance vault? No, child, the vault you visited is one of five and contains the smallest portion of the account and no non-monetary assets. You will be able to access the non-monetary assets when you come of age, but the total amount of the monetary fortune is accessible now. I can make a copy of your parents’ will if you would like to see their terms again.”
An inheritance. Harry’s parents had left him an inheritance that he knew nothing about. He ground his teeth with the effort to control the rage that felt like it was about to erupt through his skin. He could see the golden scales vibrating on Griphook’s desk and willed himself calm. It wasn’t Griphook’s fault that his only major caregiver had intentionally kept him in the dark for years. The scales stopped rattling.
“I don’t need that much today. Three hundred galleons should be more than enough. Could you convert two hundred to pounds? And I would very much like a copy of the will, and, if you have a, er, list of the non-monetary assets, I would appreciate a copy of that as well.”
“Very well.”
Griphook scratched the transaction out onto the receipt and held it over for Harry to sign. As soon as Harry’s quill left the paper, the receipt triplicated itself, one copy floating to Harry, one to Griphook’s outstretched hand, and the third to a file in a drawer of the desk. Griphook dropped his copy onto a small rectangle carved into the desk that Harry hadn’t noticed before, and slid his clawed finger across the total lines. A small sack appeared in place of the receipt with two rolls of fifty galleons and a small stack of shiny £50 notes sitting next to it. Griphook placed the coins and notes inside the bag and tapped another drawer on the desk, which opened to what seemed like an infinite filing system. He held a finger to the side of the drawer and the files flitted past and finally slowed over what Harry assumed were the P’s. Griphook pulled four pieces of somewhat yellowed parchment from a file, tapped them once to duplicate them, dropped the originals back in the drawer, and separated the copies into a single page and a stack of three.
He pointed to the single page. “The will,” he said, and folded it, before pointing to the stack of three and saying, “accounting of non-monetary assets,” and folding those three pages together. Both documents were sealed in a crisp envelope and dropped into the sack with the withdrawal.
He pushed the sack across the desk to Harry. “Will that be all, Mr. Potter?”
Harry couldn’t help but smile. Why couldn’t everyone be as straightforward as Goblins? “Yeah, that’s all, Griphook. I appreciate your efficiency.” He stood, bowed to Griphook in thanks, pulled his hood back over his forehead, exited the way he came… and crossed the street to what he assumed was his doom at Fortescue’s.
He turned into the small alley and seemed to be alone, so he called out quietly. “Malfoy?” He jumped when a disembodied hand shot out of nowhere and dragged him further back into the alley by the arm.
Luckily, it was Malfoy’s voice he heard saying, “Merlin, you’re twitchy. If you had walked another meter, you would have seen me past the notice-me-not.”
Harry ripped his arm away. “I’m getting really bloody tired of being startled today, you git. You’re lucky I didn’t just punch you,” he said. “I thought we couldn’t do magic outside of school.”
“Obviously I didn’t cast it, moron. Mother did. There’s a muffling spell too, so no one should hear us.” Malfoy looked around the alley like a spooked cat before settling his eyes back on Harry. “So…,” he said, looking incredibly uncomfortable, “how have you been feeling lately?”
“Did you really corner me in a dark alley to talk about feelings, Malfoy? What the hell is going on?”
Malfoy dragged a hand through his long blonde hair.
Long? His hair wasn’t that long a week ago. It’s past his shoulders now. It’s not slicked back either. Has it always been wavy like that? It looks much better like this.
Malfoy jolted him out of his thoughts by speaking again.
“No, of course not, we just don’t normally talk like this and I’m not really sure how to go about it. Um. Before I go any further, just read this.” He pulled an envelope out of a pocket in his robe that had “Mr. Potter” written across the front in fancy, looping letters, and handed it to Harry.
“You wrote me a letter?”
“Not me, you utter pillock, my mother.”
“Why isn’t she here, by the way? You said she cast the charms on the alley.”
“She said you would likely feel safer with just me at first since I can’t use my wand.”
“Huh. Kind of her, I suppose.”
“Just read it, Potter.”
Harry rolled his eyes, but opened the letter regardless.
Dear Mr. Potter,
I know that you and my son have not gotten along these last few years at school, and that is, unfortunately, the fault of his father and myself. We have encouraged him to treat others around him as lesser, including you because of your mother ’s Muggle heritage. I do not say these things to excuse Draco or myself, I simply wish for you to continue reading this letter with an open mind in the knowledge that Draco and I are aware that we have made a great many mistakes.
He and I find ourselves in grave danger. As I am sure you know, The Dark Lord has returned. The Ministry may be denying it, but we know the truth. Lucius has returned to his position at Voldemort ’s side, and this time he certainly intends to drag at least my son, if not me as well, along with him. I had hoped for many years after the war that Lucius would never return to the life he led as a Death Eater, that, maybe, The Dark Lord’s disappearance in 1981 was truly the end. Now that it is clear that my hopes were in vain, I must ask for your assistance. Please know that I do not ask lightly, and that Draco understands the consequences as well. If you are able to hide us, Lucius will undoubtedly remove me from all of our family accounts as well as disinherit Draco. We will be at your mercy. I intend to withdraw all that I can from my personal accounts without inciting suspicion, but it will not last forever and there are not many places that will be safe for us to stay for any length of time.
Since you seem to still be reading, please allow me to offer you a closely guarded secret as collateral for your assistance and silence:
Draco and I are not fully human, and we suspect that Draco will soon come into an even rarer inheritance as a male Omega.
I ’m sure you can see how this would make our position precarious within Voldemort’s impending regime. Draco had no knowledge of his non-human heritage prior to this summer, and has confided in me that he has had doubts as to his father’s allegiances since witnessing the horrific events at the end of your last school term. We are both also aware that Lucius was in attendance that night, and he has been frighteningly manic since then as well.
There is so much more to be said, but know that our safety currently dangles by a thread. I cannot offer much in return other than the limited information that Draco and I currently possess regarding The Dark Lord ’s movements and our secret heritage, but know that I am willing to do whatever it takes to keep my child safe.
This includes apologizing to you, a, hopefully, former enemy. I am sorry that Draco and, by extension, I have caused you and your friends and family any grief over the years. I endeavor never to do so again.
I will allow Draco to apologize for himself, as he has assured me he will.
I look forward to your reply, and hope that we can come to an accord of some kind very soon.
Sincerely,
Narcissa Malfoy.
Harry looked up at Malfoy who had not stopped pacing and frantically checking the entrances to the alley the entire time Harry read Mrs. Malfoy’s letter. Wix continued to walk bast the entrance to the alley, not glancing toward the two of them at all.
“Is what she said about you having second thoughts before knowing about your heritage true?” Harry asked.
“Of course it’s true, Potter. Why would Mother lie about about something that would needlessly damage our reputation? She’d rather die.”
“This is still so suspicious though. Why in the world would you come to me?”
Malfoy paused his pacing to stare at Harry incredulously, raking his hand through his now very unruly hair once more.
“Honestly? I always knew you were dense, but this is bordering on imbecilic. If you were in danger at this moment, do you really think something wouldn’t have already happened? Bloody fucking hell, Potter, we could have apparated you away to Merlin knows where, forced you to tell us all your secrets with veritaserum, and dumped you dead in a ditch by now. We’d rather not reveal all our cards to Dumbledore, and, besides him, who else is there other than you?”
He resumed pacing without giving Harry a chance to respond.
He did have a point, Harry supposed. It’s not as if Harry could have done much to protect himself out here, alone, as an underage wizard. Not to mention he was trusting Dumbledore less and less as time passed, with today’s visit to Gringotts only reaffirming his growing suspicions.
“So… you’re really not fully human? What’s your heritage?”
Malfoy finally stopped pacing and sat heavily on an upturned crate. Harry thought he saw him wince as his back brushed the wall behind him.
“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you,” he said. “And it’s not far enough along to show you yet. Not that it would be a good idea to show you in public anyway.”
“Show me what?”
Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen Malfoy so conflicted. He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, ran a hand through his stupid, pretty hair again, and finally spoke.
“I’ll have giantbloodywings in about a week,” he hissed through gritted teeth.
“You’ll have what?”
“WINGS, Potter. Mother and Grandmother say they’ll probably be white like theirs. My back has been bloody sore since my birthday. Grandmother says they should have come in by now, but, apparently, they’re taking a bit longer than average since they’re bigger than most. Possibly later tonight or tomorrow if I’m lucky.”
“Wings, right. So, what… you’re like, a bird? You’re not part Veela, are you?”
Though that would explain a couple of things.
“No, I’m not a bird, Potter, Circe, and I’m not part Veela either. According to Grandmother, she, my mother, and I are all High Fae. Yes, I know, ha ha, High Fae don’t exist, but I can assure you, that’s what my grandmother is. She looks more like my mother than anyone I’ve ever seen, so I believe my mother is as well. It’s quite likely that I am too, if the ridiculous, swollen wing ridges all the way down my back are any indication.
Harry scoffed. “You said they don’t exist like I'm supposed to know that. You know my background.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You know I was raised by Muggles, and I didn’t even know I was a wizard until I was eleven, right? If it’s not been taught, how would I know?”
Doesn' t everyone know that? Isn’t that why you’ve been such a horrible bully?
To his credit, Malfoy appeared genuinely surprised.
“What?” he said.
“You were the first wizard I ever met Malfoy. Well, first if you don’t include Hagrid.”
Harry could see the hot flush of embarrassment creek up Malfoy’s neck and had the bizarre thought hat it was really rather a pretty pink. He blinked hard and looked away.
Not a Veela.
“I was the first wizard you ever met and I made a right twat of myself,” Malfoy said, laughing humorlessly. “Merlin, if I hadn’t been horrid, I might have been your first wizard friend.”
“First friend at all,” Harry absently corrected. Then it was his turn to flush when he realized what he’d said.
There really wasn’t anything he could say to come back from that.
Harry had expected Malfoy’s face to light up in vicious victory, but when he finally looked up at him, he only saw confusion and, perhaps… curiosity?
“You really didn’t grow up as the pampered Chosen One, did you?”
The harsh laugh that escaped Harry’s throat surprised both of them.
“That’s really what you thought? That I grew up pampered and beloved? No wonder you hated me!” His laughter was becoming uncontrollable. “How- how in the world did you come to the conclusion that I was some spoiled celebrity baby while I waltzed around in- in clearly secondhand… everything? Did you think I just did it for attention?”
Malfoy’s flush had nearly reached his hairline. “Alright, you’ve made your point, you prat. So it wasn’t the most rational conclusion, but you’ve no idea the sort of stories wizarding children grew up with about you. You were practically a myth. It didn’t make sense for you to be… humble of all things.”
Harry didn’t know what to say. This was Malfoy. Malfoy wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Agreeable? Cute?
“You and your mother really are in danger, aren’t you?” Harry said.
Malfoy nodded.
“And you said your wings will come in any time now?”
Another nod.
Harry thought for a moment. He was so in the dark about everything. No one had told him anything about safe houses or extraction plans. His current job was to sit down and shut up.
How in the world could he help Draco and his mother if Harry couldn’t even help himself?
And, Merlin, now even his thoughts were classifying Malfoy as Draco.
Decision apparently made, he held out his right hand, but Draco looked at him like he’d just said the Cannons had won the World Cup.
“Just shake my hand, Draco. Let’s start over.”
Draco’s silver eyes narrowed a fraction, but he took the offered hand. Harry tried not to stare at the contrast between his own coppery skin and Draco’s distinct paleness.
“Should I call you Harry then?” Draco asked, looking vaguely as if he had bitten down on something bitter.
Harry shrugged and released Draco’s hand, pointedly not dwelling on the strange sense of loss that followed. “Might as well, I guess. You know, I gave as good as I got with you, I think, so I as long as you’re trying to be better, I don’t think I need the apology your mum mentioned. Hermione though… I really hope you’ll apologize to her when you get the chance. And I know you and Ron have some kind of house feud going on. I don’t expect you two to get along perfectly, but attacking his family for being poor was kinda low.”
“Ah, yes, the Great Malfoy/Weasley Grudge,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “Father has never told me exactly why he hates Arthur Weasley so much. The rest of the family is just hated due to proximity. Whatever it is with Father and Mr. Weasley is personal. I’ve just always resented your Weasley for insulting my last name from the jump and then somehow convincing everyone he’s some sort of noble peasant.”
“Hey-“
Draco waved an impatient hand. “Oh, stand down. I’m insulting his character, not his economic status. Regardless, the three of you have never been punished for things that the any of the rest of us would have been expelled for. The favoritism is infuriating. As for Granger, if not for her I’d be top of our class. Did you know that? I’ve had to go to my father every year for the past four years just to tell him I came in second behind a Muggleborn girl. You can imagine his response. Everyone knows she’ll be Minister for Magic someday, though. No use denying it anymore.”
Harry thought he might be having a stroke. “Merlin… ‘Mione might actually hug you if you tell her that. And if you ever admit to Ron that you were jealous, he’ll probably faint on the spot.”
“Beautiful and life-altering as it would be to watch Weasley collapse just from a few simple words, you know I never will.”
“Right, yeah. Can’t have people thinking that Malfoys actually have feelings.”
“Yes, how very astute of you,” Draco said, nodding sagely. “Now, I’m assuming that with this truce, you’re also agreeing to do something about Mother’s and my predicament?”
“Er, well,” Harry rubbed the back of his neck, “I really only have one decent idea that doesn’t involve getting Dumbledore’s help, and I don’t know how long it'll work, if at all…. Remember how I said I was raised by Muggles?” Draco nodded. “I still live with them over summer hols. Not by choice, honestly, they’re some of the worst people I’ve ever encountered. My mother’s sister’s family. The only reason I go back is that there’s some kind of protective enchantment over the house that keeps Voldemort -“ Draco flinched at the name “-from being able to locate me. I don’t really know the specifics, but Dumbledore told me he broadened the enchantments to include the other people living there. The place is probably tiny in comparison to your… mansion? Manor? But I don’t know of anywhere safer other than Hogwarts. I'm only out today because I finally lost my patience with my secondhand wardrobe.” He motioned to his obviously too-large and worn out clothing. “The Muggles are horrid to me because they hate magic, but they’re also afraid of it. They know I’m not allowed to do magic outside of school since I’m underage, but I have a feeling that your mother could probably intimidate them into letting you both stay. At least until we figure out some other arrangement. And your mother can do as much magic as she wants in front of them since they already know about it. She just can’t curse them, but I don’t think they know that.” Harry paused for a moment as a thought struck him. “Don’t go thinking they’re horrible because they’re Muggles. There are plenty of wonderful Muggle people, like Hermione’s parents. The Dursleys are awful just because they’re awful… and I think my aunt may have been jealous of my mum.”
Draco held up his hands in capitulation. “Don’t worry. I know you don’t have reason to believe me yet, but seeing Diggory dead in that maze made me question a lot of things. He may have been a Hufflepuff, but he was proper pureblood by my father’s standards. He should have been safe in the supposed utopia The Dark Lord is bringing. I’m not stupid. I can see hypocrisy when it’s that obvious.”
Harry just barely fought down a wave of fight-or-flight at the mention of Cedric and the maze. He took a few deep breaths to slow his heart. “So… you’d be alright sharing a house with more-horrid-than-average Muggles if it means being safe? They have a guest bedroom, but that’s the only unoccupied room in the house. You'll have to bunk with me unless you’d rather share with your mother, and we’ll all have to share a bathroom regardless.”
Harry should have taken the smirk that crossed Draco’s face for the warning that it was.
“My, Harry, we just shook hands and you’re already asking me to move in with you? Moving rather fast, don’t you think? At least take me out for dinner first.”
Harry sputtered in indignation, mostly at the furious blush that he knew was creeping up his neck and over his ears. “For your protection! Is this what it’s going to be like to be your friend?”
“Oh, it will be much, much worse. You can owl Pansy or Blaise for confirmation, but I can’t guarantee they won’t lie, especially if they know the letter is from you. I’ve always thought they were rather worse than me.”
“Wonderful. Slytherins in my house. What was I thinking?”
Draco’s smirk finally became a full-on smile, too-sharp canines and all, the one that was never directed at Harry, and Harry only felt his neck heat further.
No one should be allowed to be that pretty. Especially not former enemies.
“So,” Draco said, suddenly sheepish, “would it be too soon for me to be there tonight? Mother could come a few days later after she gathers what she can take with her from the manor. She could tell Father that I’m staying with a friend and he won’t think anything of it as long as he doesn’t talk to Blaise’s mother in the meantime. Mother could come with us and transfigure whatever furniture we need and threaten your Muggles before she returns home.”
Harry couldn’t help but to laugh at the absurd thought of the Dursleys cowering before Narcissa Malfoy and wondered whether or not he should feel guilty for it.
“I think that could actually work,” he said. “Were you wanting to go home first? My whole plan for today was to go shopping in Muggle London if you want to come. You’re going to have to get used to the Muggle world eventually, and you could spend the day continuing to try to win me over. We could get you some Muggle clothes too while we’re out so you blend in better.” Then he surprised himself by continuing. “We could even do that dinner you mentioned if you feel adventurous enough to try Muggle food. I’ll even pay.”
It was Draco’s turn to be taken off guard. His ears pinkened a bit before he could school his features back into faux disdain. “Sounds fine to me, but I expect the food to at least be tolerable. It would not do for me to sick up at my first meeting with your Muggles." He stood and dusted his robes off. "We should go find Mother. Merlin knows she’s probably still in Twilfit and Tattings and hasn’t even noticed it’s past lunch.”
Harry pulled his hood down further over his forehead again and braced himself for their to return to the land of the public.
“Alright, then. Lead the way.”