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Bad Faith	By : Jad Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 6104 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
- 6
Notes:

This chapter marks the beginnings of flashbacks. Since the books only cover Harry's POV, I started dedicating the beginning portion of each chapter from herein with a flashback to years previous. These begin with a lot of insight to Draco's side of things, and continue to outline both he and Harry's time spent between the end of book six to the beginning of this fic. It's only the first part of each chapter, and fairly easy to follow, as all the flashbacks occur in chronological order.

IV

Smoke and Mirrors

Standing face to face

Enemies at war we build defences

And secret hiding places

—Savage Garden, Hold Me

: : : : :

At fourteen, Draco was more than familiar with how to conduct a wizard's duel. The proper etiquette was quite simple to memorise, most of it comprising of a fair-and-square approach to magical engagement, with good posture, formality and polite conduct being maintained at all times—

'Fuck!'

'Language, Draco.'

—but his father always insisted on these bloody practice sessions anyway.

Once a week during the summer holidays, Lucius took several hours out of his busy day to exercise his son's spellwork. The repertoire of spells and the length of the duels had expanded over the years, but Draco had yet to overcome his father—something Lucius was sure to mention at the end of every session.

Draco scowled at his father. 'You did that on purpose!'

Lucius raised a pale eyebrow. 'I do everything on purpose.'

Draco massaged his ribs just below his left arm. His father's Stinging Hex hurt a hell of a lot more than anything his classmates could dish out; it was as if Lucius knew every area of the human body with sensitive nerves and made sure to hit them every time—making the effect of the spell that much more powerful.

'Again,' Lucius said, hardly giving his son time to recover.

Knowing better than to argue, Draco stood up straight and raised his wand at the ready.

His father always varied the amount of time he would wait before casting—yet somehow, he always managed to get a spell off before his son could finish an incantation. It irritated Draco no end that his father could always anticipate his upcoming moves simply by watching him, and so he rarely tried to cast the first spell.

This time, he did not have to wait long. Almost immediately, Lucius snapped, 'Serpensortia!'

Responding with 'Muto funis!' Draco transfigured the snake, mid-strike and just inches from his calf, into a harmless piece of rope—which Lucius immediately used to his advantage. His father attacked with 'Incarcerous!' and the rope sprang to life, intent on securing itself around Draco's shoulders.

'Incendio!' With the sound of a whiplash, the rope his father had sent to ensnare him blazed aflame, and the ashy remains sprinkled slowly to the floor. Lucius raised his eyebrows slightly. Draco was well aware that the ability to incinerate something so quickly was impressive at his age, and he dimly noted that he'd gained some approval.

Using this momentary lapse in his father's attention to his advantage, Draco cast a Shield Charm—with a twist. He knew that any defensive spell could, theoretically, be used as an offensive spell with the right application and necessary ingenuity—in this case, he had directed the Shield Charm at his father rather than around himself, so that a semi-visible barrier of magic hurtled at Lucius at high speed.

Lucius cocked his head and, quick as a snake striking, flicked his wand before him and conjured his own shield—a silvery, reflective and stationary wall appeared before him, and Draco's hex collided with it and rebounded, effectively being thrown back towards its caster. Draco, unprepared to deflect his own spell, took the full impact of the spell, and was knocked from his feet and onto his back. The hardwood floor bit harshly into his shoulder blades and stars danced in front of his eyes as his head connected with the floor, hard.

Before his son could recover Lucius had disarmed him. Wincing and cursing, Draco sat up, rubbing the back of his head. He shot his father an accusatory look. 'You said no dark magic!'

'I also said never to take the word of your opponent for granted,' his father replied smugly.

'Do mine ears deceive me?' asked a sweet voice from behind Draco. 'A Malfoy disregarding the rules of a duel?'

Narcissa, looking windblown, had her hair tied back in a long ponytail, and was dressed in riding slacks and a long, white cloak. She offered her son a hand up, which he gratefully accepted, grabbing his wand and climbing sorely to his feet.

'I'm fine,' he said dismissively as she tilted her head to look him over.

'You're improving,' Lucius said from behind her. 'But you keep making the same mistakes, Draco. How many times must I tell you? Never cast a spell upon your opponent that—'

'—I don't know how to deflect,' Draco finished, aware that he made this mistake frequently.

'It's no use having a wide array of offensive spells—or even the ability to invent your own,' Lucius added with a small smirk, '—if you have no way to defend yourself against them. A worthy opponent will always use them to his advantage.'

'Especially if the opponent in question doesn't know how to deflect them himself, and has to neglect his own rules to win,' Narcissa added with a reproving look over her shoulder at her husband. 'I don't know how you expect him to improve if you keep contradicting your own instructions.'

Draco smirked as he sensed his father bristling from across the room. The only thing that agitated Lucius more than being scolded by his wife was being belittled at the same time—something Narcissa seemed to have perfected over twenty years of marriage. Lucius ignored her comment and focused his gaze back on Draco. 'Again,' he commanded.

Very nonchalantly, Narcissa tilted her son's chin up with her hand. With her back to her husband, she whispered to Draco, 'Play your strengths,' and made her way to the far side of the room to observe from a safe distance. Picking up his wand, Draco held it at the ready again. This time, he attacked first.

Draco's Freezing Charm was easily blocked by Lucius, but it effectively put his father on the defensive. Draco attacked again, this time with the Spiderweb Snare Jinx. It was a very weak, simple spell, but Draco anticipated his father deflecting it, and as Lucius shouted 'Diffindo!' to cut through the web, Draco directed his wand at his father's feet and followed his mother's advice with 'Potior evincio!'

Although proficient with Potions, Draco's strongest subject with spellcasting involved was easily Transfiguration—another trait he'd inherited from his mother, for Lucius was more adept with Charms than anything else. Using this skill, he directed the polished hardwood to spring up beneath his father, forming several long, entangling roots. If the creative twist of using Transfiguration to attack, however, surprised his father, Lucius did not show it; he reacted almost instantly with 'Magus infectum!'

It was a fast, clever deflection; both a defence and an offence, it corrupted the magic and reversed Draco's spell onto himself, and before he could think of a way to counter it, Draco felt the floor beneath him move and hard, cool wood wrapped tightly around his lower legs and wrists, snaring him. Under the direction of Lucius' wand, the root around the wrist of Draco's wand hand squeezed particularly hard, to the point where it felt that his wrist would snap into pieces. He let out a sharp gasp of pain and his wand clattered to the floor, useless.

Satisfied with his victory, Lucius lifted his wand. The roots retracted into the floor, which turned smooth and solid once more. Draco dropped to his knees as he was released, rubbing his wrist with his other hand.

'Unless you render your opponent defenceless first,' Lucius said patiently, 'spells without instant effects are often a waste of energy. Nice try, though.'

'Oh, I beg to differ,' Narcissa said from her seat on the windowsill.

'Don't you always,' Lucius murmured under his breath before turning to face his wife. 'I don't know how you expect him to improve if you keep contradicting my instructions,' he said with a touch of irritation in his voice.

'By his learning to interpret several different approaches to duelling, and then adapting them until he discovers the method that works best for him,' she replied in a sweet, matter-of-fact tone.

She directed her next comment to Draco, who had retrieved his wand and was sat cross-legged on the floor. 'Instantaneous spells are only truly instant if you do not have to speak the incantation—and to defend against an opponent who is able to cast non-verbally, pre-cast, lingering spell effects are often more useful than anything you'll be able to cast after engagement.'

Lucius gave her a knowing look. 'You've been duelling Severus again, I presume.'

'Mm,' she replied, smiling. 'And doing rather well, if I should say so myself. Better than you, at any rate.'

Lucius narrowed his eyes. 'He goes easy on you.'

'You'd like to think so,' Narcissa said mildly, pretending to inspect her nails.

'Hardly,' Lucius said derisively. 'He's afraid of hurting you.'

'You mean, you just think he's afraid of what you'd do to him if he did,' she reiterated.

'He'll never manage to do so unless he conducts a proper duel with you,' Lucius snarled, his patience waning. 'So I daresay he has nothing to fear.'

'Is that so?' Narcissa said, having finally looked up from her nails, blue eyes shifting to Lucius without moving her head. 'Care to show me what a proper duel is like, darling?'

Lucius twirled his wand briefly between his fingers before looking up at Draco. 'Move,' he snapped.

Draco stood up and quickly backed out of the way, stopping at the wall beside the door and leaning against it. Narcissa smirked and shrugged off her cloak, withdrawing her wand from her sleeve. It was unusually long, nearly fourteen inches, and rich mahogany in colour. She quickly moved to stand opposite her husband.

'Anything goes?' she asked mildly.

Lucius nodded curtly. 'Anything goes.'

There was very little warning before the duel began; his father bowed his head ever-so-slightly, his mother did a very curtailed curtsey, and then Narcissa shouted 'Eternus nox!' just half a breath before Lucius attacked with 'Imperio!'

The entire room was bathed in darkness, and not merely the kind of darkness that you see after nightfall. It was the kind of darkness you can't see in—the kind you experience when thrown in a box and buried six feet underground. It was a smart cast—Lucius always hit hard as quickly as he could, and the darkness prevented him from finding his target.

Only a mere second after darkness had fallen, Lucius ended it with 'Finite incantatem!' and then several things happened in very quick succession.

Narcissa attacked first with 'Succendo!' and flames erupted where Lucius had stood a moment before, having dodged backwards out of the ring before the spell could land. He tried the Imperius Curse once more, but Narcissa, expecting such a thing, avoided it easily. She countered with 'Discerpo!' aiming to dislocate his wand arm, but missed, creating a sizable crater in the wall behind him.

Lucius followed with 'Laniatus!' and a white, boomerang-shaped streak made for Narcissa's throat.

'Protego!' The boomerang ricocheted off the shield charm Narcissa cast and cartwheeled back towards Lucius, who jerked his head out of the way as it went careening past and disappeared as the spell wore off. Without waiting for retaliation, Narcissa continued with 'Sectumsempra!'

Something flashed in his father's eyes as he heard the spell she cast. Lucius didn't miss a beat, however; with the kind of reflexes and quick thinking that come only with experience, he thrust his wand forward and shouted, 'Expecto patronum!'

Besides the prank gone horribly wrong that previous school year (involving one Marcus Flint, a big cloak and a ghostly stag charging down from the Heavens), Draco had never seen a Patronus Charm in such close quarters before. His father's Patronus was, unsurprisingly, much more impressive than Potter's; a silvery-white dragon exploded out of Lucius' wand, crouching low to fit in the room, with its wings flailed sideways and mouth open in an impressive snarl.

Draco's eyes widened a little. He had never heard the spell his mother had used before, but for Lucius to conjure to Patronus to absorb it meant a couple of things; firstly, it was very dark magic, because a Patronus was about as far from dark magic as you could get and therefore an excellent way to defend against it; and secondly, the curse, whatever it was, could not be blocked, for if it could, Lucius surely wouldn't have bothered with such a powerful spell as the Patronus Charm.

Sure enough, as the curse Narcissa had cast connected with the ghostly guardian, it was sliced cleanly in half and the beast vanished, roaring, in a great sweep of silver mist. Lucius jerked backwards as the mist cleared. On closer inspection, Draco saw why—even though his father's Patronus had successfully intercepted the worst of the spell, a very small portion of the curse had hit him, and had left a nasty slash across his cheek.

'Expellimarius!' Lucius snapped—it was a trivial attempt at offence, a distraction, and it worked. Narcissa blocked it easily with another shield charm, and Draco watched in mingled horror and awe as his father immediately followed it with 'Crucio!'

There was a sharp cry of pain from Narcissa, which was followed by a louder shout from Lucius, more of surprise than pain, and he fell harshly against the wall behind him. It appeared that he had also felt pain from the curse. Draco knew that there were protective spells that would cause the caster to feel their victim's pain when they used a particular spell; his mother must have anticipated her husband's use of the Cruciatus, and cast such a spell in the earlier darkness in order to interrupt his casting.

Not losing a beat, Narcissa followed his curse with 'Potior evincio!' and the brass light fixture attached to the wall sprang to life and twisted around Lucius' wrist; his wand hand, splayed against the wall from his impact, was at once held flush against the wall. Draco saw his father snarl slightly and attempt to pull his wrist free, but Narcissa pulled back her wand as if it were a lasso, tightening the metal coil around his arm.

With a painful crack that Draco suspected was bone snapping, the brass coils snapped Lucius' wrist up high and tight against the wall, and his wand clattered to the floor. With a smug smirk and a 'Hm' noise, Narcissa resumed a refined posture and summoned Lucius' wand with a lazy Accio. She glanced at Draco, and her wand, pointed at Lucius, dropped slightly. 'As you can see, lasting spell effects can ward off crucial spells cast by your enemy, even killing blows, when it will be most efficacious for—'

As soon as her wand had dropped short of her husband, there was a loud crack—Lucius had Disapparated so quickly that by the time Narcissa had reacquired him as a target, he had re-appeared behind her and, using his good arm, he seized the wands from her hand and thrust both under her throat.

'You were saying?' he murmured dangerously into her ear. 'You haven't won until I'm dead, darling.'

Narcissa paused, shifting her gaze from Draco to the wands at her throat, and slowly smiled. Then, with a sickening snap, she seized Lucius' broken wrist, gave it a painful twist and yanked her throat out of harm's way. As she twisted his wrist she spun around behind him, taking his arm with her, and simultaneously thrust her elbow into the shoulder of the arm she held, and kicked the back of one of his knees.

Lucius hit the floor on his other hand and knee, cursing harshly. He still held the wands and, using the heel of her boot, Narcissa trapped his hand between her foot and the floor. Smirking and still holding his arm at an unnatural angle behind his back, Narcissa calmly scooped her wand from the floor and used it to smooth back some of the hair from her husband's face.

'Are you dead yet, sweetheart?' she asked sweetly.

'Hardly.' Lucius managed to say the words with a sneer, despite the rather painful position his body was twisted into.

Narcissa tutted. 'How's your wrist feeling?'

'Brilliant,' Lucius replied dryly. 'Are you quite finished? This sadistic conduct of yours is getting dull.'

Sighing dramatically, Narcissa released his wounded arm, but did not remove her foot from his hand, instead squatting down beside him and poising her wand neatly under his chin.

'You're no fun anymore,' she drawled.

Lucius' expression flickered ever so slightly; one eyebrow arched just a tick, his head tilted to the side, and the malevolence from the argument and the duel disappeared as if blown out like a candle. 'I don't recall ever being any fun,' he replied smoothly.

Draco was obviously missing something important; he had never, not once, seen his parents have a full-on row, but he had noticed something like this on many occasions. His mother frequently infuriated his father on different levels, something Draco himself was not brave enough to do, and even though he had never seen her bow to his father's temper, they always managed to resolve the issue without even raising their voices. Draco had finally given up trying to figure it out, and just accepted the fact that he did not understand his parents.

Narcissa gave him that slow, sagacious smile again and brought her face very close to his. 'You have a terrible memory,' she told him.

'You're welcome to refresh it,' Lucius offered.

This is disgusting, Draco decided and, rolling his eyes in a very exaggerated fashion, left the room.

Neither of them noticed him go.

: : : : :

The article Draco had taken from Auror Headquarters was nearly three years old. He had read it over several times, more out of boredom than anything, and each time, he felt a small twinge of disbelief at how unbelievably idiotic the entire ordeal was. Harry Potter turning down a professional Seeker position? No wonder it had made headlines, it was a bloody mental thing to do, no matter what he claimed his excuses were. Everyone knew Harry Potter was made to be a Seeker—even Draco would acknowledge that, albeit grudgingly, if anyone had the means to make him admit it. It was as if flying were written into Harry's genetic code, he was just thatgood. Puddlemere had seemed to think so, anyway, if they had offered him a spot on the team without so much as holding official tryouts.

Stupidity must have also been written into Harry's genetic code, Draco thought, for Harry to turn them down.

Draco had been, not surprisingly, unable to sleep at all. The shift-lag from his transformation had been uncharacteristically bad, probably due to the fact that he had had nothing to eat beforehand and had not eaten afterwards, despite the fact that Dobby had a tempting entrée of lamb cutlets waiting when they arrived back at Harry's flat; nothing ruined a healthy appetite for meat like morphing into a herbivore with a strict diet of grass and alfalfa. The smell of the cooked meat alone had made him feel nauseous.

Harry had said very little on the trip back. That had surprised Draco, for he had expected an onslaught of questions from Harry about what the memories had meant, or how he had managed to attain an Animagus form without any sort of help, or even a demand to know what sort of arrangements Draco had made for the trip to the Manor—but his personal antagonist kept his thoughts to himself, effectively handing Draco the cold shoulder.

Snubbing was a ploy of Potter's that Draco had grown very familiar with over their years together at Hogwarts. It infuriated Draco to be treated this way by anyone, especially someone like Harry, from whom Draco felt was owed recognition. Being ignored by Harry was worse than being ignored by his own father; Lucius, at least, had proven how important a figure he was. Harry was nothing special—he liked to pretend he was, Draco had always known better—but Harry still ignored Draco like it was nothing, because Harry thought he was better than Draco.

Draco suspected that Harry was well aware of how it made him feel, and ostracised him on purpose just to piss him off.

Draco dropped the old Prophet on the coffee table, squinting in the first rays of sunlight that were creeping through the windows. Not having slept wasn't enough to break his habit of being up and running at six every morning, for he was able to manage the lack of sleep easily—he always had been. He supposed that it had to do with his mother being right, as all mothers tended to be—Narcissa was of the opinion that her son possessed an unusually high metabolism. According to her, Draco had been a nightmare child between the ages of three and thirteen, rarely taking naps and running around for hours on end until his father had opted to buy his son a broom, so that at least most of the mayhem Draco was causing occurred outside of the house. It also gave Draco the ability to eat an ungodly amount of food without ever gaining extra weight, and even the slightest amount of sugar would send him quite literally bouncing off the walls. Draco was aware that his father had complained to the Educational Board on many occasions that strict diets should be enforced for students, more than likely due to the fact that Hogwarts had been notoriously bad at encouraging Draco's hyperactive behaviour with its lavish meals and desserts every day.

Had his father known Dobby was just as responsible for Draco's inability to sit still for more than thirty seconds, the house-elf probably would have been sacked a lot sooner.

'Mr Harry Potter isn't having lots of foods Master Malfoy likes,' Dobby informed him. 'So yesterday Dobby is going to Diagon Alley and getting Master Malfoy some of his favourites!'

Nothing, Draco decided, could ever make him angry enough to kick a house-elf that spoiled him this bloody rotten.

'Dobby, if it weren't for the undeniable gross factor involved,' Draco said, 'I could kiss you.'

Dobby, looking extremely pleased with himself, left Draco a large sack of goodies on the coffee table before wandering off to the kitchen to fix breakfast. Poking through the goods, Draco found his mind wandering over their plans for the upcoming day. As much as he tried to ignore them, his nerves prickled mercilessly at his consciousness.

It wasn't as if strangers had never been to the Manor before; his father had had people around constantly, so often that Draco came to recognise faces before names in many cases. But those times, his father had always been head of the house. Mature, cool, and confident, Lucius was always in complete control of any given situation, especially inside his own home. And with Mother always looking beautiful and smiling at his side, they had made ideal hosts, the picture-perfect couple you'd expect in such a wealthy estate.

During his youth, Draco's higher-than-average energy levels had frequently resulted in him being told off for amusing himself indoors when they had company and getting kicked outside like a puppy yet to be house-trained. As a result, Draco never had to worry much about house guests; all Draco would have to do was dress carefully and make sure to use 'sir' at the end of every sentence—and as long as he behaved in front of them, didn't disrupt his father's business and, in general, stayed out of the way, he was free to do what he pleased.

And, so, Draco hadn't really thought about it before last night—the responsibility of turning over the Manor for investigation, much less personally escorting a troop of strangers in to dissect his home. Had things been normal, he wouldn't have had to make the arrangements, or worry about the details. Father always took care of that sort of thing. With his father gone now...

No, not now—that wasn't right. As far as he was concerned, his father had been dead the moment he had walked out the door.

'Master Malfoy, sir?'

Dobby sounded apprehensive. Draco took a shaky breath, rubbing the palms of his hands over his eyes. 'What time is it?' he asked.

'Quarter to seven,' said a dreamy voice behind him.

Draco nodded, opening his eyes. Dobby was still standing in front of him, looking anxious.

'Best wake up Potter—'

Torn away from his thoughts, his overly-acute senses had kicked back in. Draco stood up so quickly that it caused Dobby to squeak in alarm and fall over. Draco tried to speak, but shock seemed to have disabled control of his vocal cords, rendering him mute.

Luna Lovegood sat perched on the back of the couch he'd just been lying on—he was sure it was her, because it would have been impossible to confuse her with anyone else. She hopped off the top of the couch when he stood up, and he saw she was nearly as tall as he was, though that was mostly due to the massive heels on the bright yellow sandals she wore, each boasting what looked like a real banana strapped over her toes. Her long, dirty-blonde hair was pulled up into high pigtails, and shockingly pink earrings in the shape of stars were dangling from her ears. She was wearing a summer dress to match her earrings; it was a bright, blinding yellow, covered in bursts of neon pink stars.

'Were you crying?' she asked vaguely.

'Where the hell did you come from?' he snapped.

'Outside,' Luna said simply, pointing to the door behind her.

'I gave her a key,' came an unexpected answer from his left, causing Draco to start.

Harry had appeared poking out from the bathroom in the hallway, clad waist-down in a towel, drying his hair with another; earlier, Draco must have been engrossed enough in his thoughts to have missed Harry leaving his bedroom.

'You gave her a key.' Draco repeated.

'Morning, Harry,' Luna said dreamily, oblivious to Draco's stupefaction.

She also seemed immune to the fact that the famous Harry Potter, Quidditch player extraordinaire and third time-runner for Witch Weekly's Bachelor-of-the-Year award, was standing in the hallway, half-naked and still dripping all over the carpet. Draco was sure that that was likely to get at least some sort of reaction out of any normal female.

Instead, Luna was sniffing the air like a bloodhound that just caught a scent. 'Smells like Dobby made pancakes.'

'Waffles!' came the squeaked correction from the kitchen.

'Waffles?' Luna asked, perking. 'Are we expecting a Snorkack?'

And she floated off into the kitchen without further ado.

Unable to form a coherent question demanding something along the lines of, 'What in the hell is a Snorkack?', Draco just gaped.

'Jesus, Malfoy, did you sleep at all last night?' Harry asked, staring at Draco, drawing the blonde's attention back.

Draco managed to dimly note that Harry was still dripping all over the bloody carpet. He was horribly aware of the fact that he himself had not yet showered. He was also aware that the shadows under his eyes were worse than ever, and that his split lip had scabbed and was still throbbing painfully. He was even aware that his clothes, having been worn for two consecutive days, were probably beginning to stink.

This normally would have bothered him, at least enough that a part of his mind would reserve some concern for it.

'You gave Loony a key to your flat?' Draco repeated.

Harry shrugged and turned back into the bathroom.

'Luna's all right,' came the muffled explanation from inside. Harry re-emerged a minute later, sans the towels, wearing a pair of faded jeans and pulling a white t-shirt over his head. He gave Draco another once-over, his brow furrowing over his glasses. His hair was sticking up in every possible direction, as if vigorously protesting the pull of gravity. It was still very wet. And very... drippy.

'You look awful,' Harry said.

'I look awful?' Draco repeated, the shrill, incredulous tone of voice returning. 'I look awful? You come out of there looking like a drowned hedgehog and you've got Cyndi Lauper in your kitchen and you are telling me that I look awful?'

Harry blinked at him. 'Who the hell is Cyndi Lauper?'

Draco may have inherited his father's handsome looks, but he had not benefited from the Malfoy line's reputable Nerves Of Steel. Lucius had once told Draco that he was more like his mother under pressure—and when the going got rough, the Blacks got hysterical.

'You are insane,' Draco informed him. 'Dripping! Everywhere. Giving people keys and popping naked out of bathrooms—having Snorkacks over for breakfast—what the hell is a Snorkack anyway—she's insane! You're insane! Dobby is and always will be insane but at least he brings me chocolate! You sopping, buggering—bloody—the nerve—get out of my way!'

Draco shoved a bewildered Harry unceremoniously out of the way and took over the bathroom, slamming the door in Harry's face.

'Stop dripping all over the sodding carpet!' Draco yelled through the door. 'And lend me some bloody clothes!'

: : :

'In addition to detailing a report for the Ministry,' Luna was saying around a mouthful of waffle, 'Dad wants me to conduct some research for the next edition of the Quibbler.'

'Er,' said Harry. He did not like the sound of that.

'You know, just some minor things.' She waved a hand dismissively.

Harry swallowed his waffle before prompting, 'Such as?'

'Well, stuff about the trial, the Manor, Draco, you,' Luna said, waving a piece of waffle around with her fork for emphasis. 'You know. Things.'

'Er,' said Harry again, still somewhat apprehensive. 'I guess.'

'He doesn't look very good,' she continued. Luna frequently switched subjects without warning, but Harry had gotten fairly good at following her fragmented train of thought over the years. 'Though I suppose I'd be rather upset if my father died, too. You're dripping, Harry.'

Harry swept his fringe away from his forehead, shaking the water off his fingers. 'How's Ginny doing?'

'Oh, I think she was feeling much better after the meeting,' Luna said brightly.

'Really?'

'Mm,' Luna confirmed through half-chewed waffle. She swallowed before finishing. 'She spent all night throwing hexes at that picture of you in the Prophet.'

'Lovely,' Harry said dryly.

'Huh,' Luna said suddenly after a moment, looking up. 'You look quite odd.'

Harry followed her gaze and looked up. Standing in the doorway of the kitchen was Draco, wearing the clothes Harry had lent him, and Harry had to agree with Luna; seeing Draco Malfoy in Muggle jeans and a t-shirt was kind of odd. Draco didn't look particularly bad—aside from the obvious sleep deprivation, he looked rather like someone that had just stepped off the cover of a posh magazine. The pointy noise that had often been the subject of jokes among Harry and his friends at Hogwarts was still there, but seemed more proportional now, as if Draco had finally grown into it. His high cheekbones were more defined now and combined with his brow and jaw, formed a crisp frame for his face. His hair was damp but not dripping like Harry's, and he was tousling it idly with his hand, causing some of it to fall over his eyes. He didn't look as pale anymore, either, but that was probably due to the contrast of his stark white t-shirt.

All in all, Draco the wizard looked odd, perhaps, but Draco the person looked all right, as far as Harry could tell.

'I am not even going to bother commenting on the incredulity of you, of all people, claiming such a thing,' Draco said loftily, tucking a few damp strands of hair behind his ears. He turned his head to the side and gave it a tug with the hand in his hair, and Harry heard the crack of bones as Draco grimaced in relief. Luna offered Draco a plate as he sat down but he waved it away. 'Eugh, no.'

'You really should eat,' Harry advised.

'You really should sod off,' Draco replied automatically. 'Dobby!'

With a crack! Dobby materialised before him. He seemed to have anticipated the command, because he already had a steaming cup of coffee, and he presented it to Draco before disappearing again. Instead of drinking it, Draco put the coffee on the table and held his head over it, breathing in the steam.

By the time Harry finished his breakfast, he noticed Draco had his head tilted to the side and was giving him and Luna comparative glances. 'Are you two—' he started to ask.

'No,' Harry said firmly, before Draco could finish. 'We're not.'

Luna may have been one of the oddest people Harry knew, but she had been sorted into Ravenclaw for good reason. The girl caught on quick; sometimes, too quick, and she laughed loudly at the implication. 'No, no, that's just what he wants the other women to think,' she said smartly, licking the syrup off her fingertips, 'so they leave him alone.'

'Other women?' Draco asked with a blink.

'Oh, yes,' Luna said cheerfully. 'There's a few women at the office, that nice one at the Owlery, the lady down in the Magical Law Enforcement department, and there's that very pretty one—what's her name? Gabby-something-or-other, anyway, but she's just turned fifteen, so—'

'Fifteen?' Draco repeated. 'Fifteen?'

'Mm,' Luna confirmed. 'Harry's not interested, of course, but the Prophet—'

'Luna, please,' Harry said patiently.

'You have to admit she is very pretty, Harry. And she really does fancy you, you know. Ginny was—'

'Luna,' Harry said again, warningly.

Luna merely shrugged and helped herself to another waffle. Draco, who had been listening intently, also shrugged, and sat back, as if he couldn't care less anyway. 'Oh, the great woes of Harry Potter,' he said. 'All of these beautiful women throwing themselves at my feet, whatever shall I do?'

'Shut up, Malfoy.'

'Some of these women aren't even of age—but they're very pretty,' Draco continued, ignoring the glare that clearly said that Harry was not amused. 'What do you think the Azkaban sentence for fornicating with jailbait is, Potter? Hoping to get out of it with a pay-off and clever use of your celebrity status?'

'Funnily enough, that's what saved your arse,' Harry growled.

'Hey, I'm not complaining,' Draco said.

'You're always complaining,' Harry corrected him.

'Yes, well,' Draco conceded. He looked as if he were going to say more, but stopped when he looked up. Harry followed his gaze and saw a handsome owl with dark feathers sitting on the open windowsill; the Malfoy family's eagle owl. Draco lifted a forearm and called it: 'Ares.'

Ares landed on Draco's arm and hopped sideways along it up to his shoulder, where it gave a muffled hoot and fixed Luna with a piercing gaze. Draco took a sip of his untouched coffee and stood up. 'That means he's here. Let's go.'

'Who's here?' Harry asked.

'Our transportation,' Draco said, not bothering to offer further detail. 'Unless you're still keen on walking.' He pushed back the chair with his foot and stalked across the room. Luna stood up and drifted after Draco as he made his way to the door without a word. Harry massaged his temples briefly before moving to follow, just as a tug on the knee of his jeans halted him.

Dobby was looking up at Harry with wide, worried eyes. 'Mr Harry Potter is going to the Malfoy house?'

'Yes,' Harry said. 'But don't worry, it's—'

'It is a house of dark wizards, sir, you must be being very careful!' Dobby interrupted urgently. 'There is things in there that is dangerous, even to such great wizards as Harry Potter!'

'Dobby,' Harry said, exasperated. Although frequently paranoid and prone to cause more harm than good when trying to be helpful, Dobby had warned Harry about the Malfoys before, and for good reason. 'Look,' he said, when Dobby's bottom lip began to tremble, 'I will be. I don't trust him, either.'

'It is not Master Draco that Harry Potter is needing to worry about,' Dobby whispered quietly, 'but what is being passed on to him!'

Before Harry could ask what Dobby was talking about, Draco had stuck his head back through the door. 'Are you coming, or what? I'm not going anywhere alone with this lunatic girlfriend of yours.'

'Be careful, sir,' Dobby said before disappearing with a snap.

'Yeah, I'm coming,' Harry told Draco, frowning, and grabbed his cloak off the chair—it held both Draco's wand and Harry's Invisibility Cloak, which nowadays he rarely went anywhere without. Harry stepped out the door and swung it closed behind him, and then stopped abruptly when he looked up.

'You've got to be joking,' he said.

Draco raised an eyebrow. He was leaning against the door of a long, black limousine that was parked on the street, which at this early hour on a Saturday morning was deserted. It was still a bit chilly despite the light, and a cool breeze made Harry shiver as he trotted down the remaining stairs. Draco stepped aside as the cab of the limo opened, and a thin, balding man dressed in black robes stepped out and moved to open the door Draco had been reclining against.

Luna was already inside, and scooted over as Harry stuck his head in; it was, admittedly, a very nice limousine. It had tinted windows and the seats were soft, creamy leather, and it was stocked with a wide array of refreshments, from pumpkin pasties to mini-bottles of Butterbeer. Draco made an impatient noise from outside and Harry climbed in, sitting next to Luna. Draco followed, taking the long seat across from them, and the bald man closed the door without a word. Ares fluttered from Draco's shoulder to the back window of the limo, where an owl perch had been built into the vehicle.

'Who is that?' Harry asked as the bald man, visible through the privacy window separating them, climbed back into the cab and started the car.

'Amery Matlack,' Draco said, stretching out along the seat. 'Old friend of the family—relax,' he said, as Harry narrowed his eyes. 'He's a Ministry driver, but he served as our primary chauffeur during Fudge's regime. He knows the way.'

'You do know the whole point of us leaving early was so the Ministry wouldn't be aware of what we were doing,' Harry said.

'They won't,' Draco said with a smug smirk. 'At least, not until they start paying him as well as I do.'

'And what about the others?'

'Weasley sent an owl this morning while you were asleep,' Draco explained; 'said to pick them up outside number four, Grimmauld Place.' Draco cocked his head. 'Very inconspicuous pickup point, I must say.'

Luna was petting Ares' breast feathers and the owl crooned appreciatively. Harry rolled his eyes. 'About as inconspicuous as us taking the trip in a limo,' he said.

'Sorry if my opulence offends you.'

'No, you're not.'

Draco fixed him with a stern look. 'You're right, I'm not,' he replied. 'But I am sorry I even bother trying to be polite.' And with that, he lay back along the seats, draped an arm over his eyes and proceeded to ignore them both.

: : :

Hermione knew that most wizarding vehicles could stretch magically to accommodate more than their visual allowance of passengers, but the limousine didn't need to; it was easily large enough on its own for the eight of them. Harry and Luna sat beside Terry and herself on the right side, while Arthur and Moody sat on either side of Lupin along the backseat.

Draco took up the left-hand side of the limo himself, lying across the seats on his back with a forearm draped over his eyes so he could pretend he was asleep and ignore any attempted conversation. Hermione knew he wasn't really asleep because every once in a while, when Luna would ask a particularly odd question for her Quibbler report, the corners of his mouth would twitch, ever so slightly.

It seemed Draco had been wise to hire a chauffeur; the entire trip they had found themselves surrounded by vast farmland and estates that would have necessitated a long walk had they decided to Apparate and hike the rest of the way. From the limited information she'd been able to pry from Draco at the beginning of their trip, the Manor was located in Wiltshire somewhere, vaguely northeast of Devizes. Thanks to the added convenience of wizard vehicles being able to avoid other cars, traffic lights and speed limits set by Muggles, it took them half the time it would have taken by normal car; at just fifty minutes past seven, the limo took a turn off the main motorway and Draco slowly sat up, yawning.

They had turned into a one-lane paved road that continued through some sparse trees between what looked like two farm plots, heading north. The further they drove, the thicker the trees became, until they nearly blocked the early morning sunlight out completely. After approximately twenty minutes, the car turned again onto a smooth dirt road. Just inside the turn was a tall, barred gate that looked very old and was covered with several layers of vine—instead of slowing down, the driver sped up, and Hermione held her breath as they should have crashed into the gate.

It was a wizarding illusion, of course, just like the entrance to platform nine and three quarters at King's Cross; the limousine slid through smoothly, and they emerged onto another road, this one paved and walled in on either side by tall, thick trees—much larger and older than those from the previous countryside.

'Are we here?' Harry asked, yawning himself, and looking around.

Draco was sitting with his elbows on his knees, hands supporting his chin. He looked agitated and very tired. 'Almost,' he said.

The trees continued to construct an impervious wall of green on either side of the road, however, with no indication of abating anytime soon. Draco continued to stare out the front over Matlack's shoulder, fingering a small chain that was just visible under the collar of his t-shirt.

Luna was beginning to tap her fingers on the seat in an irritating manner when finally, Draco said, 'Just left, here.'

Hermione peered out the window. They were still surrounded by trees on all sides, and there were no turn-offs, trails or any other breaks in the foliage that she could see. In fact, the part of the road they'd slowed on looked no different from the past fifteen minutes' of road they'd driven along. Then the car turned left up a small alley that Hermione swore they would have driven right past without noticing had Draco not pointed it out.

It led to more trees. Hermione craned her neck to peer out the front windscreen. What had appeared to be a rapidly approaching speck in the distant trees had manifested itself into a large gate with black iron bars that criss-crossed and twisted around one another in various intricate patterns. Two massive stone dragons in sitting positions sat on either side of the gate, looking nasty and imposing. As they approached, Hermione could have sworn she saw them dip their heads in a small salute; but then she blinked, and when she looked again, they had returned to their original positions.

In the middle of the gate, directly between the two dragons, was the Malfoy family crest. Underneath the crest was a large, intricate letter 'M' moulded into the iron weaving of the gate itself.

The limousine began to slow down; unlike the first gate, this one did open—it split in the middle and swung outward in a majestic arc, and Terry promptly choked on the water he was drinking.

It was impossible to notice anything else at first besides the sheer size of the Manor. Spread horizontally before them was an ancient, dark grey Neo-Renaissance chateau. The front yard was all neatly tended lawn aside from scattered trees, all low-rising with wide canopies, creating dapple-shade patterns on the ground leading up to the front entrance. From the front she could see that the main entrance to the home broke off into at least two separate wings, one to the left and the other to the right.

It was two stories tall with a half-story attic, and was punctuated with many large windows, all divided into smaller frames that were dark on the inside. It was still fairly early, and with the high trees surrounding the estate, the sun was just barely creeping over the horizon as the limousine pulled up the white-gravel, circular court in front of the house and slowed to a stop.

There was a brief pause as the vehicle halted in which nobody moved, until Moody gave a rather sharp cough and climbed out of the door to his left. Slowly and silently the rest of them followed, Draco coming last and offhandedly kicking the door shut.

Matlack climbed out of the cab, holding the door open. 'Will that be all, sir?' he asked.

He sounded like he was addressing a politician. Draco seemed to start slightly when he realised that Matlack was, in fact, speaking to him. 'Er, yes. Thank you.'

'Anytime, Mr Malfoy,' Matlack replied, tipping his hat and disappearing back inside the limousine.

Draco watched until the limo had disappeared through the gate before turning back to the rest of them, who were waiting in a disproportioned cluster at the foot of the front steps. Harry and Terry were doing nothing to hide their surprise at the sheer size of the place, and this close, the Manor looked extremely foreboding to Hermione in the dim light.

Moody had already climbed most of the stairs leading to the front door, which was large and made of a dark-coloured wood with no windows, and mounted on which was a silver, medieval-looking dragon's head for a doorknocker. It snarled as Moody reached it.

'Good to see some things never change,' Moody muttered as the doorknocker snapped nastily at his head.

'Is your house always this accommodating?' Hermione asked, frowning at the snarling handle.

Draco smirked. 'Always,' he said. He reached up and rubbed the silver head's snout, and it cooed appreciatively. There was a long, echoing series of clicks from the other side of the door, as if many locks were disengaging, and then it swung silently inward.

Standing just inside was the shadowy outline of a woman. She stepped forward as the door finished opening and stood in the doorway, and lifted an elegant arm to touch Draco's chin with her fingers and kiss him softly on the forehead. 'Morning, dear,' she said in an undertone so soft Hermione had to strain to hear it.

She looked Draco over and her eyes narrowed slightly in what Hermione guessed were disgust at seeing her son in Muggle clothing. Shee briefly cast her eyes on Arthur, Moody, Luna and then Hermione, and for a moment, Hermione expected her to say something typically rude about their heritage or appearance—but the nasty look on her face was only there an instant before it was replaced with a polite, impersonal expression. It was rather unsettling, for the Narcissa Hermione remembered had always been as nasty as her son and husband.

Harry and Terry both seemed to have been clubbed over the head; they were staring quite stupidly and Terry's mouth was slightly agape. If Narcissa noticed, she ignored it. 'Welcome,' she said after a brief pause, 'to our home.'

: : :

Riches cover a multitude of woes.

- Lady of Andros

: : :

'Hullo, Narcissa,' Lupin said pleasantly.

'Remus,' she acknowledged, greeting him with a brief nod. Harry noted that, unlike the few times he'd heard her in close quarters before, she spoke in a very light, pleasant tone of voice. She glanced at the others with a single sweep of her eyes—two orbs of a bright, startling baby blue—which came to rest on Harry. 'It's been quite a while.'

She must still have been talking to Lupin, because he answered, 'Yes, quite.'

Harry continued to struggle not to gape. His first thought was hardly a decent one, and he quickly cast it aside. His second was that Narcissa looked impossibly young to have a son his own age.

His third was that Lucius had hardly deserved that.

'Well, what kind of a host am I?' she asked, startling Harry with a rather nervous smile that looked completely alien on her. 'Come on in.'

One by one, they followed her inside. Harry had seen Draco's mother before, once when he was fourteen at the World Cup, at sixteen briefly in Madam Malkin's, and more recently at Draco's trial. Each of these times, Harry had been distracted or very angry at Draco or Lucius, who had been his main focus, and Narcissa had always been wearing a rather nasty expression on her face—and for these reasons, Harry had paid her very little direct attention. He found that hard to believe now that he had given her a good look, and he had also realised where Draco got his looks. Before, he had assumed that Draco was more like his father in all aspects, appearances included. In some cases, this was accurate—he had the same sharp nose and chin, the same white-blonde hair, and the same piercing grey eyes, but the physical resemblance to Lucius ended there. Draco's high cheekbones, exaggerated eyebrows, elegant posture and even his lips were all mirrored directly from his mother.

She held herself as one would expect of an important politician, but managed to do so with an aura that was less snobbish and more confident than her son's. She had long hair that was a sort of pale, metallic gold pulled into an elaborate twist atop her head. Dressed in a gown that would not have been out of place at a fancy dinner, she looked ridiculously extravagant and refined compared to everyone else in the room—even Draco, dressed as he still was in Harry's casual attire.

The shock of finding himself attracted to Draco's mother was quickly replaced with the shock of noticing where he was standing. He was pretty sure he wasn't the only one trying to restrain the urge to gape this time. Harry had been in a lot of fancy buildings since discovering he was a wizard, and even the few homes he'd been in on Privet Drive had belonged to wealthy families—but he had never seen anything quite like this.

From the looks of the outside, Harry had been expecting a rather cluttered, overly-adorned inside, with lots of tapestries and ornamental carpets and painted ceilings like Grimmauld Place; but the decorations were surprisingly subtle—hardly plain, but subtle, and Harry found the understated décor somehow more appealing. Smooth, creamy-coloured stone walls rose up around them, twice as high as what would be considered normal for any standard home. The floor was a very dark, rich hardwood that stretched across the length of the rectangular room. Two square, exquisitely carved pillars made of the same wood as the floor framed either side of a wide, spilling marble staircase that curved down from the floor above. The ceiling was the same dark wood as well, heavily carved and decorated. The outside wall was divided by many large, open windows that allowed in the ever-rising rays of light.

There were no furnishings in the entry room save for the large, Venetian chandelier that hung from the middle of the ceiling. Pale, blooming lilies made of blown glass supported unlit candles. It sparkled blindingly in the incoming sunlight.

'This is nice,' Luna said approvingly. She was a painful, neon eyesore against the warm tones of the room. 'Very recherché.'

'I like to think so,' Narcissa said mildly in a tone that was engineered for polite conversation. 'A nightmare to keep up, though. Thank goodness for house-elves.' Hermione made an indistinguishable noise in her nose, but Narcissa either did not hear it or politely ignored her. 'Would you like some tea?'

'No,' said Draco in an impatient tone.

'Yes,' Luna said over him.

'If it's not too much trouble,' Arthur added.

'We already ate,' Draco pointed out.

'It was a long trip,' Narcissa reasoned. Draco's jaw tightened, which she also ignored. 'Draco, if you could kindly call Nivens, he'll be delighted to know we have guests.'

'They're not guests,' Draco snapped. 'They're here for business, not for exchanging bloody pleasantries over biscuits—'

'Draco.' The severity of the tone his mother had used stopped Draco mid-tirade. His glare was not directed at her, but the wall behind her, as he refused to meet the reproachful look she'd fixed him with. 'Call Nivens, if you would, darling,' Narcissa said after a moment.

The word 'darling' had a bit of a warning beneath it. Draco finally looked at her and, without a word, strode down the short staircase and disappeared down the hall.

'You'll have to forgive my son,' Narcissa said apologetically once Draco was beyond earshot. 'He's had a rather trying week.'

The sharpness in Narcissa's gaze was gone, and she smiled brightly at the lot of them. Bathed in the ever-increasing rays of sunlight filtering into the entryway, she looked, if possible, even prettier. Harry caught himself staring and shook his head briefly, allowing the alarmingly loud colours of Luna's dress to hold his gaze instead.

'Understandable,' Lupin said.

'Mm,' Luna agreed. Hermione shuffled nervously, throwing Harry a questioning look.

'So,' Narcissa said after a small pause. 'Biscuits?'

: : :

Biscuits. They were offering them tea and biscuits. They were having a bloody tea party. Why didn't he just take down the wards on the Manor, set up an Open House sign in the front lawn and send Voldemort an invitation by owl? Oh, right, because that wouldn't be proper. If he wanted to be proper he'd have to send the Dark Lord a complimentary limo filled with expensive champagne and a couple of hookers.

Even biscuits weren't enough, it would seem, for his mother had gone and prepared herself as she would have for esteemed guests; the gown was nothing unusual, but although Narcissa was very pretty on her own, she had clearly used several glamour charms on herself before their arrival, if Harry and Terry's utterly dumbfounded looks were any indication.

Narcissa had closed the door to his room and stood by it, regarding him quietly for several minutes.

'That was uncalled for.'

Draco continued to pace his room. He didn't answer immediately. There was a monument of things he wished to say, but none of them would be considered respectable enough to direct at his mother.

Narcissa watched him in silence, waiting for a response. She seemed unconcerned with the severity of the scowl on his face—the woman had the patience and resolve of stone when she required it. Finally, unable to find any other way of expressing himself, Draco stopped to face her.

'Biscuits?' he demanded sharply. 'Biscuits?'

His mother folded her arms and gave him the severe look she reserved for when she felt her son was being unreasonable. 'What's wrong, Draco?' she asked patiently. 'We discussed this before you left.'

'Funny, because I don't remember biscuits anywhere in the discussion!' he snapped. 'You walk out there beaming and cheerful like you're entertaining the bloody Minister and you're asking me what's wrongwith that?'

'Lower your voice,' she reprimanded him. 'I'm doing what I have to.'

'You don't have to do anything! That's what this was all about!'

'No, Draco—' he winced at the volume she had adopted, '—that is not what this is about. I am not the one who needs protecting here.'

Draco sighed heavily and looked at the floor, unable to hold her gaze any longer.

'Do you think it is easy for me,' she continued in a low voice, 'to stand out there and smile at that boy? Do you think it's easy for me to welcome him into my home? Every time I look into his eyes, I think what it might have been like if he'd died, and Lucius was still with us. Just like every time I look at him with you, I wonder what it might have been like if Severus hadn't been there that day, and if I'd been robbed of you both.'

'Then why—'

'Because we need to. By the time I figured out what was ruining your father it was too late to do anything about it, and I will not allow the same fate to befall you! These people are willing to help you, and you need to use that. I can't protect you on my own anymore, and I swore I would do whatever it took—and if that means smiling in their faces and feeding them biscuits, then it's the bloody least I can do!'

Draco folded his arms and continued to glare at the floor. 'You don't have to do anything,' he said again, although much more quietly.

Narcissa watched him for a moment, and then very gently pulled his head back up by his chin, tilted his face to the side and frowned. 'You're not eating, are you?'

Draco scowled again. All mothers, he decided, were born with Special Powers. They always just knew.

'I'm fine,' he said dismissively, pulling away.

'Draco—'

'It's nothing.'

'Draco—'

'Mum, don't.'

'Don't start this nonsense again,' she said reprovingly. 'I'll have Nivens bring you something, and you—'

'I'm not hungry.'

'—will eat it,' she finished firmly. 'No one is doing anything in this house until you do, and I don't,' she added sternly as Draco showed signs of protesting, 'want to hear that you're "not hungry". You will also,' she continued without pause, 'at least attempt to get some sleep tonight. Do you understand me?' After a considerable pause, she added, 'Draco.'

Heaving another heavy sigh, Draco said, 'Yes, Mother.'

'Good,' she said, her pleasant hostess voice returning. 'Now, go change out of those ridiculous clothes and I'll have something brought up for you.'

She kissed him briskly on the cheek and, with a motherly pat on his shoulder, departed the room.

By the time Nivens arrived with food, Draco had already changed into his own clothes, sending the house-elf away with the jeans and shirt he'd borrowed from Harry. He stared at the tray of food for a while, knowing that if he didn't eat it, his mother would notice and reprimand him about it, but at the same time... he inhaled a whiff and his stomach gave a sickening lurch, wedging itself somewhere in his throat. He was about to Vanish the contents of his tray when he realised, not for the first time in the past several days, that he did not have possession of his wand. This tiny irritation was stacked neatly on top of the tower of tiny irritations that had been building up inside his person over the last two days, the last week, and the last four years of his life.

Nivens appeared again with another crack and peered hopefully at the tray he had left behind. Seeing it untouched, he frowned and looked up at Draco with apologetic eyes. 'Sir, Mistress is saying Master needs to eat his food,' Nivens said carefully.

'Well you can tell Mistress that Master Malfoy isn't hungry,' he said wearily.

'Mistress says that if Master isn't hungry,' the house-elf continued, 'that Master should still eat, sir.'

The tower began to waver dangerously. 'Nivens,' Draco said sharply. 'Get rid of the food, and then go and tell my mother I ate it.'

'But, sir—'

'Now.'

One upside of his being the official owner of the Manor, at least, was that Nivens was unable to refuse a direct order from Draco—even if it included lying to his mother. With an anxious sniff, the house-elf collected the tray, Vanished the food, and disappeared with a snap. Grateful at being left alone, Draco wandered blearily into his bathroom.

'Well, well, look what the Crup dragged in. You look awfully cadaverous this morning,' the mirror informed him cheerfully. 'Bad day?'

Draco winced at his reflection; Harry—and the mirror—were right, he looked completely awful. No wonder his mother had had a fit.

There was only a limited degree of things he could do to improve his appearance without a wand, but it would be better than nothing. The mirror continued to supply suggestions over the next ten minutes as he dug through the cupboard beneath the sink. 'Well, that's definitely an improvement,' it said as Draco gave up on trying anything else without a wand and left the bathroom. At the very least he looked less pale and exhausted than when he had gone in, having splashed cold water over his face and brushed his hair in an orderly manner, and he also felt marginally better.

This feeling dropped like a dead weight in the pit of his stomach as he opened the door of his room and came nose-to-nose with a wildly spinning, electric-blue eye and a face that looked like it had lost a fight with a Nose-Biting Teacup. Draco made a noise of surprise that, roughly translated, resembled 'Yaugh!' and stumbled backwards. Mad-Eye Moody was definitely someone better viewed at a safe distance. Draco had always disliked the man, and most especially right now for having the ability to make him feel like a fourteen-year-old again with so little as a glance.

'I don't know what you're up to, Malfoy,' Moody snarled from the doorway, 'but I got my eye on you, make no mistake.'

Straightening up, Draco sneered at him. 'Do you make a habit of exercising slander?'

'Don't impugn my intelligence, boy,' Moody growled. 'Your father didn't fool me and I'll be damned if you do. We didn't come here to eat biscuits all afternoon, so let's get going.'

: : :

'This place,' Harry was saying, 'is so... so...' he trailed off, adjectives failing him.

'Big?' Hermione offered.

Terry, swallowing his mouthful of biscuit, looked over at her. '"Enormous" is more the word, I'd wager.'

'Well, it is a mansion, after all,' Hermione said. 'They tend to be... extravagant.'

'Imposing,' Harry amended.

'Seriously,' Terry said, nodding in agreement. 'I knew the Malfoys were rich but this...' Harry's inability to articulate anything seemed to have passed to him, because he failed to finish and tried again with, 'And his mum, she's...' and then just trailed off uncertainly and let his pale eyes wander around the drawing room they were waiting in.

Harry scowled and folded his arms. 'What this is, is appalling,' he finished for Terry. 'I mean, bloody hell, I didn't think Malfoy was this loaded.'

Like most, Harry had always known the Malfoys were a wealthy, upper-class family; it was hard not to notice, with Draco strutting about being a big-headed snot and with his father stocking the Slytherin team with brand new, top-of-the-line brooms. Considering into the equation this new information of just how ridiculously well-off the bastard was made his previous behaviour seem a lot more restrained.

'I like it,' Luna said. Just to the left of where Terry was wavering uncertainly, she was sitting sideways in the armchair with her legs draped over the side, bobbing them restlessly. 'It's very shiny.'

It was very shiny; the Manor was home to many, many—hundreds, perhaps—windows, most of which lacked drapes and allowed in enormous amounts of light. This light reflected off everything, from the chandeliers to the marble accents and the polished floors, leaving the place looking shockingly bright and clean from corner to corner. The furnishings in the Manor were mainly all warm colours, beiges and browns and various shades of pale yellow. This gave it a very friendly, homely sort of feel that made Harry feel distinctly out of place.

'I told you it wouldn't be what you'd expect,' Arthur said, smiling faintly. He was sitting on a sofa next to Lupin, who was periodically sipping his tea.

'Yes, it is very nice,' Lupin agreed, 'Always has been.'

'You've been here before?' Harry asked.

'Once,' Lupin said, looking reminiscent. 'Long time ago.'

'What for?'

Lupin looked up with an odd sort of smile. 'Lucius and Narcissa's wedding.'

'Really?' Hermione asked, putting down the book she'd been nosing through. 'Why were you—'

'Sirius and Narcissa were still on friendly terms when she married,' Lupin explained. 'We were only thirteen at the time, you see; Narcissa was married to Lucius shortly after they finished Hogwarts. The following Christmas, as a matter of fact—James and I were visiting Sirius for a couple of weeks over the holidays, so they brought us along.'

'My father was here?' Harry asked, looking surprised.

'Oh, yes,' said Lupin. 'We were all too young to realise what sort of wizards the Malfoys were; the war hadn't really broken out yet, you see, and I think Sirius just wanted some company since he and Regulus never got on well. Abaraxas—Lucius' father—had a makeshift Quidditch pitch erected in the back grounds, and Sirius and your father spent most of the reception out there, zooming around on brooms.' He smiled at the memory. 'I'll never forget James trying to convince your grandparents to set up goalposts in their garden after that.'

'I wouldn't have thought they'd allow a werewolf to attend the wedding,' Terry said, sitting on the arm of the chair Luna was in.

'They probably wouldn't have,' Lupin admitted. 'But it was hardly common knowledge at the time. I was just "that quiet boy" that tagged along behind Sirius and your father, according to Narcissa; she was Head Girl during our second year at Hogwarts, so she ended up being the one tutoring me through the lessons I missed that year because of my monthly sick-leave.'

'So that's how you knew her,' Harry said, mostly to himself.

'But what happened? With Narcissa and Sirius, I mean,' Hermione asked.

'Oh, well, you know...' Lupin shrugged. 'Once Lucius became an active Death Eater and Sirius got older and became involved with the Order... they weren't the only family torn apart by the war. Narcissa was loyal to her family—and to her husband—and, like most of the family, took Sirius' "betrayal" to heart.' He paused, and then added, 'I know she appears to be little more than a trophy wife, but you would all do well not to underestimate Narcissa. She's smarter than she looks.'

The door to the drawing room opened suddenly, and Draco came in, followed by a limping Mad-Eye Moody. Draco was looking less irate and his hair was in order, and he was no longer in Harry's clothes. Now he was wearing elegant wizard robes; they were black and billowed behind him as he swept through the room without a word and stopped in the space before the hearth between the two sofas the group of them were scattered on.

Harry turned around mid-pace, arms folded tightly over his chest, just in time to see Draco thrust out his hand at the floor before the hearth; without so much as a sound, a rectangle in the floor in front of him vanished and revealed a small set of wooden stairs that spiralled out of view.

'You won't find it any different than the last time you raided the place,' Draco said nastily, without looking at Moody or Arthur. 'Father sold most of it to Borgin and Burkes before the Ministry could get their hands on it.'

'And the rest of it went into the cache in the library, I suppose?' Arthur prompted mildly.

Draco paused before slowly looking over his shoulder at Arthur. 'So you knew.'

'Oh, we knew,' growled Moody.

'Never were able to prove it, though,' Arthur added with a small smile.

'Then I won't waste your time,' Draco said smoothly. He waved his hand once over the space in the floor, and it became solid hardwood once more. 'This way.'

Draco led the group out of the drawing room and back into the main hall. Harry kept pace behind him, Arthur beside him and Moody limping just behind them. The rest of the group followed in a bit of a scattered cluster, with Lupin bringing up the rear. It was a short trip from the drawing room to the library, which was behind two large, wooden doors that seemed to be located in the rear centre of the mansion.

It was a huge, circular room and every wall featured built-in bookshelves that housed hundreds, if not thousands, of texts. A large hearth sat cold and quiet on the left side of the room, surrounded by two armchairs and an embroidered green chaise, and directly across from there was a huge oak desk that was bare save for an inkwell and quill stand. A crystal chandelier hung from the centre of the high, domed ceiling and opposite the door, the wall was divided into the panes of a large window.

The floor was of the same rich hardwood as the rest of the house, only in here it had been laid to depict a circular pattern to compliment the shape of the room. By the time Harry had taken all of this in, Draco was standing in the centre of the room, waiting for them to get over the size of the library and follow him inside. Harry took one step over the threshold and stoppedt; he pulled his foot back, and wondered if he had imagined it. So he tried again, and this time Hermione stepped with him, and then they both stopped.

The floor was singing.

This first thought was absurd, Harry reasoned, because floors can't sing. They're floors. He took a step further into the room, and there it was again—the floor under his foot emitted a soft but high-pitched note, like a single pluck of a harp, that rang through the air in the room and set Harry's hair on end. The others had started filtering into the room by now, and every step they took resulted in a similar noise. Each one had a slightly different tone, so that with the whole lot of them walking on the floor it sounded like a haphazardly composed song that reverberated off the bookcases.

Hermione and Terry seemed to come to roughly the same conclusion as Harry had, because they stopped walking, too. The others—with the exception of Luna, who drifted on serenely—noticed the decrease in noise level after a few seconds, and turned to look at them; Arthur and Lupin smiled indulgently while Moody gave an impatient snort, looking very much like he wanted to get on with things and didn't care for the interruption, and stomped across the room.

Luna seemed to become aware of the others once more at this point, and turned to them with a faintly quizzical expression on her face; Harry had to wonder whether she'd even noticed the sound. With the cease of the final set of footsteps, the sound died down considerably, but every shift in weight, every uneven breath, seemed to coax some quiet variation of the noise, anything from a barely-audible hum to a sharp, high-pitched squeal. Draco smirked and took a few steps towards them; under his feet, the floor remained silent aside from the click of his boot soles against the wood.

Harry took a cautious step forward and winced when the sound rang out again; it wasn't that the noise was unpleasant, but it was extremely distracting. He tried shifting his weight again, but while the sharp note turned into a dull hum and changed its tone slightly, it was just as obvious. Harry frowned.

'Don't bother,' Draco said, noting Harry's determination to mimic his silent stroll across the room. 'It's not something you can learn overnight, walking across a Nightingale floor.'

Hermione made a soft 'Ooh!' of understanding and Terry raised his eyebrows, looking impressed. 'I didn't know any of these still existed,' Hermione said in slight awe. 'Besides in the old Japanese temples and shrines, I mean. I never knew any were still in use—'

'Kindly don't confuse this with its inferior Muggle counterparts,' Draco interrupted sharply.

'I'm sorry,' Harry said, irritated that yet again, his ignorance of the wizarding world was showing through, 'but what are you talking about?'

'Nightingale floors,' Hermione said, testing a floorboard with her toe and earning a low hum, 'are floors specifically designed to chirp or squeak when people walk on them—well, in the Muggle versions, anyway.'

'The versions developed by wizards are engineered with magic, not architecture,' Terry supplied.

'Yes, yes, I remember this,' Remus said, sounding reminiscent, and then smiled at Draco. 'Specifically, how very annoyed your grandfather became after discovering Sirius and James had learned how to galumph across it without eliciting a sound in under an hour.'

Draco looked slightly surprised at this bit of information, but covered it up quickly. 'Yes, well. Even so, the magic used to create them is so old and complex that very few establishments can afford to bother with spellwork.'

'They also use some of the darkest magic,' Moody growled, poking the floor with his peg leg; it let out a high-pitched squeal.

'A lot of the old magic is dark magic,' Draco said smoothly.

'A lot of the old magic is dangerous,' Hermione pointed out.

'And considering how much we know about it and how it works, that's not surprising,' Draco added.

'But what's the point?' Harry asked irritably. 'Isn't it a bit counterproductive to have a noisy floor in your library?'

'It's an alarm,' Draco replied. 'You can hear the noise of the floor throughout the house. So if any uninvited guests take a stroll in, we'd know it immediately.'

'So why have it in the library?' Harry asked.

'Because this is where it counts,' Arthur said, and Harry followed his gaze to the hearth. 'You can hear it from inside there, too, can't you?'

'Indeed,' Draco said, leading them over to the fireplace.

It was very large as far as hearths went, and could easily have taken three people side-by-side, stooping only if they were particularly tall. It was carved out of a very dark-coloured stone that had been heavily polished, and boasted a carved Malfoy crest in the centre of the top moulding. Directly above the carving and about the size of an orange was a glass sphere Harry recognised from Draco's memories the night before; inside, a vibrant and unflickering flame hovered of its own accord. To the right of it stood a small, ornate dagger on a wooden stand

Above the fireplace was a large painting; Harry was surprised that it did not depict any family members, but a large, elegant dragon with enormous wings perched on the edge of a high cliff. At first glance, the scales were white, but with a better look Harry could see they reflected light like they were made from Mother of Pearl. Its eyes were pupil-less, and glittered a thousand different colours with every turn or bob of its head—an Antipodean Opaleye.

Terry had knelt before the hearth and was tracing his wand in the air before it in complicated, structural patterns and frowning. He prodded a space just underneath the crest and there was a loud snap; he flinched, jerking his wand backwards. He stood up and glanced at Draco before turning to Arthur. 'That's some heavy-duty spellwork. I don't even know where to begin.'

'Same conclusion Bill came to,' Arthur agreed gravely. He looked up at Draco. 'Yes, only the lord of the Manor can access it, unless I'm mistaken.'

'I don't know what you're hoping to find,' Draco said, shrugging. 'But yes, I can open it. Are you all going?'

They looked around at each other and Moody grunted. 'I'll wait here,' he said gruffly. 'Keep an eye on things while you're in there.'

Terry nodded. 'I'll wait here, too. I need to go over the Manor wards, anyway.' He turned to Draco. 'Are they—'

'Nivens,' Draco said sharply. There was a small crack and the old house-elf appeared at his side. 'Retrieve the building and ward plans for Boot—'

'While you're at it, I'd also like to see your book of accounts,' Hermione piped in.

Draco narrowed his eyes. 'Why?'

'Because we need to confirm that you haven't been supplying any suspicious third-parties with funding off the official records,' she said simply.

Draco regarded her quietly for a moment before finishing his order to Nivens. 'And bring up the books, while you're at it.' He glanced at the lot of them, impatient and exasperated. 'Anything else you'd like to run past the Sneakoscope?'

Hermione looked at Harry and shrugged. 'Should do it for now,' Harry said.

'Sure you wouldn't like a private tour of my sock drawer and privy, too?' Draco sneered nastily.

'One thing at a time,' Harry replied, and he gestured towards the hearth. 'Let's start with your father's skeleton closet before we move on to yours, shall we?'

If possible, Draco's gaze became narrower. 'Go,' he snapped at Nivens, who disappeared with a nervous squeak, before looking up at Harry. 'Light the hearth, would you?'

Harry cocked his head slightly. 'Come again?'

'The hearth,' Draco repeated. 'It works like a Floo. Do you want to go in, or not?'

'I dunno, do we?'

Draco shrugged. 'Don't ask me, I've never been inside.'

Hermione blinked. 'You haven't?'

'Would you like me to spell it for you?' Draco asked. After a moment, he noticed everyone was staring at him with a mix of disbelief and confusion, and he rolled his eyes. 'I know you may find this difficult to believe, but being a Malfoy does not, in fact, automatically entail attendance of Death Eater rallies. Nor was it my father's intention to sculpt me into the quintessential servant of the Dark Lord. No, I've never been inside, but I know You-Know-Who has been, and probably a fair number of Death Eaters as well.'

'How do you know Voldemort was in here?' Harry demanded.

Draco winced at the name, shooting Harry a filthy look. 'Because I saw him. When I was fifteen, not a month after the incident at the Tournament.'

Hermione was gaping at him. 'You saw Voldemort in your house?'

'Will. You. Stop. Using. His name, if you please,' Draco hissed through clenched teeth. 'And either light the fire yourself, or kindly return my wand and I'll do it.'

'Fat chance.' Harry pulled out his wand and torched the fireplace, which came ablaze enthusiastically.

Draco removed the ornamental dagger from its holder on the mantle and pulled back his sleeve. By the time anyone realised what he was doing, it was too late to stop him.

'What are you doing?' Hermione exclaimed, recoiling, as the blade cut a clean line along the palm of his hand.

Draco winced slightly as he finished cutting across his hand. The blade of the dagger must have been magically charmed, because it came away from his bloody hand clean. Draco deposited the dagger into the pocket of his robes and curled his injured hand into a fist, causing the blood to pool in his palm. 'Blood willingly spilt by the Lord of the Manor is required to gain entry,' Draco explained after a moment, when a generous amount of blood was cupped in his hand. 'And to get out again, as well.'

Draco stepped up to the fire and shoved his hand into the flames, turning the palm upside down and spilling the blood. The flame fwooshed and spat and turned white as it was splattered by his blood, and they watched with some fascination as the flames licking at Draco's hand did not burn him, but rather sealed the wound in his palm and cleaned the excess blood from his fingers. Draco removed his hand and stepped back.

'I go last,' he said; 'it'll seal shut behind me. So just go in and wait, and for Merlin's sake, don't touch anything.'

Harry and the others glanced at one another, all wondering who should go first; unsurprisingly, it was Harry who stepped forward first, took a deep breath, and stepped into the fireplace.

The effect was immediate. As if he had stepped through a magical barrier, he was deposited on the other side in what appeared to be a very spacious room. It was hard to tell, though, as the fireplace was the only source of light in the room and he could see little beyond the immediate floor, which was comprised of bricks of a dark, rough stone. Arthur came in next, followed by Hermione, Luna and then Lupin. Draco was last, and as he promised, the fire in the hearth flickered and died, sealing itself.

And left them all in total darkness.

'Er, Malfoy,' said Hermione. Or at least what sounded like Hermione; Harry couldn't see his own hands, much less anyone else. 'Where are the lights?'

'How the fuck do you expect me to know?' That sneering voice was unmistakable to Harry, even in the dark void. 'What part of "I've never been inside" didn't you digest?'

'It's very dark,' a dreamy voice to Harry's direct right piped in. 'I can't see anything. Oh, hallo, who is this?'

'Hullo, Luna. That's my stomach your elbow's in.'

'Ooh, it's you.' There was a quiet sniff from the direction her voice came from. 'You smell a bit like ash, you know.'

'Fucks sakes,' Draco snapped from somewhere far off ahead. 'The one person in the room with sense isn't allowed a wand. Weasley, is that you?'

''Fraid not,' said Arthur from the opposite direction.

'Lumos.' Lupin's lined face came into view just in front of Harry over the tip of his illuminated wand. The darkness was persistent, however, and the spell acted as a yellowed, feeble flashlight in the gloom. He swivelled the wand around to his left, where it fell on Draco and the object he had bumped into.

'Holy hell—' said Harry.

'Merlin's beard—' said Arthur.

'You don't see that every day,' said Luna.

'Augh!' said Draco.

He jumped back, not stopping until he had put several people between himself and the full-bodied, mounted werewolf he had stumbled into. Lupin had not lowered his wand—he was just staring, transfixed, and had visibly paled. Harry couldn't blame him, for it was a terrifying sight; rearing on its hind legs, front paws outstretched, ears flat back against its skull and its jaws open wide, the only clues to its inanimate state were the many cobwebs branching between its teeth and the thick layer of dust clinging to the fur. Its eyes were wide, dilated and red-veined, with putrid-yellow irises that were slightly glazed over, narrowed from the wrinkles in the snout that were caused by the formidable snarl it was posed in.

'Oh, my,' Hermione said, breaking the silence. She illuminated her own wand tip and stepped carefully closer, crouching a bit to read the small, brass plate attached to the wooden base. '"Haraldur Aegrus",' she read, '"1802-1879. Known Muggle-killer". Charming,' she finished, standing up. 'Though I wasn't aware you could mount werewolves.'

'Neither was I,' Lupin said quietly.

Luna and Arthur both lit their wands and Harry quickly followed suit, shining it around him briefly, wary of more inanimate beasts hiding in the shadows. With five wands lit, a small, uneven circle of light had been cast around the floor just to the left of the hearth they'd come through. Aside from the werewolf mount, there was a large, stone pillar ahead of them that disappeared up towards the ceiling. The rest was bare—well, bare aside from the dust and cobwebs. Tiled stone floor, stone wall to the left, no windows... waving his wand around him, Harry stretched his arm out further in hopes of finding something.

'Well this is a whole lot of nothing,' Harry said, giving the immediate area another sweep with his wand.

'Would appear to be,' said Hermione.

'It's actually a whole lot of dust,' Luna pointed out helpfully.

'Oh, are you bored?' drawled Draco, his face half concealed by shadows. 'It won't last, I assure you. Any minute now, one of you will step on the right tile and then the walls will sprout spikes and begin closing in.'

'Lovely,' said Harry. He pointed into the darkness beyond. 'Then you can go first.'

The room, they discovered, was spacious and eerily empty. Unable to find any sort of torch or way of lighting the whole space (according to Hermione, there was probably a password of sorts to activate the lighting, but as Draco didn't know it they were stuck with lumos), they split into pairs and proceeded to slowly explore the space in sections. There were four pillars altogether, each holding up a portion of the ceiling (so high that it was not visible, hidden in shadows) and on the old stone floor between them, the Malfoy family crest had been engraved, polished and colourless.

Haraldur Aegrus the werewolf was one of very few things left in the room; up against the left wall there was a large, dusty case with many shelves, most of which were empty. There were a few small items of interest that remained, however, including a brass candlestick that thumped Arthur on his nose and a pearl necklace that attempted to strangle Hermione when she prodded it with her wand. Directly opposite, by the right wall, there was a pile of books scattered on the floor, several of which made noises (an assortment of ear-piercing shrieks, agonised moans and vicious snarls) of protest as Hermione piled them neatly aside with magic. Behind them, painted directly onto the wall, was the Malfoy family tree.

It went back three centuries further than the one in the Black House, but was far less populated—it rarely showed more than one or two offspring in any given generation, and an abnormal number of family members appeared to have died very prematurely. There were also a fair number of dark red, X-shaped marks cast over some of the names. In the last six generations three people had been marked; Harry peered closer, squinting and holding his wand up to the names, and was surprised to see one of them was the daughter of a Draconis Malfoy and Melusine Gaunt, some ten decades prior.

'Committed suicide,' Draco said from beside him. He had his arms folded and was regarding the wall with idle interest. 'There's several other copies of the tree around the Manor,' he explained when Harry raised his eyebrows. 'I've never seen this one before. Must be the Master Tree.'

'Master Tree?'

'The original,' Draco reiterated. 'First one ever made, updates itself, as well as all the others. If someone is marked off here, it'd mark them off on all the others.'

Luna drifted over and glanced offhandedly at the tree. She moved to prod one of the red marks, but Draco caught her wrist before her finger touched it. 'If you want to keep your arm,' he drawled, 'I wouldn't do that.'

She blinked at him as he dropped her wrist, but did not attempt to touch it again. 'Why?'

'They're cursed,' he said and then paused, smirking slightly. 'By all rights, I should mark off myself for letting you lot in here.'

Harry was still looking at the red X staining the name of Tisiphone. 'She committed suicide?' he asked, and Draco nodded. 'Why did she get cursed for that?'

Draco shrugged. 'Something about her mother trying to marry her off to an ugly old brute when her father died. I guess they didn't believe her when she said "I'd rather kill myself".' Harry moved his wand further down the tree, pausing at Donovan (also marked), where Draco supplied, 'Supported the motion to deny the Muggle-hunting bill proposed at the Ministry.'

Harry's wand followed the next generation down to where Draco's name was visible, to the last mark on Cassandra. 'I didn't know Lucius had a sister,' Harry said, surprised.

'Hm? Oh, yes.' Draco shrugged again. 'No idea why she's been marked off, myself. Father never talked about her, and I wasn't fool enough to ask.'

Hermione stepped forward to stand beside Harry, holding her own wand up to the names. 'Seems she died awfully young.'

'Or was "dealt with"," Harry muttered.

Hermione was still studying the earlier branches. 'Natalia Prewett was your grandmother!' she said to Draco.

Draco raised an eyebrow. 'So?'

'So, she was Molly's aunt...' Hermione murmured, mostly to herself, 'and that would have made Molly and Lucius cousins,' she continued. 'And that means you and all of the Weasley children are... first cousins—once removed, or something, doesn't it?'

'Second cousins,' Draco supplied with a sneer. 'Thanks for reminding me. Are we quite finished here?'

'What does "purus fidens" mean?' Harry asked over him.

'"Without stain, without fear",' Draco said with a flourish. 'Rather fitting, don't you think?'

'All except the "without fear" part,' Harry replied. Draco narrowed his eyes, but Harry ignored him and pointed his wand towards the back of the room. 'But yes, let's move on.'

They continued to move through the room, slowly, Arthur and Harry flanking Draco, wands out and scanning for any unwelcome curses or jinxes laid as traps, but the room was as empty of material items and magical wards both. Like the first two, the back corners of the room didn't have too much to boast; one had a pair of shackles chained to the wall, and the stone beside them bore marks that suggested the shackles had seen a fair amount of use—for what, Harry was sure he did not want to know. The other corner hosted what looked like a massive, rectangular cage with solid iron walls; they couldn't see inside, and there was no visible way of opening it. A small slide-slot in the door was rusted closed, and Arthur tapped it curiously with his wand.

The rust made a crackling noise, and slowly began to vanish. There was another noise, too... softer, different, coming from inside the pen... a sort of sliding, rustling... Harry tilted his head at the cage, trying to discern the noise; it almost sounded like a whisper... he leaned closer, then held his breath as the voice became clear.

'Thirty years... thirty years you've kept me... keep me in a box, will you? Not anymore, no more... I've had three decades to brood...'

The rust was gone, and Arthur had reached for the slot to open it.

'Wait!' Harry shouted, and slammed the slot shut just as Arthur began to open it.

Arthur pulled his hand away, looking startled. 'What is it, Harry?'

Draco had his ear up against the door. 'Something's moving inside—'

Harry held up a finger to his lips and Draco immediately fell silent. Harry put his ear against the door beside him. He could indeed hear it—the scratching of rough scales sliding against the inside of the cage, the low, hissing breath...

'Come on, then,' it breathed, 'open the door... thirty years of starving... I can already taste your flesh, Master...'

Harry's blood chilled. 'Can you?' Harry asked the door, curiously. 'And who might you be?'

Remus, Arthur and the others were all staring at him with wide eyes, for they had not heard a word he had just said—only the ceaseless hissing of Parseltongue. Draco paled and quickly backed away from the door.

The rustling inside paused, and then Harry heard a faint hiss directly on the other side of the iron from his ear. 'Not Master? Well... why don't you open the door and see, young one... I can hear your blood pumping... gushing... rushing through your veins...'

He pulled his ear away from the cage and glanced at Hermione, who was just beside him. 'Harry, you were—'

'I know,' he said. He looked at Draco, who was watching him with narrow eyes, though he looked more confused than angry. 'I suppose your father never mentioned keeping a Basilisk in the basement, did he?'

Everyone that had been looking at Harry turned as one to look at Draco instead, who took a step back. 'What the hell are you on about, Potter?'

'I've heard that voice before,' Harry snarled, taking three steps until he was standing right in front of Draco, who backed up again. 'Second year, in the walls when the Chamber of Secrets was opened. When I thought I was going mental—' Harry stopped himself, inhaling sharply, and turned his back on Draco to face the cage again. 'Thirty years—it says it's been in there for thirty years... starving... '

'Thirty years?' Arthur asked. 'Blimey...'

'Could it even live that long without food?' Hermione asked.

'The one in the Chamber was there for fifty years,' Harry said.

'They can hibernate,' Arthur said, stepping away from the cage. 'Most magical creatures can.'

'Especially the powerful ones,' Lupin added. 'Dragons, unicorns, Basilisks—'

'And werewolves?' Draco asked from behind Harry.

Remus paused, then nodded. 'Yes, and werewolves,' he said quietly.

'How did he get a Basilisk in here?' Luna asked, her voice erroneously loud and cheerful. 'Fireplace is a bit small for a great ruddy snake.'

'Not to mention the side-effect that it would kill anyone it looked at,' Harry remarked dryly.

'I suppose he could have bred it here,' Arthur said. 'It's not hard to do. And it would make sense to do so—to remove any chance he had at getting caught. Not just a fine for breeding Basilisks, you know—he'd have faced time in Azkaban for this.'

'Couldn't have had that,' Harry agreed. 'And I suppose he did it on Voldemort's orders—' everyone except Hermione and Remus winced; '—he seems to favour them.'

'Well, what are we supposed to do about it?' Hermione asked. 'We can't just leave it in there.'

Draco stepped forward again, goggling at her. 'Oh, we can't, is that right? What do you propose? We let it out for a walk?'

Hermione opened her mouth to retaliate, but Remus intercepted before she could. 'No, Hermione, Draco's right—we'd be dead before we got a spell off if you opened that door.'

'So we're just going to leave it here?' she asked indignantly. 'It's been in there for thirty years—it hasn't even eaten! I know it's a Basilisk, but it's still a living thing. You can't just abandon it!'

'Who said anything about abandoning it?' Harry asked, glaring at the slot in the cage door.

'You couldn't possibly, Harry!' she said, wheeling on him. 'It hasn't done anything wrong—it's helpless in there!'

'I'm sorry, Granger,' Draco snapped. 'I must have missed the part where giant serpents with poisonous fangs who can kill you with a glance were helpless. Let's just set it loose in the countryside so it can frolic with unicorns and small children can feed it lollies, shall we?'

'Shut up, Malfoy,' Harry said. Hermione gave him a grateful smile, but it disappeared as he continued with, 'And give it a rest, Hermione. He's right, and you know it.'

Hermione gaped at him. 'Oh, so you're just going to kill it, then, are you? And how do you propose to do that? You heard Remus, you'd be dead the moment you opened the—'

Harry pushed past her, opened the slot in the cage door while looking fixedly at the floor, shoved his wand through the slot and shouted, 'Avada Kedavra!'

A bright green light flashed from inside the slot, briefly illuminating Harry's profile. Then there was a loud thud as something large inside the cage slumped to the floor. Harry removed his wand and looked up at her. 'That's what I propose to do.'

'Bloody hell, Potter,' Draco said quietly, breaking the stunned silence. 'It's that easy for you, is it?'

Harry stared at him. Draco looked as, if not more, mortified than Hermione at his sudden aggressiveness, and it made Harry feel his actions may have been a bit impulsive and deplorable. 'I've had enough to do with Basilisks to last me a lifetime, and helpless is the last bloody word I would ever use to describe one,' he said curtly. 'Is this all, then? A few mouldy books and a Basilisk?'

'Looks like the place was cleared out in a hurry, actually,' Arthur said. 'Well, a hurry some years ago—look at the marks in the floor, and the empty cases...'

'There's a torch over here,' Remus said. He was standing by the back wall, wand held aloft by a very ancient-looking lamp fixed to the wall. He tapped it with his wand and it sputtered, crackled and finally set ablaze. Another torch, about a metre across from it, immediately followed suit. From beside the cage, Harry could see there was something on the wall between them—a large frame, it appeared, made of silver and easily as tall as Remus, who had turned to look at it curiously.

'Oh, that's better,' said Hermione from somewhere behind Harry. 'I can see the lock on the door, now.'

'Safe to open it up, you reckon?' Arthur asked, conjuring a small mirror on the tip of his wand and using it to peer warily in the slot.

Harry didn't hear her answer; he was still watching Remus, who was staring at the frame on the wall with an expression that Harry could only describe as horror-struck.

'Lupin?' he ventured. Remus was still staring at the frame. He was also wavering, looking like he was trying to back away but at the same time was unable to move. Harry moved forward, coming up beside him and snapping his fingers in front of Remus' eyes. 'Oi, you there?' he said, but Remus didn't move. 'What are you—' Harry turned his head to see what held Remus' attention and immediately stopped talking. He caught a glimpse of a silver frame that was taller than he was, framing a large mirror that reached the floor, before the reflection swam before his eyes and changed.

There was a flash of diamond scales and a menacing hiss, and then red eyes with slit pupils fixed on his own—

Pain like Harry had never felt before exploded in the scar on his forehead. His eyes snapped shut from the pain and he stumbled backwards until his back collided with the pillar behind him. The pain was so intense, he couldn't feel his fingernails clawing at his skin; his scar felt like it was being carved right into his very skull, searing white-hot and deep. He slid down the rough stone, clutching his head and cursing—but he wasn't aware of it, because he couldn't tell up from down, and nor could he hear the sound of his own voice, and the pain wasn't wearing off—not until someone shouted 'Exstinguim!' and the torches flanking the mirror went out, and the world as it was returned to Harry in an unsteady rush.

Hermione was kneeling between them, her wand tip the only light in the newly returned darkness. She was feeling Remus' forehead, for he had similarly sunk to the floor just beside Harry. Arthur was squatting beside Remus, and Draco was hovering on the other side of Harry next to Luna, who was peering at them curiously.

'Guess it always is that dramatic,' Draco drawled.

'Remus, are you all right?' Worry brimming her brown eyes, expression and voice carefully concerned, Hermione smoothed the hair sticking to his forehead aside. 'What—'

'Don't,' Remus hissed, gently pushing her hand away. His voice was deep and slightly cracked. 'Please don't ask, Hermione.'

Furrowing her brow, Hermione looked over at Harry. 'Are you okay, Harry?'

Harry was breathing too hard to answer at first. He was staring blankly, unblinking, at the dark space that disguised the mirror, and clutching his forehead with his right hand. He was dimly aware of Remus beside him, staring likewise, and a part of Harry's mind made a careful note that something was very wrong here—very, very wrong if it had affected Remus this badly, because say what you wanted about his being kind, but Remus, gauntness and shabby robes and all, was one of the strongest people Harry knew.

'I don't know,' Harry said shakily, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. 'What the hell was that?'

'I have no idea,' Remus said, his voice strained. 'I couldn't even see it until I lit the torch.'

'Probably a Concealment Charm,' Hermione said wisely, standing back up. She held her wand up by the torch, illuminating the silver frame. Slowly, she moved the wand to her left, where the mirror should have been, but instead found more stone.

'I—what?' Harry said, breathless and slightly confused.

'A Concealment Charm,' Hermione repeated. 'You know, like—a switch. You hit the switch and something opens—or turns on—the torches, I mean—'

'I know what a Concealment Charm is,' Harry snapped, struggling to stand up. He had to use the pillar to support himself, because his knees were not quite ready to bear his weight. 'What good is that in telling us what it is? I mean, it's obviously a mirror of some sort, but...'

Everyone was watching him, waiting for him to finish, but Harry didn't notice. He was thinking about the last time he'd seen a mirror that was more than it appeared. But that hadn't been like this; it was ridiculous to even think it. But still...

'But... what, Harry?' Arthur asked.

Harry pushed off the pillar, lit the top of his wand and shone it at the upper part of the silver frame. And there it was, what he was looking for, inscribed right across the top:

Riapsed tsep eedr uoy tub ecafr uoy ton wohsi .

'Harry?' Hermione prompted carefully.

'The Mirror of Erised,' Harry said. 'I can't believe it—Hermione, this is it!'

'This is the Mirror of Erised?'

'No—no, it's something else. I mean, it's just like the Mirror—only this one is—' he squinted at the inscription again, '—the Mirror of Riapsed. Not the mirror of desire but the mirror of...'

'Despair,' Draco supplied. He had come to stand beside Harry and was studying the writing, too. 'It's all spelled backwards.'

'Just like the Mirror of Erised,' Hermione echoed, comprehension dawning in her eyes. She held her wand by the inscription and read it over three times very quickly. '"I show not your face but your deepest despair."'

She looked at Harry, who had frowned slightly. 'Malfoy,' Harry said, looking over at Draco. 'I don't suppose you have any idea where Lucius got this?'

'Death Eater flea market,' Draco replied. 'Third Saturday of the month, just south of Devonshire. Selling of souls and Muggle repellent and the defiling of all sorts of morals. You should check it out, sometime, really spiffing.'

'I'll take that as a "no",' Harry said tiredly.

'Well,' she said, removing her wand from the frame, 'how typical of Lucius, to come to own something so sadistically quaint.'

'And how very typical of you to say so,' Draco replied shortly. 'Now, unless there's anything else you'd like to torture yourselves with, we should probably head back before that deranged psychopath thinks something's amiss and burns down my home looking for you.'

: : :

Upon re-entering the library, they discovered that Nivens had already delivered all of the requested documents. Terry was sitting at the desk in the back, up to his eyes in rolls of parchment, ranging from blueprints of the Manor to specifics on spell wards and an enormous, hand-bound book containing the entire financial history of the Malfoy fortune for the past one hundred and fifty years. Moody was scanning it with his magical eye, likely searching for names of any suspicious parties involved in transactions.

Narcissa had returned, as well, and was reclining on the green chaise just beside the hearth as they piled out, Draco coming last and replacing the dagger on its stand. She put aside the book she was reading, stood up and approached Remus.

'I wonder if I might have a word, Remus,' she said sweetly. Remus nodded, and Narcissa glanced at the others, then at the door. 'Alone, if that's all right.'

Remus looked from Arthur to Harry, who shrugged. 'Yes, that's fine.'

Hermione watched them go with a little apprehension. Luna drifted over to the desk and leaned over Terry's shoulder, peering down at a very large map of the grounds, while Arthur joined Moody in pouring through the financial records. Terry appeared to be struggling to hold all four corners of the map down with a combination of his elbows and several books for paperweights.

'This is insane,' Terry muttered, tapping the parchment with his wand. The map hissed menacingly at him in return. 'I can't make sense of any of this—it's spelling everything in Latin and it's refusing to cooperate—' Terry cursed as the parchment rolled itself up with a snap and left a nasty paper cut on his thumb. He looked up at Draco, who was still by the fireplace, looking smug. 'Instead of standing there and smirking like a prat, care to teach your house some manners?'

'Not really,' Draco said, snickering slightly. 'You seem to be doing a fine job of it yourself.'

Hermione rolled her eyes. 'As unsurprising as it is that your house is as foul and arrogant as you are, Malfoy, according to our agreement you have to make it cooperate whether you care to or not.'

Luna tapped the quivering roll of parchment that had bitten Terry with her wand. 'That wasn't very nice,' she said. The map hissed at her. 'Now, that's not necessary,' she chided. 'Open up—' (the map snarled), '—go on, then—' (the map began to roll away in a vain attempt to escape), '—please?' she offered.

The map stopped, seemed to consider, and then unrolled gracefully without so much as a hiss. It lay flat on the desk as if it were nothing other than an ordinary, serene piece of paper that had no intention of snapping at anyone.

Everyone goggled at her and she smiled at Terry. 'See? All you had to do was ask nicely.'

'Er,' said Terry, eyeing the parchment warily. 'Thank you?' The parchment sighed happily and Terry raised his eyebrows. 'Right... well, it's still spelling everything in Latin.'

'That would be because it was written in Latin,' Draco said, coming over to the desk. 'How can you be a Curse Breaker and not know Latin?'

'They don't teach interns Latin until our third year,' Terry said, a bit bitterly. 'I don't suppose you can translate it?'

'As a matter of fact I can,' Draco corrected him. 'But you're going to have to ask nicely,' he added, smirking.

'Right,' said Harry, before Terry could retaliate. 'Do you mind if we look around while you lot take care of that?'

'Help yourself,' Draco said without looking up. 'Nivens!' Crack, and the house-elf appeared by his side. 'Take Mr. Potter and his paramour on a tour of our humble abode, would you? And take care that the house doesn't attempt to lock them in a cupboard or have something devour them, for that would be most unfortunate.'

'You're an excellent host, Malfoy,' Hermione said dryly.

'Why thank you, milady,' Draco replied, glancing up without moving his head. 'Now kindly bugger off, will you?'

The Manor was far too big to explore every room individually in one afternoon, so Hermione asked the house-elf (who was extremely erudite, as far as house-elves went) to show her and Harry to the rooms that received the most use. These ended up being the drawing room on the first floor ('Master does his workings in here,' according to Nivens), the ballroom in the west wing—a large, open space with a marble floor and several grand pianos ('Mistress practices here every day.')—and the dining room, which featured a long oak table and several stained-glass windows, along with a large portrait over the mantle of Amadeus Malfoy, Draco's great-grandfather, who looked exactly like his descendants in every respect. He sneered as they passed underneath him back into the entry hall, where Nivens led them upstairs to view the main bedrooms.

As Nivens opened the door, all that Hermione could think was that it was certainly the last thing she would have expected. Aside from the fact that it was the size of an expensive hotel suite, Draco's bedroom was... well, oddly normal.

The most prominent aspect of the room was the amount of literature covering every available surface. Books were littered all over the place, lying on top of each other, stacked high in precarious piles on the desk, sticking out from under the bed, half-hidden beneath pillows and strewn across the rug by the hearth. The wall opposite the window was a built-in bookcase, and seemed to be overflowing; from a glance, Hermione couldn't see too much of a pattern of subjects. There were books on everything from Quidditch to potion-making, books on history and dressage techniques, and there was even a large hardback entitled Draconian Measures that had been left on the chaise by the fireplace—which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be a very interesting-looking text on dragon breeds.

She glanced at the bookcase to her right, and blinked in some surprise at a hardback copy of The Count of Monte Cristo that stared back at her. Wondering what Malfoy was playing at by having Muggle literature in his room, she tilted the book out of its spot and was surprised to see the cover had a moving picture on the front; it was, in fact, a wizarding book, but it was still by a Muggle author—shrugging to herself, she put the book back and continued to scan the room.

The walls were a pale, creamy colour like the rest of the manor, but whether it was stone or wood or plaster Hermione could not deduct, as most of the free space was obscured by either posters or paintings. The way the images had been displayed had no real sequence, as if they had been erected without much forethought, and gave the impression that the room had been in use for quite some time. The majority of them clashed horribly; the worst had to be a moving print of Waterhouse's The Lady of Shalott (another Muggle piece translated into a wizarding product) looking completely alien beside a large, much more active poster featuring the Tutshill Tornadoes.

The furnishings in the room looked expensive, but classy; this is, they managed to scream 'We cost a fortune!' without the side effect of being tacky. The bed was easily the largest piece of furniture in the room. It had four deeply carved, wooden posts holding up black drapes, and was the only surface area that seemed to have been given any consideration, as the deep red duvet had been tucked neatly over the pillows. Come to think of it, that was probably a house-elf's doing. By the looks of the rest of the room, Draco didn't seem the type to make his own bed.

Harry suddenly made a noise that sounded something like a laugh he thought better of and tried to swallow. Intrigued, Hermione approached him; he was standing before a large dresser, covered in scribbled-on parchment and several books with blank covers. Sat on top of these in no organised fashion were several picture frames, many with occupants she recognised. The largest was a picture of what looked like every Slytherin in Draco's year. Due to the small 'I' badges pinned to their robes, Hermione recognised it as being taken during their fifth year.

As usual, Draco was holding court in the centre of the photo, draped loftily on a large sofa and smirking, with Crabbe and Goyle poised behind the couch above him. Pansy Parkinson sat to his left, petting him affectionately on the shoulder and blowing kisses at the camera, Millicent Bulstrode behind, mimicking her. On Draco's right was the tall, dark-skinned form of Blaise Zabini, before Hermione had come to know him; he looked very sotto in the photograph, one leg propped up on an ottoman and leaning carelessly into Draco's shoulder. Off to the side stood the thin, weedy boy Theodore Nott; beside him with her arms around his neck, looking like some blonde-with-blue-eyes out of a swimsuit advertisement, stood another one of Pansy's old cohorts, Daphne Greengrass.

The other photographs were similar, and most of them were taken at Hogwarts. There was one or two that weren't; a very nice portrait picture of his mother, looking several years younger than she was now, and a picture of an older man Hermione did not recognise, but guessed to be his grandfather—he had the same cold, grey eyes and pointed features that seemed to be the Malfoy calling card.

Harry nudged her, indicating the photographs that had originally made him snigger with a slight nod. Hermione immediately clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress involuntary giggles. The first was certainly the more obscene of the two; it had the same setting as the fifth year picture—the couch in the Slytherin common room—but the occupants looked older, probably sixth-years.

This time, Blaise (wearing what appeared to be a faux golden crown) had Pansy (quite literally kicking and screaming) hoisted over his shoulder, animatedly pointing at her arse with his free hand. Goyle was sitting on top of what looked to be an unconscious Crabbe, holding a guitar in one hand and a quill in the other, scribbling vulgar things on his friend's drooling face. On the couch sat the remaining three; Theodore was physically recoiling from Draco, who had leaned over Daphne's lap (she was sitting between them doing obscene things to a lollipop with her tongue) to stick his tongue in Theodore's ear.

The second photo showed only three people, so the camera was focused much closer to their faces. There was Blaise again, this time looking extremely handsome, reclining on a black sofa, lips holding what looked suspiciously like a joint. Stretched across his waist and wearing a loose nightdress that dropped carelessly off one shoulder was Pansy; Hermione had called her a cow on many occasions, and although there was very little in the world that could alter that opinion, the photograph was waging a good argument. Pansy had never been a particularly pretty girl, but the slight tilt of her head, together with heavy-lidded eyes and her dark hair spilling over Blaise's white shirt gave her a more wanton, sultry look than Hermione would have thought possible.

And finally, there was Malfoy. Laid across the both of them with his head resting on his folded arms, loose tendrils of hair spilling into his eyes, Draco was giving the camera a lecherous come-hither look that was nothing short of scandalous.

'They look like they had a good time.'

Hermione looked up at Harry; she'd been so engrossed in studying the pictures, she hadn't noticed that he had started watching her reactions to them. 'Yes, they do,' she agreed. 'Yes—Slytherins having fun, who knew?'

'Guess it's not as surprising as Malfoy being such a slob,' Harry admitted, looking around the room again.

To be fair to Draco, Hermione thought, it wasn't really dirty. There weren't any old clothes or food lying about that she could see, mostly just books and spare bits of parchment. In fact, it felt very much like a sort of comfortable, organised chaos—of course, it was a bit of a shock nonetheless, considering Hermione had half-expected Malfoy to be a bit of a closet OCD case, right down to folding his socks.

On that note, she decided to indulge, and nudged open the nearby wardrobe.

It seemed she had been right with one of her assumptions, at least. Malfoy's wardrobe may as well have been a completely different universe from the rest of his room. Harry wandered to her side and peeked in over her shoulder. 'Good lord,' he said.

Like so many things in the wizarding world, the inside of the wardrobe had been magically enlarged, so it was basically the size of a walk-in closet. From the entrance, she could see several walls full of clothing, all hanging neatly on hooks and hangers in an organised fashion. It was dramatically different from the atmosphere in the rest of the room.

'If you're looking for dark devices and forbidden magic,' said a lofty voice behind them, 'you're not going to find them in there.'

Hermione jumped and slammed the wardrobe closed. Both she and Harry turned around to see Draco standing in the open doorway, relaxing against the frame.

If someone—Malfoy, of all people—had been rooting through her personal effects, Hermione would have been rightfully furious. She would have expected the same of him, but not for the first time that day, Draco surprised her by instead looking utterly bored. The sour look and impatient tone of voice were gone; he looked less pale, too, and much healthier than he had since the ride in the limo that morning.

He pushed off the doorframe, closing the door behind him, revealing a poster Hermione hadn't noticed before. It looked, if possible, even more out of place amongst the artwork and Quidditch posters. It was a full-body shot of a well-known celebrity witch—a curvy, pretty woman in a very alluring dress who kept winking suggestively at them.

She blinked at it for several long moments, then blurted, 'Why do you have a poster of Amelia Rose on your wall?'

'The same reason any bloke would have one, I'd imagine,' Draco answered, raising an eyebrow as if surprised she had to ask. It was shameless, really, the way he could smirk like that and end up making the other party feel embarrassed. Hermione bristled at the fact that she was blushing, which only served to deepen the shade of red her cheeks had adopted.

Harry looked like he was restraining a grin with a lot of difficulty. 'Certainly less shocking than having your bedsheets look like something stolen out of Gryffindor Tower.'

'Contrary to popular belief, Gryffindors do not own any patents on the colour red,' Draco drawled. He moved to the bed and did an elegant flop back onto it, upsetting the neatly tucked duvet. 'And you wishyour school bunks were this comfortable. I hated sleeping at Hogwarts.'

'I can imagine,' Harry muttered darkly, glancing around.

'Certainly a step up from a cupboard, isn't it?' Draco said from the bed, peering at them upside-down. Hermione closed her eyes, silently praying nothing would explode; she could already feel Harry's temper boiling from across the room.

'Yeah, it is,' Harry snapped. 'Not all of us grew up living in a five-star hotel, Malfoy.'

Opening her eyes, Hermione saw that Draco had picked up on the temper, too; the look of slight amusement from before hardened into a closed, unreadable expression. Draco shrugged indifferently. 'Not all of us grew up with our names already in history books, either—but if we had it'd hardly make us something special, would it?'

Harry opened his mouth to retaliate just as someone knocked on the half-closed door.

'Are you lot—' Lupin's head appeared around the slightly open door. 'Ah, there you are, Harry. Mind if I borrow you for a moment?'

'Sure,' Harry said, sounding grateful for an excuse to get away from Draco.

He quickly followed Lupin out the door. Hermione watched him go, the familiar helpless feeling that always accompanied Harry's temper swelling inside her.

: : :

Remus closed the door to Draco's room carefully behind him, and then turned around to face Harry. 'How are you three getting along?' Harry glared at him, and Remus frowned slightly. 'That well?'

Harry frowned himself and sighed. 'Everything all right? What did his mum want?'

'Yes,' Remus said quickly. 'Well, sort of. Harry, I know this sounds odd, but did you happen to notice if Draco ate anything this morning?'

Harry blinked. 'Sorry, what?'

'Or last night?'

Harry blinked again, pulling his head back slightly. 'I—why d'you—'

'Did he even sleep last night?'

Now Harry's brow furrowed, and he looked at Remus for a moment before answering. 'No. I mean, I don't think so. And I don't know if he's eaten, but I haven't seen him eat since yesterday morning. Why?'

Remus looked aside, shifting his weight, thinking. Deliberating. Harry was, at best, a strong and steady figure under enormous and often perilous pressure—at worst, he could quickly revert back to the fifteen-year-old version of himself; impulsive, emotional, stubborn, and extremely (though often rightfully) furious. But Harry was more dangerous than he'd like to believe when he was angry, and even after four years of separation to sober some of the animosity, Draco Malfoy was still very talented at making Harry angry over very little.

Having decided on his course of action—being straightforward—Remus shoved his hands in his pockets. 'Listen, Harry—I think it'd be a good idea if we spent the weekend at the Manor.'

Not surprisingly, Harry blanched. 'What? Stay at the Manor?' he asked, aghast. 'You mean sleep here?'

'Yes, that's what I mean,' Remus said firmly, but gently. 'Arthur's already agreed and I have nothing to keep me, so we can both stay with you and Draco, and I think it would be for the best. For Draco, in particular.'

'For the best? In the home of an enemy?' Harry rolled his eyes. 'Have you forgotten who he is?'

'Do you really believe that?' Remus asked. 'That he's still the enemy? Is that why you agreed to help him?

'Who he is,' Remus continued, 'is a man that grew up with a Death Eater as a father, and is now old enough to make his own decisions. I wouldn't be asking you to do this unless I thought there was very good reason for it, Harry, you know that. And you have to admit that the last thing anyone has been concerned about since Draco turned himself in is his well-being—and I'm not saying you should be, but if he's going to be of any use to any of us, someone needs to be concerned about it.'

Harry paused. Remus had been counting on this pause, where Harry would quickly consider his own view, what Remus was saying, and the logic spread throughout, before deciding whether he was willing to consider the proposal. However temperamental he was prone to be, Harry very rarely disregarded logic. Remus did not mistake 'logic' with 'common sense', however, as there was a very large difference between the two, and Harry frequently ignored what the average person would consider common sense; but then, Harry was far from average, another detail never overlooked by his old professor.

'Okay,' Harry conceded. 'I mean, I don't think it's a good idea, but if you and Arthur don't mind—'

'We don't,' Remus assured him.

'Okay,' Harry said again, looking uneasy but relinquishing. 'I'll go explain to Hermione, then. Could you let the others—'

'Of course,' Remus replied automatically. 'Will you three be all right?'

'Yeah,' Harry said. He looked as if he were thinking deeply about something, but then dismissed it with a quick shake of his head. 'Yeah, we'll be fine.'

: : :

'Is he always like that?'

Hermione wheeled around as if she'd been jabbed rudely in the back; she'd completely forgotten her surroundings, which had been a very bad thing to do, because it had left her alone in a room with Draco Malfoy.

'Must you always be like that?' she snapped, huffing and folding her arms.

Draco was still draped on his stomach on his bed, creating a large depression in the comforter. 'Like what, Granger?' He had his chin propped up on both hands and his head tilted to the side. 'Honest? Forthright?'

'Tactless! Hostile!' she snapped, tightening the knot her arms had formed. 'Why do you always try to make him upset?'

'Why do you always try to pander to him?' Draco shot back.

'Pander to him? What do you—I don't—'

'Yes, Granger, you do.' Draco had rolled off the bed onto his feet and approached her, stopping with several feet between them. 'And don't you deny it. You do it, Weasley does it, you all do it.'

Hermione spluttered a little, feeling indignant all of a sudden. 'Even if I did—but I don't—even still, he's been through a lot!'

'A lot,' Draco repeated. 'And what is your basis of comparison for that? He's been through a lot compared to you? To Weasley?' Draco gave a short laugh and shook his head at her inability to instantly form a response this question, continuing on. 'What about your werewolf friend? You think he hasn't been through a lot?' he snapped. 'What about Snape? I don't care what your preconceptions about him are; he's probably been through more than all of you combined. I am sick and tired of you all acting like Potter's the only person who's ever suffered for this bloody war.'

'It's not the same!' Hermione protested. 'He was only a child—'

'So was I!'

Draco had shouted the last remark, catching Hermione by surprise, and she just gaped at him for a moment before she managed to digest the words. Draco had turned away, facing the windows with his arms folded. A long silence lingered uncomfortably between them while Hermione searched furiously for the appropriate thing to say.

'I know,' she said to his back. 'I'm sorry. Look, I know, we all were—I didn't mean—'

'I know,' Draco said, cutting her off without turning around.

She didn't mind the interruption, was actually somewhat grateful for it. 'Right. Well. Nice, er, room. I guess.'

Draco, still facing the window, shrugged, though his arms had relaxed slightly. They both lapsed into another uncomfortable silence, and Hermione was wondering if she would be pushing her luck to ask what she really wanted to, all the while trying to imagine the irony Draco faced in having a Muggleborn—one he had spent six years of his life insulting—standing in his bedroom.

They both started talking at the same time.

'Look, I know this is a bit overdue—'

'That scar on your chest, did you—'

'What?'

'What?'

Draco had finally turned around, and now it only served him so he could stare at her, hoping she would repeat herself, while she stared stubbornly at him, wishing he'd finish whatever he had been about to say.

'What?' he said again before she could.

Dammit. 'Erm,' she said. 'Your scar. Last night, when you were in your Animagus form, I—'

'Since when,' Draco interrupted, 'did my physical condition become any of your bloody business?'

Okay, touchy subject. She probably should have anticipated that. Still, she decided, since she'd already opened the can, she may as well dig out allthe worms while her hands were dirty. 'Harry gave it to you.' It wasn't a question.

'And what,' Draco said evenly, 'does that have to do with anything?'

'He doesn't know, you know.'

'He's a misanthropic, oblivious idiot,' Draco snapped. 'Of course he doesn't know,'

Hermione ignored the jibe. To be fair, it had a little truth to it. 'He'd still want to know.'

'Well, sorry if I don't pander to your Prodigy's every want and desire.'

'Draco—'

'Malfoy, Granger.'

'Malfoy,' she conceded, mostly to shut him up and stay on topic. 'He thought Snape was able to heal it—'

'He did.'

'But—the mark—Harry told us Snape said there wouldn't be any—'

'Since when do you believe a damn thing Snape tells you?'

'Oh, stop talking bollocks!' she snapped, flustered. 'You know what I mean!'

'Of course I know what you mean!' Draco was shouting again, but now in a desperate sort of defensiveness rather than raging indignation. 'Have you—'

'No,' she said firmly. 'I haven't—'

'Good. Keep it that—'

'—yet,' she finished. 'But if you don't, I will.'

'What?'

'You heard me.'

Draco was staring very hard at her. She had to appreciate how difficult it was to withstand his gaze when he looked at her that way, grey eyes wild and turbulent, like twin cyclones tearing at her resolve. It was the same piercing look that his father had directed at her and her parents at that first meeting so many years ago in Diagon Alley, and it jarred her slightly, though she was careful not to show it.

'It's none of his bloody business,' he said.

'It is, though,' she pressed, still valiantly resisting the hard look. 'He would want to know, Draco.'

'Malfoy, Granger!'

'Fine, Malfoy. That doesn't change the fact that he—'

'Potter doesn't need to know anything!'

'You know you should tell him, Draco!'

'Should tell me what?' Then, almost as an afterthought, 'Draco, Hemione?'

Hermione wheeled around. Harry was standing in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, having walked back into the room with the sort of timing that only Murphy and his cohort Irony could arrange. Beside her, Draco closed his eyes and took a very slow, steady breath. Hermione bit her lip.

'What I should tell you,' Draco spat, 'is when to mind your own fucking business.' Shoving roughly past Harry on the way, he stormed out of the room.

'Right,' Harry said slowly, looking from the door Draco had slammed to Hermione, who was still chewing her lip. 'So, do you want to tell me what that was that all about?'

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