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Chapter Text

“I can teach you to live with a Minotaur,

like a bezoar in your stomach.”

Five years had passed since the war, but Grimmauld Place still felt like an empty grave.  

The house loomed in the dim light of a rainy afternoon, its crooked windows and weathered brick facade an accurate reflection of the filth within. Harry stood on the threshold, staring at the peeling black paint of the front door as though it might lash out at him. He was drenched from the rain, but he hardly noticed over his resignation. The cold bite of the downpour on his skin, the heavy weight of his soaked clothes clinging to his frame—none of it registered. He never seemed to notice much these days—at least not the physical things. Pain, discomfort, hunger, the chill that seeped into his bones, they all blurred together, fading into the dull ache of his existence. The storm above him was nothing compared to the one that raged quietly within him, a ceaseless torrent of emotions that left him numb to everything else. But above that was the house’s magic, restless and uncooperative, that kept him on edge. It seeped into him like a wolf sinking his claws onto its prey, its wild and unpredictable nature a constant reminder of just how broken everything was around him.

Grimmauld Place was no longer the sullen, orderly place it had been under the Black family. Instead, it had become an ever-shifting, unrecognisable realm of misery. 

Harry stepped inside, the door closing with a heavy groan, as if the house itself resented his return. The hallway stretched out before him in gloom, illuminated only by the sad, flickering of a single candle on a wall sconce. The wallpaper, once richly patterned with what looked like silver serpents upon green, had disintegrated into shreds, curling away from the damp walls like moulted skin. Dust layered every surface, thick and undisturbed, though Harry could swear he and Kreacher had cleaned the place just yesterday. Spells of all kinds, even Molly’s own, nothing ever worked here. Not even Muggle means.  

The house didn’t want to be cleaned.  

He dropped his bag by the door, uncaring as it slumped against the wall. He’d spent the better part of the day trying to sort out the kitchen, which had decided overnight to relocate to the second floor. Again. He’d found it perched precariously in what used to be Sirius’s old study, its cupboards and mechanical appliances clinging to the walls as though they’d sprouted there. The fireplace had been shoved into a corner, and the range was somehow jammed halfway into the window. He had tried, futilely, to coax the kitchen back to its proper place in the basement, but the house had refused, kicking him out of the room with a huff and a poof. It was stubborn like that, always rebelling, as though it didn’t know what it was supposed to be anymore.  

Kind of like him, if he was honest. 

He trudged up the staircase, his trainers leaving damp prints on the scuffed wooden steps. Halfway up, the railing trembled, and Harry paused, narrowing his eyes at it in suspicion. The staircase groaned, the wood beneath him creaking ominously, as though considering whether it wanted to collapse altogether or save him the indignity.

“Don’t you dare,” he muttered moodily. The house seemed to sneer back in defiance with another sharp creak, but it held—for now.  

The upper floors were no better. What should have been the hallway leading to his room opened instead into a long, cavernous library he’d never seen before. The shelves stretched into shadowy heights, their books rotting, the pages whispering as though alive and mouldy like old cheese, their smell so strong it made his nose itch.

Harry swore under his breath.

“Bloody hell, not now,” he whined, turning back and closing the door. But when he glanced behind him, the staircase was gone, replaced by a narrow, spiralling passageway brimming with cobwebs and huge spiders. A scene straight out of Ron’s nightmares.

This was his new normal, how the house punished him: by toying with him, reshaping itself until it made no sense. He had stopped keeping track of the number of times he’d gone to sleep in his room, only to wake up in a completely different part of the house. He’d learned to sleep with his wand in hand, though the disorientation never lessened.

Some days, his room didn’t exist at all.  

By the time he found his bedroom, Harry’s nerves were frayed. All this time, his room was exactly where it was supposed to be all along, but it felt different. Colder. He stepped inside and found the bed stripped bare, its mattress yellowed and lumpy, the sheets missing entirely. The desk was overturned, the chair nowhere to be found, a horrifying mummified merfolk in its place; and the walls seemed to close in tighter than usual. Was the room smaller?

“Brilliant,” he muttered, his voice flat and devoid of energy. He waved his wand to summon the missing sheets, but nothing happened. The house swallowed his magic like it always did when it was not in the mood to be helpful, rejecting his efforts with a petulant silence.  

Sighing, he sank onto the bare mattress, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands dangled between them, slack, and his head fell forward, his rain-soaked fringe clinging to his forehead. He didn’t cry. He rarely cried anymore. The weight in his chest was too heavy for tears, a suffocating ache that had rooted itself deep inside him, just beneath the locket’s scar that had long since become pale under his sparse chest hair.  

He wasn’t sure why he insisted on staying here. Grimmauld Place was a ruin, a relic of a family steeped in darkness, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Well, that was a lie. He knew perfectly well why he put up with the house’s attempts to drive him mad. 

It was Sirius’s house. His last connection to his godfather. To his past.

To some vague, unreachable notion of family.  

But it wasn’t Sirius’s house anymore, not really. It was something else entirely, warped and hollowed out by years of neglect and weird magic. It had become a place filled with ghosts, with memories he didn’t want to confront, a gnawing emptiness he couldn’t escape.  

The house groaned, a low, mournful sound that made the hair on Harry’s arms stand on end. He lifted his head, listening. The walls seemed to tremble faintly, the plaster cracking as if the house were trying to speak to him, trying to say something he couldn’t understand.  He swallowed hard, his throat dry. The house always did this—pressed on his mind, whispered things he couldn’t quite make out. Sometimes he thought it was alive, as much a prisoner as he was. And sometimes he thought it hated him for being here, for intruding when he didn’t belong.  

The rain outside intensified, lashing against the windows with a fury that matched the trepidation in Harry’s chest. He leaned back against the headboard, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he listened to the storm. His wand lay forgotten at his side, his fingers twitching occasionally as though grasping for something just out of reach.  

Somewhere deep within the house, a door slammed, the echo reverberating through the walls. Harry didn’t flinch. It happened all the time—doors opening and closing on their own, footsteps sounding in empty hallways, voices whispering just on the edge of hearing. He’d grown used to it.  

And wasn’t that just pathetic?  

As he sat there, staring at the cracked ceiling, the weight of the house’s magic pressed down on him again, as if testing his limits. It was like being smothered, the air thick and cloying, filled with the scent of dust and decay. His chest tightened, his breathing shallow, and for a moment, he wondered if the house was trying to consume him.  

Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.  

The thought came unbidden, and Harry shook his head, trying to banish it. He was just tired, he told himself. Tired from the constant battles—with the house, with his own mind, with the memories of the war that haunted him even in his dreams.  

But no matter how hard he tried, the house never let him forget.

The rain had stopped by the time Harry ventured out of his room the next morning, but the stifling atmosphere inside Grimmauld Place had not lifted. It never did. The house seemed to revel in its misery, and Harry was beginning to suspect it was dragging him along for the ride.  

He stretched as he trudged down the staircase, half-expecting it to shift beneath his feet and dropping it into another obscure room. The house had been merciful for once, allowing the stairs to remain intact. But he didn’t trust it. Not anymore. The hallway was quiet except for the faint creak of floorboards beneath his weight. Dust motes floated in the thin stream of light leaking through the half-shuttered windows, and Harry couldn’t help but thank whatever deity was watching over him that they weren’t doxys, again. The time he had opened a newly-created cupboard near the kitchen door that lead to the backyard and had found a huge nest of them inhabiting it, had been more than enough for a lifetime. He avoided the little fairies like the plague now.

A hushed murmur drifted from downstairs, so faint he might have dismissed it as the groaning of the old pipes if it hadn’t been followed by a soft laugh. He froze mid-step, ears straining to catch the sound again. Another creak, this time not beneath his feet but further ahead, and the unmistakable clink of a teacup settling on a saucer. His heart gave a jolt.

Apart from him, only Kreacher should’ve been around, and that wasn’t Kreacher’s gruff voice. That could only mean…

His friends were here.

Relief washed over him, though it was tinged with unease. They shouldn’t have been in, or at least, not without telling him. Still, the thought of company stirred something warm in the hollow recesses of his chest, a welcome reprieve from the house's suffocating quiet. He adjusted his footing and headed toward the sound, his steps quickening despite himself. The house, as unpredictable as it was, had at least delivered him something familiar this time around.

 Hermione’s voice carried through the air before he even reached the kitchen—firm, insistent, and tinged with exasperation. He couldn’t make out the words yet, but he knew the tone. She was lecturing. Again.  

Ron’s deeper voice joined hers, lower and softer, but no less serious.  

Harry hesitated at the door, resting his hand against the peeling frame. He didn’t need to hear the conversation to know what it was about. It was always about the same thing.

“Harry,” Hermione said as soon as he stepped into the kitchen. Her dark face lit up in that determined way that meant she had a plan—though Harry knew by now that her plans often ended with him feeling cornered.

“Morning,” he mumbled, heading straight for the kettle.

Ron sat at the kitchen table with a heart breakfast in front of him, his arms crossed, and a frown etched onto his face. Hermione stood beside him, hands on her wide hips, her eyes following Harry as he moved around the room. The kitchen itself looked surprisingly normal today, its cupboards and appliances in their proper places. For once, it seemed the house had decided to play along—though Harry suspected it had only done so because it wanted to discourage Hermione from whatever she was about to say.

“You look awful,” Hermione said, her voice gentle but firm.

“Gee, thanks, Mione” Harry muttered, pouring water into the kettle. He kept his back to her, unwilling to meet her gaze.

“You know I don't mean it like that. Harry,” she tried again, softer this time. “You can’t keep living like this. The house—”

“It’s fine,” Harry interrupted, setting the kettle on the stove. He turned to face her, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed as he waited for the water to boil. “I’ve managed this long, haven’t I?”  

“Barely,” Ron said. He didn’t sound angry, just tired. Tired of having this conversation, tired of watching Harry spiral, tired of the house’s grip on him. “It’s not safe, mate. You know it’s not.”  

Hermione nodded, her brow furrowing. “This house is falling apart, Harry. It’s unstable. You’ve told us yourself how it moves things, traps you in rooms—it’s dangerous.”  

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Hermione cut him off.  

“And don’t try to tell me you’re handling it, Harry James” she said sharply. “You’re not. Look at you, you look exhausted.”  

Ron leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he took a sausage and inspected it with apparent disinterest. 

“You know you can move in with us,” he said, his voice quiet but earnest. “We’ve been telling you that for years. We’ve got plenty of room, and you don’t have to deal with this… this madness,” he gestured vaguely around the kitchen with the sausage, careful, as if the house itself might lash out at any moment.  

Harry looked away, his jaw tightening. “I can’t.”  

“Yes, you can,” Hermione said, stepping closer, her frown deepening. “Harry, you don’t owe this house anything. You don’t have to stay here.”  

Harry shook his head, pushing off the counter. “It’s not just a house,” he said, his voice low and clipped.  

“We know that,” Ron said, before shoving the whole sausage into his mouth. “It was Sirius’, and we get why it’s important to you. But Sirius wouldn’t want this for you, Harry. He wouldn’t want you wasting away in this place,”  he said between chews.

The words hit harder than Harry expected, and he turned away, gripping the edge of the counter.

“You don’t understand,” he said, his voice harsh but barely above a whisper.

“Then help us understand, Harry” Hermione pressed.

Harry closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. The kettle began to whistle behind him, but he didn’t move to take it off the stove. The sound seemed to fill the room, drowning out everything else for a moment.  

“It’s the only thing I have left of him,” he said finally, his voice raw.  

The room went quiet.  

Harry turned back to face them, his hands gripping the counter behind him. “Sirius is gone. He’s been gone for years, I know that. But this—this wretched house—it’s still here, and it’s all I have left of him. If I leave, if I let it go, then it’s like…” He trailed off, his throat tightening. “It’s like he never existed.”  

Hermione’s expression softened, her arms falling to her sides and approaching Harry slowly, as if she was trying not to spook him. Next to her, Ron looked down at the plate in front of him, his fingers drumming lightly against the wood.  

“I know it’s not healthy,” Harry admitted, his voice trembling. “I know the house is…” He gestured vaguely, his hand shaking. “But I can’t leave. I just can’t.”  

For a moment, no one spoke. The kettle’s whistle had died down, leaving the room eerily quiet.  

Finally, Hermione stepped a little closer, placing a hand on his arm.

“Harry,” she said softly, “Sirius isn’t in this house. He’s in your memories. In your heart. You don’t have to stay here to keep him with you.”

Harry swallowed hard, pulling away from her touch. 

“I can’t,” he said again, his voice barely audible.  

Ron sighed, leaning back in his chair and looking at him with worried eyes. “We just don’t want to see you hurt, mate” he said. “That’s all.”

Harry nodded, but he didn’t respond. The house groaned softly around them, as if listening.  

Hermione and Ron exchanged a look, but they didn’t push him any further. For now.  

As the two of them settled into an uneasy silence, Harry turned back to the counter, pouring himself a cup of tea with hands that trembled slightly. The warmth of the mug did little to chase away the chill that seemed to seep into his very bones.  

He knew they were right. The house was dangerous. It was slowly consuming him, breaking him down piece by piece.  

But leaving wasn’t an option.  

Not yet.

The kitchen settled into a temporary calm as Hermione prepared Harry’s tea for him just how he liked it –black, with a teaspoon of honey– and he took his place at the table, nursing it. Hermione fussed with a basket of scones she had brought, setting them out alongside a jar of jam and some clotted cream she’d likely smuggled in from the Burrow. The normalcy of it all—a proper breakfast in the disaster of Grimmauld Place—was almost unsettling, but Harry couldn’t deny he liked this. Misery does love company, it seemed.  

Ron, as always, was the first to break the silence. He reached for a scone, slathering it with cream with gusto.

“You know,” he said through a mouthful, before reaching for some eggs from his plate, “if you’d just let us move in for a bit, we could get this place sorted in no time.”  

Harry gave him a pointed look, lifting his cup to his lips.  

“Not this again, Ron,” Hermione sighed, sitting down across from Harry.  

“What? I’m serious! You know Mum would send me over with half of the family to get this place cleaned up,” he paused, swallowing. “It’s what Sirius would’ve wanted, wouldn’t it? A liveable house, not…” he gestured around, his words trailing off as he caught the dark look on Harry’s face.  

Harry didn’t answer, choosing instead to focus on the swirl of steam rising from his tea. He appreciated their concern—he really did—but they didn’t understand. This house wasn’t just a building to him. It was a tether. A crumbling one, maybe, but a tether nonetheless.  It didn’t feel right, having them here. Not to mention that he’d never forgive himself if something happened to them because of this house.

Hermione must have sensed the shift in his mood because she nudged Ron with her foot —a little too strongly, if his quiet ‘ ow, Mione!’ was anything to go by— and changed the subject.  

“George asked us to stop by today,” she said, carefully neutral. “He and Lee have been working on some new products, and he said he could use an extra set of hands to test them. Thought you might want to come along.”  

Harry glanced up at her, startled.

“Test them? You mean get hexed for free?”  

Ron grinned. “It’s not so bad. Sometimes you even get a few Galleons for your trouble. And besides, George swears he’s fixed the… er… side effects.”  

“Mostly,” Hermione added dryly.  

Harry hesitated, staring down at the tea in his hands. The idea of leaving Grimmauld Place, even for a few hours, filled him with unease. He didn’t usually, unless he had something pressing to do, or he was out of food to survive —Kreacher refused to do any kind of Muggle grocery shopping and Harry had grown used to certain creature comforts from the Muggle world, so a compromise was made. But at the same time, the thought of being surrounded by laughter, by people who weren’t constantly tiptoeing around him, was… tempting.  

He took a deep breath and set his cup down.

“Fine,” he said finally. “I’ll go with you.”  

The streets of Diagon Alley were busier than Harry had expected. Autumn hadn’t fully set in yet, but the chill in the air was enough to send most people scurrying from shop to shop, their robes and jackets pulled tight around them.  

Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes stood out like a beacon of chaos and colour amidst the greyness of the season. The front windows were crowded with displays of fireworks, joke wands, and an enormous enchanted sign advertising their latest creation: Perilous Pudding—A Sweet with a Surprise!  

Harry followed Ron and Hermione into the shop, immediately hit by a wave of noise and the faint smell of burnt sugar. The store was packed with customers, most of them children darting between shelves with wide eyes and sticky fingers, laughter on their lips.

“Oi, there you lot!” George’s voice rang out from behind the counter, where he was demonstrating a Fanged Frisbee to an eager group of teenagers. He looked up as they approached, grinning. “Harry Potter, gracing us mere mortals with his presence! To what do I owe this honour, my Lord?”  

Harry rolled his eyes, but there was no malice in it. 

“Hermione said you needed guinea pigs.”

George’s grin widened. “Ah, yes. The fearless trio, always ready for a bit of danger. Come on, then.”

He led them to the back of the shop, where a table was cluttered with half-finished prototypes, scraps of parchment, and a truly alarming number of glittering, neon-coloured potions.  

“What’s all this?” Hermione asked, eyeing the table warily.  

“Progress,” George said proudly. “Or, you know, explosions waiting to happen. Either way, it’ll be entertaining.”

Ron leaned over to inspect a small, glowing orb. 

“What’s this one do?”  

George snatched it out of his hands.

“That,” he said, holding it up, “is a Mood Muddler. Supposed to swap your emotional state with whoever you’re closest to. So if you’re feeling all cheery and someone else is a grumpy git…” he paused, his eyes flicking to Harry with a mischievous glint. “Well, you can see how it might be useful.”  

Harry raised an eyebrow. “And you want us to test that?”  

“Don’t worry,” George said, waving a hand dismissively. “We’ve got other things for you to try first. Less… experimental.”  

And so, for the next three hours, Harry found himself immersed in the chaotic energy of the shop. George kept them busy, handing out products to test and occasionally dragging them into impromptu experiments that left Ron sneezing glitter that changed colour depending on how many times he sneezed, and Hermione muttering about safety regulations. For the first time in what felt like weeks, Harry found himself laughing. It was a strange, almost foreign feeling—light and fleeting, like a snitch taking flight.  

But even as he laughed, a small part of him couldn’t help but feel the pull of Grimmauld Place. The house was never far from his thoughts, its shadows stretching across his mind like a tether he couldn’t break.  

Still, for a little while, he let himself forget.  

And when George’s latest concoction —a Yule special, said George— exploded in a shower of green smoke, leaving Ron with a pair of glittering antlers and a glowing red nose, Harry couldn’t stop the cackle that erupted from his lips. 

For a moment, it was enough.

Harry stood at the threshold of what had once been the library, staring at the gaping hole that had replaced the doorway. The jagged edges of the frame seemed almost alive, splintered and raw, as if the house itself had wrenched the room away in a fit of wickedness. Beyond, there was nothing but swirling darkness, an abyss that breathed like a living thing, low whispers threading through the air in a language he couldn’t decipher. The sound wasn’t loud, but it crawled under his skin, wrapping around him like smoke and leaving an acrid taste of unease in his mouth. He had tried stepping closer, one hesitant foot bridging the distance, but the void had pushed back. It wasn’t a violent shove; it was worse. An invisible pressure swelled against his chest, suffocating, almost tender in its refusal. It pushed as though the house was keeping him from the room, and he stumbled back into the hallway, the whispers rising in a faint crescendo before fading again.  

Just what he needed—now the house wasn’t just shifting—it was actively shutting him out. The library had been his refuge, a tiny oasis in the madness of this place. Rows of forgotten knowledge, crumbling leather-bound spines, the faint musk of paper and time—God, he was sounding like Hermione, now– it was a piece of normalcy in a house that seemed determined to erode every scrap of it. 

Now, it was gone.

This was the third time this week a room had vanished completely. First, the sitting room, with its faded armchairs and the heavy curtains that always smelled faintly of damp wood. Then his bathroom— his bathroom —and now, the library. Each disappearance felt like another piece of himself being torn away, a slow dismantling of whatever fragile claim he had left in this place. It was a reminder, clear and cruel, that he didn’t belong here. He never had. 

“Kreacher,” he called hoarsely, running a hand through his already messy hair.  

With a soft pop, Kreacher appeared at his side, bowing low, though his hunched frame trembled with age and frustration. 

“Master Harry calls Kreacher, but Kreacher can do nothing. Kreacher tries and tries, but the house… the house will not listen.”

Harry felt a pang of guilt as he looked down at the old House-elf. Kreacher’s once-proud demeanour had crumbled in the face of the house’s ever-changing chaos and disarray. His large, watery eyes were ringed with exhaustion, and his movements were slow and laboured, as if the constant struggle against Grimmauld Place’s wild magic was wearing him down more than time itself. The elf loved this rickety place, treasured it maybe even more than Harry himself, and he knew that what was happening to it because of Harry must be crushing him.

“I don’t care if it won’t listen,” Harry snapped, the edge in his voice harsher than he intended, his guilt fraying his nerves. “Just… do something. Please. You’ve lived here longer than I have—you know this house better than anyone.”  

Kreacher flinched at the desperation in Harry’s tone, his bat-like ears flattening against his head.

“Master Harry is not of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. The house… it knows this. The house remembers its masters, and Master Harry is not—”  

“That’s enough,” Harry interrupted, his voice cracking. He couldn’t bear to hear it. Not from Kreacher. Not when the truth was already weighing on him like a stone in his chest.  

Kreacher fell silent, his shoulders sagging further as he twisted the hem of his tea towel. Harry knew the elf meant no harm, but the words cut deep nonetheless. It was not that he wanted to be a Black, another family lost to time and of whom he knew next to nothing about. He was a Potter, and that hurt enough. But it was what Kreacher’s words meant that rattled him. The house doesn’t recognise you. It doesn’t want you. He knew that. God, of course he knew.

But still, it hurt to hear.

Later that evening, Harry found himself sitting in the kitchen—or at least, what the kitchen had decided to be that day. The room was smaller than it should have been, the walls creeping in closer every time he looked away. The stove was in the middle of the room, alone, its burners flickering weakly as if even it wasn’t sure it belonged there.  

He clutched a mug of tea, though it had long since gone cold. The faint clatter of Kreacher moving about in another part of the house was the only sound, and even that seemed muffled, swallowed by the oppressive silence that filled the space. He’d even take the doxys now, just so it didn’t feel as desolate.

The house was rejecting him. Not out of spite—no, this wasn’t personal, the house wasn’t alive, after all. It was instinctual, a reaction to his bloodline, or lack thereof. The magic at the core of Grimmauld Place, ancient and sentient, didn’t recognise him as its master. He wasn’t a Black.  

The realisation had been gnawing at him for months, but now, as more and more rooms vanished, and the corridors twisted into impossible labyrinths, it was impossible to ignore. Hell, even Kreacher knew it by now. Every shift in the house’s structure felt like it was pushing him out, like it was trying to force him to leave.  

And yet, Harry couldn’t bring himself to do it.  

Leaving Grimmauld Place felt like a betrayal—not just to Sirius, but to the fleeting sense of family and belonging he had found here. This was the place where Sirius had laughed, where they had talked about the future, where Harry had dared to hope for something more, something real. If he left, he would lose that hope.  

Even now, the thought made his chest tighten painfully.  

But the house wasn’t safe anymore. He knew that. The wild magic was growing stronger, more erratic. Just last week, he had woken up to find his bedroom gone, replaced by a crumbling staircase that led nowhere. He had stumbled down it in the dark, his back hurting from having been sleeping on the steps, only to have it collapse beneath him, leaving him bruised and battered in the basement and covered in old soot.  

And yet, he stayed.

“Kreacher should punish himself,” the elf muttered for the fourth time that day, wringing his hands as he stood in the corner of the kitchen.  

Harry, who had been trying to coax the stove into lighting, slammed the kettle down on the counter. 

“Kreacher, stop it! I told you, none of that.”

“Kreacher has failed Master Harry,” the elf croaked, his voice thick with shame. “Kreacher cannot control the house. Kreacher is useless. Oh, what would my mistress say if she saw Kreacher…”  

“You’re not useless,” Harry said, though the words felt hollow even as he spoke them. He didn’t know how to fix this—not the house, not Kreacher, not himself.  

Kreacher turned away, muttering under his breath as he disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, probably towards where he instinctually knew his cupboard was. Harry let him go, too exhausted to argue. He knew Kreacher was struggling, knew the house’s state was as much a burden on the old elf as it was on him. But knowing didn’t make it any easier. The truth was, they were both powerless. The house’s magic was beyond either or both of them, wild and unyielding. It didn’t matter how many times Harry tried to reason with it, or how many spells he cast to stabilise the shifting rooms. Grimmauld Place was rejecting him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.  

And yet, as he sat there in the dimly lit kitchen, staring at the flickering stove and the cracked tiles beneath his feet, he knew he would never leave. 

It was all he had left of home.  

The knock at the door startled Harry out of his thoughts. He had been eating burnt toast that the stove had spit out for him thirty minutes ago in the dim light of the kitchen, the faint hum of the house’s restless magic prickling at the edge of his awareness. When he opened the door, Andromeda Tonks stood there, tall and composed as always, looking very sharp in her long walking skirt and crisp white shirt under her cloak, her expression a curious mix of sympathy and determination.  

“I heard what’s been happening in here,” she said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. Her voice was calm, but her sharp eyes darted around the hallway as though the house itself might attack. “Hermione contacted me.”  

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Of course she did,” he muttered. “What a snitch.”  

Andromeda raised a slender eyebrow but said nothing, instead shedding her travelling cloak and taking in the gloom of Grimmauld Place. Her presence was beckoning, her bearing most reminiscent of Sirius during Harry’s summer before fifth year, though her dark gaze lacked the biting edge of Black family arrogance. Instead, it held empathy.  

“I know why you want to stay here, Harry, I truly do” she said softly, her voice cutting through his defensiveness. “And I don’t blame you. But this house… it has always been unpredictable. The magic here is old, stubborn, and deeply tied to our bloodline. I’ll do what I can to help, but I don’t know if it’ll let me do much.”  

And so, for the next few hours, Andromeda worked unrelentingly at trying to tame her ancestral home. She started with a spell Harry didn’t recognise—a low chant in Latin, her wand tracing intricate patterns in the air as small, golden light orbs —they reminded Harry of fireflies— spilled from its tip. Her lips pressed into a thin, determined line, and her voice grew steadier, louder by the second, the Latin incantation flowing with an unwavering rhythm. The golden lights that streamed from her wand grew brighter, more intense, spilling into the darkened corners of the dilapidated house. Harry stood back, his arms crossed and his shoulders tight with tension as he watched her. He could feel the house resisting her, its magic vibrating angrily beneath his feet, shaking loose dust from the cracked ceiling. The orbs seeped into the walls, the floor, the ceilings, spreading like roots seeking something hidden. They crawled across the faded wallpaper, over the crooked door frames, down the splintered floorboards.

For a moment, Harry dared to hope. Maybe she was stronger than the house’s chaos. Maybe her connection to the Black family would make the difference where his efforts had failed.

But then the house fought back. The walls groaned, and violently spit out the lights before creaking, as if mocking them.  

“Stubborn thing,” Andromeda muttered under her breath, her eyes narrowing as she prepared to try something new.

“Is this safe?” Harry asked hesitantly, his voice slightly strained as he glanced around the room. The wild magic was so thick now that it felt stifling, making his skin itch. The air crackled with tension, and he swore he could hear faint whispers—low, sibilant murmurs that seemed to crawl along his skin.

“It won’t bring the house down, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Andromeda replied sharply, her tone clipped. Her wand was already moving again, drawing newer, more complex patterns in the air. “But Grimmauld Place is a creature of pride. Its magic is confused, but it’s not aimless. It doesn’t want me here, and I can feel its magic pulling at mine; like a tingle underneath my skin. It's quite uncomfortable, I must say.”

Harry grimaced at the implication but didn’t know what else to say. That sounded uncomfortable. He already felt like an intruder in the house, a squatter in a place that clearly didn’t want him.

Next came a ritual Harry couldn’t make sense of, involving a basin of shimmering silver metal with milky white liquid inside that Andromeda called a Vaderbloed, an ancient Black family relic. She pricked her finger and let a single drop of blood fall into the liquid. It rippled, glowing faintly as she murmured an incantation. Then it bubbled and turned an ugly shade of brown. Like mud, Harry thought grimly. The house responded with a low rumble, the air becoming chilly, as though it were acknowledging her blood but rejecting her authority.  

“It knows me,” Andromeda said, frustration seeping into her voice. “But it doesn’t accept me. It’s the magic—it’s tied to the Black magic, not just the blood. Being blasted off the Family Tree... well, it seems I’m just as much an outsider as you are.”  

Harry tried to hide his disappointment, but it was impossible. Watching Andromeda struggle only deepened the ache in his chest. If even she, with all her knowledge of the Black family and its tangled magic, couldn’t control the house, what hope did he have?  Seeing his crumbling expression, Andromeda placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, her gaze warm despite her inability to help him fix his blasted house. 

“This place is testing you, Harry,” she said gently. “It may not recognise your blood, but that doesn’t mean you can’t find a way to make it yours. Sirius left this house to you for a reason. Don’t forget that.”  

Her words were meant to comfort him, he knew and loved her for it, but they didn’t. The house loomed around him, its magic pulsing faintly in the walls, an ever-present reminder of its resistance. As Andromeda packed her things and prepared to leave, Harry was left standing in the hallway, the weight of the house settling on his shoulders like a shroud. The thought that he might never belong here, that this place might always reject him, pressed heavily against his chest.  

He glanced at the jagged hole where the library had once been, the swirling darkness within almost daring him to try again. 

Andromeda lingered in the hallway for a moment longer, her hands folded tightly over her bag as she took one last, thoughtful look around the dimly lit space. She looked tired, as if this ha taken more out of her than she had expected. Her brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line of frustration as she gazed at the walls, the air still thick with the echoes of her magic and that of the house, refusing to hide or be tamed. It was clear to Harry that, despite her quiet poise, she was frustrated by her failure.

Her shoulders sagged, just slightly, as she turned to face him.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” she said, her voice softer now, tinged with regret. “I truly thought… I thought I could help.”

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. What was there to say? She had tried, and that effort, however earnest, was only another reminder of the distance between him and the Black family legacy, of the vast gulf that separated him from the very magic that held this house together.

Together, they walked back to the entrance of the house, the silence between them uncomfortable and awkward, a rarity between them. Andromeda hesitated at the door, her hand resting lightly on the doorknob. 

“I’ll keep researching, of course. There might be something I’ve missed, some spell or ritual I can—”  

“No,” Harry cut her off, his voice tight with something he hadn’t expected to feel: frustration. “I’m not asking you to fix it, Andromeda. You’ve done enough.”  

She turned back to him then, her expression unreadable for a moment. But Harry could see the flicker of understanding in her eyes, as if she recognised the helplessness and frustration in his voice, the weariness in his posture that he tried so hard to hide. She gave him a small nod, but her face changed, a quiet empathy replacing the distant determination that had driven her earlier.

“This house,” she said, her voice low, almost to herself, “has always had a mind of its own. The magic here… you must understand, it's more than just a house—it’s a reflection of what came before. And the Black family blood, its magic, for all its faults, is powerful. You’re not part of it—not by blood, not by name and not by magic. That’s why it keeps rejecting you, Harry. It would’ve happened to anyone,” she met his eyes, her gaze steady and tender. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t fight back. You just have to find your own way.”

Harry looked away, unable to meet her gaze. The words stung, even though he knew they weren’t meant to. He had suspected as much, but hearing it aloud, spoken by someone who understood the weight of that history, made it feel far more real than he was prepared for.

Andromeda’s fingers tightened on the door frame before she stepped out into the night. Her lips parted as if she was about to say something more, but after a long pause, she simply shook her head. She gave him a small, reassuring smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Take care of yourself, Harry,” she said softly. “If you need anything, anything at all, you know where family is.”  

Her voice trailed off as she turned toward the street. He heard her footsteps recede into the distance, the faintest rustle of fabric as she made her way toward the apparition point at the end of the front steps. But Harry remained frozen in place, his eyes lingering on the spot where she had stood, where her presence had filled the silence of the house like a fleeting breath of fresh air. It wasn’t until the door clicked shut that the full weight of her departure settled in. Harry stood alone in the hallway, the house pressing in around him once more. The faint hum of its magic pulsed through the air, thick and suffocating, as if it were mocking him.  

He ran a hand through his tangled hair, trying to shake off the gnawing feeling that had taken root deep inside him. Despite not asking for her help, Andromeda had been his last hope, the last person with enough knowledge and power to possibly bend the house to his will. If she couldn’t do it—if even the Black family couldn’t tame this place—then what was left for him? The house had rejected him from the very beginning. It wasn’t just its magic—it was the bloodline that ran through its walls, the history of generations that Harry had no part in. 

And no matter how hard he tried to carve out a space for himself here, it would always make him feel like a stranger in his own home.

He closed his eyes, a sharp ache settling in his chest, and leaned against the wall. Even the whispering darkness in the library, still swirling in the distance, seemed to call out to him in a way that only deepened his sense of disconnection.

Andromeda’s footsteps had faded into the distance, but the house remained—silent, cold, and unyielding.

Kreacher shuffled into the foyer a while later, his movements slow and stiff. He looked around at the broken chandelier and the lingering shadows with a deep frown, his wrinkled face lined with frustration.

“Master Harry should leave this place,” Kreacher muttered, though his voice was barely audible. “The house… it is not safe. It will not listen to Kreacher. It will not listen to Master. It won't even listen to Miss Andy.”

Harry didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the door.

“Kreacher cannot fix it,” the elf continued, wringing his hands anxiously. “Kreacher is useless. Kreacher should punish himself for his fail—”

“Stop,” Harry interrupted, his tone sharp. “You’re not useless, Kreacher. So just…  stop.”

The elf fell silent, his ears drooping as he shuffled back toward the shadows. Harry watched him go, a fresh wave of guilt crashing over him. Kreacher had served the Black family his whole life, and now even he was powerless against the chaos that gripped Grimmauld Place. Harry sighed, rubbing his temples as the oppressive atmosphere of the house seemed to close in around him. For now, all they could do was wait—and hope that Andromeda’s efforts would make a difference.

The days after Andromeda’s visit dragged by in an endless blur of disappointment and a creeping feeling of hopelessness. The house had been more of a home to him than Privet Drive had ever been, but it had become a prison—a living, breathing prison that rejected him at every turn. Was this how Sirius had felt during that year he had been cooped up here? The strange, dark magic within its walls hummed in his ears constantly, like the buzz of a wasp too close to his skin. Each room, each shadow, seemed to close in on him like a vice, and he was always paranoid, his nerves on point, expecting to be dropped into a new room every time he took a step. He was drowning under the weight of it, and there was nothing, no one, left to turn to.  

It was on one of those miserable evenings, sitting at Andromeda's dining table with her and Hermione –Ron had to stay behind at the shop with George–, that Harry felt the gnawing desperation inside him reach its peak. The meal was warm —a delicious cottage pie with a rocket salad from Andromeda’s garden—, the conversation light, nothing out of the ordinary, but Harry felt like he was watching it all through a foggy window. He could hardly focus on the words they were saying, too lost in his own whirlpool of thoughts. Across from him, Teddy giggled happily as he played with his enchanted stuffed dragon, his innocent laughter the only sound in the room that felt real. It was the last thread of joy he clung to, the small face of a child who still saw him as a loving protector. But even that couldn’t ease the suffocating feelings festering inside him.  

After dinner, when they were cleaning up, Harry felt the quiet urge to finally speak. He had been holding it back for days—weeks, if he was being honest—but he couldn't ignore it any longer. His voice, when it came, was quiet, almost too soft, as if afraid of its own weight.  

“I can’t do it anymore,” he muttered, not looking at either Andromeda or Hermione. His hands trembled as he wiped down the table, his eyes fixed on the spot where his fingers brushed the worn wood. “I can’t keep living in that house.”  

Hermione froze at the sink where she was spelling the dishes clean with her wand, a tense silence filling the room. Andromeda, however, was unperturbed. She gave him a knowing look, her gaze still warm but touched with concern.

“You don’t have to, Harry,” she said gently, her voice carrying the unspoken understanding of everything he had endured. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Hermione, too, turned to face him after making sure the spell was stable enough to keep washing the dishes by itself, her expression a mixture of disbelief and determination.

“Harry… I know I’ve been nagging you to just move in with Ron and me but, you can’t give up yet. Not if it’s so important to you,” she set down her wand and shoved it into her hair bun atop of her head, her eyes filled with purpose now, as though the force of her words was propelling her. “You can’t just resign yourself to leaving it to crumble. If you’re not willing to come live with us and Andromeda can’t help, then you need to look for a professional.”  

Harry’s head snapped up, his heart stuttering.

“What do you mean by ‘look for a professional’?” He almost felt as though he were grasping at some final lifeline she was offering. Desperation clung to him like a second skin.  

Hermione hesitated for a moment, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve, before speaking again, each word more determined than the last despite the fact that she couldn't seem to look him in the eye.

“Draco Malfoy has been working at Borgin and Burkes. He’s a magical repair specialist.”  

Harry’s stomach dropped at the mention of Malfoy’s name. The suggestion, in its simplicity, felt like a slap in the face. After everything—after all that had happened, before and during the war—he was supposed to go to Draco Malfoy for help? The idea was almost unthinkable, the bitter remnants of old hatred swirling in his chest. Malfoy, with his sneering arrogance, his smug, calculating smile—wasn’t he the one who had stood by while his father had worked against everything Harry had fought for? The memory of the pale face at the Death Eater meetings, of the ice behind Malfoy’s eyes, still cut through him like a knife.

Yet here Hermione was, suggesting it as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Her words, as much as they were meant to offer a solution, only deepened the unease that bloomed in Harry’s chest like a shadow slowly suffocating the air around him. He could hear the quiet urgency in her voice, the impatience as she urged him to consider her idea. But how could he? How could he look past the years of animosity, the things Malfoy had said and done— how could he possibly forget? He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers cold and unsteady. To ask Malfoy for help felt like an unbearable betrayal of everything he'd fought for and believed in—everything that still burned inside him. There was still a part of him that could hear the sneering voice from school, the sharp, cruel words that had been spat at him with such ease. “Potter,” Malfoy had said, always with that tone, as though Harry’s very name was a slur.  

The more he thought about it, the more it twisted inside him, the more the idea gnawed at him. The house was falling apart around him, its wild magic driving him to the edge, and here was a potential lifeline. Draco Malfoy. Harry closed his eyes, a low sigh escaping him. The irony of it all was almost hilarious. Of all the people, Draco Malfoy … he was the very last person he would ever consider as someone capable of saving him from this madness.

“Are you serious?” His voice cracked, almost too forceful. He opened his eyes to look at Hermione, trying to read the intent behind her words, the stubborn, insistent look in her eyes. There was no mockery there, no spite. Of course there wasn’t, it was Hermione. There was just… truth . A statement she believed in. She was asking him to consider Malfoy, to put aside the history between them so he could end the misery he was in.

But Harry didn’t know how to do that.

Hermione seemed to sense the conflict brewing inside him, and she leaned forward slightly, her hands braced against the table as though she, too, was trying to steady herself in the face of something she couldn’t quite control. 

“Harry, think about it. After all, Draco,” Hermione continued, “is the last living male of the Black family. That means he might meet the conditions needed to help with this house—the magic, the blood… It’s also his job . He might be the only one who can calm it down, restore it to something closer to normal.”  

Andromeda, who had remained silent up until now, nodded slowly in agreement. 

“Draco is talented,” she added softly, her tone measured but firm. “And he’s inherited a great deal of the family’s magic. If he’s working as a magical repair specialist, then he’s trained in ways that could be useful in dealing with the house.”  

Harry’s mind spun. Malfoy. Of all the people. The last person he would have ever imagined reaching out to for help. But as he stared at Hermione and Andromeda, he realised they weren’t wrong. Malfoy’s connection to the Black family—however twisted it might have been—was the very thing that could allow him to have access to the house’s magic. 

The problem was… asking.  

“I—how do you even know about this?” Harry finally asked, his voice tense. “And what are you doing hanging around Knockturn Alley? I thought you’d never go near that place again.”

Hermione’s face flushed at the question, her gaze narrowing. “I’ve been there on occasion for research, Harry. For work .” She snapped, the edges of her words biting. “And, well, a witch has her secrets! Now, do you want help or not?”  

Harry flinched at her shrill tone, but he couldn’t argue. Her face softened a fraction then at seeing his expression, but there was still an unmistakable fire behind her eyes that reminded him that she was much more stubborn than he was.  

“I’m not asking you to forgive Malfoy,” Hermione continued, her voice quieter now, but no less insistent. “I’m just asking you to consider it. For your own sake.”  

Harry’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. The thought of reaching out to Malfoy, of putting himself in a position where he might have to beg for help, was almost more than he could bear. The idea burned through him like fire, hot and stinging, an unbearable humiliation. He could almost hear Malfoy’s voice in his head, mocking, belittling, as he rejected Harry and laughed at him for his inability to control his own house. But there was nothing left. The house was falling apart around him, its magic tearing him apart, and Andromeda’s failure to control it had only deepened his sense of helplessness, making him feel more like a prisoner than ever before. If Draco Malfoy was the only one who could help him, then Harry had no choice but to ask.  

The alternative was far worse—letting the house swallow him whole, letting the magic consume everything until there was nothing left of him. With a long, shuddering breath, Harry looked at Hermione and Andromeda, his eyes dark with the weight of his decision.  

“Alright,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll do it. But I swear, if this goes wrong and  Malfoy tries to—”  

Hermione gave him a pointed look, cutting him off.

 “If you don’t do it, then I’ll drag you kicking and screaming to the Burrow, and let Molly have at you.”  

The words were harsh, but they were meant to push him forward, he knew. With a final glance at his two closest allies right now, Harry nodded. The path ahead was treacherous, and the thought of asking Malfoy for help left a bitter taste in his mouth, but the alternative—giving up, letting the house consume him—was something he wasn’t ready to face. Not yet. Not when Teddy’s innocent smile was still a flicker of hope in his life.

“Fine, I’ll ask him,” Harry said, more to himself than to anyone else.

The decision was made. His pride, his hatred for Draco Malfoy, would have to be set aside, even if something inside resisted against it like a captive dragon. For now, though, not being killed by his own bloody house mattered more than anything else.

Chapter Text

The night was suffocatingly still, the only sound in Grimmauld Place being the faint crackle of the hearth, the fire flickering weakly in the dark, casting long, ominous shadows across the room. Harry sat in what used to be the drawing room, but now stood a tub where his favourite two-seater used to be. He held a quill in his hand, but his mind was far from the task at hand. His eyes flicked restlessly from the parchment before him to the wallpaper on the walls that seemed to shift into tiles the more he stared at them.  

He hated this.  

The thought of reaching out to Draco Malfoy was more than daunting, it made him feel vaguely nauseous. It felt like an impossible task—an admission of weakness, of defeat. The very last person he wanted to involve in his mess was Malfoy. The same Malfoy who had been his enemy during the war, the same Malfoy whose words still lingered in his mind like poison. The same Malfoy who had made it clear, time and time again, that Harry was someone he didn’t particularly care for.  

But as he stared at the tiles on the wall –they looked like the ones from the third story bathroom the more he looked at them–, Harry knew he had no other choice. Grimmauld Place was no longer just a house—it had become a dangerous living nightmare. The walls were warping, rooms were vanishing and reappearing, the corridors were shifting, as if the very house was intent on becoming something anew but hadn’t settled on what it wanted to be. There was nothing he could do. And since even Andromeda’s best efforts to stabilise the house had fallen short, he was fast out of options.

His grip tightened on the quill as his thoughts spiralled. It figured that it would take Malfoy’s particular brand of dark expertise to help. Of course the slimy snake had become a magical repair specialist, he certainly used to have a knack for it back in sixth year when he had spent his energy happily repairing that cursed Vanishing Cabinet. But it wasn’t just a matter of expertise or talent—it was a matter of trust. Or the lack thereof.  

Harry exhaled sharply, his breath coming out in a puff of frustration. It wasn’t just the house that was falling apart—it was everything. His thoughts. His guilt. The mess of emotions that had come to define his life after the war. And, even when the war had ended, it continually seemed like the wounds were still fresh, still raw and open; bleeding all over him and his life. They had taken so much from him, too. His relationship with Ginny had been the first thing to go just weeks after the war; his grief and his temper making him irritable and, all in all, a terrible boyfriend. Then it had taken away the Auror training, everything reminding him of that last battle, where so many had died while he had come back.

And now, now it was taking away everything else. Grimmauld Place, once a sanctuary of sorts, was a constant reminder of everything he had lost, and everything that was slipping through his fingers.  

Furthermore, it appeared like he was about to reach out to the one person who had become a symbol of that chaos.  

Taking a deep breath, Harry began to write.  

Malfoy,  

I know you don’t want to hear from me. Merlin knows I didn’t want to have to write to you, but I have a situation that requires your particular expertise. Grimmauld Place has become unstable, unpredictable, and quite frankly too dangerous for me to live in. You and I both know how much the house is tied to the Black family’s legacy, and there’s a certain... magic here that I can’t control.  

I don’t know how much longer I can stay here, and I can’t afford for the house becoming hostile. I’ve done what I can, but I’m starting to think that it’s beyond me. 

So, I’d like you to meet me at a pub called The Hemingford Arms in Islington tomorrow at 19 o’clock so we can discuss the situation further and establish a contract of sorts.

If you want to turn your back on this, you’re free to do so. But make no mistake: I’ll hold you responsible if anything happens to me. I’ll make sure your precious Malfoy name gets caught up in this mess, and I don’t think even your family fortune could save you from that.  

It’s your choice. But I’m hoping you’ll step up and help me.  

Harry J. Potter  

As soon as he finished writing the letter, Harry folded it neatly, his hands trembling ever so slightly. He didn’t know if it was the weight of what was happening all around him or the weight of having to put his pride aside to ask for Malfoy’s help, but his gut twisted uneasily. The threat in his words had been intentional—he needed Malfoy to know how it would look if he refused to help him. He had hoped that the idea of being even more hated by the public at large would spur Malfoy into helping him with this wretch of a house. After all, they both knew that Malfoy liked being the centre of attention, and now it was up to him to decide whether or not that attention would be positive or negative. 

Still, Harry didn’t feel very proud of what he had written. His words were sharp, biting, perhaps hoping Malfoy would run away like the coward he remembered him as. A way for Harry to prove he has been right about him all along. And yet, they felt necessary. The house had become a threat to his very existence, and if Malfoy didn’t step in, Harry had no idea what would happen to him.

With a heavy sigh, he stood up and walked towards the foyer, keeping an eye on the subtle movements around him –he could swear he could hear a woman giggling somewhere above him, but decided to ignore it. With a shiver, he forcefully grabbed Sirius’ old leather jacket from the hangers near the entrance. The cool fabric settled over his shoulders, a familiar weight that brought him both comfort and sorrow in equal measure. The jacket still smelled faintly of him—leather, faint tobacco, and a hint of something uniquely Sirius, perhaps his antique cologne. Harry closed his eyes for a moment, letting the memory wash over him, before he shook it off.

The chill of early October hung in the air as he stepped out into the street, the fog lingering thick in the dim light from the posts lining the street. The city was quieter than usual at this hour, the sounds of distant traffic muffled by the mist that had rolled in as the late evening settled in. Harry wrapped his arms tighter around himself, the cold creeping in through the cracks of the jacket, but he hardly noticed.

A sharp twist of his wrist and a loud pop was all it took. The familiar but unsettling sensation of Apparition tugging at his stomach, the world around him blurring, spinning for a moment before solidifying again. His feet barely hit the ground, and he stumbled but managed to hold onto the cool wall of the nook in Diagon Alley he had apparated into. With a stuttering breath, he composed himself from the nausea that always gripped at him after Apparitions, and looked around until he saw the store he was looking for across the street—the quaint, unassuming owl courier.

The small sign above the door read Feather & Quill Courier, your trusted owl post since 1912 , the letters ornately etched into the wood in gold, their sheen catching the last light of dusk. He hesitated just for a moment, before pushing open the door, the bell above it chiming softly as he stepped inside.

The office was quiet, the usual hum of activity absent in the late hour. Harry stepped inside, the bell above the door jingling softly. He had never replaced Hedwig. The thought of doing so felt too much like betrayal, and so he had remained owl-less. He walked straight towards where the birds all rested quietly and stood in front of them, watching as the owls shifted idly in their perches. There, to his right, was a barn owl; a beautiful creature with deep brown feathers and large, soulful eyes, that he favoured, as it had always had a sweet temperament with Harry. 

“Hey there, lovely,” he said, his tone soothing as he extended a hand for it to inspect.

Zeroing on Harry, the bird hopped towards him and shoved its head under his palm, demanding pets. Harry’s throat tightened at the sight of it. It reminded him so much of Hedwig—her constant support, her sweetness, how she had always been there to carry his messages when nothing else seemed to matter. The ache in his chest grew, a deep, gnawing pain that pulled at him like a weight. He missed her. He missed the world before the war, when things had been simpler, when he had been able to look forward to the small comforts, like flying around the Quidditch pitch at night, or a simple visit to the Burrow—now too awkward since he had broken up with Ginny. Now, everything felt fractured, scattered, beyond repair.

With a heavy heart, he took the letter and tied it to the barn owl’s leg, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he gave it a soft pat. The owl hooted softly before spreading its wings and soaring out of the open window. Harry stood there for a moment, watching it disappear into the night, a small part of him wishing it could carry him away too.

With a trembling hand, he deposited the delivery fee—3 sickles and 11 knuts— before turning away. He left the owl post office in a hurry, the familiar weight of his decisions pressing on him like the suffocating air of Grimmauld Place.

Apparating back to the house, Harry’s heart sank further as he re-entered the dark, oppressive silence. The house seemed to breathe around him, walls shifting, creaking, like something alive, but he couldn’t tell if it was trying to welcome him or devour him whole.

Grimmauld Place felt more like a tomb than a home, now.

The following morning, as the sun cast a pale, weak light over the chaos that was Grimmauld Place, Harry sat at the small desk in the corner of one of the multiple studies, absently watching the door. His hands were folded in front of him, eyes tired, and instead of replying to Charlie’s letter on the desk, his mind was consumed with the lingering anxiety of what he had done. He kept glancing at the clock, but it felt like time was moving at a crawl. Would Malfoy even reply? Would he listen ? 

Would he care?  

The wait seemed endless, the silence oppressive, as Harry sat at the small desk in the corner of the room, staring at the parchment in front of him. His quill hovered over the paper, but the words wouldn’t come. He had tried several times to begin a reply to Charlie’s letter, but each time his thoughts would scatter before he could write anything meaningful, Harry couldn't focus on it if his life depended on it. And it was starting to look like his sanity did depend on the bloody letter. His mind kept wandering back to the strange disorientation he had woken up with that morning—finding himself in a large crib inside an old nursery instead of his own bed in Grimmauld Place, it hadn’t been nice. The old rocking chair by the window had creaked as he sat up, the weight of it heavy with memories of childhood he didn’t want to revisit. It made him shudder.

Right, Charlie’s letter.

Harry,

I hope this letter finds you well, though I know it’s been a while since I last wrote to you. Things have been hectic here in Romania. The dragons are as wild as ever, and we’ve been working on some new techniques for training the little ones. The Romanian Longhorns are particularly stubborn this season, but I’m sure you’d get a laugh seeing me trying to wrangle one of those beasts. You’d be proud to know that I’ve finally got a decent hold on one of the older males—he’s a bit temperamental, but I think we’re getting there. 

By the way, Norberta laid eggs for the first time just a few days ago! Hagrid just about put out the hearth when I firecalled him. He says he wants to come meet them—even though they’re still eggs— as soon as possible. Hey, why don’t you join him—

Had Malfoy even received his letter? Opened it? Harry knew that, if it were him, he would have thrown any correspondence from Malfoy into the fire the second he saw his poncy, monogrammed stationery.

Sigh.

Not even two paragraphs in and he already was getting distracted again. The quill trembled slightly in his hand as he gnawed at the end, but his anxiety churned, making it impossible to focus on anything else. The thought of Malfoy’s letter, still yet to be delivered, ate away at him, filling the room with a palpable tension. He could hear the faint creaking of the house around him, each shift and groan making him feel even more paranoid of what was happening in his  blasted house. His breathing quickened as the minutes dragged on, each second stretching into the next, until finally, just as he was about to crumple the letter in frustration and give up, something tapped gently against the window.

The sudden noise made him jump in his chair, but it only took him a few seconds of fumbling with his wand to open the window for what he hoped was Malfoy’s owl. A soft rustling sounded, and then, with a flurry of feathers, an owl indeed flew in, its wings flapping eagerly as it dropped a letter onto the desk in front of him. It was a sleek, pale bird; small, swift, and bearing a letter sealed with the Malfoy crest—he was disappointed to see, however, that the parchment was not, in fact, monogrammed.  

Harry stared at the letter for a moment, a little disbelieving, and suspicious, before snatching it from his desk, almost too quickly, and breaking the seal. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but the terse simplicity of Malfoy’s reply took him off guard.

Potter,

Fine.

Draco Abraxas Malfoy,
Magical repair specialist for Burgin and Burkes, Knockturn Alley  

One word. Fine. Nothing more. No demanding an explanation. No acknowledgment of the threats. Just a single word. 

Fine.

It wasn’t the relief Harry had hoped for. There was no sense of triumph or satisfaction. It was just… that. Malfoy would help. He had agreed to it, but it didn’t feel like a victory. Instead, it felt like the beginning of something more complicated, more dangerous—another reminder that Harry couldn’t escape his past, and neither could Malfoy.  

He folded the letter carefully and set it down, staring at the wall once again, thinking about Malfoy’s terse reply long after the wallpaper had stopped making sense. The relief that he had secured help was fleeting, replaced by the sinking realization that what had started as a simple act of desperation was now a full-on invitation to confront the chaos of his life head-on.  

Malfoy’s involvement would change everything. And Harry didn’t know if he was ready for it. But he had no other choice.  

With a weary sigh, Harry stood up, looking around at the shifting walls of Grimmauld Place, the oppressive silence hanging in the air. The house wasn’t done with him yet. And neither, it seemed, was Draco Malfoy.

The Hemingford Arms was a lovely pub tucked away in one of Islington’s more popular roads, and it was a posh-looking, dimly lit place. Its facade was covered in green foliage that made the street smell heavenly. The place was cosy, and very rarely—if ever— frequented by wix, which gave Harry all the privacy he needed when he wanted to drink his sorrows away, so to speak. Its door creaked slightly as it opened to let out a giggly couple of girls to the chilly October breeze, and Harry hesitated outside for a moment, tugging at the collar of his jacket. He didn’t know if the cold in his chest was from the weather or the thought of the person he was to meet inside.

Maybe he shouldn’t have invited Malfoy to his favourite pub.

When he finally pushed the heavy door open, the scent of old wood, leather, and faintly damp air greeted him. The space was spacious enough, with low, comfortable couches and muted golden light spilling from hanging lamps. The muffled clinking of glasses and the hum of conversation blended into a quiet ambiance, cosy but not welcoming.  

And oh, bollocks, Malfoy was already there.  

Seated at a small, shadowed table near the back, he looked every bit as composed as Harry expected—shoulders squared, long legs crossed, one hand lightly curled around a tall glass of something pink-ish. Even in the dim light, Malfoy stood out like he always had. The tailored blue blazer, the sharp black trousers, the boots polished to perfection—he looked as though he'd stepped out of a bloody catalogue. The black turtleneck beneath the blazer only heightened his angular, aristocratic features, and his hair, no longer slicked back but neatly combed, framed his face in a way that felt entirely too deliberate to be natural. Merlin, even his expressive eyebrows looked groomed to perfection. And though he looked a little too pale, and had a dusting of eyebags below his striking eyes, he still looked terribly handsome.

For a moment, Harry’s steps faltered. He hated to admit it—he really, really hated it—but Malfoy had aged remarkably well. Infuriatingly well, unlike Harry himself. His sharp edges had softened just enough to make him seem… approachable, almost. He exuded a kind of quiet authority that Harry couldn’t help but envy.

And was he really wearing Muggle clothing?

He didn’t know why he was surprised by the fact, it's not like he had expected the git to wear his pompous wixen robes to a Muggle pub. But, apparently, a part of him had certainly expected him to be too haughty and bigoted to wear anything Muggle. Nevertheless, wear something actually fashionable instead of a mismatched mess of patterns and fabrics. Hell, even Ron looked awkward and strange from time to time when he wore Muggle clothing.

Someone next to Harry suddenly laughed out loud, making Malfoy glance in his direction with a face so full of distaste and condescension that Harry almost felt the need to stuff an apple into the laughing man. It was this glare that made Malfoy catch sight of him immediately. His grey eyes narrowed in that familiar way Harry remembered too well, and his lips pressed into a thin line. As Harry made his way over, he caught the unmistakable flick of Malfoy’s wrist checking his watch with a distinct air of disdain about him.

God, he was such a poncy git.

“You’re late,” Malfoy drawled the moment Harry slid into the seat opposite him. His voice was as smooth as ever, cutting through the air with a sharp, frustrated tone. His wixen accent was very strong even now, which made sense for someone who spent little to no time around Muggles, or even muggle-borns. To Harry, who knew that the accent resulted from being an isolated community and lived around wix who sounded very dated, it was normal enough, but he imagined that Muggles must think Malfoy was a European or something.

Out of nowhere, Malfoy snapped his fingers in Harry’s face to regain his attention. His expression was pinched with annoyance, one perfectly arched brow raised in a challenge. Harry bristled, pulling his coat off with more force than necessary.

“Earth to Potter!” Malfoy quipped, his tone dripping with exasperation. “You’re sitting there like a stunned flobberworm, and frankly, I haven’t got all night to wait for your heroic inner monologue to finish. Merlin forbid I catch my death waiting on you.”

“I’m eleven minutes late, so what? Don’t be dramatic.”  

Malfoy raised a single dark brow, his glass poised at his lips. 

“Eleven minutes is still late. Especially when it was you who demanded this meeting,” he set the glass down, tilting his head slightly. “But do go on. Let’s hear what incredible excuse you’ve conjured up, Scarhead.”  

Harry glared at him, his cheeks warming. 

“My loo spirited me into the garden. I spent the better part of thirty minutes wrestling a Devil’s Snare,” Harry said with a clenched jaw. 

Malfoy blinked, then blinked again, his expression teetering between incredulity and disdain. 

“Your… loo?”  

“Yes, my loo!” Harry snapped, leaning forward slightly. “It’s Grimmauld Place. It’s alive and mad as a hatter, or haven’t you heard?”  

“Don’t be ridiculous, why would a hatter be mad?” Malfoy said, with an eye roll so strong, Harry was surprised his eyes didn’t retract into their sockets. “You say you fought a Devil’s Snare?” he asked, his voice slow and low, as if tasting the words. His lips quirked faintly, and Harry hated that he couldn’t tell if it was a smirk or the beginning of a genuine smile. “And here I thought our darling Chosen One had conquered worse.”  

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “I have conquered worse. And for the record, Devil’s Snares are bastards when they’ve been let loose in the middle of a centuries-old overgrown garden.”  

Malfoy’s expression betrayed nothing except mild amusement, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he took a measured sip of his drink, as if thoroughly unimpressed by Harry’s plight. The silence between them stretched for a moment, heavy and tense. Harry glanced around the pub, as though searching for an escape route, before forcing himself to meet Malfoy’s gaze. It was only then that he noticed the redness in Malfoy’s eyes.

“Look,” he said, more sharply than he intended. “I didn’t come here to argue.”  

“No? A shame, Potter. It’s one of the few things we excel at.”  

Harry’s hand twitched on the table, and he took a deep breath. “I’m serious, Malfoy. I wouldn’t have called you if I didn’t desperately need your help.”  

The amusement slipped from Malfoy’s face at that, replaced by something worn-out, more guarded in its tiredness. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.

“Go on, then. Let’s hear it. And be quick, I’ve been feeling tired lately, so I would appreciate being able to actually rest on my rest day.”

Harry exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Right, fine. But you don’t get to be smug about this,” he said, his tone half-defeated.

Malfoy arched an elegant brow, relaxing in the leather chair with an exaggerated air of aloofness, seconds later, he started examining his well manicured hands as if to drive his point home.

“Oh, please, Potter. Like I’d waste precious energy mocking you over whatever catastrophic mess you’ve stumbled into this time. Go on, enlighten me.”

Harry frowned. “You don’t even look curious about—”

“Potter,” Malfoy interrupted, waving his hand dramatically, “I’m knackered. Magically, physically, emotionally. The only thing keeping me upright right now is spite and caffeine, and I’m fresh out of the latter,” he sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I’ve been like this for weeks. Months, maybe, but who’s counting? Sometimes I can’t even manage anything stronger than an Expelliarmus by nightfall. So forgive me if I’m not brimming with intrigue. Whatever this is, can we just cut to the point?”

Harry blinked, thrown off balance. “You’re… tired?”

“Yes, Potter. Tired,” Malfoy gave him an exasperated look at his incessant repetition. “And before you ask—no, it’s not normal. I used to be brilliant at doing my job. Now? I feel like a first year Longbottom by nightfall with the way my magic reserves are.”

“So, it’s not just your job, then,” said Harry, his mind reeling, like it did when he was about to discover something.

“Salazar help me,” muttered Malfoy, his exasperation visible in the way he raised a pale hand to rub at his eyes. “Yes, Potter, it’s not just work—it’s everything and nothing seems to help. Satisfied? Now stop deflecting and tell me what’s wrong with your bloody house.”

Something clicked in Harry’s head, then. Andromeda had mentioned something similar, hadn’t she? Something about the house pulling at her magic, it being uncomfortable. It hadn’t seemed like it was… hacking away at her magic, like Malfoy was implying. Maybe Malfoy was feeling it more strongly because of his closer connection to the house…  it fit.

Or was he overthinking this?

Harry sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fine.” 

Fidgeting in his seat, he hesitated once more, the words sticking in his throat for a moment. Harry hadn’t wanted to ask for help—not from anyone, and especially not from Draco bloody Malfoy. But here he was, about to spill his messy, half-broken life across the table like some desperate plea.

“Like I said, it’s Grimmauld Place,” he began finally, his voice quieter now, though the weight in it was unmistakable. “It’s… falling apart. The magic’s wild—completely out of control. Rooms disappear and reappear on a whim, walls shift, corridors vanish. The house doesn’t—” He stopped, his jaw tightening. “It doesn’t recognise me.”  

Malfoy’s exasperated expression didn’t change, but Harry could see the growing tension in his jaw, the way his red-rimmed grey eyes flicked over Harry’s face like he was searching for something.  

“I’ve tried everything,” Harry continued, more forcefully now. “Andromeda—your aunt— she’s tried too. She’s a Black and a damn good witch, but even she couldn’t fix it. The house... it’s crumbling around me, Malfoy. Merlin knows, I’ve tried everything, but all my efforts have been for nothing. I feel like it’s going to kill me one of these days.”  

Malfoy said nothing, his gaze fixed firmly on Harry’s.  

“And before you say it,” Harry added quickly, his hands curling into fists on the table, “I know I’m not a Black. I know I don’t belong there. But it’s the only place I have left—it’s the last piece of— of—”  

He trailed off, his throat tightening. He hated the way the words sounded out loud. Weak. Vulnerable. He had never wanted to sound this way in front of Malfoy, and yet, here he was, practically begging the git to save his sorry arse.

He let out a long and painful sigh. 

“I don’t know what else to do…” he finally admitted, his voice despondent even to his own ears.

Harry’s words seemed to linger in the air between them, heavy and raw, almost suffocating in their vulnerability. Malfoy tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable, as he leaned back in his chair, fingertips pressed together as if deep in thought. Then, the faint flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps?—lit behind his tired eyes, and Harry, for once, couldn’t quite place the look Malfoy gave him.

For a moment, it seemed as though Malfoy was about to dismiss him entirely, that signature sneer of his half-formed on his lips. But then, as Harry had continued to explain the state of Grimmauld Place—its collapsing structure, its wild, random shifting, ancient magic surging uncontrollably, rejecting his presence—something in Malfoy shifted. He didn’t interrupt, for once, as Harry spoke. Instead, he sat unnaturally still, his silver-grey eyes narrowing slightly, the sneer falling away and leaving behind an expression of pure calculation. The sharp edges of his defensiveness dulled, replaced by a kind of quiet intrigue.

Malfoy studied him in silence for a few long seconds before huffing in exasperation, his face unreadable beyond a shade of annoyance. Then he sat forward, resting his arms atop his knees and interlacing his long fingers. “You’re saying Grimmauld Place is actively hostile? Like it’s targeting you specifically?”

“Yes,” Harry said, relieved that Malfoy had decided to apparently take him seriously. “And it’s not just me being dramatic, Malfoy. This isn’t the house playing pranks on me—it’s dangerous.”

Malfoy pursed his lips, his brow furrowing in thought. “And let me guess: instead of asking for help months ago, you’ve been living in there alone, sulking about like a martyr, and letting the house eat away at you.”

Harry flushed, looking away. “I haven’t been sulking.”

“Merlin’s pants, Potter.” Malfoy groaned, his head falling into his hands. “Of course you have.”

With a huff, Malfoy uncrossed his arms, took his poncy drink once again and drained it in one go, as if using the liquid courage to get the energy to continue with this conversation.

“You said the magic doesn’t recognise you,” Malfoy said finally, his voice less mocking now, more thoughtful. He leaned forward on the table, tapping a single finger against the rim of his empty glass. “It sees you as, what then? An intruder?”

Harry clicked his tongue in annoyance, though he was slightly relieved that Malfoy wasn’t biting his head off for asking for help—a little too late, according to him. “Not exactly. It recognises me as its master, to some extent at least, but it’s like—like it knows I’m not a Black. It’s rejecting me—pushing me out of the house entirely. I’ve tried everything I can think of to fix it, but nothing works. The magic is too... wild. It’s old magic. It doesn’t care about what I want.”

Malfoy tilted his head, his pale brows furrowing ever so slightly as he considered this new piece of information.

“Old magic...” he murmured, his tone carrying a note of understanding. “Of course. The Black family magic. Generations of spells layered upon the house, each tied to the bloodline. The wards, the protections, the enchantments—hell, even the house’s foundations—, everything would be bound to the family. If the house senses you’re not one of us, it’s only natural it would rebel.”

Harry let out a sharp breath, his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.

“That’s the problem. I know I’m not a Black—I know I don’t belong there. But it’s Sirius’ house, Malfoy. It’s all I have left of him. I can’t just… leave.”

Malfoy’s gaze flickered away from Harry’s face, lingering on the adjacent wallpaper for a moment too long. There was something almost unreadable in his expression—an unfamiliar mix of pity, apprehension, and something else Harry couldn’t quite name. But then Malfoy leaned back in his seat once more, crossing his arms near to his chest, his tone shifting again to one of detached inquiry.

“And what exactly do you expect me to do about it? I can’t simply snap my fingers and tame wild magic, Potter. If Andromeda couldn’t manage it, I’m hardly likely to. And like I said, I barely have the energy to salvage your crazy home, between work and everything else.”

That was the third or fourth time Malfoy had mentioned his lack of energy. Slowly, Harry’s metaphorical light bulb lit up, making Harry open his mouth slightly in realisation. Malfoy’s eyes narrowed at his surprised expression, as if trying to pry away whatever revelation had struck Harry. Harry’s gaze flicked over Malfoy, taking in some of the more subtle signs he’d somehow missed earlier—the faint hollowness under his eyes, the slight pallor to his already pale skin, and the tension in his posture that seemed to fight against his usual air of nonchalance. Noticing that he had been looking at Malfoy for far too long, Harry quickly looked away and towards the window, faking interest in the world outside.

A couple necking against a car; an old lady taking out a ziplock bag and throwing some seeds at the pigeons; a black dog sitting next to his owner… and suddenly Harry looked back toward Malfoy. 

“Well, she said something about her being disowned,” Harry admitted, his voice low and tight. He sighed. “I just know you’re my best shot. You’ve always been brilliant at this kind of thing, and… there’s something else.”

Malfoy raised a single brow, his mouth turning downwards in displeasure.

“Go on.”

Harry hesitated, his fingers curling around the edge of the table as he searched for the right words.

“I’m not sure how but, I think you might be connected to this,” he said, his mouth pursing in thought. “To the house, I mean. I don’t know if it’s because you’re a Black by blood and magic, or something else, but—”

He paused, his green eyes narrowing as he studied Malfoy’s face.

“Er… like you said, you’ve been feeling drained lately. Like your magic’s being syphoned away, right?”

Malfoy stilled at that, his guarded expression slipping ever so slightly.

“‘Syphoned’, you say?” he asked, his voice sharp and accusatory, though Harry could sense, there was also an undercurrent of something like unease. Harry didn’t care, it was Malfoy’s fault for having opened his big mouth about his magic, wasn’t it?

Harry leaned forward, his voice lowering to almost a whisper.

“You just told me, didn’t you? When you said you didn’t have enough magic to repair Grimmauld Place yourself and that you’ve been exhausted, and magically, too. It’s not just fatigue, is it? Something’s taking your magic.”

Malfoy’s lips parted, as though he wanted to deny it, but the flicker of shock in his silver eyes gave him away. He looked down at the table, his fingers drumming lightly against the wood.

“It’s none of your business, really,” he said exasperated, his voice quieter now, almost reluctant. “I assumed it was simply a side effect of working with cursed objects at Borgin & Burkes, but...”

He trailed off, his brows knitting together as he stared at nothing in particular.

“But now it makes sense,” Harry finished for him, his voice insistent. “It’s the house. Grimmauld Place. I don’t know how or why, but it seems it’s not just rejecting me—I think it’s pulling at you. Maybe it thinks you’re its rightful heir, or maybe it’s just trying to restore itself using whatever Black magic it can find. Either way, it’s connected to you, Malfoy. And if we don’t fix it—”

“If we don’t fix it,” Malfoy interrupted, his voice cold and clipped, “I’ll likely be drained dry. Is that what you’re implying?”

Harry nodded grimly. 

“Maybe? I don’t know for sure but… I wouldn’t take the risk if I were you.”

Malfoy exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, there was a spark of something behind his usual guarded expression—something sharp, calculating, and undeniably shrewd.

“Fascinating,” he muttered under his breath, though his tone carried no small amount of bitterness.

“Fascinating?” Harry repeated incredulously. How could Malfoy find academic interest in something that was likely killing him? For a second, Harry thought about how that was something very Hermione of Malfoy, and it made him shiver. “Malfoy, this isn’t some swotty puzzle. It’s your life—and mine.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Malfoy snapped, but there was no real bite in his words. Instead, he rubbed his temples, as though trying to piece together a particularly vexing problem. “But you’re asking me to confront not only the magic of Grimmauld Place but centuries of my family’s legacy—generations of enchantments, curses, and blood ties. Do you even have the faintest idea what that entails?”

“Well… no, not really,” Harry admitted.

Malfoy’s gaze met Harry’s again, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. The tension between them crackled like static.

Finally, Malfoy sighed, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “Fine,” he said, his tone reluctant but resolute. “I’ll help you. But if I die in the process, I’m haunting you for the rest of your miserable life.”

Harry couldn’t help the small, wry smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. 

“Eh… sure, fair enough.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, his patience clearly wearing thin, and pushed back his chair with a deliberate, almost soundless scrape against the floor. Rising with a smoothness that bordered on infuriating, his movement carried that air of effortless elegance Harry had always begrudgingly envied.

“Though, honestly, Potter, a cursed house of horrors?” Malfoy muttered, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, “You’re the Chosen One, not the Suffering One. Must everything be a Shakespearean production with you?”

In a hurry, Harry scrambled to his feet as well, his seat nearly toppling in his haste. “I didn’t ask for this,” he shot back defensively, though his voice stuttered slightly under Malfoy’s scrutiny. With brusque movements, he took his coat from where it lay crumpled in his seat, and pulled it on.

Malfoy raised a brow, his expression caught between irritation and amusement.

“No, but you have an infuriating habit of pretending you’re the only one who can handle it.” He adjusted his blazer with a flick of his wrist, the movement easy, like that of someone who didn’t need to announce his readiness. “Nonetheless, I’ll need to do some research in advance,” Malfoy said briskly. “And I need you to stop wrestling Devil’s Snares long enough to get your house in order, Potter. We’ll start tomorrow, and I refuse to work in a pigsty.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, Potter. Tomorrow. I need to assess the house’s status before I even attempt to try and fix whatever it is you did to make the house go looney,” he said, his voice stressed. “After that, I can look into specific books to address the situation. Now go home before your loo decides to dump you in the Thames.”

Before Harry could respond, Malfoy turned on his heel and strode toward the door, his steps echoing sharply in the quiet pub.  

Harry stood frozen for a moment, watching him go, his heart pounding against his ribs.  

Fuck. This was going to be a disaster.  

With hurried steps, Harry followed Malfoy to the street, now dark and damp. The air outside the pub was biting, the kind of cold that sneaks through layers of clothing and settles deep in the bones. Harry wrapped his arms around himself, though it wasn’t just the weather that made him feel uneasy. The weight of the conversation he’d just had sat heavily on his shoulders, as if he were already carrying the burden of the partnership he’d agreed to. Next to him, Malfoy looked just as tense, though he hid it better. He always did.

The pub door creaked shut behind them, muffling the hum of voices and the clinking of glasses inside. For a moment, they stood in silence, the only sound between them the faint rustle of the wind and the occasional distant footsteps of passers-by. Harry shoved his hands deep into the pockets of Sirius’ jacket, staring at the cobblestones beneath his feet. Fuck, he wished he had brought a scarf, or gloves for the cold. Looking at the blonde next to him, he didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t even sure how he felt—relieved, maybe, that Malfoy had agreed to help, but also apprehensive. This wasn’t going to be easy. It never was, with Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy broke the silence first, his voice cutting through the chill like a blade.

 “Well, Potter? Can I finally go home and rest, or do you need to say something else to me? Am I finally free of your bespectacled visage?”

Annoyed, Harry glanced up, his green eyes meeting Malfoy’s steady, silver gaze. There was no venom in the words, just the usual sharpness that seemed to be as much a part of Malfoy as his pale hair or posh bearing. Harry shrugged, trying to suppress the irritation rising in his chest. He didn’t need Malfoy’s attitude right now—not when the house was barely holding itself together, not when every step he took inside Grimmauld Place felt like walking into a trap.

“No,” Harry said, his tone clipped but deciding to ignore Malfoy’s jabs. “Like you said, we can start tomorrow. After nine.”

Malfoy raised a single brow, his arms going into the front pockets of his trousers, making him look terribly debonair. His blazer flared slightly with the movement, and Harry noted, with no small amount of annoyance, that even after everything—after the war, the trials, the years of hardship, his apparent tiredness—Malfoy still managed to look infuriatingly put-together. The sharp lines of his blue blazer, the black turtleneck that clung to his lithe frame, the polished boots—they all looked well-worn but undoubtedly fashionable and timeless. It was as if the universe had decided Draco Malfoy should age like a fine wine while he was ageing like mouldy cheese; and Harry hated that he noticed.

“After nine?” Malfoy repeated, his tone somehow both dubious and sarcastic at the same time. “Didn’t expect you to be an early bird.”

Harry rolled his eyes, his patience already wearing thin.

“Do you have a problem with that, Malfoy? Or are you going to show up and actually do something useful for once?”

The words were sharp, carrying the heat they had harbored in their school days. Even so, Malfoy’s pink lips twitched, not quite a sneer, but close enough, his gaze amused.

“Relax, Potter. I’ll be there. I’m simply surprised you’re capable of waking up earlier than midday. After all, punctuality doesn’t seem to be your strong suit.”

Harry scowled, the reminder of his tardiness stinging more than it should. “I told you, it wasn’t my fault. The loo decided to dump me in the bloody garden, and I—”

“Yes, yes, you cuddled with a deathly plant,” Malfoy interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “The house is trying to kill you. I got that part.”

Harry gritted his teeth, swallowing the retort bubbling up in his throat. It wasn’t worth it. He forced himself to take a deep breath, trying to push past the irritation. “Just be there, Malfoy. We’ll need to be quick, though. I’ve got lunch plans.”

“Lunch plans,” Malfoy repeated, his voice dripping with mock surprise. “My, Potter, you’ve got quite the social calendar, don’t you? Who’s the lucky guest this time? Weasley and Granger, I assume?”

Harry shot him a glare. “Yes, actually. And I’m going to theirs . Not that it’s any of your business.”

Malfoy smirked, his pale eyes glinting with amusement and just a bit of meanness.

“Ah, how predictable. The Golden Trio gathered over a hearty meal, no doubt. Do send them my kindest regards.”

Harry couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from twitching, though he quickly masked it by biting hard on his lower lip. It was such a typical Malfoy response—dry, cutting, and just a wee bit ridiculous. For the briefest of moments, it almost felt like old times, like the years hadn’t passed them by; and they were still teenagers trading barbs in the corridors of Hogwarts. But the weight of the war, of their history, hung between them like a ghost, impossible to ignore.

“Goodbye, Malfoy,” Harry said finally, the words curt but not unkind.

Malfoy inclined his head ever so slightly, a gesture that might have been mistaken for politeness if it hadn’t come from him. “Goodbye, Potter. Until tomorrow.”

Without another word, Malfoy turned on his heel and strode toward the nearest alleyway. Harry watched him go, his coat billowing slightly in the wind, his footsteps echoing softly against the cobblestones. When Malfoy reached the shadowed alley, he paused briefly, glancing back over his shoulder. Their eyes met for a split second, and then, with a faint crack, Malfoy was gone.

Harry let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging as he turned and began the walk home. The streets of Islington were quiet this late in the evening, most shops closed, their windows dark. The air was still cold, and Harry unconsciously pulled his shirt tighter around himself, his thoughts swirling like a storm. He should’ve felt relieved. He had Malfoy’s agreement, however reluctant, and they had a plan… ish. But instead, he felt... uneasy, as if something bad were to happen. Malfoy’s involvement complicated things. It wasn’t just the history between them, though that was certainly part of it. It was the way Malfoy had looked at him tonight—guarded, calculating, but also... curious. Like he was trying to figure Harry out, to piece together something Harry himself didn’t fully understand. Harry didn’t like the feeling, it made him feel targeted.

And then there was the house. Grimmauld Place was dangerous now, unstable in a way that went beyond its physical structure. Bringing Malfoy into that chaos felt like a gamble, but Harry didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t fix it alone. And if Malfoy really was connected to the house’s magic, if his presence could help stabilise it…

Harry shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He was overthinking it. He needed to focus on the task at hand—fixing the house, taming the wild magic, and keeping everyone involved alive in the process. That was all that mattered.

By the time he reached Grimmauld Place, the familiar dread had settled back into his chest. The house loomed before him, dark and foreboding, its windows like hollow eyes staring down at him. He hesitated on the front step, his hand hovering over the doorknob. The thought of stepping inside filled him with a deep, gnawing unease. But he had no choice. He never did. With a heavy sigh, Harry pushed the door open and stepped inside. The air was thick and oppressive, the faint scent of dust and decay lingering in the hall. The house creaked around him, its walls shifting faintly as though alive. Harry’s stomach twisted.

Tomorrow, Malfoy would come to Grimmauld Place. And one way or another, everything was about to change.

The beginning of dawn’s sun streamed weakly through the grimy windows of Grimmauld Place, casting dim light onto the dusty surfaces and cobwebbed corners. Harry groaned as he rolled, his head pounding slightly from a restless night of sleep. The bed he’d managed to fish out of his room before it had disappeared once again was alright, but it did little to help with his constant tension that riddled his body like a parasite. His body ached as though the walls of the house pressed down on him even in his sleep. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, scrubbing his hands through his unruly hair, the knot of anxiety in his stomach twisting tighter with each passing second. His dreams, fleeting and fragmented, had left behind an unease he couldn’t quite shake. Flashes of grey eyes, piercing and indifferent, floated through his subconscious as though his mind had decided to torture him before the day had even begun.

His early morning had started poorly, and he knew it was only going to get worse as the minutes dragged on. Harry groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. The faint, orangish light of sunrise filtered in through the tattered curtains, doing little to illuminate the room. Shadows clung to every corner, dark and lingering, a reminder —not that he'd ever forget—of the house's stubborn refusal to become homey or welcoming to him. 

He glanced around the bedroom, or at least what passed for one, he didn’t particularly know where in the house he had ended up at in the middle of the night. The bed was lopsided, one leg shorter than the others, causing it to tilt slightly to the left. The wallpaper was peeling in long strips, revealing dark, damp patches underneath. A cabinet leaned against the wall as though it might collapse at any moment, and the floorboards creaked ominously with even the slightest movement. It was a far cry from anything resembling comfort.

The knot in Harry’s stomach tightened as the events of the previous night came rushing back to him. His meeting with Malfoy at the pub had been uncomfortable, to put it mildly. The tension between them had been palpable, their shared animosity hanging in the air like a stormy cloud. And yet, against all odds, Malfoy had agreed to help him. Harry didn’t know whether to feel relieved or anxious about this development. Probably both.

Draco Malfoy was coming in a few hours.

The thought alone set Harry on edge, a flood of emotions—most of them unpleasant—washing over him. He hadn’t seen Malfoy in years, not properly, anyway. Their brief meeting last night had been enough to stir something unsettling within him. Malfoy had looked so… composed , so utterly sure of himself despite the evident tiredness. And, of course, annoyingly handsome, Harry admitted begrudgingly, though the thought only made him scowl at himself. It wasn’t fair that Malfoy looked like he belonged on the cover of some ridiculous fashion magazine, while Harry felt like the poster child for ‘Dishevelled and Over it.’

Shaking his head, Harry forced himself to his feet and stretched, his muscles stiff from a night of tossing and turning. He padded across the cold wooden floor to  what used to be his bathroom but now was devoid of a tub, shower and toilet—hey, at least the sink was still there—, cursing under his breath as he stubbed his toe on a loose floorboard. The house was falling apart around him, and it was taking his sanity with it. He splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it waking him up fully. His reflection in the cracked mirror was a sorry sight. Dark circles under his eyes, hair sticking up in every direction and tangled beyond salvation, and a shadow of stubble on his jaw.

He looked like shite.

After brushing his teeth and attempting to tame his unruly hair, Harry made his way to what he hoped was still the kitchen. Maybe some tea and toast would settle his nerves, though he already doubted it. And lo and behold, the kitchen, as always, had other plans. His hands were unsteady as he fumbled with the kettle, spilling water across the counter before managing to fill it properly. And after a good thirty minutes, the kettle, which had been perfectly functional the day before, refused to boil. The toaster, ancient and temperamental, decided to burn his toast to an inedible crisp. Harry cursed under his breath, smacking the toaster with a flat palm in frustration, which of course burnt him painfully. Scowling and in a terrible mood already, he scraped the charred bits into the sink with an angry sigh, trying not to let the morning’s failures get even more under his skin.

Just as he was about to settle for a cold brew of coffee, the kettle suddenly decided to boil over as Harry turned to grab a mug, the liquid hissing as it spilled onto the stovetop. 

“Bloody fucking hell, ” Harry muttered, snatching the kettle off the burner and slamming it onto the counter. He rubbed his temples, breathing deeply to calm himself down. 

It wasn’t working. Every little thing seemed to be going wrong this morning, and the worst part was that Harry knew exactly why. His nerves were shot. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t think straight. The memory of Malfoy’s sharp, piercing gaze was like a splinter lodged under his skin—impossible to ignore, no matter how hard he tried.

After another failed attempt to make breakfast, Harry finally gave up, tossing the burned toast into the bin. 

“Fine,” he muttered to himself forcefully. “Fine! Who needs breakfast anyway? Bloody useless house,” he continued, glaring at the wall as though it might glare back.

Of course, the house didn’t respond—not verbally, at least. But the faint creak of the floorboards above him felt suspiciously like laughter. 

He poured himself a mug of scalding tea and sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the chipped wood. The knot of anxiety in his stomach hadn’t eased. If anything, it had gotten worse. He couldn’t stop thinking about Malfoy—about the way he’d looked at him last night, sharp and assessing, like he was peeling back Harry’s layers and judging everything he saw— and the fact that he was going to visit his house. And of course, Malfoy had looked perfect. He always did. Even in the dim lighting of the pub, his polished appearance had been impossible to miss. It was infuriating.

“Why do I care?” Harry muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “It’s Malfoy. Who cares what he thinks?”

But, maybe, he did care. He always had, though he’d never admit it out loud. Malfoy had a way of getting under his skin like no one else could. Even after all these years, he still knew how to push Harry’s buttons.

Abandoning his unfinished tea, Harry stood and began pacing the kitchen. His nerves were shot, and he needed to do something—anything—to keep his mind occupied. He glanced around the kitchen, the sight of its shabby disarray only worsening his mood, making something in his belly twist and turn as if he had just pulled a Wronski Feint. The cupboards were chipped and peeling, the floor scuffed and stained, and the table sat shakily, one leg uneven. It was exactly what Harry expected of Grimmauld Place, but the thought of Malfoy walking in and seeing it… judging it as if it was his fault… made his stomach churn. He could already picture the raised brow, the sneering comment about Harry’s inability to keep a house clean.

Before he even realised what he was doing, Harry was grabbing a rag and bucket of soapy water, setting to work on scrubbing the kitchen tops. The kitchen was in dire need of attention, with years of grime and neglect clinging to every surface. It wasn’t like him to care—truly care—about what the state of his kitchen was, or what others thought of it. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. But his hands moved with a kind of desperation, scouring away layers of gunk and negligence as if Malfoy’s opinion of him depended on it. And, as he worked, he found himself scrubbing harder than necessary, his frustration bleeding into his movements. He wasn’t just cleaning the house; he was trying to exorcise his own restless energy.

He worked his way through the kitchen with a kind of frantic energy that might have sent Hermione into a worrying fit if she saw him, the soapy water turning gray as he wiped down every surface he could reach (curse his average stature). Then he moved on to the sitting room, vacuuming rugs and dusting shelves. He even polished the tarnished frames of the family portraits, though the Black ancestors sneered at him from behind the glass, muttering insults as he worked. 

“Disgraceful,” one of the ancestors muttered as Harry wiped away a layer of dust. “A Potter, of all people, on his knees like a house-elf.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before,” he said, tossing the rag over his shoulder.

And, for once, the house didn’t seem to resist him. The wild, chaotic magic of Grimmauld Place, which so often fought against him, was oddly… cooperative today. The walls, which usually groaned and shifted with every step he took, were oddly silent. The creaking floorboards stilled, the shifting furniture remained in place, and even the flickering lamps burned steadily. 

It was as though the house itself wanted to look its best for Malfoy’s arrival. Harry didn’t know whether to feel grateful or unnerved, the thought making him scowl. 

By the time he reached the drawing room, sweat was dripping down the back of his neck, and his arms ached from scrubbing and hauling furniture. He straightened a crooked chair and stepped back, surveying the room with a critical eye. It looked better—still old and worn, but cleaner, more presentable.

Not that it mattered. He wasn’t doing this for Malfoy.

He wasn’t .

So why couldn’t he shake the image of Malfoy’s cold, critical gaze? Why did the thought of those pale, assessing eyes finding fault in his home make Harry’s chest tighten with frustration?

“I don’t care what bloody Malfoy thinks,” Harry grumbled to himself in denial, throwing down the rag he’d been using to clean a window. The words echoed hollowly in the quiet room, as if even the house didn’t believe him. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. “I don’t!”

But his anxiety refused to go away, and Harry knew he was lying to himself. He knew he did care, and it infuriated Harry to no end. He told himself it was just old habits, lingering tension from their school days, but deep down, he suspected it was something more than that. The thought made him uncomfortable.

Picking up the rag and with a frustrated groan, Harry sank into the freshly cleaned armchair, staring up at the ceiling. The chandelier above him, cracked and dusty, swayed faintly in the still air. He let out a long breath, his thoughts drifting to the day ahead. Malfoy would be here soon, and Harry wasn’t ready—not for the house, not for the tension, and certainly not for the complicated feelings Malfoy always seemed to stir up.

But he didn’t have a choice. Grimmauld Place needed help, and Malfoy, for all his many, many flaws, seemed to be the only one who could provide it.

Harry just had to get through the day without losing his mind. 

Easier said than done.

His back hurt. Of course it did, the bloody bathroom mirror had decided to move itself to the floor next to the base of the sink at an angle that had Harry crouched down awkwardly, craning his neck to see his reflection. His knees were screaming in protest, and he was fairly sure his back would punish him later for subjecting it to this despotic treatment. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Not yet.

He grimaced at the sight before him: messy hair, tan face paler than it should be, and a shadow of stubble on his jawline that made him look less ruggedly handsome and more ‘slept in a bin for three days and woke up like this’. His reflection glared back at him, clearly unimpressed with his own attempt to pull himself together.

“Why do I even fucking bother?” Harry muttered, scrubbing a hand through his hair in what could generously be called an attempt to tame it. Predictably, it only made things worse. His hair stuck up in every direction like an unkempt garden of weeds. “It’s Malfoy, for Merlin’s sake. He’s probably never even seen a blond hair out of place on his head.”

The mirror, enchanted like everything else in Grimmauld Place, decided to chime in with its rude and very much unsolicited opinion right then. “Honestly, dear, this is hopeless. You might as well put a hat over your head and be done with it.”

Harry scowled at his own reflection, debating whether breaking the mirror would invite more bad luck into his already cursed existence.

“Thanks for the pep talk,” he grumbled.

“You’re welcome,” the mirror replied sweetly, then added, “You’ve got coriander in your teeth.”

Harry groaned and leaned in closer, checking. The mirror snickered. There was no coriander.

“Bloody great. Now I’m losing arguments with the furniture,” Harry muttered, straightening up—or at least attempting to, before his back loudly reminded him why crouching like Gollum for twenty minutes was a terrible idea. Grimacing, he pressed a hand to the small of his back and gave up entirely on his hair. He grabbed his wand, giving his face a quick shave with a muttered spell, then splashed water onto his cheeks.

“There. Presentable enough,” he told himself, ignoring the bags under his eyes and the stubborn lock of hair sticking straight up in defiance of every smoothing charm he’d tried.

And really, it wasn’t like Draco Malfoy deserved any more effort than this. 

Who does he think he is, anyway? Judging me the second he walks through the door. Honestly, it’s not a bloody fashion show.

But even as Harry told himself this, the ball of anxiety in his stomach tightened. The truth was, it wasn’t just about what Malfoy thought of him—it was about the situation. Grimmauld Place. The wild, unpredictable magic that was steadily spiralling out of control. Malfoy was here to help, and Harry needed him. That was what mattered.

Right? Right.

He was halfway through convincing himself of this when he heard the telltale crack of Apparition from outside. The sound was faint, muffled through the walls, but unmistakable.

Draco Malfoy had arrived. Harry’s stomach flipped.

“Oh, bloody hell,” he muttered, hastily wiping his hands on his jeans and scrambling out of the bathroom. He practically ran down the narrow hallway toward the foyer, cursing under his breath as he went. Why was he nervous? It wasn’t like this was a date or something. As if. This was Malfoy. Just Malfoy. Arrogant, condescending, insufferable Malfoy. Nothing to be nervous about.

Except, of course, everything.

In his haste to reach the front door, Harry’s foot caught on the edge of the troll-leg umbrella stand—a cursed relic that somehow always reappeared despite his repeated attempts to vanish it. His body pitched forward, and he collided face-first with the door with an almighty smack. Pain exploded across his forehead, giving him an awful feeling of déjà vu, and he stumbled backward, clutching at his face. 

“OW! For the love of—! Fuck!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the empty house. He blinked rapidly, stars dancing in his vision as he gingerly touched the now-tender spot just above his eyebrow. “Great. Just fantastic. I’m going to greet Malfoy looking like I got into a bar fight with the wall.”

As if on cue, a sharp knock came from the other side of the door. Harry froze for a moment, his heart pounding, before hastily shaking himself back to reality. “Coming!” he called, his voice slightly too loud and definitely too high-pitched.

He yanked the door open, still rubbing at his throbbing forehead. And Harry immediately regretted opening the door so quickly. There he was, Draco fucking Malfoy, standing there in all his irritating glory, and looking as polished and sleek as yesterday—no, better. His sleek blond hair was neatly combed back, and his sharp, smooth jaw seemed even more striking in the soft morning light. Malfoy looked less tired than he had been yesterday, his eyes rested and their redness all but gone. The black turtleneck from last night was back and the chic green —because of course he’d wear green— oversized jumper he was wearing made him look distressingly elegant, and Harry cursed under his breath at the unfairness of it all. Everything about him looked effortless. And, to Harry’s increasing annoyance, somehow he even looked well rested despite what his eyes showed. The years had undoubtedly been too kind to him, damn it.

Meanwhile, he was acutely aware of his own unkempt state: a faded shirt wrinkled beyond even Molly’s strongest ironing charm, a pair of jeans smeared with grime from his earlier cleaning spree, and a faint smear of something that looked suspiciously like orange jam on his sleeve.

“Potter,” Malfoy greeted flatly, his eyes looking at Harry's forehead in the passing, although he had the decency to not mention what Harry knew must be, a red mark on it— his tone as cool as the breeze cutting through the street.

Harry, trying to regain some sense of control, cleared his throat awkwardly and stepped aside, holding the door open wider. God, he couldn’t believe he was actually inviting Malfoy into his home. 

“Come in,” he says, voice a little higher than intended.

Malfoy hesitated for just a fraction of a second before crossing the threshold, like a vampire finally being allowed in. And the moment his foot crossed the old threshold, the atmosphere in Grimmauld Place shifted with startling intensity. The house’s magic surged to life, no longer the brooding, heavy energy Harry had grown so used to but something electric and vibrant. The change was immediate, almost palpable, as though the house had taken a deep breath and suddenly remembered itself. The air thickened, charged with an ancient, almost sentient awareness that pressed against Harry's skin like static. He could feel the magic humming just beneath the surface, a strange mix of confusion and exhilaration. It wasn’t just that the house recognised Malfoy—it seemed to revel in his presence, the last living heir of the Black family finally standing within its walls.

Finally, someone worthy.

The thought made Harry’s eyes prickle.

As if to mark the occasion, the house began to act out. Doors creaked open and shut repeatedly on their own, the sounds echoing through the corridors like a disjointed applause. The chandelier in the entryway, which had been coated in decades of dust, suddenly sparked to life, casting an ethereal glow over the room. And then came the music—a haunting, lilting melody from a bygone era that drifted from nowhere and everywhere at once, filling the house with an eerie sort of joy.

Harry stared, his mouth slightly open, as the house seemingly celebrated Malfoy’s arrival. “What the hell?” he muttered under his breath.

Malfoy looked as put out as Harry, looking towards the entrance as if weighting the pros and cons of legging it out of here. He seemed to come to a conclusion, for he suddenly stood straighter and clearly decided to ignore the music and weird behaviour from the house. With a minuscule sigh, he continued further into the foyer, eyes calm.

 Harry watched him with an almost resentful kind of intensity, trying to gauge his reaction to the space, but Malfoy’s expression remained maddeningly blank, save for the faintest wrinkle of his nose as he glanced around the entryway. Malfoy took one measured glance around the dimly lit corridor, his sharp eyes flitting over the cracked ceiling, the dusty staircase, and the cobwebs clinging to the corners of the ceiling. His nose wrinkles slightly, and Harry has to fight the urge to bristle defensively.

“Potter,” he cleared his throat as he said his name once again, his voice cool and laced with faint amusement. “You look… harried.”

Harry scowled. “Yeah, well, the house is trying to kill me, I have good reason to look ‘harried’,” he shot back defensively, while closing the door with a thud that echoed uncomfortably through the narrow hallway, and moving a hand vaguely towards the interior of the house, ignoring the house’s evident preference for the blonde. “Do you plan to stand there making comments all day?”

Malfoy smirked, turning around and walking deeper into the foyer, brushing past Harry, who kept talking in the foyer. With an exasperated sigh, Harry followed the blonde.

“I wasn’t planning on commenting all day,” he said lightly once Harry caught up to him, his impish tone suggesting he very much could if given the chance. His gaze swept across the gloom of the hallway, lingering on the peeling wallpaper and the faint smell of damp that no amount of cleaning spells seemed able to banish. “Though I must say, Potter, this place is even more depressing than I remembered.”

“It’s, uh… still a work in progress,” Harry offered weakly, his annoyance already bubbling under his skin. Running a hand through his perpetually messy hair.

“Obviously,” he replied dryly, brushing a speck of non-existent dust off his jumper. Malfoy’s gaze landed on the troll leg umbrella stand that had sent Harry sprawling moments before. His lips twitch as though he’s holding back a smirk. “I see the decor remains as charming as when I was a child.”

Harry glared at the offending object. “I got rid of that years ago, but it keeps coming back somehow ,” he muttered, more to himself than Malfoy. “The house’s magic has a mind of its own.”

“Evidently,” he drawled, his voice dripping with that insufferable Malfoy sarcasm Harry had decidedly not missed. His gaze swept across the dusty floorboards, lingering on the holes where Harry’s foot had gone through and the cobwebbed chandelier overhead. “Though I suppose it suits you. A crumbling, chaotic mess. Very Potter-couture,” he stepped further into the house, his polished Oxfords clicking softly against the warped wooden floorboards. His movements were careful, deliberate, as though he was afraid the house might collapse under his weight.

Harry watched him with a mixture of irritation and nervous curiosity. There’s something about the way Malfoy carried himself—straight-backed and infuriatingly composed—that set Harry on edge. He felt like a mess in comparison, and it was not helping his already frazzled nerves.

Malfoy’s mean teasing suddenly sinking in, Harry glared at him, his jaw tightening. “You didn’t come here to critique my house, Malfoy.”

“Didn’t I?” Malfoy retorted, his lips curving into a faint sneer.

Harry rolled his eyes and came to an abrupt stop. Shaking his head and muttering under his breath as he motioned Malfoy to follow him instead of attempting to lead the way when he didn’t even know where to go.

“Right, well…” Harry began as they continued walking towards the kitchen. He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels as he tried to figure out what to say next. “Thanks for, uh, agreeing to come.”

Malfoy arched a single, elegant brow. 

“You didn’t exactly leave me much of a choice, Potter,” he said, his voice laced with mild reproach. “Your letter was less an invitation and more a thinly veiled threat.”

Harry felt his cheeks flush. “I wasn’t threatening you,” he said defensively, though he knew full well what words he’d used when he wrote. “I just… needed you to understand how serious the situation is.”

Malfoy regarded him coolly for a moment, then let out a soft, derisive snort. “Trust me, I gathered that much from our little chat. Though I must say, your penchant for dramatics hasn’t waned in the slightest.”

Harry clenched his jaw, biting back a sharp retort. He had to remind himself that he needed Malfoy’s help, and starting an argument five minutes into their reunion probably wasn’t the best way to go about it.

“Let’s just… get this over with,” he said tersely, motioning for Malfoy to keep following him.

The tension between them was almost unbearable as they made their way through the house. Harry’s shoulders were rigid, and he could feel the weight of Malfoy’s calculating gaze on his back, taking in every detail of the crumbling walls and dilapidated furniture. He wished the house hadn’t chosen this exact moment to look like it was on the verge of collapse, especially when he had spent all morning trying to make it look a tad more decent. Honestly, even the tub in the living room would be an improvement at this point.

As they passed through the sitting room, Malfoy paused, his eyes narrowing at the darkened portrait of Walburga Black, which remained covered by a heavy, now enchanted, curtain. 

“I assume my dear old great aunt is still as charming as ever?” he drawled, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Harry stopped and glanced over his shoulder. 

“She’s quieter these days,” he said with a shrug. “Probably because the house has been too busy falling apart to give her the attention she wants.”

Malfoy hummed in acknowledgment, though his expression remained unreadable. He didn’t comment further, instead continuing to follow Harry down the corridor and into the kitchen.

The kitchen was, to Harry’s immense relief, one of the few rooms that actually looked somewhat presentable—the satisfying outcome of the hours he had spent scrubbing it clean—, and though it still bore the scars of years of neglect, at least it was clean. The table was polished, the counters were free of grime, and the faint scent of soap hung in the air, evidence of Harry’s frantic cleaning spree that morning. But it did little to mask the deeper, mustier smell of the house’s long disuse. 

Malfoy surveyed the room with an appraising eye. He didn’t say anything, but Harry caught the faintest flicker of sympathy in his expression—gone as quickly as it appeared. The blonde’s gaze then landed on the mismatched chairs under the table, the patched-up window, and the faint scorch marks on the mantle from one of Harry’s less-than-successful attempts at repairing the Floo network.

Why was it that his gaze always focused on Harry’s failures instead of his victories?, he wondered.

“Make yourself at home,” said Harry, the words dripping with irony.

Instead of sitting, Malfoy turned to Harry, his hands sliding into the pockets of his trousers. “Well, Potter,” he began, his tone businesslike, “now that you’ve dragged me to this... quaint little house of terrors of yours. Shall we get to the point, or did you just want to reminisce about old times while we count spiderwebs?”

Harry scowled, running a hand through his hair as he leaned against the counter.

“It’s complicated,” he admitted. “As you can see, the house is… well, it’s falling apart. The magic’s gone mad, and I can’t control it. I told you this yesterday, but rooms vanish and reappear. The stairs move. Sometimes I wake up in a completely different part of the house than where I went to sleep. And that’s just the start of it.” He paused, glancing at Malfoy to see if he was paying attention. “The house is alive, in a way that is… well, dangerous.”

“Of course Grimmauld is sentient, Potter,” said Malfoy with disdain. “The magic running through it is ancient and powerful, wild and unpredictable. Let a house have a family, become a home for long enough, and it’ll inevitably become sentient. Like that Burrow of yours. You think it’d be still standing if it weren't for the house’s magic, accumulated through generations of Weasleys?”

Harry’s eyes widened at Malfoy’s words. He had never considered that before, but it made sense.

“Well, I’ve tried everything,” Harry continued. “Reinforcement spells, stabilising rituals, remodulation, fuck, even bloody talking to the house—don’t laugh,” he added quickly, catching the faintest twitch of Malfoy’s lips. “Nothing works. It’s like the house is… it’s like it doesn’t want me here.”

Malfoy tilted his head, his grey eyes narrowing slightly. A look of exasperation on his face, “Yes, yes, you told me this yesterday,” he echoed, his tone mocking and aggravated. “Salazar, Potter, there’s no need to repeat yourself.”

Harry glared at him, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “Well, I don’t know how else to explain it! I thought you coming here today would help me. That you’d know what to do, since you’re the expert here.” his breath quickening in annoyance.

For a moment, Malfoy kept silent, his gaze drifting to the darkened corners of the room as he let Harry throw his tantrum. He could practically see the wheels turning in Malfoy’s mind, and for once, he was grateful for his apparent sharp, analytical nature.

“It’s been getting worse over the past few years,” he added more calmly now. “I’m almost sure  it’s because I’m not a Black. I just have this feeling that that is the reason why the house refuses to  recognise me as its rightful owner; why it’s… acting out. That little act when you arrived? I’m sure it was because it’s happy you’re here.”

Malfoy frowned then, crossing his arms over his chest. “And because the house recognises me, you think this is what’s been affecting my magic?”

Harry hesitated, then nodded again.

“I don’t know for sure, but… the timing lines up. The house’s magic has been getting more chaotic, and you said you’ve been feeling drained. It’s possible the two are connected.”

Malfoy didn’t respond immediately. He looked away, his gaze distant as he seemed to mull over Harry’s words. When he finally spoke, his tone was quieter, more measured. “If what you’re claiming is true, then this house poses a danger not just to you, but also to me, even if I’m not here.”

“I figured,” Harry says softly. “That’s why I need your help. I wouldn’t have asked you , of all people, if I wasn’t desperate, you know that.” Harry took a big breath to say what he never thought he would in all his life, “I’m willing to trust you with this, Malfoy, so please, tell me what to do.”

Malfoy seemed to concede with a low hum. He lowered his head, seemingly in deep thought, but Harry swore he could see how affected Malfoy was by his words. For a moment, there’s silence between them. Harry watched Malfoy carefully, searching for any sign of what he might be thinking. Malfoy's expression remained guarded, his grey eyes unreadable. Finally, the blonde looked up, a new spark in his eyes.

“Alright, then,” Malfoy said finally, his voice more serious now. “I suppose I’ve got nothing to lose.”

“Thanks. You’re the only one who might be able to help me figure it out,” Harry said firmly.

Malfoy’s expression faltered slightly as he thought, but soon enough he spoke out again. 

“The Black family magic is… complex,” he admitted. “Old, powerful, and deeply rooted in bloodlines. It’s not surprising that the house doesn’t recognise you. You’re not a Black, Potter. No amount of inheritance paperwork will change that.”

Harry bristled at his tone. “So what am I supposed to do? Just leave? Let the house fall apart?”

Malfoy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as though he were already regretting agreeing to this. “No,” he said, his voice clipped. “I told you, if the house’s magic is as unstable as you say, it could be catastrophic, Potter. Wild magic has a way of spilling over, causing... unintended consequences.”

Harry felt a chill run down his spine. He hadn’t thought about the wider implications of the house’s magic. It was bad enough that he was dealing with it on a daily basis, but the idea of it affecting others… that was something he couldn’t ignore.

“So, what do we do?” he asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.

Malfoy hesitated, his gaze lingering on Harry for a moment longer than necessary. Finally, he nodded, though his expression remained guarded. “I’ll need to look at some rooms, give myself an idea of what I’ll be working with. But don’t expect miracles, Potter. This isn’t going to be easy. The house will resist, and if you’re right about it rejecting you, it might get worse before it gets better.”

Harry nodded, relief flooding through him despite Malfoy’s warning. 

“I’ll need access to the house’s core at some point,” he said, his voice still brisk and business-like. “And I’ll need to examine the wards. If this house is draining magic, I’ll need to find the source and figure out how to stop it before anything else. I’ll also need to go back home for some reference material, maybe even ask my mother...” Malfoy said, his voice becoming fainter the more he spoke.

Harry looked at him, his jaw tightening. “Ok, sure, whatever you need, Malfoy. I just need you to do your job so everything can go back to normal.”

For a moment, they stood there in tense silence, the weight of their animosity hanging heavy between them. Then Malfoy’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. “Well,” he said smoothly, “this should be fun. Go on, Potter, show me your hovel.”

Relief washed over Harry even when Malfoy’s words annoyed him to no end, though he tried not to let it show. “Ah, uhm… come on, then,” he said, his voice lowered and contrite. “Thanks, I guess.”

Malfoy waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t thank me yet, Potter. I haven’t fixed anything.”

Harry groaned internally. This was going to test him.

Per Malfoy's demands to see some rooms of the house to assess the situation with his own eyes. Harry guided him towards the sitting room, where Sirius used to spend most of his time back when he had been alone in this rotting house, lounging on one of those sofas that looked like it was straight from Victorian times—which, honestly, it was highly possible that they actually were that old. A little dust rose into the air as they entered, the house's magic making it swirl around in intricate patterns. The whole show made Harry frown; he had cleaned those floors today, or at least tried to. He knew that his efforts wouldn't amount to much, but still. It irked him, somehow, that the house remained stubbornly dusty when he had tried so bloody hard to get it to an acceptable state for Malfoy.

He sighed. He was sick and tired of Grimmauld and its eccentricities, of being made a fool even when he tried his hardest to make the damned house liveable once again. And he hated that he felt that way, particularly when he was doing his best to hold onto the old place. The very house that should have been his salvation instead felt like a burden, a responsibility he couldn't meet. An albatross around his neck.

Malfoy didn't comment on the state of the room, although Harry could tell he was doing a cursory sweep with his silvery gaze, assessing everything, no doubt cataloguing every flaw. The man wasn't exactly subtle about it. Not that Harry blamed him, really; Grimmauld Place was not what the blonde must've been used to. Falling apart, rotting from within. He supposed it only made sense that Malfoy would want to get out as quickly as possible. Harry himself certainly did.

Malfoy followed Harry around like a ghost, never speaking nor reacting, and that unnerved Harry as well.

He wanted to break the silence, to ask Malfoy what he thought about the house, whether he saw something worth noting or that he felt was most important, but he kept silent as well. Malfoy walked around the room, his eyes sometimes lingering in a particularly strange peculiarity—a random shoe nestled amongst books, what looked like a bath sponge inside the ancient gramophone and even a small crib behind the three-seater sofa—, and reacting in increasingly funny ways.

Harry waited for Malfoy to speak up, but he remained silent. Finally, Harry cleared his throat, turning to face the blonde.

 “So…” he began tentatively, hoping that Malfoy would take pity on him. “How is it? What do you think?”

Malfoy frowned, tilting his head to the side slightly as he studied Harry, his expression contemplative. Then, without warning, he turned towards the nearest stairs.

“Malfoy? Hey! Wait a second!” Harry called after him.

He stopped abruptly, glancing over his shoulder at Harry, one eyebrow raised expectantly, his shoe tapping against the wooden floor, denoting his annoyance. Harry stared back, unsure how to proceed. He didn't know whether Malfoy meant to leave or simply go upstairs to examine the next floor of rooms. He swallowed hard and decided to press forward, regardless.

“Do you need me to show you upstairs? Or should I just wait here until you're done?”

Malfoy sighed, as if he was the one dealing with a particularly difficult person. “Yes, Potter, obviously.”

“Right,” Harry said, equally annoyed.

He took a deep breath before leading Malfoy up the stairs. He couldn't help but notice how stiffly Malfoy walked, how his jaw clenched whenever he spotted something amiss or bizarre, how his hands were balled into fists. Was he angry at Harry? At the house itself? He wished he knew, the tension the blonde emitted was causing even Harry to be more on edge than he already was. If only he could read minds... But, alas, Legillimency wasn't one of his talents. So instead, he just focused on trying to keep calm and not freak out about anything.

The two continued through the corridor, passing by several doors, most of which were closed by the house's magic. That made Harry frown, as he had never known Grimmauld to lock him out of rooms. Disappear rooms? Yes. Suddenly throw him out of them? Constantly. But close them? That was new. A few were open though, revealing various bedrooms, studies, sitting rooms and bathrooms. All were similarly deteriorated, filled with dust and cobwebs. Most of them had broken furniture or holes in the walls.

They finally reached the end of the hall, where there stood an old wooden door. It was closed shut, but Harry could see light shining through the cracks around it. They paused in front of it, hesitating for a moment, not willing to risk it.

“See what I mean? That's not normal, right?” Harry asked, pointing towards the door.

Malfoy didn't respond, instead turning away from Harry once again and walking down the stairs by himself. Harry grunted in exasperation and followed after him quickly, catching up easily due to the blonde's slow pace. Malfoy seemed to be thinking deeply about something, his eyes narrowed as he scanned the rooms they passed by. Finally, he stopped, glancing over his shoulder at Harry again.

“You are correct, Potter, this house is... strange,” he said sternly. “This has been quite enough for me to get an idea of what I'll need to research.”

Harry nodded eagerly, relieved that Malfoy agreed with his assessment of the house. Perhaps they would find a solution after all.

“What do you think we should do next?” he asked hopefully.

Malfoy frowned, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “It's best that I go home for today, I have a lot I need to do before you even think about showing me this mausoleum's core.”

The moment Malfoy mentioned leaving, however, a strange surge of magic passed through them, making them shiver at the cold feeling. Instantly, the house's drab ambience darkened considerably, as if someone had turned off some inexistent source of light. The temperature dropped drastically, causing both men to start shivering in unison. They glanced around warily, expecting some kind of attack or danger, but nothing came.

Slowly, cautiously, they continued walking towards the exit.

Or at least, they tried to.

Without rhyme or reason, each turn they took seemed to bring them back to the kitchen, its faintly cleaned surfaces gleaming faintly in the dim, uncanny light. Harry frowned, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“This is ridiculous. We’ve walked straight twice, haven’t we? We should be able to see the foyer by now.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at the familiar sight of the kitchen table. “Twice? Try three times, Potter. I don’t recall asking for a guided tour of your cleaning achievements.”

Harry huffed, glancing down the hallway they’d just come from. “It’s not me doing this! I told you the house was mad. Maybe it’s being facetious to amuse you?”

Malfoy stopped short, raising an incredulous eyebrow. “Oh, fantastic. Well, I am decidedly not enjoying its little prank anymore than I enjoyed Hogwarts’ shifting staircases.”

Another five minutes passed, each attempted route leading them inexplicably back to the kitchen. The floorboards creaked underfoot, the sound somehow more ominous with every step, as if the house was warning them of something. The house seemed alive, more so than Harry had seen it before, and it worried him as it kept redirecting them like a mischievous host refusing to let its guests leave.

“This is absurd,” Malfoy muttered, crossing his arms as they once again stood before the kitchen table. “If this is your house’s way of begging for attention, it needs therapy.”

Harry gave him a sharp look, but couldn’t quite keep the humour off his face. He looked away, not willing to let Malfoy know he had been funny. “You’re welcome to try reasoning with it, Malfoy. Maybe a stern talking-to will work.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, his wand slipping into his hand. “Reasoning is for amateurs.” He flicked it sharply, murmuring a spell under his breath. The air around them shimmered briefly before settling again—unchanged. They were still in the kitchen.

“Well, that worked wonders,” Harry said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Shut up,” Malfoy snapped, though his wand hand dropped to his side in defeat. “Clearly, it’s enchanted beyond reason.”

Another few attempts led to the same result. The front door remained as elusive as a Snitch on a windy day. By the ninth time they stumbled back into the kitchen, Malfoy threw up his hands in exasperation.

“I swear to Merlin, if we end up here again, I’m going to hex that table just for existing.”

Harry snorted despite himself, shaking his head. “It’s not the table’s fault. Besides, I don’t think you’d win.”

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime of misdirection, they turned a corner, and the front door appeared at last.

“Thank bloody Merlin,” Malfoy muttered, striding towards the door as though it might vanish again if he didn’t reach it quickly enough. “If I’d had to see that kitchen one more time, I’d have—"

“Hexed the table, got it,” Harry finished for him, rolling his eyes as he followed. “Come on, let’s get out of here before it changes its mind.”

Malfoy shot him a glare for his cheek, but continued making his way toward the door with long, elegant steps as Harry tried to follow him clumsily. How had the git memorised what seemed like his entire floor plan in just under an hour, he would never know. The awkwardness between them hadn't gone away, but Harry figured it was better to get the whole ‘let's help each other with the house’ thing out of the way. It felt like an unwelcome truce, one neither of them had particularly wanted to make, but both were now stuck in. The idea of having Malfoy here for long was strange, and Harry couldn't decide whether to be relieved that he was finally here or nervous that his house, as if aware of the delicate balance of this alliance, was reacting in ways that were bound to lead Harry to an early grave.

Malfoy, as usual, maintained a level of aloofness that Harry envied, he figured his years at Hogwarts would’ve been much easier if he could skate through life as if it never touched a hair on his head. Malfoy didn't seem bothered by anything at all—just that perfect coolness that had always made Harry wonder how Malfoy could manage to look so effortlessly put together.

“Well, then. I’ll see myself out, Potter. I’ll send you an owl so we can talk about my compensation and decide on our next meeting,” Malfoy said curtly, his voice smooth with just a touch of that old Malfoy arrogance, and Harry nodded stiffly, still trying to ignore the lingering sense of discomfort in the air.

As Malfoy moved toward the door, Harry followed at a distance, mentally preparing for the awkwardness of goodbyes. Just as they reached the threshold, however, something inexplicable happened.

Malfoy stood near the door, turning towards the door, ready to leave. Harry was a few steps behind, still trying to collect his thoughts after their awkward conversation. Just as Malfoy’s hand reached for the handle, a gust of wind, far stronger than anything that should be felt within the house, slammed through the dark corridor, seemingly out of nowhere, making Malfoy retract his hand in alarm. The temperature seemed to drop instantly, and Harry could feel the pressure of the air, thick and oppressive, pushing against them both. Before either of them could react, the wind swept through the hallway once more, with a force so great that it sent both men stumbling toward each other, their bodies crashing together with an embarrassing, loud oomph! Harry’s chest collided with Malfoy’s, knocking the breath out of him, and they both ended up in a tangled heap, a jumble of limbs and flustered expressions. Malfoy let out a sharp exhale, eyes wide with surprise, and Harry, his face red with embarrassment, muttered something incoherent.

In a panic, the two of them hurried to their feet, bumping into each other on the way up. Harry’s hands shot out instinctively to catch Malfoy’s shoulders as he stumbled, steadying them both as they tried to regain their balance. They pulled away from each other quickly again afterwards, faces flushed and eyes wide in shared shock, neither sure how to react. But neither could ignore the awkwardness that hung in the air. 

“What the hell was that?” Harry muttered, his heart pounding in his chest.

Malfoy cleared his throat, his voice stiff. “Potter, really. Your house is trying to kill you.”

They exchanged a look, and Harry could see the unease that had crept into Malfoy's usual icy demeanour. Malfoy’s gaze flickered toward the entrance, his hand extended as he brushed the handle with the lightest of touches. But before he could fully place his hand onto the handle, or they could say anything further, the house seemed to take on a life of its own, even more drastically this time. The air grew even heavier, charged with an unnatural intensity.

And then it happened.

A guttural, bone-chilling thump reverberated through the walls, so loud and sharp that it felt like it was coming from deep within the house’s very foundations. The sound was so sudden and unexpected that both Harry and Malfoy flinched, their eyes instinctively closing to shield them from the intense vibrations that seemed to rattle the very bones of the house. Then, there was a cacophony of loud sounds coming from all around them, as if they had been surrounded by a murder of crows, intent on pecking their eyes out, making the two of them to cover their ears. 

It stopped as quickly as it began, the silence eerie and unsettling.

Harry opened his eyes warily, and the first thing he noticed was the unsettling silence that followed. It wasn’t the kind of quiet you’d expect after noises that loud—it was oppressive. Heavy. The type of silence that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, a feeling that gripped his chest and left him uneasy.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Harry repeated, this time louder, as if asking the empty house for some sort of explanation. But the house offered none, not even a single peep.

Malfoy’s face had drained of colour as he stepped back, his eyes darting around the corridor. “Potter… where’s the door?”

Harry’s stomach dropped.

He turned to look behind him, and his heart stuttered in his chest. The doorway that had once stood proudly at the foyer—a clear path to the outside world—was gone. And, it seemed, so was the foyer. In their place stood nothing but a solid, hard wall, the same shade of blackened wood as the rest of Grimmauld Place’s decaying interior, a single, small painting of a cat in a dress adorning it.. The wall stretched from floor to ceiling, unbroken by even the faintest seam. It was as if the house had swallowed the door, leaving no trace that it had ever existed.

Harry blinked, sure he was seeing things. But no, the door was gone. Completely.

“Just what I needed,” Malfoy said, his voice tight with fear disguised as viciousness. He took a step forward, his fingers pressing against the wall as if testing its solidity. “Curse your fucking luck, you're going to get us—”

But he stopped himself, staring at the wall with an expression Harry couldn’t quite place—concern, apprehension, maybe even regret. It was the first time Harry had seen Malfoy show anything other than his usual arrogance.

“What the hell’s going on?” Malfoy muttered, his voice hoarse, the knot of anxiety in his stomach tightening. “Why can’t I leave this bloody house?”

“Malfoy—I’ve never felt anything like this,” he turned to Malfoy, his eyes flickering with a strange intensity. “I told you, the house is deliberately doing this. For some reason, it’s now trapped us in here.”

Now visibly stressed, the blonde pressed his hands to the wall once more, as if the house would free them with his will alone. 

Harry swallowed hard, his mind racing, images of the house’s recent erratic behaviour flooding his thoughts. Harry ran a hand through his perpetually unruly hair, glancing at the floor as if it might offer some kind of answer.

It didn’t.

He had noticed the strange way the house had been shifting—corridors changing, rooms vanishing, the walls seeming to close in on him. But until now, he had convinced himself it was just the house trying to kick him out. To make him leave the house because he was not worthy, because he didn’t belong there. Now, with the eerie disappearance of the door…

He glanced back at Malfoy, who was now leaning against the wall, pale and still catching his breath after the earlier encounter with the wind. His sharp features were furrowed in concentration—or possibly annoyance. It was always hard to tell with Malfoy.

Harry's eyes opened wide as a wave of realisation came over him.

“Malfoy,” Harry began, his voice low and hesitant, “all this time, I thought… maybe the house just wanted to kick me out, you know? But now…” He trailed off, his brow furrowing as the pieces of the puzzle rearranged themselves in his head. “Maybe it’s not trying to kick me out at all. Maybe—I think it wanted to keep us in . You just… weren’t here.”

For a moment, Malfoy simply stared at him, his silver-grey eyes narrowing in deliberation. The flickering candlelight cast strange, jagged shadows across his face, making him look like some kind of marble statue—albeit a deeply irked one.

“Why would you think that?” Malfoy asked him.

“Look at how the house has reacted since you got here! Weird lights and the doors when you got here, it making it so we couldn’t find a way towards the front door,” Harry replied, his voice getting more urgent the more he spoke, as if his thoughts were tumbling out of his mouth. “And now this the moment you try to leave? The house has given me trouble before, but this takes the cake.”

“Fuck,” Malfoy finally muttered, his tone more resigned than alarmed. “Maybe you’re right. Salazar help me, a sentient house with abandonment issues. Perfect.”

Harry blinked, stunned. “I—what?”

“I said, maybe you’re right.” Malfoy sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before fixing Harry with a pointed look. “Don’t make me repeat it, Potter. It’s bad enough having to say it once.”

Harry hated how the first time Malfoy said he was right was under these circumstances. He scowled at the other man, his glare childish. Biting his lips, Harry tried to suppress his sarcasm but couldn’t help himself.

“Wow, Malfoy. Should I write this down? Frame it? The first time you agree with me, and it’s about a haunted, sentient house that’s probably trying to kill us.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, pushing himself upright with a wince. “Yes, Potter. It’s a real Kodak moment. Shall I pose for the cameras next?”

“Kodaks aren’t even magical cameras, how do you even know them?” Harry shot back automatically, but Malfoy ignored him, taking a cautious step forward.

“But why now?” Malfoy asked, his voice quieter, more thoughtful. He gestured vaguely to their surroundings, the oppressive walls seeming to close in around them. “Why both of us, specifically? The house has been sitting here in its misery for years. What’s so bloody special about right now?”

Harry frowned, his gaze flicking to the gnarled wooden beams above them. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe it’s not about us being special. Maybe it’s about unfinished business or…” He waved a hand vaguely. “...balance? Closure? Something poetic like that. Sirius and Regulus—”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Malfoy interrupted, throwing up his hands. “If this is about your tragic godfather and his equally tragic brother, can we skip to the part where the house gets over itself? I don’t fancy being squashed by a cursed ceiling while it works through its feelings.”

Harry shot him a glare, though he didn’t entirely disagree.

“Well, unless you’ve got any better ideas, we’re stuck with this for now.” He gestured to the house around them. “And besides, it’s not like we can just leave. Remember the front door? The one that disappeared the moment you breathed its way?”

Malfoy shuddered at the memory, the ghost of a scowl tugging at his mouth. “Point taken,” he muttered. “But if this house is trying to trap us here for some kind of cosmic therapy session, I want it on record that I do not consent.”

Harry snorted, the sound echoing in the eerie silence. “Noted.”

So, that was it, the bloody house wanted both of them in, without the chance to escape.

They both stood in silence for a moment, only broken by the occasional creak of the floorboards,  the weight of the situation sinking in. Harry could feel the panic rising, his breath catching in his throat. The air felt thick, like it was pressing in on them, and the oppressive stillness was starting to make him feel claustrophobic. Making him remember the cupboard.

Inhale, exhale. Three times.

Sigh.

Finally, Malfoy spoke again, his voice low and tense. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

Harry was about to reply, not in the mood for being bossed around Malfoy, but his words were cut short. The oppressive silence of the house was suddenly shattered by the low hum of the house’s magic. Harry could feel it then—shifting, roiling in the air around them. The walls were alive, and they were listening. Watching. Waiting.

Harry’s heart raced. The house had done more than trap them inside. It was testing them.

“Where the hell is that fucking door?” Malfoy demanded again, his voice rising in frustration.

But Harry had no answer. There was nothing left but the eerie stillness, the oppressive magic in the air, and the cold weight of uncertainty pressing down on them both.

The house had kidnapped them. 

And it wasn’t about to let them go.

Chapter Text

The silence between them stretched, taut and unyielding, as though the very air in Grimmauld Place had thickened into something solid, something impenetrable and hard like steel. Harry’s pulse was a frantic drumbeat in his ears as he stared at the space where the door to the outside world had once been. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms in an attempt to ground himself. 

Calm down , he told himself, but his body didn’t seem to be listening. There was something distinctly suffocating about this—not just the physical reality of the missing door and what that meant, but the unmistakable sense that Grimmauld Place was alive and watching them.

Malfoy was unnervingly quiet beside him, but when Harry turned to look at him, he caught a flicker of panic in his expression. His silver-grey eyes darted around the hallway, sharp and calculating as always, but underneath that, they held an undercurrent of fear, like a cornered animal searching for an escape. Malfoy’s Slytherin mask of indifference was slipping, but he hadn’t quite let it fall. Not yet. His arms were folded tightly across his chest now, and his jaw was set in a way that screamed denial. 

“Potter,” Malfoy finally said, his voice clipped, “tell me this is some sort of ridiculous joke, and that you didn’t invite me here just to trap me in your crumbling death trap of a house.”

Harry let out a humorless laugh, though his throat felt like sandpaper.

“Oh, sure. I’ve always dreamed of luring you into my haunted bachelor pad of doom just for a laugh. Really, Malfoy, you think I’d willingly choose this?” He gestured toward the solid wall that had once been the door, then to the dimly lit corridor that now stretched before them, unfamiliar and wrong. “Because I didn’t do this.”

The panic was still rising in Harry’s chest, clawing at the edges of his composure, but he forced himself to focus, to shove all that panic well inside his mind to focus on what was important at the moment. It was a practised thing, something he’d done for as long as he could remember.  Grimmauld Place had always been temperamental—it was, after all, fuelled by centuries of Black family magic so dark it made Voldemort look like an amateur—but this was something else entirely.

“Well, clearly your house disagrees,” Malfoy retorted sharply, though the faint tremor in his voice betrayed his unease. His eyes darted down the newly appeared corridor, and he sniffed disdainfully, as if the house’s chaos were a personal insult to his person. “Honestly, Potter, I should’ve known you’d find a way to drag me into one of your messes.”

“Yeah, well, feel free to go,” Harry shot back, his own frustration bubbling to the surface. “Oh, wait—you can’t. No door,” he gestured pointedly to the wall again, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Malfoy rolled his eyes but didn’t respond, choosing instead to straighten his trousers with a practised flick of his wrist, as though impeccable tailoring could protect him from the increasingly bizarre situation.

Before either of them could escalate the argument further, the house shifted again. At first, it was subtle—the faint creak of wood, the whisper of something unseen moving just out of sight. But then, in the blink of an eye, the hallway behind them was gone.

Harry froze, his breath catching in his throat as he turned slowly to look over his shoulder. The entryway where they’d collided just minutes ago had vanished entirely, replaced by a solid brick wall. Panic coiled tighter in his chest as he glanced back at Malfoy, who was now staring at the wall with wide eyes.

“Brilliant,” Malfoy muttered, his voice strained. “This is just fantastic. Trapped in a cursed house with the Chosen One. I’m sure this is exactly how I was meant to go.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry snapped, though his heart wasn’t in it. He was too busy scanning their surroundings, his wand now in hand.

The house continued to shift. A door at the end of the hall—the one that usually led to the drawing room—morphed before their eyes, stretching upward until it towered above them like some grotesque parody of an entrance. Its edges glowed faintly, pulsating like a heartbeat, and Harry could feel the magic radiating from it: wild, dark, and ancient.

Malfoy stepped closer to Harry, though he made a point of keeping an air of disdain as he did so. “Tell me you’ve got some kind of plan,” he said, his voice low but urgent.

“Working on it,” Harry muttered, his eyes fixed on the pulsating door. He could feel the house’s magic tugging at him, wrapping itself around his mind like smoke, whispering in a language he couldn’t quite understand. His wand felt heavy in his hand, the core vibrating faintly, as though reacting to the chaotic energy around them. He wondered if Malfoy next to him felt it as well.

The blonde, to his credit, seemed to sense the seriousness of the situation and refrained from making another snide comment. Instead, he pulled out his own wand, holding it with the practised ease of someone who knew exactly how to use it to make it count. Harry hated how competent he looked—hated how much he noticed it. In his mind, Malfoy had always been a useless coward.

“Let’s not just stand here waiting for the house to eat us,” Malfoy said, his tone sharp. “What’s behind door number one?” He gestured toward the pulsating doorway, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his apprehension.

Harry hesitated. Every instinct he had screamed that walking through that door was a bad idea, but what choice did they have? The house had already made it clear that it was in control of the situation, and staying in one place didn’t seem like a viable option.

“Fine,” Harry said finally, his voice tight. “But stay close. And don’t touch anything.”

Malfoy scoffed. “What do you take me for? A first-year Gryffindor with no sense of self-preservation? Oh wait, that was you .”

Harry ignored him, stepping cautiously toward the glowing door. As he reached out to touch it, the magic manifesting around them seemed to shift again, growing heavier and more robust. Harry’s hand hovered just inches from the surface, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Well, Potter?” Malfoy’s voice came from just behind him, close to his shoulder and surprisingly steady despite the situation.

Harry chose not to reply, instead taking a deep breath, then, he pressed his hand against the door. The pulsating glow intensified for a moment, and then the door swung open, revealing a pitch-black void beyond.

“Brilliant,” Malfoy muttered again, his sarcasm cutting through the tension. “Absolutely bloody brilliant.”

Harry glanced back at him, his grip tightening on his wand. “After you, Malfoy.”

Malfoy glared at him but didn’t argue further. With an affronted hmph , he stepped forward, disappearing into the darkness. Harry hesitated for just a moment before following after him, the door slamming shut behind them with a deafening thud.

And then, there was silence.

Harry’s first thought upon stepping into the darkness was that he’d been swallowed whole by a whale, like Pinocchio. The air around the room was so warm and dense that it felt like a weight pressing down on his chest, and he had to consciously remind himself to breathe. It was so dark that he couldn’t even see Malfoy in front of him, where he should’ve been and, for a brief, panicked moment, he feared he’d gone blind—until the faintest glimmer of light flickered to life ahead, illuminating Malfoy’s pale hair like a halo around his head as he stood, motionless, just a few paces in front of him.

“Potter,” Malfoy hissed, his voice tight, wobbly, yet cutting through the heavy silence like a knife. “What the hell have you got us into?”

Harry ignored him at first, too focused on their surroundings to rise to the bait. The room—if it could even be called that—was vast and featureless, stretching into shadows on all sides. The only source of illumination came from the faintest glow of the floor above their heads, which pulsed faintly in uneven intervals, much like the door they’d just passed through and Malfoy’s wand. It was disorienting, like standing on the surface of a still, black lake with no shore in sight.

“I told you, I didn’t exactly plan this, you know,” Harry muttered after a while, squinting into the darkness beyond the faint light. His wand was still clutched tightly in his hand, and so he muttered his own faint Lumos , hoping it would help them see further into the room. But the light spell seemed almost pointless in the suffocating void, swallowed whole before it could reach more than a few feet ahead.

“I know you said your house has been doing all kinds of crazy things to make your life even more hellish, but this takes the cake,” Malfoy complained, the sharp edge of his voice and the fast way he spoke betraying his unease. He turned on his heel to face Harry, his expression livid. “If trapping me in another one of your heroic schemes is its way of bringing us together, Potter—”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself, Malfoy,” Harry snapped, his patience wearing thin. He took a few steps forward, closing the distance between them. “The house has always been all kinds of difficult, but this? This is new, even for Grimmauld Place.”

Malfoy opened his mouth to retort but froze mid-motion, his gaze snapping past Harry’s shoulder. Harry noticed the shift immediately—the sudden shiver that went through Malfoy’s body, the way his hand tightened around his wand as though preparing to strike. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and a cold dread seeped into his bones as he turned to follow Malfoy’s gaze.

The darkness wasn’t empty anymore.

Shapes began to emerge from the shadows, indistinct and writhing, as though they were part of the shadows themselves. At first, they were little more than formless blurs of movement at the edges of his vision, but then they grew closer, more defined. The shapes elongated, stretching into grotesque figures that seemed almost human, but not quite. Their limbs were too long, their movements too jerky, and their glowing, hollow eyes were fixed unerringly on the two intruders in their domain.

“Well,” Malfoy said after a moment of stunned silence, his voice strangely calm but dripping with fear. “Isn’t this a delightful new development?”

Harry didn’t waste time responding. His wand was up in an instant, pointed toward the nearest shadow figure. “ Lumos Maxima !” he shouted, and the tip of his wand erupted with blinding light. The figures recoiled violently, their forms dissolving into the darkness like smoke, but the victory was short-lived. As soon as the light began to fade, more of them emerged, clawing their way closer with every second.

“Great plan, Potter,” Malfoy drawled, though he was already raising his own wand. His movements were quick and precise, spells rolling off his tongue like second nature. “Let’s blind them with light and invite the rest of their friends to the party!”

“I don’t see you coming up with a better idea!” Harry snapped, hurling a non-verbal Stupefy at one of the advancing shapes. It dissolved with a sound like tearing fabric, but again, more came to take its place.

“How about, don’t get trapped in a homicidal house in the first place?!” Malfoy shot back, though the sharpness of his words was somewhat undercut by the tremor in his voice.

Harry bit back a retort, his mind racing. The shadow creatures didn’t seem to have any physical substance, but they were relentless, surging forward like a tide of pure malevolence. Every spell they cast seemed to push them back for only a moment, but it was clear they couldn’t keep this up forever.

“Malfoy, move!” Harry shouted, grabbing the git by the sleeve and yanking him backward just as one of the creatures lunged. Its misshapen claws swiped through the air where Malfoy had been standing, and the resulting burst of icy wind made Harry’s teeth ache.

Malfoy stumbled slightly, but he didn’t complain, his attention fully focused on keeping the shadows at bay. 

“We can’t fight them at all,” he said through gritted teeth, his wand slashing through the air as he cast another spell. “We need to find a way out.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Harry growled, his frustration mounting. He glanced over his shoulder, searching for any sign of an exit, but the vast, featureless space offered nothing—no doors, no windows, no hint of escape.

And then, as if responding to his desperation, the floor beneath them began to shift. Harry barely had time to register the sensation before the ground split open, a jagged chasm tearing through the glowing surface. The shadow creatures recoiled as the rift widened, but the sudden instability sent both Harry and Malfoy stumbling to the edge.

“Potter, if you’ve summoned some kind of magical sinkhole—” Draco started, but his words were cut off as the floor beneath them gave way completely.

Both men tumbled into the abyss.

The sensation of falling was immediate and gut-wrenching. Harry’s stomach flipped violently, and his mind screamed at him to grab onto something—anything—but there was nothing but empty air around him. His wand clattered against his palm as he flailed, desperately trying to orient himself in the weightless void. Somewhere beside him, Malfoy was shrilly shouting something, but the sound was drowned out by the rush of wind roaring in Harry’s ears.

And then, just as abruptly as it had started, the fall stopped.

Harry landed on his back with a thud that knocked the breath clean out of him. His wand rolled out of his hand, spinning to a halt a few feet away, and for a moment, he could do nothing but lie there, gasping and staring up at what he assumed was a ceiling—or at least, a vague expanse of blackness far above him.

“Brilliant,” came Malfoy’s voice, somewhere to his left, breathless and pained. “Absolutely brilliant, Potter. First, we’re trapped in your deranged house, then we get attacked by the tragic figures of your past, and now we’re plummeting to our deaths like some grim wixen version of Humpy Dumpty. You do know how to show a guest a good time, don’t you?”

Harry groaned, pushing himself up onto his elbows. His ribs ached, his head was spinning, and he was pretty sure there was dust in his hair. Great , he thought. I’m stuck in a magical death trap with Draco Malfoy, and now I’m filthy.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” he muttered, though there wasn’t much bite in the words. He reached for his wand and gave it a quick flick, muttering, Lumos . The light flared to life, illuminating their surroundings—and Harry’s stomach immediately sank.

They were in another room, though calling it that seemed generous. The walls, if they could even be called walls, were an irregular patchwork of brick, wood, and what looked disturbingly like bone, but Harry dearly hoped was limestone. The floor beneath them was cracked and uneven, as though it had been hastily cobbled together from scraps of other rooms. Everything about the space felt wrong, like it had been pieced together by someone—or something—with no understanding of how architecture, or reality, was supposed to work.

“Oh, fantastic,” Malfoy said, sitting up and brushing dust off his nicely tailored trousers. “It’s like the house couldn’t decide whether it wanted us dead or just severely traumatised. Very considerate,” with a flick of his wand, he smoothed over his recently dishevelled hair, combing it over with his magic until it lay flawlessly across his forehead once more.

Harry shot him a glare. “Do you ever stop whining?”

“Do you ever stop being a magnet for disaster?” Malfoy shot back, his silver eyes narrowing as he stood and surveyed the room. Harry couldn’t help but envy the effortless way Malfoy put himself together despite their fall, while he stood there, looking like a street urchin. Though there was a faint smudge of dirt on Malfoy’s cheek that Harry found strangely satisfying.

“Look,” Harry said, pushing himself to his feet and trying to focus. “We’re still alive, which is more than I can say for a lot of people who’ve been stuck in this house,” he turned slowly, his wand held high to cast as much light as possible. “Let’s just figure out where we are and how to get out.”

Malfoy scoffed but didn’t argue, which Harry supposed was as close to cooperation as he was going to get.

The room was eerily silent as they began to explore, their footsteps echoing against the uneven floor. The air was heavy with the smell of damp stone and something metallic—blood, maybe, or rust. Harry’s stomach twisted at the thought.

“You do realise this is still your fault, don’t you?” Malfoy said after a few moments, his tone conversational but edged with accusation.

“ My fault?” Harry turned to glare at him. “How exactly is this my fault?”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, gesturing vaguely to their surroundings. “Because everything is somehow always your fault, Potter. If something catastrophic is happening, you can bet your Gryffindor arse that you’re at the centre of it.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Right. Because I woke up this morning and thought, ‘You know what would be fun? Getting trapped in my own house with Draco sodding Malfoy,’ ” he gestured around them, his frustration mounting. “If anything, you brought this on us by showing up. The house probably sensed your infuriating personality and decided to retaliate.”

Malfoy looked genuinely offended, which Harry considered a minor victory. “Excuse me? My personality is not the problem here. You were the one who called me to fix your unhinged bloody house! With threats, might I add!”

“Maybe it’s unhinged because you keep insulting it!” Harry snapped.

Malfoy opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, the walls all around them groaned—an ominous, low sound that made Harry’s skin crawl. Both men froze, their wands snapping up as the floor beneath them trembled.

“Great, here we go again ,” Malfoy muttered. “Now you’ve made it angry.”

“ Me ?” Harry hissed, indignant. “You’re the one who—”

Before he could finish, the ground gave another violent shudder, and a section of the far wall began to move. At first, it seemed like the stones were shifting of their own accord, rearranging themselves into something new. But then Harry realised, with growing dread, that it wasn’t the wall moving—it was something behind the wall.

The stones bulged outward, groaning and cracking as they struggled to contain whatever was pushing against them. A faint, inhuman growl echoed through the room, and Harry felt his blood run cold.

“Potter,” Malfoy said quietly, his voice high and urgent.

“I see it,” Harry replied, his grip tightening on his wand.

The wall finally gave way, collapsing inward with a deafening crash. Dust and debris filled the air, and Harry instinctively raised his arm to shield his face. When the dust began to settle, he lowered his arm—and immediately wished he hadn’t.

Standing in the wreckage of the wall was a creature that defied description. It was tall and gaunt, its limbs impossibly long and twisted, with a face that he could only describe as an ugly mix of humanoid and something else. Its eyes—or what passed for them—were empty, dark voids that seemed to bore straight into Harry’s soul.

“Right,” Malfoy said, his voice shaking slightly. “So, new plan: we don’t die.”

“Brilliant plan,” Harry muttered, raising his wand. “Absolutely brilliant.”

Malfoy didn’t waste another second before raising his wand and firing off a spell. 

“ Reducto !” The bolt of magic hurtled toward the creature, striking it dead centre, but the spell only seemed to ripple over its shifting form like water disturbed by a stone. The creature cocked its head—if you could even call that warped, amorphous mass a head—and let out a low, guttural sound that made Harry’s teeth ache.

“Good job, Malfoy,” Harry said through gritted teeth, his wand already pointed at the thing. “ Expulso !”

This time, the spell hit the creature with enough force to send shards of the floor flying, but the impact barely fazed it. It staggered back a step, as though more annoyed than injured, before surging forward with unnerving speed.

“Wonderful,” Malfoy snapped, sidestepping just in time to avoid the creature’s lunge. “Your spells are so much better than mine, Potter. What’s next? A strongly worded Stupefy ?”

“Feel free to stop criticising and start helping anytime now!” Harry shot back, dodging the creature’s swipe. He could feel the air crackle as its claws sliced through the space he’d just occupied, leaving faint, glowing lines that pulsed like veins.

Malfoy muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘bloody Gryffindors,’ but he didn’t argue. Instead, he flicked his wand in a wide arc and shouted, “ Eviscerare !”

The sound of the spell hitting the creature was deafening. The blast lit up the room like a flash of lightning, throwing both Harry and Malfoy back several steps. When the dust cleared, the creature was gone—or at least, what remained of it had melted back into the darkness, leaving behind nothing but the faint stench of burned magic and blood.

For a brief, blessed moment, there was silence.

Harry slumped against a nearby wall, panting as he tried to catch his breath. His wand hand was shaking slightly, and he could feel his heart pounding in his ears. 

“What the hell was that?” he managed, glancing at Malfoy, who was brushing dust off his coat with an air of exaggerated nonchalance.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Malfoy drawled, though his voice lacked its usual bite. “Some malevolent shadow creature summoned by your horrifyingly cursed house, perhaps? Just a guess.”

Harry groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “How is this happening? I understand that Grimmauld has its secrets, but unknown monsters hidden away?”

“Yes, well,” Malfoy said, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “I’m sure it’s comforting to know your homicidal home has reached new heights of insanity. Shall we stay and wait for the encore, or are we actually going to try to escape?”

Harry glared at him. “I’m thinking, Malfoy. If you’ve got a brilliant idea, now would be the time.”

Malfoy opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, the room began to shift again. The floor rippled like the surface of a pond, and the walls groaned as though they were being bent and twisted by some unseen force. The oppressive darkness seemed to close in tighter, pressing against Harry’s chest like a physical weight.

“Not this again, this is the third time,” Malfoy muttered, his voice laced with equal parts fear and annoyance.

“Stay close,” Harry said sharply, gripping his wand tightly as he scanned the room for any sign of what was coming next.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Draco said dryly. “I’m just dying to go out there on my own.”

The sarcasm in his voice might have been irritating if Harry wasn’t too busy trying to figure out their next move. The rippling floor was growing more erratic, pulses of light beneath it now flickering in and out like a dying heartbeat. Harry’s instincts screamed at him to move, to run, but there was nowhere to go.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the shifting stopped.

The silence that followed was deafening, so absolute it made Harry’s ears ring. For a moment, he thought—hoped—that whatever burst of magic had been manipulating the room was done. But then he heard it: a faint screeching sound, far off in the distance, barely audible through the room’s thick, broken walls.

“Do you hear that?” he asked, his voice low.

Malfoy frowned, following Harry’s gaze. “Yes,” he said after a moment, his tone cautious. “Though I can’t imagine it’s anything good.”

“Maybe not,” Harry admitted, “but it’s the only thing we’ve got.”

Malfoy sighed, clearly unimpressed with the logic. “Wonderful. Let’s head toward the ominous, murder sound. That’s never gone wrong in the history of wixenkind.”

Harry didn’t bother responding. He was already moving, his wand held out in front of him as he made his way toward the distant noise. Malfoy followed close behind, his own wand raised and ready. The walk across the uneven floor was tense, every creak and groan of the shifting space setting Harry’s nerves on edge. The sound grew louder as they walked through the debris, until it became clear that it was emanating from another door—a tall, arched thing that seemed to shimmer and ripple like water.

“After you, Potter,” Malfoy said, his voice deceptively light but his expression grim.

Harry hesitated for only a moment before stepping through the doorway, bracing himself for whatever came next.

The air around them seemed to grow heavier with every step they took towards the tall door, thick with a magic so ancient and so chaotic that Harry could feel it pressing against his skin. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something in the room was watching their every move, though he prayed it was just him being paranoid. Malfoy walked behind him, his wand arm rigid, and Harry noted how tense his wide shoulders were. Malfoy never seemed to know how to look relaxed in a crisis, which Harry might’ve found reassuring if it weren’t for the fact that he felt exactly the same way.

“Do you think that… thing is still alive?” Harry asked quietly, half-joking, though his voice came out more strained than he’d intended.

Malfoy snorted without turning around. “Knowing your luck, Potter, it’ll probably run us down the moment we’re not looking.”

“Thanks for the reassurance,” Harry muttered, his grip tightening on his wand.

Then, they finally stood in front of the door, a heavy oak monstrosity that didn’t look nearly as wrecked or sinister as the rest of the dilapidated room. But Harry had learnt by now not to trust appearances in this house, especially when it was behaving like a sentient death trap.

“Bespectacled gits first,” Malfoy said with mock courtesy, gesturing to the door with his wand.

Harry shot him a glare before reaching for the silver handle. He hesitated for a fraction of a second—just long enough for the door to shudder slightly, as if it had a heartbeat of its own. His gut told him not to trust it, but there wasn’t much choice.

He pulled it open, and the sound stopped.

The transition was seamless—too seamless. One moment, they were standing in the unsettling stillness of the dank, oppressive room where they’d faced the creature; the next, they were stepping into a hallway that looked quiet and peaceful. At first glance, it almost looked normal, like it could belong in any other house.; and that made Harry more suspicious. The walls were lined with the faded wallpaper he’d grown used to, and the floor beneath them creaked softly as they walked, like the hallway outside his room. But Harry quickly realised that this wasn’t Grimmauld Place as he knew it. The hallway twisted and curved in ways that defied all logic. Corridors that should have been straight bent sharply around sharp corners, looping back on themselves. Closed doors that seemed to hum with the promise of something wicked appeared into blank walls.

“Right,” Malfoy said, his voice tight and nervous as his eyes darted to the endless corridors around them. “This is officially worse than the time I got lost in the Malfoy Manor forest.”

“You got lost in a forest next to your own house?” Harry asked, unable to help himself.

“Savernake’s a big forest, and I was seven ,” Malfoy snapped, shooting him a withering glare. “Besides, Mother and Severus found me before anything could eat me, so spare me the judgment.”

No wonder he had been such a ferrety little coward during our first year detention. Harry raised an eyebrow but said nothing, focusing instead on the corridor ahead of them. He could feel the house’s magic tugging at him—softly at first, like a whisper in his ear, but growing stronger with every step they took. It wasn’t just disorienting; it was unnerving, like a cold hand curling around his chest and squeezing.

“This house really doesn’t want us to leave, huh?” Harry said, more to himself than to Malfoy.

Malfoy scoffed. “You don’t say. I thought it was just redecorating for Samhain.”

Harry ignored him, his mind racing as he tried to piece together what was happening. He frowned, his thoughts racing as he struggled to make sense of the sudden shift in the house’s magic. What had triggered it to this extent? Again, Grimmauld Place had been temperamental before, sure, but nothing like this. Nothing this dangerous; certainly no shadow creatures or demonic-looking somethings . 

But this was different. This was chaos, dangerous and dark. And it didn’t make any sense to Harry why it had turned this bad when the worst it had done to him was drop him on his head.

Still, now that he thought about it, the house had been eerily quiet since he contacted Malfoy, its usual moodiness manifesting in subtle, manageable ways—creaking floorboards, flickering lamps, the occasional slammed door when it didn’t want him to leave. The magic had been dormant, almost sulking, until the exact moment Malfoy’s hand touched the door. Now, it was as if the house had come alive, electric and unpredictable, shifting between welcome and warning. Why? The house didn’t want them to leave—Harry knew that much from the way it had reacted to Malfoy trying to do so. But this… this wasn’t just about keeping them in. It felt purposeful, deliberate, like the house was trying to communicate something he couldn’t yet understand.

Harry glanced at Malfoy, whose face was a carefully controlled mask. Did he feel it too? Or was this some new game the house was playing, one Harry wasn’t prepared to win?

“Potter,” Malfoy said sharply, pulling Harry out of his thoughts.

Harry turned to see Malfoy staring down a corridor that had been empty just moments before. Now, another faint light flickered at the far end, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls.

“Do we follow it?” Malfoy asked, his voice low.

Harry hesitated, every instinct telling him that following the light was a terrible idea. But there wasn’t much choice. They couldn’t stay in that corridor forever, and standing still seemed to make the house do weird things to make them move.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Let’s follow it.”

Malfoy didn’t look thrilled by the answer, but he didn’t argue. Together, they moved toward the light, their wands raised and their steps cautious.

As they walked, the house continued to shift around them. The walls pulsed faintly, as if they were moving behind the paint, and Harry could feel the magic pressing down on him, growing heavier with every step. It was almost suffocating, the kind of heavy weight that made it hard to think, let alone breathe.

“Do you think the house is actually trying to kill us?” Malfoy asked after a while, his tone nonchalant now, but his grip on his wand betraying his nerves.

Harry frowned. “I don’t think it wants to kill us,” he said slowly. “If it did, it would’ve done it already. I think it’s… testing us.”

“Testing us?” Malfoy echoed, his eyebrows shooting up. “What, like some twisted obstacle course? Forgive me if I don’t see the appeal.”

“I don’t think it cares about your opinion, Malfoy,” Harry said dryly.

Malfoy muttered something under his breath that Harry didn’t quite catch, though he was fairly certain it wasn’t complimentary.

They reached the end of the corridor before a sharp turn, only to find that the light they’d been following wasn’t there anymore. Instead, it was now emanating from the walls themselves, the faint glow pulsing in time with the rhythmic tremors that had slowly begun to rattle the floor beneath them. Harry’s heart pounded as he glanced around, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The walls were shifting again, the cracks between the floorboards widening and closing like mouths. The air was thick with the scent of old magic, raw and untamed, and Harry could feel it tugging at him, urging him to move forward.

“This is a trap,” Malfoy said flatly, his silver eyes narrowed.

“Probably,” Harry admitted, his voice tight.

Malfoy sighed. “Well, at least you’re honest about it. Lead the way, Potter.”

Harry didn’t bother arguing. He took a deep breath, gripping his wand tightly as he stepped into the glow.

The moment he stepped into the new corridor, the floor beneath him seemed to tilt, and he stumbled forward, catching himself against the nearest wall. Malfoy cursed behind him, the sound echoing in the empty space, and Harry turned just in time to see him regain his balance with a scowl.

“This house hates us,” Malfoy muttered, dusting himself off.

“It’s not personal,” Harry said, though he wasn’t entirely sure that was true, them being trapped like this felt pretty personal to him.

They moved cautiously through the corridor, the glow growing brighter with each step. The floor, inclined as it was, was trembling more violently now, and Harry could hear the faint sound of cracking stone beneath his feet. It was as though the house itself was coming apart at the seams, unravelling in response to their presence.

“Potter,” Malfoy said suddenly, his voice sharp.

Harry turned to see him pointing at a door that had appeared out of nowhere at the end of the corridor, a dozen feet in front of him. Its surface was covered in strange, jagged runes that seemed to writhe and shift like living things. 

“I don’t think it’s safe,” Malfoy asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

Harry hesitated as he walked towards it, his eyes narrowing as he studied the door. The magic radiating from it was very similar to how Grimmauld had felt since it had trapped them inside—wild and chaotic, but also strangely familiar.

“We don’t have much of a choice,” he said finally.

Malfoy didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue.

Harry reached for the handle, bracing himself for whatever was waiting on the other side.

And then he opened the door.

The door swung open with an unsettling groan, revealing a room that was so disorienting it made Harry’s head spin. For one dizzying moment, he couldn’t make sense of what he was looking at. The walls weren’t walls at all—they were towering, jagged spires of stone, twisting and curling toward the ceiling like the ribs of some ancient, petrified beast. The floor beneath them shimmered like molten glass, warping and rippling as though it wasn’t quite solid; it reflected the room they were, making it look infinite, like they were standing on glass over the abyss.

Harry felt like he was standing inside a kaleidoscope that had been dunked into some dark wizard’s worst nightmare.

“Well,” Malfoy said dryly, stepping in beside him. “This looks promising. Nothing says ‘this way to safety’ quite like a room designed to give you vertigo.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry muttered, though his voice lacked bite. He was too busy trying to figure out what the room was—or, more importantly, what it wanted.

The air inside was thick with magic, so heavy and clammy that it felt like wading through water. Harry could feel it pressing against his skin, tugging at his magic like an insistent hand. It wasn’t malicious, exactly, but it wasn’t friendly either.

Malfoy crossed his arms, his sharp gaze sweeping over the room. “Well? What’s your plan, oh Chosen One? Or do you prefer to wander aimlessly into cursed death chambers without a strategy?”

“I’m thinking,” Harry snapped, though he wasn’t sure what, exactly, he was thinking. The house’s magic was clouding his thoughts, making it hard to focus.

He stepped further into the room, his wand held tightly in his hand, and the floor beneath him shifted slightly, rippling outward like a stone dropped into a pond. He froze, his heart pounding in his chest, but nothing else happened.

“Brilliant,” Malfoy said from behind him, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Let’s see how many mysterious ripples we can cause before something decides to eat us.”

“You don’t have to follow me, you know,” Harry shot back, glancing over his shoulder.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Oh, believe me, Potter, I’d love nothing more than to leave you here to deal with this nonsense on your own. Unfortunately, your blasted house seems to have other ideas.”

Harry sighed, turning his attention back to the room. The rippling floor was strange, but it didn’t seem to be outright hostile. If anything, it felt like… an invitation.

“Stay close,” he said, taking another cautious step forward.

“Don’t you worry,” Malfoy said, trailing after him. “I wouldn’t dream of letting you hog all the fun.”

As they moved deeper into the room, the magic pressing against them grew stronger, more insistent. The ripples beneath their feet followed their movements, spreading outward in concentric circles that disappeared into the shadows. The jagged spires of stone seemed to lean in closer, casting long, distorted shadows that danced across the shimmering floor.

“This place looks alive,” Harry said quietly, half to himself.

Malfoy snorted. “Indeed. The question is whether it’s alive and bored, or alive and actively trying to murder us.”

Harry didn’t respond. He was too focused on the strange pulsing beneath his feet, the rhythmic thrum of magic that seemed to echo through the room. It was almost like a heartbeat—steady, unrelenting, and deeply unsettling. They reached the centre of the room, where the floor was completely smooth and the ripples seemed to converge into a single, shimmering point. Harry crouched down, his wand casting a faint light over the surface, and frowned.

“What is it?” Malfoy asked, hovering just behind him.

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. The glow wasn’t coming from anything physical; it was just… there, as though the magic itself had coalesced into a single, concentrated spot.

Malfoy leaned closer, peering over Harry’s shoulder. Damn the git for being taller than him.

“Lovely. Another mystery. What do you plan to do with it? Poke it and hope for the best?”

Harry shot him a glare. “Just shut up, Malfoy.”

“No,” Malfoy said cheerfully.

Harry rolled his eyes and reached out cautiously, his hand hovering just above the glowing spot. The magic beneath his palm was warm and alive, buzzing faintly against his skin like static electricity. He could feel it pulling at him, urging him to touch it.

“Potter,” Malfoy said warningly, his voice sharp.

But it was too late. The moment Harry’s fingers brushed the glow, the entire room erupted into chaos.

The ripples beneath their feet surged outward, making them stumble and the spires of stone began to tremble violently, shaking loose shards of debris that clattered to the ground before it sunk into the watery-floor. The air crackled with raw magic, and the crushing weight of it pressed down on Harry’s chest, making it hard to breathe.

“Delightful,” Malfoy shouted over the din, his voice laced with panic. “Absolutely wonderful! What did you do?”

“I just touched it, I swear!” Harry shouted back, stumbling as the floor beneath him bucked and shifted.

The glowing spot at the centre of the room expanded rapidly, engulfing them both in a blinding light. Harry felt the ground vanish beneath his feet, and for one terrifying moment, he thought he was falling again—falling into nothingness, the magic around him roaring like a storm; and he felt sick.  His stomach lurched, and his head swam, and he closed his eyes against the brightness, trying desperately not to throw up.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

Harry groaned, holding onto his side as his nausea subsided, and blinked against the lingering brightness in his vision.

“Potter,” Malfoy’s voice came from somewhere nearby, strained and irritated. “If we survive this, I’m going to kill you.”

Harry sat up slowly, his head spinning, and looked around.

They weren’t in the stone-spired room anymore.

Instead, they found themselves back in the narrow hallways, though they seemed more disorganised than before. The once-smooth walls now bore deep cracks, their surfaces uneven and warped, as though the house itself was buckling under some invisible strain. Every few metres, there were doors—so many doors—some hanging crookedly on their hinges, others leading to seemingly nowhere. Debris littered the corridor, fragments of stone and plaster scattered across the uneven floor. There were holes punched through in places, exposing glimpses of lower levels or nothing at all, just a dark void that made Harry’s stomach lurch when he peered too long. Sections of the ceiling had caved in, the jagged edges framing ominous gaps above their heads. Even random pieces of furniture were strewn haphazardly around them—a battered armchair missing half its upholstery, a tea table overturned and splintered, and even a grandfather clock lying on its side, its face cracked but still ticking faintly. The air was thick with dust, and each step Harry took sent up little puffs of it, clinging to his already grimy clothes.

It looked like a labyrinth. The thought alone gave Harry a horrible sense of déjà vu.

“This,” Malfoy said, his voice low and unhappy, “is barely an improvement.”

The floor beneath Harry’s trainers creaked ominously as he surveyed the narrow hallway they had ended up in. It felt like the house was leaning into him, pushing against his shoulders like a weight he couldn’t shake off. The jagged cracks spidering across the walls looked almost purposeful, as though the house was opening itself up from the inside, its very foundations peeling apart. 

His breathing was heavy, more from the rising anxiety than the exertion of the last room’s chaos. Malfoy, leaning against a crooked door frame that looked ready to collapse under his weight, looked no better. His clothes were splattered with dust and bits of plaster, and a streak of grime still marring one pale cheek. Somehow, he still managed to look irritatingly smug.

“Honestly,” Malfoy began, brushing dust off his sleeve with all the indignity of someone being inconvenienced at a tea party, “I would have taken the stone kaleidoscope death trap over—whatever this is.”

Harry glared at him, his patience already thin. “You’re welcome, Malfoy. If I hadn’t gotten us out of there, we’d be splattered on those weird spires by now.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Potter,” Malfoy replied coolly, pushing off the door frame. “You didn’t get us out. You stumbled us into whatever fresh hell this is. You’re as good at navigating magical chaos as you are at Quidditch—overrated and hopelessly reckless.”

Harry ground his teeth, clenching his wand tighter in his hand. He refused to rise to the bait. He absolutely refused.

“Look,” he said through gritted teeth, gesturing to the warped hallway ahead of them, “the house is falling apart. We need to figure out how to stabilise the magic before it gets worse.”

Malfoy snorted. “Worse? Oh, please. What’s next? The walls sprouting teeth? The floor turning into quicksand? Or perhaps we’ll just plummet into the void conveniently located under all these holes you’ve been so graciously leading us toward.”

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but before he could say a word, the hallway shuddered violently. Dust and bits of plaster rained down from the ceiling, and one of the crooked doors slammed open and shut repeatedly, as though caught in a windstorm that didn’t exist.

“Right,” Malfoy said, his tone strained as he took a step closer to Harry. “Care to comment on why your house seems to be actively plotting our demise?”

“It’s not plotting anything,” Harry snapped, though the words felt hollow even to him. “The house is… I don’t know anymore. You are the magical specialist here!”

Malfoy raised a sharp brow. “You’re hopeless, Potter,” he huffed, picking at invisible pieces of lint on his sleeve before glancing nervously around. “It’s reacting to us, obviously.”

Harry resisted the urge to hex him. Barely.

“Magic isn’t random, Scarhead,” Malfoy said, his voice taut with frustration as he gestured toward the wreckage around them. “Especially not ancestral magic like this. It’s old, deep, and interwoven with one’s house’s structure. It doesn’t just happen—it responds to intent, emotion, time, blood . And this house is saturated with it. Years of enchantments, curses, and Circe knows what else. If it’s acting out, it’s because something has disturbed the balance.”

Harry frowned, glancing at a section of wall where faint etchings were now glowing faintly. “What’s your point?”

Malfoy gestured sharply at their surroundings, he looked pensive, as if he was figuring things out as he spoke. “My point is that the house is confused . It doesn’t know who to obey—me, as the heir, or you, as its current lord. That tension alone could destabilise everything. Add its clear displeasure at your ownership and my leaving, and we’ve got this—chaos.”

“So what? You’re saying this mess is my fault?” Harry shot back, his voice rising.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, though he didn’t deny it.

“I’m saying we’re triggering its defences, which, if you’d bothered to study advanced magical systems like I have, you’d know are tied to emotional resonance. It’s not rejecting you per se—it’s trying to find balance. However it can achieve it, magic doesn’t really care.”

“And how do we stop it?” Harry demanded, his patience wearing thin.

Malfoy smirked, his gaze flicking to a particularly large hole in the floor. “That depends. You said you trust me, but do you trust me enough to listen, or shall we wait for the house to swallow us whole?”

Harry bristled, his fists clenching at his sides. “Trust you? You’ve spent the last hours insulting me and acting like this is my fault. Why should I trust you?”

Malfoy sighed dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose as though Harry were a particularly dim student. He reminded him of Snape, and the thought gave him unexpected chills.

“Because, Potter, despite your baffling inability to grasp even the basics of magical theory, I am the one person here who actually understands what’s happening,” he said, to Harry’s displeasure. He knew that. He did. It didn’t make it any easier to trust the man. Malfoy gestured broadly to the decaying hallway. “Unless, of course, you have some brilliant plan that doesn’t involve both of us being crushed under a collapsing ceiling or eaten by the shadows?”

“If you know so much, why didn’t you say anything before we were almost killed?” Harry ground out, his voice acidic and annoyed.

Malfoy huffed, his face contrite. “ Because , Potty, I needed to observe the situation to understand it better. Not to mention, you never asked.”

Harry glared but said nothing, his jaw tight as he struggled to bite back another retort. Malfoy’s smug expression only fuelled his irritation, but deep down, he knew the git had a point.

“Okay, fine ,” Harry muttered finally, though the word tasted sour. “What do you think the house is trying to do, then? If you’re so bloody clever?”

Malfoy tilted his head, his lips curling into a faint smirk. 

“Ah, progress. A question that doesn’t sound like it was spat out in frustration.”

Harry crossed his arms, levelling him with a glare. “Don’t push it, Malfoy.”

Malfoy huffed a quiet laugh and waved a hand dismissively. “The house isn’t just lashing out, Potter, we’ve established that. It’s attempting to establish balance, and with it, control—or re-establish it. Like I said, likely by pitting us against one another to see which of us is fit to claim it.”

Harry frowned, the idea making his skin crawl. “So I was right when I said it’s testing us? Playing some twisted game of ‘Who’s the better heir?’”

Malfoy repeated flatly, his expression unamused. “Well, it’s doing a bloody awful job of it, wouldn’t you say? So far, it’s more likely it’ll kill us both with all its antics.”

Harry ignored the fact that the blonde didn’t deny that Harry had been right, his mind racing as he tried to piece together the situation from all the information he had gathered. So, the house’s magic wasn’t just unstable—it was volatile. The longer they stayed here, the more dangerous it could become. He could still feel it pressing against him, pulling at his own magic, like a tide dragging him out to sea.

“We need to try something,” Harry said finally. “A spell, a charm—anything to stabilise the magic.”

Malfoy crossed his arms, his wand held loosely in one hand. “Ah, I see. This is the part where you tell me to use my ‘Dark wizard’ magic to fix your mess. That’s why you brought me here, isn’t it?”

Harry turned to him, his temper flaring. “You know that’s not the reason, Malfoy! I asked you to come because of the expertise you were so happy to show off just a minute ago, and now we’re both stuck dealing with this. So unless you want to sit here and wait for the house to crush us both, I suggest you stop whining and start helping.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a sneer. “Oh, of course. How very Gryffindor of you, Potter. Charge in head first, break everything in sight, and then expect someone else to clean up the mess.”

“I’m trying to think of a plan! And, that’s rich, coming from you,” Harry shot back. “If I remember correctly, your grand solution to every problem during the war was to run crying to Daddy.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them, and the moment they did, he regretted it. Malfoy’s expression hardened, his pale skin flushing with anger.

“You don’t know anything about me,” Malfoy said, his voice low and venomous, cutting him deeper than a Diffindo . “You think you’re so noble, don’t you? So righteous. But you’re just as broken as the rest of us. The only difference is that everyone else is too blinded by your scar to notice.”

Harry bristled, his own anger rising to match Malfoy’s. “At least I didn’t spend the war hiding under my mother’s skirts and blood status, pretending to be better than everyone else while doing nothing but making things worse!”

“Oh, spare me your sanctimony,” Malfoy snapped. “You’re not some untouchable saint, Potter. You’ve got blood on your hands, too. Or have you conveniently forgotten—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Harry shouted, his voice echoing down the hallway.

The house reacted immediately. The walls groaned, twisting and shifting as though in pain, and the floor bucked beneath their feet. A gust of wind tore through the corridor, scattering debris and sending loose papers flying. From the shadows, a swarm of bats burst forth, their shrill cries filling the air as they darted toward Harry and Malfoy.

“Brilliant,” Malfoy muttered, raising his wand. “Just brilliant.”

“ Stupefy !” Harry shouted, aiming at the oncoming swarm. The spell hit its mark, stunning several bats and sending them crashing to the ground. But more kept coming, their sharp teeth gleaming as they dove toward the pair.

“ Protego !” Malfoy cast a shield charm, deflecting the bats as they swarmed around them. “This is your fault, Potter!”

“My fault?” Harry shot back, blasting another group of bats with a well-aimed spell. “You’re the one who keeps provoking the house with your complaints!”

“Provoking the house?” Malfoy repeated, incredulous. “Oh, of course. The house is clearly upset because I had the audacity to point out your incompetence!”

Before Harry could respond, the floor beneath them cracked loudly, splitting apart to reveal a gaping void. The jagged edges of the broken floor seemed to pulse with dark magic, and everything suddenly around them grew colder, the powerful energy almost suffocating.

“We need to move!” Harry shouted, grabbing Malfoy’s arm and pulling him away from the widening crack.

“Don’t touch me!” Malfoy snapped, yanking his arm free. But he followed Harry nonetheless, his wand held tightly as they navigated the collapsing corridor.

The house’s magic was spiralling out of control, the walls and floors shifting chaotically around them. Doors slammed open and shut, furniture flew through the air, and the very air itself seemed to vibrate with an unsettling, powerful energy. Finally, they stumbled into a room that seemed relatively intact. Harry recognised it immediately—the main sitting room. Though it was damaged, with cracks running through the walls and the furniture scattered haphazardly, it was still standing. Harry collapsed onto the nearest sofa, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Malfoy sank into an armchair across from him, his face flushed from their escape but composed.

“Well,” Malfoy said after a moment, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “That was fun.”

Harry glared at him, but he didn’t have the energy to argue. Instead, he leaned back against the sofa, closing his eyes for a moment as he tried to calm the racing of his heart. They sat in silence for a few minutes, the tension between them still thick but tempered by exhaustion. The room, though damaged, felt like a brief escape from whatever was happening outside.

“We need to figure out what’s causing all these outbursts,” Malfoy said finally, breaking the silence. “It feels like the house’s magic’s reacting to us, though.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying my house is throwing a tantrum because we had an argument?”

“I’m saying we need to stop fighting if we want to survive this,” Malfoy replied.

“It’s you who keeps saying awful shit!” Harry said, indignant.

Malfoy leaned back in his seat, his expression thoughtful before he nodded. “Fine, I’ll try not to upset your sensibilities,” he said after a moment. “But don’t expect me to hold your hand through this, Potter.”

Harry smirked faintly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

They rested amidst the rubble-strewn sitting room, surrounded by broken bookcases and the eerie hum of Grimmauld Place’s restless magic. Despite their bickering, they finally began to strategise, the sharp edge of their words softening as necessity took over. They knew their combined magic was potent, powerful enough to stand against most things they could think of. Which meant they needed to work together if they ever wanted to get out of Grimmauld alive. 

Malfoy glanced around at the destruction. “I hope you're right about this.”

Harry snorted, his mouth twisting up into a wry smile. “I hope I am too. We've got a better chance together than we do apart.”

“I know,” Malfoy sighed, running a hand through his hair.

Harry leaned against the back of his couch, his arms crossed, while Malfoy moved his leg up and down, his polished shoe clacking the uneven floor every time.

“We need to focus on the magic first,” Malfoy said, his tone clipped but laced with a grim determination. “If I can isolate its magical core, I might be able to stabilise the surrounding wards enough for us to Apparate out.”

Harry frowned, rubbing at his temples. “And how do we even do that? The house shifts every time we turn around. For all we know, the core of the wards could be in a room that doesn’t exist half the time.”

Malfoy stopped his leg’s nervous up and down and shot him a pointed look. “Think, Potter. It’s not about chasing it. Magic like this responds to intent.”

Harry raised a sceptical brow. “And how do you propose we do that? Politely ask it to come out for tea?”

“Don’t be daft,” Malfoy snapped, though there was no real venom in his tone. He gestured to the crumbling walls. “Well, we can try…”

Harry listened, trying to keep up, though half of what Malfoy said sounded like gibberish. Despite his frustration, he couldn’t help but notice how focused Malfoy was, how his sharp features softened slightly when he was deep in thought. For the first time since this ordeal had begun, they were working together—not as enemies, but as something close to reluctant allies bound by necessity. There was no room for rivalry or old grudges here, as much as the two of them seemed incapable of stopping their arguing for more than a minute.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Chapter Text

Hours. 

It must have been hours of spell casting and failed attempts that got them pretty much nowhere, and Harry felt like he might lose it. They had long since abandoned the sitting room, preferring to go out into the shifting corridors when their seats had begun to bite them in the arse—literally. That had been hours ago, too. Malfoy was now pacing along the corridor, his annoyance radiating off him like a dark cloud ready to burst into a monsoon. But even his sarcastic grumbling couldn’t drown out the miserable atmosphere in Grimmauld Place. The house wasn’t reacting to anything they did. Or rather, reacting positively, because twice had it dropped debris on them whenever a spell sizzled with promise.

Alas, no matter what spell Malfoy cast, the house remained resolute in its intention to make them lose their minds. And every time they failed, the possibility of escaping with their sanity intact seemed to move just out of their reach, as though the house itself was playing a game of keep-away.

And Harry wasn’t sure they could win.

He wiped sweat from his brow, ignoring the twisted look Malfoy sent him. “This is useless,” he muttered under his breath, a phrase that had become all too familiar to them over the last several hours. “No matter what we do, it keeps rejecting every spell we send its way.”

“Really? What gave you that impression, Potter? Was it the shifting walls or the fact that we keep making the bloody house drop roofs on our head?” Malfoy’s voice was tinged with dry sarcasm as he surveyed their dilapidated surroundings once more.

They had come out of the drawing room hours ago with determination in their eyes and hope in their hearts.

Guess they’d vastly overestimated their skills.

Harry’s only response was a sharp glare, but Malfoy didn’t even acknowledge it, too caught up in his own frustration. His normally immaculate appearance had been reduced to something that looked borderline disarrayed—which was saying something considering who he was, the fussy git—; his clothes were wrinkled and dusty, hair tangled, and his face was now streaked with dirt and sweat. Still, he managed to maintain that aura of superiority that he had always kept around him, as though the entire situation was a mere inconvenience to his dignity.

“The point is,” Malfoy continued, more impatient now, “the magic here isn’t responding to spells. It’s responding to us—our emotions, our intent. We need to explore that, explore this place with the intention of getting out, Potter. Actually move, instead of going around in circles like clueless idiots waiting for a miracle.”

Harry sighed, his patience nearly gone. “Right. So, the house is like a sentient being having a tantrum, you said. And you think walking through this ever-shifting labyrinth is going to calm it down?” He raised an eyebrow, a mix of disbelief and sarcasm creeping into his voice. 

“Yes, Potter, that’s exactly what I think. Now, shut up and follow me,” Malfoy didn’t wait for a response before marching ahead, clearly unwilling to let Harry make things worse by continuing to stand there sulking.

“How are we going to manage not walking around in circles when that’s all the house makes us do?” Asked Harry next, incredulous. But Malfoy didn’t reply, he just kept walking briskly.

With no other choice, Harry reluctantly followed, though his mind kept circling back to one thing: the more they argued, the more the house twisted around them, distorting their surroundings, making them lose track of the layout. Every time their emotions spiked, the place seemed to respond, warping into something darker, stranger. Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that the house was deliberately trying to disorient them.

The hallway they arrived at next was barely recognisable. The walls, which should have been lined with portraits and black family ornaments, were warped. The air smelled thick, almost metallic, and the wallpaper peeled away in tatters like skin. The furniture that remained in the room—broken and strewn about, like in the other hallways—seemed to have been twisted and contorted by the house's magic. The once-grand ornaments of the Black family now appeared as grotesque mockeries of themselves. An antique candelabra sat in a corner, the candles long extinguished, but the shadows it cast danced unnervingly across the floor as if they were still burning.

“Look at this mess,” Malfoy said with disgust, shoving a chair aside with a sneer. “Somewhere in here is probably a priceless heirloom that could have paid off my father’s freedom. It’s all just been ruined.”

Harry barely listened, his thoughts drifting toward the ancient objects around them. Black family treasures were scattered throughout, dust-covered and abandoned—just like the house. His gaze lingered on a particular piece, a delicate vase, cracked but still bearing the intricate design of an ancient Black. It was a small window into the history of the family that had lived here for centuries, a piece of a legacy now lost to chaos and time.

“Don’t get too sentimental,” Malfoy muttered, looking away from the surrounding disaster of furnishings and heirlooms and towards Harry, who had been standing in silence, looking around with wide eyes. “We’re not here to catalogue my tragic family history, Potter.”

“You don’t have to tell me that,” gritted Harry, trying to keep his temper at bay.

“Then, if you’re done gaping at the antiques, let’s get on with it.”

He didn’t reply.

They moved deeper into the labyrinth of hallways, keeping their wits about them as best they could, but every turn felt wrong. The place felt alive in ways that were almost tangible, as though the walls themselves had eyes. Harry had to force his thoughts to stay sharp as his stomach twisted with a mix of dread and the ever-present sense of being watched, though he imagined it to be the house’s magic itself.

It didn’t help that they were increasingly aware of said magic. The more they argued, the more chaotic the space became, confirming that the labyrinth was somehow tethered to their very emotions. Harry felt it each time he snapped at Malfoy or when the latter’s biting remarks got under his skin. The house seemed to respond, reacting to their growing tension by twisting itself further and looping around, disorienting them.

As they turned yet another corner in silence, Harry confirmed his theory. The layout of the place seemed to shift less violently when they were calm, more controlled. It was a subtle thing, but Harry could feel it the longer they went without biting each other's head off, the tension in his chest loosening ever so slightly as he forced himself to focus, to stay composed. Even if his bad mood made him want to snap at Malfoy for the smallest things.

He took a deep breath, pushing down the irritation bubbling up inside him. Beside him, Malfoy did the same. They exchanged glances before continuing onward. The corridor ahead of them was dark and narrow, lit only by the light emanating from the sconces on the walls or the random chandelier. Even when there were no windows in any of the corridors, a soft breeze rustled the curtains, sending a chill down Harry's spine. The hairs on his arms stood on end as the wind whispered across his skin, carrying with it a strange sensation—like electricity prickling against his flesh. He shook off the feeling, ignoring the goosebumps that rose along his neck.

Harry followed Malfoy through another hallway, this one lined with portraits empty of what Harry assumed to be various Black ancestors. Their footsteps echoed loudly against the stone floor, making him cringe at how loud they sounded despite walking softly. Everything about this place seemed designed to make noise, from the creaking wood beneath their feet to the groaning pipes above their heads. Every sound amplified by whatever magic kept the house alive.

And every sound set Harry further on edge.

The air grew thicker as they moved deeper into the house, the smell becoming even more potent than before. The scent was familiar, but foreign enough to leave him uneasy. It reminded him vaguely of the smell of an electrical fire after a lightning strike, the crackle of ozone still hanging in the air. His stomach clenched again as he realised where he had smelled it before. It was similar to the way the air smelled during storms when the sky opened up and thunder rolled overhead, heavy with promise.

His heart pounded harder.

They came to another junction and paused. Ahead of them lay yet another corridor, this one darker than the others, shrouded in shadows. The walls seemed to press closer together here, narrowing until they almost touched each other, leaving only a small gap between them for them to pass, just enough for them to pass through. Harry could barely see past the darkness beyond the entranceway, unable to make out anything except a faint outline of shapes past the gap. He swallowed hard and tried to ignore the nervous flutter in his belly. Beside him, Malfoy stiffened slightly, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of whatever unknown danger lurked ahead. Harry glanced at him sideways, noting how tense he appeared. He looked like he wanted nothing more than to turn around and go back the way they'd come. But instead, he took a deep breath and stepped forward, moving cautiously towards the opening in front of them. Harry hesitated for a moment before following suit, not wanting to appear cowardly next to bloody Malfoy.

The atmosphere became heavier the deeper they ventured into the passageway. The air felt thick and syrupy, pressing against Harry's lungs like wet wool, making it difficult to breathe properly. Sweat trickled down his forehead as his breathing grew ragged, and his legs ached from walking so far without stopping. His vision swam, blurring around the edges as dizziness overtook him. Finally, he stumbled, catching himself on a nearby wall.

Malfoy grabbed his arm roughly, steadying him. “Hurry up, you prick,” he hissed impatiently, glaring daggers at Harry before continuing forward.

Harry gritted his teeth, forcing himself to follow after Malfoy despite the discomfort. They walked slowly through the dark corridor until finally reaching an intersection leading off to both sides. Neither knew which path to take, so they chose the right one randomly. As soon as they entered the new passageway, the air changed once again, becoming lighter and less stifling. The smell dissipated somewhat, though Harry could still detect traces of it lingering in the background. It was now mixed with something else—something sharp and metallic, almost like blood bu​​t, not quite.

His nostrils flared instinctively as he inhaled deeply, trying to identify what exactly caused such an unpleasant aroma. Before he could figure it out, however, he noticed movement up ahead. Something shifted within the shadows, causing a shiver to run down his spine.

“What the fuck was that?” He whispered fearfully, pointing towards the source of his uneasiness. Malfoy followed his gaze and frowned deeply, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“You're imagining things, Potter,” he replied quietly, stepping closer to examine whatever lurked inside the darkness. Harry remained close behind him, watching intently as Malfoy leaned forward cautiously, peering into the murky depths of the corridor. There was nothing visible at first glance; only blackness filled every corner, obscuring anything beyond their sight. After several seconds passed without incident, Malfoy began to relax slightly.

“I don't see anything,” he muttered under his breath. “You must be seeing things.”​​

Harry shook his head vehemently. “No. I saw something move... right there!” He insisted, pointing towards where he'd seen the strange movement earlier. Malfoy glanced back over his shoulder at Harry before turning to face forward again, squinting hard into the gloomy interior of the passageway.

Another few moments went by in silence, until finally, Malfoy exhaled loudly through his nose. “Are you hallucinating? Do I need to be worried about you going mad in here?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest with clear annoyance.

Harry scowled angrily at the blond man beside him, his frustration building rapidly inside him. How dare this pompous prick accuse him of seeing things when there was clearly something moving around out there?

“Oh, sod off, Malfoy. You think I'm making it up because you’re a coward and don’t want to investigate what it is!” Spat Harry venomously, glaring daggers at the other man.

Malfoy spun around sharply, glaring daggers back at Harry. “There is nothing there, Potter,” he snarled furiously, his expression twisting into one of disgust as he motioned sharply towards the end of the corridor. “Whatever you thought you saw was just a figment of your pathetic imagination.”

“Bullshit!” Harry shouted back, taking another step toward Malfoy until they stood toe-to-toe. “Why don't you take a look yourself instead of standing there calling me pathetic?”

The moment Malfoy finished talking, there was a loud crack in the air, like lighting striking. The two men jumped and then stilled, listening intently for any other noises coming from within the dark tunnel. When none came, Harry relaxed slightly, glancing around nervously as if expecting something to jump out at them unexpectedly. Beside him, Malfoy remained tense and alert, scanning their surroundings carefully with narrowed eyes.

After several minutes had passed without incident, Harry finally broke the silence between them.

“Oi, Malfoy,” Harry muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Remember when we said we need to try not to kill each other for a few minutes?”

Malfoy shot him a sidelong glance, a sneer on his face, but after a beat, he sighed and looked down. “Fine. But the moment this entire situation stops being a complete disaster, I reserve the right to gloat.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but they both fell into an uncomfortable silence as they navigated through the corridor. Yet, the house’s magic, it seemed, had been listening. The air lightened, and the walls straightened slightly, as though they were no longer shifting just to spite them. They moved cautiously, stepping carefully around the warped remnants of furniture and shattered relics that littered the floor. Their footsteps echoed loudly in the otherwise silent space, making Harry cringe inwardly every time one sounded louder than necessary. He kept his wand at the ready, prepared for anything—and hoping desperately that whatever lurked ahead wouldn't notice them before they noticed it first.

It was probably wishful thinking.

As they walked further along the passageway, Harry's heart raced faster, beating wildly against his ribcage as adrenaline pumped through his veins. His palms became sweaty and clammy, causing his grip on his wand to slip slightly. He tightened his fingers around the wooden handle, gripping tightly enough that his knuckles turned white.

He swallowed hard, trying to calm himself down, but the fear continued to build within him. Every sound made him flinch involuntarily, sending shivers down his spine as goosebumps formed across his skin. The hairs on his arms stood erect, tingling uncomfortably as cold sweat dripped down his forehead.

“Maybe we should get out of this corridor,” said Malfoy, his voice dry and impatient. “I do not fancy being eaten anytime soon.”

Harry glanced over at him quickly before nodding silently, agreeing completely with the sentiment. This place felt wrong somehow. Dangerous. Like something terrible might happen if they stayed here too long. He shuddered involuntarily and quickened his pace, walking alongside Malfoy as fast as possible while still remaining cautious. They moved quietly through the dim'lit corridor, keeping their wits about them despite the heavy magic surrounding them.

Eventually, they reached another intersection, where three different hallways led off in opposite directions. One was brightly lit by torches hanging on either side; another looked empty save for some cobwebs clinging to the walls; and the third appeared pitch black, offering no indication of what lay beyond its depths. Without hesitation, Harry headed straight towards the well-lit hallway, wanting nothing more than to escape from the eerie gloominess behind him. Malfoy followed suit, matching his pace easily.

Neither spoke until they reached a dead end several meters ahead.

Harry cursed under his breath as he stared down at the solid stone wall blocking their path. “We must have taken a wrong turn somewhere,” he muttered bitterly, turning back around slowly.

Malfoy scoffed loudly beside him, crossing his arms over his chest. “That's an understatement, Potter.”

Harry glared at the blond man next to him angrily. “What? You think you could've done better?”

“Of course I could! It's obvious that we took a wrong turn because there are no other corridors leading off from here!” Malfoy retorted indignantly, pointing towards the solid wall in front of them.

Harry opened his mouth to argue back when suddenly, the air changed again. The temperature dropped drastically, making both men shiver violently as icy tendrils crept up their spines.

“Let's just go into that door,” said Harry, suddenly very tired. There were several doors along the walls, but all looked identical.

Malfoy nodded curtly and strode forward, pushing open one of the doors without hesitation. As soon as it swung wide, however, he froze mid-step, his expression morphing from one of tiredness into a strange mix of disgust and curiosity.

“What is it?” asked Harry nervously, peering over the taller man's shoulder curiously.

They wandered into what could only be described as a forgotten study, its air thick with the smell of dust and neglect. The room seemed almost apologetic in its decay—bookshelves sagged under the weight of forgotten tomes, their spines cracked and flaking, while the heavy drapes hung limp and moth-eaten. Shards of a once-elegant chandelier glittered faintly on the floor, catching the dim light that filtered through grime-coated windows. Harry's gaze swept across the room, but it was a painting that snagged his attention—a skewed frame clinging stubbornly to the wall, as though defying the ruin around it. He stepped closer, his boots crunching against scattered debris, and peered at the faded artwork within. Time had worn away much of its detail, but what remained was striking enough to hold his focus.

It wasn’t the kind of painting Harry had grown used to in wixen places—no enchanted portraits with wandering subjects or pastoral scenes brought to life. Instead, it was a coat of arms, bold and haunting in its simplicity. Two large dogs, their collars sharp and ceremonial, flanked a shield bearing two parallel stars. Beneath the shield, a single sword stood upright, its hilt ornate, resting on a banner that seemed to proclaim a long-forgotten motto. The entire composition was stark against a deep black background, its proud symmetry made all the more solemn by the layers of dust muting its once-vivid colours.

Harry leaned in slightly, his green eyes narrowing as he traced the image with unspoken reverence. There was something oddly compelling about it, as though it carried the weight of a story no one alive could recount. The sword, in particular, seemed to hold his attention. Its placement was deliberate, commanding respect, while the stars above it hinted at something celestial—aspiration, perhaps, or an alignment long past. The dogs, watchful and stoic, appeared almost lifelike despite the faded pigments.

Harry swallowed thickly, feeling sickened by the sight before him.

“It's the Black family crest,” Malfoy muttered and, for the first time in hours, he actually seemed interested and serious. “This... this place was once full of them.”

Harry’s head snapped up.

“What are you getting at, Malfoy?”

Malfoy didn’t answer immediately. He couldn’t. His mind spun with the weight of what they were standing in, the implications unfurling like a dark tapestry. This house wasn’t merely a decaying labyrinth; it was a living, breathing manifestation of the Black family’s legacy. The magic woven into its walls lingered thick and potent, tied to every creaking floorboard and cobwebbed corner. It wasn’t just reacting to their presence—it was watching, listening, judging.

Without a word, as if pulled by some unseen force, Malfoy began to move. His footsteps were slow, deliberate, the sound of his shoes muffled against the worn rug as he crossed the room. His eyes remained fixed on the painting, specifically on the words etched into the banner below the crest.

Toujours Pur.

The Black family’s infamous motto. The words seemed to glow faintly in the dim light, their meaning heavy with centuries of pride, prejudice, and power. He stopped just short of the frame, his pale hand lifting hesitantly before falling back to his side, as though even touching the air around it might disturb something sacred—or cursed.

“It’s not just a crest,” he murmured at last, his voice low, more to himself than Harry. “It’s... everything. Their history, their beliefs, their magic. It’s all here, Potter. In this house. In this bloody coat of arms.”

There was something almost reverent in the way he said it, though not without a bitter edge. Malfoy sounded jaded. He tilted his head, his grey eyes tracing the details of the crest as if he could uncover its secrets through sheer will. The dogs flanking the shield were regal yet menacing, their collars like chains of loyalty. The stars on the shield, so simple and stark, hinted at a celestial order—divine approval, perhaps, for a family that had long believed themselves chosen. And the sword, standing solitary beneath it all, was both a symbol of protection and domination.

“Always pure,” Malfoy repeated, his tone sharp now, cutting through the dusty silence. “It’s a lie, of course. Still, the Blacks—my mother’s family—built their entire existence on it. But look around. Even their precious house couldn’t hold together under the weight of their hypocrisy.”

Harry watched him in silence, feeling the weight of the moment, but unsure what to say. The room seemed heavier now, the coat of arms looming over them like a silent judge, its gaze unyielding and eternal.

Malfoy’s gaze remained fixed on the coat of arms, the faint paint of Toujours Pur seeming to pull him deeper into a thrall. His grey eyes traced each detail with the intensity of someone unravelling a riddle only they could see. He was silent, motionless, as though the very air around the crest had ensnared him. The words beneath the shield whispered their cruel promise in his mind—always pure, always better, always bound by the weight of a legacy that was impossible to escape. The crest seemed alive, its ancient magic thrumming faintly in his veins, stirring something he couldn’t quite name.

“Wait,” Harry said sharply, stepping forward and gripping his arm. The warmth of Harry’s touch seemed to have jostled him slightly, snapping the spelllike grip of the painting just enough for him to blink and glance sideways.

Harry wasn’t looking at him, though. His sharp green eyes scanned the room, narrowing as they landed on a battered chest in the far corner. It was plain and unremarkable at first glance, but something about it made Harry’s gut twist uncomfortably. The air seemed colder now, prickling against his skin like icy needles. He frowned, taking a step toward it.

The chest rattled.

“Malfoy—” he began, but stopped as he noticed Draco hadn’t moved. The other man was still rooted in place, his expression unreadable as he stared at the Black crest, a deep furrow forming between his brows. Whatever trance had momentarily broken seemed to have taken hold of him again, his mind clearly elsewhere.

“Malfoy,” Harry said again, more urgently, glancing back at the chest as it gave another ominous shake. The gnawing feeling in his stomach grew sharper, a warning that whatever was inside wouldn’t be waiting patiently. He reached out, gripping Draco’s shoulder this time, giving him a small shake. “Forget the bloody painting. Something’s about to jump at us, and I’d rather not be here to greet it.”

Draco blinked, the frown still etched into his face as he finally tore his gaze from the crest. The chest rattled again, more violently this time, the sound echoing ominously in the dusty room.

“Malfoy, snap out of it!” Harry snapped, his voice urgent.

But the room had already begun to change. 

“Malfoy!” shouted Harry, as he tugged at the blonde’s jumper insistently. Malfoy, his face turning from the motto in irritation, quickly looked around, and his expression quickly became that of genuine concern. He quickly stepped into Harry's side just as the chest burst open.

From the chest emerged… something—a figure, not quite human, but something twisted, an apparition that seemed to materialise out of the very air around it. It was dark, its form shifting, like a shadow clinging to a shape it barely understood. The edges of its figure seemed to flicker in and out of focus, as though it existed at the edge of Harry’s vision, only fully manifesting when he wasn't looking directly at it. The world around him shifted in an instant, the solid floor beneath his feet giving way to a forest, dense and suffocating. The trees towered above him, their branches tangled like claws, reaching down toward him as if to pull him into their suffocating embrace. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and decay, the ground soft and treacherous beneath his boots, making every step feel as though he was sinking into the darkness.

“I—where?” Harry began, but his words died as the scene grew clearer, darker.

The forest before him morphed, twisting, warping. A heavy, oppressive weight settled in his chest, and Harry felt the all-too-familiar sensation of dread wash over him. The forest, with its gnarled trees and unnatural stillness, was something he had seen too many times in his dreams—nightmares, more like—, those that had haunted him for five long years. 

It was the forest.

It was always the forest. 

He had tried to forget about it, tried to bury it deep inside, but it had always found its way back to him. The dark, twisted woods, the sense of being watched, the choking silence that pressed against his thoughts.

The Forbidden Forest. The final battle. 

Of course he recognised it. How could he forget? The way the shadows clung to the trees, the eerie quietness that wrapped around him like a blanket. He was standing in the same cold, dark part of the woods, waiting for something that always seemed just out of reach. The last place he’d seen his parents, Remus… Sirius. The cold, damp air pressed in on him, the fear clawing at his throat. The shadows stretched long, and Harry could hear the faint echoes of curses—voices from the past, from the moment that had claimed him. As he moved through the shadowy thicket, Harry could hear a faint whispering at the edges of his mind, it made his skin crawl. His heart pounded louder with each step.

“Not again...” Harry breathed, taking a step back, but his feet felt like they were glued to the spot. The memories flooded back like a roaring river—his final steps into the forest to face Voldemort, to give himself up, the terror of knowing he was walking toward his death.

The distant sound of the battle beyond the trees, the eerie silence before his final sacrifice.

Around him, the air seemed to shift with a low, mournful hum. Harry’s pulse quickened. This place… his nightmares, had somehow followed him even here. 

And then, from the darkness, a figure stepped forward. Harry’s breath hitched as he stared at the faint outline, his mind unwilling to accept the truth of what he was seeing. The figure—impossibly familiar in the way it made Harry’s blood chill in his veins—was cloaked in shadow, but Harry could still make out the shape, the posture. The way it moved with an eerie grace that only confirmed his worst fear.

It was him. Voldemort .

But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It was a twisted version of him, a nightmarish reflection, bent and warped by Harry’s own panicked mind. He could feel the cold grip of fear in his chest as the figure’s presence loomed over him, its hollow eyes burning through him. The forest seemed to close in tighter, the trees bowing toward him, the air thick with the sickening scent of death and despair.

Harry could hear a voice now, slithering through the forest in a familiar tone—soft, cold, mocking. It whispered his name. His blood ran cold, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

“ Avada Kedavra ,” the shadow of Voldemort said, that green, poisonous light coming towards him once again.

To take him away one last time.

“Potter! Potter, it’s not real!” Malfoy’s anguished voice broke through Harry’s own panic, but it was a distant echo in his ears. Harry barely registered the sound of the blonde’s pleas, caught in the grip of the memory. This was his deepest fear, his darkest memory—the one thing that had never stopped haunting him. The memory of that flash of green and then… nothing.

But then, Voldemort’s gaze shifted, locking onto Malfoy, who Harry suddenly realised had been standing beside him the entire time. The blonde’s usually composed face was ashen, his complexion sickly in a way that reminded Harry of their sixth year, his wide, terrified eyes betraying a vulnerability Harry had rarely seen. He was frozen, like prey caught in the sight of its predator. Voldemort’s blood-red eyes narrowed, and a cruel grin split his snake-like face. It wasn’t just a smile—it was the grin of something inhuman, a creature that delighted in suffering, sharp teeth glinting as though savouring the thought of sinking into its victim.

The air grew heavier, almost abrasive in its malice, as Harry’s pulse quickened. Before he could react, the forest around them wavered, its colours draining as if sucked into a void. The scene dissolved into something even darker, colder, and suffocatingly close. The walls, slimy and wet, seemed to press inward, and from somewhere deep within the shadows came the low, guttural growl of a beast. It wasn’t just any sound—it was a promise of violence, raw and primal, reverberating in the stillness like the first warning crack of a storm. The air stank of blood and damp earth, and Harry felt a chill crawl up his spine as dread coiled tight in his chest at the memory it evoked.

Fenrir Greyback.

“No…” Malfoy gasped this time, bringing his pale hand towards his mouth, barely able to breathe as he watched helplessly the scene in front of them changing rapidly.

The room twisted with a grotesque symphony of unnatural, grinding sounds, pulling Malfoy into a memory so visceral and raw that his knees threatened to give way beneath him. Harry watched, horrified, as the scene solidified around them—a space that should have been a sanctuary but was anything but. The cold, imposing stone walls of Malfoy Manor loomed over them, their grandeur rendered hollow and malevolent under the weight of an invisible evil. The elegance that must have once defined the space was drowned beneath an imposing fog of terror, choking out the remnants of its former splendour.

They were in a bedroom—or rather, the ghost of one. The four-poster bed, once a symbol of wealth and privilege with its rich velvet curtains and intricate carvings, now stood as a silent witness to pain. Dragons and snakes adorned every surface, their gleaming eyes dull in the dim, unnatural light. Above, the ceiling depicted a night sky full of constellations, but the stars seemed to flicker weakly, as if the memory itself was sapping their light. The pristine sheets that had once dressed the bed were now scattered across the floor in tattered heaps, their destruction a testament to some past frenzy of desperation or violence.

The air was heavy, thick with despair so potent it seemed to cling to Harry’s skin. Malfoy’s ragged breaths echoed in the suffocating silence, distorted and disjointed, as if the memory itself wanted to drag them both into its agonising depths. Even Harry, who had grown accustomed to facing horrors, felt his chest tighten. It wasn’t just fear—it was helplessness, the kind that seeped into your bones and refused to let go.

Time itself seemed to slow, each second stretching unbearably as Harry found himself not just witnessing but reliving the moment through Malfoy’s fractured perspective.

Greyback’s looming figure dominated the canopy of the bed, his hulking form a grotesque distortion of someone who had long crossed the line between man and beast. The faint light that filtered through the memory’s haze stretched his shadow across the room, turning it into something monstrous, alive with menace. His wolfish grin was a chilling mockery of amusement, lips pulling back to reveal jagged teeth stained yellow, sharp enough to tear through flesh. His predatory, amber gaze bore into Malfoy, eyes gleaming with a savage hunger that froze every fibre of his being. The air thickened further, stifling and cloying, as the walls seemed to edge closer, pressing in with a dreadful inevitability. Each second felt stretched into eternity, the once-expansive space of Malfoy’s childhood sanctuary now shrinking into an inescapable cage. Every breath was a struggle, the atmosphere soaked in fear and dread, heavy with the unspoken threat that Greyback carried with him like a second skin.

Next to him, Malfoy’s legs seemed to be locked in place, his body refusing to move, no matter how loudly his instincts screamed at him to run. Harry could see the cold sweat trickling down the blonde’s back, the nausea rising in his stomach as the primal terror of being hunted consumed him. 

“Please, please, anything but this…” begged Malfoy, the real Malfoy, next to him. His hands were closed around Harry’s upper arm like a vice, so strong they would probably leave bruises. But Harry had not the heart to do anything about it, his voice so desperate and terrified that Harry could do nothing but try to stay still. Malfoy’s body trembled, though Harry wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or from the memory being pulled from deep within him, making him feel like he was no longer in control of his own body. 

At the bed, the werewolf’s hand on a teenaged Malfoy’s wrist was too tight, the roughness of his touch burning a new mark onto Malfoy’s sickly skin. It was a touch that had marked him forever, Harry could see now, one that he would never escape, no matter how many years had passed.

The sound of Fenrir’s breathing, heavy and ragged, filled the room, and Harry could hear his own pulse hammering in his ears and his heart beat erratically in his chest. His mouth felt dry, his throat tight with a scream that never came. His mind screamed for him to take the smaller Malfoy and run, to fight back, but his body betrayed him, locked in place by a paralysing terror at the scene unfolding in front of him. The sight was unbearable—one that no one, least of all Malfoy, should ever have to relive, and Harry knew he should close his eyes. Every inch of hiss being recoiled from the scene in front of them—the twisted, predatory glee on Fenrir’s face as he closed the distance between him and Malfoy—, but he couldn’t close his eyes, not even to give Malfoy some reprieve from what he was being forced to relieve.

With a savage push, the werewolf had shoved the young Malfoy into the bed, before following suit. Sharp claws tore away at the delicate fabric of Malfoy’s robes, making windows for the unmarked, luminescent skin of his back to poke through. Once he had finished tearing at the teenage boy’s clothing, the hulking man stopped and stood there, straddling Malfoy’s skinny thighs, as he took in his creation. The world seemed to slow, the light in the room flickering like it couldn’t bear to witness what was happening. Next to him, Malfoy’s mind seemed to refuse to process the reality of what he was witnessing, his eyes wide and brimming with tears; all Harry could feel was the overwhelming sense of helplessness, he tried to move them away, but Malfoy wouldn’t move.

Harry could see the brutal way the werewolf pounced on Draco and, finally, closed his eyes tightly, unwilling to see the horrific nature of what was happening in front of them. Still, he could hear everything, there was no running from that—Malfoy’s cries, muffled and shrill, echoing in the cruel silence of the room, the sound of bodies moving around the sheets…

A sick feeling crawled up his spine as he heard both Malfoy’s cries of pain and panic.

He felt sick.

“Stop! Please!” shouted younger Malfoy, his voice not more than a gurgled attempt at mercy. Harry could hear the wet sounds of something slapping against Malfoy, and the urge to reach for his wand overwhelmed him. “Please!”

Next to him, Malfoy—the real one— promptly vomited in front of them.

The memory—for Harry intrinsically knew it was a memory and not a fabricated illusion— continued to play, the Malfoy under Greyback’s body crying as he could do nothing to stop the torture he was enduring. It was a sight that Harry would never be able to forget, a scene so venomous and real that it seemed to reach out and taint him, too.

There was no stopping this. No running from it. The house had already decided.

However, his brain was clawing at him to help Malfoy, to stop what was happening just beyond the ruined curtains. He reached for his wand, his hand trembling. He needed to do something . Anything to stop this nightmare from consuming them both.

“ Incendio! ” he shouted, his voice ragged with desperation.

A burst of flame erupted from the tip of his wand, flames scorching the air and illuminating the memory before them in a warm light. The scene didn’t stop, the fire wasn’t enough to push the memory back. It merely wrapped itself around the image of Fenrir ravaging Malfoy like a hot embrace, flickering with malicious glee. 

It reminded Harry of the Fiendfyre.

Malfoy’s breath hitched beside him, and he took one step back from the fire. Harry could feel the weight of his distress, the suffocating grief that he was trying so hard to hide but obviously couldn’t. He wasn’t just watching the past unfold; he was reliving it, Harry knew it, for he had watched his terrors born anew in front of him just a few minutes ago as well.

The guilt that clung to him like a second skin had been born anew as well, irrational and piercing.

“We can’t hide from this,” Harry muttered to himself, his voice raw. He knew, too, that he couldn’t escape his own memories, let alone Malfoy’s. They’d always be there, deep inside their person, ready to come up to the surface.

The fire he had cast in a desperate bid to banish the pain wasn’t enough. But the fire— his fire—was all he had left.

“ Incendio! ” he screamed again, thrusting his wand forward with a force he didn’t know he had left. The room burst into flames, the walls shuddering as the fire consumed everything. Fenrir’s figure was engulfed in the flames, his guttural moans and Malfoy’s agonising cries drowning in the roar of the flames as they consumed the bed. The heat was suffocating and hellish, but Harry knew he had to stay right there. He knew it, he felt it.

“Malfoy—Malfoy, now! Help me, now!” Harry’s voice was barely a whisper, his throat raw, the words barely reaching the other man, who was standing decide him drenched in the dampness of his own terror.

By some miracle, Malfoy’s gaze flicked to Harry, his eyes wide, the anguish unmistakable and as clear as his silver irises. But Harry wasn’t going to let him fall apart.

 Not now.

For a moment, only the fire crackled, consuming the room, the heat suffocating, and for the first time, Harry felt the weight of his own words settle in his chest. He had survived the Forest, the war. He had lived, when so many had not, and that gnawed at his chest like a hungry lioness upon an antelope. And that had changed him, for he carried the broken remnants of it with him like an armour. It had shaped him, twisted him into something he didn’t want to be. Something he wasn’t sure he even recognised anymore.

But he had to learn how live with it. He couldn’t let it consume him. He had chosen to come back because he wanted to live. He had people he loved and who loved him. A gift from his parents. 

A life worth looking for.

“Malfoy!” Harry barked, the desperation evident in every syllable. “You can do this! We can do this. Fenrir is dead. He’s dead. He’s gone! He can’t hurt you anymore… and you— you —you’re stronger than this! You survived it, Malfoy. You are not what happened to you! Not then, not ever!”

Somehow, through the haze of their shared trauma, Harry saw Malfoy’s resolve solidify.

“ Incendio! ” Malfoy shouted, his voice shaking, but his spell was no less potent. A flash of fire erupted from his wand, and the room began to burn hotter, faster. The walls cracked, the ceiling groaned under the intensity of the heat and the magic being cast. Fenrir’s image disappeared, consumed by the hellfire, his form dissolving into ash.

Malfoy’s face was pale, his eyes wide, but there was something else—something that wasn’t fear. It was something else, something more. Something Harry had never seen in him before but felt precious. It was raw, unyielding, and it surprised Harry. But it was there. It was real.

The fire raged on, swallowing the room, until everything was consumed, burned away to nothing but charred remnants. They ere untouched by the fire, whatever magic Grimmauld Place had cast upon them protecting them from the flames. And then, just as quickly as the flames had appeared, they vanished, leaving behind nothing but the charred remains of what had been. The heat died down quickly after, the smoke dissipating into nothing, and the room settled back into the chilly silence that had defined it before.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The room had returned to its previous state, the fire gone, leaving a silence that felt even heavier than before. The oppressive air was thick with the weight of what they had seen, their shared suffering. Harry could feel the sting of the heat on his skin, sweat sliding down the back of his neck. 

The residue of their memories still clung to him like smoke.

“That—that was… I…” Malfoy’s voice cracked, and Harry didn’t need to look at him to know that the words had been forced out.

“I know,” Harry agreed softly, his own voice hoarse but kind. “I’m sorry…”

And, as the room slowly shifted back to what it used to be, something else settled between them—something unexpected . It was an understanding. A shared moment of vulnerability that neither of them had been prepared for. And it did something to the room they were in, something the house couldn’t fight.

The magic receded, the darkness lightened just a little, but they were too focused on chasing away the ghost of their pasts to focus too much on the house. The weight of their mutual silence stretched long into the room, warm and enveloping, like the very air had absorbed the heat of the fire they had just cast. It felt both suffocating and liberating—like a storm that had torn through, leaving the aftermath to settle slowly, leaving them both standing at the centre of it, unsure how to proceed. The world, it seemed, had tilted on its axis during those few, horrible moments. And Harry wasn’t quite sure whether it had righted itself or not.

After long, the room stopped shifting. For the first time in what felt like days, there was stillness. No eerie creaks of shifting walls, no overwhelming weight pressing against their bodies, forcing them to fight through the memories that had twisted around them. The oppressive air, thick with magic and fear, had lifted slightly, leaving behind an uncomfortable, aching quiet.

Harry let his wand fall to his side, his hand trembling slightly from the exertion of both his spell-casting and the emotions still coursing through him. He could feel the sweat cooling on his skin, the adrenaline fading from his veins, leaving behind a raw weariness that made him want to sink into the floor and let the weight of it all crush him. But the walls weren’t closing in, and the ceiling wasn’t about to collapse on them.

For now, at least, the space they stood in was still—and that was something.

He glanced at Malfoy, who stood at his side, his body language distinctly despondent. He looked ready to drop on the spot. There was still fear reverberating within his silver eyes, a flutter of doubt lingering in the depths of his gaze, but it was mingling with that something else, something Harry had seen before.

Strength, maybe. A quiet, unyielding resolve that didn’t come from power or arrogance. It came from survival. From continuing to exist after something had tried to shatter him. Harry could see it now, in the way Malfoy held himself. Maybe it had always been there, somewhere under the mas he had worn his whole life, and it had taken being broken down for it to come out.

Not a perfect kind of strength, nor an unshakable one, but a strength born of wounds. At last, Harry realised they were both survivors.

Malfoy swallowed hard, eyes shifting away from Harry’s, almost as if he couldn’t look him in the face anymore. It wasn’t easy, realising that the man you had hated for half your life had seen you during such a vulnerable moment. Harry knew that because now Malfoy had seen his own horrors as well. The quiet between them felt awkward once more, the two of them standing there, unsure of what to say. Harry could feel the threads of a new connection between them, one born out of raw, unexpected vulnerability—stretching taut between them, and for a brief moment, he wondered if it would snap the moment one of them talked. 

Malfoy shifted, rubbing at his left arm in an uncharacteristically weary gesture, and Harry suddenly felt another surge of empathy. The weight of their memories, their pasts, was something they both carried now. And for the first time, Harry realised that he didn’t have to carry it alone. No one he knew really understood what had happened at the Forest, but now Malfoy did. He had seen it all happen from Harry’s point of view. He wondered if Malfoy was feeling something similar.

“You know…” Harry said, his voice quieter than before, but carrying a certain steadiness. “That we can’t just pretend none of this happened, Malfoy. I don’t know what the future holds, but we can’t keep hiding from what happened to us. Our choices make us who we are.”

Malfoy’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he took a breath, long and slow, as if the words were too heavy to speak. His lips parted, but it took a moment before anything came out.

“I didn’t want this,” Malfoy said finally, his voice hoarse, raw. “None of this. You think I wanted it to end up like this? You think I chose that ? ”

“Of course not!” Harry said hastily, shaking his head. “I know you didn’t. I know. But it did happen. And you survived, Malfoy. You survived the worst of it.”

Malfoy’s hand shook as he reached up to run a hand through his hair, tugging it as if to ground himself in some reality that made sense. But there was no escaping what they had seen. Not in this room. Not ever, probably.

“I… don’t know how to go on from this,” Malfoy admitted, his voice soft, almost too quiet to hear.

“I don’t either,” Harry replied, his words sharp, honest. “But we’re still standing here. Alive. And that’s something, isn’t it?”

Malfoy glanced at Harry then, his stormy grey eyes sharp and searching, trying to read Harry’s face as if trying to assess his sincerity. It was as if he were waiting for some sign, some king of betrayal or a mocking word.

Harry didn’t flinch. He didn’t back away. He stood there, grounded in the present, in the knowledge that survival, in whatever twisted form it took, meant something. That they needed each other to stay alive.

After a long moment, Malfoy spoke again, his voice low.

“It’s not enough, though, is it? Staying alive? Not when you’re just living with the aftermath. The broken pieces. Pieces you can’t put back together.”

Harry felt his heart tighten in understanding. He wanted to argue with Malfoy, to tell him that survival was enough, but he knew better. He had seen too many of his friends—too many people—come out of the war broken. Pieces of themselves scattered across time and memory, irreparable. The Weasleys had never been the same after Fred, Hermione’s parents didn’t remember they had a daughter half the time… Hell, him most of all, knew how it felt to be broken. 

Harry had learned that survival didn’t mean being whole. But it didn’t mean giving up, either. He couldn’t believe that when it was what he had been holding onto for half a decade like a lifeline.

If he let go of it, he was bound to drown.

“No,” Harry admitted, “It’s not enough. But it’s something.”

Malfoy’s lips twitched, as if he wanted to smile bitterly but couldn’t quite manage it. Instead, he let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping. The weight of everything—of the past, of what had happened to them, of their collective trauma—pressed down on both of them. And for a brief moment, Harry understood that they didn’t need to speak any more. They didn’t need words to understand each other. At least, not when it came to this .

They just needed to stand together.

They were survivors. And that had to mean something.

After what felt like an eternity, Malfoy spoke again, his voice quiet still but steadier.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe it is something ,” he shifted on his feet, his gaze flicking towards the door of the room. “But we’re still stuck in here, aren’t we? This labyrinth... we haven’t got anywhere.”

“We will, we’re making progress,” Harry assured, his voice low as if dealign with a particularly skittish snidget. “The room stopped shifting. That’s a win. We’ve bought ourselves some time.”

Malfoy nodded, his gaze still distant. “Time. What we need is luck.”

Luck . 

Harry didn’t know how much they could rely on that. Still, he would give up half his fortune for a single vial of Felix Felicis , horrible side effects be damned. He stepped forward, his trainers making a soft thud against the stone floor. Malfoy didn’t flinch or move; he just watched Harry approach, his eyes wary but not hostile. For the first time in a long time, Harry didn’t feel the anger bubbling beneath the surface when he looked at —or thought about— Malfoy. The resentment, the bitterness he always thought when he saw the blonde was dormant. It wasn’t gone, not entirely, knowing them they’d end up fighting again sooner rather than later. 

But, something had softened. Something had shifted forward. 

“We’ll get out of here, Malfoy,” Harry said, his voice firm. “We’ll both get out.”

Malfoy didn’t respond at first. He just stood there, his posture stiff, his gaze drifting to the floor. But then, after a long moment, he gave a slight nod, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“Fine,” he muttered, his voice rough but with a hint of his usual cheekiness underneath. “With The-Boy-Who-Lived here, we’re bound to, anyways. What’s a house against a basilisk, really.”

Though he almost smiled in amusement, Harry didn’t say anything more. He didn’t need to. The truth was, neither of them knew how they were going to get out of Grimmauld Place. They didn’t know what the maze still had in store for them or what they would face next. But for now, they had each other. And in this place of torment and pain, that might just be enough to keep them from dying and help them to move forward.

The silence stretched between them, not necessarily uncomfortable, but heavy with the weight of everything they had just seen and faced. Tentative with a new string tying them together. The room, though still dark and unpleasant, no longer felt as suffocating. That something that had shifted between them hung between the two, pulling them ever so slightly together. If Harry thought about it, he’d realise that, for the first time, they didn’t feel like enemies. They didn’t feel like prisoners of their pasts and their rivalry; like opposite sides of the same coin, bound to never meet. They just felt like two people, standing side by side in the aftermath of a storm.

And that, for the moment, felt like hope.

The house lay still, waiting for something, and Harry instinctively knew that the worst wasn’t over. Something in his belly told him that it had only just begun. But as long as they had each other; as long as they didn’t give up, they could still fight. 

They could still survive.

Chapter Text

Ron and Hermione stood on the cracked pavement outside Number 12, Grimmauld Place, the chill of the beginning of late evening nipping at their worried faces. The Victorian house loomed before them, its blackened exterior blending into the dreary London neighborhood seamlessly and unassumingly. The wrought-iron numbers, askew as always, hung precariously on the weathered door; and the grimy windows, shrouded in grime and shadow, gazed back at them like unblinking, lifeless eyes. Though outwardly unchanged, something in the air around the house felt distinctly different, a tension that raised the fine hairs on the back of Hermione’s neck. She bit her lip, her mind racing through possibilities. The house’s magical wards had always been intricate, a web of protective enchantments layered over centuries. But the magic that radiated from the place right now felt different—it felt off, but she couldn’t pinpoint why . 

Hermione had stepped forward first, her wand slipping into her hand with a practised ease. She aimed it at the heavy, peeling door. 

“ Alohomora ,” she murmured, the familiar spell weaving from her lips with precision. A faint shimmer danced across the doorway, as though the house itself had swallowed her magic. The door did not budge.

Ron frowned, glancing warily at Hermione. “Maybe try it again?” he suggested, his voice low, almost hesitant, as if he didn’t want the house to hear him.

“I already tried it twice,” Hermione muttered, a crease forming between her brows. She adjusted her stance and aimed again, this time attempting Portaberto , a spell specifically crafted by lockswixen for stubborn magical locks. The wand sparked, the light reflecting briefly against the worn brass doorknob, but the result was the same—a faint shimmer and nothing else. She tried a dispelling charm next and then another more violent spell, her incantations sharp and deliberate, but they too dissolved into nothingness, the house swallowing her efforts as though it were mocking her.

Annoyed, she drew a spiral with the tip of her wand as she muttered yet another incantation. “ Reserare !” she said, hoping the more specific spell would do the trick, but her intuition told her it was useless.

As expected, nothing happened. The door didn’t budge; the latch didn’t even wiggle.

“Maybe try throwing something at it?” Ron offered, arms crossed, his expression torn between impatience and unease. “Bloody hell, it’s cold out here.”

With a glare and an indignation huff, Hermione poked him in the ribs, making Ron shift his weight, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Because doors respond so well to being yelled at,” she snapped, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Honestly, Ron, I’ve tried numerous unlocking spells, bypassing the wards, and even a bloody Bombarda , and none of them are working. This isn’t normal.”

“Well, maybe it is normal,” Ron argued, waving a hand at the house. “This is Harry we’re talking about. Moody, brooding, ‘let’s-sulk-in-a-dark-corner’ Harry. He’s probably inside with his invisibility cloak, eating week-old enchiladas straight from the cold box, again.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hermione hissed, lowering her wand but not her guard. “He always sends us a message when he’s not going to show up. Always. And he’s never shut us out of Grimmauld Place before, no matter how bad things got.”

Ron scratched the back of his neck, his freckled face clouded with doubt.

“Yeah, but this is Harry. If anyone’s going to have a dramatic, self-imposed lockdown, it’s him. Maybe he just needs space.”

Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line. She didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she glanced at the unyielding door again, her expression shifting from frustration to genuine concern.

“No,” she said finally, shaking her head. “This isn’t space. This is something else. The wards on this house feel… wrong. Like they’re absorbing my magic, keeping us out. And Harry wouldn’t strengthen the wards against us . Not unless something was terribly wrong.”

Ron frowned. “You mean like an evil house trying to eat him? Because, honestly, with Grimmauld Place, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Hermione sighed, exasperated. “I’m serious, Ron.”

“So am I!” Ron shot back, throwing up his hands. “This house has had creepy written all over it since day one. What if it’s gone rogue? Started up a rebellion? The walls here practically scream ‘dark magic.’ Maybe they’ve finally decided to finish the job Voldemort couldn’t.”

“That’s absurd,” Hermione said, though she glanced at the house with a trace of unease. She couldn’t entirely dismiss Ron’s words; Grimmauld Place had always been more than a little unnerving, even after Harry had spent years trying to scrub away the remnants of its dark past.

Still, this felt… different. Everything around them felt heavier than usual, a subtle but undeniable pressure that made Hermione’s chest tighten. The street, normally bustling with Muggles going about their lives, felt unnaturally quiet, still. And there was something in the air—something magical—that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Hermione said carefully. “We don’t know what’s going on in there. But I do think it’s strange that Harry hasn’t responded to any of our attempts to contact him. This is well beyond normal. What if he’s overwhelmed and the house is reacting to that?”

Ron raised a pale eyebrow. “Overwhelmed? You mean, like when he thinks he’s responsible for every bad thing that’s ever happened in the history of wixenkind? Because that’s just another day for Harry.”

Hermione shot him another look, but there was no bite in it this time. She was overthinking too much to argue properly. 

“I mean overwhelmed in a way we haven’t seen before. He’s been dealing with so much lately. The anniversary of his parent’s death coming soon, his guilt, his constant nightmares, the house—and he barely talks about any of it. The house might have decided to shut us out because he doesn’t want us to see how much he’s struggling.”

Ron’s expression softened slightly, the corners of his mouth pulling down into a faint frown. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I guess that does sound like him.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of their collective worry settling between them. The door to Grimmauld Place remained firmly shut, as unyielding as Harry’s own stubbornness.

“What do we do?” Ron asked finally, breaking the quiet. “Because if he’s not opening the door, and your brilliant spells aren’t working, we might as well go home and try again tomorrow.”

Hermione hesitated. She didn’t want to leave—not when something felt so obviously wrong—but she also knew they couldn’t break into Grimmauld Place without risking damage to the wards. And even if they could, the magic protecting the house seemed almost sentient, as if it were actively keeping them out for a reason.

“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Hermione said reluctantly. “But we need to think about other ways to contact him. I’ll send a message to Andromeda in case she’s heard from him. And maybe Neville or Luna. Someone might know where he is or why he’s acting like this.”

Ron nodded, though his frown deepened. “And if they don’t know?”

“Then we try something else,” Hermione said firmly, though the confidence in her voice was as much for herself as it was for Ron. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Ron glanced at the house one last time, his eyes narrowing. “Yeah, but, honestly? I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Mione. It’s too quiet. Too… weird even for Grimmauld Place.”

Hermione couldn’t argue with that. As they turned to leave, the uneasy silence around Grimmauld seemed to grow even heavier, like a predator watching their every move. The street lights flickered faintly, their glow dimming just enough to cast long, distorted shadows across the pavement.

And then there was the magic.

Hermione felt it as they walked away—a faint pulse in the air, subtle but unmistakable. It was like the house itself was breathing, its magic ebbing and flowing in time with their steps. She glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting to see something staring back at her from the windows, but the curtains remained closed, the house still and lifeless.

“Did you feel that?” Hermione asked, her voice hushed.

Ron frowned. “Feel what?”

“The magic,” Hermione said, glancing at him. “It’s strange, I’ve never felt anything like it before.”

Ron looked back at the house, his expression darkening.

“No, but now you’ve got me imagining Harry sitting in there with a dozen cursed objects and a possessed teapot. Do you reckon Kreacher’s still around? Maybe he’s behind this.”

“Kreacher wouldn’t do anything to harm Harry,” Hermione said automatically, though her voice was tinged with worry. “He was devoted to him after the war.”

“Well, that’s one theory out,” Ron muttered. “What’s next? Voldemort coming back from the dead, again? Malevolent cupboard?”

“Let’s not get carried away,” Hermione said, ignoring Ron’s attempts to lighten the mood, though she couldn’t shake the feeling that something truly was off . “We’ll come back tomorrow with a plan. And if we still can’t get in, we’ll bring backup.”

Ron nodded, though his expression remained tense. “Right. Backup. Like a whole team of Aurors. Or a dragon, maybe.”

Hermione sighed, though there was a faint smile on her lips. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

As they turned the corner, leaving Grimmauld Place behind, the faint pulse of magic in the air seemed to follow them, lingering like a ghostly presence. Hermione didn’t look back again, but the weight of the house’s strange, oppressive magic stayed with her, settling in the pit of her stomach like a lead weight.

Something was wrong. And they would get to the bottom of it. They had to.

For Harry.

Harry’s stomach growled. Loudly.

It wasn’t the dignified sort of stomach growl that could pass unnoticed in a crowded room. No, this was the primal, guttural roar of a stomach that hadn’t been fed in too many hours—a sound so loud and insistent that Harry wouldn’t have been surprised if the walls themselves shuddered in embarrassment.

Malfoy froze mid-step and turned to glare at Harry with the sharp precision of a hungry hawk spotting prey. His face twisted into a smirk that screamed, I’m about to make this worse for you.

“Merlin, Potter,” Malfoy sneered, his voice dripping with faux horror. “Are you trying to summon the Dark Lord back from the grave, or is that just your stomach auditioning for its own horror film?”

Harry shot him a tired, withering look, his surprise at Malfoy knowing what a film even was not showing. “Oh, I’m sorry, Malfoy. Is my body’s natural response to starvation inconveniencing you? Shall I just die quietly in a corner instead?”

“Well,” Malfoy said airily, his pale hand brushing imaginary lint off his tattered robes, “it would certainly be quieter.”

Harry rolled his eyes so hard he half-expected them to pop out of his skull and bounce off the cobblestone floor of whatever twisted corridor Grimmauld Place had spat them into now. Great. Starving to death and stuck with Malfoy’s sparkling wit. Just another day in my utterly fantastic life.

The maze of corridors had grown even stranger since the inferno they’d conjured earlier. What had started as the usual grim, dusty halls of Grimmauld Place had become something else entirely—twisting, expanding, and contracting at will. Corridors stretched into infinity one moment, only to slam into abrupt dead ends the next. Stairs led nowhere, doors opened into other doors, and once, just for kicks apparently, they’d walked into a room that was entirely upside down.

It was maddening.

Harry’s stomach growled again, louder this time, as if rebelling against its owner’s refusal to acknowledge its desperate needs.

“Honestly, Potter,” Malfoy drawled, his tone verging on smug, “if you keel over from hunger, I’m leaving you here. Do you hear me? I’ll just step over your tragically heroic corpse and carry on without you.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, his patience wearing thinner than the soles of his old boots. “Fine. I’ll make sure to write that on my tombstone: ‘Here lies Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world, abandoned by Draco Malfoy because he was slightly peckish.’ ”

Malfoy tilted his head, his grey eyes glittering with something between amusement and irritation. “Slightly peckish? Your stomach sounds like it’s trying to upstage a troll singing an aria. Don’t you ever feed yourself? Or do you just assume your fame will sustain you?”

Harry opened his mouth to retort—probably something scathing about Malfoy’s upbringing involving house-elves spoon-feeding him caviar—but he stopped short. The wall to their left was shimmering, as though someone had thrown a stone into the fabric of reality, sending ripples across its surface.

Both men turned toward it, wands drawn, their bickering forgotten in an instant.

“What the—?” Harry began, but the wall cut him off. Or rather, the wall split itself in two , a crack forming down the middle like the jagged seam of an old wound. Slowly, the crack widened, revealing an arched doorway that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

“Lovely,” Malfoy muttered. “Because walking through mysterious, magically-appearing doors has worked so well for us.”

Harry glanced at him. “You want to stay out here and argue some more, or do you want to see if there’s food on the other side?”

Malfoy hesitated, clearly torn between the desire to maintain his upper hand in their verbal sparring match and the undeniable pangs of hunger gnawing at his own stomach. Finally, he sniffed and gestured toward the door with a flourish. “After you, oh brave one .”

Harry rolled his eyes again and stepped through the doorway, wand at the ready.

On the other side, they found themselves in a dining room. Or, at least, what might have once been a dining room before Grimmauld Place’s dark magic had taken a sledgehammer to its décor. The long wooden table in the centre of the room was scratched and battered, its surface warped with age and neglect. The chairs were mismatched, their cushions threadbare and faded. A chandelier hung above them, its crystals caked with decades of dust, though it still managed to emit a soft, flickering light.

But none of that mattered.

What mattered was the food.

The table was laden with plates and platters of food—steaming bowls of soup, fresh bread, roasted chicken, baked potatoes, and even a glistening treacle tart sitting smugly in the centre like a crown jewel.

Harry’s stomach let out a noise that could only be described as a wail of longing.

“Sweet Morgana,” Malfoy breathed, his eyes wide as he took in the spread. “Is this a hallucination? Are we dead? Is this what the afterlife looks like? Because I’d hoped for a better selection of international delicacies.”

“If it is,” Harry said, already reaching for a plate, “then I’ll take it.”

He didn’t wait for Malfoy’s permission—or his snark. Instead, he sat down, grabbed a roll of bread, and bit into it like a man who’d been stranded on a deserted island for a decade.

Malfoy hesitated for a moment longer, his suspicious gaze flicking between the food and Harry. Finally, though, it seemed that hunger won out, and he lowered himself into a chair with the same air of reluctant grace he brought to everything.

“If I get food poisoning,” Malfoy said, delicately spooning soup into a bowl, “I’m coming back to haunt you.”

Harry grunted around a mouthful of bread. “If you come back, bring more treacle tart.”

For a while, they ate in silence. The food was simple—nothing elaborate or fancy, even for Harry’s standards—but it was warm and filling, and that was all they cared about. Harry felt the tension in his shoulders ease slightly with each delighted bite he took, the gnawing ache in his stomach replaced by a growing sense of contentment. Malfoy, for his part, ate with surprising decorum, though his movements were quicker than usual—and boy, did Harry hate the knowledge that he remembered his usual eating pace—, as if he were trying to pretend he wasn’t as ravenous as Harry.

The silence between them wasn’t entirely comfortable, but it wasn’t hostile, either. It was the kind of silence that came when two people were too tired to argue, too hungry to care, and too aware of the weight of their shared ordeal to pretend everything was normal.

Finally, Malfoy broke the silence.

“This is all your fault, you know.”

Harry looked up from his plate, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, here we go again. And you were doing so well, too.”

“No, really,” Malfoy said, gesturing vaguely with a fork. “If you hadn’t dragged me into this ridiculous rabbit hole of madness, I’d be at home right now, enjoying a proper meal with proper silverware with my mother. Instead, I’m here, eating—” he glanced at his plate with a faint look of disdain, “—roast chicken in a room that looks like it’s one bad spell away from collapsing and infecting me with the Bubonic Plague.”

“First of all,” Harry said, jabbing his fork in Malfoy’s direction, “you came to my house willingly, for a job you were going to be paid for, so don’t act like I kidnapped you. And second, if you don’t want the chicken, I’ll have it.”

Malfoy clutched his plate protectively. “Touch my chicken, Potter, and you’ll lose a hand.”

Harry snorted, but he didn’t press the issue. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze wander around the room. The flickering chandelier cast long shadows on the walls, and the air was still thick with the faint hum of magic. The house might have been magnanimous enough to provide them with food, but it hadn’t entirely abandoned its ominous atmosphere.

“You think the house knows what we’re thinking?” Harry asked suddenly.

Malfoy looked up from his soup, his expression guarded. “What are you on about now?”

“The door,” Harry said, gesturing toward the one they’d entered through. “The food. It all just… appeared. Like it knew what we needed.”

Malfoy frowned, his grey eyes narrowing as he considered this. “That’s a disturbing thought.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s not the weirdest thing we’ve dealt with today.”

“No, but it’s close,” Malfoy muttered, taking another bite of chicken. “Although, it shouldn’t really be surprising, seeing how it reacts to our little spats,” he said, after swallowing.

They lapsed into silence again, though Harry could feel the tension between them shifting. It wasn’t exactly gone , but it was softer now, less sharp-edged. The act of eating together, however begrudgingly, seemed to have chipped away at some of the barriers between them.

For the first time since this whole thing had begun, Harry felt a faint flicker of something that almost resembled hope.

Almost. Maybe.

“You think we’ll ever get out of this place?” he asked quietly, more to himself than to Malfoy.

Malfoy didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was softer than Harry had expected.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his eyes looking down at his food as he used his fork to play with his peas. Then, the affronted smirk was back, his previous softness gone. “But if we do, I’m burning this house to the ground.”

Harry smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth tugging upward despite his best efforts to not be amused by the prick next to him.

“Sure, Malfoy.”

The tentative calm in the dining room stretched long after they finished their meal; the two of them sitting back in their mismatched chairs, staring at the last bits of food on their plates, as though the answers to their predicament might be found in the crumbs. The hum of magic in the walls persisted, a faint pulse that Harry could feel in his chest, keeping time with his heartbeat; the heavy weight of the house was still there, waiting, watching.

For a few moments, neither of them spoke. Malfoy sat stiffly, fiddling with the silverware as though he were contemplating using a butter knife to carve his way out of this situation. Harry, on the other hand, leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the flickering chandelier above them, trying to piece together a plan.

“Well,” Malfoy finally drawled, breaking the silence. “As charming as this little dinner date has been, I assume you have some idea of what we're supposed to do next. Or are we just going to sit here and wait for the house to kill us?”

Harry sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “If I had all the answers, Malfoy, do you think we’d still be stuck here?”

“No, you’d probably still find a way to mess it up,” Malfoy muttered, crossing his arms.

Harry ignored him, something that was starting to become a habit—and wasn’t that a scary thought—, his mind racing. The house’s magic had gone mad—that much was obvious. But why? It wasn’t as though Grimmauld Place had ever been a picture of stability, but this? This was something else entirely. The maze-like corridors, the shifting rooms, the oppressive aura… The question was how to stop it.

With a sigh, Harry looked at the last of the treacle tart in front of him, considering whether or not it was worth the possible bloating.

And then it hit him.

“Kreacher,” Harry said, sitting up abruptly.

Malfoy arched a pale eyebrow. “What?”

“Kreacher,” Harry repeated, his voice rising with urgency. “Fuck, I forgot about him! I should’ve called for him ages ago. He’s the house-elf. He knows this place better than us—better than anyone . If anyone can tell us what’s going on, it’s him.”

Malfoy’s expression twisted into a mixture of scepticism and distaste. “Wonderful. Let’s put our lives in the hands of a senile house-elf who used to worship my batty Great-aunt.”

“He's not senile,” Harry snapped, glaring at him. “And he helped us during the war. He’s fine now, for the most part.”

“How reassuring,” Malfoy said dryly. “By all means, summon your elf and let’s hope he has a plan better than yours.”

Harry ignored the jab, stood up, and cleared his throat. “Kreacher!”

The call echoed through the room, bouncing off the warped walls and disappearing into the silence beyond. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a sharp pop , Kreacher appeared.

But something was wrong.

The house-elf was trembling. His large, bat-like ears were pressed flat against his head, and his wide, bloodshot eyes darted around the room as though expecting an ambush. His usual air of discourtesy and superiority was nowhere to be found; instead, he looked utterly terrified.

“Kreacher,” Harry said softly, stepping toward him. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

The elf wrung his hands together, his long, gnarled fingers shaking. 

“Master Harry,” Kreacher croaked, his voice quivering. “The house… the house is angry. It finally has what it waited for but doesn’t know what it wants. It does not like change, no. Kreacher tried to calm it, but—” He broke off with a shudder, his gaze darting to Malfoy. “Master Malfoy’s presence made it worse.”

Malfoy blinked, then scoffed. “Oh, of course. Blame me. How very convenient.”

“Kreacher, what do you mean the house is angry?” Harry asked, crouching down to meet the elf’s eye level. His chest tightened at the sight of Kreacher’s distress. The elf had always been a surly, stubborn character, but he’d never looked this… small . “What’s causing it?”

“The magic, Master Harry,” Kreacher said, his voice rising to a squeak. “The wards, the core, the masters—it is all connected. The house is out of balance. It will not rest until… until the balance is restored.”

“Balance?” Harry echoed. “What balance? What core?”

Malfoy, leaning casually against the table as if he weren’t completely out of his depth, rolled his eyes. “I think what the lovely Kreacher here is trying to say, Potter, is that this house is as barmy and dysfunctional as my family. How fitting.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry snapped, his frustration boiling over. He turned back to Kreacher, forcing himself to stay calm. “Kreacher, how do we fix it? How do we restore the balance?”

The elf hesitated, his trembling worsening. “The core,” he whispered. “Masters must find the core. The heart of the house. It controls the wards, the magic. If the masters can reach it… this madness might be stopped.”

“And where exactly is this core?” Malfoy interjected, his tone impatience but interested, for once. “Or is this going to be another one of those scavenger hunts Potter excels at?”

Kreacher opened his mouth to answer, but before he could speak, the room shuddered violently. The walls groaned as though alive, and the floor beneath their feet started to splinter. Harry stumbled, grabbing onto the edge of the table for support, while Kreacher let out a shrill cry of alarm.

“What's happening?” Harry shouted, his voice barely audible over the creaking and cracking of the room.

“The house!” Kreacher screamed, his terror palpable. He grabbed at his large, drooping ears with distress. “It does not want me to help the masters!”

Before Harry could react, the floor beneath Kreacher split open with a deafening crack. A dark, yawning chasm appeared, and with a terrified shriek, the house-elf plummeted into the darkness.

“KREACHER!” Harry lunged forward, his hand outstretched, but it was too late. The floor slammed shut as suddenly as it had opened, leaving no trace of the elf—or the void he had fallen into.

For a moment, there was only silence, broken only by Harry’s ragged breathing. He stared at the spot where Kreacher had disappeared, his heart pounding in his chest. The guilt hit him like a physical blow, sharp and unrelenting. He’d called Kreacher here, put him in danger, and now the elf was gone.

“Well,” Malfoy said after a long pause, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, “that was… horrifying.”

Harry shot him a glare so intense it could have melted steel. “Shut. Up.”

Malfoy looked away, his cheeks flushed with an emotion Harry wasn’t able to identify, but didn’t push further. For once, he seemed to understand that now wasn’t the time for sarcasm. Harry’s mind raced, his thoughts a tangle of desperation and guilt. He paced the room with frantic energy, his eyes darting toward the spot where Kreacher had vanished. He clenched his wand tighter, his knuckles whitening, as if sheer willpower could bring the elf back.

“Kreacher!” he called again, his voice trembling but insistent. “Kreacher, answer me!”

The only response was the oppressive silence of the house. Grimmauld's magic hung heavy, suffocating, as though the walls themselves were mocking his efforts. The room, thick with Grimmauld’s strong magic, remained maddeningly silent, save for the faint groaning of the walls. His jaw tightened as he swung his head toward the ceiling, as though commanding the house itself to obey him. 

He tried again, his voice rising in volume and panic. “Kreacher!”

The third time, the house reacted.

A deep, guttural creak reverberated through the walls, followed by a sharp, ear-splitting crack. The air grew heavier, thick with a tension that pressed against Harry’s lungs. Another deep groan rattled the room, followed by a sudden, violent crack and a shudder. Before Harry could react, the chandelier above exploded in a shower of shards, as if an expertly placed Bombarda had hit it. Glittering, jagged fragments rained down, catching the faint light in flashes of brilliance as they clattered onto the floor and the furniture. Harry barely had time to throw himself toward Malfoy, moving him away from the worst of the crystal’s sharp edges. The glittering fragments caught the dim light like deadly stars as they clattered to the floor around them. 

When the noise settled, Harry glanced around wildly, his breathing shallow, his heart racing. The floor was strewn with shards, the jagged remains catching at the edges of his trainers as he moved. His stomach churned with frustration, and the house’s silence felt mocking, cruel.

“Because honestly, Potter,” Malfoy drawled as he gingerly stepped away from Harry, stepping over a particularly large piece of crystal and brushing a stray shard from his shoulder. “I’ve seen poltergeists with better manners than you,” his tone carried its usual edge, but his hand lingered on his wand, the tension in his fingers betraying his unease.

Harry turned to him sharply, green eyes flashing with barely contained rage. “I just saved your neck. This isn’t a joke,” he snapped, his voice low and trembling with emotion. He crouched, sweeping the larger shards aside with his wand in quick, angry movements.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but his movements were careful as he stepped closer. “You think I don’t know that?” he muttered, his gaze darting around the room. He leaned casually against the wall, though the stiffness in his shoulders undermined the affectation.

“You’re not helping,” Harry growled through gritted teeth, his focus still on clearing the debris.

“Neither are you, screaming for an elf who clearly can’t hear you,” Malfoy shot back, his voice quieter but no less cutting. He hesitated, his fingers drumming lightly against his wand. “You know, panicking won’t bring your elf back. Grimmauld’s magic clearly doesn’t play fair, you know that as well as I do,” He paused, his voice softening imperceptibly. “Focus on what you can actually control.”

Harry froze, his wand still hovering over the wreckage. Tentatively, he stood up, his breath coming in sharp bursts, and for a moment, he couldn’t look at Malfoy. The other man shifted, just slightly, his hand brushing the edge of Harry’s pinky in an almost imperceptible gesture before withdrawing. Harry’s shoulders stiffened, but Malfoy didn’t step back. The weight of that brief touch settled over Harry like a grounding force, unspoken and unnoticed but steady nonetheless.

With a sharp breath, Harry straightened, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “We need to find that core, help Kreacher…” he said, his voice low and, now, steady. “We need to fix this. Before it gets worse.”

Malfoy arched an eyebrow. “Worse than the house eating your house-elf?”

Harry barely registered Malfoy’s comment, his thoughts a tangled mess. Kreacher’s disappearance still tugged at his chest like barbed wire, a fresh weight added to the ever-growing heap of guilt that had lived within his chest like a pearl. The memory of the old house-elf’s last frantic words—pleading, loyal despite everything—echoed in his mind. Kreacher had always been tied to this house in ways Harry couldn’t fully understand, and now the very walls that had once brought him so much comfort seemed to have swallowed him whole. 

The silence of Grimmauld Place felt heavier now, the kind of stifling quiet that pressed against Harry’s ears and wrapped around his throat. The thought of Kreacher lost somewhere within the labyrinthine hallways, trapped or worse , turned Harry’s stomach. He remembered the times Kreacher had shuffled into view with an air of reluctant duty, the clink of pots in the kitchen, the bitter mutterings under his breath. Even then, Kreacher had been steadfast, his loyalty unshakable despite the grudges he clung to like old wounds.

And now, Harry thought bitterly, he had let him get hurt. He never should’ve summoned him.

His gaze drifted to the cracked floorboards beneath his feet, the warped wood seeming to squeak slightly, as though the house knew what he was thinking and was mocking him. Whatever dark magic had corrupted this place, whatever ancient force now twisted its halls and fed on their misery, Harry would stop it. He had to. For Kreacher. For everyone who had been tied to this cursed house, unwilling and unwelcome.

The guilt was suffocating, clawing at his chest like a living thing, but it was also fuel to him. Harry clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. 

“We’re going to fix this,” he muttered, more to himself than to Malfoy. The words sounded hollow in the dim room, but he clung to them like a lifeline. He couldn’t fail. Not this time. “Let’s go,” he said, turning toward the door.

Malfoy hesitated. “Go where, exactly? In case you haven’t noticed, this house doesn’t exactly come with a map.”

Harry glanced back at him, his green eyes blazing with grim determination. “We keep moving. We find the core. And we don’t stop until this house is back under control.”

Malfoy sighed dramatically but followed. “Brilliant. Another harebrained Potter scheme. What could possibly go wrong?”

“I don’t see you giving any useful information.”

As they stepped back into the maze-like corridors, the house seemed to sense their renewed purpose. The air grew heavier, the walls narrowing as though trying to crush them. The flickering lights overhead dimmed, casting long, sinister shadows that danced and twisted like living things.

But Harry didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He owed it to Kreacher—and to himself—to see this through.

And if the house wanted a fight, then so be it.

The ever-winding hallways seemed to stretch endlessly, the dim lighting from the wall sconce casting long, eerie shadows that writhed along the cracked walls. The silence was unpleasant, but neither of them seemed to be willing to break it, flinching whenever it was interrupted by the occasional creak of the house's old bones and the distant, haunting groan of magic gone rogue. Every step felt heavier than the last, as though the house itself was siphoning at their energy. Harry’s mind was still a whirlpool of guilt and frustration, his heart still racing from the sight of Kreacher disappearing into the black void under the floorboards. He clenched his fists, his knuckles white, and focused on the uneven floor ahead, his jaw tight as he fought to keep himself together. He couldn’t let himself spiral—not now, not when there was still a chance to fix this.

Malfoy, for once, had been uncharacteristically quiet as they moved forward. The absence of his usual cheeky commentary was almost alarming. It wasn’t like Malfoy to pass up an opportunity to make a sarcastic remark, a mocking comment, especially when Harry was so visibly rattled.

After several minutes of silence, however, Malfoy spoke up, his voice unusually soft and measured. It sounded almost foreign coming from him, even when it shouldn’t. Not after what had happened in the room of memories. 

“Potter.”

Harry didn’t respond, his eyes fixed ahead.

“Potter, stop,” Malfoy said again, more firmly this time.

Harry halted but didn’t turn around. “What, Malfoy? What?” he snapped, his tone sharper than he intended.

Malfoy exhaled, and Harry could hear the effort it took for him to maintain his neutral tone.

“Look, I know you’re… upset,” Malfoy began, his words cautious and hesitating, almost awkward. “And I get it. Really, I do. But blaming yourself for what happened to your house-elf isn’t going to help. Least of all him.”

Harry stiffened, the words hitting him like a blow. He spun around to face Malfoy, his eyes blazing with anger.

“Oh, you get it , do you?” he spat. “You understand what it’s like to be responsible for someone else, to see them get hurt because of you? Don’t make me laugh, Malfoy.”

Malfoy flinched almost imperceptibly, but Harry was too caught up in his frustration to notice him flinching, his hands tightening into fists. He took a step closer, his voice rising.

“You don’t know the first thing about taking responsibility for anything. You’re just the same spoiled, self-serving git you’ve always been!”

Malfoy’s pale face remained guarded, almost vacant in its stillness, but there was a flicker of something in his silvery eyes—a shadow of hurt that was quickly masked behind a layer of ice. His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening as if locking his emotions firmly in place. A measured, shivering breath escaped him, his chest rising and falling in deliberate rhythm, the only indication of the tension simmering beneath the surface. His fingers were white as they were still curled around nothing before relaxing again, the faint pinkness of his skin returning. The calmness of his posture was deceptive, every inch of him poised as though bracing for an unseen impact.

“Believe it or not, Potter,” Malfoy said, his words quiet but pointed, “I do know what it feels like to blame yourself. To feel like everything that’s gone wrong is somehow your fault. I know it better than you think.”

Harry opened his mouth to retort but found himself frozen. There was a weight to Malfoy’s words that he hadn’t expected, an honesty that caught him off guard. He had never expected Malfoy to allow himself to be vulnerable; not when it hadn’t been forced out of him. But instead of acknowledging it, Harry’s defences flared.

“Well, forgive me if I don’t feel like taking life advice from the likes of you,” Harry said bitterly, turning away. “Let’s just focus on finding this damn core and fixing the house. That’s all that matters right now.”

Malfoy didn’t respond, but Harry felt the weight of his gaze lingering on him. If Malfoy had anything else to say, he swallowed it, his expression unreadable as he followed Harry deeper into the labyrinth.

Predictably, the house seemed to take delight in their discomfort, its corridors twisting and narrowing as though it were laughing, making fun of their advances. The air grew colder, and the flickering lights dimmed further, casting the hallways into near-total darkness. Potter lit his wand with a muttered Lumos , the pale light illuminating the strained lines of his face.

Draco followed a few paces behind, his usual grace subdued. For once, he didn’t feel like throwing snide comments or sarcastic observations to cover just how afraid and unprepared he was, leaving behind an unsettling quiet that allowed his fears to creep in unchecked. The depressing atmosphere of this house didn’t help—it only made his skin crawl, his self-preservation instincts screaming at him to leave, to Apparate far, far away from this cursed house and the man dragging him deeper into its madness. 

But he didn’t. Couldn’t really, he could feel the wards stopping him from doing so.

Instead, he let his gaze settle on Potter’s tense, wide shoulders, the way his hands twitched at his sides as if bracing for another disaster. Draco’s jaw tightened, his thoughts inevitably falling into familiar, uncomfortable territory. Honestly, he didn’t know why he’d even bothered trying to comfort Potter. It was absurd—Potter wouldn’t accept it, not from him. And he had known that. He could still see the flicker of disbelief in Potter’s face earlier, the way his eyes darted away as if rejecting the mere idea that Draco Malfoy might be capable of empathy. The idiot would never believe Draco to have good intentions, not even if his sanity depended on it. No, Potter had made up his mind about him long ago. He would always be seen as a caricature of cruelty and cowardice, the pure-blood prince whose spine crumbled under pressure. The evil villain to the golden hero.

The wrong sort. 

And maybe he was right. Maybe that was all he’d ever be, so Draco couldn’t blame him. Salazar knew he’d done little to prove otherwise over their teenage years. Every cutting remark, every sneer, every poor decision was a brick in the wall that Potter saw whenever he looked at him.

And yet…

He swallowed hard, his throat tight. 

Draco couldn’t stop himself from trying. It was pathetic, really. Somewhere deep inside, he had harbored the ridiculous hope that he could show Potter—even just for a moment—that he wasn’t just the villain in the story they’d been forced to share. That he could be something else. 

That, maybe…

Draco shook his head and scowled at the crumbling walls around them.

His efforts always seemed to fall flat, swallowed up by his need to mock, to use sarcastic comments and mocking humour as his armour. He glanced around the dim corridor, its warped floor groaning faintly as though recognising his inner turmoil. Maybe Potter was right to keep him at arm’s length. Maybe redemption wasn’t something someone like him could ever earn. The thought sent a familiar ache through his chest, an emptiness he’d grown adept at ignoring.

And yet here he was, walking into the mouth of the beast with the one person who, despite everything, never seemed to give up. If that wasn’t enough to remind Draco of how far apart they truly were, he didn’t know what would be.

Potter’s voice broke the silence, startling Draco out of his thoughts. “If Kreacher was right, the core has to be somewhere central. Some place the house’s magic can radiate out from.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Central, you say? Brilliant deduction, Potter. Shall we consult the non-existent map next?” That was the first thing that came to his mind. More scorn. 

He bit her venomous tongue and looked away, his scowl deepening.

“Certainly,” he said, hoping for neutrality in his agreement.

Harry shot him a glare over his shoulder.

Wrong.

“Do you have a better idea, Malfoy? Or are you just here to be an insufferable prat?”

Draco sneered faintly, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to steal your thunder. You’re doing such a fantastic job leading us to certain doom.”

So much for trying to be nice.

Potter gritted his teeth but didn’t rise to the bait, something that Draco was internally thankful for. He turned back to the corridor ahead, his wand casting long shadows on the crumbling walls. Draco followed a few steps behind Potter, his polished Oxfords scuffing faintly against the uneven floorboards. Every creak of the house seemed louder, more accusing, as if the place itself were judging him for even daring to try to be a better person.

He clenched his fists at his sides, his usual mask of indifference slipping for a second, his thoughts circling back to Potter’s words earlier.

It wasn’t as if Potter needed more reasons to hate him—he already had a lifetime’s worth. Draco had handed them over freely, a smirking antagonist in every chapter of their shared history. No matter what he did now, it would never be enough to rewrite that narrative. He’d tried, hadn’t he? Tried to offer something, anything resembling decency. But even now, Potter looked at him earlier with that same infuriating mix of disbelief and distrust, as though Draco’s concern was just another one of his schemes.

He’d seen that look before.

Draco’s gaze drifted to Potter’s back, tense and unyielding as he walked ahead. The idiot was so stubborn, so determined to carry the weight of the world alone. For all Potter’s heroics, he was maddeningly blind to the fact that he wasn’t the only one haunted by the past. Draco could feel the gnawing bitterness twist in his gut, his thoughts spiralling into the same dark refrain that had followed him for years: No matter what happened or what he did, he’d never be anything but the bad guy.

And yet, here he was, trudging through this cursed house alongside the one person who made him feel most like a failure. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Draco wasn’t deluded enough to think Potter needed him , not really. He was just… convenient. A tool to solve whatever mess his house had become. 

As expendable as the furniture it was so determined to destroy.

His steps faltered slightly as a shudder passed through the house, and he felt something whip at his calf, the house’s magic lashing out again like an angry parent, spanking his naughty child. Potter didn’t even glance back. Of course he didn’t. Why would he? Draco bit the inside of his cheek, fighting the urge to lash out—to say something sharp and cruel that might give him even a sliver of control in this ridiculous situation.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he kept walking, letting Potter lead him deeper into the madness. The house groaned ominously around them, its erratic magic setting his teeth on edge. For all his bluster, Draco didn’t know how to fix this any more than Potter did. He could feel time slipping away, each step bringing them closer to something neither of them was prepared to face.

And if they failed… Well, that would be just another failure for Draco Malfoy to add to the growing list.

Chapter Text

It was infuriating how the house seemed to take delight in their discomfort.

 The hallway they were walking on stretched endlessly before them, winding and looping as if the house itself couldn’t decide where it wanted them to go, but the inclination was now steep and difficult to traverse. Harry was annoyed to think that his first hiking experience had been inside his own damned house. And, as was the custom for Grimmauld now, the walls were warped, plaster cracked and crumbling to reveal jagged wooden beams that jutted out like ribs in some grotesque, half-rotted skeleton. The air was still damp and heavy, tinged with the faint metallic tang of old blood—from what or who , Harry didn’t even want to imagine—, and Harry’s wand felt uncomfortably warm in his hand. Still, he gripped it tighter, his knuckles white.

Malfoy was now walking ahead, his strides precise but wary, his wand arm stiff at his side, the tension in his movements betraying his outward composure. Harry couldn’t help but watch him with mild irritation, his own trainers crunching softly on the debris-strewn floor. He half-expected a biting remark about the state of the house—complaints about the dust, the peeling wallpaper, or the dim lighting that cast long, eerie shadows across the corridor. He was unnervingly quiet, his sharp features set in an expression of focused detachment, and the silence only heightened Harry’s unease, every creak of the house sounding louder in the stillness. His nerves pricked at the absence of Malfoy’s usual biting remarks, the quiet somehow worse than the snide commentary he’d become used to. In Harry’s mind, when Malfoy was quiet, it usually meant he was plotting something.

“You’d think your lot would’ve sprung for some bloody renovations in the last century,” Harry muttered under his breath, glancing warily at Malfoy, baiting him.

“If you’re implying I have any association with this disaster, Potter, kindly keep your assumptions to yourself. My aesthetic sensibilities would never tolerate this level of neglect.”

Harry rolled his eyes, refusing to let out the laugh that was growing in his chest. “Yeah, that’s the real tragedy here—the peeling wallpaper.”

The silence between them returned, thick and awkward as they pressed onwards. It was always awkward with Malfoy. The kind of silence that wasn’t just the absence of sound, but the absence of commonality; a weight, pressing down on Harry’s chest with the reminder of too much unsaid. Malfoy, still ahead of Harry, sidestepped a particularly dubious section of the floor with the practised agility of someone accustomed to navigating obstacles. Where exactly he got used to it, Harry didn’t know, but if his lithe thighs were anything to go by, the ferret was a usual hiker.

Surprised by his own thoughts, Harry scowled and looked away.

Hearing something crack behind him, Harry cast another glance over his shoulder, his gut twisting. The shadows seemed thicker here, like they were alive, shifting and curling at the edges of his vision. Half-expecting one of the Black family’s dour-faced ancestors to materialise and sneer at him, he quickened his pace. He hated this house. It wasn’t just dark magic or the suffocating sense of history packed into every crevice—it was the feeling that he didn’t belong, that the house preyed on his very thoughts. That it knew him, his regrets, his weaknesses. Like it was waiting to strike. If it weren’t for the memories of Sirius, he’d have sold it long ago. 

He shook off the thought. Paranoia wasn’t going to help.

“Stop lagging behind, Potter” Malfoy snapped over his shoulder, his voice cutting through the silence like a whip, startling Harry. “If you get eaten by a cursed staircase, I’m not explaining it to Granger.”

Harry rolled his eyes but said nothing, unwilling to give Malfoy the satisfaction of a retort. Instead, he forced his attention to the path ahead—or what passed for one. The hallway twisted unnaturally, its layout a mockery of logic. It dipped and rose without warning, curving as though it had been designed by a lunatic with a severe case of vertigo. The walls pulsed with an unsettling irregularity, narrowing sharply in some places only to expand into wide spaces in others. 

It felt alive in a way no building should. 

The heavy atmosphere pressed against Harry like an invisible weight, the air thick with the tang of old magic. His skin prickled with an almost electric sensitivity, every nerve attuned to the possibility of something lurking just out of sight. It was as if unseen fingers trailed over his arms and neck, leaving behind an itchy, unsettling awareness. Each step forward felt heavier than the last, the house seeming to feed on their discomfort. He shuddered, his breath hitching involuntarily, and used his free hand to scratch at his wand arm, the sensation crawling over his skin refusing to dissipate. 

And, at that moment, the doxies came.

They erupted from a jagged crack in the floor like an angry, buzzing tide, their black, glittering wings slicing through the air as they swarmed toward Harry and Malfoy with glinting claws. The tiny creatures were a blur of darkness, each one no larger than a fist but moving with unnatural speed and precision, their bodies shimmering like oil slicks, and eyes glowing an eerie, predatory red as they closed in.

The sound was deafening—a maddening hum that reverberated through the narrow hallway, amplifying the already suffocating sense of dread. Malfoy stumbled back, his wand snapping up instinctively, but the swarm was too fast, too overwhelming. One creature darted toward him, claws narrowly missing his face as he jerked to the side, his pale features twisted in a rare expression of genuine alarm.

“ Bloody hell! ” Harry shouted, stumbling back as the first wave of doxies lunged at his face.

Malfoy swore loudly, his usual composure vanishing quicker than a demiguise as he ducked and shrieked. “Potter, do something!”

“ Stupefy! ” Harry bellowed, sending a red jet of light into the swarm. Several doxies dropped to the ground, twitching, but the rest pressed on, their tiny fangs bared and dripping venom.

“Not enough!” Malfoy yelled, his wand flashing as he fired off precise, rapid spells that Harry couldn’t recognise. His movements were almost graceful, though his panicked expression ruined the effect. “Next time, you can lead!”

“Noted!” Harry shouted back, swatting away a particularly persistent doxy as it tangled in his hair. “Fucking…! Ow !!”

The fight against the devilish little fairies felt endless, their spells barely managing to keep the vicious swarm at bay. Around them, the hallway seemed to mock them, its flickering shadows elongating with each spell cast, as if the house itself delighted in their struggle and wanted to make it more difficult for them. Harry’s breath came in short, ragged bursts, his wand arm aching from constant casting. The acrid scent of singed wings and charred wood filled the air, mingling unpleasantly with the metallic tang of adrenaline cursing through their veins. At one point, his foot caught on a loose floorboard slick with dust, sending him sprawling forward. He barely avoided a face-first plunge into the jagged crack where the doxies had erupted from because a strong tug at his collar saved him from getting a new facial scar; jerking him upright just as one of the creatures buzzed past his head, its claws narrowly missing his ear.

“Try not to die, would you?” Malfoy snapped, his tone as sharp as the spell he cast to obliterate another doxy. His usually pristine hair was dishevelled, streaked with grime and doxy dust, and his immaculate clothes had suffered several unfortunate scorch marks.

Harry wanted to retort—something cutting about Malfoy’s concern sounding suspiciously genuine—but another wave of the swarm descended, and all he could do was mutter under his breath and fire off another hex. Then, finally, after what felt like an eternity, the swarm began to thin, the surviving doxies retreating into the shadows with an eerie, chittering hiss.

Harry bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “I hate this house.”

“Not as much as it hates you, it looks like,” Malfoy retorted, brushing himself off with exaggerated disgust. His tailored trousers were dotted with tiny tears, on top of the small burns.

Harry glared at him but didn’t bother responding. Instead, he pointed to the newly formed door at the end of the hallway. It had appeared as soon as the doxys had retreated, reminding Harry of Dudley’s video games for a second. He could almost hear the annoying turu-ruru-rurun sound in his head, as if it were some kind of achievement.

“Let’s just keep moving.”

Malfoy huffed, but seemed to agree with him, and they approached the door cautiously, wands at the ready. Harry pushed it open, bracing himself for whatever fresh horror Grimmauld Place had conjured this time. A blast of hot air struck him like a physical blow, forcing him to stumble back a step before he could steady himself. He swallowed hard and stepped inside, his breath catching as his eyes adjusted to the dim, flickering light.

The room was enormous, its cavernous walls stretching farther than seemed architecturally possible for Grimmauld—though Harry had long since stopped doubting magic’s knack for the surreal. It was hot, a heat so strong that it seemed to seep into Harry’s very marrow and melt it. Sagging shelves lined the walls, burdened with ominous artefacts that reeked of dark magic and thousands of old, heavy tomes. A faint greenish glow emanated from some of the objects, casting jagged, shifting shadows that danced across the room like imps in the night. An enchanted candelabra hovered near the centre, its flickering red flames sputtering as if struggling to stay alight(, as if the atmosphere was chilly, instead of the scorching heat that surrounded them. The light revealed more sinister details: dark spell books bound in cracked leather—and by Merlin, Harry prayed it was animal leather—, their spines spattered with long forgotten etched runes. Glass displays dotted the space, their contents grotesque and alarming—a shrivelled hand gripping a blackened wand; a necklace with dozens of glittering rubies pulsing faintly with dark energy; a dagger that floated and moved as if someone was twirling it, its blade shimmering and opalescent.

Harry stepped forward hesitantly, the air thick with a magic so dark and heavy that it clawed at his lungs like the talons of a phoenix. It wasn’t just hot—it felt suffocating, hostile, as though the room itself resented their intrusion. Harry felt he couldn’t breathe without choking, every breath was an effort as the magic clung to his throat like tar, and each inhalation like swallowing lumps of red-hot coal. He glanced over at Malfoy, who stood a few feet away, his pale face illuminated by the eerie light, making him look like a tragic ghost.

“You’re not bothered by this?” Harry asked, his voice rough and strained.

Malfoy’s lips twitched in a faint, humorless smirk.

“This is child’s play compared to my father’s collection,” his eyes flicked nervously toward a particularly grotesque artefact—a skull mounted on a pedestal, its hollow sockets glowing faintly red. “Though even he wouldn’t keep something as dark as that.”

Harry didn’t respond, his mind flinching at the thought of Malfoy growing up in a place like this. Moving his gaze away from the blonde, it caught on the shelves, where several of the objects looked disturbingly familiar. Memories surged unbidden—flashes of the war, of Death Eaters wielding cursed objects not unlike these, their laughter echoing in his mind as he watched curses tear through innocents. His stomach twisted.

“Potter,” Malfoy’s sharp voice cut through his thoughts. “Stop gawking. The exit isn’t going to find itself.”

Harry tore his gaze away from a cursed mirror that had drawn him in—its surface showed not his reflection, but something else he hadn’t been able to catch. He shuddered and turned to Malfoy. “If you’re so clever, why don’t you find it?”

Malfoy ignored him, already moving toward the far wall, where a massive door loomed. Its surface was carved with intricate serpentine designs that coiled and writhed unnaturally, almost as if alive. Malfoy paused, his hand hovering over the handle, and glanced back at Harry with a flicker of hesitation.

“This,” he said dryly, “is either our way out… or another disaster waiting to happen.”

Harry sighed, gripping his wand tighter. “Only one way to find out.”

In the end, it indeed ended up being their way out.

Of the cursed collection room, that is.

The air still felt thick, like a suffocating blanket that clung to Harry’s wet skin as he walked through what looked like an old laundry room. His body was now aching from the previous encounters, both physical and emotional. What time was it? He felt so tired already. How had it been less than a day since they’d been trapped in here, he had no idea. It felt like much longer had passed, and who knows, maybe it had. It certainly felt like it. His legs made out of lead, each step he took seemed to carry an additional weight, the dense magic of the house pressing against him, as if it were closing in, tightening like a noose. Beside him, Malfoy moved with that same perpetual air of nonchalance that he insisted on putting up; though Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that he too was on the edge, the fine threads of composure threatening to snap at any moment. They had already walked through countless rooms already, some dark and dreary, each one offering a glimpse into the dark and twisted past of the Black family, and other completely fine—for Grimmauld Place, at least.

It didn’t take them long to find their way out of the washing room, only to find themselves in yet another crumbling corridor, this one resembling a gallery hallway. It was like walking through a dilapidated museum, a collection of moments frozen in time. A reflection of grief, loss, and despair, woven into the very fabric of the house. Like the house itself had absorbed the sorrow of its occupants, the darkness of their hearts lingering in the very air they breathed. The tapestries that hung on the walls, though magnificent, seemed to bear the weight of sorrowful memories—each stitch a pledge to regret and loss. The Black family had been shaped by their tragedies, Harry thought, their very echoes forever haunting these halls. He could almost feel the presence of Sirius, his once fiery and defiant spirit now reduced to the cold remnants of the tragic tale of a man gone mad with isolation and grief. Sirius had fought against the very foundation of the Black family, breaking free from their expectations and the darkness that had consumed his bloodline. Yet, despite all his bravery and defiance, his heartbreak had never truly left him—even his final days were marred by betrayal and an untimely death. Harry could still picture the haunted look in Sirius's eyes during their last moments together, the weight of his family's magic bearing down on him even as he fought to protect those he loved.

And then there was Regulus. Harry had never met him, but the stories were impossible to ignore. Regulus Black, the younger brother, a prodigy who had been once devoted to the Dark Lord, who had turned away from his own choices, realising the true cost of his actions only too late. His decision to try to destroy the Horcrux in the locket had been an act of redemption, but it had come too late; and Regulus had paid the ultimate price, lost forever in the depths of a lake hidden away inside a cave, never to see the light again. Even in death, Regulus had never truly escaped. His sorrow, too, lingered here, trapped between the walls of this house, a reminder of the weight of choices that could never be undone; could never be enough.

Harry’s heart ached as he thought of them both—two brothers, bound by blood, torn apart by the very family they were born into and that swore to protect them. The house felt like a prison even now, not just for the living but for the dead as well, the Black family’s ghosts forever wandering, unable to find peace. 

They moved in silence down the hallway, their footsteps echoing off the cold wooden floor. A thin layer of dust dulled the gilded mountings of some of the tapestries, while cobwebs hung like ghostly shrouds in the corners. At the far end of the corridor, a door loomed, its dark wood unmarked and strangely untouched by the decay that pervaded the rest of the house. It felt deliberate, as if the house itself was leading them somewhere, urging them forward into the unknown.

And now, they found themselves in a room that felt different.

It was pristine, almost too pristine, the untouched furniture and polished surfaces standing in stark contrast to the rest of the house. It only took Harry a moment to realise that Kreacher must’ve kept the room, keeping it clean and ‘up to standard’ , even as the years went on with him alone in this ruin of a house. His heart hurt at the thought. The walls were adorned with photographs—faded images of a woman whose stern, beautiful face seemed out of place among the remnants of the house’s neglect. Harry’s eyes were immediately drawn to the figure in the pictures. The woman’s face was cold, proud, but her eyes told a different story. There was something in those eyes that Harry couldn’t place at first—something that pulled at his chest, something… haunted.

It took him a moment to realise who it was.

Walburga Black.

In her youth, she bore an uncanny resemblance to Sirius, her high cheekbones and sharp jawline strikingly familiar to Harry. It was more than just the structure of her face, though—it was the intensity in her gaze, the way her lips curved into a smirk that mirrored Sirius’s most arrogant expressions. The resemblance was so stark that it caught Harry off guard, making his heart constrict in his chest. For a fleeting moment, he could almost imagine Sirius standing there instead of her, full of life and rebellion, unburdened by the darkness that had clung to him for as long as Harry had known him. But the woman in the photographs lacked Sirius’s warmth, his irreverent charm and cheer; there was a coldness to her that unsettled Harry. The similarity was haunting, not comforting, as if it was a reminder of what Sirius might have become had he been wholly consumed by the weight of the Black family legacy. 

In one particular photo, she was standing tall, a sharp, authoritative figure, her gaze defiant and full of pride. In the next one, however, her expression had changed. She still stood tall, shoulders straight and posture rigid, except she now carried a baby in her arms. The difference in her expressions was subtle—her eyes a little duller, the corners of her mouth drawn down just slightly. As Harry moved around the room, he noticed that the photographs seemed to become more erratic, as if they were chronicling her fall into despair and bitterness. Her once-immaculate appearance was slowly unravelling, the photographs capturing the slow, steady decay of her mental state. Harry could almost feel the weight of her depression pressing down on him, making him bite his lip. There was an unease that settled in his stomach, a sickness that curled around his insides as he looked at the images of the woman who had given birth to someone he loved so dearly; the fading remnants of her life bitter and grey.

The once-proud matriarch of the Black family had become a hollow shell in her last years, her eyes empty, her face gaunt and tired. And this dark corner of the house had become a monument to her sorrow.

It was a sobering reminder that the house wasn’t just a home for the Blacks; it was a monument to pain. Every inch of this place seemed soaked in the bitterness of lives unlived, promises broken, and regrets that had no place to go but fester within the walls. And those very walls themselves seemed to radiate with the weight of Walburga’s despair, her sorrow lingering in every corner like grime.

Next to him, Malfoy had been quiet the entire time looking at his great-aunt, his gaze moving over the photographs with an expression Harry couldn’t quite read. But when he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost reverent.

“She didn’t just lose her sons and husband, did she?” Malfoy’s words were almost a whisper, as if speaking louder would disturb the delicate atmosphere of the room. “She lost herself, too.”

Harry didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t want to acknowledge the truth of Malfoy’s statement, the rawness of it. He didn’t want to think about how much he understood it. How much he knew the feeling of losing yourself, of becoming a shell of the person you once were, of being trapped in a place where there was no way out.

He didn’t want to think about how much a woman he had always hated for what she had done to Sirius mirrored the darkness in his own heart.

There was a long pause before Harry finally spoke, his voice rough with emotion he didn’t want to face.

“She was consumed by it,” Harry  muttered, his eyes still fixed on the images that seemed to follow him wherever he went. “Grief. Anger. Pride. A need for control. Bigotry. You can feel it all around,” he motioned to the room, the photographs of Walburga dancing all around them. “Her feelings are still alive in this house.”

Malfoy looked over at him, his face unreadable. “ For grief, and all in middle street the Queen, who rode by Lancelot, wailed and shrieked aloud, ‘This madness has come on us for our sins’ ,” he said, his voice soft and low, laced with an emotion that Harry couldn’t quite place.

What did that mean?

Harry looked away from Malfoy when the blonde turned to look at him, his grey eyes stormy, lost at sea.

“Let’s go. It’s not like we can help her,” he didn’t expect Malfoy to answer, and he didn’t. Yet none of them moved. There was nothing more to say. Instead, they both stood there, surrounded by the echoes of Walburga Black’s slow unravelling into lunacy, both aware of the omnipresent weight of the house’s pressing in on them, urging them forward. There was no sense of comfort here.

After what felt like an eternity but was actually no more than thirty seconds, Malfoy turned toward the door, his movement abrupt, as if he’d had enough of the room’s miserable atmosphere.

“We should keep moving,” he said, his voice quiet but resolute. “We’re not here to dwell on the past. We need to find your senile elf and the core.”

Harry nodded, grateful for the distraction, even if it was just a temporary reprieve. He didn’t want to linger any longer in Walburga’s sanctuary of sorrow. They both moved toward the door, but as Harry reached for the handle, he couldn’t help but glance back one last time at the photographs, at the woman who had been consumed by grief. And for a brief moment, he wondered if he, too, was on the edge of being consumed by the weight of his own madness.

With a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, Harry turned away and followed Malfoy out of the room, the door closing behind them with a finality that seemed to mark the end of something. But there was no time for reflection now.

Walking through the house as they had been doing, it was hard not to feel the weight of the Black family crushing them, the centuries of power and influence that hung like a shroud in the air. Harry glanced over at Malfoy, whose face was unreadable, though Harry could sense a faint tension in his posture. As they moved further down a narrow corridor that must’ve been used by human servants once upon a time, Harry couldn’t help but wonder what Malfoy thought of his Black family heritage. Did he still see them as a source of pride, a lineage to uphold, or were they simply an inescapable shadow clinging to him? The walls of the corridors they traversed through were almost always lined with portraits of his mean-faced ancestors, their eyes following him and Malfoy as they passed, rarely saying a word. He wondered if Malfoy ever felt trapped by their legacy, by the weight of expectations that came with a name so steeped in power and prejudice. Did he now despise them for the ideals they embodied, or was he, deep down, still tethered to them, unable to fully let go of who he had been raised to be?

Did he, too, cling to ghosts of the past?

Malfoy’s usual brazenness was momentarily absent, replaced by something quieter, something more reflective. Harry found himself wondering if Malfoy resented the Black family the same way he had once resented his own—The Dursley’s bigoted cruelty, the suffocating loneliness, the hatred and neglect he couldn’t seem to escape even in his adult years. The thought of the Malfoys being so similar to the Black family—believing the same blood supremacist bullshit, using the same methods to lord over their family members—must’ve been something Draco had had to reckon with. 

But Harry didn’t ask.

He wasn’t sure if Malfoy would answer, or if he even wanted to know the truth. After all,  even after everything they’d been through, it was still hard to read him. However, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that, for once , they were in the same fight. 

The next room they found themselves in around half an hour later felt… different. The air seemed heavier, if that was even possible, not with the suffocating sorrow of Walburga’s despair, but with something sharper, rawer. Newer. There was no escape from it—bitterness clung to every surface, desperation saturating the space as if the walls themselves bore the scars of anger, arguments, and unrelenting grief. It was as if the very room had absorbed years of tension, of moments that tore through it like a tempest. Harry immediately recognised it, and his heart lurched painfully, rising all the way to his throat, threatening to choke him with the force of his emotions. His chest ached, a hollow, gnawing ache that radiated outwards as he took in the faded bedspread, the clutter of books, and the photographs still scattered on the night stand.

It was the room Sirius had used during the war.

The room was decked out in Black, Victorian furniture but it remained unmistakably Sirius. The bed, barely made, was draped with a faded quilt, its once-rich colours dulled by time. A small desk sat in the corner, littered with scraps of parchment and a broken quill, while a battered pair of what looked to be leather boots was thrown carelessly under the chair. 

With a pang, Harry looked around. He had precious memories in this room. Of Sirius inviting him over to try his first sip of wine one night after dinner, before he’d had to return to Hogwarts. Of Sirius shifting into his animagus form to make Harry some company when the nightmares about Cedric hit him so hard he felt his heart bruise. Of telling Sirius about Cho, and his godfather’s absolute delight as he teased Harry for getting his first girlfriend. Of Sirius muttering angrily about being left behind when Harry was going back to school.

Even now, he could faintly smell his musky, overpriced antique cologne; tobacco, sandalwood and something distinctly Sirius—wild, defiant, and deeply lonely. 

It must be the intensity of it that brought tears to Harry’s eyes.

Even so, the room was a mess. The furniture had been scattered and overturned in some sort of violent outburst, and the remnants of Sirius’s belongings lay strewn across the floor, forgotten. Harry’s eyes were drawn to the crumpled pair of leather pants that lay discarded on the bed, as if thrown in urgency. He tried very hard not to remember the last night Sirius had been in this room, of why this place looked in so much disarray. But everything around him was nothing but a painful reminder of the man who had been a father figure to him, a man who had fought and suffered for so long just because he loved like no one else. Only to be consumed by the first embers of war.

There was a shattered mirror on the wall, its cracked surface reflecting a fractured image of the room—like a reflection of Sirius’s own fractured state during his time in this awful house. A prison disguised as a home. Harry’s chest tightened as he looked at the wreckage of the room, the remnants of Sirius’s anguish clear in every single corner. It felt too real, too raw. The air itself seemed charged with the residual magic of his godfather’s desolation, the pain of a man who had lived his life in hiding, never truly able to escape the ghosts of his past. He had tried to escape this necrotic place all his life, only to be made its prisoner twice over.

Malfoy, too, seemed affected by the room, though he hid it well behind his usual Malfoy mask of indifference. But Harry could see it in the stiff set of his shoulders, the way he moved through the room with a tense deliberation, unwilling to touch anything but with his pale hand hovering over Sirius’ things. Harry didn’t want him touching anything. Hell, he didn’t feel the right to touch anything himself. But he said nothing as Malfoy walked around, his silver eyes ravenous. For all his bravado, there was something in the way Malfoy held himself that betrayed hints of vulnerability Harry hadn’t noticed before.

It was all in his eyes. Those Black, grey eyes. So similar to Sirius’ and yet so different.

They stood in the room for a few moments, neither of them speaking. The brittle silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of their respective memories and histories. And for a moment, Harry closed his eyes and allowed himself one last moment to think of Sirius—his godfather, the man who had died trying to protect him, the man who had given him the one thing he had never truly had: a family.

It was Malfoy who broke the silence, his voice as detached as ever. “This place… it’s not just a house. It’s a graveyard.”

Harry nodded, his throat tight. “Yeah. A graveyard of memories.”

They didn’t speak again as they stood there, both hesitating on what to do, and Harry could feel his chest tightening more and more as the minutes passed, the raw emotions threatening to spill over. His breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, and his fingers trembled at his sides. The room felt like a coffin, the memories pressing down on him, suffocating, cloying dirt burying him alive. He had to get out—now. Harry's pulse thundered in his ears, a frantic drumbeat that drowned out everything else. The ghostly echoes of Sirius’s voice chased him like a spectre, its sound too sharp, too close. The memories were too loud—too much. Sirius’s laugh— I killed Sirius Black, I killed Sirius Black —, his frustration, his pain—they all swirled around him, suffocating, each fragment of memory a razor blade scraping at his insides. He could almost feel Sirius’s hand on his shoulder, the weight of the guilt, the guilt that wrapped around him like a hand against his throat. It was too much, too overwhelming. He couldn't breathe. He couldn’t think.

He had to get out of there; it didn’t matter where. He had to leave.

So, he ran.

The moment Harry bolted from Sirius’s room, he felt as if he was leaving Sirius behind in that crumbling tomb of a room. The door slammed shut behind him with a heavy thud , the sound reverberating like the earlier Bombarda in the dimly lit hallways. His trainers pounded against the uneven floorboards as he ran blindly through the endless maze of rooms and corridors, the suffocating air of Sirius’s room clinging to his lungs like toxic smoke. His chest heaved, but it wasn’t from the exertion—it was from the sheer pressure of it all. The memories. The grief. The guilt. They were coiled around his ribs, constricting like a snake that wouldn’t loosen its grip. 

Sirius was gone, and Harry hadn’t done enough to save him. Grimmauld Place felt like a temple  to that failure, each creaking floorboard whispering accusations he couldn’t ignore. The magic in the house felt alive, maliciously so, as though it were feeding on his raw emotions, amplifying them until they were unbearable.

“Potter!” Malfoy’s voice echoed from somewhere behind him, high and agitated. Of course, Malfoy was following him. Because, of course, he couldn’t even have a breakdown in peace.

Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t stop. His legs moved as if Imperiused to do so, his hands occasionally brushing the warped walls of the corridor for balance as he turned corner after corner, the flickering candlelight casting distorted shadows around him. The house shifted as he moved, twisting and bending itself into something that felt like a living, breathing obstacle course. One that was trying to trap him.

Or maybe it was trying to force him to confront everything he was running away from.

“Potter, stop running, for Circe’s sake!” Malfoy sounded out of breath, and there was something desperate in his tone, as though Harry’s emotional spiral was making him panic as well. “You’re making the bloody house worse!”

Harry ignored him. The pounding in his ears drowned out Malfoy’s voice. His heart was racing, his mind a blur of anger and sadness and that godforsaken helplessness that had been his constant companion since Sirius fell through the veil. He didn’t know where he was going—there was nowhere to go, really—but he couldn’t stop. Stopping meant thinking. Stopping meant feeling. And right now, that wasn’t an option.

Another door appeared ahead of him, to his left, its dark wood gleaming faintly in the dim light. Harry reached for it without hesitation, pushing it open and stumbling inside. The room was cold and dark, the air thick with an unsettling stillness. It looked like a drawing room—ornate furniture covered in dust sheets, a long-forgotten fireplace framed by a mantle filled with tarnished knick-knacks, and heavy curtains that were drawn tight against the windows. A single couch sat in the centre of the room, its upholstery torn and its stuffing spilling out like entrails. The silence was suffocating, pressing down on him like a physical weight.

Harry bent over, bracing his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. His lungs burned, his chest tight, but the whirlwind of emotions inside him was far worse. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind the raw ache of everything he’d been trying to suppress. It was too much. Everything was too much. 

He heard the door creak open behind him, and Malfoy’s urgent voice cut through the silence like a gunshot.

“Do you ever stop running?” Malfoy snapped, his tone dripping with ire. “Honestly! Are you trying to get yourself killed? Because I’ve got to tell you, Potter, it’s starting to feel like that’s your life’s mission.”

Harry straightened up, wiping a hand across his sweaty forehead as he turned to glare at Malfoy. 

“Bloody well fuck off, Malfoy!”

Malfoy finally fully stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with an air of finality. His pale face was flushed, his platinum hair even more dishevelled after the chase. “Oh, excuse me for wo— for not wanting to be left alone in this murder house,” he drawled, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re the one who keeps insisting we need to stick together, remember?”

Harry turned towards him with a quick movement, his hands trembling as they itched to reach for his wand. Glaring at him, he said, “Stop following me, Malfoy. Just leave me alone.”

“Oh, sure, because that’ll work out brilliantly for you,” Malfoy shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “You’re stomping around this cursed house like an angry, headless hippogriff, and now we’re both going to die in here because you can’t regulate your emotions.”

Harry’s fists clenched tighter, he could feel his uneven nails digging into the palm of his hand, his heart still pounding. “I didn’t ask you to follow me!”

“No,” Malfoy retorted, a single droplet of sweat travelled from behind Malfoy’s right ear and down the valley of his quivering throat, “but someone has to make sure you don’t do something monumentally stupid.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Harry said, his voice low but trembling with barely-contained anger. He straightened, his green eyes blazing as he looked at Malfoy. “Everything, everything—it’s always your family’s fault. Your family is cursed! Tainted! Everything they touch turns to rot! Just like you .”

Malfoy flinched, his expression stricken, as if Harry had slapped him. For a second, he was still, his mouth gaping like a fish. But then, his expression darkened, grey eyes narrowing. 

“Pardon me?” he said, his voice dangerously soft, a sharp contrast to Harry’s boiling rage.

“You heard me,” Harry snapped, his emotions spilling over in a torrent. “Sirius was never happy here because of you . Your family. Your lot poisoned this place, made it a prison for him, caused it to rot. He couldn’t escape it, no matter how far he ran, just like he couldn’t escape his own bloody name. And you—you’re just as bad. Your family’s curse follows you wherever you go.”

“Don’t you dare talk about my family like that,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “You think you’re the only one carrying the weight of the past, Potter? Newsflash: you don’t have a monopoly on guilt.”

“Oh, really?” Harry spat, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “You think I’ve forgotten? Katie. Ron. Dumbledore. Sixth year. You let the Death Eaters into the school. You tried to kill him. And don’t you dare say it wasn’t your choice, because we both know you still went through with it! You’re no victim, Malfoy. You’re just a coward.”

The words hit their mark, and Harry could see the way Malfoy flinched, his carefully constructed mask cracking. The blonde’s face was pale, his eyes looked like liquid silver and threatening to spill out like droplets of mercury. For a moment, Harry thought he might have gone too far. But then Malfoy’s eyes flashed with something raw and unfiltered—something that made Harry’s stomach twist uncomfortably in its intensity.

“You think you’re so bloody righteous, don’t you?” Malfoy snarled, stepping closer, his voice rising. “You think you’ve got the moral high ground because you are Saint Potter, the Chosen One, the golden boy of the wizarding world. But you’re not so innocent, are you?”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Sixth year,” Malfoy said, his voice trembling now with a mix of anger and something rawer, something vulnerable. “The bathroom. Sectumsempra. You nearly killed me, Potter. You cut me open . I was bleeding out on the floor of that bathroom, and all you got was a slap on the wrist. Do you even remember? Or did you forget because it was me you almost killed?”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat, the memory flashing in his mind unbidden: the way Malfoy had crumpled to the floor like a puppet without its strings, paling as blood poured from the gashes Harry had inflicted. He remembered the horror he’d felt at that moment, the realisation of what he’d done, of seeing the blood on his hands, while Malfoy bled out in front of him.

He’d tried to bury it, to forget it—to make himself believe it had been the righteous thing to do, but Malfoy’s words dragged it back into the light.

Malfoy’s voice broke as he continued, the sound of it frail and small, his hands trembling at his sides. “Three days later, you were parading around with the Weaselette on your arm, a huge smile on your face after the Quidditch win… while I was still bleeding in the Hospital Wing. Do you know what it’s like to wake up every morning and see your scars staring back at me in the mirror? Do you? And you—you…”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but the words died in his throat. He wanted to defend himself, to say that Malfoy had been about to cast the Cruciatus curse at him, that he’d been protecting himself. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t that simple. The guilt he’d carried for years twisted in his chest, smothering him.

“You almost killed me, Potter,” Malfoy said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And you didn’t even care.”

“That’s not true,” Harry said, his voice hoarse, but it felt weak even to his own ears. The image of Malfoy, pale and bleeding on the bathroom floor, unable to leave his mind, and the nausea that his guilt brought forward was almost as painful. “I—Malfoy, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t you dare say you didn’t mean it, spells don’t work if you don’t mean them” Malfoy snapped. “It doesn’t change the fact that you did it. And you moved on like it didn’t even matter. Like I didn’t even matter.”

Harry’s defences crumbled under the weight of Malfoy’s words, of his pain, now so transparent and raw that even Harry could see it dancing in those mercurial eyes of his. He had never thought about it that way—not really. He had always justified his actions by telling himself that Malfoy had almost used an Unforgivable Curse on him; that he hadn’t known the curse. But now, standing here, hearing the tremor in Malfoy’s voice, he couldn’t deny the truth.

He had wanted to hurt Malfoy, that much was true. For enemies , it had said. And Malfoy had been just that, an enemy he had to stop. Not a child in over his head, not someone to help.

Neither moved, and the silence that followed was heavy. It was the kind of silence that made you stop in your tracks in the middle of the night. It felt unnatural, poignant.

But then Malfoy’s voice cut through the quiet, low and trembling with emotion. 

“You think you’re the only one who’s suffered, Potter? You think you’re the only one who’s lost people? You’re not. And you’re not the only one who’s been rejected, either.”

Harry frowned, confused. “What are you talking about?”

Malfoy’s gaze met his, and once again, Harry saw something fragile in those mercurial eyes of his—something so ephemerous it might slip from his fingers if he dared linger.

“After the war,” Malfoy said quietly, “I tried to thank you. At the Ministry, after my trial. I—I wanted to apologise. To make amends. I even offered you my hand, but you… you looked at me like I was nothing but scum. Like I didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as you, much less freedom.”

The silence that followed Draco's words was suffocating, as if the house itself were holding its breath, waiting for the next blow to land. The distant creaks and groans of Grimmauld Place seemed to amplify, the dark magic of the building rising and making him shudder. The walls wept in streaks, dark water dripping down in uneven rivulets, and the air grew thick and damp, carrying the faint, acrid scent of mildew and old grief.

Harry’s stomach dropped as a memory resurfaced. He could still see it—the cold, sterile corridor of the Ministry, Malfoy’s pale hand extended toward him, the way his dry lips had pressed together in a fragile attempt at courage. 

The image  slammed into Harry with the force of a Bludger, and for a moment, he was standing in the corridor outside of Courtroom Ten in Level Ten of the Ministry of Magic; and staring down at Malfoy, still fresh from his trial. The air had felt thick with tension that day—heavy with the fresh grief and violence of the war. He had watched Malfoy then, eyes scanning over the wreckage of a young man who had once been the epitome of arrogance and entitlement. But back then, Malfoy had looked nothing like that.

The sight of him now haunted Harry, though at the time he had found it righteous. Malfoy had been reduced to a shell of the person he'd been before the war. The man in front of Harry in that corridor wasn’t the same confident, smooth-talking Draco Malfoy from Hogwarts. He had been a shadow of himself—ill, malnourished, and broken.

Malfoy’s gaunt face is a testament to months of neglect. His skin clings to his bones like wet paper, pale and waxy, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones that have lost all semblance of softness. His once-pointed chin juts awkwardly, crooked where it hadn’t been before, and framed by limp, matted hair hanging in greasy clumps, streaked with filth and the faint coppery stain of blood—his own? Malfoy’s hollow eyes, sunken deep into his skull, carry a haunted emptiness, as though every ounce of hope has been siphoned away by the Dementors, leaving behind only shadows of fear and despair. The clothes he is wearing—if they can even be called clothes—are torn and hanging in tatters, their threads frayed and filthy, clinging like ghosts of the wealth and arrogance he once embodied. His frame is skeletal, ribs pushing against the thin fabric, his movements stiff and laboured, as if every step carries the weight of a thousand lashes.

Harry has seen cruelty in the war, has witnessed horrors he can’t shake even in the quiet of his nightmares, but watching Malfoy being dragged into the Ministry’s unyielding, antiseptic corridors stirs something unnameable in him; something he doesn’t want to look too closely at. The corridor itself is stark and unwelcoming, all steel and dark stone, lit with a cold, almost artificial brightness that turns Malfoy’s pale skin a sickly shade of grey. The air reeks of bureaucracy and judgement, sharp and metallic, tinged with the sour tang of sweat from the onlookers who have come to see the last Malfoy meet his reckoning. Shackles bind his wrists, heavy and rusted, cutting into his irritated skin with every movement, their clinking echoing like a death knell through the cavernous hall. He shuffles forward, his back bowed, his head down—whether out of shame, exhaustion, or the crushing inevitability of what awaits him, Harry can’t tell. He can’t help thinking that the proud boy who once strutted through the halls of Hogwarts is nowhere to be found.

For a moment, Harry wonders what it must be like for Malfoy to live under the shadow of his father’s choices, to carry the weight of a name that has become synonymous with cruelty and death. Has he fought against it, even in the privacy of his own mind, or has he simply surrendered to it, too weak to resist the tide? The thought doesn’t spark sympathy in Harry—right now, it only fuels his resentment. Malfoy has been a cog in the machine, another piece of the machinery that ripped apart Harry’s world.

The trial is over now, after hours of heated arguments and testimonies, the Ministry has delivered its verdict. Malfoy is to walk free, but only just. His release is shackled with conditions that ensure he will remain under their thumb for the next decade. For the first four years, his magic is to be severely restricted, barely more than a Squib, with every spell monitored for even the faintest hint of darkness. This restriction is to be lifted after four years, but with the understanding that if Malfoy ever produced a dark spell again, he was to be sent directly to Azkaban. On top of that, his movements will be tracked, his life micromanaged by the Ministry, with curfews and surveillance ensuring he can never stray too far from the grip of justice. It isn’t redemption they offer him—it’s punishment disguised as mercy, a leash rather than a noose.

And yet, it’s freedom, a bitter mockery of the justice Harry feels he deserves. 

When the chains are finally removed outside the courtroom, Malfoy stands still for a moment, as if he can’t quite believe it, as if the absence of the weight is something he can’t quite comprehend; Harry wonders if months in Azkaban will do that to you. His eyes lock onto his mother almost immediately, and he makes his way toward her like a starving man. She is, of course, waiting for him, her proud posture now reduced to something fragile as though the weight of her family’s trials had crushed her spirit, her once-imposing figure dwarfed by the son she embraces. Her arms wrap around him as though she can shield him from the world, her small frame trembling as she clings to him. Malfoy’s face, so hollow and empty, softens in her embrace, his bony arms wrapping around her as though she is the only solid thing in a world that has crumbled around him.

Harry’s stomach churns as he watches the exchange from the other side of the corridor. It isn’t fair. Malfoy doesn’t deserve that embrace, doesn’t deserve the comfort of a mother’s love when so many have been robbed of it by people like him. Even though Harry had testified for the blonde—and his mother, but not his father—, even though he had given the evidence that had ultimately secured his release, Harry still isn’t able to let go of the anguish that simmers inside him. His mind is still too clouded with grief—too consumed with everything he had lived through and died for, to look at the situation clearly. In his mind, he isn’t ready to forgive, wasn’t ready to see Malfoy as anything but the enemy he had fought so hard against. Rage bubbles up in his chest, hot and suffocating, burning against the grief that has already consumed so much of him.

Malfoy doesn’t deserve this freedom. He doesn’t deserve anything.

“Potter,” comes Malfoy’s voice, weak and broken, cracking like brittle glass. He steps toward Harry, his movements hesitant, uncertain and heavy, his shoulders curling inward as if bracing for a blow. “I—” he falters, his hand twitching at his side before he stretches it out, trembling, towards Harry. His pale fingers hover in the air, hesitant, his eyes glistening with something Harry can’t—or won’t—name.

Harry stares at him, his hands curling into fists. The sight of Malfoy, broken and desperate, should satisfy him, should feel like justice served, but it doesn’t. It only makes the anger worse, an ugly, twisting thing in his gut. Malfoy’s hand shakes, his breath hitching, as if he can feel the weight of Harry’s silent judgement bearing down on him.

“I didn’t do it for you, Malfoy,” Harry spits finally, his voice like shards of ice. The words slice through the air between them, cold and unforgiving. “I did it to pay my debt to your mother. You deserved to rot in Azkaban with your father.”

Malfoy flinches as though struck, his hand dropping to his side. His face, more open than Harry has ever seen it, crumples, as if the words had cut deep enough to expose his bleeding heart. His shoulders sag, his eyes becoming watery, like pools of quicksilver. The defeat in his posture is almost unbearable to look at, a proud dragon finally being struck from the sky, but Harry doesn’t care. He turns and walks away, leaving Malfoy standing there, his shadow stretching long and thin against the cold, unforgiving light of the corridor.

The memory started to fade, its edges blurring as Harry’s breath hitched in his chest, and he came back to the present. The room felt like suffocating, just how the Ministry corridor had felt back then. His pulse was racing, his heart thundering against his ribcage. Malfoy’s words were still echoing in his mind, the sense of regret in his voice sinking into Harry’s thoughts. But no matter how much he tried to push it down, the lingering tension between them felt unbearable.

Harry exhaled sharply, trying to push the memories back into the dark recesses of his mind. He could still hear the cold edge in his own voice as he told Malfoy off, the dismissiveness of his tone that had cut through whatever shred of hope Malfoy had managed to muster. After the war, he had been so angry, so consumed by his own grief and bitterness, that he hadn’t understood the vulnerability in Malfoy’s gesture. He hadn’t seen the boy who was trying to make things right, he had just seen the boy who had been a Death Eater. And knowing what he did now about how much Malfoy had suffered for his choices, choices that had been made trying to save his parents…

It had felt justified at the time, hadn’t it? After everything they’d been through—everything Draco had done—why should Harry forgive him so easily?

But now… now it felt cruel. Needlessly cruel. He had barely thought about that day in years, had pushed it aside along with many other moments from the war and its aftermath. He hadn’t spared a thought for Malfoy beyond his own annoyance at the man. Harry had been angry, and so self-involved that he hadn’t even tried to see the person Malfoy might have been trying to become.

And now, that knowledge made his stomach churn with shame.

“Malfoy, I…” Harry started, his voice low and hoarse, but Malfoy cut him off sharply.

“Don’t,” Malfoy snapped, his voice trembling with barely contained emotion. 

Harry flinched, the rawness in Malfoy’s voice cutting through him like his very own Sectumsempra . He opened his mouth to argue, to say something— anything —to make it right, but Malfoy wasn’t finished.

“Do you have any idea how much it took for me to approach you that day?” Malfoy demanded, his grey eyes blazing with anger and something far more brittle, something that threatened to dissolve in his tears. His magic crackled in the air around him, the faint scent of it mixing with the dampness. “I spent months, months , in that hellish cell trying to figure out what to say to you. I wrote letters— dozens of them—trying to put it all into words, trying to make sense of everything that had happened. Trying to understand why I was wrong, how to make it better. And then, when I was finally free and ready to face you, to… to extend some kind of olive branch, you looked at me like I was scum. Like I shouldn’t even exist. ”

Harry’s chest tightened, the force of Malfoy’s words settling heavily on his shoulders. He wanted to protest, to argue that it hadn’t been like that, but his memory betrayed him. Because it had been like that. He had looked at Malfoy as though he were insignificant, as though his intention to apologise didn’t matter. And, hadn’t he died in a war trying to stop people from looking at others like he had looked at Malfoy?

“I was trying to be better,” Malfoy continued, his voice breaking slightly. “I wanted to—Fuck, I don’t even know what I wanted. I just… I wanted to change. To prove that I wasn’t the same person I was at Hogwarts, or during the war. But you—” His voice faltered, and he looked away, his jaw tightening as he tried to hold himself together. “You made it very clear that I didn’t deserve that chance.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and sharp, like shards of broken glass. Harry stared at Draco, his heart pounding in his chest, and for the first time, he truly saw him—not as the boy who had tormented him at school, not as the Death Eater who had almost killed Dumbledore, but as a man who had been just as broken by the war as he had. A man who had tried, in his own way, to make amends, and who had been denied the chance.

“Malfoy,” Harry said again, his voice quieter this time. “I’m—”

“If you say you’re sorry, I swear to Morgana, I’ll hex you,” Draco interrupted, his voice sharp, but it trembled like a newborn fawn. His hands were tightly wrapped around himself, a mockery of a hug, self-soothing in its loneliness, and his magic sparked faintly in the air around him, uncontrolled and volatile.

Harry closed his mouth, swallowing the apology that had been on the tip of his tongue once more. He didn’t know what else to say, didn’t know how to fix this. Could it even be fixed? The silence stretched between them for the hundred time today, heavy and constricting, and Harry felt the tendrils of it wrap around him like a vice, making it hard to breathe.

“I was a coward,” Harry admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper. The words felt like they were being dragged out of him, raw and painful. “I was… so angry, so broken after the war. At you, at myself, at everyone. I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I didn’t. I just—” He gestured vaguely, struggling to find the right words. “I shut everything out. And when you came to me that day, I didn’t… I couldn’t see it for what it was. I just saw the person you used to be, and I… I didn’t want to deal with it.”

Malfoy’s eyes flicked to him, the anger and the hurt in them dimming slightly, though his expression remained guarded. “And now?” he asked, his voice quiet but laced with bitterness. “What do you see now, Potter?”

Harry hesitated, the question catching him off guard. What did he see? He saw the same sharp cheekbones, the same piercing silver eyes, the same arrogance and obnoxiousness that had defined Draco Malfoy for years. But he also saw the cracks—the fragility, the pain, the effort it had taken for Malfoy to stand here and bare his soul.

If he was very honest, he didn’t know who this Draco Malfoy was.

“I see someone who deserved better,” Harry said finally, the words tumbling out before he could second-guess them. “I see someone who tried, who keeps trying. And someone I… I should’ve tried to understand.”

Malfoy’s lips parted slightly, his expression flickering with something that might have been surprise before he schooled it into feigned detached indifference. He kept his arms around himself, looking away again, but not before Harry caught the faint tremor in his hands, how he kept biting at his bottom lip. The air between them was no longer charged with anger, but with something far more difficult to define. It felt like hurt. So much hurt.

How much more were they meant to harm each other before they learnt to leave each other alone? 

Harry rubbed his face with his hands, the skin over his cheekbones rough from the scrape of stubble. He felt raw—exposed in a way that made him want to bolt again. But Malfoy was still there, and Harry wasn’t sure if he could run away from him a second time, especially after all the things they’d said. 

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

It must’ve been past midnight already.

The flickering light of a single candle cast long, wavering shadows across the walls, distorting the patterns of the faded wallpaper. Even in the dancing light of the candle, the room had a stillness that felt almost unsettling, the air heavy with the weight of words both said and unsaid. The faint scent of dust and aged wood filled their lungs as they each attempted, and failed, to find peace in their makeshift sleeping arrangements. Amidst the stifling silence between them, Grimmauld Place had apparently noticed their exhaustion and had made sure to provide the bare minimum. Away with the drawing room and in with the… well, with the random, rickety bedroom—no extra blankets, no pillows beyond the ones on the one double bed they both studiously avoided looking at. Neither of them had even glanced at it when it appeared. It might as well have been invisible, as far as they were concerned. 

And there was one bed. Harry rolled his eyes. For a second, he wondered if the bloody house had been reading those old, gaudy romantic novels that some Black member had hidden amidst the “ 13th Century Remedies for Mice, Lice and Ticks” section near the back of the Black library.

Not that he had read the books! He had just stumbled into them while organising the bloody library. 

Harry decided to sit in a stiff lounge chair, arms folded tightly across his chest, one leg dangling off the edge as he tried to ignore the crick forming in his neck. Every creak of the floorboards, every groan of the house settling in the night, made his nerves prickle. His wand was tucked into the waistband of his denim trousers, and he found himself touching it occasionally, as though to reassure himself it was still there. His mind raced, flipping restlessly between the argument with Malfoy, Sirius’s room, and the ever-present spectre of his regrets. No matter how much he tried to focus on the cracked ceiling above him, his thoughts kept circling back to Malfoy. The blonde was curled awkwardly on the two-seater sofa on the other side of the room, one arm slung over his eyes as if to block out everything around him. It was way too small for him, his long legs hung over the armrest, his body contorted in a way that made Harry wince just looking at it, not that his own position was any better. 

Malfoy had been silent for so long that Harry wondered if he’d finally managed to fall asleep, but then he shifted, letting out a frustrated huff that echoed in the quiet room. The shared silence between them wasn’t comfortable. It was thick and tense, like the aftermath of a storm where the air was still charged, waiting for something—anything—to break the stand-off. They both instinctively knew the house had forced them into this situation, its uncanny awareness of their mutual exhaustion and unease leaving them no choice but to stay in the same room. But that didn’t make it any easier. If anything, it made it worse.

Harry’s stomach churned. He wanted to say something, to break the silence, but every possible word felt inadequate. Malfoy had made it clear that he wouldn’t appreciate any kind of apology, no matter how deserved it was, and casual conversation felt laughably out of place. So instead, Harry stared at the ceiling and tried to will himself into some semblance of calm.

Harry shifted in the lounge chair, trying to make himself comfortable, but the chair was clearly not designed for sleeping. The armrests dug into his sides whenever he tried to lean back, and the uneven springs creaked loudly with every movement. He exhaled through his nose, his eyes going back to the cracked ceiling above him. His body ached—not just from the chair, but from the absolute shitstorm of a day they’ve just had. His mind refused to quiet, replaying their argument on an endless loop.

The words they had hurled at each other felt like phantom bruises, lingering and sore. He wasn’t sure which stung more—Malfoy’s accusations or his own. There was a bitter truth in both, and it made Harry feel raw, as though the walls he’d spent years building around himself had been ripped away in mere minutes. He hated how exposed he felt, and he hated even more that Malfoy was the one who had done it. 

He faced the wall, his back rigid, his breaths slow and measured. But he wasn’t asleep—Harry knew that much. He could tell by the way Malfoy shifted occasionally, turning onto his back and letting his arm drop to his side, and then back to laying on his back. His sharp profile was illuminated by the faint glow of the candle, and Harry found his gaze drifting there despite himself. Malfoy’s face was drawn, his features tense even in the supposed stillness of the moment, and Harry wished it detracted from his beauty. He looked as worn out as Harry felt, and for a fleeting second, Harry wondered what was going on in his head. Was he replaying the argument too? Was he regretting the things he’d said, or was he holding onto his anger like a lifeline?

Dinner had been strange. Sad, little cucumber sandwiches and pumpkin juice were manageable enough, though neither of them had touched the juice after the first sip—and Merlin was it strange to discover that neither of them liked the stuff. But it was the sticky tarte Tatin that lingered in Harry’s mind, but not for any sane reason. He had watched, baffled, as Draco had taken a bite and his entire expression softened, his eyes brightening and his cheeks flushing—just for a moment, before he had schooled his features back into neutrality. Malfoy had wordlessly pushed the plate toward Harry, as though offering him a piece of something precious, and Harry, though hesitant, had taken it. The taste was unfamiliar but absolutely delicious, the sweetness of the pear balanced by the warm spiciness of the ginger. Sure, it was no treacle tart, but, for a brief moment, they had shared something unspoken, an exchange that felt almost… human.

But now, the silence stretched between them like a barrier neither of them knew how to cross.

Harry sighed quietly, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

“What is?” came Malfoy’s voice, sharp and low. He didn’t move, still facing the wall, but his tone carried the faintest edge of irritation.

“This,” Harry said, gesturing vaguely around the room, even though Draco couldn’t see him. “All of it. The house, us being here, the… the bed we’re both pretending isn’t there, the fact that I’m squashed in this bloody chair when there’s a perfectly good alternative right in front of us.”

Malfoy finally shifted, turning his head slightly to glance over his shoulder. His expression was unreadable in the dim light, but Harry could see the faint arch of his eyebrow. 

“You want me to share a bed with you, Potter?” His tone was mocking, but it lacked the usual bite. “How forward, men usually offer me dinner first.”

Harry rolled his eyes, though the comment still managed to send a flicker of heat up his neck and ears. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Do I?” Malfoy said, his voice cheeky and softer now, almost teasing. He turned back toward the wall, but Harry could see the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips. “Because it sounded a lot like you were propositioning me, you deviant.”

“Malfoy,” Harry groaned, letting his head fall back against the chair. “You’re ridiculous.”

Malfoy didn’t respond, but Harry could hear the faint huff of amusement that escaped him. The silence returned, but it felt… softer. Harry shifted again, trying to ease the ache in his back, but the chair seemed to protest louder with every movement.

After a moment, Malfoy spoke again, his voice quieter this time. “You’re not going to sleep like that.”

Harry looked over at him, surprised. Malfoy still had his back to him, but there was something in his tone that made Harry pause. It wasn’t quite concern, but it wasn’t derision, either. It was something in between, something hesitant and skittish, like a little mouse stealing a tiny piece of cheese in the dark.

“I’ll manage,” Harry said, though he didn’t sound particularly convincing.

Malfoy sighed, the sound worn-out and resigned. “Potter, if you insist on martyring yourself over a chair, at least do it somewhere else. That creaking won’t let me sleep either.”

Harry stared at him, baffled. “You say you’re trying to sleep, but you’re lecturing me instead?”

Malfoy shifted again, rolling onto his back so he could glare at Harry properly. In the faint light from the hallway, his pale features were smooth, like sculpted marble, his expression exasperated. “I’m not lecturing you. I’m suggesting, for the sake of my own sanity and your poor back, that you stop making that infernal racket and do something practical. Like using the bed.”

Harry snorted. “What, and leave you to that sofa?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. I’ve slept on worse.”

Harry hesitated, torn between the instinct to argue and the curiosity of inquiring further, but the undeniable ache in his back decided for him. The bed did look more comfortable than the chair—or the sofa, for that matter. But the thought of actually using it felt… strange. Like admitting defeat. Or worse, inviting something he wasn’t sure he was ready for.

“Fine,” Harry said eventually, pushing himself up from the chair with a groan. “But only because I’m tired of listening to you complain.”

Draco’s lips twitched, but he said nothing as Harry crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. It creaked slightly under his weight, but it was sturdy enough. He leaned back cautiously, his body tense, as though expecting the house to protest. When nothing happened, he let out a slow breath and allowed himself to relax—just a little.

Draco settled back onto the sofa, his movements slower now, less restless.

The quiet between them stretched through the night, punctuated only by the occasional groan from either of them shifting in their sleep. Harry lay on his back on the double bed, the mattress surprisingly soft beneath him, staring at the darkened ceiling. His mind spun relentlessly, replaying the day’s events, each memory as sharp and vivid as the moment it had happened. He glanced at Malfoy, whose figure was a pale outline curled on the small sofa. His back was to Harry still, his breaths soft but uneven—Harry could tell he wasn’t asleep. He doubted either of them would find much rest tonight. The brunt of their argument still hung between them, unresolved despite their earlier banter, festering like an old wound reopened and left untreated.

Harry exhaled through his nose, frustrated at his own inability to let go of it. Malfoy’s words had cut him deeply, exposing parts of himself he hadn’t wanted to think about, let alone confront. And yet, it wasn’t just the anger that lingered. There was something else, something uncomfortable and unfamiliar, twisting in his chest whenever he thought about the raw honesty in Malfoy’s voice. His very own heartbreak.

Across the room, Malfoy shifted again, letting out a soft sigh. His silhouette was rigid, his body still too tall for the sofa, his legs awkwardly bent. Harry frowned, the sight nagging at him. He wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much—Malfoy had insisted on taking the sofa, after all—but the longer he lay there, the harder it was to ignore.

“Malfoy,” Harry said quietly, his voice cutting through the stillness.

There was a long pause before Malfoy responded, his voice low and slightly hoarse. “What now, Potter?”

Harry hesitated, second-guessing himself, but the words spilled out anyway. “You’re never going to sleep like that.”

Malfoy let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Brilliant observation, as usual.”

Harry propped himself up on one elbow, his brow furrowing. “I’m serious. That thing looks like it’s about to fall apart, and you’re too tall for it.”

“Your concern is touching,” Malfoy drawled, though the usual bite in his tone was absent. “But, in the wise words of Ms. Gloria Gaynor, I’ll survive.”

Harry blinked owlishly at the Muggle reference, perplexed at Malfoy’s casual way of dropping it on Harry, as if he hadn’t repudiated even the notion of denims during their school years. Shaking his head, he sighed, running a hand through his fluffed up hair. He didn’t know why he cared so much, anyways, but he just couldn’t shake the image of Malfoy, curled up and uncomfortable, trying to make himself smaller. It was so unlike the Draco Malfoy he remembered—arrogant, self-assured, larger than life—that it unsettled him.

“Just come to the bloody bed,” Harry said finally, the words sounding awkward even to his own ears. “It’s big enough for both of us.”

Malfoy turned his head slightly, just enough for Harry to catch the faint glint of his eyes in the darkness. “Offering to share again, Potter? I’m beginning to think you are after my innocence.”

Harry rolled his eyes, though his cheeks burned at Malfoy’s repeated insinuations. “Don’t make it weird, Malfoy. It’s just a bed. And I’m not about to let you complain about being sore tomorrow.”

Malfoy made a little choked sound, but didn’t respond immediately, and Harry could feel him watching, as though trying to gauge his sincerity. He remained on the sofa, arms crossed defensively, his back as straight as the sagging piece of furniture allowed. The sofa creaked ominously under his weight, the sound drawing Harry’s gaze to the precarious angle of its legs. The silence stretched on, charged and uncomfortable, broken only by the soft rustling of Harry shifting on the bed. Malfoy’s refusal to move was as resolute as it was absurd. His body language screamed defiance, as if conceding to Harry’s suggestion would be a greater defeat than enduring the night’s discomfort in that rickety thing.

Then, without warning, the inevitable happened.

A sharp crack rang out, splitting the quiet like a whip. The front legs of the sofa gave way with a violent jolt, sending Malfoy tumbling forward. His arms flailed briefly, scrambling to catch himself, but it was futile, and he crashed unceremoniously to the floor. He landed on the floor with a muffled thud , the sofa groaning ominously as the rest of it collapsed in slow motion behind him, its broken frame splayed out in a pathetic heap.

The thud reverberated through the room as Malfoy sprawled across the floor, his dignity shattered alongside the pathetic piece of furniture. He lay there for a moment, unmoving, as if willing the house to swallow him whole. Dust motes swirled in the air around him, the wreckage of the sofa a poignant statement to its refusal to cooperate with his stubbornness.

Harry froze for a beat, stunned by the sheer absurdity of the moment, before a laugh burst out of him—loud, unrestrained, and entirely unrepentant. “Well,” he managed between gasps, clutching his stomach, “looks like the house agrees with me.”

Malfoy groaned, his face pressed against the dusty floorboards. “I hate this bloody house,” he muttered venomously, his voice muffled by the floor.

“And it hates you back,” Harry quipped, his grin stretching wide as Malfoy lifted his head just enough to glare daggers at him. “Maybe it’s trying to teach you some humility,” Harry continued, still grinning and thorougly amused.

Malfoy glared harder, his cheeks red like apples and lips potuy, though his expression quickly shifted to one of weary defeat as he pushed himself upright. The sofa, now a pathetic heap of splintered wood and sagging upholstery, creaked ominously behind him—a warning, most likely. He stared at it for a long moment, as if willing it to magically fix itself, before letting out a long, beleaguered sigh.

“ Fine ,” he muttered, brushing dust off his robes with sharp, jerky motions.  “But if you even think about hogging the covers, Potter, I swear—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry interrupted, scooting over to make room. “Just get in before the house decides to drop us on our heads again.”

Malfoy’s scowl deepened, but he said nothing, instead picking himself up with as much dignity as he could muster. He looked like he wanted to crawl up into a hole and die, but after a long, uneasy pause, he began to make his way toward the bed.

Harry shifted over, making room on the far side. “It’s not cursed, you know,” he said dryly, patting the mattress.

Malfoy stopped at the edge, his jaw tightening as if debating whether he could stand one last jab. “The bed, or you?” he fired back finally, his voice cool but strained.

“Both, unfortunately for you,” Harry replied, his grin reappearing.

“Fine,” he said, his tone clipped. “If you snore, I’m slapping Silencio on you.”

Harry smirked faintly. “Right. Because hexing me has worked out so well for you in the past.”

Malfoy muttered something under his breath—something that sounded suspiciously like insufferable, bespectacled git . He paused for another moment, as though considering whether this was truly a good idea or he should make a run for it, before ridding himself of his Oxfords and, climbing into the bed with the air of someone conceding a battle they hadn’t wanted to fight in the first place. He stayed on the very edge of the mattress, his body rigid, as if putting any more distance between himself and Harry might undo the sting of the situation. They lay unnaturally on their backs in tense silence, their bodies stiff and carefully angled away from each other, as though the mere thought of contact might ignite another argument. The bed was wide enough to keep a safe distance, but the awareness of Malfoy’s presence was impossible to ignore. Harry could feel the faint heat radiating from his side, could hear the soft rustle of Malfoy’s breathing, and it made his skin prickle.

“See? Not so bad,” Harry said after a moment, his voice softening slightly.

Malfoy huffed, but there was no real malice in it and the tight set of his shoulders loosened just a fraction. If anything, he sounded… tired. Worn down in a way that Harry recognised all too well.

Silence fell again, and, yet again, it felt slightly different. Harry was tired of keeping track of the types of silences that sprouted between them. It felt… not lighter, exactly, but less constricting. Harry found himself oddly relieved that Malfoy had spoken, hoping it was just to make a cheeky comment rather than something more profound. Cheek would be familiar, at least, and familiarity was something he could cling to in the midst of everything else. He was too tired for anything more heartfelt.

Malfoy, however, seemed intent on honesty today.

Eventually, though, Malfoy’s voice broke the silence once more, soft and hesitating in the darkness of the night. “Potter, I—This house… it’s not just you it’s messing with.”

Harry blinked, surprised by the admission. He turned his body to look at Malfoy, who was still staring at the ceiling, his expression carefully blank.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, his voice low.

Malfoy let out a soft, humorless laugh. “I mean, this house isn’t just dredging up your nightmares, Potter. It’s got its claws in me, too.”

Harry frowned, curling up slightly, unknowingly shuffling closer to Malfoy. “Like what?”

Malfoy’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking to Harry’s briefly before darting away in a rush. “You’ve already seen, haven’t you?” he said, his tone suddenly defensive, yet terribly vulnerable, and Harry couldn’t help but imagine a wounded fox in a bear trap when he looked at him. A flash of Malfoy’s childhood room, of cried and pleas flashed through Harry’s mind, though he quickly shook his head to get rid of it. “I’m sure your heroic saviour complex will find a way to make it all about you anyway.”

Offended, Harry bristled, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “For Merlin’s sake, Malfoy, I’m just trying to—”

“To what?” Malfoy snapped, sitting up abruptly. He folded his legs up towards his chest and put his arms around them. He seemed to do that a lot, when he felt vulnerable. Was it to protect himself from the world, or to soothe a hurt he knew nobody would give him comfort for? Closing his stormy eyes, he leaned forward, his pale hair falling into his face. “To play the hero? To fix me? Newsflash, Potter, not everything can be fixed. Least of all me.”

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but the words died in his throat. Malfoy’s eyes were liquid mercury once again, his usual mask of apathy cracked wide open for Harry to see behind, and all he could see was the raw edge of something tender just beneath the surface.

And it terrified him.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” Harry said finally, his voice quieter. “I just… I don’t know. I thought maybe it’d help if you talked about it.”

Malfoy let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head before resting it against his knees, his eyes closed. “That’s rich, coming from you. You’re the one who’s spent the entire day bottling everything up and pretending you’re fine.”

Harry flinched again, the words hitting a little too close to home. He wanted to argue, to defend himself, but he couldn’t. Malfoy wasn’t wrong.

They stared at each other for a long moment, the tension crackling between them like static electricity. Eventually, Malfoy sighed, running a hand through his hair as he untangled himself, and he turned on his side to lie on the mattress once more. “Forget it,” he muttered. “This house is getting to both of us. Just… go to sleep, Potter.”

Harry hesitated, torn between pushing further and letting it go. In the end, he nodded, settling back into his previous position in bed. The room was quiet again, the only sound the faint creak of the ceiling above them. The night stretched on, slow and unforgiving, as the house seemed to breathe around them. The room had grown colder, or perhaps that was just his own powerlessness suffocating him.

Harry turned his head slightly, hoping to not get caught, his gaze catching on Malfoy’s outline. The blonde’s pale hair glinted faintly in the dying candlelight, his face turned toward the wall next to him as though trying to shut out the world—or maybe Harry. His arms were folded tightly around himself once again, his legs bent towards his chest. For all his sharp words and arrogant demeanour, Malfoy looked… young. Or younger than he actually was, really. Not physically—he’d grown taller and prettier since their school days, and now stood around three inches above Harry, much to his mortification—but, at that moment, with the shadows clinging to him, he looked like someone weighed down by more than his body could carry. Harry swallowed hard and turned back to the ceiling, his thoughts a chaotic mess. He’d wanted to close the distance between them earlier, to say something meaningful, something that might ease the tension. But every time he opened his mouth, the words felt wrong—too clumsy, too inadequate. He wasn’t sure what he was even trying to achieve. Malfoy wasn’t his friend, wasn’t someone he felt at ease, or even remotely comfortable, with. 

And yet, Harry couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that he needed to try.

The house seemed to agree. The oppressive silence between them felt almost deliberate, as though Grimmauld Place was urging them to speak, to bridge the gap it had so carefully orchestrated. But neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.

The chasm between them remained, and Harry hated how much it bothered him.

Once more, it was Malfoy who broke the silence. Slowly, he turned once again towards Harry, his curled up posture unchanged in its softness. His voice was smooth, almost velvety, and hesitant, which surprised Harry in the quiet room.

“Do you ever wonder,” he began, his words slow and deliberate, “if it would’ve been better to just… disappear after the war?”

Harry turned his head sharply, his eyes narrowing as he tried to read Malfoy’s expression. But the other man was still facing away, his voice detached, as though he were speaking to the room rather than to Harry.

“Disappear?” Harry echoed, his voice raspy and just as hesitant as Malfoy’s.

Malfoy let out a humorless laugh, the sound barely more than a breath.

“You wouldn’t understand. Everyone wanted their piece of you after the war. They still do. You’re… untouchable. The darling of the wixen world, adored by the masses. But for people like me…” He trailed off, his voice tight with something Harry couldn’t quite place.

Harry frowned, his chest tightening. “People like you?”

Malfoy turned then, his silvery grey eyes locking onto Harry’s. They were soft and striking, and there was that something that Harry couldn’t quite identify in the dark. “Yes, Potter. People like me. People who spent the war on the wrong side. People who had to claw their way out of the mess their families dragged them into, only to find that no one will ever let them forget it.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Malfoy pressed on, his voice gaining confidence.

“You think it’s over, don’t you? After the war? That everyone just gets to move on, to be normal again? That the world is now reformed and better to live in? Maybe for your lot that’s true. But for me—for people like me—it never ends. Everywhere I go, I see the way they look at me,” his voice cracked slightly, and he closed his eyes, his jaw tightening as though trying to rein himself back in. “They look at me and refuse me entrance to stores, move their children away as if I was a leper… I can’t even look for a decent job to provide for my mother without people demanding to see my Mark.”

Harry sat up straighter on his spot, his heart pounding. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to respond to the naked honesty in Malfoy’s words. It was the first time he’d ever heard him speak like this, without the usual layers of sharp coldness and arrogance. He sounded vulnerable, yes, but also lost. So very lost.

Harry understood that.

“I…” Harry started, his voice faltering. “I don’t think it’s over. Not for me, either.”

Malfoy’s head snapped back toward him, his mercurial eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Oh, really? Tell me, Potter, what exactly haunts you ? What could the great Chosen One possibly have left to atone for?”

Harry flinched, but he held Malfoy’s gaze.

“Plenty,” he said quietly. “I may not have a Dark Mark, but I have my very own mark,” he pointed towards his famous lighting-shaped scar, the pale lines that travelled from his forehead and cut into his right eyebrow, down and almost hitting his eyelid. “And… I’ve done things I can’t forgive myself over. Things I’ll never be able to forget, or atone for. The war didn’t just take people from me—it turned me into someone I don’t even recognise half the time.”

Malfoy stared at him, his expression unreadable, almost foreign in his angular face. For a moment, Harry thought he might laugh or throw another snide comment his way before turning away to sleep. But then Malfoy’s shoulders slumped, and he leaned back against the bed-frame, his head tilting up toward the ceiling.

“Maybe we’re both cursed, then,” Draco said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry didn’t respond, but he felt the weight of Malfoy’s words settle in his chest. They lay in silence for a long while, the house creaking softly around them in its own eerie lullaby. The chasm between them was still there, but maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t quite as wide as it had been. He had never expected Malfoy to be one for deep conversations in the dark, and he had certainly never imagined he’d be receptive to these conversations with him. Had never thought them to give each other a chance like this. But… it felt liberating, kind of. As much as he loved his friends and found family, they were not immune to the Boy-Who-Lived ideal. The Weasleys, particularly, tended to treat him as a celebrity, a hero, someone above normal wix.

He just wanted to be Harry.

And, the realisation that Malfoy was one of the few people—and probably the first—to treat him like a normal bloke rather than an idealised persona, was sobering in ways Harry didn’t feel ready to explore yet.

Closing his eyes with a sigh, he rested his head against the pillow. Sleep still eluded him, but for the first time that day, he didn’t feel entirely alone.

As the minutes dragged on, the uncomfortable tension in the room began to ease, settling into something quieter, something fragile. The silence wasn’t comfortable or companionable—not yet—but it no longer felt like it was suffocating them in its hostility. It was as though all their earlier words, jagged and raw and vulnerable as they’d been, had chipped away at some of the walls they’d both spent more than a decade building.

Harry’s eyes remained shut, though his mind refused to quiet. Malfoy’s words replayed in his head, weaving in and out of his own guilt and regrets. Maybe we’re both cursed. The phrase clung to him, wrapping itself around his thoughts like a vine. He had spent so long feeling like the weight of the war was his alone to bear, but hearing Malfoy’s admission had shaken something in him. He had never truly considered what it must have been like for Malfoy—what it was still like.

Next to him, Malfoy shifted again, letting out a frustrated sigh. He had been still for longer than Harry expected, and the sudden movement drew his attention. Harry opened his eyes just enough to see Malfoy looking at him, his face resting on his arm as he stared at Harry with the same unreadable look from before. The dim light from the flickering candle cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp planes of his cheeks and the dark hollows under his eyes. With a startle, Harry noticed that Malfoy had a little mole under his right eye and a small, silvery scar on the left side of his chin.

“Malfoy,” Harry said suddenly this time, his voice cutting through the quiet of the night. It wasn’t sharp, though—just… tired.

Malfoy blinked, the softness of his features morphing into a tired mask. It wasn’t a good one, not by a long shot. Harry could still see his earlier softness in his eyes.

 “Yes?”

Harry didn’t look away from him, his gaze remaining fixed on that small mole. “Do you ever feel like…” He trailed off, his lips pressing into a thin line before he forced himself to continue. “Like no matter what you do, it’ll never be enough?”

Malfoy stared at him, clearly taken aback by the question, but too tired to react more openly; he had been on the brink of sleep, it seems. Still, the look in Malfoy’s face told Harry that the blond wasn’t sure what he’d expected Harry to say, but it certainly wasn’t that . For a moment, it seemed like Malfoy didn’t know how to respond. But then Harry saw the way his shoulders tensed, as though bracing for Harry to mock him or dismiss him entirely, and the words came out before he could think twice.

“All the time,” Malfoy admitted softly.

Harry’s head surged forward slightly, his green eyes locking onto Draco’s. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, their shared admission hanging heavy in the air.

“I thought you’d say no,” Harry said finally, his tone tinged with something not even he couldn’t quite place.

Malfoy gave a small, humorless laugh. “Why would I say no? I’ve spent most of my life trying to live up to everyone’s expectations. And failing. Repeatedly.”

Harry frowned, his brows knitting together. “What do you mean?” he said, equally as soft.

Draco’s lips twitched into a small, almost self-deprecating smile as he shook his head lightly, the faint movement stirring a few stray strands of blond hair. “I didn’t save my parents. In the end, what good did I do? Like you said, I’m a spineless coward, just like my father.”

Harry flinched back at the reminder of his own targeted remarks against Malfoy.

“That’s not true,” Harry said quietly, his voice rougher than he intended. “You—” he faltered, unsure how to phrase what he wanted to say without it sounding hollow. “You’re not your father. You could’ve stayed on their side, but you didn’t. You saved me, more than once. You made those choices, and those choices matter.”

Malfoy’s eyes flicked up to Harry’s, a shadow of something complicated passing through them—disbelief, maybe, or doubt. “That’s rich coming from you,” he said, though there was no bite in the words, they sounded wistful. “The great Harry Potter, telling me choices matter when you’ve spent most of your life being lauded as a hero, no matter what you did.”

“That’s not how it feels,” Harry muttered, looking away, his hands balling into fists in the worn fabric of the duvet.

Malfoy tilted his head slightly, studying Harry as if trying to read something in the lines of his face. 

“No?”

Harry exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. He could feel Malfoy’s eyes on him, mellow with exhaustion but somehow still managing to pin him in place, and it made him want to look away, but he didn’t. Instead, he fixed his gaze on a that small mole against pale skin again.+

“No,” Harry said finally, his voice low and heavy. “It’s like… no matter what I do, it’ll never be enough to make up for all the people I couldn’t save.”

“You saved the world from a megalomanic mass murderer,” replied Malfoy, disbelieving and poignant.

Harry rolled his head forward, hiding half his face in the pillow. 

“Saving the world didn’t bring anyone back, did it? It didn’t save Remus. Or Dobby. Or Tonks. Or Fred. Or—” He stopped himself, the lump in his throat making it impossible to continue. He didn’t need to say the name. He didn’t need to say Sirius .

Couldn’t.

Malfoy’s gaze warmed, just barely, as he studied Harry’s profile. He didn’t offer any words of comfort—he wouldn’t know how, even if he wanted to—but his expression wasn’t as guarded as it usually was. There was something almost understanding in the way he looked at Harry, something that made Harry feel a little less exposed. He had never told this to Ron, or Hermione. He knew they’d understand, but, for some reason

“I told you,” Draco said after a long pause, his voice fuzzy with sleep. “Cursed, the both of us.”

Harry let out a slow breath, nodding. “Yeah, you did.”

As the darkness settled fully into the room, the creaking and groaning of Grimmauld Place seemed to grow quieter, as if the house itself was watching, waiting. The candle on the table flickered one last time before sputtering out, plunging the room into darkness. Harry heard Malfoy shift next to him again, the sound of the springs creaking under his weight.  Across the room, Malfoy let out another soft sigh, the sound barely audible over the stillness. He was exhausted—bone-deep, soul-deep exhausted. He needed to sleep.

The bed was warm, and soon, he found himself snuggling further into his pillow. Listening to Malfoy’s even breathing, Harry finally allowed himself to close his eyes.

Chapter Text

The sun filtered through the thin curtains of the flat’s kitchen, a warm glow that didn’t quite match the cold knot of unease twisting in Hermione’s stomach. She sat at the wooden breakfast table, the familiar clutter of the cleaning charms working around the kitchen—a daily comfort that felt oddly out of reach this morning. A steaming cup of tea sat untouched in front of her, the tendrils of steam curling in lazy spirals, much like the thoughts in her head. Beside her, Ron was shovelling a piece of toast into his mouth, though it was clear his usually ravenous appetite was half-hearted at best.

Hermione didn’t notice the mess Ron was making as he ate—normally she’d reprimand him for the crumbs he was scattering everywhere—but her mind was elsewhere. She pushed her own toast around her plate absent-mindedly.

“I can’t shake the feeling something’s terribly wrong,” she said finally, breaking the heavy silence between them. “He didn’t contact us at all after Malfoy left…”

Ron grunted non-committally, chewing noisily. He knew Hermione well enough to recognise when she was fretting over something—and let’s be honest, she always fretted over everything—but this time, he had to admit he felt it too. The lack of communication from Harry was gnawing at him, though he wasn’t about to admit that out loud just yet. Not when Hermione was already this worked up.

“It’s Harry,” she continued, her voice a little higher now. She wrapped her hands tightly around her mug of tea, like it could somehow anchor her, prevent her from overthinking this. “He hasn’t responded to anything. Not our Floo calls, not to the Patronus messages, nothing. And he was supposed to have lunch with us last night!” She shot Ron a pointed look, as if daring him to shrug it off.

Ron sighed and set his toast down, wiping his hands on his pyjama bottoms. “He’s probably fine, Hermione,” he said, though even as the words left his mouth, they rang hollow. “You know how he is. Maybe he just wants to be alone.”

“But why wouldn’t he at least say that?” Hermione snapped, her worry bubbling into frustration. “You don’t just ignore your best friends when they’re expecting you. Especially when you’ve got a track record like his.”

Ron winced. She had a point. Harry did have an unfortunate tendency to end up in life-threatening situations whenever he went quiet for too long. And Grimmauld Place... Merlin, Grimmauld Place was the worst place for him to disappear into. Even now, years after the war, the house remained as unpredictable and dangerous as its former inhabitants. Probably even more so, considering the way it routinely decided to drop Harry on his head. Ron didn’t like to admit it, but the thought of Harry stuck in there, alone, made his skin crawl, too.

He ran a hand through his already messy hair, letting out a long breath. “We should’ve made him move in with us ages ago,” he muttered, more to himself than to Hermione.

Hermione gave him a pointed look. “We tried, remember? He refused. Said it was the last thing he had of Sirius and not wanting to impose. As if we’d mind,” she sighed, playing with her teacup.

“Yeah, well, Harry’s always been a stubborn git,” Ron grumbled, though his tone was more fond than annoyed. He reached for another piece of toast but hesitated, his appetite officially gone. “So, what do we do? We can’t just barge in, we’ve already tried.”

“I know that,” Hermione said, exasperated. She shoved her plate away, the food untouched. “I tried apparating straight into Grimmauld Place this morning, but it’s still warded. It’s like the house is... blocking everything out.”

Ron frowned, a deep line forming between his brows. “When did you try apparating?” he asked slowly.

Hermione threw her hands up. “It doesn’t matter, Ron! It’s like the house doesn’t want us to reach him. What if something’s happened? What if he’s trapped? Or hurt? Or—”

“Oi, stop,” Ron interrupted, holding up a hand. “Don’t go there, alright? He’s fine. He’s got to be. This is Harry we’re talking about. He probably just forgot to check in. Or, I dunno, fell asleep reading one of those stupid novels he insists he doesn’t like, but we know he does.”

Hermione’s glare could have set the toast on fire. “That’s not funny, Ronald.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny!” Ron shot back, though he immediately regretted his tone. He sighed again, softer this time, and reached across the table to place a hand over hers. “Look, I’m worried too, okay? But panicking’s not going to help. Let’s just… think this through.”

Hermione’s shoulders sagged slightly, and she nodded, though the crease between her eyebrows didn’t budge. “No, you’re right,” she said quietly. “We need a plan.”

Ron gave her hand a small squeeze before letting go.

“Alright. Let’s start with what we know. Grimmauld Place is acting weird, yeah? So maybe it’s the house itself. Could be the wards acting up, or—” He hesitated, his face twisting into a grimace. “—or some leftover dark magic mucking things up.”

Hermione nodded thoughtfully, her brain already whirring. “That’s possible. The house has always had a… volatile personality. And it has been steadily getting worse since the war, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah, and Harry’s been living there alone for ages. Who knows what kind of stuff he’s stirred up?” Ron scratched the back of his neck, a hint of guilt creeping into his voice. “Maybe we should’ve been helping him clear it out. Properly, I mean. Not just chucking the cursed stuff in the bin.”

Hermione gave him a look that was equal parts agreement and reproach. “We offered. He said he could handle it.”

“Yeah, well, he also said he could handle Horcruxes on his own, and we all know how that would’ve turned out. He’d still be running around Britain, wet like a rat, without you,” Ron muttered darkly.

Hermione’s lips twitched, her eyes warm, but she didn’t smile. Instead, she stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “We need to go there again,” she said firmly. “Now. If Harry’s in trouble—”

“Hold on,” Ron cut in, rising to his feet as well. “We can’t help much if we can’t even get into the cursed thing, right?”

Hermione crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. “And what do you suggest, then? That we sit here twiddling our thumbs while Harry could be—”

“I didn’t say that!” Ron interrupted, his own frustration bubbling over. He ran a hand through his hair again, pacing the small kitchen. “I’m just saying we should be prepared, alright?”

Hermione hesitated, biting her lip. She hated to admit it, but Ron had a point. Charging to Grimmauld Place without a plan would be useless, and it might actually endanger Harry, especially if something truly dangerous was happening inside the house. But every second they wasted felt like a metaphorical nail in the coffin. It wasn’t often that Ron was the more careful of the two, but he usually took over whenever Hermione’s anxiety clouded her judgement.

Still, what if Harry didn’t have time for them to prepare?

“Fine,” she said finally, her tone clipped. “But we need to think of something fast.”

Ron didn’t bother arguing. He knew better. Instead, he nodded and grabbed his wand from the countertop and moved towards their fireplace. “Right. We should call Bill, then.”

Hermione blinked owlishly for a moment before gasping. “Bill! Of course!”

The fire roared green as Ron tossed in a pinch of Floo powder, the fine dust flaring to life and illuminating the worried furrow in his brow. He knelt by the hearth, his long arms resting on his knees as he leaned in, his voice tight with concern. 

“Shell Cottage!” he called, trying to sound calm but failing miserably as the words wavered under the weight of his stress.

For a moment, the flames flickered and sputtered, and in Ron’s rising panic, he thought that Bill wasn’t home. That he had already left for Gringotts. Then, with a whoosh, Bill’s face materialised in the fire, his long hair slightly mussed and his blue eyes narrowing with concern.

“Ron? Bit early for a chat, isn’t it?” His tone was light, but his brow furrowed at the sight of his youngest brother’s expression.

Ron didn’t even let him finish the sentence. “Something’s wrong with Harry,” he blurted, his words tumbling out in a rush. His hand curled around the edge of the fireplace like he needed to ground himself, the other nervously twisting his wand between his fingers.

Bill’s playful smirk instantly fell, his face hardening into something much more serious.

“What happened?” he asked sharply, leaning closer. The sight of his older brother’s concern made Ron’s stomach twist even tighter.

Hermione crouched beside Ron, her brown face worried as she bit her bottom lip, her hand reaching out to steady herself. She wasted no time filling in the gaps, her words clipped and precise. “We haven’t heard from him since the day before yesterday’s afternoon. He missed lunch with us yesterday, too. I tried contacting him through every means I could think of—Floo, Patronus, even Apparating into Grimmauld Place—but nothing worked. The house… it feels like it’s blocking us. It’s never done that before. Something’s wrong, Bill.”

Bill listened intently, his expression growing darker with every word. The calm, affable persona he was known for was cracking, ever so slightly, under the weight of Hermione’s urgency and Ron’s barely concealed panic.

“Did he say anything to either of you before this?” Bill asked, his tone steady but low, as if he were already bracing himself for bad news. “Anything about the house acting up more than usual, or something strange happening there?”

“No,” Ron said quickly, shaking his head. “He seemed fine last time we saw him. I mean, yeah, he’s been a bit more… I don't know, paranoid lately, but that’s just Harry, isn’t it? He broods. It’s his thing.”

Hermione shot Ron a look, but her worry was too overpowering for her usual exasperation to fully kick in. “What Ron means,” she said tightly, “is that Harry hasn’t mentioned anything unusual, but he usually hides this stuff from everyone. And, well…” she hesitated for a second before continuing. “He was feeling a bit hopeless last time I saw him. Wanted to give up, so I figured I could suggest for him to bring in a magical repair specialist. He was supposed to go over yesterday morning. Grimmauld Place has always been unpredictable, and if something’s... shifted, Harry could be in danger.”

Bill rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, his eyes darting to the side as if he were running through possibilities in his head. “Grimmauld Place,” he murmured, more to himself than to them. “That house is a cursed mess on a good day. If the wards are reacting like this, it could mean… well, any number of things. But none of them are good.” 

Ron’s stomach sank further. He exchanged a glance with Hermione, and he could tell she was thinking the same thing he was: they were out of their depth. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t something they could fix with sheer determination and a few well-placed spells.

“You said a specialist went over?”

Hermione looked nervous for a second before she nodded. “Yeah, Draco Malfoy. I suggested him because he’s very good at his job and… well, he’s a Black. His magic would be more in tune with the house.”

“I’ll be right there,” Bill said firmly, his voice sharp. “Don’t do anything until I get there, alright? I mean it, Ron.”

“We’re not idiots, Bill,” Ron snapped, though the defensive edge in his voice was undercut by the relief washing over him. If anyone could make sense of the situation, it was Bill. His older brother had faced cursed tombs, ancient hexes, and worse during his years as a curse-breaker. He also had studied ancient magic extensively. If anyone could figure out what was going on, it would be him.

Bill’s face softened slightly, though his worry remained clear. “I’ll Floo to the flat in ten minutes. Make sure you’ve got everything you might need—protective runes, healing potions, whatever you’ve got lying around. Just in case.”

“Got it,” Hermione said quickly, already standing and moving toward the cabinets to rummage through her ever well-stocked stores of emergency supplies.

“Alright. Ten minutes.” Bill’s face disappeared with a soft pop, leaving the fire to return to its normal golden glow.

Ron sat back on his heels, exhaling heavily. His hands were clammy, and his heart was pounding like he’d just sprinted up a flight of stairs. Hermione was still moving around the kitchen, her sharp, efficient movements a clear sign of her mounting anxiety.

“This is bad, isn’t it?” Ron said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. With a grunt, he stood up and mused his hair.

Hermione froze for a moment, her back to him, before turning slowly. Her face was ashen with worry, and her eyes red-rimmed from the stress. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice trembling slightly. “But we can’t assume it’s not. Not with Harry. Not with that house.”

Ron nodded, swallowing hard. He reached out and grabbed Hermione’s hand, pulling her back toward the table. “Hey,” he said softly, squeezing her fingers. “We’ll figure this out. Bill’s coming, and he knows his stuff. If anyone can get us into Grimmauld Place and sort out whatever’s going on, it’s him.”

Hermione nodded, but her eyes were still distant, her mind clearly running through worst-case scenarios. Ron wanted to say more, to reassure her, but the truth was, he was just as scared as she was. He didn’t want to think about what they might find when they finally got into the house—or worse, what they might not find. For now, he gave her a quick hug, and went to their bedroom to have a quick shower and to change.

The minutes ticked by slowly as they waited for Bill, the silence in the flat stretching uncomfortably. Neither of them spoke, though Ron’s leg bounced restlessly under the table, and Hermione kept fidgeting with her wand. The air felt heavy, like the calm before a storm, and the knot of unease in Ron’s stomach refused to loosen.

When the fire flared green again, they both jumped. Bill stepped through a moment later, his ever-present leather dragon-hide boots thudding against the kitchen floor. He was already dressed for action, his wand tucked into its holster at his thigh and a small satchel slung over his shoulder.

“Alright,” he said briskly, wasting no time. “Let’s get to it.”

Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance, their fear momentarily tempered by the presence of Bill’s steady confidence.

They had to find Harry. Before it was too late.

Harry woke with a start, his body jolting upright before his brain had fully registered where he was. For a moment, he panicked, his hand reaching for his wand as his eyes darted around the dimly lit room. But then the events of the previous day came flooding back, and he groaned, flopping back onto the lumpy mattress he’d fallen asleep in. The room was still dark, the only light coming from the small window parallel to the bed. Malfoy was curled next to him like a sleeping kitten, his pale hair a mess and his long legs wrapped around the pillow. Harry stared at him for a moment, wondering how the hell they’d ended up in this mess together.

The argument and the following heart-to-hearts from the night before still lingered in the back of Harry’s mind, like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. He felt raw and exposed, as though Malfoy had stripped away some of his carefully constructed defences and left him with nothing but his own messy emotions.

But there was also something… oddly comforting about the memory. Malfoy hadn’t laughed at him or belittled him. He hadn’t sneered or turned Harry’s vulnerability into another cutting remark to be thrown back later. He’d just listened, his large eyes unusually soft, his sharp tongue sheathed. And then, slowly, he’d begun to talk about himself in turn. Not with the bravado or deflection Harry had always associated with him, but with an honesty that felt raw, almost hesitant, as though offering pieces of himself was unfamiliar territory.  It had been strange at first, laying here with Malfoy, their old animosities laid to rest in the quiet of the moment. And for once, Harry had felt like he wasn’t entirely alone—like someone truly understood the weight he carried. The walls between them, though far from crumbled, had cracked just enough to let something new and fragile take root. It wasn’t forgiveness or friendship, not yet, but it was something Harry found himself unwilling to let go of.

It still lingered now, a small, unspoken reassurance that, even in their shared brokenness, there was something to be found in the company of each other.

“Morning, Potter,” Malfoy’s voice drawled next to him, breaking Harry out of his thoughts. The blonde was awake now, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and staring at Harry with his usual mixture of wry humour and disinterest, the softness from the day before all but gone. “Sleep well?”

Harry snorted, stretching his arms over his head. “Like a baby. You?”

“Like someone who’s been forced to sleep on a glorified footstool,” Malfoy replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He stood up, brushing invisible lint off his clothes as he surveyed the room with a critical eye. “I don’t suppose the house has decided to be helpful and provided breakfast?”

As if on cue, a small table appeared in the corner of the room, laden with a modest breakfast spread—toast, hard-boiled eggs, tea, and what looked like fresh fruit. Malfoy raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, but Harry’s stomach growled loudly, cutting off whatever witty comment the blond had been about to make.

“Don’t knock it,” Harry muttered, getting up and heading for the table. “It’s better than nothing.”

Malfoy sighed dramatically but followed him, taking a seat across from Harry as they dug into their breakfast. For a while, they ate in silence, the tension between them slightly less suffocating than it had been the night before.

Nonetheless, as Harry watched Malfoy meticulously slice his toast into perfect triangles, he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of life the blond had led up until now. Everything about him exuded poise and grace, a deliberate precision that seemed almost alien in comparison to Harry’s own impatient approach to, well, everything. It was like watching a Potions Master at work, only instead of a cauldron, Malfoy wielded a butter knife with alarming finesse. The way he peeled his eggs was almost mesmerising. He didn’t use his fingers—not once. Instead, he manoeuvred the spoon with surgical precision, carefully separating shell from soft white without so much as a crack or damage to the whites, his fork gently holding the egg down against his plate. Harry couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or slightly unnerved.

Once peeled, Malfoy sliced the eggs into neat, even discs, each one so identical it looked like they’d come off an assembly line, leaving the rounded ends to the side. Then, with all the solemnity of a wizard casting an important charm, he arranged the discs onto his toast triangles in an aesthetic, swirling pattern. The finishing touch was a sprinkle of salt, applied with the lightest hand, as though anything more would ruin his masterpiece.

Harry realised he was staring. “Do you always eat like you’re performing an art installation?” he blurted out, unable to help himself.

Malfoy didn’t look up from his plate, but the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested he’d heard and was amused. “Some of us,” he drawled, lifting a perfectly constructed toast-and-egg bite to his mouth, “have standards, Potter. You should try it sometime. It might do wonders for that… rustic approach of yours.”

Harry scoffed, jabbing at his own boiled eggs with his fork. They’d come out a bit runny, the way he preferred them, though his plate looked more like something a troll might assemble than a meal prepared by human hands. He didn’t particularly care—it tasted fine, and that was what mattered. Still, he couldn’t help but glance at Malfoy’s plate again, the triangles now neatly demolished, leaving only a few crumbs that he swiftly brushed off the table into his palm.

“Do you arrange all your meals like that?” Harry asked, unable to resist, again. “Or is this a special performance to make me feel like a Neanderthal?”

Malfoy finally deigned to look at him, raising an elegant brow.

“You feel that way all on your own, I assure you,” he said coolly. “And yes, Potter, presentation matters. Even for breakfast. Chaos on a plate reflects chaos in the mind.”

Harry rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t help snorting a little. “Well, then, my mind must be a bloody masterpiece of chaos. You should take notes.”

“Believe me, I’ve been studying the disaster that is your existence for years,” Malfoy retorted, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “There’s nothing left to learn.”

Harry chuckled despite himself, shaking his head as he reached for another slice of toast. Malfoy might be insufferable, but at least breakfast wasn’t boring.

For a moment, silence filled the room save for the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath Malfoy’s deliberate, cat-like steps as he stood and stretched. Harry avoided looking at him directly, though he couldn’t quite figure out why. It was easier to focus on mundane details—the faint pattern in the peeling wallpaper, the chipped edges of the table, the weight of his glasses on his nose—than to think about everything that had happened yesterday.

“I need a bath,” Malfoy said, his voice flat and matter-of-fact, like someone stating they needed air to breathe. He sniffed disdainfully, running his fingers through his hair, which, Harry couldn’t help but notice, was slightly wavy around the edges from the damp air. “And so do you. This house is worse than Azkaban, Potter. I’d rather have a Dementor sniffing at me than whatever that… thing in the corner is.” He gestured vaguely at a shadowed corner where a spider the size of a small cat had been loitering since their food had appeared. It was still watching them with unnerving stillness.

Harry groaned and pushed himself to his feet, his body aching from the whirlwind of activity from the day before. Merlin, he had to exercise more, his stamina was short of pathetic.

“Right, because you smelled like roses in Azkaban,” he muttered under his breath, though there was no real bite to it.

Malfoy sniffed. “I’ll ignore that because you’re clearly suffering from exhaustion and poor life choices.”

“Thanks,” Harry said dryly. He ran a hand through his unruly hair, wincing when his fingers caught on a knot. “If I stink so much, let’s see if this bloody house will even let us find a bathroom again.”

At the mere mention of the word “bathroom,” the room shifted. The air shimmered, and with a faint groan, the door creaked open to reveal not another dimly lit corridor but a surprisingly pristine bathroom. The sharp scent of lavender and mint wafted toward them, and Harry blinked in disbelief.

“Oh, now you’re cooperating?” he muttered to the house, his voice tinged with suspicion.

Malfoy, however, looked almost impressed. “Huh,” he said, stepping forward to peer inside. “It’s almost… tasteful. Not what I’d expect from the Black family. They took the Victorian aesthetic a little too eagerly.”

Harry followed him, glancing around as the door creaked open. This bathroom had always been, oddly enough, one of his favourites—a peculiar sanctuary in a house otherwise heavy with shadows. During those early days at Grimmauld Place, when the memories pressed too close and his grief felt unbearable, Harry had often retreated here. The deep emerald-green tiles seemed to absorb the disarray of his thoughts, their cool sheen somehow grounding. The claw-foot tub gleamed invitingly, a promise of warmth and stillness amidst the chaos of the house. Above the sink, the enchanted mirror caught their reflections and, without missing a beat, chimed in its usual tart tone, “You both look like death, darlings.” Its sharp candour was oddly charming, almost comforting, a reminder of the house's peculiar personality. Harry huffed a quiet laugh, glancing sideways at Malfoy, whose lips twitched.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at the mirror. “Charming,” he drawled before turning back to Harry. “I’ll go first. Obviously.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

Malfoy paused in the doorway, glancing back at Harry with a smirk. “Unless you’d like to join me, Potter? You did insist we sleep together, after all,” his tone was light, teasing, but his grey eyes held an edge that Harry couldn’t quite decipher.

Harry’s face went red so fast he thought he might have a spontaneous nosebleed. “Just—just get on with it,” he stammered, waving a hand in the direction of the tub. “I’ll wait out here.”

“Suit yourself,” Malfoy said with an exaggerated shrug before stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. Harry heard the sound of running water a moment later, followed by a soft, contented moan that made his ears burn.

He tried not to imagine what Malfoy looked like under the spray of water. Probably like a wet cat. Yeah, a wet cat…

Malfoy emerged twenty minutes later, looking pink and infuriatingly revitalised. His well styled hair rested fashionably halfway on his forehead, no longer wavy, and he had the audacity to look smug as he adjusted the sleeves of his shirt, which had apparently been neatly laundered by the house’s magic in the interim. He carried his green jumper in his other hand.

“I am starting to appreciate your cursed house of murder,” he said breezily, stepping aside to let Harry pass. “Your turn, now. Try not to drown yourself, Scarhead.”

Harry glared at him as he stepped into the bathroom, slamming the door shut harder than necessary. The enchanted mirror tutted disapprovingly but was otherwise ignored as he stripped off his clothes, tossing them into a corner. Steam quickly filled the air as he stepped under the warm cascade of water, the heat melting the tension from his shoulders and seeping into his tired muscles. For a few precious moments, Harry allowed himself to forget about the house’s labyrinthine corridors, the simmering arguments, and the peculiar, unspoken something that had begun to form between him and Malfoy.

A truce, he supposed. Nothing more.

Grabbing one of the fancy potion bottles from the shelf—most likely something Malfoy had asked of Grimmauld, he supposed—he poured a generous amount of the opalescent liquid into his palm. The scent of bergamot and lavender filled the air as he worked the potion into a rich lather, its silky texture far removed from the basic soap he usually bought from Tesco. He wondered if Malfoy would have something snide to say about him using it, though he dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. The water sluiced over his skin, carrying away the grime and exhaustion of the day, but no matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn’t quite shake the memory of Malfoy’s sharp gaze or the way his voice softened—just slightly—when he wasn’t trying to prove a point. Harry pressed the heels of his hands to his temples, forcing the thoughts away, letting the heat and fragrant steam wash over him instead. He didn’t want to examine why, even now, Malfoy’s presence felt so stubbornly insistent in the back of his mind.

Once he finally stepped out of the tub, dripping and freshly clean, the mirror quipped, “Feeling better, darling? You almost look human again.” Harry wrapped a towel around his waist, his jaw tightening, he ignored the remark as he began to dry himself and get dressed. 

When he emerged, clean and slightly less irritable, he found Malfoy waiting for him in the hallway—apparently their improvised bedroom had disappeared while he was showering—, arms crossed and foot tapping impatiently.

“Took you long enough,” Malfoy said, though his tone was more playful than biting. Harry was starting to believe that most of his cheek came from an utter lack of social skills and defensiveness. “I was starting to think the tub had swallowed you.”

“Disappointed, aren’t you?” Harry shot back, though there was no real venom in his voice.

Malfoy smirked. “Oh, terribly.”

With both of them clean and dressed, they turned their attention to the labyrinth once more—after bidding goodbye to their pet spider still in its corner. The house had returned to its usual ominous silence, the air thick with an unnerving stillness that seemed to watch their every move. Each step they took echoed faintly, the sound swallowed by the heavy atmosphere. Every now and then, Harry’s gaze flicked to Malfoy, who moved with his usual mixture of confidence and wariness, as though bracing for the house’s next move. He couldn’t shake the sense that Grimmauld was holding its breath, waiting for something to unfold.

“So,” Malfoy said as they rounded a corner for what felt like the hundredth time. “What’s the plan, Potter? Or are we just wandering aimlessly and hoping for the best?”

Harry clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to snap back. “The house responds to intent,” he said instead, keeping his voice even. “If we focus on finding a way out, it might—”

“—lead us to a closet full of doxies,” Malfoy interrupted, arching an eyebrow. “Great plan. Truly inspired.”

Harry shot him a withering look. “Got a better idea?”

Malfoy hesitated for a fraction of a second before shrugging. “Not yet. But give me time.”

“Brilliant,” Harry muttered under his breath. But despite the frustration bubbling beneath the surface, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of camaraderie with Malfoy. They were in this together now, for better or worse. And as much as Harry hated to admit it, he wasn’t entirely sure he would have made it this far without him.

Wasn’t sure he wanted to, either.

Draco was painfully aware of Potter’s presence as they walked past what seemed to be an entire collection of ancient Daily Prophets. He walked just behind Potter as they made their way through piles and mountains of paper. He kept his arms crossed, his expression carefully schooled into the mask of disinterest he’d mastered since his early teens, but inwardly, he was frazzled. Struggling to breathe evenly—to not let his traitorous heart betray him. He had been shaken since he had woken up this morning next to Potter, the vestiges of yesterday’s conversations fresh on his mind, like petrichor after the rain.

What had possessed him to be so weak? So weak that he had allowed himself to babble on and on about feelings he had long since trapped in a mausoleum.

He was too close.

Potter—the insufferable, Gryffindor, bespectacled numpty—had always been too close; had been ever since they were eleven years old. Back then, Draco had dismissed it as rivalry, as frustration at Potter’s refusal to take his hand, which then had turned just this side of murderous. But now, years later, the distance between them felt agonisingly thin. It was suffocating and electric all at once, a sensation that clawed under his skin and settled deep in his chest. Every time Potter brushed past him in the narrow walkway between newspapers, Draco’s skin prickled, every nerve alight with the awareness of him. He could feel the heat radiating off Potter, could hear the faint hitch of his breath as they inevitably ended up walking closer to one another. It wasn’t rivalry anymore—hadn’t been for a long time. It was something heavier, messier, and far more dangerous. And every time Potter’s gaze lingered just a fraction too long, Draco’s stomach twisted, caught between wanting to shove him away and something far more ruinous.

He tried to not look at Potter. Couldn’t. Those green eyes had a way of cutting through him, unravelling all the careful masks Draco had built around himself to keep his weakness in. They were too bright, too intense. 

Too much.

Instead, he focused on the floorboards beneath his feet, on the muted groan of the house as it shifted and warped around them. Grimmauld Place’s labyrinthine whims were maddening, its tendency to shake and rain upon them dust and tiny little spiders most of all, but it was a welcome distraction from the pandemonium inside his head.

He hated this—this pull Potter had always had over him. It was humiliating, degrading even, and yet Draco couldn’t stop himself from glancing at the back of Potter’s head, watching the way his messy hair stuck out in every direction. It was maddening. Draco scoffed quietly, the sound sharp in the stillness of the corridor. He could clearly see the pattern of what must be a head of beautiful curls even from this distance, unruly and begging for proper care. And yet the git made no effort to tame them, no thought spared for their potential, and it drove Draco absolutely mad. But the more he looked at Potter, the harder it became to hold onto any indignation. His mind kept wandering back to the night before, to the quiet moment when Potter—awkward and uncomfortable—had opened up about his fears, his failures. The raw honesty in his voice had startled Draco, chipped away at the easy contempt he liked to cradle when it came to Potter. It was infuriating, and yet Draco couldn’t deny the faint pull he’d felt then, like a string stretched taut between them, thrumming with something unspoken. Something he refused to name, despite being constant bedfellows.

But the memory lingered, no matter how much Draco wanted to shove it away.

Potter had looked vulnerable.

And Draco hated vulnerability. He hated it because he understood it too well—because he carried it with him every day, a secret he was too ashamed to even acknowledge. It clung to him like a second skin, a constant reminder of every failure, every mistake, every moment he’d come up short. 

But seeing it in Potter had been… different. Draco hadn’t known what to say, hadn’t known how to comfort him—because what could he possibly say? The man who had spent years antagonising and ridiculing him? The man whose family and beliefs had been the very antithesis of Potter’s entire existence? Of course he wouldn’t accept comfort from him. Not that Draco knew how to give any. He hadn’t been raised for empathy, quite the contrary. His childhood had been cold and lonely, his mother his only constant companion aside from his governess and tutors; and the only company his father would give him was in the form of harsh lessons about strength, purity and power.

A Malfoy was not weak. A Malfoy walked with their head held high. A Malfoy always looked for a way to benefit themselves. A Malfoy always came up first.

A Malfoy always stayed afloat.

Ironic, given the fact that his father had been assassinated on his way to Azkaban after the second war. Drowned.

Shaking his head, Draco stepped over a small pile of papers, a particularly raunchy title on the cover on top of the pile. 

And yet, despite all that, Draco couldn’t ignore the pang he had felt in his chest when Potter spoke so quietly, so honestly. It had been like watching a thunderstorm settle into a calm sea, the rawness of it both breathtaking and unbearable all at once. That moment had lingered, as much as Draco wished it wouldn’t, clawing at the edges of his carefully constructed walls. Potter had looked so human then, and somehow that made everything worse.

Draco clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching as if he could physically shove the memory aside back into the recesses of his mind. It wasn’t the time to lose himself in thoughts of Potter or the strange pull that made him hyperaware of every movement, every glance, every shared breath in this cursed house. There was a labyrinthian madhouse to escape, and Draco wasn’t about to let his feelings—feelings he refused to name—cloud his judgment. He’d spent years perfecting his detachment, the art of cold indifference, and he wasn’t about to let it all crumble now.

Straightening his shoulders, Draco forced himself to focus, eyes scanning the dim hallway that stretched endlessly before them. The house groaned again, as if disagreeing with him, and Draco felt the floor shift beneath his feet. He stumbled, reaching out instinctively to steady himself. His fingers brushed against Potter’s arm, and the contact sent a jolt through him, like lightning racing up his spine.

“Careful,” Potter said, glancing back at him with a small frown.

Draco snatched his hand back as if burned. “I’m perfectly fine,” he snapped, the words coming out sharper than he intended. He cleared his throat, schooling his expression into something more neutral. “The house is just—uncooperative.”

Potter raised an eyebrow, but thankfully, he didn’t push the issue. He simply nodded and turned back around, his focus shifting to the corridor ahead.

Draco exhaled slowly, his heart still racing from the brief touch. It was ridiculous how much of an effect Potter had on him, even now. After all these years of not seeing a hair of each other, after everything that had happened between them, Draco still felt like that confused teenager from fourth and fifth year, angry and desperate for something he couldn’t name. It had started back then, though Draco hadn’t realised it at the time. Then, in sixth year, when Potter had been obsessed with stalking him, watching his every move, Draco had told himself it was just paranoia. But somewhere along the way, that paranoia had turned into something else. Something sharper, more desperate. It had remained there even after Potter had tried to eviscerate him.

He’d hated Potter for it—hated the way those green eyes seemed to see through him, hated the way Potter always seemed to be there, watching, waiting for him to fuck everything up as he was wont to do. But he’d also craved it. Craved the attention, even if it came in the form of hostile words and pain.

It was only later, after the war, after the trials, after that second rejection, that Draco had been forced to confront the truth. It wasn’t just jealousy or resentment. Likewise, it wasn’t just gratitude—and yes, he was grateful to the man for saving him and his family.

 It was something deeper, something far more lethal.

And now, walking beside Potter in the twisting corridors of Grimmauld Place, Draco felt that danger more acutely than ever. Every glance, every touch, every word exchanged between them felt like a spark threatening to ignite the tension between them. He hated it. Hated how much control Potter had over him without even trying.

But more than that, he hated himself for wanting it.

“Do you think we’re getting anywhere?” Potter’s voice broke through Draco’s thoughts, startling him enough that he almost tripped right into the last piles of papers.

Draco blinked, realizing he’d been staring at Potter’s head for the past several minutes. He straightened, clearing his throat. “Not particularly,” he said, his tone deliberately disinterested. “Though I suppose wandering aimlessly is as good a strategy as any.”

Potter sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Intent,” he muttered, more to himself than to Draco. “If we just—focus, maybe it’ll lead us somewhere useful.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Oh, brilliant. Let’s just think really hard and hope for the best. That’s sure to work.”

Potter shot him a look over his shoulder, and Draco felt a pang of regret for his sarcasm. But before he could say anything, the corridor shifted again, the walls groaning as they twisted into a new shape.

“Well,” Potter said, his lips quirking into a small, wry smile. “Look who was right, again.”

Draco scowled, though he couldn’t stop the faint flutter in his chest at the sight of Potter’s smile. “Lucky guess,” he muttered, brushing past him to take the lead. He ignored the way his shoulder bumped against Potter’s as he passed, ignored the way it sent another jolt through him.

They continued walking, as they had done for the better part of the morning, the silence between them encompassing them. They rounded another corner, and the corridor opened up into a small sitting room. The furniture was covered in dust, and the air was thick with the scent of old wood and decay. Potter paused, glancing around with a frown.

“Another dead end,” he muttered.

Draco stepped past him, his eyes scanning the room. “Not necessarily,” he said, his voice low. “There might be something here. A clue, perhaps.”

Potter raised an eyebrow. “You really think the house is going to leave us a convenient map?”

Draco shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.”

They began searching the room in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Draco couldn’t help but zero in on Potter’s presence—the sound of his footsteps, the way his messy hair caught the dim light, the faint scent of soap lingering on his skin. It was maddening. Draco hated how much he noticed. Hated how much he cared .

It was disgusting, really. Draco Malfoy, reduced to a smitten fool over Harry bloody Potter.

He wanted to say something, anything, to break the awkwardness. But what could he possibly say? That he’d spent years pining for the one person who would never look at him the way he wanted? That every smile, every glance, every accidental touch felt like a dagger to his chest because he knew it would never be enough? That he had to be cruel in order to keep himself away?

No, not again.

“Malfoy?”

Potter’s voice stopped his manic musing, and Draco turned sharply to find Potter watching him with a concerned expression. He realised he’d been staring at the same spot on the wall for several minutes, his thoughts spinning out of control.

“What?” Draco snapped, a little too harshly.

Potter frowned. “Are you okay? You’ve been acting… weird.”

Draco’s heart skipped a beat, panic flaring in his chest. “I’m fine,” he said quickly, his tone clipped. “Just—tired.”

Potter didn’t look convinced, but thankfully, he didn’t press the issue. Instead, he nodded and turned back to his search, leaving Draco to wrestle with the mess of emotions clawing at him.

Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair. He needed to get a grip. This was Potter—arrogant, self-righteous, impossible Potter. There was no point in wanting something he could never have. No point in torturing himself over what could never be.

But as he watched Potter move through the room, his green eyes bright and determined, Draco couldn’t help but wish—for just a moment—that things were different. That he was different. That they could be different.

It was a foolish wish.

Harry’s heart thudded in his chest as he pushed open the heavy door in front of them, its hinges creaking in protest. The air that seeped out from within was cold, musty, and almost... oppressive. Dust coated the surface of the wood, and for a moment, he thought the room had been abandoned long ago, just like countless other hidden nooks in Grimmauld Place. But the instant the door swung open fully, his breath caught in his throat.

The room wasn’t just another dusty chamber.

It was hauntingly beautiful, like something out of a dream—or perhaps a nightmare. The wallpaper was an intricate pattern of silver filigree against faded powder blue, curling at the edges where time had worn it thin. A single chandelier hung from the ceiling, its crystals catching what scarce light spilled into the room and throwing fractured patterns onto the walls. At the centre of the room was an antique four-poster bed, its canopy of deep indigo velvet now torn and faded, the once-plush comforter torn in pieces and caked with years of grime.

But it wasn’t the room that held Harry’s attention.

Sitting on a high-backed chair near the bed was a ghostly figure—a young woman with an eerie kind of beauty, her translucent form shimmering faintly under the chandelier. Her hair was a cascade of long, dark curls that tumbled freely down her back and onto the chair, and her olive skin had the pale, ethereal glow of moonlight. She was dressed in what looked like a blood-stained white chemise, the delicate fabric clinging to her spectral frame, the barest hint of skin visible under the translucent fabric. Her expression was serene, but her eyes were heavy with a mournfulness that seemed to permeate the very air around her.

Harry felt a shiver run down his spine.

The ghost didn’t immediately acknowledge their presence. She seemed to be… playing chess. Except there was no opponent and the board was caked in grime—her fingers hovered over the broken pieces with practised precision, as though she were caught in a game against herself only she could see.

“Merlin’s bloody beard,” Harry muttered, glancing at Malfoy, who was standing rigid in the doorway. Malfoy’s expression was unreadable, but his pale complexion suggested he wasn’t any more comfortable than Harry.

After a moment, the ghost looked up. Her eyes, a piercing pale colour, locked onto Harry’s.

“Oh,” she said softly, her voice lilting and warm, though tinged with unmistakable melancholy. “Visitors, how nice.”

Harry’s hand instinctively went to his wand, but he didn’t draw it.

Malfoy, ever the quick one, stepped forward with a small, stiff bow. “Apologies for the intrusion,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically polite. “We weren’t aware this room was… occupied.”

The ghost tilted her head, a small smile ghosting across her lips. “I don’t mind, as I’m afraid it has been too long since anyone came to visit me. Forgive me if I seem out of sorts. I fear I’ve forgotten the proper decorum for receiving guests.” She gestured to her blood-stained chemise. As she moved her hands, Harry could see deep cuts at her wrists, and he felt a knot at his throat, the only thing to keep him from sicking up. “I would have changed, but, well…”

Harry blinked. He wasn’t entirely sure what one was supposed to say to a dead woman apologising for her appearance and making light of her death.

“Well, you’re dead,” Harry said, shrugging as to appear nonchalant. “So I guess that’s forgivable.”

Malfoy whipped around and slapped the back of Harry’s head, glaring at him. “Potter!” he hissed, looking like he was about to throttle him.

The ghost laughed, the sound light and melodic, but with an edge of despondency.

“No, no, it’s quite all right,” she said. “I am indeed dead. Long dead, in fact. It’s refreshing to have someone speak so plainly about it.”

Malfoy shot Harry one last murderous look before turning back to the ghost. “Might I ask your name?” he inquired, his voice smoother now, almost… reverent.

The ghost inclined her head, her curls dancing around her. “Hesper. Hesper Aurora Black.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “You’re… related to Sirius, then?”

Hesper’s smile faded slightly, her eyes clouding with something unreadable. “Ah, yes. Sirius. My… great-nephew, many times removed. Though I doubt he ever knew of me, he certainly never came to visit. My name was long buried with me,” she gestured to the bed, her fingers brushing lightly over the skeletal remains barely concealed beneath the comforter. “Quite literally.”

Harry stared at the remains, his stomach twisting with nausea and pity. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t noticed them earlier. The shape of a body was unmistakable beneath the decaying fabric, the outline of bones stark and unyielding against the softness of the bloodied comforter.

“How did you…?” Harry began, but Malfoy smacked the back of his head once more before he could finish the question.

“For Salazar’s sake, Potter!” Malfoy snapped. “Have some tact.”

Hesper laughed again, a sound both light and brittle. “No, no, let him ask,” she said, her gaze drifting back to Harry. “It’s not as though I’m shy about it. I’ve had… oh, how long has it been now? Almost two centuries to make peace with it,” she folded her hands in her lap, her expression wistful. “I suppose you’d like to hear my story.”

Harry nodded, though he glanced at Malfoy, half-expecting another smack to the head. But Malfoy didn’t say anything, his face unreadable as he watched Hesper with an intensity that made Harry uneasy.

Hesper began to speak, her voice soft but steady as she looked around the room before she settled her gaze back to her invisible chess game.

“I was the youngest daughter of Pollux Black,” she said, her gaze distant, as though she were seeing something invisible and far away. “And like all Black children, my life was not my own. My parents had grand ambitions for me—marriage to an older wizard with seats in the Wizengamot, a man who could further the family’s political power,” she paused, her fingers tightening slightly in her lap. “But my heart already belonged to someone else.”

Malfoy’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly. Harry glanced at him, but his silver gaze was fixed on Hesper, his jaw tight.

“I loved her. Oh, how I loved her so. She was just divine, the fairest young woman you’d ever seen,” Hesper continued, her voice wistful, sad and breaking slightly. “She was… not what my family wanted for me. But she loved me deeply, truly. And I loved her back,” her lips trembled, but she forced a smile. “We thought we might run away together. That we could escape the Black name, the Black expectations. However, my parents found out.”

Harry felt a chill run down his spine. He knew where this story was going, he could already feel the tragedy in it, see the ending hidden underneath the duvet.

“They killed her,” Hesper said quietly, her voice devoid of emotion. “My father. My brothers. They thought it was better for me to marry the man they’d chosen than to disgrace the family with my perversions, my deviancy. They didn’t even let me see her before they took her away. Just… told me she was gone, that nobody would care to look for a missing mudblood.”

The room seemed to grow colder, the air thick with sorrow as Hesper's words hung between them like a frost settling over everything. Harry felt the weight of them in his chest, an ache that wasn’t quite his, but close enough to cut. He glanced at Malfoy beside him and froze. Malfoy’s face was pale, almost as ghostly as Hesper’s, his usually sharp features softened by the glimmer of tears threatening to spill from his wide, silvery eyes. His hands, normally so controlled, trembled faintly where they hung by his sides, his knuckles white as though he were gripping onto something unseen for dear life.

It wasn’t just sadness Harry saw in him—it was something deeper, rawer, like a wound torn open and left to bleed for a long time. Malfoy looked like he was battling something vast and unbearable, barely holding himself together. The tremor in his frame wasn’t just from sorrow; it was rage, yes, but also something quieter, something Harry couldn’t place. He wondered briefly if Malfoy was angry for Hesper or at something else. Harry didn’t know what it was that made Malfoy react so viscerally—he didn’t understand why Hesper’s story seemed to cut him in ways even her murder hadn’t. Malfoy, for all his insults and dramatics, always seemed untouchable, untouched by the vulnerabilities that gripped others. And, deeply, Harry knew it was a front, something he had found out long ago but had only solidified since they’d been trapped. Now, he was trembling, his breath shaky, his entire being charged with something Harry couldn’t begin to unravel. It felt wrong to stare, to intrude on something so private, and yet Harry couldn’t look away.

The silence pressed heavily around them, and Harry shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to say, unsure if saying anything would even help.

“I was to marry the man they’d chosen the next day,” Hesper said, her voice distant now. “But I couldn’t. I couldn’t face a life without her. So that night, I came here—to my room—and I…” She gestured vaguely to the bed, her ghostly form shimmering slightly. There was blood on the comforter, a shaving razor on her night stand. “I followed my love.”

Harry felt his chest tighten, the weight of her story settling heavily on him.

“I’ve been here ever since,” Hesper said, her voice quieter now. “Can’t seem to leave, though I’d have loved to. All I wanted was to be with her, and even in death, I could not. And it does get terribly lonely in this room.”

Silence filled the room. Harry didn’t know what to say. What could he say?

Malfoy didn’t say anything, it looked like he couldn’t, his gaze still fixed on Hesper as though he were trying to see through her, past her ghostly form. The tremble in his hands had subsided, but the tension in the air between them was undeniable—heavy, suffocating. Harry could feel it pressing against his chest, thick and unpleasant, but Malfoy seemed to retreat into it, losing himself in the quiet, his body rigid and still.

Finally, Harry cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice awkward but sincere. “I—I don’t know what else to say.”

Hesper smiled faintly. “There’s nothing to say, dear” she replied. “But thank you. For listening.”

She turned her gaze to Malfoy, who seemed to snap out of whatever trance he’d been in. “And you,” she said softly. “You have the look of a Black about you, you must be the Black heir.”

Malfoy stiffened, his shoulders squaring. “I’m Draco Malfoy,” he said. “Narcissa Black’s son.”

Hesper’s smile widened, though it was tinged with sadness. “Ah, Narcissa. She was always exceedingly kind to me when she was young. You must be a fine young man if you’re her son.”

Harry bit back a laugh at the sheer disbelief on Malfoy’s face.

“Er, well,” Malfoy began, clearly flustered.

Before he could say anything else, Hesper turned her gaze back to her chessboard. 

“Sit,” she said, gesturing to the door. “You’ve heard my tale, now dear nephew of mine, please do play a game of chess with me. It’s been so long since I’ve had anyone to challenge me.”

Malfoy said nothing as he nodded and proceeded to cast strong cleaning charms on the chess set and the surrounding furniture, much to Hesper’s clear delight. Then, Hesper thought it funny to give Malfoy the white pieces, “To match our hair, darling,” she said as she pointed towards her own black locks. 

Harry stood back, watching the scene unfold with an odd sense of detachment. He felt like an observer rather than a participant in this moment, caught between the flicker of old emotions and the unsettling shift in Malfoy’s demeanour. Hesper's voice was light, teasing even, but there was something sad about the way Malfoy accepted the challenge, the way his fingers lingered over the chess pieces with a faint tremor. It was as if this game was terribly important to him. 

As the first move was made, Harry found himself strangely unsettled, wondering, not for the first time, what it was that made Malfoy so impossibly complicated—and why, despite everything, he couldn’t seem to stop trying to figure it out.

“Pawn to E4,” started Draco, moving his white piece forward.

“Pawn to E5,” continued Hesper and Draco moved her piece for her.

“Knight to F3.”

The room was quiet except for the soft clicking of chess pieces as Draco moved them across the board. Hesper sat across from him, her ghostly form a pale, ethereal presence in the dimly lit chamber. Her long, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders as she leaned forward, her skin glowing faintly, almost as though the room itself breathed her life into existence, even in death. Her eyes, so pale and so very much like his own, followed Draco’s every move with a quiet intensity. Despite her eerie appearance, there was an innocence to her demeanour as she played, a joy that seemed disconnected from her tragedy. Draco couldn’t help but wonder if, somewhere deep inside, she found peace through these small moments, these simple games. But the more Draco played, the more he realised that there was something oddly familiar about the way she moved her pieces, the concentration in her eyes as she considered every move, every strategy. After a while, he realised that her playing style was eerily similar to his mother’s, and he wondered if Narcissa had learnt how to play from Hesper. The thought made him smile, like something had finally come full-circle. For a brief moment, the weight of Grimmauld Place, of his legacy, of the war, all of it, melted away. It was just him and Hesper, and the chessboard between them.

When he beat her he didn’t feel the usual rush of triumph. Instead, he only felt strangely desolate, like a piece of him had been taken with the victory.

Hesper let out a soft laugh, almost melodic in its sadness, and looked up at him, her smile wistful. “I suppose I’m getting too old for this game,” she said, her voice light but carrying an undertone of humour. “You’ve bested me, Heir Black.”

Draco didn’t respond right away, his eyes on the pieces in front of him. He hadn’t felt like much of an heir, not after everything. He didn’t feel connected with the title, the bloodline, or anything that came with it.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Hesper added, as if sensing his thoughts. “It’s only a game. But…” She paused, her gaze lingering on him. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had company. Will you play me once more?”

Draco sighed, pushing a lock of hair from his face, feeling the ache of exhaustion weighing down on him. He felt weary, the tiredness deep in his bones as if it was not only physical in nature. But he nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture accompanied by an even more diminutive smile. 

“Alright. One more game.”

They played in silence again, but this time, Draco couldn’t bring himself to focus as fully as before. His moves were sluggish, his mind not entirely in the game. His thoughts drifted to the conversation they’d had earlier—to Hesper’s story, to the lives that had been lost, and to the overwhelming sense of being trapped in a life he never chose. The pieces on the board seemed irrelevant, a distraction from the storm inside him.

It was when he made a careless move, his knight falling and giving way for an inevitable checkmate, that he realised he’d lost. He looked up at Hesper, and for the first time since they’d started, her smile was blinding, warm, and even a little mischievous.

“Alas, I’ve won,” she said softly, her eyes gleaming with something like triumph. But there was no malice in it. Only the quiet joy of having finally succeeded, in a way that had eluded her for so long. “I suppose I should be happy,” she continued, her fingers delicately brushing the chessboard. “I haven’t had a real victory in a long time. Perhaps… that’s enough for now.”

Draco’s chest tightened, the words suddenly feeling heavier than they should have. He wanted to speak, wanted to say something meaningful, but it was as though the air had thickened, choking him with the enormity of her words and the weight of his own. Hesper tilted her head slightly, studying him with a soft, almost knowing expression. She said nothing at first, but then, as if making a decision, she looked directly at him.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice quieter now, as though speaking to herself. “So sorry you have to live with this pain.”

The words made Draco freeze, his heart pounding in his chest as they sank into him, too heavy to simply shake off. 'So sorry you have to live with this pain.'  Her sympathy, her understanding, words wrapping around him like a thick, suffocating rope, not because it was unwelcome, but because it was so rare. He had spent his entire life suppressing parts of himself, locking away pieces that were considered unacceptable, weak, or worse, not Malfoy. The idea that someone, someone so close to him, could understand that quiet ache, the one that lived in the hollow of his chest and gnawed at him in his most solitary moments, made him feel as if something within him that had been long broken suddenly clattered to the floor.

As a rule, he had always been taught to be something he wasn’t. To be the perfect heir, to uphold the legacy of his family, their values, their expectations. But neither of those things had ever taken into account the parts of him that didn’t fit, the parts of him that wanted to be loved in a way that didn’t adhere to the narrow, suffocating framework he had been born into. He’d carried that weight for so long, pretending, playing the role he had been handed, all the while breaking inside.

When he had finally told his mother—after the war, after everything—her acceptance had been a balm on a wound he didn’t even realise was so deep. She had embraced him without question, without judgment. But the damage had already been done, and the suffocating pressure had been with him for so long that the idea of living as his true self still felt like an impossible freedom. His family’s demands for perfection had suffocated him, forcing him into a box that was far too small, and that even now, years later, seemed to keep him trapped.

He wanted to say something to Hesper, to let her know that her words hit a mark he had long buried, but the words wouldn't come. She was a mirror to his own buried grief, showing him the parts of himself he had hidden for so long, even from himself.

But instead, he stayed silent, unable to respond to that tenderness. He had never allowed himself to be so brave, not in the way Hesper was, not in the way he longed to be.

Hesper glanced up at him one last time, her eyes filled with a deep sadness. “You two should go now,” she said, her voice distant, as if she was already fading away. “The house won’t let you linger much longer.”

Draco stood slowly, his legs heavy beneath him. The weight of her words pressed on him, and he couldn’t help but glance at her one last time. She was already turning back to the chessboard, her fingers ghosting over the pieces in a soft, absent motion.

Harry hesitated, glancing at Malfoy, but the other man was already heading for the door, his steps brisk and purposeful. Hesper sat impassively in her high-chair, a small, sad smile painting her beautiful face.

“Be careful,” she said, her expression suddenly serious. “This house… it has a way of playing with people’s hearts. Don’t let it twist you into something you’re not.”

Harry frowned, not entirely sure what she meant, but he nodded nonetheless.

With one last look at her, Harry followed.

The air outside the room felt lighter than in the room, as though the heavy weight of Hesper Black's grief hadn't quite followed them through the threshold. Harry could feel the tension that hung between him and Malfoy as they walked side by side, the house's uneven floorboards creaking beneath their boots. Malfoy’s shoulders were squared, his posture stiffer than usual, and Harry could tell he was retreating into himself, likely replaying the ghost’s words over and over in his head.

For Harry, the encounter had left an uneasy impression. Hesper’s warning clung to him like cobwebs, sticky and hard to brush off. Don’t let it twist you into something you’re not. The words echoed in his mind, stirring up a restlessness he couldn’t quite place. Grimmauld Place had always been a house of secrets, and Hesper was just one more tragic soul swallowed away by the darkness of the Black family’s legacy.

Malfoy, on the other hand, had said nothing since they left the room. And while silence from Malfoy was usually a blessing, this one felt loaded. Harry had seen the way Malfoy’s jaw tightened when Hesper mentioned her family’s expectations, the way his pale hands clenched at his sides when she spoke of love sacrificed for duty.

In retrospect, it wasn’t hard to guess why.

“Malfoy,” Harry said finally, breaking the silence. His voice echoed faintly in the corridor, bouncing off the cracked walls.

“What, Potter?” Malfoy snapped, his tone clipped. He didn’t look at Harry, his gaze fixed straight ahead as they trudged through the endless maze of Grimmauld Place.

Harry frowned, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to get sentimental on me,” Malfoy sneered, though the sharpness in his tone lacked its usual bite. He just seemed out of energy, tired. “If you’re looking for a heart-to-heart, I’m afraid you’ll have to consult your Gryffindor friends. I’m all out for the year.”

“That obvious, huh?” Harry muttered, mostly to himself. He wasn’t in the mood to argue—not after everything they’d just heard. “I just… I don’t know. Hesper’s story—”

“Was none of our business,” Malfoy interrupted, finally stopping to whirl around and face Harry. His grey eyes were cold, steely, they way they turned when he was desperately trying to hide his feelings. But even that showed. “Don’t pretend you actually care about her. You’re just looking for a reason to turn this into another one of your righteous crusades.”

“Righteous crusades?” Harry repeated, his voice rising slightly. “What the hell are you on about?”

Malfoy scoffed, running a hand through his hair and gripping it.

“You can’t save her, Potter. She’s a ghost, for Morgana’s sake. You can’t barge in, wave your wand around, and fix everything like you’re some kind of bloody hero.”

“I know that,” Harry shot back, stepping closer to Malfoy. “I’m not trying to save her, Malfoy. I just—”

“Just what?” Malfoy challenged, his voice dripping with hurt. “Feel sorry for her? Pity her? Or maybe you’re just using her story to distract yourself from whatever unresolved saviour complex you’re carrying around.”

Harry’s fists clenched at his sides, his temper flaring despite trying to understand that Malfoy was being defensive. “You don’t know anything about what I’m carrying around.”

“And you know nothing about me,” Malfoy retorted, his voice suddenly quieter, more dangerous. His eyes burned with something Harry couldn’t quite name—anger, yes, but something else, too. Something raw and fragile, like the last snow of winter.

He knew what Malfoy was saying was a lie. They’d always known way too much about each other. And after yesterday, it seemed like they were bound to know each other better than anyone. The barriers between them had shifted like quicksand, and now, with every glance, every word, there was a tension, a quiet tether that neither could deny nor ignore. Something was changing, and it both terrified and intrigued Harry.

For a moment, they stood there, staring each other down in the dim corridor. The tension crackled between them like static electricity, the air thick with everything they weren’t saying.

“Forget it,” Malfoy muttered, breaking the silence. He turned on his heel and started walking again, his robes swirling behind him. “We’re wasting time.”

Harry stood quiet for a moment, his jaw tight. Part of him wanted to yell, to grab Malfoy by the shoulder and demand he explain himself. That he was honest with Harry, like he had been yesterday. But another part of him—the part that was tired, frustrated, and just plain fed up—decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

“Fine,” Harry muttered under his breath, falling into step behind Malfoy. “You’re impossible.”

They walked in silence after that, the house guiding them through a series of narrow hallways and steep staircases. Harry tried to focus on their surroundings, but his thoughts kept drifting back to Malfoy. He couldn’t ignore the way Malfoy had reacted to her story, the way his mask of indifference had cracked, even if only for a moment.

The Black family curse, indeed.

Eventually, the corridor opened up into another room—this one less haunting than the last, though no less peculiar. It appeared to be a library of sorts, the walls lined with towering shelves stuffed with books. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and ink, and a single lantern floated in the centre of the room, casting a soft, golden glow. The room was quieter than the rest of the house, the stillness broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath their feet. The shelves, crammed with volumes of all sizes and ages, stretched high above them, their spines worn and faded from years of neglect. Some of the titles were in languages Harry didn’t recognise, while others looked like they had been scribbled in a hasty hand. The lantern’s light flickered, illuminating the dust that swirled gently in the air, as though even the room itself hadn’t been disturbed in a long time.

Malfoy, who had fallen silent beside him, reached for one of the nearby bookshelves, his fingers grazing the leather-bound volumes. His touch seemed almost reverent, as though he was afraid to disturb the fragile nature of the room. For a moment, Harry wondered if Malfoy had an affinity for books, or if there was something more to the library that he wasn’t sharing. Either way, the quiet stretch between them felt less uncomfortable in this room—something about the space made it easier to breathe, to exist in each other's presence without the weight of their animosity or tumultuous relationship pressing down on them. It was, for once, peaceful.

“Finally,” Malfoy muttered, his voice cutting through the silence. “A room that doesn’t reek of death and despair.”

Harry rolled his eyes, stepping into the room and glancing around. “Let’s hope this one doesn’t have any surprises waiting for us, either.”

Malfoy didn’t respond, already making his way to one of the shelves. He ran his fingers along the spines of the books, his expression unreadable.

Harry hesitated, watching him for a moment before crossing to the opposite side of the room. He wasn’t sure what they were looking for, exactly, but if it helped calm down Malfoy’s Draconian temper, then he wasn’t about to complain.

“Malfoy,” Harry said after a while, breaking the silence. “Do you think—”

“Potter, if you’re going to talk, make it useful,” Malfoy interrupted without looking up. “Otherwise, save your breath.”

Harry scowled but bit back a retort. Instead, he focused on the books in front of him, scanning the titles for anything that might stand out. Many of them were on pureblood genealogy and ancient magic, their spines adorned with the Black family crest.

As the minutes stretched on, the silence between them grew too awkward for Harry. He stole a glance at Malfoy, who was now perched on a ladder, thumbing through a particularly thick tome. His face was illuminated by the soft light of the lantern, his features sharp and almost… delicate. Harry frowned, quickly looking away. He didn’t have time for whatever that thought was.

“Find anything?” Harry asked, clearing his throat.

“No,” Malfoy replied curtly, snapping the book shut and sliding it back onto the shelf. “Just the usual Black family nonsense.”

Harry sighed, leaning against one of the shelves. “This house is going to drive me mad.”

Malfoy smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’d have to be sane to begin with, Potter.”

Despite himself, Harry snorted. “You’re hilarious, ha ha.”

“I do try,” Malfoy replied, descending the ladder with a practised ease. “Now, unless you have another brilliant idea, I suggest we move on. The sooner we’re out of this infernal house, the better.”

Harry nodded, pushing off the shelf. The tension in the air between them had shifted. It wasn’t entirely gone, but it was softer now, back to how it had been in the morning; like a fragile thread holding them together against the enormity of their history. Malfoy leaned against the cold wall of the library, running a hand through his pale hair. His eyes were distant, stormy grey depths that Harry couldn’t quite read. It was clear he was still lost in thought, no doubt replaying Hesper’s words in his mind. Harry stood a few feet away, watching him silently. For the first time, Harry felt no urge to press or argue. 

Predictably, Malfoy spoke on his own, voice breaking through, soft and unsteady. 

“I know what it feels like,” he murmured, his tone barely audible, as if the words were too much to bear. “To be trapped by your family’s choices and demands. To have your entire life laid out for you before you can even think for yourself,” his shoulders trembled, the faintest quiver running through him that Harry couldn’t ignore. 

Harry swallowed, caught off guard by the quiet admission when the blonde had not seemed willing to talk just a few minutes ago. He wanted to say something, wanted to offer some sort of comfort, but the words were stuck in his throat, tangled with the weariness of everything they had both experienced. Instead, he just nodded, not trusting his voice. Malfoy’s eyes, silvered with emotion, flicked to him briefly before turning back to the books.

The library felt smaller now, the silence between them heavier than before. They were both trapped in it—in the past, Harry by the memory of Sirius, and Malfoy in the ghosts of his families. But, for the first time, Harry could see how deep Malfoy’s pain ran, how much of it was tied to something he had never understood. Despite the vulnerability they’d experienced with each other since they first began wandering around this house, it felt as if this was the first time it was so transparent.

Maybe, they weren’t as different as they’d always thought.

Harry cleared his throat. “You mean the Black family?” he asked carefully.

Malfoy’s lips twisted into a wry smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. With slow, deliberate motions, his long fingers grazed the spines of the books as he walked along the shelves. He paused at a particularly old-looking volume, running his fingertips over the embossed title as if it held some kind of hidden significance. His voice, when it came, was soft but laced with bitterness.

“The Black family, the Malfoy family—there’s not much difference, is there? Same principles, same suffocating expectations,” he said, a sneer curling the corners of his lips. His fingers continued to trail over the books, each touch seemingly driven by some quiet, internal anger. “Do you know what it’s like to have your life planned out for you before you’ve even taken your first step? To be told what to think, how to act, who to marry?” He scoffed bitterly, and the sound felt almost too harsh for the quiet room. “My father never failed to remind me I was to marry Astoria Greengrass from the time I was five. Thank Circe the marriage contract dissolved when he became shark bait.”

Harry swallowed hard, the words sinking into him more than he would have liked. He had always seen Draco Malfoy through the lens of animosity, their history coloured by the endless clashes at school, the insults, and the arrogance. But now, standing there in the midst of these books, it was impossible not to see a different side of him.

He hadn’t thought much about what Malfoy’s life might have been like beyond the sneers and the posturing. Not beyond the contemptuous notion that he must’ve been terribly spoiled by his bigoted parents. On the one hand, Harry had always assumed that Malfoy had been a willing participant in the pureblood supremacist ideology—an entitled prat who revelled in his privilege and perceived superiority, who loved to lord it over everyone like bait to fish. And maybe that had been true, once upon a time. But now, in the silence of this room, with the poignancy of his words hanging in the air, Harry couldn’t help but be curious whether there was more to it. Perhaps Malfoy hadn’t always been this way. Perhaps it had been beaten into him, not just by his father, but by the weight of a world that had already decided who he would be long before he ever had a chance to make his own choices. Had he ever had a choice, really?

After all, before he became a Malfoy, there had to have been a Draco. And Harry, for the first time, found himself curious about that Draco Malfoy, the one who hadn’t yet been swallowed up by his family’s expectations and ideologies, the one who had perhaps still had a chance at a different life. 

That thought lingered, heavy and uninvited, as the silence stretched between them like a spiderweb.

“I don’t know what that’s like,” Harry admitted after a long time deep in thought. After all, the Dursleys had never expected anything so grand of him, other than dinner on time or silence. “But I do know what it’s like to have people expect you to be something you’re not. To feel like you’re just… a symbol or a tool for other people’s plans,” his voice softened. “Hesper didn’t have a choice, either. She was used, just like you were.”

Malfoy flinched, his mask of apathy cracking ever so slightly.

“I’m not like her,” he said, though there was no conviction in his voice. “She… she had something pure. Love, or whatever you want to call it. She was willing to give up everything for it. I…” he trailed off, shaking his head.

“You what?” Harry pressed, stepping closer. “You don’t think you’re capable of that?”

Malfoy scoffed, his trademark sneer returning for a brief moment. “What would you know about what I’m capable of, Potter? You’ve spent your entire life thinking I’m some kind of villain.”

“I used to,” Harry said honestly. “But not anymore.”

Malfoy turned to him then, his eyes searching Harry’s face for something—some kind of ulterior motive, perhaps. When he found nothing, for Harry knew there was none, his shoulders sagged, and the tension drained from his body.

“Hesper…” Malfoy started, his voice barely above a whisper. “She called me the Heir Black. Did you hear her?”

Harry nodded. “I did.”

“It wasn’t just a title,” Malfoy continued, his voice trembling slightly. “She looked at me like she… knew me. Like she could see everything I’ve done, every choice I’ve made, and she still —” He broke off, taking a shaky breath. “She still gave me her condolences. Like I’d lost something.”

Harry thought about Hesper’s words, the way she had looked at Malfoy with a mixture of sadness and understanding.

“Maybe she saw more of you than you’re willing to see in yourself,” he said softly. “You’ve lost a lot, Malfoy. More than most people are willing to see.”

Malfoy didn’t respond right away. Instead, he turned his gaze back down the hallway, his expression unreadable.

“We should keep moving,” he said finally, his voice cold and distant again. “The core isn’t going to find itself.”

But Harry wasn’t fooled. He could see the cracks in Malfoy’s armour, the vulnerability he was trying so desperately to hide. Harry didn’t feel the need to push or prod, he simply followed Malfoy down the corridor, the ghost of Hesper’s warning lingering in his mind.

Chapter Text

The sky above Grimmauld Place was thick with grey clouds, hanging heavy like an impending hailstorm. Ron, Hermione, and Bill stood at the threshold of the old house, their eyes narrowing as they assessed the door in front of them. The house loomed, darker than ever, its silhouette stark even against the overcast sky, giving it the air of a brooding, forgotten relic of the past. The very air seemed thick with anticipation, charged with something timeless, something that felt alive and prowling. The street behind them was empty, eerily silent, as though even the city itself had drawn back from the looming danger of Grimmauld. Ron's fingers tightened around the handle of his wand as he stared at the dank building. There was no longer doubt in his mind—something was wrong with Harry, something deeply dangerous, and it had everything to do with Grimmauld Place.

“Are you sure about not asking Kingsley?” Hermione asked, her voice tight with concern as she stood beside her boyfriend, her wand raised and at the ready. “What if we’re too late?”

“We’re not too late,” Ron muttered, though his own words didn't sound as convincing as he had hoped, even to him. “Harry’s still in there somewhere.”

Bill, who stood just ahead of them, had closed his eyes and raised his wand slowly, muttering under his breath. His stance was steady, almost ceremonial, and for a moment, the firmness of his movements made the air feel heavier. He paused, standing perfectly still, as though trying to sense something just out of reach. Then, with a faint flicker of concentration, he opened his eyes, their intensity sharp in the dim room. A brief, silent flash of golden light rippled outward from him, the glow catching on the edges of the shelves like sunlight glinting on water. His brow furrowed deeply, lines of thought creasing his forehead, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel a twinge of unease, the kind that came when even the most capable wizard didn’t seem entirely sure what lay ahead.

“That’s… odd.” Bill’s voice was low, tinged with a rare edge of concern. “The house’s magic is… upset.”

“Upset?” Asked Hermione, but received no answer.

He took a step forward, his eyes still locked on the structure before them, before pulling out his wand and weaving a complex pattern in the air. The unfamiliar symbols of an Arithmantic Diagnostic Web flickered into existence around him—a shimmering lattice of glowing lines and runes, all interwoven with complex calculations. But before Bill could even finish the intricate spell, the entire web flashed bright crimson and disintegrated into soot, scattering into the air like ash on the wind. Ron flinched back, instinctively raising his own wand as if the very air around them might explode. Bill cursed under his breath, his face pale as the soot swirled to the ground.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Ron asked, his voice half-nervous, half-frustrated. “It looked like someone burnt your spellwork.”

Bill exhaled sharply and tightened his long ponytail, looking up at the house with a frown. “That’s… not good, to say the least. The magic here isn’t just unstable; it’s almost like it’s in chaos. As though the very fabric of the house is twisting, contorting around something… or someone, I’d say.”

Hermione crossed her arms, her frown deepening as she looked up at the house. “Do you think it’s because of Harry? Could the magic be reacting to him? After all, he is the master of the house now.”

Bill hesitated, tapping his chin. “It’s possible, but there’s something else at play here. This house is tied to ancient Black family magic. The curse-breaker in me says that the magic isn’t just unstable—it’s tangled in a way I don’t understand. There’s something else at the centre of it all.”

He turned to Hermione and Ron, his face grim.

“But even I have my limits. Ancestral house magic isn’t something I deal with every day. It’s a different beast altogether.”

“Then we need help,” Hermione said, her voice urgent but calm. “Someone who knows more about ancestral family magic—someone who understands how these bloodlines work.”

Bill took a deep breath, his gaze flicking over to Hermione, conflicted, weighing his options. “I know just the person.”

Before anyone could protest, Bill raised his wand, summoning a swirl of bright white light that gracefully coalesced into the shape of a beautiful swan. The bird shimmered with ethereal light, its delicate wings moving as though it might take flight at any moment. Bill’s lips twitched into a small smile—almost fond—before he crouched in front of the glowing figure, murmuring softly to it. The swan tilted its head as if listening, its form pulsating faintly with each word. Hermione opened her mouth to question him, but just then, the swan’s glow seemed to intensify momentarily, its light steady against the swirling gust, before it lifted its head high, spreading its luminous wings and taking off. Not a moment later, a sudden rush of wind swept through the narrow street. It howled between the buildings, tugging at cloaks and rustling Hermione’s hair, forcing her to blink rapidly against the unexpected chill.

“It won't take too long,” said Bill, confident.

And it didn’t. Not five minutes later, Fleur Weasley materialised before them with a soft pop, her presence commanding as the dreary afternoon light did little to dull her radiance. Her long, platinum blonde hair cascaded like fine silk strands, catching even the faintest glimmer in the air, and her bright blue eyes glinted with worry. Fleur’s Veela instincts seemed to bristle as her gaze swept over the house in front of them. There was no mistaking the tension in the way she held herself—graceful as always, yet taut, like a bowstring drawn tight. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she stepped forward, the faintest trace of unease flickering across her otherwise composed expression. Ron couldn’t help but notice the way she seemed to assess the air around her, as though she could sense something the rest of them could not.

“Darling,” she said softly, her voice a melody, though there was no mistaking the tension in it. She immediately crossed the distance between her and Bill, leaning up to kiss her husband on the cheek, her lips lingering for just a moment longer than usual. It was a rare, private moment of affection, but it was quickly interrupted by the tension all around them. Fleur straightened, her eyes scanning the house with a concerned frown.

Bill wasted no time explaining, his voice steady despite the nerves tightening in his chest.

“As you can sense, the magic here is… volatile. It’s like the house is actively fighting against us, and there’s something deeply wrong with it and Harry is inside. We don’t know what’s happening, but it’s tied to Grimmauld’s bloodline magic.”

Fleur nodded, her brow furrowing in thought. “Zis is not a simple curse or enchantment, zat is for sure,” she said, her voice now stern with professional concern. “What you are dealing wiz here is old, dark magic, tied to bloodlines and zose are not easily understood. Ze house… is reacting to something.”

“Something like what?” Ron asked, unable to keep his voice from rising with frustration. “What are we supposed to do here, Fleur? We can’t just leave Harry in there.”

Fleur’s gaze flicked from Ron to Bill, and she exhaled slowly, her voice softening as she spoke to them.

“You said Draco Malfoi, came to ze ‘ouse, non?” she said, her voice carrying an odd mix of sympathy and caution. “Ze ‘ouse must have recognised him. He is ze last Black heir. But ‘Arry is now ze master of the ‘ouse. Zis… zis could be the essence of ze problem.”

Hermione’s face blanched. “Are you suggesting that Malfoy is—?”

Fleur raised a hand, cutting her off before she could finish the thought. 

“I cannot be sure. But ze magic in zis ‘ouse, it reacts unpredictably. If Malfoi entered Grimmauld Place, and ze ‘ouse recognised his blood as a challenge to ‘Arry’s lordship… it may have locked zem inside. If zis is true, zen ze ‘ouse will keep zem trapped, bound by ze ancestral magic. Ze only way to fix it is to find a balance between ze two.”

Hermione frowned, glancing between Fleur and the house sitting before them. “But how can you be sure Malfoy is still in there? I mean, sure, he visited Harry but he might’ve gone home before the house closed itself.”

Fleur’s gaze softened, though her tone didn’t waver. “I’m not sure, but it makes sense to me. Ze blood magic of zis house is old, and it is not just tied to loyalty. It is tied to conflict, to power struggles within its lineage. Malfoi’s bloodline carries weight, but zis house belongs to ‘Arry now. Ze clash of zese claims could create… complications. It fits.”

Ron scratched the back of his head, muttering under his breath, “Complications. Yeah, that sounds like Harry’s life in a nutshell,”he then blinked. “Wait… you’re saying that Malfoy and Harry are in there together , and the house is keeping them locked in? Just like that?”

Fleur gave him a stern, knowing look. “Ancestral magic is not simple. It is unpredictable, and it is not bound by your modern sensibilities. It ‘as a mind of its own, and it cares not if ‘Arry dislikes Malfoi.”

“Bloody brilliant,” Ron muttered, running a hand through his hair. “So, now we have to go in there and find Harry—who’s probably half-mad by now, mind you—and Malfoy, who will no doubt make everything ten times more complicated.”

As if it had heard their conversation, the magic around Grimmauld Place cracked loudly, a window breaking to their right and making them jump in fright. The house loomed before them like a dark, brooding sentinel, its windows dark and unwelcoming, and its door still stubbornly closed. Fleur’s Veela instincts went into full force. Her usual poise had cracked under the strain of the ancient, powerful dark magic that radiated from the house like a living entity. The usual calm and cool demeanour she carried had slipped away, replaced by a sharp edge to her voice and a rigid posture that betrayed the tension she could no longer control. She angled her body towards Bill, trying to seek comfort.

“Ancestral ‘ouses like this one,” Fleur murmured, her voice barely above a hiss, “are not normal ‘ouses. Zeir magic is older than I can even begin to describe. Zey are sentient, to an extent. And, like zis one, zey often have  ze ability to react to emotional and familial ties, to ze people who hold claim to zem. If ‘Arry and Malfoi  are inside, it’s reacting because it's both of zem.” Her words were laced with a quiet determination that made even Bill glance at her with more affection than usual. “Not just zeir presence, but their very blood, zeir very claim to ze ‘ouse.”

Ron shifted nervously at her words. He couldn’t help but look over his shoulder at the house, as though it might be watching him back. “You mean it knows who’s inside? Like, it's aware of them?”

Fleur nodded, her powder blue eyes narrowing as she stared at the old building. “Yes. And ze magic inside is confused. It doesn't know who to accept as its master. ‘Arry—who has no Black blood but ‘olds ownership over this place zrough in’eritance, or Malfoi who is ze last male Black ‘eir. Ze ‘ouse must be torn between ze two of zem, uncertain. It's reacting violently, trying to make sense of zeir presence here.”

Hermione frowned, her brow furrowed in frustration as she played with the edges of her top. “But surely there must be something we can do! We can’t just stand here while they’re trapped inside!”

Ron rubbed his hand across his forehead, looking every bit as tense as his friends felt. “Hermione’s right. Can’t we just break down the wards? I mean, if the house is fighting against them, surely there’s a way to get through.”

Bill’s face darkened. He shook his head. “Breaking down the wards of a house like this one isn’t just a matter of brute force. This house is tied to centuries of Black family blood and magic—ancestral magic like that is incredibly delicate. If we try to forcibly break through its defences, we could destroy the house.”

Ron blinked, looking at Bill in disbelief. “What, you mean we'd just… knock it down?”

Fleur turned her gaze back toward the house, her lips pressing into a tight line. 

“Not just knock it down, Ron,” she said, her French accent thickening with her stress. “If you break ze wards or force your way inside, ze very magic of ze ‘ouse could collapse. It could implode on itself. Ze ‘ouse’s layers of ancestral magic are… delicate. ‘Ouses like zis are… less alive than a tree, but far more sentient zan one. If we disturb it, if we try to force it, it could cause a magical implosion. Ze wards zemselves could trigger a vortex of uncontrolled magic zat would destroy anyone inside—and it might even take out ze entire neighbourhood.” Her eyes, usually serene, were wide with alarm. “We cannot afford to do zat. Not just for ‘Arry and Malfoi’s sake, but for ze safety of everyone ‘ere.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, to insist that there must be something they could do, but before she could, Ron’s hand landed firmly on her shoulder, pulling her back. He shook his head, a silent warning in his eyes. She stared at him for a moment, her lips tight with frustration, but then, reluctantly, she let her wand fall back to her side.

Fleur took a deep breath, her sharp gaze never leaving the house. 

Bill placed his hand on Fleur’s arm, his voice calming. “We need to stabilise the magic that’s leaking onto the street. That’s the only thing we can do from out here. But the only way to find balance is from within. Anything else will only make things worse.”

A heavy silence fell over the group as they absorbed the severity of the situation. Bill and Fleur exchanged a glance, one that spoke volumes. Both of them were curse-breakers, but this was a different kind of magic, one that went far beyond their expertise.

Ron was pacing again, his trainers scuffing against the cobblestones as he muttered to himself. “So, we wait? We just stand here and hope they don’t get blown up by the bloody house?” His voice was tight with frustration, but there was no real solution. Nothing they could do could get them inside the house without making things worse.

“We make sure that the street is secure,” said Bill, his voice serious. Sharing a glance with Fleur, the two of them raised their wands and began to cast spells all around them.

For once, Hermione was not interested in the unfamiliar spells. Not with the way her thoughts were consuming her. She was feeling increasingly helpless, her arms crossed tightly across her chest as she looked up at Grimmauld Place. Her mind was racing, overthinking everything in a desperate bid for some kind of plan, some way to fix this. She knew she couldn’t just do nothing. Not while Harry and Malfoy were inside, trapped in the chaos.

Looking up at the sky, she saw something fly towards them. An owl. 

“Wait a minute…” she suddenly exclaimed, her eyes lighting up with a thought. “Who’s owl is that?”

“What? An owl?” Ron asked, his voice tight with expectation.

Suddenly, there was a soft fluttering sound in the air, and said owl appeared from the direction of the rooftops, circling once before landing near Hermione. It was a great owl, handsome and vicious looking, and it carried a letter in its beak. Despite the proximity of the house’s wards, it was able to land at her feet.

Ron quickly reached down to grab it, but as he did so, the owl startled and pecked his hand, causing him to hiss in pain. Hermione’s soothing hand immediately reached out, murmuring a calming charm as the bird settled down, allowing her to take the letter from its talons.

“Vicious little thing, innit?” whispered Ron as he peered over Hermione’s shoulder as she read the neat, unfamiliar handwriting on the envelope. His eyes widened. “That’s Parkinson’s handwriting! I recognise her it from the Daily Prophet. She’s a journalist now, right? Famous for kicking Rita Skeeter out of the business and taking right over,” he exclaimed, his expression quickly turning into a frown. “What’s she want with Harry?”

Hermione carefully opened the envelope, scanning the message inside. It was short, but the words seemed to burn into her mind as she read aloud:

"Draco, you sneaky little brat,

Where in the name of Circe, Nimue and Morgana have you ferreted away to? Your mother is delirious with worry! She apparently hasn’t heard from you since the day before yesterday’s morning, said you haven’t gone home to sleep or to change your clothes. Did you fuck off for a shag and have stayed all these nights with your new boy toy? As much as I appreciate the fact that you’re finally getting shagged, do please respond to your poor mother’s patronus before she starts waging war upon the innocent while looking for you.

Also, if you have indeed been spirited away by a tall, dark and handsome gentleman —and don’t you dare deny that’s what he looks like, I know your type— let me tell you I am gravely offended that you didn’t come to me the second your dick went limp. A witch needs her gossip. How very dare you.

Nevertheless, I hope this letter finds you thoroughly fucked into a mattress.

Love, Pansy

PS: Seriously, go put your mother out of her misery, will you? Narcissa deserves to know where you are for her peace of mind.”

Ron’s face had turned an alarming shade of crimson by the time Hermione finished reading the letter, her own cheeks flushed with mortification. She shoved the letter deep inside the pocket of her coat as though it might bite her if she held onto it for longer.

There was a moment of awkward silence before Ron blurted, “I—Merlin’s sagging tits. I didn’t know Malfoy was bent — OW !!”

Hermione had shot him a sharp look and elbowed him in the ribs before he could finish. “Ronald Weasley!” she hissed, though the mortified expression on her face suggested she was just as flustered.

“What?” Ron protested, rubbing his side and scowling at her. “I’m just saying! He was always going on and on about bloodlines and heirs and all that pure-blood rubbish—don’t you find it hilariously ironic?”

“That is not the point right now,” Hermione snapped, but her voice cracked slightly, betraying her own discomfort. She dug up the letter again, this time rereading it silently, her brow furrowing. “It’s proof, though. This wasn’t meant for Harry.”

Ron’s frown deepened. “You think?” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Last I checked, Harry wasn’t the type to—what was it?— ferret off for a shag .” He shook his head. “Honestly, why’d she send it here anyway? Doesn’t Parkinson have his address?”

“Maybe Malfoy didn’t tell anyone where he was going,” Hermione replied thoughtfully, though the slight wrinkle of her nose betrayed her lingering discomfort. “And it sounds like his mother is worried. She probably asked Parkinson to help find him. And then Parkinson sent it to Malfoy, if the owl automatically came to Grimmauld Place… that means Fleur was right. Malfoy must be in there with Harry.”

Ron paled. “Well, we can call date and time of death on both Malfoy and Harry, cause there’s no way they’ve been cooped up together in there for more than 24 hours without killing each other.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Oh, honestly, Ron, focus! The question is, do we respond to this or—”

“Burn it,” Ron interrupted quickly, a look of horror crossing his face. “Burn it and pretend we never saw it. I do not want to be dragged into Malfoy’s scandalous sex life.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, her fingers tightening on the parchment. “Ron! This is not what this is really about. Maybe we can use this to help them out of that house.”

Ron groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Great. Now we’re responsible for saving Malfoy’s useless life, again, and his mum’s sanity to boot. Just what I needed to brighten my day.”

“Well,” Hermione said with a sigh, “we can at least contact Parkinson and tell her Malfoy’s… been found.”

“And shag-free,” Ron muttered darkly.

“Ronald!”

Her boyfriend jumped away from her swatting hand with a cheeky grin on his face. Ignoring him, Hermione’s gaze flicked to where Fleur and Bill were still working on stabilising the leaking magic a little down the street.

“We need information. If we can’t get in by force, maybe we can get someone who knows more about the Black family magic.” She turned to Ron. “We need to reach out to her.”

Ron’s face scrunched up in distaste. “Pansy Parkinson? Why not his mother or Andromeda? At least they’re also a Black.”

Hermione didn’t hesitate. “Narcissa seems to be mad with worry right now, we can’t expect her to be logical about this. I don’t trust her to take Harry’s life into consideration right now. And Andromeda said she was visiting Ted’s family with Teddy today, they’re muggles, remember? I can’t communicate with her right now,” she said, worrying her lip with her teeth. “Parkinson might know less about Black magic, but she’s still Malfoy’s friend. Maybe she knows something we don’t,” she held up her wand. “I’ll send her a Patronus.”

Before Ron could respond, Hermione raised her wand, and in an instant, her sleek otter Patronus materialised at her side, bouncing eagerly as it waited for her message. She spoke quickly, her words clipped with urgency.

“Parkinson, it’s Hermione Granger. Malfoy and Harry are trapped inside Grimmauld Place, and we need your help to figure out what’s happening. Please—whatever you know about Malfoy’s connection to his family magic could help us. We need to know what’s going on in there before it’s too late. Please, come to Grimmauld Place as quickly as possible.”

The otter darted off into the sky, its glowing form vanishing into its light. 

Fleur, who had returned to their side, her fringe wet with sweat, exhaled sharply. “We wait, then?”

Hermione nodded, her face tense. “We wait.”

The group stood there in silence, the oppressive magic of Grimmauld Place pressing in on them from all sides. The sky seemed darker, heavier, as if the storm they feared was now a mere breath away from breaking. Ron stepped back, his hands in his pockets, his gaze still fixed on the house. The air was still thick with tension, the sense of impending danger growing heavier with each moment. Fleur’s senses were still on high alert, her eyes narrowing at the door of as she watched Bill still casting.

Time was ticking.

The air inside Grimmauld Place had grown lighter as the day went on, and Harry and Malfoy trudged through its halls at a calm pace, their footsteps a careful rhythm against the creaking wooden floors. Their brief lunch—cold caprese pasta, fizzy pop from Harry’s stash, and a kettle full of hot tea that the house had conjured up for them in lieu of dessert—had done little to lift their spirits. The tension from earlier still hung between them like an overgrown spider web, sticky and cloying. It was not hostile, not by a mile, especially comparing it to how it’d been yesterday morning, but Harry couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable.

“I’m starting to think this house is trying to make sure our bodies are never found,” Malfoy muttered as they edged past a crooked painting of what could only be described as a deranged half-squid of a man with a dark hat perched on his head. “I don’t know what’s worse—the fact that this house keeps trying to kill us, or the fact that your taste in drinks is apparently as atrocious as your taste in decor.”

“Stop complaining about the Fanta,” Harry shot back, glancing warily at the walls, which seemed to be leaning in just slightly closer than they had a moment ago. As he mentioned the drink, he had to struggle not to start laughing once again. The face Malfoy had made when Harry had insisted he try it had been one of the funniest things he’d seen—and Harry had once seen Ron trip on his formal robes and into the Ministry’s fountain during a gala. “It’s your family’s house, remember? Maybe it’s just rebelling against your personality.”

“Oh, please.” Malfoy sniffed, his pale fingers brushing dust off his sleeve as they turned another corner. “If this house were truly rebelling, it’d be because you have the audacity to own it. Honestly, Potter.”

Before Harry could retort, the floor beneath them gave a sickening groan. Both of them froze, the sound reverberating like a warning bell.

“Oh,” Malfoy said, his voice sharp with alarm. “ Oh , no, no, no—”

With a sudden, violent lurch, the floor gave way entirely. Harry barely had time to shout before gravity yanked him downward once more. Dust and splinters exploded into the air as they fell, Malfoy’s yell blending with Harry’s as they crashed into the room below. Harry landed in a heap of cushions that had definitely seen better days, while Malfoy was unceremoniously deposited into what appeared to be a crumbling large bed that had a carved headboard and red sheets. The boom of their fall was followed by an eerie silence, save for the faint, merry creak of the house settling around them, as though the house was smugly congratulating itself on a job well done.

“Bloody hell,” Harry groaned, sitting up and brushing dust from his glasses. “Are you alright?”

Malfoy emerged from the mound of red sheets with an expression that could have soured milk. “Am I alright ?” he repeated, his voice dripping with venom. “Potter, I’ve just plummeted through the floor of a cursed house, again , and landed in a bed that smells distinctly like hippogriff, for some reason. Do I look alright ?”

Harry bit back a grin despite himself. “You’re fine.”

Malfoy shot him a withering glare before rising to his feet, brushing off his robes with an exaggerated flourish. He wrinkled his nose at the room they’d fallen in. It was lit by a tall window with long velvet curtains, the glass smeared with grime, and a candle chandelier. Dust coated every surface, and the air was thick with the scent of age and neglect. The furniture was scattered haphazardly—an overturned chair here, a lopsided desk there—and clothes were strewn across the floor in disarray. The walls were covered with so many pictures of Muggle motorcycles and bikini-clad Muggle girls that it was barely possible to see the wallpaper. 

It was only when Harry finally diverted his attention to the pictures on the wall that he realised where the house had sent them crashing into —this was unmistakably Sirius’s childhood bedroom.

Harry felt his heart tighten, as it always did when he was reminded of Sirius. The room was exactly as he’d last seen it: an eclectic mix of Gryffindor pride and teenage rebellion. But it was also weighed down by an overwhelming sense of melancholy, as if the very walls carried the burden of Sirius’s life—his defiance, his loneliness, his pain. And, underneath that, Harry could almost hear the echoes of a younger Sirius laughing, arguing, dreaming within these walls. 

He hadn’t been back since he’d come up here during the war, when Remus had arrived at Grimmauld Place to try to join them in their quest.

Malfoy must have noticed the change in his withdrawn demeanour because he didn’t make a cheeky, sarcastic comment for once. Instead, he stood silently, his gaze flickering over the room. “This… was Black’s room, wasn’t it? Your godfather,” he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

Harry nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Sirius.”

Malfoy looked around again, his expression unreadable. “Huh,” he said finally, though there was no mockery in his tone.

The two of them moved carefully through the room, their initial irritation with each other momentarily forgotten. It felt wrong to remain in this space, to disturb the memories that lingered here. Harry’s gaze caught on a Gryffindor banner pinned to the wall, its colours dulled with time, and a pang of sadness shot through him. This was a room filled with things lost through time. 

As they searched for a way out—the house had vanished the actual door, of course it had—Harry’s foot nudged the broken, loose floorboards. Looking down, he froze as a flicker of emotion passed through him. This was where he had found his mother’s letter almost six years ago. Smiling faintly and filled with curiosity, he crouched down, brushing his hand over the wood as though greeting an old friend. Something glinted faintly beneath the floorboards. Using his wand to move away the splintered wood and brushing aside years of dust and debris, he uncovered a small wooden box. It was scuffed and scratched, its once-polished and carved surface dulled by age, but it still held an air of quiet importance. Harry’s heart beat faster as he picked it up, the weight of it solid and grounding in his hands.

Something about it felt precious, as though it had been waiting for this moment to be found.

“What’s that?” Malfoy asked, stepping closer to peer over Harry’s shoulder.

“I don’t know,” Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper. He hesitated for a moment, his fingers hovering over the box. Then, taking a deep breath, he opened it.

Inside was a big collection of letters, their parchment yellowed and brittle with age. Some were neatly tied together with string, while others were loosely scattered, their ink smudged in places by time or perhaps tears. Harry gently lifted the first bundle, his fingers trembling as though he were holding something sacred. Among the letters were old photographs of Sirius with the Marauders, and even his mother, their edges curled, their colours faded to sepia. Sirius grinned in most of them, his laughter frozen in time, though in some his expression held a quiet melancholy that Harry recognised all too well. Quiet tears sprung to his eyes at the sight.

As he shuffled through the stack, Harry’s breath caught when he finally recognised the handwriting on the envelopes—neat, slanted, and unmistakably Remus Lupin’s. A sharp pang of loss struck him, a bittersweet ache that made his throat tighten. These letters were pieces of a life he had only glimpsed in fragments, a connection to people who had meant so much to him yet were gone too soon. He wondered what stories these letters held, what secrets and moments of friendship had been captured in ink. Turning them over, he felt the profundity of their history, of love and loss sealed within their fragile folds. For a moment, the room felt impossibly still, as though the house itself was holding its breath for what was about to happen, waiting for Harry to uncover the pieces of a past that had remained hidden for far too long.

“Letters,” Harry murmured, his hands trembling slightly as he picked one up. His throat tightened, memories of Remus flooding back with a force that made his chest ache and his eyes prickle.

Malfoy leaned in closer, his sharp grey eyes narrowing as he examined the box’s contents. “From Lupin?” he asked, his voice softer than Harry expected to hear it.

Harry nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. He turned the envelope over in his hands, his thumb brushing against the faded ink of Sirius’s name written on the front. 

Dear Sirius. 

Love, Remus.

Malfoy didn’t say anything, but Harry could feel his presence beside him, steady and uncharacteristically unobtrusive. It was oddly comforting, though Harry wasn’t quite sure why.

With a deep breath, Harry slid the letter out of the envelope. The parchment crackled faintly as he unfolded it, and his eyes began to scan the words written in Remus’s familiar hand. The room felt suffocatingly still as Harry caressed the letter, the parchment brittle under his fingers. The faint scent of age and dust clung to it, but it was the inked words that made his throat tighten. He glanced at Malfoy, who was leaning patiently against the bed, his expression unreadable, though his eyes darted toward Harry every so often. 

It seemed, for once, even Malfoy was unsure whether to speak or keep quiet.

The words blurred at first, a mix of nervous anticipation and the lingering dust in the air stinging Harry’s eyes. He blinked rapidly, then wiped his glasses on the edge of his shirt, the trembling of his fingers betraying how much this moment meant. The fragile parchment felt almost weightless in his hands, yet it carried the gravity of lifetimes. The world seemed to narrow down to the faded ink and careful, slanted letters before him, every line of the handwriting pulling him further into a history he’d never been part of but somehow belonged to.

Malfoy stood so close behind Harry could feel the faint warmth of his knee against his shoulder, a subtle reminder that he wasn’t alone. But for once, neither of them said a word. The usual sharpness of Malfoy’s tongue was absent, and Harry wondered if even Malfoy could feel the reverence that seemed to settle over the room like a shroud. He wondered if, in some unspoken way, he understood.

Harry’s eyes moved over the page, the ink faded but still legible, as if Remus’ voice had been captured in time, a ghost speaking across time to Sirius. He took in each word like a blind man seeing for the first time, each careful line of slanted script that seemed to radiate a warmth and tenderness Harry hadn’t expected.

The letters were dated, meticulously organised—of course, by Remus. Harry’s throat tightened when he realised some of those dates were from 1998. After everything. After he had chased Remus out of Grimmauld Place with cruel words, too angry to see the pain behind his mentor’s eyes. Had Remus returned here afterward, seeking something familiar, something safe? Harry’s guilt twisted like a knife in his gut at the thought, his mind filling with images of Remus alone in this house, surrounded by memories and ghosts.

He reached for the earliest group of letters, tied neatly with frayed string. These were playful, filled with teasing remarks and inside jokes Harry couldn’t fully understand but could easily imagine being told in the high voices of children. Mentions of pranks, secret Gryffindor exploits, and stolen moments of rebellion against curfews painted a picture so vivid it was almost unbearable. Harry could hear their laughter in his mind despite never having heard it—the youthful, carefree sound of Sirius and Remus as teenagers, long before the world had broken them. The familiar warmth of the Gryffindor common room flickered in his memory, the crackling firelight, the way Sirius’s grin must have lit up the room, the quiet, steady way Remus must have watched him with fond exasperation as he read a book or wrote an essay.

It was painfully, achingly human. These weren’t the war-torn men Harry had known. These were boys, hopeful and daring, still untouched by the betrayals and tragedies that would define them in days of future past. Their words carried a youthfulness that felt almost foreign in this cold, dark house. Harry’s chest ached with a heaviness he couldn’t name, something so deep it left him breathless.

Longing, perhaps. 

Not just for them, for who they had been, but for the fleeting idea that maybe, in another life, they could have stayed that way. Unbroken. Together. With him. Harry felt a lump rise in his throat as he clutched the brittle parchment, his fingers trembling. The gravity of what they’d lost pressed down on him like a weight atop his chest. For a moment, the room was still, save for the faint sound of his breathing and the almost imperceptible movement of Malfoy behind him.

Harry’s throat tightened as he turned to the next group of letters, his hands trembling ever so slightly. The words on the page seemed to thrum with life, carrying the echoes of Sirius’ fierce loyalty and reckless charm. Harry could picture him, younger and freer, standing beside Remus in defiance of the world’s judgment. The coded references weren’t just about the curse that marked Remus—his ‘furry little problem’ —they were about trust, about a bond that could weather even the darkest of truths.

The warmth in Remus’ words contrasted starkly with the emptiness Harry felt now. He couldn’t stop himself from wondering how much strength it must have taken for them to keep these letters, to hold onto memories of someone who’d been torn from them not once, but twice. And here Harry was, uncovering them in the very house that had witnessed so much of their pain. A sharp pang shot through him—grief mingled with guilt, his close company.

It wasn’t fair. They had deserved so much more, hadn’t they? Harry’s hand clenched slightly around the fragile parchment, his heart aching for two people he had barely gotten to know, yet missed with an intensity that surprised him.

Malfoy shifted on the bed, the sound of his Oxfords scraping the wooden floor breaking the silence. Harry glanced up briefly, catching the faintest movement of Malfoy’s shadow against the wall before he turned back to the letters. The more he read, the words became heavier, more tentative, as if Remus and Sirius were circling a truth neither was ready to admit. Reassurances of friendship edged closer to something deeper, something they didn’t seem to fully understand yet. Harry felt his eyes burn as he read Remus’ hesitant admissions of love—buried in self-doubt and fear of ruining what they had. It was clumsy and heartfelt in a way that made Harry’s chest tighten painfully for them. And then Sirius’s replies, confident and awkward, but just as raw. The following letters were full of love and joyous life.

They had loved each other, they had loved each other so much.

Harry could almost hear their laughter and arguments, their quiet moments when they thought no one was watching. He had to stop for a moment, setting the letters aside as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Remus and Sirius, his parents, even Snape… they had all loved so deeply, so fiercely, and yet all of them had been torn apart by the war. That kind of love, Harry thought bitterly, seemed to come at too high a cost.

And yet…

“Are you alright, Potter?” Malfoy’s voice was quiet, almost soft.

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Harry muttered, though there was no real venom in his tone, just the need for silence.

When he resumed reading, the tone of the letters shifted. The playful warmth was gone, replaced with anger and betrayal, the words heavy and sharp as broken glass. Harry’s stomach churned as he read Remus’ raw heartbreak over Sirius’ prank on Snape, the sheer weight of it pressing against his chest. The bitterness in Remus’s words was palpable, each sentence laced with hurt and disbelief, a heartbreak so palpable Harry felt it against his sternum— you were willing to use the worst part of me as a weapon . He had never thought much about the consequences of Sirius’ actions beyond Snape’s attitude.

Harry could also feel the desperation in Sirius’s responses, scrawled with a frantic hand, the ink smudged in places. His apologies bled across the page, filled with pleas for forgiveness, swearing it had only been a joke, that he hadn’t meant for it to go so far. I didn’t think, Moony. I didn’t think. The anguish in those words made Harry’s head spin, his hands trembling as he turned the pages. The vulnerability was so stark, so painfully human, that it was hard to reconcile this Sirius with the confident, reckless man Harry had known. It was as though he were glimpsing a part of them he was never meant to see—a love so vast it could shatter under the weight of a single mistake.

Malfoy sneezed softly behind him, drawing Harry’s gaze for a moment. He was watching him carefully, reading over his shoulder, his usual smirk absent. For a fleeting second, Harry thought he saw something like empathy in Malfoy’s expression, but it vanished as quickly as it came.

By the time Harry reached the letters hinting at James and Regulus, a strange unease settled over him. The cryptic nature of the words—phrases carefully chosen or deliberately vague—left too much unsaid, as though the truth was cloaked in shadows only the writers had known how to navigate. It wasn’t explicit, but there was something unmistakably intimate beneath the surface, something unspoken that made Harry’s skin crawl. He felt like an intruder, peering into a part of his father’s life that had been carefully buried, the kind of secret someone might carry to their grave. There was no outright confirmation, no moment where Sirius or Remus explicitly acknowledged what might have passed between James and Sirius’ brother. Yet, as Harry read the letters one after another, the pattern was indisputable. The mention of Regulus was fleeting and cautious, the tone shifting from reluctant curiosity to a resigned absence. And then, as James started dating Lily, Regulus vanished from the letters entirely, as though he had been erased, the unspoken connection between them severed. The silence in the wake of his name felt heavier than the words that came before it.

And soon enough, war had started.

The letters during that dark time came next, their tone colder, more guarded, as if the warmth that had once defined their relationship had been extinguished. Sirius’ paranoia seeped through the pages, each word laced with a growing distrust, especially toward Remus. His fear wasn’t just born from his brother’s betrayal—though Regulus’ actions had undoubtedly scarred him—but from a deeper need to protect his own, to keep those he loved safe, even if it meant pushing them away. Dumbledore’s secrecy only added to his unease, fuelling his suspicions, leaving him trapped in a spiralling distrust that pulled at everything he had once held dear.

Harry’s stomach twisted painfully as he read, the pain of the unravelling relationship too much to bear. The cracks between Sirius and Remus widened, the letters filled with regret and longing, but also a sense of inevitability. He could see the distance growing between them, felt the coldness creeping in with each passing page, and the sorrow that lingered was unbearable. It was as though he were witnessing a train wreck in slow motion, powerless to stop it. He wanted to shout at the parchment, to scream at them for letting it all slip away, to tell them they were being manipulated by forces beyond their understanding, that they were on the edge of a cliff and didn’t even realise it. But the truth was, the story had already been written. The future had already been decided, and he knew how it ended.

No matter how much he wished he could change it, it was too late.

A bundle of clearly unsent letters stopped Harry just as he was going to continue with another letter, dated in the middle of the nineties. The letters were shoved into yellowed envelopes, the now much more familiar slanted handwriting of Remus scrawled across them in a way that made Harry’s chest tighten painfully in expectation. It was as though, in the curve of the letters, he could feel the sadness of Remus’s thoughts, his heart, poured out onto the page. With trembling hands, Harry undid the twine that held them together and opened the first one carefully, the soft crackle of the old paper echoing in the quiet room.

The words within were heavy with despair and longing, each sentence saturated with emotions Harry couldn’t fully understand, though he felt their resonance in his bones like a new friend. The letters, written with such tenderness, were not meant for anyone to see—not even Sirius—but Harry couldn’t stop himself from reading, each word like a blow to his chest.

As he read, it became painfully clear: these were letters Remus had written while Sirius had been in Azkaban. 

In these pages, Remus wrote of his guilt and helplessness, his inability to help the man he loved. Harry’s own name appeared often in these letters—always written in anguish, in the raw, torn fragments of a man who had been both guardian and father figure. He wrote of his anguish at fighting to gain custody of Harry, only to lose time and time again due to his lycanthropy, as if the world itself conspired to rip his family apart. 

Harry’s throat burned the further he read, feeling the suffocating sorrow of it all. And yet, through the pain, there was something else—something so quietly powerful it made his heart ache. Remus had wanted to be a family for Harry, to give him the love he so desperately had needed back then, but he had been denied. Denied not just by circumstance, but by a world that had stolen every chance they had to be whole. 

It broke Harry, more deeply than he could ever have imagined. The profound sense of loss—the love Remus had given, the yearning for something that could never be. He had been wanted, and so, so loved for years, and yet he had been shoved into an obscure cupboard with the excuse of safety by people who hadn’t cared for him half as much as Remus had.

The sound of Malfoy shifting caught his attention again. He looked up to see Malfoy staring at the letters, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“What?” Harry asked, his voice hoarse.

Malfoy didn’t answer, only folded his arms and looked away.

As Harry continued, the letters grew more sporadic, the gaps between them widening like the distance between the people who had once been so close. The joy of Sirius’s escape from Azkaban was palpable in Remus’s words, his relief and hope filling the space of each letter. But there was a cautiousness too—a hesitation that hung heavy in the air, as though Remus feared the past might repeat itself, that the fragile joy they had found could easily be shattered. Harry felt it, too, that tension, the unspoken dread that something worse was always just around the corner.

And then, Harry reached the letters that followed Sirius’s death.

His breath hitched in his throat, and he had to pause for a moment, blinking back tears that made his vision blurry. Remus’ grief was laid bare in these pages—unfiltered, raw, as if the words themselves were bleeding with the pain he had carried for so long. It was the sort of pain Harry had never wanted to witness, had never fully wanted to understand, but he did, in a sense. Remus’ words trembled with the painful weight of a man who had lost the love of his life, the one person who had anchored him to the world. And within that grief, Harry could feel the depth of Remus’ sorrow, how he had been willing to follow Sirius into the void, to surrender himself to that same darkness.

But he hadn’t. Because of Harry. Remus had stayed for him, carried the unbearable emotion of loss because there had been someone left to protect, to love. That simple truth tore Harry apart. The guilt Remus had borne—the loneliness that had swallowed him whole after losing both Sirius and the family he had tried so desperately to hold together—was written in every line. The resignation, the knowledge that he could never escape that emptiness, echoed through the pages.

Harry’s own grief, for all its intensity, felt small in comparison. These were people who had loved so deeply, so completely, and the void left behind by their loss was immeasurable.

The final batch of letters trembled in Harry’s hands, the edges of the parchment curling slightly from the grip of his fingers. The air in the room seemed thicker than before, the smell of aged ink and parchment cloying, almost suffocating. Harry’s breath caught in his chest as he hesitated, the significance of the letters overwhelming. He could feel the tension in the room, as though the house itself could feel the pain, the sorrow that Harry had felt while reading Remus’ letters. As if it had been waiting for him to uncover this final piece regarding what had been once left behind.

With each word he read, Harry felt the tightening of his own heart. The rawness of Remus’ grief bled through the ink, the words almost too painful to bear. His care for Nymphadora—Dora, Nym as he called her—was clear, so warm and protective. But it was the absence of Sirius, the hidden truth of Remus’ inability to love her fully—that made Harry’s throat hiccup with a sob. The guilt, the feeling that he had failed her, was etched in every line. Remus’ longing for Sirius echoed in the space between the words, a love that had never truly gone away, never truly been allowed to heal.

There was a haunting quality to the way Remus spoke of Tonks. He had tried, hadn’t he? Tried to love her, tried to build a life in the midst of so much loss. But the shadow of Sirius lingered, a constant presence in Remus’ thoughts, in his heart. And Harry could feel the magnitude of that burden with each letter. Remus had been torn, caught between the love he had for a child and the guilt he carried for not being able to fully love a woman who had adored him so fiercely.

The pain of it all, the quiet self-loathing that dripped from the pages, gripped Harry like a vice. He wanted to reach out, to comfort the man he never really knew as well as he now wished he had, but he understood now—understood that this was a grief Remus had carried alone, the love he had for Sirius never truly leaving him, always there, always haunting him. It was the kind of love that could never be erased, no matter how much time passed.

Harry’s own heart ached for him, for all of them. He understood now why Remus had always seemed like a man on the edge of something too painful to face. He hadn’t just lost Sirius; he had lost himself in the process. And all Harry could do was read the words, feel the sorrow, and carry the weight of it with him. It was a burden Remus had carried alone, and now, it was Harry’s turn to carry it, if only for a little while longer. 

If only to keep it alive. For them.

Harry set the last letter down gently, his hand trembling as if it could no longer bear the strain of the parchment. He stared at it for a moment, the words still etched into his mind like scars. The silence of the room pressed in on him, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the faint sound of Malfoy’s shifting feet.

He didn’t look up. He couldn’t. Not yet.

His thoughts spun, a chaotic whirlwind of grief and confusion. He realised, with a pang of guilt, that he’d never really known them. Not truly. Sirius and Remus—his godfather and his mentor, the men who had been so significant in his life—had been strangers in many ways. Their love, their struggles, their tragic end… it had all been kept from him, a secret buried deep within the shadowed walls of Grimmauld Place.

Why?

The question burned in his mind, an ache in his chest. Why hadn’t they told him? Why had they kept this part of themselves hidden? Was it shame? Fear? Or was it something darker—something forced upon them by a world that wouldn’t have understood?

Harry’s thoughts turned to Dumbledore, and a chill ran down his spine. Had he known? Had Dumbledore, in all his wisdom and manipulations, known about Sirius and Remus? The thought sent a shiver of unease through Harry. If he had known, why hadn’t he said anything? Why hadn’t he allowed Harry to know them as they truly were? To be a family?

His eyes flickered to the pile of letters, to the evidence of a love so profound it had survived years of war, betrayal, and heartbreak. He felt as though he were mourning something he’d never even known existed—a family that could have been his. They could have been his family. Not just in name, not just as guardians, but in the truest sense of the word.

The thought was almost unbearable.

Trying hard not to let a sob escape him, Harry finally glanced at Malfoy, whose expression was surprisingly open, though his grey eyes betrayed a flicker of something—sympathy, perhaps, or shared sadness. It was fleeting, but unmistakable. The usual walls Malfoy had so carefully constructed around himself seemed to be fraying, revealing a vulnerability Harry was just learning to comprehend. For a brief moment, Harry saw not the arrogant Malfoy he knew, but a young man who understood loss, who understood love too deeply to remain indifferent to it.

It was unnerving. For once, there was no smirk, no quip waiting on the tip of Malfoy’s tongue.

“They loved each other,” Harry said quietly, his voice hoarse, as if he needed to say the words out loud to make them real.

Malfoy didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he crossed his arms and leaned back against the bed, his gaze shifting from Harry to the pile of letters. “They did.”

Harry swallowed hard, the weight of everything he’d read pressing down on him like a hurricane.

“They could’ve been my family,” he murmured, more to himself than to Malfoy. “Not just Sirius or Remus, but… together. They could’ve… they would’ve loved me. I know they would’ve.”

“They did,” Malfoy repeated, his voice softer than Harry had ever heard it. “In their way, they are your family. They didn’t have to be together for that to be true.”

Harry closed his eyes before more silent tears escaped them, the ache in his chest sharp and unrelenting. He thought of the times Remus had scolded him, had tried to protect him, and the fierce, reckless love Sirius had shown. They had loved him. But they had also loved each other, and that love had been stolen from them—by the war, by mistrust, by the cruelties of the world they lived in.

“I understand now,” Harry whispered, his voice cracking as he thought of that night during the war when Remus had found him at Grimmauld Place, fearful and despairing. At the time, Harry had thought it was just worry, fear that his kid would inherit his condition. But now he understood. Remus had been afraid of so much more than Teddy being a werewolf like him. He had been afraid of tarnishing Sirius’s memory, their love, the sanctuary they had built behind layers and layers of secrets—a sanctuary that had been broken by grief and loss and the force of things left unsaid.

Harry brushed a hand over his face, wiping away the tears that had already begun to fall. The letters had left him hollow and full all at once, a hailstorm of emotions he couldn’t begin to process. He felt the pain of their loss more acutely than ever, not just for what had been, but for what could have been. He turned back to the letters, his fingers brushing the edges of the worn parchment. He wasn’t sure if he had the strength to hide them away in this dilapidated room again. This was their story, and it deserved to be treasured.

“They deserved better,” Harry said quietly, his voice trembling.

For once, Malfoy didn’t argue. “We all do,” he said, his tone still soft like the slow fall of snow.

Harry’s hands moved slowly, almost reverent, as he slid the letters back into the wooden box, the faded parchment whispering softly against each other. It felt wrong to rush. These letters, these fragments of love, grief, and hope, deserved care. His fingers lingered on the edges of the final letter, as if holding it just a moment longer might give him more time with them—with Remus and Sirius, as they were in these words. The people they had been, the life they had shared. A life he’d never known about, but one that now felt heartbreakingly real. The box closed with a soft click, its sound echoing faintly in the stillness of the room. For a moment, he sat frozen, staring at the weathered wood, his thoughts swirling like smoke in a confined space.

He was left with more questions than answers—questions that seemed to press heavier on him the longer he sat there.

“I wonder if my dad knew,” he asked aloud, his voice breaking the silence. It was quiet, almost as though he didn’t expect an answer, but the question hung heavily in the air. His mind raced, piecing together fragments of memories and stories, trying to see if there had been clues all along. Did James know about Sirius and Remus’s relationship? Did Lily? The thought made his heart ache. They had all been so close, so entwined in one another’s lives.

Surely they must have known.

He leaned back, his back resting against the side of the bed, the cold floor beneath him grounding him slightly. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging lightly at the messy strands as he tried to make sense of it all. The discovery left a gnawing feeling in his chest—a profound sense of loss, not just for Sirius and Remus, but for the pieces of their lives he would never truly understand.

“They were my family,” he said softly, the words barely audible. “And I never really knew them, not at all.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Malfoy shift. He wasn’t watching Harry anymore, his silver gaze fixed somewhere across the room, but his presence was still oddly grounding. Harry didn’t expect Malfoy to care—didn’t expect him to even be listening, but somehow, his silence was comforting. It wasn’t judgmental or dismissive, just… there.

Harry’s thoughts wandered back to all the stories he’d been told growing up. Had everyone been blind to Sirius and Remus, or had they chosen to stay quiet out of respect? Or perhaps, Harry thought with a pang, it wasn’t respect at all. Perhaps it was the society they’d lived in, a world that had forced Sirius and Remus to keep this part of themselves hidden, even from those closest to them. He thought of Sirius in Azkaban, alone, trapped in his own mind, and Remus writing those unsent letters, pouring out his heart to someone who might never read his words. He thought of the war that had broken them apart, of the suspicion and mistrust that had poisoned their love. He thought of how they’d been reunited, only to be separated again in the cruellest way possible.

As he sat there, the burden of the past pressing down on him, Harry made a silent promise to himself. He would remember them—not just as his godfather or his teacher, but as they truly were. As Sirius and Remus. As two people who had loved each other fiercely, despite everything. Two people who had deserved so much more than the world had given them.

Harry reached for the box, his movements deliberate as he slid it closer to him. With slow movements, he carefully shrunk the box along with its treasure, and deposited deep inside his denim trousers’ front pocket. There, it would be safe. He didn’t know what he would do with it yet, but he knew one thing for certain: he wasn’t going to let their story be forgotten. 

Not again. Not ever.

“They deserved so much better,” Harry murmured, echoing the words he’d spoken earlier. This time, the weight of them settled more deeply in his chest.

He turned his gaze to Malfoy, who was still staring into the middle distance, his arms crossed over his chest. “Do you think they told anyone?” Harry asked suddenly, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

Malfoy looked at him, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he said nothing, and Harry wondered if he was about to mock him, to brush off his question with some snide remark. But then Malfoy turned his head away from Harry, his tone surprisingly brittle. “I don’t know, Potter. Maybe. Maybe not. Does it matter?”

Harry frowned, the question catching him off guard.

“Of course it matters,” he said, his voice rising slightly. “They shouldn’t have had to hide. If they did tell someone, maybe—maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe they wouldn’t have felt so… alone.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

“And  so what if they didn’t? They loved each other, Potter. That much is obvious.” He gestured vaguely at the box. “The rest… it’s just details.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but the words caught in his throat. Malfoy was wrong, wasn’t he? The details mattered. Didn’t they? But as he felt the box inside his pocket with an unsteady hand, and thought about the lives contained within it, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Malfoy was right. Their love—their story—was still there, even if it had been hidden, even if no one had known.

Still, the ache in his chest didn’t fade, it only grew, like a balloon under the tap. He thought of everything he’d missed—everything they’d all lost—and he couldn’t help but feel that it did matter. It mattered because they could’ve been together, because he could’ve shared in their love, their joy, their struggles.

Instead, all he had were these letters, these fragments of lives he would never fully understand.

The letters were safely tucked away, the box sealed along with their love, but Harry’s emotions still raged like an untamed storm. His hands trembled slightly, the weight of everything he’d just learned pressing down on him with crushing force. The air around him seemed charged, crackling faintly as his magic stirred in response to his emotions. His chest heaved, the raw ache of grief and love unspoken threatening to consume him whole.

Malfoy, who had been watching quietly from a few steps away, shifted uncomfortably, clearly feeling the change in his magic. The furrow in Harry’s brow, the faint shimmer of tears in his eyes—Malfoy couldn’t ignore it, nor could he stop himself from caring. It wasn’t just pity or awkward concern; something deeper had settled in him over the past days they’d spent in this place. 

He hesitated, his hand twitching by his side, before stepping forward.

“Potter…” Malfoy began, his voice that velvety way it turned when he was allowing himself to be open. Tentatively, almost uncertainly, he placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, the touch light but deliberate. “You’re—look, I’m not good at this, but you’re not alone, alright? Whatever you’re feeling—”

The words barely registered before Harry’s body stiffened beneath the touch. He wrenched himself away, his head snapping toward Malfoy with a sudden fury that made the other man flinch.

“Don’t,” Harry hissed, his voice sharp and cutting. “Don’t act like you know what this is like. Don’t act like you—like anyone —understands. You don’t get it ! They mattered !”

Malfoy froze, his mouth opening to respond, but the words died in his throat as the air around them shifted. Harry’s magic, raw and uncontrolled, surged outward like a wave, filling the room with a suffocating energy. The walls groaned, their surfaces began to burn with the force of Harry’s magic. And the very house seemed to awaken, its ancient magic responding to Harry’s anguish with volatile intensity. The room darkened, the shadows thickening, stretching unnaturally across the space.

A palpable force began to coil around Malfoy, unseen yet unyielding. His chest tightened as the air seemed to press down on him, crushing and choking in equal measure. He clawed at his throat, gasping as the pressure mounted, the house’s magic twisting around him like a vice. His breath was shallow, yet it quickened in a panic he couldn't explain, as if the walls of Grimmauld Place itself were reacting to Harry. The invisible magic around Malfoy’s throat tightened, suffocating, and Harry felt himself teetering on the edge of something dark—something that had nothing to do with the house, but everything to do with the emotions he'd been trying to bury.

“Potter!” Malfoy choked out, his voice a strained whisper as he sank to his knees. His hands scrabbled uselessly at the air, his face reddening by the second and panicked. “I—can’t—”

Harry turned, his anger evaporating in an instant as he saw Malfoy struggling against the invisible force. His stomach dropped, dread clawing at his insides as he realised what was happening. It wasn’t just his magic—no, the house itself was responding, feeding off his grief and anger, turning it into something devastating. And Malfoy had been caught in the middle.

“No—no, no, no,” Harry stammered, scrambling toward Malfoy. His heart pounded in his chest, terror flooding his veins. “I—I didn’t mean to—Malfoy, hold on!”

The strangling energy in the room only grew stronger, the magic pressing in tighter. Harry reached out desperately, his magic flaring as he tried to push back against the house’s grip on the blonde’s throat. It resisted, fighting him at every turn, and for a moment, Harry thought he’d lose. Malfoy’s struggles grew weaker, his eyes fluttering shut as the force that kept choking him tightened.

“ No! ” Harry shouted, his voice breaking as he threw every ounce of his strength into the effort. “Let him go!” His magic roared, a surge of golden light blasting outward in a final, desperate push. The house’s magic recoiled, the shadows retreating as if burned. The oppressive force dissipated, and Malfoy collapsed to the floor coughing, gasping for air.

Harry dropped to his knees beside him, his hands trembling as he pulled Malfoy into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking as tears spilled down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I—I didn’t mean to. I’d never forgive myself if—if I’d…”

Malfoy coughed, his breaths ragged as he leaned against Harry, clearly too weak to push him away. His body felt cold, his skin slick with a sweat that clung to him like a shroud. The trembling in his limbs was subtle but relentless, a silent confession of how scared he must’ve been. Harry could feel the heat radiating from Malfoy’s ivory skin, the limpness of his posture betraying the calm he was trying to maintain. The magic in the house seemed to have receded for the moment, leaving them to deal with the consequences of its volatile nature.

“I’m fine, Potter,” he rasped, though his shaking hands betrayed his words. His body was tense, shoulders trembling, but he didn’t pull back, as if the contact with Harry was the only thing grounding him at that moment. “I’m not—bloody hell—you didn’t kill me. I... I just need a moment.” The vulnerability in his voice was undeniable, even as he fought to keep up the walls he so often hid behind.

Harry’s grip tightened, his fingers clutching at Malfoy’s shoulders as if afraid to let go. “You don’t understand,” he said, his words a desperate tumble. “I—I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I can’t control it, and if you’d—if I had—” His voice broke again, the weight of everything threatening to pull him under.

Malfoy, still catching his breath, lifted a hand and rested it awkwardly on Harry’s arm from the side. “Potter,” he said, his tone gentler this time. “I don’t blame you.”

Harry pulled back slightly, his tear-streaked face full of disbelief. “You should,” he said bitterly. “You almost died because of me and my stupid temper.”

Malfoy shook his head, a small, tentative smile tugging at his lips despite the pain. “It’s not the first time you’ve tried to kill me,” he said wryly. “At least you’re feeling bad about it now .”

Harry let out a shaky laugh, the sound half-sob as he buried his face in his hands. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, though his voice lacked any real bite.

“And you’re an emotional menace, no wonder you were like that in your teenage years,” Malfoy shot back, though his tone was more teasing than accusatory, and Harry had to chuckle this time. The blonde leaned back, away from Harry’s arms and against the wall, his breathing evening out as the dark energy in the room finally faded.

For a moment, they sat in silence, the tension between them easing as the house settled into an uneasy calm. Harry glanced at Malfoy, a small, weary smile crossing his lips.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “For not… I don’t know. For staying.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, his usual smirk returning faintly. “Not like I have much of a choice, do I? Bloody house wouldn’t let me leave if I tried.”

Harry chuckled weakly again, the sound warmer this time.

Sirius’s childhood room was suffocatingly still, its air heavy with the echoes of a life long since abandoned. Harry sat on the edge of the dusty bed, the letters still safely in their box inside his trousers, but their weight still pressed heavily on his shoulders. Behind him, Malfoy stood by the window, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the grimy glass, his gaze blank. Neither had spoken for several minutes, the silence broken only by the faint creaks of the house settling around them. When Harry’s stomach growled audibly, loud in the quiet, it startled them both into an awkward pause, their eyes meeting for a brief moment. The sound was quickly followed by the faint growl of Malfoy’s stomach too, much to the embarrassment of the blonde.

As the grumbling of their stomachs grew louder, reverberating through the silence, the two of them exchanged a brief, uncertain glance. Before either of them could say a word, and as if on cue, the house seemed to react with loud cracks of its own that could only be the hallway outside shifting around them. Harry stood reluctantly, and Malfoy pushed off the window frame with a small, weary sigh. Without speaking, they listened to the shifting walls, the house seemingly guiding them with an unseen hand. Harry’s mind was still a tangle of thoughts, each letter he’d read replaying in his head like an echo he couldn’t escape. With as much nonchalance as they had learned to expect from Grimmauld, the room sprouted an arch at the wall to their left and, across the hall, a door appeared where they assumed there hadn’t been one before. With tentative movements, they followed the house’s implied orders, Malfoy’s footsteps steady behind him, though his usual sarcastic commentary was conspicuously absent, leaving a strained sort of quiet between them.

 Harry exited Sirius’ room hesitantly, his wand held loosely at his side, while Malfoy walked behind him, his hand brushing against the rotting wood of the archway as if testing its solidity. The door creaked open slowly, revealing a dining room.

Unlike the chaotic, dark atmosphere that filled much of the house, this room felt… warm. Cosy, even. The low flicker of candlelight danced across a wooden table adorned with simple but inviting decor—lace place mats, a polished silver candelabra, and neatly arranged cutlery that seemed out of place in such a drab home. Above a crackling fireplace hung an elegant oil painting of an older Black family member. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully, his head resting on the back of a high-backed armchair. The serenity of the portrait contrasted with the dissonance of the surrounding space, offering a sense of fleeting calm amidst the storm of memories and magic that pressed down on everything else. Even the air here felt different—less oppressive, as if the house, for all its eerie presence, had moments of softness, moments where its ancient power yielded to a simpler, quieter kind of life.

Malfoy’s sharp gaze flicked over the room, his brow furrowing. “Well, this is… unsettlingly normal,” he remarked, but there was no venom in his voice, only curiosity.

Harry didn’t respond, his focus drifting to the table, where two steaming plates of food had appeared, as if waiting for them. He hesitated, the smell of roasted vegetables and warm bread wafting toward him, before dropping into a chair. Malfoy followed after a moment, sitting across from him with his usual air of cautious superiority, though his guarded posture had softened.

For a while, they ate in silence, though Harry picked at his food more than he ate it. The rich, comforting aroma of the meal didn’t seem to register with him. Each bite tasted like sawdust, the weight in his chest making it impossible to focus on anything else.

Malfoy, noticing Harry’s quiet discomfort, placed his fork down and leaned forward slightly. His voice was reluctant, but it carried a thread of genuine interest. “Alright, Potter,” he said, his grey eyes narrowing slightly. “What’s wrong now? You look like you’re about to swallow a spoonful of Skele-Gro.”

Harry stayed quiet. He stared down at his plate, his fingers idly tracing the edge of his knife. For four long minutes, the only sound in the room was the occasional crackle of the fire and the soft scrape of Malfoy’s chair as he shifted uncomfortably. Malfoy was on the verge of giving up, deciding that Harry’s silence wasn’t worth the effort, when Harry finally spoke.

“It’s just… Sirius and Remus,” Harry said, his voice hoarse. His words were slow, deliberate, as though pulling them out cost him something. “I know I already, er, had my meltdown about them but, those letters… The memories. I just—I didn’t know, yeah? I didn’t know they loved each other like that.”

Malfoy tilted his head, his expression tired, cautious but attentive. He didn’t interrupt, allowing Harry the space to continue.

“And it’s not that they were together,” Harry went on, his green eyes fixed on the table, unfocused. “I don’t care, it’s just that they never told me. Not once. Remus spent time with me, helped me, looked after me during the war. And Sirius…” Harry’s voice broke for a moment, and he swallowed hard before continuing. “He was like a father to me. But they didn’t trust me enough to tell me.”

Malfoy raised a brow before sighing. “Potter, that’s—”

“No, let me finish,” Harry interrupted, his voice firm but not angry. “I can’t stop wondering if it was because of me. If they were afraid I’d… reject them, or that I’d be disgusted or something. And it hurts, you know? It hurts to think they didn’t believe I’d accept them.”

Malfoy frowned, leaning back in his chair as he mulled over Harry’s words. His expression grew distant, his voice quieter than before when he finally replied. “It probably wasn’t about you,” he said, almost reluctantly. “They were likely trying to protect you.”

Harry glanced up at him, his brow furrowed. “Protect me from what?”

“From the burden of a secret,” Malfoy replied simply, though there was a deep sadness lacing his tone. “They’d have been used to hiding it, Potter. People like them... people like us … we don’t usually get the luxury of being open about these things.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the soft vulnerability in Malfoy’s voice. “People like you?” he repeated cautiously. Was Malfoy implying what he thought he was implying? He must be, it wouldn’t make sense otherwise…

Malfoy’s rosy lips pressed into a thin line before he elaborated, his tone almost detached, as though he were speaking from an old, long-buried wound. “Queer. And I know you know that—that muggle-borns and half-bloods tend to be a bit… backwards about things like this. But it’s not just them. Purebloods see it differently, sure, but that doesn’t mean it’s encouraged. To purebloods, relationships are about marriage. And marriage is all about lineage, inheritance, carrying on the family name. It’s fine to indulge in—well, you know—on the side, as long as you marry proper and produce heirs,” he shook his head, a faint bitterness creeping into his voice. “It’s complicated.”

Harry’s stomach twisted, not from hunger this time, but from the heaviness of Malfoy’s words. “You’re saying they couldn’t even be themselves,” he muttered, his fists clenching slightly.

“It’s likely they couldn’t afford to be, or they had bad experiences if they tried. I mean, just look at Hesper,” Malfoy explained, though his expression softened slightly. With a stab at his chest, Harry remembered the mention of Remus’ dad in the letters and how he’d reacted badly to their relationship. “But I don’t think it’s because they didn’t trust you. Like I said, they were probably trying to protect you, Potter. Not from them, but from the burden of knowing. Maybe they didn’t want to give you one more thing to worry about.”

Harry fell silent, staring down at his hands. Malfoy’s explanation made sense, but it didn’t make the ache in his chest any less sharp.

“I just wish they’d told me,” he murmured after a long pause.

Malfoy tilted his head slightly, watching Harry with an unreadable expression. “Maybe they wanted to,” he offered after a moment. “But even if they didn’t, it doesn’t mean they didn’t love you. You know that, right?”

Harry looked up at him, his green eyes shimmering with unshed tears. He nodded, though the pain in his expression was still raw. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, I know.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled softly in the background, its warmth filling the space between them. Then, Malfoy picked up his fork again, his tone deliberately light as he broke the tension. “Well, if it helps, Potter, you’re not exactly the easiest person to open up to.”

Harry let out a startled laugh, the sound wet but genuine.

“And you are?” he shot back, though the teasing note in his voice was faint.

Malfoy smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Touché.”

They continued eating in relative silence after that, the mood in the room lighter. The food was unremarkable—stew, some bread, and an odd dessert Harry couldn’t identify but ate anyway. Grimmauld Place, as if sensing the tentative truce between its inhabitants, remained calm, offering them this rare, fleeting moment of peace. The dining room’s warm glow belied the storm of emotions brewing between them. Harry sat stiffly in his chair, pushing bits of food around his plate with his fork before setting it down. Across the table, Malfoy sat with an unusual stillness, his sharp eyes fixed on Harry, and pensive, as though he was thinking hard about something. The quiet was punctuated by the crackle of the fire and the rhythmic clink of Malfoy’s knife against his plate as he sliced into a piece of bread.

Harry finally let out a sigh, heavy and strained, and leaned back in his chair. His voice, when it came, was soft but edged with frustration.

“It’s this house,” Harry began, his voice low and halting. “It’s a bloody nightmare, isn’t it? Falling apart, cursed portraits screaming at all hours, throwing me around every change it gets,” he gestured vaguely around the room. “The house hates me. I know it does. It twists and groans like it’s trying to spit me out.”

Malfoy tilted his head, intrigued but wary. “It’s just a house, Potter. A haunted, cursed house, sure. But a house nonetheless.”

Harry paused, avoiding Malfoy’s gaze, as if that would make his comment go away. His fingers absently traced the grain of the table as he searched for the words to explain what had been weighing on him since he’d arrived to Grimmauld Place. With a sigh, he spoke.

“Yes, it’s a cursed house but… it’s all I’ve got. I didn’t get to grow up with Sirius. I didn’t get to know him the way I should have. And Remus—” He paused, his voice catching. “I didn’t even know half of his life until a few hours ago, reading those letters. They kept so much from me. All of them. Maybe they thought they were protecting me, but… I don’t know. I feel like I’ve spent my entire life trying to piece together these scraps of people I loved and lost, just to find somewhere to belong.”

Malfoy didn’t interrupt, his grey eyes sharp and focused on Harry as he spoke. Harry was used to Malfoy’s derision, his cheeky quips and biting remarks, but there hadn’t been any of that for a while now. It was unsettling, this quiet attentiveness, but Harry pushed forward anyway.

“And this house—it feels like it hates me. Like it’s rejecting me, just like—” Harry hesitated, swallowing hard before continuing. “Just like everyone else seems to, eventually. I feel like I don’t belong here, or anywhere, really. But I can’t let it go. I can’t lose it, because if I do... then it’s like losing Sirius all over again. And I can’t—”

His voice cracked, and he looked down at his hands, his knuckles white from clenching them so tightly. 

“Or maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe I’m clinging to something that’s never going to let me in.” His shoulders slumped, and his voice grew more frail. “It’s like… everywhere I turn, it feels like I’m being pushed out. Even the wixen world doesn’t feel like home half the time. I’ll always be ‘The Boy Who Lived’ to them. A bloody symbol. Not Harry. Not really. And now I’m supposed to—what? Rebuild this house? Hold on to it? Live here?” He laughed bitterly. “I can’t even get it to stay in one shape for more than ten minutes.”

Malfoy leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Harry thought he was going to mock him, dismiss his feelings with a sneer and a cutting remark. But instead, Malfoy spoke quietly, his tone thoughtful in a way that felt foreign coming from him. 

“You think the house hates you because it’s falling apart?” he asked, his tone probing but not unkind. “Maybe it’s just… reflecting you, Potter. You said it yourself—it’s all you’ve got left of them. Maybe it’s not rejecting you. Maybe it’s just… as lost as you are.”

Harry blinked at him, startled by the insight, but Malfoy continued on before he could reply. 

“I know exactly what it’s like to live in the shadow of a house like this. To be defined by it. To have it weigh you down like stones,” Malfoy said, his eyes flicking briefly to the painting above the fireplace before returning to Harry. “The Manor—it was just as bad, before they demolished it. Worse, maybe. Every room was a reminder of what my family did. What I did. And no matter how much I tried to make it mine, it still felt like it belonged to them . I…” he swallowed and looked down, hugging his lithe frame as he tended to do when he felt exposed. “I was not very sad to see it destroyed, in the end.”

Harry looked up, surprised by the admission. Malfoy didn’t meet his gaze, his focus fixed on the flickering candlelight between them.

Malfoy gave a dry, humorless laugh. “My mother would collapse if she ever knew how glad I was to see it go. Do you know what it’s like to walk through hallways where you can practically hear the screams of people being eaten alive by a snake? To wake up in the very same room where you were—” he cut himself off suddenly, his arms tightening around himself. 

Harry kept silent, willing him to go on.

“And after the war, I tried—Merlin, I really tried—to rebuild my life. But it’s not that simple when the world sees you as a villain.” Malfoy let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but it still stings. Every time someone looks at me and all they see is this—” He tugged up his sleeve, revealing the faded pale silhouette of the Dark Mark on his forearm, criss-crossed by small, pink-ish and silver scars. Harry refused to imagine how those had gotten there. “—it’s like they’re saying I’ll never be anything more than a Death Eater. Never mind that I was just a stupid kid too scared to do the right thing.”

Harry frowned, but Malfoy continued, his voice tinged with frustration and something deeper—hurt.

“Legally, people can refuse me, you know?” His gaze lowered, as if he was ashamed. “Shops, businesses, even bloody St. Mungo’s—none of them want me there. Doesn’t matter what I’ve done since the war or what I want to do. I’ll always be a Death Eater to them.”

Harry’s gaze lingered on the Mark, his mind flashing back to the war, to Malfoy Manor, to the times he’d seen Malfoy frozen with fear, pale like a ghost, lips quivering, and so unlike the arrogant bully he’d been at school. He still said nothing, sensing that Malfoy wasn’t finished.

“I can’t even get a half-decent job because of it,” Malfoy continued, his voice tight with frustration. He looked lost. “The Ministry passed some lovely little laws after the war—said anyone with a Mark can be refused work or business. And most people are more than happy to oblige. The best I could do was working as a bloody magical repair for Borkes, and even that I got in because he was impressed with my work on that blasted vanishing cabinet. What I earn is barely enough to keep things running at the Black estate my mother and I moved into,” he hesitated, his jaw tightening before he added, “And Mother… she’s still… fragile. After my father—”

The mention of Lucius hung in the air between them, unspoken yet pervasive. Malfoy exhaled sharply and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he continued.

“After the war, I thought I’d focus on taking care of her. Keeping her safe and happy. But it feels like I’m just as trapped as I ever was. No matter how much I try, it’s never enough. For anyone. For…”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of both their confessions pressing down on them. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the fire crackling softly in the background.

“I’ve spent the last few years trying to be better. To fix things. But how do you fix something when you don’t even know where to start?” Malfoy’s voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “Sometimes I think it’d be easier to just give up. To stop trying. But then I think about Mother, and how much she’s already lost, and I can’t… I can’t do that to her.”

Harry stared at Malfoy, his heart twisting with an emotion he couldn’t quite name. He’d never thought about what Malfoy’s life had been like after the war, too consumed with his own grief and guilt to consider the struggles of the boy who had once been his rival. But now, hearing Malfoy’s story, he felt a pang of emotion he hadn’t expected. The profundity of Malfoy’s isolation, the invisible chains of expectations, and the cruelty of a family that had never let him be anything but their vision of perfection—it all seemed so suffocating, so painful. Harry’s mind reeled as he tried to reconcile the boy he had once disliked so passionately with the man in front of him. And in that moment, with all the walls that had once divided them between rivalry, shame, and guilt, Harry realised just how much they had in common, despite the years of enmity and mistrust.

Malfoy shifted in his seat, his tone softening as he added, “And, for what it’s worth… your rejection after the war—” He stopped himself, biting his lip before forcing the words out. “I thought… I thought maybe if you of all people could see that I’d changed, then maybe I’d have a chance. But you couldn’t, and… well, I can’t blame you, can I? Not after everything I’ve done.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. He felt a new wave of guilt wash over him, the weight of Malfoy’s honesty settling heavily on his chest. For years, he’d clung to the idea of Malfoy as the same arrogant, cruel boy he’d known at Hogwarts, unwilling to see the man he’d become. And now, sitting across from him, Harry saw someone who was just as broken as he was, struggling to find a way forward in a world that seemed determined to hold them back.

Harry felt a pang of guilt twist in his stomach. “Malfoy, I—”

“Potter,” Malfoy interrupted sharply, but his voice wasn’t angry—just tired. “I told you, I know I earned most of the hatred I get. But that doesn’t make it easier. Every time I try to move forward, it feels like something’s pulling me back. My father’s mistakes. My mistakes. My bloody name .”

“Still, I… well, I didn’t know,” Harry said quietly. “About the Mark. About your mum. About… any of it. I just thought…” He trailed off, unsure how to finish.

Malfoy looked up, his eyes meeting Harry’s with a flicker of surprise. He studied him for a long moment before offering a small, hesitant smile. It wasn’t much, but it was something—a fragile bond between two people who had spent far too long at odds.

Looking away, Malfoy allowed himself a faint, rueful smile. “Yes, well. We’ve never really talked before this. Not really.”

Harry nodded slowly, a strange sense of understanding settling between them. It was strange, ironic actually, how they’d been able to share such vulnerable things with each other despite their past. Things that Harry suspected they’d never shared with anyone else. He didn’t know what made him feel the need to spill his guts to Malfoy—of all people—, maybe it was the house, maybe it was them. Who cared? Probably a mix of the two, if he was honest. But all Harry knew was that speaking with Malfoy was becoming easier and easier, and the thought scared him.

“You’re right,” Harry said after a long pause, his voice steadier now. “About the house. And… I think I’ve been trying so hard to hold on to Sirius, that I’ve lost sight of what I’m actually doing. I’ve been so focused on the past that I’ve forgotten to even think about the future.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning faintly. “The future, Potter? Now that’s a novel concept.”

Harry chuckled softly, the tension in the room easing slightly.

“Yeah. Guess it is.” 

They sat there for a while longer, the firelight flickering softly near them. Harry found himself studying Malfoy’s face, the way the warm glow softened the sharp angles he’d always thought looked so haughty, so impenetrable. There was a warmness there now, one Harry hadn’t seen before—or maybe had never been willing to see. He couldn’t help but think about how much had changed since the war, how much had stayed the same; and how strange it was that it had taken Grimmauld Place and its twisted, unpredictable halls to force them to see beyond the shadows that clung to their backs.

Malfoy, for his part, was doing his best to seem unbothered, but Harry could see the tension in his jaw, the faint line between his brows. He wasn’t sure if it was the conversation or the house—or both—but he could tell that all the vulnerability they’ve shared had cost Malfoy something. And yet, he had done it. He had shared more with Harry in one evening than Harry would’ve thought possible.

“I’m not going to let it win, you know,” Harry said finally, his voice soft but resolute. “The house. The past. Any of it. I don’t know what that means yet, but… I’m tired of letting it all control me.”

Malfoy looked at him, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he nodded, just once, and reached for his goblet of water. “Good. Because if you let this house eat you alive, Potter, I’ll be the one stuck here cleaning up the mess. And Merlin knows I don’t have the patience for that.”

Harry snorted, shaking his head, there was no bite in Malfoy’s words, only a dry humour that felt almost as comforting as it was now familiar. It surprised Harry how it had taken him not taking the blonde’s barbed words personally for him to see the humour behind them. Had he always been this funny?

They lapsed into silence again, but this time it was lighter, less fraught with the weight of everything unsaid. Grimmauld Place, for all its darkness and twists, felt just a little less oppressive every time they let go of their animosity. Harry wasn’t sure if it was the house relenting or just the effect of having someone else there to share the weight of it, but either way, he felt something loosen in his chest. He glanced at Malfoy, who was now carefully cutting a green apple with an air of determination, as if it were the most important task in the world.

“Thanks, Malfoy,” Harry said quietly, almost hesitantly.

Malfoy paused, his knife hovering mid-air, before looking up with a raised brow. “For what now?”

“For… listening. For not making this harder than it already is,” Harry admitted, feeling a bit awkward under Malfoy’s sharp gaze. “Not much, at least.”

Malfoy’s lips twitched, and for a moment Harry thought he might say something sarcastic back, but instead he simply inclined his head. “Don’t mention it. Really.”

And with that, they returned to their thoughts, the silence between them no longer heavy but tentative, like a bridge being built plank by plank. They sat there for a while longer, the soft snores of the portrait the only background noise in the room. And the only thing Harry could think was that Grimmauld Place might have been a house full of ghosts, but for now, it felt just a little bit more like home.

Just as they finished their meal, the dim, flickering light of the candles seemed to stretch and shimmer against the walls, casting dancing shadows over the modest dining room. Harry pushed his empty plate away with a sigh, the heaviness of his thoughts still lingering in the air between him and Malfoy. 

Sighing, Harry’s eyes flickered over toward Malfoy once again before closing, his mind starting to wander, picking apart the details that had been nagging at him since they stepped into this forsaken house, since he’d read those letters. The more he thought about it, the more it struck him how much Malfoy reminded him of someone. Someone distant, but important. Someone…

Harry opened his eyes, blinking owlishly.

Regulus Black.

Bloody hell, of course! There was something about Malfoy that echoed Regulus in ways Harry couldn’t ignore now that he was aware of them. The way he carried himself, so polished, so careful, like every word, every movement was calculated, a reflection of the years he had spent in the shadow of his family’s expectations. It was the same in Regulus’s story, as Harry had heard it—Regulus, the younger Black, the one who had always been in the shadow of his older brother Sirius until he’d begun to excel in the Dark Arts, after Sirius had been disinherited. Regulus, who had once followed the Dark Lord, blindly, without question, until it became too much.

Until it all became clear, and he saw the terrible price of his choices.

Harry bit his lower lip, pulling at the flaky skin. Malfoy, too, had been raised to follow the family line. Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that, in some ways, he was trapped—caught between the expectations of his father and the faintest flicker of something else inside him. He wasn’t a fool, Harry thought. Malfoy had shown moments of doubt, of conflict, especially when it came to the things Voldemort had demanded of him as punishment. Regulus had been the same, hadn’t he? A reluctant follower, forced to conform, only to see the damage too late. Regulus had tried to make amends—had tried to stop the madness, to destroy the very thing he had once served. And in the end, it had cost him his life.

The thought gnawed at Harry. Was Malfoy on the same path? Was he too, deep down, looking for a way to redeem himself? Harry didn’t know if he had the answer, beyond Malfoy’s vulnerable words. However, the similarities were undeniable. Both young men, caught in the web of their families’ dark expectations, trying to carve their own path but constantly pulled back by the gravity of their choices.

Harry shook his head sharply, as if to clear the thought away. He couldn’t— he wouldn’t —think about Malfoy in that way. It wasn’t possible. Regulus’s story was tragic, yes, but that didn’t mean Malfoy was headed down the same road. Malfoy was…. Malfoy. A pompous, arrogant, insufferable prat. That was what Harry had always known. The last thing he needed was to start seeing him through the lens of his fondness for Regulus and his sacrifice. He had enough on his mind without getting tangled in that .

Still, as he glanced at Malfoy’s profile, that nagging thought lingered at the back of his mind. Would Malfoy, too, one day perish while trying to be something beyond his family’s shadow?

But Harry shoved the thought aside, unwilling to let himself go any further down that path.

Just as the silence began to settle like a well placed Disillusionment charm, something strange started to stir around them.

It began with a faint rustling sound, soft and almost imperceptible, like a gentle breeze weaving through a forest. Then, along the edges of the hallway leading out of the dining room, the floorboards seemed to shift. Tiny cracks formed in the wood, and out of them emerged slender, curling roots. They twisted upward, snaking along the walls and arching toward the ceiling, their growth quick yet graceful. New, delicate branches sprouted from the roots, adorned with glossy leaves that shimmered faintly in the low light. Harry stared, wide-eyed, as the foliage expanded and spread, illuminating the space with a faint, almost ethereal glow. 

“What… what’s happening?” he murmured, glancing at Malfoy as if the blond might have the answer.

Malfoy, his silver eyes fixed on the growing plants, looked more thoughtful than alarmed. He stepped closer to the nearest tendril, running his fingers lightly over the leaves. They felt alive—warm, almost pulsing with energy. 

“It’s the house,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with a mix of awe and understanding. “It’s… responding to us, again.”

Harry blinked. “Huh?”

Malfoy nodded slowly, turning to face him. “Remember, Potter. Grimmauld Place has been unstable, unpredictable—reacting violently to us, to your magic, to the state of this house as a whole. But now… now it’s different. It’s as if the house is listening. You know it reacts violently whenever we have… disagreements, it makes sense that it reacts positively whenever we act amicably towards each other.”

Harry looked back at the twisting roots and shimmering leaves, his stomach flipping uneasily. “Why would it do that? Why not earlier, when we first got trapped in here?”

Malfoy hesitated, glancing at the plants again before speaking.

“It has, at times, I think. Particularly when we need something. Not to mention that the house… it’s old magic. Deep, ancestral. And we’ve been fighting it—fighting each other—this whole time. But tonight…” He paused, his expression softening just slightly. “Tonight, we stopped fighting. We were honest. With ourselves, with each other. I think the house is responding to that.”

Harry frowned, trying to wrap his mind around the idea. “So, what? It’s rewarding us? With leaves?”

Malfoy’s lips quirked into a faint, wry smile. “More like it’s giving us a clue. Look closer.” He gestured toward the plants, his tone sharpening with a hint of realisation. “The roots, the branches… they’re growing like a tree.”

Harry followed Malfoy’s gaze, and sure enough, he saw it—the way the plants spiralled and interwove, forming an intricate pattern that resembled the shape of a tree’s trunk and canopy. A shiver ran down his spine.

Malfoy’s lips parted slightly, his gaze flickering from the plants to the floor, his expression unreadable. Harry watched as something dark stirred in his eyes, as if a forgotten memory had surfaced, or perhaps a realization had hit him. Malfoy blinked rapidly, as though trying to push the thought away, but Harry saw it—the brief, silent acknowledgment that this pattern, this intricate weave, held something he had once understood, something buried too deep to face.

Malfoy exhaled sharply, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just like...” He trailed off, shaking his head. Harry could see the hesitation in his posture, the reluctance to voice whatever truth he had stumbled upon, but it was there—a fleeting moment of clarity, just out of reach.

Then, he took a breath.

“The Black family tree,” Malfoy whispered.

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise, his pulse quickening. “Wait, what? You think this has to do with the Black family tree?” His voice was full of eager disbelief, almost too loud in the quiet room. 

His gaze darted between the newly-sprouted plants and Malfoy, feeling a surge of an emotion he hadn’t expected. The gravity of the idea settled in his chest—if Malfoy was right, this could be important, a key to something long forgotten. Harry’s mind raced with possibilities, wondering if Malfoy had uncovered something hidden, some piece of the Black family’s legacy that had eluded everyone else.

Malfoy nodded, his voice gaining certainty. “Exactly. This house—its magic and its core —it’s tied to the Black family tree. I’m certain of it. If we can find the room where the family tree is kept, we might be able to stabilise the house’s magic. Restore the balance.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat, his mind spinning at the implications of Malfoy’s words. He took an instinctive deep breath, eyes wide. “Wait, wait, are you saying the core is in the family tapestry?” he asked slowly, remembering the vast, embroidered family tree he’d seen in one of the sitting rooms years ago. It felt too much, too impossible, yet the conviction in Malfoy’s voice made Harry pause, a spark of hope flickering in his chest. “You think that’s what’s hurting the house?”

He shook his head, a half-laugh escaping his lips despite the situation. Harry kept his eyes on  Malfoy, eyes searching for any sign of doubt, but all he found was an unsettling certainty. Harry couldn’t help but wonder if this was their chance—if this was the way to finally break the house’s grip on them.

“Or perhaps not the tapestry itself,” Malfoy corrected. “But the room it’s in. The tapestry is a representation, but there must be something more—something tied to the core of the house’s magic. We need to find it.”

Harry exhaled, glancing down the hallway where the plants continued to grow and shimmer, their leaves almost beckoning. For the first time since they’d been trapped, a flicker of hope sparked in his chest—a sense of direction. He looked back at Malfoy, who was watching him with a quiet intensity.

“Alright,” Harry said, his voice steady. “Let’s find it.”

Malfoy smirked faintly, a hint of the old Malfoy arrogance slipping through.

“Glad you’re finally listening to me, Potter.”

Harry rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at his lips. Together, they stepped into the hallway, following the twisting roots and glowing leaves. The air felt charged with magic, humming faintly around them as they moved deeper into the house. The once-chaotic corridors now seemed more structured, the plants forming a clear path that wound through the shifting walls and narrowing passages. As they walked, Harry glanced at Malfoy out of the corner of his eye. Their earlier tension had softened, replaced by a fragile, tentative fellowship. There was still so much left unsaid between them, so much history to unpack, but for now, they had a common goal. The house’s magic pulsed around them like a heartbeat, and Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being drawn toward something—something powerful, something important.

The hallway grew quieter as they walked, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the lush carpet of greenery spreading beneath their feet. The plants rippled and shimmered with every step, reacting to their presence. Harry wondered if the house could truly feel them—if it was watching, listening, guiding them like some sentient force. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, but he didn’t stop moving. Neither did Malfoy. 

Chapter Text

17th of November, 1971

Sirius,

For some reason, James said I had to write you a letter and give it to you like I’m on some secret Auror mission. I reckon he’s just bored out of his mind because McGonagall took away that charmed Quaffle he loves. You know, the one a fourth year charmed to whack Slytherins on the head? Typical James—can’t go five minutes without pulling some kind of prank. It was funny, though, don’t tell him I said that. Honestly, why did I even become friends with him? Big mistake. Huge.

Anyway, thanks for helping me with that Transfigurations essay. Your notes about the wood to metal transfiguration were brilliant, even if you kept flicking ink at me the whole time like a toddler. Can’t you just sit still for five minutes? (I already know the answer. It’s no.)

Also, I know you swapped my quill with the sparky biro. Nearly wrote my Charms essay in pink, thanks for that. Top marks for creativity, but I’m going to get you back, Black. Just you wait. 

Alright, fine—it was funny. I laughed. But don’t let that go to your head, Sirius. You’re already unbearable enough as is.

Anyway, I hope you’re out of the Hospital Wing soon, it’s quite boring without you here. Next time I hope you pay more attention to Slughorn’s indications, you idiot. Merlin help me, why did I become friends with you lot?

Remus (who is definitely better at writing letters than you)

21st of November, 1971

R emy,

First off, James is deeply offended that you didn’t mention his “brilliance” in your last letter. He’s been sulking all evening like a wounded Kneazle. It’s both embarrassing and absolutely hilarious to watch. You should write him a note—maybe add a compliment or two so he stops whining in my ear. (Or don’t. It’s been great entertainment while in the Hospital Wing.)

Secondly, glad you enjoyed the quill prank. (Did you really, though? Because you immediately hexed my shoes to stick to the floor in the middle of the Great Hall. Do you know how long it took me to scrape that treacle tart off my robes? Of course you do. You planned it, you git.)

Third—and don’t roll your eyes—I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to like it, but you do have to accept it. You’re stuck with me. Forever. Deal with it, Lupin.

You’re smarter than all of us put together, and objectively, your scars are your best feature. Don’t argue. It’s a fact.

Yours (and laughing at your attempts at revenge),
Sirius

14th of February, 1972

Sirius,

Did you seriously charm all the owls in the tower to deliver roses to McGonagall this morning? I’ve never seen her so close to hexing a student. Even James looked impressed, and that’s saying something. (For what it’s worth, I think it was hilarious . Suicidal, but hilarious.)

Anyway, I’m writing to say thanks for the chocolate you left by my bed. I know it was you because A) it smelled of that awful, musty cologne you brought to school after Yule, and B) who else would give me chocolate with a tag that says “For Remy, the most magnificent future Prefect in all of Hogwarts who will never give me detention” ? (You’re ridiculous, you know that?) 

You’ve got this way of making me smile when I don’t think I can. Even when everything feels like it’s too much, you’re there with some stupid joke or prank or… chocolate, I suppose. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

I guess you really are my best friend.

Yours,
Remus

9th of April, 1972

Sirius,

You have the worst handwriting I’ve ever seen. Seriously, did you break all your fingers before writing this? Or were you trying to use your wand as a quill again?

Anyway, thank you for absolutely ruining my morning by charming my shoes to squeak like a frightened mouse every time I walk. It was especially humiliating during Potions, where the entire class was treated to the sound of what can only be described as “mice in distress” every time I took a step. Well done, truly. You’re a menace.

James told me you’re planning something “spectacular” for the Halloween feast next year, which is concerning because why are you already planning for that? Halloween is half a year away! If it involves me in any way, I’ll have you know I’m already prepared to hex you. Just putting that out there.

Also… thanks for sitting with me by the lake the other day. I know you probably didn’t think much of it, but it… meant a lot.

Anyway, that’s all. Try not to cause too much chaos today. (Though asking that of you is probably pointless, isn’t it?)

Yours,
Remus

27th of October, 1972

Sirius,

Please stop telling everyone you’re going to hex Binns so hard he’ll move on to the astral plane. You’re going to give Peter ideas.

On that note, please stop giving Peter ideas. It’s getting dangerous. Last night, he tried to charm the common room fire to connect to the Floo network and instead managed to ignite his Charms notes. If I have to hear him wail about losing his “life’s work” one more time, I might actually lose it.

Also, I noticed you didn’t come back to the dorm after dinner last night after you got a letter from your mum. James said not to bother you, but I just… I wanted to check in. If there’s anything you need, you know you can talk to me, right? You don’t have to go through everything on your own.

I mean, not that you need me or anything. You’ve got James, and Peter, and… well, everyone, really. Everyone likes you. But the offer still stands, for what it’s worth.

Anyway, I’d better go before Flitwick catches me writing this instead of practising my charms. He’s been giving me this look right now like he knows I’m not as focused as I should be. (He’s probably right, but don’t tell him that.)

Yours,
Remus

1 6th of April, 1973

Sirius,

Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if you’d ended up in Slytherin? I know you like to joke about it, but sometimes I wonder if you’re ever really serious. (No pun intended.)

James says you’re better off without them, but I know it’s not that simple. You may not want to admit it, but I can see how much you care about family—even if you hide it a lot.

Sorry. That probably sounds ridiculous. I just thought… never mind.

Speaking of ridiculous, Peter tried to charm his broom to fly faster yesterday and ended up crashing into the Whomping Willow. James says he’s fine, but he’s been sulking in the common room ever since. I think he’s embarrassed.

Anyway, I’ll stop rambling now. I just wanted to say… I’m glad youre in Gryffindor with us. I don’t know what I’d do without you lot.

Yours,
Remus

PS: That pun was absolutely intended.

2nd of June, 1973

Sirius,

You’re mad. Completely, utterly mad. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Who else would think it’s a good idea to sneak butterbeer onto the Astronomy Tower and try to teach James to sing? (Spoiler: he can’t. Not even a little bit.)

But it was… nice, I suppose. Sitting up there with you, watching the stars. It’s funny, isn’t it? How small everything feels when you’re that far away from the ground. Like nothing can touch you, not even the things that hurt. I know I said I was feeling tired  after I came back, but you managed to make me feel better.

Yours,
Remus

3rd of August, 1973

Sirius,

I haven’t heard from you in weeks. Is everything alright? James said not to worry, but I can’t help it. You’re usually the one sending ridiculous letters full of terrible jokes by now, and the quiet is… strange.

If there’s something going on—if you need anything—just say the word. I mean it. You don’t have to go through it alone.

Yours,
Remus

13th of October, 1973

Oi Moony (Officially calling you this, now),

You know, you really should work on being sneakier. James and I have been onto you for ages, mate. I mean, honestly, all those disappearing acts every month, the mysterious ailments you never explain, and the way you look at the full moon like it’s personally offended you—it doesn’t take a genius. (Luckily for you, I’m a genius, it even rhymes with Sirius.)

Really, though, James and I confirmed it last week after you bolted out of that DADA lesson about werewolves. You looked like you’d swallowed a grindylow. I thought you’d be relieved once we figured it out and you wouldn’t have to keep hiding, and all, but instead, you’ve been avoiding us like we’re about to hex you into oblivion. What gives?

Look, I’m not stupid. I know you probably think we’ll treat you differently now, but we won’t. James has already come up with about six different plans for “supporting Moony during his time of the month.” (One of them involves chocolate, and I think we can all agree that’s never a bad thing.)

You’re still you , Moony. You’re still our mate, the one who tutors me in just about every subject (except Transfigurations, I got you beat there) even though I’m a hopeless case, the one who makes Peter feel better after someone’s said something mean to him, the one who keeps us all in line when we’re being prats.

So, there it is. No big speech, no soppy rubbish. Just—don’t be daft. You’re stuck with us, I told you that already.

See you in the dorm,
Sirius

5th of January, 1974

Sirius,

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about what you wrote back in October, and I don’t even know how to thank you. Not just you—James and Peter too. I think I’ve spent so long expecting rejection that I forgot what it feels like to be… well, accepted.

So, I’m sorry I’ve been distant. I didn’t know how to face you lot after you found out. It’s not that I didn’t trust you—it’s just… this thing I live with, it’s not just a curse. It’s a death sentence. And so many things seem like constant reminder that I’m not normal, that I don’t belong, no matter how much I try to blend in. The world hates us so much that we sometimes tend to just… avoid people.

But you lot—you make me feel like I do belong. Even when you’re dragging me into one of your hair-brained schemes, or when James is shouting about Quidditch at 7 in the morning, or when Peter’s trying to cook in the potions classroom and sets fire to the curtains.

You said I’m still me, and I’m trying to believe that. 

On a side note, thank you for taking off your silver necklace, it always stung whenever you hugged me.

Yours,
Remus

12th of January, 1974

Moony,

James reckons I’m mad for saying this, but I think you’re braver than the rest of us combined. You go through hell every month, and yet you’re still the one keeping us all from getting expelled every other day. (Well, except for that time with the exploding dungbombs in the girls bathroom. Even you can’t save us from our own stupidity.)

Anyway, enough about you. Let’s talk about me . I think I’ve perfected the art of dodging detention. Minnie’s started giving me this look—like she’s impressed by how creative I’ve gotten with my excuses. Either that, or she’s plotting my downfall. Hard to tell, really.

Oh, and about that essay for History of Magic—don’t even think about helping me with it. I know you’re tempted, but I refuse to let you ruin my perfect Troll streak with your factual information and correct interpretation of historical events. I’ll get my way and there’s nothing your cute little swotty face can do about it.

Right, I’m off. James just said something about “finding something great in the Restricted Section,” and I feel morally obligated to join him. Or stop him. Depends on what he found.

Yours (don’t let it go to your head),
Sirius

22nd of November, 1974

Sirius,

You’re impossible, you know that? I don’t know how you convinced Flitwick to let you turn his entire classroom into a disco, but I’ll admit, it was impressive. Poor Peter nearly fainted when the books started singing. Choosing ABBA was a nice touch, too. Though I don’t think singing Mamma Mia to your brother’s face was smart. How’s your burn by the way?

I’ve been meaning to tell you—thanks for covering for me in Herbology last week. I don’t know what came over me, I didn’t mean to snap at Lily like that. Or tear that Mandrake in half. Just got caught up in my own head, I suppose. Sometimes it feels like there’s this weight pressing down on me, and no matter what I do, I can’t shake it. But then you… you always pull me out of it, somehow. I’m not sure I’d know what to do without you.

It’s funny. I think I spend more time trying to keep you lot out of trouble than I do keeping myself out of trouble. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Yours,
Remus

14th of February, 1975

Sirius,

You’re going to think I’ve gone mad, writing to you all the time when we’re in the same castle, but it’s always easier to write things down, I think. And there’s something I need to get off my chest. Lately, I’ve been feeling… strange. And no, it’s not the full moon, before you start cracking jokes. Or the chocolate, I told you I’m not allergic because I’m a werewolf. (And thank you for the chocolates, by the way. They were very good)

It’s something else. Something I’m afraid to say to you…

Sirius, I… find myself noticing things about you—things I shouldn’t be noticing. Like the way your hair falls into your eyes when you’re trying to concentrate, or the way you laugh when James says something particularly ridiculous. It’s distracting, Sirius. And terrifying. Because if you knew; if you ever found out and hated me for it… I don’t think I could bear it. I don’t want to lose what we have, and I’m scared that if I say anything, everything will change.

But I like you. I really do.

Sorry, I don’t even know if I’ll send you this letter at all. I don't know… I just needed to talk to someone about it, and you’re always the best to talk to.

Maybe it’s just a phase. Maybe it’ll pass.

Yours,
Remus

17th of February, 1975

Moony,

You’re an idiot. A complete and utter idiot.

Do you think I haven’t noticed? Do you think I don’t feel the same? I’ve been trying to ignore it for months now, convincing myself it’s nothing, that it’ll pass, that I’m imagining things. But I’m not.

It’s not just a phase, Remus. It’s not something we can brush aside or pretend doesn’t exist. It’s real . And yes, it’s terrifying, but it’s also… bloody brilliant, if I say so myself. And I do.

I have no eyes for anyone but you.

You’re my mate, Moony. You always have been and will always be. But you’re also so much more than that. I don’t know what this means, or what happens next, but I do know one thing: I want to be with you.

And, yes, I found your secret love letter sequestrated away under your favourite cardigan. Finders keepers!

Yours (always),
Sirius

13th of July, 1975

Sirius,

I think I’ve been smiling like an idiot since we left for London. Mum keeps asking me if I’ve got indigestion, and Dad’s started muttering about teenagers being ridiculous. I haven’t told them anything, obviously, but it’s not easy keeping this… this us hidden. You’re in my head constantly, and it’s doing my head in, if I’m honest.

Last night, I sat outside for hours just looking at the moon. I know that sounds terribly romantic and on the nose, but it reminded me of you. Not because you’re like the moon—you’re much more like a star, Sirius, all bright and burning—but because of how you never flinch from it, despite knowing the hold it has on me. You make me feel like I’m not broken, and I don’t think I can ever tell you what that means to me.

Anyway, enough soppiness. Have you finished reading Pride & Prejudice yet, or are you still pretending to be too posh for Austen? I swear, Sirius, if you don’t read it soon, I’ll hex you into appreciating 19th-century literature.

Yours,
Remus

8th of August, 1975

Moony,

You’re such a git for making me read Pride & Prejudice . I’ve never wanted to punch a fictional character as much as I want to punch that Lydia. But fine, you win. It’s not terrible. I’m writing this from my bedroom (a.k.a. the dreariest room in the entire Black family home). Reg is lurking about, looking shifty as usual, and Mother’s been yelling at Kreacher because he apparently polished her “inferior silverware” the wrong way. Honestly, I think the dust adds character. I tell you, Remy, this house is horrible.

I miss you. I know I’m not supposed to say that, but sod it—I do. I miss the way you roll your eyes when I say something daft, the way you smell like old books and taste like chocolate, the way you always manage to make me feel like I’m not as much of a screw-up as I probably am.

Counting the days till September. Write back soon, or I’ll haunt your dreams so you get wet ones.

Oh, wait, maybe don’t write so soon.

Yours,
Sirius

3rd of November, 1975

Sirius,

You’re staring at me while I’m writing this, and it’s very distracting. Stop it.

I don’t know what spell you’ve cast on me, but whatever it is, I don’t want it to stop. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, and it’s terrifying, but it’s also… brilliant.

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to concentrate on anything when you keep looking at me like that. It’s a problem, Sirius. A serious (ha!) problem. We’re meant to be finishing that essay for McGonagall, and instead, I’m sitting here thinking about how bloody good you look in that ridiculous tee you nicked off James. The band is Queen, by the way. You’d like them, “Bohemian Rhapsody” has got to be the best song ever written.

Also, mum’s been getting worse lately, and Dumbledore gave me permission to go visit her on the weekends. Want to come with me? I… I don’t want to go alone, Dad will be at work so it’ll be just us three.

Now, for the love of Merlin, stop smirking at me and finish your essay.

Yours (obviously),
Remus

20th of June, 1975

Padfoot,

Do you remember the night we stayed up on the Astronomy Tower, sneaking Firewhisky from James’ secret stash and counting the stars? You said the stars felt so far away they didn’t seem real, like they belonged to a different world.

You’re wrong. You’re one of them, Sirius. You’re my star. 

And no, I’m not drunk while writing this, so don’t even think about accusing me of that. I just thought you should know.

Yours, always
Moony

11th of April, 1976

Sirius,

I don’t even know where to start. I’ve been trying to put my thoughts into words for days now, and I still can’t make sense of them. What you did to Snape… to me, Sirius, it wasn’t just reckless—it was dangerous and thoughtless. It was cruel . I’ve known you to be unkind, Sirius, but not like this… never to me. Do you have any idea what could have happened? What you could have make me do? I could have killed him! Or worse, bitten him! Turned him. You used something I can’t change, something that I’ve always been afraid of, and for a joke.

At least, you keep saying it was a joke, but it wasn’t funny. It’ll never be funny. How could you, Sirius? And … and you made me feel like a monster. I trusted you, Sirius. I thought you understood what this curse means—what it does to me. But at that moment, it felt like you didn’t care beyond your bizarre hatred for Snape. Like you were willing to use the worst part of me as a weapon. And… I don’t know if I can forgive you for that. 

I thought you loved me.

Remus

12th of April, 1976

Remus, my love,

I don’t even know how to begin to say I’m sorry. I’ve written this letter about twenty times now, and none of it feels good enough. What I did to Snivellus Snape was horrible, and I know I can’t take it back. I don’t know what I was thinking, But, you have to believe me—I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t think, Moony. I didn’t think. I was just so mad I just wanted to show him  I wasn’t thinking about anything except how much I hate him, and I let that hatred blind me to everything else. Worst of all, it made me not think of you first and foremost.

I didn’t mean to hurt you. I would never, ever want to hurt you. You mean more to me than anything, Remus. More than James, more than Hogwarts, more than… bloody everything. I love you, I love you so much. More than there are stars in the sky. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you over this.

Please, Moony. Please tell me how to fix this. I’ll do anything. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you, if that’s what it takes, but please let me stay by your side.

Yours (always, if you’ll let me. Please let me),
Sirius

15th of November, 1976

Sirius,

I’ve been angry with you for months now, and I still am. But I’m also tired, Sirius. Tired of feeling like I have to hate you when all I want is to… well, not hate you. I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said in your letters, and… maybe this makes me a fool, but I believe you. I believe that you didn’t mean to hurt me, and I believe that you’re sorry.

I’m not saying everything’s okay, because it’s not. But I’m willing to try again. Because no matter how much you hurt me, I can’t seem to stay away from you.

Yours,
Remus

17th of November, 1976

Moony,

Thank you. Thank you for giving me another chance. I don’t deserve it, but I’m bloody grateful for it. Things have been better lately, haven’t they? It feels like we’re getting back to normal—or as normal as we can be, I suppose.

I love you.

Love,
Sirius

7th of January, 1977

Moony,

I can’t wait to go back to Hogwarts! Oh, Moony I finally did it! My animagus is complete and oh boy are we going to have fun. Let’s just say you will not be the only one humping something by next full moon. Awooo!

I am winking at you,

Also, have you noticed how weird James has been acting around Reg lately? I caught them having some kind of intense conversation by the lake the other day, and when I asked about it, James turned bright red and mumbled something about Potions homework. I mean, really—James and Potions ? And why Reg? I’d have thought he would go for it and as Evans. He’s hiding something, I’m telling you.

Anyway, enough gossip. I’ll see you in the castle tomorrow. I can't wait to drag you to a secluded cupboard.

Yours,
Sirius

3rd of May, 1977

Dear Sirius,

I love you. 

Sorry didn’t tell you earlier.

Remus

4th of May, 1977

Moony,

You’re everything. And if you think for one second that I’m not willing to wait for you forever, you’re wrong.

I love you too. Always have.

Yours (always),
Sirius

3rd of August, 1977

Padfoot,

You… you’ve been quiet, though I understand why you might be isolating yourself from me. Coming out to my Dad was awful, I know… I really thought that he was going to react positively, and I’m sorry it culminated with him telling your mother and you being disinherited. I don’t even know how things went cock up so quickly… Just know that I’m not angry at you for punching my dad, or disappointed. God, you’re such an idiot sometimes. But you’re my idiot, so I suppose I’ll allow it.

The summer has been lonely without you, but I suppose nothing can be done when you’ve just moved in with the Potters. James has been sending me letters about the Quidditch games you’ve been playing, although how two chasers manage to play Quidditch is beyond me. Also, it seems like he’s fixated on Lily once again? Could you, for the love of God, tell him not to go and ruin my friendship with her? She’s the only other person in Gryffindor who actually studies when she goes to the library. 

Seriously (oh, stop it), is everything alright? I know your family… well. I just want you to know that I’m here. Always.

Yours,
Moony

24th of July, 1978

Dear Sirius,

We’ve done it—we’ve graduated. I can hardly believe it. It feels like just yesterday we were sneaking into the kitchens for midnight treats and blowing up cauldrons in Potions. And now… well, now we’re out.

I just wish the world was a safer place right now. There’s something in the air, something that’s making my skin prickle every time I hear someone mention the "Death Eaters" or that damn Dark Lord again. The rumours are spreading like wildfire—whispers in every corner of the wizarding world. I can feel dark magic all around in Diagon Alley, and I can feel it creeping into my bones, like the calm before a storm. The world feels like it's shifting beneath our feet, and I can’t help but wonder where it’s all headed.

And then there’s James and Lily—getting married so quickly. I can’t decide whether it’s brave or foolish, but seeing them make that leap, committing to each other like that, makes me question the choices we’re all making. There’s nothing I want more than to spend the rest of my life with you, Sirius, but sometimes I wonder… are we rushing into this? Into everything? Is it really safe to keep loving each other like this, with everything going on around us?

And Regulus… Why has he stopped talking to us? I don’t understand it. He’s still family, but I swear he’s become a stranger to me. One moment, he’s just as close as ever, the next, he’s gone with Rosier and Snape. Not a word, not a single letter. Did something happen? Did something happen that we don’t know about? I hate feeling like we’ve lost him, like there’s something we missed. I’m scared your family will take him and twist him until there’s nothing of the Regulus we knew.

I’m rambling now, I know, but I had to get this off my chest. I’m scared, Sirius. I’m scared of what’s happening in the world, and I’m scared of what we’ll face next. But more than that, I’m scared of not having you with me.

But despite all the confusion, the fear, and the worry, I know this much: I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you. Whatever comes next, I want to face it with you by my side.

Yours (forever),
Remus

9th of October, 1979

Remus,

It’s been weeks since I last heard from you. Weeks since we last talked in person. You know, I’ve been trying not to jump to conclusions, but I can’t help it. Something’s not right. I’ve been noticing things—the way you’ve been acting. It’s almost like you’re hiding something from me. And I can’t help but feel like it’s not just the war.

James and Lily are starting to notice too. And even Peter. There’s something about you, Moony. I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. Maybe I’m reading too much into things. But I keep thinking about Regulus—he was so secretive towards the end, and I will not let that happen again. I can’t.

I’ve tried to talk to you about it, but you won’t answer me properly. You won’t let me in. I need you, Remus. We all need each other now more than ever, but I can’t stand it if you’re keeping secrets. This war is turning us all into people we don’t want to be, and it’s making me question everything, including you.

Love,
Sirius

 21st of October, 1979

Sirius,

I’ve read your letter over and over, but I can’t make sense of it. I don’t know what to say to you, to be honest. You’re accusing me of something, but I don’t know what. You’re right that I’ve been distant lately, but it’s because I’ve been struggling. Struggling with this war, struggling with what Dumbledore asks of me, and now I’m struggling with you.

It feels like you don’t trust me anymore, and I can’t understand why. I’ve told you everything I safely can, but I can’t change the fact that I’m… well, I’m a werewolf. You knew that, Sirius, you always knew. What more do you want from me? I can’t tell you what I’m doing in detail, Dumbledore has forbidden me to.

I don’t know what’s going on with you, either. You’re pulling away from me, just like you’ve pulled away from everything else. You’re so hell-bent on protecting James and Lily, I can’t even reach you anymore. It’s like you’re closing me out.

What about us? I’m trying to protect us.

I don’t know what else to say, except that I’m scared, Sirius. Scared for all of us. And now, it feels like you’re scared of me too.

Remus

10th of November, 1979

Remus,

I’m sorry. I am sorry. I’ve been harsh, and I shouldn’t have said the things I said. But there’s something about this war… it’s making me see things in a way I never wanted to.

Maybe I’m wrong about you. Maybe I’ve let the war make me suspicious of everyone. But I can’t shake the feeling that you’re holding something back, and it’s driving me mad. Regulus and I, we were close once, you know? And look what happened. I thought I knew him, thought he was one of us, but now he’s gone, and I can’t trust anyone anymore.

I know I’ve let that affect how I treat you, but I don’t want to lose you, Remus. Not like that. But every time you’re away with the werewolf pack makes me scared, and I don’t know how to fix it. I can’t stand the thought of losing you, not to whatever this is.

James and Lily are expecting, by the way. And they want me to be the godfather. Can you imagine?

Sirius

30th of  December, 1978

Sirius,

I don’t know how much more I can take. I’ve tried to explain myself, tried to make you see, but you don’t listen. And I don’t know why you don’t trust me anymore. I thought we were supposed to have each other’s backs, through thick and thin, but right now, it feels like you’re pushing me away.

You talk about Regulus and how he betrayed you, and I know you’ve lost him, but that doesn’t mean I’m the same as him. I’m not going to betray you, Sirius. I never would. But I don’t think you believe me anymore, and that’s what hurts the most. But if you can’t see that, if you can’t trust me anymore, then maybe… maybe we were never meant to be.

This distance between us, it’s too much. I can’t keep pretending everything is fine when it’s not. I need space, Sirius. I need to think about things.

Remus

18th of May, 1980

Remus,

I know you need space, but it’s been months. Months . I can’t do this anymore. I’m suffocating here. I don’t know what happened to us, but I need you to talk to me. If we don’t fix this, I’m afraid we’ll lose everything.

I know I’ve messed up. I know I was a fool, letting my paranoia take control. I’ve been asking myself what’s wrong with me, why I can’t just trust you, but I don’t have the answers. I’m just scared for James, Lily and Harry. And scared for Peter. For us…

I don’t know what’s happening to me, with you, with us. But I swear to you, Remus, I won’t give up. We’ve been through too much to just let it end like this.

Please. Let me fix this. I’ll do whatever it takes.

Love,
Sirius

26th of February, 1981

Sirius,

I’m not sure how we got here. I’m not sure how to make sense of all this. All I know is that I still love you. I probably always will. I want to believe in us. I do. But I’m scared. Scared of the war, scared of losing you for good. And maybe I’m more scared of what I feel for you now than I ever have been.

This is all a mess, and I’m tired. Tired of feeling like we’re not enough for each other. Tired of questioning what we are, what we mean to each other.

I want us to fix this. How do we fix this? This was has taken everything away from us and I’m so scared it’ll take us away from each other, too.

Remus

7th of November, 1981

Dear Sirius,

I don’t know why I’m writing this when you’re not allowed correspondence. But I don’t know what else to do. It’s been two days since James and Lily were murdered, since you were taken away by the Aurors and I can’t breathe for the grief of it. I can’t stop seeing them lying there, their house in ruins. They won’t let me see Harry, nobody knows where he even is .

You betrayed them. That’s what everyone is saying. That’s what Dumbledore said, what Moody said, what I read in the Prophet this morning. That you betrayed them. How could you? How could the boy I loved, the man I trusted more than anything in this miserable world, do something so vile?

And yet… I sit here writing this because some part of me still refuses to believe it. Some part of me—stupid, stubborn Moony—still wants to think it wasn’t you. But there’s Peter, isn’t there? Gone, just like that. Nothing left of him but a finger and the screams of a street full of Muggles. You betrayed him too. They say you killed him, and yet here I am writing you a letter because I don’t know how to stop loving you.

You’ll never see this. Maybe that’s for the best. I don’t think I could bear it if you laughed in my face.

Yours,
Remus

29th of November, 1981

Dear Sirius,

I went to Azkaban today. I asked to see you. I even wore my best robes—the ones I save for court appearances and funerals—but it didn’t matter. They wouldn’t let me through. Said it wasn’t “appropriate” for someone like me to visit a dangerous criminal like you.

“Someone like me.” They didn’t even bother to lower their voices. I could feel their disgust in the way they looked at me, the way they recoiled when I reached for the visitor’s register. It’s always the same, isn’t it? No matter how hard I try, no matter how many times I prove myself, they’ll always see me as a monster.

And you—are you a monster, too, Padfoot? I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. Dumbledore says there’s no doubt. Moody says the evidence is ironclad. But I knew you. I knew you, Sirius. Or I thought I did.

God, I miss you. I hate you, and I miss you. How is that even possible?

Yours,
Moony

25th of December, 1981

Happy Christmas, Sirius.

That’s what I should be saying to you, isn’t it? We should be at James and Lily’s house right now, laughing at James for making the bacalao way too salty, teasing Lily about the garish jumper she knitted for Harry. You would’ve had one too, I think—a bright red monstrosity with a big black dog on the front. You’d complain, of course, but you’d love it anyway.

Instead, I spent today alone. Dumbledore took Harry to stay with Lily’s sister, of all people. I begged him to let me take Harry, Sirius. I begged him. I said I’d raise him like my own, keep him safe, give him everything he needs. But Dumbledore said no. Said it was too dangerous for Harry. He insisted that it was because he didn’t want Harry to grow up in the wizen world, but I know he had a hidden agenda.

I would’ve fought harder if it weren’t for the fact that I know I’m a werewolf, and they’d never allow it. Guilt that has plagued me since that night—the night you were taken. I know you wouldn’t want me to carry it, but I do. Every day, I feel it pressing on my chest. I promised you I’d look after him, keep him safe, and yet here I am, unable to do even that. I should’ve been there for you when the time needed it, and insted, I was away on a mission. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself.

But I’m trying, Sirius. I’m trying for Harry, for you. I think of you every day, even when it hurts too much to remember. I’ll do that for you. If I gain custody, I’ll make sure Harry grows up knowing about the man who would’ve been his second father, the man who would’ve cherished him.

I miss you more than words can say.

Love,
Remus

10th of May, 1982

Dear Sirius,

I dreamt about you last night. You were laughing— that laugh, the one that makes people stop and stare because it’s so loud and carefree and full of life. We were at Hogwarts, sitting by the fire in the common room. You were telling me about one of your ridiculous schemes, and I was pretending to scold you, but really, I was just happy to be near you.

I woke up crying.

I don’t know why I’m still writing to you. You’ll never see these letters. You’d probably tear them up if you did, to be honest. But sometimes, it feels like the only way to keep you with me.

Yours, always,
Remus

15th of July, 1982

Dear Sirius,

I’m trying to move on. I really am. I’ve taken a job at a Muggle bookshop—just something to bring in money and to keep me busy, to stop me from thinking too much. It’s quiet work, and the pay is terrible, but it’s enough to get by and I quite like it.

But I can’t stop thinking about you. About us. About what we had, and what we’ve lost. Were we ever happy, Sirius? Or was it all an illusion, a dream I told myself to believe in because the truth was too painful?

I’ve been hearing whispers, you know. About a group of Death Eaters who got away. About Regulus. They say he died for Voldemort, but I can’t help wondering… Did he die for something else? Did he die for you?

I miss you. God help me, I miss you.

Love,
Remus

2nd of November, 1982

Dear Sirius,

Dumbledore came to see me today. He asked if I’d join the Order again, when the time comes and I am needed again. I wanted to laugh in his face. What’s the point of fighting anymore? Voldemort’s gone, James and Lily are dead, Peter’s killed, Harry away from my grasp, and you—you’re rotting in Azkaban, a traitor, a murderer.

But I said yes. Not because I believe in the cause anymore, but because I think that they will protect Harry if something were to happen in the future.

I wonder if you ever think about me, Sirius. About us. Or have you forgotten me entirely?

Love,
Remus

9th of June, 1983

Dear Sirius,

I found some of your old things today. A jumper, a book of Muggle poetry you swore you’d never read but always kept by your bed. The smell of you is gone, but I can still hear your voice when I read the notes you left in the margins.

I think about Harry all the time. I wish I could see him, but Dumbledore says it’s too dangerous. Too dangerous for Harry, too dangerous for me. I think he’s afraid I’ll try to take him away.

Sometimes, I wonder what it would’ve been like if things had been different. If James and Lily had lived. If we could’ve been a family, all of us. If you hadn’t… if you hadn’t betrayed them. Did you truly did so?

I still love you, Sirius, more than anything and I think I always will.

Love
Remus

20th of April, 1984

Dear Sirius,

It’s been three years now. I’ve tried to stop writing, but I can’t seem to let go. These letters are the only thing tethering me to the world some days.

I dream about you constantly. It’s been so long since I last saw your face that I’m starting to forget the details—what your smile looked like, the way your hair used to fall into your eyes. I hate that, you know. I hate how time takes and takes, stealing away the little pieces of you I’ve held onto.

Sometimes, I let myself imagine that you’re innocent. That there was some terrible mistake, and one day, you’ll come back to me. But then I remember James and Lily. Peter. Harry left with those dreadful Muggles. And I hate myself for even daring to think you might not be the villain they say you are.

I’m sorry.

Love,
Remus

18th of July, 1986

Dear Sirius,

I heard a song on the wireless today. A Muggle one—David Bowie, I think. It reminded me of you. Of the time we sneaked into that Muggle concert in the summer of ’77. Do you remember that? You were so determined to get us to the front of the crowd, and I thought for sure we’d be trampled. But you had this way of making space for us, like you belonged there, like the whole world revolved around you.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. It’s been so long, and I doubt you even think about me anymore. But I still think about you. More than I should.

Love,
Your Moony

31st of October, 1989

Dear Sirius,

Eight years today.

I went to Godric’s Hollow this morning. I left flowers at James and Lily’s grave. I thought about taking Harry something from the house, but what could I possibly give him? I don’t even know him anymore. Dumbledore says he’s doing well and that he’s happy, but what does that mean? Does he still have Lily’s eyes? James’s laughter? Is he loved? Does he know I think of him all the time? I never liked Petunia, but I pray she makes sure he knows he is loved.

I wish you were here. I wish we could sit together, drink a bottle of something strong, and remember them properly.

I miss you.

Love,
Remus

2nd of September, 1991

Dear Sirius,

Harry’s gone to Hogwarts. Can you believe it? Minerva tells me he’s in Gryffindor, just like James. Just like you.

I saw him, you know. Just for a moment, at Diagon Alley. He’s so much like James it hurts. I had to stop myself from running after him, from grabbing him and saying, “Hello Harry, I’ve been waiting for you.” But what right do I have to do that? I couldn’t protect his parents. I couldn’t even protect you.

Do you ever think about him? About what he must be like now? Or has Azkaban taken that from you too?

Love,
Remus

17th of November, 1992

Dear Sirius,

The world is changing again. There are whispers, rumours of something happening at Hogwarts. Dumbledore’s been keeping a closer eye on the inside, though he won’t say what exactly has been happening.

I’ve never stopped hoping.

Love,
Moony

11st of August, 1993

Dear Sirius,

You’ve escaped.

The Prophet says you escaped Azkaban and that you’re hunting Harry now. But I can’t believe that. I won’t believe it. Not after all these years, not after everything we had.

I don’t know what to feel. Hope? Fear? Both? I’ve spent twelve years writing letters you’ll never see, dreaming of a day that I never thought would come. And now you’re out there, and all I can think about is how much I want to see you, to hold you, to demand answers to questions I’ve been too afraid to ask.

I’ve taken a position at Hogwarts. Dumbledore offered it to me, and I couldn’t say no. Not when Harry will be there. Not when you might go there too.

If you’re out there, Sirius—please, come back to me.

Always,
Remus

8th of July, 1994

Dear Sirius,

I still can’t believe it. You’re here. You’re free—or as free as anyone can be while we are forced to escape, to flee around the glove. But you’re here. Every time I see you walk into a room, every time I hear your voice, it feels like I’m dreaming, like any moment I’ll wake up and be back in that dingy little flat in Knockturn Alley, clutching at my unsent letters and wondering if you even remember me.

I wish I could have done more for you. All those years, I should have fought harder, should have tried to visit, should have… Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? We’re here. You’re here. And for the first time in a long while, I feel like I can breathe again.

Harry adores you, you know. He looked at you the way James used to watch Dumbledore, like you’re some sort of untouchable hero. You’ve become his family, Sirius. He needs you. We both do.

Stay with me this time. Promise me you’ll stay.

Love,
Remus

13th of November, 1994

Dear Sirius,

I know you’re restless. I can see it in the way you pace the forest, the way you snap at Dumbledore for not letting you stay in Britain (not that I blame you for that). I can see it in your eyes when you talk about Harry, about what you’d give to be able to walk beside him, to protect him properly.

I know how much you hate being on the run. But I also know what it’s like to lose you, and I can’t—I won’t—go through that again. You’re reckless, Sirius, always have been, and it’s one of the things I love most about you. But we’re older now. Wiser, hopefully. We have to be careful.

I need you to stay safe. I need you to stay alive.

Harry needs you, too. Let’s not disappoint him again.

Yours always,
Remus

15th of August, 1995

Dear Sirius,

Do you remember the first time we kissed? It was by the lake, right after that ridiculous exam we both failed because James kept hexing Peter’s quill to write nonsense. You were so smug about it, even when you tripped over that tree root and nearly fell into the water.  I thought about that today, watching Harry and his friends out in the garden. They remind me so much of us. It’s terrifying, really. The way they dive head first into danger, the way they trust each other so completely. It makes me proud and horrified in equal measure.

I think they’re going to be all right, though. Harry’s strong. He’s braver than I ever was, and kinder than any of us had the right to be at his age. He’s been through so much, I think it’s only fair we let him be a kid, for now.

And you—well, you’ve given him something we all lost too soon. A family.

Why am I saying all of this? We should be talking about Voldemort having come back. About what we’re going to do to keep our family safe. Strategising. But every time I see you, all I think about is that we have to stay together. Things go wrong when we are not together.

I love you, Sirius. I don’t think I say it enough. But I do. I always have. Probably always will.

Love,
Remus

14 of September, 1995

Dear Sirius,

I know you’re frustrated. Being cooped up here is unbearable, and I wish there were something I could do to change that. But the Order needs you safe, and Harry needs you alive. I need you alive.

We’re at war again. You and I both know how ugly this will get, how much it will demand of us. And I’m terrified, Sirius. Terrified that I’ll lose you all over again.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the past—about the things we said and did before Azkaban, before the first war ended. I don’t think I ever really told you how much you meant to me back then and how stupid I was for not being completely honest with you.

You are my home, Sirius Black. You always have been.

Love,
Remus

3rd of January, 1996

Dear Sirius,

There are nights when I wake up, panicked, thinking you’re gone again. That I’ve dreamt the last year and a half, that you’re still rotting away in that hellhole. But then I hear you downstairs, arguing with that portrait, or laughing with Harry, and I can breathe again.

I know I’ve been away lately. The missions Dumbledore’s sent me on… they’ve been hard. There’s so much hate in the world, Sirius. So much fear. Sometimes it feels like we’re drowning in it.

But then I see you, and I remember why we’re fighting in this war. Why it’s worth it.

I love you. I’ll fight for you. For Harry. For us.

Love,
Remus

14th of May, 1996

Dear Sirius,

I don’t know how to say this, so I’ll just say it outright: I’m scared.

The war is getting worse. The Death Eaters are becoming bolder, more ruthless. And the Order… we’re stretched thin. I’m stretched thin. Every day, it feels like we’re one step closer to losing everything.

But then I look at you, and I think about the life we could have. The life we will have, when this is all over. I think about Harry, about seeing him grow up, graduate, fall in love. I think about you, laughing in that way that makes me feel like everything might just be okay.

I need you to promise me something, Sirius. Promise me that no matter what happens, you’ll stay. That you’ll fight to survive. That we’ll see the other side of this war together.

I can’t lose you again. I won’t survive it.

Love,
Remus

You’re gone.

June 19, 1996

What’s the point of writing anymore? You’re gone. You’re gone, and yet I can’t stop myself. Maybe if I write it down, it’ll feel less real. Maybe if I put the words on paper, I won’t have to say them out loud.

You’re gone. You died.

God, I can’t even think it without feeling like the ground is falling out from under me. You’re gone, and I couldn’t stop it. I should have stopped it. I should have been by your side. You wouldn’t have let me fall, not if it had been the other way around.

I keep waiting to hear your voice, to see you walk into our room with that ridiculous grin of yours. I keep thinking I’ll find you in the kitchen, nursing a cup of tea you’ve forgotten to drink. But you’re not there. You’re not anywhere.

I don’t know how to do this without you, Sirius. I don’t want to be without you again.

1 6th of July, 1996

Dear Sirius,

It’s been weeks now, but it doesn’t feel like it. Time doesn’t mean anything anymore.

Harry’s staying with the Weasleys for the second half of summer. He’s trying so hard to be brave, to put on a strong face, but I see the cracks. I see the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention, like he’s trying to figure out if I’ll disappear, too. 

The truth is, I’m not too sure. Not really.

There are still moments when I think I’ll walk through the door and find you there, lounging in one of those horrid chairs at Grimmauld Place, complaining about the wallpaper or Kreacher’s latest insult. There are moments when I forget you’re gone.

And then it hits me all over again. Like a curse to the chest.

You were the only one who ever really saw me, you know? Even when we were kids. You saw me, and you stayed. And now you’re gone, and I’m still here, and I don’t know how to bear it.

25th of September, 1996

Dear Sirius,

They keep telling me it’s time to move on. That the war is still raging, that Harry needs me, that the Order needs me. And they’re right. Harry does need me. He’s the only reason I haven’t followed you through that veil.

But how do I move on when every part of me is still with you? How do I wake up every morning and face a world without you in it?

Your cousin, Nymphadora… she keeps trying to get closer to me. She says she understands, but how could she? She didn’t lose the love of her life. She’s kind, and she’s brave, and she deserves so much more than what I can give her. I’ve told her that. But she doesn’t listen.

She wants my heart, Sirius. But I don’t have it to give. You took it with you when you fell.

 1st of December, 1996

Dear Sirius,

It’s been months, and I’m still writing to you. It feels ridiculous, like some childish attempt to hold on to something that’s already gone. But I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.

I miss you. God, I miss you so much it hurts.

I’ve been spending more time with Nym. She’s… persistent. She says she cares for me, that she understands what’s like to lose a friend. And maybe she does, in her own way. But you were so much more than a friend… but she couldn’t have known that. After my dad, we were so careful… But even thinking about letting her in feels like betrayal.

I let her kiss me last week. It was awkward and fumbling, and I felt nothing. Nothing but guilt. She deserves better than me. She deserves someone who can love her the way she deserves to be loved.

But I’m so tired of being alone.

Love,
Remus

24th of December, 1996

Dear Sirius,

It’s Christmas Eve. Harry’s with the Weasleys, and the house is so quiet it feels like it might swallow me whole.

Dora came by earlier. She brought a bottle of firewhisky and sat with me by the fire. She didn’t say much, just sat there, her hand resting lightly on mine. I let her. We got very drunk and we… I’m sorry.

She’s good, Sirius. She’s good in a way I’ll never be. And Merlin is she stubborn. She sees something in me that I can’t see in myself. Nym reminds me of you, sometimes. It’s the shape of her eyes, the way she laughs. Inevitable, when you two were cousins. I think I’m willing to accept her affections just because she is so like you. And isn’t that just a horrible thought?

I think I’m going to let her in. Not because I love her, but because I’m tired of fighting. Tired of being alone. Tired of waiting for a future that will never come.

I hope you can forgive me for this.

Love,
Remus

12th of July, 1997

Dear Sirius,

The world feels like it’s falling apart again. Maybe it never really stopped.

Nym and I are married now. It was small, quiet, just the two of us with her parents as witnesses. She smiled the entire time, her hand squeezing mine so tightly I thought my bones might break. I smiled back because that’s what I was supposed to do. She’s so happy, and I hate myself for not being able to give her the same. But I do care for her, and will do right by that.

Harry’s at the Burrow. The Order is in chaos, scrambling to figure out what’s next. Dumbledore’s gone too—murdered by Snape. I don’t even know how to process it. The man who trusted him the most killed him, and we’re left floundering without leadership.

I keep thinking about you. How you’d handle this, how you’d rally everyone, even if you didn’t have a plan. You always knew how to make people believe, even when everything was falling apart. I don’t have that gift, Sirius. I’m trying, but I feel like I’m failing everyone.

Dora’s worried about me. She doesn’t say it outright, but I see it in her eyes. I hear it in the way she says my name. She keeps asking if I’m happy, and I don’t know how to answer her without lying. I’m happy she’s happy. Does that count?

I miss you. I always miss you. And now, with everything happening, I can’t stop wishing you were here.

Yours,
Remus

19th of August, 1997

Dear Sirius,

I’m going to be a father.

I thought I’d feel joy when I found out. Or nervousness. Or something. But all I felt was guilt and fear. Guilt because the first person I wanted to tell was you. Fear because I’m a werewolf, and what kind of future am I going to give that child?

I don’t know how to be a father, Sirius. I don’t know how to be anything but broken. How can I raise a child when I can barely keep myself together? Will he be like me? Will he have to suffer like I did? I don’t know what to do, Sirius.

Dora’s over the moon. She’s already planning names and forcing her mother to knit her tiny jumpers in all the colours of the rainbow. And I… I’m trying. I’m trying to be the man she sees in me. But all I can think about is you. How can I do this to you? To your memory? I’m sorry I am this selfish. I should be waiting for you.

You would have been a wonderful father, you know. You were a wonderful godfather.

I miss you. I always will.

Love,
Remus

September 3, 1997

Dear Sirius,

I don’t know if you’d laugh or cry, but I’m teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts again. Only this time, it’s not at Hogwarts—it’s at a secure place in the country. The Order’s been using it as a safe house and training ground for anyone willing to fight. I’m teaching a ragtag group of witches and wizards who are too young to be here and too stubborn to stay away.

I saw Harry recently, did I tell you? He put me in my place when I told him I wanted to help him. I need to be there for Nym and my future child. I can’t fail them like I dailed you and Harry. It felt strange to be back in this house without you. Kreacher’s still around, apparently, although he was oddly cooperative with Harry since he gave him something. I think it means something to him.

Grimmauld always makes me think of Regulus… I think about him sometimes, too, about the choices he made. I wonder if he knew what he was getting into, if he regretted it in the end. I wonder if he knew how much you loved him, despite everything.

There are whispers everywhere—people talking about Harry, wondering about where he is. I haven’t told anyone I saw him at Grimmauld Place. No one knows for sure what he’s doing, but they trust him. I trust him.

I hope he finds what he’s looking for before it’s too late.

Love,
Remus

25th of December, 1997

Dear Sirius,

Happy Christmas.

I should feel something today, shouldn’t I? Joy, hope, something. But all I feel is tired. The kind of tired that seeps into your bones and doesn’t go away no matter how much you sleep.

Dora’s glowing. She hasn’t stopped smiling since the baby started kicking. She says it’s a boy, though we don’t know for sure. She insists she just knows. I hope she’s right. I hope he has her strength, and her smile. I hope he doesn’t inherit any of my darkness.

Harry’s name is everywhere. They’re calling him Undesirable Number One, spreading lies about him in the Prophet. I know he’s out there, still fighting, still trying to do what’s right. I just wish I could do more to help him.

I keep thinking about you. About the Christmases we spent together at Hogwarts, sneaking into the kitchens for mince pies and butterbeer. About the way your laughter would echo through the common room, so loud and carefree. I’d give anything to hear it again.

I miss you, Sirius. Every day.

Love,
Remus

3rd of April, 1998

Dear Sirius,

He’s here.

Our son, Edward—Teddy—, was born this morning. Nym’s exhausted but radiant, cradling him like he’s the most precious thing in the world. And he is.

I wish you could see him, Sirius. He’s perfect. Tiny and fragile and perfect. His hair’s already changing colours—bright blue one moment, soft brown like mine the next. He’s a Metamorphmagus, just like his mother.

I held him for the first time, and I thought my heart might burst. He looked up at me with these wide, curious eyes, and for a moment, I felt… peace. Like maybe everything we’ve been fighting for might be worth it.

But the fear always creeps in at night. The war isn’t over, and I’ve brought a child into this chaos. What kind of father can I be when I don’t even know if I’ll survive to see him grow up?

I’ll do my best, though. For him. For Nym. For you.

Love,
Remus

1st of May, 1998

Dear Sirius,

The final battle is upon us. I can feel it in my bones, in the way everyone around me is bracing for what’s to come.

News arrived just a minute ago that Harry, Ron and Hermione are back at Hogwarts. The castle is buzzing with activity as they prepare for the fight of our lives. I’ll be joining them soon, I’m still trying to convince Nym to stay home with her mother and Teddy. I’d love for her Black stubbornness to evaporate just this one time, our son deserves to have at least one parent. The Death Eaters are closing in, and Voldemort is there, somewhere in the shadows, waiting.

I’m scared, Sirius. Not for myself, but for Harry, for Teddy, for everyone I love. I don’t know if we’ll make it through this. I don’t know if I’ll get to see Teddy grow up, if I’ll get to teach him all the things I wanted to share with him.

But I’ll fight. I’ll fight because I can’t bear the thought of this world falling into darkness, of Teddy growing up in a world ruled by cruelty.

If I don’t make it, I hope you’ll be there to meet me on the other side. I hope you’ll forgive me for all the mistakes I’ve made, for all the times I let you down.

I love you, Sirius. I always have, and I always will.

See you soon.

Love,
Remus

Chapter Text

Even knowing their goal now didn't make their journey deeper into Grimmauld Place any more inviting, the house having turned back to its usual cold and depressing self. The ambient around them had grown dreary and suffocating once more, carrying with it a faint metallic tang that Harry could only describe as the scent of something old—like the inside of a crypt. The sconces lining the corridor gave off pitiful, sputtering glows, barely enough to illuminate their immediate surroundings. The darkness ahead seemed alive, shifting and writhing, and Harry wasn't entirely convinced that it wasn't. Every creak of the floorboards beneath their feet felt unnervingly loud, like a warning shot in an abandoned battleground.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "It's like this house is daring us to keep going."

"Or plotting how to kill us creatively once again," Malfoy muttered, glancing around warily. His wand was gripped tightly in his hand, and his lips were pressed into a thin line of irritation. "Frankly, I think I'd prefer being creatively murdered to spending another night in this hellhole."

"Don't let it hear you," Harry whispered with a grin. "This place has a dark sense of humour, it'll take it a as challenge."

Malfoy gave him a withering glare. "Oh, wonderful. I'm stuck with a Gryffindor comedian in a house that's about as charming as Azkaban during rainy season."

"We're in Britain, Malfoy, it's always raining," quipped Harry still grinning, only to yelp when a second later he failed to evade Malfoy's stinging hex a second later.

They continued forward, their banter not enough to fully mask the pervasive silence around them. The walls seemed closer now that the roots of the trees covered most of the space in the hallway, the air thicker with the smell of wet soil. Harry swore he could hear whispers at the edge of his hearing, but every time he turned his head to look, the shadows stilled. Even Malfoy, who normally had a remark for every occasion, eventually grew unnervingly quiet, his pale features drawn tight with unease as he looked around nervously.

The place eerily reminded Harry of a Chamber of Secrets with more… well, decor.

The ominous stillness was shattered by a deafening CRACK that reverberated down the shadowed corridor like a thunderclap. Harry barely had time to register the sound before the heavy oak door ahead of them exploded inward, splintering with a force that sent shards of wood hurtling through the air like shrapnel. Instinct overruled thought—Harry lunged, throwing an arm in front of Malfoy and shoving him backward with enough force to make them both stumble. The remnants of the door slammed against the stone walls, fragments clattering to the floor like the aftermath of a battlefield. In the eerie silence that followed, a low, guttural growl emanated from the dark void beyond the ruined doorway. It was a sound that seemed to crawl under Harry's skin, primal and malevolent. He tightened his grip on his wand, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might leap out of his chest.

Then, from the gaping maw of the doorway, it emerged.

The beast was massive, easily dwarfing any creature Harry had faced outside of dragons or the basilisk. The fur on its lion's head was matted and slick with an unnatural sheen, its goat eyes a sickly yellow in the dim light, glowing faintly like cursed embers with an unnatural, menacing intelligence. A set of razor-sharp fangs gleamed as it opened its maw, revealing rows of teeth meant for ripping and tearing. Its dragon-like tail whipped around with frightening speed, snapping against the walls with enough force to leave deep gouges. Goat legs, sinewy and grotesque, stretched as the creature reared up, unfurling massive dragon wings that cast long shadows over the trembling corridor.

Harry's stomach plummeted. His mind raced, trying to place the creature—was it a construct of the house? A guardian to the Black family's secrets? A product of some twisted curse? Whatever it was, it radiated dark magic so thick and oppressive that Harry felt it like a weight pressing against his chest.

The creature crouched low as it growled menacingly, saliva dropping from its huge maws. The sound was low and guttural, vibrating through the floor beneath their feet. Harry swore under his breath, raising his wand and stepping forward, placing himself squarely between Malfoy and the creature.

"Stay behind me," Harry muttered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

For once, Malfoy didn't argue, his silver eyes huge and hands trembling.

The beast let out another growl, louder this time, its muscles coiling as if preparing to strike. Harry tightened his grip on his wand, his mind flashing through every curse, jinx, and defensive spell he could think of.

"Bloody hell. What is that?" croaked Harry.

Malfoy, who had stepped so close to him that Harry could feel his breath ghosting against the back of his head, looked utterly frozen. His face had gone pale—paler than usual, which was frankly alarming—and his grey eyes darted frantically over the monstrous form in front of them. His hands curled into fists at his sides, and when he finally spoke, his voice was tight, edged with something dangerously close to fear.

"A—A Chimaera," he breathed, barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might provoke it. "And not just any Chimaera…" His throat bobbed, and when Harry turned slightly to look at him, there was something grim and deeply unsettled in his gaze. "It's hers."

Harry shot him a bewildered glance. "Her? Her who?"

"My great-great-something-aunt, Vulpecula Black," Malfoy muttered, his wand already aimed at the creature. "She had a reputation for… let's just call it unorthodox magical breeding and experimentation. Family gossip says she created this monstrosity for Gringotts, but then released it back to the Greek wilds before she died. Apparently, the gossip lied."

"Well, great," Harry said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Your family tree strikes again. Care to tell your auntie's pet to sit?"

The Chimaera roared, a deafening, guttural sound that sent a tremor through the very walls around them. Dust rained from the ceiling, and the flickering sconces cast its monstrous form in shifting shadows as they threatened to go out. Clearly unimpressed with their banter, it lunged, its massive lion claws slicing through the air where they had been standing just moments before.

Instinct overrode thought. Both men threw themselves in opposite directions, diving for safety just as the beast's enormous paw crashed into the floor with a force that sent cracks spiderwebbing through the ancient building. The corridor seemed to groan in protest, dust and debris cascading from above. Harry hit the floor hard, rolling onto his back as he scrambled to get his wand up. Across from him, Malfoy, had flattened himself against the far wall, his breath coming sharp and quick. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments—just long enough to confirm they were both still in one piece—before the creature let out another furious snarl, muscles coiling as it prepared to strike again. The impact alone sent a rush of wind past Harry's face, and when he dared a glance at the floor, his stomach twisted—deep, jagged gouges had been carved straight through the wooden planks as if they were nothing more than parchment.

"Any brilliant plans, Malfoy?" Harry shouted, scrambling to his feet

"Yes! Don't die!" Malfoy yelled back.

Harry surged forward, firing a Stunner at the creature. It struck the chimaera's thick hide and dissipated like water against hot stone.

"Oh, brilliant. That workeds plendidly," Malfoy snapped, his tone dripping with venom.

Harry fired off a barrage of spells in rapid succession—Expulso, Incarcerous, even his old standby, Expeliarmus—but nothing seemed to penetrate the creature's defences. It advanced on them, barely fitting into the hallway, its dragon tail lashing out. Harry barely managed to conjure a shield before the tail smashed into him, sending him sprawling a 9 feet back. The force knocked the wind out of him, and he gasped, clutching his side.

"Potter, get up!" Malfoy shouted, his voice high with panic. He was darting around the corridor, trying to keep the chimaera's attention by sending sparks into the air, but it was clear he couldn't hold it off alone. "I'm not dying because of your heroic flailing!"

Harry forced himself to his feet, his mind racing. He glanced at the beast's snarling face and glowing eyes. A memory flashed in his mind—first year, a troll, and a very questionable plan.

Harry forced himself to his feet, his pulse pounding in his ears. The sheer size of the Chimaera made the corridor feel suffocatingly small, its hulking form barely fitting between the walls as it snarled, glowing eyes locking onto him with predatory focus. He had fought dragons, basilisks, and a bloody Dark Lord, but something about this—being trapped in a crumbling house with a beast that should not exist here—sent an icy thrill of fear down his spine. His mind raced, grasping for a plan, a spell, anything—and then, a memory surged forward, unbidden. First year. A troll. Hermione's terrified face. A very questionable plan. His eyes darted to the creature's thick, muscular legs, then to the walls around them, and an idea began to form.

"Malfoy," he hissed, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet. "You remember how I took down a troll when I was eleven?"

Malfoy gaped at him. "What kind of ridiculous—You what?"

"Distract it!" he yelled.

"Oh, distract it?" Malfoy snapped, his voice shrill, narrowly dodging another swipe of the chimaera's claws. "What an original idea, Potter. Should I also offer it tea while you play hero?!"

But despite his sarcasm, Malfoy cast a dazzling series of charms and jinxes, each one exploding in flashes of light and sound that drew the chimaera's attention. He did this, Harry realised, with an aimlessness that was deliberate, his only purpose to buy Harry time to attack. The creature roared, momentarily disoriented, giving Harry the opening he needed. He sprinted forward and leapt onto the beast's back, grabbing hold of its thick mane to keep himself steady. The chimaera bucked and thrashed, its dragon tail snapping dangerously close to his head, but Harry held on. The force of the beast's movements nearly shook him loose, but his grip tightened, and he dug his knees into its sides, trying to stay balanced. The chimaera's growls filled the air, each one vibrating through his bones, but Harry knew he had no choice now but to ride it out.

"Potter, you absolute lunatic!" Malfoy shouted from below, firing another charm to keep the creature from turning on him. "Should've thought this would be the dragons and the hippogriff all over again! Bloody hell!"

Harry gritted his teeth, using one hand to grip the mane while the other raised his wand. His heart pounded in his chest as he gathered every ounce of focus. With a shout, he sent a strong Diffindo followed by a Bombarda directly into the chimaera's eyes. The creature howled in agony, thrashing violently as it tried to shake him off. The air crackled with the force of the explosion, and Harry felt the blast's impact through the grip on his wand. With barely a second to react, Harry jumped free just in time, landing awkwardly but intact. His knees buckled slightly, but he regained his footing swiftly. The chimaera staggered back, its movements clumsy as it retreated into the shadows. Its glowing eyes—now bleeding—watched them with difficulty from the dark corners of the room, flickering like twin embers. For a long moment, the creature didn't make a move, and the tense silence grew heavy, making Harry's pulse race even faster. It seemed to be considering its next move, its body coiled, ready to strike. But for now, it did not attack again.

Not yet.

"Is it retreating?" Harry panted, clutching his side.

"No," Malfoy replied, his voice low and steady, his wand still raised. "It's waiting. We need to get out of here—"

Before either of them could act, the ground beneath them gave way. With a sudden, gut-wrenching lurch, the floor collapsed beneath their feet, and they were plunged into complete darkness. The sensation of falling so suddenly was disorienting and terrifying, despite the fact that they had experienced multiple times until now. Harry's stomach lurched violently as they plummeted, the unbearable feeling of the fall making every second stretch out in terrifying slow motion. Air rushed past with a deafening roar, and for a moment, it felt as though they were falling through endless space—weightless, helpless. Panic gripped him, his heart pounding in his chest, but he forced himself to focus, bracing for the inevitable impact.

"Arresto Momentum!" Malfoy's desperate shout echoed above the rush of wind, and their fall slowed abruptly, saving them from what would have been a very messy end. Instead, they hit the ground with a hard thud—or, rather, Harry hit the ground, and Malfoy landed directly on top of him.

"Oof—get off!" Harry groaned, his voice muffled against Malfoy's silky blonde hair, his back hurting.

Malfoy, sprawled awkwardly across Harry's chest, let out a sharp gasp, his face suddenly inches from Harry's. "Oh, trust me, Potter," he snapped, cheeks flushing despite himself. "This is hardly my idea of a good time."

Harry froze at seeing Malfoy's pink face so close to him. A flush slowly spread against his own tan skin, now acutely aware of the weight pressed against him, of how warm Malfoy felt despite the chill in the air. His hands fumbled against Malfoy's sides as he tried to push him off, but somehow the movement only made things worse. "Merlin's sake—just—move!"

Malfoy scowled, his own face rapidly reddening. "I'm trying, but you're not exactly giving me much to work with here!" His voice wavered slightly, betraying his embarrassment.

After a brief, excruciating struggle, Malfoy managed to roll off Harry, landing on his back with a huff. Harry scrambled upright, avoiding Malfoy's gaze and busying himself with brushing imaginary dirt off his robes. His heart was racing for reasons he was absolutely not going to examine.

Malfoy sat up slowly, smoothing his hair back with a dramatic flair that Harry decided was completely unnecessary.

"Next time," he muttered, his voice clipped, "try not to get us both killed, and I won't have to land on you."

Harry's head snapped up, his face still slightly pink. "Next time, try aiming for literally anywhere else!"

"Oh, yes, because I clearly had so much control while we were free-falling, Potter," Malfoy drawled, but the usual venom was missing from his tone. His gaze flicked toward Harry, lingering for a moment too long before he added, softer, "You're welcome, by the way."

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in Malfoy's voice. He opened his mouth to retort but found himself stammering instead. "Uh—yeah. Thanks for halting our fall, I guess."

Malfoy smirked faintly, his confidence quickly returning. "Try not to sound too grateful. I might start to think you like me."

Harry sputtered, his ears burning as he turned away sharply.

"Don't push your luck, Malfoy," he said, his mind a confusing swirl of irritation, lingering adrenaline, and something uncomfortably warm he refused to identify. In front of him, Malfoy's quiet chuckle sounded like an echo.

Harry turned his head, and they glared at each other for a long moment before the absurdity of the situation sank in. Harry let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. "Merlin's pants, we're a disaster."

Malfoy snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

"You're just now realising that?"

The tension outside Grimmauld Place had reached its breaking point. Ron, Hermione, Bill, and Fleur stood huddled together on the pavement, the dark facade of Number 12 looming over them like a silent, mocking sentinel. The street was eerily quiet, save for the faint rustle of autumn leaves being blown by the wind. Grimmauld's magic pulsed faintly, a constant hum that set Fleur's Veela instincts on edge.

Bill had his wand out again, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried yet another containing charm on the house's errant magic. They had been at it for hours, and it was already near 9 o'clock in the evening. The four of them were tired, their efforts fruitless in the face of Grimmauld's overwhelming magic. No matter what they did, what they tried, no matter how careful they were, the house refused to bulge.

"Nothing," he muttered. "The house is shielding itself from everything, even magic meant to communicate with it."

"We already know that," Ron said impatiently, pacing back and forth. "What I want to know is how we're supposed to fix this! Harry's in there—Merlin knows what state he's in—and we're just standing here doing nothing!"

"Ron," Hermione said gently but firmly, "we've been through this. We can't just force our way in. Bill said it could hurt Harry and Malfoy—or worse. And Fleur was very clear about how Grimmauld's ancestral magic works," her eyes darted to Fleur, who nodded gravely.

"Yes," Fleur said, her French accent thickening in her otherwise quiet agitation. "Zere is no forcing it to do our bidding. If we try to overpower it, ze 'ouse will retaliate."

Ron let out a frustrated growl.

"I know. I know, but… what are else we supposed to do? Wait until the bloody house decides to let them go?"

Before anyone could answer, there was a sharp crack of Apparition that sliced through the tense silence. They all turned, instincts immediately on high alert, as a figure materialised out of nowhere. A woman, her walk as imposing as it was glamorous, stepped into view with an unmistakable air of authority. Her high heels clicked sharply against the pavement, each step resonating with the sound of imminent confrontation. Pansy Parkinson appeared, her sleek black outer-robe billowing slightly in the wind like the dark wings of a predator. Her face was set in a fierce expression, eyes narrowed and dark with the intensity of someone who had been wronged. She strode toward them with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, her every movement deliberate, exuding the fury of an approaching storm. As she neared them, the air around her seemed to grow heavier, charged with the promise of a clash that none of them were ready for.

"Where the hell is Draco?" she demanded, her dark, monolid eyes flashing as she fixed the group with a withering glare. She didn't wait for an answer, instead planting herself squarely in front of Hermione. "Well? You sent me that bloody Patronus, and now you're going to tell me where he is and what's going on, or so help me Salazar…"

Ron immediately stepped behind Hermione, his protective instincts vanishing under the dark, penetrating glare that Pansy Parkinson directed at them. It was as though the very air had been set alight by her presence. Parkinson hadn't changed much since the last time either of them had seen her in person. Her trademark black bob framed her face with precise sharpness, and her features remained as fierce as ever. Her nose was still snub, her chin stubbornly tilted, and her lips—painted a venomous dark red—seemed almost to sneer in defiance. She was dressed head to toe in black, her attire an extension of her intimidating aura, except for the towering stilettos that clicked against the ground like an unspoken threat. The heels matched her lips and gave her an added height, making her seem all the more formidable. Pansy was undeniably striking, yet it was the kind of beauty that commanded fear—if not awe. It seemed like she had become an adversary nobody would dare underestimate.

Finally finding his courage, Ron snapped at the woman. "Oi, Parkinson, don't come stomping in here and start barking orders. You're not exactly welcome, you know."

Parkinson rolled her eyes dramatically. "Oh, please. Like I care about your opinion, Weasel. I'm here for Draco. So unless you have some useful information, why don't you toddle off and leave the talking to the mentally competent?"

"Pansy," Hermione interrupted, her tone sharp enough to cut through the tension, but still amiable enough to allow Pansy to calm down. "Like I said, Malfoy's trapped inside Grimmauld Place with Harry."

Parkinson froze for a second, her anger giving way to alarm. "Trapped?" she repeated, her voice shrill. "What do you meantrapped?"

Bill stepped forward, his voice calm and measured as he tried to calm down their newest arrival. "The house's magic has… reacted, let's say. It's sealed itself off entirely, and we think it's because of Harry and Malfoy. Something inside is keeping them from leaving, and the house isn't letting anyone in either."

Parkinson's brow furrowed as she processed this. "Why would Grimmauld Place react like that to Draco? He's not even a Black, at least, not really. His mother was a Black, but that's not the same thing. Not under the Ministry's inheritance laws, anyhow. Narcissa was never able to claim the vast majority of the Black estates after all the other Blacks kicked the cauldron."

Fleur cleared her throat delicately, her expression serious. "Not entirely true. Malfoi is ze last living male 'eir of ze Black family line, non?"

Parkinson blinked, momentarily stunned, before narrowing her eyes. "And how, pray tell, do you know that?"

Bill shrugged and inclined his head towards Fleur. "My wife, she knows a lot about ancestral magic and homes from her own experience as heir to the Delacour family and from working on valt magic at Gringotts. To her, it made sense that Draco must be the heir by blood," he said with pride. "The rest we can infer from our work as curse-breakers."

Parkinson nodded, quickly accepting the matter as true.

"It makes sense. The Blacks were a notoriously patriarchal family. Even though Narcissa was officially no longer a Black when she married Lucius Malfoy, the bloodline and the magic must've remained intact through Draco," she talked, contemplative. After a minute, she turned towards Hermione, who looked like she was itching to write everything down for future reference. "That must make him the last living male Black heir. I just assumed the house didn't consider him so, not enough that he'd get a reaction from it, at least. Usually, inheritance laws override blood and magic when it comes to heirs, simply because sometimes people adopt, or a baby is born with magic wildly different than that of their parents. Figures that the Blacks would care more about blood and magic than any other family I know."

Bill nodded, folding his arms across his chest. "Yeah, that's what we thought, too."

"And zat is why ze 'ouse is reacting," Fleur added. "Grimmauld Place is tied to ze Black family's magic. It would recognise Malfoi as ze potential lord of ze 'ouse. But," she hesitated, "zere is something wrong. Ze 'ouse is not be'aving as it should. It is… unsettled."

Parkinson snorted, her arms crossing. "Unsettled? That's putting it mildly, isn't it? The house is clearly going mental. And Draco's stuck in there with Potty. Brilliant," she began to pace, her heels clicking rhythmically, making Ron flinch with each step. "Alright, so Draco's the last male Black heir. What does that actually mean? What does the house want from him?"

Fleur tilted her head thoughtfully. "It is 'ard to say. Ancestral 'omes like zis are not common, even among pureblood families. But what is certain is zat an 'ouse such as Grimmauld Place would expect its 'eir to prove 'imself worthy."

"Worthy," Parkinson repeated, her tone dripping with disdain. "Of what? The Blacks were a bunch of bigoted lunatics, driven half-mad by dark magic. It's a wonder Narcissa and Andromeda are as sane as they are. What's Draco supposed to do, pledge his allegiance to the family's murderous traditions?"

"Not necessarily," Bill said, shaking his head, taken aback at the woman's temper. "A house's magic wouldn't necessarily test loyalty to the family's values. It's more about the heir's ability to command the house, to stabilise it. Or, well… our working theory is that the house is making him compete with Harry. Or unite with him. Either way, the house would be putting them through a test of some sorts."

Hermione, who had been listening intently, frowned. "But Malfoy's never been trained for this. He probably doesn't even know he has that kind of connection to the house–"

"He does, to the Black family magic, at least. He's mentioned it in the passing," Parkinson interrupted. "Lucius didn't raise him to embrace his Black heritage, really, he thought the Blacks were relics of the past—useful for their Wizengamot connections but not much else. If Draco knows anything about Black family magic, it's all thanks to Narcissa; she taught him behind Lucius' back," she scoffed, as if the memory of the man was a personal offence to her. "Draco knows plenty, but I don't know if family history and culture is enough for what you lot are speculating…"

"Well, that's just great, innit?" Ron muttered. "So Malfoy's supposed to control the house, but he doesn't even know how?"

"Not control," Fleur said, her eyes narrowing in thought. "Malfoi may not know, but ze 'ouse would know. It would guide him, if he listens. But zere is another complication." She glanced at Hermione and Bill, her expression grave. "Zere are two people in ze 'ouse. Two sources of magic."

Hermione nodded slowly. "Harry's magic is strong. Stronger than Malfoy's. If the house is reacting to both of them, it could explain why it's so unstable."

Parkinson looked offended. "Draco is plenty strong, strong enough to have been chosen by the Malfoy magic at sixteen as its Lord when his father was sent to Azkaban for the first time," she snapped, annoyed. Bill and Fleur nodded, knowing that lordship usually only changed when the current Lord died or was otherwise stripped of their magic. The fact that Draco was chosen not only before that, but while underage, was a clear sign he was quite magically talented. Seeing their agreement, Parkinson relaxed her features quickly enough. "So you're saying that my best friend and your bloody hero are trapped in a house that's literally tearing itself apart because it can't decide who's got the biggest metaphorical dick?"

"Yes, that's one way to put it," Bill said, trying not to laugh at her wording. "And until the house decides—or until Malfoy and Harry figure it out—there's nothing we can do to help them."

Parkinson looked at the house, her sharp confidence faltering. For the first time since she arrived, she looked genuinely worried.

"Draco better not die in there," she said quietly. "Because if he does, I'm holding all of you responsible."

Ron opened his mouth to snap back, but Hermione shot him a warning look. Instead, she turned to Parkinson.

"They'll figure something out."

Parkinson didn't respond; she just stared at Grimmauld Place, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if bracing for a storm.

When Harry woke up the next morning, it took him several moments to remember where he was—or, rather, why he was lying in a creaky bed with Malfoy sprawled unceremoniously beside him, snoring softly. Again. For a fleeting second, he thought he might still be dreaming. But then he felt the sharp dig of the protruding spring in the mattress against his hip, and reality came crashing back with all the grace of a troll inside a crystal shop.

The chimaera. The labyrinth escape it. Grimmauld Place helping them. Falling through several stories of cursed architecture. Walking for hours until they finally found themselves in yet another room with a single bed that the house seemed to have conjured with suspiciously convenient timing.

Harry groaned softly and ran a hand through his tangled hair. The room was dimly lit, with soft morning light filtering through the grimy, half-draped windows. The bed, though as uncomfortable as every other piece of furniture in Grimmauld Place, was warm, and Harry was uncomfortably aware of the fact that one of Malfoy's legs was currently pressed against his own. The blonde was cocooned in most of the blankets, his pale hair fanned across the pillow in a way that would have been almost angelic if it weren't for the very faint snort he let out as he shifted.

Harry grimaced. "Bloody wonderful," he muttered to himself, carefully extricating his leg from Malfoy's blanket-hoarding clutches. He sat up, his back cracking as he stretched, and winced. Spending another night crammed into a single bed with Malfoy wasn't exactly ideal—though, if Harry were being completely honest, he didn't mind it as much as he felt he probably should.

"Potter," Malfoy mumbled groggily, his voice muffled by the pillow. "If you're going to grumble like a cranky old man, at least do it quietly. Some of us are trying to salvage what little sleep we can manage in this wretched place."

"Good morning to you too, sunshine," Harry replied dryly, rolling his eyes. "And maybe if you didn't steal all the bloody blankets—"

"Oh, please," Malfoy interrupted, finally sitting up and glaring at him with bleary grey eyes. His fine hair stuck out in every direction, and Harry couldn't help but think that it was oddly satisfying to see him look so unkempt. "I'm trying to survive in suboptimal conditions, Potter. You should be thanking me for my resilience."

Harry snorted, standing up and stretching again. "You're about as resilient as a wet tea towel."

"And you're about as charming as a Blast-Ended Skrewt," Malfoy shot back, rubbing at his eyes. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need breakfast if I'm expected to deal with you for another day without hexing you."

As if on cue, the door to the room creaked open ominously, and the scent of toast and eggs wafted in from the hallway. Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

"I swear, this house is either trying to fatten us up or lure us into a false sense of security."

"Well, I'm starving," Harry said, already heading for the door. "If it's trying to kill us, it can at least let me eat first."

The dining room that Grimmauld Place had so helpfully provided the day before had returned, looking slightly less welcoming this time. The candles on the table flickered erratically, and the walls seemed to shift faintly at the edges of Harry's vision. Even the Black ancestor in the portrait above the mantel was missing. He chose to ignore it, focusing instead on the modest spread of food waiting for them. The toast was slightly burnt, the eggs looked suspiciously runny, and the tea was lukewarm—but it was food, and Harry was far too hungry to complain.

Malfoy, on the other hand, had no such reservations.

"Honestly," he sniffed, prodding at the eggs with his fork as if they might bite him. "Is it too much to ask for a proper meal? This is barely fit for consumption."

Harry rolled his eyes. "It's breakfast, Malfoy. Just eat it."

Malfoy gave him a look that could have withered a Whomping Willow. "You, Potter, have the culinary standards of a gnome. This—" he gestured dramatically to the plate in front of him, "—is an insult. Even Weasley wouldn't serve something so abysmal."

"Well, sorry the haunted deathtrap of a house isn't up to Malfoy Manor standards," Harry shot back, shoving a piece of toast into his mouth. "Maybe you should write a letter of complaint to the management."

Malfoy scoffed, taking a delicate sip of his tea and grimacing. "If I survive this, I will be lodging a formal complaint. Do you haveanyidea how hard it is to endure this level of mediocrity?"

Harry grinned. "You're enduring it just fine. Besides, it builds character."

"Oh, spare me your false Gryffindor wisdom," Malfoy drawled, and now there definitely was a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth that Harry suspected was the beginning of a smile. "If I wanted life lessons, I'd read one of those Muggle self-help books you probably give away at Diagon."

"I don't read self-help books," Harry said, his grin widening. "But I'll buy you one when we get out of here. Something like How to Stop Being an Insufferable Prat in Three Easy Steps."

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but he didn't bother to retort, instead returning his focus to his breakfast. Despite his complaints, he ate with surprising efficiency, and Harry couldn't help but notice that he seemed more at ease than he had the day before.

By the time they set out again, Harry was feeling strangely optimistic. It wasn't that the house was any less terrifying—it wasn't, and he was getting tired of the constant jump scares courtesy of the many spiders and other creepy crawlies—but there was something about the banter, the constant back-and-forth between him and Malfoy, that made the pervasive gloom and dark magic seem just a little less overwhelming. It was almost… fun.

Not that Harry would admit that aloud.

The corridor they entered was narrow and winding, its dim, suffocating confines giving the sense that the house itself was shifting around them. The walls, ancient and cracked, were still populated with overgrown roots that twisted through the stone, the occasional leaf tumbling lazily to the floor. The sconces mounted on the walls flickered faintly, their weak light casting long, undulating shadows that seemed to ripple and shift like water, warping in the corners of their vision. Every step they took echoed unnervingly through the silence, amplifying the oppressive atmosphere. The air around them felt dense, thick with old dust. It carried that faint hum of magic—subtle for now, but unmistakable—that Harry had come to associate with Grimmauld Place. It settled into his bones, making his skin prickle, as if something unseen was watching them from the depths of the darkness.

"So," Malfoy said as they walked, his tone carefully casual. "What's the plan for today? More aimless wandering? Perhaps we'll stumble upon another murderous beast to brighten things up."

Harry smirked. "Well, I was thinking we could have a nice heart-to-heart about our feelings. Maybe hold hands, braid each other's hair—"

"Ha, ha," Malfoy said flatly. "You're hilarious, Potter. Truly. But if you suggest anything involving emotional vulnerability again, I'll hex you."

Harry laughed, the sound echoing faintly in the narrow corridor. "Noted."

Despite the looming threat of the house and its unpredictable magic, there was something oddly comforting about the banter that seemed to flow effortlessly between them. The exchange was sharp, teasing, yet undeniably familiar—almost grounding, in a way Harry hadn't expected. It was as though the constant bickering provided a brief respite from the heavy tension of the place, a reminder of normalcy amid the chaos. And though he'd never admit it, Harry couldn't help but think that Malfoy was beginning to warm to him as well, his barbed comments more teasing now, his eyes softer and smirks almost becoming smiles. Either that, or the prat was physically incapable of shutting up for more than five seconds. But the rhythm of their back-and-forth was strangely... comfortable. Harry found it hard to deny the small, almost unnoticeable sense of camaraderie that had developed between them. Even in a place like this, it was a connection, however unlikely.

They continued walking, their voices filling the chilly silence. The house shifted around them, its walls creaking and groaning like a restless giant, but for the first time, Harry felt like they were making progress—even if that progress was measured in sarcastic remarks and stolen glances.

The air seemed to thicken with every step as Harry and Malfoy pushed further into the labyrinthine complexity of Grimmauld Place. The magic-soaked, heavy darkness pressed against their skin like a suffocating blanket, the faint light of their wands and the sconces on the wall barely cutting through the dense gloom. The walls narrowed, the wooden panelling twisting into grotesque, claw-like shapes, as though the house itself sought to close in on them. Malfoy muttered something under his breath along the lines of "infernal architecture" while Harry gripped his wand tighter, his nerves jangling like a poorly-tuned harp. They knew they had been walking in circles for a bit, for they could recognise certain paintings or cracks on the wall, but the house had kept them walking with no other recourse for hours.

Eventually, they reached a part of the corridors without any turns; a large, ominous door that hadn't been there the last time they'd traversed this particular corridor nestled at the end of it—if 'traversed' could even be the right word for navigating a house that seemed to shift and churn like a restless ocean. The door was tall and imposing, carved with intricate patterns that looked unnervingly like writhing snakes warping around unknown runes, their eyes studded with tarnished rubies. A bone-deep chill emanated from the door, and Harry couldn't suppress a shiver that ran down his spine.

"This place doesn't feel right," Harry said uneasily, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand tightened instinctively around his wand, as though it might jump out of his grip if he let it slacken.

Malfoy's eyes, sharp and calculating as ever, scanned the doorway with the air of someone faced with a particularly unpleasant task. His posture was rigid, the tension in his shoulders evident as he raised his wand slightly. His expression flickered between wariness and what Harry could only describe as reluctant recognition. Harry's unease deepened as he stared at the sinister door. The writhing serpents seemed almost alive, their silver-studded eyes glinting with a malevolent light that seemed to follow his movements. The runes twisted into shapes that felt vaguely familiar but just out of reach, as though they existed on the edge of a memory he'd rather not unearth. His wand felt heavier in his hand, and he couldn't shake the feeling that the very air around them was watching, waiting.

Malfoy sighed, his eyes narrowing. "We should turn around, Potter. A room like this... It's never a good idea."

The words barely left his mouth before the house seemed to respond. With a deafening, groaning crack, the house retaliated by slamming down a wall behind them, sealing off the exit with a finality that left no room for doubt. The air grew even thicker, the crushing magic of Grimmauld Place pushing down on them as if mocking their attempts to retreat.

Harry glanced over at Malfoy, his voice low but resolute. "We don't have many options now."

Malfoy didn't reply, his expression frozen, his gaze locked on the newly formed wall. His lips parted as if he had a retort, but the words never came. Instead, he remained silent, his usual sharp wit absent in the face of the house's unmistakable stubbornness in making him go forward—through the door. With a resigned sigh, he walked closer to the door and studied it with narrowed eves. Then, he pressed his free hand against the carved wood, his pale fingers ghosting over the runes. For a moment, his face softened—just a flicker, a momentary lapse—, revealing his fear, before the usual mask of disinterested confidence slid firmly back into place.

"This magic isn't just Black. It's… older. And if you're quite done gawking, I'd suggest we get this over with."

Harry gritted his teeth, stepping forward as Malfoy's hand gripped the ornate handle. With a slow, deliberate pull, the door creaked open, the sound reverberating down the corridor like a groan from deep within the earth. Cold air swept past them, carrying the faint, acrid tang of something long decayed. As the door swung wide, Harry's breath caught.

The room beyond was spacious, far larger than should have been possible within the walls of Grimmauld Place, but Harry had long since tried to make sense of the expanded space of his home. Every surface shimmered with a faint, dark energy, pulsating like a living heartbeat. The room itself was vast, the ceiling disappearing into shadows. Towering bookshelves lined the walls, their contents long forgotten beneath layers of dust and cobwebs. The shelves were crammed with even more malevolent-looking antiques lined the walls, their contents exuding an unmistakable aura of danger. Heavy, moth-eaten curtains hung loosely from the windows, their fabric swaying as if stirred by an unseen breeze.

At the room's centre, amongst numerous glass displays, stood a black marble pedestal, upon which rested a glass orb swirling with dark mist, as though it contained a storm waiting to be unleashed.

"What is this place?" Harry asked, glancing between Malfoy and the door.

"Decades past, families used to keep their fortune in their family home, rather than in Gringotts. This, Potter," Malfoy muttered, his voice dropping into an unfamiliar, awed tone, "Is a vault."

Before Harry could reply, the room itself seemed to shift, its very foundations groaning as if awakening from some deep, restless slumber. A strange sensation crawled over his skin, an almost imperceptible tremor in the air that prickled along his spine. Then, from the darkened corners, a low, oppressive hum began to rise—a sound like the wings of a thousand unseen figures, an eerie, vibrating drone that thickened the already suffocating atmosphere. Harry's stomach dropped as a sudden, piercing screech shattered the stillness. It was high-pitched and guttural, unnatural in its intensity, setting his teeth on edge. The walls seemed to pulse in response, as though the house itself was breathing. Then, from the blackened void above, something moved. A flock of creatures erupted from the darkness, their forms shifting and flickering like living shadows, neither fully solid nor entirely incorporeal, but gut-wrenchingly similar to ravens. Their blood-red eyes glowed like embers, unblinking and fixed on the two intruders with unmistakable predatory intent.

As they descended, their wings stirred the stagnant air, sending a chill through the room. Their forms twisted and rippled, as though the very fabric of their existence was unstable, yet their jagged, snapping beaks were horrifyingly real. Each movement was accompanied by an unnatural, bone-chilling click, like the snapping of brittle twigs, and it sent an involuntary shiver down Harry's spine. Slowly, deliberately, they began to settle. Perching atop scattered antiques, atop rotting bookshelves and dust-covered cabinets, their talons curled over the edges of broken furniture. The glow of their eyes remained unwavering, like dozens of tiny embers burning in the shadows, watching—waiting.

"The fuck are those?" Harry squeaked out, tired of all the random creatures this house apparently held within it.

Malfoy took a cautious step backward, his pale face almost as unreadable as the birds looked at him.

"I've read about something like this before," he murmured, his tone laced with unease, "My ancestors—Black ancestors—used a spell that created creatures like these to guard their most dangerous secrets. They called them Avium Noctis. Shadow birds. They were conjured back in the old days, designed to guard things no one should ever escape with them."

"Shadow birds? That sounds pleasant," Harry blinked, his discomfort growing. "Should we do something about them?"

Malfoy shot him a withering look. "Oh, by all means, Potter. Let's try to tame them with crumbled biscuits and our cheerful disposition."

"I'll take that as a 'no'," Harry muttered, his voice tight, emerald gaze never leaving the shadowy creatures. With tentative steps, he began retreating towards where he hoped their door waited for them.

"Quick learner," Malfoy snapped, already raising his wand. The tension in his voice betrayed the effort it took to maintain his usual acerbic demeanour. "But if you've got any brilliant ideas, now would be the time to share them."

Before Harry could respond, his foot caught on something solid, and he stumbled. His breath hitched as he glanced down, only to be met with the hollow, staring eyes of a fallen artifact—the truly horrifying death mask of a woman. Its expression was frozen in eternal anguish, the gaping mouth twisted in a silent scream. The moment his boot scraped against it, the air shifted violently, as if the house itself had been waiting for this misstep.

He looked up just in time to see the shadow birds lunge.

Their deafening screeches filled the room, a shrill cacophony that drowned out Harry's instinctive yell of 'Protego!' as he threw up a hastily-formed shield. The translucent barrier shimmered between them and the creatures, but Harry barely had time to register relief before the first bird collided with it. A hideous screech—like nails raking down glass—reverberated through the air, setting his nerves on fire.

And then, to his horror, the bird phased through it.

It passed through his magical shield as though it were nothing more than mist, its shifting form breaking apart like smoke before reforming on the other side. Its jagged claws slashed through the air just inches from his face, close enough that he felt the unnatural chill radiating from its talons. Harry reeled back, his heart hammering against his ribs, his wand tightening in his grip.

The birds weren't just attacking.

They were hunting them.

"Bloody hell!" Harry shouted, stumbling back as the creature's talons slashed at his shoulder, the sharp sting of pain making him gasp. Warm blood trickled down his arm, but he didn't have time to check the wound before another bird dived toward him.

"Malfoy!" Harry calls out, his voice strained. "We need to get out of here—now!"

"Watch out!" Malfoy shouted, casting a Stupefy,and some of the birds froze mid-dive, their form momentarily solidified before it fell to the floor with a dull thud. But no sooner had they hit the ground than another flock of birds emerged from the shadows to take their place, blocking their escape.

The two of them were surrounded. The air felt suffocating, the creatures' claws and beaks slashing the air with deadly intent. Harry's mind raced, trying to think of a way out of this. Malfoy was now casting hexes with a ferocity Harry hadn't seen in him since the war.

"Stupefy!" he shouted once again, but it didn't make a dent on the flock.

"These things won't die!" Malfoy shouted, his tone sharp with frustration. "They're bound to the room! They'll just keep coming!"

"Fantastic," Harry muttered, his heart hammering in his chest as he deflected another attack.

The creatures seemed endless, their wispy, black forms shifting and twisting like smoke struggling to take shape in the wind. They swarmed the room with eerie fluidity, their glowing red eyes fixed hungrily on their prey. Harry barely had time to register the sheer number of them, let alone form a plan. His heart pounded, his breath coming too fast, too shallow.

They couldn't afford to get trapped here.

I need to think. I need to think, Harry thought frantically. The desperate mantra looped through his mind as he tightened his grip on his wand. But the creatures moved with unnatural speed, their shadowy bodies flitting between the dark corners of the room, perching and waiting, as if they knew the exact moment to strike. There had to be something—something they could use. The room was now cluttered with broken furniture, fallen tapestries, and artefacts that pulsed with long forgotten magic. A shattered cabinet lay against the far wall, its splintered wood revealing the glint of something silver beneath the debris. His eyes darted frantically, scanning the space for anything that might give them an advantage.

There.

Harry didn't have time to snap back. His gaze remained fixed on the chandelier, its heavy iron frame groaning under its own weight, its thousands of crystals swaying gently with the air. The realisation sent a surge of urgency through him. If he could just—

"Malfoy!" he barked again, already moving, ducking beneath a swipe of jagged claws. "I need you to distract them".

Malfoy, who was currently engaged in a frantic duel against a swarm of the shadowy murder of wings and snapping beaks, whirled on him with an expression of sheer exasperation. His hair was dishevelled, the knees of his black trousers torn, and there was a thin cut along his nose that only made his glare more frightened.

"Oh, brilliant, Potter," he bit out, deflecting another attack with a slashing motion of his wand. "And what's your plan exactly? Ride them like the bloody chimaera?"

"Less talking, more distracting!" Harry yelled, already raising his wand toward the chains holding the chandelier aloft.

Malfoy let out a growl of frustration but obeyed, sending a barrage of wind spells into the swarm of shadow birds, as if trying to scatter them.

"Hey, you psychotic pigeons!" he snarled, his voice dripping with disdain as he touched the glass orb in the middle of the room and threw it at them, the smoke in its middle disappearing with a horrifying scream that chilled Harry's bones. "Over here!"

The birds turned toward him, their blood-red eyes glowing with unholy fury. Malfoy then moved away from the broken orb and continued casting, his movements fluid and precise despite the chaos surrounding him. Harry couldn't help but notice the fire in Malfoy's face, the way he didn't falter even as the creatures closed in around him.

"Lumos Maxima!" Harry shouted, his wand pointing upwards, voice ringing out like a clap of thunder.

A brilliant burst of light erupted from his wand, streaking toward the chandelier in a cascade of pure brightness. The room lit up in an explosion of white light, brighter than any candle or spell they'd cast before. The Shadow Birds screeched—a sound that chilled Harry to his very bones—as they scattered wildly, their forms flickering erratically. The dazzling reflection of the shattered chandelier filled the room with a chaotic brilliance that sent the creatures retreating to the farthest corners, their smoky bodies twisting in confusion. For a few heart-stopping moments, Harry thought the light wouldn't be enough. But then, the birds recoiled, flapping their wings desperately as they were pushed back by the light's relentless rays. They scattered into the corners of the room, their dark forms vanishing into the shadows, shrieking as they fled.

"It worked!" Harry said, his voice strained as he scrambled to Malfoy's side, keeping his wand ready.

"They're not gone yet!" Malfoy retorted, firing a new Lumos of his own towards them, the brilliant beam of light forcing the nearest birds to recoil with an almost visceral hatred of its glow. Harry barely had time to process the movement before he followed suit, sending another blinding stream of light into the surrounding darkness. The birds screeched, their sharp cries echoing through the air as they faltered in their pursuit.

With the shadow birds momentarily pushed back, they both moved quickly, their footsteps barely making a sound against the cold stone floor as they hastened toward the door. Each time one of the shadowy creatures drew too close, their wands lit the room again with a fierce Lumos Maxima, the light pushing the birds into the corners, their bodies writhing in unnatural anguish as they attempted to flee from the blinding brightness. The faint smell of burnt feathers lingered in the air, but with each burst of light, the oppressive feeling began to lift, the room gradually seeming less suffocating with the birds' presence. Harry's heart thudded heavily in his chest as they neared the door, but his mind stayed focused, the urgency of their situation pressing down on him.

Malfoy's voice, clipped but determined, broke through the silence between them. "We're almost there, Potter. Just a bit more."

Harry nodded in agreement, his body moving instinctively despite the pounding fear in his gut. One final blast of light from Malfoy sent the remaining shadow birds scattering, their silhouettes vanishing into the dark crevices of the room. With the immediate threat behind them, they reached the heavy wooden door.

Malfoy took a step back, his eyes scanning the door with cautious calculation. Harry didn't wait for a suggestion this time—he was done. With a firm grip on his wand, he muttered, "Colloportus!"

The door behind them slammed shut, the heavy wooden panels locking with a finality that echoed through the hallway. Behind the door, the creatures screeched in fury, battering at it with their sharp claws, their shadowy bodies crashing against the wood.

Malfoy breathed heavily, his face streaked with sweat and a mix of relief and fear. "That was too close," he mutters, lowering his wand.

"Yeah, well… I'm not in a hurry to do that again," Harry said, wincing as he checked his bleeding shoulder. His heart is still racing, adrenaline coursing through him.

The door behind them still rattled faintly from the force of the locking spell, but Harry barely noticed. His attention was more focused on the searing pain in his side, and the occasional drip of blood from his shoulder onto the dusty floor. The miserable atmosphere of Grimmauld Place seemed to close in tighter around them, as though the house itself had taken notice of their intrusion and was growing more malevolent by the second. He hadn't even realised how badly he'd been grazed by one of the shadow birds' talons until the adrenaline started to wear off. His shirt was sticking to his skin, damp with sweat, and now, a fresh wave of discomfort settled in as he pressed a hand to his side.

"Bloody hell," Harry muttered, wincing. With a tentative hand, he touches his shoulder, wincing as it stung. "One of them got me good."

Malfoy, who had already been glancing at him with something between distaste and concern, took in the sight of Harry's hand, now stained red with blood. He raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting from irritation to something sterner, assessing.

"Bleeding all over the place now, are we?" he drawled, though there was no real bite to it. His silvery gaze flickered to Harry's arm, tracing the source of the wound with quick, practised efficiency.

Harry barely noticed. His pulse thundered in his ears, his focus still locked on the way Malfoy's eyes moved with interest and discontent "It's fine," Harry muttered, flexing his fingers despite the stinging pain.

"You should've ducked quicker. You're a bit slow on your feet for someone who's supposed to be the hero of this bloody war," Malfoy commented with a tense smirk, though the bite of sarcasm didn't hide the flicker of concern in his eyes.

Harry scowled, rubbing his side. "Yeah, well, I wasn't expecting shadow birds to attack. It's not exactly in the Hogwarts defence curriculum, you know."

Malfoy rolled his eyes dramatically.

"Don't be stupid," Malfoy muttered, stepping closer. "Let me see."

Malfoy didn't answer immediately. His fingers ghosted over the torn skin, his touch different from what Harry had experienced under the care of Madam Pomfrey or St. Mungo's healers. It was gentle and careful, as if he were cataloguing the depth of the wound before speaking. His brows knitted together, his expression one of pure focus. Harry swallowed hard, trying to ignore the warmth of Malfoy's hand against his skin or the way the flickering light made his pale features seem almost soft.It's just the adrenaline,he told himself, even as his heart pounded traitorously in his chest.

Finally, Malfoy exhaled through his nose, his lips pressing into a thin line. "It's not deep," he murmured, his voice quieter now, lacking its usual sharp edge. "Messy, but not deep."

Harry huffed out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Brilliant. Can we—"

Malfoy cut him off by tightening his grip on Harry's wrist, his mercurial eyes snapping up to meet his. "Don't be an idiot. You've lost more blood than you think."

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Malfoy was already reaching into his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief—who even carries those anymore?—and pressing it against the wound with an efficiency that made it clear he wouldn't take no for an answer.

Malfoy let out a soft sigh, shaking his head as he gingerly removed the handkerchief, making sure the cut was not bleeding anymore. "Don't be daft. Like I said, it's not too deep, but it'll need specialised spellwork. Merlin knows what kind of dark magic those creatures are steeped in."

"I'll live," Harry said, his voice a little gruffer than he intended. He stepped back, attempting to pull his shirt awkwardly back into place. "We don't have time to sit around playing nurse. Those things could break through that door any second."

Malfoy fixed Harry with a look that was equal parts exasperation and disbelief. His long fingers were stubbornly holding Harry's shoulder and shirt in place, disallowing him from covering up the wound.

"You're being dramatic," Harry muttered, though the words lacked conviction.

Malfoy's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smirk, wasn't quite a frown. "Oh, I'm being dramatic? Says the idiot who nearly got his arm clawed off and is now bleeding all over the place."

Harry rolled his eyes but didn't pull away this time. He could have—Malfoy wasn't holding him that tightly—but for some reason, he didn't. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the way Malfoy's voice had dropped into something quieter, something less biting. Or maybe it was the way his fingers lingered just a little longer than necessary, his touch oddly careful, almost—nope, not going there.

"You really are insufferable, you know that?" His voice was laced with irritation, but there was something else beneath it—something steadier, more resolute.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Seriously, I'm fine."

Malfoy didn't look convinced. In fact, his grip only tightened, his fingertips pressing lightly against the uninjured skin surrounding the wound as if gauging Harry's reaction.

"You're not fine," he countered, his tone suddenly more serious. "You're bleeding, you're pale, and I don't particularly feel like dragging your unconscious body through this hellhole when you inevitably pass out from your sheer Gryffindor stupidity."

Harry scoffed, shifting slightly, but Malfoy's grip tightened—not harsh, just firm, a silent warning that he wouldn't tolerate any more of Harry's nonsense. His fingers were steady, pressing just enough to keep him in place, and for some reason, that sent a strange shiver down Harry's spine. The air between them grew taut, thick with something neither of them seemed willing to acknowledge.

"Hold still, Potter," Malfoy muttered, his breath warm against Harry's cheek as he leaned in, wand at the ready. Malfoy exhaled sharply, reaching into his robes again, this time producing his wand. "Hold still," he muttered, almost to himself. His expression was unreadable as he pointed it at Harry's wound, the tip glowing faintly with soft, silvery light. "This might sting."

Harry froze, his pulse hammering in his ears—not from the pain, but from the way Malfoy's voice had dropped, quiet and intent, as if he cared. He feebly opened his mouth to protest, but the words stuck in his throat when Malfoy waved his wand with swift precision, muttering a spell Harry hadn't expected to hear.

"Vulnera Sanentur," Malfoy intoned, the words melodic and soft. "Vulnera Sanentur. Vulnera Sanentur," he repeated, his voice steady, but there was something in the rhythm that made Harry's chest tighten.

The soft glow of Malfoy's wand illuminated the wound as the spell took hold. Harry didn't flinch from the soothing warmth of the magic, but the words—those words—sent a chill down his spine. The spell made him flinch, not because of its effect, but at the reminder of where he'd heard it last, and who had used it. What for.

The image of Snape's face, twisted with cold determination, flashed in Harry's mind. The memory of that moment—the blood, the panic, the sense of helplessness—came rushing back with crushing clarity.

It wasn't just the spell; it was the purpose behind it. What Snape had used it for.Whyit had been needed.

A soft, warm sensation spread across Harry's shoulder, and within seconds, the sharp sting of the wound was replaced by an odd, but welcome relief. The pain gradually faded into a dull ache. Malfoy's magic was surprisingly gentle, like a quiet pulse of energy flowing through Harry's skin. It wasn't harsh or hurried, but tender, and Harry couldn't help but notice the subtle warmth that seeped into his flesh as the torn skin slowly began to knit itself back together. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The distant sound of shifting shadows and rustling wings filled the silence, but between them, everything else felt... still. The only sounds that remained were their breaths, in sync for the first time that night, and the soft hum of the magic that hung in the air like an unspoken bond.

Harry just stared at Malfoy, surprised by the skill with which he performed the healing charm. His usual sharpness, his brash, biting nature, was absent now—replaced by something more focused, more measured. It was... startling.

His fingers tensed, caught between the instinct to pull away or offer some form of gratitude. But he couldn't seem to bring himself to say anything. So, he settled on neither, watching the last traces of the wound vanish beneath Malfoy's careful hands, unsure of what, exactly, had just passed between them.

"Well, look at you, Malfoy. Healer of the year," Harry said, forcing a grin despite the uncomfortable tension running through him. "Maybe you should change careers. Slytherin's best-kept secret—Healer Malfoy."

Malfoy's lip curled in a slight, smug smile, but his eyes became a dull grey that Harry had never seen, not as such. The smile did not reach them. "You're welcome, Potter," he said dryly. "And I'd rather not be associated with your… heroic nonsense. For one, I'd rather not have to worry about you bleeding all over my jumper ever again."

Harry glanced at him, eyes narrowing in amusement. "You know, you don't have to act like you're so far above this. You're not exactly Mr. Clean yourself, are you?"

Malfoy snorted, a genuine smile forcing its way through his mask. "Oh, please. If I was Mr. Clean, you'd be a lot more presentable right now. You'd probably look good, for a change."

Harry laughed despite himself, the sound escaping in a soft, incredulous breath. It almost felt like they weren't the same people who had hurt each other so much in the past. The weight of everything that had come before, all the animosity and hatred, seemed to stay outside this house—a house that felt like it was from a different time altogether. At this moment, all the years of rivalry and bitter words felt distant, like they had been erased by something more fragile, more human.

For just a moment, Harry almost felt... like they were Harry and Draco, instead of Malfoy and Potter. Almost.

The thought left him unsettled, and his laughter quickly died, swallowed by the tension that crept back into his chest. His heart rate picked up again, reminding him of the stakes, of the danger still pressing in on them. But the fleeting sense of something else lingered, like a door half-opened that he couldn't bring himself to close—or push through. Not yet.

Malfoy finished his work, stepping back with a satisfied look.

"There. Good as new. Don't get yourself hurt again. I'm not running a charity here."

Harry, still stunned by the unexpected gesture, shook his head, still processing what had just happened, where his thoughts had drifted toward.

"Fine, I'll try to stay in one piece. But if I have to end up in your debt for any more medical help, I might just have to jump off the nearest cliff."

Malfoy's grin was just as sharp as ever. "Noted. But next time, don't take on shadow birdsor any other hideous creature my dear family has sequestered away in their lovely home. I'm not here for your bloody heroics, Potter."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "You didn't exactly look against it when I needed help, Malfoy. You're welcome, by the way. Would you rather still be in there being pecked to death?"

"I'd rather not have been in there at all," Malfoy rolled his eyes, gesturing wildly at the door as if it had personally offended him. "What part of 'these things are tied to the Black family's darkest secrets' made you think, Oh, let's try to blind them to death?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry, Malfoy, would you have preferred I sat back and let them turn us into bird food while you… what? Gave them a lecture on proper pure-blood etiquette? Besides, seems like you've got a bit of a hero complex yourself."

Malfoy scoffed, clearly trying to hide a hint of something else.

"If you think that, Potter, then you're truly deluded. I was just saving my own skin. The fact that you were in the way was… coincidental."

Harry smirked. "Right. Sure, Malfoy. You just happen to be a hero without even realising it."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Malfoy shot back, his voice sharp, but there was a flicker of something beneath the usual bite—something that almost seemed like a reluctant camaraderie. "Now, can we please get out of here before I decide you're an even bigger pain than these damn birds?"

"Agreed," Harry replied, the words feeling surprisingly natural, like they had exchanged them a hundred times before, back in a world where they didn't want to kill each other. The banter between them, light as it was now, somehow made the rest of the grim task ahead feel just a little more bearable. For the first time in what felt like ages, Harry found himself letting his guard slip, even if just slightly.

But that moment of ease didn't last long. The house—Grimmauld Place—felt morealivethan ever. It always had, in a way, with its creaks and groans, the strange hum of magic in the walls. But now, it was different. It wasn't just the eerie air or the flickering candlelight. In it sentience, the house felt present, like it was watching them, waiting for their next move, assessing them. Harry couldn't shake the feeling that they were being led, that the house was guiding them towards the core one way or another. Testing them, forcing them through horrible obstacles.

The walls seemed to close in as they moved deeper, the sense of being pulled into its heart growing stronger with every step. And, despite the lingering discomfort, Harry couldn't help but wonder—if they were being drawn in, tested, what exactly was waiting for them at the centre?

"Do you think they'll follow us?" he asked, nodding back toward the door where the shadow birds continued their assault.

Malfoy hesitated, his sharp features pinched with thought. "No," he said at last, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. "They're bound to that room, like I said. But that doesn't mean we're safe. If those were just the guards, I don't even want to think about what they were protecting."

Harry swallowed hard, his grip tightening on his wand. "Let's not stick around to find out, anyway."

The corridor twisted and turned like the insides of some great beast, each corner revealing another stretch of shadowy passage that looked almost identical to the last. The walls were lined with faded tapestries, their once-vivid patterns now dulled with age and mildew. Occasionally, Harry thought he saw movement out of the corner of his eye—a flicker of something darting across the edges of his vision—but when he turned to look, there was nothing there.

Malfoy walked a few paces ahead of him, his posture stiff, his wand raised with the practised ease of someone who had grown accustomed to walking through perilous situations. Despite the tension in his shoulders, there was an undeniable confidence in the way he moved, as though he knew exactly where he was going, like this wasn't the labyrinth of dark magic and shifting shadows that it truly was. Harry wasn't sure if that was comforting or deeply unnerving. The cool, almost methodical way Malfoy navigated the eerie halls only highlighted the growing uncertainty in Harry's own chest. He knew perfectly well that Malfoy was scared, he could see it somethimes under the layers of aloofness, but he also knew that neither of them had any idea where they were going or what was waiting for them around the next corner. And yet, Malfoy's calm made it seem like he could handle whatever came their way.

"You seem awfully sure of yourself," he couldn't help but remark, his voice breaking the uneasy silence.

Malfoy glanced back at him, one pale eyebrow arched. "I grew up hearing stories about this place, Potter. My mother used to say the house had a mind of its own—that it tested anyone who tried to uncover its secrets. Only the worthy could pass."

"And you think we're worthy?" Harry asked, unable to keep the scepticism out of his voice.

Malfoy smirked, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Well, you certainly aren't. But I suppose I'll just have to carry you through."

Harry snorted, willing himself not to take it personally, particularly because it hit a little too close to home. Shaking his head, he said, "You're impossible."

"And you're predictable," Malfoy shot back. "It's almost endearing."

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, the corridor abruptly ended in another door as they turned to the left—this one even larger and more foreboding than the last. The wood was dark and cracked, its surface carved with intricate, gilded snakes that seemed to writhe and shift as they looked at them. A faint, pulsing light emanated from the gaps between the panels, casting eerie shadows across the floor.

"I'm starting to think your ancestors weren't much for subtlety," Harry muttered, eyeing the ostentatious craftsmanship.

"Subtlety doesn't keep trespassers out," Malfoy shot back, his voice clipped, clearly uneasy. He raised his wand and stepped closer to the doors, his posture stiff with tension. Harry watched him for a moment, the faint tremor in Malfoy's hand betraying the composed front he was so determined to project.

Despite himself, Harry felt a pang of concern. "So, what's the bet this room's worse than the last one?"

Malfoy huffed, his wand gripped so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

"Oh, no bet needed," Malfoy replied dryly, his lips curling into a wry smile. He stepped closer to the doors, his posture deceptively casual despite the tension in his jaw. "This house clearly enjoys throwing its worst at us. I wouldn't expect that to change now."

Harry gave him a look but didn't argue, the nervousness in Malfoy's eyes mirrored his own. With a deep breath, he pushed the doors open. They groaned on ancient hinges, the sound like the wail of a dying creature, and the sight that met them was enough to make his stomach churn.

The room beyond was vast, its dimensions exaggerated by the dozens of mirrors lining the walls. Harry's breath misted in the air, the chill biting into his skin as he stepped inside.

It reminded Harry of a cursed hall of mirrors at a festival.

The walls seemed alive with malice, their mirrors stretching endlessly, each one more grotesque than the last. The fractures in the glass split their reflections into a thousand jagged shards, each shard capturing a piece of their distorted faces. The effect was dizzying—eyes where they shouldn't be, mouths twisting unnaturally, limbs elongated and bent at impossible angles. It was as though the mirrors mocked their very existence, transforming them into fragmented caricatures of themselves. The dim light in the room, cast by unseen sources, glinted off the cracked surfaces, breaking into chaotic patterns that danced on the polished floor. That floor—it was unnervingly perfect, its marble polished to a mirror-like sheen. As they stepped forward, their distorted images multiplied, reflected from every angle. The slates beneath their feet gleamed like still water, and for a moment, Harry had the disorienting impression that he was walking on the surface of a dark, endless lake.

Malfoy's sharp intake of breath broke the silence. His gaze flickered nervously from one mirror to another, his reflection multiplying and mutating wherever he turned. Harry saw Malfoy's warped face grinning back at them in one mirror, lips stretched unnaturally wide and eyes alight with something that could only be described as malevolent glee. But when Harry turned to Malfoy himself, his features were as pale and pinched as ever, his brows drawn with anxiety. Gone was his earlier confidence, replaced by the much more familiar sight of his fear.

"Merlin," Harry murmured, his eyes darting between the mirrors, his voice barely audible. "What kind of room is this?" The distorted version of himself in the glass moved in ways he didn't, its head tilting just slightly out of sync with his own.

"A bloody masterpiece of Black family paranoia," Malfoy said, his tone low and guarded. His sharp eyes darted from one mirror to the next, as though searching for something he couldn't quite name. "It's a trap. You can feel it, can't you?

Harry nodded. The air in the chamber felt heavy, oppressive, as though the walls themselves were leaning in. He tightened his grip on his wand, his fingers damp with sweat. "So, what's the plan?"

"Survive," Malfoy said flatly, stepping further into the room. "Try not to die, if that works for you."

Malfoy gestured to the mirrors, his jaw tightening.

"Magic like this doesn't kill you outright, Potter. It digs into your mind. Feeds on what you fear most. The Blacks loved their little 'lessons.'" He paused, his gaze flickering to the nearest mirror. "You should've seen the equivalent in Malfoy Manor. Lucius wouldn't let me near it until I was fifteen."

Harry frowned. He wasn't sure what unsettled him more: Malfoy's casual tone or the fact that he called his own father by his first name.

However, the moment the words left Malfoy's mouth, the mirrors began to ripple, their surfaces undulating like disturbed water. The temperature in the room plummeted further, and a low, resonant hum filled the air, vibrating through their bones.

Harry spun around, his heart sinking as he saw that the doors had vanished, replaced by yet another wall of cracked, glinting glass. "Brilliant," he said through gritted teeth, his wand snapping up. "What's happening?"

Malfoy didn't respond. His sharp eyes darted from one mirror to another, his expression unreadable but tense. But Malfoy's silence didn't conceal the growing tension in his posture. He was staring at the mirrors now, his pale face illuminated by their silvery glow.

Before Harry could speak again, the mirrors came alive. Their surfaces rippled like disturbed water, and the warped reflections dissolved, replaced by shimmering images. The distorted reflections dissolved, replaced by images that sent a chill down Harry's spine.

There they were: Sirius, Remus, and his parents, all seated together in a sunlit meadow. The sight was painfully vivid, the golden light filtering through the trees casting soft shadows over their faces, as though nature itself conspired to frame this perfect moment. His mother was laughing, her hand resting gently on his father's arm, her green eyes—somuch like his— sparkling with warmth and love. His father's grin was wide and carefree, the kind Harry had only glimpsed in photographs, as he said something to her, earning him a hard shove that sent him sprawling back. Sirius leaned back against the grass, his face alight with mischief, his carefree energy almost palpable, while Remus sat in front of him, lying on his chest, a soft, contented smile smoothing the lines of his weathered face. Without a word, Sirius leaned against Remus, who then inclined his face to kiss Sirius' jaw lovingly.

The air seemed alive with the sounds of their laughter and the gentle rustling of leaves, and the sheer vividness of the scene made Harry's chest ache with a longing that had been brought up too recently. This was everything he had ever yearned for, the family he had dreamed of in the lonely confines of the cupboard under the stairs and beyond, even if he had nor been able to give them a face back then. For a moment, the pain of reality seemed to fade, replaced by an overwhelming, almost agonising need to join them. The sight was so vivid, so heartbreakingly real, that it felt as though all he had to do was take one step forward, and he could be there with them.

One step, that was all it'd take.

"Harry," Lily called, her voice as warm and familiar as the summers he'd never known with her. "Come here, love. It's all right now."

The ache in Harry's chest was unbearable, like his very ribs were constricting his heart, squeezing the breath from his lungs. He felt paralysed, yet his feet moved forward of their own accord, drawn to the scene as if by some invisible force. It was everything he had ever wanted—everything he had lost. The tenderness of her voice, the warmth of her presence, a mother he could never truly know.

Behind him, Malfoy's voice was distant, muffled as though coming through a fog. "Potter, what's wrong?"

The words barely registered. Harry's gaze locked onto Lily's figure, bathed in soft light, her smile as radiant as the memories he had clung to for so long. It felt so real, so right—he almost didn't want to question it. The familiar pain of loss and longing clouded his judgment, but somewhere deep inside, a whisper of doubt began to stir. Something wasn't quite... right.

Yet, the pull toward her was magnetic, overwhelming. The world around him seemed to fall away, his pulse racing as he took another step forward, too afraid to stop, too afraid to be wrong. He was almost there, just a few steps closer, and he could join them. His hand stretched out toward the glass, but just as his fingers brushed the surface, a cold, silvery tendril snaked out, coiling toward him.

The sight snapped him back to reality.

His wand shot up instinctively. "Expulso!" The spell blasted into the mirror, shattering the glass into a cascade of shards. The illusion dissolved instantly, the meadow vanishing like smoke.

Harry staggered back, his heart pounding. "Bloody hell, that was…" he muttered, shaking his head to clear the lingering haze of longing.

He turned to warn Malfoy, but the words caught in his throat as soon as he did. Malfoy was next to him, standing before another unbroken mirror to his left, his pale face illuminated by its eerie glow. His expression was unlike anything Harry had ever seen—soft, wistful, almost… happy.

The image in Malfoy's mirror was a world away from their grim reality, too.

His left arm was bare, untainted by the Dark Mark that had once seemed like an unshakable brand of his past. He was dressed in pristine Healer's robes, the light green fabric almost luminous in the golden light of the scene. He stood in the courtyard of St. Mungo's—Harry recognised it from his fifth year—, surrounded by neatly arranged flowerbeds and the gentle hum of bustling life within the hospital. Books and parchment were scattered around him on a small stone table, some stacked haphazardly, others marked with handwritten notes, the evidence of a life devoted to understanding and helping rather than destroying. Around him were smiling faces—patients, colleagues, perhaps even friends—people who looked at him with something Harry didn't think Draco Malfoy often experienced: gratitude. His own smile was tentative but real, almost shy, a small but meaningful crack in the icy veneer he so frequently wore. It was a glimmer of peace, of contentment, of a life that wasn't just free of burden but full of purpose and hope.

And then, as if responding to some unspoken desire, another figure entered the idyllic scene. The figure's features were indistinct, their face shrouded in shadows that obscured every detail, by shadows, as though the mirror refused to fully reveal them. Black hair framed the veiled face, catching the light in a way that made them seem almost ethereal. But there was something undeniably familiar about them—something that Harry couldn't quite figure out. Despite the lack of clarity, the figure emanated a profound sense of familiarity and belonging. They approached Malfoy, standing close enough to touch, and for the first time, Malfoy's tentative smile grew into something brighter, his posture easing into a rare, unguarded warmth. Despite the obscured features, the figure exuded a profound sense of familiarity and belonging, as if they represented something that Malfoy had never dared to name aloud.

It was a life not just free from his past, but one filled with acceptance, trust, and—Harry's chest tightened—something that looked uncomfortably like love.

Harry blinked, his heart pounding in his chest as he stared at the scene unfolding in Malfoy's mirror. It was strange—too strange—seeing Malfoy like that. Gone was the sneering Slytherin prince he'd known from his adolescence, the spoiled brat who had made his life hell at every opportunity. And gone was the Malfoy he'd grown to know in this cursed house, the cheeky and acerbic one that made Harry mad just as often as he made him snicker. This Malfoy looked… different. Freer, somehow. More content. The lines of tension that always seemed etched into his face were gone, replaced by something Harry couldn't quite name. Happiness? Fulfilment? Whatever it was, it suited him far too well.

His stomach twisted uncomfortably. He told himself it was because the mirror was dangerous, that it was trying to lure Malfoy in, to trap him. But the truth sat heavy and undeniable in his chest: it wasn't just the danger that made him uneasy. It was the image itself, the way it made something in him clench.

He didn't want to see Malfoy like this—not because it was wrong, but because it was right. Too right. The idea of Malfoy smiling like that, of finding joy and meaning in a life Harry had never imagined for him, felt jarring. Unsettling. And maybe—just maybe—it was because some small, traitorous part of Harry wished he were part of that scene. Not as one of the faceless colleagues or the shadowy figure, but as someone who could make Malfoy smile like that.

Harry shook his head sharply, as though the motion might banish the thought entirely. This wasn't the time to get lost in feelings he couldn't afford to have, especially not for someone like Malfoy. His grip tightened on his wand, his palms damp.

But when he looked back at the mirror, he saw the way Malfoy's hand hovered in the air, just inches from the glass, and alarm bells went off in his mind. The tendrils of silvery mist were curling out now, creeping closer to Malfoy's outstretched hand, and Harry's chest constricted.

"Malfoy!" Harry shouted, his voice cutting through the heavy silence.

Malfoy didn't respond. His hand reaching toward the mirror, trembling, his eyes fixed on the image with an intensity that made Harry's stomach churn.

"Malfoy, it's not real!" Harry yelled again, rushing forward. His heart was racing as he saw the silvery tendrils pulling away from the mirror more and more, wrapping themselves around Malfoy's wrist like chains.

Panic surged through him. He couldn't use Expulso—the force might harm Malfoy—but the tendrils were tightening, pulling him closer to the glass.

He couldn't let Malfoy get sucked into the mirror.

Desperate, Harry grabbed Malfoy by the shoulders and wrenched him around, forcing him to meet his eyes.

"Malfoy, listen to me! It's not real! None of it's real!" he said urgently, his voice trembling with the weight of his fear.

Trying to pull Malfoy was useless, the magic in the mirror made the tendrils far stronger than Harry. With a desperate whimper, Harry put one of his hands on Malfoy's cheek, patting it softly, trying to make the blonde come out of whatever trance he was in.

"It's not worth it. Whatever that is, it's not worth dying for! Stay with me here!"

For a moment, Malfoy's eyes remained glazed, unfocused. Then, as if a switch had flipped, clarity returned. His expression twisted into one of horror as he realised what was happening.

"Potter?" Malfoy gasped, his voice soft and trembling with panic rather than anger. The silvery tendrils coiled tighter around him, dragging Malfoy inexorably toward the mirror. His face was pale, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and desperate determination.

Malfoy's wand shot up, his hand trembling as he slashed it through the air. "Sectumsempra!" he shouted, his voice raw, teetering between fury and panic. The spell—so painfully familiar— erupted with a searing intensity, its energy slicing through the oppressive silence of the room. The magic struck the mirror head-on, sending a resounding crack echoing through the vast chamber. The glass cracked down the centre, the enchanting images within breaking with it, shuddering violently under the spell's impact. The tendrils shrieked, a screeching sound that made Harry flinch. They recoiled once, writhing and retreating as though burned, their grip loosening. For one breathless moment, Malfoy hung in their grasp, suspended between freedom and the clutches of the mirror.

Then, with a deafening groan, the mirror and the tendrils splintered. Shards of glass exploded outward, glinting like jagged stars in the dim light. Malfoy staggered forward as the tendrils broke into a thousand pieces, collapsing heavily against Harry.

Harry barely managed to steady him, holding onto Malfoy as the taller man sagged, his breath ragged and unsteady. The shattered remnants of the mirror rained down around them, scattering across the polished black floor in a cascade of sharp edges and glittering fragments.

"You all right?" Harry asked, his voice low and shaken, even as his hands instinctively tightened around Malfoy's arms.

Malfoy didn't answer immediately, his chest heaving as he fought to regain his composure. "I—I think so," he muttered finally, his words strained. His hands clutched at Harry's jacket for balance, and his usual veneer of sharp confidence was completely gone, replaced by a vulnerable, almost dazed expression.

The oppressive silence returned, broken only by the faint sound of their breathing. Harry felt a flicker of relief but couldn't tear his eyes away from Malfoy, who looked simultaneously furious, shaken, and… achingly human.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, their ragged breathing the only sound in the chamber.

"Well," Malfoy said finally, his voice strained but laced with its usual sarcasm. "That was… unpleasant."

Harry let out a breathless laugh, the sound bordering on hysterical. "Unpleasant? You were about two seconds away from becoming a bloody wall ornament!"

Malfoy pulled himself upright, brushing off his jumper with exaggerated disdain. His hands were still trembling as he did so.

"Yes, thank you for your keen observation, Potter. So helpful."

Despite the tension still thrumming in his chest, Harry couldn't help but grin. "You're welcome," he said, his tone light but his eyes sharp as they scanned the room.

The remaining mirrors were still now, their surfaces dull and lifeless. The weight that had filled the chamber was gone, leaving behind a strange, uneasy silence.

"This place is mad," Harry muttered, shaking his head.

"Oh, we're far beyond 'mad,'" Malfoy replied, his lips twisting into a smirk. "But I'll admit, Potter… you didn't completely botch that one."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Was that a compliment? From you?"

"Don't get used to it," Malfoy said gracefully, his cheeks a faint dusky pink, as he stepped past him toward the far end of the chamber, where a new door had appeared at some points. His movements were steady, but Harry didn't miss the slight wobble in his hands as he gripped his wand.

"The house is feeding on us."

Harry frowned, his gaze following Malfoy. "Feeding? On what?"

"Our fears," Malfoy said quietly. His expression was still shaken, his usual cheek stripped away. "Our doubts. Anger. Guilt. It's how the Black magic must work. It doesn't kill you outright—it twists you until you destroy yourself."

Harry nodded slowly, the weight of Malfoy's words sinking in, his hand itching to reach out to Malfoy. He didn't let it. "Well, we can't let it win."

Malfoy didn't respond. He was staring at a shard of glass near his feet, his reflection still visible in its surface. Harry noticed the way Malfoy's hands shook as he picked it up, turning it over in his fingers.

"Malfoy—"

"Don't," Malfoy snapped, his voice sharp. But his hand trembled as he dropped the shard, letting it clatter to the floor.

Harry wanted to say something—anything—but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he turned back toward the door, gesturing for Malfoy to follow. Together, they moved toward the exit, their wands casting twin beams of light across the fractured remains of the mirrors.

Both of them made sure to not look at any mirrors.

They walked in silence, the echoes of their footsteps the only sound in the suffocating stillness. The air felt thick, heavy with something unspoken, as if the house itself was listening. Harry kept glancing at Malfoy, his mind replaying the image of him frozen before the mirror, his expression hollow, haunted. It was unsettling.

He'd never expected to see Malfoy like he had seen him now multiple times—stripped of his usual arrogance and poise, laid bare in a way that felt too raw, too human. And yet, here they were, both of them fractured, both of them unwilling witnesses to the other's deepest wounds. Harry wasn't sure what unnerved him more—the fact that they had seen each other at their lowest, or the strange, reluctant understanding that came with it.

As they turned a corner, the silence was broken by Malfoy's voice, low and bitter.

"Next time, Potter," he said, "remind me to bring a war-hammer. Clearly, it's the only thing this bloody house understands."

Harry snorted despite himself. "I'll add it to the list. Right after 'Avoid mirrors.'"

Malfoy smirked faintly, but the tension lingered between them, unspoken and heavy. Neither of them dared to mention what the mirrors had shown them.

The house was quiet again.

Harry stumbled to his feet, brushing dust from his clothes and wincing at the growing ache in his shoulder. His wand was still clutched tightly in his hand, his fingers stiff from the force of impact. The adrenaline coursing through his veins made it difficult to focus on anything but the lingering pain of having been propelled upwards by a gust of wind the house had conjured—with alarming precision. His muscles ached, his bones felt jarred, and he swore he could still feel the phantom force of the wind gripping him, dragging him exactly where it wanted.

He exhaled sharply, forcing his mind to settle, to assess. The house was toying with them again, shifting its very structure to keep them moving, to keep them trapped. The realization sent a shiver down his spine.

Across from him, Malfoy groaned as he pushed himself up from the floor, his silver-grey eyes darting around their surroundings with a mixture of caution and exasperation. His usually pristine appearance was a distant memory once again. His platinum hair was tousled, strands curling at the edges, damp from sweat and the oppressive humidity of Grimmauld Place's new depths. There was something most humanising about his dishevelled state—his sharp, aristocratic features softened by the flush on his cheeks and the way his now wavy hair fell into his eyes.

Harry quickly looked away, irritated with himself for noticing.

"Well," Malfoy said, brushing off his crinkled trousers with a bit more dignity than Harry thought the situation warranted, "if the goal was to feel like flying on a broom without the security of one, then congratulations, Potter, your house has outdone itself."

"Funny," Harry said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I don't recall asking for your opinion, Malfoy. Or your help, for that matter."

Malfoy rolled his eyes, his hand still on his wand as he straightened his posture. "Please. If I wasn't here, you'd already be a Potter pancake somewhere in this house. Honestly, Gryffindors have no sense of self-preservation."

Harry opened his mouth for a retort, but quickly closed it again. It wasn't worth it, he decided, not when his shoulder was throbbing still despite having been healed, and not when the sight of Malfoy's flushed, sweat-streaked face was doing odd things to his focus. He scolded himself inwardly.

This is Malfoy, he reminded himself firmly. The same insufferable git who spent most of his school years making my life hell. Nothing has changed.

Except… it had, hadn't it?

The thought was unwelcome, but Harry couldn't shake it as they began walking down the new corridor the house had so helpfully dropped them into. Malfoy walked a few paces ahead, his wand alight and his head held high as though he were still a prefect, lording his authority over everyone. But Harry noticed things now—things he'd never thought about before. The way Malfoy's shoulders tensed whenever they approached a dark corner, his eyes flickering with the briefest trace of fear before hardening with determination. The way his wand hand trembled slightly when they encountered a noise in the distance, though he never hesitated to raise his arm and step forward to confront it.

Harry wondered if the war had changed that in him, or if it had been something else. Had he been like this all along?

It wasn't bravery in the traditional Gryffindor sense, Harry supposed; and perhaps that's why he hadn't recognised it in him before. Malfoy's brand of courage was quieter, more defensive—less about running headfirst into danger and more about enduring it. Self-preservation, Malfoy liked to call it. And Harry, much to his irritation, found it… admirable. Not that he'd ever say it out loud.

The corridor stretched on endlessly, the walls pressing in as though the house itself were guiding them deeper into its labyrinthine heart. The tangled roots that had overtaken the old Black family home twisted through the cracked stone, forcing them into a single-file line. Malfoy led the way, his wand raised, casting long, flickering shadows across the uneven walls. Harry followed closely behind, his gaze flickering ahead, but inevitably drawn back to Malfoy. The dim light softened his sharp features, and despite himself, Harry's eyes traced the way Malfoy's hair curled ever so slightly at the nape of his neck. It was a small, almost imperceptible detail, one that made him seem oddly human—less polished, less Malfoy. He wondered if it bothered him when it curled like that, if he fought against it every morning, smoothing it down into the sleek perfection he always seemed to strive for.

The thought stuck with him longer than it should have, lingering like an itch he couldn't scratch. And worse still, he couldn't quite ignore the memory of the brief contact between them earlier, the way his skin had sparked when Malfoy had brushed past him. It had been nothing. It should have been nothing. But in this house, where the air was thick with magic and ghosts of the past, nothing felt quite so simple.

"Stop dawdling, Potter," Malfoy called over his shoulder, breaking Harry from his thoughts. "If you trip over your own feet and end up impaling yourself on something, I'm not healing you again."

"Touching concern as always, Malfoy," Harry shot back, quickening his pace. He refused to let his embarrassment show, even when Malfoy hadn't even caught him looking at him.

"It's hardly concern," Malfoy replied with a smirk, though it was less sharp than his usual cheeky remarks. "I'm merely looking after myself. If you die, the house will probably take it as an invitation to start messing with me even more."

Harry rolled his eyes, willing the involuntary smile down by biting his chapped lips.

"Right. Because everything revolves around you."

"Glad you've finally noticed."

Harry huffed, shaking his head as if that would somehow dispel the thoughts creeping into his mind. This was ridiculous. They were trapped in a house that actively wanted to kill them, surrounded by magic older and darker than either of them could fully comprehend, and yet his brain had decided to focus on Malfoy—on the way he moved, the scent of his hair, the curve of his wrist as he adjusted his grip on his wand.

You  get a grip, Potter.

And yet, he couldn't ignore the way Malfoy's presence felt—solid, steady, something almost grounding in the midst of the house's eerie shifting. The silence between them stretched, but it wasn't stifling. If anything, it was oddly… companionable, now. Harry hated to admit it, but for the first time since stepping foot into Grimmauld Place, he didn't feel entirely alone.

Still, Malfoy had a way of getting under his skin without even trying. The sharp citrus scent clung to the air around him, fresh yet lingering, sweet and terribly distracting in a way Harry found increasingly difficult to ignore. His gaze kept catching on small things—the way Malfoy's eyes were so expressive of his thoughts, the barely perceptible crease of concentration between his blond brows.

Harry clenched his jaw. Now was not the time to be distracted.

And yet, here Malfoy was—being so bloody distracting.

Harry could feel the heat in his own face as he tried to ignore the strange flutter in his stomach when Malfoy turned his head to speak to him. A strand of his platinum blond hair fell into his eyes, and Harry couldn't help but watch as Malfoy tucked it behind his ear, his jaw clenched in concentration.

Bloody hell, snap out of it, Potter, he thought angrily. It's just Malfoy. Malfoy, who still sneers every chance he gets. Malfoy, who used to call Hermione a mudblood and joined Voldemort's lot. Malfoy, who's been an insufferable git since the moment I met him. Just because he's changed a bit since the war doesn't mean you have to notice… things. You're not supposed to think about how... how bloody…

Harry cut the thought off abruptly. He couldn't afford to keep thinking like this.

Not now. Not here.

But the truth was, Malfoy had changed. He had been able to see it for himself, had admitted to it, too. Gone was the swaggering, cruel boy Harry had known at Hogwarts. Oh, sure, Malfoy could still be as insufferable as ever, but it was different now—more like an old habit than genuine malice. In his place was someone sharper, more guarded, but also undeniably softer, more insecure. It was clear to Harry that the weight of the war had left its mark on Malfoy, just as it had on everyone else. And while Harry knew he had no reason to trust Malfoy—beyond the prat having saved Harry's life once or thrice now— he couldn't ignore the fact that the other man had willingly come along to help Harry with his mad house. And then, Malfoy had risked himself to fight strange creatures, had cast protection spells without hesitation, had stepped forward into danger time and time again to help Harry.

And, most importantly, he had been there to make sure Harry didn't sink when the weight of what he'd found out in this house had threatened to drown him.

Still, there was a piece of Harry—deep down, buried somewhere—reluctantly aware of how it felt to have Malfoy near him. There was something magnetic about the way Malfoy's presence tugged at him, as though every movement, every glance, was somehow designed to ensnare him. Harry couldn't figure out why he couldn't just ignore it.

Harry shook his head, as if trying to physically dispel the thoughts. He had bigger problems to worry about than Malfoy's character development or the fuzzy feeling in his chest that he was certainlynotfeeling. Like, for instance, the fact that Grimmauld Place seemed intent on killing them both.

The corridor began to widen, opening into another large room. It was eerily silent, save for the faint creak of the floorboards beneath their feet. Dust motes hung thick in the air, stirred by their movement. The walls were lined with portraits of grim-faced witches and wizards, their eyes following Harry and Malfoy with a level of disdain that would have made even Walburga Black proud.

"I've had warmer welcomes from inferi," Malfoy muttered, his gaze flicking to the portraits.

Harry snorted despite himself. "They're Black ancestors. What did you expect? A tea party?"

"Not likely," Malfoy said, wrinkling his nose. "Half of them would probably try to poison the biscuits."

"Only half?" Harry teased, unable to resist.

Malfoy shot him a dry look before smirking. "Probably all."

The banter, Harry realised, was becoming oddly familiar, as well. Comfortable, even. Malfoy's sharp words didn't sting as much as they used to—if anything, they were… funny. The mere thought made Harry cringe hard as he looked around, the portraits unable—or unwilling— to speak to them. Harry wondered when that had happened, when their animosity had softened into something else entirely. It was unsettling, but not entirely unwelcome.

Ugh.

They approached the centre of the room, where a large, circular table sat beneath a dusty chandelier. Just how many of these rooms did Grimmauld Place have? Harry had lost the count of how many unknown rooms they'd wandered into. On the table was an ornate box, its surface covered in jewels that pulsed faintly with a sickly green light. Harry felt a shiver run through him as he stepped closer, his wand raised cautiously.

"What is it?" he asked, glancing at Malfoy.

Malfoy's expression was unreadable, though his lips pressed into a thin line. "It's cursed," he said simply. "Obviously."

"Well, obviously," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "But what kind of curse?"

"How should I know?" Malfoy whined, though his tone sounded more resigned than annoyed. "It's not as if I carry a catalogue of cursed artefacts around with me."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "I thought you specialised in dark artefacts, Malfoy."

Malfoy's cheeks flushed slightly, though whether from embarrassment or irritation, Harry couldn't tell. "I specialise in magical repairina dark artefacts store. Besides, not every pure-blood family spends their time cataloguing dark magic, Potter. Some of us have other hobbies."

"Like what? Something posh and pretentious like falconry?" Harry quipped.

Malfoy huffed, but didn't dignify that with a response, though his blush made Harry stop in his tracks and blink.

Falconry, really? Well, it actually sounded kind of fun…

In front of him, Malfoy stepped closer to the table, his wand steady as he studied the box. Harry found himself watching the way Malfoy's brow furrowed in concentration, the way his pale fingers gripped his wand with surprising delicacy.

Stop it, Potter,Merlin he thought furiously. Just because he's got nice hair, a pretty face and doesn't look like an absolute git when he's focused doesn't mean—

"I think it's a containment spell," Malfoy said suddenly, breaking Harry from his increasingly erratic thoughts. "Whatever's inside, the runes are designed to keep it in."

Harry frowned. "That's… good, right? As long as we don't open it, we're fine?"

Malfoy gave him a look that suggested he was either an idiot or a particularly dense flobberworm before sighing. "Essentially, yes. The spell looks stable enough and the magic is old, if it hasn't broken or degraded by now, it's unlikely to snap right this second. Even with how chaotic the magic in the house is."

"Right," Harry muttered. "So, do we just leave it?"

Malfoy hesitated, his grey eyes flickering with uncertainty. "Frankly? That's probably for the best. If you ever want it secured, I could help," he said finally, a delicate flush at his nose. "But it's old magic. Black family magic. It's not going to be easy, I'd probably need help from a curse-breaker to make sure whatever's inside doesn't break out."

Harry nodded, his grip on his wand tightening as he looked at the box with suspicion.

"Noted," Harry muttered, his gaze flicking between Malfoy and the box. He couldn't stop his mind from wandering back to the way Malfoy's features had softened over the past few years. The sharpness in his eyes that had once seemed so full of hatred was now tempered with something else—something Harry couldn't quite name. Something that wasn't quite so repulsive.

A sudden jolt of realisation hit Harry, so strong it nearly took his breath away.

I'm not supposed to think about Malfoy like that. I shouldn't be feeling this way about him.

The thought hit him like a ton of bricks. He tried to shove it away, but it stubbornly lodged itself in his brain, refusing to be ignored.

It's not like I've forgotten everything he did. The things he said, the way he chose to be on the wrong side of history for so long. He's a bloody ex-Death Eater. He's not even—

"Potter."

Harry blinked, snapping out of his daze to find Malfoy's piercing grey eyes fixed on him, the question in his voice barely veiled. "You've been standing there, staring at me for the last three minutes," the blonde then smirked, his teeth white against the pinkness of his mouth. "What? Am I so beautiful that you've no words left?"

Harry's cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red than he thought was possible. "I—What?" he stammered, realising how utterly ridiculous he must have looked, staring at Malfoy like some a schoolboy with a pash. Which he wasnot, thank you very much. He was not some teenager who couldn't keep his hormones in check.

"Honestly," Malfoy muttered under his breath with a breathless laugh. "If we survive this, I'm going to have to get you checked out by a Healer."

"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry snapped, looking anywhere but at him.

But as Malfoy's lips twitched upward in an almost imperceptible smile, Harry felt his heart lurch in his chest. Stop it, Harry,he told himself again. You're just imagining things. It's just Malfoy. He's still a bloody prat.

Except, he wasn't. Not entirely. He'd already established that. And Harry wasn't sure what to do with the realisation that, maybe, Malfoy wasn't as vile as he used to be. Maybe he wasn't as evil.

Maybe—

Harry clenched his jaw. Stop. Thinking. About. It.

But every time Malfoy looked at him, every time their paths crossed in this increasingly dangerous labyrinth of Grimmauld Place, Harry found himself slipping further into a mental trap he didn't know how to get out of.

As they moved away from the box, Harry couldn't help but notice the subtle tension in Malfoy's posture—how his normally stiff frame seemed a little less rigid, a little less distant. The truth was, despite everything, despite all the reasons Harry had to stay wary, to keep his distance, a part of him couldn't help but feel… grateful. Grateful for the way Malfoy had changed. Grateful for the way he was still here, fighting alongside him.

It didn't make any sense.

Harry quickly pushed the thought aside. He didn't have time for that.

Chapter Text

The meal had come as an unexpected, almost eerie relief.

Hours of navigating Grimmauld Place had worn both Harry and Malfoy down, their bodies aching with fatigue, their nerves stretched thin. The house seemed to breathe unease into them, its very walls pulsing with an eerie, restless energy. Every creaking floorboard, every flicker of candlelight felt like a warning, leaving them both on edge—more so than Harry already had been. He could feel it in the tightness of his shoulders, in the way his fingers clenched unconsciously around his wand. Even Malfoy, who usually carried himself with an air of detached indifference—so different from the whiny, dramatic boy Harry remembered from school—had fallen into an unusual silence. Normally, he had a cheeky, sarcastic remark for everything, a steady stream of commentary that made it clear he always had something to say. But now, as they moved through the twisting, shadowed hallways, even Malfoy seemed to recognize that words wouldn’t do much against the ancient, watching presence that lurked in the dark.

And yet, here they were now, sitting across from each other at a long, ancient dining table, plates piled high with food—this time roast, peas, mash with gravy and Yorkshire pudding, with a side of warm apple strudel and cider. Their now familiar dining room was colder than it had been the last time they were here, the hearth barely an ember. The air was still heavy with the house’s dark presence, but for the first time all day, Harry felt something like peace. It was the kind of peace that came from the comfort of food and shared silence—well, mostly silence. They were both too worn down from the day to do anything but eat and try to ignore the creeping unease of being in a house that never really wanted them there. Still, even when there was no need for any grand conversation, it seemed like it was their fate to banter or die trying.

“Do you ever miss Hogwarts?” Harry asked suddenly, looking up from his plate.

Malfoy froze mid-chew, his grey eyes meeting Harry’s with an expression of mild surprise, as though the very idea of talking about Hogwarts was something foreign to him now. After a moment of hesitation, he swallowed, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“Hogwarts?” Malfoy said, almost disdainfully. “The place that served boiled cabbage and the blandest of shepherd’s pies every other day? Yes, of course, I miss that all the time.”

Harry snorted. “I do remember you being one to complain the most about how rubbish the food was.”

“Well, it was,” Malfoy said, his tone whiney, but with a hint of something softer underneath it. “It made me miss the Manor. The Malfoy elves knew how to cook properly. French cuisine most of all. Not that… slop we were fed.”

“French, right.” Harry raised an eyebrow, his mouth twisting into a smirk. “Do you ever get tired of saying that? Every time you mention the Malfoy elves, it’s like I can hear the pompous accent in your voice.”

“It’s not my fault that you wouldn’t know good food if it bit you on the arse, Potter. I can’t help it that the Malfoys knew how to live properly,” Malfoy sneered though it looked more like a pout, and Harry could see the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “And I don’t have an accent.”

Harry rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair and very much tempted to tell him he had the most pronounced, poshest wixen accent he had ever heard.

“I didn’t know anything better back then. To be honest, I probably thought that awful British food was the pinnacle of fine dining,” he paused, unwilling to think about Petunia and her insistence on ‘proper food’, which Harry understood now as ‘white, British food’, under-seasoned and bland. Or how he’d barely got any of it to begin with. Letting out a small, whispery laugh, Harry continued. “Now, though? Give me a plate of chilaquiles verdes any day. Nothing says ‘comfort’ like Mexican food.”

Malfoy looked momentarily perplexed. “Mexican food? Really?”

Harry nodded, a grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah. I mean, it’s the only real connection to my so-called ‘heritage’ that I’ve got left, so I might as well enjoy it.”

“I never knew you were Mexican, Potter” commented quietly Malfoy, his eyes likely taking in Harry’s tawny gold skin, his dark hair and his strong cheekbones.

Harry shifted in his seat, his fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the table, caught off guard by Malfoy's comment. For a moment, the words hung in the air between them, thick with the weight of Harry’s honesty. He never really talked much about his heritage—about the Potters, his grandmother, Eufemia—or Euphemia, as it had been anglicised when she arrived to the United Kingdom—even less so. It was just… messy, a part of his past that had been tangled up with the rest of the mess that was his life. Harry sometimes thought that it hurt so much to talk about because there was so little he knew. But now, talking about it with Malfoy, there was something strangely… grounding about it.

Maybe it was the simple fact that Malfoy seemed genuinely curious.

“Yeah,” Harry said after a beat, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, Not many people know. I certainly didn’t for most of my life, to be honest. Found out after the war, when I was going through some old family stuff in the Potter vault,” he let out a breath, the memory of him, sitting while crying inside the dusty vault still strange, almost surreal. “Eufemia Alcántara Kantún,” he said the name slowly, as if trying it on for size, his pronunciation still awkward. “She was my grandmother. She was from Oaxaca, born and raised there. Moved to Britain when she married my grandfather in the early 20th century.”

Malfoy didn’t reply at first, his eyes studying Harry as if trying to piece together the puzzle in front of him. There was a flicker of something—curiosity, maybe, or a kind of quiet respect—before he spoke again.

“She spoke Spanish, then?” Malfoy asked, his voice thoughtful.

Harry blinked before nodding, surprised that Malfoy had caught on to that.

“Yeah, and Mayan, too, apparently. The journal said she only spoke Spanish at home. Made sure my dad and granddad knew it too. Said it was important. Something about keeping a link to one's roots, no matter where one is,” he smiled softly, thinking of the way Eufemia had fiercely held on to her heritage, even in a world that didn't always seem to appreciate it. That often repudiated it. “It wasn’t just the language, either. There were little bits of Mexican culture everywhere in their house when my dad was growing up—mostly in the food, but in other ways, too. Dad wrote that she’d cook the most amazing meals, and there was always some sort of celebration or tradition to follow.”

Harry’s thoughts drifted to his father’s words speaking of the smell of warm tortillas, the faint sting of chiles grilling in the air, and the sound of old Spanish songs playing faintly in the background. Eufemia had made sure to pass down those parts of herself, even though the rest of the world had been so eager to forget. How he wished he had been able to grow up with them.

“Chilaquiles, though,” Harry added, shaking his head with a fond smile. “That’s the real deal. There’s nothing like it for a breakfast morning, especially when you’re hungover. I didn't know anything about them when I was younger, but now…” He trailed off, shaking his head as though to himself, and then looked at Malfoy again. “Maybe that’s why I find it so comforting. It’s like having a piece of her—of them with me, you know?”

For a moment, the room seemed to grow quieter, the air thick with unspoken appreciation. Malfoy was quiet, his expression unreadable, and Harry couldn't quite tell what was going on behind his carefully composed façade. But then Malfoy blinked, breaking the silence.

“Your grandmother sounds… lovely,” Malfoy said, his voice a little softer than usual, almost thoughtful. “She sounds like someone who would have known exactly who she was. Someone who didn't let the world tell her what to be.”

Harry chuckled lightly. “Yeah. That sounds like her, I think. She’d have probably slapped me upside the head for being so boorishly English about it all when I was younger.”

Malfoy’s lips quirked, though he quickly masked it with an almost imperceptible shrug. “Well, I suppose someone had to knock some sense into you.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but there was no malice in the gesture.

“Maybe,” he said with a grin. “But… right, chilaquiles? You should try them. Proper ones, not some sad attempt you get from a Westernised place. Perhaps you’d be surprised with Mexican food,” he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Could be worth the shock to your taste buds.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I can trust your judgement on food, Potter. You have been praising Grimmauld’s sad attempt at cooking for days.”

“Suit yourself,” Harry said with a smirk, glad the conversation had taken a lighter turn. It felt good to talk about something other than the weight of saving their sorry hides on their shoulders, even if only for a moment. His thoughts kept coming back to his grandmother—her love for her family, for her culture—and found a small, quiet sense of peace in remembering it. He wanted to make a bigger effort when it came to learning about his family, and his culture.

Perhaps… he wasn’t as lost as he had once believed. Maybe he had pieces of family still, even now, holding him steady.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, chewing slowly as though he were considering the thought. “I suppose it’s better than the constant meat pies you lot go on about,” he muttered, and Harry smirked. “I never understood why you lot think it’s some kind of cultural milestone.”

“Blame Molly Weasley for that, that woman is a brilliant cook,” Harry said. “I swear, Ron was obsessed with them when we were at school. He’s probably still eating them for every meal, even now.”

Draco snorted, but his expression softened when Harry continued, his tone turning a little more nostalgic. 

“Still,” Harry said, looking down at his plate for a moment, “the desserts at Hogwarts were always the best.”

There was a brief, fleeting silence between them. It wasn’t awkward—at least, not at first. It was the kind of silence that felt almost too perfect, as though they’d both unwittingly entered into a little bubble of familiarity. Harry’s thoughts drifted back to the Great Hall at Hogwarts, back to those long, carefree days when desserts were a simple joy in a life that, in hindsight, seemed so much easier. His eyes flicked back up to Malfoy, who had been quiet for a little too long.

“I miss the…” Harry started, but he was interrupted by a sudden, rather unexpected voice.

“Treacle tart,” Malfoy said, his tone uncharacteristically soft, almost hesitant.

Harry blinked, his fork frozen in midair. He stared at Malfoy, eyes widening in shock. “What?”

Malfoy’s face went crimson, and for a moment, Harry wondered if Malfoy had ever been this embarrassed before in his life. The pale skin of his face went an alarming shade of red, and he looked anywhere but at Harry.

“Treacle tart,” Malfoy repeated quickly, his voice now laced with something that sounded remarkably like discomfort. “I remember you would always serve yourself at least three slices when it was on the menu. It’s… it’s your favourite, isn’t it?”

Harry sat there for a moment, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. The sudden realisation of what Malfoy had said was like a punch to the gut. The warmth that spread across his chest felt far too… intimate for the context. The heat of it bloomed like a fire starting at the base of his spine, and for the briefest of moments, Harry forgot how to breathe.

He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Yeah,” he said, trying to recover, his voice cracking slightly. “Yeah, it is,” his gaze flickered to Malfoy, whose face was now an absolute beacon of vibrant red. It was almost… cute. And that, Harry thought with mild horror, made him want to reach for his drink and drown himself in it.

The silence that followed was thick, neither of them knowing exactly how to handle the situation. Neither of them could quite meet the other’s eyes. But then Harry, who could never stand silence for too long, forced a weak laugh.

“I… I mean, I wasn’t going to bring it up, but yeah. Treacle tart,” he cleared his throat. “It was good. The best.”

Malfoy shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable now. “Right,” he muttered, still not looking at Harry. “I—I know.”

Harry thought about how Malfoy had always seemed so sure of himself, so untouchable, and yet here he was, fidgeting and awkward. It was strangely… humanising. His mind buzzed as the silence stretched on, each passing second amplifying the strange charge in the air between them. The weight of the conversation—or lack thereof—was enough to make his stomach twist in nervous knots.

He could feel the warmth on his face intensify as he realised how oddly intimate this little exchange was. He and Malfoy were talking about the simplest things, topics that ordinary friends would talk about during a get-together, and now… Now, it was different. It wasn’t just small talk—it was careful, tentative.

So brittle that it might break at any moment.

For a moment, Harry thought about breaking the silence, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he glanced at Malfoy, whose pale fingers were tapping a restless rhythm on his side of the table, a rare display of his inner thoughts. Malfoy finally risked a glance at him, his silver-grey eyes vibrant but uncertain, and Harry wondered if maybe he wasn’t the only one feeling this shift.

“Green apples,” Harry said, his voice coming out a little breathier than he'd intended. He reached for his glass of water and took a long, deliberate sip. The coolness of the water did nothing to cool the flush creeping up his neck. “I—er… you loved green apples. Had one after every meal,” he added, trying to bring the banter back to the surface where it belonged. “Hardly the stuff of luxury cuisine.”

Malfoy’s eyes darted back up to meet Harry’s for a fraction of a second, before quickly looking away. “I… yes, well, they reminded me of home,” he muttered, though Harry swore there was something almost sheepish in his tone. “Mother tended to an orchard at the Manor’s grounds.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, setting his glass down carefully. “An orchard, huh? That explains a lot. Did little Malfoy go skipping through the trees, plucking apples like some blond little fairytale character?” He smirked, leaning back in his chair.

Malfoy scoffed, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward, he bit his lip trying to keep himself from smiling. “Hardly. Skipping is unbecoming of a Malfoy,” he straightened his posture, his voice adopting a mockingly pompous tone. “I walked with dignity, Potter. Dignity.”

“Dignity,” Harry repeated, laughing softly. “Right. Dignity while stuffing your face with green apples.”

“They were perfectly portioned slices, thank you very much,” Malfoy retorted, lifting his chin. “Mother would have never allowed me to sully myself gnawing at a whole apple like some sort of… of barbarian.”

Harry snorted, his grin widening. “Perfectly portioned slices? Merlin, that’s the most Malfoy, ponciest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Forgive me for not growing up on a common farm,” Malfoy shot back, though his voice lacked its usual bite. His expression softened a fraction, the hint of a smile ghosting across his lips. “I suppose you’re going to make fun of that now, too.”

Harry shook his head, still smiling. “Nah. To be fair, you’re full of surprises these days. I would’ve never guessed ‘ orchard enthusiast ’ was one of them.”

“I was hardly an ‘ orchard enthusiast’, Potter,” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes. “I simply enjoyed the solitude. The trees were… peaceful.”

Harry blinked at the quiet confession, caught off guard by the sincerity in Malfoy’s voice. He hesitated before responding, unsure if teasing would ruin the moment. “Yeah,” he finally said. “I get that. I used to hide in a garden shed all the time when I was a child. Not quite the same as an orchard, but still peaceful, in its own way.”

Malfoy looked at him, and for a brief moment, there was no snark, no posturing—just a flicker of understanding. “Well,” he said after a beat, his tone softening, “at least we can agree on that.”

Harry grinned, leaning forward again. “See? Who would’ve thought? Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, bonding over food and gardens.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes again, but his lips twitched with amusement once again. “Don’t push your luck, Potter. This is hardly ‘bonding.’ It’s a reluctant truce at best.”

“Reluctant truce?” Harry repeated, his grin widening. “Next thing I know, you’ll be inviting me to a picnic with a charcuterie board.”

“I’d rather invite the Giant Squid,” Malfoy deadpanned, though the sparkle in his eyes gave him away.

Harry couldn’t help it. He laughed.

It wasn’t the usual laugh of mockery, or teasing that transpired between them—no, this time it was real. A genuine laugh that felt almost foreign to him, but not unwelcome. For a brief moment, the tension from the last few days, the dread of what might come next, faded away. They were just two people, sitting across from each other, talking about the things that, once upon a time, seemed so trivial but now gave them a sense of identity. The laugh felt strange on his tongue, but it felt good. He glanced up at Malfoy, who was still fidgeting in his seat, clearly bursting at the seams with repressed emotions. He could see the faint blush still lingering on his cheeks, and it made Harry's chest tighten again, though he quickly pushed the thought away.

For a fleeting moment, Harry considered saying something else—something about how things had changed, how they had changed. He had started noticing it, more and more, just like the way Malfoy’s eyes became liquid mercury when he was vulnerable or how he looked strangely vulnerable when he thought Harry wasn’t paying attention. There was something deeper in those moments, a shift that was hard to ignore. But he quickly squashed that thought, too.

Instead, Harry set his glass down, carefully meeting Malfoy’s eyes.

“Right. So, treacle tart. Green apples. And now we’re going to talk about what we’re going to do next. The whole ‘beating the house and getting out of here’ thing?”

Malfoy looked at him for a long, silent moment before his mouth quirked up, just the tiniest amount. “Is that your idea of a plan? I’m glad to see your standards are so high, Potter.”

Harry’s grin widened, more for the sake of keeping the moment light than anything else. “You’re not the only one who’s capable of sarcasm, Malfoy.”

The two of them fell into a comfortable, though slightly charged, silence after that. It wasn’t the sort of silence that felt strange, though. No, it was more like… acknowledgment. A mutual, if unspoken, agreement that they had a task ahead of them, but they weren’t going to make it worse than it had to be.

Not anymore.

Harry glanced around the room, eyeing the strange, ancient portrait that hung on the walls. There was something unsettling about it. Not the usual kind of unsettling he’d got used to over the years—no, this was different. The portraits in Grimmauld Place were full of eyes that seemed to track every movement, every sound, but rarely said anything. Some of the faces had that odd, tired look about them—like they’d seen too much, heard too many things they wished they hadn’t.

It made the whole place feel even colder.

“Let’s get moving, then,” Harry said abruptly, standing up from the table, his food long since finished. “Don’t think we should sit around here for too long. I don’t trust this place.”

Malfoy didn’t move at first, and Harry caught the hesitant glance he shot at him. The glint in Malfoy’s eyes was unreadable, like he was thinking too many things at once, but Harry couldn’t help but notice the slight unease in his posture. Maybe it was because Malfoy had been avoiding the subject of their situation for the most part. Maybe it was because the uncertainty of what lay ahead had started wearing him down.

“Well, we’ve got no other choice, have we?” Malfoy finally said, his voice returning to that clipped, defensive tone. He stood up slowly, brushing off his robes as though he was trying to compose himself. “Let’s get this over with.”

Harry nodded, not sure whether he was reassured or unnerved by the fact that Malfoy wasn’t backing down. That was just it, though—he never had. Not once, since this whole bloody mess started, had Malfoy hesitated when it came time to face the dangers of the house. Harry wasn’t sure if it was courage, stupidity, or something else entirely. Maybe a little of each. But then, there was something else, something Harry had noticed more than once. As much as Malfoy liked to pretend he was still the same, untouchable, sarcastic git he’d always been, there were cracks in the armour. The way he hesitated when something reminded him of his past, the way his eyes sometimes lingered on things like the old portraits or the broken furniture as though they were ghosts of things he’d tried to forget.

And Harry couldn’t help but wonder: What was it that Malfoy had been running from all these years?

But just as quickly as the thought entered his head, Harry dismissed it. Malfoy was Malfoy.

So, Harry pushed the thought aside, shoved it into a box, and glanced towards the door, his hand instinctively reaching for his wand. They had no time for distractions. Not when there were still creatures lurking in the shadows, and worse, the heart of the house still lay ahead.

Malfoy didn’t speak as he joined Harry by the door. They were both silent for a moment, but Harry could feel the tension between them as they stepped back into the hallway. Neither of them wanted to speak the words they both knew were hanging in the air.

The house had so many secrets. The deeper they went, the darker it seemed to get.

And Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t just Grimmauld Place that was hiding something—it was Malfoy, too.

As they ventured forward into the murky gloom, Harry told himself not to think about it.

But even as he said it, something deep inside him knew that whatever came next, it was going to change everything.

This house was going to drive him around the bend.

Draco had always hated Grimmauld Place. Even as a child, when his mother had brought him to visit his dying great-aunt Walburga, the house had unsettled him in ways he hadn’t been able to name at the time. Back then, he had only thought of it as creepy—the looming portraits with their hollow eyes, the suffocating air thick with the scent of dust and decay. But now, with the clarity of adulthood, he recognised it for what it truly was: a tomb. A crypt for broken people and dark magic, where history was a living, breathing thing that clung to the walls like mould.

It was worse now.

The corridors twisted and changed like a labyrinth designed to keep them lost and on edge, each shifting hallway a reflection of the chaotic, haunted legacy of the Black family.

He could feel it deep in his bones—the power of something ancient wrapping around him like a cocoon, whispering that he wasn’t worth it, that he never was. And, wasn’t that the truth of it? The feeling was nothing new. It had followed him his entire life—being trapped by duty, and surrounded by a past that could never be undone, by sins that could never be washed away. Every step deeper into the house sent a shiver down his spine, as though he were walking through the remnants of something rotting, something that refused to die and kept holding on and on. His own legacy clung to him in much the same way, like a heavy cloak soaked through with blood and regret. And every turn they made, every new passage they found, was a reminder that there was no easy escape from what his family had been. No easy escape from what he had been.

Maybe Hesper had done the right thing, after all.

He glanced over at Potter, walking just ahead of him now, his back straight and determined, but his face still wary. The bastard was always so bloody stubborn. If there was one thing Draco had learned over the years, it was that Potter had an unyielding way of pressing forward, no matter the odds. Even now, even in this cursed place, Harry Potter—his infernal rival—was the one holding the reins, pulling them both through this dark labyrinth of a house with an absurd amount of bravado. 

Potter had his own reasons for being here, of course. All of them linking him to his godfather and his legacy. Probably Lupin too, now. And no doubt, as they stumbled through this hellish house, he was thinking about those reasons. Harry Potter was nothing if not stubbornly righteous. But Draco wasn’t entirely sure if Potter even realised just how much he was fighting through his own guilt and fear, just how much he too was hiding behind that stubborn determination. The difference was, Potter seemed to have the strength to wear his fears like a shield, to push through them with a sense of confidence that Draco could never manage to muster.

Draco had to work twice as hard to hide the cracks in his own carefully constructed façade.

He cursed the moment they’d been forced to return to Grimmauld Place. The house was a reminder of everything Draco had tried to leave behind—everything he still couldn’t outrun. It was as though every creak of the floorboards, every shiver in the air, was reminding him of what he was—and what he could never truly run away from.

He wasn’t like Potter. He couldn’t just fearlessly move forward, couldn’t just pretend to be something he wasn’t. Draco had spent his entire life wearing the mask of the Malfoy heir, the mask of the proud, perfect Death Eater’s son. And while he was trying—truly trying—to be something different, to move past that history, the walls of Grimmauld Place kept pressing in on him, threatening to break his spirit.

Focus, Malfoy, he told himself, forcing the thought aside. No time to think about your sorry self.

They reached another narrow corridor, one of many that seemed to stretch endlessly into the shadows. The walls were lined with dark wood, their surfaces warped with age, the lacquer long since dulled to an almost lifeless sheen. Faded tapestries hung loosely from their frames, their once-vibrant threads reduced to muted, threadbare remnants, some partially obscured by the roots that had broken through the walls like creeping veins of decay. The air here was thick, stagnant, carrying the scent of old parchment, damp stone, and something faintly metallic—something wrong. It was impossible to tell how long the labyrinth stretched or where it might lead, and it was driving Draco mad. It felt like a place where time had unravelled, where forgotten things lingered in silence, waiting. A place of whispers in the dark and memories that had long since lost their voices. At the far end, barely visible in the dim light, stood a door. It was shrouded in shadow, its edges barely discernible, as if the surrounding darkness was swallowing it whole. The air around it was heavier here, almost suffocating, and when Potter took another cautious step forward, he could swear the mustiness thickened, like the house itself was breathing.

Potter stopped, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the room. “Do you feel that?” he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper.

Draco did. The air had thickened, grown heavier. It was as if something was waiting, watching them from the corners of the room, lurking just beyond the light. He swallowed hard. It wasn’t just the house he was afraid of. It was the magic in the walls, the magic that held the house together. It was centuries-old, dark, and it seemed to pulse with every beat of his heart.

This is your family’s house, Draco thought bitterly. These walls are filled with the poison of your ancestors, the blood they spilled, the lives they ruined. And you’re trapped in it, whether you want to be or not. Whether you escape this house or not.

Potter turned to him, his brow furrowed in that way he always did when he was trying to figure something out. “Malfoy? Are you okay?” he asked, voice still cautious, though there was an underlying curiosity in his tone.

Draco didn’t know how to respond. Am I okay? He thought, almost bitterly. He wasn’t sure he had been okay for a long time. He wasn’t sure he had ever been okay. Not since the war began, not since the first moment he’d spent on the wrong side of history, with his family’s bloody reputation hanging over him like a noose. Maybe even before that.

“I’m fine,” Draco replied curtly, his voice more biting than he’d intended. It was the only defence he had, the only way to hide the gnawing terror building in his chest the more time they spent in this empty, decaying place.

Potter didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push it. Instead, his gaze flickered to the door ahead of them. “We should move,” he said, and without another word, he began walking toward it, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

Draco hesitated for a moment longer, feeling a strange tremor in his limbs. He didn’t want to be in here. He didn’t want to face whatever lay beyond that door, not if it was going to keep showing him images of the weakness that resided inside his heart. But what choice did he have? There was no escaping this place, not now.

You’re a Malfoy, he reminded himself. You don’t run from your problems. You stand tall and face them head-on.

Even as he repeated the words in his head, he couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in his gut—the knowledge that it was a lie. Because, who was he kidding? So far, history had told him that the Malfoys absolutely ran away from their problems. They either fled like cowards or manipulated their way out, often with the use of their once abundant funds.

Not anymore, he thought bitterly. The demolition of Malfoy Manor had been hard on him, but he had been glad to let it go. Let it crumble to the ground alongside his horrors. But the family estate and the ‘voluntary’ donation of the Malfoy vaults had hit him harder. Centuries of family artefacts, painted portraits of long-dead ancestors, all the wealth and power that had once been the foundation of the Malfoy name—gone. It was a humiliation that not even Draco had been able to fully process at first. They had been lucky that his mother—ever cunning and clever, and more Slytherin than his father had ever been—had kept her personal vault and an estate under her maiden name, for without it, they’d have been on the streets, without a place to live and not a single knut to their name.

Draco shuddered to think about what he’d have resorted to, if only to keep his mother safe and with a warm roof over her head.

Nevertheless, in the end, what remained wasn’t a legacy but a void, one he couldn’t seem to fill anew no matter how hard he tried. His father’s legacy, which had been built on fear, control, and an insidious sense of superiority, had crumbled, and with it, the Malfoy family’s name had become something that still clung to him like an old, ill-fitting robe.

The reminder of his father’s words still echoed in his mind: “You are a Malfoy, Draco. Act like one.”

He clenched his fists at his sides, fighting the urge to lash out, to flee once again, like his cowardly nature dictated. The Malfoy pride had always been a mask, a façade they could hide behind. But now, facing this battering, inconceivable challenge, he didn’t need to wonder if that mask had already been shattered, leaving him exposed in a way he didn’t know how to handle.

The boggart room, Hesper, that mirror’s reflection of him as a Healer—unburdened, content, and free of the Dark Mark—, they all felt almost too cruel. Who was he kidding, though? The only time he’d felt close to the life that the mirrors had shown him was during the fleeting moments when he’d almost believed it was possible.

But reality always had a way of crashing in, reminding him of the weight of his history, his blood.

Of just how undesirable he was.

He followed Potter, his heart racing, his thoughts tangled in self-deprecation and dread. The house was overflowing with dark magic, with the weight of years of history. And Draco felt every single bit of it pressing down on him.

As they reached the door, Potter glanced at him once more, his expression unreadable, his eyes conflicted and his tawny cheeks red. Draco could see the glint of worry in his eyes. There was something about the way Potter looked at him now that was different from before, something deeper than just the old rivalry they used to share. Maybe it was because of what they had been through, both of them battered and broken by the war, both of them trying to rebuild something after it was all said and done.

Or maybe it was because, despite everything, Draco had tried to do the right thing. He’d tried to stand up against his family, against the darkness they had created. Maybe, he was starting to see a glimmer of something that wasn’t entirely shameful in himself.

But he didn’t want Potter to see it. He would never like what was beneath.

“After you, Potter,” Draco said, his voice detached, pushing down whatever impossible feelings were beginning to rise in him. The last thing he needed was to start thinking about that .

Potter shot him a look—one of those unreadable, assessing looks. Draco couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but he didn’t care. He didn’t need Potter’s approval. He didn’t need anyone’s.

Not even his own.

He knew that was a lie.

With a deep breath, Draco stepped through the door, his mind racing with a hundred different thoughts, none of them particularly reassuring. The air beyond was thick, almost viscous with magic, wrapping around him like unseen tendrils. The new hallway was darker than any they had encountered so far, its walls swallowed in shadow, the flickering sconces barely managing to cast enough light to reveal the path ahead.

The moment he crossed the threshold, an icy chill slithered down his spine, coiling at the base of his neck like a warning. The shadows along the walls shifted—not with the natural flicker of candlelight, but with something more deliberate, something aware. The feeling of being watched grew stronger, more unpleasant, as if the house itself was taking note of their every breath, their every step. The floor beneath him groaned under his weight, the sound too hollow, too unnatural, and Draco suddenly had the unsettling suspicion that this corridor hadn’t been here a moment ago.

Whatever was waiting beyond this hallway, whatever secrets it held, was more than just the house’s curse. It was personal. And Draco knew, deep down, that it was something he couldn’t escape.

Not unless he faced it, and the thought of facing his fears made him feel cold all over.

He glanced at Potter, his jaw tightening, trying to ignore the way his heart was pounding in his chest. The house, the darkness, the weight of his family’s history—it was all pressing down on him. But there was something else too, something he hadn’t fully realised until now.

This was his chance. His chance to prove himself, to make himself worth it.

Worth what? He wasn’t sure.

“Let’s go,” Draco said, his voice firmer than he felt. But for the first time, he wasn’t just facing the darkness of the house.

He was bound to face the ghosts within himself.

And perhaps, he could finally walk out of the darkness without it following him.

No matter how much they walked and how many beasts they faced, the labyrinth within the house, ever turbulent, seemed determined to test them, twisting and shifting as if it delighted in their misery. Every corridor felt narrower than the last, pressing in on them, forcing them closer together with each step. The air was thick, humming and cloying, made it so Draco was certain now more than ever that the house wasn’t just cursed—it pulsed with something timeless, something watchful, making his skin prickle.

Not for the first time, Draco thought it felt alive, a creature with a will of its own, drawing them deeper into its frayed heart. The walls groaned, the floorboards shuddered beneath their feet, and soon enough, they were forced shoulder to shoulder, their robes brushing against each other in the suffocating space. Every accidental brush of their hands, every fleeting contact of shoulders as they manoeuvred through the narrowing corridors, sent an unwelcome jolt through Draco’s system. Draco could feel the warmth radiating from Potter’s body, his presence annoyingly solid and steady. Worse still was his scent—a mix of worn leather, something fresh like pine, and an underlying spice that lingered maddeningly in the tight air. Draco’s pulse quickened against his will, and he gritted his teeth, willing himself to ignore the way the space between them felt too charged, too close. He didn’t want to acknowledge it—didn’t want to give weight to the way his stomach twisted with something unnervingly close to anticipation.

“Watch your step,” Draco muttered, his voice soft, almost intimate in the echoing corridor, even though he hadn’t meant for it to sound so.

Potter visibly bristled at the warmth in his tone, causing Draco to feel subconscious in turn, but his foot obediently avoided a protruding root twisting like a snake across the floor.

“I’ve got it,” Potter replied, though the warmth creeping up his neck told him he didn’t sound as confident as he intended.

They continued in silence, but it was thick with unspoken tension. Draco’s mind betrayed him, replaying those brief touches, noting the way Potter’s gaze flickered toward him before darting away, as though he too was feeling something neither of them dared to speak of.

Then, just as suddenly as the corridor had constricted around them, it opened into a larger chamber, its vastness a stark contrast to the suffocating passageways. Above them, part of the ceiling had crumbled, allowing weak slivers of light to filter through the dust-filled air. The ground was uneven, strewn with splintered wood and shattered glass. But the real obstacle lay ahead—a dense snarl of roots stretched across their path, thick as serpents, twisting and curling with a slow, deliberate movement. 

“We’re going through that, I suppose?” Draco asked, his voice tinged with bitterness, though he didn’t stop moving, knowing it was a lost cause.

“Unless you fancy going back,” Potter said, stepping forward to examine the roots.

Draco snorted. “Not an option.”

As they worked together to clear a path—spells flying in synchronised bursts to cut and dislodge the roots—Draco couldn’t help but notice how natural their teamwork felt. Every movement was fluid, as if they’d done this before, time and time again. Draco would slice through a particularly thick root, and before the severed piece could crash to the ground, Potter had already Vanished it out of their way. When Potter shifted a chunk of debris, Draco instinctively steadied it with his magic, preventing it from tumbling into their path.

It was seamless, effortless—like they were in sync without even realising it. A rhythm formed between them, magic flowing in tandem, each anticipating the other’s next move without the need for words. And when a particularly stubborn root snapped free with an angry crack, lashing toward Draco’s face like a striking viper, Potter didn’t hesitate. His wand was already raised before Draco had even registered the danger, a shield charm bursting to life between them. The root bounced harmlessly off the shimmering barrier, curling back in on itself like a wounded thing.

Draco turned, startled, his breath slightly uneven. His grey eyes flicked to Potter’s, searching for something—an explanation, maybe, or just acknowledgment of the fact that Potter had acted on instinct. That for some reason, it had felt...natural. But Potter only held his gaze for a second before turning away, his jaw tightening as he sent another Severing Charm slicing through the roots. Neither of them said anything about it. Neither of them had to.

“Thanks,” Draco muttered, barely glancing at him, but Potter could see the faint colour rising in his pale cheeks.

“Don’t mention it,” Potter replied, his voice softer than he intended.

Soon enough, the roots finally gave way, and they climbed over the rubble together, their breaths uneven from exertion. The air was thick with dust, and the faint scent of damp wood clung to their clothes. At one point, Draco’s foot slipped on a loose stone, and Potter’s hand shot out instinctively, grabbing his arm and pulling him upright before he could stumble.

The contact lingered for a moment too long—Potter’s fingers brushing against the soft fabric of Draco’s sleeve, warm and steady, before he quickly let go. But the ghost of the touch remained, tingling against Draco’s skin. He glanced at Potter, whose face was carefully blank, save for the slight furrow between his brows and the musing of his lower lip. Neither of them acknowledged it, but the air between them felt charged—something invisible hanging there, just out of reach.

“You alright?” Potter asked, his voice strained, wavering.

Draco nodded, suddenly avoiding his gaze. “Fine.”

But Draco wasn’t sure if either of them really was. The house seemed to hum around them, its oppressive atmosphere amplifying the unspoken underlying tension. Every glance, every accidental touch felt heavier, more significant. It was as if the house itself wanted to push them closer together, to force them to confront whatever the growing, hesitant warmth between them was.

They moved on, the silence between them thick and syrupy. It wasn’t just tension anymore—it was a strange, fragile awareness of something more . Something unspoken but undeniably present.

He had always prided himself on his dignity and poise, even under pressure. Granted, he hadn’t always succeeded, per se, something that his father had astringently punished him for all throughout his formative years. Draco blamed Potter for that, too. Nevertheless, he’d survived the war, his father’s failings and eventual death, and the social ruination of the Malfoy name. But this—this blasted house—was testing every shred of self-control he had left.

With much annoyance, they had managed to get past the thick roots blocking the way in the previous room without much fanfare, save for a few splinters taking residence in Draco’s jumper and the lingering itch of dust in his throat. Now, the hallway stretched before them, choked in a thick, coiling fog that seemed to twist with its own malignant will. It didn’t behave like normal fog, either—it clung to the walls in sluggish tendrils, curling along the edges of the corridor like smoke, but darker, heavier, more viscous, almost like ink dissolving into water.

Draco halted, his wand raised, the familiar weight of it grounding him, though it offered little comfort in the face of the unknown. A shiver ran down his spine as the fog licked at his ankles, unnaturally hot despite the humid cold that lingered in the house. Nervous, he glanced at Potter, who was already gripping his wand tighter, his expression set in quiet determination. The silence stretched uncomfortably between them, broken only by the faint whisper of their breath and the faint ruffling of the leaves.

“Well, that certainly looks inviting,” he drawled, though the edge in his voice betrayed him. He glanced sideways at Potter, who, of course, was already striding forward as if reckless Gryffindor cockiness could somehow brute-force them through this mess.

Potter raised his wand. “ Lumos!”

The corridor flooded with bright white light, momentarily pushing back the fog. Draco squinted, blinking against the brightness. The fog hissed, like a tea-kettle boiling over, recoiling like a living thing, before surging back with renewed vigour the moment the light began to fade.

“Well, that certainly worked,” Draco said with a huff, masking the unease curling in his chest as he sidestepped a wild tendril. “Do it again—maybe it’ll develop a complex and slink away in shame.”

Potter shot him a look but said nothing, too focused on trying to chart a path forward. His jaw was set, his wand held steady, every movement deliberate. They moved cautiously, the fog pressing close once more, slithering around their ankles and curling up their legs like living tendrils. It wasn’t just cold—it was seeping into his skin, chilling him from the inside out. Draco swallowed, his grip tightening on his wand as a sharp, prickling sensation raced up his spine, something deeper than fear, more insidious.

Then it struck.

The fog surged all at once, a thick, writhing force that lashed out with unnatural speed. A sudden pressure clamped around Draco’s wrist, yanking him off balance, and a searing pain lanced across his lower arm, sharp enough to make him stumble against the uneven wall, hitting his dominant shoulder with a protruding root. He hissed, clutching at the wound, his long fingers pressing down on it instinctively. When he pulled his hand back, his pale skin was streaked with crimson blood, the gash deeper than he’d expected.

“Malfoy! Are you alright?” Potter’s voice rang out, sharp with alarm. He spun on his heel, green eyes wide as he took a step toward Draco.

Draco scowled, his pride prickling despite the pain.

“I’m fine,” he snapped, though his voice trembled ever so slightly, betraying him. Fuck, but it burned. He clenched his jaw and, after seeing Potter’s worried face, he added with a grimace, “Really, Potter, I’m fine.”

But Potter didn’t seem convinced. He kept edging closer to Draco, his stance tense, his gaze flitting between Draco’s arm and the ominous fog that swirled around them like a living thing. Draco felt a cold unease settle in his gut, his fingers twitching around his wand. The fog wasn’t just some eerie trick of the house—it was something else, something with consciousness, and that felt too much like its magic… a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He could feel it watching them, feeding on their hesitation.

As if sensing their fear, the fog thickened, its dark tendrils curling tighter around the corridor walls, closing in like a snake preparing to squeeze the life from its prey and inject it its venom. The air grew heavier, pressing against Draco’s chest, making it harder to breathe. The moment stretched, unbearably silent—then, without warning, the fog lunged, twisting violently toward them, faster than either of them could react.

“Potter, move!” Draco shouted, his voice sharper than he’d intended, but the urgency in it was real.

And of course, of course, the brainless Gryffindor froze. Or maybe he had decided not to move as to protect Draco, like an idiot. Potter’s wand arm faltered as the fog shot toward him, dark tendrils snaking out to grab hold of his legs. For a fleeting moment, Draco considered letting the house have him. It would serve him right for being a goody-two-shoes and hesitating. But the thought was gone in an instant, drowned out by the instinct to protect.

And something far more inconvenient.

With a distraught growl, Draco lunged forward, grabbing the back of Potter’s ratty shirt. He yanked hard, pulling Potter out of the fog’s grasp. The force of it sent Potter stumbling backward, and he landed on his arse with an indignant grunt. Before Draco could regain his balance, the sharp, spectral tendrils whipped out again—this time locking onto him completely; latching onto his arms and waist with a force that burned like a hot coal but left no immediate wound behind this time. The sensation stole his breath, an unnatural sting sinking into his flesh, numbing him instantly. Before he could do anything, he was yanked high off the ground, the fog lifting him effortlessly as though he weighed nothing. His feet dangled uselessly in the air as he struggled against the inky tendrils, his wand slipping from his grasp and clattering to the floor below.

Panic surged, sharp and blinding. Draco gasped, clawing painfully at the tendrils that coiled tighter and tighter around him, squeezing the breath from his lungs. Now he could feel the dark fog cutting through his skin, slower than it had his arm, but just as true. Small droplets of blood began to appear at his throat, arms and legs—but not his torso—, marring his clothes. His chest heaved, but the air seemed thinner the higher he was dragged. He kicked out in desperation, but his movements only seemed to provoke the fog, which tightened its grip further.

“Draco!”

The sound of Potter shouting his name—his first name—pierced through the haze of pain and panic. It was raw, desperate, and it sent a strange jolt through Draco’s chest, though he barely had the air to think about it. His eyes flickered downward, catching sight of Potter scrambling below him, his wand a blur as he cast spell after spell, each one tearing through the fog but failing to stop its relentless grip. The tendrils coiled tighter, crushing him, his ribs aching as if they were being squeezed by an invisible vice.

“Po… tter…” Draco tried to speak, but the words came out as an unintelligible hoarse rasp. He winced, his head spinning as the fog tightened around his throat, burning like acid, a searing pain that made his vision blur at the edges. His breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, his lungs fighting against the suffocating force.

But Potter didn’t listen—he never bloody did. His face was set in a mask of determination and fear, his bright green eyes blazing with fury. His jaw clenched, his grip tightening around his wand as he took a step forward. Then another. He wasn’t retreating. He wasn’t giving up.

Draco wanted to scream at the sheer stupidity of it. But he couldn’t. His entire body felt like it was being drained, the darkness around him pressing in, sinking into his skin. “Hold on!” he yelled, his voice cracking.

The overwhelming need to laugh bitterly hit Draco just as hard as the tendrils that gripped at him, at the absurdity of it. Hold on? What did Potter think he was doing, practising levitation for fun? The fog seemed to sense his thoughts and tightened its grip on Draco’s throat, making him grunt hoarsely in desperate pain.

Then, Potter did something entirely unexpected. With a violent cry that seemed to rise from the depths of his chest, he unleashed a torrent of magic through his wand. It was a spell—a spell of pure, unrefined power, pouring from him like a dam breaking. The air crackled and hummed, thick with energy. A burst of silvery light erupted from his wand, coalescing into the unmistakable shape of a bright stag. It stood proud and fierce, its antlers shimmering as if forged from moonlight and the purest of stars. For a moment, the corridor seemed to hold its breath, the bleak darkness shrinking back from the luminous creature.

At that moment, the stag Patronus charged forward, its hooves pounding the floor with a sound like thunder. Each strike sent ripples of light through the fog, breaking it apart in bursts of radiant force. The tendrils recoiled violently, shrieking with a sound that made Draco’s ears ring. They twisted and writhed, retreating into the shadows like venomous snakes burned by fire.

As abruptly as it had begun, it was over. The stag lingered for a moment, its head turning to glance at Potter with a soft, knowing gaze, before dissolving into the air like mist under the morning sun.

Draco fell like a stone.

The floor rushed up to meet him, hard and unyielding, knocking the breath from his lungs as he landed in an undignified heap with a sharp crack.

Pain lanced through his shoulder, his bruised arm screaming in protest. He groaned, his fingers curling weakly against the stone as he tried to push himself up, but his strength had been thoroughly drained. The fog might’ve dissipated, but the lingering ache it left in its wake was a cruel reminder of its bite. He was dimly aware of Potter’s voice, frantic and sharp, as his trainer-clad footsteps skidded across the floor toward him. Draco attempted to lift his head, to tell him to stop shouting like a banshee and that he was perfectly capable of recovering on his own, thank you very much—but the words wouldn’t come. His vision swam, dark spots creeping into the edges, and before he could so much as summon another retort, the world tilted.

Unconsciousness claimed him like a thief in the night.  The last thing he saw before the world darkened was Potter’s outstretched hand reaching for him.

Draco’s head—because he could no longer think of the man as Malfoy, not when the sight of him being attacked made his heart drop to his stomach—lolled to the side, his pale features slack and worryingly still. His breath was barely there, shallow and uneven, and the blood staining his shirt collar was stark against his skin—a vivid picture of the way the fog had lashed out, coiling around his throat like a noose. The bruising shadows already blooming along his jawline made Harry’s stomach twist. And he couldn't even see the rest of his body, despite the tattered remains of his clothes. Panic rose in his chest like a winter storm, cold and suffocating, tightening around his ribs. He dropped to his knees beside Draco, shaking him slightly. 

“Draco,” he urged, his voice rough, desperate.

But there was no response, no flicker of those sharp, quicksilver eyes. Only the eerie silence of the house pressing in around them.

“Draco, wake up,” he called, his voice tight with panic and concern. He pressed two fingers to Draco’s neck, relieved to find a pulse—steady but faint. Too faint. His chest tightened further. “Come on, don’t do this. Draco!”

His free hand shook as it hovered over Draco’s shoulder, unsure whether to try to shake him awake or leave him be. He was no healer, he had no idea about what was best in these cases. The tendrils of fog had disappeared, but the eerie silence that followed their retreat was somehow worse, as though the house was pausing, calculating its next move. Harry glanced around wildly, his wand trembling in his hand as the faint glow of his Patronus flickered against the walls. Everything about the air felt wrong, and he could feel it pulsing with residual dark magic. The roots that had lined the walls earlier now seemed to twitch, curling faintly at the edges, as if they, too, were nervous.

He turned back to Draco, leaning in closer. “Wake up, Draco. Please.” He couldn’t keep the dread out of his voice. Sitting back, he pushed his trembling free hand into his dark, messy hair and pulled, hard. What should he do now? He had no idea how to help Draco.

A shudder rippled through the floor beneath them. Harry’s stomach dropped as the stone shifted and groaned. At first, it was subtle—like the building was settling. Then, it became violent. The ground bucked beneath his feet with a suddenness that stole his breath. He barely managed to catch himself with one hand on the floor, his wand clattering to the ground beside him. A deep, resonant creak filled the air, followed by a noise that sounded disturbingly like cracking bones. His eyes darted to Draco, who remained motionless. Before Harry could even think to grab him, the stone beneath Draco’s body began to ripple like liquid, pulling him farther away.

“No, no, no!” Harry shouted, scrambling forward, his hands outstretched. Out of sheer desperation, his right hand surged forward, clutching at his wand desperately. At the same time, his other hand brushed against Draco’s sleeve, and then the ground beneath him gave way entirely.

The sensation was immediate and horrifying, no matter how many times the house had done this to him. The floor vanished, replaced by nothing but air, and Harry plunged downward, his scream swallowed by the roar of wind rushing past his ears. His limbs flailed instinctively, grasping for anything— anything —to break his fall, but there was nothing. No walls, no edges, just endless, crushing darkness.

“Draco!” he shouted into the void, his voice cracking under the force of his fear. The thought of being separated from him—of Draco waking up, injured and alone, in this godforsaken house—was unbearable. He twisted midair, searching desperately for any sign of light, of a ledge, of something. But there was only the abyss, and his heart pounded so hard he thought it might burst.

The fall stretched on for endless seconds, an eternity of weightlessness and dread. His body turned hot, every nerve alight with the agonising anticipation of the impending impact. His muscles ached from the tension of bracing for the pain of the blow, limbs caught between stiffness and helpless flailing. His breaths came in shallow gasps, each one more frantic than the last, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, the sharp sting grounding him, keeping the rising panic from swallowing him whole. But the darkness below was endless, and the fear of never stopping clawed at his chest.

Stay calm, Potter, think. You’ve fallen from worse heights—

Suddenly, the air thickened around him, an invisible force wrapping around his limbs, slowing his descent just enough for him to register the shift before he hit something soft. His body jolted, landing in an unceremonious heap, limbs sprawled at odd angles, the breath knocked from his lungs. It wasn’t solid ground, but it wasn’t the deadly impact he had braced for, either. A muted puffing noise accompanied his landing, and as he blinked dazedly, he realized he was surrounded by fabric—heavy, dust-scented, and draped in chaotic folds beneath him. It felt like he had fallen into a pile of old, forgotten fabrics—tapestries, perhaps?

Slowly, he pushed himself up on shaky elbows, blinking rapidly as his surroundings swam into focus. Piles upon piles of clothes stretched out around him, forming an endless sea of fabric. Some stacks reached as high as his waist, while others spilled over in untidy heaps, their edges fraying with age. It was an overwhelming mess of colours and textures, an assortment of old robes, trousers, blouses, scarves—some moth-eaten, others pristine as if freshly laundered. The sheer volume was staggering, and the musty scent of aged fabric clung thickly to the air.

For a moment, he just lay there, chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths, letting the weight of exhaustion settle over him. His heart still pounded in his ribs, each beat a reminder of the chaos that had led him here. His fingers curled into the worn fabric beneath him, grasping at nothing, as the frantic energy that had propelled him moments ago gave way to something heavier. Something suffocating. Worry clawed at his throat, sharp and insistent.

Draco.

He sat up fully, his knees pressing into the soft mound of clothes beneath him. “Draco?” His voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, swallowed by the oppressive quiet that surrounded him. The only response was the distant creak of the house settling, the ever-present hum of its magic vibrating in the air like a held breath.

Twisting around, Harry’s gaze darted frantically over the endless piles of fabric, searching for any sign of movement—any hint of platinum blond hair or the sharp edge of a scowl. But there was nothing. Just tangled cloth and dust, the remnants of a life long abandoned. Panic tightened in his chest. He scrambled to his feet, dislodging a cascade of fabric as he did.

“Draco?” he called again, louder this time, the desperation leaking into his voice despite himself. The silence that followed was unbearable. The house had swallowed them whole, but it had only spit him back out.

Where the hell was he? Was Draco still where he had left him passed out?

Frustration and fear welled up in Harry’s chest, clawing at him like a wild animal. He slammed a fist down into the heap beneath him, sending up a cloud of dust. “Bloody hell! Where is he?!” His voice echoed faintly, swallowed almost immediately by the strange acoustics of the room. “Grimmauld!”

But the house stayed silent. Panic threatened to take hold again, and he forced himself to breathe deeply. 

“Think, Harry,” he muttered, his fingers gripping the edge of his wand like a lifeline. “You’ve handled worse. You’ll find him. You will find him.”

But the words felt hollow when he didn’t know where to begin, his resolve already fraying at the edges, his hands trembling. How was he to find Draco when Grimmauld changed around him at will and on a whim? He swallowed hard, forcing down the gnawing sense of dread that coiled in his gut like a living thing. The house was too quiet, too still, as if it were watching, waiting for his next move. He hated it. Hated the way its magic pulsed against his skin like a heartbeat that wasn’t his own. Harry exhaled sharply and forced himself to move, shifting unsteady steps over the mounds of fabric. Dust rose in lazy swirls with every step, clinging to his clothes, his skin. He didn’t care. Somewhere above—or below—Draco was out there. Alone. Probably hurt.

And Harry was going to find him. No matter what this blasted house threw at him next. 

He had to.

Chapter Text

The silence stretched long and taut, like a violin string pulled too tightly, threatening to snap. Every creak and groan of the house felt amplified, each sound echoing off unseen walls and pressing against his frayed nerves. The air was thick, stale, and oddly warm, carrying the faint metallic tang of rust—or was it blood? He didn’t want to dwell on it. A deep breath filled his lungs with the dusty scent of aged fabric, and he exhaled sharply, scattering a faint plume of lint into the dim light. The piles of clothes surrounding him seemed to stretch endlessly, like some infernal second-hand shop abandoned in the middle of sorting day. He kicked at the nearest mound—a tangled heap of cloaks and what might have once been a particularly garish ball gown from the mid 19th century—sending it collapsing into itself. No sign of stairs, doors, or even a blasted window to let him know where he’d landed.

“Well, this is just fantastic,” he muttered, his voice breaking the suffocating quiet. “Nothing like being swallowed by my own murderous house and spat out into a pile of—” He paused, tugging a particularly hideous, moth-eaten hat off his head. “Clothing that smells worse than Hagrid’s socks.”

Despite his own attempt at humour, the situation was dire. The house had separated them, and the thought of Draco—injured, unconscious, and entirely alone in this wretched place—clawed at him like an unforgiving tide. He shoved the hat aside, his hands clenching into fists.

“Right,” he said aloud, trying to ground himself with the sound of his own voice. “First things first: find a way out of this… wardrobe burial ground.”

The piles shifted unnervingly as he moved. Every step sent cascades of fabric slithering down like waterfalls, revealing more layers beneath. A dark red robe snagged around his ankle, and he shook it off with a sharp kick.

“You’re not helping,” he snapped at the inanimate garment, as if it had deliberately tried to trip him. Soon after, a faint noise caught his attention—a soft, shuffling sound, barely audible over the rustling fabric. He froze, wand gripped tightly in one hand, the other brushing against his pocket for reassurance. The sound came again, faint but deliberate, like footsteps on a distant floor. His heart leapt into his throat. It could be Draco, awake and looking for him. Or, more likely but twice as worrying, it could be something trying to get to Draco.

He turned slowly, his wand raised.

“Lumos.” The tip flared to life, casting its pale glow over the chaotic landscape. The shadows danced, twisting in ways that felt unnatural. Every mound of clothes seemed to loom higher in the light, as though mocking him for even thinking he could find an exit. 

“Not alarming at all,” he muttered under his breath, stepping cautiously toward the source of the sound. The light of his wand trembled as he moved, illuminating more of the endless mess—fur-lined cloaks, fraying lace, the occasional glint of a tarnished button. The sheer volume of it was absurd.

A gap between the piles caught his eye, a narrow path barely wide enough to squeeze through. It looked like it might lead somewhere—or nowhere—but he didn’t have the luxury of second-guessing himself. He pushed forward, his shoulders brushing against the precarious towers on either side. The smell grew stronger here, a heady mix of damp and decay that made his nose tingle. The sound of his own movement on the fabric felt unnervingly loud, but the shuffling noise grew fainter as he advanced, as if retreating just out of reach.

His jaw tightened. This house is toying with you, Potter. Don’t let it win, there’s something more important right now.

The path opened into a small clearing, if it could even be called that. The open area stretched out before him, its centre dominated by a peculiar, almost unnatural emptiness. It felt as though the chaos of the clothing piles had been deliberately pulled back, creating a space devoid of debris, eerily pristine compared to the rest of the labyrinthine house. The faint glow of his wand seemed to falter here, the light dimming as though reluctant to illuminate whatever lay ahead. The air felt lighter, yet it was charged with something unexplainable—magic, yes, ancient and untamed, humming just beneath the surface. But it felt different from anything else he’d felt in Grimmauld Place so far. The stillness wasn’t comforting; it was the kind that pricked at the back of his neck, whispering that something was watching.

It was then that he saw it.

A flicker of pale light danced at the edge of the clearing, wavering like a candle flame caught in an unseen draft. It was small—no larger than a Snitch—but impossibly bright, its blue, purple and green glow pulsing faintly as it hovered in place. The blob of light wasn’t static, either. It moved with a strange, deliberate rhythm, swaying gently side to side, almost as if it were breathing. Harry froze, his wand instinctively lifting higher, but the little ball of light didn’t react. It floated there, waiting, its glow casting faint, rippling shadows on the surrounding piles of fabric. For a brief moment, he thought it might be a trick of the house, another cruel ploy to toy with him. But there was something oddly soothing about the light. It wasn’t harsh or menacing; it was soft, almost inviting.

Curiosity warred with caution. “What are you?” he whispered, his voice barely audible, as though speaking louder might frighten it away.

The flame didn’t answer, of course, but it responded nonetheless. Slowly, it began to move, drifting further into the clearing with an unhurried grace. Its motion was hypnotic, each little movement leaving faint trails in the air like the after-image of a shooting star. The glow pulsed gently, almost as if it were breathing, drawing him forward with a quiet insistence. Harry hesitated for only a moment before stepping after it, his heartbeat quickening. The further it floated, the more the shadows around him seemed to retreat, curling away from the flame’s presence like something alive—and something afraid.

The thought struck him like a bolt of lightning: It’s leading me.

Without hesitation, Harry stepped forward, his trainers crunching softly on the scattered threads and buttons beneath his feet. The light drifted further ahead, maintaining a careful distance, as if ensuring he would follow. Each step he took brought a strange mixture of relief and dread. Relief because he finally had something—anything—to guide him. Dread because he couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever lay at the end of this path might not be something he wanted to face, but that might be his exhaustion talking.

The glow deepened as he followed, its colour shifting slightly, deepening its faint hues of green and blue that shimmered like the surface of a pond kissed by an aurora borealis. It darted left, then right, winding a careful path through the mounds of clothing. Harry had to be quick on his feet to keep up, ducking beneath low-hanging fabric and stepping over precariously balanced heaps. The musty scent of old fabric clung to the air, and with each step, dust swirled up around him, catching the eerie light. There was something almost playful about the way the flame moved—like it was teasing him, urging him forward, guiding him toward the unknown.

“Alright, slow down, little lad,” he muttered, swiping at a particularly obstinate doily that caught on his trousers. The orb didn’t heed him, continuing its steady pace.

The air around him grew colder the further he walked, each breath forming faint puffs of mist. The faint smell of damp stone replaced the musty odour of old fabric, and he realised the ground beneath him had changed, too. The scattered clothes gave way to smooth, uneven stone, worn down by centuries of use. Who had been using it? Harry didn’t know. His trainers echoed now, the sound bouncing back to him from invisible walls. The orb flickered, its light dimming for a heartbeat before returning stronger, as though it were gathering its strength. Then it stopped, hovering in place just ahead of him. He halted too, his wand steady as he took in his surroundings.

The new room—or corridor, perhaps—was nothing like the chaotic sprawl of the clothes-filled chamber. The walls were rough-hewn stone, covered in dark green moss that glistened faintly in the orb’s glow. The air was thick with moisture, carrying the earthy scent of damp rock and something faintly metallic. Water dripped somewhere in the distance, the sound rhythmic, steady, like the slow ticking of an ancient clock. The little flame pulsed once, brighter than before, and then drifted toward a section of the wall. Its light pooled there, illuminating faint carvings that had been nearly invisible in the darkness. Harry stepped closer, his wand casting additional light on the surface. The carvings were old, their edges softened with time, but he could just make out the shapes—symbols, letters, something almost runic. Their intricate, flowing lines and spirals interwoven like the threads of a stone plate. At the centre of the design was a shape—a serpent coiled around what looked like a crescent moon. Harry’s breath hitched as he recognised the emblem. It was a symbol of the Black family, though far older and more ornate than the versions he’d seen around his Grimmauld Place.

His pulse quickened as he reached out, fingertips ghosting over the rough stone, tracing the unfamiliar markings. Whatever this was, it had been hidden for a reason.

“What are you trying to show me?” he murmured, brushing his fingertips against the carving. The stone was cool to the touch, but it seemed to hum faintly under his hand, as though alive with magic. 

Harry exhaled, steeling himself against the eerie quiet of the chamber. The little orb hovered close to the stone wall, casting its ghostly light upon the faded carvings. The symbols taunted him, whispering of secrets long buried, and Harry had the distinct impression that if he listened too closely, he might actually hear them speak. The flame pulsed again, its light focusing on the serpent’s eye. A small, circular indentation was carved there, barely noticeable unless one was looking for it.

“A keyhole?” he guessed, though no key was in sight. Straightening, Harry let his fingers linger on the surface, tracing the familiar shape of the serpent-and-moon engraving. 

The orb darted away suddenly, drawing his attention. It hovered at eye level, flickering rapidly before it darted back the way they had come.

“You’re joking,” he muttered, already moving to follow. “You couldn’t have just stayed still for five seconds? Wait up!”

His instincts screamed that whatever he was looking for was close—so close—but the chamber was deceptive. The shadows stretched and deepened in ways that defied logic, pooling thick in the corners, swallowing detail. The uneven stonework shifted subtly when he wasn’t paying attention, as though the room itself were adjusting, rearranging—a living, breathing puzzle just beyond his periphery. It set him on edge.

Harry kept his breathing steady, following the flame as it bobbed ahead, its flickering light casting sharp reflections against the damp, glistening walls. The air smelled of age, of something ancient and undisturbed. The orb moved deliberately, guiding him further back than he had expected, weaving between the broken remains of what might once have been furniture or collapsed archways. Then, without warning, it stopped—hovering just above an unremarkable pile of rubble near the corridor’s edge, its glow intensifying.

Harry’s fingers twitched at his sides.

“What now?” he asked, half-expecting it to respond. The flame hovered insistently over the pile, its light casting long shadows.

He needed a key. That much was obvious. But as his gaze swept the space, he realised his search wouldn’t be easy. The floor was strewn with debris—fallen stone, splintered wood, and what looked to be the remnants of long-forgotten belongings. Amidst it all, glints of metal caught his eye. He crouched, reaching for the nearest one, only to find a rusted, broken latch. Harry tossed it aside and moved on. Another piece—a bent spoon. Then another—a buckle, so corroded it crumbled at his touch.

His jaw clenched. This was just like his first year at Hogwarts, searching for the right winged key among dozens of others. Only this time, there was no broom, no magical flight—just him, sifting through decades of refuse with nothing but fading patience and a growing sense of urgency. He needed to get back to Draco, he had no time for side quests.

The orb pulsed, hovering further into the room before dipping low, illuminating the far wall where a strange, circular engraving had been carved into the stone. The symbols looked old—older than the house itself. Harry stood, brushing dust from his knees as he stepped closer. Each movement sent up small clouds of dust, tickling his nose and making his eyes water. He coughed into his sleeve, his frustration mounting. The orb flickered again, illuminating a sentence that seemed to materialise within the carving, written in archaic, curling script:

Solum digni progredi possunt. Proba patientiam tuam, et via aperietur.

Harry exhaled forcibly. “Of course, it couldn’t just be as easy as finding the bloody key amongst the rubble, could it?”

As soon as the words left his lips, the ground beneath him trembled. The debris scattered across the floor shifted violently, reforming, rearranging—until before him stood three identical keys, each one gleaming with the same serpent-and-moon motif. But even as he stared, he knew it couldn’t be that simple. The air around them crackled, a strange pressure building, and then without warning, the keys moved. They lifted off the ground and shot away in separate directions, disappearing into newly formed passageways that hadn’t been there moments ago. The orb pulsed urgently, as if urging him forward. Whatever trial awaited, it was far from over.

The flame pulsed again, rising higher, its glow intensifying. Harry swore, whipping his wand around just in time to see them disappear into separate doorways that hadn’t been there moments ago. Three passageways, each one shrouded in shadows, each one promising some unknown test.

He glanced at the orb. “Any clues?”

The little thing did nothing, merely hovering expectantly. Of course.

With a resigned sigh, he chose the middle path. The air inside was thick with dust, clogging his throat as he moved deeper. The walls were lined with flickering torches, their blue flames casting eerie shadows along the damp stone. 

Then, the door behind him slammed shut with a resounding boom. 

Harry froze, every muscle in his body tensing. The sound of the door closing reverberated through the corridor, and he realized with sudden clarity that there would be no going back. The narrow passageway stretched ahead, twisting like the inside of a snake’s body, and he could sense the air growing heavier with every step. It smelled old, like everything in Grimmauld did, like forgotten stone and rotting wood, as if the passage had been sealed away for centuries.

A shuffling sound broke the silence, sharp and sudden, followed by the harsh clang of metal against stone. Harry’s breath caught in his throat as he spun around, heart hammering. At first, there was nothing—just the eerie flickering of the torchlight, the shifting of shadows along the damp walls. But then, movement. Slow, deliberate. Figures stepping out from the darkness, their presence suffocating in its unnatural stillness. 

They were suits of armour—tall, looming, their plated forms glinting dully beneath the dim light. The grotesque engravings on their helmets, twisted into snarling beast-like visages, sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. Their gauntleted hands clutched long, rusted swords, the edges jagged with age but no less deadly. There were four of them, perfectly aligned, standing rigid as if awaiting instruction Then, as though some silent command had been issued, they began to move. Slowly at first, their joints creaking with the weight of centuries, the scraping of metal on stone reverberating through the corridor. Their motions were stiff, unnatural, like puppets struggling against invisible strings.

Harry instinctively stepped back, wand raised, his pulse pounding. Whatever magic animated them had been waiting—for him.

“Oh, come on,” he muttered under his breath.

As if hearing his words, the suits of armour responded with terrifying immediacy. Their movements, once slow and lumbering, grew unnervingly swift, the heavy clang of metal striking stone echoing through the corridor. Their rusted swords gleamed under the dim torchlight as they lifted them in perfect unison, the precision of their attack more chilling than their grotesque, beast-like expressions.

Harry barely had time to react before the first one lunged, its massive sword slicing through the air with startling agility. He threw himself sideways, the blade missing his head by mere inches, the force of it carving a deep groove into the stone wall behind him. The rush of displaced air sent a cold shiver down his spine. He had no chance to recover. A second figure was already upon him, its rusted blade arcing downward in a deadly thrust, aimed straight for his chest. 

Harry instinctively raised his wand, his breath catching in his throat. He barely had time to think. With a sharp flick of his wand, he cast Protego, just as the blade came crashing down. The impact sent a jolt through his arm, the force of the blow rippling through the shield like a shockwave. He staggered back, boots scraping against the uneven stone, his balance wavering as the spell barely held. The translucent barrier flickered under the strain, but it had done its job—the sword bounced off, sending a harsh, ringing clang through the corridor. 

Harry gritted his teeth, breath coming fast, but there was no time to recover. The other two suits of armour had closed in, their towering forms pressing in from either side, trapping him between them. Their blades gleamed dully in the low light, lifted high, poised to strike. The corridor was too narrow, too enclosed. He was running out of space... running out of options.

“Get a grip, Potter,” he muttered, struggling to breathe through the pressure. “You’ve dealt with worse shit than this.”

He darted to the side, heart thundering in his chest, narrowly avoiding the second swing from the first suit. The blade whistled past him, so close he could feel the air from it tug at his hair. In one jerky motion, he rolled to his feet, landing with a soft thud, his pulse racing. His mind raced faster than his body. He barely had time to orient himself before his eyes caught onto something—something that should not have been there in the first place.

A golden crest, gleaming in the dim light, was emblazoned on the breastplate of one of the suits. The symbol of Gryffindor. His house. Harry’s stomach lurched, a strange chill running down his spine. It seemed out of place here, so far from the warmth and camaraderie of Hogwarts. It felt almost mocking, a cruel reminder of everything he had left behind, or perhaps of the man he was forced to become. A sharp burst of heat from the orb next to him suddenly flared up, cutting through his thoughts with startling intensity. The silent glow pressed against him, as if calling to him, guiding him in some untraceable way, but its message was clear: something had changed, and he needed to act. 

Harry took a deep breath, and with a surge of determination, he shot his wand forward, “Expelliarmus!”

The spell struck one of the suits square in the chest, the force of the blast sending it tumbling backward with an audible clatter, its sword flying from its hand and skittering across the stone floor. For a split second, Harry allowed himself to breathe, but his relief was short-lived. The armour didn’t remain down for long. It righted itself with a resounding clang, its joints creaking in protest as it stood tall once more. The helmet turned slowly in his direction, its hollow gaze fixated on him with unsettling focus.

He cursed under his breath. A direct hit from a disarming spell is supposed to be enough. 

It was a fundamental truth of duelling. But these suits were unlike any opponents he had faced before—endless, unyielding, and without the fragility of human flesh. It felt as if they were more than mere constructs, something alive and driven by purpose, something far more dangerous. Harry's mind raced. He needed to think quickly. His wand flicked nervously, scanning the surroundings for anything that could give him an edge. His eyes darted across the dim, cluttered corridor, the walls looming ominously around him. That’s when he saw it. A glint caught his eye, bright against the otherwise dark backdrop—a key?

Wedged into the stone wall behind the suits of armour, it shimmered faintly, its shape strangely familiar. It resembled the ones he had seen before, the moon and serpent motif glinting from its surface. Harry's heart skipped a beat. He knew without question that this was no coincidence. It was the key—his key. The one he needed. 

But to get to it… he would have to outmanoeuvre its relentless guardians.

Harry's gaze darted back to the advancing suits. He had to move quickly. The armour had closed in too fast for him to simply outrun them. His mind raced. The flame pulsed again next to him, its light a silent, insistent warning. It then flew off towards the armours, which ignored it. It was then when Harry realised with a start that the armours weren’t just a physical obstacle; they were part of a puzzle.

Suddenly, an idea sparked in Harry’s mind, sharp and sudden, like the flicker of light in a darkened room. The suits weren’t just attacking him—they were following him, tracking his movements with an unnerving precision. But more than that, they seemed to be moving within a pattern, a rhythm almost too deliberate, as if guided by some invisible force, some unseen hand pulling their strings. This was not random. It was purposeful. And if he could figure out that pattern, he could manipulate it, break it.

Taking a steadying breath, Harry planted his feet firmly on the stone floor, his grip tightening around his wand. He had to remain calm, focused. Lowering his wand, he narrowed his eyes at the advancing figures, watching as they closed in, their heavy boots scraping against the floor in an eerie, mechanical dance.

Then, as the first suit lunged forward, Harry raised his wand again—but this time, he didn’t cast a defensive spell. 

“Petrificus Totalus!”

The suit staggered, its weight shifting awkwardly as the ground crumbled beneath its plated feet. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, it seemed suspended in time before it toppled forward with a deafening crash, its rusted sword slipping from its grasp and clattering across the stone. The other suits hesitated, their enchanted coordination momentarily disrupted. The sudden shift in rhythm left them faltering for just a fraction of a second, their movements growing sluggish, uncertain. It was enough. A small victory, but it was his. Harry’s pulse quickened, a surge of hope mingling with the rush of adrenaline.

Harry took advantage of the brief opening, his heart pounding in his chest as he dashed forward, using the distraction to slip between two of the suits, closer to the wall.

There it was—the key, glinting in the torchlight. He reached for it, but as his fingers brushed the cold metal, the suits of armour began to move again, faster this time, their blades raised high.

No time to think.

Harry exhaled shakily from the adrenaline, his breath escaping in a jagged hiss, his chest tight with the adrenaline still surging through his veins. Bracing for impact, a Protego on his lips, he stood still for a moment, trying to steady himself, but nothing came at him.

Hyperventilating, he nervously opened his eyes, and saw the suits of armour surrounding him, though motionless now. They felt wrong in their stillness, and even as he focused on calming his ragged breathing, something gnawed at him—a deep, primal instinct that screamed he wasn’t safe yet. The silence was too complete, too unnerving. It was as though they were waiting for something, watching him, assessing his every movement, poised to spring into action at the slightest provocation.

His grip on the key tightened, the cold metal biting into his palm. He wasn’t about to wait around to test his theory. No. He had no intention of finding out whether the suits would resume their relentless attack. With a sharp intake of breath, Harry spun on his heel, his heart pounding in his chest as he sprinted back toward the entrance of the chamber. His boots scraped against the uneven stone floor, slipping slightly as he pushed himself faster.

But the moment he moved, the silence shattered. A loud metallic creak echoed behind him, sharp and foreboding, as if the suits had come to life with a mind of their own once more. Harry’s pulse skipped. They were moving again.

Not waiting to look back, Harry forced himself to move faster, every muscle in his body coiled with urgency. His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts as he pushed himself harder, the weight of the key pressing against his palm. The air around him had changed—thick with tension, crackling with the undeniable shift of magic. He felt it, the unnatural hum vibrating through his bones, an unspoken warning that the suits were no longer dormant.

The sound came next. A sickening clatter of shifting armour, the harsh scrape of metal against stone. The grinding noise of ancient joints stiff with time, now creaking back to motion with dreadful inevitability. He didn’t need to look back—he knew what he would see. The suits were moving again, faster this time, no hesitation in their pursuit. The corridor ahead yawned before him, but the exit felt impossibly far away.

“Bloody hell—” he gasped, his legs burning as he surged forward.

The torches lining the walls flickered wildly, their flames twisting and sputtering as if disturbed by something massive, something far more powerful than just the rush of air from his sprint. Shadows danced erratically across the stone, stretching and warping in a way that made the corridor feel narrower, as though the walls themselves were closing in.

The suits were faster this time. He could hear it—the thunderous pound of their heavy footfalls growing closer, the relentless scrape of metal against stone. Worse still, the sharp, unmistakable whistle of swords cutting through the air, slicing so close behind him that he could almost feel the displaced air at his back.

The entrance was just ahead. So close—almost there. He gritted his teeth, pushing harder, lungs burning as he surged forward, reaching for the only escape he had left.

A sudden gust of wind roared past his ear, and before he could react, something slammed into the wall just inches from his shoulder. A sword. Embedded in the stone, the force of the impact sending cracks spidering outward. Harry ducked instinctively, throwing himself forward as another blade sliced through the air where he had been standing a moment before. His heart slammed against his ribs. They weren’t just trying to corral him anymore.

They were trying to kill him.

The silence was so abrupt, so absolute, that it left his ears ringing. One moment, there had been the deafening clatter of metal, the relentless scrape of swords, the heavy footfalls pounding closer—then nothing.

Harry lay there for a second, chest heaving, forehead pressed against the cool stone. His entire body trembled with the aftershocks of adrenaline, muscles taut as if expecting another blow. But none came. Slowly, cautiously, he lifted his head, turning just enough to look behind him. The suits of armour stood frozen at the very edge of the chamber, their weapons raised mid-strike, halted as though held in place by an unseen force. The moment he had crossed that invisible boundary, they had stopped, locked once more in eerie stillness.

His breath came in ragged gulps as he pushed himself upright, wincing at the sharp ache in his shoulder. The key was still clutched tightly in his hand, its cold surface biting into his palm. He swallowed, throat dry. Whatever enchantment controlled the suits, it clearly had limits. Harry exhaled shakily, dragging a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. He didn’t want to think about how close that had been. Instead, he turned away from the chamber, fingers tightening around the key. 

He still had to find Draco. And something told him—this key would be the only way forward.

“Too close,” he muttered.

Harry's feet moved instinctively, though his mind was still reeling, his breath ragged and his hands trembling. The key, still clutched tightly in his let hand, felt cold against his palm as he retraced his steps toward the place where the wall had once been. The little orb of  flames once again floated next to him, showing him the way. He knew it was coming. The wall ahead, which had once seemed like an entrance, now appeared more solid, more certain. He could feel the magic thrumming beneath his skin, a force that was both familiar and foreign, pulsing with ancient power. As he approached, he squinted at the symbols, his fingers tracing the edges in the air as if they might reveal their meaning with a simple touch. And then, there it was—the shape at the centre of the design, unmistakable. The serpent, its body winding around a crescent moon. Harry’s stomach tightened. The serpent’s eyes seemed to gleam with a hidden malice, the moon beneath it almost glowing with a silver light that wasn’t entirely of this world. There was something deeply ominous about it, something that felt like a weight pressing down on Harry's chest.

“Come on, Harry,” he muttered under his breath. “Let’s hope it’s just a door.”

He turned the key in his hand, feeling its weight shift uneasily, as if the object itself were reluctant to fulfil its purpose. The symbols on the wall began to shimmer faintly, their glow pulsing with each breath Harry took. He approached cautiously, his fingers brushing the carvings again, but this time they didn’t feel just like cold stone. The magic was strong here, ancient, and dangerous, wrapping around him as if to test his resolve. With a deep breath, Harry shoved the key into a groove that had formed in the centre of the serpent’s coils. The metal of the key clicked against something unseen, and the symbols on the wall began to shift. The serpent’s body undulated as if alive, the crescent moon twisting beneath it like the pull of some unseen tide. For a split second, Harry’s vision swam, the edges of the world blurring around him as if reality itself was warping. The key turned effortlessly in his hand now, the ancient lock surrendering to his touch.

And then—nothing.

The wall before him remained solid. The serpentine design had stopped moving, and the key, once again, felt cold and inert. Harry’s heart thudded painfully in his chest, his breath coming faster as frustration began to rise.

“Come on...” he whispered urgently. “You know it’s more than just a lock.”

He looked closer at the wall, his eyes narrowing on the serpent and the moon. The deeper he looked, the more the designs seemed to pulse, to stretch outward. He could almost feel their ancient magic working against him. It was as if the very wall was aware of his presence, testing his patience. There was a hidden layer to this, something he hadn’t understood yet. And it was then that Harry realized—this wasn’t just a puzzle to be solved through strength, or even simple logic. This was about connection. The serpent and the moon were more than just symbols; they were a language, a reflection of something older than even the magic he had encountered.

“Maybe… it’s not just the key,” Harry murmured. “Maybe it’s…”

His breath hitched again as he felt the surge of realization creeping in, slow and inevitable. He reached up with trembling hands, pressing his palms flat against the cold stone, feeling the magic thrumming beneath his fingertips. It pulsed steadily, waiting—not for force, not even for patience, but for something else entirely.

Something only he could give.

Harry’s throat went dry.

His gaze locked onto the serpent at the centre of the design, its coiled body winding in intricate, ancient patterns. The way it curved, the way its head tilted ever so slightly, mouth parted just enough—it was poised, expectant.

Waiting.

Harry's stomach twisted. No. No, it couldn’t be

And yet, the realisation struck like a blow to the chest.

He knew what the wall wanted.

A voice.

His voice.

His fingers curled against the stone, and he swallowed hard, bile rising in his throat. He had hoped—prayed—that the skill had vanished along with Voldemort’s soul, burned away with everything else the war had stolen from him. But it had lingered. Buried, dormant, but never truly gone. 

The wall wanted Parseltongue.

For weeks after Voldemort’s death, he had thought the ability had left him, as if it had been burned away along with the fragment of the Dark Lord’s soul that had once lived inside him. And then, one day, it had returned—unbidden, unwanted. It had slithered back into his mind like a shadow, brought back to him by a simple grass snake at The Burrow, and he had hated it.

Hated the memories it brought with it.

Nagini, coiling in the darkness, slithering over broken bodies. Voldemort’s voice, cold and cruel, Kill the vermin. Feast, my pet. The way the snake’s jaws unhinged. The sounds. The screaming that never lasted long enough.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled sharply through his nose. He could almost hear Voldemort’s voice in his head, whispering commands to Nagini. Could almost see the snake slithering over shattered corpses, smell the coppery tang of blood in the air. The memories clawed at him, vivid and unforgiving.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it. Not now.

He opened his mouth, and the words came—soft, sinuous, rolling off his tongue in a way that was as effortless as it was sickening.

“Open.”

The moment the word left his lips, the air around him trembled. The stone under his hands grew warm. The serpent’s body shifted, its carved coils moving as though coming to life, its head rising from the wall to meet his gaze. The crescent moon beneath it began to glow, casting strange, twisting shadows along the chamber floor.

Harry barely breathed. The hiss of Parseltongue lingered in the air like an echo, the sound bouncing back at him in a way that almost felt like an answer. He clenched his jaw, refusing to acknowledge the way something deep in him still liked speaking the language—the way it felt so natural, like second nature.

But right now? Right now, he didn’t care. Right now, he was ridiculously relieved he still had it.

Harry exhaled, barely aware he was holding his breath. The sight of the shifting stone, the way it twisted and folded in on itself like something alive, sent a shiver down his spine. The wall no longer looked like solid rock—it rippled, undulating like the surface of a disturbed lake, the once-carved runes melting away into nothingness. Then, with one final, grinding shudder, the stone parted. It didn’t crack or crumble but peeled back in smooth, fluid layers, parting like an unseen mouth revealing the darkness beyond. A cold drought rushed out, carrying the scent of damp stone and something faintly metallic, something old.

The passage was open.

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. His heart pounded with urgency. He needed to find Draco.

He stepped forward.

However, Harry had barely taken three steps when something within him twisted—not a thought, not a feeling, but something deeper, older. It pulled at him like a thread caught on an unseen hook, a silent insistence that made his skin prickle. The air around him seemed to shift, the weight of the magic pressing just a fraction heavier against his chest. Grimmauld’s magic, perhaps, whispering in the back of his mind. Or something more instinctual, woven into him after years of surviving places exactly like this—places steeped in history, in hidden dangers, in secrets waiting to be uncovered.

Harry hesitated mid-step. The feeling didn’t wane; if anything, it intensified, curling around his ribs like a warning. He knew better than to ignore it. Before he could second-guess himself, he turned sharply on his heel, striding back toward the entrance. The key. The moon and serpent. He didn’t know why, but he knew—knew in that undeniable, bone-deep way—that he would need it soon.

Reaching down towards where it still lay within the stone, he snatched it up, the metal still cool against his palm. He exhaled, steadying himself. Whatever lay ahead, he wouldn’t face it unprepared. Without another glance back, he shoved it deep within his the pockets of his denim trousers and turned toward the descent once more.

A deep unease settled in his chest as he stepped into the stairwell passage once more. Each step down felt like stepping further into something ancient, something forgotten. The jagged stones lining the passage seemed to shift in the flickering light, casting warped, elongated shadows that danced along the walls. The air was colder here—thicker, almost permeable. The scent of damp rock mingled with something more elusive, something metallic and sharp that made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end. The magic in this place was old, woven into the very bones of the stone, humming faintly beneath his fingertips whenever he brushed against the walls.

The orb darted lower, weaving through the dark with effortless ease, its glow reflecting off the uneven surfaces ahead. Harry kept his wand steady in his grip, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder. There was nothing behind him. There couldn’t be.

Swallowing hard, he gripped his wand tighter and followed. Whatever waited for him at the bottom, he could only hope it would lead him back to where he had fallen from.

The staircase was steep and narrow, each step unevenly worn by the passage of time. His shoes scuffed against the stone, sending small echoes spiralling into the abyss below. The air grew colder the further he descended, a damp chill seeping into his skin. The orb of light flitted ahead of him, a solitary beacon in the oppressive gloom. Its glow reflected faintly on the damp walls, casting fleeting shadows that seemed to ripple like water. Every so often, Harry swore he heard something—a whisper of movement just beyond the reach of the light, a breath that was not his own. He tightened his grip on his wand, pulse quickening. The air felt charged, alive with something unseen. The house was watching. 

Waiting.

The deeper he descended, the colder it grew. The chill seeped through his clothes, wrapping around his skin and settling uncomfortably in his bones. His breath came in shallow puffs, each exhale forming faint swirls in the air. The vague scent of damp moss clung to everything, mingling with an underlying metallic tang that made his stomach churn. The walls felt closer now, the passage narrowing slightly, forcing him to move with more care. A drop of water fell from above, landing on his nose like ice. He swallowed against the unease coiling in his gut. The further he went, the heavier the air became, damp and pressing in on his body like an unseen force, making every step feel like a descent into something far older than he could yet comprehend. 

“What is this place?” he muttered to himself, his voice swallowed by the pervasive silence. It felt as though he was at the very foundations of Grimmauld.

For all he knew, he was.

The flame didn’t respond—of course it didn’t, he already felt loony talking to it—but it seemed to sense his growing unease. It slowed its pace slightly, lingering just far enough ahead to keep him moving. The path spiralled downward, the air growing thicker with every step, damp and heavy with the scent of earth and something faintly metallic. His heart thudded heavily in his chest, a constant, insistent rhythm that echoed in his ears. His grip tightened around his wand, knuckles whitening as tension coiled in his muscles.

Then, without warning, the staircase ended.

His foot faltered as he reached the final step, nearly pitching him forward onto the cold, uneven ground below. The orb hovered at eye level, its glow spreading out to reveal a cavernous chamber. It was massive, far larger than he’d expected, and yet the space felt suffocating. Jagged stalactites hung from the ceiling like the teeth of some monstrous creature, their sharp edges glinting faintly in the orb’s light. The floor was uneven, dotted with shallow pools of water that mirrored the eerie blue glow of his companion. Shadows danced along the walls, their shapes twisting and shifting with every flicker of the orb’s light.

The room felt as alive as every other perilous place within Grimmauld. Magic buzzed in the air, a low hum that vibrated through the soles of his boots. He could feel it crawling along his skin, brushing against his scar like the whisper of a ghost. The orb drifted further into the chamber, its light growing softer, more subdued, as though hesitant to disturb the space. Harry followed, his wand raised and ready, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was preparing for.

The centre of the room was marked by a strange formation—a circle of smooth, polished stone that gleamed faintly in the dim light, as though it held something alive within. Runes were etched into its surface, their intricate lines and curves flowing with an elegance that seemed unnatural, impossibly perfect. They glowed faintly, pulsing with an otherworldly light that seemed to breathe, stretching and contracting in time with the orb’s movements. The rhythm of the light was subtle yet deliberate, as if the very magic of the room recognised the orb’s presence, responding in kind to something ancient, something powerful. Each pulse resonated deep within his chest, as though it was drawing out a part of him he hadn’t known existed, an unspoken connection to the arcane forces at play.

“What is this?” he breathed, stepping closer to the circle.

The orb floated above the runes, its light intensifying for a brief moment before it began to weave through the air, its movements fluid and purposeful. It darted around the circle, tracing its edges with a deliberate precision, as though it were urging him to pay attention, to understand. 

Kneeling beside the formation, Harry extended his hand cautiously, his fingers brushing lightly over the etched stone. The surface was cold, almost unnaturally so, and the runes seemed to hum beneath his touch, their resonance vibrating through his bones. It was as though the magic itself was alive, breathing, responding to his presence. A faint, almost imperceptible whisper filled the air, a sound too soft to discern but persistent enough to send a shiver down his spine. It felt like a secret, just out of reach—something old, something waiting to be unlocked.

“I hope this isn’t a trap,” he muttered, glancing up at the orb. “Because I’m really not in the mood to fight whatever arcane calamity this bloody house has managed to generate out of nowhere.”

The orb pulsed once more, a quick, sharp flicker that almost felt like a reprimand, as if it were trying to urge him on with a touch of impatience.

“Well, alright, don’t get snippy,” he muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes. “Merlin, you remind me of Draco with that attitude,” he smirked at the thought, his chest warm despite himself, even as the orb’s glow deepened in response.

Shuffling even closer, Harry peered at the runes, his brow furrowing in concentration. Their faint glow shifted in rhythmic pulses, almost as if they were breathing with him, waiting. If he were to guess, he’d say they weren’t just decorative; they were purposeful—each symbol, each curve carefully placed for some hidden reason. The whispering hum in the air grew louder, its cadence shifting, like the voice of the magic itself, coaxing him to act.

“Alright, fine,” he muttered under his breath, drawing his wand. “Let’s see what kind of puzzle you’ve brought me to, shall we?”

The flame hovered impatiently to his side, bobbing like an exasperated companion, its glow flickering in subtle rhythms as if it, too, were eager to move things along. It shifted slightly, casting elongated reflections over the etched lines, as though trying to guide him. Harry squinted, following the flickering light as it seemed to linger just a moment longer over one rune, a faint pulse of brilliance illuminating the intricate curves

“Oh, I see how this is going to go,” he muttered to himself, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

He aimed the tip of his wand toward the glowing mark, feeling the air around him hum. He tapped it lightly, and instantly, the rune flared with a warm golden light, sharp and brilliant, before fading back into its usual subdued glow. The whispering around him grew louder, not words, but a throbbing pulse—more a sensation of approval than any audible sound, a shift in the very atmosphere. The orb zipped off again, darting to another spot with sudden urgency, circling over a second rune in what felt like a silent command, as if urging him to continue. Without hesitation, he touched it next, repeating the motion with his wand. Again, the rune responded, lighting up with a soft silver shimmer, radiant yet fleeting, before dimming once more. As the light faded, the energy in the room shifted perceptibly, thickening in the air like an audience holding its breath, waiting for the next move.

“Alright,” he murmured, more to himself now, his focus narrowing. “Two for two. Let’s not muck this up.”

The orb darted to a third rune, its movements swift and deliberate, and Harry’s wand followed without hesitation. This one was more intricate than the others, the lines twisting together in a shape that resembled a coiled serpent, its form curling in on itself in an almost hypnotic pattern. Harry paused for just a fraction of a second, a fleeting uncertainty passing through him before he tapped it with his wand.

The glow that followed was brighter—sharp and radiant—spilling out across the other runes, connecting them in an intricate web of luminous threads that seemed to hum with life. Each rune flickered briefly before the threads expanded, drawing a faint but undeniable connection between them. He moved quickly, his wand tracing over a fourth, fifth, and sixth rune, each one lighting up in turn, the web growing tighter, more complex, like the strands of an unspoken language woven into the fabric of the room.

For a moment, nothing happened. The air thickened, and an odd stillness fell over the chamber. But then, the ground beneath him began to hum with a soft vibration, like the earth itself was waking. The runes emitted a faint, bell-like chime that echoed through the space, sending a ripple of magic through the air. Slowly, just beyond the circle, shimmering platforms began to materialise—delicate as breath. They hovered mid-air, translucent and iridescent, catching the dim light like fragments of a broken rainbow, glowing softly, as if inviting him forward into their strange, suspended world.

Harry stood, his wand still gripped tightly in one hand as he gaped at the sight. The platforms extended out into the cavernous darkness, forming a narrow, unsteady-looking path that seemed to stretch infinitely.

“You have got to be joking,” he muttered, his stomach flipping uncomfortably. The orb, however, was anything but amused.

It darted toward the first platform, zipping back and forth in what was clearly a gesture of encouragement—or impatience.

“Right. Of course. Just stroll across a bunch of invisible sky-bridges like it’s the most natural thing in the world,” he grumbled, taking a cautious step toward the edge of the stone circle. He leaned forward slightly, squinting at the first platform. It seemed sturdy enough, but the faint, shimmering edges did little to convince him it wouldn’t disappear the moment he set foot on it.

The orb zipped back to him, its light flaring in what he could only interpret as annoyance.

“Alright, alright, I’m going! You’re as bad as Hermione and Draco,” he said, stepping fully onto the platform.

The moment his trainer made contact, the surface pulsed with light, spreading out beneath him in rippling waves. It held firm, though, and he exhaled a shaky breath.

“Okay. Not dead. That’s a start.”

The orb darted ahead again, urging him onward. With a deep breath, he followed, stepping carefully from one platform to the next. Each one shimmered faintly beneath his feet, their surfaces cool and slightly slippery, as though they were made of solidified moonlight. The path twisted and turned, some platforms larger than others, some barely wide enough for both his feet. The farther he went, the less certain he felt about the path’s stability. The gaps between the platforms grew wider, and he had to steel himself before each jump.

“Brilliant,” Harry muttered under his breath. “Who doesn’t love a death-defying obstacle course? Bet Draco would’ve hexed the lot of these things already.” 

The words left his mouth before he could stop them, but mentioning Draco like that sent a sharp pang through his chest, deep and sudden. The thought of him, so close yet unreachable, spurred him forward with renewed urgency. The memory of Draco’s absence, of him laying out cold on the floor, pulling at Harry like a magnet. He couldn’t afford to dawdle, not now.  The eerie silence seemed to grow thicker, more threatening with each step. Still, the orb, floating ahead of him, flickered—its light pulsing faster, like something was driving it forward with impatience. The platforms began to rise before him, their edges sharp, angling upward in a steep incline that made his calves burn with the effort. Each movement was careful, deliberate, as though the air around him was thickening with the very magic of the chamber itself, as if the room was watching, waiting for something.

His grip on his wand tightened involuntarily, the familiar weight grounding him as he moved. The orb stopped just ahead, its glow now bright and insistent, hovering near the final platform. It was larger than the others, more imposing, its surface gleaming with a pale, almost ethereal light. Beyond it, he could just make out a dark opening, leading into another chamber entirely. The orb flickered once more, urging him to step onto the platform. It was clear now—he had no choice but to go forward.

“Nearly there,” he muttered, forcing himself to pick up the pace despite the burning in his calves.

As he stepped onto the last platform, the orb darted toward the chamber’s entrance, casting its light ahead to reveal a long, shadowy corridor. The runes on the stone platform flared one last time behind him, the soft chime echoing like a farewell.

Harry straightened, his heart pounding as he stared into the corridor’s darkness. “You’d better be at the end of this, Draco,” he said quietly, stepping forward into the unknown.

The world came back to him in pieces—fractured shards of awareness that were far too loud, far too sharp. Every nerve in his body seemed to scream in protest as he blinked against the dim light. Breathing hurt, shallow and tight, like his ribs had been used as a chew toy for some deranged magical creature. The cold, uneven floor beneath him sent an ache through his chest, and his shoulder… his shoulder felt like it had been yanked out of its socket and stomped on for good measure.

As he opened his eyes and looked around, Draco realised the room hadn’t changed; that much was clear. It was still the same dreary room, its ceiling half-collapsed and the floor littered with debris and a tangle of roots. The fog was gone, thank Salazar, but the air carried the same dense cloud of magic that felt far too dark and sentient for comfort.

“Brilliant,” he muttered hoarsely, his voice cracked and raspy. “Because being unconscious on a cursed corridor for Merlin knows how long was absolutely how I wanted to spend my time.”

Trying to get up, Draco realised he couldn’t, as sharp pain shoot through his right side the moment he moved. His arm was completely useless. Any attempt to move it sent a bolt of white-hot pain shooting down his side. He didn’t need a Healer to tell him his shoulder was dislocated. Gritting his teeth, he shifted slightly, his left hand fumbling for his wand, which was mercifully still tucked into his waistband.

“Right, Malfoy,” he mumbled, trying to ignore how clammy his skin felt, “you’ve got this. Just a simple Episkey, and we’ll be back to our usual dashing self in no time.”

The wand felt heavier than it should as he raised it shakily toward his shoulder. His fingers trembled, both from the pain and the growing wave of doubt that he could actually manage this without completely mucking it up. He’d seen dislocated shoulders reset before—usually by Healers who had the benefit of two working arms and a lack of magical trauma rattling their nerves.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Episkey,” he muttered, his voice firmer this time.

The spell sparked abruptly, sending a sharp jolt of warmth through his shoulder that made him gasp. It wasn’t pleasant, not in the slightest. The joint shifted with an audible pop that echoed unnervingly in the empty chamber, and he nearly blacked out again from the sheer intensity of it. The pain was sudden, unwelcome, like an electric shock racing through his nerves, and for a moment, everything swam in a haze of white. He gritted his teeth, swallowing back the bile that threatened to rise in his throat.

When he flexed his fingers experimentally, a dull ache pulsed through the area where the injury had once been, but it was at least preferable to the searing agony from before. Ideally, he would’ve wanted to immobilise it, to avoid further trauma, but alas, he needed both his arms if he wanted to leave Grimmauld alive. Nevertheless, the feeling was almost reassuring in its familiarity, the dull pain grounding him back in his body, reminding him that he was still whole—still capable of moving, of fighting, of pushing forward. The shoulder would hurt, yes, but it was nothing compared to the crippling pain he'd endured just moments ago. With a shaky breath, he steadied himself, forcing his mind to focus once more.

“Well, that’s something,” he muttered, slumping back against the wall. Sweat trickled down his temple, and his pulse was racing far faster than it had any right to. His wand clattered to the ground beside him, and he let it rest there for now, unwilling to expend more energy than necessary.

The room was eerily quiet save for his laboured breathing. The absence of the fog’s sinister hiss made it almost unnervingly still, and for a moment, he allowed himself to simply sit there, his head tilted back against the cool stone wall.

Potter.

The name struck him like a rogue Bludger straight to the face. The last thing he remembered was the Gryffindor idiot shouting something—his name, actually, which sent an unwelcome rush of warmth through his chest. Then there had been pain, darkness, and… nothing. His jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as he wrestled with the creeping sense of dread. Potter wasn’t here.

The first thought, sharp and defensive, was that the blasted hero had probably gone gallivanting off to play saviour somewhere else, leaving him behind like an inconvenient bit of luggage. Typical. He should have known better than to—

No.

Potter wouldn’t leave him. Not even in a situation as dire as this. Or perhaps especially because it was so dangerous. If there was one thing Draco knew about Harry Potter, it was that he was infuriatingly incapable of abandoning people, even when he probably should. That deep, misguided kindness of his wouldn’t allow it. Flashes of flying through a room on fire, of his chest pressed tightly against Potter’s back, his heart beating so loudly he could feel it in his throat, came to mind. The suffocating heat, the acrid smoke, the way Potter’s grip on his hand had been unrelenting, firm, as if letting go was never an option. Draco had never understood it—never understood why Potter had turned back for him, why he’d risked himself, why he still did.

He shook his head, tying to refocus. No, Potter would never leave him here to die, alone. That much was certain. But certainty did little to quiet the gnawing fear in his gut, the terrible sensation of waiting, of hoping.

The house. It had to be the house. 

Grimmauld had separated them. It wasn’t even a question anymore. Of course it had. The realisation hit him like a bucket of ice water, and for a moment, he felt ashamed of his own cynicism. 

His gaze darted around the dilapidated corridor, his stomach twisting at the sight. The walls had changed since he passed out, as they were now more visibly scarred with age and neglect, large sections cracked and crumbling. Gnarled roots still snaked their way across the stone, some as thick as his arm, twisting into unnatural shapes as they disappeared into shadowed corners. Shards of splintered wood and broken tiles littered the floor, along with a fine layer of dust and debris that clung to the air, making it feel heavier with each breath. It was colder than it had been before, dampness seeping through his clothes as if the corridor itself was breathing cold air onto him. The faint sound of water dripping echoed from somewhere unseen, a slow, rhythmic patter that only made the silence more unnerving and his anxiety prickle at his fingers.

“Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant,” he muttered, his voice bouncing off the cracked walls as if mocking him. The air was thick, and the faint glow of the sconces clinging to the walls seemed the only source of light. They shimmered faintly, the glow almost pulsing, as though waiting for something—or someone.

His breath hitched, coming quicker now, shallow and sharp. The walls seemed to lean inward the longer he looked at them, the roots writhing just slightly, as if they, too, were alive despite being part of a literal house. A sharp pang shot through his shoulder, reminding him of his recent attempt to heal it, and he grimaced. 

“Wonderful,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Just what I needed—a haunted arboretum to go with my day.”

The disorientation was setting in now, the tightness in his chest creeping upward, coiling around his ribs like a vice. His breaths were coming too fast, too shallow, and he hated the way the air in this place felt—heavy, stale, as if it were pressing in on him from all sides. But worse than that, Potter wasn’t here. And he hated how the absence felt. Not just for the practical reason of needing backup, of having someone to watch his blind spots, but for the stupid, irrational feeling of being left behind. Of being alone in a way that had nothing to do with physical presence, in a way that sent his mind spiralling back to childhood rooms that felt too big, too cold, the punishing gaze of his father as he walked by without a kind word.

He gritted his teeth, swallowing hard against the ache clawing up his throat. This wasn’t then. Potter would come back. He had to.

“Relax,” he muttered to himself, forcing his mind to focus. “Potter wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t leave me here,” he clenched his jaw, dragging his gaze to the roots. Potter had tried to save him, that had to mean something.

He wanted it to mean something.

Stepping closer, his Oxfords crunched against the debris, the sound too loud in the stillness. His wand trembled slightly in his hand as he raised it, the faint glow of its tip illuminating more of the jagged roots and peeling plaster. The sconces shimmered faintly as he approached, their light growing stronger, and a low hum filled the corridor. 

“Alright, house,” he said, his voice cracking slightly despite his best efforts. “If this is your idea of fun, I’m not laughing. Now, show me where he is.” 

The sconces flickered again, their glow rippling across the walls like water disturbed by a breeze. The hum grew louder, resonating through his chest, and for the briefest moment, he thought he saw something—movement at the edge of his vision. A flicker of light, faint and fleeting, disappearing as soon as it came. A chill ran down his spine, instinct prickling at the edges of his awareness. He turned sharply, wand raised, but there was nothing—just the same peeling walls, the same creeping shadows that stretched unnaturally in the wavering light. The sconces pulsed again, the glow shifting in erratic patterns, and the hum deepened, reverberating through his bones.

Draco swallowed against the dryness in his throat, fingers tightening around his wand. “Brilliant,” he muttered under his breath. “Nothing unsettling about a haunted house leading me around like a bloody niffler with a pocket watch.”

He took another step, forcing himself to move forward even as his instincts screamed to turn back. The glow slithered along the corridor walls, guiding him toward something unseen, something waiting. He wasn’t sure if the house was answering him or taunting him, but either way, it wanted him to keep going. He swallowed hard, ignoring the uneasy twist of his stomach. 

The house was playing a game, but games had rules. And if there was one thing Draco Malfoy excelled at, it was finding a way to win.

Still, the thought of navigating this cursed place alone made his hands clammy, and his heart thudded harder than he wanted to admit. The house might have separated them, but he would find Potter.

He had to.

The sconces lining the walls flickered weakly, their ancient flames casting long, jittery shadows that danced across the crumbling stone. Each step forward sent echoes skittering down the length of the corridor he was still walking through, the sound unnervingly sharp against the uncomfortable silence that surrounded him. Draco forced himself to keep moving, ignoring the faint twinge in his shoulder and the tightening knot in his chest. Debris crunched beneath his shoes as he picked his way forward. The roots seemed thicker here, curling up from the floor and threading across the walls like veins, pulsing faintly as though in response to his presence. He glanced at them uneasily, half-expecting one to lunge at him.

Then he saw it again—just for a moment. A small flicker of light darting ahead, its glow soft and silvery, barely more than a glimmer against the dark. Draco froze, his breath catching in his throat. It couldn’t have been a trick of the sconces; the flames were far too dim and too low near the wall for that. No, this light was different.

“Right,” he muttered under his breath, squaring his shoulders as he took a hesitant step closer. “If you’re going to try and lure me into some godforsaken deathtrap, you’ll have to do better than that.”

The light didn’t respond—of course, it didn’t—but it reappeared a moment later, flickering further down the corridor like a moth flitting just beyond reach. A soft, almost shy movement.

Despite himself, curiosity tugged at him. There was something strangely compelling about the light, its faint glow a stark contrast to the gloom that pressed in from all sides. He quickened his pace, his Oxfords catching on an errant root, making him trip, his grip tightening on his wand. A few metres ahead, the corridor widened, the walls giving way to jagged panes of glass and fractured metal frames. The air grew colder, carrying with it a faint, earthy scent—damp soil, decaying plants, and a trace of something sweet and floral.

It was a greenhouse, or at least, it had been once.

The arched ceiling above him had long since collapsed, leaving gaping holes where shards of glass clung stubbornly to rusted beams, refracting the weak light like fractured memories. Vines and moss crept up every available surface, their slow, deliberate conquest for territory erasing the careful structure that once existed. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decay, underscored by the faintest trace of something floral—ghosts of blooms that had long since wilted. Stone planters sat in uneven rows, their edges softened by layers of green, their contents overgrown and wild, spilling out in tangled defiance. Among them, sickly pale flowers stretched towards the sky, their petals trembling as if caught in an unseen breeze.

Draco paused just inside the threshold, his breath catching at the sight. It was eerie, yet strangely beautiful, the remnants of life clawing their way through the ruin, determined and unrelenting. The interplay of light and shadow painted the space in hues of muted gold and deep green, as if time itself had blurred at the edges. The sconces here were even weaker here, their flames barely a flicker, their feeble glow swallowed by the vastness of the overgrowth. In their absence, the shadows loomed larger, stretching across the stone floor in long, distorted shapes that wavered with each uncertain gust of wind. The air carried a damp chill, heavy with the scent of moss and wilted petals, and as Draco exhaled, his breath curled in the dim light like a whispered echo of something long forgotten.

Then he saw it again—the light.

This time, it didn’t dart away. It hovered a few metres ahead, suspended above a shattered planter, its glow soft and steady. A small flame of silvery-blue light, its edges hazy and undefined, shifting like mist caught in moonlight.

His heart skipped a beat, and his wand arm wavered ever so slightly. He’d heard of these before.

Will-o’-the-wisp.

“Oh my days,” he murmured, the words barely more than a whisper. He had never seen a true will-o’-wisp, only the distantly related hinkypunk, during their third year classes with Professor Lupin. Though very similar, he knew wisps were peaceful, shy creatures compared to their more malevolent cousins, who revelled in inconveniencing and burning people with their lamps.

A part of him wanted to scoff at the idea, to dismiss it as another trick of the house’s maddening magic, a mere illusion meant to disorient and mislead. But as he stepped closer, his breath shallow, he couldn’t deny the sense of wonder curling in his chest; a quiet, insistent pull. It wasn’t just the way the light pulsed gently, as if it were breathing in tandem with him. It was the way it hovered just beyond his reach, delicate and unearthly, its glow shifting in soft waves, neither warm nor cold. There was an invitation in its flickering presence, a promise of something unseen, something hidden just beyond the veil of what he understood.

And despite himself, despite every rational instinct, he wanted to follow.

The wisp bobbed slightly, almost as if in response. Its glow intensified for a brief moment, casting a silvery sheen over the surrounding plants and broken glass, and Draco found himself captivated despite the ache in his shoulder and the tension knotting his spine.

If it was a trap, it was the most beautiful one he’d ever seen.

The wisp’s glow flickered once, twice—and then it darted behind the ruined planter, its light vanishing as quickly as a snuffed-out candle. Draco blinked at the sudden absence, his surroundings plunging back into the dim, wavering shadows cast by the tired sconces. He exhaled sharply through his nose, trying to tamp down the rush of irritation bubbling to the surface.

“Of course,” he muttered, brushing dirt from his trousers as he straightened. “The one thing in this place that doesn’t actively want to kill me, and it’s decided to play coy.”

He stepped forward cautiously, his shoes crunching over broken glass and dislodged bits of stone. The faint floral scent mingled with the musty dampness of the air, wrapping around him like a heavy cloak. Despite his growing impatience, he couldn’t deny the faint sense of hope curling in his chest. Wisps were said to guide the lost, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that this one—shy though it might be—held the key to finding Potter.

He rounded the planter where the wisp had disappeared, his wand casting a faint glow to illuminate the tangled mess of vines and soil. Nothing. The shattered remains of a terracotta pot greeted him instead, its jagged edges dusted with spongy moss. He sighed and tapped his wand against his thigh.

“Alright, then,” he said, his voice low but steady. “You want to play games? Let’s play, little darling.”

A faint shimmer caught his eye from the corner of the room. The wisp peeked out from behind a column of ivy, its silvery glow barely visible against the dark. For a fleeting moment, it seemed to study him, its light pulsing faintly like a nervous heartbeat. But the moment he stepped closer, it darted away again, disappearing behind a cluster of broken glass panes leaning precariously against the wall.

“Brilliant,” Draco said dryly, shaking his head as he followed. “Guidance by way of hide-and-seek. Just my luck.”

Despite his sarcasm, he couldn’t quite suppress the faint thrill that accompanied the chase. The wisp’s movements were quick but purposeful, never truly out of reach, almost as though it wanted to be found but lacked the courage to linger too long in his presence. It flitted from one hiding spot to the next—behind a fallen beam, through a gap in the crumbling stone, weaving between overgrown ferns that clawed at his robes as he passed. It kind of reminded him of a Snitch, shy and elusive, and his face broke into a grin. He missed playing Quidditch—he wondered if Potter would like to play a Seeker’s Game sometime, after they got out of here.

As if.

He paused near the centre of the room, his breaths coming faster now, the ache in his shoulder a dull throb that refused to be ignored. The wisp had vanished again, and the greenhouse seemed heavier in its absence, the shadows pressing closer. Draco’s grip tightened around his wand as he scanned the room, his eyes adjusting to the gloom.

“Look,” he called, his voice soft but firm, “I don’t know if you can understand me, but I’m not here to harm you. I just need your help. You’re meant to guide the lost, aren’t you? Well, consider me thoroughly lost.”

The silence stretched, thick and unyielding, broken only by the faint drip of water somewhere in the distance. The weight of it pressed against his ribs, a quiet reminder of how alone he was in this place. For a brief, uneasy moment, he thought the wisp had gone entirely, slipping away like a figment of his imagination, abandoning him to this decaying ruin.

But then, just as he turned slightly, preparing to retreat down the corridor, the glow returned—a soft shimmer, like the first tentative flicker of a candle in the dark.

“Please,” he tried again, quieter this time. “Help me find my companion.”

It emerged slowly now, peeking out from beneath a twisted root that jutted up through the floor like the skeletal remains of some great, long-forgotten beast. The light was dimmer, more delicate, as if it, too, were uncertain. Draco exhaled, tension slipping from his shoulders, and instinctively lowered his wand. The gesture felt almost reverent, as though any sudden movement might startle it back into the shadows.

“There you are, little one” he murmured, his voice dipping into something unexpectedly gentle. “Not so shy after all, are you?”

The wisp bobbed faintly in response, its light pulsing in a slow, rhythmic pattern. It didn’t dart away this time, lingering just out of reach, as though testing him. Draco took a careful step forward, his steps slow and careful as to not make any sudden noises that might startle the little creature.

“Come on,” he coaxed, his tone laced with dry amusement despite the tension in his chest. “Surely, you’ve led enough hapless wanderers through haunted ruins to know I’m hardly the dangerous sort.”

The wisp’s light brightened slightly, and it began to drift further into the room, its movements slow and deliberate. Draco followed, his steps careful as he navigated the uneven ground. It led him toward the far end of the greenhouse, where the vines and debris seemed less dense, the air clearer and tinged with a faint, unfamiliar warmth. The faintest trace of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. For all its reticence, the wisp was undeniably leading him somewhere. And for the first time since waking in this cursed place, Draco felt the faint stirrings of hope.

“I’ll admit,” he muttered as he ducked beneath a low-hanging beam, “you’re not the most conventional guide I’ve had the misfortune of relying on. But beggars can’t be choosers, can they?”

The wisp pulsed again, almost as if in response, and Draco couldn’t help but wonder if it understood him after all. Whatever it was leading him toward—Potter, he hoped, though the thought sent an unexpected pang of anxiety through him—he could only trust that it knew the way better than he did.

The roots tangled and twisted like the hands of a beast carved into the crumbling stone wall, their gnarled tendrils offering precarious grooves for his hands and feet. They spiralled out of the crumbling stone wall, forming a natural lattice that served as his only means of climbing. His muscles burned with each pull, his legs trembling as they sought purchase on the uneven footholds. Sweat trickled down his temples, mingling with the grime smudged across his face, and for the umpteenth time, he cursed himself for ever letting his fitness go. Each stretch upward was a battle, his palms stinging from the rough bark and his arms burning with the effort of hauling himself higher. The wall stretched endlessly above him, disappearing into the gloom, and every time he dared to glance down, a dizzying swirl of nausea reminded him just how far he’d managed to climb—and how far he could fall.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered through gritted teeth, hoisting himself up another few inches. “I’m twenty-three, not ninety-three. You’d think I’d still have a bit of spring left in my step.”

The little orb hovering beside him—his self-appointed guide, or tormentor, depending on its mood—, pulsing faintly as though mocking his lacklustre progress. It darted left, then right, as if demonstrating how easy it would be to bypass the wall entirely. If it had a face, Harry was certain it’d be wearing a look of unimpressed judgement.

“Alright, mate, I get it,” he grumbled, squinting at the glowing figure through the sweat dripping into his eyes. “I’m moving, aren’t I? Not all of us can float about without breaking a sweat. Some of us have to rely on, you know, actual limbs. Don’t suppose you fancy lending a hand, do you?”

The wisp flickered sharply, its glow brightening and dimming in what Harry could only interpret as a huffy sort of no.

“Thought not,” he said, his voice tinged with dry amusement despite the ache in his arms. “Figures I’d get stuck with a cheeky one. Could’ve at least been encouraging, maybe done a little cheerleading.”

His fingers scrabbled against the slippery surface of a thinner root, and for a heart-stopping moment, he thought he was going to lose his grip entirely. But then his hand found purchase on a sturdier knot, and he hauled himself up another few inches, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

“Merlin’s beard,” he muttered, pressing his forehead against the rough bark as he paused again. “Why couldn’t this place have stairs? Or, you know, a lift? Would it kill ancient magical architecture to be a bit more accommodating?”

The orb zipped closer to his face, its flickering light casting strange shadows across his features. It hung there for a moment, pulsing softly, and he could almost imagine it was glaring at him in disapproval.

“Don’t give me that look,” he said, swiping at the sweat on his brow with his free hand. “You try climbing this monstrosity after spending years sitting on your arse.”

The little flame danced impatiently just above him, its glow pulsating in rapid little bursts. Harry squinted up at it, catching the impression of urgency in its movements.

“Oh, calm down,” he said, his voice dripping with exaggerated patience. “I’m going as fast as I can. Unless you’ve suddenly developed the ability to conjure a broomstick—or wings, for that matter—this is going to take some time.”

Apart from having to fight all kinds of magical horrors throughout Grimmauld with Malfoy, Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to do anything remotely this physical. Sure, running from Death Eaters had been its own brand of fitness regime, but that was years ago now, and it wasn’t as if wallowing in his owl self-pity and guild had done anything for his condition. On the contrary, they had done a fine job of softening the edges he used to pride himself on. Now he was much like how he had been during his first years at Hogwarts, all skin and bones but no muscle to be seen.

The orb flared again, brighter this time, and darted upward, its light disappearing into the shadows above.

“Oi!” he called after it, glaring at the empty space where it had been. “You can’t just bugger off! I’m not exactly equipped to do this on my own, you know.”

A moment later, the orb reappeared, its glow dimmer now, almost sulky. It hovered just above his head, pulsing faintly, as though it were indignant.

“Thank you,” he said, dragging himself up another notch. “Honestly, the attitude. You’re worse than Draco.”

The orb didn’t respond, but it lingered close enough to illuminate the next section of the climb. Harry’s arms ached, his legs trembled, and his back screamed in protest every time he twisted to find a better foothold. The wall felt endless, an unrelenting stretch of roots and jagged stone that seemed determined to wear him down. But giving up wasn’t an option. Not when he had no idea where Draco was—or what might have happened to him. The thought spurred him on, giving him just enough strength to push past the fatigue.

“Just a bit further,” he murmured to himself, though he had no idea how much further there actually was. “You’ve been through worse. You can do this.”

The orb flared again, casting a brighter light over the wall ahead. For all its cheek and impatience, it hadn’t abandoned him yet, and he found himself oddly grateful for its presence. It was a strange comfort, having something—someone?—there to push him forward, even if it came with a healthy dose of cheek.

“I don’t suppose you’d give me a hand, would you?” he asked, half-joking as he reached for another root. “You know, just zap me up to the top or something? No? Thought not.”

The orb bobbed in what he could only interpret as a firm ‘no’ before drifting higher again, its light urging him to follow.

With a sigh, he pressed on, his muscles screaming and his breath coming in ragged gasps. The roots seemed to grow thicker as he climbed, their twists and turns forming a natural ladder of sorts. The orb stayed close, its glow steady and reassuring despite its earlier impatience.

As the top of the wall came into view—a faint, jagged line against the gloom—he felt a flicker of hope. The climb had been brutal, but he was almost there. Just a few more feet, and he could finally figure out what fresh hell this place had in store for him next. With one final pull, his arm muscles straining against the weight of his own body, Harry managed to hoist himself up onto the edge of the wall. The rough stone scraped against his knees as he collapsed onto it, chest heaving and limbs trembling from exertion. He pressed his forehead against the cool surface, the relief almost enough to make him forget the climb altogether.

The orb danced impatiently nearby, its light flickering in sharp, exasperated pulses.

“Don’t start,” Harry muttered, rolling onto his back and flinging an arm over his face to block the glare. “Just… give me a moment, yeah? I’m only human, unlike you, you smug little fireball.”

It zipped closer to him, flaring once, twice, as though it were deeply unimpressed by his theatrics.

“Alright, alright,” he groaned, pushing himself up onto his elbows, wincing at the ache in his ribs. “I’m moving, I’m moving. Merlin forbid I take a second to recover after scaling the world’s most unfriendly wall.” His voice echoed in the stillness, a touch of self-deprecating humour that did little to ease the unease creeping along his spine.

He sat up fully, legs dangling over the edge, the cool air of the room brushing against his flushed skin. Surveying his surroundings, he realised the orb’s light was doing little more than offering a faint glow in the vast, shrouded space. Yet, through the haze, Harry could just make out the outline of a looming structure ahead. It looked like… glass? He squinted, narrowing his eyes at the sight of broken shards littering the ground, faintly catching the orb’s meagre light. The jagged edges glinted in odd patterns, as though they held memories of a time when they had been whole.

A greenhouse. Or at least, it had once been. Now, its skeletal frame barely clung to existence, twisted metal and shards of broken glass creating an eerie silhouette against the darkness. It resembled a skeleton picked clean by time, hollow and desolate. Around it, the space was overtaken by wild, rampant growth. Creeping vines wound their way up the walls, and twisted roots stretched out like tendrils, curving unnaturally in ways that made Harry’s stomach churn. They seemed far too alive, far too aware of his presence for his comfort.

He swung his legs over the side of the wall and dropped down into the overgrown mess below, the landing jarring enough to make his knees ache in protest. The ground was soft with damp earth, and he wrinkled his nose at the distinct smell of decay. The flame darted ahead, casting its light over the tangle of vegetation. Harry followed reluctantly, his wand in hand and his senses on high alert. He’d learned the hard way not to trust anything in this place—not even the ground beneath his feet.

As he moved closer to the greenhouse, the air grew heavier, damp and cloying, with the unmistakable scent of vegetation that had gone far too long without tending. The vines seemed to tremble faintly, their tendrils creeping along the ground and up the sides of the ruined structure.

“Brilliant,” he muttered, eyeing the greenery with suspicion. “Because of course it wouldn’t be a cursed greenhouse without something trying to eat me, would it?”

The orb darted back to him, its light flickering in what he could only interpret as amusement.

“Laugh it up, mate,” he said, stepping carefully over a particularly large root. “I’ll bet you’ve never been strangled by a plant before. Let me tell you, it’s not a good time.”

As if on cue, a low rustling sound filled the air, and Harry froze, his heart leaping into his throat. The vines all around him began to shift, their movements slow and deliberate, like snakes testing the air for prey. He swore under his breath, his wand snapping up instinctively. The orb floated just ahead, its light illuminating the source of the movement: a massive, writhing tangle of vines and roots, coiled together in a dense, living mass.

“Devil’s Snare,” he murmured, his stomach sinking. The plant’s shadowy tendrils stretched outwards, brushing against the shattered remains of the greenhouse walls as if testing its boundaries.

It shouldn’t have been here. The last time he had seen it, the damn thing had been steadily colonising his barely tended garden, creeping through the overgrown beds with a stubborn determination he had neither the patience nor the energy to fight. Even still, he had never—not once—seen a greenhouse anywhere on the grounds. It simply didn’t exist. Not in his memory, at the very least. Then again, neither did the ninety percent of the rooms he had seen since they had been trapped in Grimmauld.

Miraculously, this greenhouse—if it could still be called that—was barely holding together, its skeletal remains wrapped in rusted metal and shattered glass. The air looked thick, stagnant, yet somehow the plant had found a way to thrive here, pushing through cracks in the stone and curling around the corroded beams like it had always belonged there. It was a rude reminder that nothing in this place followed the logic it should. The house twisted things, warped them, turned the familiar into something unrecognisable. 

His little friend flickered near his shoulder, its glow pulsing in quick, sharp bursts that almost felt… impatient.

“Don’t rush me,” he hissed under his breath, eyes locked on the shifting mass of vines ahead. He took a cautious step back, his boot scuffing against loose debris. “You’re not the one who has to deal with this thing if it decides I look like lunch.”

The Devil’s Snare didn’t lunge, didn’t snap forward in that vicious, predatory way he half-expected. Instead, its tendrils curled and twisted with an unsettling slowness, creeping over the shattered glass and broken stone as if tasting the air. It was watching him—if something like this could watch—assessing, considering. Deciding whether he was a threat… or a meal.

Harry swallowed hard. He had no intention of being either.

“Lumos Solem,” he muttered, his wand-tip flaring with brilliant light. The plant recoiled immediately, its tendrils pulling back and curling in on themselves.

“Right,” he said, exhaling in relief as he edged around the perimeter of the greenhouse. “That’ll keep you at bay. Now, let’s see what’s so bloody important in here that I had to climb a death trap to find it.”

The orb floated ahead, its light guiding him through the tangle of vines and debris. Beyond the Devil’s Snare, the greenhouse opened into a wide, overgrown space. Broken pots and scattered soil littered the floor, and what remained of the glass roof offered a patchy view of the sky above. He had the sinking feeling it was going to make his life a lot more complicated. The greenhouse seemed to shudder around him as Harry stumbled back from another encroaching mass of Devil’s Snare, his wand raised and trembling slightly in his hand. Every breath felt heavy with tension, the thick, damp air carrying the scent of decay and something acrid that stung at the back of his throat. He could feel his pulse pounding in his ears, a rapid drumbeat that echoed his growing panic.

The vines were relentless now, twisting and writhing as if driven by a malevolent will. They slithered across the broken ground, curling over the shattered glass and debris with alarming speed. Thick tendrils lashed out, snapping mere inches from his face as he backpedalled toward a small fountain on top of a pedestal that stood in the middle of the path. His wand was slick with sweat, and he tightened his grip, his mind racing.

“Lumos Solem!” he shouted again, thrusting his wand forward. A blinding beam of light shot out, momentarily forcing the Devil’s Snare to recoil, but it didn’t retreat far. The plant hissed audibly, its tendrils curling back only to lunge forward with renewed ferocity from another side.

“Of bloody course, you're the stubborn type,” Harry muttered, his voice laced with both fear and frustration. He tried to sidestep, but a stray vine whipped around his ankle from the back, yanking him off balance.

He hit the ground hard, the impact slamming through his ribs and driving the air from his lungs in a sharp, painful gasp. The rough stone beneath him was littered with jagged glass, each shard biting into his palms and forearms as he instinctively tried to push himself up. A fresh sting bloomed along his skin, warm and wet, but there was no time to register the pain—

The vine constricted.

A sharp, twisting pressure wrapped around his calf, yanking him backward with terrifying strength. His nails scraped uselessly against the floor as he scrambled for purchase, but the Devil’s Snare was relentless, dragging him inch by inch toward its writhing, shadowy mass. The air around him grew thick, almost suffocating, the heavy scent of damp earth and something sickly sweet clogging his senses.

Then, beneath the rustling of shifting tendrils, a sound—deep, guttural, almost… alive.

A growl

“Oh, fuck, shite!” he gasped, slashing his wand through the air. “Diffindo!”

The spell sliced clean through the vine, severing it with a wet, snapping sound. Harry scrambled to his feet, his heart hammering in his chest as he staggered away. His leg throbbed where the vine had gripped him, a dark bruise already forming beneath the tattered hem of his jeans. The Devil’s Snare didn’t seem deterred by its loss. Instead, it surged forward, dozens of tendrils stretching out like grasping fingers. One coiled around a beam of rusted iron nearby, wrenching it free with a loud, metallic groan before hurling it in Harry’s direction.

“Bloody hell!” he yelped, ducking just in time as the beam smashed into the ground behind him. Dirt and debris exploded into the air, stinging his eyes and leaving him coughing.

The orb zipped frantically around him, its frantic motion mirroring the erratic pounding of his own heart. The air itself seemed to tremble, thick with urgency, and Harry could feel the weight of it pressing down on his chest. It darted towards the fountain again, its movements more insistent now, circling it with an almost desperate energy.

“What?” Harry snapped, his breath coming fast. “The fuck do you want me to do?” His voice was hoarse, frustration thickening each word as he struggled to make sense of whatever the flame was trying to tell him. His pulse was a frantic drum in his ears, drowning out reason.

His small companion flickered erratically, spinning in place so fast it almost blurred, the motion eerily reminiscent of worry.

“Helpful,” Harry muttered darkly, dragging a hand down his face. His mind raced, grasping at fraying strands of logic, at any possible solution before it was too late.

Another tendril lashed out, striking him hard across the ribs with a force that sent him sprawling. Pain exploded through his side, a sharp, searing ache that stole the breath from his lungs, leaving him gasping. He barely had time to register the sting of fresh scrapes on his elbows before he hit the ground again, glass crunching beneath him, its jagged edges biting into his skin. His vision swam for a moment, dark spots bursting across his gaze, but he forced himself to focus.

Gritting his teeth, he swallowed down the instinctive urge to cry out. It wouldn’t help him now—not when the thing seemed to respond to movement, to struggle. Instead, he rolled onto his back, ignoring the protesting burn in his ribs, and raised his wand in a desperate attempt to ward off the advancing vines. They moved in eerie unison now, no longer lashing blindly but closing in with deliberate purpose, shifting like a living, breathing entity. Their slow, sinuous movements sent a chill down his spine. Whatever intelligence guided them, it wasn’t mindless hunger—it was something worse. Something patient.

Then, a particularly thick tendril slammed into the ground beside him, narrowly missing his head. It reared up like a snake, poised to strike, and Harry’s grip on his wand tightened.

“Incendio!” he roared, the tip of his wand erupting in flames.

The fire licked hungrily at the plant, illuminating the greenhouse in flickering orange and red. The Devil’s Snare recoiled with an ear-splitting screech, its tendrils writhing violently as it retreated—but only slightly. Harry pushed himself up on shaky legs, his chest heaving as he backed away. The firelight reflected off the shattered glass scattered across the floor, creating a kaleidoscope of colours that danced chaotically in the growing darkness.

Just as he thought the plant was regrouping for another attack, the ground beneath him began to tremble. A deep, resonant groan echoed through the greenhouse, and Harry’s stomach sank.

“Oh, come on,” he muttered, glancing around wildly.

The Devil’s Snare wasn’t just attacking—it was uprooting itself.

The air filled with the deep, groaning protest of wood and stone as vast, gnarled roots tore through the floor, rending the earth apart with sickening ease. Shattered glass rained down around him, glinting in the flickering light of the failing sconces. The plant was no longer bound to one place; it was shifting, expanding, growing bigger as it broke the tiled floor with its tendrils. Its swollen mass pulsed with some dark, unholy hunger, its tangled limbs stretching ever outward like the grasping fingers of some monstrous entity clawing its way into existence. Tendrils lashed in all directions, striking the skeletal remains of the greenhouse like whips. Some coiled around rusted beams and yanked them down, sending plumes of dust and debris into the air, while others cracked against the stone walls with enough force to shatter them. The floor beneath Harry trembled, the very foundations of the room groaning under the relentless assault.

The flame zipped past him again, its light almost blinding as it darted insistently toward the door on the far side of the greenhouse.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it!” Harry shouted, stumbling toward the nearest visible exit. He could feel the plant’s tendrils brushing against his back, their cold, slimy texture sending shivers down his spine.

Just as he seemed to be halfway to the door, a massive vine slammed down in front of him, cutting off his escape. He whirled around, his wand raised, but the Devil’s Snare was everywhere, closing in from all sides.

And then, out of nowhere, a burst of light erupted to his left, followed by a sharp, familiar voice.

“Honestly, Potter, do you ever not end up in a near-death situation?”

A jet of fire streaked through the air, striking the nearest tendril and forcing it to recoil with a shriek that sounded almost sentient. The searing light cast wild, flickering shadows across the ruined greenhouse, illuminating the jagged wreckage in bursts of molten gold.

Harry turned sharply, his pulse pounding in his ears. And there he was.

Draco Malfoy stepped into view, his wand raised with effortless precision, his silvery grey eyes flashing with something that straddled the line between fear and undeniable exasperated fondness. His clothes were dishevelled and torn, streaked with dust and something that looked worryingly like blood, but his stance was steady, though Harry could spot him moving his right arm tenderly.

“Honestly, Potter,” Draco drawled, flicking his wand again as another tendril lunged. “Must you always find the worst possible way to get yourself killed?”

For a moment, Harry could only stare, his chest tightening with a flood of relief and something else so overwhelming it left him momentarily speechless. The flames surged higher at his command, licking hungrily at the encroaching vines, and Harry could only let out a breathless, half-laugh, half-sigh of relief.

“Draco!”

“Don’t just stand there and stare, you dolt,” Draco snapped, sending another non-verbal burst of flames at the Devil’s Snare. “Move!”

Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He darted toward Draco, his heart hammering as he narrowly avoided another lashing vine that smashed into the ground where he had just been standing. The force of it sent a tremor through the earth, a reminder of just how dangerously alive this place had become. Draco’s hand shot out, catching his arm with surprising strength for his willowy limbs and yanking him toward the far wall of the greenhouse. 

The sudden movement jarred Harry’s injured side, the sharp flare of pain making him wince, but he bit down on the groan threatening to escape his lips.

Draco’s grip tightened, dragging him faster, his steps sure and quick despite the chaos around them. “Move, Potter!” Draco snapped, his voice edged with a frustration that was as familiar as it was comforting. 

The heat of the fire was still crackling behind them, the smell of burning vine filling the air, but Draco was already pulling them through the smoking foliage with the same determination Harry had come to recognise whenever he was scared but resolute. They stumbled together, breathless, their footsteps heavy against the uneven, broken tiled ground as they reached the edge of that part of the greenhouse. Harry’s heart was still racing, his pulse pounding in his ears. For  a second, he allowed himself a brief moment to catch his breath as she heard the Devil’s Snare retreating at last, its tendrils receding into the wreckage with an almost pained hiss.

Draco’s grip on his arm loosened, but his eyes remained sharp, scanning the area for any signs of danger. The flames of their little orbs flickered beside them, their light dancing in a gentle rhythm around each other, as if enjoying the calm after the storm. The two flames seemed to mirror each other’s movements, a quiet harmony in their glow, just like them. Harry couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of relief at their presence, the silent promise that, for once, they might not be alone in facing what came next.

The brief connection, like the flames themselves, settled in his chest, and for a moment, the heaviness of the house, it’s magic, and the eerie silence seemed a little less suffocating.

“Honestly, how you’ve survived this long is beyond me,” muttered Draco next to him once they had slowed down, though his lips curved into a faint, almost teasing smile.

“You always this charming when you’re saving people?” Harry shot back, breathless but grinning. “Told you my Devil’s Snare was a nightmare.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but the smile lingered as he turned his attention back to where the Devil’s Snare had retreated to, his wand at the ready. “Stick close, Potter,” he said. “I’m not saving your neck thrice in one night.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile as they stumbled their way toward safety, side by side. For the first time in what felt like hours, the crushing strain of isolation lifted, replaced by the warmth of shared companionship—and the undeniable joy of seeing Draco again.

Finally, the greenhouse seemed to crumble behind them, its glass walls and ceiling crumbling under the remaining fire. The world outside seemed almost too quiet after the chaos inside, a stark contrast to the turmoil they had just escaped. Harry and Draco, breathless and covered in dirt and scratches, found themselves emerging back into the darkened corridors of the house. The distant sound of the wind, still howling through the shattered windows, felt almost comforting compared to the chaos they had just escaped. 

They stood for a moment in silence, their chests heaving with the effort of their escape. Harry glanced at Draco, who was brushing the dirt from his robes with exaggerated precision, his face set in its usual mask of indifference—though Harry could see the faintest trace of relief in his pale eyes, which were illuminated by the ethereal glow of their flame companions. 

“Well, that was… fun,” Harry said dryly, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Brought me back to my first year.”

Draco snorted, a small, breathy laugh escaping him. “If you think that was ‘fun,’ Potter, I’d love to see what you’d consider a nightmare.”

Harry’s lips twitched in a grin. “I think I’ve already been through one, thanks.”

Draco merely raised an eyebrow, but it was clear he knew there was no bite to the comment. Instead, there was something almost… fond in the way he looked at Harry—something that made Harry’s stomach flip unexpectedly. The little flames, their light now a playful shimmer or bright colours, darted around them, weaving in and out like mischievous sprites. They spiralled through the air, a dance of flickering light that seemed almost jubilant, their movements full of life and intent. Harry watched, amused, as the flames twirled around them, urging him and Draco closer together. He took a half-step towards Draco without thinking, feeling the warmth of his presence like a reassuring anchor in the stillness of the garden.

“What are they?” Harry whispered, his curiosity piqued as the orbs floated in rhythmic patterns around them, drawing them closer together.

“They’re Will-o'-the-Wisps,” Draco replied, his voice quiet, though there was a faint spark of something in his eyes—wonder, perhaps, or something else Harry couldn’t quite place. “Meant to guide travellers… help them find their way, wherever they want to go.”

The words lingered in the air, and Draco’s face flushed as the full meaning of what he had just said hit him. His gaze faltered for a moment, and Harry watched as colour spread across his cheeks. Confusion tugged at Harry, and he opened his mouth to ask, but then the realisation dawned. The unspoken connection was suddenly as clear as it was undeniable, like the flicker of the wisps that danced in synchrony. The Wisps weren’t guiding them to a place—they were guiding them to each other. A wave of heat rushed to Harry’s face; his heart skipped, his breath catching as he tried to make sense of it. Draco’s quiet, suddenly coy gaze held his, and for a brief second, the world outside of them seemed to fall away.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. They stood side by side, watching the wisps as they danced around them, their flames flickering and merging in a soft spiral or boreal light. Their glow brightened, spinning faster and faster, until they shot upwards, merging into a single wisp, glowing with an almost blinding intensity. The combined flame darted toward the far wall of the greenhouse, slamming into it with a soft, ethereal pop, before disappearing completely

Looking at their little companions disappear, Harry couldn’t quite shake the warmth that had spread through him, nor the lingering sense that something had shifted in the air. Draco merely raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharp once again but with an edge of something softer. As he met Harry’s eyes, there was something almost… tentative in the way he looked at him, something that made Harry’s stomach flip unexpectedly. For a moment, they just stood there, the unspoken words hanging in the air, as the remnants of the glowing wisps still seemed to linger in the silence between them.

Before Harry could speak again, the faint hum of magic crackled in the air, a soft vibration that seemed to pulse through the very stones beneath their feet. He glanced around, bewildered, and noticed a door that they hadn’t seen before, as though it had materialised from thin air—and knowing Grimmauld, it certainly had. Slowly, it creaked open, the hinges groaning in protest, revealing a dimly lit room beyond. Harry and Draco exchanged a look, but both shrugged.

“Is that…?” Harry began, but his voice trailed off.

Grimmauld Place, it seemed, had decided it was high time to be kind to them. The door led them not to another dark, crumbling corridor or some cursed ruin of a room, but a bedroom—one that, to Harry’s shock, actually looked liveable, its walls adorned with heavy tapestries and beautiful, antique furniture. Warm candlelight flickered from sconces on the walls, casting golden glows over the deep indigo and cream curtains framing the four-poster bed. The air smelled clean, almost pleasant, a strange contrast to the dust and damp they had been choking on moments before. It was still warm, but it felt comforting, as if they had stepped into a different world entirely.

“This isn’t bad,” Harry remarked, looking around. “Kind of… posh, for Grimmauld Place, isn’t it?.”

Draco dusted himself off, expression unimpressed despite the streak of dirt on his cheek and the slightly wild look of someone who had just fought off sentient vines. “If anything, it’s finally showing some hospitality,” he muttered, glancing around with a critical eye. “Took long enough.”

Before Harry could respond, his stomach did it for him—loudly. A deep, betraying growl that echoed embarrassingly through the room.

Draco turned to him, lips twitching.

“Not. A. Word,” Harry warned, already scanning for a possible exit in case he had to flee the inevitable mockery.

But instead of a snide remark, Draco’s gaze shifted past him, eyes landing on a small, ornate table that had not been there a moment ago. Harry  followed his silvery gaze, and on top of the table, there it  was—hot, freshly plated food. The faint aroma of something spicy wafted through the air, making Harry’s stomach growl once again, this time in indignation. He was used to feeling hungry—he had the Dursleys to thank for that—but after the adrenaline of their… well, their every day and the now delicious smelling food, hunger was finally setting in, and it felt like a growing ache. 

Harry inhaled deeply, and a rush of warmth bloomed in his chest, a memory pulling forward before he could even think about it. No way.

“Oh, no bloody way,” he said, practically rushing forward like a child on Christmas morning.

Draco followed, slightly more dignified but no less intrigued. “What?”

“These—” Harry gestured at the plate, beaming, “—are chilaquiles.”

Draco blinked at him, his mouth opening slightly. “The food you were raving all about last time we ate?”

Harry’s expression shifted from excitement to smug satisfaction in an instant. “See? You do listen to me,” he waggled his eyebrows before gesturing grandly at the plate. “Yes, these are the legendary chilaquiles I went on about.”

Draco hummed, considering. “It does smell rather enticing.”

Harry grinned despite himself, delighted. “It’s fried tortillas soaked in this spicy red sauce, sometimes green, which I prefer, but this one’s green—see? There’s cream, cheese, a bit of chicken, and you put it on top—Merlin, it smells amazing. Feels a bit weird eating it at night, though. I usually have them for breakfast, or when I’m hungover.”

Draco, now clearly intrigued despite himself, pulled out a chair with deliberate slowness and sat down, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from his shirt as if the act of eating required a certain level of decorum. Harry rolled his eyes but plopped down across from him, chin propped on his hand, watching expectantly. With a sigh that suggested great personal sacrifice, Draco picked up his fork, examined the dish like it might suddenly sprout legs and attack, then carefully speared a piece of tortilla. He hesitated, pursing his lips as though contemplating some grand philosophical dilemma, before finally—finally—taking a cautious bite.

There was silence. Then—

Draco hummed. A small, appreciative sound that resembled a moan a little too closely for Harry’s comfort, but Draco was probably completely unaware he had made; it sent a ridiculous thrill of victory through Harry.

He smirked. “You like them.”

Draco rolled his eyes, chewing with deliberate slowness, clearly refusing to give Harry the satisfaction of an enthusiastic reaction. “They’re acceptable.”

Harry grinned wider. “You really like them, then.”

Draco pointed his fork at him, eyes narrowing. “Do not make this a thing, Potter.”

Harry held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying—for someone who scoffs at me and my ‘peasant food,’ you’re eating that like it’s a delicacy.”

Draco ignored him, rolling his eyes, and took another bite—bigger, this time. Harry saw the exact moment the spice hit.

He waited.

He waited a little longer.

But instead of the reaction he expected—the widened eyes, the desperate gasp and pursuit for a gulp of water, the possible string of very un-posh-sounding expletives—Draco just… kept eating. Unbothered.

Harry stared. “Okay, how are you not reacting? These are spicy. I thought the only ‘spicy’ things you enjoyed were your sharp retorts.”

Draco gave him a supremely unimpressed look, slicing into another piece of tortilla with effortless grace. “Please. Pansy’s family has been feeding me Korean food since I was five. This is nothing.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “You eat Korean food?”

Draco arched an elegant brow before daintily dabbing his reddening lips with a cloth napkin and drinking a gentle sip of water. “Shocking, I know. But the Parkinsons are quite traditional, even for purebloods. I don’t think Pansy ever had Shepherd’s pie until Hogwarts.”

Harry leaned back, still baffled. “You mean to tell me you eat things like kimchi?”

Draco’s eyes glinted with mischief. “Oh, I love kimchi,” he said, his tone dripping with self-importance, but his eyes softened in the way they always did when he wasn’t trying to be an insufferable prat. 

Harry squinted at him, now deeply suspicious. “Are you actually Draco Malfoy, or did the Devil’s Snare strangle the posh out of you?”

Draco smirked, taking another elegant bite of his food, looking far too pleased with himself. “Potter, if you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to start charging you for the privilege.”

Harry groaned, a fresh blush appearing on his cheeks but despite himself, he was grinning.  Draco smirked again, though here was no longer any malice behind it, just the faintest hint of something more relaxed, something Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was getting confusing, really, seeing so many emotions he did not recognise emerge on Malfoy’s handsome face.

“And frankly, you’re lucky I’m here to save you from getting yourself into any more trouble,” Draco declared, wiping his mouth with a napkin, his voice soft but still carrying a sharp edge. 

“Lucky, huh?” Harry raised an eyebrow, his heart suddenly doing an odd little flutter. “I thought I was supposed to be the one saving your neck, Malfoy.”

Draco’s gaze flickered over to him, his expression unreadable for a moment before he shook his head with a small but genuine smile. “I’m sure you’ll get your turn again, Potter,” he said, his voice quieter now, soft like a caress. “Just… try not to get into too much trouble while I’m not around, will you?”

The words hung in the air, and Harry couldn’t help but feel the warmth of them, the unexpected tenderness behind the teasing. And just like that, in the quiet warmth of the room, as they shared an unexpected but oddly comforting meal, Harry realised that maybe, he was in a different kind of trouble. One he had refused to even recognise before,  maybe even for a long time. Closing is eyes, Harry willed himself to think that maybe it was the relief of surviving yet another near-death experience together. Or, maybe it was the sheer absurdity of Draco Malfoy, Pureblood Extraordinaire, digging into a plate of Mexican food with the poise of a Michelin-star critic.

Or maybe it was just them. Two idiots, bickering over food, safe—at least for now—in the strangest place either of them had ever been.

But more than that, if he was actually honest with himself, it was something deeper, something he wasn’t ready to inspect any closer. The way the air seemed to shift between them, the almost imperceptible closeness that was no longer uncomfortable, but… familiar.

And somehow, that felt way too good.

They finished eating in companionable silence, save for the occasional clink of cutlery against the plates. Harry, feeling pleasantly full, leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh, while Draco, ever the picture of refinement, dabbed at his lips with a napkin despite having eaten with the same enthusiasm Harry had.

The sound of running water from the adjoining bath signalled the start of what had to be the most blissfully normal part of their night. Draco, having claimed first dibs again, emerged sometime later, looking decidedly more relaxed, his skin flushed from the heat of the water, damp strands of pale hair curling slightly at his temples. He barely glanced at Harry before tossing the towel he'd been using onto the back of a chair.

“Your turn,” he said simply while he used his wand to dry his flaxen hair, as though they were just two ordinary people sharing an ordinary space—rather than two former enemies stranded inside a house with a mind of its own.

Harry, feeling grimy from the evening’s escapades, didn’t need to be told twice. He took his time in the bath, letting the warm water ease the residual tension from his limbs. When he finally stepped out, towel-drying his hair as he padded back into the bedroom in his now clean clothes, Draco was already settled in bed, propped up against the headboard with a random book in hand.

Neither of them commented on the fact that there was only one bed, again.

It wasn’t even a matter of unspoken agreement—it simply wasn’t worth mentioning. The house had given them food, given them a place to rest, and after everything, neither of them had the energy to make a fuss.

Harry winced as he sat on the edge of the bed, his side aching sharply from their encounter with the Devil’s Snare, with the blasted plant treating him like a piñata at a child’s birthday  party. It felt like the vines had twisted around his ribs, bruising and pulling them with a viciousness that made every movement feel like a knife slicing through his skin. His breath hitched as he shifted to remove his socks, the tightness in his chest becoming unbearable. He had thought that it would feel better after his bath, but it had only gotten worse since they had had dinner. Harry didn’t want to admit it—didn’t want to be the one to show weakness, especially not in front of Draco, but the pain was starting to bleed through, impossible to ignore.

Draco, who had been scanning the pages of his book with a distracted, sleepy air, looked up in an instant when he noticed the subtle shift in Harry’s posture, the way his brow furrowed in pain.

“Are you alright?” Draco asked, his voice unusually insecure, his eyes narrowing as they fixed on Harry. His gaze flickered down to Harry’s side, lingering there with an intensity that Harry couldn’t quite read, but the concern was evident, unmistakeable.

Harry hesitated, biting down on his lip, suddenly feeling absurdly self-conscious. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Draco to help, but that discomforting feeling always crept up when it came to asking for anything. He wasn’t used to it—people worrying about him, offering care. Not even when he was a kid… especially, rather. It was not often that someone cared enough to ask, not when it really mattered, at least.

“It’s nothing,” Harry muttered, forcing a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He made to stand, but the motion sent a jagged wave of pain through his ribs, and he couldn’t suppress the slight wince that escaped him. His hand instinctively pressed to his side, the touch grounding, but it did little to alleviate the discomfort.

Draco’s eyes narrowed further before he hesitated, his eyes looking directly at Harry's own, and for a moment, Harry thought he might be able to get away with it. But then Draco’s expression shifted, the soft concern turning into something more resolute.

“Potter,” Draco said, setting the book aside, his voice low and steady. There was something about the way he said Harry’s family name at that moment that made it impossible to ignore him, to brush him off. “What’s going on? You’re not fooling anyone.”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. His hesitation was heavy in the air, but Draco was watching him so intently, waiting for him to speak, and Harry could feel the pressure building, the heaviness of his unspoken thoughts making it harder and harder to breathe.

But still, the words didn’t come easily. Taking a deep breath that soon turned into a moan, given his ribs, he looked away.

“It’s just... my ribs,” Harry finally admitted, his voice barely a whisper. The moment the words left his lips, he immediately regretted them. He felt foolish, guilty, as if admitting to his pain suddenly made him an attention seeking child.

But then, Draco’s expression shifted, his lips pressing together in that way Harry knew meant he was thinking too hard, weighing something. The silence stretched out before them like a heavy veil, thick with unspoken thoughts. Draco’s brows furrowed as though wrestling with an internal debate, and then, in the next breath, he was moving, his eyes suddenly alive with something more than worry—something cautious but firm, as though he had made a decision he hadn’t quite been ready to voice. The shift was palpable, and Harry could barely sense it before Draco even spoke.

“Let me see,” Draco said, his tone no longer tentative but authoritative, as though it was the only thing he could do now.

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Draco’s sharp gaze was unwavering. There was no room for argument, no suggestion that Harry could just tough it out.

With a reluctant sigh, Harry’s hands hesitated on the hem of his shirt, the small, vulnerable act suddenly feeling like an admission of too much. Refusing to think about how his dark skin must be reddening at the thought of Draco seeing him shirtless, he tugged his top off slowly, exposing his bare skin to the cool air. Draco’s breath hitched, his pupils dilating slightly, and for a moment, his gaze lingered on Harry’s chest with something that made the heat in Harry’s cheeks flare up, but Draco quickly bit his lip, clearing his throat to refocus. His heart pounded in his chest, suddenly not from fear of Draco’s reaction, but from the thought of being exposed, of letting someone else see the damage.

“Right,” Draco muttered, his voice suddenly softer, as though the act of seeing Harry like this had momentarily thrown him. 

The blonde reached forward with trembling hands, but there was a quiet kind of stubbornness in them that made Harry feel both terribly awkward and oddly cared for. Draco’s fingers brushed lightly against his skin as he pressed gently on Harry’s side, and Harry sucked in a sharp breath, unable to stifle the way the pain shot through him. It felt like fire against his ribs.

“You’ve broken two ribs, Potter,” Draco said, his voice low, almost contrite. His fingers ran across Harry’s side with a careful precision, feeling out the damage, and Harry winced at every touch. It wasn’t just the sharpness of the injury that made him flinch—it was the softness of Draco’s touch, of being this close to him, the tenderness with which Draco was treating him, the quiet, focused care in the way he moved.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. The pain in his side was intense, but it wasn’t just the injury that was making him dizzy. It was something else—something far more unsettling. Something to do with Draco’s proximity, with the way he was tending to him with such careful attention, like Harry’s wellbeing mattered.

Draco’s hands trembled as they hovered over Harry’s ribs, making Harry’s mouth go dry even as he tried to swallow around the sudden knot in his throat. The blonde’s mouth pressed into a tight line, and his voice softened, just barely audible. “I’m going to heal them, but you need to stay still, alright? Try really hard not to move, if you please.”

Harry nodded, swallowing thickly, the strange fluttering in his chest growing stronger. He closed his eyes as Draco’s wand flicked, the healing spell sending a pulse of warmth through him. The pain in his ribs started to ebb, but the sensation left something else in its wake—something gentler and almost tingly. Draco’s quiet focus, his hands working with such precision, made the whole moment feel fragile, like something precious. Harry had no words for it. There was nothing he could say.

After a few moments, Draco shifted, and his gaze darted down to Harry’s bruised left leg—which was peeking through his still tattered denim trousers—and waist. He exhaled slowly, almost as though he’d been holding his breath.

“I’ll fix this too,” Draco said softly, raising his wand again

The warmth of the second healing spell flowed over Harry’s body, easing the bruising on his leg and waist, and he let out a quiet sigh of relief. When Draco finished, he gently lowered his wand, his eyes locking onto Harry’s with an intensity that made Harry’s breath catch again. Without  meaning to, he found himself mesmerised by the serene focus on Draco’s face as he worked. It was a side of him Harry had never seen before,  nor had he thought to  ever see—a quiet tenderness that seemed to suit him far too much, despite the usual prickliness of his countenance. His hands, once so sharp and precise with his curses, were now gentle, steady—almost caring, as if he were handling something delicate. Something precious.

For a moment, Harry found himself wondering if it had something to do with Draco’s wand, the one they had shared,  his mind supplied. Was it the unicorn core, with its difficulty to turn to the Dark Arts, that was said to lend its magic to the most compassionate of wizards? Or maybe the hawthorn wood, often found to be particularly suited to healing magic, but also adept at curses. Maybe it was true that his wand seemed to be most at home with a conflicted nature, or with a wix passing through a period of turmoil—a fact that had certainly rung true when its allegiance had been shared with Harry back during the War. 

Or perhaps it was something purely Draco, and this was merely a side of him that Harry had never been allowed to witness until now. Was this the person he was underneath all the bravado and sharp words? Had he always been this soft, this kind, without ever showing it?

Suddenly, Harry shook his head, as if to dispel those thoughts before they could fully take root. He couldn’t be thinking about Draco this way—especially not after everything they’d been through.

“There,” Draco said softly, his soft voice startling harry out of his musings. “You’re all better now.”

Harry nodded, his heart thudding in his chest as he met Draco’s gaze, his thoughts still whirling within his head. For a long moment, neither of them moved, and the room seemed to shrink, the air thick with something Harry wouldn’t name for fear of  making it  real, but couldn’t ignore for longer. It was quiet yet loud, but oh so fragile—like a spiderweb holding the bond between them as if it was something fragile, just on the cusp of being realised. Or broken.

Draco finally broke the tension, clearing his throat and standing. He stepped back, though his gaze lingered for a beat longer than necessary.

“Well, good as new,” Draco said, his voice a little steadier. “You’re lucky I’m here, Potter.”

But the words felt different this time—lighter, but still carrying the unspoken care behind them. Harry, for once, didn’t feel the need to brush them off, not when he could feel the quiet sincerity in them, the way Draco’s hands had trembled as he worked his magic, the way his voice had softened.

“Yeah,” Harry said quietly, his heart a little tight.

With shaky hands, though thankfully his side no  longer hurt, he put on his shirt. Soon later,  Harry slid under the covers without another word, rolling onto his side as he pulled the blankets up to his chin. The mattress dipped slightly with his weight, and for a moment, there was nothing but the sound of pages turning.

Eventually, Draco let out a small sigh and closed his book from where he had left it aside, setting it atop his night stand. He shifted, rolling onto his own side so that they were both facing away from each other, backs nearly touching.

It should have been awkward.

It wasn’t.

If Harry had to name the tension between them, he’d have to admit that it was… expectant. Not allowing himself to delve deeper into whatever thee fuck was happening between him and Malfoy, he closed his eyes resolutely. For minutes, he lay awake. The warmth of the blankets and the sheer exhaustion of the day should have lulled him into unconsciousness within minutes. But instead of slipping into sleep, Harry found himself startlingly awake, his mind refusing to quiet.

Something about the silence felt too heavy, too full.

He turned carefully, shifting onto his side with deliberate slowness, mindful not to jostle the mattress too much. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the sconces on the walls, their embers pulsing lazily as though mirroring the rhythm of a heartbeat.

Draco was already drifting off.

The rise and fall of his breath had settled into an easy, unhurried rhythm, each exhale soft against the quiet. The sharp edges of his features, so often arranged into expressions of irritation or cutting amusement, had smoothed out in sleep. His lashes cast delicate shadows against his porcelain  cheekbones, his lips slightly parted, and for a moment—just a moment—Harry let himself look, thankful that his penchant to not remove his glasses—for fear of leaving them behind if Grimmauld did something– allowed him to see him more clearly, even in the middle of the night.

It was strange, he thought distantly, how different Draco looked when he wasn’t sneering or smirking or launching into a tirade about something ridiculous. Stranger still was the way something inside Harry felt… settled at the sight.

A little voice in his head, one he usually ignored, whispered something dangerous. Something about how this—this moment of quiet, of warmth, of Draco beside him, breathing steadily, close enough to touch—felt terrifyingly nice.

He swallowed.

Not a good train of thought.

His fingers curled into the sheets as he forced his gaze away, staring instead at the ceiling. He was tired. That was all. The long day, the adrenaline, the near-death experience in that bloody greenhouse—it was messing with his head.

With a deep breath, Harry closed his eyes, waved his hand to turn off the sconces, and tried to will himself to sleep.

But somehow, knowing Draco was right there made it difficult.

Chapter Text

The air felt heavier than it had the day before, thick with something that pressed against Harry's skin like a second layer. It wasn't the same suffocating weight of the house's magic that had lingered in every corridor they'd navigated—it was something else. Something quieter, subtler, yet no less consuming. Something... expectant. It settled in his chest rather than on his shoulders, winding around his ribs like an invisible thread, tightening with every breath. It wasn't fear, not exactly, but it left him restless, teetering on the edge of something he couldn't quite name.

The corridor stretched endlessly ahead, its path winding in slow, deliberate arcs. Unlike the dizzying chaos of the labyrinth they had battled through earlier, this route was eerily direct. There were no sudden forks, no endless doors luring them into uncertainty, no illusions to confuse their steps. It was as if Grimmauld Place had finally tired of its tricks, stripping away the pretence of choice. The house no longer needed to mislead them—their destination was set, their course inevitable. Every step forward since they had left their room that morning felt like an unspoken acknowledgment of that fact, a quiet surrender to whatever lay ahead.

Roots and branches of dark, thorny foliage crept along the edges of the floor and walls, curling like the skeletal hands of long-forgotten ghosts. They pulsed faintly with a dim, greenish light, their twisted patterns reminiscent of veins on the underside of a leaf. Every so often, a faint vibration would ripple through the walls, as if the house were exhaling softly, bracing itself for whatever lay at the corridor's end. Draco always looked around, rightfully paranoid, every time the house seemed to exhale.

It felt alive—not in the malevolent, oppressive way it had before, but as though it, too, was caught in the grip of anticipation.

Harry's steps were slow and cautious, his wand held tightly in his hand, though the exertion of the last few days was beginning to weigh him down. He could feel the dull ache in his legs, the throb in his side where one of those blasted vines had got to him yesterday. It was a reminder that this house wanted nothing more than to break them, to wear them down until they were too weak to fight back.

Beside him, Draco moved stiffly, though he held himself with as much composure as he could muster. His pale complexion was still tinged with exhaustion, and there was a faint stiffness to his right arm, though Harry hadn't dared to ask about it lest the blonde snapped at him. Draco had taken the time to heal himself as best as he could in the morning, but magic could only do so much when their bodies were this bone tired and he himself was injured. His clothes, once pristine and meticulously cared for, were now tattered and stained with dirt, blood, and Merlin-knew-what-else.

He looked as battered and worn as Harry felt. They needed rest.

They needed to get out of here, soon.

Still, Draco walked with his chin tilted slightly upwards, his grip on his wand steady, his eyes sharp as ever. Harry didn't know if it was pride, stubbornness, or sheer bloody-mindedness that kept Draco moving forward when he looked as exhausted as he did, but he wasn't about to complain. The last thing Harry needed was for Draco to collapse and force him to piggy-back him the rest of the way to the core.

The mere thought made Harry blush.

"You know," Harry said, his voice low as he broke the tense silence, "for a house this ancient, you'd think they could've laid down some proper flooring. I'm starting to feel like I'm walking through the Forbidden Forest."

Draco snorted softly, though his gaze never wavered from the corridor ahead.

"Yes, because your experience with ancient magical structures is so vast and impressive, Potter. Shall I remind you that your most notable contribution to architecture was destroying half of Hogwarts?"

Harry shot him a sidelong glare, but there was no real heat behind it, he was already too used to Draco's acidic sarcasm that passed as his self-defence mechanism to take any of his comments to heart.

"At least I didn't grow up in a house that tries to eat people."

"Grimmauld Place doesn't eat people," Draco replied, his tone clipped and overly prim. "And I didn't grow up here."

"Oh, well, Malfoy Manor was so much better. Thanks for clearing that up," Harry rolled his eyes, a grin beginning to appear. The more he and Draco bantered, the easier it was to counter the cheeky bastard's comments. "I'll just let the Ministry know that the next time someone goes missing in here, it's not murder. It's just that the house is a bit cheeky, yeah? Bet that'll hold up in court."

Draco huffed, and Harry swore there was a flicker of amusement in his expression. "You're insufferable."

"And yet, here we are," Harry muttered under his breath, though he couldn't help the small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

The silence returned, but it no longer felt awkward or stifling as it had before. Instead, it settled between them like something inevitable, as if the house itself had decided there was nothing left to say. Harry's grip on his wand loosened slightly, though his shoulders remained rigid, a quiet unease creeping through him. The corridor stretched on, its twists and turns vanishing into the dim distance, the air growing colder with each step. The faint glow from the sconces cast flickering shadows on the walls, their shifting shapes playing tricks on his eyes, making it feel as though something unseen was walking alongside them—watching, waiting.

After what felt like an eternity of walking in silence, Harry finally exhaled sharply and spoke. "We're close, aren't we?"

Draco kept silent for just a beat too long before nodding. "I think so, I..." he said, his voice quieter than usual. "I think I can almost feel it."

Harry glanced at him, frowning. "Feel it? That's new."

Draco's lips pressed into a thin line. "Yes. I don't know, I just feel something tugging at my chest," he said, a little too tightly. Then, after a breath, his tone softened. "The room isn't just a record—it's... connected to the house's magic, to the family itself, in ways I can't fully explain."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Connected how?"

Draco shook his head, his grip tightening slightly around his wand. "I can't be sure, not until I see it," he admitted. "The magic there—it's old. Older than this house, even. It's woven into the walls, into the very foundation of Grimmauld Place. And it's powerful. More powerful than the rest of the house's enchantments. It has to be, if it tracks the family's bloodline."

Harry let that sink in, his stomach twisting. "Powerful," he echoed. "That's not exactly comforting. I mean, we knew it was, but..."

Draco let out a dry, humourless chuckle. "It's not meant to be comforting. It's dangerous, Potter. The kind of magic that doesn't just linger—it remembers."

That sent an uncomfortable shiver down Harry's spine. He glanced ahead at the corridor stretching before them, its eerie stillness making his skin prickle. "Brilliant," he muttered. "Nothing I love more than sentient, murderous magic."

Draco huffed a quiet laugh but didn't respond, and Harry didn't miss the way his fingers twitched slightly at his side—like he was bracing himself. Harry studied him for a moment, noting the tension in Malfoy's jaw, the way his fingers tightened nervously around his wand, how he moved his injured shoulder every so often.

"You're scared," he said, not accusingly, but as a simple observation, unwilling to denote his worry.

Draco's lips pressed into a thin line. "I'm not scared," he said, though the slight waver in his voice betrayed him. "I'm... cautious. There's a difference."

"Right," Harry said, his tone deliberately light. "And I'm cautious about the fact that the house might suddenly decide to drop a ceiling on our heads."

Draco didn't respond, but the faint colour rising to his cheeks told Harry he'd struck a nerve.

The tension between them lingered as they continued down the corridor, the faint sound of their footsteps the only thing breaking the silence. Harry tried not to let his mind wander, but it was difficult. The house's magic seemed to buzz against his skin, whispering just at the edge of his hearing. It felt like they were walking into the heart of something ancient and alive—something that had been waiting for them all along.

Finally, the corridor widened into a large, circular antechamber, its walls lined with twisted roots that pulsed with a faint, otherworldly green light. The roots shifted, slow and deliberate, as though the house itself was breathing, ancient magic seeping from every crevice. Centred at the far end of the room stood a massive, ornate door. Its surface was carved with intricate patterns—intertwining vines, slithering serpents, and delicate stars that formed constellations both familiar and strange. The carvings seemed almost alive, shimmering faintly, as though the starlight within them had been captured and frozen in time. The door pulsed in rhythm with the magic coursing through the room, waves of energy radiating outward, reaching into their bones with a mixture of awe and quiet foreboding.

But it wasn't the door itself that made Harry's stomach twist with anxiety. It was the knocker.

A heavy, silver sphinx head was mounted at eye level, its features sharp and regal, its golden eyes gleaming with something far too knowing for a simple decoration. Harry could swear it hadn't been there before. The last time he'd stood before this door, back when the house had still been grudgingly allowing him to live in it without much mischief, there had been no guardian, no sentry.

Harry glanced at Draco, who was staring at the knocker with his lips slightly parted, a crease forming between his brows. He looked almost... wary.

"Was that always there?" Draco asked, voice low.

Harry inhaled sharply through his nose, then shook his head. "No." His fingers twitched at his side.

"This is it, isn't it?"

Draco stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the door. For once, he didn't have a cheeky reply. Instead, he nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "Yes. This is it."

Harry swallowed hard, his grip tightening on his wand.

"Do you think Kreacher is in here?" Asked Harry, his voice trembling, guilty of not having thought more often about his old elf.

Draco hesitated before shaking his head in a negative, his silvery eyes meeting Harry's for a second before evading them. "No, the house can't create food out of thin air. Kreacher's probably been trapped in the kitchen by the house."

Ah, right, the something-something law of Transfigurations. The one that said food could not be 'made from thin air'. Bollocks, never let Hermione find out about Harry forgetting such an important magical law.

Sighing, Harry forced himself to accept the fact that Kreacher was not going to be found just yet. And, if he was being honest, that might be for the best. They didn't know they were going to find in that room, and he was not willing to put Kreacher in danger. Still, the air felt electric, charged with the power of centuries of magic and history. Whatever lay beyond that door, he knew it wasn't going to be a walk in the park. But they'd come too far to turn back now.

"Ready?" he asked, glancing at Draco.

Draco hesitated, his eyes flickering to Harry's for the briefest of moments. "No," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "But let's do it anyway."

He shifted his weight uneasily, his fingers flexing around the grip of his wand. Beside him, Draco stood silent and still, his pale face lit faintly green by the glow of the roots and the magic around them. He looked like a statue, carved from the palest marble and brought to life by whatever cursed magic ran through this house. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his shoulders stiff, and Harry couldn't tell if he was steeling himself for what lay ahead or if he was just as intimidated as Harry felt.

Probably both.

The silence between them was deafening, punctuated only by the faint, rhythmic hum of the door and the occasional creak of the roots shifting against the walls. Harry's nerves were fraying. His chest felt tight, his thoughts spiralling faster than he could keep up with. This was it. The heart of Grimmauld Place. The core of its magic, chaos, and pain. Whatever was waiting for them beyond that door, it wasn't going to be pleasant. Harry was certain of that.

A cold wave of dread washed over him at the thought of what they might find. The house had already shown them its cruelty, its bitterness, its willingness to fight tooth and nail to protect its secrets. And this—this was where all of it came from. The source. The root of the decay that had seeped into every corner of Grimmauld Place.

The root of Sirius's suffering.

Harry's jaw tightened as the thought hit him like a punch to the gut. He'd spent so much of his time here after the war trying not to think about Sirius' time in this wretched house—about the years of torment he must have endured in here, about the weight of the Black family's expectations and hatred pressing down on him every day. Sirius had hated this house with every fibre of his being, and yet, in the end, it had claimed him just like it had claimed all the others.

Like it was about to claim Harry.

He felt sick, his stomach doing somersaults. He didn't want to know what they would find in that room. He didn't want to see more of the pain that had been carved into these walls, didn't want to uncover more of the horrors that Sirius and his family had tried so hard to escape. But he knew they didn't have a choice. The house wasn't going to let them leave until they faced whatever trial it came up with to settle its mastership, or whatever it was Grimmauld was doing. He glanced at Draco, who was still staring at the knocker with an unreadable expression. His sharp profile was defined by the faint glow, and for a moment, Harry found himself studying the lines of his face. The angle of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the way his silver-blond hair caught the light. It was ridiculous, really—how someone who could be so infuriating, so Malfoy, could also be so—

Harry stopped himself before the thought could finish forming. He clenched his jaw, dragging his gaze away and forcing himself to focus on the door again. This wasn't the time for... whatever that was. He'd spent enough time these days battling the absurd, confusing feelings that had been creeping up on him since they'd started this ridiculous chase. The last thing he needed was to get distracted by them now.

Still, he couldn't help but steal one more glance at Draco out of the corner of his eye. The other man's face was tense, his brows furrowed, his pink lips still pressed tightly together. Harry wondered what was going through his mind. Draco wasn't exactly one to share his feelings—he was more likely to snap some biting comment about Harry's incompetence than admit he was scared. But Harry could see the tension in his posture, the slight tremor in his hand as he adjusted his grip on his wand.

He was scared. Just like Harry.

And yet, despite that fear, Draco was still here. He hadn't turned back, hadn't tried to leave Harry to face this alone, and that fact never ceased to amaze him. Harry didn't know why that thought made his chest feel so tight.

"You alright?" he asked quietly, breaking the silence at last. His voice sounded strange in the stillness of the hallway, too loud and yet barely above a whisper.

Draco turned his head to look at him, his grey eyes sharp and searching. For a moment, he didn't respond, and Harry wondered if he was about to brush him off with some sarcastic comment. But then Draco sighed, the sound soft and weary, and nodded once.

"As much as anyone can be in a situation like this," he said, his voice low and steady. "You?"

Harry huffed a small, humourless laugh. "Not really," he admitted. "But I guess that's to be expected."

Draco's lips twitched, and Harry thought he might be trying to smile. It didn't quite reach his eyes.

They stood in silence for another moment, the heavy atmosphere in the antechamber pressing down on them like a held breath waiting to be exhaled. Harry could feel his anxiety building, his heart pounding in his chest as he stared ahead at the large room. His fingers itched to do something—cast a spell, pace the floor, anything to distract himself from the knot of tension coiling in his stomach.

Draco shifted beside him, his own hesitation palpable in the air between them. Then, without a word, they moved.

Their footsteps echoed softly against the stone as they walked forward, past the last stretch of shadowed corridor and into the chamber beyond. The moment they crossed the threshold, the temperature seemed to shift—colder, sharper, as though they had stepped into a space untouched by time. The air thrummed with something ancient and stronger than it had ever felt, whispering against their skin like a barely remembered dream. The roots lining the walls curled faintly, the movements casting eerie, shifting shadows across the chamber, but Harry barely noticed. His gaze was locked on the door ahead—the massive, imposing thing that stood as a silent sentinel to whatever lay beyond.

"So," he said finally, his voice breaking the stillness again. "Any brilliant ideas for getting through this door? Or are we just going to... knock and hope for the best?"

Malfoy snorted, a quiet, almost inaudible sound. "If you're suggesting that I go first, Potter, I'd like to remind you that I've already saved your life at least twice today. It's your turn."

Harry rolled his eyes, though he couldn't help the small smile tugging at his lips. "Fine. But if this thing kills me, I'm haunting you for the rest of your life."

"Oh, joy," Malfoy drawled. "Just what I've always wanted—a ghost with a hero complex."

As if in response, the sphinx's eyes flickered—just barely, just enough for Harry to know he hadn't imagined it. Then, its mouth opened, and a voice, rich and smooth as silk, echoed through the chamber.

"Answer, travellers. Prove yourselves worthy, or turn back."

The sudden voice made both of them jolt. Harry's hand instinctively twitched toward his wand, his pulse spiking as the sound echoed through the chamber, smooth and commanding. His eyes darted toward Draco, who had also stiffened, though his expression was unreadable. The sphinx's golden eyes gleamed as it regarded them with an almost knowing amusement, as if it had been expecting their arrival.

Then, in that same rich, silken tone, the creature spoke again:

"A fire burns within the loins,
to grow the family tree;
but now the root is severed,
and a master there cannot be.
A clue revealed the killer,
revenge is what they thirst;
the family tree was split in half,
a branch before the first.
A careless seed kept tucked away,
from shameful secret fled;
what then revealed the killer,
flows from the other dead."

A heavy silence followed, the words settling in the air like dust. The only sound was the distant crackle of the flames, flickering in the hearth.

Harry frowned, his mind scrambling to piece together the riddle's meaning. Loins, family tree—clearly, it was talking about lineage, about the Blacks. The killer, revenge—Sirius? Regulus? Or something even older? His lips parted to question Draco, but before he could utter a single syllable, Draco moved. In one swift, fluid motion, Draco pressed his pale hand over Harry's mouth, silencing him completely. His palm was warm, slightly trembling, but firm with warning. Harry's eyes widened, the sensation of Draco's touch sending a strange jolt through him. Draco's gaze was fixed on the sphinx, alert and calculating, as though he were weighing the very air itself for any signs of danger.

Flushing, Harry's first instinct was to pull back, to demand an explanation, but then it hit him.

The Third Task.

The Triwizard Maze.

The last time he had stood before a sphinx, it had been a test of knowledge, of answering correctly—or facing the consequences. The memory rushed back, sharp and urgent, like a cold shiver down his spine. That place had nearly cost him his life, a reminder of how much power these creatures held. If he blurted out the wrong answer, or if the sphinx took his words as an answer even when they were just speculation, it might very well attack them. This wasn't a simple door guardian—it was something ancient, bound to the house's magic, a creature woven into the very fabric of Grimmauld Place's secrets. The house had made it clear that it played by its own rules, with no regard for human logic or caution for them. Harry swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath, knowing every word he spoke from here on could lead to danger. The tension in the air was suffocating, and the weight of his thoughts felt like a heavy burden pressing down on him.

His eyes flicked to Draco, who was watching him intently, silently urging him to stay still. Slowly, Harry nodded.

Draco exhaled, then removed his hand, his fingers lingering near Harry's jaw for just a fraction of a second before pulling away entirely. He turned back to the sphinx, his brow furrowing deeply in thought.

Another beat of silence. Then another. The tension thickened with each passing moment.

Harry resisted the urge to fidget, watching Draco with something that teetered on the edge of curiosity and admiration. He could see the sharp calculation behind Draco's eyes, the way he was turning the riddle over in his head, dissecting it with the precision of someone who had spent his entire life among riddles wrapped in half-truths and secrets.

Then, finally, Draco spoke.

"Blood."

The word cut through the silence like a blade and, for a moment, nothing happened. Then, the sphinx slowly closed its golden eyes. The chamber seemed to hold its breath.

And then, with a low, almost mechanical sound, the sphinx's mouth opened wider, revealing a keyhole nestled deep within its carved throat.

Harry released the breath he hadn't realised he was holding, his heart still hammering against his ribs. He glanced at Draco, who remained completely still, his gaze fixed on the keyhole. Only the slight tension in his shoulders betrayed the fact that he had been just as anxious about his answer.

Harry swallowed, forcing his voice to remain steady. "Well. That was... something."

Draco exhaled sharply, finally looking at him. "Yes. Something." His voice was quieter now, as if the reality of what they had just done was settling in.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, then turned his attention back to the sphinx. "Alright. So we need a key."

Draco nodded, stepping closer. "The house wouldn't have given us the lock without making sure we could find the key." His voice was thoughtful now, almost detached. "It's probably nearby."

Harry hummed in agreement. His gaze wandered over the ornate carvings on the door, the constellations shimmering faintly in the dim light. The air was thick with expectation, the magic of the room thrumming just beneath his skin.

Then it hit him. He had a key.

His fingers instinctively went to his pocket, where the cool metal of the key he had found in the chamber of the armours rested. He had nearly forgotten about it in the chaos of their separation and reunion, but now, it felt almost as though it had been waiting for this moment. Slowly, Harry pulled it out, holding it up to the dim light. It was heavy in his grip, its intricate silver design eerily matched to the carvings on the door—moon to stars. The moment it was revealed, the chamber seemed to react—the roots along the walls pulsed once, a slow, deep thrum, as if the house itself was acknowledging his discovery.

Draco's eyes flickered to the key, his expression unreadable. "You found that before we got here?"

"Yeah," Harry murmured. "When the house split us up. In a chamber with enchanted suits of armour for guardians."

Draco's gaze lingered on him for a moment before his lips quirked, something wry but oddly impressed flickering in his expression. "Look at you, Potter. Solving riddles and pulling keys out of nowhere. Should I be concerned, or just get used to the surprises?" He let out a soft huff before nodding. "Well then, I suppose we know what to do."

Harry blushed as he stepped forward, his pulse quickening. The sphinx's mouth remained open, the keyhole gleaming like an invitation—or a warning. He took a steadying breath, then, with a final glance at Draco, slid the key into the lock.

The moment the key turned, a sharp click echoed through the antechamber, reverberating off the stone walls like a pulse of ancient magic awakening. The very air seemed to shift, charged with an unseen force, as if the house itself was aware of their progress. But nothing else happened. No creaking hinges, no grinding gears, no telltale whisper of enchantments unravelling. The door remained stubbornly still, its surface cold and unmoving, as if mocking their expectations. It simply stood there, looming, unyielding, daring them to figure out the next step.

Draco let out a soft, incredulous huff. "Well, that did absolutely nothing."

Amused, Harry shot him a look but didn't bother responding. Instead, he took a deep breath, gripping his wand tightly as he stepped even closer to the door. The magic radiating from it was almost overwhelming now, a steady hum that seemed to resonate in his bones. With a trembling hand, Harry raised his wand, his heart hammering in his chest, and reached out to place his free hand against the cold, carved surface to open the door.

It happened in an instant, the moment his fingers touched the door, the hum of magic shifted. The carvings began to glow faintly, the light spreading outward in delicate patterns that looked almost like veins. Harry could feel the magic responding to him, pulsing under his hand like a heartbeat. It wasn't a pleasant sensation—it was too sharp, too alive, like a jolt of static that made his skin prickle.

Something inside his head told Harry that it wasn't enough, the house needed more of him, so he steeled himself and stepped closer, his breath catching as the magical pressure thickened. He reached out, his lips trembling slightly, and placed his hand flat against the cold, carved wood.

The reaction was immediate and violent.

The carvings flared to life, glowing an angry red, their light spidering out in jagged lines like cracking glass. A sharp, searing pain lanced through Harry's hand, and he jerked back instinctively, only to realise he couldn't separate from the wood. The door held him fast, its magic biting into his skin like hundreds of tiny needles, each one sharp enough to draw a hiss from between his teeth. Blood welled up in perfect beads along his palm, and he watched in horrified fascination as it disappeared into the grooves of the wood, as though the door was alive—feasting on his blood, his magic, his very essence. The carvings pulsed with an almost malevolent rhythm, a heartbeat that matched his own but twisted and wrong, as if the house itself was savouring this small victory. Every second felt like an eternity, the door's grip relentless, unyielding, and far too painful.

"Potter!" Draco's voice was sharp with alarm, but before Harry could respond, the door surged with magical power and shoved him back violently. He stumbled, landing hard on the floor, cradling his stinging hand. The cut on his palm was shallow but humiliatingly deliberate, and the door's magic pulsed in rejection as it slammed shut once more.

"Bloody hell," Harry muttered, glaring at the door as if it had personally insulted him. His chest felt tight, and though he knew the house had never truly recognised him as his master, the rejection still stung, making him feel as if he didn't belong.

Draco crossed his arms, raising an unimpressed brow.

"Well, that went well," he crouched to inspect Harry's hand, his expression turning thoughtful. With a gentle swish of his wand, he healed and cleaned Harry's hand, the magic stinging, but gentle. Having healed Harry, Draco turned towards the door once again. "This is likely what the sphinx meant by the riddle, it was a clue. This feels like blood ward. Old magic. And since we know Grimmauld Place clearly favours its own, which means..."

Harry scowled. "You think you have to do it."

"Well, unless you're hiding some long-lost Black cousin somewhere in here, yes," Draco drawled, standing and dusting off his trousers. "It'll want blood from someone with the 'proper' lineage. Lucky me."

Harry pushed himself up, his jaw tight as he reluctantly stepped aside.

"Fine. But be careful. It—"

"—cuts," Draco finished with a smirk. "I noticed." Despite his bravado, there was a flicker of unease in his eyes as he approached the door.

Mimicking Harry's earlier motion, Draco pressed his palm to the wood, his movements purposeful despite the tension radiating from him. The door's reaction was abrupt but markedly different to Harry's attempt. The carvings glowed green this time, the light twisting sinuously like smoke, softer than the angry red that had greeted Harry, yet no less menacing. The door seemed to recognise Draco instantly, its magic shifting, almost purring in eerie satisfaction. Draco flinched as the wood sank its magic into his alabaster skin and drank deeply of his blood, the flow unrelenting. The grooves seemed to ripple, greedily consuming the offering, as though it had been waiting for him all along. His complexion paled rapidly, a stark contrast to the emerald glow, and he swayed slightly, his free hand clutching the frame for support. His breathing grew shallow, each exhale sharper than the last, and Harry stepped closer instinctively, his worry mounting as he watched Draco's knees buckle ever so slightly.

"Draco!" Harry darted forward, grabbing his arm to steady him. "That's enough—let go!"

"I can't," Draco hissed through clenched teeth. The door seemed to siphon him dry, pulling not just his blood and magic, but his energy along with them, until his knees buckled over and Draco hit the floor. Just as Harry was about to intervene, the magic shifted.

It felt like hours when the carvings finally shimmered, the light brightening until it was almost blinding. The door released Draco abruptly, healing his palm with a faint warmth before it clicked open, its magic settling into a satisfied silence. Draco sagged against the wall, his breath ragged and uneven.

"There," he rasped, his voice weak but tinged with his usual sarcasm.

Harry crouched beside him, his brow furrowed with worry, placing one hand on the blonde's shoulder and another at his waist, trying to support him. "Draco, you look like you're about to keel over. You should—"

"I'm fine, let's just go inside," Draco interrupted, batting Harry's hand on his shoulder away weakly. His grey eyes, however, contradicted his words as they burned with fatigue. He rose slowly on unsteady legs. "We're doing this. Let's get rid of this blasted house already."

Reluctantly, Harry nodded, his hand lingering on Draco's slender waist for a moment before they turned to face the darkened threshold.

Tentatively, Harry pushed the door open, its groaning sound echoing throughout the house, reverberating off the pulsing roots and cold, curved walls. Harry instinctively stepped back, wand raised, his breath caught in his throat. He didn't know what he had expected—some dramatic burst of light or a rush of magic that would knock them both off their feet—but the slow, almost irritable way the door opened was somehow worse. It felt deliberate, purposeful, like whatever was on the other side was allowing them entry, even though it didn't particularly want to. The air that spilled out of the newly opened doorway was heavy and damp, much like the rest of the house, carrying with it the scent of wet earth and decay. It made Harry's stomach twist, an unwelcome reminder of his cupboard back at the Dursley's—a place he hadn't really thought about in years, but that still crept into his nightmares every so often. He glanced at Draco, who was standing rigid beside him, his pale face even paler than usual, likely from blood loss. Though, Harry wondered if he was thinking about his own childhood—about cold, oppressive walls and the weight of a legacy he had never asked for.

"After you, Potter," Draco said, his voice as dry as ever but laced with an undercurrent of unease.

Harry shot him a look. "Oh, how generous of you, Draco. I'll be sure to write about your bravery in my memoirs."

Draco's lips twitched, though whether it was an attempt at a smile or just irritation, Harry couldn't tell. "Just get on with it."

With a muttered curse under his breath, Harry stepped forward, his wand lighting the way as he crossed the threshold into the room beyond. The moment he did, the atmosphere shifted. The humming magic he'd felt in the corridor intensified, wrapping around him like a tangible force. It wasn't hostile—not exactly—but it wasn't welcoming either. It felt... watchful.

The room was quite big, much larger than Harry had remembered, and suffocatingly humid despite the lack of water anywhere near. The lower section of its walls, panelled in dark, polished wood, gleamed with an unnatural sheen, as though they had been freshly oiled, yet they seemed to devour the light from Harry's wand rather than reflect it. The air was heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth and something faintly metallic, like old blood, and every breath felt thick in his chest. The floor was a chaotic web of roots, sprawling across the room in a wild, unrelenting mess. Some were thin as spider silk, their wiry lengths whispering against Harry's old trainers as he moved, while others were massive, gnarled monstrosities, their bark cracked and ridged like ancient scars. They seemed alive, shifting ever so slightly as though they were breathing, and their movements made Harry's stomach churn if he focused on them for too long. Faintly, they pulsed with a greenish light that seemed to radiate from deep within, casting sickly shadows that writhed across the walls like spectral dancers.

As Harry moved cautiously forward, his foot caught on a particularly thick root, and he stumbled, catching himself on the cold, unyielding wall. The wood beneath his palm felt alive, warm and faintly vibrating, as if the house itself was watching him, judging him. His pulse quickened as he tried to shake off the sensation, but the feeling of being observed remained, prickling at the back of his neck like a phantom touch. It now occurred to him that the dampness in the room was actually the density of the magic concentrated within it. The room exuded an ancient power, suffocating and untamed, and Harry couldn't help but feel as though he was trespassing. The roots seemed to reach toward him, curling and stretching as though beckoning him deeper, their eerie glow brightening ever so slightly the closer he stepped to the centre of the room. He tightened his grip on his wand, the silence around them broken only by the faint hum of the shifting roots and the uneven rhythm of his own magic.

And all around the room was the tapestry.

Harry had seen the Black family tapestry numerous times before, first in his fifth year and then again every so often back when he'd first started cleaning Grimmauld Place. It had been old and faded, its threads worn and its colours muted. This tapestry was different now. It glowed with a faint, golden light, its threads shimmering as though they were woven from liquid gold, contrasting beautifully with the stitched tree and the green background. The names and faces of the Black family tree were stitched in intricate, flowing script, each one radiating its own faint aura of magic.

"Merlin's beard," Draco breathed, stepping up beside him. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it echoed in the silence of the room. "Are those—?"

"The Black family, yeah" Harry said grimly, his jaw tightening.

Draco stared at the names, his expression unreadable. For once, he didn't have a sarcastic remark to dole out.

Harry tore his gaze away from Draco and focused on the tapestry. It felt... alive, more so than the rest of the house somehow, as though it were watching them, waiting for them to make the first move. Every time he looked around, the names on it seemed to shift slightly, the letters twisting and rearranging themselves whenever he tried to focus on them. It was disorienting, and he had to look away after a moment, his head pounding.

"What now?" Draco asked, his voice breaking the heavy silence.

Harry hesitated. "I don't know, you're the expert here" he admitted. "But this has to be the core of the house's magic. If we're going to fix this place, it has to start here."

Draco didn't respond immediately. Instead, he stepped closer to the tapestry, his wand held tightly in his hand. His movements were slow, deliberate, like he was expecting the house's magic to react at any moment. Harry watched him carefully, half-expecting the magic or the roots to lash out at them the moment they figure out what to do. But nothing happened. The roots remained still, no longer writhing as they had before, as if holding their breath. The tapestry continued to shimmer faintly in the dim light, its golden thread catching the glow from their wands. It felt almost too quiet, too still, as if something unseen was watching, waiting. The heavy magic in the air prickled against Harry's skin, and he couldn't shake the feeling that they were on the edge of something, standing at the precipice of a secret the house had long buried.

"I was right, it is not just a tapestry," Draco said finally, his voice quiet but certain. "It actually is the magical core. The nexus."

"The what?" Harry asked, frowning.

"The nexus," Draco repeated, glancing over his shoulder at Harry. "The core, the focal point for the house's magic. Everything—the foundations, the walls, the rooms—it's all connected to this."

Harry nodded slowly. "So if we fix the tapestry, we fix the house."

"Theoretically," Draco said, though he didn't sound particularly confident. "But we'll have to be careful. If we do something wrong—"

"I get it," Harry said quickly, cutting him off. He didn't need Draco to finish that thought. He could imagine the consequences well enough on his own.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The enormity of what they were about to do pressed down on Harry like a physical force, a heavy weight that settled deep in his chest. This was it. The culmination of everything they'd endured since stepping into this cursed house. Every strange twist, every test of wit and nerve, every monster lurking in the shadows had led them here. If they succeeded, they wouldn't just be escaping—Grimmauld Place itself might finally be free of the darkness that had haunted it for so long. The very walls seemed to hold their breath, waiting for them to act. Harry swallowed hard, gripping his wand tighter, acutely aware of the raw magic simmering beneath his skin. He cast a glance at Draco, who stood just as still, his face unreadable but his knuckles white around his trembling wand. One way or another, this was the endgame. They had to get it right.

If they failed... well, Harry didn't want to think about that.

"Ready?" he asked, glancing at the blonde.

Draco hesitated, his gaze flickering between Harry and the tapestry. Then, with a deep breath, he nodded. "As I'll ever be."

Harry turned back to the tapestry, his wand at the ready. The magic in the room wasn't just present—it was reactive and alive, pressing against his skin, curling around his limbs like unseen tendrils. It thrummed in time with his heartbeat, growing stronger and more insistent with every passing second. It wasn't just waiting for him to act; it was demanding it, pulling at him with an almost sentient force. The air was thick with expectation, charged with something ancient and unknowable.

His pulse pounded in his ears as his fingers tightened around his wand. The tapestry shimmered in the dim light, its intricate patterns shifting ever so slightly, as though responding to the magic coiling in the air. It was watching him. Daring him.

And then, with a deep breath, he lifted his wand.

Draco's heart was beating far too fast as they stood inside the Family Tree Room, pondering on what to do. The walls loomed over them, its ancient magic thrumming in the air, almost like a heartbeat, slow and heavy. The moment they had crossed the threshold, the air had shifted, thickening like dark treacle. The magic here was stronger, older, and more primal than anything Draco had felt in the house. I reminded him of the Room of Requirement, in a way. It coiled around his chest, making it harder to breathe, as though the house itself was testing his courage. Draco could feel it pressing down on him, familiar yet distant and cloying, curling around him like an unwelcome embrace. It was a weight he recognised intimately—heavy with expectation, judgement, and the suffocating knowledge that no matter how far he ran, this was inescapably a part of him.

Family.

For some morbid reason, the memory of the vile embrace he had received from the Dark Lord five years ago came rushing to the front of his mind, and he shuddered in disgust.

The Family Tree Room was exactly as he remembered it from his childhood nightmares, and yet wholly different. The walls were still covered in the Black family tapestry, the intricate embroidery glowing faintly in the dim light. Every name, every thread, seemed alive, pulsating with magic so ancient it felt as if the very fabric of the room was steeped in sorrow and anger. He sneered, partly out of habit and partly because he wasn't entirely sure what to do with the knot of emotions coiled in his chest.

Draco stood just beside Potter, his breath catching in his throat. Whispers brushed against his ears, soft and fragmented, like the faintest echoes of a long-forgotten memory. He stiffened, glancing around the room for the source of the sound, but there was no one there. The shadows on the walls flickered and writhed, shifting whenever he tried to focus on them. The room was filled with ghosts—not literal ones, but the ghosts of the past, of his family's history. They whispered in his ear, making him shiver, his hair standing on end.

"Do you hear that?" he asked, his voice quieter than he intended.

Potter frowned at him, his wand gripped tightly in his hand. "Hear what?"

Draco hesitated. The whispers were growing louder, though they were still indistinct, like someone speaking just out of earshot. Words of sorrow, judgement, and regret. He could swear he recognised some of the voices—his mother's soft, loving tone; his aunt Bellatrix's sharp, cruel laugh. But there were others, too. Voices he didn't know, voices lost to time, each one carrying a piece of the Black family's legacy.

"Never mind," Draco said, shaking his head. He wasn't about to share that particular, distressing detail with Potter, it would do the man no good. Besides, the last thing he needed was a lecture about the importance of facing one's demons or whatever self-righteous nonsense Potter would undoubtedly spout. Those demons were very happy to stay deep within his mind.

There was no doubt that the room was suffocating, heavy with emotion that seemed to radiate from the tapestry itself. Grief, anger, and longing pressed down on Draco from all sides, filling the space until it felt like there was no room left to breathe. He clenched his jaw, willing himself to focus. This wasn't the time to fall apart.

Potter stepped further into the room, his gaze fixed on the tapestry.

"It's all here," he murmured, more to himself than to Draco. "Every name, every life... everything."

Draco followed his gaze, his eyes tracing the shimmering threads of gold and faint silver that crisscrossed the tapestry. Each name seemed to glow faintly, a testament to the magic that bound them all together. But there were gaps, too—names burned away, their legacies erased. It was a stark reminder of the consequences of crossing his family.

Draco's stomach churned as he spotted his own name, stitched in elegant silver thread. Draco Abraxas Malfoy. It felt like a mark of ownership, a reminder that no matter how hard he tried to escape his legacy, he would always be a part of this family. The whispers grew louder, more insistent, and he felt a pang of guilt and shame twist in his chest.

For a moment, he wondered if his name would've been blasted off the family tree had any other Black been the lord of the family.

He glanced at Potter, who was staring at the tapestry with a look of determination mixed with dread. For a moment, Draco envied him. Potter had no idea what it meant to be tied to something like this—to feel the weight of centuries of darkness pressing down on you, knowing you were part of it. Potter might have his scars, but he didn't carry this kind of burden.

"You know," Draco said, his voice sharper than he intended, "this room has likely seen more betrayal, bloodshed, and despair than we can possibly imagine. Are you sure you're ready for whatever's about to come next, Potter? Because it's not going to be some noble Gryffindor adventure. This is Black family business, and it's ugly."

Potter turned to him, his expression unreadable. "I'm not here for an adventure, Draco. I'm here to make things right."

Draco laughed, though the sound was hollow. "Right. Because everything you touch turns to gold and sunshine."

"Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself whine?" Potter shot back, his voice tinged with irritation. "Or is this just your way of coping with the fact that you're scared?"

Draco opened his mouth to retort, but the words caught in his throat. He was scared, though he'd rather hex himself silent than admit it to Potter. The house seemed to sense it, too. The whispers grew louder, the shadows pressing closer, and the magic emanating from the tapestry tugged at something deep inside him, amplifying every doubt and fear he'd ever had. He turned away from Potter, focusing on the tapestry instead. His ancestors' choices, their pain and despair, were stitched into every thread, and he could feel it all pulling at him, calling to him. For the first time, Draco felt like he was confronting the true depth of what it meant to be a Black, to be tied to this family and this house. It wasn't just a name and tradition, like his mother had insisted. It was a responsibility, a curse, and a legacy he could never seem to escape.

A Black and a Malfoy, what a rotten existence.

With a deep breath, Draco forced himself to step closer to the tapestry. The magic radiating from it was raw and unstable, and he could feel it tugging at his emotions, amplifying his insecurities. He clenched his fists, determined not to let it consume him.

"Potter," he said, his voice steady despite the chaos swirling around them. "Let's get out of here."

Potter nodded, stepping up beside him once more. Together, they stared at the tapestry, the burden of its magic pressing down on them. Draco could feel the house watching them, waiting. The tapestry shimmered faintly as Potter and Draco stepped closer, their attention fixated on the glowing threads that weaved their respective names into the fabric of history. The magic emanating from the walls tugged at them both—Potter felt it like a low hum in his chest, unsettling and disjointed, while Potter felt it crawl beneath his skin, ancient and all too familiar.

Looking around, unwilling to separate for more than a few feet, they scanned the tapestry.

Draco stared at his name again. Squinting his eyes, he noticed that the thread itself was behaving oddly, and it hadn't before. It unravelled and rewove itself repeatedly, the title Lord Black flickering in and out of existence under it like a broken enchantment struggling to take hold. The movement was jarring, like watching something come alive only to collapse and reform over and over again. The sight filled Potter with unease, his jaw tightening as he took a small step back.

"Draco," Potter began, his voice soft but strained, "is it supposed to do that?"

Draco's lips curled into a humourless laugh, though his pale face betrayed his unease. "Oh, absolutely. Every self-respecting family tapestry behaves like a malfunctioning wand core," he drawled, though there was little conviction behind the sarcasm. "Clearly, this it's not."

Potter's expression darkened as his own name apparently caught his attention. Below Sirius's, Harry James Potter was half-stitched in golden threads, the letters fragmented and flickering. The sight made Potter stop in his tracks, his heart noticeably breaking and mending itself within his chest. There it was, a tangible link to Sirius, and even that was broken. The title Lord was likewise written in bold, decisive strokes, but Black refused to form properly, the stitching coming undone again and again as though the house itself couldn't commit to the idea. The unfinished threads dangled pathetically, like an accusation that it seemed Potter couldn't quite bring himself to deny.

"Well, that's... not alarming at all," Potter muttered, frowning at the erratic stitching. "What's it even trying to say?"

Draco narrowed his eyes at the tapestry, the shifting threads pulling his attention back to his own name. "It's saying the house doesn't know who its master is," he said slowly, his voice thoughtful as pieces of the puzzle began to click into place. He turned to Potter, his silvery'grey eyes sharp. "That's why the magic's unstable, remember? Grimmauld Place is caught between two claims—yours and mine."

Potter blinked, looking back at him in confusion. "But you don't want this house."

Draco rolled his eyes, though there was no real malice behind the gesture. "Honestly, Potter, must I spell it out for you? Fine." He gestured at the tapestry. "These houses don't just function like any other building—magical or otherwise—they're tied to the family magic, built on it, remember? That's why it's sentient to this degree, why it feels alive. It's been enchanted to recognise a master, someone who carries the authority of the family. But the problem is, it can't decide if that's you or me."

Potter frowned, his brows knitting together. "Shouldn't it recognise that I'm Sirius' heir, though? Or, I don't know, that you don't want it?"

"Sirius made you his heir, yes," Draco interrupted, his tone calm, as if reciting something from memory. "And that gave you a legal claim to this place, it's why you could adjust the wards or claim ownership over Kreacher. The house recognises the magic binding you to it through Sirius, which is why it's attempted to make you its master. But there's a problem." He pointed to Potter's half-stitched name. "Your connection to the Black family is tenuous at best. You're not blood. And you know the Blacks have always been obsessed with blood and ancestral magic. Even if I were to renounce my claim to the house—which I do, by the way, blasted house—Grimmauld would never recognise that. Sirius was blasted, apparently, and yet he remained heir for a reason. And you saw what that cursed door did. If you wanted both claims, you'd need to be adopted into the family through a blood ritual—to become a Black by blood, essentially. The ritual would essentially replace your blood, all of it, with Black blood. Your magic would change, too, to be more in tune with ours. In some cases, even physical appearance shifts to reflect family traits."

Potter bristled at that. "I've got no interest in becoming a Black by blood," he said defensively, though the slight flush in his cheeks betrayed the discomfort behind his words. "I'm a Potter, I love my heritage."

Draco arched a brow, ignoring Potter's tone. "And yet here you are, trying to fix their mess. How very unconnected of you."

Potter glared at him, but Draco pressed on, unbothered.

"And of course, there's me," he said, gesturing to his own name. "As the last living male heir of the Black family, my blood ties give me a natural claim to Grimmauld Place. The house craves that. It's why my name's behaving like a particularly frantic Snitch," he hesitated, a flicker of something softer crossing his face. "But I've never lived here. My magic isn't strongly tied to this house because I've never recognised it as home. For me, home was..." he faltered, looking away. "It doesn't matter. But I don't have any legal right to it, and since you're legally Lord Black by inheritance, it's in a limbo."

Potter stared at him, a strange expression on his face that Draco couldn't quite decipher. For a moment, silence stretched between them, the air heavy with unspoken truths.

"So," Potter said finally, his voice quieter now, "the house doesn't know who to choose."

"Exactly," Draco replied, his tone grim. "Your legal claim versus my blood claim. The house is tearing itself apart trying to reconcile the two."

Just as he finished speaking, the magic in the room shifted. The air grew impossibly thick, crackling with energy that made Draco's skin prickle. The floorboards creaked beneath their feet, and suddenly, with a loud groan, a section of the room began to change. The planks splintered and reformed, creating a cabinet in the centre of the room. Its glass doors gleamed faintly, and inside, a collection of objects rested on velvet-lined shelves. Draco's breath caught as he recognised the items. Black family heirlooms—artefacts steeped in history and magic, each one humming faintly with power. But it was the book in the centre that drew his attention.

The Black Grimoire.

It was ancient, bound in dark leather that seemed to shift and shimmer as though alive, and by Circe did Draco pray that it was some kind of animal skin. The cover and spinne were engraved with the Black family crest, and the edges of the pages glowed faintly, pulsing with a dark, seductive energy. The magic radiating from it was almost unnerving, heavy and imposing, yet tantalising in its power.

Potter stepped forward, his hand hovering near the glass. "Is that...?"

"The Black Grimoire," Draco said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's the family's history, their magic, their memoirs... everything. It's self-actualising, and it will automatically record any major event that's happened to anyone in the family," he hesitated, his mouth dry. "And it's dangerous, I wouldn't touch it if I were you."

Potter's hand froze, and he looked back at Draco. "Dangerous how?"

Draco swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the book. "It's not just a record—it's a collection. Every emotion, every secret, every drop of magic the family's ever poured into... it's all in there. It's some of the most ancient magic there is, Potter. Kind of like Hogwarts' muggleborn registry. And if you're not careful, it will taint you."

Potter frowned, his hand lowering slightly. "Then why did the house show it to us?"

"Because it's the key," Draco said, the realisation dawning on him even as the words left his mouth. "The house led us here for a reason. That book holds the truth about Grimmauld Place. If we're going to fix this, we need it."

Potter hesitated, his green eyes searching Draco's face. "And you're sure about this?"

"No," Draco admitted, his voice quiet but firm. "But it's our only option."

Without waiting for a response, Draco stepped forward, his hand reaching for the glass. The cabinet was humming, vibrating faintly with restrained energy, and the moment his fingertips hovered near it, the air around them grew denser with magic. Potter moved as if to stop him, a warning on the tip of his tongue, but Draco shot him a look—sharp, steady, unwavering. It was enough. Potter hesitated but didn't argue, only stepping closer to Draco, silent in his support.

Carefully, Draco unlatched the cabinet. The moment the glass door swung open, the magic inside rushed outward, slamming into him like a wave. It wasn't violent, but it was suffocating, pressing against his ribs, curling around his wrists like invisible shackles. It knew him. It recognised his blood, his lineage, and it was judging him. Ignoring the instinct to pull away, he reached for the grimoire. His fingers brushed against the worn leather cover, and instantly, a surge of power shot through him, sharp and burning. He sucked in a breath, his grip tightening as an entire history—centuries of the Black family's triumphs and betrayals, their suffering, their slow descent into madness—flooded his senses.

It was too much. It was intoxicating. It was terrible.

But he didn't let go.

The house's magic pulsed around them, almost as if it were watching, waiting. Draco turned to Potter, his grip on the book firm. Potter looked worried, his vibrant green eyes widened and fleeting from Draco's surely grey face to the book in his shaking hands.

The grimoire was heavier than Draco had expected. It felt alive in his hands, thrumming with energy that vibrated through his fingers, sending a shiver up his spine. The magic within the book seemed almost anxious, certainly aware of their presence, aware of their intent to uncover the truth about Grimmauld Place. The moment Draco opened it, a draft of cold air seemed to seep from the very pages, chilling the room even further. Through the pages, Draco could feel death and sadness seeping into him, as if by osmosis. It was as though the grimoire had truly absorbed the pain and sorrow of the Black family over generations of recording their history, its magic woven into the fibres of its pages. Shifting on his feet, Draco turned his head towards Potter for a few seconds, grounding himself, before looking down at the yellowed pages of the book. The words inside weren't in any language Draco recognised at first glance—everything about the text seemed scrambled, as if the very nature of the book was adapting to whomever was reading it.

Potter stood beside him firmly, eyes wide, his face pale as he glanced over Draco's shoulder. The atmosphere in the room was thickening, suffocating almost, as if the house itself was holding its breath, waiting.

"Go on," Potter said quietly, his voice soft but tight with anticipation.

Draco's hand hovered over the pages. The words kept flickering and moving in ways they shouldn't have, constantly shifting and rearranging themselves, as if the magic itself were taking hold of it and unwilling to let it be fully understood. The room grew colder still, the walls seeming to pulse and tremble. Shadows slithered in the corners, their tendrils stretching like grasping hands, but neither of them moved. Their attention was fixed on the book. Finally, with a sense of grim resolution, Draco let his fingers fall to the page, tracing the first set of words that settled for a moment. The text seemed to bend under his touch, pulling together to form coherent lines.

And then, suddenly, the words began to reveal themselves.

Draco had already theorised that the Black family had always been tied to Grimmauld Place, not just by blood, but by emotion—by the very essence of their being. The house had been their ancestral home for centuries, despite having numerous other estates throughout Britain, Austria and Germany. As such, the house had never been just a home. But now... now he could see how it had been a vessel for their grief, their madness, their despair, sustaining the magic with their very essence. The Black family had always been a cursed line, he knew, one marked by tragedy. And that tragedy had seeped into the bones of Grimmauld Place, twisting its magic until the house was an extension of their pain.

The Grimoire detailed this with an eerie sense of finality.

Each name, each story, bled into the next, their sorrow feeding into the house's foundation, twisting its magic until it was no longer merely a place of residence, a home, but something else entirely—something closer to them. The tapestry, Draco realised, was never just a family tree. It was the anchor, a conduit for their magic, their emotions, and their legacy to be canalised into the house. It had been designed to collect the essence of the family over the centuries, to preserve their names, their deeds—and their heartache, so the house could be kept alive.

It was clear now. Grimmauld Place was not simply a house—it was a prison, one built by and for the Black family. The house was made to reflect their madness, their emotional weight. And it had been absorbing their despair for centuries. And it had likely started corrupting the family members with its ancestral magic, so full of all the dark of the Blacks, making them madder by the generation. Madder so they could keep feeding the house's magic.

And then, something had shifted.

The grimoire's pages flickered, revealing a darker truth. The house's instability had been growing for decades, as the Black family's grip on reality had loosened over the years. It seemed that the death of Sirius Black had been the final blow. His connection to the house had been strong enough to hold it together. But when he died, and Potter inherited the house, the magic faltered. The house had not only lost its master, its guiding force, but also its Blacks. Its source of energy and reason to keep standing. And now, that it was caught between two claims, two owners—Potter's inheritance, and Draco's bloodline—the house was desperate for balance. To go back to how it was.

That confusion, that chaos, was what had destabilised the magic. The house was grieving. It didn't know who it belonged to anymore. And the house, in its pain, was lashing out, desperate.

Draco's chest tightened as he read the final words on the page.

"The hause is naught but a mere dwelling; for it is the very essence of the Blac family's woe. It hath borne witnes to their sufferings, felt the weight of their sorrow, and now, alas, it doth wither, consumed by its own despair. Only by reconciling the strife betwixt the blood that courseth through its veins and the legacy it hath inherited, shall this eternal hall find rest, and its troubled spirit know peace."

"Bloody hell," Draco muttered under his breath, overwhelmed, running a hand through his hair and mussing it. His voice felt thick, as if the heft of the grimoire's words was choking him. "Potter," he said, his gaze flicking up to Potter's. "It's... the house. It's grieving."

Potter frowned, looking down at the pages. "Grieving? It's a house, Malfoy."

"No, not like that," Draco insisted. "It's not just a house. It's alive with the family's emotions—every drop of despair, every heartbreak, every death. It's been built on all of that."

Potter's face changed, his expression slack and sympathetic. "So, the house has been unstable for decades, but Sirius's death and me... inheriting it pushed it over the edge?"

Draco nodded, his eyes distant. "Essentially, yes. And the magic's been confused ever since. It doesn't know who to serve. Because it doesn't know who its master is, it's desperate, and its very foundation relies on the family."

The grimoire hummed in his hands, almost as if it were alive, listening to their conversation. As if it were waiting for them to finish piecing together the truth. Its leather cover felt strangely warm beneath Draco's fingertips, pulsing in a slow, rhythmic beat, like the heartbeat of something ancient and restless.

Suddenly, the atmosphere in the room shifted. A sharp gust of wind—impossible, unnatural—whispered through the chamber, carrying with it the scent of old parchment and something metallic, something like blood. The temperature plummeted further, the chill biting into their skin, seeping through their clothes as if the very walls exhaled a breath of winter. Then came the sound—a strange, high-pitched keening that rose and fell in waves, setting their teeth on edge, like the wailing of something unseen, something suffering. The house groaned, its very foundation seeming to tremble beneath the weight of some unseen force. The walls creaked and shuddered, their ancient wood twisting with a deep, resonant sound, as if the house itself was alive and in pain. The heavy velvet drapes lining the far end of the room rippled, though there was no breeze to move them. Seconds later, the floorboards beneath their feet trembled violently, rattling the furniture and sending a fine layer of dust cascading from the ceiling. The once-faint shadows stretching across the chamber thickened, lengthening like grasping fingers, writhing and shifting with an eerie sentience. They slithered toward them, coiling around their feet like creeping vines, clinging to the edges of the room as if something beyond the veil of sight was stirring, awakening.

Potter's breathing stopped abruptly, the sensation of the magic pressing against his chest, thick and suffocating, leaving him out of breath. He tightened his grip on his wand, casting a wary glance at Draco.

"I think we might've pissed the house off," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Draco didn't look away from the grimoire, his jaw tightening. "Or it's finally listening," he murmured, his voice steady despite the tension in his frame. His fingers pressed against the book's spine, feeling the energy thrumming beneath his touch. "Whatever happens next, we can't stop now."

The vines in the walls, previously dormant, suddenly jerked to life, their tendrils snapping and whipping through the air with a sinister grace. A low, guttural groan echoed from the walls as if the house itself had been stirred awake. Draco barely had time to react as one of the thicker vines lashed out at him, its rough, bark-like surface scraping against his skin as it coiled around his wrist with alarming speed.

He yanked his arm away just in time, his pulse pounding in his ears as it screamed in pain, but the vines did not relent. They twisted and writhed, their movements growing more violent, more erratic, like snakes striking blindly in the dark. Another tendril snapped toward him, missing by inches as he stumbled back, his grip tightening around the grimoire.

Potter took a sharp step forward, raising his wand. "Incendio!"

Flames erupted from the tip, crackling and bright, illuminating the dark chamber with a flickering golden glow. The nearest vines recoiled instantly, shrivelling away from the heat, but more slithered forward, unfazed, as if driven by something deeper than instinct—something angry, something desperate. The flames soon went out with the air produced by the lounging roots.

"Potter, get back!" Draco shouted, trying to avoid the flailing roots. His heart pounded in his chest as the air around them thickened with raw, unstable magic.

But Potter didn't move away. Instead, he stepped forward, reaching out to help Draco.

"Potter, don't—" Draco rasped, his voice strained, but it was too late. As Draco's hand brushed against Potter's own tan hand, a jolt of warmth shot through him, searing and unexpected, like a live current beneath his skin. The shock of it—of feeling something so real, so unguarded—made him freeze for just a moment. His breath caught, and without thinking, his fingers tightened around Potter's hand.

But instead of stepping back, Potter acted on instinct. His fingers tightened around Draco's wrist, then slid up to his forearm, gripping firmly as he yanked him forward. The motion was swift, almost desperate, pulling Draco flush against him. Their chests nearly collided, the sudden closeness sending a shock of warmth between them, momentarily overpowering the unnatural chill in the air. The moment their skin met, something shifted. The chaos around them seemed to still. The vines, once thrashing with violent intent, hesitated mid-air, their writhing movements faltering. The shadows that had been creeping along the walls wavered, retreating slightly, as though the house itself had paused—watching, waiting. The heavy press of magic in the air remained, but it was different now. Less suffocating. Less desperate.

Draco swallowed, his fingers still curled around the fabric of Potter's sleeve. His pulse was hammering in his throat, but he refused to move, refused to acknowledge the way Potter's breath ghosted against his cheek. Whatever had just happened, the house had felt it too.

"Draco," Potter said, his voice low, hesitant. Their faces were inches apart, and the electricity between them felt palpable.

Draco could feel the heat of Potter's skin against him, the pulse of something new, something unnameable. His heart raced, but he couldn't tell if it was because of the danger they were in or because of Potter's proximity. This was not the moment for something like this, he knew, but couldn't help but sight at the closeness. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, time seemed to stretch, the room fading away, the danger, the chaos, everything disappearing as the world seemed to narrow down to just the two of them.

Potter opened his mouth to say something, but Draco couldn't bring himself to listen. His breath was coming too fast, and he felt something shift in his chest, a strange warmth spreading through him. It was confusing. It didn't make sense. He wasn't supposed to feel this way—he had always shoved these feelings deep within him, alongside all the other things he couldn't afford to feel or think. To save himself from the pain of letting them be shown. But now, as they stood there, in the midst of this disaster, it felt like all the walls they had built between each other were starting to crumble.

And Draco wasn't sure if that scared him or thrilled him.

The house seemed to notice too, as the air thickened once again, the tension now too strong to ignore. The vines retracted, the shadows pulled back, but the tension between Potter and Draco remained, thick and electric, as if the house were waiting for them to make the next move. Potter's eyes flickered to Draco's lips, and for a split second, Draco wondered if they were both thinking the same thing. Before he could stop himself, he found himself leaning in, closer, until—

A loud, resounding crack echoed through the room, shattering the moment. They sprung apart, only barely, and jumped away from a reaching root, and the grimoire slipped from Draco's hands, falling to the floor with a sickening thud. The magic surged once again, wilder and more chaotic than before, as the house seemed to scream in confusion. The floor beneath their feet trembled, and the tapestry on the wall began sparkling, as if a myriad of tiny fireworks were working hard on setting it aflame. The room twisted around them, the walls warping and bending, as though reality itself was being rewritten.

Draco barely had time to react before the house's magic stopped once again. But this time, there was something different in the air—something heavier, more potent. They had crossed a line, and now Draco had an idea. The house knew it.

And now, they had no choice but to face whatever it had in store for them.

The room was harrowing, the air thick with the weight of centuries of pain, sorrow, and dark magic. It pressed against Harry's chest, sinking into his bones, suffocating in its intensity. Had Sirius felt it too? Had he walked through these very halls, trying to shake off the ghosts of his family's past, only to realise they were stitched into the very fabric of the house? Had he tried to escape it, to carve out a different path for himself, only to be dragged back by forces stronger than his own will? Had this relentless, suffocating despair consumed him in the end, creeping into his mind, into his soul, until there was nothing left but regret and inevitability?

Harry swallowed hard, his throat tight, his heart aching at the thought.

As he and Draco stood in front of the malfunctioning tapestry, the flickering, unstable threads shimmering with magic, a new, unspoken tension seemed to settle between them. Their hands brushed again ever so slightly, the briefest of contacts, mere embers of what had transpired between them just moments ago, but it was enough to send a jolt of something uncomfortable through Harry's chest. It was a physical sensation that mirrored the commotion inside him—the weight of what they had to do, the weight of what this house had become, and the weight of the two of them, standing on the precipice of something that neither of them was willing to even whisper aloud.

Draco's voice cut through the silence, calm but strained but still startling Harry, his words measured. His silver eyes were alight, reflecting the crackling lights of the magic the tapestry was emitting.

"Potter, I think...," Draco said, his voice lower, more deliberate, cutting through the haze. "I think we need to destroy the tapestry. It's the only way. This magic, this... madness that's feeding the house. And the Family Tree has absorbed too much of it—it's festering now, rotting from the inside out. And it's dragging us with it."

The words made sense, and yet, Harry felt something tighten painfully in his chest. The tapestry, though distorted and unstable, was still the link to everything—every name, every memory, every shattered legacy. His godfather's name was still there, burned into the fabric but not erased. He could still see it, though the stitching was frayed, and the magic was beginning to unravel. This cursed house, with its woeful letters full of love and pain, and with its hidden rooms, was the only tangible piece of Sirius he left. His only connection to family. The only reminder of someone who had given his life for Harry, who had cared for him when no one else would.

Harry swallowed, his voice breaking the silence with a rawness he hadn't expected.

"But... this is all that's left of him," he murmured, his eyes fixed on the spot where Sirius's name had once proudly held its place in the tapestry, but now was just a blackened memory. "If we destroy this tapestry... will I lose him too?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and painful, and for a moment, Harry didn't know if he was asking Draco or the house itself. His connection to Sirius had always been fragile—never fully realised, never given the chance to truly settle and bloom. Throughout the years, the house had been both a refuge from his own shadows, and a reminder of the pain Sirius had endured, of the isolation and the war that had consumed him. But if they destroyed the tapestry, would it be like erasing the last trace of him from Harry's life? Would he lose that part of his history forever?

Draco didn't respond right away, and Harry felt a ripple of tension pass between them. He could almost feel the house shudder in the silence, as if it too was waiting for an answer. But then, with a hesitant but firm motion, Draco pressed the right side of his body against Harry's, the warmth of his body soothing in the coldness of the room. The gesture was unexpected—steady, though there was a certain uncertainty to it. It was a moment of rawness, a quiet acknowledgment that Harry hadn't seen in Draco before they had ended up trapped in here. The contact grounded Harry, even as it stirred something deeper inside him—something he wasn't ready to face.

"We're not destroying the history, Potter," Draco's voice was softer than it had ever been before, almost tender, but still laced with his usual quiet poise "We're freeing it. This... this isn't a legacy worth preserving as it is now."

For a moment, Harry was taken aback by the sincerity in Draco's tone. There was no mockery, no sarcasm, just a rare honesty that seemed to pierce through the layers of bitterness and pride that always seemed to separate them. He could feel Draco's hand still resting shyly against his, and it seemed to calm the turmoil inside him, if only for a moment. Harry nodded slowly, though his mind was still racing. He had always known that Sirius's past—his family, his pain—was part of him, part of what had shaped him into the man Harry had come to know and love as a godfather. And this place was a reminder of that. But the house, Grimmauld Place, had also been his prison, his grave. A place of suffocating darkness. A house that had been haunted by the ghosts of every Black who had lived there—by the fear, the hatred, the brokenness of the family legacy. Sirius's defiance, his fight for freedom and love, had come at a terrible price. And now, it seemed, Harry's own role in this legacy was to destroy centuries of stories so similar to Sirius'.

Could he, should he, destroy this symbol of their pain to free them all? Was it right?

"I can't believe it's come to this," Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper. "That we're standing here, having to..."

Draco gave a short, almost bitter laugh, though it sounded more like a sigh to Harry. "It's the only way..."

They stood there in silence for a moment, each lost in their thoughts. The weight of the decision pressed on them both, but the more Harry thought about it, the more he realised that Draco was right. Sirius had never wanted to return to this house—not after his escape. And neither had Harry, if he was honest. This wasn't the home he had inherited, it was a prison of grief. If they destroyed the tapestry; they were freeing everyone from the chains that had bound them to this place, to this cursed family.

"I suppose we're both stuck with the mess that is the Black family," Harry muttered, shaking his head with a wry, almost resigned and reluctant smile. "You've got the bloodline, and I've got the inheritance. Lucky us."

Draco raised an eyebrow, his body still flush with Harry's

"Oh, don't get too sentimental on me now, Potter. I'm the one with the cursed legacy, remember?"

Harry smiled, the corners of his lips twitching as he turned to face Draco fully, trying to ignore the growing hole in his chest. "I'm not exactly thrilled with my 'lucky inheritance' either. If you'd prefer, I can just hand the whole mess over to you. It's your bloodline, after all."

"Keep your bloody inheritance, Potter," Draco replied with a scoff, but there was an undercurrent of something else in his voice—a strange sort of understanding, even if neither of them fully grasped it. "It suits you. Maybe the house will even start to recognise you as its rightful master."

Harry paused at that, his eyes flicking to the flickering tapestry once again, the instability of the magic surrounding it making his stomach turn. Was he truly the one who had inherited this house, this burden? Had Sirius ever wanted him to take on this responsibility? Or had he just wanted Harry to have a home, a place to belong, far from the shadows of the Black family?

They both turned to the tapestry again, its colours dimming, its threads flickering like a dying flame. The magic felt like it was building, charging with a raw, unstable energy, and Harry could almost taste the danger in the air. It was now or never.

"Are we doing this?" Harry asked, his voice steady but still carrying that underlying sense of uncertainty.

Draco nodded, his expression more serious now, though there was a hardness to his gaze that Harry recognised. "We have to. It's the only way to fix this place. We can't just stand here forever, hoping it sorts itself out. Besides..." He glanced at Harry, his eyes flickering. "We don't exactly have a lot of options, do we?"

Harry met Draco's gaze and felt a strange surge of gratitude. The house had to be freed, for both of them. For the Black family's legacy, and for their own. With a sharp breath, Draco stepped forward, and without another word, raised his wand.

"Aperi custodias," he said, a quiet but decisive command. Tentatively, the wards around the tapestry sprung up in a venomous, tangled up like a spider's web after a storm. "Shit."

Harry stood frozen in front of the tapestry, his chest tightening with each passing moment as he saw Draco begin to unravel the wards so he could access the tapestry. The air around him felt heavier, thicker, as though the house itself were pressing down on him, to try to dissuade him from digging in deeper. Harry looked around suspiciously, wondering why the house wasn't retaliating when it had tried to kill them off for less. With cautious eyes, he looked around, wand at the ready to defend Draco.

Then, out of nowhere, the whispers began.

Soft at first, they were dissonant whispers of the Black family's past reached his ears, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts, pulling at the fragile thread that held him together. He could feel the magic of Grimmauld Place latching onto his deepest fears, his doubts—each one like a slap to the face, each accusation, a cold, sharp dagger buried deep in his being. He knew that was what it was, and still, he listened, his heart a loud staccato in his chest. They were faint echoes, slithering into Harry's mind like a draft through a cracked window. At first, he mistook them for his own thoughts, an inner monologue twisted by the tension in the air. But as the voices sharpened, their venom unmistakable, his heart lurched. These weren't his thoughts. They couldn't be. They were cruel, dissonant, and unrelenting, carving into him like jagged glass.

"You've always been alone, haven't you? Poor little freak, unloved and unwanted."

The words hit like a whip, each syllable a lash that tore through his defences. Harry's breath came quicker, ragged, the panic coiling tight in his chest. Harry flinched, his throat tightening, but he couldn't stop them. He couldn't escape them. His hand instinctively clenched around his wand, so strong he thought he might break it again, the pulse of fear beginning to prick at his skin. The whispers were low, cold, and utterly familiar in their cruelty. Like a whisper from the deepest, darkest part of his own mind—the part that he had buried and ignored for so long. But the whispers grew louder. He tried to push the voices away, to focus on the here and now, but the house—its magic—fed on his fears, dredging up every insecurity he had buried deep within himself.

"You'll never belong anywhere."

He sucked in a breath, his stomach lurching, his chest tight. It was as though someone had taken his worst fear—the thing he'd been running from his entire life—and laid it bare for him to see. The nagging, persistent thought that haunted him on the lonely nights when no one was around, when he'd lie awake, wondering if he'd ever truly fit anywhere. Whether the Weasleys, who had shown him kindness when no one else would, secretly saw him as just an extra. A burden.

"Even your precious Weasleys don't truly want you. An extra mouth to feed, a burden they were too kind to turn away. Like a pitiful stray dog."

"No," Harry whispered, but his voice cracked, barely audible. His hands trembled around his wand, his knuckles white with the effort to hold on. The whispers didn't stop; they grew louder, more insistent, more cutting. "That's not true," he muttered under his breath, almost as if to convince himself, but it did little to stop the flood of poisonous thoughts.

"You couldn't even love Ginny, could you? Beautiful Ginny, and yet you couldn't touch her, couldn't be a real man and fuck her like she begged you to, didn't you? Useless, little fag."

The words stung like acid, sharp and biting, reaching right into the heart of him. Harry felt his chest tighten, his breath shortening. His mind recoiled at the thought. He had loved Ginny—he had, but had he really? The pain of the words left him reeling, his chest tightening as if the walls themselves were collapsing inward. He staggered back, blinking furiously against the tears that pricked at his eyes. His stomach churned violently, and he swayed on his feet.

A cold shiver ran down his spine, as if winter had bloomed within his body.

"You're a broken little man who will never find love."

"Stop," Harry begged, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears, trembling, cracked.

He squeezed his eyes shut as if trying to block it out, to deny the flood of negative thoughts slamming into his mind. But the house's magic was relentless. It was like it was feasting on his insecurities, revelling in the cracks it had exposed. He staggered slightly, pressing his hand to his forehead as the house's magic clawed at him from the inside. His chest heaved, and for a moment, all he could hear were the cruel words lashing at him, accusing him of everything he feared most. The suffocating pressure of isolation pressed on his lungs, and the guilt over so many deaths bloomed, knotting itself painfully inside his ribs.

"Everyone you touch, everyone you love, dies. Your parents. Dumbledore. Sirius. Remus. It's a curse, isn't it, Potter? You're cursed."

Harry gasped, his lungs burning as though the air had been siphoned from the room. The guilt swelled within him, dark and unrelenting, filling the space left by every whisper of doubt. His vision blurred, and for a moment, the faces of everyone he had failed danced before his eyes. It was the truth, wasn't it? Everyone he cared about had been ripped away from him, one by one. Sirius's haunted gaze. Fred's easy grin, gone forever. Cedric's lifeless body crumpling in the graveyard. It was as though there was something about him—some fatal flaw—that made everyone he loved an easy target for the darkness. A bitter, horrible feeling twisted in his stomach.

"Stop, stop, stop" he choked, his voice a broken plea, his free hand going to his hair. But the voices only grew sharper.

"Sirius didn't die for you. He died because of you. Chasing after your reckless, idiotic choices, just like the rest."

The words were a punch to the gut, and Harry doubled over, clutching at his chest as though to keep himself from falling apart entirely. Harry's eyes snapped open. A rush of nausea washed over him, dizzying and overwhelming. The house's magic, so deeply tied to the Black family's history, had found the deepest wound in Harry's soul—the guilt, the overwhelming guilt, that had haunted him since that night at the Department of Mysteries. The thought that he could have saved Sirius. That he could have done more, that he should have done more. But no. It was too late now. And the house knew it.

His breath came in short, shallow bursts, his vision swimming with shadows that seemed to crawl out from the corners of the room. The walls pressed closer, the weight of the house's magic a suffocating shroud. The room seemed to shift. His chest tightened, every breath a battle as the house's magic began to seep deeper into his thoughts, its words curling into his brain like poison. Harry's pulse thundered in his ears, the blood rushing to his face as if the magic of the house was smothering him. His legs wavered beneath him, and for a fleeting second, it felt like the weight of every mistake, every lost life, every person he had failed to save, was crashing down on him all at once.

"Shut up," he rasped, his voice trembling. Stop it, he thought desperately. It's not real. It's not real.

"You don't belong here. You don't belong anywhere."

"No," Harry breathed, his voice shaking with repressed panic. He wanted to shout, to banish the voices, but the words refused to leave him, clinging to the fragile walls of his mind. Harry clenched his fists, trying to ground himself in reality, but it was as though the walls were closing in on him, the darkness seeping into his mind like a poison. The accusations—the fears—flooded over him, and they felt too real, too heavy.

"You're not enough," the voices hissed. "You'll never be enough. Broken. Alone. Forever."

"Potter," came a voice, low and nervous. Draco's voice. Harry didn't look up, his vision blurring with the onslaught of emotions. He heaved, but nothing came out, he just stood there, eyes filled with tears.

"Everyone you love will leave you. You're destined to be alone."

The words cut deep, sharper than any curse could. And somewhere in the back of his mind, something began to break. Was it him? Was it the house? Or was it the magic that had infiltrated his very soul? The shadows that had always been in the corners of his heart—suddenly they seemed so much more real.

"Potter?" Draco's voice again. Soft and velvety. Concerned. But distant, far away. Far off through the fog that was now clouding Harry's mind. He could feel Draco's presence behind him, but it felt far away, as if the air between them had thickened, stretched too far to reach him. "Harry?" It was like a voice calling through a dense fog, and Harry could barely manage to focus on the sound of Draco's voice, his hand reaching out—was it reaching for him? Or was it just another figment of the house's magic? But Harry couldn't answer. His mind was a mess of confusion and pain, spiralling out of control.

Once a freak, always a freak.

It hit like a lightning bolt, the voices thunderous in his head. The overwhelming sense of being other. Of never quite fitting in. Never really belonging. He had never been able to shake the feeling that he was the odd one out—always out of place, never truly a part of anything, not even in the family he had found in the Weasleys. He could feel the magic of Grimmauld Place winding its way through his mind, wrapping around his heart, seeping into his every thought and tearing apart what little stability remained. He was drowning in the house's memories, drowning in its emotions—its pain, its despair. It was too much, too much to bear. With trembling hands, he staggered forward, instinctively clutching at the walls to steady himself, his chest rising and falling in shallow, desperate breaths. The air felt suffocating. The house felt suffocating. The weight of the centuries of grief pressing in on him like a physical force.

Suddenly, a sharp tug at his arm. Draco had grabbed him.

"Harry!" The sound of Draco's voice cut through the haze like a blade, panicked and fragile.

The urgency in Draco's voice cut through the fog, and Harry turned his head just enough to see him—Draco's face filled with concern, but also a fragile hint of something else, an odd mix of emotions that was so unfamiliar to Harry, it almost startled him. And, he could feel the warmth of Draco's presence beside him, close enough now that Harry could almost reach out and touch him. The feeling of Draco's proximity—his steady hand, his voice trembling. But it wasn't enough. And even as Harry turned, his legs gave out, and he collapsed to his knees. His hands clutched at his ears, trying to block out the torrent of accusations, but they clawed at him, relentless.

Draco's hand grabbed his arm, yanking him upright with surprising strength. His pale hands were cold, trembling. "Harry, please, focus!" Draco's tone was desperate, the panic so sharp it could cut through bone, his mercurial eyes wide and frantic. "You can't listen to this house. Do you hear me?"

Harry's lips moved soundlessly, his breath hitching in broken gasps. His eyes were glazed, the weight of despair pressing down on him too heavy to shrug off.

"Harry!" This time, Draco's voice was louder, more desperate, his grip tightening on Harry's arm. "Don't you dare let this bloody house win. You're not..." he faltered, his words softer, less hurried. "You're not what it says you are. Do you hear me? You're not."

Harry blinked, the sound of his name—Harry—like a lifeline thrown into the storm. His chest heaved, his body trembling violently, but slowly, the fog began to thicken. Draco's steady presence anchored him, but there was something pulling him at the seams, dismembering his mind.

"I can't..." Harry's voice broke, his eyes filling with unshed tears as he looked at Draco, his vulnerability laid bare. "I can't do this... Draco, I... I can't lose him again."

The room darkened even further, the dim light flickering and faltering, as if afraid to shine in the presence of such overwhelming malice. Shadows bled out from the edges of the walls, inky tendrils curling like serpents, stretching and thickening until they cloaked every corner in suffocating blackness. The air itself seemed to grow heavier, dense and oppressive, pressing down on Harry's chest with an almost physical weight, making him hyperventilate even though he was having trouble breathing at all. Each breath felt like dragging shards of glass into his lungs, shallow and desperate, making him feel as though the house was stealing the very air from him. He stumbled backward, his vision narrowing, the edges blurring as panic clawed its way up his spine. His legs felt weak, unsteady, as if the ground beneath him had turned to quicksand. Draco's voice—shrill, desperate—was there one moment, then gone, swallowed whole by the oppressive silence that fell like a shroud over the room. Even the faint echo of his own steps seemed muted, absorbed by the hostile atmosphere.

Harry's head throbbed, the sharp ache blossoming into a relentless, pulsing pain. The whispers that had started as faint, nagging thoughts now swirled into a cacophony, a storm of cruel accusations that stabbed at his psyche with merciless precision. Each word was sharper, each phrase heavier, dragging him deeper into a spiral of despair.

Memories came flooding back, unbidden and vivid, each one striking like a lightning bolt. Sirius falling through the veil—again and again, his expression frozen in a mixture of shock and betrayal, the image replaying with cruel repetition. Dumbledore's piercing blue eyes bore into him, cold and expectant, his disappointment tangible as though echoing words of expectations unmet. And Voldemort—snake-like, smirking, with that cold, high laugh that cut through Harry's very soul, his slit-like nostrils flaring as he a mocking laugh left his grey lips, cutting through Harry like a blade.

"A coward," the Dark Lord whispered in Harry's mind, the word slithering into every crack of his self-doubt, coiling around him like a snake.

The memories felt so real, so immediate, that Harry couldn't tell where the past ended, and the present began. He reached up to clutch at his temples, as if trying to contain the storm within, but the whispers only grew louder, rising to a deafening roar. The house wasn't just speaking to him—it was invading him, digging into the deepest corners of his mind, unearthing fears he had buried and wounds he thought had scarred over.

His breath hitched, the air around him thick and suffocating. His heart pounded in his chest, erratic and frantic, as if it, too, wanted to escape the crushing darkness that surrounded him. His magic thrummed beneath his skin, wild and erratic, responding to his rising panic in bursts of uncontrolled energy. His fingers clenched around his wand so tightly that his knuckles turned white, the familiar weight of it in his hand both a comfort and a reminder of how useless he felt against the unseen force consuming him.

And yet, the house loomed, its malevolence pressing in closer, feeding on his vulnerability, revelling in his unravelling.

He wanted to run. Every fibre of his being screamed for escape, a primal, desperate urge to flee this house, this suffocating darkness, this monstrous force that gnawed on the raw edges of his soul. Harry's legs trembled, his body tense and coiled like a spring ready to snap, but his feet refused to obey. They remained rooted, as though the very floorboards beneath him had risen up, weaving invisible chains around his ankles. It wasn't just fear that held him—it was the house itself, a sinister force that refused to release its grip. Its magic wrapped around him like a vice, pulling him deeper, whispering cruel promises that there was no escape, no solace. The room seemed to mock him, the shadows pulsating with a life of their own, and the air thickened further, pressing against his chest like a crushing weight.

"Flamma incinerem."

Behind him, Draco's voice rang out, high and fearful, slicing through the suffocating air like a lifeline. His tone was edged with both fervor and panic, the words spilling from his lips in a steady rhythm, the incantation a desperate plea and a command all at once. His wand blazed with a fierce, unnatural light, casting a bright orange light that flickered and danced against the writhing walls.

The tapestry shuddered at the force of his magic. Its intricate weave, cursed with generations of dark secrets and unyielding pride, reacting violently.

"Come on, you stubborn piece of fabric," Draco hissed through gritted teeth, his wand sparking more violently as he pushed harder. The spell twisted around his wrist like a leash threatening to snap.

Draco gritted his teeth, his knuckles white as he tightened his grip on his wand. The tapestry resisted, its cursed threads fighting back with an almost sentient fury. It hissed and crackled, the golden embroidery morphing into writhing serpents that lashed out in defiance. One struck close to Draco's face, missing by inches, but he didn't flinch. Instead, his chant grew louder, more forceful, his voice carrying the weight of centuries of defiance, as if he could undo the tangled history of his bloodline with sheer will.

Harry, still frozen in place, managed to lift his head. The brightness of Draco's spell was blinding in the darkness, and for a moment, it seemed as though Draco was the only solid thing in a world that had come undone.

Then, it happened. The threads of the tapestry jerked taut and whipped back with a thunderous crack, as though an unseen hand had plucked at them. Draco staggered, his breath caught mid-word, and the room fell unnaturally silent, the air heavy as if the house itself held its breath.

From the tapestry, a thick, black liquid began to seep, its consistency teetering between fluid and something unnervingly lifelike. It oozed from the shimmering weave and gashes in the tapestry in deliberate, heavy tears of tar, pooling on the floor like spilled treacle. The substance seemed to devour the light around it, absorbing the glow of Draco's wand until even its reflection was swallowed whole. As it spread, the liquid moved with purpose, tendrils unfurling across the floor, creeping toward Harry and Draco like predators testing their prey. The air grew suffocating, saturated with the scent of tar and rot. It was the smell of something decayed, something long buried and forgotten. Harry gagged as the noxious aroma invaded his senses, his stomach twisting in protest. It wasn't just decay—it was the sharp, metallic tang of grief and despair, a scent that seemed to cling to his skin and worm its way into his thoughts. The liquid pulsed faintly, rhythmic, like a heartbeat, and Harry couldn't shake the horrifying thought that it was alive.

"Harry..." Draco's voice was barely above a whisper now. He sounded scared, his eyes fixed on the spreading substance.

The tar writhed, an unsettling dance of ancestral magic that moved with the weight of centuries, rising like a malevolent tide. It churned and rippled, an unnatural mimicry of the sea after an oil spill, devouring every living thing in its path, leaving the air thick with its lethal presence. It defied gravity as it pulled itself upward, threads of liquid darkness weaving together with purpose, coalescing into a form that seemed to mock the very idea of humanity. Harry's chest tightened painfully, his breath catching as the black mass began to solidify. The shape was human—or nearly so—but cruel in its imperfections. Its limbs were impossibly long, angular and wrong, as though stretched by unseen hands to grotesque proportions. Shoulders hunched unnaturally high, the tar-like surface rippling and shifting as if smoke struggled to hold itself together within a brittle shell. The room pulsed with the energy of it, the magic as old as the Black lineage itself, weighing down on Harry with a force that felt suffocating. His wand trembled in his grip, its light dimming against the sheer weight of the entity's presence. It wasn't just a monster—it was the house's anguish given form, every unresolved sorrow, every twisted thread of its cursed history now standing before them in a nightmare made flesh.

Its face...

Harry's blood ran cold. The face was his own. Twisted, shadowed, the eyes hollow and accusing. The mouth twisted into a sneer that spat venomous words, each syllable striking him like a blow. It towered over them, seemingly engulfing the room with its presence, like a Minotaur at the centre of its maze.

"You let him die. Sirius. You knew it was a trap, and you walked straight into it. Weak, reckless, foolish. You killed him."

Harry shook his head violently, his hands trembling as he pressed them to his ears, but the voice came from within, bypassing all barriers. Not again...

The face rippled, shifted. Now it was Sirius, his features drawn in pain, his voice cracked and broken. "You were supposed to save me, Harry. Why didn't you? Why did you kill me?"

The creature loomed impossibly larger, its tar-like form spilling and slithering from its limbs as it moved, each step dragging shadows with it as though peeling them from the walls. The air grew heavier, thick with the stench of decay and something far more vile—regret, old and festering, choking the room like a noxious fog. The thing's surface writhed, faces shifting in and out of its form, and when it finally paused, its features settled into one of familiar sorrow: Andromeda Black.

Her eyes were hollow, brimming with anguish. Her lips moved, and her voice rang out, trembling with guilt. "I abandoned them," the figure whispered, the words clawing through the silence. "I left my sisters to rot in this house, to fester under its curse. And now... look at what remains of us. Nothing but ashes and curses, a broken, wasted lineage," her face lingered just long enough for the weight of her grief to settle into the room, and then it shifted again.

The dark form twisted, the tar sloughing off in tendrils as it turned to Draco. Its face was his own now—pale, gaunt, and terror-stricken, a cruel mirror of his worst fears. Its voice became his, brittle and venomous.

"You think you can escape this? Think a few gestures of goodness can redeem you? You'll never outrun your blood. Never outlive your name. You're still a Malfoy. Still his son. You'll never be more than that. A coward pretending to change."

Draco took an involuntary step back, his wand trembling in his grip. The usual sharpness in his tone was gone, stripped away by the rawness of fear. "No..." he breathed, his voice cracking.

The monster swelled, growing broader, its limbs contorting, its body rippling as if barely held together by the magic that birthed it. Faces flickered across its surface now, faster and faster, like a broken reel of film in a forgotten cinema. Narcissa's tear-streaked expression surfaced, her lips trembling as she cried, "I failed you, Draco. I failed you all."

Then Bellatrix's maniacal grin stretched too wide, her laughter warped and echoing, claws raking through the air, trying to reach them before going for its own face, clawing at it.

And then Remus' face emerged from the tears in the tar—his eyes sunken, his laughter hollow, devoid of warmth. "I waited for Sirius," it sneered. "And you killed him, Harry. You took him from me again."

Harry's heart thundered in his chest, his vision blurring as his own face flickered on the creature's surface, staring back at him with hollowed, blackened eyes. "Weak," it spat in his voice, venom dripping from the word. "They're all dead because of you. You can't save anyone. Not Sirius. Not Remus. Not even yourself. You're nothing but a broken little freak."

The voices grew louder, overlapping into a discordant symphony of rage, regret, and despair. The room seemed to pulse with it, the walls closing in. Harry's legs wavered, the weight of the words crushing him as if the air itself sought to bury him alive. The creature began to move again, each step deliberate, every ripple of its form a grotesque mockery of life. Its limbs lengthened further, fingers twisting into claw-like appendages dripping with inky blackness. As it drew nearer, the tar seeping from its form pooled at Harry's feet, slithering up his boots, cold and biting as it wrapped around his ankles like chains.

"You're nothing, Draco Malfoy," the creature hissed, its voice layered with countless tones, the Black family's pain echoing through its words. "Your mother will die because of you. And soon, you'll be consumed by what you cannot undo."

Harry tried to move, but the tar held fast. He felt it clawing at his skin, icy tendrils slithering under his robes, pulling him closer to the abyss. Draco's voice was distant, his tear-streaked face saying something Harry couldn't hear over the deafening roar of the creature's magic, its despair now a tangible force threatening to crush them both. For a moment, Harry's vision blurred entirely, and he thought he might fall. The monster loomed, its many faces sobbing, sneering, laughing—until the darkness swallowed all light but the faint, wavering glow of Draco's wand.

"You'll never belong, Harry. You'll never be enough. You are the reason for every death, every failure. Everyone leaves you because you make it easy for them to."

Draco's watery voice snapped him out of his spiralling thoughts. "Harry, please!"

Harry's breath was ragged, his chest heaving as if the weight of the house's magic was physically crushing him. He glanced at Draco, who was pale and trembling, fighting not to fall to his knees, his wand tight in his grip despite the severe tremor in his hands.

The tar creature loomed over them, a grotesque colossus born of the house's darkest magic, of every single Black tear, its form pulsating with living shadows and tar. Its massive, clawed limbs scraped against the ground as it advanced sluggishly, the dark liquid that comprised its body spreading like a slick, sentient tide. The air grew denser with every second, suffocating with the smell of rust and rot. The room itself seemed to shift, warping into a labyrinth of despair, and Harry could feel the walls pressing in, the weight of his failures clawing at his chest. The creature's voice reverberated in Harry's skull still, a cacophony of every fear, every regret they had ever buried. It shifted its face again, the tar rippling as it turned back into Harry's own visage. This time, the face was gaunt, its eyes hollow and bloodshot. The lips curled into a cruel sneer as it spoke, the words cutting deep.

"You think you're a saviour?" it spat, its voice dripping with malice. "You kill everything you touch, Harry Potter. Sirius died because of you. Cedric died because of you. Fred, Lupin, Tonks... they're all gone, and you're still here, aren't you? Useless. Broken. A coward hiding behind borrowed glory. A sheep hiding under a lion's skin."

Harry staggered, the brunt of the words slamming into him like a physical blow. His knees buckled, and he clutched his head, as if he could block out the voice by sheer force of will. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, and tears streamed down his face. The creature took a step closer, its viscous claws extending, reaching for him with a deliberate, predatory grace.

"Stop!" Draco's voice broke through the oppressive haze, sharp and desperate. He stood his ground, his wand trembling but still aimed at the creature. His face was pale, and his mercurial grey eyes burned with a mixture of terror and anguish. "It's the bloody house, Harry! Fight it, please! Harry...!"

The creature turned its gaze to Draco, its face flickering into a grotesque parody of his own. The tar contorted, the features sharpening into a cruel smile that made Draco recoil.

"Fight it?" the tar monster mocked, its voice twisting into Draco's drawl. "What's there to fight, Draco? You've already lost. A snivelling coward, tainted by the Black madness and the Malfoy greed. How many Death Eaterss had to fuck you before you realised nobody was ever going to miss a queer whore? Your father despised you, little maggot. Your mother pitied you. And your so-called redemption? Just another delusion."

Draco flinched as though struck, his wand faltering for a moment. The words dug deep, unearthing wounds that had been opened over and over again in the last few days. The tremble in his hand grew worse, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed like he might break. But then he snarled, a fierce, defiant sound even as his whole frame shook, and tightened his grip on his wand.

"Expelliarmus!" he shouted, his voice cracking but firm.

The spell hit the creature square in the chest, sending a burst of silver light through its form. It staggered back a few paces, its tar-like body shuddering as if in pain. But almost instantly, it began to reform, the shadows and liquid pulling back together as if nothing had happened.

Draco glanced at Harry, his expression a mix of hurt and desperation. "Harry, please!" he shouted. "I can't do this on my own!"

But Harry remained frozen, trapped in the grip of his own despair. The figure—the tar Minotaur turned back to him, its form towering even larger now, its tarry substance spilling across the floor in thick waves. The black liquid coiled around Harry's ankles, icy tendrils slithering up his legs and rooting him in place.

"You don't deserve to stand here," it hissed, its many voices overlapping in a discordant symphony. "You don't deserve to breathe. Look at him!" It gestured towards Draco. "He fights for you, and you leave him. Weak. Pathetic."

The tar crept higher, its icy tendrils clawing at Harry's chest, tightening like an unrelenting vice. Every breath felt laboured, the pressure of the room crushing down on him as if the very house wanted to swallow him whole, to grind him into nothing but dust and regret. His vision blurred, tears mixing with the surrounding blackness, and his mind spiralled into chaos, unravelling at the seams.

Memories assaulted him with brutal clarity, each one sharper than the last: Sirius falling through the veil, his name a desperate scream on Harry's lips; Cedric's lifeless body sprawled on the grass, his unseeing eyes fixed on the sky; Dumbledore plummeting from the Astronomy Tower, his expression too serene for what came next. Then came the others—the countless faces of the dead, some familiar, some lost to war, all staring at him with hollow, accusing eyes. He wanted to look away, but they were everywhere. Fred, smiling even in death. Lupin, Tonks—bodies cold and still, so far removed from the warmth they once carried. Colin, too young, too full of life, now reduced to a corpse among so many others. They hadn't just died. They had died for him. For his cause. And yet, standing there, drowning in this abyss, Harry wasn't sure if it had ever been worth it.

Draco shook him, his eyes full of tears as he begged Harry to help him. Seeing Harry's collapse, gritted his teeth and lunged forward. He fired another spell—"Stupefy!"—but the creature absorbed it effortlessly this time, the tar rippling as it reformed around any injury Draco's spells might cause. It lashed out, one of its elongated limbs striking Draco and sending him sprawling against the left wall, where he hit the tapestry with a deafening crack.

"Draco—!" Harry's voice cracked, barely more than a strangled whisper, raw and hollow with fear. His throat burned, but it was nothing compared to the agony clawing at his chest, the sickening weight of helplessness pressing down on him. He could feel it—the inevitability of it—coiling around his ribs, tightening, suffocating.

He was going to die.

Draco was going to die, and it was going to be his fault.

Again. Again. Again.

Another life slipping through his fingers, another body crumpling before his eyes, another name to haunt him in the dark. His lungs seized, panic choking him as if the house itself had reached inside him, gripping his heart with its cruel, unrelenting hands.

He couldn't move.

He had to move.

Draco was going to die, and he was going to have to watch.

The blonde in front of him coughed, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth as he tried to push himself up. His entire body ached, a deep, bone-weary pain settling into his limbs, but he refused to let it show. His wand was still clutched tightly in his trembling hand, though his grip was weakening with each passing second. He glared at the creature before them, a flicker of defiance cutting through the haze of exhaustion. Fear prickled at the edges of his mind, sharp and suffocating, but he swallowed it down, forcing himself to focus. His silvery eyes darted around the room, scanning for an escape, for anything that could turn the tide in their favour, but there was none.

The air was thick with dark magic, pulsing with something ancient and ravenous. The walls felt closer now, the weight of the house pressing down on them like it, too, was waiting—watching. Another ragged cough tore through Draco, reverberating off his chest, and for a moment, his vision blurred. But when he looked up again, his gaze had hardened into pure steel.

"You think I'm scared of you?" Draco spat, though his voice trembled, and his eyes watered from fear and pain as he clutched his right arm. "I've lived with worse monsters than you!"

The creature snarled, its face shifting again, this time into Fenrir Greyback's's twisted visage. His laughter echoed through the room, shrill and maddening.

"And look where that got you. Nothing for a whore for the Dark Lord, opening your legs instead of doing what's right," it taunted, its voice now Fenrir's gruff voice, mocking and cruel. "The Malfoy name will die because of you."

Through his fog, Harry watched in horror as Draco's entire body locked up, the fight draining from him in an instant. His wand, which had been glowing defiantly just moments ago, flickered, the light sputtering like a candle fighting against the wind. Something had changed. The creature's words had struck somewhere deep, somewhere raw, and Harry could see it—the way Draco's breath hitched, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to cast a spell but couldn't make himself move.

Then, the colour drained from his face completely. His pupils shrank, his lips parted, and his whole body shook. He could see in Draco's bright grey eyes the moment the room around him wavered, shifting between past and present—Grimmauld Place dissolving into cold stone walls, the stench of damp and sweat, the feel of rough hands pinning him down. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Could see him try to push back, but the rasping growl in his ears—the sneering mockery, the sick pleasure in every syllable—dragged him back to a time when he hadn't had the power to fight back. When his body had not been his own.

"A disgrace to your family."

The tar tendrils slithered around him tighter, coiling around the Harry's waist like chains, and Draco flinched, a whimper slipping past his lips before he could stop it.

"A failure to your bloodline."

His lungs constricted, his magic crackling violently against the suffocating air, but it wasn't enough.

"Nothing but a Sodomite."

Harry looked on as he saw the words crawled under Draco's skin, dug into old wounds, made them bleed. Was he remembering his mother's tear-streaked face in his mind? His father's cold, disappointed gaze as he looked at him bound, shaking, and helpless?

"Draco..."

He wanted to scream, to fight, to do anything to help Draco—but his body betrayed him, frozen in his own despair as the figure loomed over Draco, the twisted grin on Fenrir's face seared into his mind. His wand trembled in his hand. He had to move. He had to move. But the walls were closing in, the darkness suffocating, and Draco—Draco couldn't breathe.

The tar beast lunged, its claws slicing through the air with a ferocity that sent a cold gust roaring through the room, rattling the few unbroken relics on the display. Draco dove to the side, his movements sluggish, but desperate, rolling to avoid the attack as the creature's talons scraped inches from his face. He fired off a bright blue spell, the luminous burst of magic lighting up the suffocating gloom. The creature howled—a guttural, otherworldly sound that shook the walls—but it didn't falter. Instead, it surged forward, relentless. The black tar dripped like venom from its elongated limbs, stretching and twisting unnaturally as it pursued him.

Then, without warning, it struck.

A tendril of inky darkness lashed out, wrapping around Draco's ankle like a vice. He gasped, flung violently upwards before the tar creature yanked him back down, his back slamming against the ground with a force that sent pain exploding through his injured shoulder and back. Before he could react, the tendrils snaked higher, constricting around his legs and hips—tightening until his breath came in short, strangled gasps.

"Look at you," it sneered in Bellatrix's voice this time, the tone dripping with cruel amusement. The form above him shifted, the beast's warped face contorting until it was Bellatrix, her wild eyes alight with sadistic glee. She crouched over him, her sharp, bony fingers ghosting over his cheek before she suddenly gripped his jaw, tar nails digging into his skin and marring it. "Pathetic."

Draco whimpered, trying to pull away, but the tar only tightened, sending searing pain through his limbs.

"Did you think you could run from what you are? From what we made you?" Bellatrix purred, leaning closer, until its black features were a few inches away from his terrified face. "You think this place will save you? That he will?" Her gaze flickered toward Harry, and she laughed—sharp and biting. "Please. You were born to be owned, Draco. You always have been."

Then, with a sickening lurch, the tar surged forward, its tendrils twisting like razor-edged vines before slamming into Draco's side.

Harry barely had time to react before another tendril lashed across Draco's chest, ripping through fabric and skin alike. The sound it made—wet, sharp, too real—sent a bolt of fury through Harry's chest, the scene agonisingly familiar to him. Draco gasped, his body jerking at the sudden, searing pain. Blood welled from the fresh slashes, dark against the pale stretch of his exposed skin, soaking into the ruined fabric of his robes.

And Harry could see it—the way Draco's fingers spasmed around his wand, the way his chest heaved in ragged, uneven breaths. But he didn't cry out this time. He bit down on the pain, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like his teeth might shatter.

Another strike came—this time across his thigh, cutting deep, sending him into a daze. His back nearly doubled over, but somehow, somehow, Draco forced himself to stay upright. But Harry saw it. The tremor in his trunk, the way his free hand curled into a fist so tight his nails must have been breaking skin. The way his eyes glossed over—just slightly—before he forced his expression blank. Forced himself not to show how much it hurt.

Something roared through Harry like wildfire.

The creature's laughter only grew.

"Nothing but a broken little whore," Bellatrix whispered, stroking his tar-marred cheek like a mother comforting a child. "And tell me, little dragon—what use is a broken thing?"

Draco flinched. Actually flinched. A sound—small, pained, scared—escaped his throat, and Harry felt something inside him snap. He could begin to feel his magic tingling at his fingertips, itching to become unleashed.

"Draco," Harry called shallowly, trying to surge forward instinctively, but the tendrils of tar slithered tighter around his waist, yanking him back.

Harry had never seen Draco this afraid. Not when facing Death Eaters, not even when standing before Voldemort himself. This wasn't the fear of death, or of losing a duel. This was something deeper, something that hollowed Draco out from the inside. His breath was coming in short, shallow gasps, his wand barely held in his trembling hand. Harry's stomach churned. He knew that look. He'd seen it before, in the eyes of people who had suffered too much, who had been broken in ways that no spell could heal. He had seen it that day on the bathroom, and at the Manor, and yet again as he reached for Draco in a sea of flames. And right now, Draco looked like he was seconds away from collapsing under the weight of ghosts that Harry couldn't see.

"Draco, look at me!" he shouted, his voice cracking. But Draco wasn't there. He was trapped somewhere else, just like he had been, drowning in memories that had claws sharper than the monster before them.

Draco was slipping, and Harry wasn't going to let him fall.

"Draco, please, fight it!"

Harry's voice was raw, frantic, but Draco barely reacted. His grip on his wand had slackened, his shoulders heaving with each shallow breath. His eyes—once sharp, defiant—were dull now, unfocused, as if the weight of everything had finally sunk its claws into him. He was losing the fight, not just against the creature, but against himself. Against the years of fear and pain that had brought him to this moment.

And then Harry felt it. The shift. The way Draco's body trembled, the way his bloodied fingers barely curled around his wand, as if he wasn't sure it was worth holding onto anymore. The realisation sent something vicious and furious surging through Harry's chest, hotter than magic, hotter than anything.

No.

Draco had spent his whole life fighting—to prove himself, to survive, to be more than what the world had tried to make him. And Harry would be damned if he let this thing take that from him.

The Minotaur sneered, turning back to Harry as if sensing the change. "You think you can fight me? Save him?" it taunted, its voice slithering between them like a curse. "You can't even save yourself."

Harry lifted his gaze, his magic crackling to life, and for the first time, it wasn't fear or doubt or desperation that drove him.

It was rage.

His hand trembled as it trembled with the effort to try and lift his wand, the tar clinging to him with a viper, almost sentient in its resistance. Each movement was a battle, the dark substance tightening around him like living quicksand, dragging him deeper into its cold, suffocating grasp. His lungs burned, his vision dimming, but he refused to yield. He gritted his teeth, muscles straining against the heavy force, and his fingers finally closed around the familiar wood. The moment his grip solidified, a faint warmth emanated from the wand, cutting through the chill. Harry's voice emerged, fractured and shaky, but gaining momentum with every word.

He wasn't done yet. He couldn't. He had to help Draco.

"I, too, have faced worse than you," he said, his tone raw but defiant. His green eyes glinted with the fire of newborn determination, piercing through the darkness that sought to consume him. "You think this is enough to stop me? I've stood before death itself—and survived."

The tar recoiled slightly, its movements faltering as if recognising the power in his words. But Harry didn't wait for it to strike again. A fierce, untamed kind of energy surged within him, deep and primal, rising from some uncharted depth inside his very core. It burned through his veins like liquid fire, raw magic spilling from him in crackling waves. The air in the room trembled with raw magic, its crushing force pushing out of him down. The tar constricting his body convulsed, writhing like a living thing in agony as his magic lashed out, sending jagged streaks of energy rippling through the black mass. It shrieked—not a sound of this world, but something ancient and wrong, something that had never expected resistance.

Harry's breath came in ragged, gasping pulls as his body burned with power. He lifted his arm, his skin glowing faintly with the sheer force now coursing through him, and with one final, explosive surge, he tore himself free. The tar recoiled violently, splattering against the walls, shrieking as it lost its hold on him. Around them, the room shook with the aftershock of his magic, the very foundations of Grimmauld Place seeming to reel in response.

With a shudder, Harry staggered, chest heaving, but he didn't stop. His wand was in his hand, his heart pounding like a war drum. His magic had answered him, obeyed him—and he wasn't done yet.

As he stumbled forward, the air crackled with wild magic, heavy and suffocating, as if the very house itself were holding its trembling breath. Harry's hand shook, the heft of his wand like a leaden anchor. He could hear Draco's shallow, panicked breaths just across him, the sound oddly grounding in the chaos. For a brief, fleeting moment, Harry dared to glance back—and his heart twisted. Draco's mercurial eyes, wide with fear, locked onto Harry's. They weren't just scared, Harry realised; they were pleading, desperate in a way that struck Harry like a blow to the chest. The tendrils of darkness started to warp around Draco's feet, pulling him closer to the tar Minotaur's ever-shifting, grotesque form, and Harry could see the fight slipping from him in his exhaustion.

Harry moved without thought, his body drawn towards Draco as if compelled by some unspoken, invisible force. The tar creature writhed beside them, its ever-changing form pulsing with dark magic, trying to keep them in place, but Harry didn't stop. Each step forward felt like wading through quicksand, the creature's—the house's cruel magic pushing against him, trying to force him back into his despair.

His trainers stuck to the floor, black tendrils curling around his ankles, yet he pressed on, jaw tight with determination. Draco was on the other side, his silver eyes wide and filled with dread, his pale hand outstretched as if silently begging for help, no longer fierce as he had been. Harry's chest ached, the strain of the creature's influence still weighting on him, yet it wasn't just that. It was the years of unspoken tension, of guilt ridden nights and shattered opportunities, all culminating at this moment. He shoved through the resistance, magic sparking at his fingertips, his entire focus narrowed to Draco's defeated form. Every step forward was an act of defiance—not just against the creature, but against the bitterness of their shared past, of what had happened in this house. By the time he was close enough to see the rapid rise and fall of Draco's bloodied chest, something shifted inside him, a clarity slicing through the fog of fear.

This wasn't just about defeating the darkness. It was about what he was willing to fight for.

Instinct took over, silencing the cacophony of doubts in Harry's mind. Falling to his knees near Draco, his hand moved on its own, trembling but unwavering, reaching out toward Draco. The moment stretched, impossibly long, as though time itself recognised the significance of this action. When their fingers brushed, it was like the world held its breath. This wasn't just a touch—it was the closing of a circle, the undoing of choices made years ago. The first time Harry had faced that hand extended towards him, it had been in their first year when Draco, stiff and haughty and so painfully insecure, had offered him friendship. And later, in the aftermath of the war, that same hand had reached out again, desperate for a chance at redemption.

Both times, Harry had turned away, weighed down by mistrust, anger, and the wounds of a past they couldn't rewrite. But here, in the suffocating darkness of Grimmauld Place, the barriers crumbled.

When Harry grasped Draco's hand now, it was electric—a strange, fiery warmth that seared through his exhaustion and fear, burning away the cold tar clinging to him. It wasn't just grounding; it was transformative. Like when a foal drew its first breath. His grip tightened, not just to steady Draco, but to steady himself, anchoring them both against the overwhelming tide of darkness. This wasn't about history or rivalry anymore. It was about survival. It was about trust.

It was about something else sprouting from his chest like a flower in bloom.

And this time, Harry chose to hold on.

"Harry..." Draco breathed, his voice cracking with exhaustion. His fingers clung to Harry's as though letting go would mean sinking into the abyss.

"I'm here," Harry murmured, his voice unsteady but firm, carrying the significance of everything unspoken. This connection between them sparked something deep within him, something long buried beneath layers of denial, self-doubt, and fear. It wasn't just magic—it was something raw, primal, and undeniable, a tether between their magical cores.

The creature faltered, its hulking, tar-like form flickering like a malfunctioning illusion, the shadows of its form stretching and twisting in unnatural ways. The tendrils wrapped around Draco recoiled with a guttural hiss, recoiling in dread as if the very essence of Harry and Draco's connection was a venomous entity. It shuddered violently, its foul, viscous substance splattering across the room, its once-overpowering presence now trembling with weakness, as though the connection between them had become an insidious poison to its very existence.

Draco's grip on Harry's hand tightened, his fingers pressing into Harry's darker skin with a desperation that mirrored his heart's frantic pace. Draco's voice, though shaky, was steady with a fierce resolve.

"Harry, together."

Harry nodded, the weight of the moment anchoring him as he pulled himself to his feet, muscles aching and burning from the strain. He didn't hesitate, dragging Draco up with him, the two of them now standing side by side, their breath ragged but united.

"Together." The word was a promise—a vow carved from the core of his being.

The thick layers of magic around them seemed to thrum with rage, the air thickening as if every arcane force in the room was rebelling, lashing out in a final, frenzied attempt to break them. The room seemed to close in, shadows coiling and snapping, but neither of them flinched. Harry raised his wand, his fingers steady despite the chaos, and beside him, Draco did the same, their hands still tightly clasped, their determination unwavering. The surge of power between them pulsed, a blinding, unified force that no darkness could extinguish.

The Minotaur let out a deafening roar, its form twisting violently from the heat of their combined magic.

Draco stepped forward with a limp, his voice steady despite the tremors in his body.

"Protego Maxima!" The shield charm erupted from his wand, the golden barrier slamming into the Minotaur's chest with a force that sent cracks rippling through its tar-like surface.

The creature snarled, its grotesque, shifting faces flickering faster now, each one more nightmarish than the last. It cycled through Harry's worst fears like an unholy slideshow—Sirius's eyes, haunted and hollow, Snape's stare, empty and devoid of life, and worst of all, his own reflection, distorted and broken, staring back at them in twisted mockery. Their voices clashed together, overlapping in a cruel, mocking chorus of doubt, whispering the words they dreaded most. The tar around them writhed in fury, tightening its grip on Draco, as if enraged by Harry's resistance, the creature's malevolent force pushing back against his defiance.

But Harry held firm, refusing to be swayed by the illusion of their torment. The warmth of Draco's hand in his was an anchor, grounding him, steadying him when everything else seemed to unravel. His breaths were shallow and rapid, but his heart beat with a fierce rhythm, the fire inside him rising higher with every passing second. He thought of the battles he had fought, of the nights he had spent trembling in fear, but still, he fought on looking for something to fight for.

Love.

It was love that had carried him through—love for those he had lost, for those still with him, and the love that had kept him alive through even the darkest of nights. Not the kind that came easily, but the stubborn kind—buried in the faces of his friends; the memory of his mother's sacrifice; the way Hermione and Ron had stood by him no matter how bleak things became; Teddy while he hugged him goodnight. Draco, next to him, terrified and exhausted, but resolute. Those moments, those people... they were his light, even when everything around him turned to shadow. They were the reason he was still here, and a reason he wanted to remain.

"Not today," Harry said through gritted teeth, his voice steadying. He raised his wand, his fingers curling tightly around the wood. The tar lashed out, a clawed appendage forming and slashing toward him. He flinched, but Draco's shield charm held up against the assault, sparks flying around them.

"Draco!" he shouted, his voice carrying above the chaos.

The blonde was still standing beside Harry, his body taut with tension, his hand trembling as he gripped his wand like a lifeline. The tar-creature's magic pulsed around them, its suffocating tendrils snaking through the air, yet Draco remained upright, his chin trembling with how hard he was grinding his teeth. His pallor betrayed the effort it took to hold his ground, sweat beading on his temple, but his silver eyes burned with determination. The tremor in his hand wasn't just from fear; it was exhaustion, a magical depletion that left him vulnerable, yet he refused to yield. Even as the shadows curled closer, his presence beside Harry felt like a tether—fragile, but unbroken.

"I'm fine!" Draco cried back, though his face was pale, and sweat dripped down his temple. "You can do it, Harry!"

Harry grinned, despite himself. "On it!"

He took a deep, steadying breath, focusing on the warmth spreading through him, a comfort in the midst of the chaos. As the darkest part of the Black magic pressed in on them, memories of love and laughter flooded his mind—Andromeda's playful smirk, Hermione's gentle yet determined voice, the joyous roar of Teddy as he played, Ron's infectious laughter during Quidditch matches, and Draco's quick-witted, teasing remarks that had become so familiar, so precious to him.

The tar creature seemed to pause, sensing the subtle shift in Harry's heart, the swell of warmth and love that it couldn't comprehend.

"Expecto..." Harry began, his voice steady, yet full of the weight of everything he was fighting for. The tar surged forward, hungry to silence him, but Harry didn't falter. He could feel his pulse quicken, but the thought of those he loved—his parents, so full of life in the Mirror of Erised, his heart clenching as he remembered Sirius and Remus, their love so strong, so eternal, holding each other through thick and thin. They kept him grounded.

The Minotaur's roar shattered the air again, its form swelling in rage, preparing to strike with all its malevolent force. But this time, Harry was ready. His hand tightened around his wand, his chest swelling with unshakeable resolve. He would not let the darkness win. He would not let the love of those he cherished be torn away.

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!" he shouted, his voice breaking through the roar of the creature, carrying the weight of everything he had left to give.

A blinding light exploded from his wand, pure and unyielding, a beacon of hope against the suffocating void. The Minotaur reeled, its form retreating as the light consumed it. From the burst of energy, Harry's Patronus emerged—its majestic form a magnificent stag, its antlers gleaming with an otherworldly light, sharp and beautiful like moonlight in the darkest night. The Patronus charged, its hooves striking the tar with a force that shattered the creature's hold. The stag's power surged forward, its antlers gleaming like shards of starlight, crashing against Draco's protective spell. The explosion of magic sent the creature reeling back, its black smoke spiralling into the air as the tar-like tendrils shrieked in agony, collapsing under the weight of the light.

Harry and Draco pushed forward, their magic interwoven, their hands locked.

"Together," Harry repeated through gritted teeth, his voice a low growl of determination. Draco nodded, his gaze burning with shared resolve.

With one final surge of magic, they drove the creature back. The tar began to recede, retreating towards the tapestry as if drawn back, its once-overwhelming presence faltering under the light of their spells. The air around the room vibrated with power, with the raw force of their combined magic, and the Minotaur's form began to disintegrate, its once-terrifying presence dissolving into a chaotic swirl of smoke and shadow. It writhed and screamed, the cacophony of voices fading into a single, agonised wail before disappearing entirely. The house seemed to shudder with relief, the oppressive weight lifting as if the curse had finally been broken.

Harry stood, his legs trembling but steady. The Patronus circled them, its presence a shield of pure, unyielding light. He looked at Draco, a small, determined smile breaking through the despair. The room fell silent, save for Harry's heavy breathing and the lingering hum of magic. The stag stopped in front of him, its ethereal eyes meeting Harry's for a brief moment, before fading away into a wisp of light. The silence that followed was profound, almost deafening in its clarity. The air, once heavy with despair, now felt light and breathable. Harry collapsed onto his knees, his chest heaving with the effort of drawing in lungfuls of air. Draco sank down beside him, his hand still gripping Harry's as though it were a lifeline.

Chapter Text

For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the gravity of what they had just survived hanging thickly in the air between them. The house, once a place of suffocating shadows and gloom, was now eerily quiet, the oppressive atmosphere lifting as if it, too, was releasing a breath it had been holding. The walls, no longer seeping with darkness, seemed to hum faintly with renewed energy, a soft, almost comforting vibration that echoed through the room. Harry let out a shaky laugh, the sound shaky and raw, but full of release. It mingled with the quiet hum of the house, a fragile yet hopeful note in the stillness. Despite the lingering ache in his chest, the exhaustion that seemed to settle into his bones, he felt something shift within him—a subtle change that filled him with lightness, a sense of freedom he hadn’t realized he’d been craving. The weight of everything he’d lost, the pain and fear, still lingered, but now it felt manageable, as though he could breathe a little easier.

Draco let out a low, breathless chuckle, breaking the fragile silence. “Well, that was sufficiently traumatic. Remind me to never come work for you again, Potter.”

Harry barked another laugh, the sound strange and foreign in the aftermath of everything, startling even himself. Relief surged through him, an overwhelming rush that drowned out the exhaustion and fear they’d been navigating for almost a week, leaving only the dizzying sensation of relief. 

He turned to Draco, and for the first time, he truly looked at him—not as an enemy, not even as an ally, but as something else, something he wasn’t quite ready to name. Nevertheless, there was a warmth in Harry’s gaze now, something unspoken yet undeniably present, and it made Draco falter mid-smirk, his usual cheekiness dulling into something softer, more uncertain and almost hopeful. Harry wasn’t sure what possessed him—maybe it was the lingering adrenaline, or maybe it was the way Draco was kneeling next to him, breathing just as hard, looking just as shaken—but before he could stop himself, his fingers reached out, brushing against Draco’s cheek. The touch was light, fleeting, but impossibly real, grounding him in the strange, heady reality of what resided in his chest.

Draco froze, his breath hitching, his mouth half-open as if caught between words. Whatever sharp, teasing remark he had prepared died before it could reach his lips, and for once, neither of them seemed to know what to say

Harry smirked, his voice low and teasing. “So that’s how I shut you up.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, but the usual iciness in his gaze lacked its usual edge. Instead, there was something unguarded in the way he looked at Harry, something hesitant, almost fragile, as if he wasn’t quite sure whether to push Harry away or pull him closer. Then, slowly, he before he closed his silver eyes, the blonde let out a soft sigh and leaned into Harry’s touch, just the barest shift of weight, but enough to send Harry’s pulse into a wild, uncontrollable tattoo against his ribs.

Draco’s eyes opened again, and this time, they were different—unguarded in a way that stole the breath from Harry’s lungs. There was no challenge, no snide remark, no mask to hide behind. Just quiet surrender, quiet trust.

For a moment, Harry’s world shrank to just this—the warmth of Draco’s skin beneath his fingertips, damp with sweat and adrenaline, the faint tremor in his frame that betrayed just how shaken he was, and the stillness that settled between them, charged and fragile all at once. Harry couldn’t bring himself to pull away, even as the words he had buried in denial and confusion threatened to rise, pressing against the back of his throat. He swallowed them down, unwilling—unable—to let them out and change his life as he knew it. His heart pounded, but not with fear. 

No, this was something else entirely, something far more exhilarating, something that made his fingers twitch against Draco’s skin, his breath catch, his stomach flip.

He needed to say something. The silence between them was thick, humming with something expectant. It pressed against Harry’s chest, climbed up his throat, an ache, a pressure, a storm of emotion that threatened to burst free if he didn’t find the right words—any words—to break it. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say, only that if he didn’t, if he let this moment pass without acknowledgment, it would slip through his fingers like fine sand, leaving him grasping at something that had never truly been his to hold. His fingers twitched against Draco’s skin, and his breath hitched.

Say something, his mind urged, before whatever this is swallows you whole.

“Alright, I’m willing to admit it,” Harry murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Draco’s eyes fluttered open, meeting Harry’s gaze with warm, silver eyes. “Admit what?”

“That you’re the reason I’m still alive,” Harry said, his voice steadier now, though his cheeks flushed. “And… you’re not so bad.”

Draco blinked, his pale complexion betraying a faint blush, though his eyes looked almost disappointed.

“Well,” he drawled, trying for nonchalance but failing miserably, his eyes searching Harry’s own. “I suppose that makes me your saviour, doesn’t it? You’ll be naming your children after me next.”

Harry laughed, the sound full of genuine affection, unbridled. “Don’t push your luck, Draco.”

But as the words left his lips, something fragile inside him cracked open, and the laughter faded as quickly as it had come. The significance of everything—the battle, the dark magic, the fear, the relief—settled deeper, pressing against the walls of his chest, demanding to be felt. And for the first time, he let it.

He sat there, staring at Draco, his mind an unsteady mess of thoughts he didn’t want to examine too closely. Because if he did—if he let himself truly look at what was unfolding between them—he’d have to acknowledge that terrifying truth of it. That this was something different. That this was something real. And that it had always been there, waiting for him to stop running. 

Harry had never thought of himself as anything but straight. It was one of the few things about himself that he had never questioned, never dared to. He already felt like he didn’t fit, already bore the burden of being the Saviour, the Boy Who Lived Twice, the one everyone looked at just a little too long. The idea of being anything more different, of being seen as even more of a freak—it made his stomach twist. But here, with Draco’s breath fanning against his skin, his sharp edges softened by exhaustion and something warmer, something precious—Harry couldn’t deny it any longer. What they had survived together in the labyrinth—its suffocating darkness, its twisting corridors that tried to break them, the creatures born from their worst fears—had changed something between them. The maze had stripped them down to their barest selves, had forced them to rely on each other in ways Harry had never imagined. It had tested them, pushed them past the brink, and yet, here they stood. 

Alive. Together.

As much as Harry was scared about this part of himself, Draco felt inevitable now. Inevitable and sweet, like something carved into his nature long before Harry had the sense to recognise it. As if every careful denial, every refusal to see what had been building between them, had been leading him here—to this impossible, terrifying clarity. The labyrinth had unravelled them, but instead of leaving him hollow, it had revealed something real, something Harry could no longer pretend wasn’t there.

After a moment, Draco’s beautiful eyes met his, unguarded and waiting, and Harry felt the last of his resistance crumble. He could spend forever questioning, running, telling himself that this wasn’t happening.

 Or he could take the chance staring him in the face.

Draco, who must’ve noticed the change in Harry's expression, tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing in concern. “What is it?” he asked quietly, his voice much softer than usual.