Chapter 1. Skirmish at Privet Drive

Disclaimer: I own neither the wizarding world nor its characters. They both belong to J.K. Rowling.

Warning: Slight reference to corporal punishment. Some descriptions of werewolf-related violence.

A/N: The father-son relationship I have depicted here is not a statement of the author's own views, merely my interpretation of the Malfoy family dynamic. It is not my intention to cause offence in any way.

I would like to dedicate this fic to fellow site users theangelsarecoming and TheGirlWhoseWaiting. theangelsarecoming, for being a fantastic writer (go check out her stories!) from whom I have learnt and gained much inspiration, and for introducing me to a number of really great movies that are now my favourites, including the one from which this story is named - 'Les Choristes'. TheGirlWhoseWaiting, for random discussions of plot twists, weeping angels and the proper naming of sandwiches, putting up with my Bellatrix obsession for an entire afternoon, and for teaching me how to titrate!

Enough from me - on with the story!


Draco Malfoy was sixteen and the world had suddenly lost its centre. His father was in Azkaban, incarcerated in the aftermath of what became known as the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. So he and Narcissa were left alone (apart from sundry house-elves and other underlings) to look after each other and somehow keep the Malfoy name from dragging in the dust.

It didn't help that they could feel Voldemort's anger hovering like a storm above their heads. He was probably waiting until Lucius was released. But sooner or later, his anger would break, and when it broke – well, they would be lucky to withstand the torrent.

Narcissa, so expert at keeping up appearances during the day, cried and muttered in her lonely bedroom in the early hours of the night. The sound pierced the walls like shrapnel, twisting itself into Draco's heart as he lay awake. But there was nothing he could do.

It was this feeling of utter helplessness in the face of his mother's anguish that finally drove him away from the manor at nights. His father had taught him to Apparate the previous Christmas holidays, despite the fact that he was underage.

It had been a gruelling few days. His father had demanded Draco's unwavering concentration throughout the teaching process, and once, when his mind had visibly wandered (it had been at the sight of a large, mottled brown owl sweeping in over the courtyard with a parcel tied to its leg), had struck him across the face, the emerald on his ring cutting into Draco's cheek. Later, inside the house, his mother had placed her cool palm over the welt, but had said not a word to gainsay her husband's actions.

Draco understood his father's strictness a little more, however, when he Splinched himself on the third day.

The pain was blinding, and he could do little more than curl up on the ground, panting from the effort of not screaming. He would later learn that half his right side had been missing, leaving a gaping hole in his abdomen.

Later, he would clearly recall only two things about the incident – the expression on his father's face, which he at first thought was anger, but later realised was fear, as he knelt beside him and waved his wand to reunite the missing part of his body – and, afterwards, the strange, unaccustomed gentleness of Lucius' hand on his shoulder even as he lectured him sternly on having let his concentration lapse.

What would Lucius have thought of Draco using his newly acquired skill to roam far from Malfoy Manor at nights? Probably with great disapproval. Draco knew this, and felt ashamed, but shame was no stranger to him – all his life he had done things first and dealt with the consequences (emotional or otherwise) afterwards. Shame was a price he was prepared to pay for comfort, for privilege, and, more recently, for freedom.

This time, he emerged from the tunnel of compression that was Apparition on the pavement of an unfamiliar street. Draco had never been to Little Whinging or seen No. 4 Privet Drive, but he had managed to find out that this was Harry's address, and had felt a certain curiosity to see it.

He had expected a mansion. He saw a small, neat little house.

Cautiously, for he knew that the house must be protected by wards, he crept over the fence and into the garden. By wand-light he saw the neatness of the garden, the precise arrangement of the flowerbeds. Not bad. So the Muggles had a sense of taste after all. No doubt more so than that idiot Potter.

The house seemed mainly boring and commonplace, if in better taste than Draco had expected of the Muggles, but there was a curious window on the upper storey that intrigued him. It was small, smaller than the other windows, and bore the rusty remnants of prison bars. It must be where they kept some sort of servant. Muggles didn't have house-elves. Did they?

He was just considering how best to see inside the room when he heard a noise, and froze. A chilling sound, at once alien and familiar. The howl of a wolf.

Draco thought that his blood might well freeze in his veins. There were no wild wolves in the middle of suburbia – and that left only one option.

Werewolf.

Earlier that summer, Fenrir Greyback had come to stay the night at Malfoy Manor. Narcissa had looked at the creature with disdain and not a little fear. Lucius, in his time of favour with the Dark Lord, might have refused him entry. Narcissa dared not now refuse accommodation to Voldemort's minion.

Greyback had torn his meat like a wild animal, looking at Draco with shifty eyes. The house-elves, cowering in fear, had prepared finely cooked steak for their fearsome guest, only to have him demand raw flesh. With blood dripping from his mouth and greasy fingers, Greyback had interrogated Draco on his future plans.

Of course he would become a Death Eater. Yes, he planned to be initiated as soon as he was of age. Indeed he was looking forward to serving alongside the likes of Greyback, very much indeed.

Sensing that her son was becoming overwrought, Narcissa herself had answered some of the questions. Greyback's shifty yellow leer looked her up and down, and she shivered in disgust and dismay.

Mother and son spent a sleepless night watching the flames dance in the fireplace, listening to Greyback's snores echo through the lonely mansion. In the morning he was gone.

Now, hearing that howl, Draco was almost paralysed with dread. He stood, indecisive, too terrified to think of simply Apparating back, clutching his wand in shaking fingers. The full moon now emerging from her cloud seemed to be laughing. He had been foolish.

The howl came again, much closer.

The sudden surge of adrenaline took Draco by surprise. He leapt the fence and dashed off down the street, wand at the ready. Behind him, the dogs of the neighbourhood set up a frenzied barking.

There was a snarl behind him and he turned to see the great wolf bounding in pursuit of him, over pavements turned silver with liquid moonlight. Desperately, he fired spells at it – "Expelliarmus! Sectumsempra! Crucio!" The wolf seemed to be bleeding, but it was gaining on him every second.

He had thought that he might faint from terror; but during the few seconds that it took for the wolf to send him sprawling on the pavement and rip his wand arm from elbow to shoulder, he was still vividly, horribly conscious.


It was well past midnight, but in the tiny room with the remains of bars on the window at No. 4 Privet Drive, Harry James Potter lay awake; eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling, thoughts far away.

He wished he could pace up and down his narrow room, but knew that Uncle Vernon, ears ever alert for the slightest sound from Harry's room, would probably be upstairs in a flash, hammering on the door and shouting threats.

Harry, pulled like the string of a drawn bow between fury and misery ever since Sirius' death, had already received one underage magic warning from the Ministry this summer. He could not afford to receive another, or he would be expelled from Hogwarts. So he had spent most of the holiday so far shut up in his room, speaking to no one, too drained even to read Ron and Hermione's letters.

He had read and replied to the one letter from Remus, but the comfort that it had brought had soon faded, leaving a deeper depression. Anything from Remus reminded him of Sirius as well by association.

Submerged in the black mire of his thoughts, Harry did not react to the quiet, stealthy noises outside that, for all his care, Draco had been unable to muffle. He did not even hear the first howl.

Hedwig was more alert. She began hooting and shuffling restlessly in her cage, and it was this that pulled Harry from his reverie.

"Hedwig, shush," he muttered anxiously, listening in dismay for any sound from the Dursleys' bedroom below.

They both heard it, the second howl, the rattle of the gate and the pounding footsteps down the street. Half a second later, the dogs of the neighbourhood burst into uproar.

Agitated sounds from the master bedroom below confirmed that the Dursleys too had been woken by the disturbance. From the window, a now thoroughly alert Harry watched Vernon, swearing, rush out to the front gate with pyjamas and torch, followed by a huge black shape that seemed to fly across the pavement, in pursuit of a slender dark figure with silver hair….

Harry's stomach turned over. He sprang into action, racing down the stairs two at a time, wand in hand. He vaulted the fence and sped down the narrow street towards the two dark shapes struggling on the ground, not registering Uncle Vernon's bellow: "Boy! Come back here at once!"

The werewolf – Harry had recognized it in an instant – had its prey helpless on the ground. Harry knew that most spells would not work against a werewolf, but perhaps he could distract it enough for the unfortunate soul it had bitten to get away….

"Petrificus Totalis!" he shouted hoarsely. "Furnunculus! Expulso! Stupefy!"

Terror quickly followed relief as the wolf turned away from its target only to launch itself at Harry, who was by now standing mere feet away. Desperate, he pointed his wand at the ground and shouted,

"Confringo!"

The tarmac exploded in a shower of sparks and dark clods of matter, knocking the wolf off its feet and burying it underneath the rubble. Beneath Harry's feet, a vast crater had formed, the width of the street, separating him and the crumpled, silver-haired figure on the ground that was even now struggling to his feet.

The build was familiar, as was the hair.

"Malfoy?"

He was gasping in pain or fear or maybe both, and unable to answer. Harry started to clamber down into the crater to reach him as quickly as possible, but before he could get very far Malfoy had taken his wand in his left hand, shakily turned on the spot, and Apparated.

He left a pool of crimson slowly drying on the tarmac.

By now, police sirens were wailing, and the wolf was struggling and growling in an attempt to free itself. Harry retreated, wand still at the ready, and shepherded Uncle Vernon, white with shock, inside the garden. Soft pops from all around signalled the arrival of Aurors, who advanced upon the scene. Two of them approached Harry – a large, bullock-like man who looked as though he could have taken on Uncle Vernon with ease, and a slender young woman with bright pink hair.

"Wotcher, Harry," Tonks said. "Some trouble you have got yourself into this time."

It was going to be a long night.


A/N: First off, hardcore fans will have noticed that in this universe, Apparition is not counted as underage magic, otherwise Draco would have received multiple warnings already. I realise that's a stretch, and that I'm really bending the rules to make my plot work. But I hope you can excuse it! Aug. 21: More to be explained later - thanks theangelsarecoming for a very good suggestion.

Also...any feedback would be much appreciated! I may not always reply to reviews, but my gratitude for each one is always heartfelt. Also, I should warn you that it may be a while until I next update. Year 12 is not a good time to be writing fanfics. Thank you for reading!