Chapter Two - MacInnister Search and Discover Tracing Charm
Harry got to number twelve early the next morning to find Malfoy already waiting for him, stood leaning back against the railings, seemingly lost in thought as he gazed at the houses opposite. He looked tall, probably just because he was so lean, and his hair was still that shocking white blond. It was cut slightly shorter than it had been at school, and Malfoy was wearing smart Muggle trousers with a fitted wizarding robe which could double as a fancy jacket. When Malfoy turned to face him, Harry got a shock: somehow Malfoy had matured into a good-looking man. His face was long and elegant rather than being pointy. He looked bored though, and his eyes travelled up and down Harry for the briefest of seconds – which was enough for Harry to feel scruffy in his old t-shirt and jeans, and wish that he'd shaved that morning – before he stepped forward and held out his hand.
"Potter," he said. Harry took his hand. It was dry, and warm, the handshake surprisingly firm.
"Malfoy," he said. "Thanks for coming out to see me."
"I'm here to see the house, actually, Potter," said Malfoy, releasing his fingers. "I am curious as to why on earth your house would want to finish off what Voldemort started." The words fell quick and cold from his mouth, and Harry took a step back without realising it. Grey eyes regarded him, unblinking. "Today, perhaps?" Malfoy added.
A sting of frustration made Harry grit his teeth, and the thought Yes, still a git, passed through his mind; but he wanted his house back, so he gestured to the steps then made his way to the front door, not checking to see if Malfoy followed him. Harry gripped the doorknob, suddenly worried that number twelve might not let him in, but he turned and pushed and the door swung open as usual.
Inside was gloomy, and Harry felt awkward in the space. He'd never really done much to the place, but it was still his home and he just knew that Malfoy would be full of cutting little observations.. Suddenly he saw it through a stranger's eyes, and he was all too aware of the damp, and the faded fabrics and scuffed furniture. He also hadn't forgotten that it was originally a Black house, and that if Sirius hadn't left it to him it might actually have become Malfoy's, instead.
"Is this where the house-elf heads were?" Malfoy asked, peering up towards the silhouettes of the boards they'd been mounted on. Harry was happy to skip the small talk.
"Yes, um, I think Kreacher moved them to the attic."
"Kreacher is your house-elf, correct?" Harry nodded. "And where is he now?" asked Malfoy.
"He's at Hogwarts, just until this is sorted. I don't want him getting hurt too."
"Good, good," muttered Malfoy, but his eyes were already scanning the walls, for what, Harry didn't know. "This will be easier without house-elf magic complicating things," he added. Harry felt pretty redundant as Malfoy began casting a range of spells. He recognised the first one or two — they detected traces of different kinds of magic, and the Aurors used them sometimes — but then they grew more complex. Harry swore lightly under his breath as a cascade of purple stars fell down the wall.
"This won't damage anything, Potter," Malfoy said. "Not," he added, addressing the wall, "that it wouldn't be an improvement."
"Hey!" said Harry. Even his friends weren't this direct.
Malfoy lowered his wand and turned to look at him. "Are you telling me that this," he waved his hand at the water-stained, faded wallpaper lining the walls, "is all precisely to your tastes?"
"Yes– no– it's none of your business! Look, I'm busy, and when I have time I'm going to make this place a bit more homely. But first I'd quite like it if it would stop trying to kill me."
"You speak about the house as if it is a sentient being," said Malfoy. He raised his wand-free hand to his chin and rubbed it. "Interesting." Before Harry could respond, Malfoy had turned around again, the shower of sparks now moving further around the space. Harry stood back, feeling a little useless. When Malfoy got to the curtained-off portrait of Walburga Black, the sparks took on a red tint, and he stopped. "What's behind here?" he asked, frowning. "There's a lot of malignant energy coming from this area."
"One of your ever-so-charming relatives," said Harry. "Or at least her portrait. It's stuck up there with some kind of Permanent Sticking Charm, and er, well, just draw back the curtain to see why she's usually hidden." Malfoy regarded him with eyebrows raised, before turning and pulling back the threadbare velvet curtains with a flourish.
A high-pitched wail cut through the air, then small black eyes fixed on Malfoy, seeming to rest on his hair. The eyes widened, hatred drawing the face into an ugly scowl. Blood traitor! shrieked Mrs Black, Consorting with this filthy half-blood! Curses on the poxy house of the Malfoys. She began to moan, her voice rising to a thin yet ear-piercing scream. Malfoy stepped back, and snatched the curtain closed again. It was a moment before he turned to face Harry again. His lips were set in a tight line, and his face was pale.
"As I was saying, such a lovely home you have here, Potter," he said. Harry kept silent this time, because there was no denying that Walburga Black's portrait did little for the ambience. He looked away from Malfoy, training his eyes instead on the moth-eaten velvet shielding them from the angry old woman. He had never liked the portrait: as well as the unpleasantness of the screaming, it always reminded him of Sirius, unhappy and so disconnected from his past. He was still glaring at the curtain when Malfoy spoke again, his voice softer. "She does sound like she could be a relative of mine, but it still leaves me perplexed as to why you'd want to call this place home in the first place."
Harry shrugged. It wasn't like Malfoy was the first person to question his decision to keep Grimmauld Place. His feelings about the house were complicated, and privately he sometimes wondered if Ron and Hermione, with their more normal family backgrounds, could ever really understand. He certainly wasn't about to get into it now with Malfoy, of all people.
"It suits me fine," he said.
Malfoy looked him up and down. "Yes," he said, "I can see that," the words rolling off his tongue with distaste. Harry felt the hot stirrings of anger begin to rise in his gut.
"I can probably remove the portrait for you," Malfoy said, as if he hadn't just insulted Harry, "but I'd like to leave it in place until I've worked out exactly what has been happening in this house. There may be a reason a permanent charm was used."
A surprising amount of relief sprang up in Harry, cooling his feelings of resentment: it would be wonderful to get rid of the foul portrait, and no one else had been able to do it. But then he frowned, as it struck him that he didn't have a clue what was happening to his house, and that he really was completely dependent on Malfoy. The thought of trusting him with something this big was a challenge after all the years of suspicion. He didn't feel as he had at school – seeing Malfoy so cowed after that awful night on the Astronomy tower had softened his attitude – but this felt like a much bigger leap. Plus there was the fact that Malfoy was being an annoying git.
He stepped back and kept quiet as Malfoy returned to sweeping his wand across everything in sight. He wasn't sure what to make of Malfoy: he seemed pretty focused in his job, which was a good thing, but Harry could definitely see how he rubbed people up the wrong way.
After another ten minutes of Malfoy performing impenetrable spells, Harry began to get bored. He ran his hand round the edge of the troll-leg umbrella stand, currently holding one purple umbrella which Harry seemed to remember was broken, and, he saw as he peered in, a leaf which must have blown in the year before. He leaned a little heavily and managed somehow to knock over the stand, trying and failing to right it before it clattered to the floor.
Malfoy paused, and lowered his arm with a barely-concealed sigh. He looked at Harry as if he were something trodden into the house under someone's shoe. "You—" he took a deep breath, and started again. "You know, it's polite to offer a guest refreshments," he said. Harry stared at him blankly, thrown by his change of tone. "A drink, Potter, would be welcome," Malfoy said slowly. "A coffee would be adequate. Milk, no sugar," he added, as he turned away again.
"Oh," said Harry. He hadn't really thought about making them a drink, and felt bad for his lapse, but at the same time, he was irritated with how Malfoy had asked. Feeling a little like a dismissed house-elf, Harry headed down to the kitchen. The request might have been a little... brusque, but Harry realised that actually he welcomed the break from the tedium of waiting around. As he walked down the stairs Harry thought about Malfoy, unable to quite figure him out: he seemed... bristly, but there had also been a glimpse of something else. And he was obviously committed to his job. All in all, a mystery.
When Harry reached the kitchen door, he pushed it open and felt a moment of disorientation at the chaos which greeted him: he'd forgotten that half the room was missing now. The sink and the heavy dresser containing all the glasses and mugs were on the other side of the room, but there was a ragged void where the table had been. There was no way he'd be able to offer Malfoy anything to drink. Harry turned to make his way back upstairs, but jumped back with a yelp when he found Malfoy standing by the kitchen door.
"What are you doing, sneaking up on me like that?" Harry said, the words rushing out in annoyance.
"I remembered that you'd said that part of the floor had fallen through down here, and I'd finished upstairs."
"Yeah, I forgot, I guess." They stood together and surveyed the damage. "I don't think that I'm going to be able to offer you anything."
"No, I can see that," said Malfoy, but Harry got the impression that he wasn't paying any attention to their conversation, as Malfoy's eyes moved around the room.
"I was going to leave this room until last, but seeing as I'm here now I think I might as well examine it now."
"What about the hallway?"
"What? The hallway? Don't be silly, Potter, that was only five minute's work. This looks far more interesting." He cast a strengthening charm on the floor remaining to the right of the door, and made his way in.
Harry reminded himself that he needed Malfoy, and took a deep breath. After silently counting to ten, he felt ready to talk to Malfoy again. But Malfoy was already at work. Sparks were again flowing around the room, and Malfoy's eyes were bright as he pointed his wand at walls, ceiling, and what was left of the floor. He bit his lip slightly, Harry saw, when he was concentrating. It gave him the air of a child, hard at work over a puzzle, and Harry smiled at the thought. He watched as Malfoy's wand swept through the air again and again, until Malfoy stopped, and turned to Harry again.
"Do you have to stand there like that? I still want a drink you know. I think... a cappuccino would do nicely about now. Probably better than whatever you could make me here. I noticed a Muggle coffee place round the corner—"
"You expect me to be at your beck and call, really?"
Malfoy arched a brow. "Absolutely. You don't expect me to work without some form of sustenance, do you? Honestly, Potter, how were you brought up?"
"I— do you always have to be so rude?" Harry said, but Malfoy just gave an elegant little shrug which said that he really didn't care, more clearly than words ever could. "Fine, I'll get you your stupid drink," Harry said, and he walked out, shutting the kitchen door with a rather satisfying slam as he did so. He was aware that at some level his behaviour was juvenile, but honestly, Malfoy was just such an arrogant arse.
When he got back from the coffee shop, he could see the glow of magic seeping out from under the kitchen door, and, pushing it open, his eyes protested at the brightness of the web of light Malfoy had woven. It was as if some wonderfully demented spider had been let loose, with gold and silver strands covering almost every available surface, as well as suspended in the air. It was beautiful, and for a second Harry forgot that it was Malfoy who had done this, or even why. Without thinking he reached forward to touch one of the shimmering threads, but was stopped by a quiet voice.
"I really wouldn't do that, if I were you," the words were said evenly, but there was real tension in them too. Harry pulled back his hand as if it had been burned. "Everything would fall apart if you touched that," Malfoy added, and Harry finally could see him, standing to one side of the room, near the broken-flagstone edge, just before the floor fell away into the cellar below. His face was bright with the light of every single line of magic meeting at his wand point. The sharpness of his cheekbones was accented, and his hair seemed to glow. Harry took a step back as he noticed the way Malfoy's teeth were tightly gritted together, the sweat beading on his face.
Harry kept quiet as he watched Malfoy complete whatever it was that he was doing. The lines of magic seemed to pulse with light, then change in hue until they were a cold and clear blue, before fading to grey and then disappearing from sight entirely. The room became a dark and empty shell. Malfoy looked ashen, and Harry passed him his coffee, suddenly grateful to be able to offer it.
"That was really... beautiful," Harry said. Malfoy lifted his head up from his cup.
"Beautiful? That's what you have to say about a Grade Four MacInnister Search and Discover Tracing Charm?" Malfoy sighed, then shook his head slightly. He tilted his head as if thinking, and looked at Harry for a moment. "Ok, I can accept that as an adequate response – if I take into account the fact that you obviously know nothing about my field of work. Thank you," he said, and took a sip of his coffee.
"What does it do?" asked Harry.
"It searches for, and hopefully discovers, traces of malignant magic. As might be suggested by its name, Potter," said Malfoy. Harry felt the slow rise of heat in his cheeks. Why must Malfoy talk to him as if he were stupid?
"I..." Harry swallowed, and tried again. He was an Auror, and he knew that he was no idiot, whatever Malfoy thought. "Did you find anything?" he asked.
"At last, an intelligent question," said Malfoy, and Harry frowned. "Sadly, no, it didn't identify anything at all. No one has borne you any ill will in here for years." He muttered something under his breath which sounded suspiciously like, "Not that anyone would want to hurt their precious hero," but Harry chose to ignore it. He hadn't really expected them to get on at all, and a bit of sour grapes was fine; Malfoy hadn't hexed him, and they weren't school boys anymore.
"Nothing? Really?" he said instead, and he sighed.
"I know you want to clear all this up, of course you do," said Malfoy, "but I need to work in a systematic way. I don't want to miss anything."
"Of course," said Harry, and then he paused. "Do you think... could I ask you a question?" He looked over, and didn't continue until Malfoy nodded. "Why do I have to be here? I don't understand. And if it's just to get your coffee, then I don't really think that's a good enough reason for me to be missing work, and I might as well ask Kreacher to come—"
"It's not just the coffee," Malfoy said, his words rushed as he interrupted Harry. "Although I hope you're not going to be difficult about meeting my physical needs in so basic a way." Harry blushed at Malfoy's phrasing. Somehow, it sounded dirty. "It's because the things which have happened here have all happened to you; it's not just that things fell down, it's that they fell down in in such a way as to potentially injure you. I need to see how the house interacts with you."
"Oh, okay," said Harry. Put like that, it was obvious. "But I still feel like I'm not really helping, that I'm getting in the way," he added.
"Well, that can't be helped, at this stage. Maybe you could sit while I work, and read a book or something – it's a little..." Malfoy paused. Unnerving? Distracting? Harry silently supplied, "...annoying having you hovering the whole time." Malfoy tipped back the cup, draining the last of the coffee, then handed the empty paper cup to Harry and swept past him as he headed back towards the stairs.
Standing in the empty kitchen, discarded cup in hand, Harry reminded himself again that this would really all be worth it in the end.
o~O~o
"So what's he like?" asked Hermione, as she handed him a plate to dry. Sometimes when it was just the two of them like this, they would wash up the Muggle way, as a sort of guilty pleasure. It drove Ron mad, but there was nothing quite like the familiar routine of soapy water and standing together, helping each other until everything was clean.
"Oh?" said Harry, wiping the plate dry and putting it away. He had been lost in thought, remembering how lonely a job washing up used to be for him. "Sorry, what?"
"Malfoy. What's he like?"
"Complete pillock," said Harry, holding out his hand for the mug Hermione had just washed. "But he seems to know what he's doing. He did a—", Harry squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to recall the exact name. He opened them a moment later with a feeling of triumph at being able to remember, "—MacInnister Grade Four Search and Discover Charm."
"Grade Four? Wow, not many people can produce more than a Grade Three," said Hermione, and Harry suppressed an eye roll: of course she recognised the spell. Sometimes he seriously doubted that there was anything she didn't know. "He was always very capable, or rather bright at school..." she trailed off. "Well, apart from when he was being a mean little pureblood poster boy."
"You always did better than him," said Harry quietly. She gave him a quick, warm smile.
"I know, but sometimes I did wonder what that was like for him, always being behind me like that," she said. "Running second to someone his parents hated, someone he hated."
"It always seemed fitting somehow, given how nasty he was to you," said Harry. "It's strange, but although he was a little demanding today, I can't imagine that he'd call anyone names anymore."
"Well I'd hope not," said Hermione. The dishcloth squeaked against a glass as she washed it.
"It's– he's quite... difficult to be around, but at the same time, it's fascinating watching him work. I got to see that MacInnister Charm twice, and it's beautiful." Harry paused, remembering how the lattice of light filled his bedroom, giving it more airy grace than it ever had before. "He's obviously putting his all into the spell work, but he doesn't seem inclined to put the same effort into being civil. I can't work him out at all."
"No, I can see that. I bet you will though. You never could resist a bit of Malfoy mystery." Hermione waggled her fingers like a Muggle magician, dripping water on to her sleeve, and Harry laughed.
"That's not true," he said.
"No? What about Sixth year?"
"Oh come on, he was obviously up to something then! And anyway, that was years ago. He's not like he was at school. He's... I don't know, he's annoying, but he seems harmless. A bit bossy - he kept sending me out for coffee and sandwiches." Hermione raised her eyebrows.
"The great Harry Potter sent to fetch food! However did you cope, Harry?" she asked, her eyes twinkling. Harry could hear the laughter in her voice, and gave her a gentle push. "Well, you do always complain about people treating you with kid gloves."
"I know, but he was just so– it's the way he asks." Harry stopped, seeing the sceptical look on her face, and shook his head as he thought about how Malfoy had been all day. "Actually, more than anything he just seemed focused on the job," he said. He could see the way he held his tongue between his lips, frowning in concentration as his wand spun light around the room. Harry suddenly realised that he'd been quiet for a while in his contemplation of the memory. Hermione was watching him with particular interest, and he could see that she was close to brewing yet another of her theories about him. Whatever it was, he was sure he'd hear about it soon enough.
"Malfoy also thinks that he can get rid of the portrait of Sirius's mum," Harry said, feeling hope rise again at the thought that Malfoy might actually do it, and that there might be a chance that number twelve could be made into a proper home.
"That's brilliant. I wonder how he's going to do it?" Hermione asked, distracted from her teasing by the notion that someone knew how to do something which had eluded her in the past.
"I don't know, but he did seem fairly confident."
The last of the dishes done, they went to sit back outside to enjoy the sunset over the lake. The sky was a deepening blue, laced through with stripes of pink cloud, everything doubled up below across the water, even as it rippled slightly in the breeze. The delicate curves of migratory birds, in their last swooping flight before nightfall, were moving silhouettes against the sky; Harry and Hermione chatted quietly, a world away from the closed and claustrophobic spaces of number twelve.