As it turns out, sleep doesn't come easily when your house has been turned into Death Eater Central. I cannot remember the last time I have gotten a full night's sleep; my best guess is some time toward the beginning of fourth year, before that damn Quidditch World Cup incident. After that Dark Mark was sent into the sky, I knew that was going to be the end of my life as I knew it, and I was right. There has not been a peaceful moment since; or, as peaceful as the Malfoys can be. "Peaceful" isn't quite the moniker I'd attach to my family. "Chaotic," "dysfunctional," or "together out of a sense of duty," might fit better. This is, of course, not the face we show in public. To anyone on the outside looking in, we are a tightly-knit family. Cold, aloof, or haughty even, but a solid group of pureblooded heirs. When you're a pureblood, all of those negative descriptors tend to melt away. Except…
Except there was nothing dirty about Granger's blood as it dripped down her arm. The pool of blood that gathered from my aunt's knife work was as red as my own blood. With annoyance, I rise from my bed and over to my window. Judging be the deep indigo of the sky, it is late in the night. A glance at the clock on my wall confirms the hour, half past two. I grit my teeth and lean on my desk, staring down into the gardens. There is no motion outside except for the guards stationed every twenty yards of the perimeter. Whether they're keeping us in, or intruders out, I cannot say. In fact, I cannot even remember the last time I left my estate. Since returning home at the end of sixth year, I have not been out. Seven months. I've been a prisoner in my own home for seven months.
Seven months of torture, of deaths, of planning with the Dark Lord. Seven months of sharing my space with Death Eaters who hit and punish the house elves for sport-and when that loses its fun, each other. Seven months of Aunt Bellatrix's rabid devotion to all things Dark Lord, all things anti-muggleborn. I have never seen anyone follow someone around as blindly as she does, and I've grown up with the Golden Trio as a reference. Aunt Bellatrix and the Dark Lord make the bloody trio look as if they are completely independent from one another instead of pathetically co-dependent. I've seen the way Weasley pines after Granger, the way Potter makes it out of situations by the skin of his teeth because of his pals, the way that Granger seeks validation in the Machismo Twins, and it still cannot hold a candle to my aunt tripping over herself to please the Dark Lord. Frankly, whether she admits it or not, Aunt Bellatrix is in love with him. What a waste of time and emotion.
Absently, I touch the burn in my desk from Potter's note. 12 Grimmauld Place. I have no idea what that is supposed to mean, and am certain that Potter is having a go at me. We aren't friends. We're barely cold acquaintances. We have no reason to trust each other, and no reason to help each other. I roll my eyes and turn my back to the window Perhaps, if I will myself to sleep, it will work. I'll ask Snape for a Dreamless Sleep Draught over my dead body.
From where my window looks out, I have a clear view of our courtyard where my father's white peacocks strut, the rose gardens that twist into a labyrinth, and the wall surrounding the perimeter of my home. More importantly, I have a view of what lays beyond that wall, where there is a constant guard in place. No one may enter or leave without express permission, and the correct words to enter the wards safely. Apparation cannot best it, and you'd be a fool to try. I spend most of my days in the window seat, staring across this invisible-and not-so-invisible-border between me and the rest of the world. I know there are ways to clear it, if only I can go unnoticed for a period of time. Of course, this is not the case. While I'm in my home, there is no need to guard me. But none of us, mother, father, nor I, may go outside alone. We have all failed the Dark Lord in some manner: my father, arrested, my mother, soft-hearted, and myself, a failure. We are considered dangers to the Dark Movement, and no risks may be taken.
So instead, I lock myself away, like some sort of damsel in distress, awaiting her white horse. Except, it's only ever a peacock-useless and vain, much like my family. Now, of course, I have the added burden of wondering over Potter's brief and confusing note. Despite my misgivings with the Boy Wonder and his merry band of morons, I cannot help but think that he was earnest in his note. An attempt at noble valiance, ever the Gryffindor. It does not help that I made myself weak in front of them, allowed them an out in my own home. To turn them in would have meant certain forgiveness for our pasts. If I am found out, there will be no forgiveness. There will only be death. My blood runs cold at the thought, and I fore myself to think again on the three words sent to me.
I know I have heard those words before. I can almost place them, as the rove around in my mind. It's a street, evident in its name. The location of the street, though, is beyond me. We Malfoys may be worldly and travelled, but we rarely venture into other areas of England, choosing instead to go place like Majorca, France, Greece. Even if I were to get on the other side of these walls, how would I find the place? I throw a pillow against the wall, annoyed. It is ridiculous and tiring, pacing my room like a caged animal. There are no reprieves from the hell that my childhood home has become. If I leave my room, I am subjected to the buffoons my parents call colleagues; if I stay in my room, I drive myself mad with the solitude. There is no way out.
Until I remember the words I told Potter.
I have to wait for nightfall. It is the easiest time to lose track of things. The fog rolls in, fatigue settles among even the staunchest of guards, and the house falls silent. In this silence, I am careful to creep through the hall, down a servant's staircase and through a window in the kitchen.
"Master Malfoy," Mimi, a house elf, squeaks from the darkness. I jump and turn around. Of all of our elves, Mimi is my favorite. I have never agreed with my father's treatment of our elves-though I am not about to jump on Granger's SPEW train. I motion for her to lower her voice. "Where is you going?"
"Mimi," I whisper, "I have a very important and secret task that I need to do. You mustn't tell anyone that I have left the house, okay? If you are asked, you are to lie and tell them that you have not seen me. You are forbidden to tell anyone I am gone. When…when I come back, I shall reward you, okay?"
"Yes, Master Malfoy," she says sadly. "I is to tell no one. I is a good elf, I keep your secrets." I pat Mimi on the head.
"Thank you, Mimi," I say. "Now, off to bed!" I listen as she scampers back into her corner and then clamber through an open window, into the rose bushes. If I time it correctly, I can cross as the clouds cover the moon and cut off its light. Anxiously, I gnaw on my lip, waiting and urging the clouds to move more quickly. I am well aware of how it would look if I were to be found right now, crouched in the bushes with a bag over my shoulders. Finally, though, the clouds do as they threatened, and I streak across the yard to the old and unwatched gate that let the trio out the other day. As soon as I am through the gate, I am sucked upward and into the night before I have a chance to take a single breath.
I land hard with both feet and stumble forward. I am able to see only that I am in the entryway of an old and dingy house before a cloud raises from further inward and rushes at me. With horror, I realize that it is the essence of Dumbledore and I let out a horrified shout. Before it can make contact with me, it dissolves and I'm alone again in the hallway. My breathing is heavy as I try to get my bearings. Fucking Potter, it figures that he would bring me to this hellhole, alone except for the ghosts of my personal mistakes. I grind my teeth and shoulder my bag, taking stock of the area around me. There are plaque on the wall lining the staircase, though I cannot make out what they are. All around, portraits hang on the wall. I give them no thought, until I realize that they are moving. This is a wizard's home.
And then, I'm flush against the door, unable to move. Only my eyes move, and they dart around, trying to make sense of the gloom around me.
"Speak your name," a voice commands. Potter's voice.
"Malfoy," I croak, "Draco Malfoy. You sent me a note with this address and then it caught fire and disappeared." Instantly, the spell is dropped and I can move again. I let out a huge gust of breath and move forward, into the light. Potter stands at the tops of the stairs, wand still pointed at me as he descends.
"I'm surprised you're here," he says.
"Me, too," I admit. "Wherever here is."
"You don't recognize your own family's stomping grounds?" he asks, surprise in his voice. That's it! The Black's house. If any of the portraits recognize me, I'm screwed.
"Oh," I say. "Not this hellscape version of it," I add quickly, sneer in place. Potter rolls his eyes as he steps off of the last stair.
"Well, that's what happens when your family abandons a home to pursue the torture of innocent-,"
"Don't act like you know a think about my family, Potter," I snap. "Is there a reason you sent for me, or did you just need a new target to annoy for a while? Take out some of your energy, since you and your pals can't wreak havoc at Hogwarts?"
We glare at each other for a moment, our faces eerily lit by the tip of Potter's wand. And then, he drops the wand and jerks his head toward the back of the hallway.
"Come on," he says. "We should talk." He turns and walks off, down the hall, and I follow begrudgingly. We enter into the kitchen, and I see that it is in the same state as the rest of the house-gloomy, worn-down, and covered by an attempt to make it more homey. Kreacher freezes in the corner as he sees me.
"Master Malfoy," he wheezes. "Such a surprise to see you-,"
"Kreacher," I say warningly, "You are to tell no one that I am here, are we understood?"
"You cannot tell anyone, portrait or living, that Malfoy is here," Potter reinforces. Kreacher glares at him for a moment and then bows.
"As the master wishes, but oh, how Kreacher wishes the Potter brat was not his master. No, Kreacher wishes to work for the most noble Black blood, oh yes," he mutters. My brow furrows as I listen to the elf.
"You're his master, Potter?" I drawl. "Oh, Granger must love that."
"Long story," Potter says, "but yeah, this…this is my house now."
"You've got to me kidding me," I say tonelessly. "Harry Potter, undesirable number one, is living in the home of the Black family-no, owns the home of the Black family? Merlin."
He drops into a seat at the long table, stretching his legs onto the seat across from him.
"We have some questions for you, Malfoy," Potter says. His voice is calm, curious. "You don't have to stay here, if you don't want to. But if you go back to you Death Eater father and all of his cronies and rat us out-,"
"We'll kill you," Weasley finishes from behind me. I wheel around and see the ginger nuisance standing in the doorway, holding his wand. Like Potter, there is no malice in his voice, but the threat is clear regardless. He moves to sit beside Potter, and they both stare at my, waiting.
"Where's Granger?" I ask. "You three are never far apart."
"She's recovering," Weasley snaps. "I'm sure you haven't forgotten what happened. Take a seat, Malfoy. We want some answers."
