I avoid Granger's wing for the rest of the day. There are plenty of other areas in this house to search, and I want to get to know its secrets. I notice that ninety percent of the paintings in this house have been covered; my theory is that they have other portraits elsewhere that would potentially give away the location of this place. From what Potter was telling me, Grimmauld Place is accessibly by invite only. Before now, I don't believe I have ever been inside of this place. My mother's parents were incredibly cold and calculating, and had no problem with cutting their family members out. Aunt Andromeda was erased from the family tree forever the moment she took up with a muggle-born.
Kreacher skulks about as I wander, and more than once, I get the distinct feeling that he is checking in on me to make sure I am not getting into something. I manage to give him the slip as I climb a rickety staircase toward the attic. Elves are notoriously anxious creatures, and there is no way that he would bother with something that looks like it could give way at any moment. I draw my wand and illuminate the tip before climbing the final steps into the musty darkness. The gloom in here makes the rest of the house look positively sunny cheerful. I have to cover my mouth with my sleeve as I walk to avoid breathing in the plumes of dust that rise when I step.
Piles and piles of boxes and trunks create a labyrinth, and I am careful not to knock them over as I meander through the room. It doesn't look like a single living person has been in here for over a decade. The amount of Black heirlooms that could be hiding up here in innumerable; I search for a trunk to pass my time and land on a massive wooden truck, unremarkable except for the intricate brass lock.
"Periculum obstructionum," I whisper, waving my wand over the trunk. A shimmering veil of deep green settles around the outside, rendering any curses useless. As I point my wand at the lock, it sizzles and melts away. The trunk pops open and I draw nearer to it. Old clippings from the Prophet are piled on the very top. The dates all bear the year 1842, and point to some project that Licorus Black was working on. I read through them all, and then toss them aside with a scoff. Each article boasts about the strength and intellect of Licorus, and applaud him for his work to eradicate muggleborns completely. Given the family motto, Tojours Pur, I suppose I should not be as surprised as I am.
I continue digging through the trunk. Mouldering lace doilies and table runners are the next layer, followed by a moth-eaten cloak. A smaller box lines the bottom of the trunk, and I pull it out with difficulty. It is shockingly heavy for its size. The family crest is pressed into the top of the box, and it is locked shut firmly. No attempt to unlock it by magic will work. Undeterred, I set it near the door to bring with me when I leave; I doubt if anyone will notice a box from 1842 has gone missing from the attic. I throw the items back inside the trunk and slam it shut.
Several times more I repeat this, sifting through what seem to be hope chests filled with mementos and rotting cloths. I had hoped for something that may have been of interest, at least, but so far all that I have discovered is long-existing bigotry and ill-preserved clothing. I shut the trunk I am inspecting and make my way further into the attic. There is a corner where no light touches it, and I increase the amount of light that my wand produces. Shoved deep into the corner is a cabinet. I approach it hesitantly-my history with cabinets is not great-and shine the light onto it. It is magnificent, carved out of wood and inlayed with mother of pearl. The shimmering stone creates a mosaic of stars and moons. Among the stars, I find my own constellation, as well as each and every constellation within the Black family.
Just as I am about to open it, I hear a scream sound from downstairs. My stomach plummets to my toes as I hear it. It was a scream that I was hoping never to have to hear again. I bolt through the attic, grabbing the box as I do, and down the stairs towards Granger's room, taking the steps two at a time. I skid to a stop outside of her room where the screaming has intensified. I knock hard at the door but do not wait for her to answer before I enter.
Granger lays in her bed, thrashing. Her eyes are closed and sweat beads on her forehead. A nightmare. I glance toward the table of potions, which seems to be untouched. Quickly, I fumble through to find a Calming Draught. Without thinking about it, I uncork it and pour it into her open mouth. She gurgles through another scream and then they subside. Granger's chest still heaves with her breath, but already the effect has settled in on her. I place my hands on her shoulders to hold her still.
"You're okay, Granger," I tell her. "You're safe here." I brush her hair off of her face and my hand comes away slick with her sweat. She whimpers lightly and turns to lay on her side. Slowly, she blinks one, two, three times, and then opens her eyes. When she sees me, her breath hitches. "It's…okay," I repeat unsurely. "Potter knows-,"
"Get. Out."
"Stupid Granger," I grind out, throwing a ball at the wall. It bounces violently back at me, and I repeat the motion again. After my run-in with Granger, I have sequestered myself away in my room until Potter and Weasley return from whatever idiotic hero task they've set themselves to. I rest on my bed, chucking a rubber ball to the wall. The sound of it hitting the wall and springing back is enough to take some frustration out, but I know that before long, I am going to lose my mind here. "Stupid Potter and Weasley." Bounce. "Stupid Dark Lord and his stupid Death Eater followers." Bounce. "My stupid parents for getting us caught up in this shit in the first place." Bounce. "Stupid….everything." I do not catch the ball when it comes careening back at me. I know that it is not fair for me to be as irritated as I am, but I cannot help it. I have been here less than 24 hours and have already gotten three death threats and kicked out when I was checking in on Granger. I suppose that in fairness to Granger, though, it was my home where she tortured by my family. I don't think I'd be too keen on seeing me, either.
Am I a fool for defecting? I do not know what I was thinking. Perhaps I wasn't thinking when I left. I left on a whim, an emotion, an impulse-like a foolish lion instead of a cunning snake. Maybe my father was right. Maybe I was sorted into the wrong house.
You picked a fine time to have an identity crisis, a snide voice picks at me. Right in the middle of a lion's den at the heart of a war. I flop myself down onto my bed with a groan, and then sit back up almost immediately. It sounds like shouting coming from downstairs. I open the door carefully and listen. The muffled sounds of Granger yelling and Potter and Weasley feebly trying to talk float up the staircase. Three guess what she is yelling about. Or rather, whom. I creep down the stairs carefully in my sock feet in an attempt to make no noise. Their words become clearer as I do, and I realize that they are sitting in the parlor. The flickering flames from the fireplace cast shadows in the hallway.
"-and of all the people in the world, him? What on earth were you thinking?" Granger shouts. Her voice is weak from the past couple of days, but I'm willing to bet every last galleon in my account that she found a Pepper-Up Potion and an Essence of Consciousness.
"We didn't think it was a good idea at first either, Hermione, but I really think he might be telling the truth," Potter says.
"The ferret did rescue us," Weasley admits begrudgingly.
"Yeah, after his psychopathic aunt tortured me to the brink of shock!" she cries out. I cringe-it really was that bad. I wish she was exaggerating.
"You don't have to be happy about it-," Potter says.
"-I'm not-," Granger interjects.
"-But he's here now, and he's a liability to whatever side he chooses to go against," Potter continues. I creep down the steps further, holding my breath and praying that the stairs don't creak. As lightly as I can, I tiptoe to the landing of the stairs, hiding in the shadows.
"Yes," Granger says sarcastically, "because he could either rat out You-Know-Who to us, or he could rat out us to You-Know-Who. Hmm, I wonder which one is more likely? Well, you may as well come in here, Malfoy, stop hiding in the hallway!" she snaps. I start and my eyes dart around, looking for something that could have given away my location. I see nothing, and I enter the room slowly.
"How did you-," I start.
"-You're a terrible spy," she tells me flatly. "Honestly, how you ever were in Slytherin in beyond me. Well, except for the whole purist, elitist, evil ferret part." She crosses her arms, glaring at me, and winces when the bandaged forearm is jostled. My irritation with her vies for attention with yet another reminder that I am a failure on all fronts.
"Merlin, you really can't help yourself, can you?" I snap. "One thing doesn't go your way, and suddenly all hell breaks loose. I'm sorry that Potter and Weasel snuck me in to this house while you were unconscious, and I'm sorry that I'm the one who had to play nurse to you, but that's how things go. Sometimes, things don't work the way that we want them to, and we just have to suck it up and move on. Haven't you noticed, Granger? Nothing is good anymore. Everything has gone to shit, and that's the new normal. Whether you like it or not, we are going to be stuck together for the foreseeable future. I'm sure it is no surprise that I'm not exactly flipping cartwheels around this god-forsaken dump of a home. But, that's where we are. Deal with it or don't, but it's not changing."
I am out of breath by the end of my rant. The two of us stand apart from one another, glaring. Potter and Weasley are uncharacteristically silent, and I spare a glance at them. They both shoot looks between each other, and then Granger and myself. Finally, it's Granger who breaks the silence.
"You, Draco Malfoy, are the most self-centered, spoiled brat. How dare you pretend that you're the put-upon victim in this scenario? Ron, Harry, and I have been through things that you could never begin to imagine, and almost exclusively at the hands of the people you call family and friends. You'll have to excuse me if I am less than thrilled to see the face of the person who has made my life a living hell for the last seven years of my life! And Ron's and Harry's, for that matter! You are entitled to nothing more than exactly what you deserve, Malfoy, and you should thank Merlin that it is not a hex right now! You may go to hell, or back to your precious Death Eater mummy and daddy, or whomever it is you choose, but you will not storm in here like the Crown Prince himself and demand accommodation!"
We stand nearly nose to nose at this point, and I half-expect fire to come out of our eyes. I set my jaw, take a step back, and then say to Potter,
"You'd better come catch Granger. That Essence of Consciousness is about to wear off, and she's going to drop like a ton of bricks." As I turn to leave, I hear Potter dart forward and catch Granger before she hits the ground.
"How did you know that?" Weasley demands.
"Lucky guess," I throw over my shoulder before heading back up the stairs.
