Title: Caveat Emptor

Author(s): Heir And Prophet (The Heir of Paravel and The Lurking Writer)

Summary: A mysterious trunk, recently purchased by his father, fascinates Draco Malfoy. When Draco decides to steal a glimpse inside, he finds that it contains more than mere dark magic. In fact, it contains more than either he, or Lucius, had bargained for.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related characters, names, etc. are property of J.K. Rowling, all publishers concerned and Warner Brothers. The only things owned by the authors are the plot and any names not featured in the official Harry Potter books or movies. No money is being made from this, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Word Count: 1863

Authors' Notes: "Caveat emptor," is Latin for, "Let the buyer beware."

Cautiously, he turned the ornate handle, feeling the silent click of the latch beneath his fingers. Draco Malfoy stole softly into his father's study; bent on finishing the exploration he had begun the day before.

It sat, waiting for him – almost as though he was expected. Battered and mouldy, bound in chains, a trunk quivered in the gloom of Lucius Malfoy's private office. Preternatural cold filled the chamber as Draco drew closer, lured by the siren song of the black-green case.

Two and a half days ago, it had arrived. Four faceless wizards, robed in black, had levitated it through the sinister carved doors into the manor; doors held open by Lucius Malfoy himself. The Master of the house stepped aside as the wizard bearers swept past in wordless silence.

Draco had watched as the trunk and its entourage vanished into the sanctum of Lucius' study. He watched as his father pressed galleons into each of their hands - quite a few galleons, in fact.

The look of smugness, of intense satisfaction was plain on Lucius Malfoy's face as he closed the doors behind his departing guests. There was an unmistakable energy in his stride as he made directly for his office and locked the door.

Hours ticked past, and with each sweep of the clock, Draco's curiosity mounted – rising like a serpent inside him. The flashes of light from the cracks under the door, the sound of his father's voice, rising as he chanted incantations, filled Draco with a wild desire to pound of the door, to demand admittance. But he dared not - the thought of his father's wrath at being disturbed quelled these thoughts as they rose.

It wasn't until the next day that Draco had the opportunity to have a closer experience with the enigmatic chest. His father, away on business, had not locked his study. Sly and stealthy, Draco was not one to let such a chance slip through his fingers. Soundlessly, he slipped inside and edged toward the object of his fascination. As he neared it, the air around him began to feel uncomfortably close – pressing on him from all sides. It was beckoning to him.

Draco extended his hand tentatively, overcome by the irresistible urge to trace a finger along the brass bindings, turned black with age. The air was so thick now that he seemed to be moving through the waters of an Artic sea. His trembling fingers touched a lock. And then, with amazing swiftness – absolutely nothing happened.

He exhaled slowly the breath he had not even realized he held. Disgusted, Draco patted the trunk, almost contemptuously, then stared in horror as the flesh on his hand began to shrivel, began to shrink to the bones – to flake away. A primal scream ripped from him as he fled the room – fled the house, not stopping until he was out of doors and into bright sunlight. Then, and only then, he dared to look again at his wasted hand – a hand that now was completely restored.

As so often happens in life, we learn too late that denial is not just a river in Egypt. For his part, Draco was in deep denial, so much so, that by the next day, he was convinced that nothing had actually happened to his hand at all - that it had been a trick of light and shadow, coupled with his own inherent paleness. His experience, far from inspiring him to never set foot in his father's office again, had made the lure of the trunk even more powerful. He longed to see it again, to touch it, though he couldn't say precisely why. And that is how Draco came to be where we now find him, standing in front of an eldritch trunk, his heart pounding wildly, a hint of colour rising in his pale cheeks.

It was as if it had been waiting for him, as though it expected him. The trunk was motionless, expressionless, but possessed the vitality of a living-thing as though it were breathing through its myriad keyholes. Drawn like a moth to the proverbial flame, Draco advanced on it, but this time with no trace of contempt, instead with a fear that bordered on reverence. The trunk was pleased.

Trance-like and submissive, Draco traced the curious symbols on the lid with one thin finger. He ran a thumb gingerly along the central lock – the caress of a lover. The trunk shivered. The lock sprang open. With a guilty thrill of pleasure, Draco opened the lid – a modern Pandora in the making.

Years later, if you asked Draco what he expected to find, he wouldn't have been able to tell you. Perhaps he expected riches, or objects of great power, but what he did not expect, was the swirling cauldron of light and sound that greeted him as the lid flew open. He yelped and tried to back away, but could not… he was caught in the vortex, held fast in its grip. His feet left the floor as the trunk began to draw him inside. He clutched frantically at the sides, fingers scrabbling to catch hold of the edges, to find some purchase, but his resistance was futile. The trunk exerted itself, gave a mighty heave and drew Draco Malfoy entirely inside. The lid slammed shut in resounding satisfaction, looking as smug as hinges and bindings would allow.

Draco was shrieking silently, falling, tumbling, all whilst being battered by a continuous roaring that filled not only his ears, but his lungs, too. He landed in a painful heap, curling into a bruised, whimpering mass. Peering cautiously around him, he could not fathom what reality he had pierced. The light around him was dim and grey, but it had an odd stretched quality about it. Indistinct shapes moved menacingly around him; shapes that were warped and blurred at the edges… and all the while this constant roaring – roaring that pulsated now, like a badly tuned radio. Draco staggered to his feet.

It was an odd, sickening sensation. The ground beneath him gave slightly, dimpling around his foot the way water dimples around the leg of an insect – an insect too light to break the surface tension. It was hideous. He felt like a fly crawling along the surface of a puddle.

Half walking, half-skating, Draco lurched forward toward one of the shapes. It lifted a robed face in eyeless greeting. The empty sockets of a grotesque phantasm leered at him, wailing in agony or anger; Draco knew not which. He careened away, cannoning into another group of nightmares. In pure blind panic, he struggled from their skeletal grasp plunging into the grey unknown. Then, he saw it. Suspended in the nothingness in which he was trapped was a door. Light, real light, seeped from around the edges into the hell that was this reality. He made his way forward, clutched at the handle as though it were salvation itself, and threw himself through.

Draco blinked stupidly in light that was hardly brighter than the gloom he'd left behind. He was in a cavernous room with rough, stone walls. A large fire burned at one end. Pots and pans hung from the ceiling. And at a large scrubbed table in the center of the room, sat a group of singularly redheaded individuals that, in most instances, he would have shunned, but now found himself looking on them as the family he always wanted.

Ron Weasley and Harry Potter were deep in conversation about the merits of the newest member of the Nimbus series of broomstick. Hermione Granger was prattling on to Remus Lupin about her ambitions for her ridiculous organization; S.P.E.W. Fred and George Weasley were huddled in conversation with an aging, scruffy wizard who looked vaguely familiar, while Ron's mother appeared to be cooking something decidedly foul smelling on a primitive stove.

"Expelliarmus!"

Draco whirled to see Ginny Weasley aiming her wand at him. He raised his hands instantly, to show her that he wasn't armed. As he backed away, he realized that she wasn't looking at him, but was, instead, looking through him at her father, whom she had just managed to disarm.

"Very good, Ginny," Arthur said pleasantly. "I think you've had enough for one evening and besides, dinner is nearly ready."

Draco began to shake violently. They couldn't see him – at all. He dashed from figure to figure, waving his hands in front of their faces, shouting their names, but to no avail. He was trapped… trapped in this altered reality. He felt his grip on sanity loosening… his reason unseating; he was going to go mad if…

A door swung open at the other end of the room. A house-elf shuffled in sullenly – a house elf Draco knew! It was Kreacher! Kreacher, who served the Black Family; Kreacher, who sometimes visited his mother. This wasn't the Burrow! It couldn't be! This had to be the Black home... Realization dawned in his ravaged mind. He was in Grimmauld Place. Kreacher stared at him and for a split second, Draco was sure that Kreacher had seen him, but then, the miserable elf trudged away, muttering under his breath, failing to acknowledge him.

Draco's mind was suddenly alive with possibilities. Perhaps he could spy, perhaps he could return to his father with the secrets of Dumbledore's inner circle, or with the whereabouts of Sirius Black. His father would be so proud! His father would be so… enraged, apparently.

Steel fingers gripped Draco hard, jerking him sharply backward. The room vanished, the dim light winking out, the sounds and smells evaporated. He was standing, face to face with his father, once more in his own home. Lucius Malfoy's eyes glittered with cold fury.

Draco stammered, backing away… "Father, I can explain… you've got to listen to me…"

~*~

In the smoky kitchen at Grimmauld Place, tension lifted. Fred burst out laughing. "Did you see his face when Ginny aimed her wand at him?" All around the room, people snorted and guffawed.

"Thank Merlin, Lucius came along when he did, though," Arthur said, wiping his sweating face with one arm of his robes, "I don't think I could have survived if the boy had stood on my foot one more time."

Fred roared with laughter, then George, with a truly evil glint in his eyes said, "Don't you know, right now, that little git is spilling everything he thinks he knows to dear old Daddy?"

Sirius pushed open the door of the kitchen slowly to join the others in their mirth.

Hermione caught his eye, "Do you really think this will work?"

"Without a doubt" he said darkly, then glared at Kreacher, "No thanks to you…you nearly gave it away."

"Oh yes," added George, "it won't be long now before 'Daddy' himself will be paying us a call."

"And when he does, we'll be ready," Remus said thoughtfully. "I do sometimes wonder how you got Lucius to buy that trunk, Mundungus."

Mundungus grinned sheepishly, glanced furtively at Molly, then decided to say nothing.

"Caveat emptor, eh 'Dung?" Remus said, his eyes twinkling.

"Indeed." He chuckled, reaching for another butterbeer before the next guest arrived.

~*~ Finis~*~