Reaching Maturity

Disclaimer: nope, still not mine. Marie-Jeanne Lenoir is, though (read on and you'll find out who she is).

A/N: I confess that I couldn't resist putting Tonks in. I know I said that I'm not including OotP stuff, but Tonks is one of my favourite characters and she insisted that I put her in (she threatened to hex me if I didn't). So she's here briefly.

HUUUUUUUUGE apologies!! I first tried to post this a fortnight ago, but wouldn't let me and the network at uni went down (yes, we're still having all sorts of problems with the IT system and it's late November and they've been working on it since August, but hey…) Then I tried to post last weekend, but wasn't letting anyone post anything. Hopefully this is third time lucky!!

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Chapter 6: Christmas Holidays Begin

The next morning, Harry sent a letter to Sirius; it was about time he contacted him, after all.

Dear Snuffles,

We're in the lead in Quidditch – beat Slytherin! They were somewhat dirty (funnily enough). Then came a blow-by-blow account of the match. Malfoy was surprisingly nice about it. He's really changed this year – although that's not to say I trust him. I don't. I can't yet. He's desperate to find out what's happened to his mother. Don't suppose you know anything?

Any more news on Voldemort? We haven't heard anything since you owled McGonagall on Hallowe'en.

There's a Hogsmeade weekend in a fortnight; it would be good to see you again. I need to talk to you about something.

Harry

Yes, he thought. That will do nicely. He took it up to the Owlery and chose an inconspicuous school barn owl to send the letter. Hedwig eyed him balefully and she nipped his fingers rather too hard for it to be affectionate, as he attempted to pat her apologetically. She was clearly offended.

"Don't look at me like that," Harry reprimanded her. "It'd get suspicious if you went every time, seeing as you're not native and all that." Her response was merely to fly up to the highest perch and turn her back to him. "Fine. Be like that."

"Owl sulking?" a quiet voice inquired teasingly.

Harry turned round to see Draco leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. "What do you want?" he demanded, more sharply than he'd intended.

Draco shrugged. "This might be my last chance to speak to you before I go home for Christmas in a week."

"And?"

"And, I'm going to find out about my mother."

"You already told me that," Harry reminded him. "What do you really want?"

Draco took a deep breath and looked Harry straight in the eye. "I just want to say thanks."

"What for?"

Draco shuffled his feet nervously. "For – for stopping me, for reminding me to not do anything stupid. Y'know?"

Harry nodded briefly. "You're welcome." He watched the Slytherin turn and leave with his usual saunter.

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Hermione was going home for Christmas (a cousin who lived in Australia was coming over for the holiday), whereas Harry and Ron were staying at Hogwarts. Ron's parents were visiting their second-oldest son Charlie in Romania, and the twins were too busy with their joke shop in Diagon Alley, the profits of which were sky-high, and had been ever since its opening. The decorations in the school were spectacular as always, although Flitwick had not quite managed to teach all the words of every carol to each individual suit of armour. Peeves (naturally) engaged in his usual Christmas activity of hiding inside them and filling in the gaps with an astonishing range of extremely rude words. The school was a lot quieter since all but a handful of students had gone home, and Ron was particularly glad that Draco was not one of the remaining students.

Draco, however, wished that he could have stayed at school. His father had barely spoken to him when he had met him at King's Cross station. The journey home was silent, with Lucius completely ignoring him. Draco hated Christmas, and he usually spent most of the holidays in his room. His mother had at least always made the effort of spending some time with her son. Draco bit his lip hard as he remembered that she wouldn't be there this year – making the fortnight at home even more unbearable.

"We have a guest staying with us," Lucius said curtly. "It would be greatly appreciated if you could keep clear of the guest wing and the meeting room at all times. Understand?"

"Perfectly," muttered Draco as the carriage pulled up outside the front door of the manor.

"Good. You will join me for dinner. Six o'clock sharp." Lucius stepped out and strode briskly inside, leaving Draco alone to haul his belongings up to his room, despite the weight of the trunk and the drizzle that had begun falling partway along the journey. The weather matched the seventeen-year-old's mood perfectly. Yet another silent, lonely holiday, made far, far worse by his mother's disappearance. Much as he made out at school how wonderful his father was, only he knew what a big act it was.

He glanced out of his bedroom window, which was on the second floor, and saw his father involved in a very intense discussion with a small man who bore more than a passing resemblance to a rat. Even from this distance, his weak personality was perfectly clear to Draco, by the way he constantly nodded in fervent agreement with whatever it was that Lucius was saying. Draco didn't recognise the man, but he assumed that he was the guest his father had been talking about.

He was exhausted from the long journey and that, coupled with an overwhelming sense of loneliness, caused him to fall asleep, so deeply that in order to wake him up for dinner, Lucius had sent a house-elf upstairs to throw a bucket of icy-cold water over the teenager. Spluttering, he glared at the creature. "What the hell was that for?" he demanded furiously, pushing wet strands of hair from his face.

"Master Malfoy says it is time for dinner and Inky has to wake Master Draco with cold water," the elf squeaked before scuttling off back to wherever it had come from. Draco watched it go and reluctantly changed into some dry clothes, heading downstairs.

"So considerate of you to finally grace us with your presence," sneered Lucius as Draco entered the room and sat down. Draco didn't answer and Lucius arched one eyebrow. "Not speaking?" he inquired mildly, an unpleasant undertone just barely detectable.

Draco shrugged. "I fell asleep."

"Clearly," said Lucius, "seeing as I had to send a house-elf to wake you. It is apparent that work needs to be done on your punctuality."

Draco's pale face flushed. "I was tired," he replied defensively.

Lucius' upper lip curled in a manner not too dissimilar from Snape's. "I'm sure you were." He turned his attention to a thick, black, leather-bound book that was on the table in front of him, and started taking notes from it. Clearly the conversation – if you could call it that – was over. The only sound in the large, sparsely-decorated room was the scratching of Lucius' quill in his notebook. Silently Draco finished his meal and stood up.

"Remember not to go into the guest wing," Lucius sharply reminded him without looking up.

"I had no intention of doing so!" retorted Draco angrily, losing his temper more from tiredness than anything else.

Lucius was instantly on his feet, eyes blazing with an icy fury and wand pointed directly at his son. "How dare you speak to me like that!" he hissed, beyond anger. The tip of his wand sparked.

Draco took a few steps backwards. He rarely saw his father so angry, and he was terrified. "I – I – I j-just m-m-meant –" he stammered.

"Silence!" Lucius bellowed. He muttered something and Draco suddenly found himself back in his room with the doors somehow locked. Worse, when he tried to speak, he found that he couldn't. He punched the wall repeatedly through sheer anger, the thin layer of skin over his knuckles quickly breaking and smearing the hard stone wall red with his blood. He didn't feel the pain, and he eventually collapsed to the floor, exhausted, where he slept dreamlessly until nearly midday of the following day. His voice was still nonexistent and he ached badly from having slept awkwardly on the hard floor. His hands stung badly now. He stayed in his room all day as the door was still locked, receiving no food or drink (thank goodness he had bought some things on the train the previous day), nor any acknowledgement of his existence. He didn't feel like doing anything at all that day, although there was very little he could do (except homework, but that idea didn't appeal to him). Clearly this was his punishment.

Sitting with his back to the wall and his knees drawn up to his chest, he lost himself in his thoughts. He had to find his mother now; he had to. If it's the last thing I do, I will find her, he vowed silently to himself.

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Harry awoke on Christmas Day to see a thick, crisp blanket of clean white snow on the ground and cold winter sunshine streaming into his dormitory window. He glanced across the room and saw that Ron's bed was already empty. He assumed that the other boy was already downstairs in the common room, and this guess was confirmed when the youngest Weasley boy yelled up, "Oi! Harry! Presents!"

Harry dashed downstairs, instantly wide awake. Ron was wearing a new, hand-knitted Weasley sweater. For once, Mrs. Weasley had not made him a maroon one, but the sweater was instead –

"Blue!" exclaimed Ron happily. "This is the first time I haven't got a maroon one!" He danced round the room. "Come on!"

Harry joined him and Ginny. He himself had received a green jumper from Mrs. Weasley (to match his eyes, the note said). Hermione had given both him and Ron some much-needed supplies of Fleetwood's High-Finish Handle Polish for their broomsticks, along with a substantial quantity of sweets. She had also given Harry some elaborate Belgian chocolates, which he later discovered in his room, with a note asking him to be discreet about them and to not tell Ron. From Ginny, Fred and George, Bill and Charlie, Harry received a beautiful atlas of the wizarding world, with the pages becoming 3D when they were open, to provide the user with an exact image of the landscape. Harry gave Ginny a big hug and she went pink with pleasure that Harry liked his gift so much.

Ron picked up a heavy parcel and handed it to Harry. "Looks like Sirius' handwriting," he observed.

Harry hastily ripped the paper off. It was a book solely devoted to Auror-related topics, going into great detail about every area possible of the Dark Arts. "Wow, Sirius!" he breathed, showing the book to Ron. "What d'you reckon to Tonks having somehow obtained this?"

"Highly likely," replied Ron.

Ginny glanced at her watch. "We should go down to breakfast," she informed the two boys. "I don't know about you, but I'm hungry."

Ron's eyes lit up at the mention of food. "Let me get dressed and then I'll race you."

"You'll lose," Ginny said by way of an answer. Ron glared at her, but Harry grabbed his arm and hauled him up to their dormitory.

A few minutes later they were dressed and made their way down to the Great Hall for breakfast. Already there were two first-year Slytherins, three Ravenclaws and four Hufflepuffs, including Hannah Abbott, sitting at the table. Because of the small number of students remaining at Hogwarts for Christmas, those that were already in the Great Hall were seated at the staff table. Ginny was close behind them and the ensuing meal was loud and cheerful, with much discussion of received gifts. The morning was then spent playing rowdy games in the Great Hall, House divides forgotten for the moment, and teachers joining in, except for Trelawney, who remained in her tower room, and Snape, who was elsewhere. Christmas dinner was a spectacular, delicious feast with a vast array of foods (prepared by the house-elves; Harry was glad that Hermione wasn't here to comment on it). There was a huge pile of glittering, multicoloured wizard crackers in the centre of the table.

Snape glanced around at the staff and students seated at the table. "Professor Trelawney need not have worried about the possibility of there being thirteen around the table," he commented drily. "She could have joined us after all."

Harry, Ron and Ginny exchanged looks. Snape was spot on, and Harry found himself smirking at the Head of Slytherin's remark, despite his intense dislike of the teacher. It was turning out to be an excellent day all round.

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It was not, however, enjoyable for Draco. It was the first day he got his voice back and his room unlocked, but he ate his meal alone. The food was not traditional Christmas fare and the Malfoy home bore no decorations. The large, high-ceilinged dining room was cold, bare and echoey, especially after the festive, joyful atmosphere there had been at school, which Draco desperately longed for. True, the atmosphere had been noticeably more subdued since the second rise of Voldemort, two and a half years ago at the end of Draco's fourth year, but it was infinitely preferable to that of the Malfoy family home.

He finished his lunch and left the room, shivering slightly. This was the perfect time to begin the search for clues to his mother's disappearance. His father and the unnamed 'guest' had gone away the previous evening (Draco didn't know where to, and, quite frankly, he suspected that he didn't want to know) and apparently wouldn't be back until the 28th at the earliest. Being methodical worked best, he decided, so he drew up a list of where to look, from the cellars at the bottom of the house, up to the third storey, plus the two towers and the rather extensive grounds. He intended to go into the guest quarters as well, unless there was some kind of repelling charm on the area – which wouldn't be at all surprising in this house, and, if he was honest with himself, he was almost expecting it.

However, he hadn't realised the enormity of the task. The three cellar rooms were huge and filled with all sorts of oddments, some with a very thick layer of dust covering them. The cellar furthest from the stairs was first on Draco's list. It was dark, so he held his wand up, muttering, "Lumos".

He ignored the furthest-back boxes and crates – nobody could get through dust that thick without causing some kind of disturbance. No amount of magic, however powerful or intricate, could do it. He examined the closer boxes. Most held old, broken objects, including old wands, clothes and broomsticks.

Satisfied that there was nothing in there worth bothering with, Draco left the room, pausing only to pick up a scrap of parchment that must have fallen out of his pocket when he had taken his wand out. Leaving it lying around where his father could potentially find it was nothing short of dangerous.

The middle cellar was equally unhelpful. The only thing that could perhaps have any possibility of being at all useful was a box full of letters addressed to Draco's mother. However, on closer inspection, they were fairly old, from Narcissa's schooldays, from a French witch. Still, Draco mused, they could hold clues, if something like an old grudge has anything to do with this business. He tucked the box under his arm and walked back into the final cellar. This contained a few old copies of the Daily Prophet, owl perches and food for the kitchens (presumably put there by the house-elves). Draco went back up to the main house, out of the cellars and up to his room to examine the letters in close detail.

They didn't appear to mean anything, and the seventeen-year-old's hopes began to fade. The most recent letter was from fifteen years ago, when Marie-Jeanne (Narcissa's correspondent) had had her second child: "It is trop dangereux now. Contact me no longer, s'il te plaît. Best regards, M-J."

Angrily, Draco shoved the box under his bed. He hadn't achieved anything, and that meant that the afternoon had been wasted.

Before he went to bed that night, he decided to owl Harry, to see if he could find out what had happened to Marie-Jeanne. It might well be nothing, he reasoned, but in these dark times, you could never be completely sure.

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(that's the third storey)

TBC

French translations:

trop dangereux – too dangerous

s'il te plaît – please (literally, 'if it pleases you'), 'tu' form rather than the more commonly used (and more formal) 'vous' form

Author thanks:

Lucidity: I thought Lupin being hit by Jelly Legs would be amusing!! As for the punishment, I think Snape too conflicted to know what to do (and the student doing the cursing was a Slytherin!) and also, he was so annoyed that he just stormed off!

Evanescent Dawn (formerly Scribe of Gryffindor): I get really confused when people change their names!! I haven't read the books you mentioned (but give it time and I'll track them down!) Alistair Crowther is a play on Alistair Crowley's name (he's some guy that's heavily/deeply involved in black "magick"). As for Draco being so close to expulsion, McGonagall's put up with him for 6 years and she's getting very close to the end of her tether with everything he's done – and he's a prefect so he should know better, really, in her opinion.

Samhaincat: I'm afraid you aren't going to see Snape talking to Draco about that incident – mainly because he doesn't as he has far more important things to be worrying about. Bear in mind also that Draco is kind of teacher's pet!

Rinkurocks: I'm getting Draco-sympathy! Yay! I'm working on your emotions well, then!

Actionmaster: I'm doing my best!

TinorialPeredhil: you've got to have an amusing commentator for Hogwarts Quidditch! And remember what a party-pooper Voldemort is…