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"Young Master Malfoy… what a— pleasure," the head house-elf of Greystoke Castle— the ancestral home of the Burke family, currently in possession of the Notts, ever since the death of the current master's wife— said as he used every ounce of his strength to open the entrance hall's immense oaken doors.
Draco knew Sprock was nothing short of ancient; the elf had served the Nott family since before Theo was born, and Theo's mother's family, the Burkes, for decades before that. But Draco also knew, despite the elf's advanced age, he was deceptively spry and cunning, not unlike the estate's young master, Draco's friend, Theodore Nott.
"Always a pleasure, Sprock. What brings you to the entrance hall these days? Fire another footman? Greeting guests is surely too low a task for your esteemed position."
Draco smirked lopsidedly and swung his broom— his preferred method of travel— over his shoulder as he stepped over the threshold as if he were entering his own home. Sprock regarded him through narrowed eyes. Draco knew quite a bit about the elf, Sprock's distaste for him perhaps best of all.
Draco recalled his much younger self insulting the house-elf with Theo nearby. The next time he left his one of his brooms unattended at Greystoke, he'd found it reduced to nothing more than a smoking pile of twigs.
"It seems we are both out of sorts today, Master Malfoy— your choice to actually respect conventional norms of entry and visiting hours truly surprises this elf. What uncharacteristic propriety."
Draco rolled his eyes.
"Spare me, Sprock. And don't get me started on Theo's regard for propriety—"
"Sprock should warn you, sir, it is unwise to compare yourself to Master Theodore— he a greater wizard than you could ever hope to be," Sprock said brazenly as he beckoned Draco through the entrance hall.
"Your loyalty to Theo always amazes me," Draco said as they passed an absurdly large portrait of said wizard as a baby, a green cap atop his wrinkly bald head.
"Are you claiming Master Theodore does not deserve loyalty? Or perhaps you insinuate you are not a loyal friend to Master Theodore? Most concerning…"
Draco crossed his arms over his chest. The elf had a point.
Theo was a loner at school; quiet, observant. A person who preferred to keep to himself. Outwardly orderly. Calculating and intelligent.
Theo's too intelligent for his own good, Draco thought.
But Draco had come to learn there was much more to Theo the introvert: an unflinching desire to understand; an undeniably witty, caustic humor; a passion for risk-taking; a hidden fear of being made a fool; a repulsion for withheld information; an unyielding stubbornness— not unlike his own— and a fierce loyalty to those he cared for, the caliber of which Draco knew was matched only by his own mother.
At school, he and Draco had been civil to one another over the years, guardedly friendly, quietly respectful. They'd covered for one another on more than one occasion, teamed up when any meaningful group assignments had been required, rolled their eyes in unison at the ignorance of many of their peers.
They'd grown up in each other's orbits, too; their fathers both Death Eaters, and as the youngest heirs to two ancient pureblood families, it had been unavoidable. Draco also wondered if perhaps their mothers had been close. He remembered Narcissa, in a rare moment of vulnerability, when he couldn't have been older than five, unable to speak about Theo's mother's death without her typically composed demeanor shattering to pieces.
It was only recently however, with Voldemort's return, that Draco and Theo's friendship, their loyalty, and their firm trust in each other, had solidified.
Voldemort had forbade Draco and his mother from visiting Lucius in Azkaban, no doubt to add to Lucius' punishment, and it had been Theo who volunteered to secretly transport letters between his parents all summer.
Draco remembered Theo saying, "Gives me an excuse to visit dear old dad— although last visit he was eyeing me like he'd only just remembered I'm his son, y'know, that I look a bit like him… asked if I was any good with glamours, or if knew how to make Polyjuice. I think he was plotting a way to switch our places. Lied and said I had no idea how to brew it, of course."
Draco also remembered when his mother had gotten word Malfoy Manor would be searched by the Ministry. It had been Theo's idea to maneuver a number of valuable, and dark, Malfoy and Black family heirlooms from Malfoy Manor to the extensively shielded, cavernous safe rooms of Greystoke Castle, these days known as Nott Estate.
After detailing his idea to Draco and Narcissa, Theo had said, "Father always said, 'What's the point of all those safe rooms without a Ministry raid? Open the gates!'"
Draco grimaced at the memory of the recent Ministry raid; in hindsight, he would've preferred a Hippogriff hoof to the head.
Sprock and Draco paused at the base of an extravagant stairway, its wooden spindles and railings lined with gold.
"Young Master Malfoy is most subdued today. Is Sprock foolish in hoping this becomes a more common occurrence?"
"Do you really want me to answer that, Sprock?"
"Some say an elf can dare to dream."
Draco rolled his eyes again, but he wouldn't deny he was amused by the elf's wit.
"I'll be in the library," he added as Sprock ascended the stairs, no doubt to retrieve his beloved master.
"'A mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge…'" Sprock chimed, as though he'd said it many times before. "I suggest you get reading, and quickly, Master Malfoy— your sword is looking rather dull."
Draco opened his mouth in retort, but the elf had already disappeared with a barely audible 'pop.'
"House-elves…" Draco muttered, although he could admit he'd never met an elf quite like Sprock before. The elves at Malfoy Manor had always been sickeningly subservient, frightened into general silence by a long history of wrath of Masters Malfoy. Admittedly, Draco had never been particularly kind to any of them himself, but he supposed he'd never really had reason to be.
"You mean except for the 'small' task of feeding you, mending your disturbingly large wardrobe, and making sure the loo is so spotless your ugly face shines back at you every time you go to take a piss?" A voice that sounded very much like Theo's answered in his head.
Draco shook his head as he turned to make his way toward the library, his broom still slung over his shoulder.
The library at Malfoy Manor was large, but the one at Greystoke Castle reduced it to nothing more than a broom cupboard in comparison. The sheer quantity of texts was beyond comprehension.
Draco inhaled deeply as he lifted the latch of the library's familiar arched iron door, his senses pleasantly assaulted with the overwhelming scent of parchment and leather as he stepped through.
The estate's library was located in a turret that was four stories high, on the west side of the grand structure. A spiraling staircase wound along the room's edge, all the way to the top floor, which housed a study furnished in rich mahogany, its upholstery and carpets a rich green.
Draco mounted his broom and gently pushed off from the stone floor. He passed narrow, arched windows, dormant floating lanterns, shelves upon shelves of books of every color, size, and age, and ladders that had no right to be quite so tall as he rose ever higher, shielding his eyes from the bursts of the blindingly warm light of a fading mid-August sunset.
The library had been Draco's refuge this summer, and he'd escaped to its welcoming walls as often as he'd been able— at times in the dead of night, as Sprock had eluded to earlier. Theo, who'd long ago made the library his own refuge, encouraged Draco's new interest, and had even gone so far as to designate a desk space for him.
Draco appreciated the gesture, which Theo had done without fanfare, but he used the mahogany desk space only on occasion, preferring to do his reading while lounging on a railing, or mid-air on his broom, as he did now, flipping through Theo's most recent literary recommendation. Draco lost himself in the text, interrupted only when he heard Theo's voice call from the floor far below.
"Sprock will murder me if he has to clean your splattered remains from this rug— it's Persian, and I think it's at least three hundred years old!"
Theo's light brown hair was long and disheveled on top, but cut short and neat on the sides, as if a testament to his character— the seeming contrast between his inward and outward selves.
Draco's eyes wandered from his book to find it was now nearly dark outside the turret's windows, the fiery light from earlier transformed into a vibrant violet. The library's floating lanterns were now alight with warm, flickering candlelight.
"We both know he'd finish the task with delight," Draco said, snapping his book closed as he descended to meet Theo, who was now climbing the spiraling staircase on foot.
"You've got a point," Theo shrugged. "Finish that one yet?" He pointed to the book in Draco's hand.
"Just about," Draco replied, tucking said book under his arm.
"Good," said Theo as he paused to climb a ladder with learned agility, easily skipping two rungs at a time. "I've got another one for you."
"I think Sprock's going to be cleaning your splattered remains from the carpet one of these days."
"Nothing the elf can't handle. Here—" Theo plucked a small book from the desired shelf and tossed it to Draco over his shoulder.
Draco caught the leather-bound book in one hand with ease, but winced at the stab of pain in his forearm.
"Am I going to need a Calming Draught for this one too?" Draco ran his hand over the smooth burgundy cover and tried to ignore the throbbing ache of his Dark Mark.
His discomfort did not go unnoticed by Theo.
"I figured you would've built up a bit of a tolerance by now… to the literature and your Mark," Theo said before he nimbly slid down the ladder.
Draco rolled his eyes. "It's fine."
"Right. And my dear incarcerated dad is about to walk through that door with his dementor friends and ask us to join them in the garden for a game of toss the Quaffle."
"Crazier things have happened… the amount of 'O's you somehow managed to achieve, for instance… except Runes, of course," Draco smirked, one corner of his mouth raising higher than the other. Draco knew that although Theo would never admit it, he cared about grades nearly as much— if not more so— as Hermione Granger.
"You're just upset I got one more 'O' than you. Also, I resent that— Babbling couldn't tell a quintupled from an acromantula."
"I think Professor Babbling knows a thing or two about Runes, she's about as ancient as the majority of them." Draco shook his head sarcastically, "Excuses, excuses, Theo. What a shame. Always second best to Granger—"
"Don't make me shut your mouth for you— I'm of age now, you know," replied Theo as he leaned his elbows on the railing to address Draco, who still casually floated on his broom.
"Speaking of that— here—" Draco pulled a small sack from his pocket and tossed it to Theo. "Enlarge that, would you? Some of us are still sixteen."
"The wards at the Manor still down?"
"Some, unfortunately— bloody Ministry raid…" Draco muttered, his jaw clenched in irritation. Luckily, thanks to Theo's intervention, the Ministry's raid of his home for Dark objects had been fruitless, but Draco and his mother had been forced to lower the Manor's wards in preparation. They had yet to fully reinstate them all. It was tricky work, with Draco unable to perform magic without alerting the Ministry… and with his mother who, despite her stony determination to continue on as though nothing had happened, had not yet fully recovered from Voldemort's Cruciatus.
"I'll come by tomorrow to give Sissy a helping hand, you know, now that I'm of age," Theo winked.
Draco scowled at the innuendo and Theo's use of his mother's nickname, the one otherwise used only by his Aunt Bellatrix. Draco let it slide, but grudgingly.
"The bag—"
Theo nodded and tapped his wand on the sack, which immediately expanded to its regular size.
"Summon Theory of Numerology, would you?"
Theo arched an eyebrow in surprise. "Numerology, eh? Full of surprises tonight—"
"I'm glad to be rid of it. Happy birthday."
Theo grinned and poked his head into the bag's opening. "What've you got in here? A small village?" He retreated, then pointed his wand inside the sack. "Accio Theory of Numerology."
A hefty, worn tome appeared suddenly from the sack, knocking Theo backward into a bookshelf; he lost his hold on the bag in the process and it tumbled over the railing.
Draco set his broom into a deep dive, rushing forward with keen adeptness to catch his now free-falling bag. As he grasped it in his outstretched hand, the sack reverberated with resounding clatters and thuds.
"There goes my organization," Draco sighed. Theo ignored him, too engrossed in the book he'd just summoned.
"First edition? This book's at least five hundred years old… where did you—"
"The Manor. I looked around for the oldest, most boring looking—"
"You're really selling this, Draco. Anyone ever tell you how thoughtful you are?"
"I can take it back if—"
"It would be gross negligence to put this book back in your possession," Theo interrupted, his tone serious. He paused at the sight of Draco's growing smirk. "Arsehole."
"You're welcome," replied Draco, shoving the small leather-bound book Theo had given him into the bag, along with the book he'd nearly finished.
"Staying for dinner?"
"Only if you taste everything first— I'm still waiting for the day Sprock finally decides he's had enough of me."
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