~ CHAPTER SEVEN ~
Horrified, Harry stepped into the disaster that used to be his flat. The coat rack was on the floor, jackets with their pockets turned inside out. The couch was bare of its cushions, the few paintings he owned were on the floor with their backs ripped off, and his bookshelves had been completely emptied, torn books in piles at their feet. The kitchen was in even worse shape. The cabinets hung open, pots, pans, and broken dishes strewn across the floor. The vase of red roses that he'd planned on giving to Ginny was smashed. The roses lay limply in the water on the table. Even his refrigerator and freezer were left open, the little food that he had in them laid to waste.
"Christ, Potter," said Malfoy quietly. "Didn't you have any wards around your place?"
"A few," Harry replied hollowly, "but they were only meant to keep fans and paparazzi out. Didn't think there was a need for higher calibre enchantments."
"And Granger didn't insist on stronger wards?" Malfoy swore again. "Merlin, Potter, even if she didn't, did it not occur to you that as a Ministry official and high-profile Auror, it might be beneficial to have your flat surrounded by, oh, I dunno, better than your average run-of-the-mill protective enchantments? Merlin! How are you still alive, honestly?"
Harry didn't know, so he stayed silent. The rest of his flat was in equally bad shape. His medicine cabinet had been emptied into the sink, while his shower curtains lay in a heap next to the toilet. Across the hall in his bedroom, the clothes that Malfoy had so carefully put away just a few hours before lay sprawled everywhere. His closet was wide open, boxes turned upside down and dumped out on the floor. The dresser drawers had been pulled out completely and lay in a pile in the corner. His alarm clock hung by its cord where it had been knocked off his bedside table. Even his mirror had been wrenched from the wall, though the thieves had enough common sense not to let it shatter — even in the wizarding world, there was a superstition about seven years of bad luck.
Harry sank onto his bed, staring unseeing at the wall as Malfoy moved methodically round his flat, muttering enchantments. Finally, Malfoy reentered his room. Harry looked up hopefully, but one glance at Malfoy's face told him everything he needed to know.
"They didn't leave much of a trace," said Malfoy, irritation edging his voice. "I can sense a slight magical aura, but not enough to narrow anything down. All I can tell you is that there were two males and a female, which doesn't help us at all."
Harry went back to staring at the wall. He couldn't believe how horribly his night had gone. Only a few hours ago, he had been looking forward to a date with Ginny. Now, he was sitting in his destroyed flat with Malfoy as a bodyguard and instructions to live at Grimmauld Place until further notice. Not to mention his date had been cut short by Neo-Death Eaters trying to kill him. The Elder Wand was pressed against his chest, the Resurrection Stone was lost forever in the depths of the Forbidden Forest, and the Invisibility Cloak was...
"The Invisibility Cloak," he said out loud. "Where is it?"
He scrambled to his feet.
"Potter, I swear—" Malfoy began, but Harry had already tuned him out.
Harry hurried over to his closet, tripping over things and swearing as he went. It had a loose floorboard under which he hid his valuables: a sliver of the two-way mirror Sirius had given him, the Golden Snitch from his first Hogwarts Quidditch game, the golden watch Molly Weasley gave him for his seventeenth birthday... He wrenched up the floorboard and let out a sigh of relief. Tucked underneath the small pile of knickknacks was the smooth, flowy material of the Invisibility Cloak.
"We're all good," he called from the bottom of his closet. "It's still here. They missed it somehow."
"Goddammit, Potter, you nearly gave me a heart attack!" Malfoy threw his arms up in the air. "I can't believe you. Sodding Hero of the Wizarding World doesn't even store his valuables in a safe place." Before Harry could retort, Malfoy folded his arms and said irritably, "We don't have time for this. Gather up your things, we need to be on our way. We don't want to be here when the Neo-Death Eaters decide to come back for you."
Harry didn't know whether to feel annoyed, defensive, or something else altogether. The world was beginning to feel a bit unsteady as it was. He placed the floorboard back and dumped the valuables into his suitcase. Then he hurried round his room, scooping up clothes at random and throwing them in. He felt strangely self-conscious about Malfoy seeing his undergarments, but when he glanced over, Malfoy wasn't watching. The man was staring off into space, his face unreadable as he redid his man bun. In the midst of the chaos at the restaurant, it had loosened, silky white-blond hairs curling around his ears and the nape of his neck.
Harry was struck, not for the first time that evening, by how handsome Malfoy had become since their years at Hogwarts. Even after all they'd been through in the past few hours, he barely looked tired, while Harry felt dead on his feet and knew that he looked it, too. He wasn't quite sure why this was on his mind, but he couldn't shake it. It made him feel even more irritable and off-balance than he was already.
Harry slammed the lid of his trunk shut more forcefully than needed, but if Malfoy noticed, he didn't comment. With one last look around the room, Malfoy nodded once.
"Alright, Potter, let's go."
He held out his hand. But for the second time that night, Harry stared at it. The world tilted slightly. Suddenly, they were eleven again, on the train, and Malfoy's hand hovered in the air like a peace offering.
My name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.
You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.
And then Harry's words, laced with a layer of confidence he didn't feel.
I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks.
How could this be the same pale, pointy boy who had offered his hand in friendship to him on the train so many years ago? Harry supposed it was because of the unexpected trauma of the night, but everything was mixing together in his mind, leaving him a bit dizzy and confused.
"What is it now, Potter?" Malfoy drawled.
Harry raised his eyes to meet Malfoy's, still dazed. Malfoy's brow furrowed.
"Dammit, I should've known something was wrong the moment you stopped arguing with me," he muttered. "Potter, are you feeling well enough to Apparate us to Grimmauld Place? Kingsley didn't give me the address. Said he can't, you're the Secret Keeper."
"I'm fine, I can do it," Harry said, but Malfoy didn't look convinced.
Harry stretched out his hand and took Malfoy's. It was a much-needed anchor, considering the way that everything felt off-kilter. It was warm, too, firm and steady. Harry shut his eyes and imagined Number 12 Grimmauld Place, and within seconds, the men landed on the doorstep of Number 12. Harry stumbled a little, and Malfoy tightened his grip on Harry's hand.
"Wow," Malfoy said quietly. It took Harry a second to realise that Malfoy wasn't talking to him. "I can't believe this will be my first time stepping foot in my great-aunt's house."
Harry wanted to say something, but Apparating had taken the last of the energy he had, and he didn't trust himself to open his mouth. Malfoy had been staring up at the Black's mansion, but when he glanced at Harry, his brow furrowed again. "Right," he muttered, observing the silver serpent knocker before looking for the doorknob. "You're ill."
"Takes a wand tap," Harry whispered. "Simple locking spell."
Malfoy glanced at him again before gently pulling his hand from his grasp. Harry swayed as Malfoy pulled out his wand and tapped the door. There was a grinding noise as all of the locks and chains undid themselves. Then the door swung open with a creak. Malfoy placed a hand on Harry's back to support him as they entered. Any other time Harry would've protested that he didn't need his help, but he really wasn't feeling well. He wasn't sure if it was something he'd ate, or whether he'd been grazed by a spell during battle, or if it was the insanity and stress of the night catching up with him, but he knew he wasn't in his right mind.
Harry pulled Malfoy over to the light switch and turned on the gas lamps, which hissed and flickered to life. Grimmauld Place looked just as creepy as Harry remembered, with threadbare carpets and dusty wallpaper covered in aging portraits.
"What a dump," Malfoy said in shock, curling his nose at the spider-webbed chandelier. "It looks as if it was grand in its day, but now it's —"
"Malfoy, be quiet —" Harry interrupted frantically, but it was too late. Across the corridor, the long curtains draped on the wall flew open and exposed the portrait of Sirius's mother and Malfoy's great-aunt, Walburga Black.
"Filth, blood-traitors, how dare you defile my house —" she screeched. Then the portrait stopped, staring bug-eyed from Harry to Malfoy. "Could it be? A pure-blood worthy of being in the Black home? What's your name, boy?"
Malfoy stood frozen in place, arm still resting against Harry's back. "Draco Malfoy, I'm — I'm a Black. This is my great-aunt's house."
The old woman began shrieking again, but this time in joy. "Oh, a pure-blood, my nephew, son of my darling niece, Narcissa Black! The distinguished House of Black will finally rise to its former glory! No more filth, vile disgusting half-breeds, or werewolves befouling the house of my fathers —"
"Oh, shut up, you old hag!" Harry yelled hoarsely, and with great difficulty, he waved his wand and the curtains swung shut. Ringing silence followed.
"You've got to be quiet down here or she comes out," he whispered to Malfoy, who had the strangest look across his face. Harry was too tired to place what it was. "She's still angry that we hosted the Order here."
"Right," Malfoy whispered back, but it sounded hesitant and odd. "You'll...you'll have to explain in more detail tomorrow."
Harry showed Malfoy to the staircase, and the men climbed it in the dark, Malfoy's arm still supporting Harry. When they reached the second landing, there was a loud crack that signalled the arrival of Kreacher. He looked even more ugly and wizened in the shadows.
"Master has brought a friend," Kreacher croaked. "Master has brought..." he snapped his fingers, and suddenly they were bathed in a dim light floating above the house-elf's head, "...is it — can it be?" The house-elf's eyes widened until they were nearly the size of dinner plates. "Is he a pure-blood? Oh, Mistress would be so happy —"
"Yes, yes, we're well-aware," Harry said quickly. "He's a Black on his mother's side, she'd be ecstatic, and all the rest. Malfoy and I will be staying here until further notice, okay?"
Kreacher looked happier than Harry had seen him since he had given him the fake locket with Regulus's note in it. "Here? A Black worthy of staying in my Mistress's house? Oh, I will get a room ready! And tea!" He hurried off, exclaiming to himself, "Oh, joy, joy, wait until I tell Mistress!"
Malfoy looked at Harry, eyebrows raised. Harry just shook his head.
"In here," he said, gesturing to the room that he and Ron had shared when Grimmauld Place had been the Order's headquarters. Malfoy led him into the room, and Harry collapsed onto the twin bed closest to the door.
"I'm going to sleep," Harry mumbled. "Kreacher's getting tea and can fix up the other bed for you."
"Potter, that bed is covered in dust."
"I don't care."
Malfoy snorted and moved for the door. As he reached the threshold, Harry said,"Malfoy?"
The other man paused, his hand on the doorframe. "Hmm?"
"Are you okay?"
Malfoy stiffened. "Why do you ask?"
"I dunno. You've been acting funny," Harry said sleepily. He yawned and snuggled deeper into his covers. "You haven't insulted me since we got here."
Malfoy visibly relaxed, the tension draining from his face. "Would you rather I insult you?" he drawled, his voice dripping with amusement. "You're ill, Potter, go to sleep."
The door closed quietly, leaving Harry alone. It was only until he was almost asleep that he realised what the look on Malfoy's face had been when looking at his great-aunt's portrait. It had been remorse and disgust.