When he walked into the kitchen he saw Petunia sitting in a heap on the floor, her bony little body bent awkwardly in directions in which it shouldn't be able to bend. There was an overturned bar stool laying two feet away from her and a pile of broken glass splattered around the counter and the ground directly underneath it. Harry cringed when he saw how much pain his aunt was in, but being physically hurt himself and therefore unable to help her up, he turned around looking for his uncle or cousin. He found the kitchen completely deserted however, and he couldn't hear their voices anywhere in the house.
Did no one else hear Petunia scream?… He looked at the clock on the wall – it was too early for them to have left, and Harry personally heard them arguing no more than ten minutes ago.
However that may be, his aunt was definitely not having a good morning. She was hurt, she had tears in her eyes, and if she didn't already look this distressed and rigid most of the time, Harry would have thought she looked depressed. She wasn't looking at him, but staring at the window with her face all screwed up on the verge of crying. It was obvious that she was using the last of her self-control, trying not to break down in front of her estranged nephew.
-"Aunt Petunia…? What happened here? And where is Dudley… uncle Vernon…what, uh… how did you, uh…" Harry managed to stammer, his voice hoarse and quiet.
Petunia, at hearing this, immediately changed her face expression to portray anger and glared at him from her spot on the floor, as if considering whether she wanted to sink to the indignity of actually answering. She paused for a long moment while staring him in the eyes. He could tell that what she was about to say was painful for her and his face expression showed it. Petunia instantly knew that he knew. She blinked and looked at the floor, then nodded her head and emitted a slow hiss-like sigh before she spoke:
-"He left. This morning. He has been planning to for quite some time… He took Dudley with him. I couldn't stop them." At this point she actually began to cry, and Harry felt the urge to get down on the floor and hug her, but restrained himself.
"I'm sorry Harry. For everything." She seemed disturbingly sincere as she spoke those words and looked up at him with heartbreakingly tearstained, brilliantly green eyes, and for the first time ever Harry Potter saw something in Petunia Evans Dursley that he had spent his whole life waiting to see – a little bit of Lily. He couldn't quite explain right then why he saw his mother through her sister's eyes and felt his mother through Petunia's desperation, but in that moment he really didn't need an explanation. His own eyes filled with tears and he slowly sank to the floor and wept alongside the woman who has tried her best to make his life miserable for all those years.
In that instant this heartbroken, middle-aged woman couldn't express, nor did she want to admit that she was grateful for this kind of unsolicited support. Harry squeezed her hand and sobbed harder at the same time as she had finally found the strength to stop.
She looked into the eyes of the boy sitting loyally beside her and a tiny involuntary smile crossed her lips.
For the first time in her life, Petunia Evans really missed her sister.
At the same time in the house of Malfoys, Draco was having a psychotic fit. He had found something very disturbing in his father's study, which Lucius forgot to lock, and now waited to confront his father about it. He didn't care that it would most probably get him in trouble and invoke his father's wrath, considering his snooping around in places where he shouldn't have been at all.
Nobody was allowed to set foot in Lucius's private office, no servant, house elf, guest or house member, and only Narcissa had the other key. Which always used to confuse Draco when he was little, because she wasn't allowed in there either, so logically it did not make any sense for his father to have given her a key. At any rate, as far as he was concerned, both of the parents were at fault, and in that moment their son didn't care why, what, how and when went on in that study when he was little, he just needed some answers about that … well, thing… that he just found and was still hoping that somehow, someway it would turn out to be some kind of mistake.
Thus, the youngest Malfoy was on a mission. He was rampaging through the house, looking for the two people who brought him into this world and were closest and dearest to his heart. In that moment though – he hated them.
He had so far screamed at every single servant that they had, smacked every house elf that had the misfortune to get in his way in between his room and the downstairs study and he wasn't done yet.
As it turned out Lucius had already left or maybe he never came home the night before, either way Draco would never know, but he had to talk to someone. So now he was walking through the house, seeking out his mother and even though the thought of fighting with her added a cold pang to every beat of his heart, he could not contain his rage any longer.
-"MOM! Mother! Where are you? Mother!" Draco's voice sounded miserable and it was obvious that he was about to lose it. He kept yelling and yelling, ignoring all the scared looks that he got from their numerous maids. The entire household was beginning to think that the youngest master Malfoy has gone insane. Everyone, but a young Spanish girl, their laundry maid, who came to work for them about a year ago. She stood quietly in the shadows of the hallway through which Draco was advancing while screaming his lungs out, not uttering a word. She knew perfectly well where Narcissa was at the time.
Somewhere on the other side of the Mansion, in the depths of the spacious maze of guest-wing rooms, Narcissa heard her son yelling for her.
She shot up immediately, having been laying down in bed, and quickly looked around checking that all the doors were closed. Standing up and quickly throwing a robe around herself, she ran as quietly as she could to the farthest entrance to this bedroom on the left, leaned in close to the keyhole and listened with her breath held. Draco's voice was trailing off, in what seemed to be the direction of the kitchens, which means he must have passed the rooms she was in just a second ago. And she was safe.
A vast sigh of relief escaped her lips as she clumsily turned around and stared at the massive four-poster bed. The gigantic room was very quiet, all three of the entrance doors were locked, all blinds were shut and heavy floor length curtains drawn. It was completely dark, with the exception of a few tiny rays of sun making their way in through the sliver of space between the curtains. Only slow and rhythmic breathing was breaking the silence.
Narcissa walked back toward the bed, stopping a foot or two away to steal a long and longing glance at the man who was asleep in it.
With a sad smile on her face and a heart full of guilt and regret, she gently put her palm on his cheek and began to wake him up.
A half an hour later, Draco made his way back to his bedroom. He has given up. For now.
He was extremely angry, hurt, frustrated and confused. He always knew his family was dark and he always assumed that they probably had something to do with Voldemort when he was at the height of his power, but he never even attempted to speculate on the subject any farther.
In truth – he didn't care. He would have been glad to know that his father was the right hand of Voldemort, just like everyone that he knew has always believed, but never dared to openly voice. Hell, he would have been genuinely proud and happy, if his father really was the most powerful man's in the world, second in command. Draco would have shown his support and lent a helping hand in any business or sensitive matter that needed solving if it meant helping out his family.
BUT his father never told him. His father had always denied and refuted every question and every rumor concerning the Malfoy family's dark history. Did he really think so little of me? - thought Draco. Did he not dare trust me with our secret? I am as much a Malfoy as he ever was, and no one in the world is as loyal to his heritage as I am. I am competent and I am smart. I have proven myself many times over with my excellent grades, and remarkable skills that produced with surprising ease the hardest spells and trickiest potions. I have nothing but the highest regard of all the teachers who had the privilege to teach me at that god forsaken school, and my irresistible charm is so well developed that it could make the Queen herself swoon and forget where she was. Not to mention the many, many self-made useful connections that I have among those of the wizarding folk who have for many decades now steered well clear of my father. I am an excellent actor!
He snorted and let out a short laugh.
His eyes traveled to the old-fashioned, intricately hand crafted, two hundred year old mirror that took up three thirds of his enormous wall, and smirked vainly at his reflection.
It was true. Draco was a marvel, there was no one like him. He knew this perfectly well and consequently came off as rather full of himself when he wasn't consciously trying to check it. That didn't happen often however, for as he already said – he was an excellent actor and did everything in his power to be well-liked and accepted. He only showed his true colors to his one and only best mate, of whom he used to be jealous. But he knew that deep down, Harry was quite a bit different from him, and in fact was quite a self-righteous wuss of a boy. He knew this, because he was great at reading people, sometimes too great, so ultimately even Harry didn't know that about himself.
Harry has met him far too early in life and a lot of the "Malfoy"- like temperament and character has rubbed off on the impressionable muggle-raised youngster. Lucius realized this and so did his son, but Harry never bothered. He liked himself, he liked the Malfoys, and he loved his best friend dearly, so he would never even want to imagine being any different or leading a different kind of life. Sure, he was kinder and a little more honest than his friend, but deep inside he was striving to be just like Draco. Calm, cool and impenetrable.
Ironically in that moment Draco was nothing of the sort. Not calm, or cool or unruffled.
Yes, the youngest Malfoy was extremely mad, and he was not going to let his father off the hook this time. He would corner him the second he stepped into the door and find out the truth. There. The resolution made him visibly relax a bit. He immediately felt better…
But something else was bothering Draco - Voldemort was supposed to have died sixteen years ago, in the presence of no other but his own best friend, Harry Potter.
Harry was still sitting on his kitchen floor three hours later, when it hit him that it was about time to go back. He was supposed to send Lucius an owl when he was ready to be picked up, and the owl would take at least an hour to reach him.
He was still extremely confused about what has actually happened yesterday, but his aunt has assured him that Mr. Malfoy has dropped him off shortly after twelve, and around six he has expressed the sudden desire to lie down, due to an intense feeling of fatigue. So he immediately went up to his room and stayed there for the rest of the day.
It sounded like Petunia wasn't lying, and Harry really did feel extremely ill when he woke up, so it wasn't so far fetched that he did get slightly sick the night before…
But then why did his brain refuse to believe this and kept hurting like crazy every time he tried to remember anything that was close to the time of his blackout..?