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Disclaimer: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K., and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes.
Spoilers: I'll say the first 5 books, just to be on the safe side!
Somewhere Only We Know
Chapter Four
The Never-Ending Night
Draco watched as Harry ran his hands through his light brown hair, shaking his fingers violently in the mess of locks in the process. He was pacing, sputtering off something about not being able to keep his mouth shut, about knowing he'd screwed up in telling Draco that he was him--Harry-- in the first place. And then there was something else about having to wing everything, now, because everything had happened exactly opposite of how it was supposed to.
Finally, Draco stepped away from the end of his bed and joined Harry, stepping into the direct track that he had been pacing, undoubtedly causing heat of friction on the floor. He faced Harry, perfectly still, so Harry did the same thing, looking flushed. Draco didn't have any good advice to tell him that he hadn't screwed up, so he offered a small distraction. "Stop panicking, will you? It puts wrinkles in your forehead."
Harry tightly clenched his sides in his hands, both irritated and amused, "I... what? Wrinkles?"
Draco said nothing to respond to him, at first, watching as he changed his course and began to pace again. He was chewing on his thumbnail and his eyebrows were narrowed so much that his eyes weren't quite as visible as they should have been, especially in the slightly-dark room. The shadows that cast over Harry Potter's unfamiliar face blurred out the expression of stress that Draco knew he was obviously battling. It was then, when he mentally referred to this unfamiliar-looking young man, that he realized it was Harry Potter, his sworn archenemy, and he mused, "You're not really dead."
Harry stopped. He turned slowly and answered, "I am--I mean... I think I am. Hell, I don't even quite fully understand, but I am dead. I think."
"You're obviously not dead, at least not all of you," Draco told him, crossing his arms, as he took in the tall frame. Harry had always been attractive, he supposed, and more-so beginning in fifth year into sixth, when he had finally grown out of his awkward-years and into something almost breathtakingly beautiful, just like Draco had. "I think," he said calmly, "you'd better tell me what the hell you "think" is going on."
Harry faced him, again, and found he wasn't even sure how to answer that, either, "I will, when I get it all worked out, if you'll keep my secret. Frankly, however, there is no time for me to give you answers right now."
Draco pointed the tip of his wand at Harry. Hmm, keeping Potter's secret? He was fairly friendly for no reason; it was a bit disarming, "Fine, then tell me on the way to wherever it is you think you're going."
Harry turned away from Draco, opposite of him, in the dark room, knowing that a hex wasn't going to hit him. Draco wasn't going to do anything to him and vice versa. Regardless of his newly-released identity, he hadn't been lying, earlier, about Draco being, basically, all he had. Going into it, he hadn't had much time to brood about having to work with Draco. Malfoy had been the last problem on his mind. He had walked into the situation with open eyes. He hadn't been able to show the cold stiffness that he had always shown Draco. Surprisingly, it didn't matter who he was, because Draco had accepted him quite easily, either way.
"Tell you on the way to where?" Harry looked back at him. "I've nowhere to go, not yet. I have no funds just yet, either. And I can't stay here, now can I?"
Draco pocketed his wand, following Harry towards the windows that had been so important earlier in the day. The moonlight shone in through the open and beautiful stone windows. A halo formed around Harry, and Draco stepped into the light, as well. Harry was leaned over, his elbows resting down on the stone ledge. He buried his face into his hands and rubbed, groaning. This was a side of Harry Potter he never thought he'd see, "Potter?"
"What?" Harry pulled his face out of his hands and peeked to the right, finding the head of platinum hair and a paler shade of face, but it was healthy, bright, and fit his philosophically thoughtful tone.
"Why couldn't you stay here?" Draco asked, leaning down and imitating Harry's position. He rested his chin against the center of his right palm, his attention directly focused onto the brown eyes of Harry Potter. THERE IT WAS AGAIN, the unfamiliar Harry Potter! Groaning with self-annoyance, Draco looked away before Harry could get a word in. Whatever was going on, Draco was now part of it, and there was no way around it. "You said it yourself: everyone saw what happened. They heard what you said, and you're right, he never denied it. They'll think he fled. In their minds... why would you need to? You're Judas Cliffdale, our guest."
Harry couldn't help but laugh, mostly because otherwise he'd cry, "Malfoy, we'd kill each other."
"Bullshit, stop lying," Draco hit back at him, carelessly, not looking at him. "This is not about you and me, and, anyway, I think we've shown we can get along... to a certain degree... under circumstances which really leave us no options... based on lies... you get the point, no?"
Harry pushed himself back, away from the ledge. In the process, his right hand lightly wrapped over the center of Draco's upper arm. However, he didn't say anything, nor did Draco. Pulling him away from the light, away from the open window, where they had been watching a family coo over the estate's lavish gardens, Harry could see that Draco was waiting for a real answer. He couldn't lie and say he wasn't grateful that Malfoy could easily see through what he was saying. Inwardly, he was impressed, though he wouldn't admit it, with Malfoy's last statement. Instead of saying anything, Harry held his hand up in the air, opened it, and, with his other hand, pretended to scribble on it.
Draco walked around him, and, a few seconds later, he was leaned over his desk, shuffling through the pull-out drawer right below the surface of the grand old, wooden desk. He finally managed to find a blank piece of scratch parchment, and he pulled it up onto the clean, empty desk top. He then closed the drawer below. Almost as soon as he placed it down, Harry had found a quill, dipped it, and was scribbling something down, leaned down, too. Draco moved in closer to Harry's left arm, dropping his face to read the message as he wrote.
I know it's not about us; it's about Voldemort. Tonight is suspicious to everyone. Please keep addressing me as Judas. This is your home, and someone could be easily listening.
Draco looked right at Harry's profile and then back down at the paper, because he was still writing.
You're going to need to show open support to the Death Eaters, I think, if you want to help. You're my in, now.
Draco, frustrated with reading this, reached up onto the top of his desk to a little jar that held feather quills. He pulled one out, not ashamed that it had bite marks and half-moon fingertip dents in it. When he got bored filling out paper work for summer internship work, he often tended to find ways to alter the shape of his quills. Without any sort of grace, he dipped the pen into the ink, hard, causing a little splash to land on the paper. He lowered his quill to the paper, not bothering to let Harry move his arm. He just wrote over it.
I wouldn't even show support to my own father, and you think I'm going to do so, NOW, to help YOU?
Draco underlined you two times before looking right back at Harry, expectantly, their faces close in the dark.
Harry pulled his eyes away, immediately, and pushed Draco's arm out of the way. A small gasp of horror instantly reacted to the action. He started to laugh, out loud, and looked away from the paper, forgetting what he was going to write and how he was going to try and convince Malfoy into helping him, of all people, especially when his help was going to have Draco taking part in something he was strongly against, which had never before been a problem, because Harry never imagined Draco to be so set in his pants about Voldemort's role in his life.
Draco's arm had hit the ink-jar. In result, his red-robe was now covered in black ink.
Harry stared, having stood straight up to watch the gloriously amusing reaction, covering his mouth with his hand as fast as he could. Draco looked like he was going to cry! Deciding that it wasn't wise to be openly laughing at Malfoy, even from behind his hand, he returned his attention back down the paper. Beside him, he could hear the distant, quiet whisper of numbers and deep breaths. He kept smiling to himself. Malfoy was counting to calm himself. Very entertained by this, albeit a little bewildered, Harry continued to write.
When Draco got to the number one, he took a very deep breath and reappeared beside Harry.
Draco fixed his eyes down onto the parchment paper.
I know, now, that you want Voldemort gone like I do. I'm not saying I have any particular plans yet, but it might be an option. Would you rather sit back and do nothing?
"Yes," Draco answered, aloud, and stood up straight. He turned his back to Harry and walked away. No, he did not want to sit back and do nothing, but at that moment, there was nothing he could do. He had never had a more confusing day in his entire life, and all he wanted to do was wake up the next morning, after having some time to contemplate everything that had happened and walk right up to Harry Potter, or Judas Cliffdale, when he was alone, and tell him that he would help. But, now, he was angry and frustrated, his mother was a wreck, his father had disappeared into a poof of smoke, their entire world was going to be in a panicked uproar at the disappearance of his father, a known death eater, who had been last seen about to duel with Judas Cliffdale, who had publicly informed the guests, at the Minister's ball, that the Minister had killed his mother. And the Minister had not denied it.
"Look, you're staying here tonight, Judas, and that's that." He turned to Potter. "I know today has been hard, and I know you're looking for an escape, but you're in no condition. You need to stay here tonight. Also, my mother will have it no other way."
Harry placed the cap on the ink jar and slowly turned around, having erased the parchment with magic and torn it up. The pieces, in his left hand, were crumbled up into tiny little specks, almost like ash. He walked over towards the open window, only a few feet away, opened his palm, and let the sand-like powder fall to the earth that was stories below. He turned back around, to Draco, watching silently as he began to pull his robe off over his head. Clearly, he was wearing something under, so Harry didn't panic. He also didn't argue with staying there for at least the night, "Do you think we'll be questioned?"
Draco glanced back at Harry, over his shoulder, but it hurt too much, so he looked away, again, "I wouldn't plan on sleeping tonight, to be honest. There will be reporters here all night. That and live broadcasts from the Wireless Network. I'm sure the Ministry will send in Security teams to find Lucius, wherever he disappeared to," he said, quietly, calmly, as he walked his newly-stained robe towards his closet. He opened it and tossed it in, but it didn't fall to the floor. It straightened itself, self-cleaned, gave a shake, like a dog, and then promptly wiggled itself onto a bright red hanger. He grinned at the hanger. It was the only non-green hanger that he had, to match the only red-colored clothing he had in his closet. He sighed as he turned around, though.
Across the room, Harry was staring out the window again, his lean body lounged out against the side of the window.
"I'm sure your bags were already taken to your guest room," he said, closing his closet door behind him just for something to do. If he hadn't done it, the door would have closed by itself. Behind him, the door bid him a good-night, so he lightly grinned, looking over his shoulder. "Goodnight, dear," he replied, like he had done every night since he was a little boy. He loved his talking door, even more so than some of his closest relatives. He was close with his door, as it was always there to talk to him when no one else was. His father... had personally made it for him when he was younger. He had even broken certain laws to do so. "I'll take you there, you can change, and... I think it would be a good idea if we went downstairs and just sort of sat around with my mother for awhile, if she's alone, and if she's not, we can find somewhere else to sit for awhile. I don't think it's safe for you to be alone when Lucius is missing and Ministry Officials are around. And I'm not entirely convinced you're safe here, period."
Harry stepped away from the light, once more, and joined Draco in the dark. He offered out an equally large olive branch, "We can catch up."
Draco stopped, in the center of his room, and watched as Harry took route to his door, "Catch up?"
"Well, sure, a lot has happened since we were four, no?" Harry grinned. "I'm sure there are stories I'd love to hear."
Draco's left eyebrow lifted, as he saw a dimple appear on Potter's cheek, and then a smirk, "Potter stories?"
Once Draco stood beside him, in front of the bedroom door, Harry dropped his smirk and his smile. What he was feeling about Malfoy, he wasn't quite sure. Everything that he had known about friends and enemies had flown out the window over the prior digression of the last six months. Friends he had once had had betrayed him, or had decided it wasn't safe to be around him, though those friends had never cared before. There was only one person who had stayed his friend, and that was Ron. Without a doubt, without a flicker of fear of hesitance, Ron Weasley had always been there for him, and vice versa.
While he had been losing friends, his rivalry with Draco had intensified, so much so that most of his frustrations had been taken out during mid-day dueling matches in lone-corridors with none other than his arch-rival, Slytherin of a nemesis, Malfoy. From those times, something had arisen between them, almost more of a respect than anything. At least, to Harry, Draco's presence in his old life, however frustrating and infuriating, had turned out to bloom into a relationship that no one else had been able to ever give him.
Harry shook his head from left to right, once, "No, about anything. I've think I've heard enough about Harry Potter."
Draco turned the doorknob of his bedroom but didn't open the door just yet. He stared directly at the level-eyes looking right back to his. They were of equal height, and it was then that Draco realized that Harry's form was still that of his own, and it hadn't been altered to suite Judas Cliffdale, however he may have looked. Still, the same hands he had seen wrapped so tightly around Potter's wand were still there. It was still him, just not him. He breathed out, and, in the process, his lips vibrated, "I haven't."
Harry grinned as Draco opened the door. They were hardly friendly, but Malfoy's decency was much appreciated.
While Draco walked out into the brightly lit hallway, Harry was almost blinded. He closed the door behind him, however, as he stepped out of the doorway. He didn't join Draco just yet. Instead, his eyes were inquisitively absorbing the back of the very lean frame. At Hogwarts, he had only ever seen Draco in his robes and his Quidditch gear, both of which bulked and hid his body. He was clad in white cotton trousers and a light yellow T-shirt that then solely displayed very toned, nicely sculpted, lean arms, "Draco?"
Draco turned around, easily, but then pointed at an immobile Harry, confused at his stance, "What?"
The left side of Harry's mouth upturned, and then the right. He suddenly realized, "You're wearing muggle clothes, no robes."
Draco looked down at himself, as if confused for a moment, and then back to Harry, "I always do."
The expression on Potter's face was that of priceless brilliance, and Draco wished he had had a camera to capture it. As the familiar frame walked towards him, he shook his head from side to side, to imitate it. He knew exactly what Harry was so stunned about. It hadn't occurred to Draco that Harry had never seen him when he was out of his school robes or his Quidditch uniform. Only in the last year had Draco started finding himself, and finding comfort in wearing muggle clothing. Literally, it was muggle clothing, from muggle stores. Even his band T-shirts were muggle bands, not magic bands.
Harry stopped and read the shirt, "Nirvana," he laughed, quietly, and then gave a nod. "You, Draco, are wearing a Nirvana shirt."
Draco watched him work through it in his head, amused, "What, you've never heard of them?"
Harry stepped around him, widely grinning to himself, but not wanting Malfoy to see, "Oh, I've heard."
Draco followed him, coolly, taking his time, like Harry was, "What about... Guns N' Roses? Like them?"
Harry turned around, at once, his left eyebrow hooking up, furiously grinning, now, "Axl Rose was my God for a summer."
Draco had never discussed muggle bands with anyone, and so he didn't bother to keep down his eagerness, "Did you know there was a feud between Axl and Kurt?"
Harry shook his head, awed, looking up at the ceilings and now following Malfoy, "Axl loved Kurt's brilliance."
"Yeah," Malfoy replied, concentrating on which room they were likely to find his mother in, "but Kurt despised the rock-star that Axl was. It was everything he was against."
"Hmm," Harry replied, with a laugh, impressed and extremely confused as to how Draco Malfoy was so completely educated on muggle bands. It was entertaining and very amusing. It was obvious that Draco was delighted to be talking about what they were, and he had no urge to destroy his delight, strangely enough. "That sounds somewhat familiar."
Draco smirked, looking away from a painting on the wall to cast Potter a once-over, "Yeah, well, Kurt killed himself in the end because he was so miserable."
"Kurt did not kill himself," Harry interrupted, at once, loudly and defensively. "Don't be a pawn!"
Draco turned around, stopped in front of a door, "You're one of those, then?" Conspiracy theorists!
Harry walked right up to Draco, staring eye to eye, "I look a little deeper into things, that's all."
Draco slowly stepped aside, and as Harry opened the door to his guest room, he was in awe. Draco had never discussed Axl Rose and Kurt Cobain with anyone, in his entire life! He had found a disc-man, once, in a lost in found box in a muggle record store, the very first time he had ever entered a muggle ANYTHING. Inside the CD player of the disc-man, one single CD spun. It had been Nirvana, so, naturally, Draco had taken to it. As soon as he had heard the very first five words of the very first song, he'd been hooked. Muggle bands were so much more brilliant than wizard bands. He didn't know why, but it was something he wasn't going to complain about. Since then, he had found ways of snagging CDs off of muggle store shelves by apparating in, when no one was looking, and apparating out when no one was looking. However, he could only listen to his player far away from any magical institutions, including his own home. It didn't work around magic, "By the way, if you call me a pawn one more time, I'll hex your balls off."
Harry could only gaze at the room in front of him, too in awe to turn around or take the threat as anything other than its teasing nature, "I'd like to see you try."
Draco coughed a laugh, "Right. Well, get changed quickly. I'll wait out here."
Harry turned around. Before he closed the door, he saw Draco glance at him, almost sadly.
When the door was finally closed, Harry pressed his forehead against it, finally alone. And, sad, too.
It was a couple of hours later that the two young men sat across from each other, in similar brown velvet arm chairs, in front of a quiet, yet furiously roaring, fire. There was a good ten feet that separated them. Since Harry had walked into the room, not a word had been spoken. Everything that had been said earlier in the evening was placed behind them both as somewhat of a lie that had eased them. Pushing all of that aside, the obviousness of the situation sunk in. Harry Potter was Harry Potter, and Draco Malfoy was Draco Malfoy.
"These reporters are the most intrusive I've ever seen," interrupted a voice, barricading through the tension between the two boys who were still staring at each other, in their own worlds, in their own minds. The voice distracted Harry, but Draco didn't look towards the new entrance. He looked to the left, towards the fire behind them. However, at the silence that interrupted the room, once more, Draco turned his attention back to Harry and then the thirty-something brunette in the doorway.
In the doorway stood a dark-headed, dark-eyed, lean, attractive man, whose face was nearly covered in beard. At their silence, he simply asked, "Are you two on mute?"
The only place Harry's eyes landed was the jaw line of this man, and the lower part of his face. It was such a familiar jaw, even through the edge of the beard. He had never seen this person, ever, that he could remember. He had no idea who it was. He hadn't even a clue, and he had had files on all of the people in the Malfoy's circle, too. The man was looking at Draco who was just staring back. When Harry's eyes landed on Draco's face, this time, his eyes froze. They had the exact same jaw-line and chin, Malfoy and this man!
Harry looked back at the man, again, his eyes inflamed enormously, though they were squinted and bewildered at the same time; what was going on? Was this man an Uncle of Draco's on Lucius's side? If so, Draco had gotten all of his looks and none of Lucius's. He pushed himself up and carefully walked in the direction of the man, extending his right hand. He was hardly threatening, so Harry was comfortable in greeting him. "I'm sorry, my manners; it's been a hectic day. Judas Cliffdale."
The man returned the handshake, grinning nearly madly at him, eyes speaking volumes of things Harry did not understand, "Please, like I wouldn't recognize Draco's childhood best friend," he said, and he almost sounded amused. "Cornwell Black."
"Cornwell Black?" Harry immediately blurted out, as their hands dropped. Wait a second, hold the broomsticks back. Harry looked back in the direction of Draco who was suddenly standing on his feet, strolling over, as well, seemingly irritated that Cornwell had just introduced himself. Harry wasn't fazed. Black? As in... he was a Black family member? Was that even possible? He had never heard mention of a man named Cornwell Black and had never seen his picture on Sirius's family tree two years prior. If this man was a Black, why did he look so much like a darker version of Draco? Up close, now, Harry could easily see this. It was uncanny.
"My father goes missing and here you are; I'm not surprised," Draco greeted, stopping a few feet away, hands firmly at his sides.
Harry glanced at him. Oh, so it was an uncomfortably awkward relationship, then? Harry flinched and pointed at the door, "Okay, then, I'll let you two get reacquainted?"
Awkwardly, he took a route around the strangely suspicion-evoking man, not sure what to say. When he was in the doorway, he looked back over his shoulder at Draco, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. Draco had his hands on his sides, now, his jaw was clenched to one side, and he seemed unimpressed and angry--hurt, too, maybe? Perhaps that was just Harry's mind, which was suddenly unable to lead him away.
"By the way, how do you two know each other?" Maybe he could stay for a little while?
Draco glanced at him, darkly, but then looked right back to the man without giving an answer, like waiting to see what Cornwell would say.
The man turned around, halfway, and was the one to answer. He did so very casually, "Draco is my son."
It took a long second for Harry to even... acknowledge that this was what had just been said. His eyes faltered away from the man's honest dark brown eyes, hidden behind long and exquisite eyelashes. There had been no immediate outburst from Draco's mouth of denial. Harry looked back at Draco, his mind in all sorts of awe and shock; no way, it wasn't possible. Draco looked just like his father—Lucius Malfoy--well, did he, aside from the pale hair and air of aristocracy? Before he could even let the words settle, he walked straight back into the room, his fingertips extended out in front of him as if he needed them to steady his pace, and he just blurted out a disbelieving, "What?"
Before Cornwell could answer Harry--Harry fucking Potter--Draco turned around, sharply, "Quite the story, actually, Judas," he explained, mockingly making his voice light and cheerful. He fell back down into his armchair, his arms resting on the sides of it; there was no reason to deny it. He'd seen Potter put it together as soon as Cornwell had walked in; they were nearly identical, now that Draco's soft curves had turned into prompt adult features. He didn't look at either one of the other two occupants in the room. Cornwell Black, who he hadn't seen up close in about three years, had just swaggered right on in. He didn't even look like Draco remembered. He had a beard now. He was a beautiful man, actually, but he wasn't the slightest bit feminine like Draco was. He was one hundred percent man, down to his bearably full dark beard and his deep, raspy voice. "It all started after my parents were married... lavish event, really. Their marriage was supposed to be perfect, but, well, this is a Pureblood family, of course something's not right behind the scenes."
Cornwell turned to Harry, but with a slight roll of his eyes, though kindly, and warned, "He tells this story more dramatically each time."
Harry couldn't help the chuckle that left his mouth. He didn't know where it had come from, or how, but it entered the room. Draco immediately looked at him, without a second to waste. He pushed himself up, and Harry abruptly calmed his laughter. This Cornwell man... there was just something so honest about him. The way he entered the room, it didn't leave any uncomfortable presence. It was obvious that he had only been trying to ease the situation for Harry. Well, Judas.
Draco faced the two of them, "My father was a little gay, at the time, and my mother was lonely."
Harry stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. Suddenly, though, he nervously laughed, "No, seriously."
"Oh, no; he was being serious," Cornwell whispered after Draco had instantly shot Harry his middle finger, furiously turned around, and stormed out of the room, into the dark corridor, leaving a trail of confusion behind him. The whole situation caused Harry to lean against the wall of the fireplace room, his eyes heavily hitting the floor. They just told him? They just blurted it out to him? Oh, by the way, Potter, Lucius Malfoy isn't my real father. However, this man is. See, you thought you knew me, Potter. Thought you knew everything. Bet you didn't expect this—my father is a mountain man! With a beard! And boots! And unkempt hair!
"Oh, Jesus," fell ungracefully out of Harry's mouth. He looked in the direction of the open door, though it was much to late to have been seeing the fleeting figure of Draco Malfoy. He looked back at the man, speechless. The man seemed more uncomfortable than Harry felt. He had his hands on his sides, and he was looking at the floor, perhaps pondering if he had handled the situation wrong and was truly upset with himself. "Wait, seriously? Lucius is... gay?"
"Was," stressed the man who then slightly laughed. "He was young, experimenting; that's the excuse they all use. You'll want to remember that, now that you're here."
Harry glanced at him, slowly, alert swirling in his head. Did... no... how could... no, this man could not have known he was Harry Potter, but, still, wouldn't he have figured Judas Cliffdale would have known just how Pureblood families acted behind closed doors? Finding himself paranoid, he awkwardly offered, "Er..."
"Yeah, that pretty much sums it up."
"So, you're... you are really Draco's father?" Harry just boggled over this, staring at him again. This man was the complete opposite of Lucius Malfoy. Thinking back on it, Draco had never looked like his father. Sure, they had the same hair color, but their facial features, Harry had always just figured that Draco took after his mother's side of the family, though her features were sharp and some of Draco's features, like his cheekbones, were rounded off. His jaw and cheekbones, while his parents (Narcissa and Lucius) had killer sets of both, were not like either one, or even a perfect mix. They were different, in an exquisite, dominant sort of way. It did make sense, now, staring at this man's face. It was impossible to dispute. This man was Draco Malfoy's father.
The man squinted at him, "You know you can't say a word to anyone, yes?"
Harry slightly laughed, as it was the only available response, "I wouldn't even try. Draco would kill me if I did, I'm absolutely... positive."
"No, he wouldn't," the man calmly replied, but then held his hand up. Harry's eyes followed it, waiting for some sort of action to follow. However, he was motioning toward the air about the room. Reading between the lines, Harry's eyes finally left the man's hand, and he searched around the room, realizing what Cornwell was about to say; this was the Malfoy manor, where they stood. "Regardless of who I am to Draco, he is still Lucius's son. If word leaked out, it would damage things far more than you could understand. He would be dead before the morning word had spread out. I trust you understand."
Harry went to ask, but then looked away, fully gaining acknowledgment. Right, Voldemort, "Unbelievable." Wanting every single detail of this, suddenly, Harry stepped backward and motioned toward the open doors of the room. Things were already difficult enough, now. The night was going to be long, and even if he tried to sleep, he would be berated by nosy reporters trying to get onto the premises and throwing bewitched rocks up to tap on his guest room windows. "Does Narcissa know that you're here?"
Cornwell smirked, "If Narcissa knew I was here, she'd have me hexed."
THAT SMIRK.
Harry, now leading the man out of the room, had to close his eyes and rub his palms over them to make sure he had just seen the original Malfoy smirk on a... non-Malfoy. The footsteps behind him were loud, due to the man's boots. They had been nice, brown leather or something of the sort, perhaps when he had bought them... which must have been years ago; they were very worn. The man hadn't been wearing proper robes, which Harry found amusing. First Draco was wearing muggle clothing, and now this man, Malfoy's father, was clanking around the Malfoy estate in heavy boots and a flannel button-up shirt. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of light, so he glanced over, to his left, to see that Draco was standing there, now with his mother, who had just swooped into the room, too. Her hair had been the flash of light.
"Draco, are you still brooding? For Merlin's sake, you're going to permanently damage your face."
Draco unwrinkled his forehead, not looking at her but rather Cornwell, intently, "We have a visitor."
Harry almost wanted to excuse himself out of the room, feeling that it was a private matter. However, he couldn't seem to move his feet, paralyzed by the way everyone else was perfectly stabilized in place as Narcissa's eyes followed Draco's to Cornwell. Of course, by what Cornwell had told him about Narcissa's reaction to his presence, Harry expected her to be shrill and mean, and hex the man, or at least threaten him. However, she twisted, rubbed the back of her head, looking from Draco to Cornwell. Then, she started to flush. Amused, Harry watched Draco roll his eyes, drop his arms, sigh loudly, and finally take a step in Harry's direction.
"Cornwell," Narcissa greeted, quietly, across the large corridor. "It's been awhile."
Draco stopped halfway between them. His eyes moved from one to the other. Frustrated and unable to display emotion enough to express how he was feeling, he pivoted away from them, once more, and took route toward Harry. Jesus, he never thought he's see the day that he would willingly walk toward Harry Potter as an escape route. Harry hadn't moved, or backed up, or done anything. He was just standing there, with his arms at his sides, his newly-brown eyes blankly hiding awe behind the shadows that became less relevant as the space closed between them.
"You'll remember that I was asked to stay away, Narcissa," the deep voice replied, but not easily.
Draco spun around, unable to keep his tongue, "You should have kept staying away from us. You'll ruin everything. You're a target."
"That's thickheaded of you to say, Draco Malfoy, you ugly little git."
Draco blinked, furious, and turned away to Harry. But, then there was a lot of laughter that had taken over the room. Draco spun around, again, holding out his right hand in the air, his index fingertip expanded. He was obviously about to comeback with something and make a point. However, he fell silent, and his hand fell from the air. Cornwell was only teasing him, and he knew he wasn't ugly, because Draco looked almost identical to him, just the lighter-headed, paler-skinned, aristocratic version. He half-smiled, before he could help it, extremely entertained with the words that had left the man who had always been kept at a distance from him, at bay. He tried to drop the smile, but he couldn't help it. They had been estranged for three years, at least from seeing each other in person, and Draco had been extremely bitter about it. He had not wanted Potter to see them this way; he hadn't wanted Potter to ever know. Draco had grown up knowing Cornwell as a second father, but viewed him officially as an "uncle" to appease Lucius. "That was mean."
The man walked towards him, pulling something out of his pocket, "Mean, but you're laughing."
Cornwell placed an envelope in Draco's outstretched hand, "What is this?"
"Read it," responded the man, his voice overwhelmingly soft. "Something I've been working on, Mister Malfoy."
Feeling horrible for the man, Harry suddenly looked between the two faces, examining them with the utmost contempt. Cornwell was a good six feet tall, and Draco was about two inches shorter. As Draco looked down at the envelope, Harry saw Cornwell examine his similar, all-around beautiful, features, and he almost did so with pride. Something swirled inside of his own chest, watching the awkward exchange of the envelope. Draco had looked down because Cornwell had referred to him as Mister Malfoy, and it was quite obvious it had been of a pointed nature, something that Draco had been reminded of. As soon as Draco began to look up, silently, Cornwell pulled his eyes away from the younger man and walked around Draco without another word.
Draco didn't turn around to watch him go, just stayed immobile.
"It was very nice to meet you, by the way," Cornwell said, kindly, taking the time to look directly at Harry. Again, with the knowing eyes.
Harry was suspicious at once, "You, too, Cornwell. You, too," he replied, genuinely, but very quietly.
Draco turned around, finally, his mood having clearly changed, "Is this my birthday present, then? A piece of paper?"
Narcissa was a mess on the sidelines of the room, wringing her hands together, "Draco, don't be rude."
Cornwell glanced at Draco, "Apparently, it can't be. Why would I get you a birthday present?"
Draco tore the envelope up and tossed it onto the floor, and Harry bawked; Draco tried to ignore it. He'd just torn it to make a rebellious and immature point, which showed on Cornwell's face. He had ever intention of reading the letter, just not right then, "I don't know, because you've missed the last three?"
Cornwell stared at the torn envelope now laying on the floor. He seemed to sense that Draco wanted a fight, so he offered, with a careful drawl, "It's not like I'm your father; I don't need to buy you presents."
Draco blinked at his words.
"Do you remember that, Draco? Because I do." Pause. "It was your decision to push me away; to be angry with me now is... frankly, unfair. I thought a visit was in order, but if a piece of paper isn't a good enough present, I will gladly take it back... as to unburden you."
Harry clutched the back of his neck, his lips pressed together.
Draco looked deadened, like a Dementor had just sucked out his soul.
"I didn't ever make a decision the way you make it sound," he replied, quietly, as Cornwell started for the letter. It was obvious where he was going. At the fast pace of the lean, exotic-looking man, Draco's right foot stomped over the letter that was about two feet in front of him. His foot covered it, and he dragged it back, under his shoe, until he was standing over it completely. Regardless of having torn up the letter, he had still wanted to read it. He had just torn it to make a statement, after all. The statement? That he was an impulsive jerk. He was angry with himself, now. Seeing the man retreating, once more, Draco stepped forward. He couldn't just leave! All he ever did was leave; hell, it was Draco's fault, but still, "Oh, you're leaving. How... surprising."
Cornwell, with an expression that matched Draco's, turned around, "How proud a day; you sound just like your father."
"You say that like it's a bad thing. Aside from what he does, he's a decent man."
"I'm not arguing with you," the older man responded. "He did raise you well."
As Cornwell went to leave, once again, Draco loudly growled in frustration. Enough! He was clearly trying to find something to say that would spark a conversation, or a fight, with Cornwell, just so he'd be around that much longer. The man had disappeared from his life three years earlier, and Draco had never been given answers about where he was, or why, and had begun to believe that he was dead. Honestly. It wouldn't have been a surprise, especially once Voldemort had told Lucius that he was getting antsy about Cornwell coming out of the woodworks once Draco was of age. It was one of the reasons Draco had held back for so long when it came to joining the leagues that his father—Lucius—belonged to. Had Draco joined the fight, well, it had been likely Cornwell wouldn't have reacted well. For some reason, Cornwell's presence was not very welcome.
Lucius was his father, no doubt, He had raised Draco as his own, and fondly, and had never used it against him. He had taught Draco fencing, and explained the Estate finances, and read him stories, but Cornwell had read him more stories, and taken him around Hogsmeade every weekend, even took him on vacations, fun ones, and applied sun-screen spells to his face to keep him from burning, and, when he had burned, and Draco had wailed and complained, Cornwell hadn't sushed him like Lucius had, but babied him.
"You're just like Sirius was, against your own family. It'll kill you, just like it did him."
"Sirius Black?" Harry asked, loudly, before Cornwell could reply to Draco. "You're related to Sirius Black?"
Cornwell looked over, "My cousin," he explained, before he looked back at Draco. "Draco, I do not wish to give you a reaction."
Draco seethed because Cornwell so easily saw through him, "Where the hell are you going?" Draco demanded, forcefully, finally, following him towards the corridor, because he had finally made his way through it. The man swept down the hallway even more powerfully than his Lucius did, even without the robes or cloaks. Cornwell had been set up for success, and, somehow, a somehow that no one had ever thought Draco should hear about, had turned everything down or had lost everything. Draco had never been sure; no one had ever trusted him. All he knew was that Cornwell had basically turned into a recluse, and that he had a wife. He stopped. "I swear on Voldemort, if you don't turn around, I'll hex you right now!"
Cornwell didn't turn around at the empty threat, "You truly are your father's son, Draco!"
Draco, furious, threw his wand after Cornwell, quite literally, frustrated, "I don't even KNOW my father anymore!"
The wand hit Cornwell. He turned around, at once, not having drawn his own wand.
"What's that?"
Draco held his left hand out, glaring, "Accio wand, and you heard me."
"Your father is Lucius Malfoy, Draco. He always has been. He always will be; at least, I remember you saying so."
Draco stared at him, and it was hardly unflattering, "I was thirteen years old and throwing a fit; what did you want me to do, Cornwell? See things logically?"
The man said nothing to him, just shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and turned around once more. This time, Draco didn't follow him, only just being able to helplessly, brokenly, watch the retreating figure walking towards the front doors of the estate, where they all knew there were probably hundreds of reporters, by now, lined up, from all over the world. The last time Draco had seen him, Cornwell had been so angry with him. He had been so angry that Draco had chosen Lucius's world, Lucius's life-choices, instead of his own. Cornwell had been a father-figure to him and had done things with him that fathers and sons did, like playing Quidditch, or taken him fishing (yes, fishing), or playing card-games, or going to fetch things for Draco when he was sick and then complaining about how much Draco was soaking up the attention. Draco had adored Cornwell. He had been the father that Lucius had never been, and once he'd found out that Cornwell WAS his real father, with a good look at himself in the mirror, all hell had let loose between his mother, father, and Cornwell.
There had even been a time in life when Draco called Cornwell his "Papa." It had been his first word, and said to Cornwell.
"Why did you even come here? I don't understand. You could have mailed me this."
Cornwell turned around, this time, "I thought you'd be different by now, wiser, somehow, but you're just like Lucius."
"You don't know that! You don't know anything about me, and you don't even want to try!"
"Do you know how many letters I've sent you, Draco? How many of those have you received? Read? Responded to?"
Draco started forward, again, helplessly flabbergasted and lost, "It is not my fault if Lucius intercepted them."
"It doesn't matter, because I know you received some and never responded. He has raised you since I left; deep down, you're like him. Even the way you look."
Draco stopped in his tracks and harshly breathed in, "I look exactly like you, not him."
"I don't mean physically, Draco. There's an air about you. You are a Malfoy. And you don't look as much like me as you may think. I don't know if it's possible, but you seem to look like Lucius than you do me, which isn't that far-fetched, because we are related," he mused this over, aloud, taking his eyes away from the stabilized, immobile Draco feet away. But the silence reigned supreme, again, and his eyes were set back onto Draco, intently. "It has been three years. You made your choice. Your father made his choice. I just wanted to deliver this one, myself, to see that it got to you on your birthday." Which was the next day. "Both your father and your mother," Narcissa made a small sigh of desperation at being spoken of, "asked me to stay away from you, and you made your choice, which isn't surprising, because they are your parents, but... don't try to make me feel like I should stick around and make time for you, Draco. I know you've received some of my letters—I have that mail-status charm. You never responded. I've seen you in Diagon Alley, and you've hidden. Putting all of that aside, however, you are one day away from seventeen, and while I do feel like being here is pointless, especially now that you've ripped up the letter I've been trying to perfect for about the last week, your birthday is an exciting occasion, and I did swear to you when you were ten that on your seventeenth birthday I would get you a special present, so... it'll be on your doorstep tomorrow morning—well, this morning, actually."
Draco stared down at the floor, "You shouldn't have let them force you away last time."
"You don't know how hard I fought for you, Draco. Don't pretend like you do. Don't even try."
"Who did you fight with? Lucius? God forbid; like he'd ever hurt you."
Cornwell smirked, but it was bland and unimpressed. He was offended, but he was a man, a grown man who struggled. Even Harry could see that, as Cornwell decided to walk away instead of argue. He smiled, then, genuinely, and gave Draco one last tiny nod of farewell, "Happy birthday, Draco."
"Happy birthday!" Draco shouted madly, finally looking up, with horrible fury in veins, which probably matched an equal look in his eyes. He looked down at the torn letter in his hands, holding them out in front of him, a half in each hand. He glared at Cornwell, who was his father, his real father. "You're wishing me a happy birthday and telling me to FUCK off, basically? That's brilliant. If you haven't noticed, it's NOT a happy birthday--no one is happy here! Do you not remember that this place sucks out souls?" Cornwell thoughtfully seemed to remember. "Did you see the reporters out there? Lucius's day is done, who knows where he is, doing God knows what. Jesus, I mean, Harry Potter was... murdered." Wait, no, he wasn't dead. "The Cliffdales are..." Dead. "My father is..." Not dead, but probably being held captive by Dumbledore, now that he thought about it. "The world is fucking ending, and I'm supposed to pledge to Voldemort tomorrow night! And, my father, Lucius, is supposed to be here to, somehow, get me out of it, but he's not! He disappeared! And, now, you show up and tell me to fuck off! Like I don't have enough issues with you having left and all of the bullshit drama that followed in its wake. You're absolutely mad! You can fuck off and take your stupid letter with you. I'm tired of power-hungry men trying to dictate my life, and I'm even more tired of passive BASTARDS who can't stand up to those power-hungry men and take what is rightfully theirs—"
"Are you saying that you're rightfully mine, Draco?"
Draco seethed, clutching his hands out in the air as if to strangle the situation, "You are IMPOSSIBLE!"
"YOU were the one who made the decision to NOT have me in your life, Draco," Cornwell replied, though not entirely calmly, and it gave Draco hope, clearly.
"I was fourteen!" He shouted back, furious, over his shoulder, as he turned and started walking in the opposite direction, heading towards the entrance staircase. His mother and Harry had both appeared, within the last five seconds or so. Draco just couldn't handle this, not now! Everything in his life had been turned upside down since the morning before. Truths were lies. Lies were the truth. He had enough stresses in his life, stresses that no one cared about, or had ever tried to care about, or even KNEW about. He was Draco MALFOY, and now that his father was gone, he was expected to take over the Malfoy Estate, head up the family, but he had no idea how. He had been pruned for this his entire life. He was going to have to give up every one of his morals, of his feelings, and sell his soul out to Voldemort and be one of the deadened, foul-hearted drones that he had always despised.
"When you were fourteen, you were saying the same thing; I'm fourteen, I CAN MAKE MY OWN CHOICES!"
Draco turned around on the bottom step, "You trusted a fourteen year old to make that kind of choice? You thought I really chose Lucius and wasn't just yelling out of anger?"
Cornwell laughed, but angrily so, as he approached the staircase. This time, it was he who had words to say to a fleeting Draco and not the other way around, "Of course, I DID trust you, Draco! I had raised you well, or don't you remember that? Where was Lucius when you were growing up?" Draco's eyes completely blanked over at the question. His nose got smaller, sucked in, and his cheek bones became indented sharply, very visible. "You weren't a naive kid. You knew exactly what you'd done. You knew you'd chosen Lucius. I did try to change your mind, remember? You had my traveling owl address. You could have sent Artemis to me ANY TIME to say you had changed your mind, or even to see how I was. What choice did I have? Why would I stay here and watch you BECOME Lucius's heir? WHY? What would you have done?"
"When I made the choice, I didn't know you were going to leave because of it. You just left."
"Answer the question, Draco; what would you have done?"
Draco avoided the question, once more, sidestepping it, "I didn't know the letters had been intercepted."
"So you thought I would just leave without sending you letters--honestly, Draco? Do you feed these lies to yourself or have you been brainwashed, completely, by the Malfoys?"
"I'm not a Malfoy," Draco repeated, very quietly. "Not by blood." By the time he was done speaking, under his breath, Cornwell was already standing in front of the front doors of the house. Draco slipped down onto the staircase, his eyes blankly taking in the exit. When his butt hit the step, he pulled his feet on the two steps below him and loosely wrapped his arms around his knees. As soon as the door opened, being completely blown open by Cornwell's hand, the night seemed to have faded into the brightest of a sunny afternoon. He'd totally fucked that up. Cornwell had been brave to come visit him, to have come with a letter, and good, kind intentions.
The flashes of cameras were so thunderous, and so bright, that Cornwell seemed blinded, with his arm covering the space in front of his face. He turned back to look at Draco, once. Draco's eyes perked up, somehow, for some reason. But the expression on the man's face was that of disappointment. It was disappointment Draco had never seen, before, on any one person's face. Instead of walking back into the house, to find a different exit, the man Draco knew to be his father blindly walked out into the sea of reporters, shoving a Quidditch cap down over his face and closing the door, silently, behind him.
The mess of noise was now silenced, once more.
"What's he doing wearing a Quidditch cap, anyway? Unnatural Squibs."
Draco glanced at his mother and then to Harry who was staring at Draco, now, with wide eyes. Really, how much new information could Potter take in by now?
Squib?
Draco looked away from Harry, "Mother, he's not an Unnatural Squib. He just doesn't practice magic anymore."
"He had himself stripped," she whispered back, and then she twitched, nervously, when Draco stared at her, like she had just stabbed him. "I thought you knew."
Draco stood up, slowly, and walked down the steps, "Excuse me, what?"
Narcissa nervously twisted, "Two years ago. Your father sent him a letter to ask why he hadn't come around, and he responded--he--you know, was living abroad? Without magic. We were surprised he hadn't come around."
"To see me?" Draco asked, to be more specific. She nodded. Draco sat down on the second-to-bottom step, clasped his hands together between his knees, and leaned over them. He stared down at the spotless, fuzz-less, shining marble floor. You know, until his mother had said that, he had been somewhat able to breathe freely. There was a gigantic knot, or blockage, of something, that had settled, it seemed, right over his chest, making it hard to catch a full breath or even think straight. "What did he... he just... why would he? Doesn't that cost... I mean, I thought it was impossible? Why would he... why would he do that? Why would the Ministry grant an ordinary wizard that? I thought stripping magic was only a myth? Why? Why? Why would he do that? Why didn't you tell me?" He was angry.
"I thought you knew!"
Draco looked at her, offended, insulted, and very hurt, "You would have known if I knew! You know every time I have a bad dream, or an aversion to a vegetable, or even a new blemish; don't you think I would have brought up the fact that Cornwell had himself stripped of magic?"
Narcissa didn't argue, just stepped back and walked out of the room as she began to tear up.
Harry sat down beside Draco very cautiously, speechless.
Draco turned his head to the left, brushing his hands together, gently, in front of him. How dare Potter sit down next to him when he was so seething and unstable. Draco scoffed, "I hate you, you know."
Harry's eyes stayed on Draco's hands, too, just watching, earnestly. What could he say? They did not like each other, and it was a given. They had never liked each other. This was different. When Draco hadn't known that Harry was who he was, he had accepted Judas Cliffdale with open arms and honest grins, laughter, and equal treatment. After they had retreated down to the fireplace room, that had all been put away. The rivalry was back, again, somehow, in the madness of the very confusing, surreal day. He turned his eyes away from Draco, completely, and took in the beautiful, now-empty entrance hall, "You hate everyone. If you lose me, right now, you've got nothing."
"I don't need you, Potter," Draco emptily dismissed him. "I'd rather have nothing than have you."
Harry sharply turned his attention back to Draco, his eyes narrowed too, "You're going to have to pretend."
"I'm not doing anything, least of all pretending to get along with you. You're everything I despise."
Harry stood up on the step, looking down at him, "You despise everything, you spoiled little bastard."
Draco stared up at him, his mouth agape, as Harry started up the stairs. He pushed himself up with his hands and with a small hop. He turned his back to the entrance hall and watched Harry take two steps at a time to get up the steps and away from him. Draco followed suit, taking two steps as fast as he could, "You know nothing about me! You think I'm so spoiled? With what? Material things? Like any of that really matters to me? Do you know how much I hate the majority of this house? Typical Gryffindor, judging solely on a person from how they appear."
Harry tried not to laugh at his reasoning, "You have two fathers and you apparently hate both of them. I can't stand you, you selfish arrogant jackass."
Draco stopped, immediately. No, that was a BIG line that Harry Potter, nor anyone else, should have ever known about, "Don't talk about my father."
Harry turned around from stomping up the steps, agile and smooth, "Which one, Lucius or Cornwell?"
Draco was startled for a couple of seconds, "Cornwell isn't my "father.""
"He is your father," Harry assured, five times louder than Draco, annoyed. "You love him like one."
"Yes, I obviously do, you daft punk," Draco bit at him, finally caught up with Harry on the top step of the staircase. "He's not my father like Lucius is."
Harry turned away, highly frustrated. Draco was gritting at his nerves, "If I thought you were telling the truth, I'd hit you so hard."
"Yes," Draco told him. "If you knew the whole story, you might be less inclined to beat me. He is my "dad," or he was, though I never even knew, only found out he was actually my father shortly after everything went... well--look, he doesn't want to be one. A father."
"You're an idiot, I swear to Merlin," Harry muttered under his breath as Draco trailed him down the hall.
"You heard him, yourself, Potter."
"Stop calling me Potter!"
Draco sort of wanted Potter to turn around and yell at him, versus being casual and amused with him. "I hated that guy."
"Like I said, you hate everyone," Harry looked over his shoulder, a little more at ease, now.
"I don't hate everyone, just Potter." Harry rolled his eyes. "I hate him, I hate him, I hate him! Sometimes I wish I could have killed him."
Harry turned around, stopped, glowering with annoyance. Was this how it was going to be? Was Draco going to always be bad-mouthing him? They couldn't talk to each other as Draco and Harry, not in the Malfoy estate. To an extent, Harry was grateful that Draco had been able to keep his mouth shut and had decided to so easily trust Harry with whatever was going on. In fact, Draco hadn't seemed too overwhelmingly surprised that something had been going on in the first place. Now, however, was the perfect opportunity to blurt out a question that had been swimming in his mind nearly every day for the last few years. It was a question that had eventually faded, because Harry had stopped caring, but the confusion was always there and had always been there. He held his arms out in front of him, his hands opened up. He stopped Draco, his hands out against Draco's chest, as it was a quite abrupt decision to stop, "Why do you hate "Potter?" What did he ever do to you?"
Draco smacked at Harry's wrists without a blink, "None of your business," he answered, simply, coldly, and then circled Harry.
Harry pulled his wand out, "I heard you once hexed Potter when he wasn't prepared to duel."
"Multiple times," Draco answered, but, then, when he heard laughter, he went to turn around.
Harry had tapped his back with the wand, and Draco's pants were suddenly snapped from his waist to his ankles.
Draco tumbled about five feet after tripping over his own feet, not having been able to walk. He hurriedly grasped for his pants, once he had landed and realized what had happened, sitting on his butt. Once he got a hold of them, with a grip of death in case Potter were to make them disappear or something of the sort, he looked right at Harry, facing him, "YOU HEXED MY PANTS? THAT IS MY TRADEMARK MOVE!"
They were separated by about ten feet, and the laughter wasn't foreign like Judas Cliffdale's laughter had been. It was Harry Potter's laugh. It was the laugh that Draco had heard in the past, though rarely. He had heard it in joint classes where Harry was laughing with his friends. Shocked, and a little alarmed, he looked back down at his pants. He pushed himself up, with his hands, and then quickly yanked his pants up, glaring at Harry. He was too busy clutching his stomach, leaned against one of the hallway's light-colored walls, to notice that Draco was even still there.
"Malfoy!" Harry griped, hysterical, as he slipped down the wall, his stomach hurting. "Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!"
Draco pointed his wand at Harry, "Bloody arse, say you're sorry!"
Harry chuckled, as Draco approached him. Unafraid, Harry just looked up at him, smug, "Get your hips away from me; I don't do that."
"You didn't just say that," Draco drawled, withdrawing his wand from Harry's face, surprised in so man ways. He started laughing before he could remind himself that this was Harry Potter, here. He pocketed his wand, again, and started to walk backwards to allow Harry room to get up. When he did even attempt to move, still smugly proud of himself for getting Draco to laugh, Draco started to close the space again.
"Well, I mean, your wand was out, and... if you fancy boys like your father... plus the school rumors... what? I'm no Arithmetic expert, but some things could add up here!"
Draco kept laughing, until it was flowing out of his mouth, hard and fast. He slid down the wall, too.
"You never really hated... him, did you?"
"Yes," Draco laughed. "I did, but there was never a real reason. My issues with "him" were set before I met him; we had no chance."
Harry looked away from him and dug into his right pocket, "He had reason to not like you, though."
Knowingly, Draco turned his full attention to Harry, "I know."
They stared at each other for a long couple of minutes until Harry held out Draco's ripped letter.
Draco took it, "Thanks for picking it up," he said, under his breath, examining it. "Goodnight."
Harry pushed himself up with the help of his palms, behind him, on the wall, "Good-luck. Goodnight."
When Draco crawled into his bed, it was in the early morning hours. He pulled his thick covers over his legs but remained sitting upright. He pulled his wand out from beside him, in his bed. While the war was going on, it was always advised to have your wand next to you when you slept, just in case. Draco wasn't fighting the war, at least not yet. And, when he did fight, if he did, he wouldn't be the one fighting for good. He'd be the one people would be fighting against. Now that it was summer, his fellow classmates were able to fight the war, and he knew some of them wouldn't be back the next year at Hogwarts.
"Lumos," whispered Draco.
The light shined down onto an already opened letter that was Spell-O-Taped together.
Dear Draco,
It will have been a miracle if you have opened this letter. I've been trying to perfect this all week, but I've come up short in finding that perfection. It's extremely hard to write a letter to your estranged son, who is the Minister of Magic's son, and say anything in the first place. It's hard to perfect a letter in which a situation boggles even your own mind. I've tried to send you letters before, and I know you have opened and read a few, due to that nifty Status charm that has been so popular in the last couple of years. Obviously, you didn't respond. I won't lie, I'm hurt. So, I decided to bring this letter to you, myself.
If we don't get the chance to speak, but you do read this letter, I wish you a wonderful and happy seventeenth birthday. You're a legal wizard now, so it must be exciting. I remember when I turned seventeen. I used my broomstick, went out to get some alcoholic Butterbeer with some old school friends, and wound up crashing into Hogwarts' astronomy tower. I had to repay the school by dancing in front of the headmaster and company during the year's last feast. He thought that was enough, so I didn't have to pay for damaged bricks. Anyway, go on out and get yourself some alcoholic Butterbeer. Just stay away from Hogwarts. I'd imagine Albus Dumbledore, by now, would have quite the sense of humor about these things.
I've just recently moved back to the outskirts of Hogsmeade. If you remember, I was married. I got divorced about a year and a half ago. My wife left me for her Yoga instructor (muggle exercise). She also left behind your little brother. I, uh, I don't know if you ever read those letters. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, then, well, you have a little half brother. He's about a year and a half old. Blonde, actually, like you.
I'd like you to have my address. Please, come by if you ever... just have an inkling, or want to meet your brother, even if you don't want to visit me. Peak through the windows, if you must. I understand. Happy birthday, Draco. My thoughts are always with you.
17 Gemini Avenue
I do miss you.
Sincerely, with my deepest affections,
Cornwell
Draco placed the letter down beside him, in awe. He picked it right back up and pulled it to his eyes, hurriedly finding certain words to make sure that he had read correctly. He had a sibling? A brother? A little brother? That wasn't even... was it possible? Of course, Cornwell had been married to the woman who Draco had rarely seen in his life. He'd known that she was never any good. Draco had told Cornwell that she was horribly mean, and she was. Cornwell never claimed to not believe him, like other adults did, so he never brought her along when he was visiting or doing something with Draco. This had always made Draco feel good, because his opinion had mattered.
Draco crawled out of his covers and hurried to his closet, liberated. He threw it open and hurried in.
"Where do you think you're going at this hour?" Asked his door.
Draco pulled his sleeping T-shirt off from over his head, and dropped his pajama pants down to the floor. He grabbed a pair of black trousers from a nearby shelf, shook them out, and then stepped into them, "I'm going out," he explained, under his breath. Once he pulled his pants up, he quickly latched the button, grabbed the closest clean shirt, a robe, and slipped his feet into a pair of boots. He swished his wand over the boots and the laces immediately began tying themselves. He hurried out of the closet and towards his bedroom door. He hurried all of the way through the house until he sprung through another bedroom door. He rushed over to the bed, in the dark, and was shaking the figure under the covers at once, "Potter, Potter, wake up. Wake up!"
"What the... what are you... ARE YOU MAD? Get off'a me!"
Draco did back off, but only once he had pulled the covers right off of Harry, revealing a bare chest and a pair of black pajama pants that, even as he was laying down, covered completely over the end of his feet. For a long moment, Draco couldn't help but smirk at the pale whiteness displayed across the huge bed. And, people told Draco that HE was pale? Potter was nearly as pale-skinned as he was. He turned away, "Lumos Stolencia," he spoke quietly, to the room, which lit up all of the candles on the walls. He looked back at Harry. "Come on, we're going to Hogsmeade--well, Gemini Avenue."
Harry at up on his elbows, groggily laughing, "Mad—"
Draco rolled his eyes at the murmured mumblings, "What?"
"Mad," Harry stressed, again, and then fell back onto his massive mountain of plush pillows, in a sleepy coma. He wasn't getting out of bed for Draco Malfoy. "You're absolutely mad. Stark-raving mad!" He sat up, however, with his hands supporting his body, once he saw the very complacent and cloudy expression fogging up the usually bright, glowing face. Draco had taken his place beside one of Harry's guest room's couches. He was standing in front of Harry's trunk, had thrown it open, and was carelessly rummaging through it, pulling out clothes. A shirt hit Harry in the face, so he quickly pulled it down. "Christ, Malfoy, do I even want to ask why we're going to Hogsmeade in the middle of the night?"
Draco tossed him a pair of trousers and then a plain black robe to match his own, "I'll tell you on the way!"
Harry didn't argue, just pulled the shirt on over his head and shimmied off of the bed, "I've a better idea: tell me now."
"I read Cornwell's letter. He's moved about five minutes from Hogsmeade—"
Harry looked over at the bewitched clock on the wall, stonewalled with epiphany, "It's three in the morning!"
"Yes, I'm aware! We'll peek through his windows—"
Harry squinted, "Are you completely oblivious to the fact that there is a WAR going on? It's a death wish to be out at three in the morning, Draco!"
Draco tossed Harry's boots, from beside his trunk, in front of him. They hopped around for a few seconds before falling over, dead, at his feet. He stood up straight, turning away so Harry could pull on his trousers. He walked towards one of the arch-shaped wooden windows. Potter was trying to warn him about death wishes? Wasn't this the boy savior of the world? The fearless, brave, ever-strong Gryffindor? At least he wasn't being thick, and behind the obvious warning of Potter's words, the tone wasn't quite alarmed or afraid. It seemed that Potter had taken to the idea. There was no sharp denial or refusal to go. He was up and getting dressed, after all, "You're... well, you know who you are. I'm me. We'll be fine."
Harry sighed aloud, grabbing the robe from the bed, "Those are famous last words--very famous last words, Malfoy."
Draco turned to him, not bothering to cover or close his eyes. He was thankful to see that Potter was fully dressed, now, and walking towards the window. Draco's eyes followed the route, and then he started to smirk, watching as the familiar moodiness of the old Harry Potter was finally making it's rightful debut. Though, Draco didn't comment. He heard Harry muttering a few obscenities at the window before he found the latch to push it open, "Famous last words or not, you seem perfectly ready to take part in this. I shouldn't be surprised. You are you, after all."
"How unfortunate for us both."