LISTENNNNNN askdjaklsjda I'm sorry for the delay ;;;;; my keyboard broke and going through the edits was painful when I'm missing my space bar and a couple of letters ksldjald

..

The meal had come as an unexpected, almost eerie relief.

Hours of navigating Grimmauld Place had worn both Harry and Malfoy down, their bodies aching with fatigue, their nerves stretched thin. The house seemed to breathe unease into them, its very walls pulsing with an eerie, restless energy. Every creaking floorboard, every flicker of candlelight felt like a warning, leaving them both on edge—more so than Harry already had been. He could feel it in the tightness of his shoulders, in the way his fingers clenched unconsciously around his wand. Even Malfoy, who usually carried himself with an air of detached indifference—so different from the whiny, dramatic boy Harry remembered from school—had fallen into an unusual silence. Normally, he had a cheeky, sarcastic remark for everything, a steady stream of commentary that made it clear he always had something to say. But now, as they moved through the twisting, shadowed hallways, even Malfoy seemed to recognize that words wouldn't do much against the ancient, watching presence that lurked in the dark.

And yet, here they were now, sitting across from each other at a long, ancient dining table, plates piled high with food—this time roast, peas, mash with gravy and Yorkshire pudding, with a side of warm apple strudel and cider. Their now familiar dining room was colder than it had been the last time they were here, the hearth barely an ember. The air was still heavy with the house's dark presence, but for the first time all day, Harry felt something like peace. It was the kind of peace that came from the comfort of food and shared silence—well, mostly silence. They were both too worn down from the day to do anything but eat and try to ignore the creeping unease of being in a house that never really wanted them there. Still, even when there was no need for any grand conversation, it seemed like it was their fate to banter or die trying.

"Do you ever miss Hogwarts?" Harry asked suddenly, looking up from his plate.

Malfoy froze mid-chew, his grey eyes meeting Harry's with an expression of mild surprise, as though the very idea of talking about Hogwarts was something foreign to him now. After a moment of hesitation, he swallowed, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"Hogwarts?" Malfoy said, almost disdainfully. "The place that served boiled cabbage and the blandest of shepherd's pies every other day? Yes, of course, I miss that all the time."

Harry snorted. "I do remember you being one to complain the most about how rubbish the food was."

"Well, itwas," Malfoy said, his tone whiney, but with a hint of something softer underneath it. "It made me miss the Manor. The Malfoy elves knew how to cook properly. French cuisine most of all. Not that… slop we were fed."

"French, right." Harry raised an eyebrow, his mouth twisting into a smirk. "Do you ever get tired of saying that? Every time you mention the Malfoy elves, it's like I can hear the pompous accent in your voice."

"It's not my fault that you wouldn't know good food if it bit you on the arse, Potter. I can't help it that the Malfoys knew how to live properly," Malfoy sneered though it looked more like a pout, and Harry could see the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "And I don't have an accent."

Harry rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair and very much tempted to tell him he had the most pronounced, poshest wixen accent he had ever heard.

"I didn't know anything better back then. To be honest, I probably thought that awful British food was the pinnacle of fine dining," he paused, unwilling to think about Petunia and her insistence on'proper food', which Harry understood now as'white, British food', under-seasoned and bland. Or how he'd barely got any of it to begin with. Letting out a small, whispery laugh, Harry continued. "Now, though? Give me a plate of chilaquiles verdes any day. Nothing says'comfort'like Mexican food."

Malfoy looked momentarily perplexed. "Mexican food? Really?"

Harry nodded, a grin tugging at his lips. "Yeah. I mean, it's the only real connection to my so-called 'heritage' that I've got left, so I might as well enjoy it."

"I never knew you were Mexican, Potter" commented quietly Malfoy, his eyes likely taking in Harry's tawny gold skin, his dark hair and his strong cheekbones.

Harry shifted in his seat, his fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the table, caught off guard by Malfoy's comment. For a moment, the words hung in the air between them, thick with the weight of Harry's honesty. He never really talked much about his heritage—about the Potters, his grandmother, Eufemia—or Euphemia, as it had been anglicised when she arrived to the United Kingdom—even less so. It was just… messy, a part of his past that had been tangled up with the rest of the mess that was his life. Harry sometimes thought that it hurt so much to talk about because there was so little he knew. But now, talking about it with Malfoy, there was something strangely… grounding about it.

Maybe it was the simple fact that Malfoy seemed genuinely curious.

"Yeah," Harry said after a beat, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, Not many people know. I certainly didn't for most of my life, to be honest. Found out after the war, when I was going through some old family stuff in the Potter vault," he let out a breath, the memory of him, sitting while crying inside the dusty vault still strange, almost surreal. "Eufemia Alcántara Kantún," he said the name slowly, as if trying it on for size, his pronunciation still awkward. "She was my grandmother. She was from Oaxaca, born and raised there. Moved to Britain when she married my grandfather in the early 20th century."

Malfoy didn't reply at first, his eyes studying Harry as if trying to piece together the puzzle in front of him. There was a flicker of something—curiosity, maybe, or a kind of quiet respect—before he spoke again.

"She spoke Spanish, then?" Malfoy asked, his voice thoughtful.

Harry blinked before nodding, surprised that Malfoy had caught on to that.

"Yeah, and Mayan, too, apparently. The journal said she only spoke Spanish at home. Made sure my dad and granddad knew it too. Said it was important. Something about keeping a link to one's roots, no matter where one is," he smiled softly, thinking of the way Eufemia had fiercely held on to her heritage, even in a world that didn't always seem to appreciate it. That often repudiated it. "It wasn't just the language, either. There were little bits of Mexican culture everywhere in their house when my dad was growing up—mostly in the food, but in other ways, too. Dad wrote that she'd cook the most amazing meals, and there was always some sort of celebration or tradition to follow."

Harry's thoughts drifted to his father's words speaking of the smell of warm tortillas, the faint sting of chiles grilling in the air, and the sound of old Spanish songs playing faintly in the background. Eufemia had made sure to pass down those parts of herself, even though the rest of the world had been so eager to forget. How he wished he had been able to grow up with them.

"Chilaquiles, though," Harry added, shaking his head with a fond smile. "That's the real deal. There's nothing like it for a breakfast morning, especially when you're hungover. I didn't know anything about them when I was younger, but now…" He trailed off, shaking his head as though to himself, and then looked at Malfoy again. "Maybe that's why I find it so comforting. It's like having a piece of her—of them with me, you know?"

For a moment, the room seemed to grow quieter, the air thick with unspoken appreciation. Malfoy was quiet, his expression unreadable, and Harry couldn't quite tell what was going on behind his carefully composed façade. But then Malfoy blinked, breaking the silence.

"Your grandmother sounds… lovely," Malfoy said, his voice a little softer than usual, almost thoughtful. "She sounds like someone who would have known exactly who she was. Someone who didn't let the world tell her what to be."

Harry chuckled lightly. "Yeah. That sounds like her, I think. She'd have probably slapped me upside the head for being so boorishly English about it all when I was younger."

Malfoy's lips quirked, though he quickly masked it with an almost imperceptible shrug. "Well, I suppose someone had to knock some sense into you."

Harry rolled his eyes, but there was no malice in the gesture.

"Maybe," he said with a grin. "But… right, chilaquiles? You should try them. Proper ones, not some sad attempt you get from a Westernised place. Perhaps you'd be surprised with Mexican food," he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Could be worth the shock to your taste buds."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I can trust your judgement on food, Potter. You have been praising Grimmauld's sad attempt at cooking for days."

"Suit yourself," Harry said with a smirk, glad the conversation had taken a lighter turn. It felt good to talk about something other than the weight of saving their sorry hides on their shoulders, even if only for a moment. His thoughts kept coming back to his grandmother—her love for her family, for her culture—and found a small, quiet sense of peace in remembering it. He wanted to make a bigger effort when it came to learning about his family, and his culture.

Perhaps… he wasn't as lost as he had once believed. Maybe he had pieces of family still, even now, holding him steady.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, chewing slowly as though he were considering the thought. "I suppose it's better than the constant meat pies you lot go on about," he muttered, and Harry smirked. "I never understood why you lot think it's some kind of cultural milestone."

"Blame Molly Weasley for that, that woman is a brilliant cook," Harry said. "I swear, Ron was obsessed with them when we were at school. He's probably still eating them for every meal, even now."

Draco snorted, but his expression softened when Harry continued, his tone turning a little more nostalgic.

"Still," Harry said, looking down at his plate for a moment, "the desserts at Hogwarts were always the best."

There was a brief, fleeting silence between them. It wasn't awkward—at least, not at first. It was the kind of silence that felt almost too perfect, as though they'd both unwittingly entered into a little bubble of familiarity. Harry's thoughts drifted back to the Great Hall at Hogwarts, back to those long, carefree days when desserts were a simple joy in a life that, in hindsight, seemed so much easier. His eyes flicked back up to Malfoy, who had been quiet for a little too long.

"I miss the…" Harry started, but he was interrupted by a sudden, rather unexpected voice.

"Treacle tart," Malfoy said, his tone uncharacteristically soft, almost hesitant.

Harry blinked, his fork frozen in midair. He stared at Malfoy, eyes widening in shock. "What?"

Malfoy's face went crimson, and for a moment, Harry wondered if Malfoy had ever been this embarrassed before in his life. The pale skin of his face went an alarming shade of red, and he looked anywhere but at Harry.

"Treacle tart," Malfoy repeated quickly, his voice now laced with something that sounded remarkably like discomfort. "I remember you would always serve yourself at least three slices when it was on the menu. It's… it's your favourite, isn't it?"

Harry sat there for a moment, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. The sudden realisation of what Malfoy had said was like a punch to the gut. The warmth that spread across his chest felt far too… intimate for the context. The heat of it bloomed like a fire starting at the base of his spine, and for the briefest of moments, Harry forgot how to breathe.

He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Yeah," he said, trying to recover, his voice cracking slightly. "Yeah, it is," his gaze flickered to Malfoy, whose face was now an absolute beacon of vibrant red. It was almost… cute. And that, Harry thought with mild horror, made him want to reach for his drink and drown himself in it.

The silence that followed was thick, neither of them knowing exactly how to handle the situation. Neither of them could quite meet the other's eyes. But then Harry, who could never stand silence for too long, forced a weak laugh.

"I… I mean, I wasn't going to bring it up, but yeah. Treacle tart," he cleared his throat. "It was good. The best."

Malfoy shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable now. "Right," he muttered, still not looking at Harry. "I—I know."

Harry thought about how Malfoy had always seemed so sure of himself, so untouchable, and yet here he was, fidgeting and awkward. It was strangely… humanising. His mind buzzed as the silence stretched on, each passing second amplifying the strange charge in the air between them. The weight of the conversation—or lack thereof—was enough to make his stomach twist in nervous knots.

He could feel the warmth on his face intensify as he realised how oddly intimate this little exchange was. He and Malfoy were talking about the simplest things, topics that ordinary friends would talk about during a get-together, and now… Now, it was different. It wasn't just small talk—it was careful, tentative.

So brittle that it might break at any moment.

For a moment, Harry thought about breaking the silence, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he glanced at Malfoy, whose pale fingers were tapping a restless rhythm on his side of the table, a rare display of his inner thoughts. Malfoy finally risked a glance at him, his silver-grey eyes vibrant but uncertain, and Harry wondered if maybe he wasn't the only one feeling this shift.

"Green apples," Harry said, his voice coming out a little breathier than he'd intended. He reached for his glass of water and took a long, deliberate sip. The coolness of the water did nothing to cool the flush creeping up his neck. "I—er… you loved green apples. Had one after every meal," he added, trying to bring the banter back to the surface where it belonged. "Hardly the stuff of luxury cuisine."

Malfoy's eyes darted back up to meet Harry's for a fraction of a second, before quickly looking away. "I… yes, well, they reminded me of home," he muttered, though Harry swore there was something almost sheepish in his tone. "Mother tended to an orchard at the Manor's grounds."

Harry raised an eyebrow, setting his glass down carefully. "An orchard, huh? That explains a lot. Did little Malfoy go skipping through the trees, plucking apples like some blond little fairytale character?" He smirked, leaning back in his chair.

Malfoy scoffed, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward, he bit his lip trying to keep himself from smiling. "Hardly. Skipping is unbecoming of a Malfoy," he straightened his posture, his voice adopting a mockingly pompous tone. "I walked with dignity, Potter.Dignity."

"Dignity," Harry repeated, laughing softly. "Right. Dignity while stuffing your face with green apples."

"They were perfectly portioned slices, thank you very much," Malfoy retorted, lifting his chin. "Mother would have never allowed me to sully myself gnawing at a whole apple like some sort of… of barbarian."

Harry snorted, his grin widening. "Perfectly portioned slices? Merlin, that's the most Malfoy, ponciest thing I've ever heard."

"Forgive me for not growing up on a common farm," Malfoy shot back, though his voice lacked its usual bite. His expression softened a fraction, the hint of a smile ghosting across his lips. "I suppose you're going to make fun of that now, too."

Harry shook his head, still smiling. "Nah. To be fair, you're full of surprises these days. I would've never guessed 'orchard enthusiast' was one of them."

"I was hardly an 'orchard enthusiast,' Potter," Malfoy said, rolling his eyes. "I simply enjoyed the solitude. The trees were… peaceful."

Harry blinked at the quiet confession, caught off guard by the sincerity in Malfoy's voice. He hesitated before responding, unsure if teasing would ruin the moment. "Yeah," he finally said. "I get that. I used to hide in a garden shed all the time when I was a child. Not quite the same as an orchard, but still peaceful, in its own way."

Malfoy looked at him, and for a brief moment, there was no snark, no posturing—just a flicker of understanding. "Well," he said after a beat, his tone softening, "at least we can agree on that."

Harry grinned, leaning forward again. "See? Who would've thought? Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, bonding over food and gardens."

Malfoy rolled his eyes again, but his lips twitched with amusement once again. "Don't push your luck, Potter. This is hardly'bonding.' It's a reluctant truce at best."

"Reluctant truce?" Harry repeated, his grin widening. "Next thing I know, you'll be inviting me to a picnic with a charcuterie board."

"I'd rather invite the Giant Squid," Malfoy deadpanned, though the sparkle in his eyes gave him away.

Harry couldn't help it. He laughed.

It wasn't the usual laugh of mockery, or teasing that transpired between them—no, this time it was real. A genuine laugh that felt almost foreign to him, but not unwelcome. For a brief moment, the tension from the last few days, the dread of what might come next, faded away. They were just two people, sitting across from each other, talking about the things that, once upon a time, seemed so trivial but now gave them a sense of identity. The laugh felt strange on his tongue, but it felt good. He glanced up at Malfoy, who was still fidgeting in his seat, clearly bursting at the seams with repressed emotions. He could see the faint blush still lingering on his cheeks, and it made Harry's chest tighten again, though he quickly pushed the thought away.

For a fleeting moment, Harry considered saying something else—something about how things had changed, howtheyhad changed. He had started noticing it, more and more, just like the way Malfoy's eyes became liquid mercury when he was vulnerable or how he looked strangely vulnerable when he thought Harry wasn't paying attention. There was something deeper in those moments, a shift that was hard to ignore. But he quickly squashed that thought, too.

Instead, Harry set his glass down, carefully meeting Malfoy's eyes.

"Right. So, treacle tart. Green apples. And now we're going to talk about what we're going to do next. The whole 'beating the house and getting out of here' thing?"

Malfoy looked at him for a long, silent moment before his mouth quirked up, just the tiniest amount. "Is that your idea of a plan? I'm glad to see your standards are so high, Potter."

Harry's grin widened, more for the sake of keeping the moment light than anything else. "You're not the only one who's capable of sarcasm, Malfoy."

The two of them fell into a comfortable, though slightly charged, silence after that. It wasn't the sort of silence that felt strange, though. No, it was more like… acknowledgment. A mutual, if unspoken, agreement that they had a task ahead of them, but they weren't going to make it worse than it had to be.

Not anymore.

Harry glanced around the room, eyeing the strange, ancient portrait that hung on the walls. There was something unsettling about it. Not the usual kind of unsettling he'd got used to over the years—no, this was different. The portraits in Grimmauld Place were full of eyes that seemed to track every movement, every sound, but rarely said anything. Some of the faces had that odd, tired look about them—like they'd seen too much, heard too many things they wished they hadn't.

It made the whole place feel even colder.

"Let's get moving, then," Harry said abruptly, standing up from the table, his food long since finished. "Don't think we should sit around here for too long. I don't trust this place."

Malfoy didn't move at first, and Harry caught the hesitant glance he shot at him. The glint in Malfoy's eyes was unreadable, like he was thinking too many things at once, but Harry couldn't help but notice the slight unease in his posture. Maybe it was because Malfoy had been avoiding the subject of their situation for the most part. Maybe it was because the uncertainty of what lay ahead had started wearing him down.

"Well, we've got no other choice, have we?" Malfoy finally said, his voice returning to that clipped, defensive tone. He stood up slowly, brushing off his robes as though he was trying to compose himself. "Let's get this over with."

Harry nodded, not sure whether he was reassured or unnerved by the fact that Malfoy wasn't backing down. That was just it, though—he never had. Not once, since this whole bloody mess started, had Malfoy hesitated when it came time to face the dangers of the house. Harry wasn't sure if it was courage, stupidity, or something else entirely. Maybe a little of each. But then, there was something else, something Harry had noticed more than once. As much as Malfoy liked to pretend he was still the same, untouchable, sarcastic git he'd always been, there were cracks in the armour. The way he hesitated when something reminded him of his past, the way his eyes sometimes lingered on things like the old portraits or the broken furniture as though they were ghosts of things he'd tried to forget.

And Harry couldn't help but wonder:What was it that Malfoy had been running from all these years?

But just as quickly as the thought entered his head, Harry dismissed it. Malfoy wasMalfoy.

So, Harry pushed the thought aside, shoved it into a box, and glanced towards the door, his hand instinctively reaching for his wand. They had no time for distractions. Not when there were still creatures lurking in the shadows, and worse, the heart of the house still lay ahead.

Malfoy didn't speak as he joined Harry by the door. They were both silent for a moment, but Harry could feel the tension between them as they stepped back into the hallway. Neither of them wanted to speak the words they both knew were hanging in the air.

The house had so many secrets. The deeper they went, the darker it seemed to get.

And Harry couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't just Grimmauld Place that was hiding something—it was Malfoy, too.

As they ventured forward into the murky gloom, Harry told himself not to think about it.

But even as he said it, something deep inside him knew that whatever came next, it was going to change everything.

..

This house was going to drive him around the bend.

Draco had always hated Grimmauld Place. Even as a child, when his mother had brought him to visit his dying great-aunt Walburga, the house had unsettled him in ways he hadn't been able to name at the time. Back then, he had only thought of it as creepy—the looming portraits with their hollow eyes, the suffocating air thick with the scent of dust and decay. But now, with the clarity of adulthood, he recognised it for what it truly was: a tomb. A crypt for broken people and dark magic, where history was a living, breathing thing that clung to the walls like mould.

It was worse now.

The corridors twisted and changed like a labyrinth designed to keep them lost and on edge, each shifting hallway a reflection of the chaotic, haunted legacy of the Black family.

He could feel it deep in his bones—the power of something ancient wrapping around him like a cocoon, whispering that he wasn't worth it, that he never was. And, wasn't that the truth of it? The feeling was nothing new. It had followed him his entire life—being trapped by duty, and surrounded by a past that could never be undone, by sins that could never be washed away. Every step deeper into the house sent a shiver down his spine, as though he were walking through the remnants of something rotting, something that refused to die and kept holding on and on. His own legacy clung to him in much the same way, like a heavy cloak soaked through with blood and regret. And every turn they made, every new passage they found, was a reminder that there was no easy escape from what his family had been. No easy escape from what he had been.

Maybe Hesper had done the right thing, after all.

He glanced over at Potter, walking just ahead of him now, his back straight and determined, but his face still wary. The bastard was always so bloody stubborn. If there was one thing Draco had learned over the years, it was that Potter had an unyielding way of pressing forward, no matter the odds. Even now, even in this cursed place, Harry Potter—his infernal rival—was the one holding the reins, pulling them both through this dark labyrinth of a house with an absurd amount of bravado.

Potter had his own reasons for being here, of course. All of them linking him to his godfather and his legacy. Probably Lupin too, now. And no doubt, as they stumbled through this hellish house, he was thinking about those reasons. Harry Potter was nothing if not stubbornly righteous. But Draco wasn't entirely sure if Potter even realised just how muchhewas fighting through his own guilt and fear, just how much he too was hiding behind that stubborn determination. The difference was, Potter seemed to have the strength to wear his fears like a shield, to push through them with a sense of confidence that Draco could never manage to muster.

Draco had to work twice as hard to hide the cracks in his own carefully constructed façade.

He cursed the moment they'd been forced to return to Grimmauld Place. The house was a reminder of everything Draco had tried to leave behind—everything he still couldn't outrun. It was as though every creak of the floorboards, every shiver in the air, was reminding him of what he was—and what he could never truly run away from.

He wasn't like Potter. He couldn't just fearlessly move forward, couldn't just pretend to be something he wasn't. Draco had spent his entire life wearing the mask of the Malfoy heir, the mask of the proud, perfect Death Eater's son. And while he was trying—truly trying—to be something different, to move past that history, the walls of Grimmauld Place kept pressing in on him, threatening to break his spirit.

Focus, Malfoy, he told himself, forcing the thought aside.No time to think about your sorry self.

They reached another narrow corridor, one of many that seemed to stretch endlessly into the shadows. The walls were lined with dark wood, their surfaces warped with age, the lacquer long since dulled to an almost lifeless sheen. Faded tapestries hung loosely from their frames, their once-vibrant threads reduced to muted, threadbare remnants, some partially obscured by the roots that had broken through the walls like creeping veins of decay. The air here was thick, stagnant, carrying the scent of old parchment, damp stone, and something faintly metallic—something wrong. It was impossible to tell how long the labyrinth stretched or where it might lead, and it was driving Draco mad. It felt like a place where time had unravelled, where forgotten things lingered in silence, waiting. A place of whispers in the dark and memories that had long since lost their voices. At the far end, barely visible in the dim light, stood a door. It was shrouded in shadow, its edges barely discernible, as if the surrounding darkness was swallowing it whole. The air around it was heavier here, almost suffocating, and when Potter took another cautious step forward, he could swear the mustiness thickened, like the house itself was breathing.

Potter stopped, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the room. "Do you feel that?" he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper.

Draco did. The air had thickened, grown heavier. It was as if something was waiting, watching them from the corners of the room, lurking just beyond the light. He swallowed hard. It wasn't just the house he was afraid of. It was the magic in the walls, the magic that held the house together. It was centuries-old, dark, and it seemed to pulse with every beat of his heart.

This is your family's house,Draco thought bitterly.These walls are filled with the poison of your ancestors, the blood they spilled, the lives they ruined. And you're trapped in it, whether you want to be or not. Whether you escape this house or not.

Potter turned to him, his brow furrowed in that way he always did when he was trying to figure something out. "Malfoy? Are you okay?" he asked, voice still cautious, though there was an underlying curiosity in his tone.

Draco didn't know how to respond.Am I okay?He thought, almost bitterly. He wasn't sure he had been okay for a long time. He wasn't sure he had ever been okay. Not since the war began, not since the first moment he'd spent on the wrong side of history, with his family's bloody reputation hanging over him like a noose. Maybe even before that.

"I'm fine," Draco replied curtly, his voice more biting than he'd intended. It was the only defence he had, the only way to hide the gnawing terror building in his chest the more time they spent in this empty, decaying place.

Potter didn't look convinced, but he didn't push it. Instead, his gaze flickered to the door ahead of them. "We should move," he said, and without another word, he began walking toward it, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

Draco hesitated for a moment longer, feeling a strange tremor in his limbs. He didn't want to be in here. He didn't want to face whatever lay beyond that door, not if it was going to keep showing him images of the weakness that resided inside his heart. But what choice did he have? There was no escaping this place, not now.

You're a Malfoy,he reminded himself.You don't run from your problems. You stand tall and face them head-on.

Even as he repeated the words in his head, he couldn't shake the gnawing feeling in his gut—the knowledge that it was a lie. Because, who was he kidding? So far, history had told him that the Malfoys absolutely ran away from their problems. They either fled like cowards or manipulated their way out, often with the use of their once abundant funds.

Not anymore, he thought bitterly. The demolition of Malfoy Manor had been hard on him, but he had been glad to let it go. Let it crumble to the ground alongside his horrors. But the family estate and the'voluntary'donation of the Malfoy vaults had hit him harder. Centuries of family artefacts, painted portraits of long-dead ancestors, all the wealth and power that had once been the foundation of the Malfoy name—gone. It was a humiliation that not even Draco had been able to fully process at first. They had been lucky that his mother—ever cunning and clever, and more Slytherin than his father had ever been—had kept her personal vault and an estate under her maiden name, for without it, they'd have been on the streets, without a place to live and not a single knut to their name.

Draco shuddered to think about what he'd have resorted to, if only to keep his mother safe and with a warm roof over her head.

Nevertheless, in the end, what remained wasn't a legacy but a void, one he couldn't seem to fill anew no matter how hard he tried. His father's legacy, which had been built on fear, control, and an insidious sense of superiority, had crumbled, and with it, the Malfoy family's name had become something that still clung to him like an old, ill-fitting robe.

The reminder of his father's words still echoed in his mind:"You are a Malfoy, Draco. Act like one."

He clenched his fists at his sides, fighting the urge to lash out, to flee once again, like his cowardly nature dictated. The Malfoy pride had always been a mask, a façade they could hide behind. But now, facing this battering, inconceivable challenge, he didn't need to wonder if that mask had already been shattered, leaving him exposed in a way he didn't know how to handle.

The boggart room, Hesper, that mirror's reflection of him as a Healer—unburdened, content, and free of the Dark Mark—, they all felt almost too cruel. Who was he kidding, though? The only time he'd felt close to the life that the mirrors had shown him was during the fleeting moments when he'd almost believed it was possible.

But reality always had a way of crashing in, reminding him of the weight of his history, his blood.

Of just howundesirablehe was.

He followed Potter, his heart racing, his thoughts tangled in self-deprecation and dread. The house was overflowing with dark magic, with the weight of years of history. And Draco felt every single bit of it pressing down on him.

As they reached the door, Potter glanced at him once more, his expression unreadable, his eyes conflicted and his tawny cheeks red. Draco could see the glint of worry in his eyes. There was something about the way Potter looked at him now that was different from before, something deeper than just the old rivalry they used to share. Maybe it was because of what they had been through, both of them battered and broken by the war, both of them trying to rebuild something after it was all said and done.

Or maybe it was because, despite everything, Draco had tried to do the right thing. He'd tried to stand up against his family, against the darkness they had created. Maybe, he was starting to see a glimmer of something that wasn't entirely shameful in himself.

But he didn't want Potter to see it. He would never like what was beneath.

"After you, Potter," Draco said, his voice detached, pushing down whatever impossible feelings were beginning to rise in him. The last thing he needed was to start thinking aboutthat.

Potter shot him a look—one of those unreadable, assessing looks. Draco couldn't tell what he was thinking, but he didn't care. He didn't need Potter's approval. He didn't need anyone's.

Not even his own.

He knew that was a lie.

With a deep breath, Draco stepped through the door, his mind racing with a hundred different thoughts, none of them particularly reassuring. The air beyond was thick, almost viscous with magic, wrapping around him like unseen tendrils. The new hallway was darker than any they had encountered so far, its walls swallowed in shadow, the flickering sconces barely managing to cast enough light to reveal the path ahead.

The moment he crossed the threshold, an icy chill slithered down his spine, coiling at the base of his neck like a warning. The shadows along the walls shifted—not with the natural flicker of candlelight, but with something more deliberate, something aware. The feeling of being watched grew stronger, more unpleasant, as if the house itself was taking note of their every breath, their every step. The floor beneath him groaned under his weight, the sound too hollow, too unnatural, and Draco suddenly had the unsettling suspicion that this corridor hadn't been here a moment ago.

Whatever was waiting beyond this hallway, whatever secrets it held, was more than just the house's curse. It was personal. And Draco knew, deep down, that it was something he couldn't escape.

Not unless he faced it, and the thought of facing his fears made him feel cold all over.

He glanced at Potter, his jaw tightening, trying to ignore the way his heart was pounding in his chest. The house, the darkness, the weight of his family's history—it was all pressing down on him. But there was something else too, something he hadn't fully realised until now.

This was his chance. His chance to prove himself, to make himself worth it.

Worth what? He wasn't sure.

"Let's go," Draco said, his voice firmer than he felt. But for the first time, he wasn't just facing the darkness of the house.

He was bound to face the ghosts within himself.

And perhaps, he could finally walk out of the darkness without it following him.

..

No matter how much they walked and how many beasts they faced, the labyrinth within the house, ever turbulent, seemed determined to test them, twisting and shifting as if it delighted in their misery. Every corridor felt narrower than the last, pressing in on them, forcing them closer together with each step. The air was thick, humming and cloying, made it so Draco was certain now more than ever that the house wasn't just cursed—it pulsed with something timeless, something watchful, making his skin prickle.

Not for the first time, Draco thought it felt alive, a creature with a will of its own, drawing them deeper into its frayed heart. The walls groaned, the floorboards shuddered beneath their feet, and soon enough, they were forced shoulder to shoulder, their robes brushing against each other in the suffocating space. Every accidental brush of their hands, every fleeting contact of shoulders as they manoeuvred through the narrowing corridors, sent an unwelcome jolt through Draco's system. Draco could feel the warmth radiating from Potter's body, his presence annoyingly solid and steady. Worse still was his scent—a mix of worn leather, something fresh like pine, and an underlying spice that lingered maddeningly in the tight air. Draco's pulse quickened against his will, and he gritted his teeth, willing himself to ignore the way the space between them felt too charged, too close. He didn't want to acknowledge it—didn't want to give weight to the way his stomach twisted with something unnervingly close to anticipation.

"Watch your step," Draco muttered, his voice soft, almost intimate in the echoing corridor, even though he hadn't meant for it to sound so.

Potter visibly bristled at the warmth in his tone, causing Draco to feel subconscious in turn, but his foot obediently avoided a protruding root twisting like a snake across the floor.

"I've got it," Potter replied, though the warmth creeping up his neck told him he didn't sound as confident as he intended.

They continued in silence, but it was thick with unspoken tension. Draco's mind betrayed him, replaying those brief touches, noting the way Potter's gaze flickered toward him before darting away, as though he too was feeling something neither of them dared to speak of.

Then, just as suddenly as the corridor had constricted around them, it opened into a larger chamber, its vastness a stark contrast to the suffocating passageways. Above them, part of the ceiling had crumbled, allowing weak slivers of light to filter through the dust-filled air. The ground was uneven, strewn with splintered wood and shattered glass. But the real obstacle lay ahead—a dense snarl of roots stretched across their path, thick as serpents, twisting and curling with a slow, deliberate movement.

"We're going through that, I suppose?" Draco asked, his voice tinged with bitterness, though he didn't stop moving, knowing it was a lost cause.

"Unless you fancy going back," Potter said, stepping forward to examine the roots.

Draco snorted. "Not an option."

As they worked together to clear a path—spells flying in synchronised bursts to cut and dislodge the roots—Draco couldn't help but notice how natural their teamwork felt. Every movement was fluid, as if they'd done this before, time and time again. Draco would slice through a particularly thick root, and before the severed piece could crash to the ground, Potter had already Vanished it out of their way. When Potter shifted a chunk of debris, Draco instinctively steadied it with his magic, preventing it from tumbling into their path.

It was seamless, effortless—like they were in sync without even realising it. A rhythm formed between them, magic flowing in tandem, each anticipating the other's next move without the need for words. And when a particularly stubborn root snapped free with an angry crack, lashing toward Draco's face like a striking viper, Potter didn't hesitate. His wand was already raised before Draco had even registered the danger, a shield charm bursting to life between them. The root bounced harmlessly off the shimmering barrier, curling back in on itself like a wounded thing.

Draco turned, startled, his breath slightly uneven. His grey eyes flicked to Potter's, searching for something—an explanation, maybe, or just acknowledgment of the fact that Potter had acted on instinct. That for some reason, it had felt...natural. But Potter only held his gaze for a second before turning away, his jaw tightening as he sent another Severing Charm slicing through the roots. Neither of them said anything about it. Neither of them had to.

"Thanks," Draco muttered, barely glancing at him, but Potter could see the faint colour rising in his pale cheeks.

"Don't mention it," Potter replied, his voice softer than he intended.

Soon enough, the roots finally gave way, and they climbed over the rubble together, their breaths uneven from exertion. The air was thick with dust, and the faint scent of damp wood clung to their clothes. At one point, Draco's foot slipped on a loose stone, and Potter's hand shot out instinctively, grabbing his arm and pulling him upright before he could stumble.

The contact lingered for a moment too long—Potter's fingers brushing against the soft fabric of Draco's sleeve, warm and steady, before he quickly let go. But the ghost of the touch remained, tingling against Draco's skin. He glanced at Potter, whose face was carefully blank, save for the slight furrow between his brows and the musing of his lower lip. Neither of them acknowledged it, but the air between them felt charged—something invisible hanging there, just out of reach.

"You alright?" Potter asked, his voice strained, wavering.

Draco nodded, suddenly avoiding his gaze. "Fine."

But Draco wasn't sure if either of them really was. The house seemed to hum around them, its oppressive atmosphere amplifying the unspoken underlying tension. Every glance, every accidental touch felt heavier, more significant. It was as if the house itself wanted to push them closer together, to force them to confront whatever the growing, hesitant warmth between them was.

They moved on, the silence between them thick and syrupy. It wasn't just tension anymore—it was a strange, fragile awareness of somethingmore. Something unspoken but undeniably present.

..

He had always prided himself on his dignity and poise, even under pressure. Granted, he hadn't alwayssucceeded, per se, something that his father had astringently punished him for all throughout his formative years. Draco blamed Potter for that, too. Nevertheless, he'd survived the war, his father's failings and eventual death, and the social ruination of the Malfoy name. But this—this blasted house—was testing every shred of self-control he had left.

With much annoyance, they had managed to get past the thick roots blocking the way in the previous room without much fanfare, save for a few splinters taking residence in Draco's jumper and the lingering itch of dust in his throat. Now, the hallway stretched before them, choked in a thick, coiling fog that seemed to twist with its own malignant will. It didn't behave like normal fog, either—it clung to the walls in sluggish tendrils, curling along the edges of the corridor like smoke, but darker, heavier, more viscous, almost like ink dissolving into water.

Draco halted, his wand raised, the familiar weight of it grounding him, though it offered little comfort in the face of the unknown. A shiver ran down his spine as the fog licked at his ankles, unnaturally hot despite the humid cold that lingered in the house. Nervous, he glanced at Potter, who was already gripping his wand tighter, his expression set in quiet determination. The silence stretched uncomfortably between them, broken only by the faint whisper of their breath and the faint ruffling of the leaves.

"Well, that certainly looks inviting," he drawled, though the edge in his voice betrayed him. He glanced sideways at Potter, who, of course, was already striding forward as if reckless Gryffindor cockiness could somehow brute-force them through this mess.

Potter raised his wand. "Lumos!"

The corridor flooded with bright white light, momentarily pushing back the fog. Draco squinted, blinking against the brightness. The fog hissed, like a tea-kettle boiling over, recoiling like a living thing, before surging back with renewed vigour the moment the light began to fade.

"Well, that certainly worked," Draco said with a huff, masking the unease curling in his chest as he sidestepped a wild tendril. "Do it again—maybe it'll develop a complex and slink away in shame."

Potter shot him a look but said nothing, too focused on trying to chart a path forward. His jaw was set, his wand held steady, every movement deliberate. They moved cautiously, the fog pressing close once more, slithering around their ankles and curling up their legs like living tendrils. It wasn't just cold—it was seeping into his skin, chilling him from the inside out. Draco swallowed, his grip tightening on his wand as a sharp, prickling sensation raced up his spine, something deeper than fear, more insidious.

Then it struck.

The fog surged all at once, a thick, writhing force that lashed out with unnatural speed. A sudden pressure clamped around Draco's wrist, yanking him off balance, and a searing pain lanced across his lower arm, sharp enough to make him stumble against the uneven wall, hitting his dominant shoulder with a protruding root. He hissed, clutching at the wound, his long fingers pressing down on it instinctively. When he pulled his hand back, his pale skin was streaked with crimson blood, the gash deeper than he'd expected.

"Malfoy! Are you alright?" Potter's voice rang out, sharp with alarm. He spun on his heel, green eyes wide as he took a step toward Draco.

Draco scowled, his pride prickling despite the pain.

"I'm fine," he snapped, though his voice trembled ever so slightly, betraying him.Fuck, but it burned. He clenched his jaw and, after seeing Potter's worried face, he added with a grimace, "Really, Potter, I'm fine."

But Potter didn't seem convinced. He kept edging closer to Draco, his stance tense, his gaze flitting between Draco's arm and the ominous fog that swirled around them like a living thing. Draco felt a cold unease settle in his gut, his fingers twitching around his wand. The fog wasn't just some eerie trick of the house—it was something else, something with consciousness, and that felt too much like its magic… a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He could feel it watching them, feeding on their hesitation.

As if sensing their fear, the fog thickened, its dark tendrils curling tighter around the corridor walls, closing in like a snake preparing to squeeze the life from its prey and inject it its venom. The air grew heavier, pressing against Draco's chest, making it harder to breathe. The moment stretched, unbearably silent—then, without warning, the fog lunged, twisting violently toward them, faster than either of them could react.

"Potter, move!" Draco shouted, his voice sharper than he'd intended, but the urgency in it was real.

Of course, the brainless Gryffindor froze. Or maybe he had decided not to move as to protect Draco, like an idiot. Potter's wand arm faltered as the fog shot toward him, dark tendrils snaking out to grab hold of his legs. For a fleeting moment, Draco considered letting the house have him. It would serve him right for being a goody-two-shoes and hesitating. But the thought was gone in an instant, drowned out by the instinct to protect, and something far more inconvenient.

With a distraught growl, Draco lunged forward, grabbing the back of Potter's ratty shirt. He yanked hard, pulling Potter out of the fog's grasp. The force of it sent Potter stumbling backward, and he landed on his arse with an indignant grunt. Before Draco could regain his balance, the sharp, spectral tendrils whipped out again—this time locking onto him completely; latching onto his arms and waist with a force that burned like a hot coal but left no immediate wound behind this time. The sensation stole his breath, an unnatural sting sinking into his flesh, numbing him instantly. Before he could do anything, he was yanked off the ground, the fog lifting him effortlessly as though he weighed nothing. His feet dangled uselessly in the air as he struggled against the inky tendrils, his wand slipping from his grasp and clattering to the floor below. Panic surged, sharp and blinding. Draco gasped, clawing painfully at the tendrils that coiled tighter and tighter around him, squeezing the breath from his lungs. Now he could feel the dark fog cutting through his skin, slower than it had his arm, but just as true. Small droplets of blood began to roll down his throat, arms and legs—but not his torso—, marring his clothes. His chest heaved, but the air seemed thinner the higher he was dragged. He kicked out in desperation, but his movements only seemed to provoke the fog, which tightened its grip further.

"Draco!"

The sound of Potter shouting his name—his first name—pierced through the haze of pain and panic. It was raw, desperate, and it sent a strange jolt through Draco's chest, though he barely had the air to think about it. His eyes flickered downward, catching sight of Potter scrambling below him, his wand a blur as he cast spell after spell, each one tearing through the fog but failing to stop its relentless grip. The tendrils coiled tighter, crushing him, his ribs aching as if they were being squeezed by an invisible vice.

"Po… tter…" Draco tried to speak, but the words came out as an unintelligible hoarse rasp. He winced, his head spinning as the fog tightened around his throat, burning like acid, a searing pain that made his vision blur at the edges. His breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, his lungs fighting against the suffocating force.

But Potter didn't listen—he never bloody did. His face was set in a mask of determination and fear, his bright green eyes blazing with fury. His jaw clenched, his grip tightening around his wand as he took a step forward. Then another. He wasn't retreating. He wasn't giving up.

Draco wanted to scream at the sheer stupidity of it. But he couldn't. His entire body felt like it was being drained, the darkness around him pressing in, sinking into his skin. "Hold on!" he yelled, his voice cracking.

The overwhelming need to laugh bitterly hit Draco just as hard as the tendrils that gripped at him, at the absurdity of it. Hold on? What did Potter think he was doing, practising levitation for fun? The fog seemed to sense his thoughts and tightened its grip on Draco's throat, making him grunt hoarsely in desperate pain.

Then, Potter did something entirely unexpected. With a violent cry that seemed to rise from the depths of his chest, he unleashed a torrent of magic through his wand. It was a spell—a spell of pure, unrefined power, pouring from him like a dam breaking. The air crackled and hummed, thick with energy. A burst of silvery light erupted from his wand, coalescing into the unmistakable shape of a bright stag. It stood proud and fierce, its antlers shimmering as if forged from moonlight and the purest of stars. For a moment, the corridor seemed to hold its breath, the bleak darkness shrinking back from the luminous creature.

At that moment, the stag Patronus charged forward, its hooves pounding the floor with a sound like thunder. Each strike sent ripples of light through the fog, breaking it apart in bursts of radiant force. The tendrils recoiled violently, shrieking with a sound that made Draco's ears ring. They twisted and writhed, retreating into the shadows like venomous snakes burned by fire.

As abruptly as it had begun, it was over. The stag lingered for a moment, its head turning to glance at Potter with a soft, knowing gaze, before dissolving into the air like mist under the morning sun.

Draco fell like a stone.

The floor rushed up to meet him, hard and unyielding, knocking the breath from his lungs as he landed in an undignified heap. Pain lanced through his shoulder, his bruised arm screaming in protest. He groaned, his fingers curling weakly against the stone as he tried to push himself up, but his strength had been thoroughly drained. The fog might've dissipated, but the lingering ache it left in its wake was a cruel reminder of its bite. He was dimly aware of Potter's voice, frantic and sharp, as his trainer-clad footsteps skidded across the floor toward him. Draco attempted to lift his head, to tell him to stop shouting like a banshee and that he was perfectly capable of recovering on his own, thank you very much—but the words wouldn't come. His vision swam, dark spots creeping into the edges, and before he could so much as summon another retort, the world tilted.

Unconsciousness claimed him like a thief in the night. The last thing he saw before the world darkened was Potter's outstretched hand reaching for him.

..

Draco's—because he could no longer think of the man asMalfoy, not when the sight of him being attacked made his heart drop to his stomach—head lolled to the side, his pale features slack and worryingly still. His breath was barely there, shallow and uneven, and the blood staining his shirt collar was stark against his skin—a vivid picture of the way the fog had lashed out, coiling around his throat like a noose. The bruising shadows already blooming along his jawline made Harry's stomach twist. And he couldn't even see the rest of his body, despite the tattered remains of his clothes. Panic rose in his chest like a winter storm, cold and suffocating, tightening around his ribs. He dropped to his knees beside Draco, shaking him slightly.

"Draco," he urged, his voice rough, desperate.

But there was no response, no flicker of those sharp, quicksilver eyes. Only the eerie silence of the house pressing in around them.

"Draco, wake up," he called, his voice tight with panic and concern. He pressed two fingers to Draco's neck, relieved to find a pulse—steady but faint. Too faint. His chest tightened further. "Come on, don't do this. Draco!"

His free hand shook as it hovered over Draco's shoulder, unsure whether to try to shake him awake or leave him be. He was no healer, he had no idea about what was best in these cases. The tendrils of fog had disappeared, but the eerie silence that followed their retreat was somehow worse, as though the house was pausing, calculating its next move. Harry glanced around wildly, his wand trembling in his hand as the faint glow of his Patronus flickered against the walls. Everything about the air felt wrong, and he could feel it pulsing with residual dark magic. The roots that had lined the walls earlier now seemed to twitch, curling faintly at the edges, as if they, too, were nervous.

He turned back to Draco, leaning in closer. "Wake up, Draco. Please." He couldn't keep the dread out of his voice. Sitting back, he pushed his trembling free hand into his dark, messy hair and pulled, hard. What should he do now? He had no idea how to help Draco.

A shudder rippled through the floor beneath them. Harry's stomach dropped as the stone shifted and groaned. At first, it was subtle—like the building was settling. Then, it became violent. The ground bucked beneath his feet with a suddenness that stole his breath. He barely managed to catch himself with one hand on the floor, his wand clattering to the ground beside him. A deep, resonant creak filled the air, followed by a noise that sounded disturbingly like cracking bones. His eyes darted to Draco, who remained motionless. Before Harry could even think to grab him, the stone beneath Draco's body began to ripple like liquid, pulling him farther away.

"No, no, no!" Harry shouted, scrambling forward, his hands outstretched. Out of sheer desperation, his right hand surged forward, clutching at his wand desperately. At the same time, his other hand brushed against Draco's sleeve, and then the ground beneath him gave way entirely.

The sensation was immediate and horrifying, no matter how many times the house had done this to him. The floor vanished, replaced by nothing but air, and Harry plunged downward, his scream swallowed by the roar of wind rushing past his ears. His limbs flailed instinctively, grasping for anything—anything—to break his fall, but there was nothing. No walls, no edges, just endless, crushing darkness.

"Draco!" he shouted into the void, his voice cracking under the force of his fear. The thought of being separated from him—of Draco waking up, injured and alone, in this godforsaken house—was unbearable. He twisted midair, searching desperately for any sign of light, of a ledge, ofsomething. But there was only the abyss, and his heart pounded so hard he thought it might burst.

The fall stretched on for endless seconds, an eternity of weightlessness and dread. His body turned hot, every nerve alight with the agonising anticipation of the impending impact. His muscles ached from the tension of bracing for the pain of the blow, limbs caught between stiffness and helpless flailing. His breaths came in shallow gasps, each one more frantic than the last, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, the sharp sting grounding him, keeping the rising panic from swallowing him whole. But the darkness below was endless, and the fear of never stopping clawed at his chest.

Stay calm, Potter, think. You've fallen from worse heights—

Suddenly, the air thickened around him, an invisible force wrapping around his limbs, slowing his descent just enough for him to register the shift before he hit something soft. His body jolted, landing in an unceremonious heap, limbs sprawled at odd angles, the breath knocked from his lungs. It wasn't solid ground, but it wasn't the deadly impact he had braced for, either. A muted puffing noise accompanied his landing, and as he blinked dazedly, he realized he was surrounded by fabric—heavy, dust-scented, and draped in chaotic folds beneath him. It felt like he had fallen into a pile of old, forgotten fabrics—tapestries, perhaps?

Slowly, he pushed himself up on shaky elbows, blinking rapidly as his surroundings swam into focus. Piles upon piles of clothes stretched out around him, forming an endless sea of fabric. Some stacks reached as high as his waist, while others spilled over in untidy heaps, their edges fraying with age. It was an overwhelming mess of colours and textures, an assortment of old robes, trousers, blouses, scarves—some moth-eaten, others pristine as if freshly laundered. The sheer volume was staggering, and the musty scent of aged fabric clung thickly to the air.

For a moment, he just lay there, chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths, letting the weight of exhaustion settle over him. His heart still pounded in his ribs, each beat a reminder of the chaos that had led him here. His fingers curled into the worn fabric beneath him, grasping at nothing, as the frantic energy that had propelled him moments ago gave way to something heavier. Something suffocating. Worry clawed at his throat, sharp and insistent.

Draco.

He sat up fully, his knees pressing into the soft mound of clothes beneath him. "Draco?" His voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, swallowed by the oppressive quiet that surrounded him. The only response was the distant creak of the house settling, the ever-present hum of its magic vibrating in the air like a held breath.

Twisting around, Harry's gaze darted frantically over the endless piles of fabric, searching for any sign of movement—any hint of platinum blond hair or the sharp edge of a scowl. But there was nothing. Just tangled cloth and dust, the remnants of a life long abandoned. Panic tightened in his chest. He scrambled to his feet, dislodging a cascade of fabric as he did.

"Draco?" he called again, louder this time, the desperation leaking into his voice despite himself. The silence that followed was unbearable. The house had swallowed them whole, but it had only spithimback out.

Where the hell was he? Was Draco still where he had left him passed out?

Frustration and fear welled up in Harry's chest, clawing at him like a wild animal. He slammed a fist down into the heap beneath him, sending up a cloud of dust. "Bloody hell! Whereishe?!" His voice echoed faintly, swallowed almost immediately by the strange acoustics of the room. "Grimmauld!"

But the house stayed silent. Panic threatened to take hold again, and he forced himself to breathe deeply.

"Think, Harry," he muttered, his fingers gripping the edge of his wand like a lifeline. "You've handled worse. You'll find him. Youwillfind him."

But the words felt hollow when he didn't know where to begin, his resolve already fraying at the edges, his hands trembling. How was he to find Draco when Grimmauld changed around him at will and on a whim? He swallowed hard, forcing down the gnawing sense of dread that coiled in his gut like a living thing. The house was too quiet, too still, as if it were watching, waiting for his next move. He hated it. Hated the way its magic pulsed against his skin like a heartbeat that wasn't his own. Harry exhaled sharply and forced himself to move, shifting unsteady steps over the mounds of fabric. Dust rose in lazy swirls with every step, clinging to his clothes, his skin. He didn't care. Somewhere above—or below—Draco was out there. Alone. Probably hurt.

And Harry was going to find him. No matter what this blasted house threw at him next.

He had to.

..

IIIIGHHHH IT HAPPENED! Malfoy is Draco now! Woooo!