Ron and Hermione stood on the cracked pavement outside Number 12, Grimmauld Place, the chill of the beginning of late evening nipping at their worried faces. The Victorian house loomed before them, its blackened exterior blending into the dreary London neighborhood seamlessly and unassumingly. The wrought-iron numbers, askew as always, hung precariously on the weathered door; and the grimy windows, shrouded in grime and shadow, gazed back at them like unblinking, lifeless eyes. Though outwardly unchanged, something in the air around the house felt distinctly different, a tension that raised the fine hairs on the back of Hermione's neck. She bit her lip, her mind racing through possibilities. The house's magical wards had always been intricate, a web of protective enchantments layered over centuries. But the magic that radiated from the place right now felt different—it felt off, but she couldn't pinpointwhy.
Hermione had stepped forward first, her wand slipping into her hand with a practised ease. She aimed it at the heavy, peeling door.
"Alohomora," she murmured, the familiar spell weaving from her lips with precision. A faint shimmer danced across the doorway, as though the house itself had swallowed her magic. The door did not budge.
Ron frowned, glancing warily at Hermione. "Maybe try it again?" he suggested, his voice low, almost hesitant, as if he didn't want the house to hear him.
"I already tried it twice," Hermione muttered, a crease forming between her brows. She adjusted her stance and aimed again, this time attemptingPortaberto, a spell specifically crafted by lockswixen for stubborn magical locks. The wand sparked, the light reflecting briefly against the worn brass doorknob, but the result was the same—a faint shimmer and nothing else. She tried a dispelling charm next and then another more violent spell, her incantations sharp and deliberate, but they too dissolved into nothingness, the house swallowing her efforts as though it were mocking her.
Annoyed, she drew a spiral with the tip of her wand as she muttered yet another incantation. "Reserare!" she said, hoping the more specific spell would do the trick, but her intuition told her it was useless.
As expected, nothing happened. The door didn't budge; the latch didn't even wiggle.
"Maybe try throwing something at it?" Ron offered, arms crossed, his expression torn between impatience and unease. "Bloody hell, it's cold out here."
With a glare and an indignation huff, Hermione poked him in the ribs, making Ron shift his weight, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "Because doors respondsowell to being yelled at," she snapped, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Honestly, Ron, I've tried numerous unlocking spells, bypassing the wards, and even a bloodyBombarda, andnoneof them are working. This isn't normal."
"Well, maybe itisnormal," Ron argued, waving a hand at the house. "This is Harry we're talking about. Moody, brooding, 'let's-sulk-in-a-dark-corner' Harry. He's probably inside with his invisibility cloak, eating week-old enchiladas straight from the cold box, again."
"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione hissed, lowering her wand but not her guard. "He always sends us a message when he's not going to show up. Always. And he'snevershut us out of Grimmauld Place before, no matter how bad things got."
Ron scratched the back of his neck, his freckled face clouded with doubt.
"Yeah, but this is Harry. If anyone's going to have a dramatic, self-imposed lockdown, it's him. Maybe he just needs space."
Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line. She didn't reply immediately. Instead, she glanced at the unyielding door again, her expression shifting from frustration to genuine concern.
"No," she said finally, shaking her head. "This isn't space. This is something else. The wards on this house feel… wrong. Like they're absorbing my magic, keeping us out. And Harry wouldn't strengthen the wards againstus. Not unless something was terribly wrong."
Ron frowned. "You mean like an evil house trying to eat him? Because, honestly, with Grimmauld Place, I wouldn't be surprised."
Hermione sighed, exasperated. "I'm serious, Ron."
"So am I!" Ron shot back, throwing up his hands. "This house has hadcreepywritten all over it since day one. What if it's gone rogue? Started up a rebellion? The walls here practicallyscream'dark magic.' Maybe they've finally decided to finish the job Voldemort couldn't."
"That's absurd," Hermione said, though she glanced at the house with a trace of unease. She couldn't entirely dismiss Ron's words; Grimmauld Place had always been more than a little unnerving, even after Harry had spent years trying to scrub away the remnants of its dark past.
Still, this felt… different. Everything around them felt heavier than usual, a subtle but undeniable pressure that made Hermione's chest tighten. The street, normally bustling with Muggles going about their lives, felt unnaturally quiet, still. And there was something in the air—something magical—that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
"Let's not jump to conclusions," Hermione said carefully. "We don't know what's going on in there. But I do think it's strange that Harry hasn't responded to any of our attempts to contact him. This is well beyond normal. What if he's overwhelmed and the house is reacting to that?"
Ron raised a pale eyebrow. "Overwhelmed? You mean, like when he thinks he's responsible for every bad thing that's ever happened in the history of wixenkind? Because that's just another day for Harry."
Hermione shot him another look, but there was no bite in it this time. She was overthinking too much to argue properly.
"I mean overwhelmed in a way we haven't seen before. He's been dealing with so much lately. The anniversary of his parent's death coming soon, his guilt, his constant nightmares, the house—and he barely talks about any of it. The house might have decided to shut us out because he doesn't want us to see how much he's struggling."
Ron's expression softened slightly, the corners of his mouth pulling down into a faint frown. "Yeah," he admitted quietly. "I guess that does sound like him."
They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of their collective worry settling between them. The door to Grimmauld Place remained firmly shut, as unyielding as Harry's own stubbornness.
"What do we do?" Ron asked finally, breaking the quiet. "Because if he's not opening the door, and your brilliant spells aren't working, we might as well go home and try again tomorrow."
Hermione hesitated. She didn't want to leave—not when something felt so obviously wrong—but she also knew they couldn't break into Grimmauld Place without risking damage to the wards. And even if they could, the magic protecting the house seemed almost sentient, as if it were actively keeping them out for a reason.
"We'll come back tomorrow," Hermione said reluctantly. "But we need to think about other ways to contact him. I'll send a message to Andromeda in case she's heard from him. And maybe Neville or Luna. Someone might know where he is or why he's acting like this."
Ron nodded, though his frown deepened. "And if they don't know?"
"Then we try something else," Hermione said firmly, though the confidence in her voice was as much for herself as it was for Ron. "We'll figure it out. We always do."
Ron glanced at the house one last time, his eyes narrowing. "Yeah, but, honestly? I've got a bad feeling about this, Mione. It's too quiet. Too… weird even for Grimmauld Place."
Hermione couldn't argue with that. As they turned to leave, the uneasy silence around Grimmauld seemed to grow even heavier, like a predator watching their every move. The street lights flickered faintly, their glow dimming just enough to cast long, distorted shadows across the pavement.
And then there was the magic.
Hermione felt it as they walked away—a faint pulse in the air, subtle but unmistakable. It was like the house itself was breathing, its magic ebbing and flowing in time with their steps. She glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting to see something staring back at her from the windows, but the curtains remained closed, the house still and lifeless.
"Did you feel that?" Hermione asked, her voice hushed.
Ron frowned. "Feel what?"
"The magic," Hermione said, glancing at him. "It's strange, I've never felt anything like it before."
Ron looked back at the house, his expression darkening.
"No, but now you've got me imagining Harry sitting in there with a dozen cursed objects and a possessed teapot. Do you reckon Kreacher's still around? Maybe he's behind this."
"Kreacher wouldn't do anything to harm Harry," Hermione said automatically, though her voice was tinged with worry. "He was devoted to him after the war."
"Well, that's one theory out," Ron muttered. "What's next? Voldemort coming back from the dead, again? Malevolent cupboard?"
"Let's not get carried away," Hermione said, ignoring Ron's attempts to lighten the mood, though she couldn't shake the feeling that something truly wasoff. "We'll come back tomorrow with a plan. And if we still can't get in, we'll bring backup."
Ron nodded, though his expression remained tense. "Right. Backup. Like a whole team of Aurors. Or a dragon, maybe."
Hermione sighed, though there was a faint smile on her lips. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
As they turned the corner, leaving Grimmauld Place behind, the faint pulse of magic in the air seemed to follow them, lingering like a ghostly presence. Hermione didn't look back again, but the weight of the house's strange, oppressive magic stayed with her, settling in the pit of her stomach like a lead weight.
Something was wrong. And they would get to the bottom of it. They had to. For Harry.
.
Harry's stomach growled. Loudly.
It wasn't the dignified sort of stomach growl that could pass unnoticed in a crowded room. No, this was the primal, guttural roar of a stomach that hadn't been fed in too many hours—a sound so loud and insistent that Harry wouldn't have been surprised if the walls themselves shuddered in embarrassment.
Malfoy froze mid-step and turned to glare at Harry with the sharp precision of a hungry hawk spotting prey. His face twisted into a smirk that screamed,I'm about to make this worse for you.
"Merlin, Potter," Malfoy sneered, his voice dripping with faux horror. "Are you trying to summon the Dark Lord back from the grave, or is that just your stomach auditioning for its own horror film?"
Harry shot him a tired, withering look, his surprise at Malfoy knowing what a film even was not showing. "Oh, I'm sorry, Malfoy. Is my body's natural response to starvation inconveniencing you? Shall I just die quietly in a corner instead?"
"Well," Malfoy said airily, his pale hand brushing imaginary lint off his tattered robes, "it would certainly be quieter."
Harry rolled his eyes so hard he half-expected them to pop out of his skull and bounce off the cobblestone floor of whatever twisted corridor Grimmauld Place had spat them into now.Great. Starving to death and stuck with Malfoy's sparkling wit. Just another day in my utterly fantastic life.
The maze of corridors had grown even stranger since the inferno they'd conjured earlier. What had started as the usual grim, dusty halls of Grimmauld Place had become something else entirely—twisting, expanding, and contracting at will. Corridors stretched into infinity one moment, only to slam into abrupt dead ends the next. Stairs led nowhere, doors opened into other doors, and once, just for kicks apparently, they'd walked into a room that wasentirelyupside down.
It was maddening.
Harry's stomach growled again, louder this time, as if rebelling against its owner's refusal to acknowledge its desperate needs.
"Honestly, Potter," Malfoy drawled, his tone verging on smug, "if you keel over from hunger, I'm leaving you here. Do you hear me? I'll just step over your tragically heroic corpse and carry on without you."
Harry's jaw tightened, his patience wearing thinner than the soles of his old boots. "Fine. I'll make sure to write that on my tombstone:'Here lies Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world, abandoned by Draco Malfoy because he was slightly peckish.'"
Malfoy tilted his head, his grey eyes glittering with something between amusement and irritation. "Slightly peckish? Your stomach sounds like it's trying to upstage a troll singing an aria. Don't you ever feed yourself? Or do you just assume your fame will sustain you?"
Harry opened his mouth to retort—probably something scathing about Malfoy's upbringing involving house-elves spoon-feeding him caviar—but he stopped short. The wall to their left was shimmering, as though someone had thrown a stone into the fabric of reality, sending ripples across its surface.
Both men turned toward it, wands drawn, their bickering forgotten in an instant.
"What the—?" Harry began, but the wall cut him off. Or rather, the wallsplit itself in two, a crack forming down the middle like the jagged seam of an old wound. Slowly, the crack widened, revealing an arched doorway that hadn't been there a moment ago.
"Lovely," Malfoy muttered. "Because walking through mysterious, magically-appearing doors has worked so well for us."
Harry glanced at him. "You want to stay out here and argue some more, or do you want to see if there's food on the other side?"
Malfoy hesitated, clearly torn between the desire to maintain his upper hand in their verbal sparring match and the undeniable pangs of hunger gnawing at his own stomach. Finally, he sniffed and gestured toward the door with a flourish. "After you,oh brave one."
Harry rolled his eyes again and stepped through the doorway, wand at the ready.
On the other side, they found themselves in a dining room. Or, at least, what might have once been a dining room before Grimmauld Place's dark magic had taken a sledgehammer to its décor. The long wooden table in the centre of the room was scratched and battered, its surface warped with age and neglect. The chairs were mismatched, their cushions threadbare and faded. A chandelier hung above them, its crystals caked with decades of dust, though it still managed to emit a soft, flickering light.
But none of that mattered.
What mattered was the food.
The table was laden with plates and platters of food—steaming bowls of soup, fresh bread, roasted chicken, baked potatoes, and even a glistening treacle tart sitting smugly in the centre like a crown jewel.
Harry's stomach let out a noise that could only be described as awailof longing.
"Sweet Morgana," Malfoy breathed, his eyes wide as he took in the spread. "Is this a hallucination? Are we dead? Is this what the afterlife looks like? Because I'd hoped for a better selection of international delicacies."
"If it is," Harry said, already reaching for a plate, "then I'll take it."
He didn't wait for Malfoy's permission—or his snark. Instead, he sat down, grabbed a roll of bread, and bit into it like a man who'd been stranded on a deserted island for a decade.
Malfoy hesitated for a moment longer, his suspicious gaze flicking between the food and Harry. Finally, though, it seemed that hunger won out, and he lowered himself into a chair with the same air of reluctant grace he brought to everything.
"If I get food poisoning," Malfoy said, delicately spooning soup into a bowl, "I'm coming back to haunt you."
Harry grunted around a mouthful of bread. "If you come back, bring more treacle tart."
For a while, they ate in silence. The food was simple—nothing elaborate or fancy, even for Harry's standards—but it was warm and filling, and that was all they cared about. Harry felt the tension in his shoulders ease slightly with each delighted bite he took, the gnawing ache in his stomach replaced by a growing sense of contentment. Malfoy, for his part, ate with surprising decorum, though his movements were quicker than usual—and boy, did Harry hate the knowledge that he remembered his usual eating pace—, as if he were trying to pretend he wasn't as ravenous as Harry.
The silence between them wasn't entirely comfortable, but it wasn't hostile, either. It was the kind of silence that came when two people were too tired to argue, too hungry to care, and too aware of the weight of their shared ordeal to pretend everything was normal.
Finally, Malfoy broke the silence.
"This is all your fault, you know."
Harry looked up from his plate, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, here we go again. And you were doing so well, too."
"No, really," Malfoy said, gesturing vaguely with a fork. "If you hadn't dragged me into this ridiculous rabbit hole of madness, I'd be at home right now, enjoying a proper meal with proper silverware with my mother. Instead, I'm here, eating—" he glanced at his plate with a faint look of disdain, "—roast chicken in a room that looks like it's one bad spell away from collapsing and infecting me with the Bubonic Plague."
"First of all," Harry said, jabbing his fork in Malfoy's direction, "you came to my house willingly, for a job you were going to be paid for, so don't act like I kidnapped you. And second, if you don't want the chicken, I'll have it."
Malfoy clutched his plate protectively. "Touch my chicken, Potter, and you'll lose a hand."
Harry snorted, but he didn't press the issue. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze wander around the room. The flickering chandelier cast long shadows on the walls, and the air was still thick with the faint hum of magic. The house might have been magnanimous enough to provide them with food, but it hadn't entirely abandoned its ominous atmosphere.
"You think the house knows what we're thinking?" Harry asked suddenly.
Malfoy looked up from his soup, his expression guarded. "What are you on about now?"
"The door," Harry said, gesturing toward the one they'd entered through. "The food. It all just… appeared. Like it knew what we needed."
Malfoy frowned, his grey eyes narrowing as he considered this. "That's a disturbing thought."
Harry shrugged. "It's not the weirdest thing we've dealt with today."
"No, but it's close," Malfoy muttered, taking another bite of chicken. "Although, it shouldn't really be surprising, seeing how it reacts to our little spats," he said, after swallowing.
They lapsed into silence again, though Harry could feel the tension between them shifting. It wasn't exactlygone, but it was softer now, less sharp-edged. The act of eating together, however begrudgingly, seemed to have chipped away at some of the barriers between them.
For the first time since this whole thing had begun, Harry felt a faint flicker of something that almost resembled hope.
Almost. Maybe.
"You think we'll ever get out of this place?" he asked quietly, more to himself than to Malfoy.
Malfoy didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice was softer than Harry had expected.
"I don't know," he admitted, his eyes looking down at his food as he used his fork to play with his peas. Then, the affronted smirk was back, his previous softness gone. "But if we do, I'm burning this house to the ground."
Harry smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth tugging upward despite his best efforts to not be amused by the prick next to him.
"Sure, Malfoy."
.
The tentative calm in the dining room stretched long after they finished their meal; the two of them sitting back in their mismatched chairs, staring at the last bits of food on their plates, as though the answers to their predicament might be found in the crumbs. The hum of magic in the walls persisted, a faint pulse that Harry could feel in his chest, keeping time with his heartbeat; the heavy weight of the house was still there, waiting, watching.
For a few moments, neither of them spoke. Malfoy sat stiffly, fiddling with the silverware as though he were contemplating using a butter knife to carve his way out of this situation. Harry, on the other hand, leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the flickering chandelier above them, trying to piece together a plan.
"Well," Malfoy finally drawled, breaking the silence. "As charming as this little dinner date has been, I assume you havesomeidea of what we're supposed to do next. Or are we just going to sit here and wait for the house to kill us?"
Harry sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "If I had all the answers, Malfoy, do you think we'd still be stuck here?"
"No, you'd probably still find a way to mess it up," Malfoy muttered, crossing his arms.
Harry ignored him, something that was starting to become a habit—and wasn't that a scary thought—, his mind racing. The house's magic had gone mad—that much was obvious. But why? It wasn't as though Grimmauld Place had ever been a picture of stability, but this? This was something else entirely. The maze-like corridors, the shifting rooms, the oppressive aura… The question was how to stop it.
With a sigh, Harry looked at the last of the treacle tart in front of him, considering whether or not it was worth the possible bloating.
And then it hit him.
"Kreacher," Harry said, sitting up abruptly.
Malfoy arched a pale eyebrow. "What?"
"Kreacher," Harry repeated, his voice rising with urgency. "Fuck, I forgot about him! I should've called for him ages ago. He's the house-elf. He knows this place better than us—better thananyone. If anyone can tell us what's going on, it's him."
Malfoy's expression twisted into a mixture of scepticism and distaste. "Wonderful. Let's put our lives in the hands of a senile house-elf who used to worship my batty Great-aunt."
"He'snotsenile," Harry snapped, glaring at him. "And he helped us during the war. He's fine now, for the most part."
"How reassuring," Malfoy said dryly. "By all means, summon your elf and let's hope he has a plan better than yours."
Harry ignored the jab, stood up, and cleared his throat. "Kreacher!"
The call echoed through the room, bouncing off the warped walls and disappearing into the silence beyond. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a sharppop, Kreacher appeared.
But something was wrong.
The house-elf was trembling. His large, bat-like ears were pressed flat against his head, and his wide, bloodshot eyes darted around the room as though expecting an ambush. His usual air of discourtesy and superiority was nowhere to be found; instead, he looked utterly terrified.
"Kreacher," Harry said softly, stepping toward him. "What's going on? Are you okay?"
The elf wrung his hands together, his long, gnarled fingers shaking.
"Master Harry," Kreacher croaked, his voice quivering. "The house… the house is angry. It finally has what it waited for but doesn't know what it wants. It does not like change, no. Kreacher tried to calm it, but—" He broke off with a shudder, his gaze darting to Malfoy. "Master Malfoy's presence made it worse."
Malfoy blinked, then scoffed. "Oh, of course. Blame me. How very convenient."
"Kreacher, what do you mean the house is angry?" Harry asked, crouching down to meet the elf's eye level. His chest tightened at the sight of Kreacher's distress. The elf had always been a surly, stubborn character, but he'd never looked this…small. "What's causing it?"
"The magic, Master Harry," Kreacher said, his voice rising to a squeak. "The wards, the core, the masters—it is all connected. The house is out of balance. It will not rest until… until the balance is restored."
"Balance?" Harry echoed. "What balance? What core?"
Malfoy, leaning casually against the table as if he weren't completely out of his depth, rolled his eyes. "I think what the lovely Kreacher here is trying to say, Potter, is that this house is as barmy and dysfunctional as my family. How fitting."
"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry snapped, his frustration boiling over. He turned back to Kreacher, forcing himself to stay calm. "Kreacher, how do we fix it? How do we restore the balance?"
The elf hesitated, his trembling worsening. "The core," he whispered. "Masters must find the core. The heart of the house. It controls the wards, the magic. If the masters can reach it… this madness might be stopped."
"And where exactly is this core?" Malfoy interjected, his tone impatience but interested, for once. "Or is this going to be another one of those scavenger hunts Potter excels at?"
Kreacher opened his mouth to answer, but before he could speak, the room shuddered violently. The walls groaned as though alive, and the floor beneath their feet started to splinter. Harry stumbled, grabbing onto the edge of the table for support, while Kreacher let out a shrill cry of alarm.
"What's happening?" Harry shouted, his voice barely audible over the creaking and cracking of the room.
"The house!" Kreacher screamed, his terror palpable. He grabbed at his large, drooping ears with distress. "It does not want me to help the masters!"
Before Harry could react, the floor beneath Kreacher split open with a deafening crack. A dark, yawning chasm appeared, and with a terrified shriek, the house-elf plummeted into the darkness.
"KREACHER!" Harry lunged forward, his hand outstretched, but it was too late. The floor slammed shut as suddenly as it had opened, leaving no trace of the elf—or the void he had fallen into.
For a moment, there was only silence, broken only by Harry's ragged breathing. He stared at the spot where Kreacher had disappeared, his heart pounding in his chest. The guilt hit him like a physical blow, sharp and unrelenting. He'd called Kreacher here, put him in danger, and now the elf was gone.
"Well," Malfoy said after a long pause, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, "that was… horrifying."
Harry shot him a glare so intense it could have melted steel. "Shut. Up."
Malfoy looked away, his cheeks flushed with an emotion Harry wasn't able to identify, but didn't push further. For once, he seemed to understand that now wasn't the time for sarcasm. Harry's mind raced, his thoughts a tangle of desperation and guilt. He paced the room with frantic energy, his eyes darting toward the spot where Kreacher had vanished. He clenched his wand tighter, his knuckles whitening, as if sheer willpower could bring the elf back.
"Kreacher!" he called again, his voice trembling but insistent. "Kreacher, answer me!"
The only response was the oppressive silence of the house. Grimmauld's magic hung heavy, suffocating, as though the walls themselves were mocking his efforts. The room, thick with Grimmauld's strong magic, remained maddeningly silent, save for the faint groaning of the walls. His jaw tightened as he swung his head toward the ceiling, as though commanding the house itself to obey him.
He tried again, his voice rising in volume and panic. "Kreacher!"
The third time, the house reacted.
A deep, guttural creak reverberated through the walls, followed by a sharp, ear-splitting crack. The air grew heavier, thick with a tension that pressed against Harry's lungs. Another deep groan rattled the room, followed by a sudden, violent crack and a shudder. Before Harry could react, the chandelier above exploded in a shower of shards, as if an expertly placedBombardahad hit it. Glittering, jagged fragments rained down, catching the faint light in flashes of brilliance as they clattered onto the floor and the furniture. Harry barely had time to throw himself toward Malfoy, moving him away from the worst of the crystal's sharp edges. The glittering fragments caught the dim light like deadly stars as they clattered to the floor around them.
When the noise settled, Harry glanced around wildly, his breathing shallow, his heart racing. The floor was strewn with shards, the jagged remains catching at the edges of his trainers as he moved. His stomach churned with frustration, and the house's silence felt mocking, cruel.
"Because honestly, Potter," Malfoy drawled as he gingerly stepped away from Harry, stepping over a particularly large piece of crystal and brushing a stray shard from his shoulder. "I've seen poltergeists with better manners than you," his tone carried its usual edge, but his hand lingered on his wand, the tension in his fingers betraying his unease.
Harry turned to him sharply, green eyes flashing with barely contained rage. "I just saved your neck. This isn't a joke," he snapped, his voice low and trembling with emotion. He crouched, sweeping the larger shards aside with his wand in quick, angry movements.
Malfoy rolled his eyes, but his movements were careful as he stepped closer. "You think I don't know that?" he muttered, his gaze darting around the room. He leaned casually against the wall, though the stiffness in his shoulders undermined the affectation.
"You're not helping," Harry growled through gritted teeth, his focus still on clearing the debris.
"Neither are you, screaming for an elf who clearly can't hear you," Malfoy shot back, his voice quieter but no less cutting. He hesitated, his fingers drumming lightly against his wand. "You know, panicking won't bring your elf back. Grimmauld's magic clearly doesn't play fair, you know that as well as I do," He paused, his voice softening imperceptibly. "Focus on what you can actually control."
Harry froze, his wand still hovering over the wreckage. Tentatively, he stood up, his breath coming in sharp bursts, and for a moment, he couldn't look at Malfoy. The other man shifted, just slightly, his hand brushing the edge of Harry's pinky in an almost imperceptible gesture before withdrawing. Harry's shoulders stiffened, but Malfoy didn't step back. The weight of that brief touch settled over Harry like a grounding force, unspoken and unnoticed but steady nonetheless.
With a sharp breath, Harry straightened, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "We need to find that core, help Kreacher…" he said, his voice low and, now, steady. "We need to fix this. Before it gets worse."
Malfoy arched an eyebrow. "Worse than the house eating your house-elf?"
Harry barely registered Malfoy's comment, his thoughts a tangled mess. Kreacher's disappearance still tugged at his chest like barbed wire, a fresh weight added to the ever-growing heap of guilt that had lived within his chest like a pearl. The memory of the old house-elf's last frantic words—pleading, loyal despite everything—echoed in his mind. Kreacher had always been tied to this house in ways Harry couldn't fully understand, and now the very walls that had once brought him so much comfort seemed to have swallowed him whole.
The silence of Grimmauld Place felt heavier now, the kind of stifling quiet that pressed against Harry's ears and wrapped around his throat. The thought of Kreacher lost somewhere within the labyrinthine hallways, trapped orworse, turned Harry's stomach. He remembered the times Kreacher had shuffled into view with an air of reluctant duty, the clink of pots in the kitchen, the bitter mutterings under his breath. Even then, Kreacher had been steadfast, his loyalty unshakable despite the grudges he clung to like old wounds.
And now, Harry thought bitterly, he had let him get hurt. He never should've summoned him.
His gaze drifted to the cracked floorboards beneath his feet, the warped wood seeming to squeak slightly, as though the house knew what he was thinking and was mocking him. Whatever dark magic had corrupted this place, whatever ancient force now twisted its halls and fed on their misery, Harry would stop it. He had to. For Kreacher. For everyone who had been tied to this cursed house, unwilling and unwelcome.
The guilt was suffocating, clawing at his chest like a living thing, but it was also fuel to him. Harry clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms.
"We're going to fix this," he muttered, more to himself than to Malfoy. The words sounded hollow in the dim room, but he clung to them like a lifeline. He couldn't fail. Not this time. "Let's go," he said, turning toward the door.
Malfoy hesitated. "Go where, exactly? In case you haven't noticed, this house doesn't exactly come with a map."
Harry glanced back at him, his green eyes blazing with grim determination. "We keep moving. We find the core. And we don't stop until this house is back under control."
Malfoy sighed dramatically but followed. "Brilliant. Another harebrained Potter scheme. What could possibly go wrong?"
"I don't see you giving any useful information."
As they stepped back into the maze-like corridors, the house seemed to sense their renewed purpose. The air grew heavier, the walls narrowing as though trying to crush them. The flickering lights overhead dimmed, casting long, sinister shadows that danced and twisted like living things.
But Harry didn't stop. He couldn't stop. He owed it to Kreacher—and to himself—to see this through.
And if the house wanted a fight, then so be it.
.
The ever-winding hallways seemed to stretch endlessly, the dim lighting from the wall sconce casting long, eerie shadows that writhed along the cracked walls. The silence was unpleasant, but neither of them seemed to be willing to break it, flinching whenever it was interrupted by the occasional creak of the house's old bones and the distant, haunting groan of magic gone rogue. Every step felt heavier than the last, as though the house itself was siphoning at their energy. Harry's mind was still a whirlpool of guilt and frustration, his heart still racing from the sight of Kreacher disappearing into the black void under the floorboards. He clenched his fists, his knuckles white, and focused on the uneven floor ahead, his jaw tight as he fought to keep himself together. He couldn't let himself spiral—not now, not when there was still a chance to fix this.
Malfoy, for once, had been uncharacteristically quiet as they moved forward. The absence of his usual cheeky commentary was almost alarming. It wasn't like Malfoy to pass up an opportunity to make a sarcastic remark, a mocking comment, especially when Harry was so visibly rattled.
After several minutes of silence, however, Malfoy spoke up, his voice unusually soft and measured. It sounded almost foreign coming from him, even when it shouldn't. Not after what had happened in the room of memories.
"Potter."
Harry didn't respond, his eyes fixed ahead.
"Potter, stop," Malfoy said again, more firmly this time.
Harry halted but didn't turn around. "What, Malfoy? What?" he snapped, his tone sharper than he intended.
Malfoy exhaled, and Harry could hear the effort it took for him to maintain his neutral tone.
"Look, I know you're… upset," Malfoy began, his words cautious and hesitating, almost awkward. "And I get it. Really, I do. But blaming yourself for what happened to your house-elf isn't going to help. Least of all him."
Harry stiffened, the words hitting him like a blow. He spun around to face Malfoy, his eyes blazing with anger.
"Oh, youget it, do you?" he spat. "You understand what it's like to be responsible for someone else, to see them get hurt because of you? Don't make me laugh, Malfoy."
Malfoy flinched almost imperceptibly, but Harry was too caught up in his frustration to notice him flinching, his hands tightening into fists. He took a step closer, his voice rising.
"You don't know the first thing about taking responsibility for anything. You're just the same spoiled, self-serving git you've always been!"
Malfoy's pale face remained guarded, almost vacant in its stillness, but there was a flicker of something in his silvery eyes—a shadow of hurt that was quickly masked behind a layer of ice. His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening as if locking his emotions firmly in place. A measured, shivering breath escaped him, his chest rising and falling in deliberate rhythm, the only indication of the tension simmering beneath the surface. His fingers were white as they were still curled around nothing before relaxing again, the faint pinkness of his skin returning. The calmness of his posture was deceptive, every inch of him poised as though bracing for an unseen impact.
"Believe it or not, Potter," Malfoy said, his words quiet but pointed, "I do know what it feels like to blame yourself. To feel like everything that's gone wrong is somehow your fault. I know it better than you think."
Harry opened his mouth to retort but found himself frozen. There was a weight to Malfoy's words that he hadn't expected, an honesty that caught him off guard. He had never expected Malfoy to allow himself to be vulnerable; not when it hadn't been forced out of him. But instead of acknowledging it, Harry's defences flared.
"Well, forgive me if I don't feel like taking life advice from the likes of you," Harry said bitterly, turning away. "Let's just focus on finding this damn core and fixing the house. That's all that matters right now."
Malfoy didn't respond, but Harry felt the weight of his gaze lingering on him. If Malfoy had anything else to say, he swallowed it, his expression unreadable as he followed Harry deeper into the labyrinth.
.
Predictably, the house seemed to take delight in their discomfort, its corridors twisting and narrowing as though it were laughing, making fun of their advances. The air grew colder, and the flickering lights dimmed further, casting the hallways into near-total darkness. Potter lit his wand with a mutteredLumos, the pale light illuminating the strained lines of his face.
Draco followed a few paces behind, his usual grace subdued. For once, he didn't feel like throwing snide comments or sarcastic observations to cover just how afraid and unprepared he was, leaving behind an unsettling quiet that allowed his fears to creep in unchecked. The depressing atmosphere of this house didn't help—it only made his skin crawl, his self-preservation instincts screaming at him to leave, to Apparate far, far away from this cursed house and the man dragging him deeper into its madness.
But he didn't. Couldn't really, he could feel the wards stopping him from doing so.
Instead, he let his gaze settle on Potter's tense, wide shoulders, the way his hands twitched at his sides as if bracing for another disaster. Draco's jaw tightened, his thoughts inevitably falling into familiar, uncomfortable territory. Honestly, he didn't know why he'd even bothered trying to comfort Potter. It was absurd—Potter wouldn't accept it, not from him. And he had known that. He could still see the flicker of disbelief in Potter's face earlier, the way his eyes darted away as if rejecting the mere idea that Draco Malfoy might be capable of empathy. The idiot would never believe Draco to have good intentions, not even if his sanity depended on it. No, Potter had made up his mind about him long ago. He would always be seen as a caricature of cruelty and cowardice, the pure-blood prince whose spine crumbled under pressure. The evil villain to the golden hero.
The wrong sort.
And maybe he was right. Maybe that was all he'd ever be, so Draco couldn't blame him. Salazar knew he'd done little to prove otherwise over their teenage years. Every cutting remark, every sneer, every poor decision was a brick in the wall that Potter saw whenever he looked at him.
And yet…
He swallowed hard, his throat tight.
Draco couldn't stop himself from trying. It was pathetic, really. Somewhere deep inside, he had harbored the ridiculous hope that he could show Potter—even just for a moment—that he wasn't just the villain in the story they'd been forced to share. That he could be something else.
That, maybe…
Draco shook his head and scowled at the crumbling walls around them.
His efforts always seemed to fall flat, swallowed up by his need to mock, to use sarcastic comments and mocking humour as his armour. He glanced around the dim corridor, its warped floor groaning faintly as though recognising his inner turmoil. Maybe Potter was right to keep him at arm's length. Maybe redemption wasn't something someone like him could ever earn. The thought sent a familiar ache through his chest, an emptiness he'd grown adept at ignoring.
And yet here he was, walking into the mouth of the beast with the one person who, despite everything, never seemed to give up. If that wasn't enough to remind Draco of how far apart they truly were, he didn't know what would be.
Potter's voice broke the silence, startling Draco out of his thoughts. "If Kreacher was right, the core has to be somewhere central. Some place the house's magic can radiate out from."
Draco raised an eyebrow."Central, you say? Brilliant deduction, Potter. Shall we consult the non-existent map next?"That was the first thing that came to his mind. More scorn.
He bit her venomous tongue and looked away, his scowl deepening.
"Certainly," he said, hoping for neutrality in his agreement.
Harry shot him a glare over his shoulder.
Wrong.
"Do you have a better idea, Malfoy? Or are you just here to be an insufferable prat?"
Draco sneered faintly, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "Oh, I wouldn't want to steal your thunder. You're doing such a fantastic job leading us to certain doom."
So much for trying to be nice.
Potter gritted his teeth but didn't rise to the bait, something that Draco was internally thankful for. He turned back to the corridor ahead, his wand casting long shadows on the crumbling walls. Draco followed a few steps behind Potter, his polished Oxfords scuffing faintly against the uneven floorboards. Every creak of the house seemed louder, more accusing, as if the place itself were judging him for even daring to try to be a better person.
He clenched his fists at his sides, his usual mask of indifference slipping for a second, his thoughts circling back to Potter's words earlier.
It wasn't as if Potter needed more reasons to hate him—he already had a lifetime's worth. Draco had handed them over freely, a smirking antagonist in every chapter of their shared history. No matter what he did now, it would never be enough to rewrite that narrative. He'd tried, hadn't he? Tried to offer something, anything resembling decency. But even now, Potter looked at him earlier with that same infuriating mix of disbelief and distrust, as though Draco's concern was just another one of his schemes.
He'd seen that look before.
Draco's gaze drifted to Potter's back, tense and unyielding as he walked ahead. The idiot was so stubborn, so determined to carry the weight of the world alone. For all Potter's heroics, he was maddeningly blind to the fact that he wasn't the only one haunted by the past. Draco could feel the gnawing bitterness twist in his gut, his thoughts spiralling into the same dark refrain that had followed him for years: No matter what happened or what he did, he'd never be anything but the bad guy.
And yet, here he was, trudging through this cursed house alongside the one person who made him feel most like a failure. The irony wasn't lost on him. Draco wasn't deluded enough to think Potter neededhim, not really. He was just… convenient. A tool to solve whatever mess his house had become.
As expendable as the furniture it was so determined to destroy.
His steps faltered slightly as a shudder passed through the house, and he felt something whip at his calf, the house's magic lashing out again like an angry parent, spanking his naughty child. Potter didn't even glance back. Of course he didn't. Why would he? Draco bit the inside of his cheek, fighting the urge to lash out—to say something sharp and cruel that might give him even a sliver of control in this ridiculous situation.
But he didn't.
Instead, he kept walking, letting Potter lead him deeper into the madness. The house groaned ominously around them, its erratic magic setting his teeth on edge. For all his bluster, Draco didn't know how to fix this any more than Potter did. He could feel time slipping away, each step bringing them closer to something neither of them was prepared to face.
And if they failed… Well, that would be just another failure for Draco Malfoy to add to the growing list.
.
Hello, my darklings! I hope the holiday season treated you very, very kindly. Life's been pretty chill for me, a lot of drawing (one of my muggle jobs, shhh) and delicious food before my birthday (and before the cliché new year's diet www). Hope you enjoyed this chapter!