Under Crete Lies a Labyrinth

by Saladita12

Five years after the war, Grimmauld Place lies in ruins, its magic unpredictable and restless. Yet Harry refuses to let it go—it's the last piece of Sirius he has left. Desperate to restore order to the chaotic house, he turns to the one person who might be able to help: Draco Malfoy, who the house recognises as the Black heir. Big mistake.

2. Chapter 2: One Last Lifeline

The night was suffocatingly still, the only sound in Grimmauld Place being the faint crackle of the hearth, the fire flickering weakly in the dark, casting long, ominous shadows across the room. Harry sat in what used to be the drawing room, but now stood a tub where his favourite two-seater used to be. He held a quill in his hand, but his mind was far from the task at hand. His eyes flicked restlessly from the parchment before him to the wallpaper on the walls that seemed to shift into tiles the more he stared at them.

He hated this.

The thought of reaching out to Draco Malfoy was more than daunting, it made him feel vaguely nauseous. It felt like an impossible task—an admission of weakness, of defeat. The very last person he wanted to involve in his mess was Malfoy. The same Malfoy who had been his enemy during the war, the same Malfoy whose words still lingered in his mind like poison. The same Malfoy who had made it clear, time and time again, that Harry was someone he didn't particularly care for.

But as he stared at the tiles on the wall –they looked like the ones from the third story bathroom the more he looked at them–, Harry knew he had no other choice. Grimmauld Place was no longer just a house—it had become a dangerous living nightmare. The walls were warping, rooms were vanishing and reappearing, the corridors were shifting as if the very house was intent on becoming something anew but hadn't settled on what it wanted to be. There was nothing he could do. And since even Andromeda's best efforts to stabilise the house had fallen short, he was fast out of options.

His grip tightened on the quill as his thoughts spiralled. It figured that it would take Malfoy's particular brand of dark expertise to help. Of course the slimy snake had become a magical repair specialist, he certainly had had a knack for it back in sixth year when he had spent his energy happily repairing that cursed Vanishing Cabinet. But it wasn't just a matter of expertise or talent—it was a matter of trust. Or the lack thereof.

Harry exhaled sharply, his breath coming out in a puff of frustration. It wasn't just the house that was falling apart—it was everything. His thoughts. His guilt. The mess of emotions that had come to define his life after the war. The war had ended, but it seemed like the wounds were still fresh, still raw, still open. Bleeding all over him and his life. And they had taken so much from him, too. His relationship with Ginny had been the first thing to go after the war; his grief and his temper making him snappy and, all in all, a terrible boyfriend. Then it had taken away the Auror training, everything reminding him of that last battle, where so many had died while he had come back. And now, now it was taking away everything else. Grimmauld Place, once a sanctuary of sorts, was a constant reminder of everything he had lost, and everything that was slipping through his fingers.

And now he was about to reach out to the one person who had become a symbol of that chaos.

Taking a deep breath, Harry began to write.

Malfoy,

I know you don't want to hear from me. Merlin knows I didn't want to have to write to you, but I have a situation that requires your particular expertise. Grimmauld Place has become unstable, unpredictable, and quite frankly too dangerous for me to live in. You and I both know how much the house is tied to the Black family's legacy, and there's a certain... magic here that I can't control.

I don't know how much longer I can stay here, and I can't afford for the house to become hostile. I've done what I can, but I'm starting to think that it's beyond me.

So, I'd like you to meet me at a pub called The Hemingford Arms in Islington tomorrow at 19 o'clock so we can discuss the situation further and establish a contract of sorts.

If you want to turn your back on this, you're free to do so. But make no mistake: I'll hold you responsible if anything happens to me. I'll make sure your precious Malfoy name gets caught up in this mess, and I don't think even your family fortune could save you from that.

It's your choice. But I'm hoping you'll step up and help me.

Harry J. Potter

As soon as he finished writing the letter, Harry folded it neatly, his hands trembling ever so slightly. He didn't know if it was the weight of what was happening all around him or the weight of having to put his pride aside to ask for Malfoy's help, but his gut twisted uneasily. The threat in his words had been intentional—he needed Malfoy to know how it would look if he refused to help him. He had hoped that the idea of being even more hated by the public at large would spur Malfoy into helping him with this wretch of a house. After all, they both knew that Malfoy liked being the centre of attention, and now it was up to him to decide whether or not that attention would be positive or negative.

Still, Harry didn't feel very proud of what he had written. His words were sharp, biting, perhaps hoping Malfoy would run away like the coward he remembered him as. And yet, they felt necessary. The house had become a threat to his very existence, and if Malfoy didn't step in, Harry had no idea what would happen.

With a heavy sigh, he stood up and walked towards the foyer, keeping an eye on the subtle movements around him –he could swear he could hear a woman giggling somewhere above him, but decided to ignore it. With a shiver, he forcefully grabbed Sirius' old leather jacket from the hangers near the entrance. The cool fabric settled over his shoulders, a familiar weight that brought him both comfort and sorrow in equal measure. The jacket still smelled faintly of him—leather, faint tobacco, and a hint of something uniquely Sirius, perhaps his antique cologne. Harry closed his eyes for a moment, letting the memory wash over him, before he shook it off.

The chill of early October hung in the air as he stepped out into the street, the fog lingering thick in the dim light from the posts lining the street. The city was quieter than usual at this hour, the sounds of distant traffic muffled by the mist that had rolled in as the late evening settled in. Harry wrapped his arms tighter around himself, the cold creeping in through the cracks of the jacket, but he hardly noticed.

A sharp twist of his wrist and a loud pop was all it took. The familiar but unsettling sensation of Apparition tugging at his stomach, the world around him blurring, spinning for a moment before solidifying again. His feet barely hit the ground, and he stumbled but managed to hold onto the cool wall of the nook in Diagon Alley he had apparated into. With a stuttering breath, he composed himself from the nausea that always gripped at him after Apparitions, and looked around until he saw the store he was looking for across the street—the quaint, unassuming owl courier.

The small sign above the door read Feather & Quill Courier, your trusted owl post since 1912, the letters ornately etched into the wood in gold, their sheen catching the last light of dusk. He hesitated just for a moment, before pushing open the door, the bell above it chiming softly as he stepped inside.

The office was quiet, the usual hum of activity absent in the late hour. Harry stepped inside, the bell above the door jingling softly. He had never replaced Hedwig. The thought of doing so felt too much like betrayal, and so he had remained owl-less. He walked straight towards where the birds all rested quietly and stood in front of them, watching as the owls shifted idly in their perches. There, to his right, was a barn owl; a beautiful creature with deep brown feathers and large, soulful eyes, that he favoured, as it had always had a sweet temperament with Harry.

"Hey there, lovely," he said, his tone soothing as he extended a hand for it to inspect.

Zeroing on Harry, the bird hopped towards him and shoved its head under his palm, demanding pets. Harry's throat tightened at the sight of it. It reminded him so much of Hedwig—her constant support, her sweetness, how she had always been there to carry his messages when nothing else seemed to matter. The ache in his chest grew, a deep, gnawing pain that pulled at him like a weight. He missed her. He missed the world before the war, when things had been simpler, when he had been able to look forward to the small comforts, like flying around the Quidditch pitch at night, or a simple visit to the Burrow—now too awkward since he had broken up with Ginny. Now, everything felt fractured, scattered, beyond repair.

With a heavy heart, he took the letter and tied it to the barn owl's leg, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he gave it a soft pat. The owl hooted softly before spreading its wings and soaring out of the open window. Harry stood there for a moment, watching it disappear into the night, a small part of him wishing it could carry him away too.

With a trembling hand, he deposited the delivery fee—3 sickles and 11 knuts— before turning away. He left the owl post office in a hurry, the familiar weight of his decisions pressing on him like the suffocating air of Grimmauld Place.

Apparating back to the house, Harry's heart sank further as he re-entered the dark, oppressive silence. The house seemed to breathe around him, walls shifting, creaking, like something alive, but he couldn't tell if it was trying to welcome him or devour him whole.

Grimmauld Place felt more like a tomb than a home, now.

The following morning, as the sun cast a pale, weak light over the chaos that was Grimmauld Place, Harry sat at the small desk in the corner of one of the multiple studies, absently watching the door. His hands were folded in front of him, eyes tired, and instead of replying to Charlie's letter on the desk, his mind was consumed with the lingering anxiety of what he had done. He kept glancing at the clock, but it felt like time was moving at a crawl. Would Malfoy even reply? Would helisten? Would he care?

The wait seemed endless, the silence oppressive, as Harry sat at the small desk in the corner of the room, staring at the parchment in front of him. His quill hovered over the paper, but the words wouldn't come. He had tried several times to begin a reply to Charlie's letter, but each time his thoughts would scatter before he could write anything meaningful, Harry couldn't focus on it if his life depended on it. And it was starting to look like his sanitydiddepend on the bloody letter. His mind kept wandering back to the strange disorientation he had woken up with that morning—finding himself in a large crib inside an old nursery instead of his own bed in Grimmauld Place, it hadn't been nice. The old rocking chair by the window had creaked as he sat up, the weight of it heavy with memories of childhood he didn't want to revisit. It made him shudder.

Right, Charlie's letter.

Harry,

I hope this letter finds you well, though I know it's been a while since I last wrote to you. Things have been hectic here in Romania. The dragons are as wild as ever, and we've been working on some new techniques for training the little ones. The Romanian Longhorns are particularly stubborn this season, but I'm sure you'd get a laugh seeing me trying to wrangle one of those beasts. You'd be proud to know that I've finally got a decent hold on one of the older males—he's a bit temperamental, but I think we're getting there.

By the way, Norberta laid eggs for the first time just a few days ago! Hagrid just about put out the hearth when I firecalled him. He says he wants to come meet them—even though they're still eggs— as soon as possible. Hey, why don't you join him—

Had Malfoy even received his letter? Opened it? Harry knew that, if it were him, he would have thrown any correspondence from Malfoy into the fire the second he saw his poncy, monogrammed stationery.

Sigh.

Not even two paragraphs in and he already was getting distracted again. The quill trembled slightly in his hand as he gnawed at the end, but his anxiety churned, making it impossible to focus on anything else. The thought of Draco's letter, still yet to be delivered, ate away at him, filling the room with a palpable tension. He could hear the faint creaking of the house around him, each shift and groan making him feel even more paranoid of what was happening in his blasted house. His breathing quickened as the minutes dragged on, each second stretching into the next, until finally, just as he was about to crumple the letter in frustration and give up, something tapped gently against the window.

The sudden noise made him jump in his chair, but it only took him a few seconds of fumbling with his wand to open the window for what he hoped was Malfoy's owl. A soft rustling sounded, and then, with a flurry of feathers, an owl indeed flew in, its wings flapping eagerly as it dropped a letter onto the desk in front of him. It was a sleek, pale bird; small, swift, and bearing a letter sealed with the Malfoy crest—he was disappointed to see, however, that the parchment was not, in fact, monogrammed.

Harry stared at the letter for a moment, a little disbelieving, and suspicious, before snatching it from his desk, almost too quickly, and breaking the seal. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but the terse simplicity of Malfoy's reply took him off guard.

Potter,

Fine.

Draco Abraxas Malfoy,
Magical repair specialist for Burgin and Burkes, Knockturn Alley

One word.Fine. Nothing more. No demanding an explanation. No acknowledgment of the threats. Just a single word.

It wasn't the relief Harry had hoped for. There was no sense of triumph or satisfaction. It was just… that. Malfoy would help. He had agreed to it, but it didn't feel like a victory. Instead, it felt like the beginning of something more complicated, more dangerous—another reminder that Harry couldn't escape his past, and neither could Draco.

He folded the letter carefully and set it down, staring at the wall once again, thinking about Malfoy's terse reply long after the wallpaper had stopped making sense. The relief that he had secured help was fleeting, replaced by the sinking realization that what had started as a simple act of desperation was now a full-on invitation to confront the chaos of his life head-on.

Malfoy's involvement would change everything. And Harry didn't know if he was ready for it. But he had no other choice.

With a weary sigh, Harry stood up, looking around at the shifting walls of Grimmauld Place, the oppressive silence hanging in the air. The house wasn't done with him yet. And neither, it seemed, was Draco Malfoy.

The Hemingford Arms was a lovely pub tucked away in one of Islington's more popular roads, and it was a posh-looking, dimly lit place. Its facade was covered in green foliage that made the street smell heavenly. The place was cosy, and very rarely—if ever— frequented by wix, which gave Harry all the privacy he needed when he wanted to drink his sorrows away, so to speak. Its door creaked slightly as it opened to let out a giggly couple of girls to the chilly October breeze, and Harry hesitated outside for a moment, tugging at the collar of his jacket. He didn't know if the cold in his chest was from the weather or the thought of the person he was to meet inside.

Maybe he shouldn't have invited Malfoy to his favourite pub.

When he finally pushed the heavy door open, the scent of old wood, leather, and faintly damp air greeted him. The space was spacious enough, with low, comfortable couches and muted golden light spilling from hanging lamps. The muffled clinking of glasses and the hum of conversation blended into a quiet ambiance, cosy but not welcoming.

Andoh, bollocks, Malfoy was already there.

Seated at a small, shadowed table near the back, he looked every bit as composed as Harry expected—shoulders squared, long legs crossed, one hand lightly curled around a tall glass of something pink-ish. Even in the dim light, Malfoy stood out like he always had. The tailored blue blazer, the sharp black trousers, the boots polished to perfection—he looked as though he'd stepped out of a bloody catalogue. The black turtleneck beneath the blazer only heightened his angular, aristocratic features, and his hair, no longer slicked back but neatly combed, framed his face in a way that felt entirely too deliberate to be natural. Merlin, even his expressive eyebrows looked groomed to perfection. And though he looked a little too pale, and had a dusting of eyebags below his striking eyes, he still looked terribly handsome.

For a moment, Harry's steps faltered. He hated to admit it—he really, really hated it—but Malfoy had aged remarkably well. Infuriatingly well, unlike Harry himself. His sharp edges had softened just enough to make him seem… approachable, almost. He exuded a kind of quiet authority that Harry couldn't help but envy.

And was hereallywearing Muggle clothing?

He didn't know why he was surprised by the fact, it's not like he had expected the git to wear his pompous wixen robes to a Muggle pub. But, apparently, a part of him had certainly expected him to be too haughty and bigoted to wear anything Muggle. Nevertheless, wear somethingactuallyfashionable instead of a mismatched mess of patterns and fabrics. Hell, even Ron looked awkward and strange from time to time when he wore Muggle clothing.

Someone next to Harry suddenly laughed out loud, making Malfoy glance in his direction with a face so full of distaste and condescension that Harry almost felt the need to stuff an apple into the laughing man. It was this glare that made Malfoy catch sight of him immediately. His grey eyes narrowed in that familiar way Harry remembered too well, and his lips pressed into a thin line. As Harry made his way over, he caught the unmistakable flick of Malfoy's wrist checking his watch with a distinct air of disdain about him.

God, he was such a poncy git.

"You're late," Malfoy drawled the moment Harry slid into the seat opposite him. His voice was as smooth as ever, cutting through the air with a sharp, frustrated tone. His wixen accent was very strong even now, which made sense for someone who spent little to no time around Muggles, or even muggle-borns. To Harry, who knew that the accent resulted from being an isolated community and lived around wix who sounded very dated, it was normal enough, but he imagined that Muggles must think Malfoy was a European or something.

Out of nowhere, Malfoy snapped his fingers in Harry's face to regain his attention. His expression was pinched with annoyance, one perfectly arched brow raised in a challenge. Harry bristled, pulling his coat off with more force than necessary.

"Earth to Potter!" Malfoy quipped, his tone dripping with exasperation. "You're sitting there like a stunned flobberworm, and frankly, I haven't got all night to wait for your heroic inner monologue to finish. Merlin forbid I catch my death waiting on you."

"I'm eleven minutes late, so what? Don't be dramatic."

Malfoy raised a single dark brow, his glass poised at his lips.

"Eleven minutes is still late. Especially when it wasyouwho demanded this meeting," he set the glass down, tilting his head slightly. "But do go on. Let's hear what incredible excuse you've conjured up, Scarhead."

Harry glared at him, his cheeks warming.

"My loo spirited me into the garden. I spent the better part of thirty minutes wrestling a Devil's Snare," Harry said with a clenched jaw.

Malfoy blinked, then blinked again, his expression teetering between incredulity and disdain.

"Your…loo?"

"Yes, my loo!" Harry snapped, leaning forward slightly. "It's Grimmauld Place. It's alive and mad as a hatter, or haven't you heard?"

"Don't be ridiculous, why would a hatter be mad?" Malfoy said, with an eye roll so strong, Harry was surprised his eyes didn't retract into their sockets. "You say you fought a Devil's Snare?" he asked, his voice slow and low, as if tasting the words. His lips quirked faintly, and Harry hated that he couldn't tell if it was a smirk or the beginning of a genuine smile. "And here I thought our darling Chosen One had conquered worse."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Ihaveconquered worse. And for the record, Devil's Snares are bastards when they've been let loose in the middle of a centuries-old overgrown garden."

Malfoy's expression betrayed nothing except mild amusement, but he didn't press further. Instead, he took a measured sip of his drink, as if thoroughly unimpressed by Harry's plight. The silence between them stretched for a moment, heavy and tense. Harry glanced around the pub, as though searching for an escape route, before forcing himself to meet Malfoy's gaze. It was only then that he noticed the redness in Malfoy's eyes.

"Look," he said, more sharply than he intended. "I didn't come here to argue."

"No? A shame, Potter. It's one of the few things we excel at."

Harry's hand twitched on the table, and he took a deep breath. "I'm serious, Malfoy. I wouldn't have called you if I didn't desperately need your help."

The amusement slipped from Malfoy's face at that, replaced by something worn-out, more guarded in its tiredness. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.

"Go on, then. Let's hear it. And be quick, I've been feeling tired lately, so I would appreciate being able to actuallyreston my rest day."

Harry exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Right, fine. But you don't get to be smug about this," he said, his tone half-defeated.

Malfoy arched an elegant brow, relaxing in the leather chair with an exaggerated air of aloofness, seconds later, he started examining his well manicured hands as if to drive his point home.

"Oh, please, Potter. Like I'd waste precious energy mocking you over whatever catastrophic mess you've stumbled into this time. Go on, enlighten me."

Harry frowned. "You don't even look curious about—"

"Potter," Malfoy interrupted, waving his hand dramatically, "I'm knackered. Magically, physically, emotionally. The only thing keeping me upright right now is spite and caffeine, and I'm fresh out of the latter," he sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "I've been like this for weeks. Months, maybe. Sometimes I can't even manage anything stronger than anExpelliarmusby nightfall. So forgive me if I'm not brimming with intrigue, but whatever this is, can we just cut to the point?"

Harry blinked, thrown off balance. "You're… tired?"

"Yes, Potter. Tired," Malfoy gave him an exasperated look at his incessant repetition. "And before you ask—no, it's not normal. I used to be brilliant at doing my job. Now? I feel like a first year Longbottom by nightfall with the way my magic reserves are."

"So, it's not just your job, then," said Harry, his mind reeling, like it did when he was about to discover something.

"Salazar help me," muttered Malfoy, his exasperation visible in the way he raised a pale hand to rub at his eyes. "Yes, Potter, it's not just work—it's everything and nothing seems to help. Satisfied? Now stop deflecting and tell me what's wrong with your bloody house."

Something clicked in Harry's head, then. Andromeda had mentioned something similar, hadn't she? Something about the house pulling at her magic, it being uncomfortable. It hadn't seemed like it was… hacking away at her magic, like Malfoy was implying. Maybe Malfoy was feeling it more strongly because of his closer connection to the house… it fit.

Or was he overthinking this?

Harry sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. "Fine."

Fidgeting in his seat, he hesitated once more, the words sticking in his throat for a moment. Harry hadn't wanted to ask for help—not from anyone, and especially not from DracobloodyMalfoy. But here he was, about to spill his messy, half-broken life across the table like some desperate plea.

"Like I said, it's Grimmauld Place," he began finally, his voice quieter now, though the weight in it was unmistakable. "It's… falling apart. The magic's wild—completely out of control. Rooms disappear and reappear on a whim, walls shift, corridors vanish. The house doesn't—" He stopped, his jaw tightening. "It doesn't recognise me."

Malfoy's exasperated expression didn't change, but Harry could see the growing tension in his jaw, the way his red-rimmed grey eyes flicked over Harry's face like he was searching for something.

"I've tried everything," Harry continued, more forcefully now. "Andromeda—your aunt— she's tried too. She's a Black and a damn good witch, but even she couldn't fix it. The house... it's crumbling around me, Malfoy. Merlin knows, I've triedeverything,but all my efforts have been for nothing. I feel like it's going to kill me one of these days."

Malfoy said nothing, his gaze fixed firmly on Harry's.

"And before you say it," Harry added quickly, his hands curling into fists on the table, "I know I'm not a Black. IknowI don't belong there. But it's the only place I have left—it's the last piece of— of—"

He trailed off, his throat tightening. He hated the way the words sounded out loud. Weak. Vulnerable. He had never wanted to sound this way in front of Malfoy, and yet, here he was, practically begging the git to save his sorry arse.

He let out a long and painful sigh.

"I don't know what else to do…" he finally admitted, his voice despondent even to his own ears.

Harry's words seemed to linger in the air between them, heavy and raw, almost suffocating in their vulnerability. Malfoy tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable, as he leaned back in his chair, fingertips pressed together as if deep in thought. Then, the faint flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps?—lit behind his tired eyes, and Harry, for once, couldn't quite place the look Malfoy gave him.

For a moment, it seemed as though Malfoy was about to dismiss him entirely, that signature sneer of his half-formed on his lips. But then, as Harry had continued to explain the state of Grimmauld Place—its collapsing structure, its wild, random shifting, ancient magic surging uncontrollably, rejecting his presence—something in Malfoy shifted. He didn't interrupt, for once, as Harry spoke. Instead, he sat unnaturally still, his silver-grey eyes narrowing slightly, the sneer falling away and leaving behind an expression of pure calculation. The sharp edges of his defensiveness dulled, replaced by a kind of quiet intrigue.

Malfoy studied him in silence for a few long seconds before huffing in exasperation, his face unreadable beyond a shade of annoyance. Then he sat forward, resting his arms atop his knees and interlacing his long fingers. "You're saying Grimmauld Place is actively hostile? Like it's targeting you specifically?"

"Yes," Harry said, relieved that Malfoy had decided to apparently take him seriously. "And it's not just me being dramatic, Malfoy. This isn't the house playing pranks on me—it's dangerous."

Malfoy pursed his lips, his brow furrowing in thought. "And let me guess: instead of asking for help months ago, you've been living in there alone, sulking about like a martyr, and letting the house eat away at you."

Harry flushed, looking away. "I haven't been sulking."

"Merlin's pants, Potter." Malfoy groaned, his head falling into his hands. "Of course you have."

With a huff, Malfoy uncrossed his arms, took his poncy drink once again and drained it in one go, as if using the liquid courage to get the energy to continue with this conversation.

"You said the magic doesn't recognise you," Malfoy said finally, his voice less mocking now, more thoughtful. He leaned forward on the table, tapping a single finger against the rim of his empty glass. "It sees you as, what then? An intruder?"

Harry clicked his tongue in annoyance, though he was slightly relieved that Malfoy wasn't biting his head off for asking for help—a little too late, according to him. "Not exactly. It recognises me as its master, to some extent at least, but it's like—like it knows I'm not a Black. It's rejecting me—pushing me out of the house entirely. I've tried everything I can think of to fix it, but nothing works. The magic is too... wild. It's old magic. It doesn't care what I want."

Malfoy tilted his head, his pale brows furrowing ever so slightly as he considered this new piece of information.

"Old magic..." he murmured, his tone carrying a note of reverence. "Of course. The Black family magic. Generations of spells layered upon the house, each tied to the bloodline. The wards, the protections, the enchantments—hell, even the house's foundations—, everything would be bound to the family. If the house senses you're not one of us, it's only natural it would rebel."

Harry let out a sharp breath, his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.

"That's the problem. I know I'm not a Black—I know I don't belong there. But it's Sirius' house, Malfoy. It's all I have left of him. I can't just… leave."

Malfoy's gaze flickered away from Harry's face, lingering on the adjacent wallpaper for a moment too long. There was something almost unreadable in his expression—an unfamiliar mix of pity, apprehension, and something else Harry couldn't quite name. But then Malfoy leaned back in his seat once more, crossing his arms near to his chest, his tone shifting again to one of detached inquiry.

"And what exactly do you expect me to do about it? I can't simply snap my fingers and tame wild magic, Potter. If Andromeda couldn't manage it, I'm hardly likely to. And like I said, I barely have the energy to salvage your crazy home, between work and everything else."

That was the third or fourth time Malfoy had mentioned his lack of energy. Slowly, Harry's metaphorical light bulb lit up, making Harry open his mouth slightly in realisation. Malfoy's eyes narrowed at his surprised expression, as if trying to pry away whatever revelation had struck Harry. Harry's gaze flicked over Draco, taking in some of the more subtle signs he'd somehow missed earlier—the faint hollowness under his eyes, the slight pallor to his already pale skin, and the tension in his posture that seemed to fight against his usual air of nonchalance. Noticing that he had been looking at Malfoy for far too long, Harry quickly looked away and towards the window, faking interest in the world outside.

A couple necking against a car; an old lady taking out a ziplock bag and throwing some seeds at the pigeons; a black dog sitting next to his owner… and suddenly Harry looked back toward Malfoy.

"Well, she said something about her being disowned," Harry admitted, his voice low and tight. He sighed. "I just know you're my best shot. You've always been brilliant at this kind of thing, and… there's something else."

Malfoy raised a single brow, his mouth turning downwards in displeasure.

"Go on."

Harry hesitated, his fingers curling around the edge of the table as he searched for the right words.

"I'm not sure how but, I think you might be connected to this," he said, his mouth pursing in thought. "To the house, I mean. I don't know if it's because you're a Black by blood and magic, or something else, but—"

He paused, his green eyes narrowing as he studied Malfoy's face.

"Er… like you said, you've been feeling drained lately. Like your magic's being syphoned away, right?"

Malfoy stilled at that, his guarded expression slipping ever so slightly.

"'Syphoned', you say?" he asked, his voice sharp and accusatory, though Harry could sense, there was also an undercurrent of something like unease. Harry didn't care, it was Malfoy's fault for having opened his big mouth about his magic, wasn't it?

Harry leaned forward, his voice lowering to almost a whisper.

"You just told me, didn't you? When you said you didn't have enough magic to repair Grimmauld Place yourself and that you've been exhausted, and magically, too. It's not just fatigue, is it? Something's taking your magic."

Malfoy's lips parted, as though he wanted to deny it, but the flicker of shock in his silver eyes gave him away. He looked down at the table, his fingers drumming lightly against the wood.

"It's none of your business, really," he said exasperated, his voice quieter now, almost reluctant. "I assumed it was simply a side effect of working with cursed objects at Borgin & Burkes, but..."

He trailed off, his brows knitting together as he stared at nothing in particular.

"But now it makes sense," Harry finished for him, his voice insistent. "It's the house. Grimmauld Place. I don't know how or why, but it seems it's not just rejecting me—I think it's pulling at you. Maybe it thinks you're its rightful heir, or maybe it's just trying to restore itself using whatever Black magic it can find. Either way, it's connected to you, Malfoy. And if we don't fix it—"

"If we don't fix it," Malfoy interrupted, his voice cold and clipped, "I'll likely be drained dry. Is that what you're implying?"

Harry nodded grimly.

"Maybe? I don't know for sure but… I wouldn't take the risk if I were you."

Malfoy exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, there was a spark of something behind his usual guarded expression—something sharp, calculating, and undeniably shrewd.

"Fascinating," he muttered under his breath, though his tone carried no small amount of bitterness.

"Fascinating?" Harry repeated incredulously. How could Malfoy find academic interest in something that was likely killing him? For a second, Harry thought about how that was something very Hermione of Malfoy, and it made him shiver. "Malfoy, this isn't some swotty puzzle. It's your life—and mine."

"Yes, yes, I know," Malfoy snapped, but there was no real bite in his words. Instead, he rubbed his temples, as though trying to piece together a particularly vexing problem. "But you're asking me to confront not only the magic of Grimmauld Place but centuries of my family's legacy—generations of enchantments, curses, and blood ties. Do you even have the faintest idea what that entails?"

"Well… no, not really," Harry admitted.

Malfoy's gaze met Harry's again, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. The tension between them crackled like static.

Finally, Malfoy sighed, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. "Fine," he said, his tone reluctant but resolute. "I'll help you. But if I die in the process, I'm haunting you for the rest of your miserable life."

Harry couldn't help the small, wry smile that tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Eh… sure, fair enough."

Malfoy rolled his eyes, his patience clearly wearing thin, and pushed back his chair with a deliberate, almost soundless scrape against the floor. Rising with a smoothness that bordered on infuriating, his movement carried that air of effortless elegance Harry had always begrudgingly envied.

"Though, honestly, Potter, a cursed house of horrors?" Malfoy muttered, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, "You're the Chosen One, not the Suffering One. Must everything be a Shakespearean production with you?"

In a hurry, Harry scrambled to his feet as well, his seat nearly toppling in his haste. "I didn't ask for this," he shot back defensively, though his voice stuttered slightly under Malfoy's scrutiny. With brusque movements, he took his coat from where it lay crumpled in his seat, and pulled it on.

Malfoy raised a brow, his expression caught between irritation and amusement.

"No, but you have an infuriating habit of pretending you're the only one who can handle it." He adjusted his blazer with a flick of his wrist, the movement easy, like that of someone who didn't need to announce his readiness. "Nonetheless, I'll need to do some research in advance," Malfoy said briskly. "And I need you to stop wrestling Devil's Snares long enough to get your house in order, Potter. We'll start tomorrow, and I refuse to work in a pigsty."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes, Potter. Tomorrow. I need to assess the house's status before I even attempt to try and fix whatever it is you did to make the house go looney," he said, his voice stressed. "After that, I can look into specific books to address the situation. Now go home before your loo decides to dump you in the Thames."

Before Harry could respond, Malfoy turned on his heel and strode toward the door, his steps echoing sharply in the quiet pub.

Harry stood frozen for a moment, watching him go, his heart pounding against his ribs.

Fuck. This was going to be a disaster.

With hurried steps, Harry followed Malfoy to the street, now dark and damp. The air outside the pub was biting, the kind of cold that sneaks through layers of clothing and settles deep in the bones. Harry wrapped his arms around himself, though it wasn't just the weather that made him feel uneasy. The weight of the conversation he'd just had sat heavily on his shoulders, as if he were already carrying the burden of the partnership he'd agreed to. Next to him, Malfoy looked just as tense, though he hid it better. He always did.

The pub door creaked shut behind them, muffling the hum of voices and the clinking of glasses inside. For a moment, they stood in silence, the only sound between them the faint rustle of the wind and the occasional distant footsteps of passers-by. Harry shoved his hands deep into the pockets of Sirius' jacket, staring at the cobblestones beneath his feet. Fuck, he wished he had brought a scarf, or gloves for the cold. Looking at the blonde next to him, he didn't know what to say. He wasn't even sure how he felt—relieved, maybe, that Malfoy had agreed to help, but also apprehensive. This wasn't going to be easy. It never was, with Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy broke the silence first, his voice cutting through the chill like a blade.

"Well, Potter? Can I finally go home and rest, or do you need to say something else to me? Am I finally free of your bespectacled visage?"

Annoyed, Harry glanced up, his green eyes meeting Malfoy's steady, silver gaze. There was no venom in the words, just the usual sharpness that seemed to be as much a part of Malfoy as his pale hair or posh bearing. Harry shrugged, trying to suppress the irritation rising in his chest. He didn't need Malfoy's attitude right now—not when the house was barely holding itself together, not when every step he took inside Grimmauld Place felt like walking into a trap.

"No," Harry said, his tone clipped but deciding to ignore Malfoy's jabs. "Like you said, we can start tomorrow. After nine."

Malfoy raised a single brow, his arms going into the front pockets of his trousers, making him look terribly debonair. His blazer flared slightly with the movement, and Harry noted, with no small amount of annoyance, that even after everything—after the war, the trials, the years of hardship, his apparent tiredness—Malfoy still managed to look infuriatingly put-together. The sharp lines of his blue blazer, the black turtleneck that clung to his lithe frame, the polished boots—they all looked well-worn but undoubtedly fashionable and timeless. It was as if the universe had decided Draco Malfoy should age like a fine wine while he was ageing like mouldy cheese; and Harry hated that he noticed.

"After nine?" Malfoy repeated, his tone somehow both dubious and sarcastic at the same time. "Didn't expect you to be an early bird."

Harry rolled his eyes, his patience already wearing thin.

"Do you have a problem with that, Malfoy? Or are you going to show up and actually do something useful for once?"

The words were sharp, carrying the heat they had harbored in their school days. Even so, Malfoy's pink lips twitched, not quite a sneer, but close enough, his gaze amused.

"Relax, Potter. I'll be there. I'm simply surprised you're capable of waking up earlier than midday. After all, punctuality doesn't seem to be your strong suit."

Harry scowled, the reminder of his tardiness stinging more than it should. "I told you, it wasn't my fault. The loo decided to dump me in the bloody garden, and I—"

"Yes, yes, you cuddled with a deathly plant," Malfoy interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "The house is trying to kill you. I got that part."

Harry gritted his teeth, swallowing the retort bubbling up in his throat. It wasn't worth it. He forced himself to take a deep breath, trying to push past the irritation. "Just be there, Malfoy. We'll need to be quick, though. I've got lunch plans."

"Lunch plans," Malfoy repeated, his voice dripping with mock surprise. "My, Potter, you've got quite the social calendar, don't you? Who's the lucky guest this time? Weasley and Granger, I assume?"

Harry shot him a glare. "Yes, actually. And I'm going totheirs. Not that it's any of your business."

Malfoy smirked, his pale eyes glinting with amusement and just a bit of meanness.

"Ah, how predictable. The Golden Trio gathered over a hearty meal, no doubt. Do send them mykindestregards."

Harry couldn't stop the corner of his mouth from twitching, though he quickly masked it by biting hard on his lower lip. It was such a typical Malfoy response—dry, cutting, and just a wee bit ridiculous. For the briefest of moments, it almost felt like old times, like the years hadn't passed them by; and they were still teenagers trading barbs in the corridors of Hogwarts. But the weight of the war, of their history, hung between them like a ghost, impossible to ignore.

"Goodbye, Malfoy," Harry said finally, the words curt but not unkind.

Malfoy inclined his head ever so slightly, a gesture that might have been mistaken for politeness if it hadn't come from him. "Goodbye, Potter. Until tomorrow."

Without another word, Malfoy turned on his heel and strode toward the nearest alleyway. Harry watched him go, his coat billowing slightly in the wind, his footsteps echoing softly against the cobblestones. When Malfoy reached the shadowed alley, he paused briefly, glancing back over his shoulder. Their eyes met for a split second, and then, with a faintcrack, Malfoy was gone.

Harry let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging as he turned and began the walk home. The streets of Islington were quiet this late in the evening, most shops closed, their windows dark. The air was still cold, and Harry unconsciously pulled his shirt tighter around himself, his thoughts swirling like a storm. He should've felt relieved. He had Malfoy's agreement, however reluctant, and they had a plan… ish. But instead, he felt... uneasy, as if something bad were to happen. Malfoy's involvement complicated things. It wasn't just the history between them, though that was certainly part of it. It was the way Malfoy had looked at him tonight—guarded, calculating, but also... curious. Like he was trying to figure Harry out, to piece together something Harry himself didn't fully understand. Harry didn't like the feeling, it made him feel targeted.

And then there was the house. Grimmauld Place was dangerous now, unstable in a way that went beyond its physical structure. Bringing Malfoy into that chaos felt like a gamble, but Harry didn't have a choice. He couldn't fix it alone. And if Malfoy really was connected to the house's magic, if his presence could help stabilise it…

Harry shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He was overthinking it. He needed to focus on the task at hand—fixing the house, taming the wild magic, and keeping everyone involved alive in the process. That was all that mattered.

By the time he reached Grimmauld Place, the familiar dread had settled back into his chest. The house loomed before him, dark and foreboding, its windows like hollow eyes staring down at him. He hesitated on the front step, his hand hovering over the doorknob. The thought of stepping inside filled him with a deep, gnawing unease. But he had no choice. He never did. With a heavy sigh, Harry pushed the door open and stepped inside. The air was thick and oppressive, the faint scent of dust and decay lingering in the hall. The house creaked around him, its walls shifting faintly as though alive. Harry's stomach twisted.

Tomorrow, Malfoy would come to Grimmauld Place. And one way or another, everything was about to change.

The beginning of dawn's sun streamed weakly through the grimy windows of Grimmauld Place, casting dim light onto the dusty surfaces and cobwebbed corners. Harry groaned as he rolled, his head pounding slightly from a restless night of sleep. The bed he'd managed to fish out of his room before it had disappeared once again was alright, but it did little to help with his constant tension that riddled his body like a parasite. His body ached as though the walls of the house pressed down on him even in his sleep. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, scrubbing his hands through his unruly hair, the knot of anxiety in his stomach twisting tighter with each passing second. His dreams, fleeting and fragmented, had left behind an unease he couldn't quite shake. Flashes of grey eyes, piercing and indifferent, floated through his subconscious as though his mind had decided to torture him before the day had even begun.

His early morning had started poorly, and he knew it was only going to get worse as the minutes dragged on. Harry groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. The faint, orangish light of sunrise filtered in through the tattered curtains, doing little to illuminate the room. Shadows clung to every corner, dark and lingering, a reminder —not that he'd ever forget—of the house's stubborn refusal to become homey or welcoming to him.

He glanced around the bedroom, or at least what passed for one, he didn't particularly knowwherein the house he had ended up at in the middle of the night. The bed was lopsided, one leg shorter than the others, causing it to tilt slightly to the left. The wallpaper was peeling in long strips, revealing dark, damp patches underneath. A cabinet leaned against the wall as though it might collapse at any moment, and the floorboards creaked ominously with even the slightest movement. It was a far cry from anything resembling comfort.

The knot in Harry's stomach tightened as the events of the previous night came rushing back to him. His meeting with Malfoy at the pub had been uncomfortable, to put it mildly. The tension between them had been palpable, their shared animosity hanging in the air like a stormy cloud. And yet, against all odds, Malfoy had agreed to help him. Harry didn't know whether to feel relieved or anxious about this development. Probably both.

Draco Malfoy was coming in a few hours.

The thought alone set Harry on edge, a flood of emotions—most of them unpleasant—washing over him. He hadn't seen Malfoy in years, not properly, anyway. Their brief meeting last night had been enough to stir something unsettling within him. Malfoy had looked so…composed, so utterly sure of himself despite the evident tiredness. And, of course, annoyingly handsome, Harry admitted begrudgingly, though the thought only made him scowl at himself. It wasn't fair that Malfoy looked like he belonged on the cover of some ridiculous fashion magazine, while Harry felt like the poster child for'Dishevelled and Over it.'

Shaking his head, Harry forced himself to his feet and stretched, his muscles stiff from a night of tossing and turning. He padded across the cold wooden floor to what used to be his bathroom but now was devoid of a tub, shower and toilet—hey, at least the sink was still there—, cursing under his breath as he stubbed his toe on a loose floorboard. The house was falling apart around him, and it was taking his sanity with it. He splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it waking him up fully. His reflection in the cracked mirror was a sorry sight. Dark circles under his eyes, hair sticking up in every direction and tangled beyond salvation, and a shadow of stubble on his jaw.

He looked like shite.

After brushing his teeth and attempting to tame his unruly hair, Harry made his way to what he hoped was still the kitchen. Maybe some tea and toast would settle his nerves, though he already doubted it. And lo and behold, the kitchen, as always, had other plans. His hands were unsteady as he fumbled with the kettle, spilling water across the counter before managing to fill it properly. And after a good thirty minutes, the kettle, which had been perfectly functional the day before, refused to boil. The toaster, ancient and temperamental, decided to burn his toast to an inedible crisp. Harry cursed under his breath, smacking the toaster with a flat palm in frustration, which of course burnt him painfully. Scowling and in a terrible mood already, he scraped the charred bits into the sink with an angry sigh, trying not to let the morning's failures get even more under his skin.

Just as he was about to settle for a cold brew of coffee, the kettle suddenly decided to boil over as Harry turned to grab a mug, the liquid hissing as it spilled onto the stovetop.

"Bloody fuckinghell," Harry muttered, snatching the kettle off the burner and slamming it onto the counter. He rubbed his temples, breathing deeply to calm himself down.

It wasn't working. Every little thing seemed to be going wrong this morning, and the worst part was that Harry knew exactly why. His nerves were shot. He couldn't focus, couldn't think straight. The memory of Malfoy's sharp, piercing gaze was like a splinter lodged under his skin—impossible to ignore, no matter how hard he tried.

After another failed attempt to make breakfast, Harry finally gave up, tossing the burned toast into the bin.

"Fine," he muttered to himself forcefully. "Fine!Who needs breakfast anyway? Bloody useless house," he continued, glaring at the wall as though it might glare back.

Of course, the house didn't respond—not verbally, at least. But the faint creak of the floorboards above him felt suspiciously like laughter.

He poured himself a mug of scalding tea and sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the chipped wood. The knot of anxiety in his stomach hadn't eased. If anything, it had gotten worse. He couldn't stop thinking about Malfoy—about the way he'd looked at him last night, sharp and assessing, like he was peeling back Harry's layers and judging everything he saw— and the fact that he was going to visit his house. And of course, Malfoy had looked perfect. He always did. Even in the dim lighting of the pub, his polished appearance had been impossible to miss. It was infuriating.

"Why do I care?" Harry muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "It's Malfoy. Who cares what he thinks?"

But, maybe, he did care. He always had, though he'd never admit it out loud. Malfoy had a way of getting under his skin like no one else could. Even after all these years, he still knew how to push Harry's buttons.

Abandoning his unfinished tea, Harry stood and began pacing the kitchen. His nerves were shot, and he needed to do something—anything—to keep his mind occupied. He glanced around the kitchen, the sight of its shabby disarray only worsening his mood, making something in his belly twist and turn as if he had just pulled a Wronski Feint. The cupboards were chipped and peeling, the floor scuffed and stained, and the table sat shakily, one leg uneven. It was exactly what Harry expected of Grimmauld Place, but the thought of Malfoy walking in and seeing it…judging itas if it was his fault… made his stomach churn. He could already picture the raised brow, the sneering comment about Harry's inability to keep a house clean.

Before he even realised what he was doing, Harry was grabbing a rag and bucket of soapy water, setting to work on scrubbing the kitchen tops. The kitchen was in dire need of attention, with years of grime and neglect clinging to every surface. It wasn't like him to care—truly care—about what the state of his kitchen was, or what others thought of it. Or at least, that's what he told himself. But his hands moved with a kind of desperation, scouring away layers of gunk and negligence as if Malfoy's opinion of him depended on it. And, as he worked, he found himself scrubbing harder than necessary, his frustration bleeding into his movements. He wasn't just cleaning the house; he was trying to exorcise his own restless energy.

He worked his way through the kitchen with a kind of frantic energy that might have sent Hermione into a worrying fit if she saw him, the soapy water turning gray as he wiped down every surface he could reach (curse hisaveragestature). Then he moved on to the sitting room, vacuuming rugs and dusting shelves. He even polished the tarnished frames of the family portraits, though the Black ancestors sneered at him from behind the glass, muttering insults as he worked.

"Disgraceful," one of the ancestors muttered as Harry wiped away a layer of dust. "A Potter, of all people, on his knees like a house-elf."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I've heard it all before," he said, tossing the rag over his shoulder.

And, for once, the house didn't seem to resist him. The wild, chaotic magic of Grimmauld Place, which so often fought against him, was oddly… cooperative today. The walls, which usually groaned and shifted with every step he took, were oddly silent. The creaking floorboards stilled, the shifting furniture remained in place, and even the flickering lamps burned steadily.

It was as though the house itself wanted to look its best for Malfoy's arrival. Harry didn't know whether to feel grateful or unnerved, the thought making him scowl.

By the time he reached the drawing room, sweat was dripping down the back of his neck, and his arms ached from scrubbing and hauling furniture. He straightened a crooked chair and stepped back, surveying the room with a critical eye. It looked better—still old and worn, but cleaner, more presentable.

Not that it mattered. He wasn't doing this for Malfoy.

Hewasn't.

So why couldn't he shake the image of Malfoy's cold, critical gaze? Why did the thought of those pale, assessing eyes finding fault in his home make Harry's chest tighten with frustration?

"I don't care what bloody Malfoy thinks," Harry grumbled to himself in denial, throwing down the rag he'd been using to clean a window. The words echoed hollowly in the quiet room, as if even the house didn't believe him. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. "I don't!"

But his anxiety refused to go away, and Harry knew he was lying to himself. He knew hedidcare, and it infuriated Harry to no end. He told himself it was just old habits, lingering tension from their school days, but deep down, he suspected it was something more than that. The thought made him uncomfortable.

Picking up the rag and with a frustrated groan, Harry sank into the freshly cleaned armchair, staring up at the ceiling. The chandelier above him, cracked and dusty, swayed faintly in the still air. He let out a long breath, his thoughts drifting to the day ahead. Malfoy would be here soon, and Harry wasn't ready—not for the house, not for the tension, and certainly not for the complicated feelings Malfoy always seemed to stir up.

But he didn't have a choice. Grimmauld Place needed help, and Malfoy, for all his many,manyflaws, seemed to be the only one who could provide it.

Harry just had to get through the day without losing his mind.

Easier said than done.

His back hurt. Of course it did, the bloody bathroom mirror had decided to move itself to the floor next to the base of the sink at an angle that had Harry crouched down awkwardly, craning his neck to see his reflection. His knees were screaming in protest, and he was fairly sure his back would punish him later for subjecting it to this despotic treatment. But he couldn't bring himself to stop. Not yet.

He grimaced at the sight before him: messy hair, tan face paler than it should be, and a shadow of stubble on his jawline that made him look less ruggedly handsome and more 'slept in a bin for three days and woke up like this'. His reflection glared back at him, clearly unimpressed with his own attempt to pull himself together.

"Why do I even fucking bother?" Harry muttered, scrubbing a hand through his hair in what could generously be called an attempt to tame it. Predictably, it only made things worse. His hair stuck up in every direction like an unkempt garden of weeds. "It's Malfoy, for Merlin's sake. He's probably never even seen a blond hair out of place on his head."

The mirror, enchanted like everything else in Grimmauld Place, decided to chime in with its rude and very much unsolicited opinion right then. "Honestly, dear, this is hopeless. You might as well put a hat over your head and be done with it."

Harry scowled at his own reflection, debating whether breaking the mirror would invite more bad luck into his already cursed existence.

"Thanks for the pep talk," he grumbled.

"You're welcome," the mirror replied sweetly, then added, "You've got coriander in your teeth."

Harry groaned and leaned in closer, checking. The mirror snickered. There was no coriander.

"Bloody great. Now I'm losing arguments with the furniture," Harry muttered, straightening up—or at least attempting to, before his back loudly reminded him why crouching like Gollum for twenty minutes was a terrible idea. Grimacing, he pressed a hand to the small of his back and gave up entirely on his hair. He grabbed his wand, giving his face a quick shave with a muttered spell, then splashed water onto his cheeks.

"There. Presentable enough," he told himself, ignoring the bags under his eyes and the stubborn lock of hair sticking straight up in defiance of every smoothing charm he'd tried.

And really, it wasn't like Draco Malfoy deserved any more effort than this.

Who does he think he is, anyway? Judging me the second he walks through the door. Honestly, it's not a bloody fashion show.

But even as Harry told himself this, the ball of anxiety in his stomach tightened. The truth was, it wasn't just about what Malfoy thought of him—it was about the situation. Grimmauld Place. The wild, unpredictable magic that was steadily spiralling out of control. Malfoy was here to help, and Harry needed him. That was what mattered.

Right? Right.

He was halfway through convincing himself of this when he heard the telltale crack of Apparition from outside. The sound was faint, muffled through the walls, but unmistakable.

Draco Malfoy had arrived. Harry's stomach flipped.

"Oh, bloody hell," he muttered, hastily wiping his hands on his jeans and scrambling out of the bathroom. He practically ran down the narrow hallway toward the foyer, cursing under his breath as he went. Why was he nervous? It wasn't like this was a date or something. As if. This was Malfoy. Just Malfoy. Arrogant, condescending, insufferable Malfoy. Nothing to be nervous about.

Except, of course, everything.

In his haste to reach the front door, Harry's foot caught on the edge of the troll-leg umbrella stand—a cursed relic that somehow always reappeared despite his repeated attempts to vanish it. His body pitched forward, and he collided face-first with the door with an almighty smack. Pain exploded across his forehead, giving him an awful feeling of déjà vu, and he stumbled backward, clutching at his face.

"OW!For the love of—! Fuck!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the empty house. He blinked rapidly, stars dancing in his vision as he gingerly touched the now-tender spot just above his eyebrow. "Great. Just fantastic. I'm going to greet Malfoy looking like I got into a bar fight with the wall."

As if on cue, a sharp knock came from the other side of the door. Harry froze for a moment, his heart pounding, before hastily shaking himself back to reality. "Coming!" he called, his voice slightly too loud and definitely too high-pitched.

He yanked the door open, still rubbing at his throbbing forehead. And Harry immediately regretted opening the door so quickly. There he was, DracofuckingMalfoy, standing there in all his irritating glory, and looking as polished and sleek as yesterday—no, better. His sleek blond hair was neatly combed back, and his sharp, smooth jaw seemed even more striking in the soft morning light. Malfoy looked less tired than he had been yesterday, his eyes rested and their redness all but gone. The black turtleneck from last night was back and the chic green —because of course he'd wear green— oversized jumper he was wearing made him look distressingly elegant, and Harry cursed under his breath at the unfairness of it all. Everything about him looked effortless. And, to Harry's increasing annoyance, somehow he even looked well rested despite what his eyes showed. The years had undoubtedly been too kind to him, damn it.

Meanwhile, he was acutely aware of his own unkempt state: a faded shirt wrinkled beyond even Molly's strongest ironing charm, a pair of jeans smeared with grime from his earlier cleaning spree, and a faint smear of something that looked suspiciously like orange jam on his sleeve.

"Potter," Malfoy greeted flatly, his eyes looking at Harry's forehead in the passing, although he had the decency to not mention what Harry knew must be, a red mark on it— his tone as cool as the breeze cutting through the street.

Harry, trying to regain some sense of control, cleared his throat awkwardly and stepped aside, holding the door open wider. God, he couldn't believe he was actually inviting Malfoy into his home.

"Come in," he says, voice a little higher than intended.

Malfoy hesitated for just a fraction of a second before crossing the threshold, like a vampire finally being allowed in. And the moment his foot crossed the old threshold, the atmosphere in Grimmauld Place shifted with startling intensity. The house's magic surged to life, no longer the brooding, heavy energy Harry had grown so used to but something electric and vibrant. The change was immediate, almost palpable, as though the house had taken a deep breath and suddenly remembered itself. The air thickened, charged with an ancient, almost sentient awareness that pressed against Harry's skin like static. He could feel the magic humming just beneath the surface, a strange mix of confusion and exhilaration. It wasn't just that the house recognised Malfoy—it seemed to revel in his presence, the last living heir of the Black family finally standing within its walls.

Finally, someoneworthy.

The thought made Harry's eyes prickle.

As if to mark the occasion, the house began to act out. Doors creaked open and shut repeatedly on their own, the sounds echoing through the corridors like a disjointed applause. The chandelier in the entryway, which had been coated in decades of dust, suddenly sparked to life, casting an ethereal glow over the room. And then came the music—a haunting, lilting melody from a bygone era that drifted from nowhere and everywhere at once, filling the house with an eerie sort of joy.

Harry stared, his mouth slightly open, as the house seemingly celebrated Malfoy's arrival. "What the hell?" he muttered under his breath.

Malfoy looked as put out as Harry, looking towards the entrance as if weighting the pros and cons of legging it out of here. He seemed to come to a conclusion, for he suddenly stood straighter and clearly decided to ignore the music and weird behaviour from the house. With a minuscule sigh, he continued further into the foyer, eyes calm.

Harry watched him with an almost resentful kind of intensity, trying to gauge his reaction to the space, but Malfoy's expression remained maddeningly blank, save for the faintest wrinkle of his nose as he glanced around the entryway. Malfoy took one measured glance around the dimly lit corridor, his sharp eyes flitting over the cracked ceiling, the dusty staircase, and the cobwebs clinging to the corners of the ceiling. His nose wrinkles slightly, and Harry has to fight the urge to bristle defensively.

"Potter," he cleared his throat as he said his name once again, his voice cool and laced with faint amusement. "You look… harried."

Harry scowled. "Yeah, well, the house is trying to kill me, I have good reason to look'harried'," he shot back defensively, while closing the door with a thud that echoed uncomfortably through the narrow hallway, and moving a hand vaguely towards the interior of the house, ignoring the house's evident preference for the blonde. "Do you plan to stand there making comments all day?"

Draco smirked, turning around and walking deeper into the foyer, brushing past Harry, who kept talking in the foyer. With an exasperated sigh, Harry followed the blonde.

"I wasn't planning on commentingall day," he said lightly once Harry caught up to him, his impish tone suggesting he very much could if given the chance. His gaze swept across the gloom of the hallway, lingering on the peeling wallpaper and the faint smell of damp that no amount of cleaning spells seemed able to banish. "Though I must say, Potter, this place is even more depressing than I remembered."

"It's, uh… still a work in progress," Harry offered weakly, his annoyance already bubbling under his skin. Running a hand through his perpetually messy hair.

"Obviously," he replied dryly, brushing a speck of non-existent dust off his jumper. Malfoy's gaze landed on the troll leg umbrella stand that had sent Harry sprawling moments before. His lips twitch as though he's holding back a smirk. "I see the decor remains as charming as when I was a child."

Harry glared at the offending object. "I got rid of that years ago, but it keeps coming backsomehow," he muttered, more to himself than Malfoy. "The house's magic has a mind of its own."

"Evidently," he drawled, his voice dripping with that insufferable Malfoy sarcasm Harry had decidedlynotmissed. His gaze swept across the dusty floorboards, lingering on the holes where Harry's foot had gone through and the cobwebbed chandelier overhead. "Though I suppose it suits you. A crumbling, chaotic mess. Very Potter-couture," he stepped further into the house, his polished Oxfords clicking softly against the warped wooden floorboards. His movements were careful, deliberate, as though he was afraid the house might collapse under his weight.

Harry watched him with a mixture of irritation and nervous curiosity. There's something about the way Malfoy carried himself—straight-backed and infuriatingly composed—that set Harry on edge. He felt like a mess in comparison, and it was not helping his already frazzled nerves.

Malfoy's mean teasing suddenly sinking in, Harry glared at him, his jaw tightening. "You didn't come here to critique my house, Malfoy."

"Didn't I?" Malfoy retorted, his lips curving into a faint sneer.

Harry rolled his eyes and came to an abrupt stop. Shaking his head and muttering under his breath as he motioned Malfoy to followhiminstead of attempting to lead the way when he didn't even knowwhereto go.

"Right, well…" Harry began as they continued walking towards the kitchen. He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels as he tried to figure out what to say next. "Thanks for, uh, agreeing to come."

Malfoy arched a single, elegant brow.

"You didn't exactly leave me much of a choice, Potter," he said, his voice laced with mild reproach. "Your letter was less an invitation and more a thinly veiled threat."

Harry felt his cheeks flush. "I wasn't threatening you," he said defensively, though he knew full well what words he'd used when he wrote. "I just… needed you to understand how serious the situation is."

Malfoy regarded him coolly for a moment, then let out a soft, derisive snort. "Trust me, I gathered that much from our little chat. Though I must say, your penchant for dramatics hasn't waned in the slightest."

Harry clenched his jaw, biting back a sharp retort. He had to remind himself that he needed Malfoy's help, and starting an argument five minutes into their reunion probably wasn't the best way to go about it.

"Let's just… get this over with," he said tersely, motioning for Malfoy to keep following him.

The tension between them was almost unbearable as they made their way through the house. Harry's shoulders were rigid, and he could feel the weight of Malfoy's calculating gaze on his back, taking in every detail of the crumbling walls and dilapidated furniture. He wished the house hadn't chosen this exact moment to look like it was on the verge of collapse, especially when he had spent all morning trying to make it look a tad more decent. Honestly, even the tub in the living room would be an improvement at this point.

As they passed through the sitting room, Malfoy paused, his eyes narrowing at the darkened portrait of Walburga Black, which remained covered by a heavy, now enchanted, curtain.

"I assume my dear old great aunt is still as charming as ever?" he drawled, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Harry stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

"She's quieter these days," he said with a shrug. "Probably because the house has been too busy falling apart to give her the attention she wants."

Malfoy hummed in acknowledgment, though his expression remained unreadable. He didn't comment further, instead continuing to follow Harry down the corridor and into the kitchen.

The kitchen was, to Harry's immense relief, one of the few rooms that actually looked somewhat presentable—the satisfying outcome of the hours he had spent scrubbing it clean—, and though it still bore the scars of years of neglect, at least it was clean. The table was polished, the counters were free of grime, and the faint scent of soap hung in the air, evidence of Harry's frantic cleaning spree that morning. But it did little to mask the deeper, mustier smell of the house's long disuse.

Malfoy surveyed the room with an appraising eye. He didn't say anything, but Harry caught the faintest flicker of sympathy in his expression—gone as quickly as it appeared. The blonde's gaze then landed on the mismatched chairs under the table, the patched-up window, and the faint scorch marks on the mantle from one of Harry's less-than-successful attempts at repairing the Floo network.

Why was it that his gaze always focused on Harry's failures instead of his victories?, he wondered.

"Make yourself at home," said Harry, the words dripping with irony.

Instead of sitting, Malfoy turned to Harry, his hands sliding into the pockets of his trousers. "Well, Potter," he began, his tone businesslike, "now that you've dragged me to this... quaint little house of terrors of yours. Shall we get to the point, or did you just want to reminisce about old times while we count spiderwebs?"

Harry scowled, running a hand through his hair as he leaned against the counter.

"It's complicated," he admitted. "As you can see, the house is… well, it's falling apart. The magic's gone mad, and I can't control it. I told you this yesterday, but rooms vanish and reappear. The stairs move. Sometimes I wake up in a completely different part of the house than where I went to sleep. And that's just the start of it." He paused, glancing at Malfoy to see if he was paying attention. "The house is alive, in a way that is… well, dangerous."

"Of course Grimmauld is sentient, Potter," said Malfoy with disdain. "The magic running through it is ancient and powerful, wild and unpredictable. Let a house have a family, become a home for long enough, and it'll inevitably become sentient. Like that Burrow of yours. You think it'd be still standing if it weren't for the house's magic, accumulated through generations of Weasleys?"

Harry's eyes widened at Malfoy's words. He had never considered that before, but it made sense.

"Well, I've tried everything," Harry continued. "Reinforcement spells, stabilising rituals, remodulation, fuck, even bloody talking to the house—don't laugh," he added quickly, catching the faintest twitch of Draco's lips. "Nothing works. It's like the house is… it's like it doesn't want me here."

Malfoy tilted his head, his grey eyes narrowing slightly. A look of exasperation on his face, "Yes, yes, you told me this yesterday," he echoed, his tone mocking and aggravated. "Salazar, Potter, there's no need to repeat yourself."

Harry glared at him, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "Well, I don't know how else to explain it! I thought you coming here today would help me. That you'd know what to do, since you're the expert here." his breath quickening in annoyance.

For a moment, Malfoy kept silent, his gaze drifting to the darkened corners of the room as he let Harry throw his tantrum. He could practically see the wheels turning in Malfoy's mind, and for once, he was grateful for his apparent sharp, analytical nature.

"It's been getting worse over the past few years," he added more calmly now. "I'm almost sure it's because I'm not a Black. I just have this feeling that that is the reason why the house refuses to recognise me as its rightful owner; why it's… acting out. That little act when you arrived? I'm sure it was because it's happy you're here."

Malfoy frowned then, crossing his arms over his chest. "And because the house recognises me, you think this is what's been affecting my magic?"

Harry hesitated, then nodded again.

"I don't know for sure, but… the timing lines up. The house's magic has been getting more chaotic, and you said you've been feeling drained. It's possible the two are connected."

Malfoy didn't respond immediately. He looked away, his gaze distant as he seemed to mull over Harry's words. When he finally spoke, his tone was quieter, more measured. "If what you're claiming is true, then this house poses a danger not just to you, but also to me, even if I'm not here."

"I figured," Harry says softly. "That's why I need your help. I wouldn't have askedyou, of all people, if I wasn't desperate, you know that." Harry took a big breath to say what he never thought he would in all his life, "I'm willing to trust you with this, Malfoy, so please, tell me what to do."

Malfoy seemed to concede with a low hum. He lowered his head, seemingly in deep thought, but Harry swore he could see how affected Malfoy was by his words. For a moment, there's silence between them. Harry watched Malfoy carefully, searching for any sign of what he might be thinking. Draco's expression remained guarded, his grey eyes unreadable. Finally, the blonde looked up, a new spark in his eyes.

"Alright, then," Draco said finally, his voice more serious now. "I suppose I've got nothing to lose."

"Thanks. You're the only one who might be able to help me figure it out," Harry said firmly.

Draco's expression faltered slightly as he thought, but soon enough he spoke out again.

"The Black family magic is… complex," he admitted. "Old, powerful, and deeply rooted in bloodlines. It's not surprising that the house doesn't recognise you. You're not a Black, Potter. No amount of inheritance paperwork will change that."

Harry bristled at his tone. "So what am I supposed to do? Just leave? Let the house fall apart?"

Draco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as though he were already regretting agreeing to this. "No," he said, his voice clipped. "I told you, if the house's magic is as unstable as you say, it could be catastrophic, Potter. Wild magic has a way of spilling over, causing... unintended consequences."

Harry felt a chill run down his spine. He hadn't thought about the wider implications of the house's magic. It was bad enough that he was dealing with it on a daily basis, but the idea of it affecting others… that was something he couldn't ignore.

"So, what do we do?" he asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.

Draco hesitated, his gaze lingering on Harry for a moment longer than necessary. Finally, he nodded, though his expression remained guarded. "I'll need to look at some rooms, give myself an idea of what I'll be working with. But don't expect miracles, Potter. This isn't going to be easy. The house will resist, and if you're right about it rejecting you, it might get worse before it gets better."

Harry nodded, relief flooding through him despite Draco's warning.

"I'll need access to the house's core at some point," he said, his voice still brisk and business-like. "And I'll need to examine the wards. If this house is draining magic, I'll need to find the source and figure out how to stop it before anything else. I'll also need to go back home for some reference material, maybe even ask my mother..." Malfoy said, his voice becoming fainter the more he spoke.

Harry looked at him, his jaw tightening. "Ok, sure, whatever you need, Malfoy. I just need you to do your job so everything can go back to normal."

For a moment, they stood there in tense silence, the weight of their animosity hanging heavy between them. Then Draco's lips twitched into a faint smirk. "Well," he said smoothly, "this should be fun. Go on, Potter, show me your hovel."

Relief washed over Harry even when Malfoy's words annoyed him to no end, though he tried not to let it show. "Ah, uhm… come on, then," he said, his voice lowered and contrite. "Thanks, I guess."

Draco waved a hand dismissively. "Don't thank me yet, Potter. I haven't fixed anything."

Harry groaned internally. This was going to test him.

Per Malfoy's demands to see some rooms of the house to assess the situation with his own eyes. Harry guided him towards the sitting room, where Sirius used to spend most of his time back when he had been alone in this rotting house, lounging on one of those sofas that looked like it was straight from Victorian times—which, honestly, it was highly possible that they actually were that old. A little dust rose into the air as they entered, the house's magic making it swirl around in intricate patterns. The whole show made Harry frown; he had cleaned those floors today, or at least tried to. He knew that his efforts wouldn't amount to much, but still. It irked him, somehow, that the house remained stubbornly dusty when he had tried so bloody hard to get it to an acceptable state for Malfoy.

He sighed. He was sick and tired of Grimmauld and its eccentricities, of being made a fool even when he tried his hardest to make the damned house liveable once again. And he hated that he felt that way, particularly when he was doing his best to hold onto the old place. The very house that should have been his salvation instead felt like a burden, a responsibility he couldn't meet. An albatross around his neck.

Malfoy didn't comment on the state of the room, although Harry could tell he was doing a cursory sweep with his silvery gaze, assessing everything, no doubt cataloguing every flaw. The man wasn't exactly subtle about it. Not that Harry blamed him, really; Grimmauld Place was not what the blonde must've been used to. Falling apart, rotting from within. He supposed it only made sense that Malfoy would want to get out as quickly as possible. Harry himself certainly did.

Malfoy followed Harry around like a ghost, never speaking nor reacting, and that unnerved Harry as well.

He wanted to break the silence, to ask Malfoy what he thought about the house, whether he saw something worth noting or that he felt was most important, but he kept silent as well. Malfoy walked around the room, his eyes sometimes lingering in a particularly strange peculiarity—a random shoe nestled amongst books, what looked like a bath sponge inside the ancient gramophone and even a small crib behind the three-seater sofa—, and reacting in increasingly funny ways.

Harry waited for Malfoy to speak up, but he remained silent. Finally, Harry cleared his throat, turning to face the blonde.

"So…" he began tentatively, hoping that Malfoy would take pity on him. "How is it? What do you think?"

Malfoy frowned, tilting his head to the side slightly as he studied Harry, his expression contemplative. Then, without warning, he turned towards the nearest stairs.

"Malfoy? Hey! Wait a second!" Harry called after him.

He stopped abruptly, glancing over his shoulder at Harry, one eyebrow raised expectantly, his shoe tapping against the wooden floor, denoting his annoyance. Harry stared back, unsure how to proceed. He didn't know whether Malfoy meant to leave or simply go upstairs to examine the next floor of rooms. He swallowed hard and decided to press forward, regardless.

"Do you need me to show you upstairs? Or should I just wait here until you're done?"

Malfoy sighed, as if he was the one dealing with a particularly difficult person. "Yes, Potter, obviously."

"Right," Harry said, equally annoyed.

He took a deep breath before leading Draco up the stairs. He couldn't help but notice how stiffly Malfoy walked, how his jaw clenched whenever he spotted something amiss or bizarre, how his hands were balled into fists. Was he angry at Harry? At the house itself? He wished he knew, the tension the blonde emitted was causing even Harry to be more on edge than he already was. If only he could read minds... But, alas, Legillimency wasn't one of his talents. So instead, he just focused on trying to keep calm and not freak out about anything.

The two continued through the corridor, passing by several doors, most of which were closed by the house's magic. That made Harry frown, as he had never known Grimmauld to lock him out of rooms. Disappear rooms? Yes. Suddenly throw him out of them? Constantly. But close them? That was new. A few were open though, revealing various bedrooms, studies, sitting rooms and bathrooms. All were similarly deteriorated, filled with dust and cobwebs. Most of them had broken furniture or holes in the walls.

They finally reached the end of the hall, where there stood an old wooden door. It was closed shut, but Harry could see light shining through the cracks around it. They paused in front of it, hesitating for a moment, not willing to risk it.

"See what I mean? That's not normal, right?" Harry asked, pointing towards the door.

Malfoy didn't respond, instead turning away from Harry once again and walking down the stairs by himself. Harry grunted in exasperation and followed after him quickly, catching up easily due to the blonde's slow pace. Malfoy seemed to be thinking deeply about something, his eyes narrowed as he scanned the rooms they passed by. Finally, he stopped, glancing over his shoulder at Harry again.

"You are correct, Potter, this house is... strange," he said sternly. "This has been quite enough for me to get an idea of what I'll need to research."

Harry nodded eagerly, relieved that Malfoy agreed with his assessment of the house. Perhaps they would find a solution after all.

"What do you think we should do next?" he asked hopefully.

Malfoy frowned, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "It's best that I go home for today, I have a lot I need to do before you even think about showing me this mausoleum's core."

The moment Malfoy mentioned leaving, however, a strange surge of magic passed through them, making them shiver at the cold feeling. Instantly, the house's drab ambience darkened considerably, as if someone had turned off some inexistent source of light. The temperature dropped drastically, causing both men to start shivering in unison. They glanced around warily, expecting some kind of attack or danger, but nothing came.

Slowly, cautiously, they continued walking towards the exit.

Or at least, they tried to.

Without rhyme or reason, each turn they took seemed to bring them back to the kitchen, its faintly cleaned surfaces gleaming faintly in the dim, uncanny light. Harry frowned, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

"This is ridiculous. We've walked straight twice, haven't we? We should be able to see the foyer by now."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at the familiar sight of the kitchen table. "Twice? Try three times, Potter. I don't recall asking for a guided tour of your cleaning achievements."

Harry huffed, glancing down the hallway they'd just come from. "It's not me doing this! I told you the house was mad. Maybe it's being facetious to amuse you?"

Malfoy stopped short, raising an incredulous eyebrow. "Oh, fantastic. Well, I am decidedly not enjoying its little prank anymore than I enjoyed Hogwarts' shifting staircases."

Another five minutes passed, each attempted route leading them inexplicably back to the kitchen. The floorboards creaked underfoot, the sound somehow more ominous with every step, as if the house was warning them of something. The house seemed alive, more so than Harry had seen it before, and it worried him as it kept redirecting them like a mischievous host refusing to let its guests leave.

"This is absurd," Malfoy muttered, crossing his arms as they once again stood before the kitchen table. "If this is your house's way of begging for attention, it needs therapy."

Harry gave him a sharp look, but couldn't quite keep the humour off his face. He looked away, not willing to let Malfoy know he had been funny. "You're welcome to try reasoning with it, Malfoy. Maybe a stern talking-to will work."

Malfoy rolled his eyes, his wand slipping into his hand. "Reasoning is for amateurs." He flicked it sharply, murmuring a spell under his breath. The air around them shimmered briefly before settling again—unchanged. They were still in the kitchen.

"Well, that worked wonders," Harry said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Shut up," Malfoy snapped, though his wand hand dropped to his side in defeat. "Clearly, it's enchanted beyond reason."

Another few attempts led to the same result. The front door remained as elusive as a Snitch on a windy day. By the ninth time they stumbled back into the kitchen, Malfoy threw up his hands in exasperation.

"I swear to Merlin, if we end up here again, I'm going to hex that table just for existing."

Harry snorted despite himself, shaking his head. "It's not the table's fault. Besides, I don't think you'd win."

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime of misdirection, they turned a corner, and the front door appeared at last.

"Thank bloody Merlin," Malfoy muttered, striding towards the door as though it might vanish again if he didn't reach it quickly enough. "If I'd had to see that kitchen one more time, I'd have—"

"Hexed the table, got it," Harry finished for him, rolling his eyes as he followed. "Come on, let's get out of here before it changes its mind."

Draco shot him a glare for his cheek, but continued making his way toward the door with long, elegant steps as Harry tried to follow him clumsily. How had the git memorised what seemed like his entire floor plan in just under an hour, he would never know. The awkwardness between them hadn't gone away, but Harry figured it was better to get the whole 'let's help each other with the house' thing out of the way. It felt like an unwelcome truce, one neither of them had particularly wanted to make, but both were now stuck in. The idea of having Malfoy here for long was strange, and Harry couldn't decide whether to be relieved that he was finally here or nervous that his house, as if aware of the delicate balance of this alliance, was reacting in ways that were bound to lead Harry to an early grave.

Malfoy, as usual, maintained a level of aloofness that Harry envied, he figured his years at Hogwarts would've been much easier if he could skate through life as if it never touched a hair on his head. Malfoy didn't seem bothered by anything at all—just that perfect coolness that had always made Harry wonder how Malfoy could manage to look so effortlessly put together.

"Well, then. I'll see myself out, Potter. I'll send you an owl so we can talk about my compensation and decide on our next meeting," Malfoy said curtly, his voice smooth with just a touch of that old Malfoy arrogance, and Harry nodded stiffly, still trying to ignore the lingering sense of discomfort in the air.

As Malfoy moved toward the door, Harry followed at a distance, mentally preparing for the awkwardness of goodbyes. Just as they reached the threshold, however, something inexplicable happened.

Malfoy stood near the door, turning towards the door, ready to leave. Harry was a few steps behind, still trying to collect his thoughts after their awkward conversation. Just as Malfoy's hand reached for the handle, a gust of wind, far stronger than anything that should be felt within the house, slammed through the dark corridor, seemingly out of nowhere, making Malfoy retract his hand in alarm. The temperature seemed to drop instantly, and Harry could feel the pressure of the air, thick and oppressive, pushing against them both. Before either of them could react, the wind swept through the hallway once more, with a force so great that it sent both men stumbling toward each other, their bodies crashing together with an embarrassing, loudoomph!Harry's chest collided with Malfoy's, knocking the breath out of him, and they both ended up in a tangled heap, a jumble of limbs and flustered expressions. Malfoy let out a sharp exhale, eyes wide with surprise, and Harry, his face red with embarrassment, muttered something incoherent.

In a panic, the two of them hurried to their feet, bumping into each other on the way up. Harry's hands shot out instinctively to catch Draco's shoulders as he stumbled, steadying them both as they tried to regain their balance. They pulled away from each other quickly again afterwards, faces flushed and eyes wide in shared shock, neither sure how to react. But neither could ignore the awkwardness that hung in the air.

"What the hell was that?" Harry muttered, his heart pounding in his chest.

Draco cleared his throat, his voice stiff. "Potter, really. Your house is trying to kill you."

They exchanged a look, and Harry could see the unease that had crept into Draco's usual icy demeanour. Draco's gaze flickered toward the entrance, his hand extended as he brushed the handle with the lightest of touches. But before he could fully place his hand onto the handle, or they could say anything further, the house seemed to take on a life of its own, even more drastically this time. The air grew even heavier, charged with an unnatural intensity.

And then it happened.

A guttural, bone-chilling thump reverberated through the walls, so loud and sharp that it felt like it was coming from deep within the house's very foundations. The sound was so sudden and unexpected that both Harry and Draco flinched, their eyes instinctively closing to shield them from the intense vibrations that seemed to rattle the very bones of the house. Then, there was a cacophony of loud sounds coming from all around them, as if they had been surrounded by a murder of crows, intent on pecking their eyes out, making the two of them to cover their ears.

It stopped as quickly as it began, the silence eerie and unsettling.

Harry opened his eyes warily, and the first thing he noticed was the unsettling silence that followed. It wasn't the kind of quiet you'd expect after noises that loud—it was oppressive. Heavy. The type of silence that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, a feeling that gripped his chest and left him uneasy.

"What the bloody hell was that?" Harry repeated, this time louder, as if asking the empty house for some sort of explanation. But the house offered none, not even a single peep.

Malfoy's face had drained of colour as he stepped back, his eyes darting around the corridor. "Potter… where's the door?"

Harry's stomach dropped.

He turned to look behind him, and his heart stuttered in his chest. The doorway that had once stood proudly at the foyer—a clear path to the outside world—was gone. And, it seemed, so was the foyer. In their place stood nothing but a solid, hard wall, the same shade of blackened wood as the rest of Grimmauld Place's decaying interior, a single, small painting of a cat in a dress adorning it.. The wall stretched from floor to ceiling, unbroken by even the faintest seam. It was as if the house had swallowed the door, leaving no trace that it had ever existed.

Harry blinked, sure he was seeing things. But no, the door was gone. Completely.

"Just what I needed," Malfoy said, his voice tight with fear disguised as viciousness. He took a step forward, his fingers pressing against the wall as if testing its solidity. "Curse your fucking luck, you're going to get us—"

But he stopped himself, staring at the wall with an expression Harry couldn't quite place—concern, apprehension, maybe even regret. It was the first time Harry had seen Malfoy show anything other than his usual arrogance.

"What the hell's going on?" Malfoy muttered, his voice hoarse, the knot of anxiety in his stomach tightening. "Why can't I leave this bloody house?"

"Malfoy—I've never felt anything like this," he turned to Malfoy, his eyes flickering with a strange intensity. "I told you, the house is deliberately doing this. For some reason, it's now trapped us in here."

Now visibly stressed, the blonde pressed his hands to the wall once more, as if the house would free them with his will alone.

Harry swallowed hard, his mind racing, images of the house's recent erratic behaviour flooding his thoughts. Harry ran a hand through his perpetually unruly hair, glancing at the floor as if it might offer some kind of answer.

It didn't.

He had noticed the strange way the house had been shifting—corridors changing, rooms vanishing, the walls seeming to close in on him. But until now, he had convinced himself it was just the house trying to kick him out. To make him leave the house because he was not worthy, because he didn't belong there. Now, with the eerie disappearance of the door…

He glanced back at Malfoy, who was now leaning against the wall, pale and still catching his breath after the earlier encounter with the wind. His sharp features were furrowed in concentration—or possibly annoyance. It was always hard to tell with Malfoy.

Harry's eyes opened wide as a wave of realisation came over him.

"Malfoy," Harry began, his voice low and hesitant, "all this time, I thought… maybe the house just wanted to kick me out, you know? But now…" He trailed off, his brow furrowing as the pieces of the puzzle rearranged themselves in his head. "Maybe it's not trying to kick meoutat all. Maybe—I think it wanted to keep usin. You just… weren't here."

For a moment, Malfoy simply stared at him, his silver-grey eyes narrowing in deliberation. The flickering candlelight cast strange, jagged shadows across his face, making him look like some kind of marble statue—albeit a deeply irked one.

"Why would you think that?" Malfoy asked him.

"Look at how the house has reacted since you got here! Weird lights and the doors when you got here, it making it so we couldn't find a way towards the front door," Harry replied, his voice getting more urgent the more he spoke, as if his thoughts were tumbling out of his mouth. "And nowthisthe moment you try to leave? The house has given me trouble before, but this takes the cake."

"Fuck," Malfoy finally muttered, his tone more resigned than alarmed. "Maybe you're right. Salazar help me, a sentient house with abandonment issues. Perfect."

Harry blinked, stunned. "I—what?"

"I said, maybe you're right." Malfoy sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before fixing Harry with a pointed look. "Don't make me repeat it, Potter. It's bad enough having to say it once."

Harry hated how the first time Draco said he was right was under these circumstances. He scowled at the other man, his glare childish. Biting his lips, Harry tried to suppress his sarcasm but couldn't help himself.

"Wow, Malfoy. Should I write this down? Frame it? The first time you agree with me, and it's about a haunted, sentient house that's probably trying to kill us."

Malfoy rolled his eyes, pushing himself upright with a wince. "Yes, Potter. It's a real Kodak moment. Shall I pose for the cameras next?"

"Kodaks aren't even magical cameras, how do you even know them?" Harry shot back automatically, but Malfoy ignored him, taking a cautious step forward.

"But why now?" Malfoy asked, his voice quieter, more thoughtful. He gestured vaguely to their surroundings, the oppressive walls seeming to close in around them. "Why both of us, specifically? The house has been sitting here in its misery for years. What's so bloody special about right now?"

Harry frowned, his gaze flicking to the gnarled wooden beams above them. "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe it's not about us being special. Maybe it's about unfinished business or…" He waved a hand vaguely. "...balance? Closure? Something poetic like that. Sirius and Regulus—"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Malfoy interrupted, throwing up his hands. "If this is about your tragic godfather and his equally tragic brother, can we skip to the part where the house gets over itself? I don't fancy being squashed by a cursed ceiling while it works through its feelings."

Harry shot him a glare, though he didn't entirely disagree.

"Well, unless you've got any better ideas, we're stuck with this for now." He gestured to the house around them. "And besides, it's not like we can just leave. Remember the front door? The one that disappeared the momentyoubreathed its way?"

Malfoy shuddered at the memory, the ghost of a scowl tugging at his mouth. "Point taken," he muttered. "But if this house is trying to trap us here for some kind of cosmic therapy session, I want it on record that I do not consent."

Harry snorted, the sound echoing in the eerie silence. "Noted."

So, that was it, the bloody house wanted both of them in, without the chance to escape.

They both stood in silence for a moment, only broken by the occasional creak of the floorboards, the weight of the situation sinking in. Harry could feel the panic rising, his breath catching in his throat. The air felt thick, like it was pressing in on them, and the oppressive stillness was starting to make him feel claustrophobic. Making him remember the cupboard.

Inhale, exhale. Three times.

Sigh.

Finally, Draco spoke again, his voice low and tense. "We need to get out of here. Now."

Harry was about to reply, not in the mood for being bossed around Malfoy, but his words were cut short. The oppressive silence of the house was suddenly shattered by the low hum of the house's magic. Harry could feel it then—shifting, roiling in the air around them. The walls were alive, and they were listening. Watching. Waiting.

Harry's heart raced. The house had done more than trap them inside. It was testing them.

"Where the hell is that fucking door?" Malfoy demanded again, his voice rising in frustration.

But Harry had no answer. There was nothing left but the eerie stillness, the oppressive magic in the air, and the cold weight of uncertainty pressing down on them both.

The house had kidnapped them.

And it wasn't about to let them go.

I'm sick as a dog, so the fact that I am posting this is short of a miracle.

Enjoy, cheers!