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.

7. Chapter 7: When One is Dead and Gone

Early update because I'm very busy today!

Would it be conceited to say this is another one of my favourite chapters? Hahsdlajs seriously, though, I listened to Anastasia's OST on repeat while writing and editing this chapter. Give it a change for immersion, I guess? Ahaha

Also! Reminder that there was a mid-week update, so if you didn't get the chance to read Ch. 6, go read it now!

..

The sun filtered through the thin curtains of the flat's kitchen, a warm glow that didn't quite match the cold knot of unease twisting in Hermione's stomach. She sat at the wooden breakfast table, the familiar clutter of the cleaning charms working around the kitchen—a daily comfort that felt oddly out of reach this morning. A steaming cup of tea sat untouched in front of her, the tendrils of steam curling in lazy spirals, much like the thoughts in her head. Beside her, Ron was shovelling a piece of toast into his mouth, though it was clear his usually ravenous appetite was half-hearted at best.

Hermione didn't notice the mess Ron was making as he ate—normally she'd reprimand him for the crumbs he was scattering everywhere—but her mind was elsewhere. She pushed her own toast around her plate absent-mindedly.

"I can't shake the feeling something's terribly wrong," she said finally, breaking the heavy silence between them. "He didn't contact us at all after Malfoy left…"

Ron grunted non-committally, chewing noisily. He knew Hermione well enough to recognise when she was fretting over something—and let's be honest, she always fretted overeverything—but this time, he had to admit he felt it too. The lack of communication from Harry was gnawing at him, though he wasn't about to admit that out loud just yet. Not when Hermione was already this worked up.

"It's Harry," she continued, her voice a little higher now. She wrapped her hands tightly around her mug of tea, like it could somehow anchor her, prevent her from overthinking this. "He hasn't responded toanything. Not our Floo calls, not to the Patronus messages, nothing. And he was supposed to have lunch with us last night!" She shot Ron a pointed look, as if daring him to shrug it off.

Ron sighed and set his toast down, wiping his hands on his pyjama bottoms. "He's probably fine, Hermione," he said, though even as the words left his mouth, they rang hollow. "You know how he is. Maybe he just wants to be alone."

"But why wouldn't he at leastsaythat?" Hermione snapped, her worry bubbling into frustration. "You don't just ignore your best friends when they're expecting you. Especially when you've got a track record likehis."

Ron winced. She had a point. Harrydidhave an unfortunate tendency to end up in life-threatening situations whenever he went quiet for too long. And Grimmauld Place... Merlin, Grimmauld Place was the worst place for him to disappear into. Even now, years after the war, the house remained as unpredictable and dangerous as its former inhabitants. Probably even more so, considering the way it routinely decided to drop Harry on his head. Ron didn't like to admit it, but the thought of Harry stuck in there, alone, made his skin crawl, too.

He ran a hand through his already messy hair, letting out a long breath. "We should've made him move in with us ages ago," he muttered, more to himself than to Hermione.

Hermione gave him a pointed look. "Wetried, remember? He refused. Said it was the last thing he had of Sirius and not wanting to impose. As if we'dmind," she sighed, playing with her teacup.

"Yeah, well, Harry's always been a stubborn git," Ron grumbled, though his tone was more fond than annoyed. He reached for another piece of toast but hesitated, his appetite officially gone. "So, what do we do? We can't just barge in, we've already tried."

"Iknowthat," Hermione said, exasperated. She shoved her plate away, the food untouched. "I tried apparating straight into Grimmauld Place this morning, but it's still warded. It's like the house is... blocking everything out."

Ron frowned, a deep line forming between his brows. "When did you try apparating?" he asked slowly.

Hermione threw her hands up. "It doesn't matter, Ron! It's like the house doesn'twantus to reach him. What if something's happened? What if he's trapped? Or hurt? Or—"

"Oi, stop," Ron interrupted, holding up a hand. "Don't go there, alright? He's fine. He's got to be. This isHarrywe're talking about. He probably just forgot to check in. Or, I dunno, fell asleep reading one of those stupid novels he insists he doesn't like, but we know he does."

Hermione's glare could have set the toast on fire. "That's not funny, Ronald."

"I wasn't trying to be funny!" Ron shot back, though he immediately regretted his tone. He sighed again, softer this time, and reached across the table to place a hand over hers. "Look, I'm worried too, okay? But panicking's not going to help. Let's just… think this through."

Hermione's shoulders sagged slightly, and she nodded, though the crease between her eyebrows didn't budge. "No, you're right," she said quietly. "We need a plan."

Ron gave her hand a small squeeze before letting go.

"Alright. Let's start with what we know. Grimmauld Place is acting weird, yeah? So maybe it's the house itself. Could be the wards acting up, or—" He hesitated, his face twisting into a grimace. "—or some leftover dark magic mucking things up."

Hermione nodded thoughtfully, her brain already whirring. "That's possible. The house has always had a… volatile personality. And ithasbeen steadily getting worse since the war, hasn't it?"

"Yeah, and Harry's been living there alone for ages. Who knows what kind of stuff he's stirred up?" Ron scratched the back of his neck, a hint of guilt creeping into his voice. "Maybe we should've been helping him clear it out. Properly, I mean. Not just chucking the cursed stuff in the bin."

Hermione gave him a look that was equal parts agreement and reproach. "Weoffered. He said he could handle it."

"Yeah, well, he also said he could handle Horcruxes on his own, and we all know howthatwould've turned out. He'd still be running around Britain, wet like a rat, without you," Ron muttered darkly.

Hermione's lips twitched, her eyes warm, but she didn't smile. Instead, she stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. "We need to go there again," she said firmly. "Now. If Harry's in trouble—"

"Hold on," Ron cut in, rising to his feet as well. "We can't help much if we can't even get into the cursed thing, right?"

Hermione crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. "And what do you suggest, then? That we sit here twiddling our thumbs while Harry could be—"

"I didn't say that!" Ron interrupted, his own frustration bubbling over. He ran a hand through his hair again, pacing the small kitchen. "I'm just saying we should be prepared, alright?"

Hermione hesitated, biting her lip. She hated to admit it, but Ron had a point. Charging to Grimmauld Place without a plan would be useless, and it might actually endanger Harry, especially if something truly dangerous was happening inside the house. But every second they wasted felt like a metaphorical nail in the coffin. It wasn't often that Ron was the more careful of the two, but he usually took over whenever Hermione's anxiety clouded her judgement.

Still, what if Harry didn'thavetime for them to prepare?

"Fine," she said finally, her tone clipped. "But we need to think of something fast."

Ron didn't bother arguing. He knew better. Instead, he nodded and grabbed his wand from the countertop and moved towards their fireplace. "Right. We should call Bill, then."

Hermione blinked owlishly for a moment before gasping. "Bill! Of course!"

The fire roared green as Ron tossed in a pinch of Floo powder, the fine dust flaring to life and illuminating the worried furrow in his brow. He knelt by the hearth, his long arms resting on his knees as he leaned in, his voice tight with concern.

"Shell Cottage!" he called, trying to sound calm but failing miserably as the words wavered under the weight of his stress.

For a moment, the flames flickered and sputtered, and in Ron's rising panic, he thought that Bill wasn't home. That he had already left for Gringotts. Then, with a whoosh, Bill's face materialised in the fire, his long hair slightly mussed and his blue eyes narrowing with concern.

"Ron? Bit early for a chat, isn't it?" His tone was light, but his brow furrowed at the sight of his youngest brother's expression.

Ron didn't even let him finish the sentence. "Something's wrong with Harry," he blurted, his words tumbling out in a rush. His hand curled around the edge of the fireplace like he needed to ground himself, the other nervously twisting his wand between his fingers.

Bill's playful smirk instantly fell, his face hardening into something much more serious.

"What happened?" he asked sharply, leaning closer. The sight of his older brother's concern made Ron's stomach twist even tighter.

Hermione crouched beside Ron, her brown face worried as she bit her bottom lip, her hand reaching out to steady herself. She wasted no time filling in the gaps, her words clipped and precise. "We haven't heard from him since the day before yesterday's afternoon. He missed lunch with us yesterday, too. I tried contacting him through every means I could think of—Floo, Patronus, even Apparating into Grimmauld Place—but nothing worked. The house… it feels like it'sblockingus. It's never done that before. Something's wrong, Bill."

Bill listened intently, his expression growing darker with every word. The calm, affable persona he was known for was cracking, ever so slightly, under the weight of Hermione's urgency and Ron's barely concealed panic.

"Did he say anything to either of you before this?" Bill asked, his tone steady but low, as if he were already bracing himself for bad news. "Anything about the house acting up more than usual, or something strange happening there?"

"No," Ron said quickly, shaking his head. "He seemed fine last time we saw him. I mean, yeah, he's been a bit more… I don't know, paranoid lately, but that's just Harry, isn't it? He broods. It's his thing."

Hermione shot Ron a look, but her worry was too overpowering for her usual exasperation to fully kick in. "What Ron means," she said tightly, "is that Harry hasn't mentioned anything unusual, but he usually hides this stuff from everyone. And, well…" she hesitated for a second before continuing. "He was feeling a bit hopeless last time I saw him. Wanted to give up, so I figured I could suggest for him to bring in a magical repair specialist. He was supposed to go over yesterday morning. Grimmauld Place has always been unpredictable, and if something's... shifted, Harry could be in danger."

Bill rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, his eyes darting to the side as if he were running through possibilities in his head. "Grimmauld Place," he murmured, more to himself than to them. "That house is a cursed mess on a good day. If the wards are reacting like this, it could mean… well, any number of things. But none of them are good."

Ron's stomach sank further. He exchanged a glance with Hermione, and he could tell she was thinking the same thing he was: they were out of their depth. Whatever was going on, it wasn't something they could fix with sheer determination and a few well-placed spells.

"You said a specialist went over?"

Hermione looked nervous for a second before she nodded. "Yeah, Draco Malfoy. I suggested him because he's very good at his job and… well, he's a Black. His magic would be more in tune with the house."

"I'll be right there," Bill said firmly, his voice sharp. "Don't do anything until I get there, alright? I mean it, Ron."

"We're not idiots, Bill," Ron snapped, though the defensive edge in his voice was undercut by the relief washing over him. If anyone could make sense of the situation, it was Bill. His older brother had faced cursed tombs, ancient hexes, and worse during his years as a curse-breaker. He also had studied ancient magic extensively. If anyone could figure out what was going on, it would be him.

Bill's face softened slightly, though his worry remained clear. "I'll Floo to the flat in ten minutes. Make sure you've got everything you might need—protective runes, healing potions, whatever you've got lying around. Just in case."

"Got it," Hermione said quickly, already standing and moving toward the cabinets to rummage through her ever well-stocked stores of emergency supplies.

"Alright. Ten minutes." Bill's face disappeared with a soft pop, leaving the fire to return to its normal golden glow.

Ron sat back on his heels, exhaling heavily. His hands were clammy, and his heart was pounding like he'd just sprinted up a flight of stairs. Hermione was still moving around the kitchen, her sharp, efficient movements a clear sign of her mounting anxiety.

"This is bad, isn't it?" Ron said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. With a grunt, he stood up and mused his hair.

Hermione froze for a moment, her back to him, before turning slowly. Her face was ashen with worry, and her eyes red-rimmed from the stress. "I don't know," she admitted, her voice trembling slightly. "But we can't assume it's not. Not with Harry. Not with that house."

Ron nodded, swallowing hard. He reached out and grabbed Hermione's hand, pulling her back toward the table. "Hey," he said softly, squeezing her fingers. "We'll figure this out. Bill's coming, and he knows his stuff. If anyone can get us into Grimmauld Place and sort out whatever's going on, it's him."

Hermione nodded, but her eyes were still distant, her mind clearly running through worst-case scenarios. Ron wanted to say more, to reassure her, but the truth was, he was just as scared as she was. He didn't want to think about what they might find when they finally got into the house—or worse, what they mightnotfind. For now, he gave her a quick hug, and went to their bedroom to have a quick shower and to change.

The minutes ticked by slowly as they waited for Bill, the silence in the flat stretching uncomfortably. Neither of them spoke, though Ron's leg bounced restlessly under the table, and Hermione kept fidgeting with her wand. The air felt heavy, like the calm before a storm, and the knot of unease in Ron's stomach refused to loosen.

When the fire flared green again, they both jumped. Bill stepped through a moment later, his ever-present leather dragon-hide boots thudding against the kitchen floor. He was already dressed for action, his wand tucked into its holster at his thigh and a small satchel slung over his shoulder.

"Alright," he said briskly, wasting no time. "Let's get to it."

Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance, their fear momentarily tempered by the presence of Bill's steady confidence.

They had to find Harry. Before it was too late.

..

Harry woke with a start, his body jolting upright before his brain had fully registered where he was. For a moment, he panicked, his hand reaching for his wand as his eyes darted around the dimly lit room. But then the events of the previous day came flooding back, and he groaned, flopping back onto the lumpy mattress he'd fallen asleep in. The room was still dark, the only light coming from the small window parallel to the bed. Malfoy was curled next to him like a sleeping kitten, his pale hair a mess and his long legs wrapped around the pillow. Harry stared at him for a moment, wondering how the hell they'd ended up in this mess together.

The argument and the following heart-to-hearts from the night before still lingered in the back of Harry's mind, like an itch he couldn't quite scratch. He felt raw and exposed, as though Malfoy had stripped away some of his carefully constructed defences and left him with nothing but his own messy emotions.

But there was also something… oddly comforting about the memory. Malfoy hadn't laughed at him or belittled him. He hadn't sneered or turned Harry's vulnerability into another cutting remark to be thrown back later. He'd just listened, his large eyes unusually soft, his sharp tongue sheathed. And then, slowly, he'd begun to talk about himself in turn. Not with the bravado or deflection Harry had always associated with him, but with an honesty that felt raw, almost hesitant, as though offering pieces of himself was unfamiliar territory. It had been strange at first, laying here with Malfoy, their old animosities laid to rest in the quiet of the moment. And for once, Harry had felt like he wasn't entirely alone—like someone truly understood the weight he carried. The walls between them, though far from crumbled, had cracked just enough to let something new and fragile take root. It wasn't forgiveness or friendship, not yet, but it was something Harry found himself unwilling to let go of.

It still lingered now, a small, unspoken reassurance that, even in their shared brokenness, there was something to be found in the company of each other.

"Morning, Potter," Malfoy's voice drawled next to him, breaking Harry out of his thoughts. The blonde was awake now, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and staring at Harry with his usual mixture of wry humour and disinterest, the softness from the day before all but gone. "Sleep well?"

Harry snorted, stretching his arms over his head. "Like a baby. You?"

"Like someone who's been forced to sleep on a glorified footstool," Malfoy replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He stood up, brushing invisible lint off his clothes as he surveyed the room with a critical eye. "I don't suppose the house has decided to be helpful and provided breakfast?"

As if on cue, a small table appeared in the corner of the room, laden with a modest breakfast spread—toast, hard-boiled eggs, tea, and what looked like fresh fruit. Malfoy raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, but Harry's stomach growled loudly, cutting off whatever witty comment the blond had been about to make.

"Don't knock it," Harry muttered, getting up and heading for the table. "It's better than nothing."

Malfoy sighed dramatically but followed him, taking a seat across from Harry as they dug into their breakfast. For a while, they ate in silence, the tension between them slightly less suffocating than it had been the night before.

Nonetheless, as Harry watched Malfoy meticulously slice his toast into perfect triangles, he couldn't help but wonder what kind of life the blond had led up until now. Everything about him exuded poise and grace, a deliberate precision that seemed almost alien in comparison to Harry's own impatient approach to, well, everything. It was like watching a Potions Master at work, only instead of a cauldron, Malfoy wielded a butter knife with alarming finesse. The way he peeled his eggs was almost mesmerising. He didn't use his fingers—not once. Instead, he manoeuvred the spoon with surgical precision, carefully separating shell from soft white without so much as a crack or damage to the whites, his fork gently holding the egg down against his plate. Harry couldn't decide whether to be impressed or slightly unnerved.

Once peeled, Malfoy sliced the eggs into neat, even discs, each one so identical it looked like they'd come off an assembly line, leaving the rounded ends to the side. Then, with all the solemnity of a wizard casting an important charm, he arranged the discs onto his toast triangles in an aesthetic, swirling pattern. The finishing touch was a sprinkle of salt, applied with the lightest hand, as though anything more would ruin his masterpiece.

Harry realised he was staring. "Do you always eat like you're performing an art installation?" he blurted out, unable to help himself.

Malfoy didn't look up from his plate, but the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested he'd heard and was amused. "Some of us," he drawled, lifting a perfectly constructed toast-and-egg bite to his mouth, "have standards, Potter. You should try it sometime. It might do wonders for that… rustic approach of yours."

Harry scoffed, jabbing at his own boiled eggs with his fork. They'd come out a bit runny, the way he preferred them, though his plate looked more like something a troll might assemble than a meal prepared by human hands. He didn't particularly care—it tasted fine, and that was what mattered. Still, he couldn't help but glance at Malfoy's plate again, the triangles now neatly demolished, leaving only a few crumbs that he swiftly brushed off the table into his palm.

"Do you arrange all your meals like that?" Harry asked, unable to resist, again. "Or is this a special performance to make me feel like a Neanderthal?"

Malfoy finally deigned to look at him, raising an elegant brow.

"You feel that way all on your own, I assure you," he said coolly. "And yes, Potter, presentation matters. Even for breakfast. Chaos on a plate reflects chaos in the mind."

Harry rolled his eyes, though he couldn't help snorting a little. "Well, then, my mind must be a bloody masterpiece of chaos. You should take notes."

"Believe me, I've been studying the disaster that is your existence for years," Malfoy retorted, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. "There's nothing left to learn."

Harry chuckled despite himself, shaking his head as he reached for another slice of toast. Malfoy might be insufferable, but at least breakfast wasn't boring.

For a moment, silence filled the room save for the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath Malfoy's deliberate, cat-like steps as he stood and stretched. Harry avoided looking at him directly, though he couldn't quite figure out why. It was easier to focus on mundane details—the faint pattern in the peeling wallpaper, the chipped edges of the table, the weight of his glasses on his nose—than to think about everything that had happened yesterday.

"I need a bath," Malfoy said, his voice flat and matter-of-fact, like someone stating they needed air to breathe. He sniffed disdainfully, running his fingers through his hair, which, Harry couldn't help but notice, was slightly wavy around the edges from the damp air. "And so do you. This house is worse than Azkaban, Potter. I'd rather have a Dementor sniffing at me than whatever that… thing in the corner is." He gestured vaguely at a shadowed corner where a spider the size of a small cat had been loitering since their food had appeared. It was still watching them with unnerving stillness.

Harry groaned and pushed himself to his feet, his body aching from the whirlwind of activity from the day before. Merlin, he had to exercise more, his stamina was short of pathetic.

"Right, because you smelled like roses in Azkaban," he muttered under his breath, though there was no real bite to it.

Malfoy sniffed. "I'll ignore that because you're clearly suffering from exhaustion and poor life choices."

"Thanks," Harry said dryly. He ran a hand through his unruly hair, wincing when his fingers caught on a knot. "If I stink so much, let's see if this bloody house will evenletus find a bathroom again."

At the mere mention of the word "bathroom," the room shifted. The air shimmered, and with a faint groan, the door creaked open to reveal not another dimly lit corridor but a surprisingly pristine bathroom. The sharp scent of lavender and mint wafted toward them, and Harry blinked in disbelief.

"Oh,nowyou're cooperating?" he muttered to the house, his voice tinged with suspicion.

Malfoy, however, looked almost impressed. "Huh," he said, stepping forward to peer inside. "It's almost… tasteful. Not what I'd expect from the Black family. They took the Victorian aesthetic a little too eagerly."

Harry followed him, glancing around as the door creaked open. This bathroom had always been, oddly enough, one of his favourites—a peculiar sanctuary in a house otherwise heavy with shadows. During those early days at Grimmauld Place, when the memories pressed too close and his grief felt unbearable, Harry had often retreated here. The deep emerald-green tiles seemed to absorb the disarray of his thoughts, their cool sheen somehow grounding. The claw-foot tub gleamed invitingly, a promise of warmth and stillness amidst the chaos of the house. Above the sink, the enchanted mirror caught their reflections and, without missing a beat, chimed in its usual tart tone, "You both look like death, darlings." Its sharp candour was oddly charming, almost comforting, a reminder of the house's peculiar personality. Harry huffed a quiet laugh, glancing sideways at Malfoy, whose lips twitched.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at the mirror. "Charming," he drawled before turning back to Harry. "I'll go first. Obviously."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Obviously."

Malfoy paused in the doorway, glancing back at Harry with a smirk. "Unless you'd like to join me, Potter? Youdidinsist we sleep together, after all," his tone was light, teasing, but his grey eyes held an edge that Harry couldn't quite decipher.

Harry's face went red so fast he thought he might have a spontaneous nosebleed. "Just—just get on with it," he stammered, waving a hand in the direction of the tub. "I'll wait out here."

"Suit yourself," Malfoy said with an exaggerated shrug before stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. Harry heard the sound of running water a moment later, followed by a soft, contented moan that made his ears burn.

He tried not to imagine what Malfoy looked like under the spray of water.Probably like a wet cat. Yeah, a wet cat…

..

Malfoy emerged twenty minutes later, looking pink and infuriatingly revitalised. His well styled hair rested fashionably halfway on his forehead, no longer wavy, and he had the audacity to look smug as he adjusted the sleeves of his shirt, which had apparently been neatly laundered by the house's magic in the interim. He carried his green jumper in his other hand.

"I am starting to appreciate your cursed house of murder," he said breezily, stepping aside to let Harry pass. "Your turn, now. Try not to drown yourself, Scarhead."

Harry glared at him as he stepped into the bathroom, slamming the door shut harder than necessary. The enchanted mirror tutted disapprovingly but was otherwise ignored as he stripped off his clothes, tossing them into a corner. Steam quickly filled the air as he stepped under the warm cascade of water, the heat melting the tension from his shoulders and seeping into his tired muscles. For a few precious moments, Harry allowed himself to forget about the house's labyrinthine corridors, the simmering arguments, and the peculiar, unspoken something that had begun to form between him and Malfoy.

A truce, he supposed. Nothing more.

Grabbing one of the fancy potion bottles from the shelf—most likely something Malfoy had asked of Grimmauld, he supposed—he poured a generous amount of the opalescent liquid into his palm. The scent of bergamot and lavender filled the air as he worked the potion into a rich lather, its silky texture far removed from the basic soap he usually bought from Tesco. He wondered if Malfoy would have something snide to say about him using it, though he dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. The water sluiced over his skin, carrying away the grime and exhaustion of the day, but no matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn't quite shake the memory of Malfoy's sharp gaze or the way his voice softened—just slightly—when he wasn't trying to prove a point. Harry pressed the heels of his hands to his temples, forcing the thoughts away, letting the heat and fragrant steam wash over him instead. He didn't want to examine why, even now, Malfoy's presence felt so stubbornly insistent in the back of his mind.

Once he finally stepped out of the tub, dripping and freshly clean, the mirror quipped, "Feeling better, darling? You almost look human again." Harry wrapped a towel around his waist, his jaw tightening, he ignored the remark as he began to dry himself and get dressed.

When he emerged, clean and slightly less irritable, he found Malfoy waiting for him in the hallway—apparently their improvised bedroom had disappeared while he was showering—, arms crossed and foot tapping impatiently.

"Took you long enough," Malfoy said, though his tone was more playful than biting. Harry was starting to believe that most of his cheek came from an utter lack of social skills and defensiveness. "I was starting to think the tub had swallowed you."

"Disappointed, aren't you?" Harry shot back, though there was no real venom in his voice.

Malfoy smirked. "Oh,terribly."

With both of them clean and dressed, they turned their attention to the labyrinth once more—after bidding goodbye to their pet spider still in its corner. The house had returned to its usual ominous silence, the air thick with an unnerving stillness that seemed to watch their every move. Each step they took echoed faintly, the sound swallowed by the heavy atmosphere. Every now and then, Harry's gaze flicked to Malfoy, who moved with his usual mixture of confidence and wariness, as though bracing for the house's next move. He couldn't shake the sense that Grimmauld was holding its breath, waiting for something to unfold.

"So," Malfoy said as they rounded a corner for what felt like the hundredth time. "What's the plan, Potter? Or are we just wandering aimlessly and hoping for the best?"

Harry clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to snap back. "The house responds to intent," he said instead, keeping his voice even. "If we focus on finding a way out, it might—"

"—lead us to a closet full of doxies," Malfoy interrupted, arching an eyebrow. "Great plan. Truly inspired."

Harry shot him a withering look. "Got a better idea?"

Malfoy hesitated for a fraction of a second before shrugging. "Not yet. But give me time."

"Brilliant," Harry muttered under his breath. But despite the frustration bubbling beneath the surface, he couldn't help but feel a strange sense of camaraderie with Malfoy. They were in this together now, for better or worse. And as much as Harry hated to admit it, he wasn't entirely sure he would have made it this far without him.

Wasn't sure he wanted to, either.

..

Draco was painfully aware of Potter's presence as they walked past what seemed to be an entire collection of ancient Daily Prophets. He walked just behind Potter as they made their way through piles and mountains of paper. He kept his arms crossed, his expression carefully schooled into the mask of disinterest he'd mastered since his early teens, but inwardly, he was frazzled. Struggling to breathe evenly—to not let his traitorous heart betray him. He had been shaken since he had woken up this morning next to Potter, the vestiges of yesterday's conversations fresh on his mind, like petrichor after the rain.

What had possessed him to be so weak? So weak that he had allowed himself to babble on and on about feelings he had long since trapped in a mausoleum.

He was too close.

Potter—the insufferable, Gryffindor, bespectacled numpty—had always been too close; had been ever since they were eleven years old. Back then, Draco had dismissed it as rivalry, as frustration at Potter's refusal to take his hand, which then had turned just this side of murderous. But now, years later, the distance between them felt agonisingly thin. It was suffocating and electric all at once, a sensation that clawed under his skin and settled deep in his chest. Every time Potter brushed past him in the narrow walkway between newspapers, Draco's skin prickled, every nerve alight with the awareness ofhim. He could feel the heat radiating off Potter, could hear the faint hitch of his breath as they inevitably ended up walking closer to one another. It wasn't rivalry anymore—hadn't been for a long time. It was something heavier, messier, and far more dangerous. And every time Potter's gaze lingered just a fraction too long, Draco's stomach twisted, caught between wanting to shove him away and something far more ruinous.

He tried to not look at Potter. Couldn't. Those green eyes had a way of cutting through him, unravelling all the careful masks Draco had built around himself to keep his weakness in. They were too bright, too intense.

Too much.

Instead, he focused on the floorboards beneath his feet, on the muted groan of the house as it shifted and warped around them. Grimmauld Place's labyrinthine whims were maddening, its tendency to shake and rain upon them dust and tiny little spiders most of all, but it was a welcome distraction from the pandemonium inside his head.

He hated this—this pull Potter had always had over him. It was humiliating, degrading even, and yet Draco couldn't stop himself from glancing at the back of Potter's head, watching the way his messy hair stuck out in every direction. It was maddening. Draco scoffed quietly, the sound sharp in the stillness of the corridor. He could clearly see the pattern of what must be a head of beautiful curls even from this distance, unruly and begging for proper care. And yet the git made no effort to tame them, no thought spared for their potential, and it drove Draco absolutely mad. But the more he looked at Potter, the harder it became to hold onto any indignation. His mind kept wandering back to the night before, to the quiet moment when Potter—awkward and uncomfortable—had opened up about his fears, his failures. The raw honesty in his voice had startled Draco, chipped away at the easy contempt he liked to cradle when it came to Potter. It was infuriating, and yet Draco couldn't deny the faint pull he'd felt then, like a string stretched taut between them, thrumming with something unspoken. Something herefusedto name, despite being constant bedfellows.

But the memory lingered, no matter how much Draco wanted to shove it away.

Potter had looked vulnerable.

And Draco hated vulnerability. He hated it because he understood it too well—because he carried it with him every day, a secret he was too ashamed to even acknowledge. It clung to him like a second skin, a constant reminder of every failure, every mistake, every moment he'd come up short.

But seeing it in Potter had been… different. Draco hadn't known what to say, hadn't known how to comfort him—because what couldhepossibly say? The man who had spent years antagonising and ridiculing him? The man whose family and beliefs had been the very antithesis of Potter's entire existence? Of course he wouldn't accept comfort from him. Not that Draco knew how to give any. He hadn't been raised for empathy, quite the contrary. His childhood had been cold and lonely, his mother his only constant companion aside from his governess and tutors; and the only company his father would give him was in the form of harsh lessons about strength, purity and power.

A Malfoy was not weak. A Malfoy walked with their head held high. A Malfoy always looked for a way to benefit themselves. A Malfoy always came up first.

A Malfoy always stayed afloat.

Ironic, given the fact that his father had been assassinated on his way to Azkaban after the second war. Drowned.

Shaking his head, Draco stepped over a small pile of papers, a particularly raunchy title on the cover on top of the pile.

And yet, despite all that, Draco couldn't ignore the pang he had felt in his chest when Potter spoke so quietly, so honestly. It had been like watching a thunderstorm settle into a calm sea, the rawness of it both breathtaking and unbearable all at once. That moment had lingered, as much as Draco wished it wouldn't, clawing at the edges of his carefully constructed walls. Potter had looked sohumanthen, and somehow that made everything worse.

Draco clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching as if he could physically shove the memory aside back into the recesses of his mind. It wasn't the time to lose himself in thoughts of Potter or the strange pull that made him hyperaware of every movement, every glance, every shared breath in this cursed house. There was a labyrinthian madhouse to escape, and Draco wasn't about to let his feelings—feelings herefusedto name—cloud his judgment. He'd spent years perfecting his detachment, the art of cold indifference, and he wasn't about to let it all crumble now.

Straightening his shoulders, Draco forced himself to focus, eyes scanning the dim hallway that stretched endlessly before them. The house groaned again, as if disagreeing with him, and Draco felt the floor shift beneath his feet. He stumbled, reaching out instinctively to steady himself. His fingers brushed against Potter's arm, and the contact sent a jolt through him, like lightning racing up his spine.

"Careful," Potter said, glancing back at him with a small frown.

Draco snatched his hand back as if burned. "I'm perfectly fine," he snapped, the words coming out sharper than he intended. He cleared his throat, schooling his expression into something more neutral. "The house is just—uncooperative."

Potter raised an eyebrow, but thankfully, he didn't push the issue. He simply nodded and turned back around, his focus shifting to the corridor ahead.

Draco exhaled slowly, his heart still racing from the brief touch. It was ridiculous how much of an effect Potter had on him, even now. After all these years of not seeing a hair of each other, after everything that had happened between them, Draco still felt like that confused teenager from fourth and fifth year, angry and desperate for something he couldn't name. It had started back then, though Draco hadn't realised it at the time. Then, in sixth year, when Potter had been obsessed with stalking him, watching his every move, Draco had told himself it was just paranoia. But somewhere along the way, that paranoia had turned into something else. Something sharper, more desperate. It had remained there even after Potter had tried to eviscerate him.

He'd hated Potter for it—hated the way those green eyes seemed to see through him, hated the way Potter always seemed to be there, watching, waiting for him to fuck everything up as he was wont to do. But he'd also craved it. Craved the attention, even if it came in the form of hostile words and pain.

It was only later, after the war, after the trials, after that second rejection, that Draco had been forced to confront the truth. It wasn't just jealousy or resentment. Likewise, it wasn't just gratitude—and yes, he was grateful to the man for saving him and his family.

It was something deeper, something far more lethal.

And now, walking beside Potter in the twisting corridors of Grimmauld Place, Draco felt that danger more acutely than ever. Every glance, every touch, every word exchanged between them felt like a spark threatening to ignite the tension between them. He hated it. Hated how much control Potter had over him without even trying.

But more than that, he hated himself for wanting it.

"Do you think we're getting anywhere?" Potter's voice broke through Draco's thoughts, startling him enough that he almost tripped right into the last piles of papers.

Draco blinked, realizing he'd been staring at Potter's head for the past several minutes. He straightened, clearing his throat. "Not particularly," he said, his tone deliberately disinterested. "Though I suppose wandering aimlessly is as good a strategy as any."

Potter sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Intent," he muttered, more to himself than to Draco. "If we just—focus, maybe it'll lead us somewhere useful."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Oh, brilliant. Let's justthink really hardand hope for the best. That's sure to work."

Potter shot him a look over his shoulder, and Draco felt a pang of regret for his sarcasm. But before he could say anything, the corridor shifted again, the walls groaning as they twisted into a new shape.

"Well," Potter said, his lips quirking into a small, wry smile. "Look who was right,again."

Draco scowled, though he couldn't stop the faint flutter in his chest at the sight of Potter's smile. "Lucky guess," he muttered, brushing past him to take the lead. He ignored the way his shoulder bumped against Potter's as he passed, ignored the way it sent another jolt through him.

They continued walking, as they had done for the better part of the morning, the silence between them encompassing them. They rounded another corner, and the corridor opened up into a small sitting room. The furniture was covered in dust, and the air was thick with the scent of old wood and decay. Potter paused, glancing around with a frown.

"Another dead end," he muttered.

Draco stepped past him, his eyes scanning the room. "Not necessarily," he said, his voice low. "There might be something here. A clue, perhaps."

Potter raised an eyebrow. "You really think the house is going to leave us a convenient map?"

Draco shrugged. "Stranger things have happened."

They began searching the room in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Draco couldn't help but zero in on Potter's presence—the sound of his footsteps, the way his messy hair caught the dim light, the faint scent of soap lingering on his skin. It was maddening. Draco hated how much he noticed. Hated how much hecared.

It was disgusting, really. Draco Malfoy, reduced to a smitten fool over Harry bloody Potter.

He wanted to say something, anything, to break the awkwardness. But what could he possibly say? That he'd spent years pining for the one person who would never look at him the way he wanted? That every smile, every glance, every accidental touch felt like a dagger to his chest because he knew it would never be enough? That he had to be cruel in order to keep himself away?

No, not again.

"Malfoy?"

Potter's voice stopped his manic musing, and Draco turned sharply to find Potter watching him with a concerned expression. He realised he'd been staring at the same spot on the wall for several minutes, his thoughts spinning out of control.

"What?" Draco snapped, a little too harshly.

Potter frowned. "Are you okay? You've been acting… weird."

Draco's heart skipped a beat, panic flaring in his chest. "I'm fine," he said quickly, his tone clipped. "Just—tired."

Potter didn't look convinced, but thankfully, he didn't press the issue. Instead, he nodded and turned back to his search, leaving Draco to wrestle with the mess of emotions clawing at him.

Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair. He needed to get a grip. This was Potter—arrogant, self-righteous, impossible Potter. There was no point in wanting something he could never have. No point in torturing himself over what could never be.

But as he watched Potter move through the room, his green eyes bright and determined, Draco couldn't help but wish—for just a moment—that things were different. That he was different. That they could be different.

It was a foolish wish.

..

Harry's heart thudded in his chest as he pushed open the heavy door in front of them, its hinges creaking in protest. The air that seeped out from within was cold, musty, and almost... oppressive. Dust coated the surface of the wood, and for a moment, he thought the room had been abandoned long ago, just like countless other hidden nooks in Grimmauld Place. But the instant the door swung open fully, his breath caught in his throat.

The room wasn't just another dusty chamber.

It was hauntingly beautiful, like something out of a dream—or perhaps a nightmare. The wallpaper was an intricate pattern of silver filigree against faded powder blue, curling at the edges where time had worn it thin. A single chandelier hung from the ceiling, its crystals catching what scarce light spilled into the room and throwing fractured patterns onto the walls. At the centre of the room was an antique four-poster bed, its canopy of deep indigo velvet now torn and faded, the once-plush comforter torn in pieces and caked with years of grime.

But it wasn't the room that held Harry's attention.

Sitting on a high-backed chair near the bed was a ghostly figure—a young woman with an eerie kind of beauty, her translucent form shimmering faintly under the chandelier. Her hair was a cascade of long, dark curls that tumbled freely down her back and onto the chair, and her olive skin had the pale, ethereal glow of moonlight. She was dressed in what looked like a blood-stained white chemise, the delicate fabric clinging to her spectral frame, the barest hint of skin visible under the translucent fabric. Her expression was serene, but her eyes were heavy with a mournfulness that seemed to permeate the very air around her.

Harry felt a shiver run down his spine.

The ghost didn't immediately acknowledge their presence. She seemed to be… playing chess. Except there was no opponent and the board was caked in grime—her fingers hovered over the broken pieces with practised precision, as though she were caught in a game against herself only she could see.

"Merlin's bloody beard," Harry muttered, glancing at Malfoy, who was standing rigid in the doorway. Malfoy's expression was unreadable, but his pale complexion suggested he wasn't any more comfortable than Harry.

After a moment, the ghost looked up. Her eyes, a piercing pale colour, locked onto Harry's.

"Oh," she said softly, her voice lilting and warm, though tinged with unmistakable melancholy. "Visitors, how nice."

Harry's hand instinctively went to his wand, but he didn't draw it.

Malfoy, ever the quick one, stepped forward with a small, stiff bow. "Apologies for the intrusion," he said, his tone uncharacteristically polite. "We weren't aware this room was… occupied."

The ghost tilted her head, a small smile ghosting across her lips. "I don't mind, as I'm afraid it has been too long since anyone came to visit me. Forgive me if I seem out of sorts. I fear I've forgotten the proper decorum for receiving guests." She gestured to her blood-stained chemise. As she moved her hands, Harry could see deep cuts at her wrists, and he felt a knot at his throat, the only thing to keep him from sicking up. "I would have changed, but, well…"

Harry blinked. He wasn't entirely sure what one was supposed to say to a dead woman apologising for her appearance and making light of her death.

"Well, you're dead," Harry said, shrugging as to appear nonchalant. "So I guess that's forgivable."

Malfoy whipped around and slapped the back of Harry's head, glaring at him. "Potter!" he hissed, looking like he was about to throttle him.

The ghost laughed, the sound light and melodic, but with an edge of despondency.

"No, no, it's quite all right," she said. "I am indeed dead. Long dead, in fact. It's refreshing to have someone speak so plainly about it."

Malfoy shot Harry one last murderous look before turning back to the ghost. "Might I ask your name?" he inquired, his voice smoother now, almost… reverent.

The ghost inclined her head, her curls dancing around her. "Hesper. Hesper Aurora Black."

Harry's brow furrowed. "You're… related to Sirius, then?"

Hesper's smile faded slightly, her eyes clouding with something unreadable. "Ah, yes. Sirius. My… great-nephew, many times removed. Though I doubt he ever knew of me, he certainly never came to visit. My name was long buried with me," she gestured to the bed, her fingers brushing lightly over the skeletal remains barely concealed beneath the comforter. "Quite literally."

Harry stared at the remains, his stomach twisting with nausea and pity. He wasn't sure why he hadn't noticed them earlier. The shape of a body was unmistakable beneath the decaying fabric, the outline of bones stark and unyielding against the softness of the bloodied comforter.

"How did you…?" Harry began, but Malfoy smacked the back of his head once more before he could finish the question.

"For Salazar's sake, Potter!" Malfoy snapped. "Have some tact."

Hesper laughed again, a sound both light and brittle. "No, no, let him ask," she said, her gaze drifting back to Harry. "It's not as though I'm shy about it. I've had… oh, how long has it been now? Almost two centuries to make peace with it," she folded her hands in her lap, her expression wistful. "I suppose you'd like to hear my story."

Harry nodded, though he glanced at Malfoy, half-expecting another smack to the head. But Malfoy didn't say anything, his face unreadable as he watched Hesper with an intensity that made Harry uneasy.

Hesper began to speak, her voice soft but steady as she looked around the room before she settled her gaze back to her invisible chess game.

"I was the youngest daughter of Pollux Black," she said, her gaze distant, as though she were seeing something invisible and far away. "And like all Black children, my life was not my own. My parents had grand ambitions for me—marriage to an older wizard with seats in the Wizengamot, a man who could further the family's political power," she paused, her fingers tightening slightly in her lap. "But my heart already belonged to someone else."

Malfoy's breath hitched almost imperceptibly. Harry glanced at him, but his silver gaze was fixed on Hesper, his jaw tight.

"I loved her. Oh, how I loved her so. She was just divine, the fairest young woman you'd ever seen," Hesper continued, her voice wistful, sad and breaking slightly. "She was… not what my family wanted for me. But she loved me deeply, truly. And I loved her back," her lips trembled, but she forced a smile. "We thought we might run away together. That we could escape the Black name, the Black expectations. However, my parents found out."

Harry felt a chill run down his spine. He knew where this story was going, he could already feel the tragedy in it, see the ending hidden underneath the duvet.

"They killed her," Hesper said quietly, her voice devoid of emotion. "My father. My brothers. They thought it was better for me to marry the man they'd chosen than to disgrace the family with my perversions, mydeviancy. They didn't even let me see her before they took her away. Just… told me she was gone, that nobody would care to look for a missingmudblood."

The room seemed to grow colder, the air thick with sorrow as Hesper's words hung between them like a frost settling over everything. Harry felt the weight of them in his chest, an ache that wasn't quite his, but close enough to cut. He glanced at Malfoy beside him and froze. Malfoy's face was pale, almost as ghostly as Hesper's, his usually sharp features softened by the glimmer of tears threatening to spill from his wide, silvery eyes. His hands, normally so controlled, trembled faintly where they hung by his sides, his knuckles white as though he were gripping onto something unseen for dear life.

It wasn't just sadness Harry saw in him—it was something deeper, rawer, like a wound torn open and left to bleed for a long time. Malfoy looked like he was battling something vast and unbearable, barely holding himself together. The tremor in his frame wasn't just from sorrow; it was rage, yes, but also something quieter, something Harry couldn't place. He wondered briefly if Malfoy was angry for Hesper or at something else. Harry didn't know what it was that made Malfoy react so viscerally—he didn't understand why Hesper's story seemed to cut him in ways even her murder hadn't. Malfoy, for all his insults and dramatics, always seemed untouchable, untouched by the vulnerabilities that gripped others. And, deeply, Harry knew it was a front, something he had found out long ago but had only solidified since they'd been trapped. Now, he was trembling, his breath shaky, his entire being charged with something Harry couldn't begin to unravel. It felt wrong to stare, to intrude on something so private, and yet Harry couldn't look away.

The silence pressed heavily around them, and Harry shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to say, unsure if saying anything would even help.

"I was to marry the man they'd chosen the next day," Hesper said, her voice distant now. "But I couldn't. I couldn't face a life withouther. So that night, I came here—to my room—and I…" She gestured vaguely to the bed, her ghostly form shimmering slightly. There was blood on the comforter, a shaving razor on her night stand. "I followed my love."

Harry felt his chest tighten, the weight of her story settling heavily on him.

"I've been here ever since," Hesper said, her voice quieter now. "Can't seem to leave, though I'd have loved to. All I wanted was to be with her, and even in death, I could not. And it does get terribly lonely in this room."

Silence filled the room. Harry didn't know what to say. Whatcouldhe say?

Malfoy didn't say anything, it looked like he couldn't, his gaze still fixed on Hesper as though he were trying to see through her, past her ghostly form. The tremble in his hands had subsided, but the tension in the air between them was undeniable—heavy, suffocating. Harry could feel it pressing against his chest, thick and unpleasant, but Malfoy seemed to retreat into it, losing himself in the quiet, his body rigid and still.

Finally, Harry cleared his throat. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice awkward but sincere. "I—I don't know what else to say."

Hesper smiled faintly. "There's nothing to say, dear" she replied. "But thank you. For listening."

She turned her gaze to Malfoy, who seemed to snap out of whatever trance he'd been in. "And you," she said softly. "You have the look of a Black about you, you must be the Black heir."

Malfoy stiffened, his shoulders squaring. "I'm Draco Malfoy," he said. "Narcissa Black's son."

Hesper's smile widened, though it was tinged with sadness. "Ah, Narcissa. She was always exceedingly kind to me when she was young. You must be a fine young man if you're her son."

Harry bit back a laugh at the sheer disbelief on Malfoy's face.

"Er, well," Malfoy began, clearly flustered.

Before he could say anything else, Hesper turned her gaze back to her chessboard.

"Sit," she said, gesturing to the door. "You've heard my tale, now dear nephew of mine, please do play a game of chess with me. It's been so long since I've had anyone to challenge me."

Malfoy said nothing as he nodded and proceeded to cast strong cleaning charms on the chess set and the surrounding furniture, much to Hesper's clear delight. Then, Hesper thought it funny to give Draco the white pieces, "To match our hair, darling," she said as she pointed towards her own black locks.

Harry stood back, watching the scene unfold with an odd sense of detachment. He felt like an observer rather than a participant in this moment, caught between the flicker of old emotions and the unsettling shift in Malfoy's demeanour. Hesper's voice was light, teasing even, but there was something sad about the way Malfoy accepted the challenge, the way his fingers lingered over the chess pieces with a faint tremor. It was as if this game was terribly important to him.

As the first move was made, Harry found himself strangely unsettled, wondering, not for the first time, what it was that made Malfoy so impossibly complicated—and why, despite everything, he couldn't seem to stop trying to figure it out.

..

"Pawn to E4," started Draco, moving his white piece forward.

"Pawn to E5," continued Hesper and Draco moved her piece for her.

"Knight to F3."

The room was quiet except for the soft clicking of chess pieces as Draco moved them across the board. Hesper sat across from him, her ghostly form a pale, ethereal presence in the dimly lit chamber. Her long, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders as she leaned forward, her skin glowing faintly, almost as though the room itself breathed her life into existence, even in death. Her eyes, so pale and so very much like his own, followed Draco's every move with a quiet intensity. Despite her eerie appearance, there was an innocence to her demeanour as she played, a joy that seemed disconnected from her tragedy. Draco couldn't help but wonder if, somewhere deep inside, she found peace through these small moments, these simple games. But the more Draco played, the more he realised that there was something oddly familiar about the way she moved her pieces, the concentration in her eyes as she considered every move, every strategy. After a while, he realised that her playing style was eerily similar to his mother's, and he wondered if Narcissa had learnt how to play from Hesper. The thought made him smile, like something had finally come full-circle. For a brief moment, the weight of Grimmauld Place, of his legacy, of the war, all of it, melted away. It was just him and Hesper, and the chessboard between them.

When he beat her he didn't feel the usual rush of triumph. Instead, he only felt strangely desolate, like a piece of him had been taken with the victory.

Hesper let out a soft laugh, almost melodic in its sadness, and looked up at him, her smile wistful. "I suppose I'm getting too old for this game," she said, her voice light but carrying an undertone of humour. "You've bested me, Heir Black."

Draco didn't respond right away, his eyes on the pieces in front of him. He hadn't felt like much of an heir, not after everything. He didn't feel connected with the title, the bloodline, or anything that came with it.

"Don't be too hard on yourself," Hesper added, as if sensing his thoughts. "It's only a game. But…" She paused, her gaze lingering on him. "It's been a long time since I've had company. Will you play me once more?"

Draco sighed, pushing a lock of hair from his face, feeling the ache of exhaustion weighing down on him. He felt weary, the tiredness deep in his bones as if it was not only physical in nature. But he nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture accompanied by an even more diminutive smile.

"Alright. One more game."

They played in silence again, but this time, Draco couldn't bring himself to focus as fully as before. His moves were sluggish, his mind not entirely in the game. His thoughts drifted to the conversation they'd had earlier—to Hesper's story, to the lives that had been lost, and to the overwhelming sense of being trapped in a life he never chose. The pieces on the board seemed irrelevant, a distraction from the storm inside him.

It was when he made a careless move, his knight falling and giving way for an inevitable checkmate, that he realised he'd lost. He looked up at Hesper, and for the first time since they'd started, her smile was blinding, warm, and even a little mischievous.

"Alas, I've won," she said softly, her eyes gleaming with something like triumph. But there was no malice in it. Only the quiet joy of having finally succeeded, in a way that had eluded her for so long. "I suppose I should be happy," she continued, her fingers delicately brushing the chessboard. "I haven't had a real victory in a long time. Perhaps… that's enough for now."

Draco's chest tightened, the words suddenly feeling heavier than they should have. He wanted to speak, wanted to say something meaningful, but it was as though the air had thickened, choking him with the enormity of her words and the weight of his own. Hesper tilted her head slightly, studying him with a soft, almost knowing expression. She said nothing at first, but then, as if making a decision, she looked directly at him.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice quieter now, as though speaking to herself. "So sorry you have to live with this pain."

The words made Draco freeze, his heart pounding in his chest as they sank into him, too heavy to simply shake off."So sorry you have to live with this pain."Her sympathy, her understanding, words wrapping around him like a thick, suffocating rope, not because it was unwelcome, but because it was so rare. He had spent his entire life suppressing parts of himself, locking away pieces that were considered unacceptable, weak, or worse,not Malfoy. The idea that someone, someone so close to him, could understand that quiet ache, the one that lived in the hollow of his chest and gnawed at him in his most solitary moments, made him feel as if something within him that had been long broken suddenly clattered to the floor.

As a rule, he had always been taught to be something he wasn't. To be the perfect heir, to uphold the legacy of his family, their values, their expectations. But neither of those things had ever taken into account the parts of him that didn't fit, the parts of him that wanted to be loved in a way that didn't adhere to the narrow, suffocating framework he had been born into. He'd carried that weight for so long, pretending, playing the role he had been handed, all the while breaking inside.

When he had finally told his mother—after the war, after everything—her acceptance had been a balm on a wound he didn't even realise was so deep. She had embraced him without question, without judgment. But the damage had already been done, and the suffocating pressure had been with him for so long that the idea of living as his true self still felt like an impossible freedom. His family's demands for perfection had suffocated him, forcing him into a box that was far too small, and that even now, years later, seemed to keep him trapped.

He wanted to say something to Hesper, to let her know that her words hit a mark he had long buried, but the words wouldn't come. She was a mirror to his own buried grief, showing him the parts of himself he had hidden for so long, even from himself.

But instead, he stayed silent, unable to respond to that tenderness. He had never allowed himself to be so brave, not in the way Hesper was, not in the way he longed to be.

Hesper glanced up at him one last time, her eyes filled with a deep sadness. "You two should go now," she said, her voice distant, as if she was already fading away. "The house won't let you linger much longer."

Draco stood slowly, his legs heavy beneath him. The weight of her words pressed on him, and he couldn't help but glance at her one last time. She was already turning back to the chessboard, her fingers ghosting over the pieces in a soft, absent motion.

..

Harry hesitated, glancing at Malfoy, but the other man was already heading for the door, his steps brisk and purposeful. Hesper sat impassively in her high-chair, a small, sad smile painting her beautiful face.

"Be careful," she said, her expression suddenly serious. "This house… it has a way of playing with people's hearts. Don't let it twist you into something you're not."

Harry frowned, not entirely sure what she meant, but he nodded nonetheless.

With one last look at her, Harry followed.

The air outside the room felt lighter than in the room, as though the heavy weight of Hesper Black's grief hadn't quite followed them through the threshold. Harry could feel the tension that hung between him and Malfoy as they walked side by side, the house's uneven floorboards creaking beneath their boots. Malfoy's shoulders were squared, his posture stiffer than usual, and Harry could tell he was retreating into himself, likely replaying the ghost's words over and over in his head.

For Harry, the encounter had left an uneasy impression. Hesper's warning clung to him like cobwebs, sticky and hard to brush off.Don't let it twist you into something you're not.The words echoed in his mind, stirring up a restlessness he couldn't quite place. Grimmauld Place had always been a house of secrets, and Hesper was just one more tragic soul swallowed away by the darkness of the Black family's legacy.

Malfoy, on the other hand, had said nothing since they left the room. And while silence from Malfoy was usually a blessing, this one felt loaded. Harry had seen the way Malfoy's jaw tightened when Hesper mentioned her family's expectations, the way his pale hands clenched at his sides when she spoke of love sacrificed for duty.

In retrospect, it wasn't hard to guess why.

"Malfoy," Harry said finally, breaking the silence. His voice echoed faintly in the corridor, bouncing off the cracked walls.

"What, Potter?" Malfoy snapped, his tone clipped. He didn't look at Harry, his gaze fixed straight ahead as they trudged through the endless maze of Grimmauld Place.

Harry frowned, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You've been awfully quiet."

"Don't tell me you're going to get sentimental on me," Malfoy sneered, though the sharpness in his tone lacked its usual bite. He just seemed out of energy, tired. "If you're looking for a heart-to-heart, I'm afraid you'll have to consult your Gryffindor friends. I'm all out for the year."

"That obvious, huh?" Harry muttered, mostly to himself. He wasn't in the mood to argue—not after everything they'd just heard. "I just… I don't know. Hesper's story—"

"Was none of our business," Malfoy interrupted, finally stopping to whirl around and face Harry. His grey eyes were cold, steely, they way they turned when he was desperately trying to hide his feelings. But even that showed. "Don't pretend you actually care about her. You're just looking for a reason to turn this into another one of your righteous crusades."

"Righteous crusades?" Harry repeated, his voice rising slightly. "What the hell are you on about?"

Malfoy scoffed, running a hand through his hair and gripping it.

"You can't save her, Potter. She's a ghost, for Morgana's sake. You can't barge in, wave your wand around, and fix everything like you're some kind of bloody hero."

"Iknowthat," Harry shot back, stepping closer to Malfoy. "I'm not trying to save her, Malfoy. I just—"

"Just what?" Malfoy challenged, his voice dripping with hurt. "Feel sorry for her? Pity her? Or maybe you're just using her story to distract yourself from whatever unresolvedsaviour complexyou're carrying around."

Harry's fists clenched at his sides, his temper flaring despite trying to understand that Malfoy was being defensive. "You don't know anything about what I'm carrying around."

"And you knownothingaboutme," Malfoy retorted, his voice suddenly quieter, more dangerous. His eyes burned with something Harry couldn't quite name—anger, yes, but something else, too. Something raw and fragile, like the last snow of winter.

He knew what Malfoy was saying was a lie. They'd always known way too much about each other. And after yesterday, it seemed like they were bound to know each other better than anyone. The barriers between them had shifted like quicksand, and now, with every glance, every word, there was a tension, a quiet tether that neither could deny nor ignore. Something was changing, and it both terrified and intrigued Harry.

For a moment, they stood there, staring each other down in the dim corridor. The tension crackled between them like static electricity, the air thick with everything they weren't saying.

"Forget it," Malfoy muttered, breaking the silence. He turned on his heel and started walking again, his robes swirling behind him. "We're wasting time."

Harry stood quiet for a moment, his jaw tight. Part of him wanted to yell, to grab Malfoy by the shoulder and demand he explain himself. That he was honest with Harry, like he had been yesterday. But another part of him—the part that was tired, frustrated, and just plain fed up—decided it wasn't worth the effort.

"Fine," Harry muttered under his breath, falling into step behind Malfoy. "You're impossible."

They walked in silence after that, the house guiding them through a series of narrow hallways and steep staircases. Harry tried to focus on their surroundings, but his thoughts kept drifting back to Malfoy. He couldn't ignore the way Malfoy had reacted to her story, the way his mask of indifference had cracked, even if only for a moment.

The Black family curse, indeed.

Eventually, the corridor opened up into another room—this one less haunting than the last, though no less peculiar. It appeared to be a library of sorts, the walls lined with towering shelves stuffed with books. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and ink, and a single lantern floated in the centre of the room, casting a soft, golden glow. The room was quieter than the rest of the house, the stillness broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath their feet. The shelves, crammed with volumes of all sizes and ages, stretched high above them, their spines worn and faded from years of neglect. Some of the titles were in languages Harry didn't recognise, while others looked like they had been scribbled in a hasty hand. The lantern's light flickered, illuminating the dust that swirled gently in the air, as though even the room itself hadn't been disturbed in a long time.

Malfoy, who had fallen silent beside him, reached for one of the nearby bookshelves, his fingers grazing the leather-bound volumes. His touch seemed almost reverent, as though he was afraid to disturb the fragile nature of the room. For a moment, Harry wondered if Malfoy had an affinity for books, or if there was something more to the library that he wasn't sharing. Either way, the quiet stretch between them felt less uncomfortable in this room—something about the space made it easier to breathe, to exist in each other's presence without the weight of their animosity or tumultuous relationship pressing down on them. It was, for once, peaceful.

"Finally," Malfoy muttered, his voice cutting through the silence. "A room that doesn't reek of death and despair."

Harry rolled his eyes, stepping into the room and glancing around. "Let's hope this one doesn't have any surprises waiting for us, either."

Malfoy didn't respond, already making his way to one of the shelves. He ran his fingers along the spines of the books, his expression unreadable.

Harry hesitated, watching him for a moment before crossing to the opposite side of the room. He wasn't sure what they were looking for, exactly, but if it helped calm down Malfoy's Draconian temper, then he wasn't about to complain.

"Malfoy," Harry said after a while, breaking the silence. "Do you think—"

"Potter, if you're going to talk, make it useful," Malfoy interrupted without looking up. "Otherwise, save your breath."

Harry scowled but bit back a retort. Instead, he focused on the books in front of him, scanning the titles for anything that might stand out. Many of them were on pureblood genealogy and ancient magic, their spines adorned with the Black family crest.

As the minutes stretched on, the silence between them grew too awkward for Harry. He stole a glance at Malfoy, who was now perched on a ladder, thumbing through a particularly thick tome. His face was illuminated by the soft light of the lantern, his features sharp and almost… delicate. Harry frowned, quickly looking away. He didn't have time for whateverthatthought was.

"Find anything?" Harry asked, clearing his throat.

"No," Malfoy replied curtly, snapping the book shut and sliding it back onto the shelf. "Just the usual Black family nonsense."

Harry sighed, leaning against one of the shelves. "This house is going to drive me mad."

Malfoy smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You'd have to be sane to begin with, Potter."

Despite himself, Harry snorted. "You're hilarious, ha ha."

"I do try," Malfoy replied, descending the ladder with a practised ease. "Now, unless you have another brilliant idea, I suggest we move on. The sooner we're out of this infernal house, the better."

Harry nodded, pushing off the shelf. The tension in the air between them had shifted. It wasn't entirely gone, but it was softer now, back to how it had been in the morning; like a fragile thread holding them together against the enormity of their history. Malfoy leaned against the cold wall of the library, running a hand through his pale hair. His eyes were distant, stormy grey depths that Harry couldn't quite read. It was clear he was still lost in thought, no doubt replaying Hesper's words in his mind. Harry stood a few feet away, watching him silently. For the first time, Harry felt no urge to press or argue.

Predictably, Malfoy spoke on his own, voice breaking through, soft and unsteady.

"I know what it feels like," he murmured, his tone barely audible, as if the words were too much to bear. "To be trapped by your family's choices and demands. To have your entire life laid out for you before you can even think for yourself," his shoulders trembled, the faintest quiver running through him that Harry couldn't ignore.

Harry swallowed, caught off guard by the quiet admission when the blonde had not seemed willing to talk just a few minutes ago. He wanted to say something, wanted to offer some sort of comfort, but the words were stuck in his throat, tangled with the weariness of everything they had both experienced. Instead, he just nodded, not trusting his voice. Malfoy's eyes, silvered with emotion, flicked to him briefly before turning back to the books.

The library felt smaller now, the silence between them heavier than before. They were both trapped in it—in the past, Harry by the memory of Sirius, and Malfoy in the ghosts of his families. But, for the first time, Harry could see how deep Malfoy's pain ran, how much of it was tied to something he had never understood. Despite the vulnerability they'd experienced with each other since they first began wandering around this house, it felt as if this was the first time it was so transparent.

Maybe, they weren't as different as they'd always thought.

Harry cleared his throat. "You mean the Black family?" he asked carefully.

Malfoy's lips twisted into a wry smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. With slow, deliberate motions, his long fingers grazed the spines of the books as he walked along the shelves. He paused at a particularly old-looking volume, running his fingertips over the embossed title as if it held some kind of hidden significance. His voice, when it came, was soft but laced with bitterness.

"The Black family, the Malfoy family—there's not much difference, is there? Same principles, same suffocating expectations," he said, a sneer curling the corners of his lips. His fingers continued to trail over the books, each touch seemingly driven by some quiet, internal anger. "Do you know what it's like to have your life planned out for you before you've even taken your first step? To be told what to think, how to act, who to marry?" He scoffed bitterly, and the sound felt almost too harsh for the quiet room. "My father never failed to remind me I was to marry Astoria Greengrass from the time I was five. Thank Circe the marriage contract dissolved when he became shark bait."

Harry swallowed hard, the words sinking into him more than he would have liked. He had always seen Draco Malfoy through the lens of animosity, their history coloured by the endless clashes at school, the insults, and the arrogance. But now, standing there in the midst of these books, it was impossible not to see a different side of him.

He hadn't thought much about what Malfoy's life might have been like beyond the sneers and the posturing. Not beyond the contemptuous notion that he must've been terribly spoiled by his bigoted parents. On the one hand, Harry had always assumed that Malfoy had been a willing participant in the pureblood supremacist ideology—an entitled prat who revelled in his privilege and perceived superiority, who loved to lord it over everyone like bait to fish. And maybe that had been true, once upon a time. But now, in the silence of this room, with the poignancy of his words hanging in the air, Harry couldn't help but be curious whether there was more to it. Perhaps Malfoy hadn't always been this way. Perhaps it had been beaten into him, not just by his father, but by the weight of a world that had already decided who he would be long before he ever had a chance to make his own choices. Had he ever had a choice, really?

After all, before he became a Malfoy, there had to have been a Draco. And Harry, for the first time, found himself curious aboutthatDraco Malfoy, the one who hadn't yet been swallowed up by his family's expectations and ideologies, the one who had perhaps still had a chance at a different life.

That thought lingered, heavy and uninvited, as the silence stretched between them like a spiderweb.

"I don't know what that's like," Harry admitted after a long time deep in thought. After all, the Dursleys had never expected anything so grand of him, other than dinner on time or silence. "But I do know what it's like to have people expect you to be something you're not. To feel like you're just… a symbol or a tool for other people's plans," his voice softened. "Hesper didn't have a choice, either. She was used, just like you were."

Malfoy flinched, his mask of apathy cracking ever so slightly.

"I'm not like her," he said, though there was no conviction in his voice. "She… she had something pure. Love, or whatever you want to call it. She was willing to give up everything for it. I…" he trailed off, shaking his head.

"You what?" Harry pressed, stepping closer. "You don't think you're capable of that?"

Malfoy scoffed, his trademark sneer returning for a brief moment. "What would you know about what I'm capable of, Potter? You've spent your entire life thinking I'm some kind of villain."

"I used to," Harry said honestly. "But not anymore."

Malfoy turned to him then, his eyes searching Harry's face for something—some kind of ulterior motive, perhaps. When he found nothing, for Harry knew there was none, his shoulders sagged, and the tension drained from his body.

"Hesper…" Malfoy started, his voice barely above a whisper. "She called me the Heir Black. Did you hear her?"

Harry nodded. "I did."

"It wasn't just a title," Malfoy continued, his voice trembling slightly. "She looked at me like she…knewme. Like she could see everything I've done, every choice I've made, and shestill—" He broke off, taking a shaky breath. "She still gave me her condolences. Like I'd lost something."

Harry thought about Hesper's words, the way she had looked at Draco with a mixture of sadness and understanding.

"Maybe she saw more of you than you're willing to see in yourself," he said softly. "You've lost a lot, Malfoy. More than most people are willing to see."

Malfoy didn't respond right away. Instead, he turned his gaze back down the hallway, his expression unreadable.

"We should keep moving," he said finally, his voice cold and distant again. "The core isn't going to find itself."

But Harry wasn't fooled. He could see the cracks in Malfoy's armour, the vulnerability he was trying so desperately to hide. Harry didn't feel the need to push or prod, he simply followed Malfoy down the corridor, the ghost of Hesper's warning lingering in his mind.

..

I, for one, have no idea how to play a good chess game. So, try to guess whose game Draco and Hesper's was taken from!

Now, due to the nature of the next chapter, next week will also be a double upload ehehe although I think you guys will want to skin me alive for it.

Anyways, can't wait for next week! PLEASE MANIFEST J-HOPE TICKETS FOR ME! ILL CRY IF I DON'T GET THEM ALSDJLKAJ