The dilapidation of the Weasley family home in Ottery St. Catchpole was nothing compared to the intimidation Draco felt as he gazed up at the seven lopsided stories. The bleach-blond boy gulped as he debated for the final time whether or not to approach it. Not only had he desecrated the Weasleys’ name in the wizarding community, he had tormented each individual in turn over the years. He had yet to meet Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, but he doubted that they could respect him given his family and his own history. Sighing, he looked to the front door, where he had failed to notice a crowd of people standing. He supposed – it was difficult to tell with the sun in his eyes – that the group consisted of Mrs. Weasley and her youngest children, with whom he had gone to school since his first year. He swallowed, wiping at his cheek with the back of his hand. A small amount of blood was trickling down to his jawbone from the open cut. He pushed open the gate and made his way up the walk to the Burrow, realizing bitterly that he had no other choice.
“What the bloody hell are you doing here, Malfoy?” Ron spat in disgust, prompting his mother to glare at him. Draco, noting silently that his first assumptions were incorrect, looked up at the family and their guest, whom he had not noticed until that moment. He knew the damage his unsolicited arrival would do his poor ego, but he had decided that it was a risk worth taking. He met Harry’s glare only briefly before proceeding.
“I am here of my own accord. I have come to ask for your protection from the Dark Lord as the inevitable time of war grows nearer,” he answered, a feeling of self-disgust filling him as the words left his mouth. The values with which he had been raised were disintegrating bit by bit. Mrs. Weasley looked at him quizzically.
“I highly doubt that this sudden change of heart is anything more than one of your infantile father’s plans,” Harry replied, before anyone else could speak.
“My father is in Azkaban, Potter, don’t you remember?” Draco drawled. “Besides, I have been disowned as a result of my failure to carry out the mission I never wished to undertake.”
“I do not know you, young man,” Mrs. Weasley said before the two could continue, “I know your father and your mother, of course, as is inevitable in our world. But in spite of what I may think of them, as far as I can tell, you are being sincere in your story of displacement and plea for protection. You look to be simply a malnourished child lost in a war that is not his own. Come in. I cannot be held liable for anything my children do to you while my back is turned, but if my back is not turned, I will attempt to take care of any problems,” she added, more to Harry and her three youngest boys than to Draco himself. She looked at him again; his clothes were dangling from his thin frame. She motioned him to come in, moving those around her aside to make room.
By the time Draco was fed and cleaned up, he had heard every threat imaginable from Harry, Ron, and the twins. He was too drained to really take them seriously at the moment, however. It was still before noon when Mr. Weasley returned from the Ministry of Magic. Draco watched as Mrs. Weasley greeted her husband with a kiss. The boys grinned and chatted with him as he entered the kitchen. It was new to him, seeing such a warm greeting as a family member came home. His mother had only given his father an icy stare when he walked through the door, neglecting even a glance at Draco himself as she watched Lucius walked through the manor to his study. “Where’s Ginners?” Mr. Weasley asked, kissing Mrs. Weasley on her cheek.
“Asleep, still. She’ll be up soon, though, it’s nearly half past ten and she seems incapable of sleeping past eleven,” she smiled. Mr. Weasley nodded and then looked around the room, his gaze landing on Draco, who was seated at the table with a bowl of porridge in front of him. Draco stood up, nonchalantly smoothing his slacks, and held out his hand. Mr. Weasley gave him a quizzical look before glancing at his wife with the same expression.
“Well, dear, this is Draco Malfoy; I was waiting until you got home to tell you. You see, the whole... well...” She groped for the right words; the death of Dumbledore was still something few discussed. “He needs the Order’s protection, you see.” Draco saw Harry in his peripheral vision shooting Draco a look of utter loathing and disdain, a look he decided to ignore, as Mrs. Weasley continued, “I think you should...”
Mr. Weasley seemed to understand quickly enough, for he nodded and turned back to Draco. “Well, hello there, I guess,” he said stiffly, ignoring Draco’s still-outstretched hand as if it were diseased. “Follow me, boy,” he said before turning around and walking through the living room. Draco hid a wince as he turned to follow Mr. Weasley. The idea of a private discussion with a man his father had spoken of with such disgust was not something he looked forward to, especially considering the bigotry Draco himself had always displayed toward the Weasleys. He could still hear the voices in the kitchen as Mrs. Weasley told them all to sit down and get away from the door. He, also, thought he heard something about extendable ears.
He followed Mr. Weasley out the front door and onto the porch, where the balding man spun around on his heel, leaning toward Draco menacingly. “What are you playing at, boy?” he spat.
“Nothing, sir.”
“Are you lying to me?”
“No. No, I’m not. Honestly. I am here for protection, not to serve the Dark Lord, but to plead for help in these darkening times, Mr. Weasley.”
Mr. Weasley took a breath. Straightening up and composing himself, he took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose in a circular motion. His eyes were closed, but Draco did not dare to move or even, it seemed, to blink. “I’m sorry. These are, as you said, dark times, and growing ever darker. If I find you are dishonest, young Malfoy, I will have your head. You understand?”
Draco nodded, ending the conversation. Mr. Weasley led him back inside and into the kitchen. “I take it your mother has already told you about leaving to stay at Grimmauld Place?” he questioned his children and Harry as they settled back into their places. Everyone nodded, so he continued.
"Draco, this is a place about which you are not to speak to anyone, for obvious reasons. Grimmauld Place is where we will be staying until this war is over. As our guest,” a term he used lightly, “you will be coming with us, and you will be subjected to certain exercises to prove your honesty. I am not saying it is not because I do not trust you, because partially it is, but it is also because no one else will trust you either. Veritaserum will be involved, if you are not alright with that, then you will be forced to fend for yourself, for reasons blunt enough not to require explanation.” Draco nodded reluctantly; he knew it would be an interview he would forget, but he also knew he would need much more than personal regret in order to emerge with his dignity intact.
“Mum, Hermione just owled. She said she’ll be here in about an hour or so.” A girl’s voice said from behind an unrolled paper. Ginny looked up from it for the first time and nearly fell off her seat in shock as her father and Draco entered the room, her eyes immediately finding Draco. “What is that disgusting, loathsome thing doing in our kitchen?” she nearly shrieked as her gaze met Draco’s. Her brothers’ lips curled into smirks as she drew her wand from the back pocket of her jeans before anyone could object. Not that anyone, besides her mother, would.
“Ginevra Molly, you do not treat people like that, especially guests in your home!” Mrs. Weasley snapped at her daughter. Ginny gaped at her mother.
“Guest?” she nearly choked. “Is this supposed to be funny? Tell me someone decided to mess around with Polyjuice Potion again,” she sputtered, looking to her brothers for some indication of a joke and finding none. For a moment, she was silent. “So . . . that’s the real Malfoy, then?”
“In the flesh,” Harry answered in a clipped tone, clearly revealing his irritation.
“You cannot be serious. Mum? Daddy?” Her parents looked back at her, tired and worn. “Merlin’s beard, you’ve all gone nutters while I was asleep then!” She stomped out of the room and up the staircase to her own room, where a door could be heard slamming.
“And I thought I’d taken it badly,” Ron said as he leaned over toward Harry.
************
Hours after Hermione had arrived and blown up at Draco herself, the lot of them piled into a blue car bewitched to accommodate its many passengers and headed off to Grimmauld Place. Even though the backseat had been magically stretched, it seemed cramped and almost suffocating to Draco. He had ended up in the corner against the door next to Ginny, who was none too happy about the seating situation herself. She glared at the twins with her arms folded across her chest. Though she was fond of them, the twins were the cause of her being within whispering distance of Draco, so she did not speak to them the whole trip.
When they reached their destination, Draco gaped with utter amazement. “Why are we here, of all places?” Draco asked, staring up at the house he had visited only a few times in his childhood, when his aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange had taken him in. Harry looked at Draco in surprise, and Draco started. “What, Potter?”
“This house is supposed to be a secret; one that died with Dumbledore...”
“Was that what that note was on about, then? Hell, if I’d known it was here, I would’ve simply come myself,” Draco answered, thinking silently to himself about how he should pay more attention to where he had been from then on and pulling a folded piece of parchment out from his cloak pocket and unfolding it.
The familiar scrawl brought a burning sensation to Harry’s eyes as they studied the words. A replica of the note he had been shown nearly two years ago was again in his hands. ‘The headquarters of the Order of Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.’
“I thought the note had been burned by Mad-Eye Moody?”
Draco shrugged, for he did not know its origins or whatever else Harry was going about; he simply had the scroll and had kept it for some reason unbeknownst even to himself. Mr. Weasley put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I’ll not ask, but that puts one problem aside.” The group made their way up the walk to the door of number twelve and strode inside.
Remus Lupin greeted them all at the door, shooting the two adults a quizzical look when he saw Draco. Draco did not bother with a greeting. He was still just as surprised to find such an unlikely place being the headquarters of the Order, as he was that he was there himself. Even so, no one pressed the interview, at least not yet.
“Where is everyone?” Ron asked in a hushed voice as he hung his jacket up on the rack. Draco caught Ginny’s eye as she glanced past the group and straight at him. The two stared at each other for a passing moment, then looked away quickly.
“They’re all getting everything together. Since certain events have taken place, things have been rather scattered,” Lupin whispered, before heading off into the dining room, where everyone followed. Well, almost everyone, that is.
Ginny was in the midst of finding her bags when she looked up, noticing that Draco was still standing there. “What?” she whispered harshly.
“Why, in the name of Merlin, is everyone whispering?” he asked. He regretted his question at once. Shrill screams filled the air around them and echoed throughout the rest of the house. He winced, realizing why, in fact, everyone had been so careful to whisper. He followed the noise to the thick curtain hanging over a section of the wall. Pulling it back, he found a portrait of his great aunt, Walburga Black. “Bloody hell, what’s all the screaming about?” he asked loudly to get her attention. The portrait of his relative looked at him in what seemed to be disbelief.
“Are you not Narcissa’s boy? You have come to rescue my home from these filthy creatures now inhabiting it, have you?” He simply stared at the painting.
“Please, I will do what I can,” he said before closing the curtain. He turned; the girl stared at him and shook her head slightly before starting up the stairs with her bag. He watched her go, the small of her back showing a bit more the farther she went up, for her shirt rode up slightly as her hips swayed. He shook his head almost violently, ridding himself of the thought. Focusing, he looked toward the door where the others had gone.
Harry stood there on one leg; the other foot was scratching his own calf under his khaki pants. Leaning against the frame, he folded his arms across his chest in a nonchalant motion. “She hates you, you know. Terribly, actually,” Harry told him, though Draco already knew.
“This is news?”
“No, this is a reminder. And here’s another: She’s mine,” Harry informed him in a clipped tone. Harry headed toward where the bags lay on the floor. “Grab yours,” he ordered, picking up his own. “I’m being forced to show you to your room.”
Draco grabbed the single bag he had brought and slung it over his shoulder and across his chest as he followed Harry up the steps. “Tell me, Potter, why would I need reminding of anything to do with Ginevra and you? Besides, you two ended after Dumbledore’s funeral, remember?” Harry stopped on the landing and turned.
“Just watch how you look at her.”
Harry turned and continued down the hall. Draco shrugged, not wanting to start anything on enemy territory. He may not have been top of their year, like Hermione, but he wasn’t a complete nincompoop, either. If he had learned anything this past year at Hogwarts, it was to choose his battles more wisely.
Draco followed Harry to the end of the landing, where Harry opened up the last of the rooms on the floor. “You have the library all to yourself, enjoy. If Hermione bothers you... oh well,” Harry said, almost slamming the door on Draco’s fingers. Draco watched Harry walk up the next flight of stairs before proceeding into the library. Shelves lined the walls with books of all kinds. He was rather pleased with it; he could spend his time here rather than with those who did not want him around in the first place.
Days went by without his noticing. He only left his room to use the lavatory for bathing and relieving himself. Other than that, he did not leave his room for meals or for anything else. The books kept him occupied, as did a sketchpad and drawing utensils he found in the desk near the door.
Only Hermione bothered him, as Harry had predicted, but she was not much of a bother at all, really. At first, she would knock and enter without waiting for a response, get her book, and leave, but after a few days, Draco changed that.
“You could at least wait for an invitation, Granger,” he noted as she reached for a book on one of the higher shelves. She was on her tiptoes and still could not reach the book she wanted. He made his way over to her, reaching up and handing her the book before turning on his heel and walking back to his couch where a book was sprawled open, the pages facedown against the wooden surface of the table in front of the lumpy couch he slept on.
“I suppose I could,” she told him, and she left without another sentence. But from that point on, she waited for his invitation to enter and occasionally even said a few things to him before leaving. For the most part, however, she came and went in silence. Draco wished she would be more outgoing, for other than her, the most human interaction he received was when someone left his meal on the desk and skittered out of the room as if he were a rabid animal ready to bite of their heads if they stayed too long.
*******
One night, after almost a month of being there, Ginny knocked on his door. He expected Hermione and was surprised to see her instead.
“Mum wanted me to ask if you’d like to come down for dinner tonight. Y’know, with it being Halloween and all . . .” He did not answer her question, but instead watched her as she subconsciously thumbed the hem of her sweater that went to her mid thigh, a size or three too big for her. “Well?”
He shook his head. “Tell her thank you, but I’m fine up here,” he told her before picking up his sketchbook and the quill next to him on his lumpy couch. Her curiosity got the better of her as she made her way over to the back of the couch and leaned over his shoulder to see the drawing.
A young woman about her age stared back at her, wearing a smirk. She was in a dress from about the nineteenth century, judging from the look of it, and she wore a choker around her neck. Her hair was done up in ringlets on top of her head. “Wow,” Ginny breathed, taking in the depths of the picture. “Who is she?”
“You should look in a mirror more often, Ginevra.”
She blushed as the realization dawned on her. She looked at him quizzically. “You haven’t seen me in a month! Are you sneaking into my room or something?” He raised his eyebrow at her and shook his head.
“Memory.”
“That’s a rather intense drawing for something just from memory,” she noted aloud after a moment’s silence.
“You’re not one who possesses looks another could forget easily, Ginevra. I’ve known you for quite a while, remember?” he answered, thickening a line on the gown to indicate a deeper fold in the skirts.
She watched his hand as it glided down the page, his fingertips pressing the tip of the quill down to thicken another few lines. “I should go . . .” She stayed for a moment more before standing up straight again and heading for the door. He did not speak, only nodding as she walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Walking down the stairs and winding her way through the halls she entered the kitchen. “He said he’s not hungry, Mum.” Her mother turned and looked at her.
“I would tell you I regret his absence, but I don’t know the boy, so I cannot say as much,” Mrs. Weasley told her daughter.
“You’re not missing anything, Mum,” said Ron cheekily. “Bishop to E6.” Ginny glanced over at him sitting at the small kitchen table just in time to see his bishop clobber one of Harry’s knights violently. Ginny shook her head before walking over to the sink where her mother stood monitoring the vegetables, which were peeling themselves, and waiting for the water on the stove to boil.
“Could you set the table, Ginny, dear?” her mother asked, smiling gently at her youngest child. Ginny smiled back, and with a nod she was off into the dining room with a stack of plates.
As she was finishing setting the table, Kingsley Shacklebolt walked into the dining room. She smiled a welcome at him, to which he replied with a nod. “Where’s Remus?” he asked after a moment in his calming, deep voice; the voice that always comforted her in spite of everything.
She gave him a small shrug in response. “Den, maybe?” she suggested. He nodded again before disappearing to go search for Professor Lupin. As she set down the last plate, the thought occurred to her that she had not seen Kingsley once since their arrival a month prior. “I wonder if he knows Draco’s here,” she wondered quietly aloud.
“Since when do you call Malfoy by his first name?”
“What does it matter to you, Harry?” she countered, turning to look at him. An irritated, steely glare met her simple gaze. She did not want to argue, but if he was going to get upset about a name, she didn’t see why she should bother to avoid a quarrel.
“Are you fraternizing with the enemy, Ginny?” he repeated, remembering suddenly the Yule Ball and how Ron had accused Hermione of doing the same.
“Fraternizing with the enemy? Draco is no longer the enemy, you twit! He has done nothing wrong since he asked for protection and your closed-minded stupidity is more than likely the reason he hasn’t left that bloody room in ages! Do you realize that he has been cooped up in that room for a month now with only an occasional exchange with Hermione for human contact?”
“Do you realize that that’s not my problem?” he snapped. Ginny looked at him in mild disgust.
“This is why we wouldn’t have worked out, Harry. It has nothing to do with the war and everything to do with your egotistical ignorance,” she huffed before turning on her heel and exiting the room, heading up the stairs. She was not watching where she was going as she headed down the hall, her eyes on the floor paneling. “Oomph!”
“You really should watch where you’re going,” Draco drawled as he held out a hand to the fallen Weasley. She looked up at him and took his hand, and he swiftly pulled her up to her feet. “What’s that face for?”
“Nothing. Harry’s being an arse is all,” she answered, smoothing out her jeans. He tilted his head slightly as he watched her.
“I’m sorry, I think I’m hearing things. Did you just insult your beloved hero?” he inquired, raising his eyebrows slightly as he looked down at her. She stopped fixing her clothes and looked up at him, her eyes flaring slightly.
“He stopped being my beloved hero a while ago, in case you didn’t get that issue of the Prophet.”
“Whoa there, Sparky. Don’t get miffed at me for something you need to work out with him. That’s your own personal business,” he paused, “Something I choose to steer clear of . . . like the plague,” he joked lightly. She rolled her eyes at him, but couldn’t help the small smile. He smirked before speaking again. “Would you like to get out of here for a bit?”
She nodded at him, and he thought he detected a hint of gratitude in her gesture. “Let me get my coat and tell Mum I’m not eating yet, either.”
“What the bloody hell are you doing here, Malfoy?” Ron spat in disgust, prompting his mother to glare at him. Draco, noting silently that his first assumptions were incorrect, looked up at the family and their guest, whom he had not noticed until that moment. He knew the damage his unsolicited arrival would do his poor ego, but he had decided that it was a risk worth taking. He met Harry’s glare only briefly before proceeding.
“I am here of my own accord. I have come to ask for your protection from the Dark Lord as the inevitable time of war grows nearer,” he answered, a feeling of self-disgust filling him as the words left his mouth. The values with which he had been raised were disintegrating bit by bit. Mrs. Weasley looked at him quizzically.
“I highly doubt that this sudden change of heart is anything more than one of your infantile father’s plans,” Harry replied, before anyone else could speak.
“My father is in Azkaban, Potter, don’t you remember?” Draco drawled. “Besides, I have been disowned as a result of my failure to carry out the mission I never wished to undertake.”
“I do not know you, young man,” Mrs. Weasley said before the two could continue, “I know your father and your mother, of course, as is inevitable in our world. But in spite of what I may think of them, as far as I can tell, you are being sincere in your story of displacement and plea for protection. You look to be simply a malnourished child lost in a war that is not his own. Come in. I cannot be held liable for anything my children do to you while my back is turned, but if my back is not turned, I will attempt to take care of any problems,” she added, more to Harry and her three youngest boys than to Draco himself. She looked at him again; his clothes were dangling from his thin frame. She motioned him to come in, moving those around her aside to make room.
By the time Draco was fed and cleaned up, he had heard every threat imaginable from Harry, Ron, and the twins. He was too drained to really take them seriously at the moment, however. It was still before noon when Mr. Weasley returned from the Ministry of Magic. Draco watched as Mrs. Weasley greeted her husband with a kiss. The boys grinned and chatted with him as he entered the kitchen. It was new to him, seeing such a warm greeting as a family member came home. His mother had only given his father an icy stare when he walked through the door, neglecting even a glance at Draco himself as she watched Lucius walked through the manor to his study. “Where’s Ginners?” Mr. Weasley asked, kissing Mrs. Weasley on her cheek.
“Asleep, still. She’ll be up soon, though, it’s nearly half past ten and she seems incapable of sleeping past eleven,” she smiled. Mr. Weasley nodded and then looked around the room, his gaze landing on Draco, who was seated at the table with a bowl of porridge in front of him. Draco stood up, nonchalantly smoothing his slacks, and held out his hand. Mr. Weasley gave him a quizzical look before glancing at his wife with the same expression.
“Well, dear, this is Draco Malfoy; I was waiting until you got home to tell you. You see, the whole... well...” She groped for the right words; the death of Dumbledore was still something few discussed. “He needs the Order’s protection, you see.” Draco saw Harry in his peripheral vision shooting Draco a look of utter loathing and disdain, a look he decided to ignore, as Mrs. Weasley continued, “I think you should...”
Mr. Weasley seemed to understand quickly enough, for he nodded and turned back to Draco. “Well, hello there, I guess,” he said stiffly, ignoring Draco’s still-outstretched hand as if it were diseased. “Follow me, boy,” he said before turning around and walking through the living room. Draco hid a wince as he turned to follow Mr. Weasley. The idea of a private discussion with a man his father had spoken of with such disgust was not something he looked forward to, especially considering the bigotry Draco himself had always displayed toward the Weasleys. He could still hear the voices in the kitchen as Mrs. Weasley told them all to sit down and get away from the door. He, also, thought he heard something about extendable ears.
He followed Mr. Weasley out the front door and onto the porch, where the balding man spun around on his heel, leaning toward Draco menacingly. “What are you playing at, boy?” he spat.
“Nothing, sir.”
“Are you lying to me?”
“No. No, I’m not. Honestly. I am here for protection, not to serve the Dark Lord, but to plead for help in these darkening times, Mr. Weasley.”
Mr. Weasley took a breath. Straightening up and composing himself, he took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose in a circular motion. His eyes were closed, but Draco did not dare to move or even, it seemed, to blink. “I’m sorry. These are, as you said, dark times, and growing ever darker. If I find you are dishonest, young Malfoy, I will have your head. You understand?”
Draco nodded, ending the conversation. Mr. Weasley led him back inside and into the kitchen. “I take it your mother has already told you about leaving to stay at Grimmauld Place?” he questioned his children and Harry as they settled back into their places. Everyone nodded, so he continued.
"Draco, this is a place about which you are not to speak to anyone, for obvious reasons. Grimmauld Place is where we will be staying until this war is over. As our guest,” a term he used lightly, “you will be coming with us, and you will be subjected to certain exercises to prove your honesty. I am not saying it is not because I do not trust you, because partially it is, but it is also because no one else will trust you either. Veritaserum will be involved, if you are not alright with that, then you will be forced to fend for yourself, for reasons blunt enough not to require explanation.” Draco nodded reluctantly; he knew it would be an interview he would forget, but he also knew he would need much more than personal regret in order to emerge with his dignity intact.
“Mum, Hermione just owled. She said she’ll be here in about an hour or so.” A girl’s voice said from behind an unrolled paper. Ginny looked up from it for the first time and nearly fell off her seat in shock as her father and Draco entered the room, her eyes immediately finding Draco. “What is that disgusting, loathsome thing doing in our kitchen?” she nearly shrieked as her gaze met Draco’s. Her brothers’ lips curled into smirks as she drew her wand from the back pocket of her jeans before anyone could object. Not that anyone, besides her mother, would.
“Ginevra Molly, you do not treat people like that, especially guests in your home!” Mrs. Weasley snapped at her daughter. Ginny gaped at her mother.
“Guest?” she nearly choked. “Is this supposed to be funny? Tell me someone decided to mess around with Polyjuice Potion again,” she sputtered, looking to her brothers for some indication of a joke and finding none. For a moment, she was silent. “So . . . that’s the real Malfoy, then?”
“In the flesh,” Harry answered in a clipped tone, clearly revealing his irritation.
“You cannot be serious. Mum? Daddy?” Her parents looked back at her, tired and worn. “Merlin’s beard, you’ve all gone nutters while I was asleep then!” She stomped out of the room and up the staircase to her own room, where a door could be heard slamming.
“And I thought I’d taken it badly,” Ron said as he leaned over toward Harry.
************
Hours after Hermione had arrived and blown up at Draco herself, the lot of them piled into a blue car bewitched to accommodate its many passengers and headed off to Grimmauld Place. Even though the backseat had been magically stretched, it seemed cramped and almost suffocating to Draco. He had ended up in the corner against the door next to Ginny, who was none too happy about the seating situation herself. She glared at the twins with her arms folded across her chest. Though she was fond of them, the twins were the cause of her being within whispering distance of Draco, so she did not speak to them the whole trip.
When they reached their destination, Draco gaped with utter amazement. “Why are we here, of all places?” Draco asked, staring up at the house he had visited only a few times in his childhood, when his aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange had taken him in. Harry looked at Draco in surprise, and Draco started. “What, Potter?”
“This house is supposed to be a secret; one that died with Dumbledore...”
“Was that what that note was on about, then? Hell, if I’d known it was here, I would’ve simply come myself,” Draco answered, thinking silently to himself about how he should pay more attention to where he had been from then on and pulling a folded piece of parchment out from his cloak pocket and unfolding it.
The familiar scrawl brought a burning sensation to Harry’s eyes as they studied the words. A replica of the note he had been shown nearly two years ago was again in his hands. ‘The headquarters of the Order of Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.’
“I thought the note had been burned by Mad-Eye Moody?”
Draco shrugged, for he did not know its origins or whatever else Harry was going about; he simply had the scroll and had kept it for some reason unbeknownst even to himself. Mr. Weasley put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I’ll not ask, but that puts one problem aside.” The group made their way up the walk to the door of number twelve and strode inside.
Remus Lupin greeted them all at the door, shooting the two adults a quizzical look when he saw Draco. Draco did not bother with a greeting. He was still just as surprised to find such an unlikely place being the headquarters of the Order, as he was that he was there himself. Even so, no one pressed the interview, at least not yet.
“Where is everyone?” Ron asked in a hushed voice as he hung his jacket up on the rack. Draco caught Ginny’s eye as she glanced past the group and straight at him. The two stared at each other for a passing moment, then looked away quickly.
“They’re all getting everything together. Since certain events have taken place, things have been rather scattered,” Lupin whispered, before heading off into the dining room, where everyone followed. Well, almost everyone, that is.
Ginny was in the midst of finding her bags when she looked up, noticing that Draco was still standing there. “What?” she whispered harshly.
“Why, in the name of Merlin, is everyone whispering?” he asked. He regretted his question at once. Shrill screams filled the air around them and echoed throughout the rest of the house. He winced, realizing why, in fact, everyone had been so careful to whisper. He followed the noise to the thick curtain hanging over a section of the wall. Pulling it back, he found a portrait of his great aunt, Walburga Black. “Bloody hell, what’s all the screaming about?” he asked loudly to get her attention. The portrait of his relative looked at him in what seemed to be disbelief.
“Are you not Narcissa’s boy? You have come to rescue my home from these filthy creatures now inhabiting it, have you?” He simply stared at the painting.
“Please, I will do what I can,” he said before closing the curtain. He turned; the girl stared at him and shook her head slightly before starting up the stairs with her bag. He watched her go, the small of her back showing a bit more the farther she went up, for her shirt rode up slightly as her hips swayed. He shook his head almost violently, ridding himself of the thought. Focusing, he looked toward the door where the others had gone.
Harry stood there on one leg; the other foot was scratching his own calf under his khaki pants. Leaning against the frame, he folded his arms across his chest in a nonchalant motion. “She hates you, you know. Terribly, actually,” Harry told him, though Draco already knew.
“This is news?”
“No, this is a reminder. And here’s another: She’s mine,” Harry informed him in a clipped tone. Harry headed toward where the bags lay on the floor. “Grab yours,” he ordered, picking up his own. “I’m being forced to show you to your room.”
Draco grabbed the single bag he had brought and slung it over his shoulder and across his chest as he followed Harry up the steps. “Tell me, Potter, why would I need reminding of anything to do with Ginevra and you? Besides, you two ended after Dumbledore’s funeral, remember?” Harry stopped on the landing and turned.
“Just watch how you look at her.”
Harry turned and continued down the hall. Draco shrugged, not wanting to start anything on enemy territory. He may not have been top of their year, like Hermione, but he wasn’t a complete nincompoop, either. If he had learned anything this past year at Hogwarts, it was to choose his battles more wisely.
Draco followed Harry to the end of the landing, where Harry opened up the last of the rooms on the floor. “You have the library all to yourself, enjoy. If Hermione bothers you... oh well,” Harry said, almost slamming the door on Draco’s fingers. Draco watched Harry walk up the next flight of stairs before proceeding into the library. Shelves lined the walls with books of all kinds. He was rather pleased with it; he could spend his time here rather than with those who did not want him around in the first place.
Days went by without his noticing. He only left his room to use the lavatory for bathing and relieving himself. Other than that, he did not leave his room for meals or for anything else. The books kept him occupied, as did a sketchpad and drawing utensils he found in the desk near the door.
Only Hermione bothered him, as Harry had predicted, but she was not much of a bother at all, really. At first, she would knock and enter without waiting for a response, get her book, and leave, but after a few days, Draco changed that.
“You could at least wait for an invitation, Granger,” he noted as she reached for a book on one of the higher shelves. She was on her tiptoes and still could not reach the book she wanted. He made his way over to her, reaching up and handing her the book before turning on his heel and walking back to his couch where a book was sprawled open, the pages facedown against the wooden surface of the table in front of the lumpy couch he slept on.
“I suppose I could,” she told him, and she left without another sentence. But from that point on, she waited for his invitation to enter and occasionally even said a few things to him before leaving. For the most part, however, she came and went in silence. Draco wished she would be more outgoing, for other than her, the most human interaction he received was when someone left his meal on the desk and skittered out of the room as if he were a rabid animal ready to bite of their heads if they stayed too long.
*******
One night, after almost a month of being there, Ginny knocked on his door. He expected Hermione and was surprised to see her instead.
“Mum wanted me to ask if you’d like to come down for dinner tonight. Y’know, with it being Halloween and all . . .” He did not answer her question, but instead watched her as she subconsciously thumbed the hem of her sweater that went to her mid thigh, a size or three too big for her. “Well?”
He shook his head. “Tell her thank you, but I’m fine up here,” he told her before picking up his sketchbook and the quill next to him on his lumpy couch. Her curiosity got the better of her as she made her way over to the back of the couch and leaned over his shoulder to see the drawing.
A young woman about her age stared back at her, wearing a smirk. She was in a dress from about the nineteenth century, judging from the look of it, and she wore a choker around her neck. Her hair was done up in ringlets on top of her head. “Wow,” Ginny breathed, taking in the depths of the picture. “Who is she?”
“You should look in a mirror more often, Ginevra.”
She blushed as the realization dawned on her. She looked at him quizzically. “You haven’t seen me in a month! Are you sneaking into my room or something?” He raised his eyebrow at her and shook his head.
“Memory.”
“That’s a rather intense drawing for something just from memory,” she noted aloud after a moment’s silence.
“You’re not one who possesses looks another could forget easily, Ginevra. I’ve known you for quite a while, remember?” he answered, thickening a line on the gown to indicate a deeper fold in the skirts.
She watched his hand as it glided down the page, his fingertips pressing the tip of the quill down to thicken another few lines. “I should go . . .” She stayed for a moment more before standing up straight again and heading for the door. He did not speak, only nodding as she walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Walking down the stairs and winding her way through the halls she entered the kitchen. “He said he’s not hungry, Mum.” Her mother turned and looked at her.
“I would tell you I regret his absence, but I don’t know the boy, so I cannot say as much,” Mrs. Weasley told her daughter.
“You’re not missing anything, Mum,” said Ron cheekily. “Bishop to E6.” Ginny glanced over at him sitting at the small kitchen table just in time to see his bishop clobber one of Harry’s knights violently. Ginny shook her head before walking over to the sink where her mother stood monitoring the vegetables, which were peeling themselves, and waiting for the water on the stove to boil.
“Could you set the table, Ginny, dear?” her mother asked, smiling gently at her youngest child. Ginny smiled back, and with a nod she was off into the dining room with a stack of plates.
As she was finishing setting the table, Kingsley Shacklebolt walked into the dining room. She smiled a welcome at him, to which he replied with a nod. “Where’s Remus?” he asked after a moment in his calming, deep voice; the voice that always comforted her in spite of everything.
She gave him a small shrug in response. “Den, maybe?” she suggested. He nodded again before disappearing to go search for Professor Lupin. As she set down the last plate, the thought occurred to her that she had not seen Kingsley once since their arrival a month prior. “I wonder if he knows Draco’s here,” she wondered quietly aloud.
“Since when do you call Malfoy by his first name?”
“What does it matter to you, Harry?” she countered, turning to look at him. An irritated, steely glare met her simple gaze. She did not want to argue, but if he was going to get upset about a name, she didn’t see why she should bother to avoid a quarrel.
“Are you fraternizing with the enemy, Ginny?” he repeated, remembering suddenly the Yule Ball and how Ron had accused Hermione of doing the same.
“Fraternizing with the enemy? Draco is no longer the enemy, you twit! He has done nothing wrong since he asked for protection and your closed-minded stupidity is more than likely the reason he hasn’t left that bloody room in ages! Do you realize that he has been cooped up in that room for a month now with only an occasional exchange with Hermione for human contact?”
“Do you realize that that’s not my problem?” he snapped. Ginny looked at him in mild disgust.
“This is why we wouldn’t have worked out, Harry. It has nothing to do with the war and everything to do with your egotistical ignorance,” she huffed before turning on her heel and exiting the room, heading up the stairs. She was not watching where she was going as she headed down the hall, her eyes on the floor paneling. “Oomph!”
“You really should watch where you’re going,” Draco drawled as he held out a hand to the fallen Weasley. She looked up at him and took his hand, and he swiftly pulled her up to her feet. “What’s that face for?”
“Nothing. Harry’s being an arse is all,” she answered, smoothing out her jeans. He tilted his head slightly as he watched her.
“I’m sorry, I think I’m hearing things. Did you just insult your beloved hero?” he inquired, raising his eyebrows slightly as he looked down at her. She stopped fixing her clothes and looked up at him, her eyes flaring slightly.
“He stopped being my beloved hero a while ago, in case you didn’t get that issue of the Prophet.”
“Whoa there, Sparky. Don’t get miffed at me for something you need to work out with him. That’s your own personal business,” he paused, “Something I choose to steer clear of . . . like the plague,” he joked lightly. She rolled her eyes at him, but couldn’t help the small smile. He smirked before speaking again. “Would you like to get out of here for a bit?”
She nodded at him, and he thought he detected a hint of gratitude in her gesture. “Let me get my coat and tell Mum I’m not eating yet, either.”
Author notes: I hope you liked it =)
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