Chapter Text
Harry Potter lies on his bed at 7 in the morning, staring at the wall and trying desperately to think about anything besides the Triwizard Tournament. He wishes he could just forget, but even this blank wall can’t help; the blank wall, empty as Cedric’s dead eyes… Oh hell, it’s no use. Harry shakes his head, defeated, and gets up, shoving the blanket to the side and swinging his feet out onto the carpet.
It’s been nearly a whole month since the end of the school year and Harry hasn’t had one full night of sleep without being plagued by nightmares, and there was that one particularly rough night involving sleep paralysis where he was convinced he was being slowly digested by Voldemort’s snake, Nagini. His eyelids droop heavily no matter what the time of day and the dark circles under his eyes look eerily similar to the bruises he used to get when Dudley and Piers would beat him up. Every day has been the same senseless slog ever since he got back to Number 4 Privet Drive with nothing new to break up the draining monotony.
Harry has been sending letter after letter to Ron, Hermione, and Sirius asking for information. He just wants to know what’s going on with Voldemort and if anything is being done to stop him gaining power, but all he’s gotten back are vague messages with unsatisfying apologies. I can’t put any sensitive information into letters for everyone’s protection, I’m sorry Harry, or I know you’re upset, but I really can’t say anything. He understands about the letters if they’re really that paranoid, but no one can even tell him when they’re planning to take him from the Dursleys. The closest he’s got to a date was we’ll see you before you know it, from Sirius and he just about smashed his fist against the wall.
Harry pulls on his softest t-shirt and wriggles into the only pair of jeans that fit without holes in them, although the ends are frayed from being constantly stepped on as the legs are about 2 inches too long. He takes a long deep breath and heads down to the kitchen to start on breakfast, a chore he is still required to take part in each morning, but lately even that can’t distract him. Peeling grapefruits and portioning fat-free yogurt doesn’t take the same level of concentration that turning bacon and frying eggs did once upon a time. He wishes he could make a quiche.
Harry tunes out all the meaningless drivel the Durselys call conversation and gives a simple, “Yes, Uncle Vernon,” or “Yes, Aunt Petunia,” anytime he can tell a derisive comment or a stupid request has been flung in his direction. Then, very unexpectedly, there’s a knock at the door. Everyone freezes; no one in their right mind would come knocking at the door in this neighborhood during this early morning time Aunt Petunia insists is the widely-accepted breakfast hour.
“I’ll get the door,” Harry offers, knowing he will be asked anyway. Aunt Petunia huffs haughtily, but allows him to leave the table. Harry shuffles down the hall and opens the door, expecting to see some rude solicitor or maybe a kid fundraising for girl-guiding. Instead he is shoved backwards as a tall head of silvery blond hair pushes inside and shuts the door quickly.
“Good lord, Potter, I nearly left. You can’t just leave me out on the porch that long.” Harry slams himself back into the wall of the entryway in complete shock.
“Malfoy?!” Harry exclaims in panic. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?! How did you get here?!”
“Yes, Potter. Me, Draco Malfoy, in the flesh. I’m here to talk to you and if you absolutely must know, I took the muggle train. I told my parents I was going to Pansy’s. Seriously though, what took so long? I thought your watch dogs were going to spot me.”
“Watch dogs?” Harry asks, completely baffled and wondering if maybe he passed out on the way to the door and this is some strange dream.
“Pfft, what?” Malfoy snorts inelegantly. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice? They’re not exactly subtle, are they? I know of Mundungus Fletcher, but I don’t know who that old bat across the street is. I had to hide behind the bush to keep her from seeing me.”
“I am so lost,” Harry says, barely taking in a single word.
“When aren’t you?” Malfoy drawls derisively.
“What the hell are you here for? And who taught you how to ride the muggle trains?”
“I’m staging a protest at home that is sure to get me into more trouble than I’ve ever been in before and I’m pretending I’ve gone to Pansy’s in the meanti—”
“WHO IS IT, BOY?!” comes Uncle Vernon’s booming voice from the dining room. “TELL THEM TO GO AWAY AND GET BACK HERE TO CLEAN UP!”
“Oh, shit,” Harry groans quietly. “It’s someone from school!” he calls back, knowing there’s no way to get out of this one. There’s a deadly silence.
“YOU INVITED ONE OF YOUR FREAKS TO OUR HOME?!” Vernon hollers. Malfoy looks down the hallway puzzled, but his brows quickly crease into an indignant grimace and he strolls through to the dining room.
“Hello, my name is Draco Malfoy. It’s not a pleasure at all, your home is tacky, and I think you’ll find you’re the freaks here. I’ve come to talk to Potter and you will not interrupt, it’s rather more important than your…. Is this supposed to be breakfast?” he asks scathingly, scanning the table. “My god, Potter, I had no idea you lived in such poverty, though I suppose certain things make a lot more sense now.” Harry has no idea whether to beg for immediate death, or encourage Malfoy to continue insulting the Dursleys, because he has never seen this horrifically hilarious mix of expressions on his uncle’s purpling face.
“JUST WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” Vernon screams at him. Malfoy, entirely unruffled, stares down at him like he’s a particularly interesting insect behind glass.
“Uncle Vernon, I didn’t invite him. He just showed up,” Harry tries to explain. Vernon stands and slaps Harry across the face, hard. Malfoy, faster than anyone can see, whips out his wand and points it straight into Vernon’s face. Everyone freezes as if petrified, even though Malfoy hasn’t cast a spell.
“I have no reservations about permanently disfiguring you if you do that again. If you hadn’t heard, my father is one of the Death Eaters who helped the Dark Lord return last month, and his friends killed one of our classmates during the Triwizard Tournament. I come from a long line of dark wizards; don’t tempt me,” he says, ignoring Petunia’s squeaks of fear altogether. “Potter and I are going to talk; do not disturb us,” he commands, gray eyes piercing each of the Dursleys before he grabs Harry by the arm and pulls him out of the dining room. “Where can we talk?” he whispers, releasing his grip. Harry, reeling from the entire jarring experience of this morning, silently leads him up the stairs to his small bedroom.
“I have so many ques-”
“Potter, what the fuck?!” Malfoy interrupts. “That down there is your family?” Harry nods, feeling his face heat up.
“My mum’s sister, her husband, and their son.”
“They are disgusting. Did you actually disobey a command, or do they just hit you for fun?”
“I don’t really keep track anymore to be honest. It’s just whenever they get annoyed with me,” Harry admits. It seems stupid to deny it after Malfoy has been witness to Uncle Vernon’s sharp anger. The blond looks at him like Harry has stumped him with a paradox. “So,” he says, trying to steer the conversation away. “What are you really doing here? And seriously, how did you figure out the muggle trains?” Malfoy seems to find himself again with the question and rolls his eyes.
“I people-watched for about 10 minutes till I got the gist. It’s not that difficult, you make it seem like it’s rocket science.”
“You know what rockets are?” Harry asks. Malfoy sighs tiredly.
“Will you shut your stupid mouth for just a moment? I really don’t have that much time before I have to go back to the Manor and pretend my protest is over.”
“What is your protest?”
“That’s why I’m here. I am prepared to make you an offer,” Malfoy says, meeting Harry’s eyes warily. “Information for protection.” Harry gapes at him, furrowing his brow in confusion.
“What can you possibly need protection from?”
“Are you saying yes?” Malfoy asks shortly, voice strained with his temper. Harry looks at him now, really looks, and sees fear in his eyes—fear and a flicker of hope badly masked by his irritated tone of voice. Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, has taken the muggle trains on at least a 3 hour trip from Wiltshire to Surrey to ask him for protection.
“Oh… I, yes. Yes alright, if you really need protection I won’t turn you away. Now, tell me what’s going on,” Harry agrees. Malfoy sighs in obvious relief and closes his eyes for a single moment. Harry braces himself.
“As you will remember, my father is a strong supporter of the Dark Lord.”
“So are you, the last I recall,” Harry counters.
“That was a joke, you tit!” Malfoy scoffs. “It was just fun to wind you up because you always exploded at me and I enjoyed the show. I never actually thought he would—” Malfoy cuts himself off. “Don’t interrupt me again. I don’t have time today to explain absolutely everything you will insist on asking of me.” Harry nods after a moment, still eager to hear what he has to say, even if it is Draco Malfoy. “I never thought the Dark Lord would return. The way Father always talked about him made him seem reverential, but also terrifying. I’ve always been glad I’ve never had to actually see him before.
“Anyway, since his return in June, my father has resumed his old position as the Dark Lord’s right hand man. He’s told me some of the plans and I just— After Diggory… I can’t be a part of it. I… that’s not— That’s not me. I don’t agree with killing people just because they’re in the way. I mean, what the hell?” Malfoy takes a deep breath and rubs at his face in the most human gesture Harry has ever seen from him. “I’m rambling.”
“A bit,” Harry answers, feeling a little sorry for him in a bemusing way.
“I tend to do that,” Malfoy admits quietly.
“Though that does make me curious as to why you wanted Hermione dead so badly in second year. Always talking about which muggleborn you wanted to be next,” Harry remembers.
“What are you talking about?” he asks, perplexed.
“You went on and on about how you hoped the next mudblood to die was Granger,” Harry accuses, imitating bratty 12-year-old Malfoy.
“Oh yeah,” Malfoy says, a fond smirk playing at his lips. “I remember saying that when you and Weasley pretended to be Greg and Vince. I knew after about 10 seconds you weren’t the real ones; I mean, did you really think that would work? Anyway, I just said whatever I thought would make you angriest. It was very entertaining watching you both squirm, but then Greg and Vince came stumbling into the common room in the middle of the night in their underwear, confused and embarrassed and I wished I would have been a little meaner to you both. Although I never did figure out where you got the Polyjuice from. I wanted to prove it to get you all expelled, but I never found any hard evidence. It’s a really complex potion, you know,” he explains. Harry’s jaw drops.
“Are you serious?! You knew the whole time?” Malfoy grins like he’s won something.
“You realize Greg, Vince, and Pansy have been my friends since we were about 3 years old? I know them like the back of my hand. Greg has never worn glasses in his life and if he were reading he would have gone on and on about whatever novel it was. He loves stories.”
“You said you didn’t know if he could read!”
“Did I?” Malfoy chuckles. “I must have already figured you out by then because I’m the one who taught him to read. His parents got him a wretched tutor and he and Vince have a hard time reading like everyone else. Now where did you get the Polyjuice from? That rather large detail has always haunted me.”
“...Hermione brewed it,” Harry gives in. It’s not like it can do any harm for him to know now and Harry must admit the abject horror and jealousy on Malfoy’s face is quite a gift in itself. He can’t help the satisfied smile that creeps on to his face. “In the abandoned girl’s bathroom on the second floor.”
“No!” Malfoy gasps. “That’s….No, she was 12. That’s a NEWT level potion and it’s banned! How did she even get the instructions in the first place?!” Malfoy’s face suddenly loses expression again, like he forgot he wasn’t supposed to be friendly or interested. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. That’s not what I’m here for anyway.”
“You're very easily distracted, aren't you?” Harry teases.
“Oh shut up, it’s a bit…” Malfoy breaks off momentarily and sighs. “I suppose there’s not really any good place to start, so I’ll just get to the point. My father has just offered our home to the Dark Lord to use as he pleases, so throughout the year renovations will take place at Malfoy Manor and then the high ranking Death Eaters will start moving in, along with the Dark Lord himself.” He spits the last word ruefully and seats himself heavily on the bed. Harry blanches at the information.
“Your home? Lucius Malfoy is seriously giving up your home to Voldemort?” Malfoy flinches at the name and scowls.
“Don’t say the name, Potter. But yes.”
“I’m not afraid of saying his name, so I’m going to keep calling him Voldemort,” Harry gripes. Malfoy startles again and his eyes flash dangerously.
“Saying the name just makes you sound naive and stupid!” he counters, voice raising.
“Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort! It’s just a name,” Harry argues.
“Well it’s stressing me out, so if it’s just a name then fucking stop it!” Malfoy shouts angrily. As much as Harry wants to roll his eyes, the ferocity in Malfoy’s voice and the fear in his gaze stops him. He sighs in frustration, but decides to let it go.
“Whatever. God, you’re infuriating,” Harry grumbles, just barely keeping himself from fighting. Trying to get them back on topic, he says, “Alright, so your father is inviting ...You-Know-Who,” he grits out. Malfoy visibly relaxes. “—into the Manor. What about your mother? What does she say?”
“She doesn’t get a say. She’s not Lord of the Manor. And she’ll just do whatever my father does anyway. They have a marriage bond; she would be nothing more than a disgraced divorcee for the rest of her life if she went against him,” Malfoy says matter-of-factly.
“But you’re her son! Doesn’t she care about what’s best for you?” Harry protests.
“...Wherever would you get an idea like that?” Malfoy asks, truly perplexed. “The only thing that matters is what's best for the family name. If what I want doesn’t make us look rich and powerful, then it’s not even worth voicing. No one would listen anyway.” This is so radically different from the way Petunia treats Dudley or how Molly Weasley cares for all her children, Harry doesn’t even know how to process this bizarre family dynamic.
“And what do you want?” Harry asks curiously.
“I want a lot of things and I doubt you would understand all of them,” Malfoy says moodily. Harry thinks he looks rather like how a grumpy teenager is supposed to look and he finds himself fighting between amusement and just a bit of annoyance.
“Fair enough, I suppose," Harry allows. "So how exactly do you want all this to work? Are you going to give me a lot of information at once or whenever it comes up?”
“I doubt you would be able to remember a lot of information at once, Potter,” Malfoy drawls tiredly. Harry rolls his eyes, the annoyance overpowering amusement now. “Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to do any critical thinking. I have a couple ideas of ways to send encrypted information back and forth, although we will have to exchange most of it in person. Even the strongest secrecy charms can be broken and just about the worst thing we could do is give the wrong person a book full of sensitive information.”
“Okay, is this something you’ll give me when we get to Hogwarts?”
“No, you’ll have to have it before then. I can’t risk being seen giving something to you before we have someplace secret to meet. I’ll see if I can come in person again, but if not, I’ll send it via standard owl post with an anonymous owl.”
“Can I tell Ron and Hermione about this?”
“Tell only people who you can trust with my life. If you have any doubts or second thoughts, do not tell them. I am putting myself in a very precarious situation and if this gets back to anyone who might alert my father or the Dark Lord, I’ll be lucky if they kill me outright. So, naturally, no one I spend time with will know anything about it, other than I’m having a trying time and am very stressed. Pansy will be very cross with me for most of the year,” he explains.
“I understand.”
“I’m sure you don’t, but that’s irrelevant. Although, you’ll have to tell someone in the Order of the Phoenix about it all, if I’m to be guaranteed protection,” Malfoy muses.
“The what?” Harry asks.
“You don’t have to play dumb. Everyone knows the Order has been reinstated by Dumbledore, but the Death Eaters don’t know anything else.”
“Well no one has told me about it,” Harry accuses. “What is the Order of the Phoenix?” Malfoy snaps his head up to meet his gaze fully.
“No one has told you?!” he shouts. “But you’re at the forefront of everything! How can they keep you in the dark? That’s absurd!” Malfoy jumps to his feet and starts pacing furiously. “Alright, the Order of the Phoenix is the original alliance of witches and wizards who opposed the Dark Lord. From what I understand, Dumbledore created it about twenty years ago when the Death Eaters began causing too much trouble for the Ministry to handle. It had a lot of powerful people in it and they worked in secret to undermine the Dark Lord’s efforts. Since he has been revived, the Order has been restored once more. I don’t know anything about what they're planning, as we don’t know much at this point, other than what Professor Snape has said. Oh, that’s another thing. Professor Snape is in the Order, but he’s also a spy for the Death Eaters. I’m not actually sure which side he’s truly serving, so whatever you do, make sure he does not find out from anyone that I am spying for you. If he’s loyal to the Death Eaters… well, I don’t think he’ll tell on me exactly, but I’ll be in serious trouble.”
“SNAPE?!” Harry snarls. “They let him in the Order? What for? He's got the fucking Dark Mark!” Harry rages.
“Yes, well, he’s also incredibly powerful and intelligent and he has Dumbledore right in his pocket, so I doubt you’ll be able to convince many of them otherwise. Bearing this in mind, when you tell the Order about me, pick someone who really hates him and swear them to secrecy.”
“Bloody hell. This is all such a mess,” Harry groans, scrubbing his hands down his face.
“I know,” Malfoy says. He’s nervously clutching at his forearm and grimacing. The motion triggers a memory of Karkaroff showing Snape his Dark Mark… on his forearm. Before Harry can stop himself, he’s crossing the room and shoving Malfoy’s sleeve up to his elbow, just to be sure.
“Potter, what—” Malfoy struggles, but it’s too late, Harry has seen them. Angry red slashes mar the otherwise perfect skin, horizontal and precise, self-inflicted. Malfoy’s free hand is slapping him across the face now, sharp and painful as he wrenches his arm out of reach and pushes himself as far away from Harry as the small room allows, falling back against the wall with a loud thump.
“You prick, Potter,” Malfoy seethes. Harry, stunned, just looks at him in shock. Rage, shame, and panic fight for dominance on Malfoy’s pointed face.
“I…” Harry starts, gulping helplessly. “I just, er… I’m sorry,” he says.
"Oh, fuck you. Don't you dare say a word to anyone or I—"
"I'm not gonna tell anyone, Malfoy. Unlike you, I don't use people's secrets as ammunition,” Harry spits back. It’s so natural for Malfoy to drive him straight into attack mode, he forgets that Malfoy has a right to be defensive at the moment.
"Oh, what? I'm just supposed to believe that? You're just such a perfect, pure person that you don't believe in blackmail or holding damaging secrets over someone’s head?"
"If you really thought that, you wouldn’t have come here in the first place. You trust my intentions if nothing else.” Malfoy seems to have nothing to say to that and simply growls, simmering in his own rage. “Look, you don’t have to feel embarrassed or anything. I mean, it’s obviously not good that you’re doing that, but I’m not gonna make fun of you or hold it over your head or whatever it is that you’re scared I might do. I’m not like that and I think you know that.” Malfoy still won’t look at him, staring at the same blank wall Harry was musing over earlier this morning and swallowing audibly. Harry sighs. “You saw my uncle hit me, doesn’t this make us even?” Malfoy’s eyes shift over to Harry’s momentarily before stonily looking away again.
“Who doesn’t get smacked around from time to time? That’s not anything that would shame you personally,” he grumbles. Harry personally disagrees, but he is finally getting good information and learning what’s happening in the wizarding world. This is important and if he needs to embarrass himself a bit for it, well, to be perfectly honest, that’s a small fee for being prepared for Voldemort and the Death Eaters. Besides, this is the most civil interaction he and Malfoy have ever had and parts of it have been… well, almost enjoyable. It’s more than he’s getting from even Hermione and Ron at the moment. With a groan Harry knows what he needs to do.
“Will you forgive me if I show you the worst part of my childhood?” Malfoy narrows his eyes skeptically, but after a considering moment, nods.
“That sounds acceptable, but don’t expect me to feel sorry for you or anything,” he defends haughtily.
“Malfoy, I would never expect anything nice from you,” Harry mutters. Strengthening his resolve, he strides from the bedroom. “Follow me.” Down the stairs and along the wall underneath sits the small cupboard door he knows so well. “If you ever think about perfect, pure, naive Harry Potter again, I want you to remember this,” Harry says. He tries opening the door, but in his haste forgot his aunt and uncle lock it. Harry kneels in front of it and grabs the pins he’s been practicing with, sliding them into the lock and giving them a calculated wiggle. The lock clicks and he pulls the door open, hefting out his school trunk. Everything is exactly as it was the last time he slept in there: thin, moth-eaten, stained mattress; cobwebs and spiders; and a frayed old blanket that's more of a sheet than a duvet. He steps back to let Malfoy see one of the most shameful and vulnerable parts of himself.
“What is this?” Malfoy asks, voice uneven, like he’s dreading the answer.
“This was my bedroom until I turned 11. I didn’t know anything about magic or even my parents. The Dursleys locked me in here without food or water whenever they wanted to punish me. One time I accidentally apparated onto the roof of my school when I was trying to run away from my cousin, and they didn’t let me out of here for 3 days. Wonder why I’m so short even though my dad was apparently 6 feet tall? My aunt and uncle refused to feed me.” Harry huffs out a humorless laugh. “You think perfect, pure, naive Harry Potter doesn’t know how people can treat each other? I’m all too aware. I just don’t want to be anything like these people or the Death Eaters who tortured me and killed Cedric!” Harry feels residual rage swell inside himself reliving those horrible years before he got a proper bedroom. “You wanted to get even? Not even Ron and Hermione have seen my stupid little freak closet, okay?!” he spits the last words at Malfoy, emotions spilling out of him without his control. Malfoy is staring at him blankly, no discernable expression creasing his features.
“You apparated before you even knew magic existed? Wandlessly and wordlessly?” he asks.
“Of course that’s the only damn thing you focus on,” Harry growls. “Did you even hear the rest?” He heaves a huge angry breath and Malfoy simply swallows heavily and nods.
“Okay,” he says. Harry narrows his eyes slightly.
“Okay, what?” he growls, shoving the trunk back in the closet and slamming the door shut.
“Your apology is accepted. I’ll be back next week with a secret form of communication. Do not get into trouble in the meantime.”
“Right, because there’s so many things for me to do here to get into trouble,” Harry retorts with a roll of his eyes.
“Shut up,” Malfoy mutters, twirling and heading for the door without another word.
The Dursleys emerge from the kitchen later on when there’s no longer even a whisper of Malfoy in the house.
“Well boy, you invite one of your freaks into our house, shame this family and expect to get away with disrespecting us like that?!” Uncle Vernon barks, rage bubbling up red hot in his face.
“Uncle Vernon, I didn’t invite him. I told you, he had some important information for me,” Harry protests.
“You think that makes any difference to me?! We have owls flying in and out of the house at all hours of the day and that wasn’t good enough?! I will not allow any more freaks in my house, boy, you understand me?”
“Uncle Vernon, he’s going to come again no matter what I tell him. I can’t do anything about it, but I’ll try to keep him out of the way.”
“You’ll do more than try, boy, or you’ll be locked in your room for the rest of summer.”
“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” he says robotically.
“Right, go to your room. I don’t want to see you for the rest of the day,” he orders, mustache quivering. “And no meals either!” Harry nods and returns to his room glumly. Thankfully Ron and Hermione had sent him some snacks along with their letters as a form of apology for the lack of information earlier, so he knows he won’t starve this time.
It’s only about a week before Malfoy returns and, to be honest, Harry’s spent the entire time wondering if it ever even happened. Yes, alright, he admits that it would be very difficult to explain the Dursleys’ subdued nervous behavior towards him if Malfoy hadn’t paid him a visit, but it still feels like a fever dream. Harry still hasn’t received any useful information from Ron and Hermione and the frustration is building. Their letters are vague and deliberately unhelpful, so he’s begun sending angry replies back. He knows it won’t change anything, but he wants to hurt them for shutting him out. Harry hasn’t told them about Malfoy yet. He thinks that would be a better conversation to have in person… and yes, he does realize how hypocritical that sounds, but for them to all know about the state of things when Harry doesn't feels like a betrayal in itself.
There’s knocking at the door promptly at 6:45 AM, nearly an hour earlier than the last visit. Harry pulls open the door, sleepily rubbing his eyes, and a hooded Malfoy darts into the house, shutting the door quickly behind him. Harry startles with the motion and jumps back.
“Christ, Malfoy, why do you have to run in like that?” Harry asks tiredly. The blond scoffs, removing his black hood. He’s in muggle clothing. Very muggle clothing: black pullover hoodie, tight black skinny jeans, and Converse sneakers. He’s also got a plain black book-bag slung onto his back. Harry’s a bit stunned by how nice Malfoy’s long limbs look in such casual clothes, the way the fabric clings to his slim legs. He pulls his eyes away in order to focus.
“I told you last time, I don’t want your watch dogs seeing me,” Malfoy drawls.
“I literally don’t know what on earth you’re talking about. I don’t have anyone watching me,” Harry replies simply.
“Do you seriously not know or are you being intentionally stupid?” he asks plainly. Harry glares at him.
“I spend most of my day at the park because I can’t stand it here. I try my hardest not to pay attention to my stupid, nosy neighbors,” he justifies.
“Well you’re missing quite a bit by doing so. Who’s that woman across the street?”
“Mrs. Figg. She’s a batty old lady with a whole bunch of awful cats,” Harry says.
“She’s more than that, Potter. One of the cats in her upstairs window is part-kneazle,” Malfoy explains.
“How can you possibly know that?” Harry asks.
“The eyes have that tell-tale upturned almond shape and the head is more boxy. I’m telling you she’s a witch. Muggles do not come across part-kneazle cats by accident,” he says. “And I told you Mundungus Fletcher was watching you last time, but there’s a junior Auror here today. Nymphadora Tonks… she’s actually my first cousin. Never met her, but I can tell she’s not the most stealthy woman—she tripped on the sidewalk about a block down and I was able to duck into the alley and come around the other direction. So easily spotted despite being a metamorphmagus.”
“I have a lot of questions about everything you just said,” Harry says. It’s too early for this. His stomach growls. “Look, you’re earlier than last time, the Dursleys will be up soon, and I need to make breakfast, so… Yeah, just follow me into the kitchen.”
“You cook yourself?” Malfoy asks as if that’s the most foreign concept he’s ever heard of.
“Always have. Thankfully, since you insinuated we lived in poverty last week, Aunt Petunia actually bought me breakfast food to cook with,” Harry says with a smirk. “So, thanks for that… and I wouldn’t be upset if you were even ruder this time. They'll throw a fit anyway, might as well make it a good one.”
“Oh, I don’t foresee that being an issue in any way, shape, or form, Potter. In fact, I would be delighted to terrorize your horrible muggle relatives.”
“You know, this could be the start of a wonderful friendship, Malfoy,” Harry chuckles. Malfoy scowls.
“Not on your life, you twit. And you do live in poverty,” he says haughtily. Harry just grins cheekily.
“Whatever. How do you like your eggs?” he asks.
“...Scrambled,” Malfoy mumbles.
“Scrambled? I thought you’d ask for something more complicated.”
“It tastes best scrambled with cheese on top,” Malfoy explains with as much refinement as he can with pink flooding high in his cheeks. He’s embarrassed. Harry wonders if he’s a picky eater. He huffs a laugh at this revelation and takes the eggs from the fridge.
“Fair enough. You want sausage?”
“Yes. Wait, what kind?”
“Pork sausage, I put some bacon in it and whatever seasonings sounded good.”
“You make the sausage too? From scratch?” he asks, astonished.
“Yeah, Aunt Petunia doesn’t like the premade ones most of the time, so she taught me how to make them and now I do them, but I put more seasoning in mine. Hers turn out a little bland. So, want to try it?”
“Color me curious, yes, alright. I’ll have some.”
“Brill,” Harry says, grabbing the pans and turning on the gas range. He starts going through the motions, but something about having Draco Malfoy watching him skeptically somehow gives him something to prove and he finds himself enjoying the process of cooking.
“Why are you putting milk in the eggs?” Malfoy asks warily.
“Cause that’s how you get them nice and fluffy,” Harry replies.
“What do you mean? The eggs don’t get fluffy on their own?”
“Eh, it’s not the same,” he says. Malfoy lifts his eyebrows in trepidation. Harry rolls his eyes, bemused. “Trust me, Malfoy. I’ve been doing this since I was five.” He continues cooking and plates up the eggs and sausage along with hashbrowns and some skillfully cut fruit. Malfoy holds his fork delicately in his left hand and takes a nervous little bite of the eggs first. Harry watches him discreetly out of the corner of his eye, while making breakfast for the rest of the household, taking great pleasure in only portioning yogurt and grapefruit for Dudley and Uncle Vernon. He eats quickly.
“How is it?” Harry asks. There’s a long calculated silence.
“It’s acceptable,” Malfoy sniffs, the picture of refinement. But there’s a blush on his cheeks and he’s nearly finished his whole plate. Harry smirks to himself and can’t help the pride that swells within him at the closest thing to a compliment he could have ever hoped for.
“Well if you want seconds, there’s plenty. It’ll piss off Aunt Petunia like crazy.”
“Oh, well in that case, yes, I’d love seconds, but only with the sausage and the hashbrowns. You gave me plenty of eggs.” Harry giddily grills up some more food. Malfoy is on his last bite when Harry hears footsteps on the stairs.
“Boy!” comes Aunt Petunia’s voice from the hallway. Harry startles a bit and braces himself for what’s coming. “Is breakfast read-AAAAAH!” she screams and throws her hands up into the air, jumping dramatically away from where Malfoy sits calmly at the table. She’s in her fluffy pink bathrobe and hair curlers and Harry holds back a shout of laughter with all his might, for she resembles a flamingo more than ever as she jumps and flaps her arms in panic.
“You’re back!” Petunia gasps in horror. Harry sets everyone’s plated breakfasts at their usual spots at the table and waits to look at his aunt until he’s done his best to compose his face.
“Sorry Aunt Petunia, I didn’t know he was coming over today,” Harry says innocently. Petunia glowers dangerously at him.
“It’s very rude to visit someone’s home unannounced, highly improper,” she admonishes, doing her best impression of propriety.
“It’s not my fault you don’t have a servant staff to handle your visitors,” Malfoy argues haughtily. “Anyway, you should be very proud of your nephew; he’s able to make all this cheap food into something edible and actually not half-bad. He might even make something good if poverty weren’t affecting your family so badly you had to buy inferior products.” Harry is very happy he did his eating while he cooked everyone else’s food because a fast escape is the only good answer to this situation. Before Dudley or Uncle Vernon can show up, Harry grabs Malfoy by the arm, pulls him to his feet and stutters through a, “Well, we’ll just be in my room then, discussing…. vanquishing evil?” Aunt Petunia sneers at them, boiling with impotent rage.
They barely make it into Harry’s room before bursting into laughter.
"Vanquishing evil?" Malfoy guffaws. "Good lord, Potter, you are ridiculous." Harry grins.
"And you're not? It's not my fault you don't have a servant staff," he mimics through his laughter. Malfoy is smiling at him, actually smiling and it transforms his face. Harry tries his hardest not to let his surprise show in his expression. Their giggles subside and Harry remembers what it is they're supposed to be doing. "So, can I ask some of the questions I had when you first came in?"
"I suppose you'd better if you're entirely out of the loop of information," he replies.
"Okay, first of all, are you sure Mrs. Figg is a witch? She's only ever given me grief and if she were in the Order, I mean, wouldn't she know Dumbledore then? With everyone using the excuse not to tell me shit in letters, I feel like she could have given me information pretty easily. So if she is in the Order, why hasn't she?" Malfoy is in contemplative silence for a moment before speaking.
"It's a bit annoying when you have good questions, I can't really call you an idiot for that one," he says. Harry rolls his eyes and looks at him expectantly. "I am positive that woman is involved in the wizarding world and I have a serious hunch that she works for the Order. I've been keeping tabs on her and she plays a very convincing muggle, but she is able to see things only witches and wizards can. You see, I did a little experiment with a billywig and she watched it flying around and I could tell she knew exactly what it was, but she didn’t use magic at all. I haven’t seen her pull a wand at any point… or maybe…" he trails off in the same way Hermione does when she gets an idea.
"What is it?" Harry asks.
"I'm not sure whether or not squibs can see magical things, they must be able to, right? Otherwise Filch wouldn't be able to see Peeves, would he?" He bites his lip in thought, looking at the ceiling. It's another uncanny impression of Hermione and the comparison hurts. Harry really misses her, wishes she were here theorizing instead of Malfoy. "They wouldn’t trust your protection to a squib though. I mean, that would be another level of reckless endangerment. Like, if you were in trouble what on earth could she possibly do? Throw her cat at the danger? Either way, I'll have to check genealogy charts to see if I can track her down. What's her first name?" he asks, opening his bag for the first time and withdrawing a small leather notebook and a self-inking quill
"It's something like Isabella, I think. That's not right, but it's something similar. I've only ever called her Mrs. Figg."
"Well, it's something to go on, at least," Malfoy says, writing the name down with a roll of his eyes. “As for why she isn’t giving you information, either she only knows what her orders are or she’s been given instructions to specifically not make herself known or tell you anything. To be honest, I think it’s a combination of the two. You also have a junior Auror out there today who could easily give you information, but isn’t.”
“Who’s also your first cousin?” Harry asks. Malfoy nods.
“Daughter of my Aunt Andromeda, who was disowned for running off and marrying below her station. I don’t know much about it actually; my mother refuses to talk about her. Anyway, I think not sending information in letters is just a convenient excuse. Obviously it would be a terrible idea to do that, but Dumbledore and the Order must have agreed not to tell you anything at all.”
“But, but why?!” Harry asks, indignant rage swelling within him. “He knows what I went through! He knows I’m in the middle of everything! What reasons can he possibly have for betraying me like that?! I’m skulking around whenever the Dursleys put the news on, waiting for anything that might tell me what’s going on in the wizarding world!”
“You’re getting the Prophet, aren’t you?” Malfoy asks, not seeming at all affected by Harry’s shouting.
“There’s nothing in there either!”
“That’s not true at all,” Malfoy says, brows furrowed in confused. “Are you reading it all the way through?”
“Well… not cover to cover. Mainly just the headlines and the first few paragraphs. But if they announced Voldemort—”
“Don’t say the name!” Malfoy hisses.
“Oh, right, sorry. If they announced You-Know-Who was back, or any kind of violent Death Eater activity, that would be front page news. But there hasn’t been anything,” Harry explains.
“That’s because the Dark Lord is keeping everything very quiet for now. It’s easier to put all his pawns into place before he’s revealed his attack. I don’t know if he’s even come up with a proper plan yet, but my father is talking to a bunch of Ministry employees to make sure they are completely ignorant, and the ones who seem to match his values will be converted to Death Eaters. This will ensure that the Ministry will be against you and Dumbledore until he is revealed, and by that time the Ministry will be thoroughly infiltrated. See, if you’d been reading the articles in full you would have noticed phrases like ‘the boy who lost his marbles,’ or ‘a tall tale worthy of Harry Potter.’ They’re turning you into a joke and have denied any mention of the Dark Lord’s return. No one believes you or Dumbledore except those connected to the Order of the Phoenix or the Death Eaters,” Malfoy says. Harry takes a seat on his bed and looks at the floor, disappointment and dread spreading through his body, absolutely gutted.
“So, what do people think?” Harry mumbles. “Do they think I killed Cedric to win the tournament or something?”
“I’m sure some have thought about it, but most think that the creatures in the maze are responsible for Cedric’s death and that you made up the story because it was so traumatic. But they’re making fun of you for it, not being understanding. It’s a smear campaign. You might not have many friends going back to Hogwarts this year,” he warns. Harry rubs his face tiredly, full of stress and hopelessness.
“And through all of this, Dumbledore and the Order are still keeping secrets,” he says heavily, resting his face in his hands.
"I have no idea what motivations that old fool Dumbledore has for keeping everything from you, but I guarantee it will blow up in his face. Which is where I come in,” Malfoy says, smirking. “I have our method of communication all worked out, so whatever you do don’t lose this. Guard it with your life, keep it on you at all times.”
“And here I was waiting to pass it around the Gryffindor common room,” Harry mocks sarcastically. Malfoy glowers slightly, but pulls out another leather notebook the same size as the one he wrote Mrs. Figg’s name in.
“This notebook is a twin to mine. Every time you write in it, mine will grow warm and the writing will appear and vice versa. To anyone else, it will look like Quidditch notes, even if they hold it in front of their faces. No one else will be able to write in it, but we have to finish activating the spell. You need to prick your finger and place a drop of blood on the inside cover of both books,” Malfoy says.
“Excuse me?” Harry asks. “I’m not giving you any blood for a spell, Malfoy, what the hell?!”
“It’s the only way to guarantee that no one else will be able to see what’s written,” he explains exasperatedly.
“I don’t care, I’m not messing around with dark magic!”
“Blood magic isn’t always dark, Potter, you moron,” Malfoy says. “It’s a spell that binds the book to you and only you, as well as protects it from any other eyes. The only way to reverse blood magic is with more blood and it’s extremely complicated; with all the other charms on this thing, this spell is going to be close to impossible to break. This is my blood too in case you forgot, as well as my life on the line. I’ve already put my blood on the books, now you have to do the same.”
“Both of them?” Harry asks warily. Malfoy rolls his eyes.
“Yes, both. It will also afford the same protection to the connection on the notebooks.”
“I don’t like this at all.”
“Oh and you think it just tickles me to the core to be in this position, do you?” Malfoy sneers. “There will probably be very few things that you like at all this year, Potter, but this is a bit more important than your feelings on blood magic.” Harry tries to think of a comeback, but Malfoy unfortunately has a point and there’s really nothing more to say. It’s not like Hermione is here to give her opinion on the magic, although Harry is certain she would never agree to it simply on principle. This is Malfoy’s life on the line, however; it’s probably only fair he should get to decide his own protection. Harry sighs loudly just to be difficult and gives in.
“Fine. What do I do?” Malfoy lets out a breath of relief and opens the front covers on both books.
“Prick your finger and tap the inside cover of the book, keep it on there and say ‘conligo’ then do the same with the other. The spellwork just needs to be activated, it’s already been cast of course, so it won’t set off the trace.” Harry nods nervously, digs a pocket knife out of his desk drawer and looks at the books. He drags the knife across the tip of his right pointer finger and the blood beads up just enough for what he needs to do.
“What’s the word again?” he asks heavily. He feels a bit sick looking at his own blood beading heavily on his skin. It reminds him of the graveyard.
“Conligo. Say it a couple times before you do it.”
“Conligo,” Harry repeats, tongue like sandpaper in his mouth. He swallows audibly. “Conligo.” He places his bloody finger on the first book. “Conligo.” The book glows with a beautiful light blue and does not dim. Malfoy nods at him and gestures to the next one. Harry presses his finger to the other and repeats the word again. Both books glow brightly and a stream of shimmering light bends and joins between the journals for several seconds before fading into nothing. Malfoy picks up the notebook, flips through the pages and grins.
“It worked!” he says happily. He grabs his quill and jots something down, reaching over to touch the other book. “It’s warm. Excellent!” He holds one notebook out to Harry. “Go on then, look it over.” Harry takes it from his hand and flips it open. The words find the Figg’s genealogy charts and check for anyone fitting neighbor woman’s description, possibly named Isabella, and Potter is an idiot, written in delicate loopy handwriting are plain on the pages.
“So no one else can see what’s on these pages?”
“Not even if you give them the book yourself,” Malfoy trills proudly.
“What if we run out of space?” Harry asks curiously. “There’s not very many pages in here.” Malfoy rolls his eyes.
“It’s magically expanding,” he explains like it should be obvious. “We’ll never run out of pages, but it will always appear the same size.”
“That’s complicated spellwork. Weren’t these incredibly expensive?” Harry asks.
“They would be if I had bought them, but I’m not stupid, Potter. The sale of something like that would be easily traced and the last thing I want is for my father to ask questions on why I would need specially charmed twin notebooks when I constantly have access to incriminating—”
“Yes, alright!” Harry snaps. “I get it. How did you get them then?”
“I made them, of course.” Harry’s eyes flick to his in total shock.
“You can do transfiguration and charm work like this?”
“Of course I can, that Granger mudblood hasn’t—”
“Don’t call her that!” Harry yells, stepping forward threateningly. Malfoy looks at him puzzled and steps back till he hits the wall.
“It’s what she is, Potter,” he defends matter-of-factly. “Don’t go off on me for it.”
“She’s muggleborn,” Harry spits. “You don’t have to use a mean slur to refer to her.” He boxes Malfoy in against the wall. The blond swallows dryly and his eyes flicker with something Harry can’t identify.
“Or what?” Malfoy breathes, smirking down at him.
“Or I tell the Order you don’t need any protection, how about that?” Malfoy’s smirk drops like he’s been slapped and he lowers his eyes.
“Right, just take all the fun out of it why don’t you,” he mutters, put out. Harry wants very much to punch him in his stupid face, his fist clenching. He growls and steps away, thinking better of it and rubbing his face in exasperation.
“Does it really make you that happy to piss me off, Malfoy? How about changing tactics since we’re supposed to fucking work together?”
“Merlin, alright. You’re such a drama queen,” he huffs. Harry wonders just where the hell Malfoy gets off calling him a drama queen, but bites his tongue, giving him a solid glare instead.
“Remind me why you mentioned Hermione,” Harry prompts through clenched teeth, just trying to move on.
“Ugh fine, I was going to say that Granger,” he says pointedly, “hasn’t beat my scores in Charms or Transfiguration since first year. Need I remind you about those fantastical and intricate little badges I made for the Triwizard Tournament? They were charmed to do the Potter Stinks animation whenever you got too close, but were otherwise perfectly in sync with all the others. I made over 400 of those and even though Flitwick took 20 points away from me for making them, he still said they were rather impressive.”
“Wow, thanks, just when I’ve managed to forget about the tournament for five minutes, you have to go and bring it up again,” Harry grumbles. Malfoy sighs loudly.
“That’s not what I—” He rubs his face and Harry notices the slight purpling underneath Malfoy’s eyes for the first time. He must have spent a few very long nights putting these notebooks together.
“It doesn’t matter,” Harry acquiesces with a sigh of his own. “Did you have anything else for me?” Malfoy reaches into his bag again and withdraws a bound scroll of parchment and unties it, unrolling the paper.
“This is my contract for the Order, I’ve signed it in blood. It says that in the event I am compromised, if I need a safe house, guarded emergency transport, or rescue, they must answer the call and protect me or risk all my information falling into enemy hands. Once again, do not give this to Snape or anyone who will tell Snape, there is a stipulation in here about that. Anyone who signs it will be unable to talk about my involvement unless it’s with another person who has signed the document, so make sure everyone you want to know is aware before you all sign it.”
“Alright, that should be fine.”
“Have you decided who you’re going to tell?”
“Uh, yeah, Ron and Hermione, obviously. Then I was thinking Sirius and Lupin. Sirius hates Snape and Lupin is smart enough to understand the need for secrecy. If they think anyone else should be involved, then we can go from there, but Sirius and Lupin are the ones I’ll get first. I’m not sure when they’re planning to come and get me, but I’ll let you know.”
“Sirius as in Sirius Black? And Professor Lupin?” Malfoy asks, a dumbfounded expression on his face.
“Yes.”
“My first cousin once removed and our old DADA teacher. So I’m assuming, then, Sirius didn’t actually betray your parents?”
“No, it was Peter Pettigrew. Though you might have heard of him as Wormtail,” Harry explains. Malfoy gapes.
“Wormtail?! That disgusting little cretin was your parents’ secret keeper?”
“It was supposed to be a bluff, but they didn’t know he had been spying for the Death Eaters for at least a year at that point. He was glad to give them up,” Harry grouses.
“Merlin,” Malfoy breathes. “Well, learn from them and please try not to sell me out to anyone who might be working for the Death Eaters. You know, I’d appreciate that.” It’s the careless use of humor that somehow softens Harry a bit and he huffs a laugh.
“I’ll do my best on that front, Malfoy.”