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Chapter Text

Grimmauld Place was thoroughly unwelcoming: the portraits had begun spitting monologues about blood purity and the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black as soon as they’d seen Harry at the door, the house was a maze of twisted, narrow halls and staircases that were as misleading as they were old, and the door had tried to seal itself shut once it sensed Remus stepping closer.

There wasn’t a single thing anyone could’ve done or said that would’ve made him think of it as anything other than the greatest place in the world.

“What do we do first?” he asked, excitement building in his chest even as the portraits’ words echoed in his ears.

Sirius, beside him, took off his sunglasses and rested them on top of his head, looking around the dark hall critically; he looked healthy, good, despite having only left the hospital a few weeks prior.

They’d stayed at the Leaky Cauldron while things were sorted out and Sirius got a new wand, clothes, and everything a newly-released ex-Azkaban-prisoner needed, and Harry had been bought more things in the past few weeks than he had ever been bought in his life. He’d felt extremely guilty about it, but Sirius had refused to listen to his protests. Remus, looking very used to Sirius’s behavior – he’d bought him several things, as well, because they go with your eyes, Moony, come on, you can’t tell me I’m wrong – had told him there was no talking him out of it.

Sirius had apparently inherited an obscene amount of money from a distant uncle – the legitimate Black fortune must’ve gone to Cousin Cissy, Harry, which means it’ll go to Draco, said with a smirk and a wink that Harry didn’t understand but made him blush anyway – and was hellbent on spending money whenever he wanted.

“Get rid of the portraits,” he said, pulling his wand from his sleeve and waving it in a simple pattern that took most of the portraits off the wall: they floated mid-air in shocked silence for only a second, before they began floating down the hall, towards the deepest parts of the house, all while complaining loudly and telling Sirius he ‘couldn’t do this’.

Remus pulled a face when he entered the house, and, with a wave of his wand, began opening curtains and windows, revealing old, gothic furniture and brittle blackwood floors. Everything was ancient, and decay evidenced its lack of inhabitants for the last twelve years: there were cracks along the walls, holes in the floor, and the house seemed to be collapsing into itself, hunched inwards like it was sad, like the ceiling would drop onto them at any moment.

Harry hoped it wouldn’t; neither Remus nor Sirius seemed worried about it.

Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, and there was mold in some corners, in the rotting wood; it’d need work. Harry never imagined he’d be so excited at the prospect of spending the entire summer doing something that would’ve made his life hell at the Dursleys’.

“Have you ever been here before?” he asked curiously, looking up at Remus: he and Sirius had known each other for years, since they were eleven, and Harry had known Ron for much less time than that and had already been to his house. On the other hand, he didn’t think he’d ever see the inside – or, most likely, the outside, either – of Malfoy Manor.

“No.” Remus didn’t look particularly happy to be there now, either, but he followed Sirius through the door, pausing when he noticed Harry stood still. “You okay? We better join Sirius before he starts tearing up the floorboards.”

Harry grinned a little bit and stepped inside, feeling magic shudder around him in a way he’d never felt outside of Hogwarts. Already, the room seemed brighter.

“I don’t think that’d be such a tragedy,” he said, carefully watching his step to avoid any of the spiders. They stayed unnervingly still, as though staring him down, but it was hardly the first time he’d ever lived with critters. The cupboard had been filled with them, which had mostly desensitized him.

Remus snorted and threw his arm around Harry’s shoulders as they walked inside together, letting the door shut after them.

Ginny saw Malfoy Manor for the first time through Draco’s eyes, and she didn’t recognize the feeling of it. It didn’t feel like the Burrow, nothing like home; it just made her feel sad, a shocking tide of resentment building behind the second heartbeat in her chest.

The second time, she saw it with her own eyes, when she stepped through the floo; Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy were out of the country, and though they’d left a note, they hadn’t mentioned when they were coming back or where they’d gone. The house-elves knew she was there – and were presumably ordered to tell Draco’s parents of anything and everything that went on in their house – but they never interacted with them, used to doing their jobs without being heard or seen.

“I can’t believe you have a piano,” she said, sitting down at the piano bench with wide eyes. It was black, shiny, and much bigger than she had expected pianos to be. She’d never seen one before.

“I took lessons when I was younger,” Draco told her, sitting next to her. He played a few harmonic notes, and Ginny mimicked the movement dissonantly. “I think all of my lessons were just there so that my parents wouldn’t have to deal with me.”

Ginny didn’t doubt it. “I never learned an instrument.”

All her brothers ever wanted to do was play quidditch, and they never wanted to play with her: the only times she played before Hogwarts was whenever they weren’t home, usually taken to the city by her dad when they needed clothes, since they – especially the twins – grew in and out of them like they were trying to win a contest.

“That would’ve been much more fun,” Draco said, even though she hadn’t said it out loud. She didn’t wonder how he knew.

She didn’t know how she’d known about him being in trouble, the term prior, but she’d seen it in her head, felt it in her ribcage, a sort of animal fear that she’d known only in the Chamber, an echo of thoughts and feelings that she hadn’t noticed before, but could now recognize as not her own, as Draco’s.

She knew he experienced the same thing, although she wasn’t quite sure when she’d realized.

“We could play quidditch now,” she said with a grin, and his smile widened.

They were running out the back door towards the gardens before he’d even finished nodding his head.

Hermione’s parents loved Crookshanks: she told them all about how he had saved her, her friends, and Harry’s godfather Sirius, who’d spent twelve years in Azkaban for a crime he didn’t commit, tragically separated from his mate, who’d been Hermione’s professor.

They didn’t understand a lot of it: the concept of mates was one they only understood theoretically – she, as well, couldn’t understand the visceral sort of need described by romance books or other witches and wizards because she hadn’t lived it, couldn’t imagine needing someone so desperately that she would think they were a spy and a traitor and a Death Eater and stay with them, never tell anyone – and they didn’t understand Azkaban: Hermione had tried to explain, and they’d gotten worked up about trials and human rights, since having creatures that sucked out every happy memory someone had and regularly drove people mad had to be some sort of violation of them, and even if it wasn’t, who would stand for it?

Wizards would; Hermione didn’t know how to explain it to them, but she understood, at least a tiny bit. Magic could do anything, and witches and wizards that were both powerful and heartless enough to do what they did needed to somehow be stopped.

She didn’t say that. She knew they’d hate it, and she wasn’t even sure how she felt about it herself.

They also didn’t quite understand how Crookshanks could’ve known Sirius was Snuffles, and Scabbers was Pettigrew, but they didn’t need to understand: they were grateful anyway.

They threw him a Welcome Home party with a tuna cake that her mother had ordered from one of her baker friends, and her dad even bought him some of those fancy freeze-dried salmon treats that they sold at the pet store.

Hermione took a picture of the three of them.

Ron got an owl from Harry the third day of summer vacation, and it wasn’t carried by Hedwig, but a small, fluffy brown thing that looked more like a furball than an owl, and chirped ceaselessly like he was chatting with Ron.

He tore it open impatiently – he used to spend the entire summer worried about Harry, living with those awful muggle relatives of his, and he didn’t have to do that anymore, he was with Black and Lupin – and read the letter quickly.

He was inviting him over to Grimmauld Place – Grimmauld Place? Witches and wizards did usually name their homes, like his parents had named the Burrow, like the Malfoys’ Malfoy Manor, but Grimmauld Place? That was the least welcoming name Ron had ever heard – and he told him all about it: how it seemed to swallow up any sunlight that entered it, how the Black family portraits wouldn’t stop screaming about blood purity and old family values, about a house-elf named Kreacher who Sirius loathed but couldn’t get rid of, and about his new room: he sounded elated.

Ron was grinning so wide his cheeks hurt.

                    The owl’s from Sirius. He’s sorry about taking Scabbers away, and he hoped a new pet might make up for it.

Ron looked at the owl dubiously, and it tilted his head at him with a squeak.

“Don’t get excited,” he told it warily. “I’m not keeping you unless Crookshanks approves of you first.”

The owl gave a soft hoot and flew onto his bed, settling onto his pillow with a few comfortable chirps. Ron scowled.

He had to see Hermione as soon as possible.

Harry wrote to his friends every day without fail, and they wrote back: Hermione wanted to know everything about Grimmauld – magical homes are such fascinating examples of semi-sentient magic, she said in her latest letter – and she and Ron were both looking forward to visiting. Draco didn’t seem to care much about the house itself, but he did mention he missed Harry and hoped they could see each other soon, which made Harry’s stomach flutter for some reason.

Neither Remus nor Sirius went through his mail; they were never angry when he let Hedwig out of her cage – they never demanded he put her in her cage at all in the first place – and they didn’t raise their voices when he burnt breakfast (they didn’t want him to make breakfast at all! It was only Remus who cooked, because apparently, Sirius couldn’t be trusted near fire at all), or when he left his clothes on the floor because he was in a rush, or even when he dropped a glass and it shattered against the floor.

They didn’t even make him clean it up; Sirius just waved his wand and it was all gone, and he didn’t comment on it, never brought it up again.

It felt too good to be true, but he decided not to question it: he’d enjoy it as much as he could for however long it lasted. If it ended – when it ended – he’d figure things out.

“McGonagall was right.” Sirius was grinning when they landed, fluttering snitch clamped tight in Harry’s’ hand. “You are good.”

“He’s been on the team since his first year,” Remus snorted, turning the page on his book. “Why did you think that was? Luck?”

It was odd, living with Sirius and Remus: it reminded Harry a bit of the Weasleys’, where everybody liked him, but since it lacked other people – the Weasleys had six sons and a daughter to watch and fuss over, which meant that their attention was always somewhere, almost never specifically on Harry – it meant that he had the adults’ attention all to himself, which he was entirely unused to.

The Dursleys – who hadn’t put up a fight at all once Sirius showed up at their door with a grin that was all teeth and the Prophet article that called him a mass murderer and told them Harry was leaving with him – ignored him entirely unless they were angry at him, which meant that Harry was largely left to his own devices, as long as he didn’t bother them in any way.

In Grimmauld, it was nothing like that: Sirius and Remus had yet to get angry at him about anything, they regularly talked to him – about anything! Everything! They never excluded him from conversations at all and asked him about his opinions – and took him everywhere with them, even to places that cost money.

“Shut up, Moony.” Sirius tossed the broom aside – nothing nearly as special or expensive as Harry’s Firebolt, which had been a gift from him after all – and stretched, t-shirt riding up to reveal a few inches of pale skin. “I just wanted to see for myself.”

He never wore robes: they’d gone shopping for a few items – although Sirius insisted they all needed more clothes – and they’d done so exclusively in the muggle world. Sirius liked dark clothes and muggle t-shirt bands, leather, a ton of things that would’ve made Aunt Petunia clutch her chest and mutter something about god.

Remus dressed like he had when he was Harry’s professor, but in much newer, better-fitting clothes. Soft jumpers, cardigans, button down shirts, vests, loose trousers. He looked like he was meant to be a professor in some fancy, far-off university like the ones Harry had seen on muggle films.

“Obviously you got that talent from me.” Sirius grinned, as he walked over and plopped himself down on Remus’s lap. Remus didn’t even bat an eye. “Because James was never that good.”

“That makes no sense.” Remus shut his book, and Harry grinned as he took a seat across from them, watching as Remus wrapped his arms around Sirius’s waist.

Harry didn’t listen to their bickering; instead, he watched them. He was a little embarrassed – and felt like an intruder – but they touched each other freely, exchanging hugs, physical affection, and chaste kisses in ways that Harry had never seen before, especially at the Dursleys’, and especially between men.

Aunt Petunia frowned at any couples who even dared sit too close to each other in park benches, and she might’ve actually fainted if she’d seen two men together the way Remus and Sirius were.

He knew it was normal, in the wizarding world. Firstly, because Remus was an alpha and Sirius was an omega, but, even if they weren’t, simply because wizards didn’t seem to care. Anthony Goldstein had asked Draco out the year prior, and no one had batted an eye. They’d made up tons of rumors about him and Cedric Diggory, and no one had thought it weird. He’d seen more than a few couples walk the Hogwarts grounds hand-in-hand, and it didn’t matter if they were both boys or they were both girls.

Hell, McGonagall was married to Madam Pomfrey, and no one had once said a word about it. He hadn’t even known about it until Hermione had mentioned it!

He didn’t know why it made him feel so warm.

“I was thinking tomorrow we could go to the cinema,” Remus said, which made Harry blink. “I haven’t been since I was – nineteen? Shit, I was nineteen.”

Harry had been only twice.

“We went to see that awful musical film, didn’t we?” Sirius asked excitedly. He looked at Harry. “Lily took us. She said it was really good, but we didn’t understand any of it-”

“You didn’t understand any of it,” Remus teased. He grinned. “James didn’t, either. Your mum spent our entire way home explaining it to him, Harry, but he kept getting hung up on the details.”

Harry settled in for a retelling of the time his mum and dad had watched Grease together.

“There’s no way that’s true,” Theo drawled, from where he was gracefully leaning back in one of the chairs. They were sitting by the edge of the lake in Malfoy Manor – Theo had been told to entertain himself, since his mother’s friends would be visiting, which was her way of telling him to shut up, get out, or both – so he’d come to visit Draco, who’d been both thrilled and, later, a bit shocked: Theo was turning into every bit the pure-blood, respectable young man that every couple in their parents’ circle would’ve expected and wanted their sons to be, and Draco would’ve been lying if he said he wasn’t a little bit jealous.

Theo fit into their world – into their parents’ world – in a way Draco never would, and it was impossible not to be a little bit bitter when he seemed to be rubbing it in his face simply by existing, even if Draco knew it wasn’t on purpose.

He’d grown taller, surpassing Draco by only a few centimeters, and his features had sharpened practically overnight, giving him a handsome, aristocratic look that everyone in his parents’ parties would appreciate. He wore the right clothes, which fit him perfectly, he said the right things, had developed an attitude to match: confident, careless, as though everything around them was beneath him.

“It is,” Ginny replied, closing her eyes and letting her head fall back. It was a rare sunny day, so the three of them were laying underneath the sun and soaking up warmth in the gardens of Malfoy Manor. “Charlie’s done it tons of times.”

“No one can ride a dragon,” Theo said. He and Ginny seemed to like each other in an odd sort of way, and decided to show it by constantly arguing: if Theo said the sky was blue, Ginny was hellbent on it being grey. If Ginny said the weather was nice, Theo suddenly – and very vocally – disliked everything about it. “They’re beasts.”

Draco couldn’t quite decipher their relationship, but he didn’t try, either.

“He lives in a dragon reserve,” he said, because Ginny and Ron had both told him in separate occasions, and he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it; he lived in a dragon reserve. It had to be the absolute coolest place on earth. “They hatch hundreds of dragon eggs per year.”

Charlie had told him in a letter; it seemed that he had no one to talk about dragons with, in his family. They didn’t really like them, and Ron was still upset that he hadn’t gone into Quidditch, which meant that when he’d heard about Draco loving magical creatures as much as he did, he’d told Ron to tell him that he’d be happy to answer any questions he may have.

Draco had had a ton, obviously, and he’d finally taken the time to write him at the end of the term prior; he’d immediately – and enthusiastically – responded, and now they corresponded semi-regularly, constantly talking about magical creatures, and Draco had a growing stack of photographs that Charlie sent, all of them of the dragons at the reserve.

He’d told Draco he’d let him pick the name for one of the eggs they were waiting on, and he was thinking about it day and night, because it had to be perfect.

“Hatching a dragon egg isn’t the same as riding a fully grown dragon,” Theo drawled.

“I have pictures,” Draco said, shielding his eyes from the sun with his arm. “They hatch them, raise them, take care of them. Why would it be so impossible for them to ride them?”

“Because they’re beasts.”

“They’re sweethearts.”

“They can burn a city to the ground on a whim!” Theo exclaimed, gesturing widely; Draco grinned. It was nice to get a reaction out of him, a glimpse of something that wasn’t apathy. He’d do it as many times as he could.

“So?” Draco asked. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

Theo looked at him incredulously, and Ginny snickered.

“Besides,” she said, being contrary on purpose. “How’re they going to bend their heads a hundred and eighty degrees and burn the rider off their back? That’s impossible.”

Draco didn’t point out that there were many alternatives to that, and that if a dragon didn’t want to be ridden, there wasn’t a single witch or wizard who could’ve forced it to, because Theo was looking at them with a mix of exasperation and amusement that was familiar and welcome and warm, and he didn’t want it to disappear.

“You’re both wrong,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

“Want to bet on it?” Draco asked.

Hermione spent every evening for a week reading up on magical homes.

“They feed off their inhabitants’ magic!” she exclaimed as her mum prepared dinner, practically bouncing around her while she stirred something on a pot. “It’s how they’re maintained! And it does it all by itself, there aren’t even any spells required! The book doesn’t say anything about it, but I do wonder if more magic is required if the home is bigger.”

They were like sponges, the book said: everything was, really. If there was enough magic around something for long enough, it’d begin soaking it up, and it would eventually become so utterly ingrained in every fiber of its being that its very existence would become dependent on there being enough magic to sustain it.

“I’d assume so, wouldn’t you?” her mum asked.

“It makes sense!” Hermione agreed vehemently. “I can’t wait to go to Ron’s, Harry’s! They’ve got to be so different! Ron said his parents built the Burrow, which means it’s fairly recent. It must still be able to exist on its own, even if they’ve lived in it for years. Although I do wonder if it matters that there are nine wizards regularly living there. That should mean there’s more magic around, shouldn’t it? Does that mean it’s easier for it to become a magical home?”

In Grimmauld, for example, there were only three people: Harry, Black, and Lupin, and even that was too recent. She wondered what state it had been in when they’d first gone to live in it, and knew she had to visit as soon as possible, if only to keep a journal to document its improvement.

It also made her wonder about Malfoy Manor. She had no idea if it was really the Malfoys’ ancestral home, or if it was a more recent purchase. She could imagine Lucius Malfoy living his entire life in his family home due to whatever sense of traditionalism that drove him, but she couldn’t imagine how any family could live in one house, especially across so many generations. Her parents had their flat, and her grandparents lived each in different places. She had no idea what house her great-grandparents had grown up in, and she had never even thought to ask.

How would it work, if the Malfoys had had more than one child? Even now, if Draco was meant to inherit it, did it mean he’d live with his parents until they died, and then would take over Malfoy Manor as his own? Or was he supposed to move out until his parents passed, and then become master of the house? And would he inherit it? The Malfoys were too traditional for them to mean for Draco to keep his last name and not take his alpha’s, but if he did, the Malfoy family line would die out.

Did that mean they were effectively heirless?

She felt like those questions might be a little too insensitive to ask, so she hadn’t done so, but curiosity was burning inside her.

“The Burrow?” her mum asked with a raised eyebrow. “They named their home?”

“All magical homes are named,” Hermione said.

“Perhaps we should name the flat,” her dad said, from where he was sitting on the table reading the paper. “How do you like Evangeline?”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “No.”

“What about Hubert?” her mum said.

“Hubert?” Hermione asked with great distaste. “No one’s named Hubert!”

“Cordelia.”

“Gerald.”

“Philomena.”

“It’s not after people!” Hermione exclaimed. “It’s – like Malfoy Manor, not – not-”

“Granger Flat,” her mum said. “Meh, it could use with a little more kick to it.”

Hermione huffed and threw her hands up.

“Where’s Ginny?”

Ron grimaced at the question, looking down from where he, Fred, and George were hovering in the air on their brooms, about to begin a game of quidditch.

“Uh, with Draco, I think,” he called, hoping his mum didn’t make him come down to look for her.

“Again?” Mum was frowning. “Are they… together?”

“Of course not, mum!” Fred called down from his broom, rolling his eyes. “They’re just friends!”

“Two people can be friends, you know!” George exclaimed. “Even if they’re an alpha and an omega! Or a boy and a girl!”

“Frankly, it’s a little insulting that you assume they’re together just because of their-”

“Fine, fine, stop!” Their mum scowled. “Just – keep an eye on them, alright?”

There was nothing Ron would rather do less, but he and his brother called back a chorus of yes to appease their mum. She went back inside, and Fred’s mouth twisted as he tossed the quaffle up and down, keeping his eyes on it.

“They’re together, aren’t they?” he asked.

“What?” Ron exclaimed. He’d hoped his brothers fully believed in their point, because if they thought that Ginny and Draco weren’t together, then maybe Ron could convince himself that Ginny and Draco weren’t together. The possibility of it was disgusting enough to nearly have him retching. “You said-”

“Please, it was a load of hippogriff shit.” George smirked, rolling his eyes. “They’re practically glued together. She couldn’t have claimed him any more clearly. He smells like her all the time, is always wearing something of hers, they even sleep together at school! What do you know?”

Ron scowled. “They’re not together.”

“Seriously.”

“Seriously.”

“Seriously!” Ron defended hotly. “I asked Draco! They’re not dating!”

“Come on.” George rolled his eyes. “She doesn’t sleep. She’s up pacing or reading or doing whatever the hell it is she does all bloody night, we hear her in our room. And then she floos to Malfoy Manor the moment she can.”

“She comes back rested and showered, smelling like expensive soap and what I can only assume are Draco’s sheets.” Fred pointed out, still tossing the quaffle up and down. “She spends every hour of the day there!”

Ron scowled. “So what? They’re weird. It’s not a secret!”

“Did you ask Ginny?” Fred pressed. “She’s a bloody awful liar.”

“You ask her!”

“She’d hex us,” George said, pulling a face.

“Better you than me,” Ron muttered. Fred threw the quaffle at him abruptly, and it hit Ron in the stomach before he caught it, eliciting a punched-out groan from him. He struggled to maintain his balance on his broom. “Hey!”

“Don’t be a baby.” Fred grinned, already flying away. “Come on. You start.”

Ron scowled but concentrated on the game.

“Harry.” He heard distantly. “Harry!”

He didn’t know where he was: he was peering through a half-open door in a body that wasn’t his. He had a cane, and his muscles ached with age-

“Everything’s ready, My Lord.” Harry knew that voice; he’d heard it before, he knew-

“Good,” someone else said; they were both men, but the second voice was high, shrill, and familiar in a way that made panic settle into Harry’s bones. “I have given you a second chance, Lucius, to prove your loyalty. If you fail me again, I’ll be letting Nagini have your boy as a meal, do you understand? She has so been itching to sink her teeth into him.”

“Of course, My Lord.” The man sounded vaguely nauseated, but he didn’t react: Harry could see his profile, long, white-blonde hair, a straight nose, pale skin. He bore resemblance to someone he knew, someone he cared about, and it felt important to remember who, but he couldn’t think: it felt as though all his memories were hovering just out of his reach, slipping through his fingers like smoke if he tried to reach for them. “As always, your kindness is undeserved. I’ll make sure you won’t regret it. If we act after the Quidditch World Cup, it’ll be easier to reach-”

“Harry!” He woke up with his heart pounding in his throat, a searing pain pulsating from his scar, and his hands immediately flew to his face with a groan. “Is everything okay? You were having a nightmare.”

Harry had to blink a few times to clear his vision – his heart was pounding, his breathing coming quick, his sight was blurred-

His glasses were pushed into his hand, and he put them on, blinking heavily.

Sirius was sitting next to him with a worried, gentle hand on his shoulder, and Remus was hovering behind him with a concerned frown. Harry had to blink again to even realize where he was, why he wasn’t alone: he wasn’t at the Dursleys’ anymore. He was in Grimmauld, with Sirius and Remus, and he’d fallen asleep on the sofa while they were resting from filling in the holes of the walls in the living room.

“Are you alright?” Sirius asked again. “Does anything hurt?”

Harry looked around: the room was still a mess of wood, wallpaper, furniture, and a variety of tools and material they were using to fix Grimmauld, and outside, the sun was setting. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a nap.

“Harry?”

He looked at Sirius again.

“Sorry,” he croaked, sitting up. Sirius helped him, and Harry heard the distinct snap of a few ounces of chocolate being broken off the bar. He was holding his hand out before he had even thought about it consciously, and Remus passed him a few squares of chocolate. He’d done it dozens of times, when he was his Defense Against the Dark Arts professor and teaching him the Patronus charm. “I think I had a nightmare.”

“It’s okay.” Sirius still looked worried. “Does your head hurt?”

He realized that he was still massaging his scar with two fingers, so he dropped his hand with a wince. “My scar… it’s only hurt once before, when – when Voldemort was nearby.”

It hadn’t even happened when Voldemort was Riddle in the Chamber, which meant… well, Harry didn’t know what it meant. It couldn’t mean that Voldemort was nearby, could it? Not in Grimmauld Place, better hidden than any other place Harry had ever seen, excluding Hogwarts.

Remus and Sirius shared an alarmed look, and Sirius immediately began waving his wand in complicated patterns that Harry didn’t recognize.

“He’s – gone.” Remus sat beside Harry, in the space Sirius had just vacated. “Isn’t he?”

Harry shifted uneasily. He didn’t know how much Remus and Sirius knew about what had happened in his first and second year at Hogwarts, and he didn’t have a clear-cut answer.

“I think so,” he said. “Or – he’s hiding. In our first year, he tried to come back by drinking unicorn blood. He had somehow – melted himself into Professor Quirrell’s head, or something.”

“The wards are safe,” Sirius muttered to Remus, taking a seat next to him. Then, “Melted himself into someone’s head?”

Harry nodded. “He was in the back of his skull. Deformed and – weird, and he kept saying he was weak, but he was there. And in our second year…”

He hesitated. Sirius didn’t know Ginny, but Remus did, and Harry didn’t want to make them think that she had somehow helped Voldemort on purpose, and they both knew Draco; he wasn’t sure if he would’ve wanted them to know.

“Hermione mentioned something to me last term,” Remus said, after a brief silence. “About the Chamber of Secrets being opened?”

Harry winced and nodded. “Ginny opened it. She was possessed by – well, by Voldemort, but before he was Voldemort. His name was Tom Riddle. And she – he was using blood magic and a basilisk, but before he could complete the – sacrifice, I sort of… killed? His diary. I don’t really know how that was connected, but it worked.”

It was then that Harry realized how little he truly knew about things he himself had done, things that had happened to him. Why did poisoning the diary work? He didn’t know. How had Voldemort even appeared on the back of Quirrell’s head, and why had Harry’s touch burned him? No bloody idea.

He didn’t know how to explain any of it.

Remus and Sirius were staring at him blankly, and for a moment he wondered if he should’ve kept his mouth shut; they wouldn’t like hearing about Voldemort, no one did-

“Shit,” Sirius said, before shaking his head. “Where was Dumbledore?”

Harry winced again; he remembered Draco’s anger, telling them it wasn’t their job, that Dumbledore shouldn’t be so fucking useless, but he couldn’t disagree more: it wasn’t like he knew that Voldemort would try to kill Harry, or when, and he had many things to do, not just sit around and wait for something to happen.

“He helped,” he said, but it sounded weak to his own ears. He tried again. “He was lured away both times.”

Remus and Sirius shared an undecipherable look, and Harry’s stomach felt heavy.

Chapter Text

Draco bat his eyelashes at an alpha three or four times his age for three minutes alone in the post office at the Ministry, and when he was successful, he stole all of McGonagall’s mail. Then, he flooed to her house immediately.

“Jesus fucking-” Professor McGonagall startled and dropped a clay pot, hand flying to her chest when Draco stepped out of her fireplace. It shattered against the ground, spilling dirt everywhere. “Draco! What are you doing here?”

“Who’s Jesus?” Draco asked, brushing soot off his clothes. Professor McGonagall brushed his hair back, looking at him fretfully, and he wrinkled his nose to try to stave off a sneeze.

It didn’t work.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, cupping his face. “Does anything hurt?”

“No.” Draco sniffled. He had her letters and packages in his cloak pocket, and really, he had a lot of questions; why was she receiving so much international mail? And who was sending her food from Brazil? “I’m fine. I was just bored.”

And missing her. Not that he would say that, because it would mean admitting that either he was a very weird person and missed his school professor during the summer, or that he felt so utterly lonely and unloved at his house that he couldn’t bear to be there alone, which he was, then, because Ginny’s parents had threatened that if she wasn’t at home for dinner every night, they’d stop letting her go to Draco’s, honestly, as though they’d succeed, and it was more than that, if he was being honest with himself. Since the moment he left Hogwarts he’d been unable to stop thinking about writing her, visiting her, doing anything at all that’d get her closer because he suddenly felt wholly and entirely alone in a way that he couldn’t even describe. He missed her scent, and her hugs, and just knowing that if something went wrong, he could go to her, and she might tell him he was being stupid, but she’d always help him fix it.

Professor McGonagall didn’t seem to believe him. “Are you sure?”

Draco nodded and said nothing, but he stepped tentatively closer to her, hoping she’d scent him without having to ask for it. She didn’t, but she hugged him close and ran her fingers gently through his hair while her chin rested at the top of his head, and it was close enough.

“How did you get here?” she asked, when she pulled away. She looked at him in a way his parents never did, like she was truly paying attention. “Did your – did anyone hurt you?”

Draco shook his head. “They’re out of the country.”

They’d left a letter, written by his mother. She’d mentioned that his father had gifted her an entire summer abroad in different wizarding cities in Europe, and that they wouldn’t be back until September, which meant Draco wouldn’t see them at all that summer.

It hadn’t bothered him, and it hadn’t quite surprised him. His mother had always liked traveling, and apart from the time she’d taken Draco to France, she’d never taken him with her; she usually traveled with his father, as she was now: they’d left him in Snape’s care more than once, entirely alone for months ever since he’d turned eight. The house-elves cooked for him, and the wards had been set up so that he couldn’t leave the manor, but that hadn’t happened this summer: the wards let him leave, and the house-elves didn’t prepare any meals at all.

“You’re alone?” McGonagall was frowning. “Are you eating well? Do you know how to close the wards? What if someone-”

“The Manor is in the middle of nowhere.” Draco rolled his eyes. “No one’s breaking in.”

The closest road was kilometers away, and anyone who couldn’t apparate would have to hike through the woods to get there. Besides, the wards would let Draco know as soon as someone even approached the property, and even if someone did get in it was kilometers and kilometers of mazelike gardens. Anyone who wasn’t invited – anyone who wasn’t wanted – would get lost in them and never get out.

“Besides, you should be more worried about your safety,” he said, pulling her mail out of his pocket. She blinked at it. “It was very easy to get this. Who’s Aurora? When did you go to Poland? And what’s A Witch’s Pleasure-”

“Draco Malfoy!” she snapped, snatching her mail out of his grip and sending it flying towards the hallway with a flick of her wand. Her cheeks were pink. “Did you steal my mail?”

“How else was I going to get here?” he asked disbelievingly.

“You could’ve asked!” she snapped hotly.

He blinked at her; it had never occurred to him that she’d tell him.

“Honestly,” she said, rolling her eyes and placing a soft, warm hand on his shoulder to lead him through the small cottage. “Are you allergic to doing things simply? I was going to write anyway-”

Draco pressed closer to her side and felt calmer than he had all summer.

“Definitely an owl, then?” Ron asked warily, staring at Crookshanks.

Hermione had to bite back a laugh; he was holding the poor little thing out by the wing – although, to be fair, the owl didn’t look displeased in the slightest, looking up at Ron with round, wide eyes that might as well have had hearts in them – for Crookshanks to sniff, who’d done so thoroughly.

He seemed to almost purr at Ron’s questions, and Ron finally relaxed.

She couldn’t believe he’d visited her just to make sure the owl was really an owl. She’d have to show him everything she could about the muggle world while he was there. She could take him on the bus, show him the metro, or go for a bite somewhere. Oh, she should take him to the cinema! He would love it. Or they could go through the car wash!

“Okay,” he said, finally grabbing the owl properly and putting him on his shoulder. The owl chirped happily and nipped at Ron’s ear before rubbing the top of his head against his temple like a cat. Hermione couldn’t stifle her laugh. “His name’s Bruiser, then.”

Hermione looked at the tiny, fluffy owl and snorted.

“Fitting,” she said.

Ron seemed too proud to hear her sarcasm.

They visited Harry for the first time not three weeks after the term ended.

“Look at this!” Hermione pulled at Ron’s sleeve, pointing out the cracks in the walls; some of them were hand-mended with plaster or concrete or whatever people used to fill in cracks on the wall, but others were mending themselves.

Ron couldn’t pretend to be very interested.

“Look at that.” He was in awe of the quidditch set Black had bought so Harry could play quidditch during the summer; a snitch, a quaffle, a bludger, bats, a few extra brooms, all of it brand new, top of the line, expensive.

He’d never owned anything like that; they’d had their quidditch set forever, and it was ancient; the balls had had to be sewn back together again more times than he could count, and their brooms were even more ancient than Hogwarts’s.

“Harry.” Draco was beaming, and he hugged Harry for longer than both Ron and Hermione had. “How are you?” 

“Great.” Harry was grinning brightly, looking solely at Draco. He’d been doing that a lot, lately, which Ron understood – he was an alpha, he couldn’t help it, and everyone always looked at Draco anyway – but was still a little uncomfortable with. If Ginny and Draco were dating and Harry got in the middle and the three of them had a fight, he’d be expected to take sides, and it was the last thing he wanted to do. “It’s the best summer I’ve had in my life.”

He just wanted to stay out of it.

He’d ignore what Fred and George said, he’d ignore his mum’s looks, Ginny’s wrath when she was expected to spend less than sixteen or seventeen hours a day with Draco, her always going to his house, the fact that he was wearing her trousers right then – which he only recognized because they had a patch sewn into the back pocket that Ron had had to sew himself as punishment for ripping them when he tackled her in the garden while they were playing – and that they had spent hours curled up in the sofa together before parting for this visit, breathing in synchrony like they shared a set of lungs.

He didn’t need to know whatever the hell was happening, and thankfully, he was very good at ignoring it.

“I bet,” Ron said with awe. “You’ve been playing quidditch?”

“Every day,” Harry said, looking towards them after a few seconds. “You want to-”

“Yes,” Ron said immediately. Of course he wanted to. It’d be even better if he got a chance to ride Harry’s Firebolt-

“Where?” Hermione asked, looking around pointedly; Grimmauld didn’t seem to have a garden.

“Sirius apparates us,” Harry said with a shrug and a sheepish grin. “We tried to play inside, but we broke a lot of things. Remus banned it.”

Yeah, Ron was sure; boxes filled with to the brim with things that must’ve belonged to Harry, Lupin, and Black were piled high in every corner of the house, adding to the already very full Grimmauld Place, so flying inside must’ve been borderline impossible.

“You can always come play at the Burrow,” he pointed out. “There’s tons of space, and no one comes around. Besides, with you, me, Draco, and the twins, we almost have a complete team.”

“Ginny could play, too,” Draco said.

Ron wrinkled his nose. “Ginny doesn’t play quidditch.”

And it’d be a pain to explain all the rules and the game and then hear her complain about getting hurt-

Draco gave him a look that was venomous enough to have him grimacing. “You don’t let her play quidditch with you. Because she’s a girl.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Because she’s my sister, and she’s annoying. I’d let Hermione play quidditch with us!”

“I don’t need you permission to play quidditch,” Hermione bristled.

“And Ginny’s not annoying.”

“Just because you’re-”

“Don’t,” Harry said warningly, and Ron glared.

What? In love with her? He’d told himself he was ignoring it. It was better that way.

“I brought board games, too, if we want to play,” Hermione offered awkwardly, patting her bag and giving them a small smile. “And magazines, and books. Oh. I also brought this.”

She seemed to have put together a small housewarming present with bread, rice, and salt, wrapped up nicely in soft paper, which reminded Ron that he’d brought a present as well.

“Housewarming present,” she clarified, when Harry looked at her strangely.

“Oh.” He blinked at her.

“Mum said to give you this, too,” he said, struggling to pull a box with jars of honey, sugar, and a few wooden utensils from the backpack he was carrying. He handed it to Harry, who blinked again.

“I baked,” Draco finally said reluctantly, showing them a ribbon-wrapped box, the scent of which made Ron’s mouth water immediately. It must’ve been just made. “Apple pie.”

Ron groaned, pleased.

“Can we open it now?” he asked, reaching for the box but pulling his hand back when Hermione slapped his hand away. He scowled. “I want a slice.”

She snorted. “You’ll end up eating it whole.”

Ron shrugged but didn’t contradict her, which made them all snicker.

“Come on, we can sit in the living room,” Harry said.

They followed in comfortable silence, which was abruptly interrupted by the loud crack of apparition. Ron assumed it must’ve been Black or Lupin, and then nearly screeched when he saw the house-elf Harry had spoken to him about.

“Mr. Black.” He looked incredibly pleased to see Draco, and he bowed so deeply his nose hit the floor. He was so ancient Ron could’ve entirely believed that it was somehow a wrinkled corpse walking around by itself. “Finally. A suitable heir to-”

“You’re here now?” Harry exclaimed disbelievingly. “I thought you’d died or something! You disappeared for days!”

“Kreacher was just waiting for the real heir to the Black legacy,” Kreacher said, upturning his nose at Harry. Ron guffawed. He’d never seen a house elf do that to anyone. “Not the impostors that have been staying here.” Then, he lowered his voice, muttering to himself. “Filthy impostors – if my Mistress knew that blood traitors were staying in her house-”

“Not an impostor,” a new voice said, and Ron turned around to see Sirius Black; when they had met last year – after he’d dragged Ron to the Shrieking Shack with his teeth, since his animagus form was an enormous dog-like beast – the sight had terrified Ron.

Now, while he was wearing ripped muggle jeans and a shirt of something called The Rolling Stones, he felt no hint of fear.

“You were disowned,” Kreacher said nastily, pointing at a wall; Ron looked at it, and saw what seemed to be a huge family tree. The Black family tree, apparently. There were a ton of old, disapproving faces, plenty of scorch marks. “Because you were unworthy-”

“I left,” Black said airily, lightly. “Because dear old Orion and Walburga were unbearable.”

“That’s an understatement,” Lupin murmured. He looked much better than the last time Ron had seen him, when he’d left Hogwarts. The full moon had left him pale and bruised, and though he wasn’t entirely a fan of knowing a werewolf – he’d heard it from both Hermione and Draco, that he was harmless, that Ron was being judgmental and prejudiced, but he couldn’t get rid of the image that came to his mind when he thought of werewolves – but Lupin was as gentle as anyone could be. “Hello, kids. All’s well?”

Ron and Hermione nodded helpfully; Draco had approached the family tree on the wall, and he was tracing the branches that extended to him, his parents.

“What were they like?” he asked, a little distracted. “My grandparents – my aunts-”

“Worse than you could imagine,” Black said bluntly, leaning against the wall and staring at him intently. “Bellatrix liked to test curses on stray animals. Your grandmother was proudest of Narcissa because she was always the best at starving herself. Every one of them would’ve hated you for being an omega.”

Harry, Hermione, and Ron winced, and Lupin looked at Black sharply. “Jesus, Sirius.”

Black didn’t even look at him. He approached the tree, traced his finger around a particularly big scorch mark, next to the image of someone called Regulus Black.

“Your grandparents would’ve disowned your mother for having you,” he said idly.

“Sirius.”

“Why?” Draco asked, tone similar to Black’s. His spine had gone rigid, and he lifted his chin defiantly. “Your mother wasn’t disowned for the disgrace of bearing you.”

Black was smiling.

“Yeah, well,” he said with a shrug. “The Black family has been short on heirs for a while now.”

Draco raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Of course. And they were counting on you to fix that problem. It seems that as always, you failed to live up to expectations.”

“Draco-” Harry tried, but Black didn’t look in the least bit offended.

“Yeah,” he said, eyes shining. “Leaving it all to little poor you. When do you plan to start popping out heirs? Our ancestors would be so disappointed to see you haven’t even had one at fourteen. Wouldn’t want you to pass your prime without kids.”

Draco sneered. “Like you, you mean.”

Black shrugged. “I’m already disowned, I don’t have to do anything at all. You on the other hand, seem to be holding on to the fantasy of being seen as worthy sometime.”

That made Draco’s ears flush and his fists clench, which was always a terrible sign, so Ron took a big step backwards. Hermione glanced at him and did the same, albeit a little more subtly.

“I don’t care what anyone thinks,” he snapped. “And I don’t want to make them proud.”

“Good,” Black said coolly. “Because you’re never going to. Not for anything that doesn’t include spreading your legs. After marriage, of course. Before, it would be such a shameful-”

The spell Draco shot at Black made him duck and the others yelp, and it lit the wallpaper on fire so fiercely that Ron felt it on his skin, even as far away as he was. He scrambled desperately for his wand.

“Shit!” Harry exclaimed.

As the three of them scrambled away, Lupin shot an aguamenti at the wall, looking rather unsurprised.

“Okay,” he said, a little warily. “Draco, let’s try not to kill our family members, please.” He looked at Black. “Sirius, let’s not purposely pick fights with fourteen-year-olds.”

Black didn’t seem the least bit ashamed, and he shrugged as he tousled Draco’s hair.

“It’s all good, isn’t it, Malfoy?” he said. “Or have I hurt your feelings?”

Draco slapped his hand away and glared at him venomously. “Please. As if I’d give any importance to anything you say.”

It made Black grin, and Ron felt his stomach twist.

There was the crack of apparition again, and Ron clutched at his chest.

“Bloody hell,” he groaned, looking at Kreacher warily. When had he even left? “Where did you come from?”

He didn’t have to guess for long; behind Kreacher, there floated two dozen plates, mouth-watering and still steaming, all ready to eat.

“Master Draco is too thin, sir,” Kreacher said, making the plates float towards Draco. “Too skinny for childbearing, sir, just like Mistress Narcissa.” Then, muttering to himself. “My Master would’ve liked to see Mistress Narcissa’s boy. Master would’ve loved him-”

“Draco won’t be having children any time soon,” Hermione said in a kind tone, as though she was explaining it to a little kid. “Omegas don’t reach sexual maturity-”

“Okay, Hermione!” Ron exclaimed, as Harry made a panicked noise and turned red.

Lupin hid a smile as Black openly snickered. Draco had gone crimson.

“We saw it in class last term!” she defended crossly.

“And once was enough for my nightmares,” Ron said as he pulled a face. “Can we just eat now, please?”

Kreacher lifted his nose. “It’s not for you. It’s for Master Draco.”

Ron gawked. “Draco’s never going to eat all that on his own!”

“And food is for everyone,” Black said pointedly. “Set the table, Kreacher, and they’ll have lunch.”

Kreacher looked like he would’ve loved to strangle Black instead of setting the table, but he set off with a bow Draco’s way.

* * *

“Maybe we could bring pets next time,” Hermione suggested, when they’d settled around the table. “I think Crookshanks misses Philippa.”

“She does, too.” Draco was sitting cross-legged on his chair in what seemed like a terribly uncomfortable position, but no one questioned him. “She’s lonely in the Manor.”

“And you could meet Bruiser,” Ron told Harry excitedly.

Hermione snickered quietly, and Draco tilted his head. “You mean Pig?”

“Pig?” Harry asked curiously.

Ron groaned and glared. “His name isn’t Pig. That’s just a stupid nickname Ginny gave him-”

“And he answers to it!” Draco exclaimed, gesturing with his fork.

“His name’s Bruiser,” Ron insisted, gesturing widely. “I’m not naming my owl Pigwidgeon.”

Black and Lupin had excused themselves to go upstairs, and Hermione took the opportunity to look around the kitchen as thoroughly as she could; the tiles were cracked but mending, the roof caving in but straightening by the minute, the rusted pipes still carrying water-

“Isn’t he a tiny thing?” Harry asked with a frown. “How would Bruiser fit him?”

“How would Pig?” Ron exclaimed through a mouthful of food.

Hermione snickered.

“How’s the summer been?” she asked, as she finally sat down. They’d all been exchanging letters nearly every day, but she still wanted to hear things from them. “I can’t imagine what it’s been like, Harry, fixing all of this…”

He grinned. “It’s fantastic. Sirius and Remus have taught me tons of spells, and we’ve been playing quidditch, going to Diagon Alley. Even Hedwig’s happier.”

“Where is she?” Draco asked, looking around.

“Upstairs, asleep,” Harry said fondly. “She spends every night flying, she’s exhausted when she comes home. I think she’s making up for spending so much time in her cage before.”

“I can’t believe there’s four of us and we only have cats or owls,” Hermione said, chin resting in her hand. “I mean – if we had a rat and a toad we’d have all the pets we can take to Hogwarts.”

“How’s owning rats gone for us before?” Ron asked heavily.

Hermione grimaced. “To be fair, I don’t think it’s all rats.”

“One’s enough for me,” Harry muttered. “I don’t think I can look at them the same way again.”

It was fair enough, Hermione supposed; she wasn’t sure she could stomach it either, at least not so soon. She’d liked Scabbers, even if Ron had accused her otherwise multiple times, but she couldn’t get the image of him turning human right before her eyes out of her brain; she wasn’t sure she could ever hold a rat again without thinking about it.

“Merlin.” Ron grimaced, drawing Hermione’s attention to him. “This is hardly edible.”

Draco looked at him disbelievingly. “You’ve nearly finished your plate.”

Ron shrugged. “It’s hardly edible, not completely.”

Harry snickered as he tried to saw through his piece of boiled meat. Hermione winced and decided maybe she could wait to eat until she was home, after all.

Tonks stumbled back through her flat blindly, feeling hands on her ribs, her hips, squeezing before she pushed the man down on her sofa. He blinked up at her, wide-eyed and dazed, and she bit back a groan as she straddled him.

He was a beta, with a soft gaze and a pretty mouth, and she couldn’t stop herself from kissing him again, burying her hands in the soft hair at the back of his head, biting at his lip-

“I made dinner,” a posh, young voice called in a flat tone.

“Shit!” Tonks broke the kiss to blink at Draco, confused, but the bloke she’d picked up seemed completely panicked: he pushed her off him so abruptly she nearly fell to the floor instead of the sofa.

He went bright red, scrambling to his feet and standing with a sofa cushion covering his crotch, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

“Sorry, uh, who is this?” he asked in a high tone.

“I only made dinner for two,” Draco said snidely. He had his arms crossed over his chest, and he was tapping his foot impatiently like every bit the entitled little brat he’d been raised to be. It made Tonks feel an unexpected wave of fondness. “I didn’t know you were bringing a friend.”

Tonks snorted, rearranging herself on the couch so she could look at her cousin. “I didn’t know you were here. Or that you had my address. Or that you knew how to cook.”

Draco shrugged. “I experimented.”

Yeah, it smelled like it; Tonks wasn’t sure how she hadn’t noticed the intense, itchy smell of something burning, but she sure as hell noticed it then.

“Draco, this is…” Tonks hadn’t really gotten his name. Shit. “Andrew?”

“Adam!”

“Adam,” she said with a grimace. “Adam, this is my cousin Draco.”

“Right.” Adam looked around the apartment like someone else was about to jump out at him, and Tonks rolled her eyes. Honestly. She had like two living family members. What were the odds they were both hiding in her flat? “I, uh. Nice to meet you?”

“Pleasure.” Draco’s tone seemed to be toeing the line between pitying and disgusted. Tonks had to bite back a laugh, and she felt half infuriated that it made her feel fond again. She should, by all means, be entirely and utterly annoyed, but she wasn’t. “I’ve obviously ruined your previous plans, but you’re welcome to stay for dinner if you want to.”

“Of course,” Tonks said, nodding languidly. “Whatever Draco made is obviously inedible-”

“Hey!”

“So we’ll just end up ordering in,” she continued, ignoring her cousin. “Want to watch the telly?”

Adam blinked very slowly, like he wasn’t sure if what was happening was real; Tonks didn’t blame him. Draco’s attitude had that effect on people.

“No, I’ll just-” He stumbled back, bumping into her coffee table and nearly falling back. “Shit. I – ah, I’ll just go home. I’ll – call you. I’ll – see you-”

He practically fell into the floo, muttering a garbled address and dropping a handful of floo powder, which left Draco and Tonks in heavy silence.

“He took your cushion,” Draco drawled finally, sounding unimpressed.

Tonks snorted. “I think you scared the shit out of him.”

“I never took you for liking cowards.”

She blinked at him disbelievingly. “Believe it or not, they’re usually better when a kid doesn’t surprise them mid-shag.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but his ears were red. He scoffed derisively. “It was hardly mid-shag. You reacted better than he did.”

“How did you get my address?” she asked, genuinely curious. They’d been writing regularly to each other for months now, but they always addressed their letters simply by name: To Draco Malfoy, To Nymphadora Tonks.

“The alpha from the mail room in the Ministry let me look through the mail,” Draco said, sitting beside her idly. He jerked his chin towards the telly. “What is that?”

“He let you look through the mail?” Tonks asked, half disbelieving and half wary. She didn’t particularly care about him going through her mail – only international letters and packages had to go through the Ministry mail room anyway, and the only thing that Tonks regularly ordered through international mail were high-end chocolates from Belgium – but she found it hard to believe that Peters, the postman in the mail room, would risk his job for a kid he didn’t know. He was nice enough, had worked there for longer than Tonks had been in the DMLE, and he always smiled at her when they passed each other, but he wasn’t an idiot. “In exchange for what?”

Draco snorted as he crossed his legs. “Just some attention. I think he’s a bit lonely.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Tonks’s heart was pounding in a terrible way, not like it had been before, and her mouth was entirely dry.

“Nothing.” He rolled his eyes. “I flirted a bit. He wanted to touch my face. That’s all.”

That’s all. She could hardly breathe. “Circe, Draco, what were you thinking?”

He looked at her, surprised, and she wanted to scream; she’d sworn she would be his cool cousin, his big sister, not his mother, not an adult in any way, shape, or form-

“It’s just looking,” he said with a scowl. “He’s pathetic anyway, I could-”

“He’s forty years older than you,” Tonks exclaimed. He was older than her, he had a wife, children. He was a grown man, a wizard, one who had decades of experience on Draco, no matter how advanced or talented he believed himself to be. “He could’ve pulled his wand on you at any time-”

“He’s a postman-”

“And you’re a kid,” she snapped. Merlin’s fucking balls. “You have no idea what kind of danger you’re putting yourself in-”

“You’re ruining dinner,” he snapped, arms crossed in front of him; his cheeks were stained red, as though he’d been slapped. “It was harmless. Nothing happened. Will you let it go now?”

She wanted to strangle him. She wanted to scream into a cushion; she wasn’t his mother. Merlin and Morgana, she wasn’t even that much older than him, less than a decade, but she was an alpha, and she’d been around other alphas her whole life, had been around men for the entirety of her years in the Aurors. She knew things could get out of hand in seconds.

She took a deep breath. “You think you know more than you do. People can hurt you, Draco. Adults can.”

Draco turned an icy glare on her, and she let it go before he decided to storm out of her flat, ignoring the bitter aftertaste left on her tongue.