Welcome to the Gallagher House
The second they stepped outside the school, Draco Malfoy’s day somehow got worse.
Harry thought it was almost impressive—Draco had spent less than ten minutes on the South Side, and he already looked like he was questioning every decision that had led him here.
The streets weren’t the clean, polished avenues of Diagon Alley, nor the cobbled charm of Hogsmeade. They weren’t even comparable to the seedy but magical corners of Knockturn Alley, where dark wizards lurked but at least carried themselves with a sense of dignity.
This was something else entirely.
The pavement was cracked, old chewing gum stuck to the sidewalk, the occasional discarded fast-food wrapper tumbling along the curb. A group of kids in oversized hoodies were huddled against a fence, passing a lit cigarette back and forth despite being nowhere near old enough to legally smoke.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked viciously.
Draco stopped walking.
Lip Gallagher, who had taken the lead with the easy, practiced gait of someone who knew every inch of this place, didn’t even glance back.
“Problem, Princess?”
Draco’s eye twitched. “You cannot possibly expect me to live in—” he gestured vaguely but dramatically at their surroundings, “—this hellhole.”
Lip did look back then. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his already-messy hair, clearly regretting every life choice that led to this moment.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lip said dryly, “Did you think they were putting you up in a five-star hotel? You expecting a goddamn chocolate on your pillow?”
Harry, already resigned to this disaster, nudged Draco.
“Move.”
Draco did not move.
Harry sighed, “Move, Malfoy, before the locals think you’re a lost rich kid and mug you.”
Lip laughed at that, but it wasn’t exactly friendly. “I mean, if he stands there long enough, it’ll happen.”
Draco stiffened immediately.
He straightened his posture, adjusted the already-ruined cuffs of his shirt, and muttered, “Fine.”
Lip rolled his eyes. “What a fucking privilege to witness you adapting.”
Draco glared but walked.
---
A South Side Education
They walked for several blocks, and each one looked grimmer than the last.
The houses were close together, squeezed tight like they were leaning on each other for support. Some had boarded-up windows, others had fences topped with razor wire. A couple of front yards were nothing but dirt, the grass long gone, replaced with stray beer cans and discarded cigarette butts.
The sidewalks weren’t much better—cracks ran along the pavement, and at least three potholes looked deep enough to snap an ankle.
Draco’s increasing horror was palpable.
“This is… unbelievable.”
Lip barely spared him a glance. “What, never seen a working-class neighborhood before?”
“This is not working-class.” Draco sounded genuinely offended. “This is a war zone.”
Lip grinned. “Welcome to Canaryville, asshole.”
Harry, meanwhile, felt oddly comfortable.
It wasn’t the nicest place—hell, it wasn’t even a halfway decent place—but it was familiar. Loud. Messy. Unpredictable.
And Harry had spent his entire life surviving places like this.
He adjusted his slightly torn sleeve and kept walking.
At one point, they passed a group of men leaning against a wall, talking in low voices. One of them flicked a cigarette onto the pavement, the ember sparking against the concrete.
Draco visibly recoiled.
Lip, utterly unfazed, muttered, “Might wanna stop making that face before someone stabs you.”
Draco went rigid. “Are you joking?”
Lip didn’t bother answering.
A train screamed past on the overhead tracks, steel grinding against steel. The ground rumbled beneath them.
Draco flinched violently.
“What the actual fuck was that?”
Lip smirked. “Ever heard of the L train, Durmstrang?”
Draco’s face remained frozen in a look of absolute dread.
Harry, for the first time all day, had to fight the urge to laugh.
---
A House of Nightmares
After what felt like an eternity, Lip finally stopped in front of a run-down two-story house.
It was small, squat, and struggling to hold itself together. The porch steps sagged dangerously, one of the windows had been patched up with duct tape, and the front door looked like it had been kicked in multiple times.
Draco’s eye twitched again.
“…No.”
Harry sighed. “Yes.”
Lip grinned. “Welcome home, assholes.”
Draco turned slowly to face Harry. His expression was the purest form of betrayal.
“Potter.” Draco’s voice was quiet, controlled, and vibrating with barely contained horror.
“I was raised in a manor. A manor, Potter. With chandeliers the size of this entire house. With a staff. Do you know what that means? It means I have never—not once—had to experience whatever the fuck this is.”
He gestured wildly at the Gallagher house, as if it personally offended him.
“I have never been this close to filth before. I don’t even know how to process this. Do—do people actually live like this? On purpose?”
Harry exhaled slowly.
“Yes, Malfoy. People live like this.”
Draco’s breathing was shallow. “That is genuinely disturbing.”
Lip, watching this meltdown with the deadpan patience of an overworked single father, shook his head.
“Oh, this is gonna be fun.”
Lip shoved the front door open, stepping inside without a second glance.
Harry and Draco followed.
And immediately, all hell broke loose.
The Gallagher house smelled like chaos.
Not necessarily bad—it wasn’t like walking into the Burrow, where everything smelled like fresh bread and warmth—but it was overwhelming.
A mess of competing scents hit them at once—stale beer, cheap detergent, something vaguely fried, and the sharp tang of permanent marker.
Before Draco could even take one horrified breath, a child came sprinting through the room, completely naked except for socks.
Lip didn’t react.
Neither did Kev, who was lounging on the battered couch, flipping through a magazine.
Draco, however—
“WHAT THE FUCK?!”
Lip barely glanced over. “Carl, pants.”
The kid—Carl, apparently—skidded to a stop, frowned, then bolted toward the stairs without a word.
Draco’s breathing hitched. “You live with actual wild animals.”
Lip shrugged. “He’s housebroken.”
Draco looked like he was having a full-blown crisis. He took one step into the house, then immediately regretted it.
The floor creaked alarmingly, and the rug in the center of the room had a suspicious stain that Draco immediately avoided like it was cursed.
Then—
CRASH.
The kitchen door slammed open, and another child—this one wielding a spatula like a sword—charged straight through the room.
Draco jerked back violently.
“What fresh hell is this?!”
Lip barely reacted. “Liam, put that down.”
A voice yelled from the kitchen: “LIAM, DON’T YOU DARE HIT YOUR BROTHER!”
Draco turned to Harry, eyes wild.
“This is… this is like a fucking Dickens novel, Potter. Only worse. How is it worse?”
Harry, already adjusting far too fast, just sighed.
Lip walked over to the couch, shoving Kev’s feet aside to sit down.
Kev looked up. “So, which one of these rich kids is your new boyfriend?”
Harry choked.
Draco looked offended. “Excuse me?”
Lip didn’t even blink. “Neither. But if one of them kills me in my sleep, it’s gonna be that one.”
He pointed at Draco.
Draco, looking absolutely scandalized, turned to Harry.
“Potter. I want you to know, right now, that if anyone in this house murders you, it will not be me.”
Harry, still coughing from Kev’s ridiculous question, waved him off. “That’s incredibly comforting, Malfoy.”
Before Draco could fully plot his escape, a tired-looking woman emerged from the kitchen.
Fiona Gallagher.
She looked like she had seen some shit, drank two coffees, and still had more shit to deal with.
The second she spotted them, she stopped.
She took one long look at Draco and Harry—both of them still in their button-downs, looking wildly out of place.
Then, flatly:
“Lip. Why are there rich kids in my kitchen?”
Lip didn’t even look up. “Exchange students.”
Fiona laughed.
“Oh, that’s hilarious.”
She took a sip of her coffee. “No, seriously. Who are they?”
Lip sighed. “I’m not fucking with you. We got stuck with them.”
Fiona’s smile died instantly.
She looked at Lip. Then at Harry and Draco.
Then back at Lip.
“You’re telling me we have to house them?”
Lip pointed at the two of them. “You think I’m happy about it?”
Fiona exhaled through her nose, took a moment to process this terrible information, then turned to Harry.
“Alright, what’s your deal?”
Harry, sensing that this was his best chance at survival, smiled.
“I do dishes.”
Fiona raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
Harry nodded. “I’m very good at them.”
Fiona considered this.
Then looked at Draco.
“What about you?”
Draco lifted his chin. “I supervise.”
Lip burst out laughing.
Fiona just stared.
“Oh, you’re gonna have a real hard time here, blondie.”
Draco bristled. “Excuse me?”
Fiona just shook her head.
She downed the last of her coffee like she was preparing for war.
“Fuck it. Welcome to the Gallagher house.”
Fiona had barely finished her coffee before making a swift executive decision that sealed their fate.
“You two,” she said, pointing between Harry and Draco, “get the basement.”
Draco blinked.
Lip scoffed. “That’s one way to make sure they don’t last a week.”
Draco turned sharply to Harry, panic creeping in. “Basement?”
Harry sighed. “Basement.”
Fiona had already moved on, rifling through a stack of unpaid bills like they weren’t her problem. “That’s all we got. You don’t like it, find another school.”
Draco turned back to Harry, staring at him as if he had just been handed a death sentence.
“I am not sleeping in a fucking basement.”
“Do you have a better option?” Harry asked dryly.
“Yes,” Draco hissed. “Anywhere but there.”
Lip, clearly enjoying Draco’s suffering, clapped him on the shoulder. “Congrats, Malfoy. You’re about to have the full Gallagher experience.”
Draco jerked away immediately, wiping his sleeve like he’d been touched by filth.
Lip just laughed.
Fiona waved them off. “Go, before I change my mind and put one of you on the couch.”
Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed Draco’s arm and pulled.
Draco, still protesting under his breath, had no choice but to follow.
The stairs creaked ominously as they descended, and Draco visibly hesitated halfway down.
“This is a terrible idea,” he muttered.
Harry kept walking. “Not like we have a choice.”
When they reached the bottom, Draco made a choked noise.
The basement was a disaster.
It smelled damp and musty, like mildew and forgotten laundry. The only source of light came from a single flickering bulb, hanging from a cord in the middle of the room.
The walls were unfinished, lined with exposed insulation and old wooden beams. There were stacks of forgotten furniture, a rickety metal shelf overflowing with junk, and—most importantly—no beds.
Instead, in the center of the room, there was a threadbare couch with stuffing spilling out of one armrest.
And that was it.
Draco turned in slow horror, taking everything in.
His breathing hitched.
“Potter.” His voice was flat, exhausted. “This is worse than Azkaban.”
Harry snorted.
Draco gestured wildly. “I am not sleeping here. Absolutely not.”
“Then sleep on the stairs.”
Draco looked at the dusty concrete floor. Then at the couch.
Then back at Harry.
“...I’m going to be ill.”
Harry ignored him and started clearing space.
Draco, still standing in the middle of the room like he was having a spiritual crisis, scowled. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Harry tossed an old shoebox off a chair. “Making it livable.”
Draco scoffed. “Good luck. We’d be better off digging our own graves.”
Harry rolled his eyes.
Then—something shifted.
As he reached for another box, his fingers twitched, and a small burst of wandless magic rippled outward.
A thin layer of dust lifted off the chair, disappearing into nothing.
Draco froze.
His eyes snapped to Harry.
“…Did you just—”
Harry stopped moving. He looked at the chair. Then at his hand.
Then at Draco.
“Shut up.”
Draco took a slow step closer.
“Do it again.”
Harry sighed. He focused, letting the smallest flicker of magic pulse from his palm.
This time, a corner of the old couch mended itself—just slightly, but enough that the tear in the fabric looked less dire.
Draco stared.
Then grinned.
“Oh, we’re going to fix this place.”
For the first time since arriving in this nightmare, Draco looked genuinely interested in something.
“Alright,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s make this place suck less.”
Harry didn’t bother questioning it.
With careful, subtle bursts of wandless magic, they began fixing what they could:
The floor—less grime, less dust.
The couch—stitched itself up, looking slightly more functional.
The flickering light—still terrible, but at least it didn’t buzz like a dying wasp anymore.
Draco sat back, admiring their work.
“This is still a terrible place to live,” he said.
Harry stretched. “But it’s livable.”
Draco sighed. “I hate how low my standards have fallen.”
As reality settled back in, Draco glanced between the couch and the floor.
Then he looked at Harry.
“No,” he said immediately. “You are not sleeping next to me.”
Harry shrugged. “Not much choice.”
Draco grimaced. “I’d rather sleep in the garbage outside.”
Harry pointed to the door. “Feel free.”
Draco glared.
Then, reluctantly, he dropped onto one side of the couch, muttering a string of insults under his breath.
Harry sat on the other side, stretching out his legs.
They sat in silence for a while, the weight of the day finally sinking in.
Then, after a long pause—
Draco muttered, “…I am going to die here.”
Harry closed his eyes.
“Shut up, Malfoy.”
Draco refused to sit.
It had been a long, terrible day, and as he stood in the Gallagher basement, arms crossed like some downtrodden Victorian child abandoned in a workhouse, he came to a singular, unwavering conclusion:
He was not built for this.
Harry, on the other hand, had already accepted their fate and was focused on making the space suck less.
The couch, though mended, was still awful. The air was thick with dust, and the whole room carried the lingering dampness of a place that had once flooded and never quite recovered.
Draco watched in silent horror as Harry adjusted an ancient box fan, then pulled an equally ancient sheet off a nearby pile of junk and shook it out.
“This is so beneath me,” Draco muttered.
“Then sleep on top of it,” Harry said, unbothered.
Before Draco could respond, footsteps thundered overhead, followed by Lip’s voice shouting down the stairs.
“Hey, exchange disasters!”
Harry sighed. “What?”
“You got, like, five minutes to get your asses up here.”
Draco looked at Harry in alarm.
Harry looked back at Draco.
“…What happens if we don’t?” Draco asked warily.
Lip’s voice carried back down, dry and amused.
“Guess you’ll starve.”
A pause.
Then:
Draco hurried up the stairs.
Harry smirked.
The Gallagher kitchen was loud.
The table was too small for the number of people gathered around it, and the smell of cheap spaghetti sauce and garlic bread filled the air.
Draco was staring at his plate like he expected it to attack.
Harry, however, had already grabbed a fork.
Lip and Ian were watching them like zoo animals, Kev had taken the seat next to Veronica, and Mandy was across from Draco, smirking.
“So,” she said, twirling her fork in her spaghetti, “how’s your fancy European life treating you?”
Draco scoffed. “It’s dead. I am dead. I have perished in the most undignified way possible.”
Mandy grinned.
Lip nudged Ian. “You owe me five bucks. I said he’d crack in under four hours.”
Ian rolled his eyes but pulled out a crumpled bill.
Draco looked personally offended. “You were betting on me?”
Mandy shrugged. “Seemed like easy money.”
Harry smirked. “They weren’t wrong.”
Draco glared at him.
Kev, finally paying attention, squinted. “Wait, where the fuck are their clothes?”
Harry paused, fork halfway to his mouth.
Draco, suddenly realizing this too, looked down at himself—still in his uniform from earlier, still covered in filth from their Portkey disaster.
Mandy snorted. “Y’all look like you got dumped in a dumpster.”
Draco looked at her, expression flat. “That’s because we did.”
Veronica, already standing, rolled her eyes. “Alright, this is actually sad.”
She disappeared down the hall.
Lip leaned back, amused. “Oh, you’re about to be V’s new project.”
Draco, still looking deeply unsettled, turned to Harry. “I don’t know what that means, but I don’t like it.”
Veronica returned ten minutes later with a pile of clothes.
“Alright, Blondie, you’re probably too fucking tall for my stuff, but I got some sweats and t-shirts from a friend. They’ll be big, but it’s better than whatever this is.”
She handed the pile to Draco, who stared at it like it might explode.
Then she turned to Harry, grinning.
“Lip’s old shit should fit you.”
Lip, halfway through a beer, choked. “Excuse me?”
Veronica ignored him.
Draco, meanwhile, still hadn’t moved.
Mandy raised an eyebrow. “You waiting for a royal decree, Prince Charming? Go change.”
Draco huffed dramatically but grabbed the clothes and stalked toward the bathroom.
Veronica watched him go, then turned to Kev.
“Ten bucks he dies in a week.”
Kev, laughing, pulled out his wallet. “I’ll take that bet.”
Harry sighed.
By the time they were forced back down to the basement, it had improved slightly.
Someone—probably Fiona or V—had scrounged up an old cot and a couple of blankets.
Draco, now wearing a stolen Chicago Bulls t-shirt that he clearly loathed, dragged the cot as far from Harry as possible.
Harry, noticing, raised an eyebrow.
“Afraid I’ll hex you in your sleep?”
Draco snorted. “No. Just preserving my dignity.”
Harry, who had seen Draco sobbing in a bathroom in third year, had doubts about that.
Instead, he just shrugged and settled onto the couch.
They sat in silence for a while, the noise from upstairs fading into the hum of the city outside.
Then, after a long pause—
Draco muttered, “Potter.”
Harry, already half-asleep, cracked one eye open. “Hmm?”
A beat.
“…I hate this place.”
Harry laughed.
“Shut up, Malfoy.”