Chapter 4
The dimly lit entrance hall of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was as gloomy and unwelcoming as ever. The walls were lined with ancient, peeling wallpaper, and the faint smell of dust and old magic lingered in the air. The heavy thunk of Harry and Percy’s boots echoed through the corridor as they appeared with a crack of Apparition, Harry still holding the unconscious boy securely in his arms.
Before Percy could even catch his breath, the sound of hurried footsteps came from the sitting room, and within moments, Remus Lupin and Sirius Black appeared in the doorway. Sirius’s sharp grey eyes instantly honed in on the unconscious figure, while Remus’s brow furrowed with concern.
“What happened?” Sirius demanded, his usual drawl absent as he strode forward, eyes sweeping over the pale-haired boy. His voice was tense, edged with suspicion.
Percy opened his mouth to respond, but Harry—naturally—spoke first, rocking back on his heels. “Rescued a stray,” he said brightly, as though they had simply picked up a lost kitten rather than a volatile, feral Animagus.
Percy shot him a withering glare before turning back to the others. “The boy—Scorpius, I think his name is—was cornered by a group of thugs in the muggle part of London,” he explained briskly. “Turns out he’s a natural Animagus. Harry forced his transformation— into a leopard. And one that didn’t take kindly to us interfering.”
Remus inhaled sharply, already turning toward the staircase. "A natural Animagus?" His tone was heavy with concern. "That’s exceedingly rare—and dangerous if left unchecked. I’ll send word to Dumbledore immediately." Without waiting for their response, he strode away, his steps brisk and purposeful as he disappeared up the staircase toward the Owlery.
Sirius, however, remained rooted in place, still watching the unconscious boy with narrowed eyes. “And you just brought him here?” he said, though his voice lacked any real accusation. “Great. Just what we need—another problem.”
Harry only grinned, unbothered by Sirius’s sarcasm. “Relax, he’s cute. Besides, it’s not like we could leave him there.”
Before Percy could lose his patience altogether, Harry shifted the boy’s weight slightly in his arms and added, far too cheerfully, “Anyway, I’m going to fetch Snape. Can’t have him missing out on all the fun.”
Sirius groaned audibly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Why do you do this to me?” he muttered. Percy could sympathize—he still didn’t understand why Sirius allowed Snape to stay under his roof. All he knew was that Dumbledore had insisted on it for some reason, and while neither man was fond of the arrangement, they tolerated it. The only person who seemed to enjoy the situation was Harry—who took endless delight in making the Potions Master’s life miserable.
With a jaunty salute, Harry turned and disappeared down the hall toward the basement where Snape’s room was, leaving Percy alone with Sirius.
Still scowling, Sirius jerked his chin toward the staircase. “Come on,” he said. “We can put the kid in one of the guest rooms.” Without waiting, he led the way up the narrow, creaking stairs, Percy trailing behind.
By the time Remus returned—dusting his hands off from sending the letter—Harry had reappeared with Severus Snape in tow. The two of them walked a step apart, but something about their interaction made Percy pause.
He wasn’t sure what it was at first. Snape’s usual expression around Harry ranged from irritation to outright loathing—but this was different. As Percy watched them quietly, he noticed the way Snape’s eyes flicked to Harry’s face, the cold mask slipping for just a moment. It wasn’t concern—no, Snape would sooner hex himself—but it was something. Something guarded. Calculating. And Harry, for all his usual cheek, didn’t seem to be teasing him as much as he normally did.
The moment they reached the room, though, the tension vanished. As soon as Sirius turned toward them, Snape’s face settled into its usual mask of contempt, and Harry flashed a deliberately insufferable grin. Percy couldn’t help but wonder what he’d just witnessed.
Without a word, Snape swept into the room, his black robes billowing behind him as he moved to the bed where the pale-haired boy lay. His long, pale fingers flicked his wand with an elegant motion, and a stream of green-tinted light flowed over Scorpius’s body as he performed a series of complex diagnostic spells.
The room fell silent as everyone waited for Snape’s verdict. Percy watched carefully as the Potions Master’s brow furrowed slightly, his expression unreadable as the magic shifted and coiled around the unconscious child. Finally, after what felt like an age, Snape straightened.
“He is as well as can be,” he announced coolly, tucking his wand away with a flick of his wrist. “Exhausted, no doubt, and his magical core is unstable—likely a result of his premature Animagus transformation. But he is in no immediate danger.”
Harry clapped his hands together, beaming. “Great. He’s not dying. That means we can poke him with a stick later.”
Snape shot him a look of such withering disdain that even Sirius let out a reluctant snort.
Ignoring Harry’s antics, Percy turned back to Remus. "What now?"
Remus sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Dumbledore wants us to wait until evening,” he said quietly. “He’s calling an emergency meeting of the Order. We’ll discuss what’s to be done with the boy then.”
“Lovely,” Sirius muttered. “Another long night.”
As the others drifted into quiet conversation, Percy lingered near the door, his mind still turning over everything he had seen. Harry Potter was an enigma. One moment, he seemed reckless and irreverent—the next, he was wielding magic that even trained Aurors struggled with. And there was something else—something in the way Snape had looked at him that Percy couldn’t quite place.
---
The Burrow was as lively—and chaotic—as ever.
The cozy kitchen buzzed with the warm scent of freshly baked bread and the gentle clinking of enchanted utensils as Molly Weasley worked her magic. Pots stirred themselves, and knives danced along cutting boards as she hummed a cheery tune. The smell of shepherd’s pie filled the air, but none of it eased Hermione Granger’s growing irritation.
She sat at the scarred wooden table, a teetering stack of crumpled parchment before her—each one scrawled with the kind of messy, barely legible handwriting only Mundungus Fletcher could produce. Their task? Sort through the nonsense and pick out anything useful for the Order of the Phoenix. It was exactly the kind of task Hermione usually found satisfying—if not for Ron.
“Honestly, Ron,” she hissed, slapping down a parchment with a little more force than necessary, “can you focus for five minutes?”
Ron, who had been folding a paper airplane, gave her a sheepish grin. “I am focusing,” he defended weakly. “It’s just—well, it’s hard with Mum cooking like that.”
He waved toward his mother, who was now pulling a golden-crusted pie from the oven, her sleeves dusted with flour. Hermione’s jaw clenched. Of course lunch was more important to Ron than critical intelligence.
Across the table, Fred and George were “working” too—or so they claimed. Really, they were testing out new joke products. George jotted notes into a leather-bound journal while Fred hovered over a bubbling vial, muttering under his breath. Whatever they were brewing smelled faintly of burnt sugar and sulfur, and Hermione didn’t trust it one bit.
A sudden pop echoed from their corner. Hermione flinched. "If you blow us up, I’m hexing you both," she snapped.
Fred grinned. "Relax, Granger. We know what we’re doing."
“Barely,” Hermione muttered, turning her attention back to the parchment mountain.
Most of it was useless—half-baked rumors, stolen trinket inventories, and the odd pub gossip. But as her fingers skimmed through the pile, one parchment—thicker and more official-looking—caught her eye.
Curious, she unfolded it carefully, her breath hitching as she took in the bold, dark lettering.
Bounty Order
Target: Draco Malfoy
Reward: 10,000 Galleons (Alive)
Status: Active
Hermione frowned. There was no mention of who had issued the bounty. And if they wanted Draco Malfoy, the heir to the Malfoy family that had gone missing. It was all over the papers a few days ago. She wondered if this had something to do with his disappearance. Why would they want him so desperately though? From what she could remember reading both his parents were dead so it couldn't be about ranson, could it?
She was about to show the parchment to Ron when a familiar flutter of wings caught her attention.
A white owl soared gracefully through the open kitchen window, its sharp amber eyes locked on her. Hermione’s heart gave a quick, familiar flutter.
Hedwig.
“Hey, that’s from Harry,” Ron said, abandoning his half-made airplane. “What’s he want?”
Hermione carefully slipped the bounty order beneath the rest of the pile—she’d deal with that later—and reached for the rolled parchment tied to Hedwig’s leg with green twine. The owl extended her leg obligingly, and Hermione freed the letter, offering her a small treat in return. Hedwig nipped her fingers gently before flapping to a perch nearby.
Unfolding the note, Hermione’s eyes scanned the familiar slanted handwriting.
Ron,
Hermione,
Get yourselves to Grimmauld Place—I’ve got someone you need to meet. Trust me, you’re going to love this.
H.
Ron peered over her shoulder, frowning. “Someone to meet? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Hermione didn’t answer right away. She knew Harry’s mischievous tone when she saw it—and something about the playful wording told her he was up to something.
“I don’t know,” she said finally.
“Could be a prank,” Ron muttered.
“Or something important,” Hermione countered, slipping the parchment into her bag. “Come on—we should go.”
Ron hesitated, casting a longing glance at the pie cooling on the counter. “But lunch—"
“I’ll keep it warm for you,” Molly promised, though there was a hint of worry in her eyes. She always worried when her children left on Order business. “Be careful, both of you.”
“We will,” Hermione said briskly, already tugging Ron toward the back door.
“Hold on tight,” she told Ron, tightening her grip on his arm. With a sharp twist, they Disapparated.
When Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley stepped through the door of 12 Grimmauld Place, the familiar scent of dust and old wood filled the air. The dimly lit hallway, with its peeling wallpaper and ancient Black family heirlooms, had long since stopped unsettling her—but there was always an air of something hidden within these walls.
The low murmur of voices led them to the sitting room, where a rather odd gathering awaited them.
Remus Lupin and Sirius Black sat side by side on the worn-out couch, their postures relaxed but their faces sharp with curiosity. Percy Weasley, looking as though he had aged ten years in a day, was perched stiffly in an armchair, his lips drawn into a thin line. And right in the middle of it all—Harry Potter, comfortably sprawled across the other end of the couch, munching on a bag of crisps with the air of someone who hadn’t a care in the world.
There was no sign of Snape—and that alone made Hermione’s brow furrow as she stepped into the room. Strange. She knew that Dumbledore’s insistence was the only thing keeping Snape and Sirius under the same roof without hexing each other into oblivion, but it wasn’t like Snape to miss a debriefing when something important was afoot.
“About time,” Harry drawled, his mouth half-full. “Thought you two might’ve gotten lost.”
Ron, clearly unbothered, dropped down next to Harry, immediately snatching a handful of crisps from the bag. “Couldn’t let me eat something, could you? Least you can do is share.” he quipped, popping one into his mouth. Then, turning his gaze on Percy, his expression shifted into a smirk. “So, how’s the dream partnership going? Keeping Harry out of trouble?”
Percy, who had clearly heard that line before, merely pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “It’s… a challenge,” he admitted, casting a long-suffering glance at Harry, who simply grinned wider.
Hermione hid a smile. For all his prattling and uptight nature, Percy was a good choice for Harry’s partner. His methodical, by-the-book approach was the perfect counterbalance to Harry’s reckless improvisation. Still, from the new lines on Percy’s forehead, it was obvious that working with Harry was aging him prematurely. She sympathized—after all, keeping Ron on task was no different.
“Alright, Percy,” Hermione said, lowering herself onto the other armchair, her tone turning brisk and professional. “What happened?”
Percy adjusted his glasses and launched into a detailed retelling of the day’s events—beginning with the encounter in the alley, the animagus transformation, and ending with the unconscious boy now resting upstairs. His recounting was crisp and factual, but one detail snagged Hermione’s attention.
“…and then, Harry triggered the transformation, which—”
“Wait,” Hermione interrupted, tilting her head slightly. “Harry triggered it?”
Percy hesitated, the faintest crease forming between his brows as if he hadn’t meant to let that slip. “Yes,” he said carefully. “He… well, provoked the boy’s instincts, and that forced the animagus form to surface.”
Hermione didn’t comment further, but inwardly, her mind was already turning over the implications. This wasn’t the first time Harry had displayed a bit of magic that seemed… oddly advanced. He projected an image of being careless and incompetent, but every now and then, there were slip-ups—moments where his magic felt too precise and too effortless for someone who was supposedly so hapless.
Something about Harry Potter wasn’t adding up.
Percy continued, either missing her scrutiny or choosing to ignore it. “The boy is probably an orphaned Muggleborn, given the state we found him in,” he said, though his voice faltered slightly as his eyes flicked toward Hermione—who was, after all, a Muggleborn herself.
Hermione’s expression cooled. Muggleborns, under the Ministry’s increasingly anti-Muggle policies—quietly influenced by Grindelwald’s ideology—were at constant risk. Orphaned ones? They were as good as prey if left unprotected.
Harry let out a sudden, sharp scoff, which he hurriedly disguised as a cough. But the glint in his emerald eyes was unmistakable—he was amused. Hermione knew that look well. It was the expression Harry always wore when he knew something no one else did.
And in that moment, Hermione realized—Harry Potter knew exactly who the boy was.
Her stomach twisted with curiosity, but she held her tongue. If there was one thing she’d learned over the years, it was that Harry revealed his cards only when he was ready—and not a second before.
“Anyway,” Percy finished stiffly, “he’s stable for now. We’ll hold an emergency Order meeting tonight to decide what to do with him.”
“Great,” Ron said around another mouthful of crisps. “Another meeting. Can’t wait.”
Hermione ignored him, her focus still squarely on Harry. He lounged there—too comfortable, too casual—with an air of someone enjoying a private joke. And if there was one thing she could be sure of, it was that nothing Harry Potter did was ever accidental.
The hours passed slowly in 12 Grimmauld Place, the dim lighting casting long shadows as the evening crept closer. Despite the seriousness of the situation, the sitting room felt oddly comfortable—or at least it did for everyone except Percy, who still seemed a little too rigid in his seat.
Harry, for his part, was entirely at ease. He lounged on the couch with Ron beside him, half-heartedly playing a game of wizard chess while occasionally throwing cheeky remarks Percy’s way. Hermione observed it all in silence, her thoughts still circling around the boy upstairs and, more pressingly, the odd slip-ups in Harry’s magic.
Eventually, just as the last streaks of twilight faded from the windows, the door creaked open, and Severus Snape swept into the room—looking like he would rather be anywhere else in the world. His black robes billowed faintly around his ankles, and the scowl on his face was so deep it seemed almost carved there.
“Ah, Snape!” Harry called out, far too cheerful for the dour atmosphere. “I saved you a seat—front and center, just for you.” He patted the cushion next to him with exaggerated warmth.
Snape’s lip curled in distaste as he glowered at Harry with all the venom he could muster. “How… generous,” he drawled, voice dripping sarcasm. Without further acknowledgment, he swept toward the chair furthest from Harry and dropped into it like a man suffering through a particularly cruel punishment.
Behind him, Scorpius Smith followed, stepping carefully into the room. He was still pale, though his face had been scrubbed clean, and his platinum hair hung in soft, tousled strands. The moment his wide eyes took in the people gathered there, his whole body stiffened, as if expecting an attack.
For a beat, no one moved.
Then, with a sigh, Remus Lupin rose to his feet. There was a certain gentleness in his manner as he approached the frightened boy. Hermione frowned as she observed the boy keenly. Why did he look familiar?
Remus crouched slightly to meet Scorpius’s gaze, keeping his tone calm and unthreatening. “You’re safe here,” he said softly, the warmth in his voice cutting through the tension. “I promise. No one is going to hurt you.”
The boy’s shoulders loosened—just a fraction—but the wariness in his silver eyes remained. Remus, apparently sensing the delicate balance, threw a sharp glare over his shoulder at the others—a clear message to stop staring.
The reaction was immediate. Sirius huffed but turned to chat quietly with Percy. Harry exchanged a smirk with Ron before leaning back, as if this were nothing more serious than a casual gathering. Even Hermione busied herself by tidying the parchment spread across her lap, though her mind was still trying to place why the boy looked so frustratingly familiar.
Scorpius lingered near Remus, watching the others with a mixture of curiosity and unease, but when Remus offered him a bowl of soup, he hesitated only a moment before accepting it. With steady patience, Remus coaxed the boy to eat, keeping his voice low and the conversation easy.
The rest of the room gradually slipped into idle chatter, filling the silence without pressuring the boy to speak. Hermione had to admit, Remus was handling it with a kind of grace that none of the others possessed.
As the evening deepened, the door opened again—this time with considerably less drama—and one by one, the other members of the Order began to arrive.
Minerva McGonagall entered first, her tartan robes as crisp as her expression, followed closely by Molly and Arthur Weasley. The twins were absent—undoubtedly tied up with whatever mischief they were concocting—but Ginny swept in behind her parents, her eyes bright as they immediately sought out Harry.
Last came Alastor Moody, his magical eye whirling as he took a sweep of the room before delivering his report. “Shacklebolt and the Tonkses won’t make it,” he growled, settling heavily into a chair. “They’re tied up dealing with one of Fletcher’s messes. Again.”
“Albus will join us shortly,” Minerva added briskly, removing her hat as she surveyed the group. “I suggest we move to the dining room—we’ll need more space.”
As the group filtered into the dining room, Hermione lagged behind for a moment, her mind still working through the tangled pieces of information. She barely noticed when Harry slipped beside her, a stack of parchments in his hand.
“You forgot these,” he said lightly, offering them to her with a small smile.
“Oh—thanks, Harry,” Hermione replied, accepting them gratefully. She didn’t want to risk leaving Order documents lying around, especially with how chaotic things had become lately.
As she shuffled the papers into a neat pile, her fingers brushed against something thicker—a folded copy of the Daily Prophet, tucked right in the middle. Her brow furrowed. “Harry, why—”
But Harry had already moved on, sliding easily into his seat between Ginny and Ron. Hermione shook her head to herself and carefully unfolded the newspaper. Whatever it was, Harry hadn’t mentioned it—which meant it was important.
She flipped it open and felt her breath catch in her throat. The pieces suddenly fell into place.
A gasp slipped past her lips—soft, but sharp enough to draw Ron’s attention.
“Hermione?” he whispered, leaning in slightly.
Hermione didn’t answer. Her wide eyes remained locked on the bold headline that stared back at her from the page. Whatever it was, it had stunned her into silence.
Before Ron could press her further, the heavy door to the dining room creaked open—and the room immediately fell silent.
Albus Dumbledore stood in the doorway.
He wore the same deep-blue robes Hermione had seen him in during the last Order meeting, but tonight his expression—while calm—was filled with a weight that made her heart skip a beat. The twinkle in his eyes was muted, shadowed by something far more serious.
“Good evening,” Dumbledore greeted quietly, his gaze sweeping across the room before lingering—just for a moment—on the pale boy sitting beside Remus. He moved to take the seat at the head of the table.
As the room settled, Percy rose from his seat with the air of someone who took his responsibilities very seriously. His back was straight, hands clasped in front of him as he turned to face Dumbledore.
"Headmaster," Percy began, his voice professional and precise. "At approximately eleven this morning, Harry and I encountered a group of thugs attempting to apprehend a young boy named Scorpius Smith in a back alley near the South End. Upon intervention, the boy displayed unexpected magical abilities, transforming into a leopard—an unregistered and seemingly natural Animagus."
Dumbledore’s expression remained calm as he listened, though Hermione didn’t miss the sharp glint of interest when Percy mentioned the Animagus transformation.
"We subdued the assailants and transported the boy here," Percy continued. "Professor Snape conducted a thorough diagnostic, confirming he is in good health. We believe the child may be an orphaned Muggle-born caught up in the Ministry’s increasing hostility toward non-purebloods."
At this, Dumbledore’s twinkling blue eyes drifted toward the pale boy sitting quietly beside Remus before moving—curiously—to Harry.
"And do you have anything to add, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, his voice light and amused, though the weight of his curiosity lingered in the air.
Harry, lounging comfortably in his chair with one leg crossed over the other, let out a dramatic gasp. "Me?" He pressed a hand to his chest, eyes wide with mock innocence. "What could I possibly add to Percy’s beautifully detailed report? Honestly, I should take notes. He’s like a walking Ministry memo."
Percy huffed, clearly unimpressed.
Dumbledore’s lips twitched in a knowing smile, but he let the silence stretch, clearly waiting to see if Harry would drop his act. When it became obvious that Harry wouldn’t volunteer anything further, Hermione sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
Without looking up, she raised her hand.
Ron groaned beside her, leaning back in his chair. "Hermione, we’re not in class anymore. You don’t have to raise your hand."
She ignored him.
"Professor Dumbledore," she said, her voice firm, "I believe that Scorpius isn’t just some random orphan. He’s Draco Malfoy."
A ripple of shock swept through the room.
Hermione lifted the Daily Prophet from her pile of documents, the very one Harry had slipped to her earlier. She unfolded it carefully and turned it toward the rest of the group. On the front page, printed in bold type beneath a moving photograph, was a headline from a few months ago:
“MISSING: HEIR TO THE MALFOY LEGACY.”
The moving image showed a much more polished version of the boy now sitting by Remus—a pale, silver-haired child with the same wary expression, clearly recognizable as Draco Malfoy’s son.
A collective gasp filled the room.
Even Percy—ever the professional—looked rattled by the revelation.
The silence stretched thick and heavy, broken only by the faint rustle of the newspaper.
Harry, naturally, was the one to break the tension.
He grinned brightly, leaning back in his chair. "Well," he drawled, far too pleased with himself, "ten points to Gryffindor."