Chapter 9
“Bloody hell, Malfoy,” Potter greeted him, arms crossed, eyes flicking over Draco’s thoroughly dishevelled appearance. “I knew you were busy, but I didn’t realise I was interrupting… that.” He made a vague gesture towards him, eyebrows raised in clear amusement.
Draco glanced down at himself—shirt half undone, belt hanging loose, hair an absolute state. Oh, and judging by the faint smudge of red he caught on his fingers when he brushed them over his mouth, Granger’s lipstick was all over him.
Excellent.
Weasley let out a low whistle, smirking. “Not a lucky night for you, then, Malfoy.”
Draco ran his tongue over his lower lip, tasting the ghost of Granger still on his skin. “Lucky enough to have a taste,” he drawled.
“Who’s the lucky lady? Someone we know” Seamus asked.
“For fuck’s sake” Potter groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Spare us the details of your night with Hermione.”
Weasley, who had been distractedly flicking his wand suddenly snapped his head up so fast Draco was surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash.
“Hermione?” His voice cracked. “What the actual fuck? That’s who did that to you?”
“Lucky bastard,” Seamus muttered.
“Yes, Weasel, do you have a problem?” Draco drawled, folding his arms.
Weasley flushed furiously “Of course I have a problem! It’s bad enough that I have to hear about Harry and Pansy’s sex life, but now I’ve got to know about my ex-girlfriend’s sex life with you?”
Draco smirked. “What can I say? Granger has excellent taste.”
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Potter groaned, running a hand through his already messy hair. “That is not the point of this meeting. Can we focus, please?”
Ron muttered something about not being paid enough for this, but Harry ignored him and pressed on. “Yaxley was spotted near Cambridge. There’s a small cottage on the outskirts—abandoned for years—but recently, there’s been activity.”
Seamus straightened. “How reliable is this intel?”
“One of the neighbours reported seeing movement over the last few weeks,” Harry explained. “At first, he thought it was just new tenants, but then more people started showing up. Late hours. No lights on. Looked more like a meeting spot than a home.”
Draco exhaled deeply. “So, let me get this straight,” he drawled. “Some nosy neighbor saw late-night movement in a long-abandoned cottage and thought, ah yes, must be a Death Eater hideout? That’s our lead?”
Harry gave him a flat look. “It’s the best lead we’ve had in weeks, Malfoy.”
Ron, still looking vaguely traumatised from their earlier conversation, crossed his arms. “Neighbour’s a retired journalist. Keeps records, even took a few photos.” He pulled out a small stack of prints and spread them across the table.
Draco leaned in, eyes narrowing at the grainy images. A dark figure slipping through the trees. A glimpse of a hooded robe at the cottage’s entrance. Another shot showed multiple figures standing near the broken-down fence.
“Well, that’s promising,” he admitted. “When do we move?”
“Glad you asked,” Potter said, glancing at his watch. “I’ve already secured a Portkey—it’s set to depart in the next five minutes.”
“Reconnaissance or full-blown berserker mode today, Potter?” Draco drawled.
Seamus let out an exasperated growl. “For fuck’s sake, Malfoy, we’re not bloody lunatics. It’s reconnaissance, obviously. Some of us would prefer not to die tonight.”
Harry pulled out a map, smoothing it over the table. “The cottage is here, on the outskirts of Cambridge. There’s heavy tree cover, but it backs onto an open field—bad for an ambush. We’ll need to come in from two sides.”
“Polyjuice?” Ron suggested.
“Not enough time,” Harry said. “We go in under Disillusionment Charms. Standard formation—Ron and Seamus, you take the perimeter. Malfoy and I go in.”
Draco nodded, already calculating the angles. “Any known wards?”
“Nothing complex,” Harry said. “Someone’s reinforced the place, but we won’t know how bad until we’re closer.”
Draco huffed. “Fantastic. I do love a surprise.”
”Remember, our objective tonight is strictly reconnaissance. We’re here to identify as many individuals as possible, gather intel, and determine their purpose. Under no circumstances are we to reveal ourselves.” Harry said with a sharp look towards Draco.
The four of them huddled closer, each gripping the Portkey—a battered old quill—before a silent crack signalled their arrival. They landed in the dense forest surrounding the cottage, the crisp air biting against their skin. The scent of damp earth and leaves filled their lungs as they took in their surroundings.
Ahead, the cottage stood in eerie silence, its sagging roof and boarded-up windows giving it the perfect appearance of abandonment. But the faintest glimmer of movement inside—shadows shifting against the dim candlelight—told a different story.
Draco cast a silent Disillusionment Charm over himself and moved in, his boots barely making a sound against the wet earth. Harry was already in position, his form disappeared as the invisibility cloak settled over him.
Ron and Seamus were stationed further back, watching the road for any unwanted guests.
Draco crept closer to the entrance, scanning for signs of movement. The windows were too dirty to see through properly. Shadows moved—at least two people, he thought.
Harry gave a short nod.
Draco raised his wand and cast a quick diagnostic spell on the wards. They weren’t particularly complex—especially not for someone with his experience in dismantling them—but they would still take a few minutes to bypass.
With a swift movement, he murmured a Muffliatocharm, a pulse of magic rippling outward to ensure their presence remained unheard. The air around them grew eerily silent. Satisfied, he flicked his wrist sharply, summoning intricate Arithmancy constructs— patterns of light weaving into polygons that would unravel the wards.
After disarming the wards. Draco and Harry slipped inside.
The air was stale, thick with the scent of damp wood and something sharper—burnt herbs, old magic. Draco scanned the room. The cottage was a mess of old furniture and discarded robes, but there—by the fireplace—were two men hunched over a piece of parchment.
Corban Yaxley.
Draco’s pulse quickened.
He didn’t recognise the second man at first. Then the figure shifted, revealing sharp, gaunt features, a cruel smile— Antonin Dolohov.
Shit.
“We don’t have enough time,” Yaxley muttered. His skin was sallow and lined with deep wrinkles, slick with sweat. Greasy strands of hair clung to his forehead—he looked more ghost than man.
“I know we don’t have enough fucking time,” Dolohov snapped, his yellowed teeth bared in frustration. His sunken features and hollow cheeks were grotesque.
“The Mudblood’s wards are strong,” he sneered. “The bitch knows too well how to protect herself.”
Draco’s heartbeat hammered against his ribs. They were on the outskirts of Cambridge—surely it wasn’t a coincidence who they were referring to.
A surge of anger flared inside him, and before he could rein it in, a flicker of his magic slipped past his disillusionment. It was barely perceptible, but Potter, ever attuned, caught it immediately.
With a subtle movement, Potter cast a Silencio charm, sealing them in soundless caution.
“Don’t do anything reckless,” he warned.
Before Draco could respond, Yaxley spoke again.
“Maybe when she’s in Muggle London, it’ll be easier to grab her. She’s got some morning routine—always off doing some weird shit.”
Draco’s blood turned to ice. Granger’s Pilates routine.
Dolohov let out a low, guttural laugh. “I don’t give a shit if a few Muggles die in the process. Sod the Statute of Secrecy—let the Aurors clean up the mess.”
Draco clenched his jaw so tightly it ached. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his magic coiling dangerously beneath his skin. It took every ounce of restraint not to curse them into oblivion right then and there.
Potter shifted beside him, pressing a firm hand to Draco’s arm. A silent warning.
Not yet.
“That bitch slipped through my fingers once,” Dolohov sneered. “But after we get what we need from her, she’s mine.”
Yaxley let out a cruel chuckle. “I’ll admit, she’s a filthy whore, but I wouldn’t mind putting her to good use before we’re done.”
That was it.
Draco’s vision blurred with red. His magic crackled dangerously at his fingertips, his pulse hammering in his ears.
“I can’t listen to this shit any longer, Potter.” He barely managed to say. “Get out of this house.”
Before Harry could stop him—before he could even process what was happening—Draco lunged forward, seized Yaxley’s arm in an iron grip, and Disapparated with a deafening crack.
“What the fuck?!” Weasley yelped, stumbling back as Draco materialised right next to him, dragging a struggling Yaxley along.
“The young Malfoy,” Yaxley sneered, his lip curling in disdain. “The Aurors’ little cock sucker.”
Draco didn’t even flinch. “I’m taking this piece of shit in for questioning.”
And then, without hesitation, he drove his fist into Yaxley’s face with a sickening crack of bone against bone. The force of the hit sent the older wizard reeling, blood and teeth spilling from his mouth. Before he could even groan, Draco flicked his wand, hitting him with a Petrificus Totalus and a Binding Hex in one smooth motion.
A second later, Potter Apparated beside them, unceremoniously dumping an equally unconscious Dolohov onto the ground.
“Shit.” Seamus exhaled. ”I knew this motherfucker was gonna go full berserker.”