Chapter 6
The flickering firelight from ornate sconces cast long shadows along the hallways of Malfoy Manor. In his feline form, Harry slinked low to the ground, his paws silent against the marble flooring. Emerald-green eyes scanned his surroundings, sharp and alert, as he advanced toward his first objective: the Malfoy library. After two days of wandering the sprawling Manor and avoiding its inhabitants, he had finally located it. More importantly, he hoped to find the book he had stolen from the Restricted Section at Hogwarts—the very one that had led to his transformation. If it had been powerful enough to break through Dumbledore's compulsions, it might hold the answers he desperately needed.
Harry slipped through the slightly ajar door of the library, pausing to take in the sheer magnitude of it. Floor-to-ceiling shelves brimmed with ancient tomes, their spines cracked and weathered from time. The faint scent of aged parchment and leather bindings filled the air. Even as a cat, the sight overwhelmed him. Hermione would love this place, he thought fleetingly. But he couldn’t afford to dawdle.
Darting toward the shadows, he began weaving his way through the maze of furniture, his paws padding noiselessly on the thick carpet. His low vantage point made reading the titles of the books frustratingly difficult, but he pressed on, his determination undeterred.
A creak behind him froze him mid-step. The door opened wider, and Draco Malfoy entered the room, his pale complexion even starker in the firelight. He carried a stack of papers, which he placed on the desk before sinking into a chair with a heavy sigh. Harry darted beneath a nearby armchair, his small body hidden in the shadows as he watched.
Draco reached into his pocket and withdrew a silver bracelet etched with glowing runes. Its faint shimmer spoke of deep enchantments—ancient magic crafted for protection. Harry's ears perked as he watched Draco turn the bracelet over in his hands.
This was the bracelet Draco had given Harry in third year after yet another memory-altering spell from Dumbledore. Commissioned by Lucius from a master enchanter, it was designed to purge compulsion spells and reinforce the wearer’s autonomy.
Draco’s expression darkened as he studied the artifact, memories surfacing unbidden. He recalled the oppressive weight of compulsions he hadn’t recognized at the time—moments of inexplicable hatred, like a marionette dancing to a puppeteer’s whims. His grip on the bracelet tightened.
“Never again,” he murmured, his voice low but resolute. His silver eyes burned with frustration and something deeper, more personal. “What are you hiding, old man?”
Harry’s heart raced. Was Draco remembering?
~
For three days, Harry had prowled the library, searching for the elusive book. His progress was slow—hampered by both the library’s size and the need to avoid detection. Still, his feline form granted him one advantage: access. He slipped unnoticed into meetings, catching snippets of Death Eater plans and Voldemort’s commands. Yet not all his discoveries were strategic.
~~
Two days earlier.
Bellatrix Lestrange had scooped Harry up, cradling him in her hands as she whispered what sounded like French nonsense. Harry tensed, his green eyes narrowing as she carried him into the drawing room.
Voldemort sat on a loveseat, sipping a glass of red wine. His attire made Harry do a double take: a plain black T-shirt and baggy sweatpants.
What in Merlin’s name…?
“My Lord,” Bellatrix murmured, dropping to her knees beside him. She laid her head on his lap, purring like a contented cat.
We’ve switched roles, Harry thought dryly, because she’s definitely the cat here, not me.
Bellatrix’s coos were interrupted by Harry’s sharp meow as he leapt from her grasp, landing gracefully on the armrest of the loveseat. She snarled at him briefly before cooing again in a way that made Harry’s fur bristle.
Voldemort, his expression a mix of weariness and mild exasperation, turned his gaze to the feline intruder. His lips twitched into the faintest smile. He reached down, causing Bellatrix to topple backward, and scooped Harry up with surprising gentleness. His long fingers stroked the soft fur, and to Harry’s dismay, he found himself purring despite himself.
“Well, aren’t you a curious little thing,” Voldemort murmured, his voice softer than Harry had ever heard.
From her place on the floor, Bellatrix stared up at the scene with a mix of adoration and jealousy. “My Lord, he’s—”
“Quiet, Bella,” Voldemort interrupted, his attention fully on the cat. For a moment, Harry wondered if this strange dynamic was some cruel joke of the universe—or just another layer of madness in Malfoy Manor.
If someone were to tell Harry that in his fifth year he would turn into a cat, get affection from Lord Voldemort, he would have barked out a laugh and send them immediately to St, Mungos. Because he has no clue how he had become Voldemort's soft spot—wait he does know, Voldemort adores feline animals. Shocking, right?
~~
Harry’s little body shivered at the memory. He had spent almost seven hours trapped with Voldemort's weird fascination, and Bellatrix’s shenanigans. Seriously, for someone who has been in Azkaban for 14 years or so, this lady talks a lot about many stories… horrid stories might he add. He still couldn't believe Sirius is related to her… wait, yea he can a bit. They’re Blacks.
Moving on from that memory, Harry shook himself, dispelling the unsettling memory of Voldemort’s disturbingly gentle petting and Bellatrix’s incessant chatter. He couldn’t afford to dwell on it—not when the Malfoy library potentially held answers to his predicament.
From his hidden vantage point beneath the armchair, Harry continued to watch Draco, who seemed lost in thought. The silver bracelet still glinted in his pale fingers as he stared at it, his expression a mixture of anger and sorrow. Harry’s feline instincts told him to stay still, but his curiosity itched to know more.
Draco finally stood, setting the bracelet down on the desk beside the papers that he kept bringing every time he came into the library. He moved to one of the shelves, running his fingers along the spines of the books with a practiced ease. His hand paused on a thick volume bound in dark leather and etched with gold lettering. He pulled it free and carried it back to the desk, the faint creak of the chair signaling his return to his seat.
Harry’s heart leapt as he recognized the book—it was the very one he had stolen from the Restricted Section, the one that caused this demise of being a cat, his own fault really. His green eyes narrowed. What are the odds that Draco is getting the book that he needs? Fate is something else, really.
Draco flipped open the book, his brow furrowing as he skimmed the text. The room was silent except for the occasional rustle of parchment as he turned the pages. Harry’s muscles coiled with tension. He needed to get closer, but how? Draco’s proximity to the desk left little room for maneuvering, and any sudden movement risked exposing him.
Then, as if fate was playing another cruel joke, a low growl rumbled from Harry’s stomach. His emerald eyes widened in panic. No, no, no—not now! He clamped his jaw shut, hoping against hope that Draco hadn’t heard.
“Who’s there?” Draco’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and commanding. He glanced around the room, his silver eyes narrowing. Slowly, he stood, his hand drifting to his wand.
Harry cursed inwardly, his fur bristling as he pressed himself flat against the floor. He remained motionless, barely daring to breathe as Draco’s gaze swept the room. The firelight cast eerie shadows, making the corners of the library seem alive with movement.
Draco’s attention finally landed on the armchair. He took a cautious step closer, his wand held at the ready. “I know someone’s here,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “You might as well come out now.”
For a moment, Harry considered bolting. He could make it to the door in three strides, maybe four—but then what? He’d lose his chance to reclaim the book and potentially expose himself in the process. Even if he knew Draco wasn't the git he thought he was while being under control, he wasn't completely sure how much the blonde remembered, how much of his memories were back. He knew the boy had cleansed himself in some way, but he didnt know how much it cleansed.
Instead, he did the only thing he could think of: he let out a soft, pitiful meow.
Draco froze, his wand lowering slightly. His expression shifted from suspicion to confusion. “A cat?” he muttered, his brow furrowing. “What the bloody hell is a cat doing in here?”
Harry meowed again, this time with a hint of pleading. He crept out from under the armchair, keeping his movements slow and non-threatening. His green eyes met Draco’s, wide and innocent, as he tried to channel every ounce of feline charm he possessed. He hadn't revealed himself from many of the residence, only to Mr. Malfoy, Bellatrix, Voldemort, Rabastan and fe death eaters.
Draco blinked, his grip on his wand loosening. “Where did you come from?” he asked, his tone softening. He crouched down, extending a hand toward Harry. “Come here, then. Let me see you.”
Harry hesitated, his instincts screaming at him to stay back. But he knew this was his best chance to avoid suspicion—and possibly gain access to the book. With a cautious step, he approached, his tail swishing behind him. When he reached Draco, he nuzzled his head against the outstretched hand, purring softly.
Draco’s lips quirked into a faint smile as he scratched behind Harry’s ears. “Well, you’re not half bad for a stray,” he said, his voice tinged with amusement. “But how did you get in here?”
Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. If only you knew, Malfoy.
As Draco continued to pet him, Harry’s gaze flicked toward the desk. The book lay open, its pages illuminated by the flickering firelight. He needed to get a closer look, but he couldn’t risk drawing Draco’s attention back to it.
An idea began to form in his mind—a risky one, but it might work., he’s a gryffindor after all. With a sudden burst of energy, Harry leapt onto Draco’s lap, earning a startled yelp from the blond. Before Draco could react, Harry bounded onto the desk, landing squarely on the open book.
“Hey!” Draco exclaimed, reaching for him.
But Harry was already on the move, his eyes scanning the text. The intricate runes and archaic symbols confirmed what he had suspected: this was the book. The magic practically radiated off the pages, tugging at something deep within him.
“Get off, you little menace!” Draco growled, grabbing for Harry before he could even read five words.
With a deft leap, Harry dodged the hand, landing gracefully on the floor. He darted toward the shadows, the faint echo of Draco’s curses following him. But Harry didn’t care.
He had seen enough. He knew where to go next.
The book held the answers he needed—and he wasn’t leaving Malfoy Manor until he got them. Then he could reveal his true identity to Draco, hopefully.