Chapter 10
For Harry, home was a safe space. A place for him to unwind, or lash out, or break down, or sit in silence — anything really, as long as he was alone and therefore, in peace.
That said, he wasn't used to having house guests.
Not that he didn't enjoy the company of his friends, or even the occasional lover. But never for long, and usually not at home. So the knowledge that a war criminal was currently in his guest bedroom didn't sit too well with him. Of course, Harry knew he had no one to blame but himself, and his pesky habit of making rash decisions.
Ron called it his 'rulebook blind spot.'
"What's that muggle saying? Something about the road to hell...what is it paved with, again?" his friend would often ask in mock curiosity whenever Harry's impulsive actions in the field nearly cost them a mission. It was why Ron was well on his way to becoming Head Auror someday while Harry was regularly punished with paper-pushing.
Meanwhile, Hermione was convinced his 'ask for forgiveness rather than permission' outlook on life was yet another trauma response.
Harry simply liked to think he had a strong sense of justice.
In any case, it was the reason he was now awkwardly standing outside of what used to be the childhood bedroom of Regulus Black, wondering whether or not to knock on the door. In the end, the decision was made for Harry when the wizard taking up residence in the room opened the door from the inside, pushing Harry backwards, and nearly walked right into him.
“Merlin, Potter! Knock much?” The wizard scoffed, his old and weathered face contorting into a surly frown. Harry noticed he was wearing the set of Harpies pajamas Ginny had gifted him and which Harry had stored in the guest room for situations…well, not quite like this, but in case he ever had a guest. On Corban Yaxley’s body, the shirt fit snugly and the bottoms barely reached the ankle making the witches zooming across the fabric on brooms in search of the snitch look like they were falling off the clothing altogether.
It made a funny picture. When Harry realized he was staring, he scrambled for something to say.
"Walk much?” He blurted, wincing internally.
His guest rolled his eyes. “Gawk much?” Harry opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted with a hand shoved brusquely in his face. “This is getting tiresome. I believe you said something about food yesterday?”
”Yes,” Harry snorted, pushing the hand away and smoothing down his shirt for something to do. “I also said ‘help yourself.’”
The wizard shrugged and stepped past Harry for the stairs.
“You’re not much of a host,” he noted, taking in his surroundings on the way down. “Where are we anyway?”
”Grimmauld Place,” Harry replied, trailing after him. “And you’re not exactly a welcome guest.”
”What am I then, a hostage?” The man asked, pausing on the stairs to face Harry.
Yaxley couldn’t be older than his early fifties but in the light of day he looked closer to a hundred. His thinning dirty blond hair, no longer caked in grease and grime from the prison was freshly washed but still sat limp at his shoulders. His features seemed set in an almost permanent snarl, like a predator ready to pounce at a moment's notice. Harry imagined he’d look right at home as a villain in a Dickens novel.
But his sinister look and gruff voice didn’t quite match his tone or the casual manner in which he addressed Harry and Harry found he had to stop for a moment and remind himself why. The whole identity question was wreaking havoc on Harry’s mind.
”No,” he responded to the man’s last question. “You’re a…well I don’t quite know what you are yet. Or who, I might add.”
”You seemed pretty confident yesterday,” the man reminded him as he continued through the house and down to the kitchens. He had a point there. But getting thoroughly chewed out by Hermione yesterday left Harry feeling a little wrong-footed this morning. It couldn't hurt to be absolutely sure.
By the time Harry caught up with the man, he was searching the cupboards fruitlessly for something edible. "Not exactly much to help myself to," the man muttered.
"Beans on toast it is," Harry said, making a mental note to restock on groceries. The man simply grunted in response and took a seat in the same chair he was slumped in the night before. Harry noticed that most of the man's wounds were cleaned up and well on their way to healing, thanks to the potions and salves Harry kept in his first aid kit, save for one.
"So what's the deal with your arm?" He asked, taking his own seat at the table when the food was ready.
The man ate his toast eagerly, ignoring Harry's question. "You said this is Grimmauld Place? That's the Black residence isn't it?" He inquired. "That's right," Harry confirmed.
"Has it still got a library?"
"On the second floor," Harry answered. The man nodded and, after making quick work of his meal, stood to leave.
"What do you want with it?" Harry asked, suddenly on edge. "I still don't exactly have proof that you are, er, well. Of who you are. You can't just go traipsing through my house..."
The man scoffed. "What do you think I'm trying to get?"
Harry followed the man in silence, still not ready to let go of his suspicions. And though Harry figured he'd likely be dead by now if he had somehow gotten it completely wrong and this man was in fact convicted death eater Corban Yaxley, rather than convicted death eater Draco Malfoy, he still wasn't sure the latter was entirely better.
"What do you think you'll find in the library?" Harry asked, annoyed by the vague responses he'd gotten so far. "A 23andMe?"
The man finally stopped to acknowledge Harry with crossed arms and a scowl. "A what?"
"Never mind," Harry muttered.
"Well to answer your question, Potter," the man continued. "In the traditional sense, a library is a room in which one keeps a collection of books, historical archives, and other such materials. While I was never under the impression that those ghastly spectacles of yours are used for reading, I'd have thought spending all that time with Granger would have brought you up to speed on the general concept. So in short, I expect to find books there. Though, I concede you're not one to follow tradition, going by the lack of elf heads on display on your walls -- not always a bad thing to stray from, don't get me wrong -- but if that means you have a completely different use for such a room, please, enlighten me."
Okay, so definitely Malfoy then, Harry thought to himself, feeling slightly relieved.
"I just meant that, if you're looking for anything on the dark arts, you won't find it here, so...don't bother," Harry said weakly.
"Duly noted," the man said impatiently, not stopping his trek to the second floor.
**
Three hours later, Harry was sat in his library (which admittedly he hadn't used much over the years) bored out of his skull while the man purported to be Draco Malfoy went through his dusty shelves, opening giant tomes and taking meticulous notes on some parchment he'd found in an old desk. It was a bit like being back at school in a way, Harry thought, only, just the worst parts of it. For instance, if the soles of his trainers so much as squeaked on the wooden floor, Harry received a glare to rival that of Madam Pince.
"You're welcome to leave whenever you like," the man generously informed Harry for the seventh time. Harry had kept count. "You know, if I knew what you were looking for maybe I could actually, I don't know, help?" He suggested.
"Highly doubtful."
Harry sighed and went back to flipping through the latest edition of his favourite quidditch magazine. When he could no longer bear the silence, he spoke up again.
"How'd you know about the elf heads?"
"Hm?"
"You were right. About the walls. There used to be elf heads. How did you know?"
"Oh," the man waved dismissively, not looking up from his book. "I came here as a child once or twice, to visit my great-aunt."
"Your great-aunt..." Harry prompted, suddenly alert.
"Walburga. I heard she'd had a portrait made, you must have seen it."
"Oh that great-aunt," Harry said. "And when would that have been? When you came to visit? When you were a child...so the nineteen..."
The man looked up at Harry, exasperated. "Eighties, Potter. Not exactly hard to determine, given my age. I'm starting to understand why Granger doesn't have faith in your security questions."
"Hm," Harry said. "Strange isn't it?"
The man sighed. "What is?"
"You answered all those questions about yourself as though you were Draco Malfoy. 'My great-aunt. My age.' And your arm isn't bleeding. Just thought it was strange, that's all," Harry shrugged.
The man's eyes widened and he flexed his left arm, gently placing it on the table and rolling up his sleeve. Harry winced at the sight. He was right that there wasn't fresh blood dripping down the man's forearm. But a deep gash remained unhealed over his dark mark, the skin crusting at the sides as though infected. Harry also noticed lines of scar tissue surrounding the mark starting from his wrist and going up to his elbow and would bet anything he'd find matching scars on the other arm. But most surprising was the way the mark seemed to be pulsating in his skin, and how it looked just as dark as it did when Voldemort was alive. Harry had seen death eaters since the war, put some away recently even, and on all of them the dark mark looked dull and faded.
Harry approached the man slowly, making an effort not to startle him.
"That looks..." alive, Harry thought. "Painful," he said instead.
The man blinked as though coming out of a trance and eyed Harry warily.
"You're right," he said clearing his throat. "The wound hasn't been exacerbated."
"So it's a blood curse, then?" Harry asked, taking a seat and noting the books laid out on the table. Everything from textbooks on arithmancy, alchemy, and ancient runes to children's stories detailing Merlin's adventures lay spread out alongside sheets and sheets of hastily scrawled notes.
The man looked hesitant to speak. He opened his mouth as if to try, then closed it again, looking fearfully down at his arm. After a moment, his mouth formed a grim line and he seemed to come to a decision.
"Y-yes," he said softly, voice barely above a whisper holding himself tense as though anticipating further pain. He looked surprised when it didn't come, but he let his body relax and looked Harry in the eye, his voice coming out stronger.
"Yes."
"And who are you?" Harry asked, holding the eye contact.
The man took a deep breath. "I'm Draco Malfoy."
Harry smiled.