chapter 3
Days at Grimmauld Place had started to blend into one another, though not in the monotonous, dreary way Draco had first feared. There was a rhythm to it now—wake up early with Harry, sneak down to the kitchen before Sirius and Remus surfaced, and steal quiet moments in the library when no one else was around. It wasn’t exactly luxurious, but it was… comfortable. And that was a word Draco had never really associated with any place outside of Malfoy Manor.
At first, he had resisted the idea of settling in, keeping his distance and pretending that this shabby old house was beneath him. But somewhere along the way, the sharp edges of his anxiety had dulled, and the suffocating pressure he always felt to perform had lifted, at least a little. Without his family’s constant scrutiny, without Lucius’s cold, unforgiving gaze, Draco had begun to breathe a little easier.
He hadn’t expected it, but it was nice.
In fact, as much as he hated to admit it, he found himself enjoying the small domestic moments with Harry—quiet breakfasts at the kitchen table, afternoons spent cleaning dusty old rooms together (with a little magic, of course), and evenings where they would just sit by the fire, talking about everything and nothing.
Draco had never thought he would be capable of this—simple, ordinary happiness. But here he was, handing Harry a frying pan without needing to be asked, moving around the kitchen in perfect sync as they made breakfast for the four of them.
“You need the rosemary, don’t you?” Draco asked casually, plucking the small sprig from the windowsill and holding it out to Harry.
Harry grinned, not even glancing up from the eggs he was scrambling. “How’d you know?”
Draco rolled his eyes. “I know how you cook, Potter. I’ve watched you ruin enough dishes to know when you’re about to make a mistake.”
Harry laughed, the sound bright and free, and Draco felt his chest warm at the sound. There was something so natural about this—working together in the kitchen, sharing little moments of teasing and banter. It was… easy. Too easy.
Draco shook the thought away, focusing on the task at hand. He wasn’t going to overthink it. Not now.
Sirius and Remus walked into the kitchen just as Harry was finishing up, and Draco stepped aside, letting Harry take over the final touches. Sirius stopped in his tracks, his brow raised as he watched the two boys move effortlessly around each other.
“You two look like an old married couple,” Sirius quipped, leaning against the doorframe with an amused grin.
Draco shot him a look. “We do not.”
Harry snickered. “He’s just jealous because we didn’t burn the toast this time.”
Remus chuckled as he poured himself a cup of tea, settling down at the table. “I’d say you two have a better system going than Sirius and I ever did.”
Sirius scoffed, though there was a glint of fondness in his eyes. “Please, Moony, we were a fantastic team. You’re just remembering wrong.”
Remus raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Right. I distinctly remember you setting the curtains on fire that one time. Hardly ‘fantastic.’”
Harry grinned as he served the eggs onto plates, and Draco couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of belonging in the room. He had never thought he would feel at home anywhere that wasn’t Malfoy Manor, but Grimmauld Place, in all its gloom and dust, had begun to grow on him. It wasn’t perfect, but it was… enough.
There were even moments when Draco forgot, just for a little while, about the weight of his family name, about the pressure to be perfect, to live up to the Malfoy legacy. Here, no one was watching him with cold, critical eyes. No one was waiting for him to fail. It was liberating, in a way he hadn’t expected.
But the freedom was fragile. The shadows of his past still lingered, lurking at the edges of his mind, waiting to pounce when he least expected it.
It was later that day, while Harry was out with Remus picking up some supplies, that the tension finally snapped.
Draco had been quietly reading in the drawing room when Sirius strolled in, clearly bored and looking for someone to talk to. At first, the conversation had been light—Sirius asking about Draco’s schoolwork, teasing him about how much better Harry was at Quidditch. Draco played along, keeping his replies short but polite.
But then Sirius had said something—a joke, Draco knew, but it struck a nerve.
“I’m surprised you’re adjusting so well here,” Sirius said with a grin. “I half-expected you to have a meltdown by now, being away from all that luxury you’re used to.”
It was meant to be teasing, but Draco’s heart lurched, a flash of anger rising in his chest before he could stop it. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped, his voice sharper than intended.
Sirius blinked, taken aback. “It’s just a joke, Malfoy. Relax.”
But Draco couldn’t relax. His temper flared, and before he knew it, the words were spilling out of him, harsh and cutting. “You think I wanted to be there? You think I miss living in that prison?”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, clearly confused by the sudden shift in Draco’s mood. “I didn’t say that—”
Draco cut him off, the frustration bubbling over. “You have no idea what it’s like! You don’t understand—” His words faltered as his voice slipped into French, too fast for him to catch. “Tu n’as aucune idée de ce que c’est de vivre avec eux! De toujours être surveillé, jugé—”
He stopped abruptly, realizing what he was saying, but it was too late. The words hung in the air, and Draco’s heart raced as he took a step back, his chest heaving.
Sirius stared at him, his expression unreadable, but then his eyes softened, a flicker of understanding passing through them. “I didn’t know, Draco,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”
Draco’s throat tightened, and suddenly, the room felt too small. He turned away, trying to compose himself, but his hands were shaking. He could feel Sirius watching him, could feel the weight of his gaze, and it made his skin crawl.
Sirius took a step forward, but Draco flinched instinctively, his body tensing as if expecting a blow. It was small, almost imperceptible, but Sirius noticed.
He froze mid-step, his eyes widening slightly as the pieces started to fall into place.
“Draco,” Sirius said softly, his voice no longer teasing, no longer light. “Has someone hurt you?”
Draco’s pulse pounded in his ears. He wanted to say no, wanted to deny it, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he stood there, silent and trembling, unable to meet Sirius’s gaze.
Sirius took another step forward, slower this time, his voice gentle. “You don’t have to be afraid here, you know. You’re safe.”
Draco swallowed hard, his jaw clenched tightly as he fought to keep the walls up. But it was no use. Sirius had already seen too much. And for the first time in a long time, Draco didn’t have the energy to pretend.
“I’m not afraid,” Draco muttered, though the words sounded hollow, even to his own ears.
Sirius didn’t push. He simply stood there, watching him with an intensity that made Draco’s skin prickle. But there was no judgment in his gaze, no pity. Just… understanding.
“Whatever it is,” Sirius said quietly, “you don’t have to carry it alone.”
Draco’s chest tightened, and for a moment, he almost wanted to believe him. Almost.
But old habits died hard, and Draco had spent too long building walls to let them crumble so easily. So instead, he nodded stiffly and turned away, his hands shaking as he busied himself with straightening the cushions on the sofa.
Sirius didn’t say anything else. He simply lingered in the doorway for a moment longer before turning and walking away, leaving Draco alone with the echo of his own thoughts.