Shadows and Secrets
The Ministry of Magic was bustling with the frenetic energy typical of the week after New Year’s. Wizards and witches hurried through the polished corridors, arms laden with reports and scrolls as they tried to catch up on work missed during the holidays. Harry stood near the entrance to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, his gaze fixed intently on one particular figure making his way through the throngs of people.
It was the same routine. Every morning at nine o’clock sharp, Malfoy would enter the Department of Mysteries and remain there for several hours. At one o’clock, he would emerge and head to lunch at one of the upscale wizarding restaurants in the area. Harry had trailed him several times, using his invisibility cloak to keep a safe distance, watching as Malfoy dined alone or occasionally met with unfamiliar contacts. After lunch, he returned to the Ministry—but instead of settling back into work, he would spend the next few hours wandering through various departments, never actually doing anything.
It wasn’t just the aimless walking that caught Harry’s attention—it was the way Malfoy moved, like he had somewhere else to be but was stuck in place. And then, just after five, he would leave and apparate back to Malfoy Manor.
Harry’s frustration had been mounting over the past days. He’d seen enough to know when something wasn’t right. Malfoy’s behavior seemed deliberately designed to throw off anyone trying to track him, and it was working. There was no pattern, no clear purpose. Just a lot of wandering and meaningless gestures that left Harry feeling like he was missing something crucial.
But on January 6th, his patience finally paid off.
It was nearing the end of the day, and Harry was watching Malfoy’s movements from beneath the cover of his invisibility cloak, concealed in a shadowed corner of the corridor. This time, something was different. Instead of his usual pattern of lingering around aimlessly, Malfoy turned down a narrow hallway and glanced around, his expression tense and alert.
Harry’s pulse quickened as he crept silently after him, staying far enough behind to avoid being heard. The blond wizard’s gaze darted around furtively, his eyes sharp as he scanned the empty hallway. Harry pressed himself against the wall, holding his breath as Malfoy came to a stop in a secluded area, glancing around once more before speaking in a low, angry tone.
“...This is getting ridiculous,” Malfoy was saying, his voice tight with frustration. “You said I’d be gone by New Year’s. It’s already the sixth. How much longer do you expect me to keep this up?”
Harry leaned closer, straining to catch Malfoy’s words as he spoke to the empty air.
“There’s nothing useful left here,” Malfoy muttered, his tone edged with irritation. “Not in the Ministry, at least. If it were here, I’d have found it by now.”
Harry frowned, his brow furrowing in concentration. Found what? he wondered. What exactly was Malfoy searching for?
“I can’t stay at the manor anymore either,” Malfoy continued, his voice dropping even lower. “We’ll need to move everything—and him—to the new location by tomorrow.”
Harry stiffened, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Him? His mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of the conversation. Was it Goyle?
“I’ve already told you,” Malfoy said sharply, his tone tinged with irritation. “I’m only staying until tomorrow. After that, it’s too dangerous.” There was a pause, as if Malfoy were listening to a reply Harry couldn’t hear. Then Malfoy let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine. One more day, then we’re gone. I’ll get everything out of the manor tonight.”
Harry pressed himself further against the wall, his heart pounding in his chest as he watched Malfoy stalk away. He waited until the blond had disappeared around the corner before slipping out from his hiding place, his mind racing with questions.
What was Malfoy looking for? Why was he moving everything? And who was he?
He had no proof, no concrete evidence that something illegal was going on—but the urgency in Malfoy’s voice, the sheer desperation in his tone… It set off every alarm bell in Harry’s mind. He couldn’t let Malfoy leave without finding out what he was hiding.
Which meant he had one day.
One day to get into Malfoy Manor and uncover the truth—before it was too late.
Grimly, Harry turned on his heel, his resolve hardening. He needed help. He needed someone who could get him inside without triggering every ward and alarm in place.
He needed Kreacher.
And he didn’t have a moment to lose.
-
Harry’s mind was racing as he stepped out of the Ministry and turned into a secluded alley just off Diagon Alley. He pulled the small silver whistle from his pocket—the one specifically charmed to call Kreacher when he needed him—and blew it softly. A moment later, with a faint pop, the old house-elf appeared, hunched and squinting, his large ears drooping even more than usual.
“Master Harry called Kreacher?” he croaked, his voice raspy with age.
“Yes, Kreacher, I need your help,” Harry said urgently, kneeling down to meet Kreacher’s eyes. “I need you to take me inside Malfoy Manor.”
Kreacher blinked, his bulging eyes widening slightly. “Malfoy Manor, Master?” he whispered, a hint of unease in his tone. “But Kreacher has never been there… not since Mistress Narcissa called Kreacher to the fireplace.”
“That’s exactly it,” Harry said quickly. “I just need you to take me to that fireplace, the one in the parlor. Can you do that?”
Kreacher wrung his hands nervously, his long fingers twisting around the edge of his ragged tea towel. “Kreacher can… Kreacher thinks he can, Master Harry, but—”
“We have to go now,” Harry cut in firmly, glancing at his watch. “Malfoy will be back soon, and I can’t risk being seen. We need to get in there before he comes home.”
Kreacher hesitated for just a moment longer, then gave a shaky nod. “If it is what Master Harry wishes, then Kreacher will do it,” he said softly, his voice filled with the same fierce loyalty that had seen them through the darkest days of the war.
Harry’s heart clenched with both gratitude and guilt. “Thank you, Kreacher,” he murmured, placing a hand on the elf’s thin shoulder. “This means a lot.”
“Master Harry is Kreacher’s true master,” Kreacher mumbled, bowing his head low. “Kreacher will do as Master Harry asks.”
Taking a deep breath, Harry stood, straightened his robes, and crouched beside the small elf, gripping Kreacher’s shoulder firmly. He barely had time to brace himself before the world around him twisted violently, his vision blurring as the familiar, suffocating sensation of Apparition enveloped him. He held on tightly, focusing on the thought of Narcissa’s parlor.
When the spinning sensation finally stopped, Harry stumbled slightly, his feet landing on something hard and cold. He looked around, his breath catching in his throat.
They were standing in a wide, elegant fireplace set into a marble wall. The room itself looked like a cross between a parlor and a study, furnished with lavish rugs, a pair of high-backed armchairs, and a dusty crystal chandelier hanging above. A faint musty smell lingered in the air, as though the room hadn’t been aired out in ages.
But it wasn’t abandoned. No, it looked… restored. Reclaimed.
Kreacher swayed beside him, looking pale and winded. Harry steadied him gently. “Are you alright?”
“Kreacher is… fine, Master Harry,” the elf croaked, his voice weak but determined. “What does Master Harry want Kreacher to do now?”
“Stay here,” Harry whispered, his voice low but firm. “Stay hidden. I need to search the manor, and I can’t risk you getting caught. If Malfoy returns, find me. Do you understand?”
Kreacher nodded slowly, his eyes wide and solemn. “Kreacher will wait. Kreacher will not be seen.”
Harry’s gaze swept over the room, his eyes narrowing as he took in the meticulously arranged furniture, the polished surfaces, and the rows of old, intricately framed paintings. The manor had been a ruin when he last saw it, nearly destroyed during the war. Now, it looked pristine—except for the mess.
Drawers yanked open. Books tossed haphazardly on the floor. Papers scattered across tables and shelves, as though someone had torn through the room searching for something.
“What…?” he whispered, frowning as he moved forward cautiously. It was as if every inch of the room had been upended, searched thoroughly and without care.
Harry edged forward, his wand in hand as he crept silently across the room. He tried not to let his unease show, but something about the manor sent shivers down his spine.
He slipped out into the hallway, keeping his steps light as he moved through the vast, dark corridors. Every room he peeked into was the same—restored, but ransacked. Chairs overturned, cabinets thrown open, everything in disarray. Someone had been tearing the manor apart, room by room, looking for something.
“What is he looking for?” Harry muttered, pushing open another door. This room was smaller, lined with shelves full of dusty tomes and old magical artifacts. Like the others, it had been torn apart, but there was something off about it.
He moved to the center of the room, glancing around carefully. The shelves were half-empty, books strewn across the floor. A large tapestry on one wall had been ripped down, and in its place was a blank stone surface. But there, at the base of the wall, something glinted faintly.
A broken glass vial.
Harry’s heart pounded as he bent down, picking up the shattered vial gingerly. The residue inside was faintly luminescent—a potion of some kind. He sniffed it cautiously, his brow furrowing.
Veritaserum?
A faint creak sounded from upstairs.
Harry froze, holding his breath.
Malfoy.
Harry’s stomach clenched. He straightened up, shoving the vial into his pocket.
He glanced around frantically for a place to hide. Without wasting another second, he darted toward a narrow, darkened doorway to his right. As soon as he reached it, Kreacher popped up beside him, his ears twitching anxiously.
“Master Harry, what does you need Kreacher to do?” the house-elf whispered, his voice barely audible.
“Quiet,” Harry mouthed, raising a finger to his lips. He peered into the gloom beyond the door and recognized the staircase leading down—a staircase he’d only seen once before.
The cellar.
His heart raced as memories of the stories about the Malfoy cellar rushed through his mind: tales of prisoners, desperate fights, and dark magic. He turned to Kreacher and spoke softly, keeping his eyes on the stairwell. “We’re leaving through the cellar. Stay close and follow me.”
Kreacher nodded, his wide eyes gleaming in the dim light.
Harry cast a quick glance back at the hallway. He could hear muffled footsteps overhead—Malfoy was moving through the manor.
Without another thought, he slipped through the narrow doorway, Kreacher at his heels, and descended the steep, winding stairs, the air growing colder with every step. The stone walls seemed to close in around them as they reached the bottom, the dark cellar stretching out like a maze of shadows. Shelves lined the walls, filled with old family relics, boxes covered in dust, and empty shackles—ghostly reminders of what the cellar had once been used for.
“Lumos,” he whispered, and the soft glow of his wand illuminated the rough, uneven floor and the towering shelves around him. His gaze swept across the space, searching for any sign of life.
“Hello?” he called softly, his voice barely more than a breath. “Is someone here?”
Silence.
Harry moved closer, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the cellar. Then, in the farthest corner, his wandlight caught on a huddled shape—a person, slumped against the wall. They were sitting with their back against the stone, arms limp at their sides, head bowed.
“Goyle?” Harry breathed, his heart racing. He took another step, the light illuminating more of the figure’s gaunt frame, the tangled mess of hair that fell over their face.
Slowly, the figure shifted, raising their head just slightly. As the dim light fell across the hollowed cheeks and bruised skin, a pair of storm-grey eyes blinked up at him, confused and disoriented.
“Potter?” a hoarse, broken voice whispered.
In that instant, everything fell into place.
The strange behavior. The unusual ease. The casual way Malfoy had spoken and acted in the Ministry, like a man with nothing to hide. The way he’d brushed off Harry’s questions, the way he wandered around aimlessly as if searching for something he couldn’t find. And the expensive, elegant fountain pen—a thoughtful gift that didn’t fit with years of bizarre trinkets and annoying gags.
Because it wasn’t from Malfoy at all.
Harry could feel it in his bones, every nerve in his body screaming with the certainty. The pale, broken figure before him, shackled and bruised, was the real Draco Malfoy.
The person upstairs, the one who had been parading around the Ministry, making Harry doubt his instincts, taunting him with false pleasantries, acting so unlike the man Harry had known for years—that wasn’t Malfoy.
This was.