Uncertainty
Draco’s eyes fluttered open, a dull, lingering ache spreading through his limbs. He blinked slowly, disoriented, the world around him swimming into focus. A muted gray ceiling loomed above him, unfamiliar and bare. As his vision cleared, he felt the soft fabric of a blanket pulled over him, the weight of it pressing lightly against his chest. This wasn’t the dark, suffocating cellar at Malfoy Manor.
Where…?
He turned his head cautiously, every muscle protesting the movement, and squinted at the dim light filtering through a narrow crack in the heavy curtains. The room was quiet, too quiet, the stillness unsettling. His fingers brushed against the sheets—clean, soft, entirely foreign. Everything looked… ordinary. Almost empty, as if no one truly lived here.
Panic simmered low in his chest, but he forced himself to breathe, slow and steady, ignoring the way his heart hammered against his ribs. He shifted slightly, testing his limbs, and that’s when he noticed it—someone was watching him.
Draco froze, his gaze snapping sharply to the left, and he felt his stomach drop.
Potter.
Harry Potter was standing near the edge of the room, arms crossed, his posture tense and rigid, green eyes boring into him with a mix of wariness and something darker. It was almost accusatory, as if he expected Draco to spring up and attack him at any moment.
“Morning,” Potter said flatly, his voice rough. It wasn’t friendly, not even close, but it wasn’t hostile either. Just… tired. Draco blinked, momentarily thrown by the weariness in Potter’s eyes. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days.
Draco swallowed, his throat dry and scratchy. He cleared his throat and forced himself to sit up a little, ignoring the tremor in his arms. “Enjoying the show, Potter?” he rasped, his voice hoarse and unsteady. “Or do you always watch people sleep? Bit creepy, don’t you think?”
Potter’s jaw tightened. He didn’t react to the jab—didn’t even roll his eyes, which would have been typical of him. Instead, he pushed off from the wall and took a step closer, his gaze hard and searching.
“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up,” he said evenly. “I need answers. Now.”
Draco narrowed his eyes, instinctively pulling the blanket tighter around himself. Answers? Of course, Potter wanted answers. But he didn’t know where to start—or if he even could. His thoughts were still a jumbled mess, everything a blur of half-remembered pain and terror. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to focus.
“Where… am I?” he managed, ignoring Potter’s demand for the moment. “What is this place?”
“Grimmauld Place,” Potter said shortly, folding his arms again. “You’re safe here, but I need to know what the hell is going on. Why were you in the cellar at Malfoy Manor? Who put you there? And why can’t I report this?”
Draco blinked, confusion swirling through the haze in his mind. Grimmauld Place? That explained the drab decor and the uncomfortable sense of emptiness. But—no, focus. Potter was still talking, the questions spilling out one after another in a relentless stream.
“Who did this to you, Malfoy?” Potter’s voice was sharper now, a thread of anger creeping in. “What were you involved in? And don’t lie to me—I’ve seen the state you were in. You’re lucky to be alive.”
Draco clenched his jaw, his head throbbing dully. It was too much, too fast. He needed time to think, to piece together what he could remember. But Potter was staring at him, eyes blazing with intensity, and Draco could see it—the desperation, the frustration roiling just beneath the surface.
This isn’t just about me. He needs answers for himself.
“Water,” Draco muttered, the word slipping out before he could stop it. “If you want me to talk… get me some water, Potter.”
Potter’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if weighing the request, then he exhaled slowly and turned away. He moved to the small table beside the bed, picking up a cup that Draco hadn’t even noticed was there. When he turned back, his movements were slow and deliberate, as if trying not to startle Draco. He extended the cup toward him, his expression carefully neutral.
“Here,” Potter said quietly, his voice still tight. “Drink.”
Draco stared at the cup for a moment, suspicion flaring. But he was too parched, his throat raw and aching, and Potter—Potter looked just as exhausted as he felt. With a sharp, jerky nod, Draco reached out and took the cup, his fingers brushing Potter’s briefly before he pulled back.
The water was cool and soothing, easing some of the dryness in his throat. He took a few slow sips, watching Potter over the rim of the cup, and then set it back down on the table with a soft clink.
“Better?” Potter asked, his voice low but insistent.
Draco nodded reluctantly. “Somewhat.”
“Good.” Potter leaned forward slightly, his gaze never leaving Draco’s face. “Now talk.”
Draco took a deep breath, feeling the familiar weight of Potter’s presence pressing down on him. What could he even say? The truth was… he didn’t know. Not really.
“I don’t remember,” Draco said slowly, the admission bitter on his tongue. “Not… everything. I obliviated myself.”
Potter stared at him, disbelief flashing across his face. “You what?”
“I obliviated myself, Potter,” Draco repeated, his voice sharper now, tinged with irritation. “You heard me.” He forced himself to sit up a little straighter, though his limbs trembled with the effort. He hated this—hated feeling so weak, so exposed under Potter’s relentless gaze. But there was no point lying. Not about this. “I had to. It was the only way to keep my research safe.”
Potter’s eyes narrowed, suspicion tightening his features. “Research? What kind of research would make you go that far?”
Draco swallowed, glancing away. He couldn’t tell him. Not yet. He barely even remembered what it was himself—just flashes of formulas and theories, bits and pieces of something important, something dangerous. But it was all fragmented, jumbled in his mind like a broken mirror.
“It’s complicated,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his disheveled hair. “And I don’t— I can’t recall most of it. I did a thorough job erasing my own memory. All I know is that… someone was after me. Someone powerful enough to have me kidnapped and impersonated.”
Potter frowned, his brow furrowing deeply. “Who? Who’s behind this, Malfoy? And why the hell were you in the Manor’s cellar?"
“Because I was a prisoner, you bloody idiot,” Draco bit out, a flicker of old fire sparking to life in his chest. “Whoever’s behind this—whoever took me—wanted information I don’t have anymore. They thought they could break me, force me to remember. When that didn’t work, they decided to keep me locked up until they figured out what to do next.”
Potter flinched slightly at the venom in Draco’s tone, but his gaze didn’t waver. “So, what? They just—stashed you there and left someone to take your place?”
Draco nodded stiffly. “A Polyjuice stand-in, yes. Whoever it is must have an endless supply, because they were able to keep it up for weeks. I didn’t see much, just a few glimpses… but they were always me.” His voice cracked on the last word, a bitter laugh escaping before he could swallow it down. “Imagine that, Potter. Trapped in the dark, only seeing your own face every time they came to mock you.”
Potter looked sick. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, shaking his head as if trying to dispel the image. “But—why? What did they want, Malfoy? What kind of research were you doing that—”
“I don’t know!” Draco snapped, his voice breaking. “I— I don’t know,” he repeated more softly, dropping his gaze. The anger drained out of him as quickly as it had come, leaving him hollow and shaking. “I can’t remember.”
Silence fell between them, heavy and oppressive. Draco could feel Potter’s eyes boring into him, searching for something—truth, answers, a reason to trust him, maybe. But there was nothing Draco could give him. Nothing except fragments of a memory that no longer existed.
Finally, Potter spoke, his voice low and edged with frustration. “Alright. So you don’t remember. But that doesn’t explain why you can’t go to the Ministry. Why can’t I tell Kingsley what happened? We can protect you.”
Draco let out a short, humorless laugh. “Protect me? From him?” He shook his head slowly, disbelief coloring his tone. “Kingsley’s the one who opposed me getting a position in the Department of Mysteries, Potter. Don’t you see? He’s involved in this—either directly or indirectly. Someone in his inner circle knows what’s happening. How else do you think I ended up in that bloody cellar in the first place?”
Potter’s eyes widened, a flash of shock crossing his face. “You think Kingsley— No. That’s not—”
“If not him, then someone close to him,” Draco interrupted sharply, his gaze hardening. “And I don’t have the luxury of taking that risk. Not now. Not after everything.”
Potter opened his mouth, ready to argue, but Draco cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. “You have no idea how deep this goes. None of us do. For all I know, the entire Ministry could be compromised.”
“Then what do you suggest?” Potter demanded, his voice rising slightly. “You want me to just—what, keep this quiet? Let them think you’re dead and pretend nothing happened? That’s not how it works, Malfoy. This isn’t a game.”
“No, it’s not,” Draco agreed softly, his eyes locked on Potter’s. “It’s survival.”
Potter stared at him, chest heaving, his face pale with anger. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, tension crackling in the air like a live wire. Then, finally, Potter let out a slow, shaky breath and ran a hand through his hair, frustration etched into every line of his body.
“So, what, Malfoy?” he asked quietly. “What am I supposed to do? Just sit here and wait until you decide to tell me what’s going on?”
Draco swallowed, his throat tight. “For starters,” he murmured, leaning back against the headboard, “you can let me recover. I’m not much use to anyone like this.” He gestured weakly to his battered, bruised body, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “And stop looking at me like I’m about to keel over. I’m not. Your healing spells were… adequate.”
Potter’s expression flickered—something between annoyance and reluctant amusement. “Adequate?”
“Yes, adequate,” Draco drawled, rolling his eyes despite the pain it caused. “Now go to work, Potter. Act like nothing happened. Let them think I’m gone. Because if they find out I’m alive, your entire family could be at risk too. And mine. I can’t afford to take that chance.”
Potter’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked away, his jaw clenched tight, and Draco could see the battle raging behind those green eyes—the Auror instinct screaming to report this, to follow the rules and bring in reinforcements, warring with the cautious, gut-deep instinct that had made him such a formidable opponent during the war.
“Fine,” Potter said finally, his voice stiff. “But I’m not leaving you alone here. I’ll—” He glanced over his shoulder, then turned toward the door. “Kreacher!”
With a soft pop, the house-elf appeared, his large eyes wide and attentive. “Yes, Master Potter?” he croaked, bowing low.
“Watch him,” Potter said shortly, jerking his head toward Draco. “Don’t let him leave. Don’t let him out of your sight.”
Draco stiffened, glaring at Potter. “What, you think I’m going to run off and blow my cover, Potter?”
“Not taking any chances,” Potter shot back, his gaze hard. “And if you try anything, anything at all—”
“I won’t,” Draco snapped, anger flaring hot and sharp. “Merlin, Potter, I’m not an idiot.”
“Good,” Potter murmured, his eyes lingering on Draco’s face for a beat longer than necessary. Then he turned away, striding toward the door with tense, determined steps. “I’ll be back. And when I am, we’re going to figure out what the hell is going on.”
Draco watched him go, heart pounding, anger and frustration warring in his chest. What was he supposed to do now? He needed to get out of this mess. He needed—
But he was too exhausted, too weak. The room around him blurred, the walls seeming to tilt and sway, and he had to close his eyes to keep the dizziness at bay.
“Master Draco should rest,” Kreacher murmured quietly from the corner, his voice unexpectedly gentle. “Kreacher will fetch food for you.”
Draco blinked at him, taken aback by the concern in the house-elf’s tone. “I— I’m fine,” he muttered, but even as he said it, his stomach gave an embarrassingly loud growl.
Kreacher’s ears twitched, a flicker of something like amusement crossing his face. “Master Draco needs strength,” he said firmly. “Master Potter told Kreacher to bring food.”
Draco bit back a retort, too drained to argue. “Fine,” he muttered, slumping back against the pillow. He hesitated for a moment, then glanced back at the house-elf. “You… were my grandmother’s elf, weren’t you? Walburga Black?”
Kreacher shook his head, his expression both proud and wistful. ‘No, Master Draco. Kreacher served Mistress Walburga faithfully, yes, and Kreacher loved her… but Master Regulus was Kreacher’s true Master. And now…’ He paused, a faint tremor running through his wizened body. ‘Kreacher serves Master Potter.
Draco stared at him, an odd mix of emotions churning in his chest. “Potter?”
“Yes, Master Draco.” Kreacher’s voice softened slightly. “Master Regulus would have approved of Master Potter. Kreacher knows this.”
That shouldn’t have stung. It shouldn’t have mattered at all, but somehow it did. Draco’s gaze flicked away, his throat tightening. “Right. Fine,” he mumbled, more to himself than to Kreacher. “Just… bring the food.”
“Kreacher will be back soon, Master Draco,” the house-elf replied with a low bow before disappearing with a soft pop.
Left alone, Draco stared blankly at the empty room, the conversation with Kreacher lingering in his mind. He forced himself to take a deep breath, steadying the turmoil of emotions bubbling just beneath the surface. Regulus’s elf, now Potter’s.
He hadn’t thought about Regulus Black in years. Hadn’t thought about that part of his family’s history, the way his mother used to talk about her cousin in quiet, reverent tones. And now here he was, lying helpless in Potter’s house, being cared for by Regulus’s old house-elf.
It was surreal. Maddening, even.
But there was no time for reflection now. He needed to get stronger. He needed to figure out who had done this, and more importantly, why.
Because if they thought Draco Malfoy was going to sit quietly and play the victim forever, they were gravely mistaken.
With a steadying breath, Draco leaned back against the headboard and waited for Kreacher to return.