12 Grimmauld Place
Chapter 1: 12 Grimmauld Place
There was a faint buzzing sound—was it coming from him? No. At least, he didn’t think it was. He was cold, shivering a bit—teeth starting to chatter slightly. He tried to open his eyes but it was too bright. Much too bright. There was a panicked beeping steadily increasing in pace, and he groaned at the agony in his head livening back up.
A rustle and thunk of something being dropped. A book, he thought. Clicking of heels followed by the creak of a door and more feet— boots maybe? No. Sneakers? His brain was too fuddled to discern or even care. A flash behind his eyelids, and blackness.
…
His eyes flashed open, suddenly, and he saw neon green flames bursting around him. He was gasping as if he couldn’t breathe. He shut his eyelids tightly and fell back into darkness.
…
The boy groaned. This time there were no bright lights to prevent him from opening his eyes. The pain in his skull had dulled somewhat to a bearable level, and he timidly cracked open his lids to see where he was.
There were unlit old-fashioned gas lamps hung on the walls which were sporting garish, peeling wallpaper. He was in a bed, he could tell that much. He slowly tried to sit up, but the pain in his head split back open at the change in posture. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself up for only a moment just to see the rest of the room before collapsing backwards. He was in a small twin bed, and there was a matching one just next to his. The sheets were slightly rumpled—someone had slept there recently. Across from the foot of the two beds, there was an old, wooden wardrobe. It looked like it had once been polished and pristine, however there was a thick layer of dust over nearly everything in the room.
He could smell damp, dust and a sweetish, rotting smell; the place had the feeling of a derelict building. The threadbare carpet looked grotesque, and Draco had no intention of walking on it barefoot. He took one more scan of the walls, and noted only an empty picture frame.
The door handle jiggled, and Draco froze beneath the musty comforter. The serpent handle twisted strenuously and—
“Draco?” His mother whispered through the slightly open door.
“Y-yes mother,” his voice crackled, coming out more as a croak.
“Oh, Draco!” She rushed into the room, throwing the door open wide, and kneeling beside his bed. He couldn’t see her face as she had buried it in his shoulder, but he could tell she was crying. Narcissa Malfoy, perfect society wife and pureblood, never cried. She always held her composure. Not this time.
“I’m ok mum, really, I’ll be fine. What happened?”
“Severus—“ she began before another wrack of sobs escaped her. That was all Draco needed, as the memory of coming home from Kings Cross and Florean Fortescue’s. He remembered being cornered by his father and Snape…Snape destroying his library. Draco winced. So that’s what this is about—but why wasn’t he at home in his own bed?
“Where are we?” He asked, still confused.
“My aunt and uncle’s home. Grimmuald Place,” she said softly, reaching for his hand. “I used to come here as a child to visit with my younger cousins, Sirius and Regulus.”
“Mother, why aren’t we at home?” He asked hesitantly, he could tell it might upset her, but he really wanted to know.
“I can’t even look at your father right now.” She said it angrily, but nothing else. She straightened herself up, wiped her tears away with a quick swipe, and called for Mippy. With a CRACK! the little elf appeared, and his mother smiled at her sweetly. “Oh, Mippy, could you please help Kreacher tidy up a bit? Just this room and the drawing room perhaps.”
Mippy snapped her fingers and a tray of food floated over to Draco’s lap. A secondary tray landed gently on the other bed, for his mother he presumed. Mother has been sleeping on a tiny musty bed for me? She’s left father for me? What have I done! I should’ve been practicing Occlumency all year, this is all my fault!
The House Elf used her magic to quickly remove the films of dust and grime from the room, and removed the linens with another snap of her fingers. New linens appeared almost instantaneously, and she popped out of the room to continue in the drawing room.
Draco rested against the newly cleaned headboard, and pulled his tray of food onto his lap, picking at the English muffin. “Mother, please don’t leave father over this. It was my fault, my incompetence! I—I didn’t practice my Occlumency hardly at all this past year, I deserved the lesson I was given,” Draco pleaded.
“Draco, darling, stop. I am not leaving your father, just—making him squirm a bit. He was the one who set Severus loose on you, knowing full-well the man has little self-control with his temper. You deserved none of that, now don’t you dare blame yourself again,” she responded with a temper of her own. The Black temper. He had heard from his father how fiery his mother’s family could be. They held grudges and lived by their own set of right and wrong, and often went mad or had an over-controlled temperament. His mother was of the latter disposition. You could rarely tell what she was thinking or feeling, but she was a master manipulator because of it. His father would squirm alright, he’d be surprised if he wasn’t downright begging her to come back by now… how long have we been here anyway?
“How long have we been here?” He asked as the question popped into his mind.
“We only just arrived last night. We had to have someone re-connect the Floo from St. Mungo’s before I could move you—“
“St. Mungo’s?!” He raised his voice, and she gave him a stern look that said to watch his tone because he wouldn’t be getting away with that again, even if he was ill. “Sorry, mum, why was I at St. Mungo’s?”
“The damage he caused was beyond what I could repair alone. I was able to get my friend from St. Mungo’s to help me transport you directly to a private room,” she answered.
“Damage? Am I…?”
“Oh no, darling, he was able to heal everything! You will be just fine. We’ll have to rebuild your library, of course, but all in good time. Now eat something and get some rest, love.” She smiled at her sweet boy and then gave him some time to process alone.
Draco looked around the room one last time, and spotted the frame again—this time it wasn’t empty.
…
Days passed, somewhat blurring together. The house was old and abandoned, and his mother shockingly seemed quite content to leave it that way. Draco took to wrapping himself up in one of his older set of robes and exploring the many rooms and floors at night while his mother slept.
He found that he had been sleeping on the second floor, which consisted of four doors: his room with the two twin beds and a portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black, another bedroom with a queen-sized bed, a mid-sized guest bathroom, and a small impersonal study for guests he presumed. Each room, and the entire house for that matter, was outfitted with the same vintage gas lamps posted every few feet. They sputtered into life along the walls when someone approached them, casting a flickering insubstantial light along the gloomy hallways, where cobwebby chandeliers glimmered overhead. Age-blackened portraits hung crooked throughout the house.
Eventually he built up enough stamina to move up and down the steps, starting with exploring the first floor. On the first floor, there are at least three rooms: a bedroom with two twin beds, a bathroom, and the drawing room his mother had asked the elves to clean.
Ignoring the other two doors, Draco entered the drawing room to inspect it. He found a long, high-ceilinged room with olive-green walls covered in dirty tapestries. Despite being tidied up, the carpet still exhaled little clouds of dust every time he put his foot on it and the long, moss-green velvet curtains were buzzing as though swarming with invisible bees were sending a warning. The drawing room must’ve been, at one time, exquisite, with large windows overlooking the street in front of the house, a large fireplace flanked by two ornate glass-fronted cabinets, and an entire wall covered with a tapestry of the Black family tree. His eyes lingered on the woven fabric, tracing the names he recognized and skipping over the ones he didn’t.
The room itself probably just needed a good cleaning, but the curtains were clearly buzzing with an infestation of doxies, and he was sure the writing desk housed a boggart or something of the like. He was intrigued, however, by the dark items in the cabinets. There was everything from snakeskins to glass vials of blood and a skull. He absent mindedly stuck his hands into his pockets to stave off some of the chill. Feeling the smooth surface of something inside, he pulled out that wretched transfigured snuff box from First Year—better just leave it here on a shelf with the rest of these ridiculous things, it certainly wouldn’t be out of place. He set it next to a gaudy locket matching in color and tarnish. No more fangs snapping at my fingers! Draco inspected the locket a bit more, feeling somewhat drawn to it—like he couldn’t look away—but it wasn’t a Black or Malfoy heirloom, that was certain with the large ‘S’ engraved into the top of it. Forgetting everything he had been taught by his parents, the boy gingerly picked up the locket. He was instantly filled with dread, and thankfully, with an angry POP!, Kreacher appeared and snatched the locket away, before disappearing again. What the—? Whatever. It was creepy anyway.
…
It took him another two days to rest up enough for a trip up to the third floor. When he finally climbed the last step, he found three more bedrooms and a mouldy cupboard. He wasn’t sure why his great aunt and uncle would need to have so many rooms, but he supposed the Manor had plenty more than they had here. He quickly shut the nasty cupboard before any of the unrecognizable decaying items came alive and attacked him.
An additional two days and Draco felt strong enough to explore the rest of the house. He started with the fourth floor, thinking it would be best to get most of the stair-climbing over with first. There were only two doors—one had a sign above the threshold that read ” Do Not Enter Without the Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black ”. So the other room must be Sirius’s , Draco thought.
The decor in the two rooms could not have been more different. In Regulus’s room, which was slightly smaller, the decor of course highlighted his Slytherin, pure-blood heritage, with a Black family crest painted over the bed and yellowed newspaper clippings about Voldemort donning the walls. Sirius decked his room out in Gryffindor colours and banners, and posters of Muggle motorbikes and bikini-clad girls. While Draco abhorred the red and gold, he couldn’t help but stare at the Muggle posters just a bit longer than was decent…
Forcing himself to look away, he closed the door behind him, and dropped down the four flights of stairs. The wall on the last flight of stairs was decorated with a row of shrunken house-elf heads, mounted on the wall on plaques. These were the former servants of the House of Black who had been beheaded when they had become too old to hold a tea-tray—a tradition begun by Elladora Black, or so his mother had told him when he asked what would happen to Mippy when she eventually died. He had been eight when he asked that.
Shaking the thought from his mind, he slunk past a sleeping portrait of his great-aunt, hoping not to wake her, and stopped at the entrance hall. Much of the decor in the hall was in the form of serpents, though there was also an umbrella stand made from the severed leg of a Troll. On one side of the hallway was the dining room, which contained a long wooden table with chairs and hanging light fixtures. It also featured a dresser holding the Black family crest and china. At some point while the house was abandoned, spiders the size of saucers must’ve moved into the dresser, and Draco shivered at the thought. I hate spiders .
It was a cavernous room with rough stone walls. Most of the light was coming from a large fire at the far end of the room. A haze of pipe smoke hung in the air like battle fumes, through which loomed the menacing shapes of heavy iron pots and pans hanging from the dark ceiling. A door at the far end of the entry hall, a set of narrow stone stairs lead him to the basement, and the house’s kitchen.
Though less ornate than the floors above, the kitchen was still a large, “cavernous” room with a large fireplace at the far end. A long wooden table sits in the centre of the room, large enough to fit a couple dozen people around it for a meal. The room had a gloomy feeling.
Also in the basement, just off the kitchen, he discovered a dark pantry, large enough for two people to stand in comfortably, and another cupboard off the kitchen housed the boiler for the house, as well as what he figured was Kreacher’s den, filled with rags, smelly blankets, and photographs of the Black family—he even spotted one of his mother and two aunts as Hogwarts students.
He inches closer to the hovel to get a closer look at the photographs. He ungracefully tripped over a small nest-like jumbled pile of assorted rags and blankets with a small dent to show where Kreacher had curled up to sleep every night. Scattered stale bread crusts and mouldy bits of cheese created a rank odor.
He scrambled to get back up, coming close to cutting his palm on a jagged bit of broken glass around a shattered silver frame. He noted that some of the glass had been crudely Spellotaped back together over Bellatrix’s face. Draco chuckled to himself—she was clearly Kreacher’s favorite. He glanced over Amal glittering objects and coins, nothing worth more than a galleon or two, but it must’ve been a fortune for the elf.
He looked around, but his mother wasn’t in any more of the photos. They seemed to be mostly of His great-aunt Walburga and her youngest son, Regulus. Turning to leave the little hidey hole, Draco spotted something that actually piqued his interest, and of course, it was a book. A copy of Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy sat on a makeshift shelf in the corner. Draco looked around the basement to make sure the elf wasn’t watching, then he grabbed the book and hobbled up the steps as quickly as he could.
Draco made it back to the bedroom, puffing from the exertion he had put into climbing all those steps. I really need to get back in shape if I’m going to play Quidditch again this year —
“What’s that?” His mother said sleepily. It was nearing five in the morning—he had lost track of time, and his mother was naturally an early riser. She would be upset with him for straining himself too much, that was for certain.
“A book,” he said quietly, hoping she would go back to sleep for at least a little longer.
“Oh, did you find the library then?” She asked softly, laying back onto her pillow.
“Yes, mother, go back to sleep—I’m just going to read for a bit,” he lied.
It only took a few more seconds until he heard her breathing even out, then he climbed into his own bed, and cracked open the book. From what he could tell it was a book that listed all of the wizarding families. It listed all pure-blood family names that have died out due to the lack of male heirs, among the first was the Peverell family, followed closely by a few others—most he had never heard of since the only genealogy he had read until now was about the Sacred Twenty-Eight and that hadn’t been written until the nineteen-forties.
He fell asleep with the book flopped open across his chest. He didn’t even wake when his mother took the book and set it on his nightstand, nor did he stir when Kreacher came in and took it back to his lair.
…
Draco slept through most of the day, and when he awoke it was to voices near the stairs. He could distinctly hear his mother’s calm, demure voice, but there was another woman—louder, shrill, and grating. He flipped the covers back, and slipped out of bed, trying to not be heard until he knew it was safe to come out.
He peeked over the railing and found his mother also on the stairs, one landing below. She was talking to a large portrait— the sleeping woman from last night , he thought. He was even more grateful he hadn’t woken her after hearing her irritating voice.
“Draco, come down and say hello to my aunt, Walburga. This is her home, you know,” his mother beckoned him with a look that told him she didn’t want to be talking to her either.
“Hello, ma’am,” he said with a polite bow of his head.
She just simply swooned over how wonderful a boy he must be, and so handsome. She cooed about how she would expect nothing less from their beautiful Narcissa, especially married off to a Malfoy with their aristocratic noses and chins. His mother smiled back at the praises, as did Draco. He didn’t have to like the niceties, but he certainly had been raised to respect them, especially around his pureblooded elders.
“If you will excuse us, Auntie, I must take Draco on an errand. We will certainly come back to visit this evening, and thank you so much for welcoming us to use your lovely home,” his mother smiled sweetly, as she tugged Draco down the last set of steps—Walburga still calling praises at them from her spot on the wall.
“What errands?” He asked, eager to escape the confines of the abandoned house.
“You have an appointment with the Mind Healer at St. Mungo’s, then we will stop by the Manor to grab a few things before returning this evening,” she answered.
“Why do we have to come back here? Can’t we just go home?” He whinged a little too loudly, and his mother gave him a warning look, checking to see if Walburga had heard him. She hadn’t.
“We will see how your appointment goes. End of discussion.”
She waved her wand over him and his bedclothes transfigured into a simple white button-down and black pants. She summoned a pair of black shoes for him from who knows where, and with a final flick, she smoothed his sleep-rumpled hair. He smirked at her and she blushed slightly.
“I never get to do anything like that anymore, you’re so grown up,” she said sadly with a little smile.
He took her hand and they walked toward the Floo. She grabbed a handful of the powder on the hearth and tossed it in, “St. Mungo’s!” Green flames erupted, and they stepped in.
…
According to Healer Eustace Burke, a brown-haired, middle-age wizard, Draco was in the clear. His scans each came back clean, with the exception of a slightly darker spot near his magical core. One of the Healer Trainees said she thought it looked like another signature but she couldn’t be sure. She was quickly interrupted and dismissed by Healer Burke, and the Malfoys were sent on their way.
As they looked to exit through one of the Floos, a flurry of royal blue robes chased after them. It was the Trainee Healer from the exam calling for them to stop.
“Please, Mrs. Malfoy!” She whispered, trying to not draw the attention of those in the queue. Clever girl. “Please, ma’am, I feel the need to share something with you that my colleagues would rather ignore out of pride.” The young woman stopped, waiting for a signal to continue. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty— must be close to switching to the lime green robes he thought. Narcissa gave a slight nod for the woman to continue.
“Your son, there’s something wrong with his magical core—not his specifically, but there’s something else there too—something that doesn’t match his magical signature,” she explained in hushed tones, glancing around every couple of words. “Keep an eye on him. Any behavior that is out of the ordinary would be a major concern. It’s something that’s never really been seen before, or at least not studied by a Healer. I’m specializing in Dark Magic effects, and I’d like to use this as a case study—anonymously of course!” She tacked on the last part at the skeptical look his mother gave the woman.
“And you are…?” Narcissa Malfoy drawled in her most intimidating high-class voice.
“Wilhemina Wiggins, ma’am,” she replied, unphased by his mother’s tactics.
“We’ll owl you with our decision, we really must be going,” his mother said coldly, giving no hint on whether she would allow it or not.
With that, the two Malfoys stepped into the green flames once again, and found themselves in the large front room of Malfoy Manor.
“Mistress, you is back!” Mippy squealed in delight.
“Mippy, is Master Lucius still away on business?” His mother asked earnestly.
“Yes, Mistress. He is being gone two weeks now,” the elf said sadly.
“Any news on when he will return?” She started walking toward the stairs to their rooms.
“Master is saying he is to be gone all summer. Master is looking for Dobby, he is,” the elf answered, pulling on one of her oversized ears.
“Thank you, Mippy, that is all for now,” she replied, and the elf popped away with a soft crack. “Now, Draco, we have two things to discuss over dinner this evening. Go wash up, and I will see that dinner is served at seven, sharp,” his mother said, as she started her ascent up the white marble stairs.
Happy to be home, and staying that way at least for a few hours, Draco jogged up the stairs to his room, pausing to give his plush, clean bed a longing look before abruptly turning to the bathroom. All of his things were laid out where they belonged, Mippy had unpacked his school trunk. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure what day it is…
He padded into the shower and let the steam wash the dirt and grime he felt actually melding into his skin days ago. The eucalyptus scent of his soap filled the air and replaced the smell of rot and death in his nostrils. He let the familiar vapors seep into his hair and skin, and he scrubbed every inch of himself raw. When he finally felt like himself again, he dried off and dressed for dinner.
He passed his bed once more, praying to any deities he could think of that he would get to sleep in it tonight.
…
Dinner was served at seven o’clock sharp, just as promised. It was a simple, but hearty Italian meal of meat and pasta. While he hadn’t missed many meals at Grimmauld Place, there was something to be said for eating at a proper table with the ability to use multiple plates and dishes to serve the food. I know it wasn’t squalor, but I guess I took all of this for granted.
The pair sat in silence, with only the slight clinking of cutlery and glassware, from Draco of course. Narcissa had long ago perfected the art of dining silently as part of her etiquette training. Draco had been taught the same lessons, but being a male had its perks and privileges in pureblood society—not as much perfection was expected in the etiquette department, even if his mother disagreed.
Once they had finished dinner, she finally broached the topics he was so ready to discuss. “Draco, I am sure I already know your feelings on the matter, but I dare not assume. Do you wish to remain here for the rest of the summer or return to Grimmauld Place?” She asked, ready to accept whatever answer he gave.
“I think,” he paused to choose his words carefully, “we should remain here at least until father returns, then I will go wherever you want, mother,” he said shyly.
“A very diplomatic answer,” her lips curled into a genuinely sweet smile, “thank you.”
“Of course,” he nodded.
“Now for the second discussion, a little more concerning I think,” she said as her face grew serious. “That woman wants you to be a part of a study, run tests, maybe even experiments for all we know. I’m not entirely comfortable with that level of trust, if I’m being honest.”
“I agree, definitely no experiments, but—what if she was picking up something from when… He passed through me in first year?” he offered.
“I know, darling, but can we trust her? We don’t know anything about her or her motives for the study,” she spoke worriedly.
“Can I take some time to think about it?” He asked.
“Of course, dear, I’ll handle everything once you’ve decided,” she gave him a tight-lipped grin that was meant to be reassuring but missed its mark.
“And maybe—well, maybe could you reach out to father to have him look into her background? He would have the contacts to do that, right?” Draco was terrified to talk about his father in front of her right now. She was obviously still very incensed about what had happened, blaming Lucius for the whole event. Draco, on the other hand, only blamed himself, and didn’t see the need for the cold shoulder his mother was projecting.
“We’ll see,” was all she said before Mippy brought out dessert—tiramisu.
After a few bites, Draco remembered he had a question, “mother, what day is it?”
…
July seventh. That’s an entire month of summer—gone! Someone must’ve noticed, I’m sure at least Theo would’ve written by now, possibly Blaise. Letters. Draco scanned his room, spotting a small stack of scrolls and envelopes stacked on the hearth of the fireplace in his room. He picked up the top scroll and unrolled it.
Draco,
Can I come stay with you this summer? Father’s been in an awful state lately, and I’d rather not stay on the estate alone, if you catch my drift. Let me know when you get this!
Theo
Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuck! Draco grabbed a quill and parchment from next to his bed and ran back to the hearth to scribble a reply for Theo to come as soon as he could and to use the Floo. Opening the door to his balcony, Draco called to Aquila and the large eagle owl landed gracefully, flapping its wings in irritation at being summoned. He fastened the note to his leg, “to Theo, please hurry!” The bird nipped at his fingers, but he had no treats to give. “Please,” Draco pleaded and finally he narrowed his eyes at his owner, but did as he was asked.
Feeling some relief, Draco returned to the stack of letters. He opened one from Pansy, begging him to speak to her—in fact about half the stack was from Pansy. She probably thought I was ignoring her like everyone else…I guess she can come and stay the summer too…what could possibly go wrong with that idea? He chuckled at his own sarcasm. Draco scribbled another note and set it aside for when Aquila returned.
After removing and skimming all of Pansy’s letters, Draco was left with only three. One from his father apologizing—something he never did. “Never apologize, never explain.” It was something that had been drilled into Draco’s head since he was a child. The only people you apologized to were those that ranked above you—and that was very few in the eyes of a Malfoy.
Another of the remaining letters was from none other than Severus Snape. It was most certainly not an apology letter, in fact, he didn’t even admit any fault in the matter. All the note said was that when he returned to school he would be meeting with Snape every Tuesday, with the exception of Quidditch practices, to practice Occlumency since he couldn’t be trusted to practice on his own. Fine. Works for me, tosser.
The final letter, Draco had saved for last. He knew who it was from by the overly thin envelope alone, if her scratchy writing hadn’t given it away. He opened the Muggle envelope and thing paper white three holes down the left side, with pale blue lines striping the page horizontally. Muggles are so strange—they can’t even write in straight lines apparently.
Draco,
Thank you for everything this past year. I know I was rude early on (and don’t you dare forget that you deserved it!) but I hope we can start the new term on a more friendly note. Harry and Ron always seem to think the worst of you, and I’m starting to think you provoke them on purpose (why??), but I know there’s more to you than you let everyone see. You should really try just being the nice version of you around everyone else, not just the Slytherins.
Anyway, I hope you had a good birthday, it was the sixth, right? I promise I’m not a stalker, I overheard Pansy and Daphne talking about your party in the halls before school ended (I would assume it was to make me jealous, but honestly why would a Gryffindor want to attend a Slytherin party? That’s just naive at best). Now I’m rambling. Meet me in the library, first week back? I’m sure I’ll be there nearly every night to work on the assignments for the year, as should you.
Your friend,
Hermione J. Granger
“Happy birthday to me,” Draco smiled to himself.