Holly & Oak

The Dursleys’.

November 1^st, 1981 was a black day in wizard history. It was the day that Harry James Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Savior of the Wizarding World, died at fifteen months of age—or so it was reported by his muggle Aunt Petunia and her husband, Vernon Dursley, who had found the infant frozen on their doorstep that very morning. A very nice little stone was place in the cemetery of Godric’s Hollow, and The Daily Profit called for the immediate arrest of whomever had the bright idea to leave an infant on someone’s doorstep overnight. Sirius Black was arrested and sent to Azkaban for life without so much as a trial, for no one would speak against the esteemed Albus Dumbledore who claimed that the infant had been handed off to his godfather—the criminal in question—after the death of his parents, Lily and James Potter.

The wizarding world was so caught up in itself, that no one bothered to check in with the Dursleys afterwards—they were muggles anyways, so who cares? Had anyone the basic decency to do so, they may have notice Petunia purchasing an odd amount of baby food for her own infant son, Dudley, who was nearing the age of two. If someone had asked, Petunia had the ready answer that her son was a growing boy! The boy was rotunda enough for it to be believable. But no one asked.

Over the years, no one questioned how Petunia’s gardens were seemingly tended overnight or how her house was so immaculate even though she seemed to spend more time entertaining gentlemen callers than cleaning. No one wondered how, four years after that dark day, her cooking was miraculously delicious, instead of the mediocre it had been all her life.

Ah, no. No one questioned. No one wondered. No one saw the little creature that lived in the cupboard under the stairs. There was no record of such a thing. No evidence. It only crept out of its cage to prepare dinner, spent the dark hours cleaning and tending to the Dursleys’ every need, and then prepared breakfast before hobbling back to its dark little space.

This creature had no name. No gender. No identity. No significance. It responded to the harsh rumble of Vernon’s bellow and the high-pitched flutter of Petunia’s screech. It did not understand most words, having been dropped one too many times in infancy and lost most of its hearing, but it knew that when ‘beast’ or ‘freak’ was called, that meant someone was giving it an order. It knew to pay close attention, to watch the blurred gestures being made with its one good, nearsighted eye, the other having been blinded since Before.

Before was the time before it was at the Dursleys. It didn’t really remember much, just blurred faces, soft tones, and a harsh green light. It knew there was a time Before because those memories, vague though they were, were filled with a warm emotion. It didn’t know what that emotion was, that feeling that squeezed at its heart, but it was one that it had never felt at the Dursleys’.

Time was inconsequential to it. It knew that the bright time was of hiding, of sleep, of staying out of sight, and that the dark time was of silent work. It knew that it got older, but it didn’t know how old it was. It never went to school like Dudley, never learned to read or write or speak, but it could vaguely understand a clock. It knew that supper was to be served when the little line pointed at the ‘7’ and the long one the ’12,’ but it didn’t know what those symbols actually meant.

Yet, time did pass. Days turned to months, which turned to years. Slowly, it got bigger, longer, but never as big or long or round as Dudley. It was always much smaller than the Dursleys’ son. It was always tiny in comparison to them, its limbs thin and pointy.

It was the late-autumn of Dudley’s tenth year that everything changed. It woke to labored breathing and terrible pain that radiated from just below its stomach and shot up its spine at random intervolves. Yet, it knew that sickness was no excuse. The Dursleys’ still expected supper to be served on time, the house to be cleaned, laundry washed, folded, and put away, and for the garden to be tended, before it was to make breakfast as the brightness came.

So, with a weak grunt, it pushed itself up. Its vision swayed. Even in the darkness of its cupboard, it could tell that its head was spinning. Yet, still, this was no excuse. Not to the Dursleys, not when it came to it. With several deep breaths, it forced itself from the cupboard and into the kitchen. It could hear the rumble of the TV in the living room, the thunderous stomping of Dudley upstairs. It didn’t bother with turning on the light, since it was not allowed light once the Dursleys went to bed, and made its way to the fridge.

The bright light of the fridge hurt its eyes, but the cool air felt wonderful on its burning skin. As it went to grab the meat for supper, its stomach crapped and acid filled its mouth. It coughed and spluttered, stumbling backwards, its mouth filling with the taste of iron. The meat fell to the tiled floor as the pain intensified. It felt warmth and wetness in its hair, and then it screamed—a wretched and broken sound of an unused voice—as mind-consuming pain tore through its head and spine. Something flickered behind it, a sudden unbalancedness, as the kitchen was splattered with blood, and it collapsed beside the meat.

Vaguely, in the distance, it heard Petunia’s shrilled scream, and saw something dark and heavy block out the light from the hallway before everything faded away.

When it next awoke, it was to its body being flung onto the dirt. It rolled, its head knocking into a stone, and it felt blood slide down the side of its face. Before it was able to push itself up, something slammed into its side. Pain burst through its body. Then it was hit again. And again. And again. Side. Hips. Back. Thigh. Shoulder. Back again. Again, and again, and again. It tried to curl into itself, to protect what it could, but then the pain collided with its head so forcefully that it rolled away.

Its vision swayed, but a familiar, wheezy yelling got its attention and it looked up to see Vernon. A deep rumble and the stench of petrol told it Vernon was standing beside his car. The bright moon highlighted Vernon’s red face as he shouted something—monster, demon, but it understood nothing more. Yet, it knew that tone, a tone that implied it had done something wrong. That tone was usually followed by a beating and its cupboard being locked for a very long time.

However, the beating had come, but there was no locked cupboard. After yelling to his fill, Vernon simply got in his car and drove off. It blinked. The taillights got further and further away, disappearing into the darkness. It didn’t understand. It was alone. What did this mean? What was it supposed to do? A sound echoed above it, and it flinched, looking around. Huge, vertical pillars were all around it. Trees. Everywhere. They were so tall and thick. Where was it? Its heart thumped in its chest, mouth dry with fear. It had never gone farther than the Dursleys’ garden. It didn’t know what to do, how to survive!

Pushing itself up to stand, it stumbled. Its body was sore and bleeding, and likely broken in places. Its head felt heavier and something was attacked to its backside, flickering and unbalancing it. It looked behind it. Something long was attached to it, something dark, that shimmered a pretty green in the moonlight and poked out from beneath its shirt. With its terrible eyesight, it couldn’t quite tell what the thing was, but it looked similar to the fluffy tails of Mrs. Figg’s cats.

It reached back, touching the tail. It was soft and warm. Alive. The tail moved, and it felt its lower back muscles move with it, stretching and constricting. The air around it swirled, fluttering the dead leaves and ground-bed needles of the forest floor. What was it? The tail was definitely connected to it, but it didn’t remember having such a thing before.

It scratched its dirty, blood crusted head in confusion, flinching when it came to a sore spot. It whimpered softly, and then gently prodded at its own head, finding two dull, pointed protrusions near the top, where the pain from before had resided. The protrusions were hard and smooth and caked with blood.

 Its eyes filled with tears. Why was its body so different? The Dursleys had always been displeased with its form, but with one eye blinded and the other nearly so, it couldn’t see well enough to know how it differed from them. It just knew it was different, a freak, an abomination, now even more so.

If the Dursleys could not love it before, how could it even hope for anyone to love it now that it had changed even more? The hot tears gushed from its eyes, drenching its face. It cried out, a rusty, croaking sound of an unused voice. It was so alone and afraid. Why was it so woefully unloved? What had it ever done to deserve this? Why had the blurred faces from Before abandoned it to the Dursleys, who now forsook it?

That echoing sound reverberated above the forest again, and it snapped its head up. Its useless eyes searching the darkness above it, keen ears twitching for any minute sound. A flapping of wings had its head turning, pinpointing a white blur perched high in the trees. The blur made that sound again—hoo hoo. It was a strange sound, one it didn’t recall hearing at the Dursleys’, yet it was also a somehow familiar sound. It did not feel fear at the sight of the white blur. Instead, the sight calmed it. With its raspy throat, it called back to the white blur.

“Ooo! Ooo!” it croaked, the sound not coming out the same as the blur’s. Yet, the blur hoo’d back, before becoming larger and moving closer. It ducked, covering its head, expecting a blow. A soft weight landed on its left shoulder and hoo’d quietly.

Peaking its good eye open, it looked at the blur that was no longer a blur. This close it could see a white creature, speckled black, with round, yellow eyes and a sharp, black nose. It had never seen a creature like it before, so beautiful and soft looking, and the creature smelled of rich pine and the crisp, clean air of winter. It was a lovely scent, so much better than the artificial fragrances of the Dursleys’ house, which were always tainted with a chemical staleness.

It Ooo’d at the creature, and the creature hoo’d back before gently headbutting against its cheek. The gesture filled it with that warm feeling it remembered from Before. With a timid smile, it decided to call the creature Hoo.

With a soft hoo, Hoo fluttered and left its shoulder, landing a few meters away. It frowned, flicking its tail and not understanding why Hoo was leaving, but then Hoo hoo’d again, hopping on the ground. Unsure of what Hoo wanted, it stumbled towards Hoo, ignoring the throbbing pain of its body at the movement. When it neared Hoo, Hoo took off again, landing another few meters away. It followed.

This continued until they neared a large body of water. The water was a blur to it, like everything else, but it knew the sound of running water and the way water shimmered in the moonlight. Hoo landed near the water and hoo’d softly. With a crooked, bloody smile at Hoo, it approached the water.

The water didn’t sound to be moving very fast, but it was cautious. It didn’t know how to swim. With Hoo’s gentle encouragement, it dipped its bare toes into the water, which was cold and only pressed lightly against its skin. Not moving very fast then. With careful movements, it crawled into the water. The crisp water felt wonderful on its sore, overheated body, and it felt so good to wash all the blood and dirt away, even if it was quickly becoming frigid. It didn’t bother removing its shirt, which was tattered and so large that it reached its knees, but it was also the only clothing it had, and the shirt needed to be washed as well.

Once it was clean and the pain in its body had numbed slightly, it crawled out of the water, shivering in the gentle autumn breeze, crisp with the warning of oncoming winter. It recalled Petunia listening to that particular music the other day that she only listened to in the winter, and Vernon had put a tree in the parlor. It wouldn’t be long now until the cold settled in.

Hoo called its attention and fluttered away again. It followed more trustingly this time. They re-entered the forest, and Hoo landed high in a tree, shaking it. Something fell, hitting the ground near it, and it flinched, whimpering at the expected pain that never came. Instead, Hoo flew into the air, dropping something and there was a loud Pop! sound.

Jumping at the noise, it ducked, curling into a ball, and its new tail wrapped around it protectively. It whimpered, but nothing happened. A moment passed, and then it felt Hoo settle on its shoulder. Peaking its head out from behind its hands, it looked at Hoo, who called softly, before dropping something.

It barely managed to catch the object, which was hard and roundish, with a smooth texture. It brought the object to its nose and smelled it. The scent was familiar, like the creamer Petunia favored in her coffee. Azlenut, it thought it was called. The smell made its stomach growl. Hoo headbutted its hand, pushing the azlenut toward its mouth. Was it food? It bit the oddly formed ball, which crunched between its sharp teeth. The nut tasted just like it smelled.

Fluttering away, Hoo went about collecting more azlenuts, and after a while, it understood that the azlenuts were in a hard shell that needed to be cracked before consuming. Picking up the rock that Hoo had been dropping, it took up the task of breaking open the azlenuts that Hoo collected. They did this for the remainder of the night, until the sun began to rise, and then Hoo led it to a cave, deep in the forest.

With complete trust in Hoo, it crawled into the small cave, following Hoo. It wasn’t a very deep cave, but it was dry and just warm enough to keep the chill away. Curling into a ball in the back of the cave, it let its new tail curl around it, before drifting off to sleep with Hoo perched on its leg.

Life continued that way as they wandered the woods, their progress was dreadfully slow due to its weakened state. Its body was still sore from that Night, and after their first night it had developed a terrible cough. Its labored breathing didn’t help matters, causing it to have to stop often to catch its breath. They never slept in the same spot, and kept to travelling during the night. The moon was their constant companion, and each night was filled with naught but walking and scavenging for food.

Yet, despite its sickness and exhaustion, it followed Hoo’s guidance without question, and learned how to find what little food remained this late into autumn, mostly nuts, but there were still some berries. Eventually, the little warmth of the autumn nights gave way to the cold and frost, limiting their food supply even further.

Sometimes it would hear a small rodent in the night and be filled with the desire to hunt, to follow Hoo’s example in catching the tiny prey, but it wasn’t fast enough, and its near-blindedness couldn’t keep up with the creature’s movements. Hoo once tried to share her catch, but it didn’t know how to make fire for cooking and, having tried it before, it knew eating raw meat would only lead to more sickness.

It didn’t know where they were going, and it was always hungry and sore from walking, but these feelings were nothing new to it. Even continuing on when it was sick, shivering, and exhausted, wasn’t anything new to it. The Dursleys never allowed it to eat much, and some nights it never ate at all, so the hunger was easy to ignore. Nor would they allow it to rest when sick since there was always work to be done, so it was familiar with carrying on even as its lungs labored for breath and its throat was painfully raw from coughing.

The pain from walking on the rough terrain without shoes was the biggest issue in its mind. The hard dirt, gravel, and rocks continuously tore up its feet, but somehow the bloody wounds would be half healed by the following night, only to be torn anew as they travelled. This wouldn’t have been too much of a problem, if it didn’t always wake up exhausted after it spent its entire sleep healing and fighting off the never-ending sickness.

It never complained, though—not that it knew the words to make a complaint anyway, but even if it did, it wouldn’t. Life travelling with Hoo was far better than at the Dursleys’. There were no angry voices, no one yelling words it couldn’t understand, and it wasn’t lonely anymore. It had Hoo. It had a friend.

Even the new balance brought on by its tail was becoming more and more manageable as the nights passed. The tail flicked and swished behind it, as if it had a mind of its own, but it also seemed to react to its own moods. As the nights went on, the tail went from something it was always aware of, to just another appendage, like an arm or leg.

The protrusions on its head never changed, though the tenderness around them did eventually fade away. They didn’t seem to grow during their travels, and like with the tail, its awareness of the protrusions eventually faded away.

It did not experience deep fear during their travels until they had reached the forest’s edge. The moon was nearly at its brightest and, as it crawled out of the hollowed tree it had slept in, it knew that the moon would begin its wane soon. The ground was colder than the night before, the cold melting against its feverish skin. Frost, it thought, and wrapped the remains of its tattered shirt tightly around it, but even that could not stop the bitter cold from burning its skin. Winter had set in.

“Ooo! Ooo!” it called out, frowning, and heard Hoo’s responding call some distance away.

Its bare feet were in perpetual pain as it made its way over to Hoo. Fear and worry twisted in its stomach. It had never thought of death before, not even when its body had been left broken in the cupboard under the stairs after one of Vernon’s rages. The concept of one’s death required a concept of self, and it never had that before. At the Dursleys’, it just was. Now, it was Hoo’s friend. It didn’t want to leave Hoo, but it wasn’t sure how it was going to survive the winter if they kept going like this.

“Hoo!” Hoo broopt, landing on its shoulder.

It looked at its friend, wanting to tell Hoo that it was so cold and tired, and that its whole body hurt, and that it was hungry, so very very hungry, and that it had spent half the sleep coughing so horrifically that it tasted blood, but it didn’t know how to form the words. It understood some, because the Dursleys had shouted those words at it constantly, but it had never been allowed to speak, and then, after far too many beatings, it had begun to lose its hearing, making learning words even more difficult.

Tears crystalized in its eyes, and it buried its face in Hoo’s soft feathers. Once the damn of tears had been broken, it didn’t know how to stop. It cried, sobbing so loudly between fits of coughing that its disused voice became raw and broken and disappeared. It fell to its bruised and bloodied knees, unable to hold itself up. Its lungs burned for oxygen, but between its harsh sobs and painful ribs, it could not take any air in.

Blood spluttered from its mouth as it coughed and cried, and it felt a great pressure build in its throat. It became chokingly painful, and then it burst through its lips in the form of a lone howl cutting through the air. It didn’t know how the sound had forced its way through its lips, but it did, and in the next instant the howl was responded to by another, and then another, and another.

It looked around it. With each howl a ghostly wolf appeared until there was an entire pack of wolves surrounding it. Even through the tears it could see them, more clearly than it had ever seen anything before, and all with the use of its blind eye. It sniffled, wiping the frozen tears and blood from its face. Its right eye had been blind for as long as it could remember. The left eye hadn’t always been as such, but over time its vision had worsened, just like its hearing. It had seen images of wolves before, but never ones like these.

They were massive, standing just as tall as itself, and made of a black, translucent smoke. Their eyes were a bright, acidic green, the same green as its own right eye. The ghostly wolf in the centre bowed its massive head, and the rest followed suit.

It looked around from its position on the frozen ground. It didn’t know what to do, it had never known of such a thing. All of the wolves were bowing to it. Then Hoo took flight, landing on the head of the central wolf. It couldn’t see Hoo as clearly as the wolves, just a white blur illuminated by the bright moon.

“Ooo?” it rasped out, uncertain, its voice naught but a painful, crackling whisper.

“Hoo! Hoo!” Hoo called back, the sound soothing it. Hoo did not sound worried, so there was no need to be afraid.

‘Hunter,’ the deep voice resonated in its mind, more clearly than any sound it had heard in such a very long time. It closed its eyes, basking in such a pure, clear sound.

‘Our Master,’ the voice continued, ‘how long as it been since you have called us? We await your orders. What is it that you desire?’

Desire? What is it that it desired? A sharp longing filled it. It longed for warmth and food and a place to call its own. Home. It wanted to go home—not to the Dursleys’, that wasn’t home, but a place like Before, the one filled with the blurred faces and That Feeling, the warm one that filled it, that left it safe and content and happy. How long had it been since it felt happy? It wanted that. It wanted it so very badly. It wanted to go there.

‘Understood, Master Hunter.’

The central wolf approached and lowered itself so that it could crawl onto the wolf’s back. Despite being able to see through the wolf, the ghostly canine felt solid and so very warm. It laid against the wolf’s back as the spectral creature stood—the wolf’s warmth felt so good against its shivering body, but it could also feel what strength it had left waning.

The sky rumbled above them, and the central wolf howled, the others following suit as the pack took off, leaving the forest behind.

‘We must make haste,’ the wolf said. ‘We can only take you as far as your consciousness will allow.’

It blinked back the fatigue and bit back another coughing fit. Keeping its cheek pressed against the wolf’s fur, it looked sightlessly out at the rolling expanse. They had left the forest and were moving quickly, but it could only see a blurred, undefined world of whiteness and darkness, and the clear, crisp outline of the ghostly wolfpack. It could hear Hoo, who had once again taken flight, high in the sky.

They travelled onward through the night. The frigid wind whipping around them, clinging to its exposed skin until it burned with mind-numbing painfulness. Its body was rocked back and forth with the beat of the wolf’s movements, and eventually, it couldn’t hold on any longer. It slid from the wolf’s back, colliding with the wet, white ground, and rolled, crashing into a large rock. The wolves disappeared without a sound.

It looked up, its vision swaying. Something was falling from the sky, too softly to be rain. It was cold, though, and wet. Snow. It blinked. The wolves were gone. It couldn’t find Hoo, either. It tried to call out, but its lungs burned and labored for breath, rendering it unable to make a sound, save the raspy intake of air. The spit from its attempt froze on its lips. It was so sore and tired and hungry. When the darkness came, it couldn’t fight it.

Malfoy Manor.

Yule.

Draco Malfoy was a very well-mannered eleven-year-old, who was not at all put out by his father leaving early this morning to do business at the Ministry. He was not even the slightest bit upset. Not the teensiest, nor the tiniest. It wasn’t like it was the morning of Yule or anything.

However, it was the morning of Yule, and Draco was very much upset. His father had assured him that he would return before the celebration and be home for the Yule Ritual but, you see, assured is not the same as promised, and whilst Malfoys do not break promises, there is no rule about breaking assurances. Therefore, there was no guarantee that his father would be home, and it was Yule and he hadn’t been home since September, having been away at school.

Don’t get Draco wrong, he loved his time at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but that didn’t mean he didn’t miss his parents dearly during term. Besides, Hogwarts was so stingy that the students weren’t even allowed to practice any wizard traditions. Hogwarts celebrated Christmas, a rubbish muggle holiday that had absolutely nothing to do with magic or being a wizard.

So, Draco had happily come home for the winter holiday. His mother, of course, was delighted to see him, but was very busy preparing for the Yule Gala. They would have a proper gala and all their friends would come over, but first his father would take him out to find a Yule log—it was tradition!

Yet, here Draco was, watching his father floo to the stupid Ministry at dawn instead of bundling up to go find their log. His father didn’t even spare him a glance before the flames flared up and he was gone. Draco knew Malfoys never apologized, but his father could have at least looked apologetic or, at the very least, miserable that he had to spend his time cooped up at the Ministry instead of with his son, his heir, his one and only child!

And no, Draco Malfoy certainly wasn’t crying. Malfoys do not cry. He merely got a bit of floo dust in his eyes and they were watering up a touch. He was not crying.

With a huff, Draco slipped on his thick, fur-lined cloak, enchanted with warming charms, and went outside. His dogs, Hati and Sköll—who were the Black Family’s specialty breed that looked more like large wolves than dogs—were immediately at his sides. The air was crisp, and there was a small dusting of snow that had drifted in last night. It didn’t snow much or often in Wiltshire, but Draco loved it when it did. There was something so soft and pure about the hills of the countryside covered in snow. It was magical in the most basic sense, and felt like the earth was being purified before the coming new year.

Wandering through the frozen gardens, Draco headed toward the woods that lay along the edge of the Malfoy’s expansive property. It was a decent walk to the woods and, with the wards keeping the muggles away, he could have ridden his broom to speed things up, but Draco was actually quite fond of walks—especially when he was upset, which he was very much not.

Besides, he hadn’t had much time with Hati and Sköll, who he missed dearly when at school. They were just as old as he was, Sköll having been born the same day as him and Hati at the end of July. The pair had been a gift from his Great Aunt Walburga—as a symbol of his Black heritage—and had been with him for as long as he could remember. They were giant beasts of opposing coloration. Sköll was the male of the pair with a thick coat of black and dark gray, and hardly ventured far from Draco’s side. Hati had a fluffier coat of white and pale gray. She was wont to wander a ways, but was never out of sight.

It took nearly three-quarters of an hour before he came to the tree line, and by then his cheeks were rosey with cold, but he honestly felt better about it all. He was still displeased with his father, but there really was nothing he could do about it, and being upset would just ruin Yule, which was his favourite celebration after all.

Entering the woods, Draco began his search for the perfect Yule log. It had to be one the earth had freely given, not cut or taken by magic. With luck, it wouldn’t take him long to find a fallen tree that hadn’t been overrun with rot or decay, a piece of which he would then take back with him to the Manor. His parents preferred birch, with its cleansing properties, but Draco had always been drawn to oak. He didn’t know why. It was just one of those things, like how he was drawn to the colour green or liked to lay in the garden under the warmth of the sun during the summer.

Either way, once the Yule log was chosen, it would be decorated with holly and evergreen and laid in a bed of pinecones in the family room hearth. They would then each take turns tying ribbons to it, two apiece. On one ribbon would be written something that they wanted to leave behind, the other would be a wish for the new year. Once that was done, they would thank the Great Mother and Father for the gift of magic and pray for the continued prosperity of their family, before completing the ritual by lighting the log and allowing it to burn completely on its own. Before the new year, they would spread the ashes throughout the Malfoy property.

Though Draco loved the celebration of Litha in the summer, there was just something about the Yule Ritual. The intensity of his Familial magic as it wrapped around them all during the ritual, and then—it was like their very magic was cleansed, purified. It was so rejuvenating, and filled him with warmth and a sense of possibility. He loved it.

The Litha Ritual, on the other hand, felt more to do with his own individual magic than that of the Family, the Coven’s magic. He always felt stronger during it, more powerful, like anything he did would be successful. But it lacked the unity of Familial magic, and that weightless feeling of cleansing.

Pulled from his ruminations, Draco was tripped by Hati as she suddenly went bounding forward.

“Hey!” Draco hollered, catching himself on Sköll’s side. “Watch it, you great bloody oaf!”

Hati responded only with a long howl as she disappeared further into the woods. Draco frowned. It wasn’t like her to go so far, and it made him worry. With a side-eye look at Sköll, his worry grew as the giant dog lowered himself. It had been a long time since Draco had ridden on Sköll's back, and he had grown quite a lot since the last time, but Sköll was still large enough for it and full of thick, powerful muscle. Without a second thought, Draco seated himself, and Sköll took off after Hati.

The frigid wind bit at Draco’s cheeks, and he bent low to Sköll’s warm fur as he cursed his inability to use magic outside of school. If he was closer to home, he could cast a warming charm since the Manor’s wards interfered with the Ministry’s Underage Magic Trace, but he had crossed the wards when they entered the woods.

Giant, ancient trees whizzed passed them as Sköll effortlessly weaved between the thick trunks, his powerful muscles moving smoothly under Draco’s hands. It wasn’t long before they caught up to Hati, and the two dogs had a short conversation of yips and barks.

“Mind filling me in?” Draco snapped, but his comment was ignored as they left the woods and continued through fields and over the rolling hills of southern Wiltshire.

With the power and speed of the Black Family’s superior breed, it wasn’t long before the ancient stone circle of Stonehenge came into view. There were many stone circles in Britain, more than the muggles knew about, but Stonehenge was one of the most magically charged. Even from a kilometer away, Draco could feel the circle’s Wild magic, it vibrated in the very air, which was denser the closer they got.

Bursting into the circle, the wolves came to a sudden halt, nearly unseating Draco had it not been for his years of experience. They stopped before a snowy owl, which was perched on something in the circle’s centre. Whatever the perch was, it wasn’t native to Stonehenge. It was dark and covered in snow and old blood, and the magic flowing from it was weak, but also somehow familiar.

Cautiously, Draco slid from Sköll’s back and approached. The owl flapped its wings before taking flight and landing on Hati’s head. A friendly owl, then, if Hati was allowing that. Draco took it as a sign that there was no threat, and knelt before what the owl had been perched on. Brushing aside some of the snow and long, black hair, Draco made out the face of—well, it wasn’t quite human, was it?

The creature was far too thin and pointy to be human, practically skeletal, and its face was rather misshaped. Its hair was blacker than fertile soil and flowed down the length of its back, and its skin was so translucent he could see its blue veins. It was certainly improperly dressed for winter. Draco had seen house elves in rags that were in a better condition than whatever this creature was wearing. Most alarmingly, however, was that it was covered in frost and blood.

“Um, hello?” Draco said, giving the creature a little poke. “Are you alive, um…?”

Was it male or female? He really couldn’t tell. The only thing he knew was that it wasn’t fully human, whatever it was. There were small horns on its head, and it had a long, black tail laying limply between its legs and pointy ears.

The snowy owl called softly and dropped down next to the creature, hopping around it as if in a panic as Hati laid beside it, pressing her warm fur against the creature’s frozen form.

Steering his nerve, Draco took hold of the creature’s shoulder and gently shook it. It was hard and boney.

“Please be alive,” he said. “If you wouldn’t mind, I really don’t want to be touching a corpse. Best to be alive, don’t you think?”

He shook a little harder, and the creature—thankfully—groaned.

“Merlin,” Draco sighed with relief and then called, “Denke!”

With a resounding Crack!, a well-kept house elf wearing the Malfoy crest appeared by his side.

“What can Denke be doing for the young master?” the elf asked.

“Apparate this individual and myself to the Healing Room, and then get Mother,” Draco ordered.

“Yes, Young Master!” the elf chimed, before gently touching them both. With another Crack! they both apparated to the Manor’s Healing Room, and then another Crack! signified Denke’s disappearance. Draco didn’t worry about his guardian dogs, they would easily find their way back on their own.

Now within the wards, Draco quickly pulled out his wand and, carefully as he could, levitated the creature onto the soft, white bed in the centre of the room. He then lit the fire in the hearth and gathered what he thought Mother would need. His mother was a Dark Healer, one of the very best, and he had begun a more hands-on learning this past summer, but he was nowhere near proficient enough to dare practicing on a living individual.

“What’s wrong, my star?” Mother asked as she burst into the room, plush skirts whirling behind her.

“I found them, Mother,” Draco said, placing several bottles on the bedside table. “They’re alive but in a terrible state!”

Narcissa immediately went into Healer mode, pulling her long hair up into a high pony tail as she approached the bed. The child before her was horrifically underfed, and covered in dirt, frostbite, and blood. With a wave of her wand the useless, tattered remains of whatever clothing the child wore vanished, revealing a skeletal frame covered in old scars and horrific bruises.

“Draco, fill a bowl with lukewarm water and use a washcloth to clean the child’s body,” she instructed. She could have cleaned the child with a wave of her wand, but doing so by hand was gentler and allowed for thorough inspection.

As her son rushed into the adjoining bathroom, Narcissa began casting diagnostic spells. The child certainly had hypothermia, severe malnutrition, frostbite, infections, and pneumonia. There was an array of other issues that including several broken ribs, fractures, and bones that had healed without first being properly reset. How the poor dear could be alive, given the child’s condition, she didn’t know.

It was a Yule miracle that the child was still alive, especially once she saw the weakened state of the child’s magical core, but it was a miracle she would take. She just hoped that it would last, as it appeared that the child’s core was the only thing keeping them alive, and had been drained severely.

As Draco rejoined her and began gently washing the child, Narcissa methodically cast spell after spell. She called on the Goddess Isis to aid her in healing the child. Magic filled her, it flowed through her, intertwining with her own Natural magic as she chanted, her voice soft and melodious. Thus was the key difference between a Healer of Light and one of Dark. Light Healers used a wand, manipulating the surrounding Ambient magic and using none of their own. A Dark Healer must heal wandlessly. The magic ran through them, combining with their own, and that combined magic then manipulated the patient’s magic to heal.

It was an exhausting process, risking both the Healer and the patient’s lives if the damage was too great, but it was also the only way to bring someone back from the brink of death. She could do naught for the malnutrition, that could only be countered by time and a potions regiment, though she doubted all the damage could be undone. Instead, she focused her efforts on the frostbite, infections, and broken bones.

It was painstaking work. Sweat darkening her hair and glistened on her skin in the firelight. The magic flowed through her, heating her fingers as she worked over every wound. The soft blue glow of her magic could be seen, flowing into each individual wound, cleaning out the infection, and stitching the skin back together.

From inside the child’s body a dim, green light reached out. It tried in vain to hook her magic and assist in tying the stitches, but the child was too weak. They had used up too much magic in their effort to survive, and there were too many injuries to heal without the help of the child’s magic. Healing them all would exhaust her core and endanger her own life.

Narcissa tried to find the most pressing injuries, but the infection ran throughout the child’s body. Leaving a single wound unattended would allow the infection to flourish. Then the unexpected happened. A second magical light came from the child’s wounds, strong and as bright as the silvery full moon. The new magic struck like a viper, hooking Narcissa’s magic and effortlessly stitching the wounds closed.

“Mum?”

Her head shot up at the sound of her son’s high-pitched panic. His eyes were wide, staring down at his hand, which rested above the child’s heart, the washrag left forgotten on the child’s belly. The silvery magic was flowing out of Draco and into the child where their skin connected. Narcissa pushed down her surprise. There was only one way that would allow the sharing of magic as such.

Steadying her voice, she spoke calmly to her son, “It’s alright, Draco. Breathe deeply and steadily. Together we shall heal the child.”

He looked up at her, his irises illuminated like the pregnant moon. Biting his thin, bottom lip, he whispered, “I’m scared.”

“Have faith, my little Nodens,” she said. “The gods would not allow this if you were not able. Follow their guidance, my star.”

Swallowing thickly, Draco nodded. He closed his eyes, focusing his mind and magic as Mother had taught him to do. He could feel the flow of his magic, a gentle stream that travelled through his body. He felt a tug at his magic and focused on that. The tug was at the hand hovering over the child’s heart. It was a faint feeling, weak, delicate.

Draco focused his magic, channeling that stream, it flowed into his palm and then through his fingertips. His magic poured, like a gentle waterfall, into the child—a boy, he now knew. He slowly filled the other boy with his magic, searching for the child’s core.

He had learned how to find his own core through years of mediation with Mother. It was an important ability to have, one not taught at school. Mother said that being able to tap into one’s core allowed one to know themselves and their natural abilities and magic. She also told him that, like Dark Healing, not all magic could be done with a wand, which was merely an instrument to assist in focusing Ambient magic.

Draco could still only find his core, he wasn’t advanced enough to do anything with it, but he knew what it felt and looked like. His magic was silvery in his mind. It flowed like water, cool and crisp, but it could also move like a snake, striking out in the blink of an eye.

He searched now for the other boy’s magic, following the path of that tug. The boy’s magic was faint, and every time Draco saw a dim, flicker of green in the corner of his mind’s eye, it would disappear. It reminded him of a hare, timid and frightened. Yet, he knew how to hunt, Father had taught him, and he allowed his magic to slither through the connection, following his prey as the boy dashed through the darkness.

It took him to a large wooden door, that he saw in his mind’s eye. The door was the entrance to the boy’s core, and it was beautiful. It was made of the light wood of the holly tree, the edges covered in gray bark and black lichens. The green, pointed leaves and vibrant red berries twisted through the door, intersecting the carving of a fearsome pack of wolves. The wolves appeared to stare down at Draco, judging him as he approached the door.

Like with his own inner door, there was no obvious handle or lock on the other boy’s. This was typically as far as an intruder could go, but Draco felt a familiarity to this door, as if it was his own. The two doors were very similar, but his own door had the rough texture of oak and sat on a calm river of his magic flowing from his core. The carving on his own door also had wolves—well, he was certain it was a depiction of Hati and Sköll—but it also had a giant snake and the triple moon.

The boy’s door had nothing celestial about it and there was no elemental feature to define the boy’s magical affinity. Draco stared at the wolves. Was this not the true depiction of the door? Was the wolfpack on guard because of the state that the boy was in? He felt the truth of it in his own mind and core, and pushed forward. He wanted to help the other boy, he felt an instinctive need to do so.

Stepping forward, Draco placed his hands on the holly doors. It was warm to the touch, like the comforting warmth of a fire in the middle of winter. It filled him with a sense of nostalgia and—his eyes widened—love. There was so much love coming from the doors. It was an unconditional love, a love in its purest form, and yet, it was buried under so much pain and hurt and sadness. Tears filled Draco’s eyes.

‘Please,’ he begged, ‘let me in.’

The doors opened with a soft sigh, revealing not the beautiful dawn--lit stream that babbled through a lush forest covered in wildflowers like his own core, but darkness punctured only by a tiny, dying flame. Quickly, Draco approached the oddly colored flame of golden amber and acidic green, knowing that this was the heart of the boy’s magical core. He raised his hands, calling upon his silvery magic.

‘Do not make haste, Child of Sól,’ a voice spoke from the darkness.

Draco spun around, coming face to face with a massive, black wolf. A green aura flickered around it like flames licking the darkness.

‘Who are you?’ Draco asked, trying to still his fear.

‘Our Master has not yet given us a name in this life.’ The wolf’s voice echoed in the darkened chamber of the boy’s core. ‘We are not your enemy, though, and only approach to protect you.’

‘Protect me from what?’

‘To save our master is to travel a difficult path. It will not be easy,’ the wolf warned.

Draco looked back at the flickering flame. It was faint, nearly down to the embers. He thought of the blood and sweat he had spent during Father’s training, the long hours spent bent over cauldrons during Uncle Severus’s tutoring, the pain of Aunt Bella’s mental tutelage before she had been taken to Azkaban. He thought of the bodily sacrifices his mother had made for her craft, sacrifices he may one day have to make if he followed in her footsteps as a Dark Healer.

‘When has anything worth savoring been easy?’ he asked as he raised his hands and fed his magic into the dying flame.

The wolf disappeared as the flame burst upwards, filling the cavern with light and warmth. A forest appeared, rich with the colours of autumn, but the breeze that blew through it was crisp with winter’s chill. It was not daytime, like in Draco’s core, but the moon was heavy and bright in the sky, illuminating everything it touched. In the distance, he heard the calls of wolves and the hooting of an owl.

The flame now rested steadily in a stone basin, perched securely on a pedestal of twisted branches made from the same tree as the door that guarded this place. Draco ran his hand through the flame. It was warm, but did not burn. It was a beautiful golden colour.

A branch snapped underfoot, and Draco spun around. His eyes widening at the man before him. He could not make out all of the details, the shadow of night or magic kept him from seeing all, but the man was over six feet tall, taller than Father, with broad shoulders and lean, tight muscle. His hair was a wild mane, too dark to make out a colour even in the light of the full moon. Yet, the colour of his eyes, a deep, ethereal green, held their own light and glowed despite the darkness. They were feral eyes, keen and intelligent, the eyes of an apex predator.

However, what startled Draco the most was the massive antlers on the man’s head. They were like a majestic crown, heavy and thick, with many branches, and gave the man an inhuman quality, but also an air of nobility and regality. Yet, Draco did not feel as if he was before a king, but something far more powerful and awing.

Even as the man approached, Draco could not see any more details of his figure, but he could feel the magic of the man, it was a dense, heavy aura around him. It did not feel cumbersome against his skin, however, but like the flames it was warm, comforting. The weight of it gave Draco a sense of safety and familiarity.

Stopping in front of him, the horned man should have been over a foot taller than Draco, he should have had to crane his neck with them only being inches apart. The man did not shrink as he approached, yet standing before each other they were nearly the same height. The man was only a smidgen taller.

That wonder left Draco’s mind when the man smiled at him. His mind couldn’t comprehend the details of the smile, there was some magic blocking him from seeing things clearly, but he knew the other man was smiling fondly at him. Warmth and contentment filled him. He loved the smile that he couldn’t see. He loved how it morphed that stoic face, how it crinkled around those savage eyes, softening them into a tender gaze meant for Draco and Draco alone.

Somehow, he knew these intimate details. He knew the man before him, knew him more deeply than he knew anyone else, or ever would. Yet, those eerie green eyes that bore into his were the eyes of a stranger. He knew nothing, and yet he knew he knew everything. It was a painful contradiction, one that filled him with both love and despair.

Reaching forward, the man tapped Draco’s chin up with the back of his index and middle fingers, before lightly pressing the fingertips of those fingers to the side of Draco’s neck, just under his jaw. The unknown yet familiar gesture made Draco smile, a soft blush warming his cheeks.

The howling of a wolf had Draco stepping back. He turned to see an entire wolfpack surrounding them. The largest among them approached. Draco stepped back, his eyes trained on the monstrous wolf, but halted when he felt a large hand settle on the small of his back, steadying him. He looked over his shoulder at the man, who merely smiled back before his vivid green eyes moved to the wolves.

The lead wolf threw back its head and howled, long and low. The rest of the pack answered in kind. The horned man stomped his bare foot, shaking the very earth, and then threw his own head back and howled as the wolves burst into unholy green flames. The flames flowed from the basin and shot rapidly outward, mixing with the green flames and bursting through the doors as they were thrown open.

Ending his howl, the man turned back to Draco. He brought his index and middle fingers to his lips and then pressed them against that same spot on Draco’s neck. Draco flushed hotly. He didn’t know what the man’s actions meant, and yet he found himself instinctually mimicking them. There was an embarrassing intimacy about it—at least for an eleven-year-old boy—and he couldn’t bring himself to look the man in the eyes. Yet, he knew that he meant it, whatever it meant.

With a soft laugh that Draco couldn’t hear, but he felt in his very core, the man gave him a gentle push toward the doors. Understanding, Draco took off, following the green flames of the boy’s magic, and exiting the boy’s core. The doors closed behind him, and Draco couldn’t help but look back. The guarding wolves had stepped back in the carving. Standing proudly in the center was a mighty stag with the sun above its head, held in place by its magnificent antlers. The base of the door was aflame, but it did not burn.

Draco smiled. The doors paired with his beautifully. He knew it had to mean something. He could feel it deep within. This boy would mean something to him, Draco just didn’t know what.

Severus arrived at Malfoy Manor promptly at three minutes to noon. Over the last decade he had perfected the timing. Exactly three minutes would give him enough time to get into the manor and take off his cloak before the family began the Yule Log Ritual. If he arrived even one minute earlier, he would be pulled into one of Draco’s spiraling conversations.

He loved his godson—truly, he did—but Draco had a mind for deep, complex problems, the kind that never truly were solved. There were always more questions when it came to Draco. Always. It was a trait Severus had endeavor to encourage to the point that the boy had nearly been sorted into Ravenclaw last September, but these types of conversations needed to wait until after the ritual—and after Severus had a glass or two of Lucius’s best Bourbon in him.

Merlin, he hated social events.

Severus didn’t mind the peaceful time before the Malfoys’ Yule Gala. He truly enjoyed practicing their ancient traditions with Draco and Narcissa, and even Lucius when he was in a less dramatic mood. Even without any blood ties, they were the only family he had, and the joy of watching Draco grow and enjoy his youth was something Severus knew he could never replace.

He could really do without the gala, though.

Entering the foyer, Severus was not greeted with the all-encompassing grin that practically swallowed Draco’s face in his overflowing excitement. Nor did he see the magnificent decorations that usually adored Malfoy Manor during Yule. Instead, he was rushed by the sight of a wide-eyed, hazzled-looking Narcissa.

“Severus, thank Salazar, you’re here!” she said, before grabbing his hand and hurrying him along. “It’s a bloody Yule miracle. How he survived—Lucius mustn’t know. We need to hide him—some kind of cover story—but he must remain with us. Oh, the poor dear-”

“Narci, what in Merlin’s name are you on about?” Severus asked, halting her and spinning her into his arms. He took her face into his large, calloused hands and forced her to focus on him. “Is Draco alright?”

He had never seen her so unsettled before, so panicked. Narcissa had always been a steady rock in his life, always calm and aloof in the face of any chaos. This was not like her.

“Draco’s fine,” Narcissa said as she pulled from him and looked around, as if someone could be watching them—but who? The gala wouldn’t start for hours. Only the Malfoy family should be in residence. Lowering her voice, she added, “Follow me.”

Turning on her heel, she hurried him down the hall and up the stairs. They traversed through the elegant manor until they reached Narcissa’s private wing. This section of the manor was warded by Narcissa herself, and contained no family portraits, not even of the current Malfoys in residence. It also so happened to be where the Healing Room was located.

Severus tensed as they approached the doors to the Healing Room, which were flanked by Hati and Sköll. Was something wrong with Draco? Had something happened? But she had said that he was fine. And where was Lucius? Why wasn’t there more commotion? He looked to Narcissa, who gave him a pleading look and gestured for silence, before she entered the room.

Following her in, Severus was immediately overwhelmed by the magical energy inside. The air practically buzzed with it. Thick and heavy, it was radiating from the sole medical bed, which was larger than normal—and glowing. Two occupants took up the bed, snuggled close together, a silvery glow encompassing their bodies. This wasn’t any healing magic that Severus was familiar with.

Moving closer, Severus recognized his godson as one of the bed’s occupants. Draco appeared unharmed, his sleeping form wrapped protectively around that of someone much smaller. A girl, perhaps, if their waist-long, plaited hair was any indication. Though, he couldn’t be sure given the androgyny of children that young. The dark-haired child looked to be about five or six, was frighteningly malnourished looking, and covered in bandages and bruises. The child also had a pair of horns growing out of their head, no more than two inches long and as black as obsidian.

Wordlessly, Narcissa went to the child’s side and gently brushed their fringe aside. Severus’s eyes widen, and his breath caught in his lungs. He had to sit down, and nearly missed the edge of the chair as his eyes stared, transfixed. A lightning bolt scar. Tears ran down Severus’s cheeks. It couldn’t be possible. Lily’s boy. It had been eight years since he had seen that scar, though back then it had been a fresh wound, still bright and swollen with blood on Lily’s son, barely a year old. But—

Severus shook his head.

“He’s dead,” he croaked. “I’ve…” He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. When he opened them, the boy—Harry Potter—was still there. His godson was still there. He shook his head again and turned to Narcissa, his mind pleading for this to be real, yet horrified that it was. “I’ve seen his grave.”

Taking his hands in hers, Narcissa asked gently, “I’m sorry to ask this, love, but did you see his body? We were all told that he was dead, but no one save Dumbledore and those muggles ever saw the body.”

Severus forced himself to look at the boy again. Even so underfed and deformed, he could see undeniable hints of Lily in the child—the soft brush of faint freckles along his cheeks, the curve of his jaw, the shape of his eyes. He wanted to believe, but- “Dumbledore…”

Narcissa squeezed his hands imploringly. “Sev, for as much as you loathed my cousin, do you honestly believe Sirius would have ever willingly given up his godson after his parents had just been brutally murdered?”

Severus’s shoulders fell and he leaned back, collapsing further into his chair with the weight of it all. Sirius had been an absolute bastard, but no one could deny how protective the man was over those he considered his family, his pack. All those damn, arrogant Marauders were. Severus sighed. “Bloody hell.”

“I know this is a blow love-”

He huffed at that. ‘A blow’ was an understatement if there ever was one.

“But I need you with me right now.” Strength and stability had re-entered Narcissa’s voice, and it had Severus sitting just a hair straighter. He knew that tone well. Narcissa was scheming.

“What can I do?” he asked without hesitation, his eyes never leaving the godchild he had mourned these past eight years.

Narcissa stepped toward the child and ran her fingers over the lightning bolt scar, vanishing it. “No one must know,” she declared softly, but sternly. “Not until he is ready.”

“What about Lucius?” Severus asked of her husband in law only and lord of the Malfoy line.

She shook her head. “He still yearns for his old master and those false promises. As I would not trust him with the truth of my Draco, I will not trust him with this.”

“What will you do? He won’t just allow any child to remain in his family home.”

“I’ll take him in as a ward of the Black Family, but I’ll need an iron clad backstory if it’s going to fool both Lucius and Dumbledore,” she said.

Severus nodded as he sat forward, his mind racing. Lucius, for all his pride and ego, was actually a rather weak-minded man. It would be much easier to fool the esteemed Lord Malfoy than it would be Dumbledore. The Headmaster of Hogwarts was extremely intelligent, charismatic, and manipulative. He was a Master of the Light Arts and had marshalled multiple wizarding wars against powerful Masters of the Dark Arts. Going against Albus Dumbledore would be equivalent to playing multiple games of chess simultaneously. They would have to think of everything before word of Harry got out.

“Alright,” he said slowly, “what do you have in mind?”

Narcissa nibbled her bottom lip and stepped away from the bed as she began pacing in thought, murmuring to herself. “He’ll have to be related to the Black’s somehow… Lucius cannot have any legal say over him… A bastard child… Sirius’s? No, even though he’s in Azkaban, he could still potentially threaten the story…”

“What about Regulus?” Severus injected as he stood to run basic diagnostic spells on the boy. “As the deceased heir, any illegitimate sons he has could potentially be legitimized in order to continue the line.”

Narcissa’s eyes brightened. “Yes! And Lucius would love the notion of a betrothal between Draco and the Black’s Heir. Draco can’t legally inherit since the Heir’s Ring rejected him, but it would secure the Black fortune going to Draco through marriage—a notion Lucius would love.”

“Marriage may be getting a little ahead of ourselves, love,” Severus said, knowing Lucius’s disproval of homosexuality, but she quickly shook her head.

“It will happen with or without our say,” she said. “Draco brought him in—from where I do not yet know—but he was horribly injured, his wounds infected, and suffering from hypothermia. I did what I could to heal him, but his core was too weak. He was on the verge of dying, but then the most extraordinary thing happened—”

She smiled excitedly, her pale blue eyes bright with wonder. “Severus, I would have never thought I’d ever see it. Draco was able to not only feed Harry his magic, but to temporarily merge their cores.” She gestured to the glow around them. “They are of one core right now. Draco is healing Harry with their combined magic.”

Severus’s eyes widened as he looked down at the boys curled tightly together, their faces relaxed in peaceful sleep.

“Sálufélagar?” he whispered, as if the concept was too mythical to speak any louder. “That’s…” He shook his head. “It’s nothing but a trope for the romance books of housewives. There’s never been a single recorded pair, just a bunch of speculation and codswallop.”

She laughed softly and gave him a fond smile. “That ritual wasn’t supposed to work either, yet Draco is living proof that the gods are still with us, and you know there’s no record because the concept of a sálufélaga is part of the old ways. A tie between the Light and the Dark? The Light wizards of today would hear of no such thing.”

Severus rolled his eyes with a sigh, but couldn’t help the small smile. The Potters had been a prestigious Light family, and the Blacks a renown Dark. A union between the two would have the Prophet in an upheaval. “Suppose so.”

He rubbed the bottom of his chin thoughtfully. They were on to something with the Black heirship, but their web was still weak, and with no current Lord Black, Lucius could potentially find some foothold. They needed another powerful male figure in their corner, one not tied to Dumbledore. He carefully ran through the list of entitled wizards, those of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and old aristocrats that were not included.

“The elder Lord Nott owes you a favour, doesn’t he?” Severus said slowly.

Narcissa raised an elegant brow and nodded.

“Perhaps it is time you visited him. The boy will need a mother—a foreigner, a woman unknown to Society, but one from a powerful family to keep Lucius at bay. If I remember correctly, the Nott Family is still very close to their ancestral family on the continent?”

Narcissa’s smile turned absolutely deviant. “And, like the Blacks, they keep their Norse heritage close.”

For the rest of the hour the two continued to discuss Harry, ironing out enough details to appease Lucius, and planning out a medical regime to get the boy back to good health. Their best bet was to place Harry in a magically induced coma and rebuild his body over a matter of months, rebreaking bones to reheal properly to fix the child’s crippled form. However, many of the scars would remain, those too old or too deep for magic to fully heal. With nutrient potions they could combat the malnutrition, but Severus wasn’t certain that Harry’s height and build wouldn’t be forever stunted. Only time would tell them that. At the moment he measured just over three feet, a foot shorter than the average nine-year-old.

Diagnostic scans also indicated that there was damage to both of Harry’s eyes. There were potions that could temporarily correct some level of nearsightedness or farsightedness, and muggle glasses for a few more severe cases, but the damage to Harry’s right eye—the one cut through by the lightning bolt scar—indicated blindness. However, there was also a curious amount of magic behind that eye as well. They wouldn’t be able to delve further into it until Harry woke from his current slumber.

The other worrisome diagnostic was Harry’s hearing. There was damage to both ears, and hearing loss wasn’t something wizarding healers very much dealt with. Most just took potions to correct mild hearing loss and kept it from getting as poorly as Harry’s was likely to be. They would have to delve into muggle hearing aids and figure out how to get them to work in areas of high magical interference.

Muggle technology was neither of their area of expertise. The only person Severus could think of with the necessary level of knowledge was Arthur Weasley, but he was loathed to bring in anyone close to Dumbledore, and the Weasley Family was certainly in the man’s pocket. His eyes shifted to Draco. His elder godson was the tinkering sort. Perhaps with his abilities, and Severus and Narcissa’s knowledge of potions and healing, they would be able to come up with something.

Speaking of Draco, he should have been out with his father this morning to obtain a log for Yule. If that was the case, then…

“Where’s Lucius?” Severus asked.

Narcissa pressed her lips into a firm line. “The Ministry.”

Severus quirked a brow at that. Though the Ministry straddled the line between the traditional wizarding ways and those of muggleborns, they did recess during the ‘winter holidays’ which ran from the twentieth of December until the third of January, unofficially incorporating the twelve days of Yule into the New Year. During that time, they ran on a skeleton crew, only necessary personnel, to keep the government running and the wizarding community safe. There was no reason for Lucius to go there, unless—Severus’s eyes narrowed, and he too pursed his lips.

“His new secretary,” she said to his unasked question. “Pretty little thing, just out of Hogwarts.” Her expression turned amused. “Says she’s ovulating.”

Severus couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of his throat. The bloody fool. Considering what Narcissa had to do, to sacrifice, just to become pregnant with Draco, there was no possible way Lucius Malfoy could suddenly gain the ability to sire a child. He was being cuckold by his own mistress if she ended up pregnant. Severed the bugger right, considering his treatment of his wife and heir.

Narcissa sighed, her expression hardening again. “He’s threatened to take Draco’s inheritance away if she has a ‘proper son.’”

“All the more reason to secure Draco’s ties to the Black Heirship.” Severus reached for her and gave her hand a tender squeeze. “He would be foolish to take the Malfoy Heirship from Draco. If the two lines were to merge, given Harry’s bastard status, the Malfoy name would gain all the power and glory, but if Draco was no longer the Malfoy heir, then he would become Draco Black, and the Malfoy line would lose out on moving up in the aristocracy.”

“We can always count on Lucius’s greed, if nothing else,” she said with a humorless chuckle.

“That we can, my love, that we can.”