Chapter Text
The summer at Malfoy Manor passed with the same elegance and monotony as always. Sunlight bathed the impeccably manicured gardens, albino peacocks wandered about with the same haughty dignity as their owners, and the house-elves moved in complete silence so as not to disturb anyone. It was an environment any renowned wizard would envy, but for Draco Malfoy, the best part of that summer was neither the luxury nor the tranquility—it was the thrill of receiving letters.
Harry’s and Granger’s letters were not particularly profound nor overflowing with sentimentality, yet Draco eagerly awaited Hedwig’s arrival at his window every few days. Weasley sent only one letter, and when he received no reply, he wrote no more.
Harry usually wrote about the strange habits of his Muggle relatives, who seemed to regard him more as a nuisance than a nephew (as always). Apparently, the Dursleys had decided to give him their son Dudley’s second bedroom as soon as he returned from Hogwarts—mainly because they feared Harry might use magic against them, even though he could not do so outside school. Not that those despicable Muggles needed to know that.
However, the move had rendered the Illusory Expansion Amulet Harry had given him for Christmas an expensive but useless trinket, something Draco did not take well at all. Still, Draco’s feelings mattered very little. What mattered was that Harry Potter finally had a room of his own.
Granger, for her part, enthusiastically detailed in her letters her travels with her Muggle parents and the books she had recently acquired. Draco had traveled extensively during his childhood, so he took it upon himself to recommend—with all the self-assurance he could muster—places of interest she might enjoy visiting. Some were not accessible to Muggles, but that hardly concerned him.
All things considered, despite the distance and their differences, it was pleasant to read their words—both Harry’s and Granger’s—and to feel part of something that, not long ago, would have seemed unthinkable. More specifically, whenever a new letter arrived, Draco opened it eagerly and read it aloud, imitating Harry’s or Granger’s voice before an audience consisting of none other than Silverquick.
Silverquick seemed to share his enthusiasm, having developed a curious friendship with Hedwig. Whenever their paths crossed, both owls shared the perch in Draco’s room, and on more than one occasion, he had found them preening each other. The fact that even their owls got along only made Draco’s connection with Harry feel all the more genuine, and yet, not everything was so simple.
The Gryffindor had been far too curious about his “allergies,” keeping Draco in a constant state of alert. In his letters, Harry would not stop asking whether he had already tried the potion from the vial he had given him, whether the symptoms had worsened, or whether it hurt when they appeared. Draco had no convincing answers, and he began to worry about what would happen if Harry kept pressing.
Perhaps he should research some magical condition that caused symptoms similar to his own. If there were a real illness that caused scales, he could use it as an excuse should the lie about the “allergy” cease to suffice. Maybe he could ask Severus about it when he returned to Hogwarts…
But before he could make up his mind, Harry stopped replying.
Silverquick returned to Malfoy Manor with the parchments still tied to its leg and not a single answer. At first, Draco thought Harry was simply busy or distracted, but as the days passed and the silence continued, worry settled in his stomach like a stone. He reminded himself that Harry lived with Muggles who seemed to delight in making his life miserable and that they had probably found a way to prevent him from replying. Perhaps they had confiscated his ink and parchment. Perhaps they had locked up Hedwig…
The thought did not sit well with him, but there was nothing he could do about it. So instead, Draco tried to focus on his own dilemmas. First and foremost, that distorted, mysterious voice. Who—or what—was it? He had his suspicions, but leaping to wild conclusions without proof was not the Malfoy way. Besides, he had not heard it again since his first complete transformation, which he found as curious as it was intriguing. Nor had he dreamed again of his nocturnal flights, something he could not decide was a relief or a great loss.
Secondly, he took his newly acquired ability of metamorphosis very seriously. While alone in his room, he continued what he had begun at the Black Lake, summoning wings and claws. He wanted to determine whether there was a pattern to the transformation: how long partial morphing took and how much time he needed to dispel that scaly assemblage. Some days, he managed to raise long, white horns from his head. Other days, he succeeded in turning his legs into dragon-like limbs. The day a long silver tail appeared at the base of his spine, he nearly knocked over Silverquick’s perch in fright, unable to control it.
At times, he stood before the full-length mirror, contemplating that strange appearance with a mixture of doubt, awe, and fear.
—What do you think, Silverquick? Is your master monstrous or extraordinary?
The owl merely hooted, flapping it wings energetically on her perch. Perhaps one night he could go flying with it. Wouldn’t that be something worth seeing? A silver snowy owl and some sort of human–dragon hybrid patrolling the Malfoy grounds.
Moreover, outbreaks of scales continued to appear uncontrollably whenever his emotions ran high, so he still had work to do in that regard.
Naturally, Draco had not assumed the form of a full dragon again since returning home. He did not want his parents to discover his little—or rather, great—revelation just yet, and truthfully, his family already had enough worries without adding another.
Lucius Malfoy had been more irritable than usual. News from the Ministry of Magic filled the conversations at the Manor, and his father’s foul mood was unmistakable. Since Cornelius Fudge had taken office as Minister, certain sectors of the government had begun pressuring pureblood families with inspections and raids on their properties, particularly those with old collections of unconventional magical artifacts.
—Arthur Weasley must be delighted by this —Lucius muttered one afternoon, leafing through The Daily Prophet in his study—. He’s spent years trying to drag us down to his level, and now he has the perfect excuse to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong.
Draco, seated in a nearby armchair, merely observed his father with caution. Had Lucius still been the host of the family curse, Draco was certain his body would have been covered in scales at that very moment.
—Do you think they’ll come here? —his son asked, feigning indifference.
Lucius gave a dry laugh, turning the page with a sharp motion.
—It’s only a matter of time. That Weasley would love to find something to accuse us with, even if he has to invent it. But I won’t give him that satisfaction. Before he can lay a single finger on this house, I’ll dispose of anything that could be used against us.
Draco knew exactly what that meant. His father possessed an extensive collection of artifacts that, while not entirely illegal, could raise suspicions if they fell into the wrong hands, and Lucius Malfoy would not allow that to happen. The solution was to rid himself of the most incriminating objects, so, accompanied by his son, Mr. Malfoy decided to pay a visit towards the end of summer to the questionably shadowy Knockturn Alley.
The streets of Knockturn Alley were damp and dark, filled with suspicious-looking wizards slipping through shadows and narrow alleys. Draco adjusted the collar of his robes as he followed his father towards the door of Borgin & Burkes, trying to ignore the sense of unease the sinister place inspired.
Lucius Malfoy entered the shop with his usual haughty elegance, but Draco noticed the tension in his jaw. This was not their first visit, but this time his father was not here to acquire rare objects. He was here to get rid of them before the Ministry decided to pry where it shouldn’t.
—Mr. Malfoy, what an honor to receive you —said the shopkeeper, a thin man with a calculating gaze, bowing his head with a servile smile.
—I have no time for formalities, Borgin —Lucius produced his cane and tapped it lightly against the floor. He turned to Draco and fixed him with a severe look—. Touch nothing.
His son nodded without protest as Lucius approached the counter and opened a trunk filled with various objects. Draco glanced sideways as the shopkeeper examined the contents with interest: a pair of dark artifacts, vials containing dubious substances, and what appeared to be an old opal necklace. Among them, Draco spotted a small black diary, plain and unremarkable. Borgin picked it up and ran his fingers over the cover, as though sensing something within it.
—Interesting… —he murmured.
Lucius hesitated. He stood in silence for a moment, as if debating with himself, and then snatched the diary from Borgin’s hands and set it aside, atop a pile of items Draco assumed would be sold at another time.
—Not that.
Borgin did not protest and continued inspecting the remaining objects.
Draco lost interest and let his gaze wander about the shop. Some items he recognized from previous visits; others he did not recall seeing before. His eyes lingered on a mummified hand, its fingers bony and twisted, bearing a small tag that read:
«Lights up only for thieves.»
Farther along were jars containing eyes floating in an amber liquid that seemed to move when one passed near them. Draco shuddered and stepped away. Turning to another shelf, he found a delicate-looking black necklace, accompanied by a warning on a yellowed parchment:
«Caution: this necklace has caused the deaths of nineteen Muggles to date.»
Draco swallowed and looked away. He was accustomed to the Malfoys owning rare artifacts, but this place felt entirely different. There was a darkness here that Malfoy Manor did not possess.
He was about to move on when something made him stop.
—Draco.
He froze. It was a whisper. One that spoke his name. He looked around, searching for the source of the voice, until his gaze settled on a slightly ajar black cabinet. From within its darkness, a face emerged that he would recognize anywhere.
Harry Potter.
Draco’s heart began to race.
—In Salazar’s name, what in Merlin’s hell are you doing here? —he whispered back, hurrying towards the cabinet.
Harry frowned at him.
—I could ask you the same thing.
—I’m here with my father, but you? —Draco glanced towards the counter, making sure Lucius and Borgin were still distracted. He leaned closer to the cabinet and whispered—. How did you end up in Knockturn Alley?
Harry grimaced.
—I mispronounced ‘Diagon Alley’ when I traveled by Floo Powder.
Draco lifted a hand to the back of his neck, feeling a familiar tingling in his skin. When his fingers brushed the area, he felt the rough texture of a scale emerging. Brilliant. Knockturn Alley was the last place someone like Harry Potter should be seen… and also the last place Harry Potter should see him.
—Listen —Draco muttered urgently—. You need to get out of here. If my father or old Borgin see you, they’ll ask questions you don’t want to answer.
Harry nodded quickly.
—How do I get out without being seen?
Draco thought for a moment, then glanced towards his father and Borgin, still arguing over prices.
—I’ll distract them. When you hear raised voices, run and get out.
Harry nodded in relief and slipped back into the cabinet, hiding himself. Draco turned and walked back towards the counter with his usual confidence.
—Father, may I keep something from behind the counter?
Lucius did not even look at him.
—We are not here to buy, Draco.
The shopkeeper, however, did pay attention.
—I have some very interesting items, young Mr. Malfoy…
Borgin began to speak about an enchanted dagger, but Lucius cut him off sharply.
—I have already told you. We are not here to buy.
Draco rolled his eyes and deliberately began asking more questions, ensuring the conversation dragged on. Then he heard the jingle of the shop bell. Harry had made his escape, and Draco discreetly exhaled, immediately ceasing to pester his father.
—Well, we’re done here, aren’t we? Let’s go to Flourish & Blotts.
Lucius frowned at the sudden urgency but said nothing. He accepted Borgin’s payment, retrieved his cane, and left the shop. Draco followed, casting one last glance at the pile of objects his father had left behind before stepping back into Knockturn Alley, where sunlight filtered weakly between the disreputable storefronts.
In the distance, he caught sight of a disastrous mane of black hair fleeing in haste. Draco could not help but smile.
—And off he goes, Saint Potter on the run —he murmured, before following his father.
🔹🔹🔹
Diagon Alley was packed. Draco and his father had barely stepped out of Knockturn Alley when they found themselves facing a crowd gathered in front of Flourish & Blotts. At first glance, there seemed to be far too many people for an ordinary day of school shopping.
—What do you think is going on, Father? —Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.
—A spectacle, of course —Lucius surveyed the commotion with disdain—. If the Alley is this full of rabble, it must be because some mediocre individual has managed to attract the attention of the masses.
Curious, Draco leaned forward to peer through the crowd, and then he saw him:
Gilderoy Lockhart.
The famous wizard stood at the center of the chaos, striking poses with a broad smile beside an enormous poster of himself while signing books with exaggerated flourishes of his hand. But the worst part wasn’t that. Standing beside him, trapped in a situation he very clearly did not want to be in, was Harry Potter.
It took Draco a few seconds to process it. Harry’s face was burning with embarrassment as Lockhart held him by the shoulders and beamed at the crowd, as though sharing the stage with him were the greatest honor imaginable. Apparently, the author had dragged Harry along simply to draw even more attention to himself.
When Harry’s green eyes met Draco’s across the crowd, he flushed even deeper, looking as though he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. Draco let out a genuine laugh, and Harry quickly looked away, making a desperate attempt to wriggle free of Lockhart’s grasp, but the man was not about to let him go so easily.
—And now, ladies and gentlemen, some incredible news! —Lockhart exclaimed, his teeth gleaming—. I am delighted to announce that this year I will be the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts!
The crowd erupted into applause and excited murmurs. Draco raised an eyebrow, impressed.
—Salazar… —he muttered.
Harry, who had seized the moment to escape the wizard’s grip, immediately hurried over to Granger and Weasley. Draco watched them talk and laugh under their breath. It was clear Harry was not at all thrilled by the announcement, but before Draco could continue observing the disaster, an abrupt silence fell over the shop. A chill ran down his spine as he turned around.
Lucius Malfoy and Arthur Weasley were staring each other down.
—Lucius.
—Arthur, what a surprise to see you here —Lucius replied loftily, as though the man before him was a beggar who had wandered somewhere he did not belong—. I do hope the Ministry isn’t overworking you. Though, judging by the state of your family, I imagine a little extra income would be most welcome.
Mr. Weasley narrowed his eyes but kept his composure, though Draco noticed Harry, Granger, and Weasley watching the scene with growing discomfort. Without losing his air of superiority, Lucius stepped closer to who appeared to be the youngest Weasley daughter and, with a mocking sneer, pulled a book from the cauldron she was carrying.
—Tell me, girl —are these the only books your father can afford?
Draco pressed a hand to his forehead in embarrassment; it was hardly the first time he had witnessed his father behave like this. Lucius Abraxas Malfoy was far too accustomed to slipping into the role of morally superior pureblood, and on occasions like this… he seemed to enjoy it far too much.
Ron Weasley clenched his fists, and Harry shot Draco a look as though demanding an explanation. Draco merely clasped his hands together and offered a silent apology. And then, as if it had been inevitable from the start, Lucius Malfoy and Arthur Weasley came to blows.
The crowd recoiled sharply as the two men slammed into a bookshelf, sending books and cauldrons crashing to the floor. The Weasley twins cheered their father on, urging him to land a solid punch on Mr. Malfoy.
Harry pulled Draco backward just in time to keep him from being struck by one of the shelves as it tilted dangerously.
The youngest Weasley was not so lucky. She stumbled, and her books spilled across the floor. Ron rushed to help his sister while Harry turned towards Draco.
—Are you all right, Ginny? —her brother asked.
—And you, Draco? —Harry inquired.
Draco brushed the dust from his robes and snorted. The shock had not been enough to trigger a cascade of scales across his skin, but it had come close.
—Yes, thanks —he replied bitterly—. Arthur Weasley isn’t exactly my father’s favorite person, but I suppose… sometimes a Malfoy takes things too far.
Harry nodded and offered him a hand to help him up. At least those beautiful green eyes weren’t judging him the way the rest of the shop undoubtedly was.
Eventually, after several chaotic moments, the fight dissolved and the crowd began to disperse. Lucius brushed his long hair back irritably and picked up a few items that had fallen to the floor during the scuffle.
Among them were two black leather-bound diaries.
Draco watched as his father slipped one into the pocket of his robes and, without giving it much thought, placed the other into Ginny’s cauldron before turning towards him, clearly eager to leave the place as soon as possible.
—Come along, Draco.
Draco barely had time to give Harry a quick farewell before following his father out of the shop. When they reached a quieter alley, Lucius struck his cane sharply against the ground and, without another word, Apparated with his son. Draco felt the familiar dizziness of Apparition, and within seconds they were back at Malfoy Manor. They had scarcely set foot on the marble floor when Draco spoke.
—I didn’t get to buy my books…
Lucius, still scowling from his altercation with Mr. Weasley, waved a hand impatiently.
—You’ll go another day with your mother.
Draco sighed tiredly and climbed the stairs to his room, rubbing his temples. His father could be a shrewd and persuasive man, but at times his hollow pureblood pride made him unbearable. He closed the door behind him and dropped into his chair at the desk. Taking up a piece of parchment and a quill, he dipped it into the ink automatically and began to write:
«Harry,
I’m truly sorry about today’s spectacle at Flourish & Blotts. I know my father can be… excessive when it comes to the Weasleys, but I want you to know that he isn’t a bad person, even if his pride and his feud with Mr. Weasley make him behave like a complete idiot at times.
He can’t stand being called a Death Eater when he’s tried to distance himself from all of that since the Dark Lord’s fall, but the Weasleys seem to take pleasure in pushing him back into that image.
I hope you won’t be swayed by gossip or form the wrong idea about my family.
See you at Hogwarts.
Draco.»
He sighed and rolled up the parchment. Silverquick, resting comfortably on her perch, hooted softly as Draco approached.
—You’ve got a delivery tonight —he murmured, carefully tying the letter to its leg—. Go wherever the Weasleys are and find Harry.
The owl beat its wings and flew out the window, disappearing into the twilight. Draco collapsed onto his bed, exhausted and realizing that his summer was proving to be far more troublesome than he had anticipated.