Chapter Text
Draco is the first to notice the patch of white heather growing in the shadow of the castle wall. He'll be the last, if the low, grey clouds skimming across the lake bring the weather he expects. The moist air promises a heavy, damp snow, and the tender blooms and pale leaves will blend too well with the fresh mantle to catch anyone's attention, even if they should come upon the place.
Heather. In February. And of the purest mythical white. Draco squats and presses the nearest bloom between his fingers, releasing the flower's scent. He doesn't fight the smile that tugs at his lips. Good luck is hard to come by these days, and he'll take what he can get, even if sentimentality is a fool's security blanket.
Has anyone else noticed the flowers? He glances around, but the only sign of life is a flurry of tentacles far out in the lake. Nobody frequents this side of the castle. The cliff slopes away to the lake at a dangerous angle, and there isn't a single window cut into the rough, mossy wall. It's a solitary place, and a deadly one, if he's not careful: the snow has been slicked smooth by yesterday's cold rain. One misstep would end it all, and in the most literal of fashions.
As if agreeing, the snowpack shifts like quicksand, and Draco shoots to his feet, pinwheeling his arms. A sheet of ice slides away, gaining speed as it goes, then slips silently over the cliff. Unnerved, Draco finds his balance and steps back against the stone wall, shivering despite his heavy winter cloak. His toes curl inside his boots.
Hogwarts vibrates against his back, and Draco closes his eyes, accepting the comfort. He's been back at the school long enough that the thrum of friendly magic is welcome, even if it doesn't come with flesh and blood, a kind voice, or a warm touch. The castle has no reason or motive to forgive him for the damage he's caused, yet it has.
The people within its walls have been slower to accept his presence. But Draco has been caretaker for several years now, interacting with staff and students nine months out of twelve, and the initial animosity has settled into a predictable chilly disapproval. He's learned to accept it.
He brings his hand to his mouth, intent on wiping away the sweat breaking across his upper lip, but it stops a few inches short of its target. His fist is full of flowers, the lopsided bouquet still shedding damp soil from the roots where he ripped it from the earth when he stumbled.
"White heather," he whispers, wondering if his voice is the talisman that will cause the flowers to wither and die, for surely no natural phenomenon would make such an unusual plant thrive months before it should. Then again—Draco tilts his head and examines the patch of white flowers—he knows no natural reason why the spread of foliage should take the rudimentary shape of a Gryffindor lion either.
He stays until the snow begins to fall. Before long, its heavy, sticky flakes topple the stalks, distorting the lion's outline. Its mouth, set in a trademark snarl, widens into a yawn, and the noble arch of its back sags. It looks stretched out, spread too thin. Comical.
To his consternation, Draco can't rouse a proper feeling of delight. Frowning, he turns to pick his way back along the castle wall, wary of slippery boulders and shifting patches of snow. It's a long way down, and he's no fool.
Nobody would come looking for him for a while.
*~*~*
Breakfast is Draco's least favorite meal of the day, but that has little to do with the food that the house-elves prepare. The students of this generation have a carefree spirit, the sort Draco and his mates enjoyed during his first years at the school, when the word 'future' made him smile instead of shake, and the most troublesome thing on his mind was how to win the next round of one-upmanship with Potter. The children of today have no memory of war. They're blind to the still-present piles of rubble that dot the castle. As such, their energies are mostly directed to the few things their young minds are wired for: adventure and cruelty.
Typically, mornings bring the most mischief.
Curbing their adventurous spirit is Draco's responsibility, and he takes it seriously. Hogwarts comes with a hefty list of dangers, more now than ever before. Filch, he thinks, would have been proud of how Draco handles things, although whether the man had been capable of such an emotion is a mystery he took to his grave. No one knew Argus well enough to ask… except Dumbledore, and Draco would rather suffer a Cruciatus than talk to the headmaster's portrait.
He'd thought things would be different when he returned, and he was right. But strangely, it's Hogwarts, formed of stone and mortar, that's changed—that continues to change—while the children, delicate flesh and blood, remain the same. They play the same practical jokes, hide in the same passageways, and taunt the same staff members as they always have.
Draco takes the brunt of their cruelty. No surprise there. In fact, he's beginning to believe it's a prerequisite for his job.
"Careful." Poppy stays his hand when he reaches for his pumpkin juice. "I believe I saw one of the Cahill twins drop something in there as I was coming in." She pats his arm, her favorite gesture of comfort, before leaning away.
Draco eyes the goblet.
His first year back had been the worst, but word spread, as it often does, and by the Welcoming Feast of his second year, the practical jokes had slowed to a trickle. Draco is no Argus Filch; he has the power to kill and makes sure the little brats know it. What he's careful to hide is how the thought of doing so can make him sick enough to vomit.
"Saw you disappear around the south side of the castle this morning," Poppy says around a mouthful of eggs. "Do be careful out there."
"I'm always careful," Draco snaps.
Besides "white heather", which he whispered to himself on the cliff, these are the first words he's uttered in fourteen hours, and his voice cracks on the first syllable. He clears his throat, but pulls his hand back when it reflexively reaches for his goblet of pumpkin juice. "Safeguarding the perimeter of the castle is part of my job."
"So it is."
She has more to say, that much is obvious. Draco spreads butter over his toast while he waits.
"Have you heard the latest on Potter?" She follows this with a loud slurp of tea, and Draco's whole body jumps a little at the name. He covers well, picking up his fork as though he was reaching for it all along, even though his plate holds nothing but toast.
"I have," he drawls, unable to help a childish roll of his eyes. "Walking on water now, I hear. Busy boy."
Poppy clucks her tongue, but doesn't comment on his pettiness. "I meant have you heard about how he's disappeared?"
Now that is a shock, and he doesn't bother trying to hide the fact. Not even Poppy's self-satisfied smirk deflects his curiosity. Turning to face her, he reaches once again for his goblet, needing to wet his suddenly dry throat.
Poppy catches his hand and presses a cup of steaming tea into his palm instead. She taps her wand against the lip of his goblet, and it pops out of existence.
"Disappeared?" Draco prompts, darting a glance at the circle of condensation left behind on the table.
"Right off the edge of the earth." Poppy's eyes slide to the left and Draco's follow, but Minerva is deep in conversation with some other unfortunate soul. Poppy's attempt at discretion can only mean one thing: Potter's friends are trying to keep the latest drama a secret. Draco is more intrigued than ever.
"And he's taken that child with him. Can you imagine?" she continues.
Frankly, no. Gossip isn't something he regularly engages in. "What child?"
Poppy slaps one plump hand to her chest. "What child? Why, Teddy Lupin, of course." Her eyes narrow with disapproval. "The boy's your cousin, Draco. Haven't you the slightest idea of what's been happening with him?"
Draco's related to half the wizards in England. Since when is he expected to keep up with every single one? Appearing ignorant isn't appealing, though. He attacks the issue from the side—like any good Slytherin. "Ah yes, the werewolf's spawn. How old is the mutt now?" He eyes a crack in the ceiling, pretending to think. "Seven?"
Born the last year of the war. Does Poppy honestly think Draco could forget?
"Seven." Poppy hums her disapproval. "At least you got that part right."
Apparently she does. The knowledge stirs his indignation, but little else.
"You know he's been sick," she says, nibbling on a piece of toast. It hadn't been a question, but Draco nods, wondering who they're talking about now: Potter or Teddy.
"And Andromeda has had him to every healer in the country."
Teddy, then. Despite himself, Draco feels a spark of concern.
"But then they had that falling out, Harry and Andromeda. Something about the illness. They say now it's a curse afflicting the poor boy."
Well Potter would know if that's the case. And if even a smidge of Draco's recollections about his aunt are correct, Draco's Galleons are on Potter's diagnosis. Andromeda is as flighty as a peacock.
"Seven is too young to die." Poppy dabs at her eyes with the corner of her wimple. "Far too young."
And that, at least, they both agree on.
*~*~*
The boy occupies his thoughts for the rest of the day.
He's saved from having to explain his distraction due to the simple fact that nobody goes out of their way to speak to him—a mutual win/win that has been the status quo since he assumed Filch's position.
His father was the first to give him the silent treatment, after he'd had his say on the matter of Draco's new employment.
"Malfoys are not caretakers," Lucius spat as Draco shrank his trunks and slipped them into his pocket. That's true, Draco had wanted to respond, Malfoys don't look after anything very well, as a general rule.
Regardless, Hogwarts welcomed his presence. From the moment he stepped inside, its magic swept through him, ripping past his defenses as if they were parchment, bringing more honest welcome in one rush than he'd experienced his whole life. Breathless, he'd stumbled over his own feet just inside the front doors, the words you belong here ringing through his head. Since it was romantic to believe that the sentiment came from Hogwarts and not from his own bruised hear, Draco nurtured the sentiment.
Now, Teddy on his mind, he wanders, but not aimlessly. Rather, the castle guides him to where he's needed, and Draco has learned to follow the pull of ancient magic without question. It's not as though there's a shortage of work. There's more than enough lingering destruction to be righted: he spends his days erasing scorch marks from walls, rebuilding stone arches, and straightening portraits. Why one room or hall takes precedence over another from day to day he doesn't understand, and he doesn't care. He could labor until he's fifty putting the castle to rights and still not be done.
His life has become more about the past than the present. Sometimes he thinks that being forced to relive the deeds of his childhood day in and day out should weigh heavier on his mind, yet it doesn't. In fact, Draco finds it cathartic.
Today he's reassembling fallen suits of armor, a task just mindless enough that Teddy remains in the forefront of his thoughts. He has questions upon questions. How long has the child been sick? Can Potter cure him? Just how serious is Potter's break with his friends and family? Poppy hadn't been very forthcoming, which is very unlike her. It figures that when he finally wants gossip on a certain subject, she shuts up tighter than a clam.
Eventually, Draco's curiosity outweighs his good sense. As soon as the armor is put to rights, he retreats to his office to pen a letter to his father.
Months have passed since he's exchanged any sort of correspondence with his parents, but the mystery of a missing Potter is too difficult to ignore. He figures he'll get the answers he seeks, but at a price. So be it. Time and distance have given him the wherewithal to ignore most of Lucius' insults. He keeps the letter concise. The truth is, beyond his questions regarding Potter, there really isn't much to say.
His reply arrives during dinner that evening, and if Draco weren't so intent on reading the letter, he would take more time to enjoy everyone's shock. It's not often he receives mail.
"A letter, Draco?" Poppy's eyes are round. "Is everything all right?"
Nosy bird. "Fine," Draco replies, tone clipped. He frees the roll of parchment, gives the delivery owl a treat, and breaks the seal.
Draco, it begins. Not Son, as Lucius used to begin his letters, in the lifetime before this one.
I was going to write you about this very subject.
Not the thing Draco wants to hear. His stomach flips. Next to him, Poppy shifts in her seat, and Draco turns the parchment away from her prying eyes.
Yes, Potter has kidnapped your cousin. Keep your eyes and ears open. If you hear anything at all about his possible whereabouts, you are to contact me immediately.
Draco blinks, then rereads the previous sentence. Surely Lucius isn't expressing concern for the Lupin child?
This is the perfect chance to destroy Potter's reputation and livelihood.
Draco snorts. Now that's more like it. Still, the short missive does little to clear up the mystery. Perhaps that was his father's intention.
Now on to other subjects. Are you ready to make something of your life?
That sentence gets an arched eyebrow. How very solicitous. Insulting and condescending, but within kissing distance of polite. What is his father up to?
By now, I would have hoped that you were ready to put this ridiculous self-imposed punishment behind you. Come home. Get married, even if you will never be a true husband. Procure an heir, if you can.
Draco stares at the words without seeing them. An heir. Not a son or a daughter. Just a trophy to show off to the world. Typical. Almost as typical as the tired insults regarding his bed partners. Draco crumples the parchment in his fist, then banishes it. Enough. Potter can keep his mystery. Draco has better things to occupy his time and thoughts.
"Bad news?" Poppy ventures.
"No news," Draco replies quite honestly.
"I was hoping…." Poppy's voice drops off.
"Hoping?" Draco asks, despite his overwhelming urge to ignore the implied question.
"That it might be some news about Harry and Teddy. I thought that once you knew what has going on, that you might try to help."
For the second time in a single day, Poppy has shocked him nearly speechless. "What could possibly have given you that idea?" he asks. He genuinely wants to know, because it's a huge leap of logic to believe shared genes means Draco cares about some half-blood cousin.
Again with the disapproving glare. Poppy's lips are pressed into a thin, white line. "You're his family, Draco."
"Oh honestly," Draco mutters and stomps away from the table.
*~*~*
The following week brings more tension. Minerva snaps at whoever is unfortunate enough to cross her path, Poppy sniffles into a handkerchief at meals, and Draco happily ignores all the histrionics. Thoughts of a sick Teddy dwindle, but never disappear. Draco works, patrols the castle, and reminisces. His memories are all of Potter.
It's distinctly unsettling.
Nine days after Poppy tells him about Teddy, Draco climbs over the rocky ground where the castle meets the cliff, to where he found the white heather. The sun is making a rare appearance, and while it warms the air, it also melts the surface of the snow into a glistening layer of ice. Draco moves quietly and with great care, wand clenched in his gloveless fist.
The area is as desolate as it always is. The likelihood of trouble here is slim to none, but the white heather is the wrench. Whatever wayward magic created it, Draco needs to investigate. It's his responsibility.
Gentle breezes ruffle the collar of his cloak. It isn't enough to throw him off-balance, but every once in a while, the peculiar architecture of the castle bends the wind into a strong gust, so Draco tenses with every brush of air to his face. Vigilance could save his life. Far below, the surface of the water is mirror-smooth, unaffected by the turbulent air. Ice extends from the shore several feet into the lake.
It's been the coldest winter Draco can remember.
The heather is gone, either buried under the snow or just vanished, as things born from magic are wont to do. He supposes it's stupid to feel disappointed, but the white flower lion is the most exciting thing to happen to him in ages—if he doesn't count Potter going missing—and he was rather hoping for another dose of mystery.
"Damn," he says and leans back against the weathered stone. Another strong gust whips past, twirling the loose powder into mini tornadoes. Sheltered in the slanted wall of the castle, Draco feels nothing. Just dampness soaking into his boots and numbing cold at the tips of his fingers where he holds his wand.
With a sigh, he tilts his head into the sun, and that's when he sees it.
His first thought is that somebody painted the wall, but no, that's not it. The stone is awash with colors, but it isn't paint he's seeing. To his best guess, the mural stretches twenty feet high and ten feet wide and is formed of crustose lichens. To wonder if it's magical is the same as wondering if Snape had possessed a bitter temperament. The real question is why is it here, where nobody will see it, save Draco?
The picture, like the flower lion, is childishly simplistic. And damn familiar. Draco risks two steps away from the wall, toward the edge of the cliff, in order to get a better look. Distorted, like an impressionist painting, the shapes are still recognizable. A man, or maybe a boy, standing with his arms raised, while black birds circle overhead. Draco shakes his finger at the wall. "I've seen you," he mutters.
Making flowers bloom in February in Scotland is one thing. Manipulating lichen to cover 200 square feet of stone is another. To some, the difference would seem academic, but Draco knows the truth of it: no student currently at the school possesses such power and skill. No professor either, except possibly Minerva.
His heart thumps with agitation, and yes, anticipation. The threat level has yet to be determined, but Draco believes in expecting the worst. If Hogwarts is in danger, then it's Draco's job to defend it. He taps his wand against the stone, tracing a path of rust-colored lichen. The answer to the mystery is so close, he growls in frustration. He's seen this image. He's seen it recently. Within the last few days.
He spends several minutes studying the mural, memorizing it, before turning back to the safety of firmer ground. Students scatter when he cuts through the east entrance, and he laughs out loud, not because he's feeling evil or vindictive, but because it's funny. If they only knew: Draco can't so much as step on a spider these days without losing his lunch. Not that that protection will extend to whoever might be threatening the castle. That is a different matter altogether.
He's so sure of this, in fact, that it stops him dead in his tracks halfway across the courtyard. His heart contracts like it's caught in a vise, his ears ring, and his vision goes grey around the edges.
For Hogwarts, he'd hurt someone. He might even kill them. Draco shakes himself and stumbles forward on lead feet. At the first opportunity, he needs to puzzle out the complex tangle of justifications that live in his head.
Because he swore he'd never love again. And he meant it.
*~*~*
It hits him the moment he enters his office. The picture that was on the castle wall stares back at him from the surface of his desk. It's his latest confiscated contraband: the newest issue of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle. On the cover, Martin stands on a knoll. He has his hands lifted to the sky, and a flock of black crows circle high above him.
"Don't leave me!" Martin yells, the words appearing over and over in his speech bubble.
The crows circle, eerily silent, without even a 'caw caw' for dramatic effect.
But for the fact that the picture's moving, the images are identical, and Draco stands with his index finger pressed to his lips for several seconds while he tries to puzzle out the connection. Nothing adds up. But one thing is for certain: there's nobody on the outside of the castle wall. So the origin of the mystery must be within.
He takes a moment to hang up his soggy cloak and remove his robes, then stretches his neck from side to side, loosening the muscles. Placing his wand between his teeth, he spins his arms forward, then backward, wincing at the pull in his shoulders, even if it's a welcome ache. He feels wonderful. On edge. Loose and supple and ready for a fight, should one come to him.
Argus was said to have been more familiar with Hogwarts than anyone else, a fact that Draco thinks is probably up for debate, but no one has challenged the claim yet, and he doesn't plan to be the first. The man did keep an extensive set of maps of the castle, many of which impressed Draco with their detail when he first found them. He refers to one now. What is on the opposite side of the lichen-covered wall?
Nothing, apparently. Draco scowls and leans closer to the parchment. The map shows a crisscross of passages and rooms, but none near that wall, which is odd enough that Draco immediately suspects trickery.
"No way through, you say?" he addresses the parchment. "We'll see about that."
Wand tingling against his palm, he goes hunting.
For the first time since Draco's returned to Hogwarts, he feels the castle working against him. It stings, like his best friend has insulted him, but he presses on. Staircases swing away the moment he tries to step on them. More than one passageway ends before it should, forcing him to backtrack. The third time it happens, Draco smacks his fist against the stone. "Open up!" he shouts, angry and frustrated.
"Mr Malfoy."
Minerva's prim voice makes him spin around. When he realizes his wand is up and at the ready, and shaking—how mortifying—he lowers it, and pulls a deep breath through his nose. "Professor." He'll never be comfortable calling her Minerva to her face.
Her mouth purses, and her eyes shift to the wall behind him. "Is there a problem?"
"No." Draco pulls himself straight. He's got six inches on the witch, and since height is his only advantage, he makes the most of it. "Just the castle having a bit of fun."
The words are out before he realizes how they sound, but Minerva cracks a smile, even if it doesn't reach her eyes. "Albus used to say that Hogwarts had the best sense of humor of us all."
That one sentence shouldn't hurt like it does. Draco hates it, hates her at that moment, that she can tear him down so innocently. Albus Dumbledore used to say a lot of things. Some of those things were even directed at Draco, and almost all of them were kind. Draco swallows and nods his acknowledgment. Hindsight, he's learned, is the most painful of curses.
Minerva is eyeing the wall again. When she catches Draco watching her, she folds her hands inside her sleeves. "Carry on, Mr Malfoy." She sweeps away, robes swaying, the hem brushing the dusty floor and coming away soiled. Draco's eyes narrow. The entire floor is layered with dust. The corridor smells of disuse. So what had Minerva been doing here in the first place?
"Questions and more questions," he mumbles to himself and turns back to the wall.
It's gone. A dark hall stretches away into the distance.
Draco cups a hand over his mouth while he thinks. "Very well," he says after a minute, and walks into the gloom, boots clacking on the bare stone.
He travels by instinct; he's always had an excellent sense of direction. He was the only one in his year who never got lost in the Slytherin dungeons, not even once. The more he reflects, however, the more he has to wonder what role Hogwarts has in who loses their way and who doesn't.
The numbers of doors and halls lessen as he travels deeper into the castle. Draco enters a narrow passage, barely the width of his shoulders, and follows it through twists and turns, down one flight of stairs, then another. The air turns moist, and when his shoulder brushes the wall, it comes away damp. He's beginning to doubt himself when all of a sudden he makes a sharp turn and comes up short.
Another dead end.
The walls are close, pressing in, and there's very little echo—a bit tomb-like for Draco's tastes. He lit his wand a half hour ago, but he's tired, and it's beginning to sputter. The cracked mortar leaks a steady stream of water in places, and a coppery smell fills the air, coating his tongue. The physical clues are telling him there's nothing here, and the urge to turn around and go back is so compelling that Draco breaks out in a sweat.
"No!" he says, loud enough to startle himself, and immediately he can breathe easier. "No." He pushes on, and what he finds at the end of the passageway makes his heart leap with a childlike excitement, the kind he hasn't felt in years.
It's not a dead end. The wall is built to trick the eye. In fact, the stonework is matched to such exactness that even Draco is impressed. The passageway continues on a sharp right turn, the walls so close he has to turn sideways to slither through. A part of his brain begins to clamor a warning. What does he really expect to find here? There's barely enough room to breathe, let alone wave a wand. And why would anyone want to?
The mystery drives him onward.
Eventually, the walls open up, curling back like the top of a potion beaker, and Draco steps into a large antechamber. The trickling water is gone, as is the chill. A puff of warm air breaks across his face, and his nostrils flare. He smells cinnamon. Yeast. The odor is so sharp, so real, that Draco's mouth begins to water. His stomach growls.
The large hall is in shadow, lit only by his wand. No matter. Draco follows his nose. At the other side he finds an arched door cut into the stone, and that's not all.
He finds Teddy Lupin.
The child is just inside the doorway, sitting cross-legged on a worn rug playing a game of wizard's chess. A wall-mounted torch throws flickering light over the scene. Teddy's opponent is a stuffed toy crup with a ripped ear and a forked yarn tail. One of its glass eyes is missing. It looks well-loved in a macabre sort of way.
"Teddy," Draco says quietly, almost to himself. He's surprised… and yet he isn't.
Someone has charmed the crup. Potter, probably. It slants its plush face toward the sound of Draco's voice and stares with one glass eye before yipping and dashing away into the darkness.
"Uh-oh," Teddy says, as eloquent as every other child Draco has ever known. "Uncle Harry is not going to like this."
"I bet not," Draco agrees.
To prepare himself for the conversation ahead, he draws a deep breath, and his lungs fill more easily than they have in nine days, he realizes. Seeing the child alive and well—and not looking sick at all, to be honest—causes the knot of worry in his chest to loosen. The burning sensation at the base of his sternum that he hadn't noticed before this very moment slackens.
He lowers himself to the rug, taking the crup's place. "Who was winning?"
Teddy puffs up. "Me!" He stabs a finger at his chest. His hair, a dull mousy brown, goes magenta at the roots. He grins at Draco, revealing a somewhat incomplete set of teeth.
Draco shudders a bit. "My faith is restored. Although your toy is probably a more challenging opponent than your uncle will ever be."
Teddy's smile is shy, unsure. He jumps topics. "How did you find us, Draco?"
No surprise that the brat recognizes him. Nonetheless, it derails his next question, which would have been What the hell are you doing down here?
Biding his time, Draco studies the game board. Teddy had been winning, but not by much, and once again Draco gets distracted. He waves his hand at the sprawl of chess pieces. "What sort of strategy is this?"
Teddy blinks and stares blankly at the chess board. "What do you mean?"
Well that answers that. Draco scratches his temple with the tip of his wand. "I suppose Uncle Harry taught you how to play."
Teddy looks delighted, the fool. "Yeah! How'd you know that?"
"Educated guess," Draco says with a smirk. "And the fact that your stuffed toy was about to put you in check."
Teddy's eyes go round and he leans over the board, shaggy hair falling into his face. When he next sits back, tears are shining in his eyes.
Draco groans.
"I'm not good at games." Teddy sniffs, then wipes his nose on his sleeve. The magenta fades from his hair.
Perfect. Now the urchin is crying, and Draco has yet to pry a single useful piece of information from him. He reaches awkwardly across the board and pats Teddy on the arm. The boy feels bone-thin beneath his jumper. Fragile. "Now I'm positive that's not true," Draco croons, reassessing Teddy's state of health. "And if you like, I'll instruct you on a few essential strategies."
Teddy doesn't trust him. The sad, blank look is proof of that, and Draco can't believe he actually cares, but, yes—that's anger crawling up his chest. He's affronted. Now children are questioning his honor? He tips Teddy's chin up until they're eye to eye. "I promise," Draco says. "You will never lose to your crup again."
In his youth, he and his mates had shared a secret sign. Not that Muggle nonsense about crossing one's heart. It had been a salute, a show of respect. He uses it now, bringing three fingers to touch the center of his forehead. A flash of panic takes him. Maybe Teddy won't understand. But in the next instant, another toothless smile breaks over the boy's face, and he echoes Draco's salute, touching three grubby fingers to his brow.
The proper response would be a thank you, not that Draco gets one. Instead, Teddy launches himself across the board, and in a completely inappropriate gesture of affection, throws his arms around Draco's neck. The chess pieces scatter, their tinny voices shouting in annoyance.
For Merlin's sake, the boy might as well have been raised by wolves.
"I'm glad you're here." Teddy's voice is soft and wobbly against Draco's neck. "It gets lonely."
Then let's leave, Draco prepares himself to say, but he never gets the chance.
Potter arrives, toy crup at his heels. When he sees Teddy in Draco's lap, he stumbles to a stop. His breath is whistling through his lungs, and he's shaking. Oh, how Draco would like to imagine that it's fear making Potter's hands tremble, but that's just a leftover fantasy from his childhood. More likely, Potter's angry, a possibility that makes Draco feel a little faint.
"Malfoy," Potter says, with the same level of wonder and surprise that Draco had used upon discovering Teddy. "What are you doing here?"
Truly an inane question, but then again, had Potter acted rather than tried to reason through things, Draco would probably be dead. "The castle led me."
Potter shakes his head. He steps back against the wall; it seems to steady him. "I don't believe that. The main reason I chose Hogwarts was because I knew I'd be safe here."
Ah, Potter is still so easy to manipulate. "Then clearly I'm of no threat to you." He strokes Teddy's hair as he says this, and the child sighs. Potter's wand shakes one last time, then drops to his side, and Draco has to bite back a smile. Gryffindors trust as easily as newborn kittens.
Potter's no kitten, though. He's still shivering, eyes half-lidded, with an expression of hopeless confusion decorating his face. Draco sees now that Teddy's excessive thinness is catching. Potter borders on gaunt, his skin so pale that the veins pulse visibly beneath his skin. His hair is a mess; that's no different than usual. But it's shaggy, dull, and lies lifeless against his forehead. Black smudges underline his bloodshot eyes. He reminds Draco of….
His breath hitches. If Potter were holding a numbered plate to his chest—and screaming—he could pass for as escaped Sirius Black.
Draco shakes the image away. "What's going on here, Potter?"
Teddy stirs, answering the question when Potter doesn't. "I'm sick. And Uncle Harry is trying to make me better."
By drinking a bottle of Old Ogden's every night? Because that's what it looks like to Draco. He doubts Potter could even stand without the wall at his back.
Potter adds a low, gruff laugh into the mix. "I'll figure it out, Teddy. Don't worry." He passes a trembling hand over his face, then wraps his arms around his chest in a loose hug. His shivering hasn't abated, and he seems at a loss for how to deal with Draco.
Fair enough. Draco's feeling much the same.
He shoos Teddy off his lap and stands, not unaware of how Potter stiffens or how the tip of his wand tracks Draco's movements. Eyes on Potter, he slips his own wand into his pocket, then reaches for Teddy's hand. "Surely there's someplace more comfortable we can continue this conversation." He inflects it as a statement. Better that than to give Potter a chance to say no, thank you for visiting, goodbye. Also, he wants to ensure Potter understands Draco won't be leaving until he has his questions answered.
Potter looks like he's bitten into a lemon. The grudging, "Yes, of course," holds a hefty dose of childish resentment. Why is it, Draco wonders as he steps forward, that circumstances always have them acting like ten-year-olds, no matter how many years have passed?
Clearly, Potter isn't happy about how Teddy's small hand is cradled in Draco's palm, or how the boy has accepted his presence without the slightest trace of fear or worry. No wonder, with half of the wizarding world looking for them, and his friends and family heading the charge. Potter no doubt believes Draco will divulge his whereabouts at the first opportunity.
He feels compelled to show that he's not the same person he used to be. It's not that he's proud; he has precious little pride anymore. Nor is it compassion for Potter's obvious plight. He can't cobble that emotion together with any great success either, and even if he could, he wouldn't feel it for Potter.
No, it's responsibility. He has a job, and while he doubts Potter would ever purposefully bring harm to Hogwarts, Draco must be vigilant. "I know only the very basics of your situation," he says, voice even. "I'm not here to expose you." That's true for now, at least. "But I am curious, and, of course, concerned for Teddy."
It isn't until he sees Potter's eyes widen that he realizes how much genuine emotion found its way into that last sentence.
Potter pushes off the wall, and Draco can't take his eyes off the way he's shivering. It's not particularly cold here. Drafty, maybe. But the air is dry and holds no chill. It's Potter that looks ill, frankly, not Teddy.
"This way," Potter says, gesturing. He smiles at Teddy, and the child rushes forward to tuck himself under Potter's arm. Draco follows, taking note of how much of Potter's weight the child bears.
They don't go far, through two additional dark, empty spaces, and then Potter is pushing open a door into a tidy suite of rooms. Teddy rushes in, leaving Potter to lean on the doorframe. He gestures Draco ahead of him. "Welcome to our humble prison."
The bit of drama tips Draco toward anger. Potter's never seen the inside of a prison, of that he's sure. If he had, he wouldn't be comparing this homey, well-lit place to one.
The door opens into a large space that appears to serve several functions. In one corner, two sofas sit on angles to a large fireplace. A thick rug lies between them, on which Draco can see a smattering of toys. On the other side of the room is a makeshift kitchen, and in the middle of the space, a solid, oversized table. Dirty dishes take up one corner, but the rest of the surface is covered by books, parchment, and ink bottles. A feathered quill rests atop of lily-white piece of parchment. Draco glides forward. Only two words are written at the top. "Sustainable strength". The third word begins "Co—" then the ink drags off the page in a thick, splotchy line.
Potter must have been writing when the crup found him. A nearby overturned chair supports that theory.
Another doorway beyond the fireplace leads to what Draco assumes is the bedroom. That door is mostly closed, snagged on a soiled shirt that's blocking the threshold. The entire space smells faintly of sour milk.
Potter clears the table with little ceremony, crumpling his notes in several places in order to reveal the tabletop beneath. "Would you like some tea?" he asks, and Draco can tell that the question hurts.
Which is why he accepts. "Yes, thank you."
Potter's hesitation might be surprise, or it might be his brain catching up with his manners. He glances over his shoulder to the kitchen. "I hope we have some."
They could Summon the tea, but Draco's willing to bet Potter doesn't even risk that for fear of exposure. "Never mind," he says when Potter shuffles over to rummage through a cupboard. "We can skip that part, if you like."
All it does is prolong the inevitable conversation—a conversation Draco is as eager to begin as Potter is reluctant.
Potter nods and returns to the table, glancing over at Teddy as he takes his seat. The boy is playing by the fire, fully engaged with his miniature dragons, but Potter flashes Draco a knowing smile. "He's listening."
"Do you mind?"
"No." The look he bestows on Teddy glows with fondness. "He already knows. He did a better job of accepting things than his grandmother did. All she wanted to believe was that his illness was related to Remus' lyncanthropy."
Time to move things along. "Then it is a curse?" Draco asks.
Potter's smile turns wry. He peels his gaze away from Teddy and turns it on Draco. "So you know some of what's been happening."
"Only what that gossipmonger Poppy tells me," Draco lies. This is no time to mention the letter from his father. "The boy is sick, but not, is that right? You took him because you believe that his affliction is the result of a curse, and his family refuses to accept that belief."
"It is a curse. I know that much." Potter folds his hands on the table. Now that he's begun the tale, he rushes ahead. "It started out as nothing, really. He felt tired all the time, lost his appetite. But then he'd seem to get better."
"These periods of recovery didn't last?" Draco guesses.
"No. They got shorter, and the sickness, when it returned, was worse each time. It was as though—" Potter pauses and presses his lips into a thin line. "—his life was being sucked away. And nothing we did stopped it. Nothing we tried even slowed it down."
Draco scratches idly at his forehead. "Poppy said Aunt Andromeda took him to healers."
"Yes. A million of them."
"And their conclusion?"
Potter spreads his hands. "They had none. I told her that he'd been cursed, but that didn't make any difference. She thought Teddy belonged at St. Mungo's. Hermione agreed."
Obviously, this last fact bothers Potter the most.
"How did you deduce it was a curse?" That's the part Draco is most curious about.
Potter doesn't speak at first. His eyes drift to Teddy, Draco's follow, and they both watch the boy try to be circumspect about his eavesdropping. Draco keeps his next words low, barely audible. "Would you like me to cast a Silencing Charm?"
He means it to be a serious inquiry, but Potter laughs and collapses back in his chair. "Don't bother. He'll hear right through it. Besides, it's nothing he doesn't already know."
Very well. Draco waves at Potter to continue.
"I received a letter," Potter says next. "Untraceable. It… made it clear that Teddy had been targeted. As an act of revenge."
"Revenge?"
Revenge isn't a concept Draco puts much stock in these days. He's outgrown it, like an old winter coat with too-short sleeves and buttons that refuse to fasten no matter how much you pull and tug.
He opens his mouth to inquire after the letter, but Potter said untraceable, and if Potter couldn't discover its origin, then it's a definite dead end. Still, it troubles him, and he knows why. How many people could manage such powerful unplottable magic? The list can't be long.
Draco's father would be on it.
He darts a glance at Potter, fearing somehow that his thoughts are plain, but Potter isn't even looking at him. Draco glances sideways at Teddy.
Unlike Potter, the boy is watching him. And he's frowning.
Draco's mouth floods with saliva. He swallows and asks, "What did you mean when you said that he'd hear right through a Silencing Charm?"
Potter nods. "That's because of the transfer." He smiles at Draco's blank stare. "I'm giving him my power in order to keep him… healthy. Needless to say, he's more skilled in practical magic than most children his age."
"He's taking your magic?"
"I'm giving it to him," Potter says, enunciating through clenched teeth.
Draco has rarely heard such a trifling distinction.
"A little at a time, but we have to do it often," Potter adds.
"Ah," is Draco's witty reply. And this is to keep the boy healthy? Teddy is noticeably unhealthy. He's rail-thin. Brittle-looking. How would he be faring without Potter's magic? Not very well, is Draco's guess. Probably not at all. "You're keeping him alive."
"For now." Potter whispers it, and not out of deference to Teddy's delicate sensibilities. Not if the boy is powerful enough to hear through a Silencio. "It takes a lot out of me," Potter says. "I'm not going to lie."
An understatement if Draco has ever heard one. Potter looks half dead. "Lucky that you found a way to…" Postpone the inevitable? "... alleviate the symptoms." Draco stumbles over the words, hating that the conversation is leaving him so unsettled.
Potter's bark of laughter doesn't help. Draco has to admit that his nerves are as frayed as the crup's tail, and Potter's aren't too far behind, apparently.
"Oh, it wasn't luck," Potter says, gnawing on the last word. "The details of the transfer spell were in the letter."
"Ah," Draco says again, impressed and horrified in equal measure. Whoever is out to get Potter must hate him very much. What better way to cause pain than to offer hope, only to have it amount to nothing? And in the end, they might both die, Teddy and Potter. Frankly, it's a bloody brilliant plan.
The tension in the room has gone from intense to unbearable. Draco grabs for a way to diffuse it. "There's something happening on the outside of the castle."
Potter blinks at him. "What?"
"That's how I found you," Draco says. He points to the corner of the room, where the fireplace is nestled. "On the outside of that wall, some things have been happening."
Potter squints at the wall, then back at Draco. Teddy does the same. "You realize," Potter says, "that that wall faces a cliff."
"I do."
"So what were you doing there? It's treacherous, especially this time of year."
Draco doesn't answer. He doesn't owe Potter an explanation. Instead he talks about the white heather and the lichen mural. Potter's eyes grow incrementally wider during the retelling until he looks rather comical. Draco would laugh, but Potter's face has lost all its color as well, and that's not the slightest bit funny.
"Shit," Potter says, succinctly.
They both look at Teddy.
"I told you he's been absorbing my magic." More worry lines etch Potter's forehead. "I hadn't realized it was manifesting, though."
Teddy abandons his dragons for his crup and hugs it close to his chest. "I'm not doing it on purpose."
"I'm positive that's true," Draco assures him, more unsettled than ever.
"It's probably happening when he's asleep." Potter drops his head into his hands. "When there isn't a chance of stopping it."
Perhaps you should have thought of that before giving a seven-year-old child more power than a hundred full-grown wizards? Draco aches to snap. The temptation to mock is right below the surface, but the compulsion is dull with age; years have passed since he's let his emotions rule his actions. He stands. "I thought you should know."
He's taken four steps toward the door when he hears Potter's chair scrape back from the table. "Malfoy!"
Draco turns. He purposefully keeps his eyes off Teddy. "Yes?"
"That's it?"
Draco nods. "Your secret's safe. For the time being."
A vague promise, but he feels comfortable making it. He's found nothing here today that directly threatens Hogwarts.
What tomorrow holds is anyone's guess.