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Chapter Text

June was dawning ripe and hot. Draco Malfoy, on his twelfth birthday, laid sprawled out on a deck chair under the shade of a tall, thin evergreen, sunglasses slipping down his lengthy, pale face as he lazily sorted through all the letters and packages he’d received. He only really cared about two, though. 

Firstly, his most recent letter— from Ron Weasley (nèe Weasel), which read thus:

Dear Draco, 

                 Happy birthday! I’m writing this letter to you from our room in the Leaky Cauldron, cause Mum took us for a trip to London to shop for school supplies. It’s ruddy early for back-to-school, but she told us that ‘the early bird gets the worm’ whatever that means. Ginny, my little sister, starts this year. She’s kind of tiny, but bloody scary. Like Hermione, but instead of casting a spell on you, she’ll just beat you up. Anyways, any word from Harry? Hermione and I haven’t gotten anything either. 

Write back soon,

- Ron

P.S, can you train your owl? He bit me when I took your last letter. 

Draco chuckled as he read it through again. His eagle owl was a rather nasty bird, whom he didn’t truly like at all, but the image of him nearly snapping Ron’s fingers off with his great, sharp beak was a bit of a treat. He wasn’t really shocked when he read that Ron and Hermione still hadn’t gotten any letters from Harry— none of them had. It was as if he’d disappeared off the face of the Earth. 

Trying not to think about it, Draco began to flip through the letters again till he found one written in a familiar messy, but exact, scrawl. 

Dear Draco,

                  Happy twelfth! Does it feel any different for you? It didn’t feel much different for me, so I vowed to make it different. I’m going to study even harder, so good luck keeping up. By the way, Ronald hasn’t gotten any word from Harry, and neither have I. I’m beginning to think he’s developed a complex, and he believes himself too good for us. I hope not, though. I suppose we’ll find out come September. Anyhow, all of this to say, I hope your summer has been going as well as mine. I can’t wait to see you, and to practice magic again.

Happy birthday!

- Hermione J. Granger 

There were eraser marks, scribbled-black cross-outs, and rewrites all over the page. He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining Hermione hunched over a table, drafting and editing the letter, correcting her own grammar and such. But still, even with her endless changes, she managed to ramble. It was a sort of superpower, he supposed. 

Draco sighed, setting his letters aside and standing up with a long, satisfying stretch, his lithe arms reaching for the sun as his muscles finally burst to life for the first time in hours. He strode inside, throwing open the sliding deck door, and approached his vanity, giving himself a good look-over in the mirror.

What he found himself staring back at was quite the different boy than he’d been on his birthday last year. His face was slightly longer, his eyes wider. They carried a certain brightness they hadn’t before. His scars had faded, too. They were still noticeable, though they were few and far-between on his face. The only really noticeable one was on the right side— striping vertically up and down his jaw from near the bottom of his ear to his neck. Most of the others were on his upper arms and torso, and some on his legs. He lifted his shirt, staring at the largest one. It still didn’t seem quite real— the thick, silvery, horizontal scar that slashed across his stomach. It was roughly three fingers wide, and reached from hip to hip in jagged little out-strikes. 

“Draco,” came his mother’s voice.

He dropped his shirt with an undignified squeal, his fair face going bright pink as he turned to her.

It was almost unreal to see her standing in the doorway, after he hadn’t seen her face in weeks. She barely emerged from her study anymore, and when she did, it certainly wasn’t to speak to him. Her eyes were as warm and firm as they’d always been, her presence still holding that same ethereal glow. 

“Happy birthday,” she smiled softly, stepping over the threshold as she took specific care to close the door and lock it.
 
Draco sat down on the bed, and she followed suit beside him, her arms tucked around her back to hide something. 

“Thanks, mother,” he sighed wearily, a cautiously affectionate smile on his lips.

“What’ve you got there?”

She wiggled her eyebrows.

”Don’t tell your father I said this, but between you and I, you deserve a pet that doesn’t bite.”

Excitement bloomed in his chest as mother pulled out from behind her back an old black cat, with wide, yellow eyes like lamps. It meowed at him cautiously. Around its neck was a sleek green collar with an empty silver name tag.

“Oh, mother, he‘s gorgeous!” he crooned, gently taking the animal into his lap, stroking its fur with extra care.

“He’s an old cat, he was at that old shelter for years,” Mother explained.
”Apparently no one wanted to adopt him because he was a nasty, catty thing to everyone that tried, until me. The dear thing just took a liking to me, I suppose. Maybe it just found another senile old geezer, and decided we had enough in common.”

“Mother!” he cried, trying and failing not to cackle.
”You are not a geezer.”

She gave a wry smile.

”My son, who I had at twenty-four, turns twelve today. I think that officially puts me in the senile category.”

Draco shook his head.
”You’re thirty-six, not one-hundred-four.” 

“Oh, they are one and the same, are they not?”

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

”Draco,” came his father’s stern, cold voice. Even on a happy day like this, it carried no warmth. 

Mother leaned over to him as Father began to jiggle the door handle.
”Quickly, hide the cat. He mustn’t know.”

Wordlessly, Draco leaned over his bed, and gently placed the cat into the small hole he’d found beneath his floorboards as Mother opened the door.

”Draco, happy birthday,” Father said, his words dripping with meaningless honey.
”Begone, Narcissa, my son and I are going to speak privately.”

Fear struck him through the gut as Mother shot him a pitying look, and slipped from the room. 

Father sat down on the bed beside him, staring around Draco’s bedroom with unmistakeable disdain. 

“What is a Madonna?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.

”She’s a muggle music artist,” Draco explained cautiously. Over the summer, Hermione had sent him a ‘Walkman’— a muggle device that somehow played music right into your ears at the press of a button. On said Walkman, there was lots and lots of Madonna. So, as an early birthday present, she’d sent him a poster of her in a silvery, sequined mermaid dress with gems shining at the top of the corsage, her blonde hair styled up into the same perfect pin-curls women of high Wixen society often wore around the home, with the word ‘MADONNA’ scribed across the bottom in a large, thick font of black.  

“But, I think she might be a witch in disguise,” he added quickly. Draco studied his father’s face. He still seemed quite disgusted and confused.

”I like her because.. she’s.. uhm..” he stammered, his ears going pink. 
“She’s quite pretty, and, uhm, I like her.. her eyes.”

In truth, he’d never once given a thought to her looks. He liked Madonna because singing Material Girl at the top of his lungs alone on the roof of The Anthill in the middle of the witching hour was the best thing he’d ever done.

Father’s eyes flicked him up and down as he hummed suspiciously, but he made no remark.
”Well. Happy birthday, son. Soon, we’ll all go up to London to shop for your school things. Durmstrang will accept you with open arms.”

Cold panic took a grip around his neck.

”Durmstrang?!” he cried fretfully. 
“Father, no! Please! Send me back to Hogwarts! I’ll do anything!”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, his face wrinkled with regret.

”Anything?” his Father asked hopefully.

The tone of hope in his voice told him that he had a chance of going back to Hogwarts under whatever sick condition he had concocting in his mind.

”Anything,” Draco repeated nervously.

Father came back to sit down beside him.

”I want you to rejoin the.. erm.. right sort. And stay there. If I get even a word that you’ve broken away from them, you’ll be off to Durmstrang before you can say ‘Slytherin’. Understood?”

He understood, alright. It was simple enough. Re-befriend his old Slytherin gang, and he’d be fine. If there was one thing he’d learned he was good at, it was befriending those who hated him. 

“Understood,” he nodded firmly.

Without another word, Father slipped from the room, his robes billowing out behind him, and Draco was alone again. 

Carefully, he drew up the floorboard, and removed a very grumpy cat from the dusty, dank hole. 

“What am I going to do with you?” he asked, as if the animal could answer.

”You’ve got to have a name, firstly.”

The old cat spun slowly around on his lap before settling comfortably, beginning to purr against him. 

“How about.. Poppet.”

Something silver flashed against the sunlight streaming in from the deck. Draco reached down and pulled it upwards— Poppet’s label. Only now, it wasn’t empty, it had his name engraved across the front in a large font. And, it seemed, something had enchanted itself onto the back as well.

He turned it over, his eyes going wide with surprise. Engraved on the back in minuscule type was a.. paragraph, of some sort, but certainly not in French, or in English. It was lots of symbols, with the occasional letter that resembled something of modern language, only backwards. 

‘Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi’

Draco sat up straight with a start as he recalled the inscription on the Mirror of Erised— backwards letters. This was ancient Wixen! 

Following this revelation was one far heavier. His mother hadn’t spoken to him all summer, and now she just turns up with a message in an ancient language, attached to a cat that he wasn’t to show his father? 

Whatever was written on that collar, it was something important. Something so important, it had to be written in code. 

Draco reached down to unclasp Poppet’s collar, but no matter how long he finicked, it wouldn’t budge. He realized with a groan that it had been enchanted.

With a miserable sigh, he tucked Poppet under his shirt, and inched his way down to The Anthill’s library, the angry cat scraping and scratching him all the way there. 

He reached the grand double doors, and slipped inside as quietly as he could. It seemed, Draco had his work cut out for him. 

Chapter Text

August 25, 1992, 12:41 am.

The expansive bedroom was still and dark. The balcony doorway had long since been snapped and locked shut, gathering dust. The bed was made perfectly, with all the silken pillows fluffed just the right way. Books were scattered all across the floor in a myriad of colors, thicknesses, and ages, some face down, halfway through a chapter, some just strategically leaned against another pile to keep it from falling over. Still, there was, nearly indecipherable— a method to the madness, like someone had strategically organized it all in a strange, rube-goldberg sort of way to keep knowledge. That someone was hunched over his vanity-now-turned-desk, half sunken into an old leather armchair as he scratched away at a piece of parchment with his calico-colored eagle quill. Thick black ink stained his fingers, and a stray bead of sweat rolled down his cheek at the stinging heat of the nearby candle, the only dim source of light in the room. Draco bit his cheek in frustration. He felt like an old widower, spindling woeful poetry by candlelight— and he was getting nowhere. Last years’ research on Nicholas Flamel was nothing compared to the utter torture that was decoding. Draco had concluded that the entire concept of coded messages, and the process making them out to be what they truly meant, was invented by some sick, twisted cult, out to steal the lives and freedoms of innocent pre-teens everywhere. With a defeated sigh, he set it aside. It would be back in hand tomorrow, after all. He was not one to give in so easily, even if he had been going at it for weeks with exactly zero results. Only in his pajama set and a pair of simple white socks, he glided across the still room, twirling over his systematic clutter with practiced ease. He sat with a thwump onto his intricate bedspread, his thin face pulled into a sour grimace. It was a Sisyphean task, a part of him knew that. But  his mother was willful woman; she did everything with reason. If she’d given him a code, she’d given it deliberately, and he needed to decode it, no matter how long it took.

The sound of muffled yelling broke him from his thoughts. Draco’s head jerked upwards, his pale eyes searching the room for the source of the noise. Faintly, he could hear a sort of.. puttering, and the sounds of a faraway bickering argument. He danced over to his vanity, where his wand was waiting. He picked it up and held it out in front of him uneasily. 

“Come out,” he whispered, trying to sound brave.
“Whoever you are, come out and face me.” 

A clatter of footsteps made Draco swerve to the left, and there, standing on the balcony, was the faint silhouette of Ronald Weasley. Or.. was it?

The boy marched right up to the ornate door-handle of the balcony, and began yanking on it like a madman.

”Oi! Let me in!” he cried.

Yeah, that was Ron alright. 

Draco rushed up to the balcony, unlocking it with shaky hands.

”Don’t yell, you prat, you’ll wake up my father,” he hissed, throwing the door open.

Before he could stop himself, he’d thrown his arms around Ron in a crushing hug, and Ron was holding him back just as tightly.

”I can’t believe you live here,” Ron laughed, squinting into his darkened bedroom.
”You could probably fit twelve of my house in yours.”

”Yes, yes, big fancy house, etcetera etcetera, why and how in the world are you standing on my balcony?!” Draco wailed, shaking Ron’s shoulders.

”Long story,” he grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. 
“But.. I’m getting Harry, so I figured I’d get you along the way as well.”

At the mention of Harry, he perked up, searching Ron’s expression for answers.
”Have you heard from him? Is he alright?”

Ron shrugged, pursing his lips nervously.
”I still haven’t. So we figured it was those nasty old muggles who’d done something to him. That’s why we’re-“

”-Getting him,” Draco finished slowly, considering. Suddenly, his head snapped up.
”Wait, what do you mean we?”

Ron’s ears went pink
”Oh, erm.. Fred and George wanted to come too. Figured it’d be good to have someone older, to drive the car.”

Draco went quite pale. He’d assumed Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had come to get him, not Fred and George! Those bloody twins were not only complete troublemakers and utter nitwits, but only fourteen! That was barely old enough to wander a neighborhood past curfew, let alone drive a car halfway across England in the dead of night!

”Merlin’s Beard!” he shrieked.
”Please, do not tell me you're daft enough to have a pair of nincompoop fourteen-year-olds to drive a car down a muggle highway.”

Ron’s face broke into an easy smile.
”Of course we didn’t drive here, Draco, what do you take me for?” he asked.

Draco nearly collapsed in relief. 

“..We flew,” Ron added quietly.

Draco blew up like a balloon, his face going pink with rage.
”You WHAT?!”

He advanced on Ron, a million questions already spinning through his mind, but before he could begin to shake him like a bag of dice, one of the twins— he couldn’t tell which, seemed to appear from nowhere, standing on the balcony bannister with nimble feet.

”Oi! Ronniekins! Come on, we don’t have all night!”

Ron went flaming red, turning on his heel to wallop him, but the twin dodged, landing easily next to Draco.

”Top o’ the mornin, Draco my boy,” he grinned, making an awful Irish accent.

“Will you two stop gallivanting about?” he spat, rolling his eyes as the twin attempted to swipe Ron’s twiggy old wand.
”Is it true you’ve come in a flying car?”

He nodded proudly.
”Yessiree, it is! Now come on, George is waiting!”

Ah, so that was Fred, then.

Despite the panicky feeling in his gut, he wasn’t about to tell them, no, actually, I’d rather stay cooped up in one muggy old room for another seven days! Whatever gruesome death awaited him in this ‘flying car’, it couldn’t get any worse than decoding. With a sigh, he slipped inside, and looked to the darkest little corner of the bedroom. Tucked away against the wall were his Hogwarts trunks, already packed in his anticipation, with a cage holding a sleeping eagle owl resting on top. Uneasily, Draco swallowed, and picked up the gilded cage, the animal peacefully cooing in its sleep. Fred had popped up directly beside him, giving him a quick salute before passing the cage to Ron. They both watched cautiously as the boy carefully tip-toed over the books— but not carefully enough. A particularly massive set of volumes came toppling onto the floor with a great crash!

Draco gasped, his face going pale as the sound reverberated down the halls. A distant thump-thunk-crash-thump told him all he needed to know— his parents were awake.

Even as panic took an icy hold on his gut, he barely wasted a second, tossing trunk after trunk down the Weasley assembly line, before finally passing down the owl cage. As the twins dashed to the balcony, and clambered into some unseen, puttering vehicle around the corner, Draco grabbed a piece of parchment and scribbled with the nearest quill: 

Gone with friends, safe

- Draco 

It certainly wasn’t his most eloquent prose, but it would do. He tossed it carelessly at the bed, before pulling on a pair of slippers and dashing for the balcony, not caring how much noise he made along the way. But just as his hand touched the door handle, he heard a familiar meow. Poppet’s yellow eyes were staring up at him through the darkness, that collar label, and all of its secrets, still shimmering in the moonlight. If he wanted to understand mother’s message, the cat would have to be along for the ride. With an indignant sigh, he swiped him off the floor by his underbelly, and tossed him with a grunt to Ron, who was waiting for him cautiously by the balcony. He stepped out into the night air, but he barely had time to breathe and recalibrate, because standing on the threshold of the bedroom was his father, wrapped in a long, velvet sleep robe, his face pallid, and his hair as wily as his eyes. They flashed rage.

”DRACO MALFOY!” he bellowed, making a beeline for the balcony.

As if someone lit a fire beneath his feet, Draco jumped to life again, clambering onto the bannister with some effort. There, before him, was a baby blue sort of oldie car, the kind that were popular in the 70’s. Only, it was hovering 100 feet above the ground, and half a meter away from him. George was sat behind the wheel, with Fred in shotgun. Ron was in the backseat, urging him on with wide eyes. Draco hesitated, his chest full of panic going numb. He was stuck between a bit of a rock and a hard place. Behind him, his father was crashing and careening towards the balcony, ready to drag him back for a severe beating if he didn’t jump. On the other hand, if he jumped, and fell, a severe beating would be nothing in comparison.

”Come ON!” cried Ron hurriedly. 
“Just jump!”

Draco bit his lip, taking a deep breath. Leaps of faith were far less heroic-feeling, and more nauseating, than he’d ever seen described in a book.

”Draco! DRACO!” his father screamed, finally reaching the balcony. He drew his wand, opening his mouth to fire some kind of dreadful spell. That was the last motivation Draco needed.

He bent his knees as far as he could, and leapt for the car, the world seeming to pause for a moment as he did. One hundred feet, maybe more, between him and the ground. Nothing to stop him from splatting onto the dirt but his own momentum. The trees seemed to rustle in the late-night breeze.

Draco landed hard on the hood of the car, the air quickly knocked from his lungs. Scrambling inside, he let out an undignified squeak as he spotted his father’s streamline of curses (both magical and otherwise) shooting off into the night. 

”Draco- Draco, stop yelling!” George laughed, giving him a hard slap on the back. 

His jaw promptly snapped shut. He hadn’t even realized he’d been making any noise at all. Slowly, he clambered into the backseat, where Poppet was waiting for him. As soon as he sat, the mischievous old cat curled up on his lap, as if to make sure he didn’t change his mind and jump from the car. With a sigh, he leaned up against the window as the car began to rise, higher and higher, far away from The Anthill, from mother’s gardens, from the grounds, the surrounding hills, until it had all been reduced to nothing but a little dot.

Time is such a funny thing, he thought to himself. Fifteen minutes ago, he’d been sitting alone on his bed, thinking about how awful decoding was. Soon, he’d be an old man, thinking about times like these. Time really was funny. It seemed just yesterday he’d been on the Hogwarts Express with his old Slytherin friends, before everything went completely wrong. Back when they thought nothing could stop them. He’d complained to Pansy about Harry being a git, he thought with a small smile. Yes, he was a git, but he was also a brave, loyal, fierce git, with a fire in his eyes no one else in the world had. Hermione’s eyes could get angry, sure, but they were full of thunder. Harry’s were lightning. Which he suppose was quite fitting, considering the scar.

”Draco.. Draco, wake up.. wake up!” 

Draco’s eyes popped open, and he stared around blearily. He was sprawled out in the leather backseat of the flying car, and.. Ron was standing over him. He adjusted, slowly, and sat up.

”What.. where are we?” he coughed, squinting in the light. Why was it light?

”We’re at the Burrow,” answered a new voice. 

Draco’s heart spiked. It was Harry.

He sat up sharply, rubbing his eyes. Poppet had clambered off Draco, and was sitting snugly against Harry. Harry, who looked perfectly the same as he had at King’s Cross station last May; the same thick mop of untamable hair, the same warm brown skin, the same fiery green eyes, and the same boyish grin. He felt his chest begin to spin and pop and fizz as he smiled incredulously.

”Harry? What- what in the world? How long was I asleep?” he gasped, staring him up and down as if he were a figment of his foolishly sentimental imagination. 

“You dozed off on the way to Surrey,” George shrugged from the driver’s seat.
”We figured it was best not to wake you. But we’re here now.”

With a small, shaky nod, he turned back to Harry.

”You have got a lot of explaining to do,” he said sourly, crossing his arms.

”Long story,” Harry chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. 
“Let’s get inside first.”

Shaking his head frustratedly, Draco clicked open the car door, and stepped out. Only, when his foot expected to find the ground, there was nothing below it. Before he realized what was happening, his face was rapidly approaching the grass far below. He screamed in panic, the fizz-popping in his chest replaced with a sort of frantic banging, before he felt a pair of hands wrap around his right arm.

”DRACO!” Harry was calling, his grip tightening.

“Get me up, get me up, GET ME UP!!” he screeched, flailing his limbs every which way, almost as if he thought that if he flapped hard enough, he’d fly away.

A second and third pair of arms grabbed onto his arm, and right leg, and slowly, the three boys hoisted him up. Eventually, he managed to claw back onto the leather seat, his face thoroughly flushed with adrenaline and embarrassment.

”Draco,” Harry began politely, still panting,
”Next time you want to get out of a FLYING CAR, please make sure it’s not still flying.”

Draco rolled his eyes cattily, his ears still burning with humiliation. Waita make a cool entrance after the summer, Malfoy.
“Yeah, well, maybe you should have warned me,” he snapped, but they both knew it sounded silly. 

“Why.. why are we still in the air?” Draco asked, after a momennt.
”Can’t we just.. go in through the front door?”

Ron bit his lip.
”We would.. but my mum’s down there. She’d be bloody livid if she found out we fetched you with the car.”

Draco cocked his head, his voice dangerously quiet.
”Ronald. Weasley. You mean to tell me. That you STOLE YOUR PARENT’S CAR, just to get Harry away from the muggles SEVEN DAYS EARLY?!”

Ron went sort of purplish-pink, but he kept a tough upper-lip.
”Oi! You know he would’ve done the same for us.”

Draco shut his mouth. He knew that was true.“..Fine. How are we getting in if not through the door?”

Fred was rolling down the car windows with an evil grin, wiggling his eyebrows. Just outside, lodged into a wall of filthy brown planks, was an open bedroom window, about twenty inches across. 

“No,” he said instantly, crossing his arms indignantly.
”Not a chance. I have already leapt from a balcony today, I am not jumping that.“

“Technically you jumped from a balcony yesterday.”

”If you don’t shut your trap, Weasel-“

“-Alright!” Harry interjected, a terse smile on his face.
”I’m gonna jump. Fred? George?”

Fred nodded, looking to George.
”Right behind you,” they chorused in unison. 

“I’ll be after them,” Ron chimed in with a determined grimace.

That left Draco, alone in the car. He went quite green, eyes darting between them.

”I cannot believe my life has come to this,” he muttered to himself.
”Fine! Fine, I’ll jump.”

Harry nodded, giving him a pat on the back.
”Right, then you’ll be lucky last. Everyone ready?”

He clambered up to the front seat and over George, positioning himself in a froglike squat on the car window, before reaching out and pulling himself into the window, landing with a thump. Poppet, the eagle owl, Hedwig, and all of their trunks were transferred next. Before he knew it, it was the twins’ go.

It was a bit of a relief to see that the ‘jump’ was more of an undignified army crawl, but still horrifying. George, up next, pulled himself up to the window and forward-rolled inside, landing with a loud ‘OOF!’ and an unapologetic laugh. Fred followed him in the same manner. That left Ron and himself. Of course, mister Gryffindor extraordinaire made quick work of the transfer, and left Draco alone in the flying car.

With a nervous swallow, he crawled towards the car window, and peeked outside. The distance between the car and the window was about 500mm of open air. 500mm worth of perfect potential to drop to his death. Shakily, he pulled himself up to squat on the window, and reached across the length of the leap to wrap his hands onto the windowsill. Slowly, he extended his legs, (which were, thankfully, decently long for his age) until he could essentially step into the window. With a deep, uneasy breath, he leaned forward, and let his legs push off.

Almost as quickly as his feet left the sill of the car, his face met violently orange carpeted flooring with a sickening crack, his stringy legs coming flailing over his head, yanking his entire body over until he landed on his with a thunk, staring up at the ceiling as he tried to catch his breath through the pain in his face and back.

In less than twenty-four hours, Draco had made two death-defying leaps, ran away from home in the dead of night, and nearly fell from a flying car— But nothing he’d experienced could compare to the pure terror that racked through him at the next sound that reached his ears.

”RONALD! BILLIUS! WEASLEY!” 

“..That’s my mum,” Ron gulped.

Chapter Text

In a frantic scramble, the five of them stood, brushing off their clothing and trying to hide the animals under the bed. It was the first time all night that Draco remembered that he was wearing a silken pajama set, and fuzzy slippers. Harry was wearing pajamas too, but at least they looked sensible, (even if a tad too big for him).

The bedroom door was thrown open, and there on the threshold stood a woman instantly recognizable as Mrs. Weasley. She was a dumpy little woman with the Weasley trademark ginger hair, tied back into a ‘I-have-things-to-do’ sort of bun. Her warm, round face was pinched into an expression of pure fury, her eyes burning. Not like Harry’s did, though. Hers were similar to a hurricane. Harry was lightning. 

“Where HAVE you been?!” she bellowed, staring straight at her own children. Draco closed his eyes, waiting for the woman to turn on him in rage, but when she did round on him, it was with a far softer voice. Draco opened his eyes, and she was smiling.
“Harry, dear, so good to see you. And you must be Draco!”

He smiled awkwardly, his face going pink.
”Oh, erm.. yes, that’s me. Thanks for the sweater,” he coughed.

She nodded, taking in what he had to say, before turning back to her kids again.
”Beds EMPTY! No NOTE! Car GONE! You could’ve died!”

“They were starving him, Mum!” Ron protested.
”There were bars on his window!”

Draco’s stomach dropped. He turned his head to look at Harry, scanning him over. He did look a little skinnier than he had last May; his cheeks were hollow. Oh, Circe. They were starving him. The mere thought brought a hue of green to his face. Harry, alone in some little room, his window barred, no food.. His breath was getting shallow. Morgana help him if he ever got his hands on those nasty, horrible- 

“Draco? Draco? Earth to Draco?” 

Harry had a hand on his shoulder. He tore himself from his thoughts, turning to look at him as he searched his face worriedly. He half-expected him to be weak and pale, about to collapse.
”Hm?” he managed softly. 

“C’mon, Mrs. Weasley made breakfast. The whole family’s here.”

Draco blinked, taking in a deep whiff. Whatever was cooking smelt buttery and warm. From the kitchen, the din of chattering voices came into focus. He turned back to Harry, nodding firmly.
”Right. Yeah, that does smell scrumptious.”

Harry stifled a laugh into his hand.
”Scrumptious?” he giggled incredulously.

Draco went pink, crossing his arms defensively.
”Yes, scrumptious. My deepest apologies, for having a wider vernacular than you.”

“Who even says scrumptious? You sound like Mary Poppins,” Harry chuckled.

”Who in the world is Mary Poppins?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. This boy and his muggle references…

”Uhm..” Harry began to explain, but he was interrupted by the sound of one of the Weasleys calling him to sit. He hadn’t even noticed that his legs had carried him all the way down the stairs. 

He awkwardly pulled up a chair between Harry, and a boy he vaguely recognized as Paul Weasley. Or maybe Peter? Perry? 

“Good to finally put a face to the name, Draco,” Perry said idly, sawing through his stack of pancakes.

“Oh, you too, Perry,” Draco responded easily, loading one of everything onto his plate. He threw a look to him through the corner of his eye, and was not assured. Perry Weasley was staring at him with a wrinkled brow.

”It’s Percy,” he corrected, turning his chin up. Draco felt a twinge of annoyance begin to ball up behind his eyes.

”Sure it is, Perry,” he responded, with a voice as sweet as honey. Before the boy could protest, he turned to Harry.

”I’m going to.. get us organized,” he shrugged, standing from the table. 

“Mrs. Weasley, is there a room where Harry and I could stay?” he asked politely.

”Of course, dear, you two can take Bill and Charlie’s old room! It’s the second floor, second door down. The first one is your bathroom.”

Draco nodded, loading as much food as he could onto the plate and swiping it from the table, dashing upstairs to the high room where the five of them had crash-landed. ‘The Burrow’ as Harry had called it, was a lot of old wood and cobblestone. It was honestly quite claustrophobic, in how small all the passageways and stairwells were, and how they seemed to get smaller and smaller as you gained altitude. This didn’t negate, however, how utterly charming it was, no matter which way you spun it. It was almost the complete inverse of The Anthill.

He reached the little door and pushed it open. It was obvious as soon as he took it all in that the bedroom they’d crashed into was Ron’s. Violently orange walls, Chudley Cannons posters everywhere, candy wrappers strewn about, and that nasty old rat that had bitten him on the train last year was sniffing about on the dresser, trying to get its grubby paws on any leftovers it could find. Draco wrinkled his nose and stepped inside— the room smelled like Ron, too. He knelt down and gently pulled Poppet up from under the bed. He was now utterly covered in dust bunnies, and grumpy as one cat could possibly be. He reluctantly pulled up the eagle owl as well, no matter how much it snapped at him. Then came Hedwig— Harry’s snowy owl. It was a lovely creature— not to mention its feathers were nearly the same color as his hair. 

He placed the plate of food down on the floor for Poppet to eat, while he slowly carried all of the cases, (and owls) down the stairs into Bill and Charlie’s room. It was a nice, pastel blue— a color far easier on the eyes than Ron’s neon orange— with a few stacked up bookshelves and an empty dresser. It was humble, but humble is an alright thing to be.

When eventually, his cases and bird were placed down on his bed, and Harry’s cases and bird were placed on his, Draco sent himself back upstairs one last time to collect Poppet. It was quite crucial that Poppet was kept a secret. This was because Hogwarts allowed exactly one pet, so if Poppet were to be found out, he’d have to stay behind. That could not do, especially when attached to his collar was that ancient Wixen code.

He pushed the door open, and his face fell. There was a girl, with that same fiery orange hair falling down her back, wearing a fuzzy pink robe, smiling fondly at Poppet as she pet him. Draco screeched, leaping forward and yanking the car from her grasp. 

“Oi!” the girl cried, standing up with a challenging frown, her hands on her hips.
“Give me back my cat!”

“Your cat?” Draco scoffed.
”He’s mine!”

”Nuh-uh! I found him!” she protested.

”He’s mine,” Draco repeated, his voice dangerously quiet.
”He was given to me my twelfth birthday.”

“Well, finders-keepers,” she smiled evilly, swiping Poppet back as he meowed in protest.
”Who are you, anyway?”

”Malfoy. Draco Malfoy,” he responded coolly, looking to her for a gasp of shock or fear, but she seemed completely unfazed.

”I’m Ginny. Weasley.”

She turned away from him, moving to sit herself down on the floor with his cat in her lap. Vaguely, his mind flashed with Ron’s notion that she was just like Hermione— only she would beat you up instead of using a wand. Panic began to grab at his chest. If she walked out of that room with Poppet under her arm, he’d have no chance of decoding the message at school.

“Listen, Ginny,” he began cautiously, sitting down beside her.
”I think my mother might be in danger, and there’s a message on his collar that might be the clue I need to help her. Can I have him back? Please?”

It was the first time he’d actually uttered the words out loud, or even dared to think of them, really. But they were there. And they were probably true, too. 

With a sigh, Ginny passed him the cat, who hissed at her grumpily on his way over. She looked away from him, her arms crossed in a silent, (albeit petty) protest. Gently, he placed a hand on her shoulder.
”You’re starting Hogwarts this year, aren’t you?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, turning to look at him. 
“I’m not nervous,” she said quickly. Too quickly. 

“Well, that’s good for you. But, if you were nervous, I would probably tell you that if you’re anything like Ron, you’ll survive just fine.”

Ginny shook her head, pursing her lips.
”I’m not like Ron. He’s better at magic than me,” she said sullenly.

”Well, you’ve certainly got more nerve than him,” Draco nudged.
”I know if I’d gone and told him to give me the cat, he would’ve handed it right over.”

Ginny looked up at him, a certain twinkle in her eye that wasn’t there before.
”Mum always did used to tell me that anything’s possible if you’ve got enough nerve,” she smiled.

“And she’s right,” he nodded, standing up with Poppet underhand.
”Nice to meet you, Ginny.”

”Nice to meet you too, Draco.”

With a small smile, he closed the door, and made his way back to Bill and Charlie’s room, where Harry was already unpacking his things.

”Hey, Harry,” he muttered, closing the door behind him as he moved to his own trunk,
”You didn’t tell anybody about that cat, did you?”

”No, only the people in the car saw him. Why?” Harry asked, cocking his head without looking over.

“Because I’m going to sneak him into Hogwarts.”

At that, Harry whipped around, staring at him with wide eyes.
”Sneak- DRACO! You can’t sneak a CAT into Hogwarts!”

“Shhh!” Draco responded frantically, looking back at the door to be sure it was closed.

”Sorry! But how are you supposed to sneak in something that large? You can’t exactly fit him into your pocket,” Harry commented, and he was right. But he had to figure out a way, somehow.

”I don’t know,” he spat. 
“But I’ve got to do something.”

”Why?” Harry asked, and it was a fair question. It wasn’t really everyday behavior to be that desperate to sneak a cat into a boarding school.

”Doesn’t matter,” he murmured, as Poppet found his way onto Draco’s bed, and curled up comfortably.

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again, looking more than a little hurt. Draco bit his tongue. As soon as he could decode the message, he could tell Harry everything, but who knows what mother had written on that collar. For now, it had to be kept a secret.

———

By the end of the day, The Burrow was rivaling Hogwarts in the category of his favorite places. Draco had been right on the money in his assumption about Ginny’s nerve. When Mrs. Weasley needed help tackling her infestation of garden gnomes, she was quick as a whip to round them all up into a sack, no matter how many bites and bruises she got. The twins, (though he hated to admit it) were an absolute riot. In the span of six hours, at least an entire show’s worth of fireworks had been set off inside the house, Harry had been hexed to only quack like a duck for an hour, and Mr. Weasley (whom he found out was quite obsessed with Muggle culture) had grown a slimy tail that had to be removed with an equally disgusting cream. Mrs. Weasley was a very different kind of mother. Unlike his own, who was quite still— a sort of unchanging rock, Mrs. Weasley was always on the move, her emotions fluctuating up and down. She was almost like a chameleon, where whatever emotion was happening in the room, she morphed into the opposite, to balance things out. It was different, but certainly not bad. Perry was rather annoying, with all his snooty ‘I’m-better-than-you-ness’, so he just chose to devote as little attention to him as possible. The moors around The Burrow were wide and open, unlike The Anthill’s narrow hedge mazes. After dinner, they’d all gone out on their broomsticks and raced, playing mock Quidditch until long after dark. It had been the best day he’d had in months. Draco didn’t even pull himself under the blankets— he was out before he even hit the mattress. 

When his eyes opened, he was no longer in the cool darkness of The Burrow’s spare bedroom. His knees were tucked up tightly to his chest. Why were his knees tucked up to his chest? Probably because whatever the walls were made of, they were alive, writhing all around him. Something was crawling up his leg— he reached down to brush it off, but a pair of sharp teeth sunk into his arm, and he let out a shrill scream. Opening his mouth was not the right move, though, because as soon as he did, something thick and slimy began to crawl inside, filling every crevice until he couldn’t scream anymore. He struggled, desperately, tears streaming down his face; but something must’ve liked the smell of his tears, because thousands of tiny spiders began to crawl up his cheeks. He gagged as the creature in his mouth began to slide down his throat, and its liquid came streaming from his nose, blocking his very last airway. The spiders that were crawling up his cheeks found his eye-sockets, and began to crawl into the corners of his eyes, filling the space until his vision was blocked. He tried to scream, as hard as he could, but no sound came out, only a distant laughter, cold and cruel, that wasn’t his own.

Draco sat up, the scream that had been vying to be free finally breaking from his lips. He gasped as he realized he could breathe again, and he could see more than inky blackness. What he saw instead were Harry’s shining green eyes, gazing at him with panicked concern.

”Draco! Draco, breathe,” he heard him say.
”You’re alright, you’re safe.”

His eyes darted ground frantically. Light was streaming in through the windows of the spare bedroom, that pale blue finally visible again. Poppet was asleep on his lap. Harry’s hair was sticking up every which-way, like the bedhead he’d had on Christmas morning. 

”Did you have a nightmare?” Harry asked slowly, placing a hand on his shoulder. He felt his chest begin to fizz and pop again as he squinted, trying to think back to what he’d been screaming about. He remembered something about spiders, but not much else. 

“..I suppose,” he croaked, standing up.
”What time is it?”

”Uhm.. quarter past nine. We’re going to leave for Diagon Alley soon. School shopping.”

Draco nodded, rubbing his head. He stumbled from the room, throwing the bathroom door open and turning on the tap. He took a look at himself, trying to get a grip. He looked disheveled, and his eyes were abnormally bloodshot. He splashed cold water on his face, the sensation stinging his skin.

”You’re fine,” he told himself.
”Just a bad dream.”

When he pushed the spare bedroom door open again, the room was empty. Everything was exactly the same as he’d left it, accepting a battered little owl that was repeatedly throwing itself against the window, a letter clutched in its beak. Draco threw the window open, and in it came, dropping the letter into his hands and fluttering down to land between Hedwig’s cage and the eagle owl’s.

He recognized the handwriting on the address instantly. This was from his mother. He tore it open frantically, and read:

Draco,

          I hope this letter finds you quickly. I couldn’t give this to you while you were still within the reach of your father. Use it well.

- Narcissa 

The letter was obviously written in a rush, Draco realized with a horrible, sinking feeling. He dumped out the envelope, and falling to the floor came a small, yellowed piece of parchment. Draco bent down and picked it up. When he turned it over, he nearly dropped it in surprise. It was a translation for the Wixen code! 

With amplified vigor, he gently swept Poppet into his arms and turned over the tag, reading with the translator set below. It read thus:

Draco, if you’re reading this, know I am so sorry for the neglectful behavior I’ve been showing you all summer. If I could place this duty upon any other child, I would, but you are the only one I can trust. As such, I have a list of tasks that you MUST complete, or so help the fate of the Wixen world. Firstly, stay far away from Slytherin this year. Absolutely no contact. Secondly, over the school year, you must find a way to sneak into Hogsmeade and leave packages in certain places. I will send you your first package once you get to school. Thirdly, I don’t care how, but you must stop any one of your peers from getting their hands on the diary. Fourthly, don’t tell a soul about this. No one must know.
- Narcissa M. 

Draco’s face was pale with horror. His mother was on some sort of secret mission, and now he was roped into it?! He’d expected his mother to need help somehow, but he certainly hadn’t expected that. Nonetheless, Draco closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath. No matter how absurd or outlandish the tasks, the fate of the Wixen world rested on his capable(?) shoulders. It was a rather nerve wracking idea. 

“Draco,” came Ron’s voice from behind him. With a squeak, he hid the note behind his back. 

”Yes, Ron?” he asked shakily.

Ron raised an eyebrow, leaning againt the doorframe with his arms crossed.
”Uhm.. we’re flooing to Diagon Alley. You coming?”

“Yeah! Yes! I am coming. I- yes. Normal wix, totally nothing shady going on, coming to Diagon Alley. With you. Yes,” he answered calmly. Because, obviously, he was completely cool and totally holding it together.

Chapter Text

Now alone again, Draco took a shaky breath. He’d been raised better than to lose composure at the first sign of trouble. Weakly, he stumbled to the bathroom, and shut the door. He gave himself a long, hard look in the mirror. Just start with what you know, he told himself. What did he know? He closed his eyes, tried his best to clear his mind, and began to make a list.

1. His mother had given him a list of (semi) manageable tasks to execute.

2. One of these was staying away from the Slytherins.

3. His father had given him the exact opposite task. (How in Morgana’s name was he supposed to do both at once?)

4. The second thing his mother had told him to do was leave the packages she’d send him at specific spots around Hogsmeade.

5. Students weren’t allowed to go to Hogsmeade until next year, so he’d have to find a way to sneak out.. somehow.

6. Mother had told him to make sure none of his friends got their hands on ‘the diary’.

7. His mother was terrible at specifications.

8. His final instruction was to keep his tasks secret from Ron, Harry, and Hermione.

How in Merlin’s name was he supposed to keep a secret from Hermione bloody Granger?! Was that physically possible? Because he knew, the moment she set in on him with that angry-bull-glare, he was done for. This wasn’t to say that she probably wouldn’t have it figured it out in ten minutes flat anyways! She was too paranoid not to pick up on his lies, and she could read him like a book. It was hopeless. Still, he had to try. Which brought him back to the list.

9. The fate of the Wixen world was up to him… for some reason.

10. He had the code, so there was no need to take Poppet to Hogwarts.

Circe alive, what was he supposed to do with Poppet?! It was useless sneaking him in for no reason, and he couldn’t send him back up to The Anthill— an owl couldn’t carry a cat that far. 

The bathroom door creaked open, and in padded a certain silent, black mass, with lamp-like yellow eyes, his furry body doing figure-eights around his ankles, purring sweetly. He was struck with the memory of Ginny’s warm, affectionate smile on as she’d petted him. That was when he knew his plan.

”OI! MALFOY!” Ron bellowed up the stairwell.
”YOU COMING?!”

”IT’S DRACO! AND YES!” he called back, bristled. Giving himself once last once-over in the mirror, he ran a bony hand through his hair, and marched from the bathroom. 

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Mr. Weasley, (and that self-righteous bastard Perry) had already disappeared through the old fireplace. The floo was clearly in quite the state of disrepair, bricks falling from the mantle due to rot, and probably lack of foundation. This required not only an entire handful of floo powder, but quite the loud and clear voice. Of course, Draco would have no issue with loudly saying what he wanted.

 “Draco, dear, it’s just you and Harry left,” Mrs. Weasley smiled.
”Go on, Harry needs some extra explaining. It’s his first time, you know.”

Draco noticed that Harry looked rather green. All the same, he stepped into the fireplace, and took a deep breath. The floo smelled of smoke, and something almost sparky, like the aftermath of a firework. Mrs. Weasley pressed some floo powder into his hand, a little slipping between his fingers like sand in an hourglass. He shut his eyes tightly, threw it down to the ground next to his feet, and called,
”Diagon Alley!” 

Instantly, a ploom of green smoke surrounded his being, whipping his clothes and hair every which-way. He felt his feet slowly lift from the ground as he whooped joyfully— the sensation of weightlessness was one he had missed severely. He did a little spin off invisible walls, the world rotating around him before he finally felt his feet reach solid ground again. He sighed, reattaching himself to earthly concerns once more as he stepped from the smoke, and there surrounding him was the Leaky Cauldron, bustling with pubgoers as they chattered merrily about. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and whipped around to see Mr. Weasley’s smiling face. Lined up behind him like ducks in a row were Perry, Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny. They all waved at him cheerfully, and he awkwardly stepped into line.

”Right, you lot. Head count!” he shouted over the din, patting his own head as ‘one’, before moving down the line to count everyone else.
“…And Ginny makes seven!” he smiled affectionately down at her. 

Marching back up to the front of the line, he led his ginger ducks out of the Leaky Cauldron, through the brick archway, and out into the Main Street.

”Alright, who wants to go with who?” he asked, turning to face them as he adjusted his piss-yellow tie.

Fred and George each wrapped an arm around Ginny.
”We’ll take this one,” they chimed, veering off towards Zonko’s before the girl could protest.

”I’ll go with Ron.. I suppose,” Perry drawled, placing a hand on his shoulder. Draco shuddered as he was violently reminded of his own father.

Arthur nodded his children off, before doubling back again.
”That’s all well and good, which leaves Draco to go with Harry.”

His chest fizzing and popping and frothing at the notion, he turned to face him, only for the smile to drop off his face as he realized he wasn’t there.

”Where.. is Harry?” Mr. Weasley asked cautiously. 

He felt the color drain from his face. Had Harry ever even emerged from the floo? He turned on his heel, setting off at a run back through the arch, and through the Leaky Cauldron. He approached a little old wix warming their hands by the fireplace that stood near the floo.
”Excuse me, erm, who was the last person to come through here?” he asked pleadingly, his eyes flicking between them and the fireplace.

”I think that was you, son,” the wix smiled.
”Why? You lookin’ for some-person?”

Draco nodded frantically.
”My friend, Harry. Harry P-“ 

He paused for a moment. He didn’t want to whip anyone into a frenzy, hearing the name. 
“..Harry Poindexter,” he decided. But where in the world was Mr. ‘Poindexter’?
”Uhm.. it’s his first time using a floo. Any idea where he could’ve ended up?”

They pursed their lips sympathetically.
”Oh, sweetheart. There’s a good chance your friend said ‘diagonally’ instead of ‘Diagon Alley’. I’d check Knockturn if I was you.”

His blood ran cold. Harry was a powerful wix, yes, but he was also far too kind for his own good. If one of the crooks back in those parts got their hands on him.. he shuddered at the thought.

”Thank you!” he called back to the wix, as he hit the ground running toward Knockturn Alley.

He went speeding past Mr. Weasley, past Zonko’s, past Madam Malkin’s, the wind rushing in his hair as he sprinted. Soon, he was past Gringott’s, and the shadowy maze of Knockturn Alley came into view. He took that treacherous left, and was submerged into suddenly quiet darkness. As soon as he was within the boundaries of the alleyway, he adjusted himself. It was almost a reflex— like muscle memory— after too many trips with his parents. His posture slouched down, he flattened his hair, tucked his entire presence into a smaller box. He placed one hand into the pocket of his jacket, in just a way that could mean he was holding his wand.. or something even more dangerous. The good thing about it was that there was no real way to tell. As similarly silent figures crept past, he made sure to have a watchful eye on all of them, studying their movements to analyze for threats. The Malfoy name was especially known around parts like those, which was both a blessing and a curse. He made a sharp right, and found himself face to face with Borgin and Burke’s— hotspot for dark magic, illegal artifacts, and some said, a hideaway for supporters of the Dark Lord looking to lie low. It was usually the quietest place in all Knockturn— with all the ‘trades’ and ‘deals’ that went on inside. Today, however, there was a terrible BANG! CRASH! THUMP! SMACK! REPEAT! Coming from inside, that could only mean one person was stumbling through the shelves. Harry came barreling out of the shop, tripping over his own feet till he toppled over like a tightrope walker with a broken line, his legs flying over his head as a panicked yelp broke through the stifling silence. Draco leapt forward, catching him underarm before his already scarred face could get any worse by smacking the cobblestone at a high speed.

”Harry!” he hissed.
”Are you daft? What in Circe’s name could have possibly prompted you to go to Knockturn Alley?”

Harry was blinking up at him slowly. Wobbling, he got to his feet, adjusting his glasses.

”I.. thought I said Diagon Alley,” he croaked.
”What.. Knockturn Alley? What is this place?”

Draco grabbed him roughly by the wrist and began to drag him through the dimly lit roads.

”I’ll explain later. Slouch a little, will you? You’re making us look too namby-pamby.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, but slouched over a little nonetheless. When they eventually broke back into the bustling sunshine of Diagon Alley, he grabbed Harry by the shoulders, and shook him silly.

”HARRY-“
He paused. 
“Do you have a middle name?” he asked politely.

”It’s James,” Harry responded cautiously.

”HARRY JAMES POTTER! You absolute, blithering, PLONKER! Have you even the slightest idea how easily you could’ve died back there?! That place is a cesspool of evil, shady people! Evil, shady people, that would absolutely love to be able to say that they killed Harry Potter!”

Harry was listening quietly, his eyes wide.
”I don’t understand,” he said after a moment.
”How did I get there?”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head like an exasperated parent.  
”Repeat for me what you said in the floo?”

Harry straightened himself out, and with full confidence, said,
”Diagonally.”

He could’ve given him a good punch to the face right then.

”It’s Diagon Alley, wallybrain, not diagonally! Diagonally is a direction! You’re lucky you ended up in Knockturn Alley, and not bloody Manhattan! Merlin’s beard, is that how you always articulate your destinations? If I had asked you to go to a bookstore, you may as well have said Blourish and Flott’s!” 

Harry expression took on one similar to that of a wounded puppy dog, and Draco folded like a plastic lawn chair.
”..Are you alright?” he sighed, shaking his head.

Harry perked up, nodding. 
“Yeah, I’m fine. That place was creepy as all Hell.”

Draco chuckled weakly. 
“You don’t know the half of it.”

Slowly, they made their way back down the street, where Mr. Weasley was perspriating all over the cobblestone, pacing back and forth. His sweat finally broke into a weary smile as he spotted them.

”Oh, Harry! You’re alright! Where did you go?”

Harry opened his mouth, but before he could explain, Draco stamped on his foot.

”Just Gringott’s,” Draco lied sweetly.
”Slipped off without us noticing, the little sneak.”

Harry laughed awkwardly through pained winces.
”Mhm. Yes. Gringotts,” he nodded.

As soon as Mr. Weasley strode away to go check in on his children, Harry wheeled around to face him, his eyes flaming.

”What the hell what that for?!” he cried, but Draco was hearing none of it.

”He would’ve had a heart attack. Come on, we’ve got things to shop for,” he said.

Harry huffed.
”You have.. a surprising amount of leg strength,” he admitted.

”All the better to kick you in the face with, my dear,” Draco smiled innocently. He’d been reading through Hermione’s Christmas gift from last Yuletide— a book of muggle fairy tales. There was Red Riding Hood, which was what he’d referenced, and the tortoise & the hare, and the three little pigs.. He’d sped through them all. The only lesson he’d really drawn from them at all was that  characters in muggle books are impressively stupid.

Harry threw his head back in a loud laugh.
”Did you just make your first pop culture reference?” he grinned.
“Aw, they grow up so fast.”

Draco rolled his eyes, and crossed his arms.
”I’d hardly call Aesop’s Fables pop culture.”

“Whatever, it’s a start,” he smiled.
”Now, let’s have a look at our lists, shall we?”

Draco shook his head with a reluctantly fond sigh, and reached into his pocket for his shopping list.