Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

June 28^th

Grimmauld Place, London

Potter,
(Yes, I'm writing first. Cherish this moment. It’s just charity work, don’t overthink it.)

Tonks is barely home. She says her new “apprenticeship” with Moody (if you don’t know who he is, ask the Weasleys) is the highlight of her entire post-Hogwarts existence, which tells you just how thrilling her life must’ve been before. She comes home smelling like burnt socks and something she calls “auror-grade coffee,” grinning like a maniac and then passing out on the sofa for ten hours. I don't know what they do at the Ministry, and I don’t want to know. But it’s kept her too busy to cook, so I’ve had to learn.

Yes. Me. Cooking. Try not to faint.

Kreacher (our house elf) makes food that tastes like sadness and old parchment, so unless I want to live on his gruel (I don’t), it’s me or nothing. I set fire to a pan last week. Not even with a spell — just oil. Oil! I’ve made peace with the fact I’ll never be a culinary genius.

I’ve taken to reading in the evenings. Not just about the curse anymore — though don’t think I’ve stopped. I’ve also started with some of Tonks’ awful romance novels, the ones she left lying around. Most are painfully cheesy. I’ve avoided the ones involving dragon tamers. No reason.

Also, Tonks graduated this summer — small party, cake shaped like a magical fingerprint (her idea, obviously). I think I still have glitter in my hair.

Aunt Andromeda and Uncle Ted drop by now and then. They're good. They bring real food and normal conversations. It's... nice. Makes this haunted crypt of a house a little less bleak.

Anyway, that’s me. Bored. Burned. Possibly developing early symptoms of glitter poisoning.

What about you? Are you actually alive?

– DLM(B?)

P.S. Don't write back with something boring. I know your Muggle relatives are horrible (you keep saying, and I keep hearing), you don’t need to recount every mealtime. Try to be at least mildly interesting.

-------------------------------

June 29^th

4 Privet Drive

Malfoy,
I’m alive. Barely.

Yes, my Muggles are still awful. I’m not even allowed to mention the Weasleys anymore. Apparently, Ron called the house on the “telephone” (that’s what it’s called, by the way, not a “telly-phone”. I heard you say that once, it was hilarious) and shouted at Uncle Vernon. He now thinks all wizards are unhinged. He’s not exactly wrong, but still.

They never said I couldn’t write to you, though. Mostly because they don’t know who you are (call that a loophole), and if they did, they’d probably explode. It’s kind of funny imagining their faces.

Your letter was... weirdly funny. I’m trying to imagine you cooking and failing. Are you sure Kreacher’s not trying to poison you on purpose? Have you checked for hexes?

Glad about Tonks. She deserves the celebration. Andromeda and Ted sound like good people. I sort of wish I had that.

My summer’s been quiet. No letters from Ron or Hermione, no real magic, just a lot of time pretending not to exist. At least you’ve got books and cursed romance plots to keep you company.

Write again. I’m bored out of my mind. Also, thanks for writing. Didn’t expect it.

– HJP

P.S. “Charity work,” huh? Don’t act like you’re doing this for the greater good. You’re just lonely.

-----------------------------

July 2^nd

Grimmauld Place

Potter,

Don't be ridiculous. I'm not lonely. I have books. I have a possibly homicidal house-elf. I have Tonks throwing hexes at coat racks when she gets home. I'm thriving.

Also, I never said I was doing this for the greater good. This is clearly a lesson in patience and tolerance. Think of it as emotional endurance training. You’re a Gryffindor — you should understand that.

(Also, yes, Kreacher might be trying to poison me. He mutters under his breath a lot when I use the kitchen. I think he’s in mourning for all the burnt pans.)

It’s very weird to say this, but... I’m glad you wrote back. Summer here is long, and the house is big, and sometimes it feels like the wallpaper is watching me. You’re better company than the wallpaper. Also, great-aunt Walburga is behind that wallpaper and I know she’s cursing me and my bloodline. Well, sucks to be her, because I already am! Ha!

Anyway, tell me about anything magical you’ve managed to do without the Muggles noticing. I need stories. I’m drying out like a mandrake in the sun.

– DLM(B?)

P.S. I still don’t know why I’m writing to you. Possibly cursed.

--------------------------

And somewhere in the shadows of Grimmauld Place, under a dust-covered velvet armchair, a faint whisper stirred — unnoticed, nearly forgotten. But not gone.

Not yet.

---------------

There was a knock at the door.

Which was unusual in itself — no one knocked at Grimmauld Place. Tonks usually Apparated straight in with the subtlety of a battering ram, and Andromeda had her own key. Even post owls didn’t bother knocking. For a moment, Draco stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, a spoon still in his hand, dripping something vaguely tomato-colored onto the floor.

Kreacher didn’t move to answer the door.

Draco sighed and padded over in his slippers, wand tucked behind his ear just in case. He opened the front door with every expectation of finding an Auror, a curse, or the universe itself throwing more surprises at him.

Instead, he found Theo Nott and Daphne Greengrass.

Theo was wearing a lightweight dark cloak, sleeves rolled up, a half-smirk already forming like he hadn’t just shown up uninvited. Daphne stood beside him holding a small paper bag in both hands like it was a peace offering — or possibly a bomb.

“You said we could come,” Theo said before Draco could shut the door. “We just didn’t say when.”

Daphne elbowed him sharply. “We brought tea and biscuits,” she added. “The good kind.”

Draco blinked. “You’re standing on my doorstep with baked goods.”

“And extremely rare blackcurrant-mint tea,” Daphne said, lifting the bag a little higher. “It’s supposed to reduce stress and enhance dreams. The herbalist looked suspicious, but I swear it’s not laced with anything.”

Theo added, “I told her not to buy from Knockturn Alley, but you know how she gets.”

“I didn't buy it from Knockturn Alley, Theo.”

“Anyway,” he said, brushing imaginary dust off his robes, “are you going to let us in or...?”

Draco opened the door wider, stepping aside with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. If I’m poisoned or haunted again, I’m blaming both of you.”

The hallway swallowed them in gloom the moment they stepped inside. Kreacher muttered something deeply unfriendly from a shadowy corner, and Theo raised his eyebrows.

“Charming place,” he said, following Draco down the corridor.

“It grows on you,” Draco replied. “Like mold.”

—

They set themselves up in what passed for the sitting room, though it was more like a neglected parlour that had been rescued halfway through a war. Theo and Daphne unpacked the tea, a tin of suspiciously perfect biscuits, and even brought their own teacups — real porcelain ones, enchanted with faintly glowing runes.

Daphne spelled the kettle to boil. “Do you still take your tea black with just a drop of honey?”

Draco stared. “You remember that?”

“Obviously,” she said. “I used to make it every day before Herbology.”

It was... weird. Comforting. Uncomfortable. Familiar.

“I’m not forgiving you yet,” Draco said, sinking into a creaky armchair with a groan.

Theo raised his hands in surrender. “Wouldn’t expect you to. Still doesn’t mean we don’t want to try.”

Daphne poured the tea and didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then: “We’re sorry, Draco. Really. Not just for Halloween. For everything. For letting Pansy speak for all of us. For not stepping in. For not stepping up.”

Theo nodded, quieter than usual. “We weren’t great friends. You deserved better.”

“I did,” Draco said, because he had, but he didn’t say it to hurt them. Just to acknowledge it.

Silence fell again, but this time it was easier.

Then Theo pulled out a folded copy of the Daily Prophet from his cloak. “Also, have you seen this headline? Apparently, someone exploded a broomstick mid-Quidditch match in Finland. On purpose.”

Draco blinked. “Why?”

“Something about cheating. Or vengeance. The article is vague but extremely dramatic.”

That, at least, made him laugh. Just a little. Daphne’s grin brightened, like she’d been holding her breath.

They drank tea. Ate too many biscuits. Theo made fun of Draco’s slippers (“Are those dragons or... extremely angry hedgehogs?”), and Daphne promised to owl more often, whether or not Draco answered.

“Besides,” she added, “now that we’ve been inside, we can just Floo next time.”

Draco groaned. “Merlin help me.”

-----------------

They stayed for hours — until the shadows lengthened and Tonks finally stumbled in, looking wind-blasted and vaguely radioactive.

She took one look at the three of them, raised an eyebrow, and muttered, “Huh. Guess I won’t need to knock you over the head with a frying pan to make you socialize after all.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Shut up and drink some glitter-tea.”

Tonks did, making a face. “This tastes like flowers and danger.”

Theo and Daphne left not long after, promising letters, packages, and possibly more illicit herbal blends. Draco watched them go from the doorway, and only after they’d Floo’ed did he realize how quiet the house suddenly felt again.

Quieter. But not empty.

He went to write another letter.

--------------

Malfoy,

Glad to hear Nott and Daphne dropped in. Really. It’s good you’ve got your old friends back, even if they acted like complete arses last year. I guess everyone was acting like someone they weren’t.

(Sorry — that sounded self-righteous. Ignore me. I think this house is draining my brain.)

Anyway. Tea sounds fancy. I don’t think I’ve ever had anything rarer than stale Earl Grey. What does blackcurrant-mint taste like, exactly? And where do you even find these things? Don’t answer that. Nott probably has weird tea sources. Of course he does.

I, meanwhile, nearly got eaten by Aunt Petunia’s hedge clippers this morning. So that’s how my summer’s going.

Still nothing from Ron or Hermione. I think Ron’s still in Egypt, and Hermione’s probably off somewhere reading seventeen books at once. I’ve started re-reading Quidditch Through the Ages just to feel something.

You said your place feels haunted? I believe it. Grimmauld Place has “mildly cursed museum exhibit” vibes, from what you’ve told me. If you start seeing glowing eyes in the walls, write to me immediately. (Actually, write even if you don’t. I’m bored.)

Write soon. Or don’t. But do.

– HJP

P.S. Don’t let Nott drink all your weird tea.

Draco read the letter twice, once with a smirk and once with a frown. The tone was off — Potter had that funny way of asking questions that didn’t really sound like questions. And that bit about Theo and “tea sources”? Weirdly specific.

He shoved the letter into the drawer by the fireplace, deciding he’d write back later. Maybe after he came up with a response that didn’t involve explaining why Theo had made him laugh for the first time in days.

Outside, the sky cracked open with thunder.

“Bloody hell,” Draco muttered, glancing at the back door. He remembered — just in time — that Tonks had hung her freshly laundered robes on the garden line that morning. Given the noise of the rain now, they were probably drowning.

Groaning, he grabbed a cloak and darted outside.

The garden was soaked, weeds bent like bows under the downpour, the clothesline already sagging under the weight of waterlogged wizarding robes. Draco cast a quick Impervius over himself and began pulling clothes down one by one.

As he turned toward the door, he paused. Just for a second.

There it was — a sound.

Inside.

Not a door. Not Tonks's signature stumble. Not the soft pop of Apparition. Just… something. A creak? A muffled step? A shift of weight?

Draco narrowed his eyes at the dimly lit windows of Grimmauld Place.

Could’ve been Theo. Could’ve been Daphne, coming back for something they forgot. Could’ve been Aunt Andromeda or Ted — they sometimes popped in unannounced with groceries or books.

Still… something about the way the house felt just then made his spine crawl. Like the walls were listening.

“…It’s fine,” he said to himself. “It’s not another diary. It’s not another cursed relic. It’s not Tom bloody Riddle. It’s probably just Kreacher.”

But his wand was in his hand when he stepped back inside.

Just in case.

Draco slammed the back door shut with his foot, dripping robes in his arms like a corpse made of laundry, and kicked off his muddy boots with a grunt.

The house was quiet. Not silent — Grimmauld Place was never truly silent — but quiet enough to make his ears ring after the sound of rain.

And then he saw him.

Right at the bottom of the stairs, half-shrouded in shadow, stood Sirius Black.

Hair longer than any rational person should have, clothes tattered but somehow still looking smug, and breathing like someone who hadn’t quite run out of adrenaline yet.

Draco’s body went ice-cold.

No. No no no no no. That’s not possible. He was in Azkaban. He’s supposed to be—

Neither of them spoke. Not for a full second. Then—

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

They screamed.

It was honestly impressive how high-pitched Sirius’s voice could go, considering he looked like a walking corpse.

Draco immediately dropped the pile of soaked clothes, scrambled for his wand, and pointed it at Black’s chest. “DON’T MOVE!”

Sirius grabbed the first thing within reach — which turned out to be a soaking wet sock that had flopped out of the pile — and brandished it like a wand.

“Back off, demon child!”

“You’re a fugitive!”

“You’re short!”

“You’re—THAT’S MY SOCK!”

“IT’S MY SOCK NOW, CRIMINAL!”

Sirius didn’t wait for Draco to hex him. He launched the sock straight at his face — a direct hit — then bolted up the stairs.

Spitting out lint and fury, Draco took off after him. “GET BACK HERE! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE IN PRISON!”

But Sirius was quicker, shockingly nimble for someone who looked like a particularly stylish ghoul. By the time Draco reached the landing, a door slammed in his face.

Draco tried the handle.

Locked.

Of course it was locked.

The rusting plaque on the door, barely hanging on by one screw, read: SIRIUS ORION BLACK – ENTER AND DIE.

Draco tried the knob again. Locked, again.

Of course!

“Sirius Black!” he hissed at the door. “I know who you are!”

No answer.

“I’m calling the Aurors! Tonks is literally an Auror trainee—”

“I’m not here,” came a muffled voice from the other side.

Draco scowled. “You’re literally in there. You threw a sock at me.”

“Must’ve been a hallucination. Or a manifestation of your unprocessed trauma. Try therapy.”

“You’re delusional!”

“Probably. Still doesn’t change the fact that I don’t exist. Go away.”

Draco pressed his forehead against the door. His brain was buzzing.

Sirius Black. In his house. Now. While Tonks was out. While the entire Ministry was probably still searching for him.

Draco looked down the hallway, expecting—hoping—to hear Tonks getting home any second now. But the house was silent, the kind of quiet that made the hair on his arms stand up.

He turned back to the door and growled, “You picked the wrong house to haunt, Black.”

Behind the door came a sigh. “This is my house, actually. You're just squatting with a permission slip.”

“I live here!”

“You lurk here.”

“You’re a lunatic.”

“I'm tired and slightly damp.”

“I’m getting my wand and hexing this door open!”

“Do that and I’ll start singing Celestina Warbeck’s greatest hits at full volume.”

“You wouldn't.”

“Don’t test me.”

Draco took a step back, fuming, dripping, furious, and very much Not Emotionally Prepared For This. He stared at the locked door, then down at the pile of soaked clothes still on the floor.

“Tonks is going to kill me,” he muttered.

And, speaking of Tonks…

“SIRIUS BLACK HAS ESCAPED FROM AZKABAN, DRACO! DON’T TELL ANYONE OR MOODY WILL KILL ME!” Tonks shouted the moment she burst through the front door of Grimmauld Place, hair soaked and boots tracking rainwater across the entry rug.

“YES, I ALREADY KNOW THAT! COME UPSTAIRS RIGHT NOW!” Draco yelled back from the second floor, still standing guard at the locked door like a disgruntled gargoyle.

Tonks blinked, then shouted again, “WHY ARE MY WET CLOTHES IN THE DOOR TO THE GARDEN?!”

“COME HERE, YOU OLD HAG!”

“EXCUSE ME?!” Tonks stomped up the staircase two steps at a time. “I am twenty… something, you menace—Draco, I told you not to hex that door again, it doesn’t even budge! What are you doing?”

Draco didn’t move, didn’t even blink. “It opened for him.”

Tonks narrowed her eyes. “Him? Who’s ‘him’? Did Theo come back?”

“Go away! The both of you!” came a muffled voice from behind the door.

Tonks recoiled like she’d touched an electrified doorknob. “WHAT THE BLOODY HELL?! WHO IS THAT?”

“YOU TELL ME!” Draco snapped. “I walk inside with a pile of wet clothes and find a criminally insane murderer loitering at the foot of the stairs!”

Tonks looked horrified. “Draco, you didn’t tell me you had someone over!”

“THAT’S SIRIUS BLOODY BLACK, YOU ABSOLUTE BUFFOON!”

Tonks froze. Blinked. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Then turned toward the locked door with her wand already out. “SIRIUS ORION BLACK, OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW OR I SWEAR TO MERLIN I’LL CALL EVERY AUROR IN THE CONTINENT.”

“I own this door!” came the voice from within. “You can’t evict me from my own sodding bedroom!”

“You’re an escaped convict!”

“I’m innocent!”

Draco snorted. “That’s what they all say right before throwing another sock!”

Tonks looked at him, puzzled. “What sock?”

“He assaulted me. With laundry.”

Tonks raised an eyebrow, then turned back to the door. “Sirius, open the door. You know I’m with the Ministry. If you’re innocent, this isn’t the way to prove it.”

“No one listens! I tried telling them twelve years ago! But nooo, ‘oh Sirius went mad, better toss him in Azkaban, who needs trials anyway?’”

Tonks groaned. “That does actually sound like the Ministry…”

“Tonks!” Draco barked. “Why haven’t you stunned him already?! He’s literally right there! He could be dangerous!”

She hesitated.

A beat passed. Then another.

Draco frowned. “Wait. You’re not going to report him, are you?”

Tonks pressed her lips together, eyes flicking between the door and Draco. “I haven’t even seen him, Draco. What if it’s a trap? What if you just heard someone from the street?”

“I SAW HIM WITH MY OWN TWO EYES!” Draco barked. “He’s pale and miserable and smells like the inside of a badger’s armpit, and he yelled at me!”

“I told you,” came Sirius’ voice through the door, “I’m just a figment of your imagination. Leave me to fade away like a bad dream.”

Tonks muttered, “He’s always been melodramatic.”

Draco turned to her, aghast. “You knew him?!”

She sighed. “Unfortunately. He’s my mum’s cousin. Came by to visit a lot.”

Draco’s jaw dropped. “WE’VE BEEN LIVING IN HIS HOUSE THIS WHOLE TIME AND YOU NEVER MENTIONED HE MIGHT SHOW UP?!”

“I didn’t think he’d escape Azkaban!”

“Well,” Sirius drawled, “surprise.”

Tonks rubbed her temples. “Okay. Fine. I’m not going to hex the door down. Yet. But I am going to need a bloody explanation.”

“Great,” Sirius snapped. “You bring tea, I’ll bring twelve years of soul-crushing trauma.”

Tonks looked at Draco. “I need to think.”

Draco crossed his arms. “I need him removed.”

From behind the door, Sirius muttered, “I need a new house.”

The door creaked open.

Very, very slowly.

Draco gripped his wand tighter and took a step back. Tonks didn’t move. Her eyes were locked forward — not with fear, but with something else. Wariness. Memory.

Sirius Black stood in the threshold of his old bedroom, hair like a tangle of shadows, face gaunt and hollow, a ghost wearing skin. His clothes hung off him like he'd stolen them from a scarecrow. He was barefoot. His eyes flicked from Tonks to Draco and back again, feral but tired, like a cornered animal too exhausted to fight anymore.

“Hello, Nymphadora.”

Draco braced for impact.

But Tonks didn’t flinch. She didn’t curse him or shout or move to drag him out. She just… stared.

“I told you not to call me that,” she said finally. Her voice was steady, but her throat worked like she had to push the words up from somewhere deeper.

Sirius gave the ghost of a smirk. “Still hate it, then. Good.”

There was a pause.

A strange one.

Draco broke it, voice cracking with disbelief. “Are we just going to pretend this is normal?”

Tonks lifted a hand, stopping him gently. “Wait.”

Sirius leaned on the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him upright. “I’m not here to hurt anyone. I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”

“This house is crawling with enchantments,” Tonks said, quietly now. “How did you get in?”

“Still knew the old way. Passage through the cellar. The rats haven’t used it in years.” He smirked bitterly. “Didn’t think anyone else remembered it. But this place… it remembers me.”

Tonks took a step closer. “You remember us?”

A beat.

Sirius nodded, slowly. “You. Your dad. Andy. That weird blue cake on your eighth birthday. You made me eat three slices.”

“You had a flying motorbike,” Tonks said, and suddenly she sounded so much younger.

“You kept asking if I could charm it pink.”

Draco looked between them, more confused by the second. “You do know him?”

Tonks ignored him. Her eyes never left Sirius. “You vanished. After the Potters died. Mum cried for days.”

Sirius' face twisted. “I know.”

“Why didn’t you tell her the truth?”

“No one believed the truth,” he said, voice flat. “And I couldn’t risk dragging them into it. They had you. I couldn’t risk you.”

Tonks took another step forward. Her voice dropped. “Did you do it?”

Silence. Draco held his breath.

Sirius looked her straight in the eyes. “No. I would never betray James. Or Lily. Never. I loved them.”

Tonks exhaled like she’d been holding it since she was nine.

Draco muttered, “This is insane.”

But Tonks ignored him. “Then why did you run?”

“Because I was supposed to protect them,” Sirius said. His voice broke a little. “And I didn’t. I made the wrong choice. I gave them the wrong Secret Keeper. I didn’t kill them, but I may as well have.”

“And Pettigrew?”

Sirius nodded once. “He’s the one who betrayed them. Faked his death. Framed me.”

Draco let out a scoffing sound. “Do you expect us to believe that?”

“I don’t expect anything,” Sirius said, dark eyes flicking toward him. “But I didn’t kill them. And I’m not here to hurt anyone. I just… needed somewhere to remember who I was. Before Azkaban.”

Tonks folded her arms, eyes glistening. “You’ve been hiding here for how long?”

“A few days,” Sirius said. “Didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to stay. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Draco looked at Tonks. “Are you seriously not going to call the Aurors?”

She didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was soft, almost fragile: “He used to bring me sweets from Diagon Alley. Always showed up in weird jackets, had stories about werewolves and enchanted tattoos and this giant griffin he once tried to ride. He was the coolest person I’d ever met.”

“That was a long time ago,” Sirius said.

“But I remember,” she said. “And you don’t sound like a murderer. You sound like someone who lost everything.”

Silence settled in again. Grimmauld Place was never quiet — walls creaked, portraits whispered, something in the attic always scratched — but for a moment, it was still.

Tonks sighed, wiped her eyes quickly with her sleeve, and looked at Draco. “Not a word of this to anyone. Not even in your letters.”

“You’re joking.”

“No. I need time to think. We need to talk to Mum. Quietly.”

Draco muttered, “This is going to end badly.”

Sirius just looked at him with the faintest trace of something — pity, maybe, or understanding. “I said I wasn’t here to hurt anyone, Draco. Not even you.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Are you aware your wanted poster will say otherwise?”

“I’m aware of a lot of lies,” Sirius said simply, and disappeared back into the dark of his old room, shutting the door with a soft click.

Draco turned to Tonks, expression somewhere between scandalized and intrigued.

Tonks just stared at the door.

“Do you believe him?” Draco finally asked.

She hesitated. Then said, “I think I never stopped.”

--------

The plate came back empty.

Draco watched it float into the kitchen sink with a dull clatter. A smear of gravy. A single pea left behind. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was more than enough to confirm one thing: Sirius Black was still in the house, still alive, and apparently still had the capacity to eat.

Tonks stood by the stove, arms crossed, her pink hair pulled up messily. Her face was unreadable — a complicated mess of relief, fear, and something like… guilt?

“I didn’t put poison in it,” she said eventually, trying for a smile. It didn’t quite land.

“I didn’t ask,” Draco replied. He leaned on the counter. “You wouldn’t have.”

She glanced at him. “No. I wouldn’t.”

There was a long, creaky pause. Grimmauld Place never slept, but tonight it felt like it was holding its breath.

Draco finally broke the silence. “You really believe him, don’t you?”

Tonks nodded slowly. “Yeah. I do.”

He didn’t answer right away. His fingers tapped the counter, once, twice. “The curse… it didn’t react.”

Tonks’s head turned fast. “What?”

Draco looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. “When someone lies near me — I feel it. Not like a slap or a sound or whatever you might imagine, just… like something behind the eyes stings. It’s subtle. But it’s always there. Especially now, with the curse acting up.”

“And when he said he didn’t kill Pettigrew—?”

“Nothing. Not a flicker.” He looked up at her. “I didn’t want to believe him. I shouldn’t believe him. But he’s either the world’s most convincing lunatic… or he’s telling the truth.”

Tonks sat down across from him; her hands laced together on the table. “He used to talk about the Potters like they were his sun and moon. James was his brother. Lily — she was the only person he said could put him in his place without even trying. He loved them.”

Draco didn’t say anything.

“He’d sneak over to our house sometimes, when he was younger,” she continued. “When he ran away from his parents. My mum would give him tea and bandages, and he’d sit on the floor and tell me stories about Hogwarts, the Shrieking Shack, the Marauders. Half of it was probably exaggerated, but… he was kind. Loud, arrogant, stupid sometimes — but kind.”

“He doesn’t look kind anymore,” Draco muttered.

“No. But prison eats people from the inside.”

He frowned. “Why hasn’t he left? If he’s free — why come back here?”

Tonks looked up at the ceiling. “Maybe it’s the only place left that still remembers him.”

Draco bit the inside of his cheek. “What are we supposed to do now? Just keep him? Hide him like some stray Hippogriff?”

“I don’t know yet,” Tonks admitted. “But I’m going to tell Mum. Carefully. And if he tries anything, anything, I will hex him myself.”

Draco sat back in his chair. “I don’t like it.”

“You’re not supposed to,” Tonks said. “But maybe… maybe this house can be something else now. A place where ghosts come to figure themselves out. Even the living ones.”

Draco scoffed lightly. “That’s poetic. You should write a book.”

“Shut up,” she said, but she smiled — a tired, aching smile, like something bruised was finally beginning to breathe again.

They sat like that for a little while longer — neither entirely sure what they were guarding, or why.

But upstairs, behind a locked door that once belonged to a boy who ran from everything he was supposed to become, a man who had lost almost everything was finally asleep.

And for now, that was enough.

------------

The candle he carried barely lit the corridor. Shadows clung to the walls like oil, and the wallpaper still breathed in that weird, wheezy way, like the house itself was nosing in on secrets it hadn’t been part of in decades.

Draco sat down cross-legged outside Sirius Black’s door with a blanket draped over his shoulders and a cup of watery tea Tonks had left on the counter. It was mostly cold now, and bitter, but he sipped it anyway. The silence beyond the door was thick.

He cleared his throat. “I know you’re awake.”

No answer.

“I’m not here to hex you. Obviously. I just want to… talk. Or something.” He shifted uncomfortably, his foot bumping the dusty baseboard. “Merlin, this is stupid.”

A beat.

Then, softly, behind the door: “You always talk this much when you visit violent criminals?”

Draco scowled. “You threw a wet sock at me. If I die, it'll be from embarrassment.”

A raspy chuckle filtered through the old wood. “Fair enough.”

There was another pause, longer now, stretched and awkward. Draco set the cup down.

“I know about the rat,” he said.

The door creaked faintly, but didn’t open.

“I mean, not know know. But I remember it. The Weasley boy — Ronald — always carries it around. It’s ugly. Fat. Missing a finger.” He squinted. “You’re telling me that thing is Peter Pettigrew?”

“Animagus,” Sirius muttered. “We all learned it in secret back at Hogwarts. Moony, Prongs, me… and him. He got the form of a rat. Go figure.”

“And he’s been hiding all this time?” Draco asked. “With the Weasleys? For years?”

“Yes.” Sirius’s voice sounded tight, like it cost him something to admit it. “I saw the Prophet, days ago. Picture of the Weasley family on some trip to Egypt. There was the rat. Sitting on the boy’s shoulder like a badge of honor. Fat little coward.”

Draco leaned his head back against the wall. “That’s when you planned the escape.”

“Yes.”

“To kill him?”

“To be free of him,” Sirius said. “You don’t understand — they locked me in Azkaban without a trial. Everyone believed I betrayed James and Lily. That I killed Peter. But Peter framed me. Cut off his own finger, transformed, and vanished. And they handed me to the Dementors.”

The bitterness in his voice was quiet, but it scraped. Years of grief pressed into those syllables. Years of no one listening.

Draco frowned. “Why now? Why come here?”

“It’s the only place I could think of that I knew — that wasn’t being watched. Everyone avoids Grimmauld like the plague, for good reason.” Sirius sighed. “I didn’t plan to stay. I just wanted a bed. A breath. And then I’d go find him.”

Draco picked at a thread in the blanket. “Tonks believes you.”

Sirius hesitated. “She was always a good kid.”

“She said you used to visit her. That you brought a motorcycle.”

That finally got a faint chuckle. “Yeah. Ted used to pretend he hated the noise. But he always asked questions when Andromeda wasn’t looking.”

Another pause.

“I don’t trust people easily,” Draco muttered. “But I know what my curse does. It reacts to lies. You haven’t lied. Not once.”

“I don’t have the energy to lie,” Sirius murmured. “Not anymore.”

Draco stood up slowly. “If you hurt her — Tonks — I will hex you. Curse or no curse.”

“I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.” His voice was quiet now, almost worn thin. “All I want is peace.”

Draco lingered by the door, uncertain.

“I’ll get Pettigrew,” Sirius said softly. “And when I do, maybe the screaming in my head will finally stop.”

Draco nodded, though the man couldn’t see it. “You should get some sleep.”

He turned to go.

“Draco.”

He stopped.

“Thank you. For listening.”

Draco said nothing. Just walked down the corridor, candle flickering behind him like the memory of something just beginning to thaw.

----------------------

The knock came at precisely the wrong time.

Draco was bleary-eyed, in the middle of scolding Kreacher for making toast that tasted like shoe leather, when Tonks skidded into the kitchen in mismatched socks, eyes wide.

“Draco,” she hissed. “Hide the other cup.”

Draco blinked. “What?”

“The cup! The plate—he sent it back clean, didn’t he?” Tonks grabbed it and shoved it into the sink, vanishing it with a haphazard spell that left behind the faint scent of cinnamon.

Another knock. This one firmer. Familiar.

“I think that’s my mum,” she muttered. “Act normal.”

“Oh yes,” Draco drawled. “I’m very normal. I lie to people, harbor fugitives, and keep sock-wielding criminals in cursed bedrooms.”

“Draco.”

The front door creaked open downstairs.

Aunt Andromeda’s voice floated up the staircase: “Is anyone here alive? I brought pastries.”

Tonks bolted out of the kitchen. “Mum! We’re in here!”

Draco straightened his hair in the window reflection, cursed under his breath, and followed.

Andromeda Tonks looked as composed as ever — hair pinned back, robes elegant but modest, a bakery box floating beside her like a crown jewel. She kissed Tonks on the cheek, then offered Draco a warm smile.

“You look like you haven’t slept.”

“Very observant,” Draco mumbled.

She stepped into the kitchen, glancing briefly at the table. “Three cups?”

Draco and Tonks exchanged a look.

“Erm, one was mine,” Tonks said quickly. “From earlier. I always forget to clear them. Ask anyone.”

Andromeda raised an eyebrow. She didn’t press. Just set the pastries down and opened the box. “Apple tartlets. Your favorite.”

Draco eyed her warily. She always seemed to know when he was hiding something. He wasn’t sure if it was because of her impressive maternal intuition or if she’d just inherited some kind of terrifying pureblood lie-detection gene.

They sat.

Talk shifted to light things — Tonks’s Auror training (“Moody made me duel six dummies at once — actual dummies, Draco, not rookies”), the disaster of Draco’s latest cooking attempt (“Kreacher cried, cried, Aunt Andromeda”), and the unusually damp laundry incident.

But all through it, Draco felt something burning under his ribs. He could feel Sirius’s presence upstairs, like the house itself held its breath.

He couldn’t tell her.

Not yet.

Not even when she left a few hours later, hugging Tonks goodbye, ruffling Draco’s hair with a soft, “Try not to burn the curtains again.”

After the door shut behind her, Draco exhaled.

“She suspects something,” he said.

“Maybe,” Tonks muttered. “But if she asks, we lie.”

“And if they come knocking?”

“They won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

Finally, Draco turned toward the stairs.

----------------

He pulled out the letter from Potter — still unanswered — and set a fresh parchment down in front of him.

He stared at it for ten minutes.

Then finally, he wrote:

Potter,

You know how I asked you to be interesting? I take it back. Please remain boring. Spectacularly, astoundingly boring.

This place is full of weird energy right now. Tonks is nervous and pretending not to be. The house is acting twitchier than usual. I don’t know how to explain it.

Anyway, nothing new here. Laundry’s dry. Kreacher’s toast still tastes like punishment. I may have lost a few years of my life to Tonks’ attempts at stealth.

How’s the quiet life with your Muggles? Still awful?

– DLM(B?)

P.S. If I ever say anything like “I wish something exciting would happen,” please hex me immediately.

He folded it up and sent it off with Tonks’s borrowed owl.

He’d told Potter nothing.

But every word burned with the weight of the secret behind it.

----------------------------

“Have you ever considered... washing?”

Sirius, sprawled on the threadbare carpet of his old bedroom, squinted at Draco from beneath a curtain of greasy hair. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” Draco said, leaning in the doorway with arms crossed, “you look like a disgraced librarian who’s lost a duel with a sewer drain.”

Sirius grinned crookedly. “I was in prison.”

“Yes, and I’m trying very hard to help you move past that. Spiritually. Visually. Aromatically.”

Draco stepped into the room with a determined glint in his eye, a basket full of mysterious Tonks-approved hygiene products floating behind him.

“What’s that?”

“A kindness,” Draco said. “Also, revenge. You threw a wet sock at me. It’s time to pay.”

Sirius groaned.

Draco dropped the basket. Inside: shampoo, magical beard trimmers, a cracked hand mirror that liked to mumble critiques under its breath, and something labeled “Lash & Brow Fortifying Elixir (With Essence of Thestral Mane).”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “You think I need ‘fortifying’?”

“I think you look like you came out of a crypt and not the cool kind,” Draco said. “Besides, I learned a thing or two last Christmas from Tonks’ incredibly annoying but aesthetically powerful friends. One of them wore a cloak made of illusion charms. I wept.”

“I should’ve escaped in December,” Sirius muttered.

“You should’ve moisturized in Azkaban,” Draco shot back. “Now. Into the loo with you. I’ll find something that doesn’t scream murderous fugitive for you to wear.”

Sirius groaned dramatically but obeyed, grumbling all the way down the corridor.

----

“Are you done? I’m not waiting forever!”

Draco knocked twice, then turned away just as the bathroom door creaked open.

Sirius emerged in borrowed clothes — a slightly oversized black jumper (one of Draco’s old ones, thank you very much), magically mended jeans, and clean boots. His hair, while still wild, had been trimmed by Draco’s questionable spellwork and no longer looked like a sentient mop. His beard had been tamed into something almost dashing.

Draco blinked.

Sirius raised both arms and turned in a slow circle. “Well?”

“You look like someone who could convince a jury you didn’t kill twelve people.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should. The bar was very low.”

They both laughed.

And something shifted.

Later, sitting outside his bedroom again, Draco listened as Sirius told him more about the Potters. About James, who was a show-off with a good heart. About Lily, who was sharper than all of them, who could hex someone before they even realized she was angry.

“She once hexed Snape so hard his robes turned into tulips,” Sirius said, chuckling.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “That Lily Potter?”

“Oh, she had a spine of goblin steel, that one. Scared me more than McGonagall ever did.”

They paused.

Sirius leaned his head back against the door. “I just want to make it right. If I can. For them. For Harry.”

Draco didn’t speak for a while.

But he felt it again — the curse, that strange hum that buzzed in his gut when someone lied to him, like a misfired jinx under his ribs.

Nothing.

Sirius was telling the truth.

“You really didn’t do it,” Draco murmured.

“No. I didn’t.”

Draco swallowed. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’ve been told.”

“And Pettigrew’s with the Weasleys. Still. No one’s noticed?”

“No one thinks to look at a rat. But he’s there. I know he is.”

Draco stared into the dark hallway, the only sound the faint wheezing of the Black family portrait in the next room.

“Then we’ll figure it out,” he said quietly.

From behind the door, Sirius didn’t answer.

But the silence felt like agreement.

------------------

Draco was slumped against the wall outside Sirius’s room again, half-wrapped in a blanket, one slipper missing. He was drooling slightly on a book about ancient blood curses when Tonks nearly tripped over him on her way upstairs.

“You’ve got to stop making the hallway your bed, dragon-boy,” she said, poking his shoulder with her wand. “You're going to start sprouting mildew.”

Draco blinked awake, groaned, then sat up with impressive dramatics.

“Morning, sunshine,” came Sirius’s voice from the other side of the door.

“He’s been there all night again?” Tonks asked, eyebrows shooting up.

“He talks. I listen,” Draco mumbled. “And also I may have passed out after giving him beard oil tips.”

“You’re a strange one.”

“Look who’s talking.”

Next to his foot lay Potter’s latest reply — unopened. As he bent to pick it up, a shadow darted from behind him.

“Oi!”

Too late.

Sirius snatched the letter mid-motion and danced back out of reach, eyes glinting with mischief. “Aha! Correspondence with the Boy Who Lived! Let’s see what Potter has to say for himself.”

Draco stood. “Give it back, mutt.”

But Sirius wasn’t listening. He had already scanned the letter, and when his eyes reached the bottom of the parchment, his expression turned thoughtful.

“Merlin, I want to see him.”

“No,” Tonks said, from her place leaning against the wall.

Sirius turned, grinning. “But I won’t be visiting him. Padfoot will!”

“Nope. Not happening.”

“I’ve got the fur, I’ve got the tail, I’ve got the animal magnetism—”

“You’re going to get caught, and then the Ministry’s going to parade your head around like a Quidditch Cup trophy. No.”

“Pretty please?” Sirius pouted. “With a cherry on top?”

Tonks narrowed her eyes. “You get caught by any Auror, it’s on you, Big Dog.”

“I’ll bring you back a souvenir,” Sirius said with a mad cackle, tossing the letter in the air and catching it dramatically.

Draco groaned into his hands. “This family is cursed.”

“Correction,” Sirius said, pointing. “You’re cursed. I’m just charmingly reckless.”

Tonks looked like she wanted to hex both of them.

“Fine!” she said. “If you want to get your damn self caught, go ahead. But I’m not letting you out of my sight. I’m tailing you.”

“Pun intended?” Sirius asked, ever hopeful.

“Die.”

“Already tried.”

Draco sat at the kitchen table, arms crossed, staring into a mug of tea.

“So,” he said slowly, “you’re just letting him go.”

“I’m following him,” Tonks replied. She was already dressed for stealth: worn cloak, extendable pockets, a wand strapped to her thigh. “He’ll be fine.”

“Tonks,” Draco said, “you realize you’re breaking half a dozen Ministry regulations.”

“I’m breaking one and a half,” she replied. “Max. Besides, I know him. I knew him before all this. Before Azkaban.”

Draco stared.

Draco looked away. The curse still hadn’t triggered. And that unsettled him more than anything else.

“Just don’t get caught,” he muttered.

Tonks grinned, grabbing a biscuit from the tin. “Please. Who do you think taught him stealth?”

A crash came from upstairs, followed by Sirius yelling, “TONKS, DO I NEED TO TRANSFIGURE INTO A CHIHUAHUA OR WHAT?”

Tonks rolled her eyes. “Coming, Big Dog.”

She winked at Draco on her way out.

----------------

Draco wasn’t thrilled to be playing host, but he was also terminally bored. Tonks and Sirius had disappeared to Surrey for whatever ridiculous “let’s-risk-everyone’s-careers” mission they’d cooked up, and that meant Grimmauld was temporarily free of dog hair, cursed laughter, and Tonks’s exploding kettle.

So he invited Theo and Daphne over. For tea. Like civilized, trauma-bonded teenagers.

They came bearing biscuits and fancy herbal tea again — Theo with his usual casual elegance, and Daphne in a floaty, pale green dress that made her look like she belonged at a Malfoy garden party. Not that Draco was judging. He was wearing socks with thestrals on them. Irony.

Something was off, though.

They weren’t speaking to each other. Not at all. They only addressed Draco. Like he was the center of attention. Which he usually didn’t mind, but not like this. Not when it felt like he was being used as a conversational buffer between two people who used to finish each other’s potions essays.

He noticed it the moment Daphne offered Theo a biscuit and Theo handed it to Draco instead.

So.

Weird.

Eventually, after a grand total of forty-five minutes and one cup of lukewarm tea, Theo stood and brushed nonexistent crumbs off his trousers. “Sorry — got to go. My sister’s having a meltdown over a cruppie she adopted. It's apparently chewing the walls.”

Draco blinked. “She’s eight.”

“Yes. The cruppie is also eight weeks old and, according to her, ‘an agent of destruction.’”

Draco waved him off. “Tell her to name it Doom. Or Chaos. Something thematic.”

Theo nodded, patted Daphne’s shoulder (awkward), and Floo’ed away.

Which was when Daphne dropped her teacup onto the saucer with a dramatic clink and turned to Draco like she couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“He kissed me.”

Draco blinked. “Who?”

She stared. “Theo. Who else?”

“Didn’t know we were playing Guess the Slytherin.”

“He kissed me after saying he’d liked me for years!”

Draco leaned back in his chair, unimpressed. “Yeah, well, everyone already knew that. I’m sure even Crabbe and Goyle noticed. He’s not exactly subtle.”

Daphne gawked. “But I didn’t!”

Draco gave her a look. “Daphne. You two used to stare at each other like you were rehearsing your wedding vows. You once passed him a note during class that said ‘your hair looks like a poetic disaster today’ and he BLUSHED. You think that was casual?”

“That was a compliment,” Daphne huffed.

“I know. That’s what makes it worse.”

She crossed her arms. “Well, I thought you of all people would be excited.”

Draco raised a brow. “Why would I be excited about my two best friends making me the awkward third wheel again? Do you know how many times I sat next to you two at the library and listened to you argue about wand cores like it was some kind of mating ritual?”

Daphne blinked. “I—Draco!”

“I’m thrilled for you,” he said flatly. “Ravished with joy. Over the moon. In awe.”

“You’re the worst.”

“And you’re hopeless. Are you going to kiss him again or write him a haiku or what?”

She narrowed her eyes, then smirked. “Probably both.”

Draco groaned. “Kill me.”

“Fine, I’ll snog Theo, write him an emotional poem, and then not kill you.”

“Mercy is weakness,” Draco muttered, reaching for another biscuit.

They sat in silence for a moment. A weird, familiar silence that only existed between people who had too much history to need words.

Then Daphne said softly, “I missed this.”

Draco glanced at her. “Me too.”

There was still that gnawing feeling in his chest — not quite jealousy, not quite longing, but something twisted and quiet. Like being left behind. Again.

But he didn’t say that. He just bit into the biscuit like it had personally wronged him.

----------------------

Potter,

I had guests today. No need to look surprised — I do, in fact, have friends, unlike you and your collection of expired Muggle cereal boxes and whatever is growing in your cupboard.

Theo and Daphne came over, and they were weird. Weirder than usual. Theo left early (tragic cruppie emergency, don’t ask), and Daphne stayed to emotionally dump about how he kissed her and confessed his undying love and now everything is sparkles and confusion.

I know what you’re thinking: How very romantic. No. It’s awful. It’s tragic. It’s inconvenient. Because now I have to listen to both of them fumble around in what’s clearly going to be an excruciatingly slow-burning courtship while pretending I’m totally unaffected.

Which I am.

Completely unaffected.

I’m just annoyed that people keep pairing off like it’s some sort of emotionally repressed Noah’s Ark and I’m stuck being the lone flamingo on the roof.

(That metaphor made more sense in my head. Shut up. Also, Uncle Ted just introduced The Bible to me. Weird book, very educational.)

In other news, nothing interesting is happening here. Nothing. Definitely no visitors. No mysterious figures lurking in ancient bedrooms. No unsettling family secrets coming back to life. All very dull and ordinary.

Tonks has been busy with work. Very official, very boring, lots of coffee and suspicious bruises. She hasn’t blown up the bathroom in at least three days, which is personal growth.

I’m reading more. I found a book about romantic duels — total nonsense, but addictive. Imagine being so emotionally repressed that you challenge someone to a duel instead of just writing a letter.

(Not me, obviously. I have no emotional repression. None. I’m writing to you, aren’t I?)

Write back soon. Pretend to be interesting. Or at least tell me something vaguely funny. Or insulting. I’m not picky.

– DLM(B?)

P.S. If you tell anyone about the flamingo metaphor, I’ll hex your eyebrows off.

-------------------------

Malfoy,

Your letter was dramatic. Not that I expected anything less. A flamingo on the roof? Are you sure you’re not actually writing poetry in your spare time?

Anyway, prepare to be impressed: I may have accidentally blown up my Aunt. Not literally — she’s alive. Mostly.

It was Marge, the one who hates me (which narrows down no one). She was going on about my parents again, like she always does, and I... well, I lost it. And she… floated. Full balloon. Her hat flew off.

So, I ran away. As you do when you inflate your aunt like a dirigible.

But here’s the weird part — right after I legged it out of there, I saw this huge black dog. Like, massive. Just standing there in the street. Staring. It looked like death itself had decided to drop by and spectate. I thought it was going to attack me or something, but then it just vanished.

Then the Knight Bus showed up (don’t ask, I’m still recovering), and now I’m at the Leaky Cauldron. The Minister of Magic himself met me here, which was mildly terrifying, but no one mentioned the whole floating-aunt incident again. Which means I’m not expelled, I guess?

But everyone here is acting really jumpy. There’s this big talk going around — something about a mass-murderer escaping Azkaban. Sirius Black? Have you heard of him?

The Prophet’s full of it, every wizard and witch seems to think he’s hiding behind every lamppost. People are saying he’s after me because he supported You-Know-Who. Can’t say I’m thrilled about being stalked by a lunatic.

You seem to know your way around dark stuff — not that I’m saying you’re dark, I just mean... oh whatever. You know what I mean.

If you know anything about him — real stuff, not just rumors — let me know, alright?

Also: I saw Nott at Quality Quidditch Supplies. He looked like someone had just insulted his favorite gobstones set. Thought you’d enjoy that mental image.

Hope your flamingo finds a mate soon.

– HJP

P.S. You dodged telling me how you actually feel about Nott and Daphne’s star-crossed tea-time disaster. Not subtle.
P.P.S. You left glitter on your last letter. Explain.

---------------

The door slammed shut downstairs, followed by a scuffle of boots and a muffled, “Watch it, you trampled my foot!”

Draco was already waiting at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, scowl locked firmly in place like a permanent hex. His foot tapped with the same rhythm of doom Aunt Andromeda used when she was about to read someone to filth.

As soon as Tonks and Sirius came into view — the former windswept and sheepish, the latter looking far too pleased for someone who had technically broken into a suburban neighborhood while being the most wanted man in wizarding Britain — Draco spoke.

“Did you have fun?” he said acidly. “Was it a charming little countryside stroll, complete with a scenic view of Azkaban wanted posters and an excellent risk of imprisonment?”

Tonks looked up with a tired smile. “Draco, breathe—”

“No, I will not breathe, Tonks!” he snapped. “Because Potter saw him!”

Sirius froze mid-laugh. “Wait—what?”

Draco stalked down the last few steps and brandished the letter he had folded so precisely it might’ve cut paper. “Here. See for yourself. ‘A massive black dog. Looked like death. Just staring.’ Sound familiar, Uncle Padfoot?”

Tonks grabbed the letter from his hand and scanned it quickly. “Bugger.”

“Bugger, she says,” Draco mocked, pacing now. “You told me you were following him, Tonks!”

“I was! He was sniffing a mailbox for twenty minutes!”

“I thought it smelled like sausages!” Sirius defended, hands up like he was innocent of all crimes — including making terrible decisions. “Besides, I didn’t even get that close!”

“He said you were staring at him in the street like you were going to drag him to the underworld! Are you trying to give him trauma on top of trauma?”

“I wasn’t trying to traumatize him,” Sirius muttered. “I was trying to make sure he was okay…”

“By lurking like the Grim Reaper with fleas?”

Sirius opened his mouth, then closed it. “Okay, maybe I wasn’t very subtle.”

Tonks groaned and flopped onto the nearest piece of furniture, which unfortunately was the cursed sofa that occasionally bit people. It growled beneath her but she didn’t even flinch. “I told you it was too risky. I said he might notice you.”

“You let him go!” Draco snapped at her, throwing both arms in the air. “You said you were following him!”

“Yes, well, I can’t leash him like a hippogriff, Draco!”

“You could’ve tied him to a chair!”

Sirius snorted. “Kinky.”

“Sirius!”

“Okay, okay!” Sirius said quickly, waving his arms. “Look — yes, maybe I got a little too close. But I saw him. I just… needed to see him. He’s grown. He’s alive. He looked okay.”

“And now he’s being told you’re out to murder him in his sleep,” Draco hissed. “Everyone in Diagon Alley is talking about you — I had to lie to Potter just to keep things together!”

Tonks rubbed her face, her hair morphing from pink to a dull greyish hue. “We’re going to have to change the plan. We can’t risk another outing. Not until the heat dies down.”

“Thank Merlin,” Draco muttered. “Next time you want to run off on a secret mission, warn me. Or better yet, just don’t do it.”

Sirius scratched the back of his neck. “...I could write him.”

“No, you cannot!” Draco and Tonks said in unison.

Sirius groaned and flopped beside Tonks. “You two are the worst jailers I’ve ever had.”

“Not jailers,” Tonks muttered. “Damage control.”

Draco gave them both one last glare. “You’re lucky I haven’t cursed either of you. I had to lie through my teeth reading Potter’s letter, and I swear the curse was just watching me the whole time like, ‘Oh? Are we sure that’s what happened?’ It’s a miracle I didn’t drop dead.”

Sirius, despite everything, looked mildly pleased. “So you can lie without dying.”

Draco gave him a flat look. “Barely.”

Tonks groaned again and buried her face in her hands. “This is why Moody said I wasn’t ready for field work…”

Sirius grinned and nudged her. “He’s just mad because he didn’t arrest me yet.”

“You should be arrested,” Draco muttered.

“I already was, remember?”

“Not helping!” Tonks snapped.

A silence fell then, only interrupted by the soft hiss of the fireplace and the ominous groaning of the sofa’s internal curses.

Finally, Draco sighed. “If Potter figures out who you are — who you really are — everything goes up in smoke.”

Sirius’s grin faded. He looked toward the staircase. “I know. But he’s my godson, Draco. I can’t stay away forever.”

Draco didn’t respond. He just picked up the folded letter and crumpled it in his hand.

“No. But you’ll have to. For now.”

And then he left the room, cape swishing behind him like a disappointed professor.

Sirius turned to Tonks. “He’s intense.”

Tonks exhaled. “You think he’s intense? Try being his legal guardian.”

--------------------

Draco nearly choked on his tea.

The owl had knocked so insistently against the kitchen window that it shattered Tonks’s favorite mug — the one with the dancing mandrakes — and Draco, already high-strung from the stress of harboring a fugitive in his ancestral home, was in no mood for surprise correspondence.

He ripped the envelope open, expecting another typical Potter update about the Leaky Cauldron’s terrible soup or some Weasley sighting from a distance.

Instead, he got this:

-----

Draco,

I’ve decided something. Diagon Alley is officially boring. Same food, same faces, and Tom the innkeeper keeps giving me weird smiles like he thinks I’ll blow up another relative any day now.

Ron’s in Egypt. Hermione’s in France. And I’m alone. I hate being alone. So I’m going to bother you.

Hope you’re ready, because I’ll be at your place tomorrow morning. Bright and early. And you better not pretend you’re not home — I’ll know where the doorbell is.

We’re spending the whole day together. Whether you like it or not.

Sincerely,
Your Favorite Potter™
(Hopefully the only one you’re writing to. Do tell me if there’s another one.)

P.S. Make snacks. And don’t let that curse make you snarky.

----

Draco read the letter three times, then screamed.

“TONKS!”

A loud clatter upstairs, followed by thumping, and then Tonks appeared at the door to the kitchen, wand out and hair fizzling neon purple. “What?! Did Sirius bite the curtains again?”

“Worse!” Draco thrust the letter at her like it was cursed. “He’s coming here! Tomorrow!”

Tonks blinked, then read the letter aloud with dramatic flair. “Hope you’re ready… doorbell… snacks… snarky—oh no.”

“Oh yes! And what exactly am I supposed to do with our criminal uncle who just so happens to share a very distinctive animagus form with the thing Potter already saw?”

Tonks’s hair flickered a panicked red. “We’ll… hide him?”

“He wants to spend the whole day here! Sirius won’t sit in a broom cupboard for twelve hours!”

A muffled bark came from the hallway.

Tonks and Draco both turned to see Padfoot poking his enormous, shaggy head around the corner, tongue lolling and tail wagging like a mischievous hippogriff.

“I heard something about Harry,” Sirius said, voice muffled through his transformed mouth.

“Out!” Draco hissed. “Out! You’ll leave hair everywhere!”

Padfoot sauntered into the kitchen anyway, sneezed dramatically, and shifted back into human form in the blink of an eye — tall, skeletal, and grinning.

“So. Harry’s coming.”

“No,” Draco snapped. “Potter’s invading. And if he sees you, he’ll know. He’ll put it together.”

Sirius scratched his chin. “Couldn’t I just be a different big black dog?”

Draco looked at Tonks. Tonks looked at Sirius. And then—

“I have an idea,” Tonks said slowly.

Sirius squinted. “I don’t like that tone.”

“We shrink you. Transfigure you. You become something… less obvious. A small, charming, utterly unrecognizable breed.”

Draco stared at her. “What, like a spaniel?”

Tonks’s grin turned wicked. “Smaller.”

Sirius backed up. “No. No shrinking.”

“Come on,” Tonks said. “Just for the day. One little Pomeranian adventure.”

“I fought Death Eaters! I don’t deserve this!”

“You sniffed a mailbox and traumatized a child,” Draco snapped. “Get fluffy.”

Sirius groaned. “This is undignified. You’re going to take away my bark and everything I stand for. I’ll look like a squeaky toy.”

Tonks already had her wand out. “Better a squeaky toy than a security risk.”

With a muttered incantation and a flick of her wrist, Sirius’s whole form shuddered — and where there once was a towering, gaunt ex-prisoner, now stood a tiny, suspiciously well-groomed ball of black fluff with very pointy teeth and a dramatic tail curl.

The Pomeranian growled, his bark now an adorably furious yap.

Draco blinked. “I think I’m going to vomit.”

“He’s so cute!” Tonks squealed, scooping Sirius up before he could run. “Oh, you’re just the grumpiest little menace, aren’t you? Who’s a tiny Padfoot? Who is?”

“Put. Me. Down,” Sirius barked — or rather, squeaked.

Draco sank into a chair. “I can’t believe this is my life. A dark artifact is attached to my body. I’m harboring a wanted criminal disguised as a dog. And tomorrow, the Boy Who Lived is coming over for snacks.”

Tonks plopped Sirius down on the table like a very angry muffin. “I’m taking the day off tomorrow. If Harry sees anything weird, I’ll handle it.”

“I’ll help,” the Pomeranian muttered bitterly. “I’ll bite your shoes.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Please don’t. I’ve got enough trauma.”

Tonks grinned. “It’ll be fine. You’ll survive.”

“I hope he does,” Draco said, eyeing Sirius. “He might actually combust from pettiness.”

The Pomeranian yapped in response.

Draco stared at him. “If he pees on the rug, I’m telling the Prophet.”

------------------------

The doorbell rang exactly one minute later than Harry promised. Draco knew it was Potter because no one else rang the doorbell twice and then knocked right after, like the front door had personally offended them.

From his perch by the window, Draco watched the boy adjust his glasses, then look up at the house with an expression that was part curiosity, part wariness, and one hundred percent Harry Potter. The oversized hoodie, the messy hair, the ridiculous trainers. It was all exactly as Draco remembered — and somehow worse in person.

Inside the front hall, chaos had already broken loose.

Sirius — now Snuffles — was barking like someone had set him on fire. High-pitched, furious, and unrelenting. The small black Pomeranian fluffed out like a rabid puffskein, running in angry circles and snapping at the legs of anyone who came near.

“Wotcher, Potter!” Tonks said brightly as she flung the door open, carefully stepping in front of Snuffles to keep him from launching out like a rocket. She shoved the yapping menace behind her leg with a firm nudge of her boot. “Ignore the dog, he’s just... passionate.”

Harry blinked at the furious black blur. “You, uh… got a dog?”

“Temporary. Rescue. Definitely not cursed,” Tonks said quickly. “Come here, you damned dog, stop embarrassing me in front of children.”

“I’m not a child,” Harry muttered.

Draco’s voice echoed from the kitchen. “He’s in the hall, isn’t he?”

Tonks turned her head. “Yeah, he’s looking at Snuffles like he’s about to be bitten.”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake—Potter! Come help me with these trays, will you? I was nice enough to make un-poisoned tea and biscuits for you.”

Harry stepped fully inside, casting a skeptical look at the tiny barking furball. “Didn’t know Draco had a dog.”

“Am I supposed to tell you everything about my life, Potter?” Draco said, now appearing in the doorway, a large tray floating in front of him laden with polished teacups, golden-brown biscuits, and a pitcher of something vaguely lemony.

Harry raised a brow. “Didn’t know you could cook either.”

“I didn’t,” Draco said dryly. “But I can read instructions. It’s called literacy. Maybe you’ve heard of it. Probably not.”

Before Harry could shoot back a retort, Tonks shoved the dog — er, Snuffles — into her arms and beamed at them both. “Right! Garden picnic time, let’s go! The weather’s lovely and Snuffles gets too excitable indoors.”

“Snuffles?” Harry repeated, incredulous.

Sirius growled low in his throat — it sounded halfway between a squeaky toy and a grumble.

Tonks rubbed his ears. “Oh, he hates the name. Which makes it perfect.”

Draco led them through the hallway and out to the overgrown garden, which he had actually managed to charm into some semblance of order. A tablecloth was spread over the grass, the tea tray now set beside a stack of books and a jar of lemon curd.

Harry sat down on the blanket, eyes drifting around the garden. “This place looks better than I imagined. Grimmauld Place, right?”

“Don’t say it too loud,” Draco said, pouring the tea. “The old hag in the hall might wake up.”

“You mean the portrait?” Harry asked, curious. “You told me something about it in—”

“Don’t care,” Draco interrupted.

Tonks plopped down beside them, Snuffles still wriggling in her lap like a ball of indignation. “She’s been quiet since we wallpapered over her. Soundproofed the whole corridor. But I think she knows someone’s here.”

Snuffles gave a smug yap.

Harry leaned a little closer, eyebrows knitting. “He looks familiar…”

Draco dropped a biscuit with a clatter. “No, he doesn’t.”

Harry squinted. “You sure? I swear I saw a dog just like him in—”

“Coincidence!” Tonks said too brightly. “Common breed! He’s a, uh—”

“Pomhuahua,” Draco said smoothly. “Pomeranian-chihuahua mix. Very niche. Very... unrelated to any animagi you may have seen or read about.”

Harry frowned. “That’s not even a real breed.”

“It is now,” Tonks muttered under her breath, holding Snuffles tighter.

Draco shoved a teacup into Harry’s hands. “Drink. Stop speculating. Eat your lemon biscuits and appreciate my effort.”

They all sat in stiff silence for a moment, except for Snuffles, who managed to sneak out of Tonks’s grip and leap dramatically into Potter’s lap. His growling intensified the moment Draco leaned in to pet him.

“Is he okay?” Harry asked.

“No,” Draco and Tonks said in unison.

“Chronic… grudge issues,” Tonks said with a shrug. “We’re working on it.”

“So this is what you’ve been up to all summer,” Harry said, biting into a biscuit. “Hiding in your creepy ancestral house, drinking tea, and grooming your emotionally damaged Pomhuahua.”

“You make it sound so boring,” Draco muttered.

They fell into a surprisingly easy rhythm after that — or as easy as it could be when Tonks was watching Sirius like a hawk every time he got too close to Potter, and Snuffles kept trying to chew on Draco’s sleeve.

The weirdest part, Draco realized, was that Potter fit.

Not with the house — gods, no, he still tracked dirt everywhere and didn’t understand the proper etiquette of holding teacups — but with them. Tonks laughed more around him. Even Sirius, in his tiny wrathful dog body, occasionally let out something that sounded suspiciously like a snort of amusement.

Maybe that’s why Draco didn’t throw his plate when Harry mentioned Ronald and Granger again. Or when he asked if Draco had any pets of his own. Or when he accidentally stepped in Tonks’s enchanted hydrangeas.

Because for a few hours, the lie held.

Snuffles was just a dog. Tonks was just a cousin. Draco was just a teenager having a normal, cursed-free, criminal-sheltering-free summer.

And none of them were breaking the law at all.

Definitely not.

Probably.

Maybe.

--------------------

They’d spent nearly the whole day in the garden, and despite Draco’s best efforts, Harry didn’t seem to get tired, or bored, or even moderately willing to leave. The afternoon sun began to dip into a golden haze, tea had gone cold, and Tonks had Transfigured a ladybug into a tiny top hat just to keep herself from screaming when Snuffles tried to chew a hole through Draco’s sleeve for the third time.

Things had been… manageable.

But of course, Potter had to ruin it.

They were sat beneath the hydrangea charms, half-hidden by magical blooms the size of dinner plates, when Harry casually said it.

“So,” he began, wiping biscuit crumbs off his jumper, “what do you lot think about Sirius Black?”

It was like someone had cast Petrificus Totalus on the entire picnic.

Tonks went rigid, her teacup suspended in mid-air.

Draco dropped a spoon.

Even Snuffles froze mid-snarl, a biscuit lodged between his tiny teeth.

Harry blinked. “What?”

Tonks cleared her throat. “I… don’t think about him.”

“You’re an Auror,” Harry said, squinting. “Surely you know something. He escaped Azkaban. You’re not allowed to not think about it.”

“Nope. Moody’s eerily secretive with this,” she said quickly, waving her hand like the conversation was dust she could scatter. “He’s got me on another case. Officially. Unofficially, I think he just didn’t want me anywhere near it.”

Draco suddenly became very interested in the grass. He tugged a weed from the ground with unnecessary aggression.

“And you, Draco?” Harry pressed. “Lucius must’ve said something. Ron said your mother’s his cousin. Well. Is.”

“I’m disowned,” Draco said, too sharp, too fast. “Haven’t spoken to any of them in over a year. Lucius included. And Narcissa hasn’t sent a letter ever since.”

Harry turned to Snuffles, eyes narrowing with that oddly calculating look that made Draco nervous.

“And you, Snuffles?” he said, voice light but edged with suspicion. “Do you know anything?”

It was a joke, clearly — but not a good one.

Because Snuffles stood abruptly, biscuit still in his mouth, and trotted away like someone had just slapped him. No bark, no growl, no puffy dramatics. Just a sharp little turn and a retreat into the shadows of the house.

“…Was it something I said?” Harry asked after a beat of confused silence.

Tonks sighed. “He’s very sensitive.”

“He’s a dog.”

“Yeah, well, he’s also a rescue,” she added. “Bit traumatized. Probably has a thing about loud voices and murderers.”

Draco coughed so hard he nearly choked on his tea.

Harry glanced between the two of them. “What’s going on? You’re both acting weird. Even for you, Draco.”

Draco leaned back, expression lazy and unimpressed, masking the fact that his entire internal monologue was just one long string of FUCK. “You’ve known me for two years. How would you know what my normal is?”

Harry narrowed his eyes.

Tonks changed the subject like her life depended on it. “You know what we do know about? Weird magical creatures! Draco, didn’t you read that new article in the Prophet about Lethifolds?”

Draco caught the lifeline. “Riveting. Fascinating. Let’s discuss that instead of fugitive uncles.”

Harry frowned. “You didn’t even deny it.”

Tonks clapped her hands. “LETHIFOLDS, HARRY.”

Harry sighed, clearly frustrated but letting it go. For now.

They didn’t see Snuffles again for hours.

When they finally reentered the house, he wasn’t waiting in the hallway. Or the sitting room. Or the kitchen. Tonks called him, whistled, even shook the tin of leftover biscuits. Nothing. The only clue to where he’d gone was a faint creaking from upstairs, like the sound of someone pacing slowly across creaky floorboards.

“Should we… check on him?” Harry asked.

“No,” both Tonks and Draco said immediately.

Tonks slapped a smile on her face. “He’s probably napping. You know. Dog things.”

“Right,” Harry said slowly. “Dog things.”

But Draco saw it in his eyes — that flicker of doubt, the itch of curiosity. Potter was getting too close. Far too close. And if he asked one more question, if he caught Snuffles talking in his sleep or saw the dog reading a newspaper or smiling at a portrait of James Potter, this entire operation would unravel.

Later, after Harry left with a promise to come back “very soon,” Tonks sat on the kitchen counter, biting her thumbnail.

“We’re going to have to tell him at some point,” she muttered.

“No, we’re not,” Draco said. “We absolutely are not.”

Tonks looked toward the ceiling. “He was just a baby when Sirius used to visit. I used to think they’d never meet. That they’d never have to meet. Not like this.”

Draco leaned on the table, face in his hands. “I swear to Merlin, if Potter ruins this with his nosy Gryffindor brain…”

Tonks glanced at the stairs again.

Snuffles hadn’t come down since.

------------------

The house was mostly dark by the time Draco tiptoed up the stairs with a mug of lukewarm tea. The kind of quiet that sat heavy and uneasy, like the calm before a duel.

Snuffles—no, Sirius—hadn’t come back down all evening. Tonks had said something about giving him space, but Draco had known that tone. The one where her voice went high and her eyes got soft, and she said things like, “space” when what she meant was grief. Guilt. Or worse—longing.

He knocked twice, quietly.

No answer.

Then again, it was hard to bark when you were sulking in human form.

He opened the door without waiting for permission, because Sirius had lost the right to privacy the second he ran off like a shaggy idiot in front of Potter.

The room was dim, but not dark. The window was open, just slightly, letting in the cool breeze of approaching nightfall. Sirius was sitting on the floor beside the bed, legs stretched out, hair wet from a recent shower, shirt too big and borrowed. His arms rested over his knees, head tipped back against the wall.

He looked… younger in the dark. And also impossibly older.

Draco placed the mug on the bedside table and leaned against the doorframe.

“You look like a wet dog,” he said.

“I was a dog,” Sirius muttered.

“You were a Pomeranian, which is possibly worse.”

Sirius didn’t smile. His eyes stayed trained on the ceiling. “He looked just like James.”

Draco didn't reply.

“I knew he would,” Sirius continued. “But it still—” He exhaled. “He was right there. My godson. And I couldn't even speak to him. I had to bark and wag my tail like some bloody house pet.”

“Well,” Draco said, stepping inside, “you were a very convincing house pet. Except for the part where you tried to bite my shoe.”

“I wasn’t trying to bite you.”

“You growled at me.”

“You insulted my name.”

“I just said Snuffles is a stupid name.”

“And it is!”

“Well, it’s yours for now,” Draco said, crossing his arms. “So get used to it.”

Sirius went quiet again. The silence stretched between them like an old, bitter argument neither of them wanted to win.

“It’s not fair,” Sirius said finally. “James would’ve wanted me to be with him. To raise him, if anything happened. But instead, I’m hiding in my childhood bedroom, eating sandwiches through a locked door and pretending to be a glorified purse dog.”

Draco looked at him carefully, then sat on the floor across from him.

“I know it’s not fair.”

Sirius didn’t move.

“But we’re going to fix it,” Draco continued. “Clear your name. It’s just... going to take time.”

“Time,” Sirius echoed bitterly. “They already took twelve years. What’s a few more?”

“We’ll find Pettigrew,” Draco said, more firmly. “You said he’s alive. If we can prove that, we can prove you’re innocent.”

Sirius turned his head to look at him, eyes hollowed but alert. “And what if we can’t? What if he disappears again, or gets caught before I do?”

Draco shrugged. “Then we go to Plan B.”

Sirius arched an eyebrow. “Which is?”

“We frame someone else.”

A snort of surprise—half-laugh, half-exhaustion—escaped Sirius’s mouth. “You’re more like your family than you let on.”

“Please. If I were like them, you’d already be in the cellar with a sign over your head that says ‘Do Not Feed the Fugitive.’”

Sirius actually smiled at that.

Draco leaned his head against the wall. “Just… don’t give up. Okay? Potter’s an idiot, but he’s not stupid. He saw you. He’ll remember. One day, he’ll ask the right question to the wrong person, and it’ll all unravel. So, we have to be ready. We have to be cleverer than him. Not like it’s hard, though.”

Sirius looked out the window, into the quiet night. The sounds of the city were distant, muffled. Safe. For now.

“I don’t want to be a dog,” he said softly.

Draco’s voice dropped to match. “Then don’t be. Be his godfather. Just… for now, be a very fluffy, slightly annoying one.”

There was a long pause.

Then Sirius muttered, “I’m never living this down, am I?”

“Absolutely not,” Draco said. “I’m already planning a portrait of Snuffles for the upstairs hallway.”

Sirius rolled his eyes, but something had shifted. The bitterness was still there—how could it not be?—but underneath it was a flicker of purpose. Of movement. Of forward.

They sat in silence for a while longer, the breeze threading through the curtains, the weight of grief and hope both pressing on their shoulders.

Tomorrow, they’d have to lie again. Smile. Pretend.

But tonight, they could just be two boys—one older, one bitter, both a little broken—trying to put the pieces back together.

Together.

--------------------

The kitchen was dim, lit only by a single enchanted lamp humming faintly over the table. A half-full teapot sat forgotten between Tonks and Draco, both hunched over a mess of parchment, quills, and old Daily Prophets that had been hastily charmed into silence.

“…and if we can get a sample of Pettigrew’s wand—if he even still has one—we can compare it to the spells cast the night the Potters died,” Tonks was saying, scribbling furiously on a bit of spare napkin. “But that’s a long shot, and it’d take months to get through the Ministry’s red tape without raising alarms.”

Draco, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, nodded slowly. “We don’t have months. If someone catches him before we find proof, it’s over. They’ll drag him back to Azkaban without a trial.”

He didn’t need to say the name.

Tonks exhaled. “You think we should risk contacting Remus Lupin?”

Draco shook his head. “Too dangerous. You said it yourself—he’s being watched, and if anyone suspects he’s in touch with Sirius…”

Tonks groaned and rubbed her temples. “Bloody hell. This would be easier if Sirius didn’t leave a trail of chaos wherever he—”

The kitchen door creaked.

Tonks stood immediately, hand reaching for her wand. But it wasn’t a Death Eater or a nosy neighbor—it was Sirius. Human-shaped, wild-haired, dressed in pajamas and looking like he hadn’t slept since 1981.

“Hi,” he said, like he hadn’t just eavesdropped on everything.

Tonks blinked. “Sirius. What are you—”

“I heard everything,” he interrupted, eyes focused on Draco. “I want to help.”

“You’re already helping,” Draco muttered, “by not getting caught and dooming us all.”

“I’m serious.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, we know you’re Sirius. Hilarious.”

Sirius didn’t flinch. “I want to go with you.”

Draco’s brows furrowed. “Go with me where?”

“To Hogwarts.”

Draco blinked. Then blinked again. “As what? The new Care of Magical Creatures professor?”

Sirius ignored the sarcasm. “As Snuffles.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Sirius countered. “Think about it. I stay close. I can protect you, watch for Pettigrew. Hogwarts is safer than most places. And I already missed watching one godson grow up. I won’t miss my nephew.”

Draco stared at him. “That is—absolutely the most insane—”

“He’s not wrong,” Tonks cut in, to Draco’s horror. “I mean, yes, it’s unhinged, but not wrong.”

Draco gawked at her. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” Sirius said smugly.

“Oh, shove off.”

Tonks looked between the two of them, then leaned on the table. “Sirius, you’re suggesting you live in your Animagus form for an entire year.”

“Two, if I have to.”

“Even for an illegal Animagus, that’s a strain—”

“I can handle it,” Sirius said sharply. “It’s not like I’ve had a lot of choices lately.”

Tonks hesitated, then glanced at Draco. “He’s got a point. And if Pettigrew is at Hogwarts, and something goes wrong, it might help to have backup.”

“This is completely absurd,” Draco hissed. “You’ll give yourself away in a week!”

“I’ll be quiet.”

“You barked at Potter like you were possessed!”

“That was a fluke. I was startled.”

“You were jealous.”

Sirius didn’t deny it.

Tonks sighed and crossed her arms. “There’s more. Familiar animals used to be used as anchors for sanity, remember? Especially for families like ours.”

That made Draco pause.

“What?”

Sirius’ voice softened. “It’s true. Read it in one of Mother’s old volumes. Before she started ranting about bloodlines and superiority, there were these older books in the house… I think they belonged to Grandfather Arcturus. They said familiar creatures could help temper magical instability. Stop curses from… progressing.”

Draco didn’t speak. Not immediately.

Sirius continued, more subdued. “Regulus was afraid of catching the curse, too. The madness. Thought maybe getting a familiar would help him. Something about the connection soothing the mind. I didn’t believe him, not at first. But when he started to… fray around the edges, I saw it. I think he was right. I think he was scared.”

A silence followed. Not awkward—heavy. Familiar.

Draco swallowed. “And you think… if you’re there, as a dog, it might help me.”

Sirius nodded once. “It might.”

Tonks looked at Draco now, brows raised. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

Draco let out a frustrated sound. “Fine. But if you get me expelled, I’m telling the portrait of Walburga Black that you married a Muggle.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I’d update the tapestry by hand.”

Tonks beamed. “Excellent. It’s settled then. I’ll adjust the transfiguration charm. Reinforce it so it’ll last longer. You’ll just need top-offs every Hogsmeade weekend.”

“And he stays in the dorms?” Draco asked.

“He’ll sleep in your bed if he has to,” Tonks said. “Pretend he’s a therapeutic pet.”

“I’ll pee on your shoes,” Sirius added helpfully.

Draco groaned. “Why is this my life?”

Sirius grinned, already stretching like a man preparing for a nap. “Because I’m your reward for being morally grey and emotionally stunted.”

Tonks stood, draining her tea. “I’ll start working on the modified charm tonight. You two—bond or something.”

Draco sat back in his chair and stared as she left the room. Sirius moved to the floor by the window again and curled up, a little too convincingly dog-like.

It was ridiculous.

It was reckless.

It was happening.

Draco sighed. “Snuffles?”

“Hmm?”

“If you chew up my school robes, I’ll turn you into a ferret and mail you to Russia.”

“Noted,” Sirius said, eyes closed.

And for the first time in a while, Draco allowed himself the luxury of something he hadn’t felt all summer:

Hope.

-------------------------

The rain had started up again.

Grimmauld Place, dim and humming with its usual haunting creaks and groans, felt suspended in time. Most of the house was asleep—or at least pretending to be—but in the drawing room, the fireplace flickered low, casting long shadows over three figures hunched close together.

Sirius sat cross-legged on the floor, hair damp from a late transformation and a brisk towel-dry, looking more tired than usual but also—strangely—awake. Tonks was slouched in an old armchair with a notebook balanced on her knees, chewing the end of a quill. Draco paced, arms crossed tightly, occasionally stopping to glare at the threadbare carpet like it personally offended him.

“We need a plan,” he said, for the fifth time.

“We have a plan,” Sirius answered, “and the plan is ‘don’t get caught and punch a rat.’”

Draco stopped walking. “That’s not a plan, that’s a crime of passion.”

“It worked for James more than once,” Sirius muttered.

Tonks snapped the quill in half. “Focus. This is why you need handlers. Both of you.”

“Sorry,” Sirius said automatically. “Continue, Auror of the Year.”

Tonks rolled her eyes but pointed to the notebook. “First: we need proof Pettigrew is alive. Harry’s going to Hogwarts, and that rat of the Weasley’s—Scabbers, is it?—is going with him. That’s our only lead.”

“Then I’ll—er, Snuffles will—sniff him out,” Sirius offered.

Draco gave him a side-glance. “You’ll ‘sniff him out.’ Brilliant. Do you also plan to bark a confession out of him?”

“It worked on Kreacher once.”

“No it didn’t.”

“Fine.”

Tonks tapped her notebook again. “We can’t act until we know more. The second we try anything with Pettigrew and it backfires, you go straight back to Azkaban, Sirius. No trial, no questions.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he muttered.

Tonks ignored that. “We need someone who can perform a revealment spell on Pettigrew in front of witnesses—ideally Dumbledore, maybe McGonagall too.”

“That’s risky,” Draco said. “And how do we even explain why we’d be hexing the Weasleys’ pet?”

“Harry could help. If he saw the transformation himself, he could back up Sirius’ story.”

“He’s still a kid,” Draco said. “Even if he believes it, the Ministry won’t.”

“I don’t need them to believe Harry,” Sirius said. “I just need them to see Peter. If he transforms in front of the right people—if someone else catches him—then they’ll have to acknowledge I didn’t kill him.”

“But we’d have to make it look like an accident,” Tonks said slowly, eyes narrowing. “A dramatic one, maybe. Like a defense lesson gone wrong.”

Draco nodded reluctantly. “That could work. If Pettigrew panics and transforms in front of someone with authority…”

Sirius grinned wolfishly. “That’s the idea. We spook the rat until he breaks cover.”

Tonks added something to her notes. “If we’re doing this, we’ll need allies. Dumbledore, for one. Maybe McGonagall, eventually. Remus Lupin, of course. We can’t do it alone. But we have to wait until we’re certain.”

“We wait,” Sirius echoed.

There was a long silence. The only sound was the soft patter of rain against the windowpanes and the occasional crackle from the fire.

Then Sirius spoke again, quieter this time.

“I think Regulus was right.”

Draco glanced up. “About what?”

“The curse. The madness. Maybe we all get it eventually. But if I get this one thing right—just one—I’ll die happy. Let them brand me a lunatic, a runaway, a disgrace. Just not a traitor.”

Tonks didn’t speak. She just reached out and took his hand.

Draco looked between them, and for once, didn’t feel like the youngest one in the room.

“We’ll clear your name,” he said, the conviction in his voice stronger than he felt. “Even if it takes years.”

Sirius smiled faintly. “You’re a weird kid, Draco.”

“I get that a lot.”

Tonks stood up, stretching. “Alright. Meeting adjourned. Same time tomorrow?”

“Only if you bring biscuits,” Sirius muttered.

Draco scoffed. “I’ll bake a cake when you’re officially declared innocent. Maybe a black forest one.”

“I hate you,” Sirius said, which meant thank you.

Draco just smirked. “Goodnight, Snuffles.”

Sirius grumbled, but his smile lingered as Tonks ruffled his hair and followed Draco upstairs.

The fire burned low. The plan was reckless. The odds were laughable.

But it was something.

And Sirius hadn’t had “something” in a very, very long time.

-----------------

Draco opened the front door with a practiced sigh already in place. “Merlin, finally. You two took your sweet time—”

And then stopped dead.

Theo was holding Daphne’s hand. Holding. Her. Hand. Interlaced fingers and everything.

Draco blinked. “You’re joking.”

“Nope,” Daphne said breezily, stepping inside like she owned the place. “Your guess-the-secret game’s over, darling. We’re official.”

Theo grinned sheepishly. “Surprise?”

“Not even remotely,” Draco muttered, stepping aside to let them in. “I’ve seen first-years hide secrets better. Your little stares over pumpkin juice were not subtle.”

“Oh, shove off,” Daphne said, giving him a cheek kiss like she hadn’t just dropped a bomb. “Now where’s this mysterious dog you mentioned in your letter? I’ve been dying to see the mutt.”

“I’m in the sitting room, thanks for asking,” came Tonks’s voice from deeper inside.

“I was talking about the actual dog, not the shapeshifting menace,” Daphne called back.

Tonks laughed from the hallway. “Wait ‘til you meet him. He bites.”

“He’s a rescue,” Draco cut in, voice carefully modulated. “Snuffles. Found him outside Knockturn, flea-ridden, probably half-starved. Kind of pathetic, honestly.”

“Charming,” Theo said flatly. “You rescued a street rat and brought him home. What’s next, raising blast-ended skrewts?”

Draco ignored the jab. “Come on, he’s in the sunroom. But be warned: he’s very—uh—opinionated.”

When they walked into the sunroom, Snuffles was curled on a faded cushion by the window, watching the street like it owed him money. As soon as the door opened, he jumped to his tiny, well-groomed feet and barked like someone had just insulted his great-aunt. Which, knowing Sirius, may have been exactly the case.

Daphne yelped and took a step back. “That’s Snuffles?”

“He’s… smaller than I imagined,” Theo added.

“I told you he was a rescue!” Draco said defensively, crouching down to scoop the tiny dog into his arms. Snuffles continued to snarl under his breath, casting suspicious glances at Theo. “Probably traumatized. Or he just hates people. Same difference.”

“He looks like he hates you most of all,” Theo noted.

“He’s just expressive,” Draco muttered, trying not to flinch as Snuffles licked his chin in what might’ve been affection or a threat.

“So… you’re bringing him to Hogwarts?” Daphne asked, already petting Snuffles’ head despite the growling.

“I don’t trust anyone else to take care of him,” Draco said. “He’s weirdly high-maintenance. Tonks thinks he might’ve belonged to a rich old bat before getting abandoned.”

Snuffles let out a single, disgruntled yip.

Daphne grinned. “He’s adorable. Horrible, but adorable. What a perfect reflection of your soul.”

Draco scowled. “Thanks. I think.”

Tonks appeared in the doorway, holding a tray of lemonade and cinnamon biscuits. “Figured you’d all want a snack before dinner. Don’t give Snuffles sugar, though—he gets barky.”

“You’re always barky,” Theo said under his breath.

Draco handed Snuffles over to Tonks, who expertly tucked the dog under one arm like a fuzzy handbag. “So,” she said with a grin, “how does it feel being an unwanted third wheel now, Draco?”

“Like tradition,” Draco said darkly, watching as Daphne nestled closer to Theo on the settee. “You two have been giving me third-wheel energy since we were five.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Daphne said, grabbing a biscuit. “Now tell us the real truth: did you adopt the dog, or did the dog adopt you?”

Snuffles barked again. Once. Sharp. Final.

“…Yeah, that tracks,” Theo said.

---------------------

The house was quiet that night.

Too quiet, Draco thought, standing in the sitting room in his pajamas, blanket slung around his shoulders like a tired king. The fire in the hearth burned low, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. He could hear the soft ticking of the old grandfather clock in the hallway. A storm threatened outside, but the rain hadn’t come yet. It was all tension and thunderclouds. Fitting.

He turned his head slightly when he heard the soft padding of paws.

Snuffles trotted into the room like he owned it—fur perfectly fluffed thanks to Tonks, expression thunderous in the way only an ex-Azkaban-escapee-in-disguise-as-a-Pomhuahua could manage. He jumped onto the sofa without permission and curled up beside Draco, glaring pointedly at the dying fire.

“You’re welcome,” Draco muttered.

Snuffles grunted.

“You know,” Draco said, pulling the blanket tighter around himself, “I was thinking we should keep you in your little enchanted carrier during the train ride. You know. So you don’t bark at first-years. Or tear into the sweets trolley. Or murder someone.”

Snuffles made a noise halfway between a sneeze and an indignant growl.

“Or that,” Draco said with a slight smirk. “But honestly? I’m still not convinced this is a good idea.”

A loud pop! startled them both—Snuffles growled, Draco’s wand was in his hand in an instant—but it was just Tonks, Apparating into the hallway with a tin of treacle fudge and an overstuffed bag slung over one shoulder.

“I brought supplies,” she said, coming into the room and flopping onto the armchair. “For both the journey and the year. You’ve got enough flea potion, fur-combing charms, meat snacks, a backup identity collar—oh, and a collapsible dog bed.”

Snuffles whined.

“I know, I know,” Tonks said, rubbing her temple. “You’re a fierce, noble, wrongly-accused man, not a pampered handbag animal. But you’re also going to Hogwarts in a handbag, so tough biscuits.”

Draco blinked. “You… seriously made him a backup collar?”

“Duh. It’s engraved. ‘Snuffles the Second. Property of D. Malfoy.’” She smirked. “You’re welcome.”

“I hate all of you,” Sirius said at last, his voice returning as his transformation melted away. He stretched—cramped, awkward, pale limbs emerging as the small frame grew tall and human again. “I’ve been reduced to accessorizing.”

Tonks tossed him a cushion. “You volunteered.”

He caught it. “I volunteered to help my nephew. Not be carried around like a blasted purse.”

“You offered to be Draco’s emotional support animal,” she reminded, with a grin. “Verbatim. Don’t act like this wasn’t your idea.”

Sirius grumbled but didn’t argue. Instead, he looked toward Draco, his expression softening. “You sure you’re okay with this? Having me along. Like this. It’s not too late to change the plan.”

Draco looked at him, at Tonks, at the small pile of Hogwarts things stacked in the corner near the door. He could feel the burn of worry sitting low in his stomach. Hogwarts. A cursed curse. Potter. Secrets. Pettigrew. Snuffles.

“It’s mental,” Draco said quietly. “Everything about this is mental.”

Sirius gave a tight, tired grin. “Yeah. It is.”

“But it’s a good plan,” Draco admitted. “It’s better than you sitting here, waiting for the world to burn you twice.”

Tonks nodded, her voice gentler now. “And you’ll have eyes on Pettigrew once you're there. We’ll find a way to make it right. We just need time.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair. “Still. What if something happens? What if someone finds out?”

“Then we improvise,” Sirius said. “I’ve been improvising since I was fifteen.”

“You got arrested at twenty-one.”

“Not the point.”

Tonks chuckled but didn’t interrupt.

They fell into silence for a moment, the quiet stretching, comfortable and uncertain all at once. The kind of silence people shared when there was too much left to say, and not enough strength to say it.

Sirius eventually sat back, rubbing his arms. “Regulus would’ve loved this plan, by the way,” he said, gaze distant now. “He was always the smart one. Would’ve thought it was hilarious. His big brother hiding as a fluffball in a schoolbag, tail and all.”

Tonks and Draco didn’t say anything.

“I always thought he’d go mad, you know,” Sirius went on softly. “He read about the curse too. Said if he ever caught it, he’d anchor himself to something. A pet. A place. Me.”

Draco swallowed thickly. “He never did.”

“No. He just went into that bloody sect and died or got killed.”

Tonks stood and crossed the room, pressing a soft kiss to Sirius’s head. “You’re not Regulus.”

“I know.”

Draco looked at the two of them, then stood, gathering the blanket around himself like a robe. “Well. If I’m going to parade around Hogwarts with a bodyguard disguised as a Pomhuahua, I should probably sleep.”

Sirius turned his eyes on Draco. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” He gave them both a look. “But if you embarrass me in front of Potter, I’m shaving your fur.”

Sirius grinned. “Noted.”

Tonks laughed. “You’ll be fine, baby bat. Now go sleep. You’ve got a train to catch.”