Number 4, Privet Drive was as it was on any Tuesday evening — quiet, but well lit. Its front lawn was neatly trimmed, the freshly-painted front door and garage was immaculate. Mabel rapped hard on the front door with Harry in tow. After a moment it opened, revealing the long face of Petunia Dursley. She scowled as she took in the sight of her guests, as if their very presence was somehow devaluing her family in the eyes of the neighbours.

“Ms. Baines. Harry,” She said curtly, nodding to each of them in turn before turning and leading them in. Mabel hoisted her and Harry’s bags over the threshold and placed them by the stairs.

“May I take your coat?” came a youthful voice from behind her. She turned to see the twelve-year-old Dudley Dursley beaming at her from his round face. Petunia shot the boy a look, but it was too late.

“Well thank you, Dudley,” replied Mabel casting off her coat and handing it to him. Over the boy’s head, she smirked at Petunia and strode into the living room, where the beefy form of Vernon sat reading a muggle newspaper. He looked up at her and surveyed her choice of attire — a white button-up shirt, green waistcoat and beige khakis.

“I’m glad to see you at least have the decency to disguise yourself properly,” he muttered, “Welcome, I suppose.”

“Dinner will be served momentarily,” announced Petunia over her shoulder as she entered the kitchen. The others all settled down at the dining table and began eyeing each other up in some sort of strange stand off.

“So,” Harry began, “Err… how are you?”

It was a non-starter, Vernon only grunting an “Okay,” from behind his bushy moustache and Dudley both ignoring him and sitting as far away from him as possible. Darting eyes followed. Beady pupils from each occupant of the table were flitting nervously from person to person. The peculiar standoff was mercifully interrupted when Petunia brought in the shepherd’s pie. The slight tap as she set it down on the placemat was like a starting pistol.

The spell was broken, Dudley fixed his eyes greedily on the pie as Petunia began to serve, Vernon began to offer Mabel wines and Harry took the opportunity of distraction to breathe out.

“Draco, dinner,” called the voice of Narcissa Malfoy. Draco set down his quill and surveyed his letter one last time.

Father had been pushing him to write to Susan often — something about ‘forging ties’ with her family. This wouldn’t necessarily bother him if Father didn’t also insist on scrutinising each and every letter he sent to and received from her, making ‘suggestions’ in direction and topic that were anything but. As far as he could tell however, Father had yet to notice the secret, true letter written in invisible ink between the lines of the ostensible one. He rather liked the idea of literally reading between the lines. It was a rare thing to have an aspect of his life not at least partially influenced by one of his parents. Frankly, Draco couldn’t care less why father kept pressing him to get information on Susan’s aunt.

Satisfied with both his farce letter and his hidden one, he charmed the green ink — feeling more than a little satisfaction as it seemed to dissolve into the page, leaving only the bog standard black writing. Rising to his feet, he took a long breath and left his room, pulling the door to behind him. As he began to head downstairs, he stopped and turned back to properly close the door. If Mother found it, she would only harp on about it.

He descended the stairs, past portraits of his ancestors. Each of them politely inclined their heads as he passed. He stopped briefly at the foot of the staircase and lingered on the portrait of Father, aged seventeen. Each of the portraits had been painted when the Malfoy heir came of age. Draco gazed into his young father’s eyes — light grey, so like his own. But there was a warmth to them, a humour he had never seen in the real life version of his father.

“They’re waiting for you.”

It took Draco a moment to realise it was the portrait that had spoken.

“Go on,” the young Lucius continued encouragingly, a friendly smile on his face.

Draco nodded and entered the great hall of Malfoy Manor. At the far end of the long table, Father sat, with Mother beside him. Father gestured from his winged back chair, his cold, cold, grey eyes gazing across the room at Draco.

“Draco, good of you to join us at last,” he indicated the seat farthest from him by the door.

“So Vernon,” said Mabel as Petunia finished serving. “How is your work going?”

“It’s going swimmingly,” Vernon began, beginning to relax more into the situation. “Might well be on the verge of making the largest deal of my career. The Masons — yes, the building firm Masons — will be coming to dinner on the thirty first. If all goes well, Grunnings stands to have its financial future secured for the next decade.”

“Well that sounds good. An elf wrecked the mansion yesterday — took ages to clean up.”

Vernon visibly twitched at the mention of ‘elf’.

“Thankfully,” Mabel continued, “We had spares of everything that couldn’t be fixed. We keep our spare decoratives mostly in the cupboard under the kitchen stairs. By the way, what do you use your cupboard under the stairs for?”

“Bits and bobs mostly,” said Petunia, through now-gritted teeth. “Old toys, the hoover…”

“Children?” asked Mabel, icily.

“No.” Petunia sipped her wine through rather pursed lips.

“Well that’s good. People can get in trouble over that, after all.” And all of a sudden, her voice was all sweetness and sugar. “And how are you finding Smeltings, Dudley?”

Dudley’s eyes flicked nervously between Petunia and Vernon — as if waiting for permission — before swallowing and opening his mouth.

“It’s... going alright, I guess.”

“Not getting into too much trouble?”

“No Ma’am. Not me.”

“Dudley is a good boy,” cut in Petunia, “Absolutely no trouble at all. Isn’t that right?”

She inclined her head to her son, who nodded fervently. Mabel chuckled at this.

“All kids get up to something sooner or later. I don’t believe for one second that Harry has only got up to just what I’ve heard about,” She replied, “And believe me, Harry gets into trouble a lot.”

“Perhaps Dudley has simply been raised better,” sniffed Petunia.

“Oh I can only imagine the world of good that must result from the inability to say ‘no’,” retorted Mabel, her former icy tone returning. Harry began to feel the overwhelming desire to shrink into nothingness. However this was going to end, it probably wasn’t well.

Vernon puffed himself up, in a manner somewhat akin to a tropical bird. Petunia’s horse face was turning red. Neither could say what they so very much longed to, however. Mabel was their guest. And the English are not rude to their guests. Well, not to their faces.

“Have you considered that Dudley simply does not need to be told ‘no’ often?” Petunia sweetly forced out.

“Yes, briefly,” Mabel said, “But I dismissed it after finding it to have little grounding in reality. It’s admirable that you care for your son so much, but I have to ask…” she fixed a gaze of steel on her hosts. “How well do you actually know him?” She paused to sip her wine before continuing. “I have had the questionable privilege of watching two generations of Potter children grow up and I ceased deluding myself of any of their perfection a great deal of time ago. Harry gets into trouble a lot, true. But at heart he’s a good kid and that’s all that matters. I can say with complete honesty that I know Harry extremely well. His favourite q-… sports team, favourite food, pet peeves, his penchant for mischief. How well do you know Dudley?”

Vernon made to speak, but Mabel held up a hand and continued.

“And how much of what you ‘know’ about Dudley is simply what you are imagining him as?”

Draco sat and gazed across at his parents, patiently waiting as he always should for them to start. They did promptly and Draco followed suit.

They ate in silence.

As usual.

Occasionally, Father or Mother would ask hollow questions, again as usual. How his friends were, what he got up to today, things of that ilk. One might expect these to be conversation starters in a family meal. Not here. In the Malfoy house, such parental inquiry was little more than a report. When he was around Harry, Lucius was kindly, doting… parental. Not here. Not with Draco.

‘Never with Draco. Only Harry.’

‘Stop it.’

This was a line of thought that was… best left alone.

“So Draco,” began Mother in an… unusual tone. “Tell us more about this new friend of yours… this Hermione.”

Draco started. What on Earth was Mother up to this time? What corner of his life did she now deem fit to deign to ‘improve’?

“I would hardly call her a friend,” he said awkwardly. “She’s my friends’ friend. That’s all.”

“I heard she earned nearly top marks in her exams,” continued Narcissa, “I don’t recognise the Granger name — presumably they must be of a dilute bloodline. Unfortunate, but somebody of her intelligence would make a formidable associate. Perhaps even more… I would of course prefer one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but one has to make do with one’s options.”

Draco fought back the urge to snigger. If only they knew. Still, wasting Mother’s time should keep her from making too many ‘improvements’ in the meantime.

Lucius frowned.

“Narcissa dear, Draco is twelve. Is it not a little early to be sorting such matters?”

Narcissa raised an eyebrow.

“Lucius, may I remind you just how much time you squandered in your childhood? Just take a look at your portrait in the hall — no sense in his head! A little work now will save Draco a great deal later. And this Granger girl sounds like a rather useful addition to the family.”

Draco was by now biting his lower lip to keep his mouth firmly clamped.

No, he would not spill the beans now — this was too good to pass up. They were going to find out the hard way. And it was going to be fucking superb to watch. All he had to do was keep a straight face.

“Touché,” conceded Father, “Even so, darling, I think it is a tad too early for such things. We haven’t even met the girl yet.”

The silence returned, no sound save for that of consumption.

When they had finished, a crack sounded and Dobby, the family house-elf, appeared at Father’s side.

“Ah, Dobby,” said Father, “Return after you have dealt with the dishes. There is a matter that I need to address.”

Dobby nodded silently and in a flurry of cracks the table was cleared. His task completed, Dobby returned to Father’s side.

“Kindly tell me where you were yesterday,” Father coolly whispered to the elf.

Dobby nearly seized up.

“Dobby… Dobby had important errands to run. Dobby has already punished himself for his absence.”

“I never gave you permission to leave the manor,” he said, shrewdly.

Dobby blanched.

“It was… too urgent, master…”

Father seemed to think for a little.

“Draco, you may leave the table.”

Draco gulped. He knew that tone.

Quickly (but not too quickly, to avoid rudeness) he stood and walked out of the dining hall. From the entrance hall, he headed straight for the stirs. He knew what was coming and wanted to be as far away from his parents as he could get.

Bang!

Draco stopped at the foot of the stairs. He rested his shaking hand on the bannister, fighting for calm.

‘Shit, too late.’

Taking a deep breath, he put one foot onto the first step.

Bang!

A pained screech accompanied this one.

Draco forced his other foot onto the second step.

Bang!

“Coul d you take me with you?”

Draco started. It was the portrait of his seventeen-year-old father. The picture’s eyes were struggling to meet Draco’s. His earlier cheeriness was gone, his face gaunt. He looked almost-

BANG!

Lou der this time; a long drawn out scream to go with it.

Draco and the portrait both flinched.

Quickly, Draco nodded and lifted the painting down from the wall — mildly surprising himself as dexterity returned to his hands, seemingly for this feat only. Clutching it to his chest, he plodded up the ornate grand staircase. Shuddering as more banging sounds crashed out from the dining hall.

His oh-so-heavy breaths panted out in bursts as he trudged ever upwards, hollow-sounding and panicked.

Suddenly there came a great crashing sound. Draco let out a small squeak as what sounded like crockery smashed on the other side of the thick wooden doors.

As if triggered by a pistol, Draco suddenly found his speed and flew up the steps to the landing like a bullet. Haring down the hall on the right, he bolted through his bedroom door, locked it shut behind him and threw himself under his covers. All the while the portrait was clutched firmly against his chest.

Shouting and wailing now drifted up from below, seeping through the cracks in the door. They coiled around him as he dove deeper into his duvet — trying in vain hope to block it out. But to no avail.

'Something make it stop! Please, just make it stop!'

The fabric against his face rapidly moistened as he prayed for it to just please end.

But he was not the only occupant of his room who wept.

The Burrow was as it was on any Tuesday evening — warm, noisy and full of merriment. The family was gathered in the kitchen enjoying a meal together, beds all throughout the house were made, light burst from every room.

Scabbers the rat had other things in mind as he scurried along one of the many landings. Namely he was in search of a warm, comfy place to sleep and not be bothered. His quest was of course of great importance.

He sniffed around the doorway he’d come to. Ginny’s room — and it was left ajar. He was somewhat fond of the youngest Weasley, he mused as he darted in and to the foot of her extremely appealing bed. Much more interesting than Ron at least — her sense of humour matched his. But then again, Ron never bothered him — unlike everyone else.

He leapt up and grabbed onto the bedsheets, swiftly scaling it to pull himself up onto the bed proper. Quickly gazing around for the comfiest, warmest place, he settled on the space under the pillows. Wasting no time, he burrowed under.

He wasn’t especially surprised to find a book there — he used to do as such himself back in the old days. He slumped up against it and settled down.

Wait.

That feeling.

That familiar feeling. He knew that feeling — the creeping dread that had only filled him when-

No. It couldn’t be.

But it was.

Terror flooded him.

“Hello, Peter.”