Chapter Text
Draco’s father’s solicitor, Mr. Hasselbarth, was the sort of man who looked like he belonged in a dark alleyway rather than a law office—thin-lipped, beady-eyed, and perpetually sneering, like an ill-tempered toad dressed in expensive robes.
“So,” Hasselbarth drawled, flipping through the paperwork with clear disdain, “I see you’ve already filed for Narcissa and Draco to change their last name?” His gaze flickered to Mother’s solicitor, Mrs. Brumwell, the derision in his voice barely concealed.
Adrianna Brumwell, by contrast, was the picture of poise—sharp-eyed, sleek black bob perfectly in place, exuding a calm sort of confidence. She reminded Draco of Pansy, in a way—refined, controlled, but not to be underestimated.
“Yes,” Mrs. Brumwell replied smoothly, completely unimpressed by Hasselbarth’s tone. “And once the assets are settled, it will be official.” She slid a document across the polished table with an effortless kind of grace, tapping it once with a manicured nail. “As outlined here, Narcissa is entitled to a substantial portion of the Malfoy estate, per the terms of the marriage contract.”
Lucius exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly displeased. “You’ll be more than comfortable, Narcissa.”
Mother barely looked at him. “I’m not negotiating comfort, Lucius,” she said coolly. “I am ensuring my son and I are properly compensated.”
For how you treated us.
The words were left unsaid, but Draco felt them in the tense silence that followed. He bit his cheek to keep from grimacing.
Lucius’s fingers drummed once against the table before he leaned back, his expression tight. Mr. Hasselbarth straightened, his voice clipped and professional. “A public dispute would be… unwise. It could invite scrutiny. Speculation. Mrs. Malfoy’s discretion, however, is valuable.”
Mrs. Brumwell’s lips twitched, just slightly, as if she found the entire statement mildly amusing. “She has no intention of speaking out,” she said, voice perfectly even, “so long as she is treated fairly.”
Lucius studied the papers in front of him as though they had personally offended him. His fingers tapped once. Twice. The silence stretched.
Then—finally—
“Fine.”
Draco let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
Mother didn’t react outwardly, but he knew her well enough to sense the tension easing in her shoulders. Mrs. Brumwell, however, allowed herself a small, satisfied smile.
“Good choice,” she said smoothly. “Shall we finalize the terms?”
Lucius signed the documents with stiff, deliberate strokes, his jaw clenched, his signature slashing across the parchment as though he wished it were something more violent.
Then, just as the papers were being gathered, Lucius’s gaze flickered to Draco.
“There is one more matter,” he said, voice silk-smooth and edged with something Draco didn’t like.
His father’s eyes dropped to Draco’s hand.
“The Malfoy signet ring.”
Draco’s fingers curled instinctively, his thumb brushing over the weight of the silver band on his ring finger. It was heavy, the metal cool against his skin. A symbol of legacy. Of inheritance. Of control.
Mr. Hasselbarth nodded, his oily voice following smoothly. “It is, after all, a Malfoy heirloom. And seeing as young Mr. Malfoy will soon no longer be carrying the Malfoy name… it belongs with his father.”
Draco swallowed. He had known this was coming. Had prepared for it. It was just a ring.
It didn’t mean anything.
But as he stared down at it, that sharp twist of emotion curled in his chest—something tangled between anger and loss. Something he couldn’t name.
He shouldn’t care.
He was done being his father’s heir.
With deliberate slowness, Draco pulled the ring from his finger, the metal suddenly feeling foreign in his grasp. Then, keeping his expression carefully blank, he set it down on the table and slid it toward Lucius.
As soon as it left his skin, a subtle shift rippled through him—the purity charm embedded in it breaking instantly. It was like a weight lifting off his shoulders. A tether snapping loose.
Maybe he’d feel the difference later.
Lucius took the ring without a word, slipping it into his pocket as if it had never belonged to Draco at all.
Mother stood smoothly, placing a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “I believe we’re done here,” she said, her voice like glass—smooth, cool, and unbreakable.
Mr. Hasselbarth gave a stiff nod. Mrs. Brumwell simply gathered the last of the documents with an air of quiet triumph.
Lucius said nothing.
Draco didn’t give him a chance to.
He turned on his heel, head held high, and walked out of the room—leaving the Malfoy name behind.
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
Draco,
We do think Harry is getting our letters, but it seems like he’s not able to send any back. I’ve been writing to him regularly, but unfortunately, Ron bungled the telephone and now the Dursleys won’t let us call. (He swears it wasn’t his fault, but apparently, he shouted into the receiver, and well… you can imagine how that went over.)
Honestly, I think it’s best if you follow through with that kidnapping plan you mentioned in your last letter—preferably soon.
Let us know how it goes.
—Hermione
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
Draco fully intends to kidnap Harry Potter now that he and his mother are settled in their new home.
His mother jokingly calls it a “small mansion,” but to Draco, it was something else entirely—freedom. It was nothing like Malfoy Manor, and that was the greatest relief of all.
The house had hidden rooms, magical architecture, and an enchanted greenhouse that Narcissa adored. Personally, Draco preferred the pool—a luxury he planned to take full advantage of. And, for the first time in his life, he got to choose his own bedroom.
Something as simple as that felt monumental.
His room was his, down to the last enchanted detail. The walls charmed to shift between deep greens and stormy blues, the ceiling bewitched to mimic the night sky so he could look at the constellations. His bookshelves expanded with his collection, and the enormous bed wasn’t stiff and formal like the one at the Manor—it was warm, comfortable, safe.
And that was the real difference, wasn’t it?
This place was safe.
No cold, empty halls. No looming threat of a father’s disapproval hanging over every breath he took. No perfectly trained house-elves avoiding eye contact out of fear of punishment.
He belonged here.
And now, he supposed, it was time to rescue Harry so he could belong somewhere too.
Draco had no doubt that the Dursleys were making his summer miserable. Hermione’s letter only confirmed what Draco already suspected—Harry wasn’t allowed to respond, which meant the best-case scenario was that they’d locked up his owl, and the worst… well. Draco didn’t want to consider the worst.
Either way, it was unacceptable.
Draco wasn’t stupid enough to attempt this alone—he may have been sorted into Gryffindor, but he wasn’t suicidal.
So, after very carefully wording his request (no, Mother, I am not asking for permission, I am asking for strategic assistance), Narcissa sighed, gave him a long, unreadable look, and simply said, “Oh, alright.”
Which was how, in the dead of night, he found himself standing beside her in a quiet alleyway in Little Whinging, Surrey, disillusioned and cloaked in silence.
The air was thick with summer heat, but the neighborhood itself was eerily still—identical houses lined up in perfect rows, each one neatly manicured and mind-numbingly dull.
His mother eyed the pristine houses with vague disapproval. “Dreadful architecture,” she murmured. “And so… Muggle.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mother, that is what happens in a Muggle neighborhood.”
She shot him a look but said nothing.
The plan was simple—exactly the same as last year. He already knew which room was Harry’s, and this time, thank Merlin, the ridiculous metal bars had been removed.
Draco mounted his broom and kicked off, soaring up toward the second-story window of Number Four with all the ease of someone who’d done this before.
The window was already cracked open so Draco barely had to slow before he slipped inside, landing quietly on the worn carpet.
Harry was asleep, curled up in his oversized pajamas—which Draco would be correcting with a shopping trip as soon as possible.
Rolling his eyes, he stepped forward and nudged the lump under the blanket.
“Harry,” Draco whispered, voice low.
Harry let out a groggy, unintelligible mumble and burrowed deeper into the pillow.
Draco sighed.
Fine.
He shoved him harder.
“Potter, wake up, I’m kidnapping you.”
Harry groaned, shifting slightly but still not waking up properly.
Draco huffed, crossing his arms. “Honestly, Potter, who sleeps through a kidnapping?”
Harry mumbled something incomprehensible, barely lifting his head.
Draco rolled his eyes.
It was time for drastic measures.
Leaning down, he grabbed the blanket and yanked it off in one swift motion.
Harry let out a strangled noise, blinking blearily up at him. “Wha—Draco?!” His voice was rough with sleep, his hair even wilder than usual. “What the hell—”
Draco smirked. “There he is. Took you long enough.”
Harry squinted at him in the dim light, eyes still heavy with sleep. “Am I—dreaming?”
Draco scoffed. “If you were dreaming, I’d probably be rescuing you on a Thestral or something dramatic. Get up, Potter, we’re leaving.”
Harry blinked again, rubbing his face. “Wait, what?”
Draco gestured impatiently. “We. Are. Leaving. As in, escaping this miserable house and going somewhere that isn’t a Muggle hellhole where you’re trapped all summer.”
Harry sat up slowly, still looking utterly baffled. “You—you broke in here?”
Draco raised an unimpressed brow. “No, I flew in. Do try to keep up, Potter.”
Harry ran a hand through his hair, muttering something that sounded like “a bloody bunny,” before sighing and slowly climbing out of bed, collecting what little he had.
Draco watched, unimpressed. “Any day now, Potter.”
Before Harry could snap back, there was a sudden rush of air as Narcissa Malfoy flew gracefully up to the window and stepped inside with effortless ease.
Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. “Merlin—”
Draco barely glanced up. “Took you long enough, Mother.”
Narcissa, composed as ever, waved her wand once—retrieving Harry’s trunk from the that wretched cupboard under the stairs, instantly shrinking it down and placing it in her pocket. “This has already taken far longer than necessary,” she said coolly.
Harry swallowed. “Er. Thank you…?”
She acknowledged him with a simple nod, then turned on her heel and strode back to the window.
Draco, ever the helpful friend, clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder and steered him toward the opening. “You heard her, Potter. Time to go.”
With a final glance around the darkened room—probably making sure he wasn’t hallucinating—Harry nodded.
Together, they slipped out the window, moving swiftly through the backyard and down the empty street.
The moment they reached the alleyway, Narcissa reached out, taking both of their arms.
Draco barely had time to smirk at Harry’s wary expression before—
CRACK.
They vanished into the night.
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
The next morning, Draco woke Harry bright and early by shoving him halfway off the bed.
“Up, Potter. Mother’s taking us to Diagon Alley.”
Harry groaned, barely clinging to the edge of the mattress. “You’re the worst.”
Draco smirked. “And yet, here you are. In my bed.”
Harry made a vague, half-hearted attempt to kick him before flopping back onto the pillows with a sigh.
Draco had technically offered Harry his own room—out of politeness, of course—but neither of them had actually expected him to take it. So, just like last summer, Harry ended up in Draco’s room, sharing his bed.
Only this time, it was much more comfortable.
Draco’s new king-sized bed was a significant improvement over the cramped, guest bed at Andromeda’s. The sheets were soft, the pillows plentiful, and—best of all—there were no cold drafts or awkward, half-whispered conversations about whether Harry was actually allowed to be there.
This time, it wasn’t temporary. (Not if Draco had anything to say about it.)
It just was.
And that, Draco decided, was exactly how it should be.
Stretching luxuriously, he threw the blankets off and slid out of bed. “I’m going to shower, wash all the Muggle air off me, and then we can go.”
Without waiting for a response, he practically skipped to the ensuite.
And yes, maybe he took a bit longer than necessary—his twelve-step skincare routine didn’t just do itself, after all—but honestly, it was Harry, he could wait.
Apparently not.
Because some time later, there was an insistent banging on the door.
“Okay, Bunny, enough!” Harry called. “I’m sure you don’t need to do your entire skincare routine every single day—just hurry up already!”
Draco froze, warmth creeping up his neck.
Then, horrified, he caught sight of himself in the mirror—cheeks tinged pink.
Scowling, he aggressively toweled off, deliberately taking his time. No way in hell was he letting Harry see him like this.
“First off,” he called back, voice pointedly composed, “we are not doing that. Nope. Absolutely not. I am not a bunny.”
“You so are.”
Draco ignored him. “Secondly,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard, “the whole point of a skincare routine is that it is, in fact, routine. Meaning you do it every day.”
Harry let out an exaggerated groan. “I’ve been ready for the last thirty minutes.”
Draco sniffed. “Did you do your hair?”
Silence.
Draco smirked as he finally finished dressing, then swung the bathroom door open to find Harry standing there—sheepish and distinctly unstyled.
Draco crossed his arms, looking him up and down. “Some of us like not having our hair mistaken for a bird’s nest, Potter. And that takes time.”
Harry scowled, running a hand through his already disastrous hair.
Draco sighed dramatically. “Tragic.”
Harry glared.
Draco clapped him on the shoulder, steering him toward the door. “Stop pouting, Harry. Let’s go.”
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
"Why are we even going to Diagon Alley?" Harry grumbled as they stepped into the fireplace, floo powder in hand. "The booklists won’t be here for weeks."
Draco scoffed, tossing the powder down with a practiced flick of his wrist before stepping into the swirling green flames like he was born to make dramatic exits. (Which, to be fair, he was.)
A moment later, Harry stumbled out of the Floo behind him, coughing and swiping soot off his oversized shirt. Draco, who had landed gracefully as always, waited for him to gather himself before speaking.
Adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves, he said smoothly, "Mother is meeting with the goblins at Gringotts to discuss her new investment portfolio now that the divorce is finalized." He turned, already scanning the bustling street with interest. "And I will never pass up an opportunity to go shopping."
Harry groaned. "We’re going to be here all day, aren’t we?"
Draco’s smirk was nothing short of wicked. "Definitely."
Harry sighed, already resigned to his fate.
"But first—" Draco clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder, steering him toward the grand, white-marble entrance of Gringotts. "—banking."
Narcissa led them inside, where the vast stone halls echoed with the low hum of goblins shuffling parchment, counting gold, and conducting business. The air smelled of ink, old paper, and polished metal.
Near the entrance, an unoccupied desk sat beneath the flickering glow of enchanted lamps. Behind it, a goblin with a long, crooked nose looked up at their approach. His sharp, beady eyes flicked first to Narcissa, narrowing slightly, before sweeping over Draco and lingering on Harry.
"How may I be of assistance?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly.
Narcissa, ever composed, gave a polite nod. "I have a meeting with Filnok," she said smoothly. "And afterward, we’d like to make a withdrawal."
The goblin’s expression remained unreadable, but he gave a curt nod before gesturing them forward. "This way."
The goblin slid off his high-backed chair with surprising agility and led them deeper into the bank. Draco had always found Gringotts impressive—not just for the fortune it housed but for the power it represented. The goblins controlled more than just wizarding money; they controlled secrets. Fortunes could be hidden or disappeared within these walls, and even the most powerful wizards in the world had to play by their rules.
Beside him, Harry looked slightly uneasy, his gaze flicking from the goblins at their desks to the dim corridors leading deeper into the bank.
Draco nudged him. “Potter, stop looking like you’re about to be dragged into a vault and locked inside.”
Harry frowned but said nothing as they reached an imposing, bronze-inlaid door. Their goblin escort rapped twice.
“Enter,” came a deep, gravelly voice from within.
The goblin pushed the door open, stepping aside to let Narcissa, Draco, and Harry in.
Inside, a goblin with sharp features and deep-set eyes sat behind a grand desk, long fingers steepled as he regarded them. His gaze landed first on Narcissa, then flicked to Draco, and finally settled on Harry, lingering for just a beat too long.
“Lady Black,” the goblin greeted smoothly, voice carrying a note of respect. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Draco bit back a smirk. Lady Black. He liked that.
Narcissa inclined her head gracefully before taking the seat across from him. “It is time to finalize my accounts,” she said smoothly. “I trust everything is in order?”
The goblin, Filnok, gave a sharp-toothed smile and pulled out a thick folder, sliding it across the desk. “Of course. All matters have been arranged to your specifications.”
Draco barely listened. He knew his mother had secured herself well in the divorce—Narcissa Black was no fool, and he had no doubt she had ensured both of them were more than comfortable. The details, however, didn’t particularly interest him.
Harry, on the other hand, was still awkwardly hovering near the door, looking painfully unsure about whether he was even supposed to be in the room.
Draco rolled his eyes and turned to him, shifting the conversation to something far more important.
“When we leave here, I’m thinking our first stop should be Charmed Threads,” he announced. “It’s newer—I’ve actually never been—but Lavender and Parvati swear by it, and since they are arguably the most fashionable Gryffindors, I thought we ought to give it a try.”
Harry blinked. “Wait. We?”
Draco arched a brow. “Obviously. You desperately need new clothes, Potter. And I refuse to let you walk around Diagon Alley looking like you’ve lost a fight with a second-hand shop.”
Harry’s cheeks flushed. “You don’t have to buy me new clothes! I have my own vault, you know! I can—I can buy clothes whenever I want!”
Draco’s smirk widened. “Brilliant! Then we’ll both be making withdrawals and going shopping.” He tilted his head. “Any other objections?”
Harry opened his mouth, then hesitated. “B-But—”
“Harry,” Draco cut in, tone gentler but still firm, “you have money. It is my obligation to show you how to spend it—within reason, of course. You deserve nice things.”
Harry’s mouth snapped shut.
Draco smirked. That’s what I thought.
Satisfied, he turned to Filnok, who had just finished his discussion with Narcissa. The goblin glanced up as Draco approached, one thin eyebrow arching slightly.
"Harry would like to make a withdrawal from his vault today as well," Draco said smoothly, as if this was something they had definitely planned in advance and not something Draco had just decided for him.
Filnok turned to Harry. "Do you have your vault key, Mr. Potter?"
Harry blinked. "Oh. I, um, don’t have it with me," he admitted, shifting slightly under the goblin’s sharp gaze.
Filnok gave a curt nod, completely unfazed. "No issue," he said briskly. "We can verify your identity in other ways. It will require a scan of your magical signature for confirmation. I will need your consent."
Harry hesitated, glancing nervously toward Narcissa. She offered him a soft smile, giving a small, reassuring nod. "Go ahead, Harry. It’s standard procedure."
Draco rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Potter, let them scan you before I die of old age."
Harry shot him a look but took a steadying breath before turning back to Filnok. "Alright."
The goblin reached into his pocket and produced a small, ornate crystal quill. Holding it up, he instructed, "Please extend your hand, Mr. Potter."
Harry did as he was told, wincing slightly as the quill pricked his finger. A single drop of blood absorbed into the crystal tip, glowing faintly before Filnok tapped it against a blank parchment.
Draco leaned forward, watching as intricate symbols and lines spilled across the page, forming patterns that pulsed with faint golden light. The goblin studied them intently, long fingers tracing over the shapes with practiced precision.
Then, quite suddenly, Filnok’s eyes widened.
"Interesting…" he murmured.
Draco narrowed his eyes.
"What is it?" Harry asked, leaning in, looking a bit panicked.
Filnok looked up, his expression shifting—still unreadable, but now carrying a distinct air of respect.
"Mr. Potter," he said, voice measured, "this scan not only confirms your access to the Potter vaults, but it also identifies you as the rightful heir to the Peverell, Slytherin, and a portion of the Black family vaults."
Draco gaped. "Merlin, Potter—" He turned to Harry, flabbergasted. "You really were the Heir of Slytherin!"
Harry let out a strangled noise and promptly punched Draco in the arm.
"Shut up," he hissed, though his face had gone alarmingly pale. "What does that even mean?" He turned back to the goblin. "The Peverell vaults? I've never even heard of them… and why the Black vaults?"
Narcissa, who had remained quiet until now, finally spoke.
"We can discuss the Black vaults later, Harry," she said smoothly, her expression unreadable.
Draco frowned, watching her. There was something off in the way she said it, something too measured, too carefully controlled. And—was that panic flickering in her eyes?
Before he could question it, Filnok slid the parchment across the desk toward Harry, his sharp gaze never wavering.
"The Peverell line is one of the oldest magical bloodlines," the goblin explained. "Their inheritance has remained dormant for generations. However, your magical signature bears their mark." His fingers tapped lightly against the parchment. "It would seem that fate has united these legacies through you."
Harry stared down at the parchment, barely breathing. "What does that mean?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Filnok’s expression shifted ever so slightly, a knowing glint in his eyes.
"It means, Mr. Potter, that you now hold the rights and privileges of three of the most ancient wizarding families." He folded his hands atop the desk. "However, your full responsibilities as heir will not take effect until you come of age."
Draco exhaled slowly, still watching Harry, whose fingers hovered uncertainly over the parchment.
"Now," Filnok said smoothly, breaking the moment, "I believe you mentioned a withdrawal?"
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
They left Gringotts with their money pouches noticeably heavier, stepping back onto the bustling streets of Diagon Alley.
Narcissa turned to them, her gaze sharp but indulgent. “Do not leave the main streets,” she instructed. “I have my own shopping to attend to, and we will meet back at Florean Fortescue’s in a few hours.”
“A few hours?” Harry echoed, aghast. “What could you possibly—”
Draco cut him off before he could finish that blasphemous question.
“Yes, Mother!” he said quickly, grabbing Harry’s hand and dragging him away before he could argue further.
Harry barely had time to stumble after him. “Draco, wait—”
Draco ignored him, weaving through the crowd with purpose.
“Our first stop,” he declared grandly, “is Charmed Threads & Casual Cloaks.”
Harry groaned. “Oh Merlin, what have I gotten myself into?”
The shop was warm and inviting, filled with racks of stylish robes, jackets, and casual wear. The walls were lined with enchanted mirrors, and mannequins subtly shifted poses to show off the latest trends. A few customers browsed the aisles, and a witch behind the counter greeted them with a bright smile.
Draco scanned the shop with interest, taking in the displays. “They have a lot more trendy, Muggle-style clothing than I was expecting, but no matter. You’d probably prefer that over traditional robes anyway.” He paused, then brightened as he spotted something. “Oh! Look, they have pocket jumpers.”
Harry frowned. “They’re called hoodies.”
“Sure, sure.” Draco barely acknowledged the correction as he plucked an emerald green one from the rack and tossed it at Harry. “This one brings out your eyes.”
Harry caught it awkwardly, looking between the hoodie and Draco. “Draco, really, I—I’m fine with what I’ve got,” he insisted, gesturing to his worn jeans and slightly faded shirt.
Draco stared at him, unimpressed. Then, slowly, he tilted his head.
“Potter.”
Harry sighed. “What?”
“No, you are not.”
Before Harry could protest, Draco grabbed his wrist and dragged him toward the menswear section like an overenthusiastic personal shopper.
"Look at these," he said, rifling through the racks with alarming excitement. "Self-Mending, Dirt-Repelling charms—perfect for someone who insists on getting himself into life-threatening situations."
Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Draco wasn’t done.
"And oh!" He plucked a shirt from the display. "These are Size-Adjusting! Finally, something that won’t hang off you like a badly-transfigured pillowcase."
Harry groaned. "I hate that you’re enjoying this."
Draco grinned. "Oh, Potter, I am thriving."
By the time they left Charmed Threads, they were properly stocked. Draco, ever prepared, shoved both his and Harry’s many shopping bags into his sleek, black leather messenger bag—charmed bottomless, of course. (Practicality was key, after all.)
They’d even bought one for Harry, though Draco suspected the poor boy was already overwhelmed from being forced to change into something that actually fit him properly. Pushing any further might risk Harry deciding to return everything, and Draco refused to let that happen.
Their next stop was Sight & Spectacle, a shop specializing in magical eyewear. Draco insisted Harry needed an upgrade, and for once, Harry actually agreed.
His new glasses were far from ordinary—indestructible, self-adjusting to his actual prescription (which, horrifyingly, he said hadn’t updated since he was eight), and enchanted with weather-repellent charms.
When Harry finally put them on, he blinked a few times, adjusting to the stunning new clarity of the world. Then, his gaze landed on Draco.
His brows furrowed slightly, as if seeing him properly for the first time.
"Your eyes…" Harry murmured, almost in awe. "They have specks of blue in them."
Heat pricked at the back of his neck, creeping up faster than he could will it away.
"Obviously," he said a bit too quickly, busying himself with adjusting his sleeves. "They’re gray, Potter. Complexion and depth of color are natural in well-bred features."
Harry squinted, tilting his head. "Huh. Never noticed before."
Draco rolled his eyes, ignoring the way his face felt suspiciously warm. "Let’s just go."
And with that, he promptly dragged Harry out of the shop and on a proper tour of Diagon Alley—beyond the parts Harry already knew.
Here, winding side alleys opened into hidden courtyards, where vendors sold rare magical oddities and charmed wares. There were shops stacked with ancient spellbooks, stores filled with handcrafted brooms and enchanted jewelry, potion ingredients so rare they practically hummed with power, and countless other things Draco had long taken for granted.
Harry, on the other hand, stared at everything with wide-eyed curiosity, stopping far too often to look at something mundane—like enchanted quills or self-stirring cauldrons—as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.
Draco sighed, but he didn’t rush him.
By the time they finally reunited with Narcissa hours later, they had somehow acquired: A new wireless (because obviously, Harry needed one), a new trunk with an expandable interior and three enchanted compartments, an unreasonable number of books (Draco’s fault, mostly), and various articles of clothing and oddities.
Draco was exhausted, but looking at Harry—relaxed, content, actually enjoying himself—he decided:
This had been an excellent day.
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
Over dinner, Narcissa set down her wine glass and regarded Harry with measured calm.
"My cousin, Sirius Black, is your godfather, Harry," she said smoothly.
Harry blinked. "I have a godfather?" He sat up straighter. "Where is he?"
Narcissa hesitated for only a fraction of a second before answering. “In… Azkaban.”
Harry froze, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth.
“In Azkaban?” he repeated, his voice catching slightly. He set his fork down, staring at Narcissa like she’d just told him Dumbledore moonlit as a circus performer. "My godfather is in Azkaban? Why?"
Draco, who had known about his cousin Sirius for years but not that he was Harry’s godfather, watched as realization dawned across his face in real time.
"He was sentenced for murdering a street full of Muggles." Narcissa finished smoothly, taking a sip of wine. “They say he was in league with the Dark lord.”
Harry paled. “Was he?”
Narcissa sighed. “If he was, it was a well-kept secret. But if I’m being honest…” Her lips pressed together for a moment before she continued. “I don’t believe he was.”
Harry’s brows furrowed. “But why?”
“My aunt Walburga did not approve of the company he kept,” she explained. “Nor his… ideals. He was sorted into Gryffindor, and he was best friends with James Potter—”
Harry’s breath hitched.
“—Sirius was disinherited early,” Mother continued, voice even but thoughtful. “For a time, I believe he even lived with the Potters while he was still at school.”
Narcissa set down her glass and met Harry’s gaze directly.
“I just don’t think he was the type to join the Dark Lord.”
Harry swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table. "Then why did everyone think he did?"
Draco watched as his mother’s lips pressed together—not quite a frown, but close.
“If I’m honest,” she said finally, “it’s not public knowledge. Sirius Black never got a trial. He was informally sentenced to Azkaban for life,” she continued, voice measured. “And while reporters and Ministry officials have visited him, they’ve never been able to get the story out of him.”
“Oh,” Harry said after a long moment, his shoulders sinking slightly. He looked… dejected.
Draco cleared his throat.
"Right. Well." He tapped his fingers against the table before abruptly deciding, "Let’s have Dobby bring dessert, shall we? Treacle tart?"
Harry glanced up, blinking at him.
Draco raised an eyebrow.
Harry’s lips twitched. "Yeah, okay," he said.
It paid to pay attention.
As Draco called for Dobby, Harry tilted his head. "I thought Dobby was a free elf?"
"He is," Draco said. "But Mother is paying him to stay. There aren’t many options for house-elves to find paid work, and since he wanted to stay in a magical household, they worked out a contract."
As if on cue, Dobby apparated into the dining room, balancing a large treacle tart on a silver tray.
The moment he spotted Harry, his ears perked up and his entire posture changed into something bordering worshipful.
"Harry Potter is too kind, too great, too generous—"
Draco rolled his eyes as Dobby launched into a full-blown monologue of gratitude.
Harry was a celebrity, of course. But Merlin, it could get annoying.