Chapter Text
When Draco was five years old, he threw a tantrum.
That, in itself, wasn’t unusual. Draco often threw tantrums, because it generally got him what he wanted. Even better, sometimes Mummy would come in and ask Dobby what the commotion was about. Then she would cuddle Draco and kiss him and tell Dobby to do a better job. All of which was good.
This time, however, she did not come in, much to Draco’s disappointment. They were expecting the Minister for dinner, and Draco was to wear his dress robes and be on his best behavior. Dobby said so, and even Draco’s tantrum would not change the fact that he had to sit quietly, mind his manners and eat his caviar cocktail and his foie gras even though they tasted like snot and yuck.
“But I want to wear the burgundy robes!” Draco rattled on the door of his wardrobe, trying to pull it open. “The burgundy robes with the silver stars!”
“Little master is to wear his black dress robes,” Dobby said, after hexing the wardrobe shut like the stupid mean elf that he was. “Mistress Narcissa said so! Little master is to be a good boy and not scream and mess up his hair like that!”
Draco screamed a little less. He did not want to mess up his hair. “I don’t wanna go to dinner! I wanna play Yule ball!”
Dobby glanced nervously over his shoulder. Father said that boys didn’t play Yule ball, and they certainly didn’t dress in ‘frilly girls’ robes’ for the occasion.
“Harry Potter is always being a good boy,” Dobby said suddenly. “Harry Potter never screams and carries on when he is told to wear his dress robes.”
Draco stopped screaming. He’d heard the name Harry Potter before. Mummy and Father got a weird look on their faces when he was mentioned, so he must be important. Draco had imagined him to be some old Ministry wizard, gray-bearded and slow and boring.
“Harry Potter is a boy? Like me?”
Dobby nodded. “A very good boy,” he said. “Harry Potter always does as he’s told.”
“I do as I’m told,” Draco said.
“Harry Potter always puts on his dress robes.”
Draco put on his dress robes. “Is Harry Potter coming to dinner?”
“Not today,” Dobby said and smiled, looking rather relieved. “But if little master is a good boy and behaves for poor old Dobby, Dobby will tell him all about Harry Potter’s great deeds.”
“I’ll be good,” Draco promised. “Is my hair all messed up?”
Dobby smoothed down the wayward strands that had fallen into Draco’s forehead. “No,” he said. “Little master is looking very good. Master and Mistress will be happy, and if Harry Potter was here, he would love to be little master’s friend.”
“Yeah,” Draco said. “What’s ‘great deeds’?”
“Dobby will tell little master after dinner. If little master behaves and doesn’t spit his caviar into his pumpkin juice again. Harry Potter never–”
“Yeah yeah,” Draco said. “And he’ll be my friend?”
Dobby’s eyes softened a little. “Dobby is sure little master and Harry Potter will become great friends when little master goes to Hogwarts.”
Draco nodded. “Yeah, course we will be. I knew that. What does he look like?”
Dobby brightened. “Harry Potter is a very good-looking boy! Oh, Dobby will tell little master all about him…”
Draco behaved like a perfect pureblood gentlewizard that night (that was what Mummy said, anyway). Dobby kept his promise and told him all about Harry Potter, a tall and handsome boy with raven hair, striking green eyes and a lightning scar, who led his friends into great adventures and was the kindest and bravest person anyone could imagine.
Draco felt strange flutters in his belly when he thought about meeting the real Harry Potter for the first time.
He thought about it a lot. Sometimes, he imagined Harry Potter to be there when he played in his rooms or did his schoolwork under the watchful eyes of his tutors. Things were never boring with Harry Potter around.
And then, a strange thing happened. Draco was alone and frightened, in a place he didn’t know. Aurors came and talked to him, but Father said that Aurors were not to be trusted. ‘Ministry puppets,’ he’d called them, and although Draco didn’t know what that meant, he knew it wasn’t good.
The Aurors took him to another place, filled with more strangers and Ministry puppets.
“Mr. Potter,” one of them said. “That’s the boy.”
Draco looked up, at a man with untidy black hair and green eyes behind stupid round glasses. A man with a lightning scar. A man who was grown-up and boring and would never, ever be Draco’s friend.
“Hi,” the man said and smiled stupidly, like Draco’s tutors smiled when he’d done well in his spelling exercises. “I’m Harry. Is it okay if I call you Draco?”
“No,” Draco said, and began to cry. “Go away. I hate you!”
The man’s eyes widened, and one of the Aurors laughed.
Draco had never in his entire life felt such rage as he did in that moment.
*
When Harry was five years old, he threw a tantrum.
That, in itself, was quite unusual. Harry never threw tantrums. On that day, however, he was tired, his head felt heavy and his nose itched, and he really, really did not want to go into his cupboard. It was hot and stuffy in there, and he knew his headache would get even worse.
“I can sleep on the couch!” he yelled. “Why can’t I sleep out here on the couch?”
Aunt Petunia made her lips go into a thin line. She sniffed, the way she did when she had reached ‘the end of her tether,’ and went into the kitchen to get the wooden spoon. But when she drew back to whack Harry on the bum, the wooden spoon seemed to gain a life of its own. It flipped around and began to whack the couch pillows – whop, whop, whop. Dudley gaped and laughed, and Aunt Petunia gasped in fright.
So did Harry. He ran for his cupboard and huddled under the sleeping bag on his cot, even though it was hot and stuffy and he was all alone in there. Being alone was good, really. Being alone meant he couldn’t scare anyone with his freakery. When he was alone, no one would punish him for making funny things happen, for frightening his aunt out of her wits.
That night, Petunia decided Harry would no longer be allowed at the dinner table.
“I can’t eat when I have to look at him,” she said. “I can’t forget that I’m not safe in my own home.”
It was this incident Harry often used when he met a new family. Well, the sanitized version, anyway; he left out the fact that the spoon had been meant to hit him. That, as he knew now, was child abuse, and certainly not appropriate for light-hearted anecdotes. The image of Aunt Petunia walloping the couch, however – it was funny enough to put people at ease, and it involved telekinetic activity, which was common enough in children’s accidental magic and very frightening for anyone who didn’t know what was going on.
“It was like that movie,” the mother of a Muggleborn had told him once. “‘Carrie,’ you know. With the pig’s blood.”
After Harry had assured them that their daughter would not lay waste to an entire school with her newfound powers, that family took the news rather well.
Others were not as easy to handle. The more academically inclined wanted explanations, sometimes more than Harry was prepared to give, which was when he referred them to Hermione. Worst, in his experience, were the overly religious families. Their fears proved the hardest to overcome, and in some cases, even his best efforts weren’t quite enough. Rehoming Muggleborns was a very last resort, and only done when the child’s safety was in danger. Which, sadly enough, did happen. Over the years, Harry had learned how to handle these situations; how to talk to traumatized kids who believed themselves possessed by evil; who, in some cases, had been thrown out of their homes by parents who believed they were sheltering the devil.
Harry was good with kids. Even Ron, who had been less than happy about Harry quitting Auror training, agreed that he did well as a Family Liaison Officer.
And so, when Ron informed him that a de-aged Draco Malfoy had been found in Knockturn Alley, he agreed to act as an emergency guardian.
“There’s no one else we can ask,” Ron said. “His mum’s in St. Mungo’s, and he doesn’t really have any other living relatives. Well, there’s Andromeda, but she has Teddy, and we don’t know the risks involved. Whoever got him the first time might come after him again.”
It was Hagrid who, in a lucky turn of events, had spotted the young boy as he’d been on the hunt for Flesh-Eating Slug Repellent.
“Some shady folks talkin’ to him,” he’d told the Aurors. “Not a place for a kid, it’s not. Didn’t even realize it was young Malfoy they was trying to lure into that shop. Just grabbed ‘im and got out of there.”
The boy didn’t seem keen on talking to any of the Aurors (or so Ron said), but Harry knew how to approach reluctant youngsters. He was confident he could handle a five-year-old, even if that five-year-old was Draco Lucius Malfoy. Their past didn’t matter. A lonely child in a desperate situation needed his help, and Harry never even considered turning Ron down, or suggesting a different FLO. It was his job, and he was going to do it.
The boy looked pitiful enough when Harry first laid eyes on him. Wrapped in a Ministry-issue blanket, his blond hair tousled and his eyes red from crying. Harry had seen dozens of kids in similar circumstances – alone, frightened and distrustful of the adults surrounding them – and knew that a straight-forward approach usually worked best.
He knelt down to be at the boy’s eye-level and smiled. “Hi, I’m Harry. Is it okay if I call you Draco?”
The boy’s gray eyes filled with fresh tears. He glared at Harry, an expression of sudden and inexplicable anger, as if he’d finally spotted the person responsible for his misfortune.
“No,” he sobbed. “Go away. I hate you!”
Ron laughed, and Harry shot him a glare over his shoulder to shut him up. Some kids reacted like this, unable to process their strong emotions and defaulting to anger. And Draco had always been high-strung… to put it mildly.
“I’m sure you’re wondering what’s going on,” he continued, turning back to the boy. “How about we have a cup of hot chocolate and I explain–”
“No.”
“But don’t you want to–”
“No. Go away.”
“Draco, I’m sure you–”
“I said go away!” Draco screeched, before dropping onto the floor and pulling the blanket over his head. “Go away go away go away!” Harry heard his muffled voice, rising in pitch as he began to cry anew. “I hate you!”
One of the senior Aurors moved forward. “Looks like the brat needs a good talking to. Don’t worry, Mr. Potter, I’ll take him in hand–”
“You will do no such thing!” Harry snapped. The Auror, who had been about to grab the blanket, stopped in mid-movement.
“That’s Draco Malfoy, Mr. Potter. A Death Ea–”
“A little boy who’s been scared out of his mind,” Harry cut him off before he could finish his sentence. “The DMLE called me in as an emergency guardian, and I’ll thank you for not interfering with my job! Now, if all of you could give us some space, I’m sure Draco and I can handle the situation just fine!”
The Aurors did move away after that – all but Ron, who put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “No one’s trying to tell you how to do your job, mate. He does need to go to the safehouse tonight, though. We don’t need him exposed to any more people.”
“I know,” Harry said in softer tone. He was familiar with the procedure, if not overly so. He’d taken a kid to a safehouse only once, at the very beginning of his career. The young teen had witnessed criminal activity during the war, which made her a target for certain Death Eaters still on the loose. Harry had spent five weeks in Shetland with a small, mostly silent twelve-year-old, who only began to smile when he took her to see the horses nearby. They’d gone to the paddock every day after that, with Harry keeping his wand ready and his guard up while Emma petted the ponies and sometimes cried into their shaggy manes.
Eventually, the Death Eaters in question were caught, and Emma returned to her family. With Draco, things weren’t as straightforward. They didn’t know who was after him, only that it was very likely someone from wizarding Britain, someone who had been affected by the war.
Which meant that the Shetland safehouse, a lovely cottage in a small wizarding village, was out. Going Muggle was by far the safer option.
“I’ll be your secret keeper,” Ron said quietly. “We’ll need a Healer to drop by regularly, to monitor him and determine what exactly’s been done to him.”
“Widdeborn?” Harry asked. She’d been the one to cast the Verum Nomen, confirming that yes, the little boy Hagrid had found was indeed Draco Malfoy, technically 24 years old.
Ron shook his head. “Should be someone with a background in aging spells. We’ll let you know.”
The blanket on the floor moved a little, revealing a pair of tearful gray eyes and a small mouth arched in a frown.
“I’m not going away with him. I want to go home to Mummy and Dobby. And Father.”
Harry considered him for a moment. “How about a deal, Draco? What do you think?”
Draco narrowed his eyes at him. “What deal?”
“You come with me, and I teach you a spell. Any spell. As long as it’s safe,” he added hurriedly, remembering the types of spells Draco might have witnessed at home.
“I don’t have a wand,” Draco said contemptuously. “You can’t cast without a wand, are you stupid?”
“No,” Harry said mildly. “You’ll have to borrow my wand, then.”
“Your wand?” His eyes widened a little, just enough for Harry to know that the bait had been taken.
“Yes, my wand,” Harry said. If Draco turned his hair green or set the curtains on fire, well, they’d deal with it. Either option was preferable to having to drag a screaming and kicking five-year-old to one of the Ministry’s Apparition points.
Draco got up, blanket clutched firmly to his chest. “Well?” he asked, his little pointy chin raised and his voice trembling only a little. “Are you coming, or what?”
“I’m coming,” Harry said, and rolled his eyes at Ron’s mouthed ‘good luck.’
Luck was probably the last thing he needed right now.
*
Coventry had a very small wizarding community, only a few families scattered here and there, and the occasional Muggleborn living with their relatives. This, as well as its rural atmosphere, made it a perfect location for a safehouse hidden in plain sight.
Harry had never used 77 Minton Road before, but he was familiar with the set-up: a simple, two-story house with a small back garden, equipped with subtle Notice-me-not Charms so the neighbors never wondered for too long why the owners were hardly ever home.
It wasn’t the cottage in Shetland, but it would do. Hopefully, whoever was after Malfoy would not expect him to be hiding in such un-magical, entirely Muggle surroundings.
Unwilling to risk detection, Harry Apparated them straight into the dark living-room. Draco had done as he’d asked and held on to his arm without letting go (“I know how to Side-Along! I’m not a baby!”). Even so, he’d not given up his blanket. He still didn’t, clutching it to his chest like a lifeline as he watched Harry switch on the light.
The place looked like an IKEA advert brought to life, down to the flatscreen TV perched on a gleaming white console. The plain blue couch, the polyester carpet, the art prints on the walls – all of it was as Muggle as it could be, simple, functional and very much lacking in any sort of magic.
Draco looked terrified.
“It’s okay,” Harry said. “We’re safe here, don’t worry. It’s a Muggle place, I know, but–”
Draco’s eyes widened. “I want to go back.”
“We can’t–”
“Take me back now! I want to go back!”
The boy seemed close to panicking. Harry knelt down in front of him, carefully tugging down the blanket Draco was hiding behind. “Draco, I’m sorry, but we can’t go back. It’s not safe where we came from, and we have to stay here for now. I promise you, nothing bad’s going to happen.”
“T-the Muggles will come and… they kill people with cars.”
“Cars?” Harry blinked, momentarily stumped. “Do you know what a car is, Draco?”
“Of course I do!” Draco glared at him. “It’s like a dragon, but it has wheels and runs over people.”
“That’s…” Harry shook his head. “Draco, I promise you that you’re safe. There’s no one here but you and me, and – ”
“But what if the Muggles come back? They’ll kill me with their cars and e-eat me.”
Harry wanted to laugh, if not for the genuine terror he saw on Draco’s face. It wasn’t fair to make fun; not of a five-year-old who took his parents’ words at face value, as was only natural.
“Draco, Muggles are just people. Like you and me. They don’t… you wouldn’t want to eat people, would you?”
Draco shook his head.
“See,” Harry said, feeling pleased with his logic. “The Muggles don’t want to eat you, either.”
“B-but they burn people,” Draco whispered, his eyes wide. “In their fireplaces. Like meat pies. Father says so.”
Harry could imagine. He could see Lucius filling his son’s ears with tales of times long past, and the boy trying to make sense of what he’d been told. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t encountered it before – children firmly believing their parents’ twisted view of reality, and insisting on it even when all evidence pointed towards the contrary. Harry knew that rational arguments led exactly nowhere; not if the brainwashing was so deeply ingrained.
And right now, he just needed Draco to feel safe.
“Well, the doors are warded. And I know really good protective spells. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
Draco didn’t look convinced. “But… you’re mean. I don’t like you.”
Harry could see that this was the truth. Draco had taken an immediate dislike to him from the moment they’d laid eyes on each other, and even now stared at him with eyes brimming with resentment.
He sat down on the carpet, hoping to appear less threatening. “Why not? I like you, and I’d like us to be friends.”
“I don’t want to be your friend,” Draco said, turning away. Harry could hear the tears gathering in his voice. “You’re mean and old and… and you’re not Harry Potter!”
Harry blinked, not having expected the last bit. “I’m not?”
“NO! And I want to go back now! Take me back to my mummy!”
“Draco, I’m sorry, but I can’t. We’ll have to stay here for now. How about I teach you that spell– ”
“I WANT TO GO BACK!” Draco grabbed the closest available object, which happened to be the TV remote, and threw it with all his might. It bounced off Harry’s shoulder and hit the coffee table. “TAKE – ME – BACK – TAKE – ME – BACK – TAKE – ME – BACK!”
Harry winced at the volume. “Draco, I can’t –”
Draco’s voice rose in a screech of pure rage. He looked around, presumably for something else to throw. When nothing came in handy, he collapsed on the floor, pulled the blanket over his head and began to kick and scream. One of his feet hit the coffee table, toppling over the little decorative vase.
“Draco – ”
“I hate you!” Draco’s face emerged from the blanket, red and streaked with tears. “I hate you, you filthy mumplot!”
Harry frowned. Realization hit a moment later, and he forced himself to take a deep breath. Just a five-year-old boy, scared out of his mind. Yelling at him would lead exactly nowhere.
“That’s not a nice word, Draco. I don’t want you – “
“MUMPLOT!” Draco screamed, and Harry could have kicked himself. “MUMPLOT, YOU ARE A MUMPLOT, AND YOUR FAMILY ARE MUMPLOTS, AND FATHER IS GOING TO COME AND HEX YOU, SEE IF HE DOESN’T! AND I HATE YOUR SCAR AND YOUR FACE AND YOUR STUPID GLASSES!”
Harry sighed and got to his feet. “That’s enough now, Draco. You need to calm down.”
“NO! YOU’RE NOT MY MUMMY, YOU CAN’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!”
Well, there seemed to be nothing for it. It wasn’t as if this could get any worse. Bending down, Harry grabbed the boy around the waist and lifted him under one arm. “I think you’re very tired, Draco, and it’s best if you go to bed. We can talk again tomorrow.”
“NOOO, LET ME GO!”
Draco screamed and kicked and tried to bite. Even so, Harry managed to carry him up the stairs and into one of the bedrooms without catching a flailing foot in the face.
“Look, there’s dragons on the sheets –”
Tiny but rather sharp teeth sank painfully into his wrist. “LET ME GO, YOU MEAN OLD MUMPLOT! YOU POOP FACE!”
Harry did, dumping him on the bed rather unceremoniously.
“There,” he said, not quite as kindly as he’d meant to. His arm throbbed something fierce. “Biting is naughty, Draco. You know that, don’t you?”
“YOU FILTHY– ”
“Mumplot, I know,” Harry said, feeling his educational ambitions rapidly slipping down the drain. Sarcasm did not work on five-year-olds, not even this one, but Harry was only human, and his arm hurt. “Bedtime, Draco. Now.”
“I’m not tired!” Draco bellowed, grabbing one of the pillows and hurling it across the room. “And I’m not sleeping in here, I want to sleep in my bedroom and I want Merlin and I want Dobby to read me a story!”
“I’ll read you a story,” Harry offered, and winced as the night light came flying his way. “No throwing things, that’s naughty. And don’t pull out plugs!”
“GO AWAY!” Draco screamed. “GO – AWAY – GO – AWAY – GO – AWAY!”
Harry raised his hands. “Okay, I’m going. Don’t – ”
He barely managed to duck as a book (Guess How Much I Love You) sailed past his head.
“GO AWAY!”
Harry quickly closed the door. Something hit the wood with a dull thump (another book, Harry surmised). Draco seemed to have run out of things to throw after that, or maybe he saw no need to, having successfully vanquished the enemy. A moment’s silence ensued, followed by quiet, sniffling sobs.
Harry hesitated. His instincts told him to go in there, to try and offer comfort to a scared child. This was Draco Malfoy, however, and even at five years old, he seemed to hold on to a grudge like a Niffler to Galleons. Most likely, Harry’s return would only spark another full-blown tantrum.
Better not risk it; not now, anyway. Harry cast a Surveillance Charm at the door, one that would alert him if Draco was in any danger or discomfort. He’d used it before with younger charges, although none of them had been as young or as… combative as little Draco Malfoy. Well. The house was warded to be safe, and what could a five-year-old get up to, really?
Ignoring his slight misgivings, Harry turned away and began to explore the rest of the house. There would be enough time to sort things out in the morning.