Black Sheep

Chapter Twelve
In Which There Is A Sneak

THE TWO MEN HAD CONTINUED their tour of the small village, visiting the remains of the abbey and walking among its huge, empty shells. But while Draco was clearly still happy to be exploring the ruins, Harry couldn't cut off his frustrated emotions as easily. He trudged along, occasionally moved by the sights around him, but always returning to the niggling questions in his mind: What could Malfoy have to do with Hermione? Why was he interested in her? Was he actually going to meet her? Was she still at Hogwarts, where Harry himself had sent her all those years ago?

After a long afternoon of Harry trying to wheedle more information out of Malfoy without the aid of his questions, they finally called it a day. Harry drove them back to Godric's Hollow in almost complete silence and as soon as they arrived, Draco stepped quickly out of the car. Even this strange Malfoy, who Harry had begun to expect to be ruffled by nothing, seemed tired of Harry's questions. He went straight to his motorbike and with a brief, "See you," started the bike with an angry growl of throttle. Harry watched the bike roar away down the road and began to plan.

He hurried into his house and, only hesitating for moment, went into the spare bedroom. He looked up at the ceiling, where a depressed square clearly showed the entrance to the small attic. Conjuring a small step ladder, he climbed up until he could reach the ceiling and pushed at the panel, shoving it up and to the side, into the hole that lead to the attic. Then, taking one last deep breath of fresh air, he climbed into the attic himself.

The air was dark and dusty. He pulled his wand out and muttered, "Lumos!" A light bloomed in front of him and brought into focus the ghostly shape of an old trunk, surrounded by several lumpy bags. He searched through the bags first, since they were less intimidating. They were things that he'd received from Ginny over the years. Every time she brought some gift, he chucked it up in the attic without even bothering to open it. But she always told him what she'd given him anyway and so he was quite sure that one of the bags should contain some of Fred and George's disguise hats. Purposefully not allowing himself to think about the other things he found in the bags, he kept searching, filling his mind only with thoughts of magical hats.

Finally his hand fell on something round and stiff. He pulled it out and couldn't help a sad laugh. It was a ridiculous bowler hat, which surely no one under age of fifty would wear. He hoped it would turn him into an old man, otherwise he'd just look a twat. From the same bag, he found a witch's pointy hat, an old-fashioned newspaper-boy cap, and a floppy hat with a bunch of flowers and fake fruit attached to it, which he could imagine a woman like Mrs Weasley wearing. He dropped them all through the hole and into the room below, then he shoved the rest of the bags away from him. He was left staring at his trunk.

He ran his hands over its dusty lid, remembering all the times he'd had to force it down over all his messy things, as he had rushed to leave for another year at Hogwarts. The name tag was still attached to the handle, with his name written in his own childish, eleven-year-old writing. When he had come to this house, still in a daze from his final encounter with Voldemort, this trunk was the only thing he'd brought from the safe house where he, Ron and Hermione had been staying. He'd taken some clothes from the trunk, then levitated it up to the attic. He hadn't seen it since it had disappeared into the dark hole of the attic's entrance, nearly five years ago. Every time he had received another bag from Ginny, he had just blindly hurled it into the attic. This was the first time he'd come up and sat among his memories.

Hands steady, he reached out to undo the buckles on the trunk. They still came undone easily, probably thanks to whatever preservative magic the trunk must have had on it. He pushed the top of the trunk open and looked down at the jumble within. The first thing his eyes fell on was Ravenclaw's model, which he and Malfoy had gone together to retrieve. What he'd told Malfoy had been true, and it no longer moved with the hypnotic, liquid motion it had once had, but it was still as delicately beautiful as it had been when they'd found it in that cursed wardrobe. Perhaps he really ought to give it away or something, but that would have to wait for another trip down memory lane. He was after something specific today.

At least trying to be gentle, he pushed the model aside. It banged against Gryffindor's sword, still covered with dried, rusty blood. Reaching past the various artefacts, he shoved aside some of his old books and caught a glimpse of silvery fabric. Grabbing the end that he could see, he pulled his father's invisibility cloak out from the mess and let it pool in his lap. Resting his hands among its cool folds for a moment, he wondered if he might need any of his other old tricks. But this should be enough for just a simple task like fooling Malfoy. Much simpler than the last time he had searched through this trunk for supplies. Now he just needed one last thing.

Grasping the cloak in one hand and his wand in the other, he shuffled back to the hole. He sat on its edge, carefully swung his legs over and stepped back onto the stepladder he'd conjured earlier. He climbed down and stared at the hats on the floor. He would take all this with him tomorrow and wait outside Malfoy's house. He knew from Malfoy's own admission that the Manor had been taken off the Floo network by the Aurors, as a precaution. And Malfoy certainly couldn't apparate without a wand. If he was really going to Scotland, he'd have use a more mundane sort of transportation and Harry would be right there with him.




Harry shifted uncomfortably. He was sitting on top of the great stone wall that ringed Malfoy Manor, disguised doubly with the bowler cap (which had indeed turned him into a genial-looking greybeard) and the invisibility cloak on top of it, since Malfoy would certainly wonder about a strange old man sitting on his wall, even more than Harry Potter. He'd been sitting there since just before daybreak and it was now well past noon. He was getting hungry and the sunlight was making him sleepy. He had begun to worry that Malfoy might have slipped past him somehow. Could he have used a portkey? Or left last night even? Harry was going to be decidedly angry if his bum were this bruised for nothing.

Stretching out on top of the stone wall, he lay down on his stomach, his face pillowed on his arms. He glanced back at himself to check that he was still entirely covered by the invisibility cloak, which he was. He also sent a thankful prayer to whatever besotted Malfoy had built this Manor and decided that having spikes or broken glass on top of the wall would ruin the picturesque image for his beloved bride. It was making Harry's wait a lot easier than it might have otherwise been.

His new position wasn't a terribly good decision, of course, and before he knew it, he was dozing in the sun. Luckily he was jolted awake when he heard the loud growl of a motorbike being started. Jumping up in surprise, he pulled his cloak around himself more tightly and watched as Malfoy left through a nearly hidden side-gate on his bike. Pulling what looked like a twig from his pocket, Harry quickly undid the shrinking spell and his broom popped back to its regular size. Climbing on top of it, he kicked off from the top of the wall and quickly shot up into the air, too focussed on following the blond to think about the fact that this was the first time he'd flown on a broom in nearly five years.

He quickly climbed high into the sky so that even if someone did see him through his invisibility cloak he would appear as small as a bird. The air was chilly up so high and he watched carefully as the tiny glinting motorbike below him headed toward the nearest town, as he'd suspected it would. Getting ahead of the bike, he landed gently on the roof of one of the houses right next to the main road. He ducked behind the chimney, his broom wedged under his cloak with him. Once he was sure everything was covered, he leaned around the chimney stack and watched Malfoy approach the town. The blond was wearing no helmet yet again - odd, since he'd been careful enough to put a seat belt on in Harry's car the day before - and he was easy to spot as he headed through town toward the small train station.

Harry had to move buildings a couple of times, but there was little doubt in his mind as to where Malfoy was headed. When he saw the motorbike pull into the park-and-ride lot for the small station, Harry swung into action. He flew down to the ground level and, as soon as he landed, shrunk his broom again. Slipping it into an inside pocket, he glanced around the empty alley and quickly whipped off his invisibility cloak, folding it as small as a handkerchief and stuffing it into another pocket. Now he was simply an old man in a bowler hat, strolling out of an alley. He headed toward the train station and spotted a bright head in front of him. It was Malfoy, his hair nearly as white as Harry's now was. In his frail guise, Harry shuffled along a bit more quickly, arriving at the station's door as it was swinging shut from Malfoy's entrance.

Luckily for Harry, the station was so small that it didn't have any electronic ticket sales machines and so he followed Malfoy up to the counter and overheard the man ask for a ticket through to London, King's Cross Station. As soon as the blond received his ticket, he walked past Harry without a hint of recognition and headed toward the platform. Harry quickly asked for the same trip and hobbled after his mark. He was a bit surprised to see how naturally Malfoy headed for the right platform, without even sparing a glance to any of the signs. Obviously this was not his first time visiting the small Muggle station.

The blond queued up behind one of the lines that marked where a carriage would stop. Harry queued in the next line over, wanting to be able to watch Malfoy without being too close. The train arrived about ten minutes later and Harry wished he had thought to bring a paper or something, so that he looked more natural. He decided he would buy one on the train - along with some lunch. When they finally got on and settled, Harry fixed himself in a seat from which he could see through to the next carriage and just barely keep watch on Malfoy's fair head. He got a stack of sandwiches from the trolley and ate them eagerly, then resigned himself to watching the other wizard from behind a copy of The Guardian.

The trip took over three hours and they'd had to switch lines twice, with long waits between each train. Luckily, there were several people taking the same route to London, so Harry thought his presence wasn't too terribly suspicious. The difficult part came when they arrived at King's Cross Station. Harry was pretty much positive that, having come all the way to King's Cross, Malfoy was planning to take the Hogwarts Express from platform nine and three-quarters. Because of this confidence, he let himself lose sight of Malfoy for a moment - long enough to duck into a dark corner and change hats. It was as a bustling, portly, middle-aged woman, wearing a gaudy hat dripping silk flowers and fake fruits, that he set out after the blond again. As he'd expected, he caught up to him on the way to platforms nine and ten. Keeping a safe distance, now that he knew where they were headed, he let several metres distance grow between them. As Malfoy neared the magical barrier, Harry hung back, pretending to examine a vending machine.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Malfoy pause unsurely before the barrier and then lean towards it casually, letting one hand slide through it and disappear into the brick. For some reason the blond's shoulders slumped, as if they'd lost some sort of tension and then, with one quick glance around, he slid through the wall and onto the extra platform. Harry rushed toward the barrier himself and, with only a half-bothered look around, passed through it, whipping his invisibility cloak out as he did, so that by the time he appeared on platform nine and three-quarters, he didn't. He was completely invisible. He was going to have to stay that way, as well, since he had no wizarding money to pay for a ticket. He quickly spotted Malfoy on the half-empty platform. Moving away from the barrier, he leaned against the far wall, where no one was likely to bump into him, and began waiting again.

The Hogwarts express regularly only ran once a day, since Hogsmeade was not that terribly popular of a destination. The train would leave at half-eight and then arrive in Hogsmeade early the next morning. Harry was looking forward to a very uncomfortable night. He remembered the last time he had ridden this train, hidden beneath his invisibility cloak. It had been on the way back to Hogwarts for sixth year, when he'd been spying on Malfoy and the other Slytherins and they had petrified him, broken his nose and left him (still invisible) on the train. He hoped this trip would have a better conclusion.

Finally there was the blast of a long-remembered horn and the bright scarlet Hogwarts Express pulled into the station. Harry watched it silently, unable to do anything else in his current situation. Not that he knew what he would have done otherwise - probably just watch it silently. The old train ground to a stop and a thin trickle of passengers from Hogsmeade spilt out onto the platform. Several young people headed straight for the barrier, beginning the slow, subtle process of slipping through one at a time. They were probably looking forward to an exciting night in London, Harry thought wistfully. He watched as Malfoy got on the train and straightened up to follow, though he had to let the rest of the small crowd get on first, lest someone bump into him in his invisible state.

When he was quite sure everyone must be settled in a compartment, he jumped on the train himself, just before the doors swung automatically shut. Prowling the carpeted corridor, he peered into each compartment he passed, still able to remember precisely which ones he had shared with what friends. Finally he came across a white blond figure in one of them, stretched out on the fluffy bed that had appeared - magically - where there were normally just seats. The opposite compartment was empty and Harry silently let himself into it. He cast a quick spell on both his and Malfoy's compartment doors that would alert him if either was opened, then he settled in for a long, uncomfortable and hungry night.




The next morning, Harry woke with a jolt. He had expected that he wouldn't be able to sleep at all, because of his precarious situation, but actually he hadn't woken once since he'd got on the train in London. The pre-dawn light coming through the window made him guess that it must still be before seven and he wondered for a moment why he had woken so abruptly. Then he realised that they weren't moving. He was turned around in a flash and pressed to the window, peering out into the grey morning light. It was Hogsmeade. They had arrived.

Before he had any more time to marvel, his wand suddenly vibrated in his pocket. Spinning around again, he was just in time to see Malfoy stepping out of his own compartment. Grabbing at his cloak to be sure it was still covering him, Harry watched the blond go with his heart in his throat. As soon Malfoy passed out of sight, Harry whipped out his wand and spelled the window open in his carriage. Still clutching at his invisibility cloak, he jumped lightly down onto the platform. The only people around were the sleepy passengers, still staggering off the night train. Up ahead there was a glint of fair hair and Harry set out after Malfoy once again.

While making sure he didn't lose the blond, stick out from his invisibility cloak or run into anyone, Harry goggled at the streets of Hogsmeade. Nothing much had changed in the last half-decade or so. It was mostly all the same shops and homes that had probably been there for dozens, if not hundreds, of years. And around him were witches and wizards, wearing jewel-coloured cloaks and robes. It had been so long since he'd seen someone in a robe. He himself only wore jeans and the like anymore - or, at the moment, a polka-dotted dress, beige stockings and a floppy hat underneath an invisibility cloak, but these were unusual circumstances. He realised that Malfoy stood out in the crowd, still wearing his Muggle clothes. Everyone else on the train had either been wearing robes when they got on or slipped some on by the time they arrived. But Draco Malfoy stalked down the road wearing well-fitted jeans, a dark shirt and a heavy, fur-trimmed jacket.

His attention now drawn from the marvel of the nostalgic buildings and dress of Hogsmeade, Harry began to notice that it wasn't just the clothes which set Malfoy apart. Clearly some of the older witches and wizards had recognised him and there was an undeniable shuffle to shy away from him as he walked by. This made Harry's work in following him easier, but he couldn't help getting a bit annoyed. He'd had people shy away from him in the past, too.

But he kept up his silent vigilance, as he followed Malfoy to the edge of village and into the Green Dragon, a dodgy old pub and lodging house. The place was empty, thanks to the early hour, and Draco had to knock on the landlord's door to rouse him. Apparently he had reserved a room in advance, and the landlord trudged out of his own warm room to show Draco (plus one) up to it. Harry followed them into the empty bar and quickly reached down to pull the high-heeled shoes off his surprisingly fleshy, stockinged feet. Ignoring the odd feeling of touching feet that weren't his own, he snuck after the two men, now nearly silent in just his stockings. It was definitely time to get rid of the disguise, he decided.

After unlocking the door to room number four, the landlord held it open for Draco and the young man stepped through it promptly. Harry ducked in after him, almost brushing up against the thin man with his own currently less than svelte self. As the landlord quickly oriented Draco in the room, Harry pulled off the floppy hat, while still careful not to disturb his cloak. He returned to his usual body, which fit much better under the cloak anyhow, then folded up the hat and stuffed it into the back of his trousers. He settled himself against one of the window sills and silently watched Malfoy. After the landlord left them alone (though Malfoy obviously still didn't know it was a 'them' and not just 'him'), the other man sat wearily on the bed. Apparently he hadn't slept as well on the train as Harry had. Dragging his messenger's bag up onto the bed as well, he pawed through it for a couple of moments until he pulled out a book. Harry could just make out some incredibly dull-sounding title, like The Great Ancient Civilisations from across the room.

The blond flopped down on the bed and began to read. Before long, though, he had fallen asleep again, his fingers curled loosely around the old book and his mouth hanging slightly open. If this was a usual sort of day and they were at either his own or Malfoy's house, Harry would have been tempted to do something to the other man as he slept so innocently. But not today - today he was determined to keep hidden until he found out the truth about Malfoy's relationship with Hermione. He watched the blond sleep for a while, then stared out the window onto the street below, as more townspeople began their days. He had begun to lose interest, thinking dolefully about how he might ever get something to eat, when a hooded figure caught his attention. There was something familiar about it - the purposeful stride, the small stature...

Harry gasped and stood up straight. He shot a look toward the bed, but Draco was still sleeping and hadn't heard a thing. Turning back to the window, Harry watched as the cloaked woman - who he was quite certain must be Hermione - drew closer and closer, until she disappeared into the pub downstairs. Within the minute, he heard footsteps on the stairs and looked around the room wildly, wondering where he was least likely to be run into. He ended up diving for a dark corner beside the bed. His back pressed against the wall, he took careful, shallow breaths. He checked that his cloak was covering him properly and then looked toward Malfoy, who was still peacefully sleeping. Feeling a bit bad for the blond, he reached out with his foot and nudged the bed just hard enough to give Malfoy a jolt. The blond mumbled something sleepily and his eyes fluttered open. He seemed to realise that he had fallen asleep and sat up slowly, rubbing tiredly at his face, where there were still lines from the bedclothes visible.

Even though he had been expecting it, when there was a soft knock on the door, Harry jumped. Malfoy did as well, and he looked at the watch on his wrist, then muttered, "Bloody magic." Harry could only guess that the Muggle-looking watch had probably fritzed out in the magic-heavy environment, as his own had. Draco stood up from the bed and, quickly running his hands through his hair and across his face, but unable to do anything about the tell-tale sleepy flush across his cheeks, went to the door. He pulled it open graciously and seemed unsurprised by the visitor on other side of it. "Hermione Granger," he said, greeting the woman in a mild tone of voice.

Hermione pulled her hood back and chestnut curls tumbled free around her face. Her own cheeks were flushed, though for a different reason, and she looked warily up at Malfoy, who was still at least half a foot taller than her. "Draco Malfoy," she responded in kind, and Harry was surprised to hear a familiar sting in her tone. How did Hermione know Malfoy? Had they met since the war? Surely she had forgot the former Slytherin, along with everything else, when she touched Hufflepuff's cup.

Standing tensely in his corner, Harry watched as Draco invited Hermione to sit at the room's one small table. He took a seat opposite her and started speaking. "I'm very pleased that you decided to meet with me."

Hermione had no time for niceties, though, and she said shortly, "I wouldn't have done so by choice. But you said that you had information about Harry Potter."

Harry felt as if the air had been squeezed out of his lungs. The familiar way she had said his name, it was as if she knew who he was, knew what he was to her. He turned to watch Draco speak.

"I do. I know where he is and I think I know why you haven't been able to find him. I believe that someone has made his home Unplottable, though I don't think it was Potter himself."

Harry stared at Draco with wide eyes. What was the man saying? His house was Unplottable? How could it be? As far as he knew, the only person who knew where he lived was Ginny. And now Malfoy. But Malfoy made it sound as if people had been looking for him for a long time, and Malfoy had just found Harry a week ago. It couldn't have been him.

Hermione's pressing voice cut through Harry's thoughts, as she demanded, "How can I know that what you say is true? And even if it were, why would you of all people be telling me this?"

Again, that old distrust. Had they met again and Hermione developed the same dislike of Malfoy again?

"What would it take for you to believe me?" Draco asked mildly. "To tell you about Harry's deepest and darkest secrets? That he can't hold his liquor? That he still likes to torture himself over what happened to the Weasel brat? Over what happened to you, when you touched Hufflepuff's cup?"

Hermione's gasp of horror was real and she stared at Malfoy in dismay. "How - how could you know about that?" Her voice went up an octave, straight into near-hysteria. "What have you done to him? Have you tortured him to get information? Is he all right?"

Harry ought to have stepped in, but his need to understand this meeting was greater than any urge to speak up. Draco was full of calm aplomb, as always, and he said reasonably, "Nothing of the sort. It was just... a game." Then he did the worst possible thing and smiled wickedly, which caused Hermione to draw her wand on him immediately. His smiled died as he eyed her wand cautiously.

"What's the matter?" she spat angrily. "Why don't you draw your wand? Or doesn't the ministry allow you one anymore, Death Eater?"

Draco's face became tight, but he still didn't get angry. Harry watched silently. Still seated calmly in his chair, Draco said, "Please, won't you control yourself." It wasn't a question but a command. "I'm sorry for baiting you but I assure you that Potter has come to no harm by me." He couldn't seem to help another small grin. "Well, no more than a nasty hangover, at any rate." He cleared his throat and continued in a more serious tone, "I came here today because I think you should meet with him."

Hermione didn't lower her wand, but she at least answered with words, and not curses. "You're going to help me meet with Harry? Why?"

Draco smiled in a very predatory sort of way. "Well, it's not like I'm doing it for nothing. I'd like your assistance on a research project."

"What kind of research?" she asked warily. "I won't help you with your nasty little-"

"Please, please," Draco cut her off, in a silky voice that was ground out between his tightly clenched teeth. "It is only theoretical research. I'm interested in ways that magic can be taken away from someone, and ways that it can be restored."

Hermione began to question the blond man, since this still sounded plenty suspicious to her, but Harry had stopped listening for the moment. Something had suddenly clicked in his mind. A thousand little clues and questions from all the time he'd spent with Malfoy in the last week suddenly fell into place, leaving him with one undeniable conclusion. Throwing all pretence of stealth to the wind, he strode across the room, tearing off his cloak as he went. Hermione and Draco both looked up when they heard the angry footsteps and were just in time to see Harry Potter materialise in the room.

Hermione gave a breathy shriek but Harry had already grabbed Malfoy's arm in an iron-hard grip. Before he said anything, Hermione jumped up and reached out towards him, staring as if he was a ghost. "Is it - is it really him?" she asked Malfoy, seeming unable to address Harry himself.

Draco glared up at Harry, and answered irritably, "Yes, it really is, the great blunderer himself. What the fuck are you doing here, Potter?"

He was well pissed that his plans had gone awry. Potter would of course show up and ruin his chance at manipulating Granger into helping him out. Even now she was whimpering the Boy Who Lived's name. But Harry was still glaring daggers at the man in front of him.

"Malfoy," he ground out, furious, at himself and at Malfoy. "Why would you want to research that?"

Draco tried to pull his arm free but found that he couldn't, which made him return Harry's glare with just as much fire. "I don't have to answer any of your questions any longer," he reminded him angrily.

Harry grabbed at the blond's shoulder as well and shook the man as if he were a child, even though they were nearly the same size. His angry, painful questions poured out of him, faster and faster. "Why were you so sure that we wouldn't find your wand after the accident? Why don't you ever want to go get a new one? Why do you even refuse my wand when I've offered it to you? Why do you watch football? And use mobile phones? Why do you live like a muggle?"

Malfoy's face had contorted into something ugly and painful, and he managed to knock Harry's hands away as he spat back dispassionately, "Because I am one." His grey eyes burnt into Harry's green. "Is that what you wanted to hear, you with your questions? Will you be satisfied, now that you know that I can't do magic anymore - that I'm no better than a squib? Can you finally loathe yourself enough, to know that it's all your fault?"