The Disappearances of Draco Malfoy

Chapter 8: The Fidelius Charm

When Draco came out of the tent the next morning, bleary-eyed and yawning, he found Granger flicking her wand at one of the tent's stakes, tugging it out of the soft, dark earth.

"Granger," he said, making her jump, "are you trying to make the place collapse on Potter and Weasley?" He stopped beside her, nudging the small pile of stakes with his toe. "I mean, I understand the instinct, but if you're interested in killing them both, I'd have thought you'd have done it years ago."

"You're very funny," she said, adding another stake to the pile. All the tent's extra flaps and decorations were now hanging limp, leaving only the main structure still in place. "We're leaving after breakfast."

"What? Why?"

"I think we should stay on the move. Harry and Ron agree. I spoke with them about it yesterday evening."

"Oh, you did, did you? So I don't get a vote?"

"Stop pouting, Malfoy. You'd have been outvoted anyway."

He glared at her. "I am not pouting."

"You pout constantly."

Well, that was just—she was just being ridiculous. Draco let out a loud scoff and stalked back inside to make breakfast.

He was vindictively buttering his toast when Granger came back inside and let out a surprised little "Oh."

"What?" Draco said, glancing over his shoulder.

She was standing in the open flap with the armful of stakes, looking surprised but gratified. "Thank you. I was going to do it, but now I'll have time to clean the bathroom before we leave." She aimed a small, confused smile at him as she placed the stakes on an end table and headed toward the bathroom. "I left the sausages in my bag, by the way. It's on the sofa."

He frowned. "I'm n—"

She was already closing the door.

Draco mouthed wordlessly at the door for a moment. He hadn't been making breakfast for the Gryffindors. He wasn't their butler, for Merlin's sake.

But now, if Granger emerged to find that he hadn't made breakfast for all of them, it would look like he'd been trying to make a statement, just to prove her wrong, and from everything he knew about Granger, that would be roughly twelve thousand times more trouble than it was worth.

This day was off to a phenomenal start. Muttering under his breath about presumptuous Gryffindors, Draco greased the skillet and shoved several more slices of bread onto it.

Fifteen minutes later, as the sausages sizzled on the pan, a door opened elsewhere in the flat. "Hermione," called Weasley's voice, "it smells amazi—"

Potter and Weasley came out from the short hallway and stopped dead at the sight of Draco, who was forking a dozen sausages onto a platter.

"Er," Potter said, looking downright alarmed.

Draco set the platter of sausages beside a stack of buttered toast, dropped a fistful of cutlery on the table, and sat down to eat. After several more seconds of Potter and Weasley making no move to sit down, he said, "It's not poisoned."

"R-right," Potter said, sitting down with Weasley. Draco wondered darkly whether Granger had planned all this to get out of cooking.

That particular theory fizzled when she emerged a second later, flushed and frizzy-haired, from the bathroom, wearing a look of utmost disgust. "Do you know," she said, sitting down at the table, "I think Fred and George were concocting something in that bathtub. I tried three different kinds of Scouring Charms, and that greenish scum is still stuck there."