This Is War

Redeeming the Cowards

Draco sat on an old, lumpy couch with a multi-colored quilt thrown over his lap as he looked at a clock with narrowed eyes. The clock was odd, something he'd never encountered before in any of the magical houses he visited with his parents. Then again, that pretty much clarified the reasons for his disdain over the clock hanging on an old wall.

This house—with its cabin-like interior, busy walls, pictures frames, lamps, pillows, pots, pans, cauldrons, books, clothes, flowers, hand-made drawings, little household trinkets—was unlike anything he'd encountered. This house was not a home of someone with an overflow of riches and chose to show that wealth off by displaying exquisite rugs, imported furniture, fine art, or fabulous antiques. No. This house, with a staircase that spiraled up to the upper levels, with brooms all stocked up together in a corner and with a little farm on the outside grounds was the home of the Weasleys. This was the Burrow.

Watching as two of the many individual hands of that particular clock moved from Work to Mortal Peril, Draco heard a sigh of relief coming from behind him.

"Thanks goodness," a plump redheaded woman with a tired expression murmured, her arms full with folded towels.

Draco raised an eyebrow at her, giving her his what-are-you look that people often said was an irritated look of confusion.

"They're traveling," Mrs. Weasley said, answering the question in what she assumed was Hermione Granger's eyes. "Whenever the twins travel—whenever anyone travels, really—they're in mortal peril. But they take care of themselves. They should be home soon."

Draco didn't say anything, he just scrutinized his vision on the woman. She was nothing like the pureblood women he knew of, nothing like all those wives of his father's friends. This woman was not poised, not elegant and masked. Everything from Mrs. Weasley spewed out heat, warm maternal instincts. She wore her emotions like she wore all those colorful, knitted sweaters.

Draco had been at the Burrow for five hours now, just him and Mrs. Weasley as the others were still pointed to Mortal Peril on her eccentric clock. He had seen her transition from warm, kind, and inviting as he arrived with his disguise of Hermione Granger; and as time progressed and they still remained on their own, Mrs. Weasley's face was worried, exhausted, angered—that was when Mister Weasley and Bill's hands pointed to Prison for an hour—and then back to worried.

Before the thought of how Mrs. Weasley had been exactly like Mrs. Granger—both fierce mothers that took their title very seriously—could make him begin to wonder about his own mother, there was a crack from the outside and Mrs. Weasley pulled out her wand as her facial expression went to alert.

Giving him a motion to sit still and quiet as she vanished the towels in her arms, Mrs. Weasley disappeared to the backdoor of her cluttered home. Pushing the colorful quilt away from his lap, Malfoy inched a little further out of his seat on that lumpy couch; Granger's wand out at the ready just in case.

"What form do my Boggarts take?" He heard Mrs. Weasley's voice become shrill, surely radiating out her tension as she greeted whatever intruder waited outside of her home.

Whatever the answer was to that question, Draco found that he couldn't hear it. It was like the walls of the Weasley home suddenly blocked him out, making a loud humming noise enter his borrowed-eardrums. He frowned—was the house keeping him out? Did the bloody old place know he was a potential threat?

Whatever the cause for his sudden deafness was left unexplained as Mrs. Weasley marched her way back in, her alert gone but her worry resurfacing as two figures entered the living room from behind her. It was the werewolf and his bride.