Samsara's Curse (Drarry Slowburn)

CRUCIO

Harry and Draco Apparated to the sidewalk in front of 12 Grimmauld Place, crickets chirping in the distance. The Slytherin looked up at the lack of stars in the sky and felt somber. He was so used to seeing them, back at the abbey. The stars there were always clear as day, in the countryside. If it was ever raining, he would just move to his bed in the dungeons, but even then, he didn't miss out on very much. He was able to enchant the ceiling of his cell to resemble the glimmering night sky. This worked for a while, aside from the spell wearing off when he fell asleep. 

Eventually, the ceiling began to cave in, and he stopped with respect to the new skylight. No matter where he stayed at the abbey, he could wake up to a full view of the stars—a view he would miss very much.

He was used to sleeping during the day, since moonlight enhanced his abilities to hunt. He could hear rustling from a mile away and reach it in less than a second, with the power to slow time. But now that he was in the city, worlds away from any forest, he knew that was yet another thing he would have to sacrifice.

"I share, with you, the secret of 12 Grimmauld Place," Harry announced to Draco.

Before he could ask why the hell Harry was speaking like a carnival barker, the ground beneath them trembled. The tall brick apartment complex up ahead stretched and stretched, until an entirely new section unfolded into view.

"Only Secret Keepers and people who have been here before can see it," Harry explained, leading Draco up the front stairs and into the foyer.

The house was nothing like Draco had expected. The colors were dark, rich, and reminded him vaguely of Malfoy Manor. Not a single hint of life lingered in the halls. It was quiet, aside from the sound of Harry shaking off his winter coat.

So he does live alone, Draco thought, thoroughly confused by the fact.

12 Grimmauld Place was incredibly elegant, minus the dingy drapes that hung flat over something mounted on the far living room wall.

"That's Walburga. She screams," warned Harry, halting Draco in his tracks before he could investigate it.

He had never met his aunt Walburga in person, but Draco wasn't too keen on having a portraitized family reunion at the present moment, anyway, so he left it alone.

"The kitchen is down the hall," Harry said, pointing to the archway. "You can help yourself to anything you'd like."

"I'd like a shower," Draco said flatly, though he committed Harry's words to memory. Cleaning charms were a godsend, but there was only so much they could do. He had relied on them for several years.

"Right," Harry said like a cough. "I can lend you a set of pajamas–"

"I'm not wearing your clothes, Potter," Draco said vehemently, thoroughly disgusted. "I'll just wear what I have on."

"It doesn't look very comfortable to sleep in, though," Harry winced. Draco's suit looked massive on him, tattered and overworn. It was high time for a change, even if Draco preferred to be a prick about it.

"I can just send Kreacher off to the shops," Harry suggested. He turned away, not wanting to give Draco the chance to decline. "Kreacher!"

A grouchy-looking House Elf Apparated in front of them, "You called?"

"I need you to buy new clothes for a guest," Harry explained gently. "Something comfortable to sleep in and something to wear during the day."

Kreacher's beady eyes squinted at Draco, inquisitively, "For Miss Cissy's boy?"

Kreacher had served the noble house of Black for centuries. He certainly knew of Cygnus Black's Daughters—Narcissa Black's son, by extension.

"Don't tell anyone he's alive," Harry commanded. Draco looked back at the Gryffindor, stunned, trying not to show how grateful he was for the gesture. He was so familiar with being isolated and cut off from the rest of the wizarding world that Draco couldn't imagine returning to it. He sniffed pompously, pretending that Harry had just committed some sort of faux pas.