A week at Malfoy mansion ~ Scorbus + Wolfstar

Chapter three~ I'm worried about him

We piled into the massive, coldly lit hall, facing a marble staircase, a silver chandelier above my head. I had been here so much this place was one of my homes away from home (after my actual home, Hogwarts and the Weasleys). It still filled me with awe though, as I stared at it, my mouth open. Scorp laughed at my face, and casually dumped his bag and stuck the kettle on.

"I'll stick the kettle on- do you want a cup of tea, Albus? You're still looking a bit pale."

"It's ok, you know I hate the stuff." I removed my shoes, and carefully hung up my coat on the little silver peg, my dirty trainers by the wall. I tiptoed into the kitchen, and poured myself a glass of water, while Scorp raided the biscuit tin.

"Where am I sleeping?"

"Your room, you numpty. You know, the first one down, second floor? Next to mine." I nodded, and climbed up the impressive staircase, feeling dirty by comparison in this beautiful house. I quietly opened the door, noticing how even though I hadn't been here for six months, the place was still spotless.

I put all my stuff in the draws, and made the bed from the white linen folded at the end. When I was done, and the room was just as tidy as it was before I moved in, I tucked my trunk under the bed, got up, and left the room behind.

I had never fully explored the house as I didn't like to sneak around while Mr Malfoy was there. I didn't suppose it made it any better, to explore his house while he wasnt there, but I promised that I wouldn't touch anything, I just wanted to see what else there was.

On the second floor, there was Scorp's room, my room, another guest bedroom and a bathroom; on the third floor there was Mr Malfoy's bedroom, another bathroom another spare room and two study's- one for Mr Malfoy and one for Scorp himself. In the attics, it was all storage, except for a little bit left aside for a house-elf, with a light, a tiny bed with a patchwork quilt, a chest of drawers and cracked mug, much better conditions than I had seen before in some cases. On the ground floor, there was the library, living room, dining room, a ballroom and kitchen, where Scorp was making more noise than a herd of elephants.

Finishing my little snoop, I skipped down the staircases, sliding dangerously down the polished stone flooring. Scorp was there, a packet of dried spaghetti in his hand, squinting at the tiny writing.

"Here, let me." I took the package out of his hands, pulled my reading glasses out my pocket, and read the instructions out for him. Together, he dumped the pasta into a pan of hot water on the stove, stiring it every so often, while I made a basic tomato sauce, finding a pot plant of basil on the window cill. We served out our makeshift diner, and sat down at the table, in silence for a few minutes, until Scorp said, "when did you learn how to cook?".

"Aunt Hermione taught me. She said while her, uncle Ron and dad where on the run, she often had to rely on her muggle side, and cook without magic, because she couldn't do everything by wand, and she says it's important that we don't rely apon our wands as much as we often do. I agree with her more than most, so she taught me sewing, cooking, cleaning, and a few other things."

Scorp went "aww", so I stole some of his spaghetti. After Scorp washed the dishes and cleaned the work surfaces (which, suffice to say- were a bit dirty), he physically threw his bag on his bed and kicked his trunk into the corner of the room. We went out to the gardens, magically hidden from view from any wandering muggles, and unlocked the shed, to reveal his family's collection of expensive brooms, and a quaffle. Soon, we mounted our brooms and were in the air, casually chucking the quaffle back and forth, unable to do much else with only two players.

This went on for about four hours, as the sky darkened, and I felt the effects of the long day on my muscles. Nevertheless, I was doing surprisingly well, he was normally the much better quidditch player, but he was failing to catch even the easiest of shots. I decided to challenge him, and threw it high, much higher than I had previously. Determined, he took my bait, and swooped up, until he nearly hit his face on the invisible barrier around his garden, missing, then swooping back down again, racing against the ball, catching it right at the last minute. As he rose back up again, I grew concerned- he was suddenly deathly pale, and seemed uncomfortable, nauseous even.