We Open at the Close (Drarry)

The Mill

Draco was running blindly, running as fast as his legs would carry him, but his legs felt heavy like he was wading through water. But he kept running, even as the flames— sentient, intent on catching him —continued to chase him down dark, endless corridors. He glanced back and saw that the fire was mutating now, forming a gigantic pack of fiery beasts; flaming serpents, chimaeras and dragons rose and rose again, roaring furiously and consuming everything in their path – chairs, treasures, flesh and bone burnt and extinguished, swallowed whole by fanged mouths, tossed high on clawed feet. Nothing was left behind; nothing but blackness. The fire was licking his skin, the sickly sweet aroma of burning flesh was filling his nostrils as the fire roared and swallowed him whole.

Tap tap tap.

Draco woke with a start at the loud noise, looking around his hotel room bleary-eyed. He was surprised to see an owl tapping at the window, desperately trying to get his attention to gain entry. Surprising as its appearance was, he was glad for the interruption as the same nightmare plagued him every night. Although the images in his head refused to wither even in the morning light. They persisted like this unfamiliar barn owl tapping incessantly at the window, demanding to be acknowledged. Draco jumped out of bed and opened the window and the owl hopped inside and onto the windowsill, extending its leg to present a letter to him. He untied the letter from its leg and the bird immediately took flight back out of the window, disappearing out of sight.

Sinking down onto the edge of the bed he frowned at the unfamiliar handwriting with a feeling of unease. He had hoped that his current whereabouts were well-hidden enough that nobody apart from his mother would be able to reach him. Evidently that was no longer the case. He couldn't think who would want to write to him – the few friends he had had at Hogwarts had too many of their own troubles to contend with to bother writing to him. It obviously wasn't a Howler, but it crossed his mind that the letter might be jinxed – he could only imagine the pile of hate mail that sat waiting for him unopened at the Manor.

Curiosity overruling caution, Draco tore the letter open and a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Scooping it off of the ground he was surprised to find a photograph of a large white cottage he had never seen before. It had a grey-slate roof with green and red ivy climbing up the front of the house, surrounded by a small boulder wall and a rustic but well-kept garden with lots of plants and flowers. He checked the back of the photograph for more information and saw written in the same handwriting as the letter, The Mill, Lostwithiel, Cornwall .

He opened the letter and gasped when his eyes fell immediately on who had written it, then he began to read:

Dear Draco,

I know we have never met, but you know who I am. As my nephew I would like to request the pleasure of your company tomorrow afternoon for tea. We need to have a little chat. I have enclosed a photograph of my cottage so you are able to Apparate here directly. Be here for 12 o'clock sharp.

Kind regards,

Andromeda Tonks

P.S. Bring custard creams.

It was very short and direct, but Draco read and reread the letter just to be sure he wasn't seeing things. Although Andromeda had written saying it was a request, there was no asking about it – she expected him to be there. Rather presumptuous of her, mused Draco. And what in Merlin's beard were custard creams?

***

Draco hemmed and hawed about whether or not he was going to go. Even in the process of getting dressed to leave he was still undecided as to whether he'd actually follow through with this. He flattened out his black shirt and trousers and peered back at the gaunt figure staring back at him in the mirror. He had grown a little taller and a lot thinner in the last few months, his dark clothing doing little to hide his too-slim build. He had always been pale, but spending months trapped in the Manor had drained his face of what little colour it had held. The only colouring he had left in his face was the dark circles under his eyes. That and the smattering of white scars that peppered his once flawless skin, a remnant of the crystal chandelier that had shattered and cut his face during one of his altercation with Potter at The Manor. He thoughtfully traced his fingers along the small scars. They didn't hurt anymore, but he knew that he would stuck with them the rest of his life. He ran a hand through his white-blond hair which immediately fell back into his face. He looked dreadful, but there was little he could do about it.