(I disclaim the characters, settings, and concepts which belong to J.K. Rowling. This story is written purely for my own enjoyment and the enjoyment of others, and to hone my craft as a writer. Thank you.)

A strange procession of two hurried through a narrow, dark hallway, the small bat-eared creature in the lead nearly tripping over his pillowcase as he turned every few seconds to ensure the square-shouldered child behind him was keeping up. "Master and Mistress," he said in his shrill voice, "Master and Mistress have given most strict instructions, very strict indeed—"

"I know they don't want me here," the child interrupted, tucking a lock of short brown hair behind one ear. "You don't have to tell me."

The house-elf winced. "That is not what was being meant—" Fortunately for his truthfulness, they reached their destination at this moment, and he reached up to the knob of a severely plain door on the left side of the passage, turning it and entering the room beyond. The child followed him in, setting down a heavy knapsack and looking around as the fire in the fireplace lit itself at the house-elf's wave.

The room matched the door. A narrow and dusty bed, a desk with a straight wooden chair, a bookshelf with a few odd volumes lying at forlorn angles, and a huge and forbidding wardrobe were all the furniture to be found, though the house-elf was removing the dust as his companion watched. "The washroom is there, across the hall," he said, pointing. "And Master and Mistress have ordered—that is, they have asked—they do not want—" He broke off, twisting a bit of pillowcase uncomfortably.

"They want me to stay in my rooms," the child filled in. "Not to go wandering around."

The house-elf nodded, an air of relief on his bulge-eyed face.

"Will I have my meals here?"

Another nod, and the house-elf sidled closer, glancing about as though to make sure no one was listening. "Master and Mistress do not use the library," he said quietly. "And only Mistress goes to the gardens, and always in the mornings. Never the afternoons."

"Thanks." A small smile crept onto the child's face, but lost its hold and fell away after only a second or two. "Isn't there anyone else here at all? Anyone besides me and you and my aunt and uncle?"

The house-elf fidgeted. "Master has ordered that question not to be answered," he said, after another swift look over his shoulder.

"That means there is and you can't tell me about them," the child interpreted. "No, stop that!" A pale-skinned hand, strong for its size, caught the house-elf's on its way to punch his forehead. "You didn't tell me anything you weren't supposed to. I'm just very good at figuring things out. Dad used to call me his little detective..." Tears welled up and were blinked swiftly back. "I'll be all right now," the speaker finished in a voice which only shook a little, releasing the house-elf's hand. "Thank you for bringing me here."

"House-elves does not need to be thanked," objected the representative of that race.

Another smile, this one lasting a bit longer. "Maybe not, but Mum always said they liked it just as much as we do, only they can't let on because it isn't proper. Was she right?"

The house-elf looked both ways, grinned, and nodded. His companion's smile broadened into a matching grin. "I thought so." The hand was thrust out once more, this time at waist-height. "Friends?"

"Friends," the house-elf agreed, reaching up to clasp the hand.

"Thanks."

They shook on it, three times, before the house-elf released his grip and indicated the door with a jerk of his head. "There is still work to be done tonight," he said regretfully. "The little master to tend, and..." His eyes widened even further than usual as he realized what he'd said, and he punched himself hard in the nose and vanished, a lingering "Bad D—" cut off by the loud crack of his disappearance.

The child stood very still, looking at the place where the house-elf had been. A longing for home welled up, and was ruthlessly suppressed. This was home now, and would be for the next three years, thanks to the war.

War had meant Dad had to be careful about where he went and what he did. War had meant Mum didn't ever talk about her family the way Dad did. And now war meant there was no Mum and no Dad anymore, and never would be again. There was only a white marble stone in a churchyard, and a man and a woman who seemed to be carved out of white marble themselves, saying in smooth lying voices that of course they would take on this great responsibility, for the sake of those who were gone.

"So they put me in a little room somewhere and say they never want to see me." Hands balled up into fists. "Because Dad had 'dirty blood' and Mum 'married below her station.'" The words came out in a low snarl. "They won't even let their house-elf tell me about my own cousin! Do they think I'll make him dirty too? Do they think—"

Understanding arrived, and with it a great idea, which swept away the anger and the sorrow it had been masking and left only the excitement of an adventure waiting to happen. "They do. They do think that. And you know what?" the child asked her reflection in the mirror on the door of the wardrobe. "You know what? They're right."

For the first time since her parents had died, Nymphadora Tonks' hair turned a bright bubblegum pink.

She hadn't expected him to be a baby.

It was probably better this way, Tonks told herself, peering through the hinges of the door as Dobby tried to quiet the shrieking toddler standing up and clutching the bars of the ornate crib in the plush room beyond. A boy her own age would have been troublesome, he would have whined and asked questions, he might even have told on her to his parents. A baby wouldn't do that on purpose, and she could teach him how to keep his mouth shut so he wouldn't blab on accident.

But she'd still been expecting someone her own age.

She smiled as she recalled the reason why, safely installed on her bookshelf alongside her other precious mementoes of her father. If you looked past the different ages, the magic, and the trifling fact that her own aunt was still alive, the stories were scarily similar. But the secret in this story was going to be not outside but right here, and in her own smaller room three halls away.

And it was time to start.

She stepped around the door, into view of the two occupants of the room. Dobby made a little whimpering sound as he saw her, audible because the boy in the crib had stopped crying in surprise.

"No," Tonks said firmly, forestalling Dobby's hand on its way to his ear. "You didn't tell me anything. I heard him crying and came to see all by myself. What's his name? How old is he?"

Dobby gulped. He was obviously less than convinced by the eight-year-old logic. "This is Master Draco, miss," he said shakily. "Master Draco was sixteen months old yesterday."

"Draco? Really?" Tonks shook her head, disgusted. "Aunt Cissy's as bad as Mum."

She turned to look fully at her cousin for the first time. He favored her Uncle Lucius strongly, but that wasn't his fault, and he was watching her with a wide-eyed fascination that made her think he hadn't seen many other people in his life. Of course, it might just be that he'd never seen a girl with pink hair before. She concentrated hard and changed it to lime green, then to navy blue.

"Wotcher, Draco," she said, smiling up at him.

Draco's eyes got even wider than they had been, and he pointed at her and said something unintelligible to Dobby. The house-elf had backed up several paces, watching both of them nervously. "Miss," he said, his tone pleading. "Miss, Dobby will be in very bad trouble if this is found out..."

"So don't let it get found out." Tonks kicked the bar under the near side of the crib, and it fell, allowing her to reach up her arms to Draco and lift him down to the floor. "I'll do my part hiding it if you'll do yours. Half and half. Thirds, when he gets old enough." She looked down. "I can't walk if you sit on my foot like that," she informed her cousin, wiggling said body part. "Off."

Draco giggled. He was obviously under the impression he'd found a fun game to play with his new friend.

"Draco, you have to get off now..." Tonks stopped, scowling. "I can't keep calling him that. It's stupid."

"Does Miss need some help with the little master?" Dobby asked delicately, coming forward.

"Yes, please. I want to get him back to my room, so I need to get him off my—"

Tonks stopped. Dobby's hand had touched hers, his other hand had gone against Draco's shoulder, and there had been a feeling like Dad taking her Side-Along-Apparating, and—

"Wow," she said, looking around at her own room. "Thanks."

Dobby bobbed a quick bow and disappeared once more. Draco pointed at the place where the house-elf had been and said something that sounded impressed.

"Yes, he's very fast, isn't he?" Tonks extracted her foot from her cousin's hold and sat down beside him. "First things first," she said. "You need another name. I'm Tonks, because that's my surname, but yours is Malfoy and that's just as bad..." She frowned in thought, making her lips droop further and further down until they dangled past her chin. Draco laughed and grabbed for them, and Tonks pulled them in hastily. "Whoops. Can't make anything too long right now, I have to keep it all nice and short—"

At this point, Dobby returned, carrying a truly immense load of soft objects. He had apparently decided that the need to make his little master comfortable overrode his master's unspoken command to put the unwanted newcomer into a bare and unpleasant room. Within a few minutes, a soft rug covered the floor, the bed had a new duvet and several extra pillows, and cushions formed a nest of sorts in front of the fire, just the right size for two cousins. Tonks was making Draco laugh again by sending her hair through its usual variation of colors, while trying to catch the thought that had run away on Dobby's arrival. It was something about being short, she was sure of it—

"Ah-ha!"

Draco gave her an inquisitive look at the exclamation. She swooped down and planted her hands on either side of him, looming over him and making a stern face. "Your name is not Draco anymore," she said in the deepest and most impressive voice she could manage. "From now on, your name is Mal. You understand?" She shifted her weight onto one hand, lifted the other, and poked the little boy in the chest. "Mal. That's your name now. Mal."

The boy frowned, confused. "Maa?" he said questioningly.

"That's right, Mal!" Tonks scooped her cousin up and swung him high into the air, making him shriek with glee. "You can be Draco for everybody else, but for me you're Mal!"

"Maa!" The name seemed to find favor with its new possessor. "Maa!" He went into a paroxysm of giggles as Tonks tickled his side, but then stilled and looked thoughtful. "Uh?" he said, thrusting a hand against her chest.

"Tonks," she said firmly, putting her hand over his. "That's me. I'm Tonks."

The boy frowned, processing the information. "Toss," he tried after a moment.

"Toss? You want me to toss you? Okay!" Tonks scrambled to her feet, hoisting her cousin up with her, and launched him across the room towards her bed. Her mum's silent admonition against recklessness sounded in her ears just a second too late, overlapped by her dad's praise of her ability to throw things precisely where she wanted them.

She would always miss her parents, Tonks realized as her living missile landed dead center on the bed with a happy squeal, but they would always be with her in what they had taught her. And now she wouldn't be lonely, not ever again. Not now that she had Mal.

But Mal had such a lot to learn. Where should they start?

The thought she'd been having in the hallway came back to her, and she grinned. It was perfect.

She got up and fetched Mal from the bed, setting him down on the cushions by the fire without his making more than a token protest that he wanted to go flying through the air again. Then she went to the bookshelf, and came back with a thick, glossy hardcover, settling herself down beside the little boy, who was now rubbing his eyes sleepily.

"We're going to have a bedtime story," she told him, opening the book. "This was my dad's favorite book. He loved to read it to me. It's about a girl like me and a boy like you—cousins, who live in a great big house almost all alone—and their secret, just like we have. They have to work hard to keep it secret and make it strong, but it gives them wonderful things when they do. They even have a magic friend, like Dobby is for us." She yawned. "It's late, so we won't read too much tonight. Just a little ways."

Mal murmured an answer and nestled against Tonks' side as she opened the book to the first page. Her free arm, without her noticing, snaked around the little boy, as though it were the most natural thing in the world that they should snuggle in front of a fire and read a story together.

"Chapter One," she read aloud. "There Is No One Left."

When Dobby returned, he found them asleep there together, the book lying beside them on the carpet. He wrung his hands with worry, wondering if he should take his little master away from here, if he should tell the master everything that had happened, if he should make sure the new girl did not see the little master again, but in the end he only fetched the duvet from Tonks' bed and covered them with it.

He knew the stories about his mistress's sister, how headstrong and self-willed she had been, and he was seeing now that she had passed all of that on to her daughter. And the master had ordered him to keep the girl in her rooms and to say nothing to her about the little master, and he was obeying both those orders right now. Besides, the little master had not slept so soundly in months.

What his master did not know, Dobby decided, would not hurt him.

It would be nearly ten years before he realized how thoroughly untrue this was.

What are little boys made of?
A book and a game and a brand-new name—
That's what little boys are made of!

(And so it begins. If you think I'm doing well, or could use some improvement, please let me know. Being specific is always good. Rudeness and profanity are not welcome. Thank you.)