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The buoyant tunes of a saxophone quicken and resuscitate the entire room within mere seconds. Oohs and aahs signal a communal recognition of the song as the living room turns into a proper dancefloor once again. Even the notorious non-dancers snap their fingers and tap their feet from the settees they’re sat on along the walls.
In the middle of the room, dark-patterned cocktail dresses and tuxedo wings billow, and pumps and shiny oxfords kick their heels onto the floor. Wixen with artfully patterned, pointed hats above their youthful faces play cards, drinking and laughing uproariously every now and again.
In one corner of the room, an eager walnut grand pianoforte, whose keys dip in beneath invisible fingers on their own accord. A gramophone, connected to an intricate arrangement of several speakers of different heights and sizes, all of them shaped like delicate, aerose trumpet flowers, sound the other instruments. Above it, on the wall, partly hidden behind the walnut wood lid, hangs a white-and-gold tapestry full of Malfoy family history. Imposing portraits disdainfully observe the spectacle below.
I’m quite literally on the edge of my seat, perceiving those impressions while half-imagining what the room would look like if it wasn’t crowded but if you were there, going about your daily business. Maybe you'd practise some chess or frequent one of the velvet settees with a book in your lap.
My eyes roam in search of a specific sight. A platinum shock of hair over ice-blue eyes, a grin, either smug or repressed. Would you dance or enjoy the crescendo of the song in appreciative silence? Would you sit in a corner with close friends, tumbler in hand, deeply engaged into conversation? I can’t wait to find out. I saw you earlier when I arrived, a stark white collar rising from long black robes that fall from your shoulders like a cape, smelt your cologne when I gave you a good-natured slap on your back in greeting. I can’t begin to fathom how I’ve never thought of you as sexy before . . .
“Do you have any particular tonic you prefer, Mr Potter?” the wizard next to me asks. He’s been talking my ears off for quite some time now. We sit on a stone bench built into the alcove of a large, curved corner window with decorative cushions placed across it. They don’t do much in terms of comfort, these satin cushions, but they did look inviting when I chose the place. It’s slightly separated from the rest of the room, cut off by the spacious setup of the enchanted piano plus wireless, yet it provides a good view. I wrench my eyes from it to focus on the wizard next to me and to answer his question. As little as I’m interested in this conversation, I dread the idea of him receiving the impression I see myself above him in some way, dread it more than shifting some of my focus to him after a slightly too long pause.
“Why, ‘s there anything you’d recommend?” I side-glance at him. Again, he’s fidgeting with his clothing the way someone does who’s not accustomed to dress robes. He pulls up his waistband, rubs his hands on his thighs like this was the plan from the get-go, then smoothens his befrilled shirt over his belly to tug it in his trousers. The whole ceremony seemed to have served his need to adjust his clothes more than it put any real benefit to his outfit.
“Plenty,” he says, “plenty, Mr Potter. As far as I’m aware you have Almonthenol provided by the Auror’s Office—which is, you know, nice, if you aim for quick pain relief and tissue repair—but if you had, let’s say, a curse wound that was originally meant to cause long lasting damage, those potions and ointments do next to nothing in long-term treatment. Sure—” He doubles over while fidgeting with his clothes again. “Sure, they prevent scars, but—” his imploring tone makes me turn towards him fully, and for the first time I can really see that he’s a salesman and a potioneer; he thrives on talks like this “—do they relieve the tingle in your limbs after they've been lacerated by a Diffindo? Do they rid you of that contaminated feeling you get after being struck with a bad hex?” Pursing his lips, he assesses my face intently, nods, and says, “I didn’t think so, Auror Potter.”
Briefly, I look at a scar that vanishes beneath my sleeve, turn my hand just to spot another one on the back of my hand instead. You shall not lie. It makes me think of the way a dry quill scratches across textured parchment, unbidden and relentless. It’s funny how those associations have the habit of staying with you for an unreasonably long time, how they can still, even if only momentarily, tie your stomach in knots.
I sit up and take notice when my opposite indeed mentions a quill.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” I interrupt him.
His smile widens in a genuinely happy manner. “My wife, Mory. She’s a quill-driver in the Wizengamot Administration Service, same level as the Auror’s Office, far as I’m aware, Sir. Perhaps you’ve seen her around, my Mory? Dark hair, always wears her smart blazers, big with words—” he chuckles, seemingly caught up in a private memory. An elegantly curved silver service floats by, occupying my line of vision. It’s opulently laden with bite-sized canapés, some of them topped with shiny black caviar, others with wide-grown microgreens. My conversation partner takes one of the delicate pieces between broad, careful fingers, whereas I wave at the tableau with a dismissive gesture, eager to usher it out of my line of sight. Next to me, the wizard catches up on where he left off. “A bright one, she is, my Mory. Pernickety to a fault, but I reckon that’s what they value in the W.A.S.”
While I’m half thinking about a dozen faceless witches in the office I usually Levitate my reports to, it finally happens. There you are. Through a wide archway that separates two of what fancy folks like you might call entertaining rooms or something of the like, I can see half of you.
You stand there in your dark robes, your willowy physique straight as a pole, hatless hair catching in the pale golden light, as you grin down at a short bespectacled wizard who I recognise as Delaine, one of the Scenes Of Crime investigators that we regularly collaborate with. You look a lot like you’re sharing one of your naughty jokes. I can’t help but grin along as I get up to approach you, muttering, “Sorry, erm—it’s been a pleasure,” to the perplexed wizard next to me, whom I seem to cut off mid-sentence. The guilty feeling falls away once I meander my way through the room. I feel my chest swell in gleeful anticipation at the thought of the familiar way you’ll smirk at me in only a moment.
I stop dead in my tracks the moment you come fully into view. Astoria Greengrass, soon-to-be Malfoy, stands next to you, laughing along with you and Delaine. She’s wearing a boring brown chiffon dress, patterned in equally muted colours. But, when she laughs, her cheeks resemble a ripe fruit rather than a human’s countenance. Now she says something, and it makes your grin break into full-on laughter. Looking pleased, somewhat proud, you wrap your arm around Astoria. I can see even from the distance how two fingers glide beneath the short sleeves of her dress, how gingerly you squeeze her shoulder.
Abruptly, my body turns away. Every muscle, every fibre in my body, feels strained. I notice another colleague next to me, Sherwin, looking at me slightly worried, while I begin to realise that I’m standing very still in the middle of the room. Attempting to give a charmingly awkward laugh, I say to her, “Damn, I was about to pour myself a drink, but I think I spotted Robards over there.” I vaguely point at the archway where you are now bent down to whisper into Astoria’s ear. Just for the blink of a moment, her eyes meet my own.
The concern gradually vanishes from Sherwin's face when I look back at her with what I hope is a sly smile. “He’s so chipper when he’s drunk, it’s eerie, isn’t it?” she says, grimacing and taking a swig from her half-empty beer for emphasis.
“Very eerie,” I agree.
Aimlessly with my stomach tied in knots, I look around the room, hoping to see any form of distraction, anyone who I feel like talking to, but I’m surrounded by laughter and music, by the people from the workplace we share, and by the coterie of your loyal friends. It was a mistake to come here to the place where you live, the place that you share with Astoria.
It’s only one day after your birthday, which means it’s a mere month until your wedding. My dress robes already hang in my wardrobe under Straightening and Refreshening Charms. Black-tie, you said to me with a cocked eyebrow, you know what a black-tie dress code means, or do you need help with that? I remember the way you looked at me when I tried on the robes you chose, tailored like a Muggle tuxedo. It’s a novelty, that look. The crown of your hair was still yellow with sulphur from a curse that just about missed you earlier that day, the cut on your cheek not quite healed. Absurd, how you looked, being fussed over in the middle of that posh tailor.
“You good there, Potter?” Sherwin’s words wrench me from my memory.
“Yeah, it’s—” I take a breath, then a second one. “You know, it’s one of those days.”
She nods knowingly. When she hesitates to say anything, I find myself slipping away from the dance, from the packed living room, onto a balcony, illuminated by two lanterns and the last peachy rays of the setting sun somewhere behind the trees, freshly come into leaf. Above me, the sky is already veiled in indigo blue. I stare into it.
The first stars begin to shine, coming into existence so slowly that I’m not aware of the moment that I’m first able to make them out. There’s only them. A mild breeze. The muffled sound of swing music. The coarse texture of the balustrade beneath my fingers.
The door clicks open very softly behind me. Astoria steps through it with her wand raised, Levitating two glasses of whisky. With some difficulty, she closes the door without lowering her wand, fetches the glasses out of the air, before she withdraws her wand into a simple ribbon she wears around her middle.
“Hello there,” Astoria says and hands me one of the glasses.
We touch glasses and sip, and I recognise the woody taste. Campbell's Finest, the brand I drink on pub nights.
“I’m glad you came,” Astoria says. “I know that you’re not the most renowned partygoer.”
“I’m fine, I just need a minute.”
Astoria looks at me with an empathetic smile, then she says, “It’s important to Draco that he’s . . .”
“Well-liked? The centre of attention?”
She huffs a laugh. “Indeed. Only when it’s good press, though. It would seem he’s had enough of the other sort.” After a pause she says, “But what I meant is that it’s important to him that you’re here. There’s a lot of insecurity and emotional baggage hidden behind his snide remarks. You mean a great deal to him.”
I wonder what she knows. “We’re partners,” I reply, shrugging. “I would trust Malfoy with my life.”
“By Merlin, no need for such drastic words. You two are one of a kind.”
I just give a little smile, not mentioning that it’s true. Astoria surely knows what being an Auror means in times of political unrest; I can see it in the hint of the frown in between her thick eyebrows. I watch the way she stares off into the night, lightly humming along to a song that spills out to us. I realise that she’s not particularly beautiful, not in the way many of the upper-class purebloods seem to be. She’s lacking the patrician perfection of the Malfoys and Parkinsons of our world, doesn’t carry herself with quite their calculated poise. No, she’s beatific in the way she cares about those who are dear to her, beautiful in the way the only smiles she gives are genuine.
For the first time, it dawns me, scathing and unbidden, that you must love this woman. She’s sincere; she talks about her worries. She’s the opposite of emotional baggage.
With her, leaning on the stone balustrade next to me, I look into the darkness. A wind rustles through the leaves of the tree crowns, their silhouettes barely visible against the night sky. Against my cheek, it feels like a caress. It feels like a touch from you, full of consolation, full of empathy. At that moment I know: if that’s what I can get from you, I will take it.